#sitting in the parking lot with the door cracked open to what is decidedly an autumn breeze

[pinehutch]

A bad habit of mine is that if I have to go somewhere in my car, and I haven't taken my ADHD meds, is that I Enter Car and then Starting Car and Making it Go Places become entirely separate, and much more difficult tasks. So sometimes on a weekend I will walk down the stairs from my apartment to the parking lot, and get in my car, and pull out my phone to play music or a podcast, and then I just stop.

I read, I make notes, I write. I'm not a particularly car-brained person; I have this car, which was paid off several years ago, because I have fluctuating degrees of ability/disability re: walking, and because I live in North America and most of North America isn't accessible by mass transit. But I plan to drive this small car until it's no longer viable. I appreciate it deeply as a means of transit and am otherwise unsentimental about it. It's just a grey bubble that helps me to go places and do things, while listening to songs or stories.

What I'm saying is that I don't hang out in here because I particularly enjoy it or feel connected to it, but it's quiet and private and my building has a parking lot where I can see trees and old houses and people.

Anyway. Was in car earlier, reading on my phone. My neighbours walked out of their apartment, presumably to head downtown a couple of blocks for dinner. I then did the driving I had to do, and came home two hours later, and was just tapping out a few messages when my neighbours walked back around the corner - where I was, for all intents and purposes, still sitting on my phone in my car, not having noticeably moved all evening.

[sisterspooky1013]

Damsels, Chapter Eleven: Street Fighter

By SisterSpooky1013 / Read previous chapters here

Rated E / Tagging @today-in-fic

“Angel, I didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” Magenta greets her, stealing a quick hug.

“I took one more day off, but I was getting bored so I thought I’d come say hi,” Mila replies.

Her hair is down, chin length with yellow bleached tips against the jet-black regrowth; a pixie cut several months grown-out. Her face is bare, her eyes appearing smaller without the heavy lashes and liner, her face rounder without all the contour and blush.

Scully can’t stop staring. She can’t stop the hammering of her heart that seems to be saying Angel. Is. Mila. You. Fucking. Idiot. Mila meanders across the room, stopping to greet people before she finally makes her way to Scully, smiling sheepishly.

“Hey, Desi. You don’t look super stoked to see me.”

Scully shakes her head, her lips rooting for words. “No, I am,” she finally stammers, “I am happy to see you. I just...you look so different.”

Mila chuffs a nervous laugh. “They don’t call it catfishing for nothin’,” she jokes, tucking her silky locks behind her ear.

“Are your eyes a different color?” Scully asks dumbly.

“Yeah, contacts. Maybe you’ve heard of them?” It’s clear that Mila is growing increasingly perturbed by Scully’s response to her appearance.

“M- Angel,” Scully starts, looking at her intensely. “Can we talk, someplace private?”

Mila’s eyebrows furrow in concern and a little confusion, but she nods. Scully stands and takes her hand, guiding her down the hall and out onto the floor. The evening is in full swing now and it’s noisy and dark as she pulls Mila into a VIP room, snapping the curtain shut. She tries not to notice that this is the same one she spent time in with Mulder last night.

Mila stands near the coffee table, eyeing Scully skeptically. “Look, Desi, if you regret what happened that’s fine, we don’t ever have to talk about it again. But you’re acting really fucking weird right now.”

“Are you Mila Chamberlain?” Scully asks, her body postured for a whisper though she’s shouting to be heard over the music.

Mila’s face drains of color as she sucks in a startled breath. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before her lips begin to tremble and tears well in her eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” she spits back at Scully, her body tensing as though she’s preparing for a fight.

Scully holds up her hands in defense. “I’m not here to hurt you, Mila. I’m here to help you. I’m with the FBI.”

Mila’s fear gives way to confusion. “Help me do what?” she asks, wiping the back of her hand across her nose.

“Get out of here, out of Damsels,” Scully offers, but this only seems to confuse Mila more. “Okay, let me start at the beginning. Your parents requested help from the FBI because they believe you’re being held against your will. I was sent here undercover to locate you so we can get you out.”

Mila’s eyes narrow. “My parents?” she asks dubiously, and Scully nods. “My parents, who I told you are awful people, who raised me to hate myself?” Her tone is growing increasingly angry.

Scully’s face falls as she finally pieces it all together. M.C. The conversion therapy. Their kiss. Mila was never being held captive. She was trying to escape.

“Do you know they tried to have me involuntarily committed?” Mila says angrily, nostrils flaring. “If they find me, they’re going to have me locked away. Better a crazy daughter than a gay one, as far as they’re concerned.”

Scully can’t find the right words to say. She doesn’t know what the right thing to do is. She’s found Mila; that’s why she’s here. But Mila doesn’t want to be found.

After watching Scully try and fail to speak for a full minute, Mila scoffs and moves past her towards the opening in the curtain. Before she leaves she turns back and speaks again, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thank you, so much, for your help, Desi. Or whoever the fuck you are.” And then she’s gone.

Scully scrambles for the right next step. This isn’t in any of her FBI handbooks. What do you do when it turns out the victim wasn’t a victim at all? Or that they are, but not of whom you had thought? She needs to talk to Mila again, to understand the situation. She rushes out of the VIP room and looks around, unsure if Mila returned to the back or left out the front. She’s headed towards the bar to ask Queenie if she saw Angel leave when she runs smack into Mulder.

“Sc-Desiree,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders, “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Mulder,” she hisses, looking around for any sign of Mila.

“Please, it’s important. Can we go to a private room?”

She raises her arms and pulls his hands down, moving to pass him. “Get the hell out of here, Mulder, I’m working,” she growls.

He catches her wrist, pulling her back to him. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead lets loose a yelp as Denny’s fist closes around his forearm with a vice grip.

“Time to go,” Denny says in that funny flat affect she’s come to enjoy. As Mulder releases his grip on her, Denny guides him towards the door.

“Desiree! He calls over his shoulder, “tell him it’s okay!”

“Go home,” Scully says with a glare, then heads to the bar as Denny pushes Mulder outside.

“Queenie, did you see Angel go by in street clothes?” she shouts across the rail, and Queenie shakes her head.

Scully is about to go check in the back when a stricken look falls over Queenie’s face, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Scully follows her gaze to the stage, where a moment ago Lexie was doing her set. Lexie is still up there, but so is a tall, muscled man. Lexie is cowering at the base of the pole, her hands covering the back of her head as the man kicks her repeatedly.

Scully instinctively reaches for her weapon, which is decidedly not holstered to her panties, and then scans the room for her bird dogs. Denny hasn’t yet come back from eighty-sixing Mulder. The other bird dog working tonight is nowhere to be seen. She suddenly remembers something Tibet had told her.

“Queenie!” she shouts, and it takes a couple attempts before the woman peels her eyes away from the stage and looks at her. “You have a baseball bat back there, right? Give it to me.”

Queenie lifts a wooden baseball bat from behind the bar and hands it to her with a horrified look on her face. “Don’t do something stupid, Desi. I’m calling the cops.” She turns and picks up the phone as Scully stalks away from the bar, muttering to herself “I think they’re already here.”

As she weaves through the crowd, she sees the other bird dog lying on the floor; his head is bleeding and he appears to be unconscious. She moves to the side of the stage, approaching from behind the man who is assaulting Lexie. Lexie isn’t moving anymore, but that doesn’t seem to deter him as he delivers swift, sharp kicks to her rib cage. In a room full of men, you’d think someone would have stepped up to protect this woman. Instead they all stand around gape-mouthed, looking at one another as though holding a silent vote for who should intervene. Rage swells in her chest as she steps forward and lifts the bat high over her head, bringing it down against the back of his skull with a crack .

He stumbles forward, falling over the tip rail and onto the floor in front of the stage. Ben seems to have finally realized something is going on and the music cuts out abruptly, her ears ringing in the sudden silence.

Scully wants to go to Lexie, but she knows her perpetrator has not been neutralized. She jumps down from the stage and the circle that has formed around the man expands to include her. With the bat in her hand and this outfit, she feels a bit like she’s been teleported into Street Fighter. He is attempting to push up onto his knees and she holds her weapon ready in a batter’s stance. If only Mulder were snuggled up behind her instead of outside in the parking lot, this may be a more fair fight.

“Freeze!” she commands, “federal agent!”

He lifts his head to look at her and laughs derisively before lowering it again.

She realizes how absurd she must look. All five foot three of her, four inch plastic heels and purple underwear, looking like she’s ready to make a run for first base, no badge to flash. Really intimidating, she’s sure.

“I assure you, sir, I am a federal agent and you are under arrest,” she repeats in her most authoritative voice.

He rises quickly, clearly having been exaggerating the degree of his injury, and as soon as she sees him reaching into his jacket she swings again, making contact with his jaw and sending a spray of blood and spit across the gawkers. Unfortunately, the blow doesn’t knock him off his feet, and only momentarily delays him drawing his gun and leveling it on Scully. She hears him disengage the safety and she closes her eyes.

Mulder puts up a decent fight, though admittedly more of a verbal one. He’s obstinate, but not stupid, and Denny is probably twice his weight.

“You know the rules, no touching,” Denny is explaining again, blocking Mulder from re-entering the club.

“Look, I understand that, but I know her. She doesn’t care if I touch her. Ask her! Go ask her!”

Denny is unmoved, emotionally and physically. Finally, Mulder accepts defeat and trudges towards his car at the back of the lot. Once he’s pulled the door open, he sees Denny go back inside. He sits heavily, one leg hanging out the open door, and drops his head against the headrest with an exasperated sigh. He’s about to give up and head back to Alexandria when he hears the distinctive crack of a gunshot.

His feet kick up gravel like buckshot as he flies back to the doors of the club, drawing his weapon on the way. His pounding heart is a metronome, keeping time in slow motion as it carries him towards her. As he nears the club, people start pouring out. A steady stream of terrified men scramble haphazardly from the small doorway, and he elbows his way past them, the wrong way, the right way, towards her. He makes his way to the floor, a cacophony of screams and shouts. Gunpowder and whiskey permeate the air and he pushes through the mele, towards her.

Continue Reading Here

[pedros-mustache-main]

like the movies

summary: he’s the writer; you’re the muse. there’s a cup of coffee somewhere in there, too.

word count: 3.3k+

warnings: fluff & pining—so, a change of pace from my usual angst. :) also: a serious lack of dialogue because i am feeling verbose. 

a/n: this is entirely @joemazzmatazz‘s fault. it was her idea (albeit given to me actual ages ago), but she said “do it” and who am i to say no? anywho, i’m relatively uncertain about how this turned out, but have it regardless!

your latte is hot, almost too hot. it burns your tongue on the first sip.

but you welcome the heat and the momentary burst of pain. the weather swirling outside borders on atrocious: freezing rain mixed with snow flurries, bloated, gray clouds, and a thin layer of ice on all surfaces. though the tip of your tongue stings upon that first sip, the heat that rushes to your chest pushes away the dreary weather you’d slogged through to get to the coffee shop.

you’re a regular here. not a regular regular, but regular enough that the interchangeable baristas recognize you and you recognize them. you exchange tight-lipped smiles and nods of greeting when you approach the counter, but nothing more than simple pleasantries. you don’t know their names, and they never ask for yours, but they remember your order: frosted blueberry latte with extra foam. it’s gotten to the point where you can simply walk up to the counter, money in hand, and the barista can repeat your order before you open your mouth.

it’s the little things, you suppose. in this little corner of the world, you feel seen.

today, you have your laptop open, latte pushed to the side, and a cherry and almond scone on a bright blue plate. you resist the urge to pull your foot up on the chair and rest your chin on your knee. though you’re here more often than you’re at home, this isn’t your living room. you settle for sliding your ankle beneath your opposite thigh.

being a paralegal is decidedly unglamorous. sure, it sounds highfalutin to the person sitting beside you on the airplane, but damn, if it isn’t stressful. you feel like a glorified secretary most of the time. pushing papers and getting signatures and making tens of phone calls to people and places that are not interested in speaking to a lawyer isn’t really what you signed up for. at least, it’s not what you ultimately want. it pays the bills for now, though; a partnership… that’ll come later.

you’re lucky enough that you can work remotely, hence your sturdy corner of the café. from where you sit, you watch customers enter and exit the shop. each time the door opens and the little bell tinkles above, a blast of cold air rushes into the cramped space. you enjoy watching the reaction of newcomer­—the way they stamp their snow-covered shoes on the wood floor and shiver, turn to their companions with a smile, hurry to the counter to order something sweet and warm. in those moments, you grow wistful, your heart lurching with loneliness. it’s been a long time since you’ve had anyone to meet for an afternoon coffee date, friend or otherwise. your job doesn’t afford much downtime, and what downtime you do have is devoted to menial life responsibilities. 

your phone buzzes, and you glance down. a text from your boss. time to refocus.

you work for a while longer, nibbling on your scone, sipping from your latte. the emails pile up, and your phone buzzes incessantly. a headache forms at the base of your skull as you struggle to keep up with the constant flurry of communication.

after receiving a terse email from your boss’s legal partner in relation to something that is no fault of your own, you shut your laptop. a five-minute break; you deserve that much. rubbing a hand down your weary face, you grab your purse, slide out from behind the table, and head for the restroom. in the poorly lit bathroom, you splash some cool water on your cheeks and sigh at your reflection in the mirror. you look tired, feel it too. the dark bags under your eyes bely how little sleep you’ve gotten in the last week, and your shoulders droop under the weight of the world. maybe by christmas…

who are you kidding? christmas is just as busy as any other time of the year. people don’t stop needing lawyers just ‘cause it’s the holidays.

when you return to your makeshift workspace, you immediately frown. you freeze several paces from the corner of the table and glance over your shoulder, tightening your grip on the strap of your purse.

someone had been at the table in the five minutes it took to freshen up.

nothing is gone, thank god. (in retrospect, you probably shouldn’t have left your laptop and phone sitting in plain sight. call it naivety, but you like to think the best of people. however, your line of work consistently reminds you that the bad in people often outweighs the good.) your laptop, though, has been nudged to the side, the movement causing the charging cord to fall out. several drops of dark liquid—spilled latte—dampen the corner of your yellow legal pad.

what truly catches you eye is the square piece of paper resting on your laptop’s keyboard like a discarded feather.

you look over your shoulder again, but the shop is largely empty save for the baristas and an older couple in the far corner. the weather is certainly a deterrent from lingering. perhaps someone had come in while you were in the bathroom and left you a note. had your car been hit? you hope not. you don’t have the extra funds for vehicular maintenance right now and even less time to fix whatever damage had been done.

leaning forward, you lift the piece of paper, and your chest tightens.

it’s a drawing—a drawing of you. blue ink scattered across the page in swirling lines forms the hazy outline of your profile. your chin rests in your hand, and the artist made certain note to emphasize your eyelashes, which are not that long in actuality. at the bottom of the page, a message in curling script: when you are old ­— yeats

your mouth runs dry, your palms moist with nerves. returning to your chair, you quickly type the words into the search bar of your browser. you remember enough from high-school english to know yeats is a poet, but when the poem loads and you read the words, you feel like you might fall over.

your neck snaps up, cracks at the sudden movement. someone had been here in the café long enough to watch you, to sketch you, and to think of the yeats poem in relation to you.

how decidedly… romantic. like something out of a chick-flick.

despite the warmth in your chest, you shut your laptop, fold the sketch, and shove it in your coat pocket, willing yourself to forget the random happenstance. things like that—serendipitous moments of romance—only happen in the movies. they certainly don’t happen to you.

whomever had left the note, well—at least they’d brightened your day. your mother would call it a gift from the heavens, an angel smiling down on you.

shaking your head, you gather your things and hurry out into the cold, wintery weather. you refuse to allow yourself to go home and daydream. you could use the note as a bookmark, sure, but there was no use in dreaming about the artist. no use whatsoever when you would likely never cross paths again.

except you do go home and daydream. why you ever thought you could keep yourself from mulling over a moment rife with potential is ridiculous.

all throughout the evening—as you make your stir-fry dinner, as you draw your bath, as you change the sheets on your bed, and fold the laundry—you consider the possibilities:

you’d been at the café for a handful of hours, but how much had you truly paid attention to the patrons coming and going? barely, if you’re honest with yourself. you had noticed the older couple when they came in; you’d wondered how they’d managed to get from the parking lot to the warmth of the coffee shop without slipping on the icy sidewalks. you’d noticed, too, a man who looked a lot like how you imagine paul bunyan: massive height, plaid shirt stuffed in worn jeans, impressive beard. no one else of note sticks out in your mind hours later.

what had you been doing all afternoon? hopefully you hadn’t done anything embarrassing. god, sometimes you have this habit of resting your fingers over your mouth in such a way that it pushes up your nose to resemble a pig’s snout. had you done that? sometimes you fiddle with your hair too much and bounce your knees and hum to yourself. you want to sink below the suds of your bathwater when you recall your propensity for talking to yourself.

your thoughts turn fanciful when you finally slip beneath your covers.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “you’ve got mail.” only instead of emails, you could exchange notes in a coffee shop and forgo the business rivalry part.

maybe the artist is like tom hanks in “sleepless in seattle”: soft and sweet and really good with kids.

maybe you just have a thing for tom hanks.

you turn your head with a girlish grin, tucking your lower lip between your teeth.

you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t daydream, but how could you not? yeats’s poem filters through your mind like the moon filtering through your curtains: how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you and loved the sorrows of your changing face.

with a muffled squeal, you allow yourself a moment to thrash in delight—like a schoolgirl with a crush and a note checked yes i like you tucked beneath her pillow. the idea that someone somewhere notices you, of all people, is simply too much to bear. you feel like your heart will explode and sunbeams will burst from beneath your skin. you feel warm and happy and drunk on possibility.

you settle, then, and sigh, smoothing your hands over the rumpled comforter. you’re a professional, though. a paralegal, for god’s sake. you’ll go back to the café. maybe not tomorrow, but you’ll go back. just maybe—maybe, maybe, maybe—you’ll run into your artist again.

you return to the coffee shop in two days, lugging your over-stuffed bag with you, earbuds snug in your ears. when you cross the threshold, you can’t help the way your eyes immediately scan the customers who have parked themselves in the various sitting areas. you’re looking for your artist, obviously, but you have nothing to go on other than the note tucked away in your jewelry box at home. a few words, a carefully drawn profile—that’s not enough to determine who had created the note from a simple glance.

begrudgingly, you remind yourself once again that life isn’t a movie. there’s no tom hanks waiting for you on the other end of the note. it’s silly to dwell on it any longer, really. you’ll get too wrapped up, too attached, and that wouldn’t bode well for the upcoming holidays.

the table you usually occupy is already taken by a man in a red sweater. his head is bent over his laptop, glasses slipping down his strong nose. you try not to take it to heart; the table was never explicitly yours. with a soft grunt of effort, you drop your belongings in an orange armchair across the room before meandering to the counter. julie (at least, you think that’s her name?) smiles when you approach, and she rings up your order, asking about the weather and plans for the holidays.

once your coffee is in hand, you return to your new seat and relax in the accommodating plush armchair. maybe the man in the red sweater had done you a favor after all. you glance up to look at him. if he stays as long as you often do, his ass will ache by the time he leaves. the wood chairs offer zilch in the way of comfort.

you quickly lose yourself in work, but the idea that your artist could be in the same room as you never truly leaves your mind. you find yourself glancing about the room from time to time, studying those who come and go, wondering if perhaps they were the one who saw something worthwhile in you. no one catches you eye; everyone is too busy with their own affairs, and you don’t blame them.

by the end of the afternoon, you find your latte completely and utterly forgotten. it’s cold when you take a tentative sip, and you sigh. maybe not five dollars wasted, but five dollars you had meant for a hot drink, especially considering the cold weather. rising from your seat, you take the latte to the counter and ask the barista to pour your drink in a to-go cup with some ice. might as well make the best of it, and you don’t like things to go to waste.

when you return to your chair, you nearly drop the plastic cup.

another note.

“holy shit,” you breathe. instinctively, your palm tightens around your cup, and the plastic gives a small crack. you wince and double-check to make sure no leaks have sprung before picking up the folded piece of paper on your messenger bag.

your fingers tremble as you flip open the folded note.

the same blue ink, same hurried penmanship. no drawing this time; only words.

she sat, much as i did, working fervently. i couldn’t help but watch, and maybe that made me a creep, but i’d been called worse. she sat with an heir of regality, her chin held firm, eyes dancing about the room like she owned the place. not haughty or self-possessed. just sure of herself. what did that make me then? alone in my corner? i didn’t like to dwell too long, so i—

the words stop in time with the seize of your heart.

you can’t seem to look away, to look around the room again in search of your artist, your writer. your heart pounds in your chest, flush rising on your cheeks. eyes—you feel eyes on you whether they are present or not. you feel dizzy. never have you felt so… seen, so noticed. not even in past relationships have your boyfriends took such care to notice the minute details of your being.

the strange urge to vomit rises in your throat. you aren’t afraid; you aren’t creeped out.

you’re just… overwhelmed.

so, you tuck the note in your pocket and leave, careful to keep your gaze on the floor as you exit. just in case your writer is still there, still watching.

you’re nothing special, nothing like the paragraph they penned. they should get that through their thick skull before they find themselves disappointed.

you don’t return to the coffee shop until after the holidays.

it’s not that hard to stay away. the hustle and bustle of work combined with the hustle and bustle of family gatherings keeps you from finding the time for an afternoon of solace anywhere, let alone the café.

you must admit that you think of your author often, try as you might to forget them.

by now, you have the cadence of the yeats poem memorized and the prose of the paragraph tattooed on the front of your mind. each time you pass a couple in a warm embrace, you wonder what became of your writer. you wonder if they think of you as much as you think of them; if they ruminate over the possibility of a life that cannot be.

if this were a movie, you would run into your author by random happenstance. you’d bump into them at the market, spill your legumes on the floor, touch hands in your haste to right the mistake, and—boom—as you look up, it would all fall into place.

if this were a movie, you would see them in the library or the post office or the deli or—

—or the coffee shop.

you sigh as you enter the café, wishing for your author to be there, knowing they won’t be. it is enough that you’ve experienced two mysterious love notes; things like that don’t come in threes.

that’s only in the movies.

the café still has its holiday decorations up. twinkle lights hang draped across the ceiling, and music filters over the sparsely filled tables and chairs. in the post-holiday haze, you didn’t expect the café to be crowded. in all truth, the sight of few patrons eases your mind.

less of a chance to run into your author. less of a chance to reveal yourself as the decidedly uninteresting person you are.

you set your belongings down at a side table, and as you reach for your wallet, a presence hovers over your shoulder. frowning slightly, you straighten, prepared to ask the person to kindly give you some space. when you do turn, your heart leaps to your throat, and the wallet in your hand clatters to the table.

it’s your author. you just know it.

there’s something vaguely familiar about the man, about his strong nose and groomed facial hair and crystal eyes. he’s tall, warm looking, like a hot drink on a cold day or a crackling fire. his eyes scan your face as though he is worried, as though he’s uncertain of what he should do now that you’ve actually faced him.

you speak before your thoughts catch up with your heart. “you wrote those notes, didn’t you?”

he nods, and the movement—so gentle, so reminiscent of a small boy on the verge of a scolding—makes you love him all the more. “yeah.” he sighs, lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “yeah, sorry about that. i wanted to apologize. wasn’t sure i’d get the chance, if you’d come back again.”

you shake your head. “no, don’t apologize. please don’t apologize.”

it’s his turn to frown, and he looks up from the table. you lose your breath momentarily. god, his eyes are blue. “when you left last time i thought… well, i thought i’d scared you off.” with a rueful chuckle, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “would serve me right, too.”

“why do you say that?”

“i mean, notes on your laptop when you aren’t looking? intently watching you? kinda stalkerish, huh?”

you can’t help but smile—smile at him, at the nervous twitch of his mouth, at the way he avoids your gaze. “i guess.” on a daring move, you reach out and touch his elbow. when you touch him, he feels like home. “but i don’t want you to apologize. i like the notes. i haven’t thought about anything else since you gave me the first one.”

“really?” there’s a hopeful tone in his voice; it sets your heart on fire.

“yeah.”

“i’m writing a book—a novel, really. i saw you so often that any time i got stuck, i just wrote about you instead.”

you could kiss him then and there. instead, you tell him your name, and he grins.

“i’m gwilym.”

“tell me, gwilym.” you pull out your chair and motion to the café counter. “how would you feel if i bought you a coffee? i want to hear more about that novel.”

“i’d—i’d like that.”

he follows you to the counter, his hand brushing the small of your back.

the barista—matt, you think—looks up from the register and laughs. “holy shit, i won!” he looks over his shoulder. “hey, julie! you owe me a fifty.”

you glance at gwilym, but he’s already looking at you. you smile.

matt continues. “we had a pool to see how long it would take for you two to get together. you were always looking at each other but never at the same time. you knew that, right?” still laughing, he rings up your orders without be asked. “coffee is on us today, guys.”

as you wait for your latte to be steamed and gwilym’s chia to be poured, you tuck your lip between your teeth to stem your widening grin. gwilym is strong by your side, the perfect height for you to rest your head on his shoulder. you look up at him, at the noble planes of his face, and your chest squeezes. when he looks at you again, your chest squeezes even tighter.

maybe life is like a movie after all.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Coming Home

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4980

Warnings: Smut. Relatively vanilla, but decidedly explicit. 

A/N: For @impala-dreamer​ and the “Make Me Feel It” challenge. My prompt was “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile. To me, that song feels like letting your guard down and trusting someone to see you at your worst. 

Major thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67​ and @stunudo​ for the read-throughs and suggestions, and to @justcallmeasmodeus​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​ and @cracksinthewalls​ for listening to me grumble about this monster all day. 

October, 2006

Dean can’t sleep, and what-fucking-else is new? Not like he was Sleeping Beauty to begin with, but it’s harder since Dad died. He tosses and turns on the lumpy motel mattress, listening to Sammy’s snores. His muscles ache and his eyes itch and he can’t stop clenching his jaw. It’s been a couple days since he’s managed more than a catnap at a rest stop. 

If he pauses for too long, if he lets himself rest, the grief catches up and chokes him. Dean’s fine, or he will be. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

He gives up around 4am, leaves Sammy a note and trudges down the block to the all-night diner. 

Left foot, right foot. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. 

All the diners are starting to look alike. On good days, the familiarity is comforting. Today it just feels surreal, like he keeps driving and driving and never really gets anywhere, and the grey fluorescent lights make his vision skip and skitter strangely. 

There’s one other guy at a table in the corner, a trucker nursing a cup of coffee; otherwise it’s empty apart from the waitress wiping down glasses at the other end of the counter. He blinks away the disorientation and sits down heavily on one of the cracked vinyl stools.  

She sets down her rag and comes over, smiling, and it cuts through the grey and the cold and warms him from the inside. 

He orders a coffee and a slice of pie, and he starts eating without really tasting anything. He feels fucking cold, like he brought October into the diner with him. 

He watches the waitress tidying up, rolling silverware, cleaning the counter… Dean catches himself staring at her hips, the way she shifts her weight as she stands. 

Maybe it’s the way she moves that’s got him distracted, maybe it’s just sleeplessness making his vision blur, but one way or another he misses his mouth entirely when he goes to take a sip of coffee. Blistering-hot liquid sloshes over his hand, and he promptly drops the mug. It shatters at his feet. 

He looks down numbly at the splintered pieces as the puddle begins to spread. She’s there with a towel before he can really register what happened. 

“Jesus,” Dean spits, finally snapping back into his body. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

She just gives him a little half-smile and shrugs, and Dean slides off the stool to get out of her way. He tiptoes gingerly around the mess and grabs a handful of napkins to get the worst of the coffee off his lap. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment. 

When she’s done, Dean perches back on his stool to shovel down the last few bites, ready to get the hell of her way, but she sets a fresh cup in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says automatically. 

She quirks her lips in a tiny smile, and fuck, she’s cute. Dean tries to muster up his most charming grin, but it feels stiff and twisted on his face. 

“Long day?” she asks softly. She’s watching him with her head tilted to the side like she actually wants to hear about it. 

“I’m fine,” he replies. Smile, shrug, don’t think. 

She looks tired, too. She’s got dark circles under her eyes to match Dean’s, but there’s something sweet and open in her expression that makes him feel comfortable, somehow. Something about her is warm, and Dean’s first instinct is to hold out his hands like he’s thawing them over a fire. 

Her smile isn’t pitying, just empathetic, a sort of bone-weary been there, done that look. 

“My dad died,” Dean blurts out. 

He wasn’t planning on telling her that. It’s the first time he’s said the words quite so bluntly, let alone to a stranger. He’s not that guy, he doesn’t go around dumping his problems on other people, but… he looks up, meets her eyes. His chest hurts. 

“I’m fine,” he insists. 

Fine. Smile, shrug, don’t think. You’re fine. 

Dean heaves in a breath. His ribs are being squeezed by some cold iron grip, and his throat is tight. 

She reaches out across the counter and puts her hand over his, and she gives it a tiny, gentle squeeze. 

“You will be,” she offers. 

He’s not that guy, he’s just not, and the ache in his chest is this massive unbearable thing that’s about to split him open, and the longer she looks at him with that warmth, the harder it gets to hold himself together. And he needs to hold himself together. If he lets go, even just a little, he’s going to fucking drown. 

Dean yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. 

“Sorry,” she says. Her eyes look sad, but she’s giving him a tiny smile, like she understands. 

“I gotta -” he chokes out, and he stumbles as he gets off the stool. He throws some bills on the table without really looking, and he turns to go. 

Left foot, right foot. 

He doesn’t look back. 

***

March, 2008

“Fuck, Dean, just take this exit,” Sam says. He’s got that bite in his voice again. 

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He burps and puts the cap back on the flask one-handed. He gets in the right lane, though. Time for food. 

Signal. Turn. Brake. 

Time’s passing strangely. He blinks and there’s another day gone. He hasn’t got that many days left. If he closes his eyes for long they’ll disappear. 

He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Sammy jumps out and slams the door before Dean can even cut the engine, like a petulant fuckin’ kid. 

Dean shivers, goosebumps running down his neck. He takes one quick slug from the flask, then another, trying to shake off the chills, before he follows Sam inside. 

He hasn’t been sleeping. Better ways to spend his last weeks. He’s crystal-clear, though. He’s fine. Everything is bright and sharp and hard-edged around him. The whiskey just warms him up a little. 

“Ordered you a burger,” Sam mumbles, when Dean sits down next to him. “To go, so we can get to a fucking motel.” 

“Told you, Sammy, I’m fine,” Dean says breezily, and asks the waitress as she passes, “Could I get a coffee, when you get a sec?” 

He ignores Sam’s glare. 

The waitress comes over, and Dean gets a quick impression of a soft smile and curious eyes as she passes him a steaming mug. He takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue. 

“Hot coffee,” he says hastily, setting the mug down to blow on it, and then he delivers the line with an almost automatic grin. “You know what else is hot?” 

“Come on,” Sam mutters.

Dean finishes with a wink: “You.” 

“You’re not gonna spill on me again, are you?” she smirks. 

He looks up at her, really looks. Something about her smile says come inside, stay a while, like stepping in from the cold to the golden flicker of firelight.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were having a rough night.” 

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh.” 

He stares as she introduces herself. It feels so far away, now. Feels like he’s lived a few lifetimes since then, but he hasn’t, not really; he won’t even have a chance to live this lifetime. 

He shudders and wishes he’d brought his flask inside. 

“Sorry,” she says, “Not a good memory to look back at, I guess.” 

He shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine, just… took me a second,” he says, and recovers, pasting on a bright smile. “Don’t know how I could forget such a pretty face.” 

Sam makes an exasperated noise next to him. 

“Smooth,” she says dryly. “What’s your name, butterfingers?” 

“Dean.” 

“Well, Dean, if you make a mess again because you’re too busy flirting to remember where your mouth is, you can clean it up yourself this time. Okay?” 

The words are light and teasing, but her smile looks like an apology, like she knows all too well how hard it is to look back sometimes. 

“How ‘bout you let me make it up to you?” Dean offers. “Let me buy you a drink when you’re done here.” 

She’s eyeing him up and down, and Dean flashes his most winning smile, even though he has a sudden inexplicable urge to hide his face. There’s a bell from the kitchen window and she turns without answering. Dean’s pretty sure he just struck out, and he’s more bothered by it than he’d like to admit, but then she’s back. 

“Yeah, okay,” she says casually, handing over a couple takeout containers. “I’ll be done in fifteen.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, as he counts out bills. 

“Hey, you get your wish,” Dean says, grinning. “You get to sleep in a bed tonight. Motel’s right up the road, if I’m remembering right.” 

“Yeah. Great.” 

She’s talking to the cook, hands on her hips, and Dean catches a string of profanities. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, trying not to stare. 

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says. She gives him a little wave, and he almost trips over his feet on his way to the door. 

Sam shoulders his bag, jaw set, eyes tired. 

“I can drive you,” Dean offers, guilt slithering through his stomach, but Sam shakes his head. 

“I’ll walk. I can see the sign from here.”  

“I just - I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.” 

“Yeah. I won’t wait up.” 

Sam turns to go, and Dean feels panicked, for a second. He’s going to blink and lose another day. He’s spent too many days sniping and snapping and being a shitty fucking brother. 

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam looks back, tight-lipped. “Thanks.” 

Sam’s expression falters, the bitter mask falling away and leaving sadness in its place. 

“It’s okay, Dean, I get it,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost to the wind. 

Dean doesn’t watch him go. He gets in the car and fishes his flask out of the glove compartment. Then he leans against the hood of the car and eats his burger.

Chew, swallow. Don’t think about it. 

He sees her through the window, coming out from behind the counter. Dean sets the takeout container on the hood and gets to the front door just in time to open it for her. 

“So, where to?” he asks. 

“Not sure,” she says softly, looking down at her feet and fidgeting with the strap of her purse. 

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

Dean snorts. “I’ve told that one a few times myself.” 

She rolls her eyes and laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, okay. I… I don’t usually do this.” 

“Hey, no pressure,” Dean says. He holds his hands up and takes a step back. “If you say the word I’ll leave right now, no harm done. Okay?” 

She’s evaluating him, and it feels like an x-ray, the way she stares. He can see the moment she makes a decision. 

“I’ve got drinks back at my place,” she says, and adds sharply, “I’ve also got mace, so… don’t get any ideas.” 

It’s oddly endearing, for a threat. 

Her place is a tiny, cluttered studio apartment in a not-great part of town. When she opens the fridge, he sees a mess of takeout containers and bottles. 

“Beer, tequila, whiskey…” 

“Whiskey’s good.” 

He looks around and realizes there’s nowhere to sit. There’s a single stool at the kitchen table, and an armchair in front of the coffee table; the only place big enough for two people is the bed. He looks at her, and she’s blushing, like she just had the same realization. 

“Shit, sorry, this is weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t - I’m in a really fucking strange place in my life. Everything is… temporary, I guess.” 

“You and me both,” Dean mutters. He sits down on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She gives him a grateful little half-smile and hands him a glass. 

“Tell me about it?” She settles on the floor too, cross-legged, rolling her glass between her palms like someone who’s very used to holding a drink. 

They skip all the small talk, the flirtation and the easy questions, and they dive right into the things that Dean fucking hates talking about. Somehow he doesn’t mind. 

This was supposed to be a simple pickup, one fun night, a distraction, and instead he’s sitting on this chick’s floor asking about her childhood, finding that he actually cares about the answers… this isn’t like any one-night stand he’s ever had. It’s so much more intimate than that. 

The rules are different, with her. He doesn’t have to pretend to be fine. She doesn’t seem to pity him, when he talks about some of the fucked-up things in his life. She just accepts it. She accepts him. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been, when he finishes his third drink, but he’s starting to go hoarse. She doesn’t ask if he wants another, just takes the empty glass out of his hand. Her knee pops audibly when she gets up, and they both laugh. 

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor, I think,” she says, heading to the fridge. “If I say we should relocate to the bed, are you going to take it as a come-on?” 

He smiles up at her, exhaustion and whiskey making his vision blurry around the edges. “Only if you want me to.” 

“Jury’s still out.” She looks down, cheeks flushed like that’s not entirely true. “But I think for the sake of my fuckin’ kneecaps… make yourself comfortable.” 

He does. He sits back against the pillows, sinking into them. She comes over and passes him a drink, and he looks up at her, feeling oddly vulnerable stretched out on her bed like this. 

“Be right back,” she whispers, and sets her own glass on the nightstand before she heads for the bathroom. 

Dean closes his eyes, thinking, just for a second. 

He wakes all at once. There’s bright gold sunlight streaming through the windows and a quilt on top of him. She’s curled into his chest, nose brushing his collarbone where his henley is unbuttoned. His hand is resting on the curve of her waist, tucked under her thin shirt. She’s just starting to stir; she shifts, settles closer, and he feels her lips on his throat. 

Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this rested, or this warm. 

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to stay somewhere. He wants to stay right here in this moment, taking in the tickle of her breath on his neck, the cheap pillowcase under his cheek, the sound of a siren in the distance. 

She pulls back slowly, sleepy-eyed. Then she smiles. It feels like coming home. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he remembers who he is. He remembers that this isn’t his life. 

He digs the phone out of his phone and snaps it open long enough to growl, “Be there soon.” 

She’s still smiling, but her eyes are sad. Dean wants to stay, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and that’s why he makes himself pull away. If he lets himself have this, even for a morning… if this was his life? He’s not sure he could let himself be dragged away from it, hellhounds or no. 

She takes the phone out of his hand and enters her number, “Just in case you’re ever passing through.” 

“I doubt it’ll happen,” he says roughly. “But… if I’m passing through.” 

Stand up. Deep breath. 

He feels cold, the warmth leaching from his bones already. 

This isn’t your home. 

He doesn’t have a home. Now he never will. 

She walks him to the door and he hugs her, barely feeling it, barely noticing the feather-light kiss she presses to his cheek. 

“You okay?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says, and he turns to go. 

Right foot, left foot. Don’t look back. 

***

October 2008

If Dean doesn’t get out of this fucking motel, he might lose his fucking mind. 

He paces the bathroom, back and forth, feeling brittle and edgy and hollowed-out. One more nightmare, one more argument, and he might snap. He’s sick of Sammy’s fucking face, and looking at his own in the mirror is even worse. 

He sees hell whenever he closes his eyes. 

He dials her number before he can talk himself out of it, and she picks up on the second ring. 

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t - I mean, I ended up coming through after all. I don’t know if you remember me, but… this is Dean.” 

“I remember you,” she says. He can hear the warmth in her voice, even through the static. 

She texts him the address: new place, same town. He tells Sam not to wait up. 

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He’s not sure what it is about her, but there’s something about this chick that he can’t shake. The important thing is that it’ll be fun. It’ll get his mind off things for a night. He rolls down the window and turns the music up. 

Don’t think about it. 

When she opens the door, Dean’s heart jumps crazily in his chest. 

“So, do you want to go out, or...” Dean starts, as she closes the door behind him. 

“Can we just pick up where we left off?” she asks, breathless. 

Dean can smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. He feels dizzy, hot and cold all over, and when he leans in to kiss her it feels like falling.  It’s deep, syrupy-slow, her mouth opening easily under his, intimate and familiar. 

She lets out a barely-there whimper, deep in her throat. 

“Bed,” he chokes out. He’s not sure he’ll make it that far. 

He grabs her again, stumbling, as they practically fall through the bedroom door, and she whirls around to face him with this fiery, blazing look that makes him forget how to fucking walk. Her back hits the wall and he crashes into her. She slips her hands under his shirt and drags her nails down his lower back, and Dean gasps, grinding into her helplessly. 

“Please,” he pants. He kisses her neck, bites her jaw, whispers it again: “Please.” 

She yanks at the hem of his shirt. He almost rips her tank top. She shoves, sends him stumbling backward, and reaches back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall unceremoniously. Dean takes a step backward, still staring, so the edge of the bed against the back of his knees takes him by surprise. He sits down hard and scrambles back.

She pauses at the foot of the bed, letting him look. He rakes his eyes over smooth curves, speechless, as she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, and she crawls up the bed in nothing but plain black panties. 

She straddles him, pushing at his shoulders until he falls back against the mattress. He runs his hands over her, up her sides, trying to memorize the lush pillowy swells and dips of her, the velvety feel of her skin. Her mouth is hungry on his. 

She’s moving, slow and snakelike, rolling her torso so that he can feel the slight drag of her hard nipples up his chest, then twisting her hips, rubbing herself against him. It’s almost too much even through his jeans, all this hot rough friction. He grips her hips and rocks up against her, and she lets out a tortured little whine as she breaks away from the kiss. 

She gets Dean’s zipper down, tugs, and he lifts his hips obligingly so that she can get his pants off. He kicks at them awkwardly, making a face, and she giggles; it’s a nervous giggle, and it dies in her throat when he rolls on top of her. He pauses with his hands braced on either side of her head, and she stares up at him, cheeks flushed. 

“What do you -” he starts, and before he can finish the question, she reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over the curve of his lower lip. He flicks his tongue over it and watches her eyelids flutter. He ducks his head to kiss the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone. 

“Thought about this,” she says. “I was kicking myself, after. For being too scared to make a move, for -” 

She gasps when he slips his hand down the front of her panties, dragging two fingers down through silky-slick heat, running them up again, teasing before he pulls the thin fabric down. 

“I was wondering,” he confesses. He hooks his hands under her thighs and holds her in place, and she shudders at the first brush of his tongue. 

“I don’t do that - don’t invite strangers over,” she pants. “I don’t trust people, but you - fuck, do that again.” 

“Taste so good,” he mumbles. It’s barely audible, the way his face is buried between her legs. She squirms, thighs shaking as he gets his lips around her clit. 

The words are rushed, high-pitched, spilling out along with tiny gasps and sharp inhales: “Thought about your mouth, fuck. Thought about this. It was - you do a thing, with your tongue, and - right there, oh, fuck, just - you kept licking your lips, and... Dean. Dean.” 

He sneaks a glance up at her. She’s arching her back, fingers twisting in the sheets, saying his name over and over in this broken, reverent voice. Dean feels raw and strange, like he’s the one spread-open and vulnerable here. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it. 

She practically convulses when he slips two fingers into her, but he’s holding her down with his other hand. He works her with his fingers and sucks in quick little pulses, lost in the way she tastes. She grabs his hair, pulling him down against her, gripping so hard it stings his scalp, and it’s so fucking hot he feels like he could come just from this: her taste on his tongue, her fingers in his hair, her ragged voice as she says his name one more time. She shakes and shudders as she comes. 

“Gorgeous,” he can’t help but whisper, pressing a kiss to one of the stretch marks that show like pale tiger stripes on her thighs. The scar tissue doesn’t taste any different than the rest of her skin, but he kisses another to be sure, then drags his mouth up, nipping at the soft skin under her belly-button, licking a drop of sweat from the valley between her breasts. 

She’s panting, cheeks stained pink and sheened with sweat, looking up at him with glittering unfocused eyes, and the clench of pure fucking desire in his gut hits him like a freight train. The first slick press of his cock is almost too much. He closes his eyes and sinks in slow, feeling the give where her body opens up and lets him in. Her breath hitches in her chest when he grinds down, as deep inside as he can be. 

One of them is shaking, and Dean thinks it might be him. 

He kisses the underside of her jaw, mouthing at the soft salty skin there, and rolls his hips, and the wet-hot surge of friction is so fucking good. Part of him wants to move, snap forward and give in, fuck into her hard enough to obliterate the swelling sensation in his ribcage. Part of him wants this to last forever. 

He’s present in his skin in a way he hasn’t been in ages, frantic with all the input from his senses, lit up and fizzing with it. The strangled cry that rips from his throat sounds foreign, like an animal, like something wild… she digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, tilts her hips up, and he’s so close to the edge of his control already. 

The physical details of it, the actual act, that’s nothing new. It’s this feeling in his chest. It’s the way he feels like he’s about to shatter. 

“There,” she groans. He opens his eyes enough to see her, and his vision is blurring, images of her coming through like shots from an unfocused camera: lips parting around his name, eyes rolling back in her head when he hits the right spot, sweat trickling down her temple to soak tendrils of hair. 

Dean’s so fucking close, so fucking hard, it’s like his entire universe is narrowing down to the throb of blood pulsing in his cock, the way she’s clamping down around him as she grinds up to meet every thrust, writhing under him, pulling him close, her fingernails fiery points of pain at the small of his back. 

This is so much more than he expected. He can’t breathe.

She lets out a gasp and a sweet little sob, arching up, and he can feel her all around him, soaking wet and searing hot, so good it blinds him. His hips jerk forward one last time, as if he could possibly get any closer to her. He gives in and lets himself go under. 

The tension bleeds from his muscles, leaves him wrung-out and quiet. He keeps rocking into her, soft shivers of pleasure rippling through them both, as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands, tugging him down for a kiss. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, close enough that their breath mingles in the damp thick air between them. He kisses the tip of her nose, then her eyelids. He moves back to pull out. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispers. “Stay.” 

“Can I go like six inches to either side?” Dean asks, and she makes a face, giggling, as they shift over together, trying to move without putting any real space between their bodies. 

Dean settles in between her sprawled legs, resting his head on her chest. Her heartbeat is slowing, gradually. He focuses on the sound of it, the feel of her ribs rising and falling under his cheek as she breathes, and she runs her fingers through the short damp hair at the nape of his neck. 

He wants to stay right here, just like this. 

He could pretend, for one night. He could pretend to be someone else, someone who gets what they want. 

“If I fall asleep, wake me up in half an hour,” she says dreamily. “Let’s do that again.” 

He can feel the waves closing in over his head. 

Her fingers slow and then stop. Her heartbeat goes low and even. 

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Dean shifts, doing his best not to disturb her. She doesn’t stir. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed silently. 

She looks so peaceful: hair tangled, skin glowing, lips curled up in a smile. She looks warm. Dean’s chest aches. He sneaks one last glance at her before switching off the light and turning to go. 

He doesn’t look back. 

***

February 2010

Dean waits for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, but there’s no answer. He wasn’t really expecting one. 

Deep breath. Drink. Swallow. 

He wipes away the tears, steeling himself to go back inside and pretend that nothing’s wrong. 

The wheezy voice echoes in his ears: going through the motions. 

Deep, dark… nothing. 

He wants to deny it, is the thing. He wants to deny it, but he can’t, even to himself, even to the quiet nighttime sky. But that dark nothing is easier than letting himself feel. When he slows down, when he rests, when he allows himself to feel anything, it all crashes over him, swamps him, fills his lungs and makes him choke. 

Inside, you’re already dead. 

When was the last time he felt alive? 

He sees her clearly: head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, saying his name like a prayer. If he lets himself remember, he feels a ghost of her warmth and a swelling, fluttering fullness in his chest. 

Something inside him snaps. 

He practically runs to Baby, flings himself blindly into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with trembling fingers. He hits the gas and the tires squeal. 

The cold air slaps against his face, and his heart pounds, and he almost turns around five times before he hits the right exit. It’s not hard to find her place again, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s knocking that she might’ve moved. She might not be home. She might have a fucking boyfriend who’s going to punch him in the face. 

She opens the door. 

He can see hurt and shock and something bright (hope?) flickering across her face, and then she looks him up and down. 

“Dean,” she says softly. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m -” 

“If you say ‘fine’ right now I’ll punch you in the mouth,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just familiar wide-open warmth. “It’s three in the morning. You snuck out, like a fucking asshole, and then I didn’t hear from you in over a fucking year. So. Are you okay, Dean?” 

He has to force the words out; it feels like they’re scorching his throat. 

“No. I’m not.” 

He sways on his feet and sags against the doorframe. It’s pulling him under, one wave after another. 

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, holding him close, right there in the doorway. He runs his hands up her back and buries his face in her hair, taking deep heaving breaths that burn his lungs. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water. 

She presses her lips to his pulse and whispers against his skin: “Come inside, Dean. Stay a while.” 

She pulls the door closed behind him as he takes one shaky step, then another. 

He doesn’t look back. 

.

.

.

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[bxtgrl]

blinded by the lights

bruce takes jason to his first fair. it doesn’t go exactly as planned. | ao3

//warning for nongraphic vomit.

“What is that?”

Bruce blinks, pauses before closing the driver’s door, and turns his attention to where Jason stands at his side by the car. The boy’s brow is furrowed and he’s pointing accusingly at Bruce’s waist. He glances down. “A fanny pack.”

There’s a long enough pause that Bruce is starting to really think he’s missing out on something, when Jason is suddenly pivoting on his heel and grabbing the handle to the back car door. “Nope.” The door’s open and Jason’s sliding cleanly into the seat and closing the door behind him. Bruce takes a moment to absorb this odd behavior, before closing his own door and tapping his knuckles lightly on Jason’s window. He watches the vague outline of Jason through the tint as he reaches for the button to slide down the window, before realizing the car’s been off too long for that to work. The car is also unlocked, so Bruce could honestly just open the door himself, but he has a firm rule with himself about not forcing himself onto Jason. Although it’s been nearly five months since he took the boy in, his trust is still fragile. So, if a door is to be opened, Jason needs to be the one to do it. It had been a somewhat difficult thing for Bruce to get used to. It involved giving up a certain amount of control which meant giving up a certain aspect of his nature. Also, he’d gotten used to Dick who, until the last couple of years at the manor at least, had a fairly open-door policy.

The car door cracks open. Bruce takes a risk and nudges it open enough to see half of Jason’s face, who’s currently glaring at him—or, more accurately, the fanny pack.

“What’s wrong?” he sounds a bit more demanding than intended, but thankfully if Jason has learned anything during his stay with them, it’s that Bruce’s tone does not always equate to his intentions.

“I’m not being seen with that.”

“The… fanny pack?” A sharp nod and crossing of the boy’s arms over his chest are the only response he gets. His brow is squished unhappily and lips pushed forward in a pout. It’s kind of cute, but Bruce knows better than to admit that. “Why?”

“It’s lame, Bruce.”

“It’s useful” he argues, and then tacks on: “It’s Alfred’s.”

This, apparently, is not the winning argument he’d thought it was, because Jason gives a dramatic groan and flops backwards so he’s lying across the backseat. Bruce has to duck to keep his eyeline on Jason’s face. “That thing’s probably fifty years old!”

Bruce does not, actually, know how old the fanny pack is. He does, however, know this is a diversionary tactic for Jason, an attempt to take attention away from his nerves. Jason’s approach to new experiences tends to wildly ricochet between abundant excitement and poorly suppressed nerves. Bruce hasn’t quite figured out the pattern yet so that he could always predict which will come about, so he adds this to the “nerves” category for later study.

He sighs after a moment of debate, deciding he is not nearly attached enough to the fanny pack to pursue an argument with Jason. He plucks the essentials he’d stored in the pack, before unclipping it from his back and unceremoniously tossing it onto the passenger seat. “There. Can we go now?”

Jason blinks at him and stares for a moment, before his face softens and he nods. Bruce steps out of the doorway to allow the boy space to get out. Jason closes the door behind him, Bruce locks the car, and then grabs the backpack he’d previously set atop the vehicle. He picks a random compartment to throw the fanny pack’s belongings into, before slinging it over his shoulder.

The trek across the dirt parking lot is silent between the two. Bruce chances a glance at the small boy by his side and sees his gaze laser focused on the bright, fast, and noisy scene beyond the approaching fence. It’s only mid-afternoon, so the sun is still bright enough to dull the lights, but the music is growing louder as they approach and Bruce is glad he’d preemptively taken something for the inevitable headache.

They make it through security with ease. As planned, neither the metal detectors nor security notice any of the various gadgets he’s carrying. He shoots a wink to Jason and the boy rolls his eyes with a huff, but his lips twitch in the telling of a suppressed smile. He places a hand between the boy’s shoulders and it’s a sign of progress when he doesn’t flinch at the touch—or maybe he’s just too engrossed in the new sights around him to notice—and guides him to a spot out of the traffic of the crowd.

“Wait here” he commands, but without the edge that would accompany a field command. Jason gives an absent nod anyway and Bruce steps away to the ticket booth. The amount he purchases has the attendant doing a double-take, but Bruce is simply being prepared. Dick’s favorite part of the fair had always been the rides and the first few times Bruce had found himself making multiple trips to the ticket booth.

Jason is thankfully still where Bruce left him when he returns, wide eyes still taking in his surroundings. “So, what’s first, son?”

Jason points to a nearby food booth. “Food.”

Bruce thinks of the packed lunch from Alfred sitting in the backpack: turkey sandwiches, veggie chips, and a couple juice boxes. “Jay-”

“Please?” He turns his pleading eyes toward Bruce. Dick’s puppy face had been wide blue eyes filled with innocence and a quivering lip. Jason’s is a raised brow, clenched jaw, and gaze that is clearly prepared for a stern “no.” Both looks cause an odd ache in Bruce’s chest.

He thinks of the other day when Jason had admitted to having never been to the fair. He thinks of how the young boy had gotten immediately defensive, explaining the reason away as the grounds simply being too far out of the city to travel on foot. Alfred had saved Bruce from any potential floundering, suggesting Bruce take a day off and accompany Jason to the fair on a week day, so that it would be less crowded. The look the butler had sent Bruce over Jason’s shoulder told him it was more an order than a suggestion, though Bruce hadn’t had a problem with the idea to begin with.

“Alright” he acquiesces. “Just don’t tell Alfred.” Jason grins victoriously and dashes away toward the booth. Bruce follows at a slower pace, glad his height makes it easier for him to keep an eye on the boy as he darts through the crowd. By the time he reaches the booth, Jason is staring at the menu with intense concentration and the attendant is staring at Jason with a small, amused grin.

“I’ll have a corndog” Jason announces after another moment. “And a Coke. Uh, large, please.”

The attendant glances at Bruce and he thinks he should probably downgrade that Coke to a small, but Jason’s pleading eyes are still fresh in his mind. He clears his throat. “I’ll have a pretzel. No salt.” Jason lets out a huff, as if he’s personally affronted by Bruce’s choice of food.

It’s not long before their food is handed to them and Bruce’s brows nearly climb into his hair at the sight of Jason’s corndog. It’s nearly a big as the young boy’s head and the drink isn’t really any smaller. Jason takes a bite and Bruce glances to see the bite isn’t even large enough to reach the hotdog Bruce assumes is in the middle. He winces, picturing Alfred’s disapproving gaze, but Jason is grinning like he won some grand prize, so he withholds comment and simply eats his incredibly boring pretzel.

Jason’s done with the ridiculous corndog by the time Bruce finishes his pretzel and it’s not long after his soda is empty and he’s just slurping up air and vaguely soda-flavored melted ice. Jason tosses the remains of his meal in an overflowing trashcan and goes to wipe his face with his sleeve, but Bruce is already sticking a napkin into his face before he can finish the gesture. Jason grins sheepishly and takes the offered napkin.

“Next?” Bruce questions casually, even as he eyes the boy and wonders, not for the first time, just where all that food managed to go. Jason crumples the napkin, tosses it at the trashcan where it bounces off the other trash and lands at the base of the can.

“Rides” the boy says decidedly.

Bruce raises a skeptical brow. “You just ate. A lot.”

“Rides” Jason insists, already taking off. Bruce just sighs and allows a brief, fond smile, before following.

The ride Jason chooses is a small rollercoaster. Bruce hands Jason a ticket and then steps to the side, knowing it would be a bit too much of a squeeze for him to fit into a seat. He watches as Jason chooses the last cart and can’t help a small smile. Earlier, he’d advised Jason that perhaps aside from the front seat, the last one was actually the roughest one to be in. Leave it to Jason to forgo the easier middle seats for his first rollercoaster.

The ride starts and Bruce watches as it climbs up to the top of the track—they’ve ran across rooftops much higher than the track so he’s not particularly worried about Jason getting scared. He watches the first couple loops of the ride, before pulling out his phone to glance at his emails. There’s nothing urgent there, nothing requiring his immediate response, so he pockets the phone once more and glances up to see the ride has stopped and Jason is-

Jason is nowhere to be seen.

Bruce blinks and his brow pinches. He tells himself there would be more of a ruckus happening if a child had fallen off the rollercoaster. Unless no one had noticed- He has to remind himself that Jason is not a typical child, that he knows how to take care of himself better than most adults. No, he shouldn’t panic. Not yet.

Bruce scans the crowd, spots the familiar back of a boy as he darts around to the backside of a fun house. He follows after him at a brisk pace, trying not to attract any extra attention but also not wanting to lose track of the boy he knows can be quite fast when he wants. When he rounds the fun house, he’s relieved to see Jason still there, back to him and shoulders hunched.

“What happened?” he asks. There’s no response, just Jason suddenly going more rigid. Bruce reaches him and he smells it then, so he’s not surprised when he steps around to face the boy to see a streak of vomit soaked into his shirt. Bruce grimaces in sympathy. He takes in the rest of Jason—the rest of his clothes appear clean thankfully—and searches for any other signs of illness. He does not appear pale or clammy, though. Rather, he’s red and avoiding Bruce’s gaze like Bruce is the one with heat vision. He’s embarrassed, Bruce surmises.

“I’m sorry!” Jason blurts after Bruce makes the mistake of letting the silence stretch for too long. Bruce takes in this response, noting the defensive posture of Jason’s shoulders and the way his eyes flit about as if looking for an escape. Bruce realizes with a pang that not only is Jason embarrassed, he’s scared. It’s a difficult thing to see after all these months, but Bruce knows he must be patient with the boy. Over a decade of trauma can’t be washed away just like that, no matter how much Bruce wished it could be for Jason.

“I’ll pay for the shirt!” Jason continues, but then his face scrunches, probably thinking about his lack of funds and Bruce realizes distantly he should consider starting Jason on some sort of allowance. At the forefront, though, he realizes he should actually speak.

Bruce sighs, lets the backpack slip off his shoulder and into his hand before setting it on the ground. “Alfred is definitely finding out now.” Jason’s gaze finally meets Bruce’s and there’s a hint of confusion there. Bruce removes his jacket and hands it to the boy. “Throw away that shirt and put this on.”

Jason’s eyes flickers between Bruce and the jacket, hesitating. “But the shirt’s new.”

Bruce shrugs. “We’ll buy a new one.” That’s not exactly the right thing to say, because Jason’s now glaring at him, but at least the fire is back in his eyes. Bruce would much rather see that stubborn flare than the frightened uncertainty that had been directed at him just a moment ago. After a moment of further hesitation, Jason snatches the jacket and quickly swaps it out with his ruined shirt. It dwarfs the twelve-year-old, a stark reminder of just how small Jason is. Jason must take notice as well, as he tries valiantly to stuff the ends into his pants for a moment before giving up and letting it hang inches above the floor.

Once Jason finally seems settled enough, Bruce bends to pick up the backpack once more and say as casually as he can: “So, do you feel up to more rides, or should we play some games next?”

 Jason chooses the Ferris wheel as their last activity before heading home. The sun has just dipped below the horizon and as they slowly rise above the rest of the ground, Bruce watches the boy instead of the scenery. He’s scarfing down a fried twinkie Bruce had relented on and the bright lights of the fair are reflecting off of them and the higher they get, the quieter it becomes. Bruce takes advantage of the lack of noise.

“Did you enjoy yourself, son?”

Jason nods, shoves the last bite of twinkie into his mouth, and says around his mouthful: “Yeah!” Bruce feels a tension he hadn’t entirely been aware of carrying ease, but then Jason swallows his food and suddenly his face is serious, questioning. “Hey, Bruce?”

“Hm?”

“Y’know all those farm animals they got down there? Like that rabbit I held or the cow that farted on you?”

Bruce grimaces at the memory. “Yes?”

“Are people going to eat them?”

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Cherry Coke Special: Three

Bucky walked into the diner a couple days later. Partly to see you. Partly to give your tail a couple hours off. But, when he walked through the doors, you weren’t there. 

There was another girl with a pink uniform and different hair. Makeup that was less pin-up and more stripper. He glanced at the clock. He scanned the crowd, thinking you might have slid into a booth to bus a table. But there was no you. 

And it took him all of four seconds to get a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

He pulled out his phone and dialed your tail, “Hey, fuckwit,” he barked, “Where’s the girl?”

“We’re looking, Boss. She left her day job 30 minutes ago and never made it to her apartment. I sent Rock ahead to see if her car was there.”

“Find her!” he snapped, “I don’t trust that weaselly little bastard as far as I can throw him.” He hangs up, trusting that his orders are gonna be followed and calls the next person he needs to talk to, “Nat,” he says, trying to stay calm, “I need you and Sam to start calling around to hospitals. Find a Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Already on it,” she said, “And I sent Barton to go snoop her apartment.”

“You’re a saint,” he said, some of the tension in his shoulders relax. If anyone could find you, Nat could. That was her area of expertise. Finding people. She’d been doing it all her life, and he had complete faith in her abilities. What he doesn’t have confidence in is Rory’s better nature. He doesn’t think that Rory is ever gonna get the message.

He stopped the car and pulled over, taking a second to breathe. And for a second, he wondered in the prayer to St. Anthony worked on lost people. He wasn’t even really sure he remembered the words. But. He wasn’t just gonna be sitting on his thumbs and waiting for everyone else to find you. You deserve better. You deserve to be kept safe. Someone needs to take care of you. 

He isn’t sure what direction he’s driving. He takes some of the information his tail gave him. Shops you like. Stores you stop at. Friends you’ve visited. It’s been two days, and there isn’t much to go on. Practically none. You work. You go home. Sometimes you take a run. And that’s it. That’s all he knows. 

But, when his phone rings and Natasha takes a deep breath, he knows.

“Which hospital?” he asks, voice dangerous. 

“Memorial,” she answers, “Bucky it’s... it’s bad. Steve’ll meet you there.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word. He hangs up the phone and whips the car around, headed towards the hospital. He doesn’t know what to do. Or tell you when he gets there but he can’t go. He has a sneaking suspicion that what happened to you was all his fault. Because he just had to swoop in, pounding on his chest and declare you important to him. Because he knew you were with someone else and went and caught feelings, something he swore he wouldn’t do. 

When he parks in the garage, it’s a blur. And Steve, god bless him, has to practically run to keep up with him as he finds his way through the labyrinth. But he knows hospitals. He’s been here enough times when one of his guys has been hurt. 

When he finds your room, he stops at the door and hesitates for just a second. His hand hovering over the door handle.

“Bucky,” Steve urges, “Go.”

“I feel like I did this to get Stevie,” he said softly. 

“So make it right,” he prompts. Steve’s heart twisted for his friend. He did bad things, but he was a good man, and the thought of someone innocent, someone he loved, was hurt because of something he’d done... It bothered him a lot. He was one of the few people who had ever seen Bucky vulnerable. And he knew first hand how soft Bucky could get for a pretty girl who could make him feel comfortable. And he knew Bucky was soft for you. Hell. The bank statements for how often he went to the diner, and the tips he left were proof enough for Steve. And Steve didn’t mind. Bucky deserved a girl who actually cared about him.

He watched as Bucky opened the door and step into the room, he took a spot against the wall outside and folded his arms, doing his best to look slightly intimidating. 

Bucky stopped in the doorway and looked down at you. You seemed so small, and it made his chest hurt. You were small and broken. An arm in a cast, a cut on your eye, and bruising along the side of your face. He was willing to bet some bruised ribs too. If not broken. And probably a nasty concussion. 

He crossed the floor quietly, careful not to startle you and takes a seat. When you open your eyes slowly, he smiles a little, “Hey, Sugar,” he murmurs.

You turn your head to look up at him, and his heart just breaks. Tears start welling up, and he isn’t sure if it’s from the physical pain or the emotional pain, but he itches to make it stop. “I don’t understand what I did,” you tell him quietly. 

“What’d he say to you?” Bucky asked, staying composed. Or trying to. But there was a fury in his chest, seeing your confusion and the tears. 

“He told me I’d been fucking around on him,” you say, wiping away tears. “Said I was trash. That... that the baby wasn’t his and-” you start crying in earnest, and Bucky blinks in shock. He doesn’t know what to say. And he wants to get up and run out of the room find that shit heel and tear him apart. 

“Baby?” he asked softly, kissing the hand he’s holding. 

You nod, “I just- I just found out last week.”

Bucky nodded, “You can’t go back to him, sweetheart.” He doesn’t want to press. He doesn’t want to tell you what you need but the thought of Rory touching you made his skin crawl.

“I’m not,” you murmur, “My mama is coming with my brother to pack up my stuff and move me home.”

“Home? Where’s that?”

“A couple hours away,” you answer, “A little town upstate.”

Bucky frowns, he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want you where he can’t protect you easily. “What-” he stops. He wants to ask “What about us?” but. There is no “us” there’s you. You and your baby. And you need to do what’s best for the two of you. But something about your face when you think about home tells him you might not be sure.

“What about your job?” he asks. 

“I don’t have a place to stay here,” you tell him exhaling slowly.

“I can help you,” Bucky offers. The words are out before he can think about it. “I- I have an apartment I’ve been trying to sublease.”

You give him a little smile and shake your head, “Something tells me that if a mob boss can afford it, I decidedly can’t.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow and you give him a look, “Not too many people who come into that diner wear bespoke suits and silk shirts... or have the FBI send agents in to ask me what we talked about.”

He grins, “What’d you tell ‘em?”

“That you were a nice guy. Tipped well. And liked Patty melts and the Cherry coke,” you answer primly. 

Bucky could kiss you. He really could. He knew that if you’d figured that out you could have figured out a lot of things. Even in code from his end of the conversation.

“Doll,” he says softly, “You don’t wanna go home. Let me help. You don’t wanna work in the kitchen at your mama’s restaurant. I know you don’t.” He kisses your hand, “Please? This is my fault. Let me do something.”

“Your fault?” you ask.

Bucky winces, “The other night, I saw Rory grab you. It- I can’t stand when men put their hands on women... So I stepped in after he left. Cracked him in the jaw and told him to treat you better. Told him if I ever saw him touch you that way again I was gonna get mad.”

“Bucky-” you gasp.

“I know. I knew as soon as he walked away from me that I’d made it worse for you... I shouldn’t have just put a tail on you. I should have made you come to stay with me then... I’m sorry, Sugar.”

You exhale slowly, “This isn’t the first time he hit me,” you murmur. “I hoped, maybe when I told him about the baby he’d get better. And he did. For a couple days.”

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear tenderly, “What are you gonna do, Sugar?” he asked softly. He wants to ask for specifics. He wants to know if you’re keeping the baby. 

“Keep my kid as far away from their dad as I can,” you say softly.

Bucky nods, “So everything...”

“They’re keeping me under observation tonight,” you explain quietly, “My arm got broken trying to protect my stomach but... There was still a heartbeat.”

“Let me help?” he pleaded, “Please? I have an apartment I’m not using in my building. Just across from mine... at least. At least come look at it? It’s a nice little place, doll. Two bedrooms.”

You nod slowly and he smiles a little. You look so tired. Too tired to fight him on this and for that he's thankful. He tucks the blankets around you gently and leans over to kiss your forehead. “Get some sleep, Sugar,” he soothed. “I'll take care of everything, okay? I’m gonna make this right for you.”

You make a soft noise and he smiles, “Nope,” he scolds, you just relax and sleep. I’ll put someone outside your room and I’ll come pick you up tomorrow, okay?” He hesitates for a moment when you don’t answer but, brushes another kiss against your forehead to go make his plans. 

He was going to make this right. And even as he tried to tell himself that that didn’t include raising this guy’s baby, he knew he was lying to himself. He just had to convince you it was a good idea.

Tags:

@lancsnerd @thorfanficwriter @thehyperactiveteen @queenoftheunderdark

[musutofu]

【 Round Trip 】 Drabble

♡ pairing | ᵞᴬᴺᴰᴱᴿᴱ Shouji x ᶠᴱᴹ Reader ✑ word count | 1.7k ✎ genre | yandere ✗ warnings | kidnapping, mentions of pregnancy prompt | 33. “Do you really think you can get away from me?”

Memories are a curious thing. Flimsy and finicky, unreliable with the finer details of things while still holding truth in the broader strokes. Trying to see into the past as it’s been recorded by your mind is like looking at an old photograph that’s been left in the sun for too long. It’s dried and cracked around the edges, brittle to the touch. The slightest prodding at the loose ends of a feeling or sound could lead to it crumbling to dust as you try to keep it in the palm of your hands. And like the dust of former memories you’re beginning to lose yourself in the passage of time. Sunlight has leached your colors into a pale rendition of your former glory, bleached out spots of detail completely until you’re not certain what had filled the space once upon a time. It feels like you’re still there–the old you–standing just at the edge of your periphery, out of focus and only slightly tangible but every time you try to look the wraith strays further from sight. Soon, if you sit idle and let yourself erode to dust, there’ll be nothing left to grasp at. You’ll be gone. And a new person that isn’t you will be left to fill the empty shell left behind. But, if there’s one thing you remember about your life from before, it’s that you were never one to take things lying down. You got up and you fought. In your currently degraded state it’s hard to imagine standing up for yourself at even the smallest grievance and such a large offense that looms behind you has made you turn tail and run. And, for better or worse, you have no choice but to keep going. The deed is done, the betrayal completed. There’s nothing but rage left in your wake and memories of past punishment ring clear in your mind. The sharp, metallic taste of blood floods your mouth at the thought and your jaw pops open to be certain you haven’t bitten a hole in your tongue. You haven’t. The only lingering pain that’s physically tangible are aged a few hours. Throbbing bruises decorate the skin of your thighs and hips, dark bruises across your neck and chest in the shape of half moons; the fruits of your laborious night. A joyous occasion that trumped any and all physical boundaries and left you battered and bruised. “Mommy,” you jump in your seat, so lost in the liberation of the journey that you’d forgotten you absconded with a passenger. “I have to use the bathroom.” In the backseat your daughter is squirming in her car seat, hands wringing her seatbelt as she rocks forward and back as if she’ll be able to fling herself out of it with enough momentum. “Sit back, Chie-chan. It says there’s a rest stop at the next exit. Can you hold it for a little longer?” She slumps back in her seat with a huff, scrunching her nose at you in the rear view mirror in a way that makes her look like an angry puppy. She’s inherited much of her father’s appearance, including his elongated face. For a moment you find yourself annoyed with her just for looking the way she does. Having the audacity to even remotely resemble him while in your presence, but you catch yourself before you can go further down that dark path of resentment. It’s never the child’s fault for being born and if not for your daughter, your life would be only darkness. All the light in recent memories are because of her and you find the heinous thoughts of hatred rescinding from where they intruded. As you wait outside the bathroom for Chie to come out you wonder if your absence has been noticed yet. Probably. Shouji’s schedule rarely changes and he’s been getting home around this time every day recently. It’ll be a few hours before he realizes you aren’t returning and, if you’re lucky, a few more until he’ll be able to find you. The plan is to be on a plane overseas by then. Just as you’re strapping Chie back into her car seat, your phone rings. You’d been certain to turn off all location services and log out of any SNS accounts you’d had open in the hopes of going incognito but without turning it off or, at the least, to do not disturb, Shouji can still try to contact you. And he has. A picture of him lights up your screen as you pull out of the parking lot going only a little over the speed limit. “Chie-chan,” she’s happier now, perking up at your sing-song tone. “Remember how I told you we’re playing hide and seek with Daddy?” She nods excitedly. “That means we can’t tell Daddy where we’re going, so when I pick up don’t mention it or we’ll lose, okay?” “Okay, Mommy!” You answer the call on the sixth ring, putting it on speaker and passing the phone back to Chie. As expected, Shouji isn’t happy with your disappearance. His voice is tight with repressed anger as he greets you. “Honey,” he’s trying his best to not sound upset, “where are you?” “Hi, Daddy!” Chie says before you can make up a lie. She starts babbling on about her day in that way all kids can. A constant stream of information that doesn’t stop for a breath and adds in the most minute details lest you not know what color her shoes are today. Shouji doesn’t interrupt her but you can hear him moving in the background, probably pacing at the thought of you slipping through his fingers after years of keeping you under lock and key. He trusted you not to run from him after all these years and it makes you wonder why you did. Beside the obvious kidnapping and forced lifestyle as a Hero’s housewife he’d been the perfect husband, but something inside you broke last night and the suffocation you’d felt in the beginning came back with full force, weighing heavier and heavier on your chest until you’d made it out the front door. The feeling of weightlessness has only gotten better as the miles fall away behind you. “Mommy!” The car jerks as you jump again, always so afraid of the slightest reproach, even from your child that’s so much like your husband. She’s looking at you in the mirror with those big, dark eyes as if you’ve missed something important. “Yes, baby?” “Daddy asked if you went to the doctors today.” Your hands tighten on the steering wheel at the memory. It was all feigned excitement and empty thanks as the doctors congratulated you on your pregnancy and healthy baby. It was the only reason Shouji had left you the car keys. When you were pregnant with Chie he took you to all the appointments himself, not wanting to give you a chance to run. Unfortunate for him that he thought you wouldn’t now. “I did!” The persona is back. The perfect wife that will surely become your permanent personality if you’re caught. She’s sweet and docile, answering everything with an innocent, coquettish tone. “It’s too early to know if it’s a boy or a girl, but they’re healthy. The doctor gave me some vitamins.” “Mommy, are you sick?” Chie is suddenly upset at the mention of medicine. “No, baby, Mommy is fine.” Shouji soothes her. “She just has to take special medicine so your new brother or sister can grow big and strong.” “I want to meet them.” She’s pacified by her father’s words and you’re glad for it as the airport comes into view. Your takeoff time isn’t for a few hours but you’d rather not start the wait with a distraught child. “Soon, baby. We’ll meet them soon.” It could be all in your head but it sounded like he put extra emphasis on “we” and you’re not sure you like that indirect promise. We means together and together means going back. You take the phone from Chie after pulling into the parking lot. Before Shouji can protest, Chie pouts her goodbyes and hangs up. You let her keep your phone to watch cartoons as you wait at the terminal. Somewhere between episodes five and six, you doze off. Wakefulness finds you much more comfortable than when you’d fallen asleep, the scratchy cushion of the plastic airport chairs doing little to cradle your body as you slept. The cushion beneath you now is decidedly more comfortable and you roll over to indulge in a few more moments of relaxation, though it drains away immediately as your nose catches on a scent that will be forever ingrained in your memory. It’s the distinctly masculine scent of Shouji and as you gain your bearings, suddenly fully awake, you realize it’s all around you. The walls of the cage you’d thought you’d escaped are looming up around you as Shouji’s arms lock you to your bed, hands trapped between your bodies now that you’ve rolled towards him. He knows you’re awake. His hand gently traces shapes up and down your spine as you try your best not to cry or scream and wake Chie from where she’s probably sleeping in her room down the hall. “I know you’re awake, honey. Can I see those pretty eyes?” You indulge him, but only because you fear what he’ll do if you don’t. He’s being kind now, but that can surely change after the stunt you’ve pulled today. “There she is.” He coos at your tearful eyes. “How did you find us?” “Do you really think I’d let you use the car with no way to track it. You running off was always a possibility. I didn’t want to take my chances no matter how good you’ve been as of late. Do you really think you can get away from me? Do you honestly think I’d let you run off with my children?” His hand caresses the skin of your stomach as he goes on. “I’m yours. You’re mine. You’re my wife and the mother of my children. I want you here,” he’s whispering now, cuddling you closer to his chest. “So don’t try to leave me again. If you do, I’ll chain you to our bed.”

[the-magic-lava-lamp]

Enjoy Yourself (It’s Later Than You Think)

Summary: (Title based on THIS song) ! Val looked into the rear-view mirror and saw that the sky was nearly drained of all brightness. It had surely been an exhausting day. She was surprised Jane hadn’t faded off during the drive to their next motel, not even once and they’d done a lot of running around--

The sound of Jane slipping in her sleep and falling onto the car door ledge thumped in Val’s ear. 

(Sequel to ‘Too Busy Thinking About My Baby’!)

Ships: ValJane 

Word Count: 5,783

Valkyrie laid back on the front car seats as Jane hovered above her, sitting on the edge of the car door. 

Val closed one of his eyes so the sun was behind Jane’s head instead of shining down to worsen her vision. She rolled her toothpick to the other side of her mouth and whistled past the small gap. 

They had about ten minutes to kill before they'd have to move to keep the trip on schedule. A small shiver seemed to pass through Jane as she pulled at her shirt. Val lifted the toothpick from her lips and put her elbow next to her on the seat, hand put through his steering wheel. She squinted one open eye and read the patch sewn into her t-shirt. Just above her heart read 'The answers are out there!' .

"Val, take that out of your mouth before you swallow it." Came Jane’s voice, followed by a soft kick to the bottom of Val’s shoe that was only half on. She rolled her eyes and sat up so that he was between Jane’s legs, arm resting on her thigh. 

Jane’s eyebrow lifted but gladly accepted the curious little kiss Val offered when she removed the stick. Decidedly, Jane pecked her girl’s cheek when she glanced off towards the rest area. “Baby, believe me-” She spoke softly and planted a few more kisses “This trip is going to be perfect.” That time she just nuzzled her nose against her neck. 

Jane pulled up to allow Val a look at her. The sudden movement made the sunglasses, which had been resting on her head, fall over her eyes and slip down the slope of her nose. 

Val glowed and pushed them up for her with an easy-going bliss. “Go pee. I’ll drive the car up to the sidewalk and meet you on the way out.” She chuckled, patting Jane’s knee before the girl hopped off the car. 

: : : : : Jane was just passing the cute little bushes outside of the building when the familiar honk of Val's car pulled her out of her thoughts.

Val had one outstretched arm lounging on the wheel, that toothpick hung from her sideways smile again. "You goin' my way doll?" She smirked as some kind of vaguely vintage voice fell from her lips. 

Jane strolled over, gripping a nearby sign pole and twirling around it. Hues of the rising sun tinted her cheeks. "Is there any other way to go, darling?" She giggled and galloped over. Flinging her purse inside first than herself, jumping over the door. 

Reaching into her bag, Jane grabbed the long thin summer scarf Val had bought her. It was intended to help her live-out some strange fantasy she’d had as a young teen, involving up-and-leaving home & traveling in a convertible car with it blowing in the wind...Man, Val adored her. 

Val tilted her chin down and allowed her suns-glasses to fall, pursing her lips. “Let’s roll, baby.” 

Jane pointed her finger towards the open road and laughed madly. 

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

Valkyrie had planned a small road-trip back to New Mexico for the couples one-year anniversary. Which, was a very big deal in Val’s opinion. 

The two of them had basically been stuck together since they’d begun dating but funny enough, they never really took themselves too seriously. It was more because of Val’s hesitation of commitment, if anything. But Jane was happy to take things slowly too. They were girlfriends. They were 100% exclusive. But they pretty much kept away from serious talks. Val felt a little guilty but at the same time...proud her feelings were a part of a true relationship. 

Jane was curled up against the door wearing Val’s hoodie as the orange sky faded to deep purples. The sleeves were pulled over her hands & she kept drifting in-and-out of sleep. 

“Wake up, sprite.” Val gently reached over and shook her knee, listening once again to the soft sighs which escaped her girlfriend’s lips when she woke up. “Don’t leave me on my own.” 

Jane sat up and grinned. “Sorry.” She rubbed her eyes and moved to take her cell which was hooked up to the radio. “I had a dream that I was psychic. I kinda wanted to know where it was going.” She stretched and made herself comfortable again. 

Val smirked. “Oh yeah? What did dream Jane see in her visions?” 

The girl shrugged and took a sip of Val’s coffee. She opened her mouth like she was about to answer but blinked up towards the sky. “Was that lightning or did I just rub my eyes too hard?” She scrunched her nose. 

Val turned and caught a quick glimpse of another bolt. Her answer was to roll up the roof and close all the windows. Just in time. 

The violet sky thundered above them poured down hard drops of rain which pounded against the car. Jane giggled as the air conditioning blew her hair back with that stale breeze. 

She pulled herself up in her seat to get a better view from Val’s window. Another bolt crashed and seemed to crackle in the shine of Jane’s watchful eyes when it reflected in the brown. 

“Y’know, I wanted to be a storm-chaser when I was little.” Val stole a quick glance at the woman and gripped tightly on the wheel. 

“Me too.” Jane fell back into a relaxed position and grinned like she was in the presence of something truly magical. “It probably started with weather; I was fascinated by the natural elements we lived our lives around-”

Val smirked. “But it wasn’t enough. Sky wasn’t the limit for you, baby.” 

Jane gently pinched her arm. “I’m who I am today because as a child...I just decided science was what interested me most.” She paused and stared out the windshield. “I just liked space and now...” She shrugged. “Isn’t that crazy?” 

“Crazy, yes.” Val nodded, turning the car into the small parking lot of a gas station. “But believable.” She smirked and turned the car off. “You get where you’re going when you work hard for it, Jane.” 

Jane shrugged. “You’d know.” She said with earnest pride and brushed a curl away from Val’s eyes before planting a small kiss on her cheek. She admired her girlfriends work with an organization which helped to match people with possible career options, internships etc. Val really enjoyed working with people & guiding them in their search for jobs they were actually passionate about. 

Plus, Val was one hell of a fighter in her spare time too. She consistently trained at the gym and was the swiftest, smoothest...warrior (that was the best word for it) Jane had ever seen. 

Val parked the car and slowly climbed out, watching Jane hop out to look up into the storm. Heavy raindrops fell down upon them & soaked through the comfy outfits they’d been wearing but neither cared. 

“Buy me a crappy gas station hot-dog?” Val made a puppy dog face even though Jane was sure to agree. 

She nodded & made a ‘come here’ gesture before swirling on her heels. 

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

“A toast!” Val raised her body, legs now curled under her thighs. Behind her, the wind blew her curls around and annoyingly through the large-ish earrings she loved so much. 

The old fashioned lawn flamingo shapes were covered by her hair & missing great opportunities to catch the light. The florescent plastic pieces were always a hit. 

She raised her delicate paper cup filled with the tea they were splitting. They’d picked it up a couple stops ago when they were too lazy to go back for their forgotten credit cards. So they’d paid outta pocket which afforded just one can.  

Jane whistled and raised her own tiny cup from the holder as she turned into their desired motel. ‘The Pink Moon’ 

“To...?” 

“To us!” Val tapped the cups as they pulled into the parking spot. When it came to a stop, she wiggled around until she was successfully unbuckled and sitting criss-cross. She pushed some hair away from her eye and swallowed. “Happy first anniversary, Jane.” 

Her girlfriend grinned, downing the small drink with her. “Happy first anniversary, honey.” She swallowed and pushed forward for a kiss which would be on both of their minds for a long time after. 

Val blushed and rolled her shoulders back to stretch out a little when he feet hit the pavement. The sun light trailed down Val’s skin and comforted her. 

The sidewalk was cracked and the dirt bled through with small dead flowers pressed down like veins, quietly Jane was muttering the lyrics of a song that would be plugged into both of their brains when they tried to sleep that night. 

She wondered if ‘The Pink Moon’ had comfortable beds. She grabbed her bag and pulled it over her shoulder. As Val squinted in front of herself, looking through the rose tinted filter of Jane’s sunglasses, her hands dampened. 

Naturally, both girls stopped to take in the location before collecting their key. Just searching for little things to look at. The round sunglasses dipped to the tip of Val’s nose as a tall dusted orange bus plowed down the street. 

Jane whistled again, turning her chin to Val with a sly smile. “You got a smile so bright, You know you could have been a candle...” She raised the volume of her previous singing.

Val pursed her lips. “Is that supposed to be good?” She teased but swept Jane’s hand up in her’s for the girl to twist under. She spun Jane to her chest and they bobbled in their spot before finally breaking & walking to the office. 

: : : : : : : : : : Jane watched her girl prepare little drinks for their enjoyment which was actually quite interesting. Val moved with such rhythm and...joy. The girl was just so full of life. She was fresh from the shower and wearing perhaps the comfiest looking robe in the world. 

When she was finished, Val launched herself strategically on the bed (not spilling a drop of their drinks) and held one under Jane’s nose.

Val’s dark hair dripped water down in a slinky path against her dewy skin, tired droplets paused and waited as flybys sped down to collide against them. Cold air breezed from Jane’s mouth and settled into the air as she admired her. 

Val took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed with satisfaction as the heat in her chest returned. She brought her knees up as her back curved, making her body a true reflection of her current state. Tiny pins and needles poked from under the bottoms of her feet, she wiggled her toes. But after a few seconds, she let them be. Sometimes it was a little euphoric to feel that little vibration of sleeping limbs.

She turned to her girlfriend, confused at the large amount of attention she was giving her. She chuckled. “What’s up, sprite?”

“I wanna eat the eat the mixed nuts we bought and watch dumb TV with you. Right now.” She surprised herself with a tiny giggle and pulled the remote towards her. 

Val pulled the bag over and dropped the can into her lap, pulling the lid open and offering Jane the first grab. 

: : : : : : : : : :

The drips of coal black mascara (that had not so long ago dripped down her cheeks) was tightening against Jane’s skin. The dark river was now drying on the canvas of her face with astoundingly beautiful blue reflections from the cut of her fake crystal ring. As she held the thing just over her face to admire her own handy kaleidoscope, Jane felt her body tingle from the afterglow of their night spent together.

Val reached over with her thumbs and rubbed at Jane’s runny makeup. 

“It’s gross. I sweat way too much.” Jane helplessly giggled and tried to rub it off herself...with Val’s sleeve. But she broke off to enjoy the nice feeling coming over her.

Starting from her curled toes, the tickling pleasure traveled her body through electrifying shivers. She let her head fall back to sigh towards the ceiling before she attempted to calm the natural reaction down. Val obviously took amusement from the sight. She crawled to the side of the bed, the silky sheets pooled at her hips while a smile instinctively came across her face.

“Tired?” She asked, lazily resting her chin on her palm. 

Jane nodded, squishing down on her pillow. “But pass the can first?” She made a grabby gesture towards the mixed nuts on the night stand behind Val. 

Val cuddled up next to her as she crunched down a pistachio, absolutely melting Jane’s heart.

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

“What’s there to do in Indianapolis?” Val scrunched up her nose and threw her arm around Jane, who was trying to read one of the pamphlets she’d swiped. Their hair blew in the wind and smacked against them in uncomfortable swirls. 

“Ummm-” Jane bit into her cheek. “Watch competitive driving?” She nodded, rolling her eyes. Val hummed and sat her chin onto her girlfriend’s shoulder.

“You want to see some driving, don’t you?” Jane giggled and flipped the pamphlet, tucking it back into her back pocket. “There’s fifteen dollar admission today to see some practicing on the track.” She squinted towards the sun, already a master of information. 

“You wanna spend the day in the sun, listening to loud cars?” Val grinned, eager just from saying the words. Jane winked and took her hand. 

“Sure thing, baby!” She swung their grip between them, feeling their palms slide from slick sweat. 

: : : : : : : : : :

The sun was forgiving to them that afternoon. Glittering yellow and orange hued beams bled down from the sky & dusted their sun-burnt shoulders. 

Jane’s slender fingers traced thin lines up and down Val’s legs. Rubbing the pads of her fingers over the budding stubble. It was mostly a subconscious act, her mind was focused on the track in front of them. Her hair fell into her face as the speeding car went round the corner another time. 

The grassy hill was the perfect spot for them. They cuddled together at one of the least populated spots to mindlessly enjoy the practiced speeding & enjoy the warm summer day outdoors. Crawling across their spread of a new blanket, Val gripped her girlfriend’s non-dominant hand & took the cup of soda. She sipped at it every now and then just to get the feeling of a sour bite at her lips.

With that moment’s satisfaction, she decided to tune back into full life where Jane was taking down some notes about one of her many projects in a spare notebook she kept on hand. The pad was balanced atop Val’s legs where it occasionally wobbled.

Jane was under the shade of a new hat with the number of a driver they’d randomly chosen to be their favorite. She peeked a look to her side to admire the lovely company she was sharing. 

Another car zoomed past as Val blew a whistle of relief from her lips. The sunlight was bouncing off the crevices of her skin, naturally she leaned her neck back so it could dust across her cheeks. When the music playing suddenly blasted louder, she was mouthing the words slowly and drawing them out thoughtfully. The moment was unspoiled and sweet, the wind was blowing in a few small bursts that curled her baby hairs to her temple.

“I love you.” Dropping her pen, Jane spoke without really thinking while it rolled down the paper and onto the blanket.

Val snapped her head over and looked at her with an...unreadable expression. Not bad but...not exactly perfect either. 

“Mmmm.” Jane pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just made this day weird.” Her hair whipped around as she shuffled to get her stuff into her purse. 

“No.” 

Both girls paused when Val sat up to grab Jane’s wrist. They stared down at the grip just so they wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “Jane...I’m sorry. I’m just not very good at this.” She frowned. 

Ever the impressive, Jane playfully twisted out of the grasp flawlessly and shrugged without a care in the world. Though she cared very, very deeply. “You don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready.” 

Val leaned forward and pressed their lips together, gently but with enough passion to draw Jane’s hands to caress her cheeks. After a few seconds, they pulled apart and Val looked about ready to pop with anxiety. Her eyes, wide & adoring. 

“That’s good with me, baby.” Jane nodded and happily snuggled under her girlfriend’s arm. 

“Are you sure?” Val let some of her walls come down, feeling vulnerable and guilty. Jane didn’t like her feeling that way when there was absolutely no need for it. 

She grabbed her cheeks again. “One-Hundred percent. I know how you feel.” They smiled at each other for a few minutes before Jane rubbed their noses together and fell back onto the blanket.

: : : : : : : : : :

The end of the day was creeping up on Val as she turned the car down another street. The sun was setting, burning the rest of the afternoon oil out and she had sweat sticking to her forehead. 

Val looked into the rear-view mirror and saw that the sky was nearly drained of all brightness. It had surely been an exhausting day. She was surprised Jane hadn’t faded off during the drive to their next motel, not even once and they’d done a lot of running around--

The sound of Jane slipping in her sleep and falling onto the car door ledge thumped in Val’s ear. 

She laughed and picked up the pace just a touch while the sun fell perfectly align with the curve of their windshield. She squinted and used a spare hand to playfully rub the side of her girl’s head. Ruffling her hair, she turned the wheel onto the next street after what felt like an eternity.

‘The Jewel Cowboy’ stood at the end of the empty street with a friendly looking neon moon towering above it. Inside lived the outline of a neighborly cowboy who’s lasso buzzed towards the entrance. 

“C’mon sprite.” Val slowly came to a park and gently unbuckled herself and then her girlfriend who was now pretending to still be asleep. 

Her eagerness to get inside to relax was pulling some speed out of her quick fingers. Jane’s lovely eyes fluttered open as sweat dripped down her temple. The ache to just sit down to eat was immense. So when her girl finally hopped out to follow her, Val breathed in and out slowly to really enjoy the relief of rest.

After collecting their key, the girls headed straight for their room. 

The motel carpet beneath her cradled her aching feet and soothed any pain. It had been non-stop walking and running all day and she was dead tired. Cracking her neck gently, in a way Jane had advised her against many times, she sat down on the bed.

“The sun is sinking in the west,The cattle go down to the stream. The redwing settles in the nest. It's time for a cowboy to dream--” 

Jane strolled around their fun little room, admiring the framed photos of cowboys & sprinting horses. She sang to herself in that soft voice which Val had come to adore. “I love this Motel, by the way.” She giggled and flung herself onto the bed. 

“I know. It’s incredible.” Val shifted so that Jane could climb into her lap. They admired each other with the same glow in their eyes, starlight breaking in through the window. Val gently ran a hand through the satin of Jane’s hair and laid it to rest on the back of her neck. 

Jane hummed and reached out to tap Val’s nose with her finger. “What time do we have to wake-up, again?” 

“Five a.m.” Val scrunched up her nose with an apologetic expression. “It’s eleven hours to Oklahoma City, our next stop.” A tremble passed through her when Jane sleepily leaned forward and put her head on her shoulder. 

She hugged her close and found that it was easier to allow her emotions to take over when Jane wasn’t looking directly at her. 

She thought...maybe she could say it now...

Her mouth opened but closed once she realized...she wanted to say it while admiring Jane’s beautifully curious face. If she wasn’t ready to admit her love to her girlfriend’s face, than saying it over her shoulder was not going to happen just because it was easier. 

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

All around them small-town businesses stretched out until the view fell over the edge of the horizon. The road looked as if it would do the same if they just kept driving. 

“Sandman.” Val squinted and mumbled to herself, noticing Jane’s confused look instantly after. She carefully pointed to the sign they were about to pass. 

Jane blinked towards it. 

‘Sandman Music Fest. Tonight & Tomorrow. Been here all along. Bring your friends!’ 

She smiled and rubbed her palms down her jean-clad thighs. “Oklahoma city is going to have to wait.” 

Val whistled and raised her right hand, pumping it into the open, dusty air. 

: : : : : : : : : : 

Jane had heard herself described as ‘fatally-focused’ from an ex...far too set on her career in a way which pushed people away. Quite the jewel of a comment made her feel dull and dim. She supposed that may have been true for a while. But she wouldn’t have called it ‘fatal’. Maybe just ‘successfully focused’. 

She smiled to herself as music poured from the stage in front of her. 

It propelled her into her dream career & brought her to a meeting a girl with equal determination and a bright personality. Val took everything in stride, somehow finding beauty in everything. 

Her childlike eyes would brighten at the simple chance to just speak. And there she stood, under the low hanging sun with grass stains painted all down her legs, talking. Any energy she’d had, had up and left Jane a little over an hour and a half ago. 

But something about her girlfriend just made everything something you wouldn’t dare to miss. 

The sky was a fading orange color & rain was just beginning to fall. Jane was yawning more than she was talking. But a simple look to Val with that fire in her eyes mysteriously left her thirsty for more home-town music.

Some band was playing a song about a rambler finally coming home to the place where they belong & Jane swept herself under Val’s arm. They didn’t know the words to the local songs but both girls sang along anyway. Swaying to each tune and laughing the words out with an odd passion. 

The hoops Val wore, which were shaped like suns, bounced as she tried to guide her girlfriend in one of the few dances she knew. In a flurry mixture of soft and bright colors, Val and Jane were quite literally frolicking through the grassy field of the Fest. 

The insides of their shoes were beginning to slosh around with puddles of water which only lead them to the decision to kick them off. Jane was mid-spin when she nearly fell over. Droplets of rain flung from each strand of her light hair and pelted against Val’s hot skin. It only urged her on. Never in her life had Jane been so carelessly into having fun. 

But in the year she’d grown extremely close to Val, things within her were changing. 

Val heaved her heavy-weighted shoes off and felt the earth between her toes. Mud squished just under her heels. She tilted her chin to the sky and smiled with nuanced disgust before taking off (shoes now in her hands) after her girl who was now running towards the tables. 

Their laughter carried through the air with distinct pleasure. Jane glided across the huge lawn with a smile anyone could easily become obsessed with. Val partly envied the grace in which Jane moved with. It came naturally to her whereas that was something she had never mastered. 

The calm surrender it took to move so fluidly was a trait lost on herself. But maybe today was different because her heart was beating in time with Jane’s. 

“What happened to your shoes?” Jane chuckled as Val came to a stop in front of her, sitting on one of the benches. 

Val held them up, the bottom of the right was torn up due to the cheapness and the left just gave her blisters. She plopped them down on the wood table and sat across Jane. Stretching her legs to rest on the bench next to Jane and wiggling her toes. 

“Are you having a good time?” She asked, a little mischievously. 

Jane glanced over from the stage where her eyes had previously rested and tilted her head. Amusement was clear in her expression. “The best time.” She shrugged with a tiny bashful grin. “I’m gonna call Bruce to see if he’s had any problems apartment sitting for me.” 

She pulled out her phone as a young woman on stage began her own rendition of Selena’s ‘La Carcacha’. 

Val tuned out of the phone conversation, just fine with watching Jane’s expressions and movements. Her eyes were wide and bobbing up & down as she nodded along to whatever it was Bruce was saying. And then she simply smiled, pushing hair behind her ear.

: : : : : : : : : :

Val cuddled up inside Jane’s flannel shirt and watched her girlfriend do the same in the sweatshirt she’d borrowed from her. The girls were standing under the shade of a slanted road-sign with their comically large map clenched in each of their fists.

After around 18 + hours, they’d made it to New Mexico and made it their mission to explore all the hot-spots the state had to offer. 

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” 

Val pursed her lips. “Yeah, we should probably eat. But do you want something like breakfast or lunch cause it’s that weird in-between time-?” 

Both girls paused as an older gentleman passed by, not paying them any mind. He walked between them without even looking up but what made the girls smile was the music pouring loudly from his large headphones...

"I ain't gonna act politically correct. I only want to have a good time. The best thing about being a woman is the prerogative to have a little fun-”

Jane watched him walk off, not a care in his world, with the happiest grin. Val chuckled and held out her palm which was clasped in mere seconds. 

They walked off in a random direction in search of some kind of diner. 

: : : : :

The one they ended up inside was charming and indeed tiny. 

The television in the corner was running some old episodes of ‘The Golden Girls’ and Jane was lazily sipping her coffee while occasionally explaining why certain lines were funny. Val, who’d never seen the show in her life, kept herself busy by pressing soft kisses to her warm cheek. 

“Sweetheart?” Jane mumbled into her drink and wiggled happily as Val hummed in her ear. “Try my coffee, it’s the best cup I have ever had in my life.” 

Val allowed her to hold it to her lips and swallowed a nice steamy gulp as their fellow customers loudly enjoyed their conversations. Jane watched her drink and felt a tug in her chest as she let her chin rest on her shoulder. “You’re my greatest discovery.” She mumbled into the fabric of Val’s shirt as the girl set down the mug.

Val raised her brows with amusement and smirked. 

“I’ve dedicated my life to my research and discovered some amazing things, Val-”

“Show-off.” Val teased and Jane pinched her arm. “Just keeping you humble, Honey.” 

Jane kissed her briefly on the cheek. “All I’m saying is...meeting you was the greatest discovery of my life.” She leaned against Val as her arm laid across her shoulders. 

Val tried to collect her thoughts on that beautiful sentiment and found it to be rather difficult. The words for a response were somehow not enough...so she wrapped both arms around Jane and squeezed, nuzzling her head into her shoulder. “More than words, Jane. More than fucking words, you know?” She mumbled. 

Jane hummed. “Yeah baby, I know.” She giggled.

: : : : : : : : : :

Two days later, Jane was relaxing on the balcony area of their next motel suite as Val sat atop the railing. Her legs swayed back and forth without a care in the world while she enjoyed the sights and sounds of harmonious joy from the other guests in the pool. 

The light was golden with a dusting on pink as it laid over them & warmed their skin. There were moments where the woman felt like she may never be given something so peaceful as this scene again but...looking back at Jane (subconsciously making faces at her open novel) she smiled. 

The neighboring door flying open almost made Val fall forward. 

“Hey. Anyone up for a round of volleyball? I’m so bored that I accidentally zoned out for like an hour. So I need to get outta my room.” Came a cheerful woman as she stuck her head out of her room with the sport-ball in her hand. 

Jane looked up and smiled. 

“Yes please!” Val turned and hoped off the railing and glided over towards Jane. “My girlfriend would love to watch me play volleyball.” She ruffled Jane’s hair as she teased her. 

The woman chuckled, shutting her door behind her. “You two are cute.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Sif, by the way.” Both Jane & Val shook her hand and introduced themselves. 

And Val ended up being right....

When the girls went downstairs to the court just outside, Jane pulled up a deck chair to the edge of the sand to watch her girlfriend serve & flawlessly dive for the ball. Her book completely forgotten in her lap.

: : : : : : : : : :

Elephant Butte Reservoir.

A place for great swimming, water-skiing, boating, with plenty of soft sand to stretch out on.

Val had planned on visiting the not so secret beach from the beginning of their New Mexico trip. Considering Jane had expressed interest in the spot but never had the chance to go on her own when she lived in the state. 

The whole State Park was just about the most gorgeous way to spend a sunny summer day. The girls walked the path down to the beach and felt the sand between their toes. 

From across Jane was the young face of her lovely companion in the sun and nothing could be better. Val waved her hand around her face to feel just a little bit of a teasing cool breeze. She sighed pleasantly, audibly relaxed with how the day was going which was no grand surprise. It had been perfect so far. 

Val began to adjust and re-adjust their towel in the nicest way to avoid too much of an annoying glare from the sun. But Jane guessed it was no use because the girl just continued to gradually grow more and more annoyed while the towel blew in the wind. 

She was no stranger to huffing and puffing about minor issues herself, however, her girl just seemed plain tired of it like a woman who’d been on the road for days stressing over making the perfect trip. The sunlight coated her face with a sharp orange stripe that went across her cheeks. Jane just knew it had to be undoubtedly warm and she envied the feeling of a sun fever.

After a few moments of what Jane assumed was either contemplation or disassociation, Val handed the towel over to Jane to lay over the sand instead. Which took a few more minutes. 

The waves collided with the sand and washed up to the tips of their toes. Val reflected on the landscape while creeping her hand over to Jane’s. Cupping them together eased her into complete peace. It’s rare for something to feel so right but...they did. 

The words finally came naturally to the tip of Val’s tongue with no hesitation. Why waste anymore time holding back her feelings? Time sure as hell goes by...

The waves spilled over her feet once more & as quick as a wink, they retreated back. 

“Hey sprite?” 

Jane turned and let her sunglasses slip down to the tip of her nose, the summer color scheme looking unbelievably good on her. “Hey Val?” She grinned. 

“I love you.” Val couldn’t believe how gentle & nervous she sounded. Which was ridiculous considering Jane had already voiced her love. 

Jane was overcome with a blushed grin which was as vibrant as the sunset they’d watch last night. She attempted to hide behind her hands as she happy giggled. “I know.” She reached over to tenderly rub down Val’s thigh. “And I love you too.” 

Val smashed their lips together. 

: : : : : : : : : : After the New Mexico Road-Trip, home seemed so boring to Val. But she did enjoy following Jane into her apartment. The girl was checking her mail and mumbling ‘Please Mr. Postman’ under her breath. 

They hopped up the stairs for the first time in a long time and opened her door to see...Thor, Bruce, Darcy & Loki all in various seats watching ‘Jurassic Park’. 

Jane set aside her suitcase and smirked. “You people don’t live here.” She ruffled Loki’s hair as she past him just to annoy the shit outta him. 

Val did the same to Bruce but more as a ‘Hello’ to her little buddy than an annoyance. 

“Neither does she.” Loki pursed his lips and pointed his hand towards Val with elegant grace. Darcy chuckled and threw a handful of popcorn into her mouth. 

“That reminds me, Jane. Want to change that?” 

Childishly, Darcy and Thor erupted in ‘ooooh’s of interest while Jane nearly tripped over the leg of a side-table. Val could see a curious look coming from Bruce who always seemed to understand her in the oddest ways. She shot a smile back to him. It was to reassure that she was ready for the kind of commitment that Bruce also feared sometimes in his own relationship. 

Jane fumbled for words for a solid few seconds. “Hell yeah!” She chuckled and threw her arms around her girlfriend’s neck. 

The happy couple was rewarded with happy shouts from Thor & Bruce, disinterested clapping from Loki & Darcy’s handful of popcorn being whipped at them like it was confetti or something. 

Jane never felt more lucky in her life. She couldn’t believe someone as beautiful, strong & downright cool as Val was in love with her. 

Val was also sure she was the luckiest girl in the world as she squeezed Jane to her body. 

[hotoffthepressfics]

Broke But Not Broken

MASTERLIST

Part I

Previous | Next

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 2,629

Summary: The Reader escapes a horrific past. She meets new friends, but will she be able to trust them?

Warnings: Angst, implied physical and sexual abuse.

Inspiration/Chapter Soundtrack:

“Broke But Not Broken” - Artist vs Poet

“All The King’s Horses” - Karmina

A/N: My first fic ever. Still not complete but I’m going to finish writing this out and post it before I post anything else. ❤️❤️❤️

The Greyhound bus lurches to a stop, the massive vehicle hissing as the brakes are released. You jolt awake grasping the cracked seat in front of you for balance. Panic laces itself around your heart as your sleep addled brain attempts to orient itself.

Where am I?

You glance up at the message board and watch as the destination slowly loops across the screen.

3765: Brooklyn, Smith St.

Okay, so you’d made it to... Brooklyn? Isn’t that the stop you’re supposed to get off at? You run shaky fingers over your mussed braid of hair. The tight denim skirt you are wearing didn’t have pockets so you had resorted to keeping the ticket in your bra.

Trying to discreetly pull it out, you pull the slightly crumpled ticket out and check the city name on it. Yes. Brooklyn.

Clenching the ticket in your hands you get up and stumble towards the front of the bus. You keep your head down low, walk down the steps and onto the dark street outside. You stall, unsure of what to do now. Other people getting off the bus try to move past you, some pausing to glare or give you disgruntled looks. One elderly man nudges you between the shoulder blades.

“Get a move on, girl!” He grouses.

Startled, you shuffle to the side and out of the way as the remaining passengers exit. There is a chill to the night air. You shiver and hug your arms close to your body. The short sleeved, rather revealing blouse did nothing to protect you from the elements. Neither did the skirt. The ill-fitting, borrowed sneakers you wear are beginning to pinch now that you are standing instead of sitting in the bus chair. You didn’t care. You were finally beginning to feel it.

Freedom.

You breathe in deeply, hold it in for a moment, and release it. The air reeks of motor oil, stale cigarette smoke, and urine. It should bother you as it probably would most people. You watch the passengers as they head off to the depot or parking lot, some meeting family you supposed, others alone.

You began to follow where most of the people went, walking apprehensively down the sidewalk and passed the depot. The noise of the buses rumbling and faint talking gave way to more urban sounds.

Cars drove by, brakes squealed, a police siren is either coming or going from where you are. You weren’t too sure. Someone was throwing trash out in an alley as you walk by, causing you to jump when something like glass broke once it hit the bottom of the dumpster.

You’re beginning to shiver again, although this time it wasn’t from the cold. You had initially been elated stepping off that bus. However, getting on and off that bus had been your only goal in the wee hours that morning. You had left with two hundred dollars, now a little less than that after purchasing the bus fare.

You had no idea where to go from here or where to stay. You were safe only in the sense that you were miles away from where you ever wanted to be again.

There came a faint sound of a woman laughing. You lift your head up and see a small cluster of women, all in various revealing apparel, watching disinterested as cars pull up to the curb. You halt as one of them came up to a sedan and stuck her head in to talk to the driver. They had a short exchange and then she opens the passenger door and gets in. The sedan drove off with its newest occupant. You falter, attempting to decide if you should continue walking ahead towards them as you were doing or to turn and go another direction.

In your contemplation you didn’t hear the man’s foot falls coming up behind you.

“Hey there, sweetheart. How much to spend the night here with yours truly?” The man sidles up to you and snakes his arm around you middle.

You squeak and try to shove him off. In your attempts to extract yourself the man adjusts you in his arms until your facing him.

“Aw c’mon babe. I ain’t gonna bite ya... much.” He winks and guffaws, the acrid scent of beer and halitosis making you want to gag.

Balding and sporting about a day’s worth of beard growth the man gives you a particularly nasty, yellowed, toothy grin. He’s a good foot and a half taller than you, and although he didn’t look strong, as the spare tire around his middle suggested, he certainly has a vise grip on you.

You whimper and shake your head, wanting to scream the word ‘no’ but it feels like your throat is closing off. You gasp in short bursts trying again to shove him away.

No, no, no. This can’t happen again. This won’t happen again.

The man began to pull you further down the nearest alleyway. He backs you up to the rough brick wall and begins to paw at your breasts. You screw your eyes shut and try to push him back, placing your hand against his jaw and forcing his head back. He ducks and peppers your neck in kisses. You feel him slide something between your cleavage and hear the unmistakeable sound of a zipper. His hand trails up your thigh, under the skirt. The tightness in your throat finally snaps.

“NO!”

You rear your hand back and swing it out and across his face in a satisfying slap. He stumbles back, releasing you and clutching the side of his face. Your fingers claw the brick behind your back as you gasp out sobs.

The man stares wide-eyed at you, pulling his hand away from his cheek. Blood collects in the corner of his mouth. He reaches back up to swipe at it and looks back at his hand. When his eyes snap up to you all the drunken humor is gone.

“You bitch! What’s the matter with you?! I paid ya, didn’t I?! Now I’m gonna get off-“ he comes at you again. You cry out cowering against the wall as he grasps a fistful of your hair.

You shut your eyes again and wait for the pain to begin... but nothing comes. You hear a loud thwack and the man’s hand loosens its grip in your hair. Strands of your messed up braid fall across your face as you look up to see the man doubled over with a slim, dark woman standing over him, a rather large handbag slung over one of her denim clad shoulders. Her pose exudes confidence and power, as does the crystal studded bustier under a cropped denim jacket. A form-fitting, hot pink, latex mini skirt is wrapped around her hips ending in long, cocoa colored legs.

“I do believe the lady told you no. And when a lady says no, she means it.” She says in a feigned high feminine voice. She turns and walks away when the man rolls to his side and mutters,

“Bitch..”

The woman whirls around and gives a swift kick to his groin with her stiletto heel. His groans double in volume.

“Who you callin’ bitch?!” The woman’s voice drops several octaves into a decidedly masculine voice.

She adjusts her cropped jacket and slings the handbag back over her shoulder. The woman glances down at you and offers her other hand. You hesitantly accept it with trembling fingers. Your eyes dart from her back to the moaning man on the ground.

“Now honey, if your gonna take a man’s money and then stiff him on the goods you gotta learn how to make a quick getaway.”

You gape at her, eyes wide and glassy. You shake your head vigorously attempting to force words out, but you could feel the words stick in your throat before they made it out of your mouth. She studies you for a moment. Eyes narrowing, she asks, “You ain’t from around here are you babygirl?”

Again, you can’t manage more than a shake of your head. The woman takes another appraising look.

“Word of advice? Dressing like… that will send the wrong message to folks ‘round here.” You look down at yourself and hunch forward, trying to cover as much of yourself as you can. The wind picks up and you shiver.

“Well then,” the woman says as she struts back down the alley. She turns on her heel and cants her head towards the street. “time to put you in some new digs hun.”

•••

Cici, as you learn is the woman’s name, takes you to a local thrift shop to find more suitable attire for the late fall weather. The store clerk looks a tad disgruntled as the two of you stroll in ten minutes to closing time. However, he doesn’t seem too put out as CiCi begins to pile some shirts, pants, and coats into your arms. Guess he can’t pass up a chance to make a buck. Every now and then she pulls out a top, clicks her tongue, then holds it up to you for inspection. Sometimes the shirt goes into the pile, other times back on the rack.

As far as you could tell CiCi was by all accounts physically a man, but for the present time wished to be viewed as a woman. You wonder a bit as to why being near her wasn’t becoming a stressor when the man in the alley and even the store clerk were making you want to crawl into a hole and hide. Perhaps it was because all she seemed to want from you was to have a dress-up doll.

Another pair of pants make it into the pile. Did she have a hobby of picking up random people and making them shop with her?

“Alright baby,” CiCi turns back to you as you make it down the small aisle of clothing racks and towards the back of the store. Situated between a men’s hat display and a small section of woman’s scarves sits a makeshift fitting room. Which was simply PVC pipes connected together and black fabric looped around all sides. She parts the fabric and stands by, “go on ahead and try them on. See what you like.”

You shuffle passed her into the small space. CiCi lets the curtain fall behind you. Inside there’s a full length mirror propped up against the back wall. Next to the mirror stands a small, fold out chair. You discard the pile of clothes onto it, a few errant pieces falling onto the floor. Slowly, you glance towards your reflection.

It had been a while since you’d seen yourself in full. Sure you could look down at your own body and had occasion to see your face in mirrors before, but this was the first time since your life had become the horror it had been for the past three years. In the stark fluorescent light of that shop it was like you had finally awoken and could see clearly. It was as though you looked upon a stranger. You were much thinner and paler than you could ever remember. Even the structure of your face seemed wrong. Much too boney and sharper; too dark circles ringing your eyes. They looked alien, much too round and large. You look back into your reflected eyes and see… nothing. No life. Just a defeated, broken thing that was barely clinging to life by the fingertips.

You stifle a sob that threatens to break from your lips. Reaching down and picking up a discarded dress from the store floor you drape it over the mirror. It wasn’t long enough to completely cover but at least now all you can see is the lower half of your legs and feet. Taking a moment to steady your breathing you start to try on the clothing. You find disrobing difficult. Hard to make yourself feel vulnerable in a foreign place when that was all you’d known for so long. Yet, you knew you didn’t want to remain dressed in the clothes that he picked and forced you to wear.

Bolstering your courage you quickly shuck the blouse and skirt off your body and sift through the pile, looking for what will cover you the most. Thankfully, CiCi had snagged rather modest clothing. You try on a series of long sleeved shirts; a few that you rejected for being too low cut or falling off the shoulder. The pants faired better though most were too long and went past your feet. You bent and rolled up the cuffs, satisfied when they reached just to your ankles.

After trying on everything CiCi had given you, you settled on three of the long sleeved tops, two lightly worn jeans, and a tan trench coat. Opening the curtain you meekly shuffle out in one of your newly chosen outfits. You knew you probably needed to take the outfit off in order to purchase it but you just couldn’t bring yourself to change back into the clothes you’d come in. They remained in a crumpled heap with the other clothing.

With one long finger hooked under her chin CiCi assesses the outfit. After she finishes her inspection of you she nods her head once.

“Now don’t you look as pretty as a picture? Shall we go on ahead and buy these and get outta here?” You dip your head low and roll your shoulders forward. CiCi tsks.

“Oh honey, none of that now. We’re gonna have to work on that.” You flush, and hunch over even further. Cici merely shakes her head and begins back down the aisle to the front. As you follow her you glance up to the racks of clothing. Among some of the shirts labeled large you notice a light gray cable knit sweater peaking out, warm and inviting. You pause for a moment then set your items down and reach for it. It feels soft and thick. Pulling the sweater off its hanger you put it on. The woolen quality made it feel a little heavy, but that brings you relief. You feel… safe. This too would make it out with you. When you reach the cash register you hand over the clothes in your arms to the clerk.

The clerk eyes your attire with suspicion, as though you would try to make off with something without paying. He quickly glances towards CiCi, who simply reaches over and commenced plucking the tags off everything you now currently wearing. You tense a little as she does so. Finished, CiCi places the tags upon the counter between you and the clerk one eyebrow quirked in challenge.

The muscles in the clerk’s jaw twitch but he begins scanning the tags. As he totaled everything up you realize you’d have to get your money out to pay. Money that was still tucked away in your bra. You turn to begin fishing out the bills when he clerk says how much it all cost.

“Don’t worry baby, this one’s on me.” You look back over your shoulder and watch as CiCi drops the money into the clerk’s expectant hand. You marvel at her, standing there stupidly as the clerk hands you a plastic bag with your things. Suddenly a lump begins to form in your throat making it hard to breathe. Tears make your vision swim. CiCi pats your arm and rubs it soothingly.

“Now, now. There’s no time for all that nonsense. I am starving. Let’s you and I go get us something to eat.”

So you and CiCi once again make your way out onto the street. Your new clothes, the first real possessions you’d had in a long, long time, in tow.

EVERYTHING TAGLIST:

@booktvmoviefangirl @lowkeybuckyb @prettyyoungtragedy @mrsdaamneron @xxashy999xx @c-ly-g @coal000 @rroguebones @ghostlyrose2 @part-time-patronus @emelielwh @peaceinourtime82 @buckysforeverprincess @geeksareunique @amnahs9695 @v-2bucky @scarlet-skywalkers @lokilvrr @thisismysecrethappyplace @sacre-bluhm @tatertot1097 @until-theend-oftheline @amoonagedaydreamer @marvelouspottering

BUCKY BARNES TAGLIST:

@bloodiedskirtts @igotkatiepowers @misplacedorphan @superwholockwannabe @moonstruckhargrove @ladysergeantbarnes

BBNB TAGLIST:

@imaginecrushes @that-bearshark @jademox @theraputicwritings @marvel-fanfiction @aubri1313 @xcriminalmastermindx @regulusirius @ghostlyrose2 @jacquelineisawkward @lostinspace33 @directionerfae @rainbowkisses31 @marie-is-in-the-dark @msgrungie @mrsbarneswillseeyounow @getmedeacon @owhatshername1 @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @mizzzpink @aveatquevale- @sweetlydecaf @absolukeyrh

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

(Mis)Adventures of a Very Gay Explorer

My reward for the wonderful person who submitted a prompt for @aftgvotes.  Their prompt was:  anything with andriel post cannon and I mean like within the next couple weeks or like nicky and/or Matt's view on andriel post cannon.  I hope they -- and you -- enjoy this little bit of silly fluff!  Read on AO3 if you prefer.

Looking back, Nicky wondered how he had missed it.

Not just the fact that Andrew and Neil were together; all of it.  Jesus, he hadn’t even realized his own cousin was gay, which, talk about a complete and utter gaydar failure.  He definitely needed an upgrade on that, as he had told Erik, tangled in his arms during their precious few weeks together.  Erik had laughed and kissed his temple, and asked if it was available on the app store.  And damn, if that wasn’t an idea worth marketing…

But now that he was with them again, he could see it.  The little excuses Andrew made to touch Neil, that he had always made, even back when Neil was new and dark-eyed and dark-haired.  The way Neil always seemed aware of Andrew’s movements, even if he wasn’t obviously watching him.  They orbited around each other like twin stars, each with their own gravity, neither overwhelming the other.  

It was beautiful, even if Nicky didn’t totally understand.

He had never understood love without softness.  Quiet love, he got, no matter what everyone else thought.  His mother’s love had been quiet, though it had also been as fragile as spun sugar.  And with Erik, the moments of deepest connection were ones of murmurs, or no words at all.  That was how he had known, in the end, that it was real.  

But Neil and Andrew weren’t just quiet.  They would mock each other on the court and off it; they were hard pushes and heavy looks.  That sharp edge in Neil’s eyes never smoothed, the rigidity in Andrew’s shoulders never slackened.  The flickers of emotion that would race across Andrew’s face when Neil did something particularly amusing were notable for their intensity but impossible to decipher.

Nicky had a theory, though.  Well, more of a hypothesis.  He firmly believed that they were capable of softness; he needed to believe this, or he would be forever worried that they weren’t healthy for each other.  He just needed some evidence, evidence he was willing to risk life and limb to try to get.

He needed to catch them in their habitat, unawares.

Matt tried to dissuade him with the true-but-irrelevant logic that if they wanted anybody to know what they were up to, they’d be more public about it.  Aaron just shook his head and muttered, “Your funeral,” before turning back to his biology textbook.  Which, it was fucking summer but whatever.

Nicky felt like a researcher, looking to discover the secret mating rituals of the Wild Gays.  (He himself being most definitely a domesticated Gay, and more than contented to be such.)  He started small, watching them more closely when they walked their laps and noting when they were slow to finish up in the locker room.  Sadly, his opportunities to observe were largely restricted by the presence of the Newest Influx of Assholes, a.k.a. The Freshmen.  Neil was on-edge whenever they were around, and for that matter so was Nicky.  

So he changed tactics.  Now that he didn’t room with them his chances to observe them in the dorm were few and far between.  Kevin was a useful, if unwitting, accomplice some days, allowing Nicky to follow him in with only token protest.  Of course, this carried the painful price of Nicky having to watch exy games in their off-season, but whatever.

Unfortunately, it didn’t really help his cause.  Neil and Andrew were frequently absent, and if they were there they were generally silent and were rarely even near each other.  Neil would watch the games with Kevin, and Nicky would be left to observe Andrew impassively smoke or read.  A couple of times Andrew looked up and caught him staring, and Nicky swore to himself he would stop before he got stabbed.

One night Andrew declared, sparking his lighter, that the watching of a single more exy game would result in the suite being set on fire.  Kevin grumbled but didn’t push his luck, and they settled in to watch a movie instead.  Nicky waited for Andrew and Neil to get cozy under the cover of darkness, but though they sat next to each other there were no wandering hands or secret kisses.

It was time for a different approach.  Neil and Andrew had to be going somewhere when they both disappeared after practice, after all.  He checked the parking lot; the Maserati was still sitting there in its shiny glory, which meant they had to be somewhere in or around Fox Tower.  He tiptoed down to the basement; no sign of them.  The stairwells and halls were likewise empty.  It seemed unlikely that they would have walked to the library, and most of the other buildings were closed for the summer.  Which left…

He jogged up the stairs, thinking Wymack would be proud of him when he reached the top and wasn’t even out of breath.  Yes; the door was closed but the lock was obviously compromised.  He almost pushed through, but the Voice of Wisdom that lurked deep within his brain and sounded like Renee suggested he not push his luck that far.  He headed back down to the third floor.

Dan was in her room, with the door open and Allison and Matt lounging across the couches.  “Do I remember that you have binoculars?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dan said cautiously.

“Can I borrow them?”

She opened her mouth as if to ask why, then shook her head.  “I don’t want to know,” she said as she handed them over.  “Just don’t get murdered.”

“Dude,” Matt said, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Nicky grinned, taking the binoculars and heading back down the stairs.

There was a little collection of trees conveniently located near one of the footpaths behind the Tower.  Nicky strolled along the path as nonchalantly as he could manage, unsure if someone—two suspicious someones, in fact—was watching him.  When he got to the copse, he slipped into it and found a nice hiding spot from which to train the binoculars on the roof.

They were up there.  He felt the jolt of adrenaline that must be familiar to safari goers and researchers.  Eureka!  He did a tiny dance of celebration then refocused through the binoculars.  

The assholes were just...sitting there.  Close, but not touching.  Both with cigarettes in hand, though only Andrew seemed to be actually smoking.  He couldn’t tell if they were even talking.  After about fifteen minutes, he was hot and sticky and needed a lemonade, so he headed down to the little campus cafe with the super-cute barista.  Andrew and Neil were nowhere to be found when he made his way back a while later.

He checked back the next day, and the next.  It was always the same. Sometimes Andrew stole Neil’s cigarette, and he always lit one for each of them, which was sweet, Nicky supposed, in a cancer-inducing way.  But that could have just been efficiency.  

After three weeks, the only thing Nicky had learned were some of the tendencies of strikers they’d be facing in the fall.  Which seriously seemed like a waste of valuable mental resources when there were still weeks to go before the season started.  He could definitively state that Andrew and Neil seemed content, at the least, with how things were between them, but he had already known that.  

Content wasn’t enough.  Late at night he would lie in bed and think about it.  About what he knew now about the horrors of Andrew’s childhood, and Neil’s too.  And he wondered if maybe...maybe they thought this was all they deserved.  All they were capable of.  Attraction and strong emotion, never tempered by any actual affection.  

“Leave it alone,” Aaron snapped at him, when Nicky brought it up again.  

“But—”

“No.  Just stop.”  He punctuated his words by leaving the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.  Nicky stared after him; he didn’t think he would ever understand his cousins.  How someone could care so painfully much and yet be so averse to any demonstration.

Which...maybe that was true with Andrew and Neil, too.  Maybe it wasn’t up to him to decide if their relationship worked.  Or how, since at least for now it clearly did.  Maybe this was just a step they both needed to take, to learn how to be physical with someone just as broken as they were and then they would move on.  And maybe that was okay.

A few days after he had given up on his research project, he got back to Fox Tower and realized he had forgotten his phone at the stadium.  Matt offered to drive him back to get it, but for once it wasn’t too humid to breathe and he decided to enjoy the brief reprieve of fresh air.  Erik would be proud of him, he decided.  Besides, the walk took him past the cafe and that barista was probably working…

The lights in the stadium were on, which was weird.  Wymack’s office was empty; he must have forgot to shut them off on his way out.  Dropping his empty cup in the trash, he slipped in through the cracked door of the lounge; his phone was probably at his locker, but he might have left it at his chair.  

The faintest murmur hit his ear and he froze.  In the dim light, he caught a flash of blond hair.  For a second he thought he had caught Aaron and Katelyn, but she was gone for the summer.  The quiet laugh that followed was decidedly too deep to belong to a woman.  Holding his breath, he rose up on his toes to try to see over the back of the couch.

Andrew was sitting with Neil’s head in his lap, carding his fingers through his hair.  Neil’s eyes were closed, and he was smiling with a gentleness Nicky had never seen on his face.  Nicky couldn’t see Andrew’s face, but there was something different about his posture.  He wasn’t soft, exactly; just...peaceful.  A sharp edge smoothed in a way Nicky had never thought was possible.

His phone could wait.  This was a moment too private even for an intrepid researcher to intrude upon.  But his hypothesis now had evidence to support it, and he would sleep the sleep of the righteous that night.

By some miracle he managed to escape without either of them noticing.  He made his way back to Fox Tower with that image firmly in his mind, and he was pretty sure he was grinning like a fool by the time he closed his dorm room door behind him.

Aaron was there, staring at his phone with a lovesick expression of his own.  He glanced up at Nicky, then looked at him again.  “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Nicky said, and laughed.  “It’s just...it’s all good.”

Aaron stared at him for a minute.  “I told you you didn’t need to worry about them.”

Nicky rolled his eyes as he flopped onto the couch next to him.  “You told me to leave it alone.”

“Whatever.  Neil might be an asshole, but Andrew’s Andrew.”

Aaron didn’t elaborate, but Nicky thought he knew what he meant.  He picked through the contents of the fridge looking for something to eat and thought again about what he knew.  Andrew and Neil might never have known kindness, true; they had never known anything that Nicky would define as love.  But maybe that didn’t matter.  Maybe love, maybe it didn’t get passed down through generations, like some heirloom bowl or blue eyes.  Maybe it was something that could be discovered, deep in the inner recesses of a soul, even after it had been buried under a lifetime of anger and fear and hatred, if only you had a reason to go looking for it.

And maybe that was the most beautiful thing Nicky could imagine.

[karlete]

StarBucks HighSchool!AU

Bucky always dreaded Fridays. Fridays, despite its popularity among his student peers, was quite possibly the least exciting day of the entire week.  This includes gym, where he’s forced to run laps until his lungs ache.  All while Steve sits daintily on the bleachers with his nose in a book.

Fridays are Steve’s weekly health checkup days, AKA the only day of the week Bucky actually does any of his homework due to the sheer boredom without him.  Steve is usually gone all day, waking up early to take one of the first appointments of the day.  The checkups themselves take no longer than a few hours, but the whole affair leaves Steve drained in a way that gives Bucky another reason to hate Fridays.

Steve’s always been a sickly kid, much to Bucky’s dismay.  He’d remember days where a small Steven, no older than 4 or 5, was taken away every Friday for his ‘special doctor visits’.  Bucky didn’t understand why it was so special until he’d asked his mother one day.

Her hand hovered uncertainly over the book she’d been reading, casting a strange look to the side that Bucky hadn’t understood.

“Jamie, why do you ask?” Her voice was cautiously even, slowly setting down the thick book she’d been reading on the coffee table.

“Well… It’s just that Stevie keeps missing Fudge Fridays at school,” a nervous scuff of his socked feet at the carpet. “And he always looks sad when he comes back from ‘em,” he adds quiet enough that his mother has to lean over to hear.

She twists her lips in a thoughtful way before sighing, “Jamie, baby, sometimes people are born different. Steven is one of those people. No one really knows why, but some things that are easy for you and me, are really hard for Steven.”

Young James mulled this over before frowning, “Is that why Coach Dan won’t let him play soccer with us?”

“Exactly. His body just isn’t made the same. Going to the doctor’s helps make sure that even if it doesn’t work like ours, it’s still going.”

He didn’t respond right away. “Is he gonna die cause he doesn’t work right?”

He didn’t notice the catch in his mother’s breath at the time. He was too young to notice—to pay attention. “We’re not going to let that happen, Jamie.”

“I won’t let it. Me and Steven are gonna get a boat house. We’re gonna make it float around on lake fortune.” He was adamant, like the promise of a boat house alone was a secret serum to cure Steve. His mother didn’t say anything else, slowly reaching to pick up her book and settle back into her chair. Bucky decidedly made a pinkie promise later that day with Steve that he’d never ever let him get hurt.

“I’ll be your knight, Steven. Just watch. No one’s gonna even get close to hurting ya.”

That earned him one of Steve’s all-teeth smiles.  It gave Bucky a weird sense of pride that he could make Steve smile like that. “Thanks, Jamie.”

Bucky chuffs an annoyed sound, trying to avoid overgrown branches from smacking him in the face.  Even though he hates having to duck and dodge the ruthless vegetation, the small woods clearing behind his school is the only spot where the patrolling security guard can’t see him.  Cracked leaves crunch under his thick boots, obscenely loud in the quiet afternoon air.  Usually Steve is with him, crouching on the forest floor and chattering about anything and everything  while Bucky slowly rots his lungs away.  Bucky is more than aware that Steve disapproves of his smoking, if his ‘I’m not angry, just disappointed’ look is anything to go by everytime Bucky even so much as pulls out his lighter.  They’d share a look, one concerned and the other stubborn.  Steve never pushes, just goes back to studying the little veins of a leaf and teasing him about his sore grades.

Before Bucky can dig through his pockets for his pack, he feels his phone buzz.  Almost instantaneously, a grin spreads across his cheeks.

Punk: please put me outta my misery.

With an amused snort, he goes to type back a response with as much dry humor as is expected of him.

Jerk: But Stevie, what will I do with myself if I dont have you to pull out of a fight every two seconds

Punk: you’ll live

Punk: myself on the other hand

Punk: feels like i took a bath with a toaster

Jerk: Wow how riské Stevie. And you make fun of my girls while ur having an affair with a toaster

Punk: oh shut it buck

Punk: can u come over

Punk: n bring ice cream I’m hungry

Jerk: Ice cream isn’t lunch Stevie

Jerk: but yes I’ll bring some, be there in 10

Punk: ty doors open

Bucky shoved his phone back into his pocket, pushing himself off the tree he’d been leaning against.  He may have missed his smoke break, but spending time with Steve was better than any dry rasp of a cigarette.  Bucky carefully crept past the the low hanging branches and made his way towards the parking lot.  Everyone else was still in class, but even Steve knew that Bucky would end up skipping the last few classes to meet him at home—just like every other Friday.

He slipped past the security guards with practiced ease, settling into the seat of his truck.  It’s a dingy old thing, unreliable in its worn state and constant pain in the ass.  The dark red paint is warped and flaking; parts that aren’t mean to leak, leak.  Bucky plans to switch it out with a bike, something a little more his speed.  He’s keeping the car of course, it had belonged to Bucky’s father before he passed.  No matter how many times he’s had to bring it to his mechanic friend, Tony, only to have him say the truck is more than on it’s way out, the truck is one of the last things he has to remember his parents.  It takes turning the key once, twice, before the engine finally turns over and Bucky can make his escape.

[bat-losers-inc]

Kintsugi: Chapter 4

Warnings: drug use

Summary: Final Crisis/Red Robin AU. Dick admits Tim to a psychiatric facility after Bruce is lost in time. Jason finds him suffering at the hands of a Scarecrow-copycat and breaks him out. While safe in Jason’s apartment, Tim still struggles with panic attacks and drug withdrawal. At a loss for what to do, Jason calls Roy Harper.

Pairings: Jason Todd & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Roy Harper, Roy Harper & Jason Todd.

“Can I get you boys something to start off with? Drinks?”

Tim managed to turn his flinch into a nod of his head, though not before Jason caught the deliberate nature of the movement.

“Uh, yeah,” Tim cleared his throat but his voice still sounded just as hoarse as it had a moment ago. “Can I get a coffee, please? With creamer.”

Jason eyed him even as their waitress directed her attention at his profile, her pen held limply over her open notepad. He spoke without addressing her. “Just water for me, thanks.”

She turned away to go fetch their drink orders and Tim turned his gaze immediately towards the window beside their booth, not wanting to witness Jason’s mental assessment of him again.

He’d woken up on Jason’s couch an hour ago in new clothes that were a size too large for him and no idea how he’d gotten there. What he could remember from the night before felt more like a dream than it did reality, and most of it was more sound and sensation than anything else. Things like— the horrible throat-choking sensation of panic at the hospital when the fear toxin was coursing through his bloodstream. The vibrating hum of a car (stolen, he’d only later learned from Jason) mixed with the deep rumble and rise of Jason’s voice. Waking up had been an equally surreal experience as he opened his eyes to see Jason perched on the edge of the chair across from him, the sun setting a flaming orange through the window at his back.

And Jason had erupted into a strangely affectionate kind of excitement when he noticed Tim trying to push himself up onto his elbows, calling him ‘Timmy’ and then— as if sensing how out of character that was for him— quickly brushed it off with a clearing of his throat.

“Hey, kid,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “How about we get something to eat? I’ve got to drop some letters in the mail anyway.”

So they’d walked the half mile from the docks to a diner that served an odd mixture of local workers and Gotham U students who lived off campus. The entire walk there, Tim could sense that Jason wanted to ask him a million questions, or perhaps was working out the best way to tell him something important. Sitting across from him now, though, in a booth with cracked leather cushions, he couldn’t help feeling like he was waiting to be ambushed.

The waitress returned, toting coffee and water. Tim poured cream and sugar into his coffee and stirred it together with the dented flatware spoon the diner offered, before setting it aside.

Jason reached across the table and plucked the mug from his saucer. He took a sip, absorbing the openly aghast expression Tim leveled at him over the rim of the mug while he did so.

He winced. “I could have done with a bit less sugar.”

Tim continued to stare at him, a flush breaking out across his cheeks. “What?”

Jason rolled his eyes and pulled Tim’s saucer towards him, placing in its spot his untouched glass of water. “Just drink some water, you miserable dehydrated fuck.”

To his own surprise, Tim’s lips twitched into a smile. Well that sounded a bit more like the Jason he knew, not this person sitting across from him that just a moment ago had struck him as Dick possessing Jason’s body from the other side of Gotham. He tried to hide his smile behind his glass as he took an obedient sip, but ultimately failed.

“What could possibly be so amusing?”

“Nothing.”

Jason leaned forward over his interlocked fingers, eyebrows quirking up towards his hairline. “No, really. I’m dying to know.”

“You really need to stop with the dead-guy puns. It’s been six years.”

“Thanks for that input, kid. One quick question, though. Have you died? No? So, yeah shut up and tell me what’s so funny.”

Tim gave up the argument with a sigh. “Seriously, it’s nothing. Just— you were weirding me out before with how nice you were being to me. Glad we’re back to normal.”

Jason blinked like Tim had stuck his fingers in his water glass and water in his face. He learned back against the booth cushions and tapped a sharp rhythm on the formica table with his thumb.

“Wow, that’s um— yeah, that’s really fucking insulting, Tim. To both of us.”

Despite his harsh words, his voice lacked any anger and it took Tim a second before he realized that something was wrong, confusion overriding his aches and fatigue in an instant. What had he said wrong now? It suddenly felt like all of his family members were finding fault with him and he was completely blind to it. “I didn’t—”

Jason held up a hand, shutting off his apology before he could even start.

“No, I get it. We were never that close, but I care about you. If I find you drugged out of your mind in a mental hospital, it’s ‘normal’ for me to act freaked out and concerned the next day. And it’s ‘normal’ for you to take a day— or a week, hell take a fucking month— to digest that shit before acting like everything is fine again.”

“I know that—”

“Do you?”

Tim took a breath, trying to force some conviction into his voice. The world around him still felt overly bright and glassy, like street lights reflected on wet pavement, and despite his best efforts he found his mind pulling away if he didn’t put the full weight of his attention on Jason and the words coming out of his mouth. “Yes.”

He wanted to elaborate more—felt like he owed it to Jason and to himself to explain his side of it all while somebody finally gave him the chance, but at that moment their waitress returned. They were so deep into their own private conversation that her arrival startled them both with enough force to jerk them away from each other to their own separate sides of the booth. If anyone else in the place was paying attention it would have looked like they were up to no good. But neither the tired-looking waitstaff nor the worn-down clientele paid them even a glance up from their plates. The apathy of this place hit Tim all at once and it was reassuring in a way Tim couldn’t put into words. He felt himself shedding his protective layer like a snake would it’s skin.

Jason ordered a plate of fries for them to share and waited in patient silence until they were slid onto the middle of the table before he continued their previous conversation.

“I know you’re used to getting into rough situations,” began Jason with a wave of his hand. “It comes with the job, but this isn’t something that you can just bounce back from. You’re going to have to detox and even after that you might still need to go to meetings and see a sponsor.”

Tim’s fingers tightened around his water glass. His mouth was dry but he was too nervous to take a sip, afraid of what Jason’s next words would be. “I know that this is a lot to take on, but I just want you to know that I’m not expecting anything from you. I’m 17, old enough to make my own decisions and I have an apartment in my name. I already have the emancipation documents ready there—”

“Woah, hey save the speech. I didn’t sell you out to Dickhead. I’m offering to let you stay at my place.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah. I mean…” Jason shrugged a leather clad shoulder. “If you can swallow your pride for a little bit, I’ve got a free couch and some experience with this. Enough to help you through the worst of it...should you want that.”

Tim picked up a fry and broke it in half as he took in this new information. He broke those pieces down into smaller bits, afraid to lift his eyes and meet Jason’s gaze when he spoke with such tenderness. “You’d do that for me?”

“Well, I can’t let you go through it alone—Roy would kill me— and I won’t let you continue to use, so… yeah. The decision was simple.”

It was decidedly not a simple decision, but looked at with Jason’s mindset—  with his background and his past teammates—  it really did seem that way. Tim took a moment to admire the way that Jason approached breaking free of a drug addiction the way other people did replacing a busted tire. He just rolled up his sleeves and did it.

They stayed at the diner a while before finally getting up to leave. Enough time for Jason to fill in the gaps in Tim’s memories and to explain the reason behind Roy’s trip down to the safehouse he shared with Jason in Gotham Proper. Tim waited and watched the cars rushing past out the dark window as Jason stepped away to call Roy to come pick them up.

When it was time to go, Tim watched from a step or two behind as Jason paid for their barely-touched meal. There was a clatter as Jason scooped a handful of spare change out of his front pocket.

“Aw hell,” muttered Jason, hurriedly trying to corral the spinning dimes and nickels before they tumbled off the edge of the cashier's counter.

Tim's eyes followed the reeling progress of a rust colored penny, feeling his world sway and lurch with each full spin it took across the counter. He ran a shaky hand over the damp sweat of his upper lip.

Despite the water that Jason had forced on him earlier, his mouth was as dry as sawdust as he open it to call out Jason's name. Something was very wrong, but he found himself struck mute in the face of it. That watery, half present sensation had amplified inside Tim and it was only now that he was standing upright that he realized how untethered he felt to the world around him. The diner interior looked more like a backdrop abandoned on a production lot during a sudden storm. Around him the room contorted, the bright neon and chrome streaking as the canvas twisted and snapped to and fro.

Jason slapped his hand down on the penny, and Tim shoved at the door behind him, stumbling out into the blessed cool of the parking lot.

“Tim? Hang on a sec won't you—”

Jason came up behind him right as he leaned against a parked car and vomited onto the black asphalt beside the front tire. There wasn’t much in his stomach to cough up except a few partially digested fries and a trail of watery bile. Even after that had come up Tim continued to dry heave, working his already sore throat. Jason’s hands came up to brace him at his shoulder and hip.

“Deep breaths.”

One of his hands moved to rubbed against Tim’s back. When he finally stopped retching, Jason walked him over to sit on the sidewalk with his back against the diner wall.

“Something’s wrong,” Tim’s hands were shaking where they rested on his knees. He tried to curl his fingers into fists, but it did nothing to stop his trembling. “Wrong. Jason, what—”

“Shh,” Jason had an arm wrapped around his shoulders and his head tucked against his temple so his voice drowned out the street noise and electrical hum of the diner’s neon lighting. “Don’t work yourself into a panic. It’s just the beginnings of withdrawal. You slept for a day and a half. No drugs since I pulled you from Breckenridge.”

  “Oh, c’mon!” A man cried behind Jason. “That’s disgusting.”

As Jason turned to look over his shoulder, Tim peeked around him to see a man standing over the mess he’d made a moment ago. As if sensing his eyes on him, he turned to glare at the two of them sitting on the walkway. The man took in Tim’s pale shaky form, the sick on his too long shirt sleeves and the way he clutched his middle.

Tim dropped his gaze hurriedly to the pavement, already knowing what he saw in him.  

“Yes?” snapped Jason, standing.

The man shook his head in disgust and turned away, but not before spitting just loud enough for them to hear, “Fucking junkie.”

“Hey, shit-for-brains!” Jason called, bringing the man to a stop. Tim had to tilt his head way back against the bricks to see Jason's face from where he sat and from that far up, Jason towered over him like a protective god, his head haloed in fluorescent pink.“He’s not a fucking junkie. He’s got the fucking stomach bug. You ever heard of it? What kind of a horrible person do you have to be to go around throwing out insults like that at a sick kid? He’s been on the bathroom floor puking his brains out for three days, hasn’t eaten more than a packet of crackers, and I was just trying to take him out for some fresh air and see if he could hold something down. Screw me for being a good big brother, I guess right?”

“Hey, man,” He put his hands up defensively. “I didn’t know. It’s just around here we get a lot of addicts and alcoholics that hang around—”

“ — Yeah, save it, asshole. Why don’t you make yourself useful and grab some napkins and mints from the cashier.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Course.” He ran back in to fetch them and Jason snatched them out of his cupped hands the moment he offered them to him.

“Here,” Jason split the wad of napkins down the middle and handed half back to him. “Clean off your car and get the hell away from us.”

The man was gone in record time, reversing quickly out of his spot and speeding out onto the street.

Jason watched his tail lights recede for a moment before he returned to stand over him. He offered Tim a mint.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Tim. “He was right.”

Jason pulled a face and pocketed the spare napkins in his jacket pocket. “Yeah, but nobody ever said he had to be a judgemental asshole about it.”

A pair of headlights arced across the parking lot, partially blinding them for a moment. Ah, finally, Roy was here. Tim stood only to sway heavily into Jason’s shoulder and quickly found Jason’s hand slipping under his armpit to hold him steady.

Roy stepped out of the car, red hair tied up in a messy bun and wearing a pair of worn out jeans and a shirt wrinkled from sitting in the driver’s seat for part of the day. “Did I miss something interesting? Some guy just tore ass coming out of here.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively but said nothing.  

“Well, I’m glad to see you’ve kept him alive this long.”

“Yeah, but if he faints again you’re carrying him into the safehouse. Don’t let his size fool you, the kid’s nothing if not dense.”

Roy laughed and held open the door to the backseat for them. “C’mon, Jaybird. Let’s get him home.”  

[sopewriters]

First and Last | 01

Pairing: Jung Hoseok | J-Hope X Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst; Business!AU

Word Count: 7.3K

Warning(s): Min Yoongi; public sex, thigh-fucking, exhibitionism, slight praise kink, clothed sex, dirty talk, slight degradation

Note: This is the first time in a long time that I’ve written a fic, especially one that passes 3k haha. There should be a second (and maybe third) part, to conclude, so look out for that, I guess. I hope you enjoy reading this tho :)

Even with the light filtering through your window, your apartment looks bleak. Shades of grey coloring every inch of your space, crowding you in when you look for even a sliver of color. Perhaps it’s symbolic of your mood, your worst fears come to life. Perhaps, it’s a sign. A sign that you need to move on, look for a new palette to color your life.

You clutch your blankets closer to yourself, unwilling to part with perhaps the only thing that’s keeping you grounded. Eyes squeezed shut, you inhale deeply, hearing nothing but the sound of your steadily thumping heart. A sign that you’re alive, even after everything that’s happened.

You still remember the day that changed it all. The day that led you down this path…

“Y/N,” Your boss sits behind his desk, mouth in a firm line, “I hope you understand that this is the chance of a lifetime. Other reporters would be falling over themselves for this, but I’m entrusting you with it.”

“I understand, sir.” You nod nervously, forcing yourself not to fidget on the spot, “I’ll try my best.”

“’Trying’ isn’t going to cut it, this time.” He interrupts, dark eyes boring into yours, “You cannot mess this up, understood?”

Your boss looks terrifying at that moment, stern face highlighted in the lavender lighting of his room. You nod once again, before quickly turning tail and leaving the room. You’ve noticed, from experience, that it’s best never to cross the man, or his judgment; not unless you plan on losing your job.

By the time you get back to your desk, you see your friend’s anxious eyes peering at you from the top of the separation of your cubicles. You roll your eyes, knowing that he thinks you’ve been screwed over which, in a way, you have been.

“Well?” He asks you finally, as you nonchalantly work in silence, “What’d he say?”

One brief glance at his wide, worried eyes changes your mind, and you sigh tiredly, before giving him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry, Jimin.” You say reassuringly—or, at least, you hope you do—but Jimin’s expression doesn’t falter in the slightest, “I just got a new project to work on.”

“Really?” He perks up rather adorably, in a way that most of your co-workers would call ‘endearing’, and slouches in obvious relief, “So, what is it then?”

You steel yourself, taking in a deep breath.

“I need to get into the Midsummer Gala. Undercover.”

There’s a brief silence, between the two of you, that makes your skin prickle uncomfortably. Two beats later, you hear a loud, agitated cackle: Jimin, with his hands running through his fire-truck red hair.

“You’re kidding, right?!” He asks you hysterically, panic-stricken smile frozen firmly on his face slowly melting into a desperate, teary look, “Tell me you’re kidding. Please.”

“I wish.” You smile sadly at him, trying to keep your own panicked thoughts away, “I always used to joke around about being a journalist undercover, but now that it’s actually happening…”

You look down at your hands, wringing them anxiously, “It’s terrifying.”

Jimin continues to look at you with his sad brown eyes; almost like he’s already seeing you on your death bed.

“Can you cut the staring, though?” You finally snap at him, before flushing guiltily at his hurt expression, “It’s just… I don’t feel great about this, and your sad eyes are making it worse.”

He cracks a small smile at that, raising an eyebrow, “Sad eyes?”

“Sad EyesTM,” You say, grinning back, though the words don’t alleviate the weight in your chest, “Actually.”

“Okay, okay, so let me get this straight.” Jimin paces in front of you, as you’re perched on your bed, back at your apartment. The sun is setting, though it still manages to cast a pretty glow on his soft features.

“Go ahead.” You interrupt his self-monologue lazily, stretching, though every part of you is tense.

He glares at you for a brief moment, before his eyes soften, and he exhales heavily.

“You basically need to get into the Midsummer Gala: only the biggest and, not to mention, most well-protected celebrity event in the country?”

“Yep.”

“Add to that the fact that you aren’t receiving any external assistance; the Boss said no?”

“Mm-hm.”

“So, basically,” He concludes then, flopping onto the bed with you, “You’re totally fucked. Do you even have a dress for the thing? You know it’s only next week, and you’re gonna need a pretty expensive dress.”

“Oh shit.” You breath out in horror, sitting up straight, “I totally forgot!”

“Oh, so now she panics.” Jimin mutters to himself, before sitting up with you, “Did the Boss say why you’re going in?”

“Oh, he wants me to get an interview or something with the CEO of Jung & Co.” You release, “Or, at the very least, a report of the general happenings. Celebrity gossip. You know the deal.”

“I thought you wanted to be an editorial writer, not a…” Jimin’s mouth scrunches as he bites out, “A gossip columnist.”

“What can I do?” You complain somberly, flopping back onto the bed, “I’ve got to work my way up, Jimin.”

“Yeah, I’m much happier in the Music section.” Jimin counters, “I’ll look around for someone to help you. I don’t care what our boss says: this would be a suicide mission otherwise.”

“Thank you.” You whisper gratefully, before throwing your arm around your friend’s warm body, “Thank you so, so much.”

“You owe me.” He grumbles, but you can hear the smile in his voice even so.

It turns out that Jimin manages to find you someone who can get you in.

“You realize,” You say slowly, after he tells you the news giddily, “That all this time…you could have gotten in if you wanted to?”

“And do what?” Jimin scoffs, nose upturned haughtily, “I’m already living a lavish life.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, and start guffawing helplessly, to the point that tears spring into your eyes. It’s not even really that funny; it’s just that…it’s been so long since you’ve been able to relax even the slightest bit.

“Oh man,” You wipe your eyes quickly, still giggling, “Don’t pull that on me ever again, Park Jimin.”

“Pull what?” He looks at you innocently, making you cuff him at his neck, “OW! Okay, okay, I get it!”

“That’s what I thought.” You huff, before there’s a lull in conversation, “The party is on Friday night, and today’s…”

“Tuesday.” Jimin supplies helpfully, “Meaning you’ve got roughly two-and-a-half days to find the right dress and everything.”

“I think you mean ‘to get money for it’.” You groan, “Shouldn’t the company be paying for this?”

“I think he just wants to fire you.” Jimin says solemnly, and you toss a pillow at him for his efforts, “What, it’s true!”

“Shut up, you aren’t helping.” Rolling your eyes, you stand up and crack your fingers, “I need to start earning some money on the side for this.”

“And,” You continue, startling Jimin when your hands land heavily on his shoulders, “If I don’t get a pay raise when all this is over, I’m going to fuck some bitches up.”

The moment is entirely ruined, of course, when Jimin cracks up.

Your boss, luckily, grants you leave for the next few days, much to your relief. It means you can take on a couple of extra jobs on to buy a suitable dress. With the way things are going, the money you currently have in your account—all from your actual job—is barely enough to buy an acceptable dress. And, if you don’t fit in with the crowd, you’re basically busted from the first step.

Plus, you’ll lose your job, so there’s that.

You work hard, day and night, grinding your weary bones to their limit. You’re honestly done, and a part of you tells you not to do this, to look for another job if need be, but the company you’re at is prestigious, even if the Boss is a slave driver. You have your sights set on this rich, midnight blue gown you saw in a store near your workplace. It’s actually high-end, which is why you need to earn so much. And, gosh, is it hard.

But all your hard work pays off, of course it does. You finally earn enough to safely get that dress, and the elation bubbling in your chest as you leave the store, wallet decidedly empty but arms full, makes you feel happy. Jubilant. Exuberant.

“I did it, Jimin!” You crow excitedly into the phone, arm secure around the package containing your dress, “I…I can’t believe it myself, but I did it!”

“Seriously?” Jimin sounds nearly as excited as you—and why wouldn’t he be? —as he undoubtedly jumps around in happiness, “Everything paid off in the end, didn’t it Y/N?”

“Yeah, it did.” You stand under the store roof’s shade as you smile softly, “You were right, Jimin.”

“Of course, I was.” There’s a pause, before he speaks again, “You know what, we need to celebrate. I’ll come over to your place around 8 and we can—”

“Binge on TV shows?” You cut in eagerly, “Or, oh! Movie marathon!”

“…Yeah, that’s fine.” He sounds amused, “Talk to you later then. Bye.”

There’s still a couple of hours before Jimin comes over, so you decide to stall going home for a bit. Cracking a wide yawn, you aimlessly amble down the street, package tucked securely under your arm again, until you reach your favorite café.

You don’t get to go there as often, now, but you used to be a regular customer. Their caramel macchiato was to die for, and you’re sure it still must be as amazing. And, while you could go to regular coffee joints, you’ll always hold this one close to your heart.

The doors open with a gentle tinkle at your push, and you feel gratified that there isn’t much of a rush today. The café looks just as you remembered, you muse, as you walk. It’s airy and spacious, with lots of windows filtering in the sunlight in order to cast the room in a pleasant glow. There are some new additions, of course; a couple of pictures hung up on the wall, here and there. An odd vase of flowers placed on a table.

Since you’re busy seeing all of this you, obviously, have walk smack into someone. The world spins dizzyingly, as your butt makes a hard contact with the ground, pain spiking up your spine at the impact. Which would be fine, you know, if whoever you crashed into didn’t have coffee. Which is boiling hot, and currently splashed all over your package.

“No!” You cry in dismay, still on the ground. Fumbling fingers hastily tear open the wrapping, and, much to your horror, find that the coffee has soaked through. In essence, there’s a huge, brown spot decorating your beautiful, expensive dress.

“YOU!” You cry, attracting the stare of the few customers standing around; the guy in question, who was trying to leave, suddenly freezes up, and turns around with narrowed eyes, “Look what you did!”

The man is wearing an expensive-looking suit—probably worth your entire paycheck—and has charcoal hair to contrast his white pallor. His dark eyes scream of authority, and judgment: two things you are normally deathly afraid of. But, right now, you feel as if your life has been ripped away from you. By him.

“Excuse me?” He inquires in polite disinterest, though his eyes flash in distaste at the sight of you on the ground, “What did I do? You should have watched where you were going.”

“Watched where—” You laugh hysterically, cutting yourself off, “Are you for real?! This dress is worth more than my normal paycheck and you just ruined it!”

“Just get it dry cleaned, for Christ’s sake.” The man mutters, turning around again, but something overcomes you, and you grasp onto his sleeve with all your strength as you get up.

“I don’t have the time to do that!” You press your lips into a thin line, “I need it by tomorrow!”

Today is Thursday. Tomorrow is Friday: Gala day. And the dry-cleaners would only be able to get it to you by Monday. You are so screwed.

What you do next is something you aren’t proud of (but Jimin is, when you tell him about it). You burst into tears.

The man is clearly taken aback by this, eyes widening in poorly concealed shock. He can hear the murmur of the other customers too, all about the poor girl, she doesn’t deserve this. Hence why he decides to take care of it before it can become a bigger mess.

“Jesus Christ, fine.” He grits out, taking out an expensive looking phone, and tapping away at it, before holding it to his ear.

You watch him, still sniffling, as you struggle to wipe the tears from your eyes and hold your ruined dress at the same time.

“Yeah, I need you to do something for me.” You hear the man mutter into the phone, “I need you to buy a dress…no, I don’t have a fucking girlfriend…measurements?”

He stares at you pensively, making you squirm uncomfortably, before he looks back.

“I’ll send you a picture, yeah.” He finishes, “Thanks, Hobi.”

He looks at his phone for a brief second, before meeting your confused eyes.

“I need to take a picture of you for the measurements. And I’ll need your address as well.”

“Measurements?” You ask in alarm, “Address?”

“Yes, for your new dress.” He rolls his eyes, “I can’t deal with a crying woman, right now.”

“New…dress?” You stutter to yourself, and only react when the man is putting his phone down, picture already taken, “Hey!”

“Relax.” He rolls his eyes, “Address?”

“How am I supposed to trust you?” Your heart thumps in fear, “What if you’re some kind of creep?”

He looks like he’s seriously pondering that, before he reaches his hand into his suit pocket and pulling something out: a business card.

It’s got some fancy sort of embroidery, and you look at it:

  Jung & Co.

Min Yoongi

Director of Finances

Phone Number: +82-9-873-XXXX

Jung & Co…? It sounds familiar, and your eyes grow wide when you realize that this is the company that you’re supposed to interview tomorrow. Min Yoongi doesn’t seem to care as you gawk uselessly at the card, and only raises an eyebrow at you.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

“Uh, right.” You clear your throat nervously, and recite your address, which he taps into his sleek phone with quick fingers.

“You’ll get it by tomorrow morning, at the latest.” He tells you, continuing his way out.

You don’t get to say anything in response, only left staring at the formidable man’s back with a coffee-stained dress in hand, until he disappears.

“You met Min Yoongi?!” Jimin shrieks in excitement when you tell him about everything, that night, “The Min Yoongi?”

“Yeah, he’s a director in Jung & Co.” You say sadly, staring at Kat Dennings’ frozen face on TV, “I hope he doesn’t turn up tomorrow.”

“Why wouldn’t he turn up?!” Jimin’s eyes grow wide with shock, “Y/N, he’s CEO Jung’s oldest son!”

“…What?” You question blankly, unable to process those words.

“I can’t believe this.” Jimin mutters to himself, before raising his voice, “Y/N, the CEO has three sons: Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok and Jung Jungkook.”

“Why do they have different surnames?” Your face twists in confusion, and he sighs.

“He had two wives. Jungkook and Yoongi have the same mother, but Yoongi chose to take on his mother’s maiden name.”

“Yikes.” You scrunch your nose in distaste, “I should…probably research more about the company, before tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He looks at you, eyes piercing, “You should. The marathon can wait.”

“Yeah.”

Your conviction lasts for all of two seconds, before you flop back.

“What the hell, just press play!”

“I can do this.” You chant to yourself, as you stare at the large, sprawling mansion in front of you, “Damn it, I should have done my research.”

Then, your mind flashes back to last night, and you giggle lightly to yourself. Never mind, you don’t regret it.

You’re currently standing at the entrance to the party venue, having gotten through security with some help from Jimin’s godsend (“Kim Taehyung, at your service!”). You’re draped in a beautiful purple dress that shimmers wonderfully in the light, which undoubtedly costs more than your midnight dress did.

You remember nearly choking on your spit when you took the garment out of its package, in the morning. It was…not a very delightful experience, needless to say. But the dress truly is beautiful: it was then, and it is now.

“I could’ve done with a partner, for this thing.” You murmur to yourself, as you walk in through the grandiose entrance. However, there’s no time to complain further, nor is it possible, because your breath is taken away, just one step in.

“Holy shit.” You breathe out, “Holy shit.”

It is the epitome of all things expensive. Of everything you’ve seen in the movies; a wide, arching ceiling, with golden-white chandeliers hanging from them, a bubbling fountain as a centerpiece, decorated with pearls. The party guests, of course, wearing their fancy dresses and suits, with polite chatter mingling in the air.

You feel very out of place, but you are a woman on a mission. You’ve got work to do.

You manage to dodge most of the people standing in groups, polite smile affixed to your face. You’re looking for someone in specific; a Mr. Jung, in fact. As you walk, though, you notice people’s eyes drifting towards you, something akin to grudging respect in their eyes. But, why would they do that?

You have no idea, nor do you wish to find out.

You startle, though, when you feel icy cold fingers circling your wrist, and bite your lip so that you don’t scream; instead, you turn around with a stiff smile, wanting to get it over with so that you could find the CEO of Jung & Co, interview him, and go home.

“Yes…?” You trail off, eyes widening with shock when you see the same man from yesterday: Min Yoongi, “Oh no.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.” He deduces correctly, raising an eyebrow, “It’s interesting that this is what you wanted this dress for.”

“Yeah, well.” You flush uncomfortably under his gaze, and are only really saved when someone else enters your conversation.

“Hyung!” They call softly, and your eyes drift to them, taking in a lean man with soft brown hair and gorgeous, bronze skin in pure breathlessness, “Father’s looking for you.”

There’s something akin to sadness in his hazel brown eyes, when they mention their dad, and you see a similar sight in Yoongi’s usually expressionless eyes, before even that disappears.

“Right.” He turns his piercing gaze back to you, prompting the other man to look at you as well, “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

“What?” You stutter in disbelief, “I—you can’t tell me what to do—!”

“Hoseok, stay with her.” Yoongi tells the other man—Hoseok, the second son—before sneering at you menacingly and leaving.

Hoseok rolls his eyes, but smiles softly at you, extending his hand for you to shake.

“I’m Jung Hoseok.” He introduces himself, “Are you Yoongi’s girlfriend?”

You took his hand to shake it but, at the question, drop it immediately, mouth literally hanging open.

“Y-Yoongi’s…girlfriend?!” You splutter in poorly disguised shock, “N-No way! And, uh, I’m Y/N.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” He shrugs, heart-shaped smile still on his lips, “It’s just that he never talks to anyone, especially not girls.”

“Unfortunate circumstances caused us to meet.” You let out, though that’s all you plan to say. Because, an idea is forming in your head…

Your boss told you that if you can’t get an interview with CEO Jung, to do an article on the party in general. You don’t really feel like doing all of that, but you do have a much better option right now.

“I see.” Hoseok is saying, eyes soft, “Yoongi told me to stay with you, though, so we’ll have to stick together.”

“Wonderful.” You frown, “Do I really need to listen to him?”

“Aw, why so sad?” He looks down at you with a warm gaze that causes you to flush lightly and, when you try for a twitch of the lips to counter it, chuckles, “There you go. You look much more beautiful with a smile.”

You’re sure your face must be beet red by now, but Hoseok thankfully doesn’t comment on it.

“C’mon,” He holds out his hand for you, and he makes a pretty picture—decked out in a royal blue suit, with cheeks flushed and a beatific smile—like that, “Let’s get away from this mess, shall we?”

“Okay.” You beam at him and take the proffered hand—everything is falling into place, “Where to?”

He just flashes you a secretive grin, and tugs you along.

It turns out there’s some sort of secret garden or something in the secluded corner of the mansion—and it is stunning.

“Oh my god.” You gawk at it, before turning to meet Hoseok’s amused gaze, “I know I said I hate walking, but it was worth coming all the way over here!”

“You like it?” He asks you, eyebrow quirked up, and at your happy nod, continues, “Then you won’t mind if I brought this along?”

He raises his fist, which is closed around a bottle of champagne. You stare at it for a bit, a voice in your head screaming at you to not drink on the job, but really, your bored. And besides, this could even help you along.

“Bring it on.” You smirk at him with fake confidence, “I bet I can outdrink you.”

“Oh?” A skeptical smile plays across his lips, “I’d like to see that.”

You aren’t sure how many gulps later…maybe six? Or seven? In any case, Hoseok still looks infuriatingly put together, while you start to lose your shit, vision dimming mockingly.

“I-I don’t want to lose my job!” You hiccup sadly, as Hoseok pats your back reassuringly, “I’m already broke, and this just would make it so much worse!”

“How’d you get in here, if you’re so broke, then?” He asks in curiosity, but you’ve got your wits about you enough to dodge that question.

“D-Doesn’t matter!” You say sternly, and he shrugs. There’s only silence, after that, where the two of you are left looking up at the stars.

You grow bored of doing that, though, and turn to eye Hoseok instead, breath catching in your throat. He looks really beautiful like that, face tilted upward, eyes full of the stars. The moonlight catching on his bronze skin makes him look ethereal, and makes you to move closer to him.

“What is i-it?” He turns to face you, only to stutter at the sudden proximity, “W-Wait, Y/N, what’re you—?”

“You look really pretty like this.” You murmur, and the hitch in his breath prompts you to lean forward, eyes fluttering shut.

The soft press of his lips against yours feels perfect. There are no firecrackers, nothing like the books describe…but it’s soft and warm and wonderful. He’s frozen in shock, as your fingers tangle in his hair, and his hands come to push you away, but no, you want the warmth back.

“Y/N, you’re drunk.” The flush on his cheeks makes him look even more irresistible, even as he stutters and looks away, “Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing.”

You lunge at him, making him gasp in surprise as the he tumbles onto the grass, with you landing perfectly on top of him. You’re lucky your dress isn’t skin-tight or anything, or things would be very different.

“You talk too much.” You giggle lightly, before leaning down and kissing him again, harder and more fervently this time, and ah, there are the fireworks. When Hoseok actually starts to respond, soft lips moving desperately against your own, a thrill runs up your spine. Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s lowered your inhibitions, but you want more, and your unhesitant of showing it.

“Y/N!” He gasps sharply, when you roll your hips against his; his hands scrabble to find purchase at your waist, “You’ll regret this tomorrow, stop!”

“Why don’t you make me?” You question, core steadily dampening, “Jung Hoseok.”

“I…I…” He looks conflicted, before a nip to his exposed throat, and a well-timed roll of your hips, makes his eyes roll back, “Oh fuck!”

“I’d like that.” You purr, meeting his lips with yours again, “Aren’t you interested?”

He freezes, before slumping.

“Alright, fine.” He bites out, and the world spins as he flips you over easily, staring down at you with dark, lusty eyes, “But it’s on my terms.”

You nod eagerly, willing to give anything to just feel more of him. The champagne really must have done a number on you, because you aren’t normally like this…especially not on the job. But right now, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except for the feel of his skin against yours.

“Good.” He says, and an unexpected warmth flushes through you at the praise, but you don’t dwell on it much longer as he hikes the skirts of your dress up, exposing your legs to the chilly air. You shiver at the cold, but it does nothing to deter you.

You realize that Hoseok is hunched over you, with your dress spread all around you, cheeks equally as pink as yours. You realize that anyone could walk in on this, on him giving you everything. And you just throb at that, giddiness overcoming you at the thrill of that happening.

“What’s this?” Hoseok’s fingers brush against your damp panties, with an amused glint in his eye at your stuttered breath, “I didn’t think you’d be this excited.”

“Damn it, Hoseok.” You groan, pushing down slightly to prompt him to just touch, touch and don’t leave anything behind, “Just do it, please!”

“Do what?” He obligingly pulls your underwear aside, to press gently at your dribbling slit, “This?”

“You know what I mean.” You growl, though his sly innocence makes an unbearable heat pool between your legs, “Please.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” He smiles at you, “I better treat the princess with care, hm?”

And your mouth opens in a breathy moan when he slides a finger inside you, the slight burn of the stretch making it all the better. He just uses that one finger, though, pumping it steadily in and out of you, but it’s not enough, not even close, and he knows it.

You whine embarrassingly, but he seems to find it pleasurable, because he considerately slips in another finger, scissoring you with a steady hand. Two becomes three, and you nearly sob in relief when he twists them just right, to brush against your g-spot, making stars explode behind your closed eyelids.

“Yes, there!” You struggle to keep your voice down, just in case someone might overhear, and it makes Hoseok move even closer to you, mouth brushing against the lobe of your ear.

“You like this?” His voice shouldn’t ever be this husky, but you can’t focus on anything but the slow, meaningful movements of his fingers, rubbing against that one spot, and his dark, dirty words.

“I bet you’d like it if someone walked in on us.” He whispers to you, hot breath hitting the sensitive skin of your neck in spurts, “You’d like that too, right? You’d like for them to see me fucking you, owning your dirty little cunt.”

You can’t breathe, heart hammering wildly against your chest as he speaks to you in the same hushed tone, fingers doing their part inside you. It’s like you can’t bring yourself to move, just lie there and let him take and take and take. And, the worst part?

You love it.

“You want my cock, baby?” He asks you, smirking, and gods, he should be illegal, “Want me to open you right up?”

“Or would you be okay with anyone, hm?” He pulls back his fingers, so that they’re barely inside you, “Look at your little hole, clenching around my fingers like that. You’re desperate, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You moan, eyes wide and frantic as you try to get your bearings right, “Let me cum, please.”

“I didn’t even need to ask.” His red lips curl up, and his dark eyes bore into yours, “You really are a slut.”

“N-No—” You try to defend yourself, shuddering through your arousal, but Hoseok cuts you off.

“How about a little test?” He challenges you, fingers unmoving, “If you want to cum so badly, then why don’t you fuck yourself on my fingers like a good little doll? Or, if you’d prefer not to, I could just leave you here.”

He moves his lips closer to yours, “You can try to find your own release, staying. Right. Here. Someone might even find you, help you out to get their dicks wet. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

At the frantic shake of your head, he laughs, “then why don’t you get to it, before I lose my patience?”

It’s humiliating, but your juices continue to leak out of you, as you grind against his fingers helplessly. No matter how you angle your hips, they don’t strike the right spot, and it’s so frustrating.

“Why’re you crying?” He asks you, eyes showing only the barest hint of alarm, and you shake your head.

“I w-want to cum.” You choke out in desperation, “But I c-can’t!”

“C’mere.” He pulls his fingers out, before tugging you up and seating you comfortably on his lap. He hikes the skirts of your dress up, so that your dripping core is completely exposed to anyone who might be coming by, and pushes the digits back in.

“Is this better?” He asks you, but chuckles when your walls clench around him, “Figures.”

He makes quick work of you then, pumping his fingers in and out of you steadily. You can feel his bulge pressing against the cleft of your ass, and can’t help but grind against it, making him stiffen imperceptibly. It feels so good, lying there and letting him do what he wants, just putty in his skilled hands. At this point, you don’t care if anyone really comes and sees, because you’re entirely focused on chasing the pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure that he promises.

“You’re close, right?” He groans into your ear, “I can feel your pussy squeezing around me, so you must be. And you’re getting my fingers all dirty, you little slut.”

“S-Sorry.” You can’t help but squeeze out, “Oh G-od!”

“That’s it,” He coaxes you closer to your climax, pushing you to the brink, “Come for me, baby.”

And it’s like a switch turns on, at the sound of his voice, and with one final gasp, your vision swims white, legs trembling erratically as your core squeezes lustily around his fingers. You’re lost, swimming in everything that’s him, and you don’t ever want to leave.

Your mouth parts instinctively for his fingers, and you tiredly suck around them like he suggests, knowing that your cleaning your own juices off the slender digits.

“Good girl.” He praises you headily, before your back is on the grass, “I think it’s only fair for me to get my share too, right?”

A faint sense of alarm is triggered in your brain, and Hoseok seems to know what you’re thinking, because he pushes you back, with a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, I won’t fuck you.” He nips at your throat, “We can save that for another time, babe. Instead…”

You hear the sound of a zipper and take the chance, looking at the stars above instead of what Hoseok is doing. The grass isn’t prickly, and the weather is pleasant; it’s making you grow increasingly sleepier.

The drag of Hoseok’s fingers across your sensitive clit has you mewling, and he pauses, before pressing against it firmly. Your legs jerk, and you instinctively whimper at the overstimulation.

“Relax, babe.” He says, collecting more of your juices on his fingers, “Just let me take care of you.”

So, you stay quiet, something in you telling you that you can trust him. Call it a reporter’s instinct, but Hoseok just screams of trustworthiness.

Your eyes widen, though, when you see his slather his cock with it, mouth going dry at the size. You know he said he won’t fuck you, but…

He slides his cock close to your pussy, grazing against it, but never quite entering you.

“Close your thighs.” He instructs you, warm hands pushing your legs together, so that your thighs enclose his throbbing length, “That’s a good girl.”

You grow flustered at the praise, and your arousal spikes again, dribbling more onto his cock, much to his delight.

“You like that?” His fingers card through your hair, as he begins to rut against your thighs, “L-Like me praising you? Telling you what a good little bitch you are for me?”

“Y-Yes!” You cry, as his member rubs against your swollen clit, “Oh, please!”

“That’s it.” He pins you down, fucking into your thighs with renewed vigor, “Next time, I’ll fuck you properly. You’ll be begging for more, by the end of it, even when everything in you screams for it to stop.”

“You’ll grow addicted to my cock, won’t you?” He sucks harshly into your collar bone, “My good little slut.”

“Yes, oh God!” This is a situation spiraling out of control, but you can’t find it in you to try and stop—the pleasure, it’s addicting, and it feels so, so right, “Hoseok—!”

“I’ve got you.”

Only the moon is a witness to your passion that night, when the two of you curl around each other, and Hoseok sprays the inside of your thighs with white. It drips onto the grass, and you’re worried it might have gotten on your dress, but the brunette takes out a handkerchief to wipe you off gently.

It feels nice, the soothing rub of his cloth-covered fingers against your skin, and you find yourself drifting off in almost no time at all…

You wake up to a soft warmth, and sigh, snuggling into it. Your eyelids feel heavy, crusted, so you don’t bother opening them, instead trying to get back to sleep. Unfortunately, that’s when you realize that nothing in your bed has ever been this soft, and your eyes snap open.

Immediately recoiling at the sudden intensity of the light, you groan and try to get off the bed: a bad idea when your vision is so limited. You end up tripping on your gown—you forgot you were even wearing it—but manage to find purchase with a wall. You stand there, for a few seconds, until your sight finally adjusts.

Your jaw drops, because this most certainly is not your room.

The room is decorated in shades of beige and brown—warm colors—with the giant, king-sized bed clearly serving as the centerpiece. There’s a desk in the corner, your phone and purse placed on it, with an ornately carved chair to match, and there are two doors adjacent to each other.

Of course, none of this really matters to you when the door creaks open and nearly gives you a heart attack. You stare at it with wide eyes, as a brunette man walks in, eyes soft and cheeks…pink?

“W-What’s going on?” You ask defensively, instinctively huddling against the wall, “Why am I here?”

He looks at you with surprise coating his features.

“Don’t you remember?” He asks, hazel eyes wide with surprise, “I’m Hoseok.”

“Hoseok…?” You mutter to yourself, and everything hits you at once, making you flush from your head to your toe, “Oh no.”

“Oh, so you do remember.” Hoseok chuckles awkwardly, eyes cast on the floor, “I, um, was going to ask if you wanted me to get you some clothes or something, from one of the maids…”

“Uh,” You look down at your dress, before murmuring quietly, “Yeah, that’d be nice, thank you.”

“Alright.” He pauses hesitantly, and you watch him with wide eyes, “Could we…talk about this when you’re done?”

“Yeah, sure.” You say, though it lacks enthusiasm. He seems to agree, but nods at you before quickly walking out.

You flop on the bed, taking your head in your hands. You cannot believe this is happening. This is not happening.

“Why am I such an idiot?” You groan quietly into the silence, “Why did I drink?”

You can’t hold your liquor too well, and the fact that it was champagne yesterday…well, it got you drunk faster than ever before. You made a bad decision yesterday, and you know it.

“And what am I supposed to write for the article?” You whine quietly to yourself, before startling and nearly falling off the bed when the door swings open.

A middle-aged woman with auburn hair walks in, entirely dressed in white. She’s carrying some things in her hands—namely, clothes, much to your relief.

“Here you go, Miss.” She sets the garments on the bed gently, before turning to you, “The Young Master wanted me to inform you that the bathroom is fully stocked with any essentials you might need.”

“He would also like for you to use this,” She hands over a small looking remote, with a single red button, “To call for him once you’re finished.”

“Oh, thank you.” You blush, though you’re not quite sure why. You curse yourself for showing this kind of weakness.

She gives you a polite smile, before stepping out the room, door shutting as she goes. You stare at the door for a couple of seconds, before quickly locking it and rushing to grab your phone on the table. You need to call Jimin.

Picking up your phone, you hurriedly press the home button, only to blanche when the screen doesn’t light up. A couple of tries later, your fears are confirmed.

Your phone’s dead. Wonderful.

Seeing no other choice, you decide to go use the bathroom, and get dressed as quickly as you can. The faster you do that, the faster you can get home, simple as.

You stop short when you actually see the bathroom.

“This is beautiful.” You whisper reverently, “Beautiful.”

 Your bath, needless to say, takes longer than planned.

“So.” Hoseok takes a seat from across you, looking literally everywhere but at you, “We need to talk, I guess.”

“Uh, yeah.” You muttered, blush taking over your cheeks as your mind flashes back to the previous night, “But, um, first: are we at your place?”

“Kind of?” He gives a half-nod, so you take it at face value, “I mean, you sort of passed out last night, so—”

“Wait, did you carry me all the way to your house?” You interrupt, eyes wide, “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry—”

“No, no!” He rushes to say, smiling slightly, “It was just a couple of floors, and most of the guests were gone by then, so it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh.” You say, pondering in silence, before your mind finally connects the dots, “Wait, the mansion is yours?!”

“Well, it’s not exactly mine, it’s more my Father’s…” He grimaces, but at your annoyed expression, hurriedly acquiesces, “Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that?”

“Oh my gosh.” You murmur faintly, gripping the arm of your chair for support, “Oh my gosh.”

“It’s not that big a deal.” He looks confused and you shake your head.

“You basically fucked me, and carried me up here after I passed out and gave me a bunch of luxuries I can only ever dream of.”

You usually hate your lack of filter sometimes, especially considering your occupation, but not this time; not when Hoseok literally turns beet red and chokes on his own spit.

“I…You didn’t—!” He stutters, “I didn’t actually do it, we just, kind of…”

He makes vague motions with his hands, and you need to bite your lip to hold back your laughter.

“Jung Hoseok, embarrassed of this?” You smirk at him, even as he stares at the ground guiltily, “After all that filth you said yesterday—”

“Oh god, you remember?” He groans, head dropping into his hands, but you go on coolly.

“After all that filth you said yesterday, you’re embarrassed to say we almost had sex?” You finally laugh, “Jung Hoseok: shy on the streets, sly in the sheets.”

“Oh my god.” He groans, even though a smile pulls at his lips, and that’s when the door slams open, startling the two of you to near death.

“We need to talk.” Min Yoongi stands in the doorway, eyes cold and dead.

“Why is that a common theme here?” You mutter, stomach sinking, even as Hoseok waves him in.

The discussion with Yoongi goes as well as expected. Which is to say: not at all.

“So, care to explain to me why you were at the party yesterday?”

Yoongi sits across from you, next to Hoseok, with his arms crossed. Both of you ignore Hoseok’s confused glances, only looking at each other.

“I didn’t want to come, I had no choice.” You say petulantly, though a part of you quakes in fear.

“Even so, you’re clearly not on the guest list.” Yoongi muses, tapping a finger against his armrest, “And I’ve never heard of you, so that leaves…”

“Are you from the press?” Hoseok blurts out, and you struggle to meet his eyes, which are swirling with confusion…and hurt, “You came undercover?”

“Yeah.” You admit, knowing there’s no escape, and Yoongi’s stare grows sharper, “I did. I had no choice, my boss would’ve fired me otherwise—!”

“That’s none of our problem.” Yoongi interrupts, anger flashing in his dark eyes, “In fact, I think we should—”

“Wait, hyung!” Hoseok interrupts, making the raven-haired man freeze in surprise, obviously not used to being cut through, “What did you need to do for your boss?”

His face still screams of pain and sadness, and you swallow the guilty sob that threatens to escape you as you whisper:

“He wanted me to get an interview from Jung & Co.”

Hoseok’s eyes shimmer slightly, then, and you can’t help the tears that spring into your own eyes as you hurry to explain, “He also said that if it isn’t possible, he’d be okay with a general write-up, and that’s what I was going to do, I swear—!”

“Get out.” It’s Yoongi who speaks, fists tightening, and Hoseok refuses to meet your eyes as your throat turns dry in anxiety, “Get the fuck out.”

Almost on cue, armed men in suits walk into the room, and you struggle lightly as they begin to pull you away.

“Hoseok, I’m sorry!” You yell desperately, through your tears, even as he looks away, hurt still visible on his soft features, “Hoseok, please!”

The last you see of him, is his head burrowed into Yoongi’s stiff embrace.

Written By: Midnight

Next Part: 02

[jooheonies]

SinglesMingle.com

Character(s): Reader X Changkyun, bestfriend!jooheon

Genre: fluff, borderline!crack

Warning(s): scientist!changkyun (is that a warning), online dating, bad humor

Length: 3.2k

Summary: In which your best friend sets you up for an online dating site and maybe it’s not so bad when you meet a  scientist by the name of Lim Changkyun.

There’s a reason you don’t let Jooheon touch your laptop. Aside from the porn sites (and the numerous viruses acquired from them) he’s not to be trusted alone. You’ve known this since the third grade when he came over for a playdate and ended up drinking a bottle of Elmer’s glue while you went to the bathroom because he was too shy to ask for water.

He can’t be trusted.

So when he comes over a lazy Sunday morning and props his feet up your coffee, pressing his fingertips together as a slow smile stretches across his face, you know something must be up.

“You did WHAT?” You scream, the mug of tea in your hands slipping through unsteady fingers and dripping onto your clean rug. Not that you even notice, what with how much your eye is twitching and your fists are clenching, because goddamnit Lee Jooheon is not to be trusted.

“I signed you up,” he breathes, eyes sparkling with excitement, “for a dating site!” He claps gleefully as he finishes his sentence, dimples deep and smile wide.

You rake your hand through your hair in frustration, eyebrows snapping together. “Why would you do–”

“Because you’re turning into one of those old cat ladies, but with dogs,” Jooheon explains, smile still wide, “and it’s turning you into a real meanie so I think you should get out there.” He furrows his eyebrows for a second and rubs his chin. “Get laid,” he adds as an afterthought.

You glare at him, teeth gritted. “I am perfectly fine being single.”

“Maybe you should try to mingle,” he replies, eyebrows waggling.

Jooheon pulls out his phone, clicking through the fifty tabs he has pulled up on his internet browser.

“So I was looking up porn on your laptop when I came over last week–”

“I told you to stop doing that!”

“–and I saw all the pictures of your dogs that you have saved as your wallpaper and I realized you live a sad, sad life–”

“It’s not sad! I like my dogs!”

Jooheon stops talking, rolling his eyes and shooting you an incredulous look.

“You named one of them Doggo.”

“It’s a good name!”

He wrinkles his nose and drops his phone onto the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a dog and you named it Doggo and you named the other Pupper.”

“Get out of my house.”

Jooheon cackles and scooches closer, nuzzling into your arm, phone back in his grip. “You love me. Moving on, I made an account for you and you’re going to fill your profile in with me or I’m setting you up with Son Hyunwoo from Human Resources.”

You groan, head tipping back to rest on the back of your sofa. Son Hyunwoo is . . . interesting. He once thought the fire alarm in the break room was broken so he set the Hoseok’s cactus on fire to test it. It resulted in the entire office having to deal with a forced evacuation and coming back to the smell of burning cactus and smoke that continues to linger in the air seven months later. 

Hoseok held a funeral in the parking lot and cried for two months over the loss, and to this day, he still sniffles every time he sees the corner it used to sit in. Hyunwoo is interesting.

“I’m not going to date Hyunwoo,” you groan, picking at your nails.

“Then let’s get your profile going!” He exclaims, doing a little jig where he sits.

“No, you can’t make me–”

“I used your credit card.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, anger flaring. “You what? How did you even get that?”

Jooheon scuttles to the other end of the couch, hands raised defensively and tosses his phone towards you.

“Woah, man, I’m just trying to help my best friend get laid.”

“Yeah, and you might die before you get to see it happen.”

“Look,” he sighs, grimacing a little as he tries to force a smile on his face, “I think it would help if you just loosened up a bit–”

“Get. Out.” You fling the phone back at him and stand. “I’m cancelling the account so get out, loser. I never want to see you again.”

Jooheon groans and stands, brushing imaginary crumbs off his pants. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” he says, pointing a finger at your face. And with that, he stalks out the door, whistling and swinging his hips.

Unfortunately, it turns out that Jooheon was more or less right. Monday night finds you sitting cross legged on your bed, scrolling through the dating website, singlesmingle.com of all names. You had originally logged on to figure out how to cancel an account but two little pings echo in your silent room when you sign in and it peaks your interest.

The little message box in the corner has a little red bubble in the corner and you wrestle with the decision of clicking on it for a good five minutes before you cave. When you open the page, two users pop up.

Your options are limited to science_is_my_kokoro and hamsta-luv.

The next three minutes are spent with you wondering what kind of fucking website Lee Jooheon signed you up for.

The first message, from hamsta-luv, is creepy, for lack of a better word. It consists of a single smiley face and a tongue emoji. You slowly click the block button next to his username.

The second message is decidedly less creepy, a simple ‘sup’, from science_is_my_kokoro. When you click on his user name, it redirects to his profile page and your eyes flit over his bio as you hunt for a picture, clicking on the read more tab.

His profile picture pops up and for a second you stop breathing and the room starts spinning because good lord this man is gorgeous.

He’s wearing a white lab coat, round glasses perched low on the bride of his nose as he flashes a tight smile at someone behind the camera, dimples deep and eyes sparkling. Your breath hitches as you scroll through his photo album, lips curving into a smile when you find a picture of him cuddling a golden retriever and another one of him sitting in a park, legs wrapped around a tree. You find yourself shaking your head, staring at his photos for who knows how long because what is someone this attractive doing on a dating website and why is he talking to you of all people. It takes a good ten minutes before you can finally calm your heart rate, clicking on the back button and searching for his profile.

This time you properly read his bio, searching for any signs that he may be one of those creepy men you hear about in the news.

I am what I.M, bro. You and I, we fit together like the sticky ends of recombinant DNA.  Interests: science, dogs, dog videos, the periodic table of elements.

It’s childish but cute and you can’t help the spark of curiosity that blooms in your chest, prompts you to wonder too many ‘what if’ scenarios. What if he’s not a creepy stalker and what if he really likes your dogs and what if he lets you poke his dimples and–

You inhale shakily and click on his name again, slowly typing out ‘hi’ into the message box. Your eyes read over the message eighteen times to make sure you haven’t somehow misspelled it and you click send, wincing when a whoosh sounds from your laptop.

And then you wait, fingers drumming nervously on your laptop. As you wait, you go to your own profile. What you find there nearly has you flinging your laptop at the wall, already prepared to hunt down Jooheon and strangle him, because what kind of friend does this.

Henlo~ I’m h0t trust me date me im mean 2 my frendos but not 2 my luhvurs Interests: eating, sleeping, hitting people (even my super sweet best friend), and doggos

The profile picture he has set is of the one your mom took of you during halloween in the seventh grade and you’re wearing a giant pumpkin costume with a green stem on your head, braces flashing unattractively in the camera.

Lee Jooheon is not to be trusted.

You’ve spent the last few minutes, kicking at your sheets in frustration and clawing out your hair because you’re doomed there’s no way this cute boy is going to think you’re normal and now you’ll never know–

A loud ping! sounds from your laptop and you nearly fall off the bed as you scramble, squinting at the screen and clicking on the notification above the messages.

From: science_is_my_kokoro

What’s up?

You choke.

Jooheon barges into your apartment the next evening, swinging a bag of beer in his hand and yelling something about ‘best friends night!’ You wave your hand dismissively at him as you continue clacking away at your laptop.

Turns out, science_is_my_kokoro is a cute laboratory geneticist who’s also been roped into this website by a friend and goes by the name of Changkyun. You spent all last night talking to him, first polite and stiff, but as the night wore on, he grew more and more relaxed, eventually spamming you with nine smileys and messages with very poor grammar. 

Your conversations consisted of random topics, mostly dogs at first. Changkyun sent you three dog videos and you sent him pictures of Pupper and Doggo. He didn’t hesitate to immediately tease you over the name choice, snarky comments and sassy jokes, but you find that it doesn’t annoy you as much when he does it.

“Hey!” Jooheon whines, poking your shoulder and pouting. “Why’re you ignoring me?”

“Wait. I’m doing something.”

He props his chin up on your shoulder, tilting his head to eye the screen, and out of the corner of your eye you watch as his mouth drops open, a gasp slipping past his lips.

“YOU’RE USING IT? YOU’RE ACTUALLY USING IT?” He asks, voice too loud in your apartment as he lifts his head off your shoulder.

You turn your head slowly to glare at him, hissing, “Why are you screaming? Are you trying to make sure I wind up with a noise complaint?”

Jooheon recoils, clearing his throat, “Right. Sorry. But you’re actually using it!” He squeals the last sentence, body writhing in some strange rendition of a happy dance.

You roll your eyes and look back down at your laptop, lips curving into a smile when Changkyun sends you another message, something about having to study beetles for work.

Jooheon hooks his chin on the screen of your laptop and pouts. “Stop ignoring me. I’m your best friend.”

“Fuck off,” you respond, not bothering to look up at him as you blindly reach over to crack open a can of beer, patting the space next to you and handing him the tv remote. It takes a few more pokes from him for you to close your laptop and finally stop messaging Changkyun.

A week later, you both exchange phone numbers, because lugging around you laptop to talk whenever you’re out off the house is annoying, especially since it requires you hunting down a place with wifi and hogging it just so you can exchange a few words with him. He’s cute, texts you random things during the day, pictures of things that reminded him of you and questions about what kind of cereal he should buy.

You both stay up late nights, rolling around bed and sending each other cheesy texts and sometimes Jooheon comes over with beer and offers to set you up with Hyunwoo because you still haven’t met up with Changkyun.

“I just–” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and taking a swig from his can of beer, “I just want you to get laid already, man.”

“Yes, thank you very much Jooheon.” But also you agree, because Changkyun has really nice hands and lips and sometimes he sends you selfies and you can see his dimples and–

You might be in over your head.

In three months, locations are exchanged and, as fate would have it, it turns out you both live in the same city, nearly in the same area. He tells you of a cafe three blocks away, one that has a park next to it that he likes to take his dogs to and you both decide to meet up for coffee.

It’s just coffee.

But then he goes to sleep and a funny sort of panic settles in your gut and you spend the next hour rifling through your closet in search of an outfit. You wind up sitting in a pile of skirts and flowy blouses, frantic thoughts rushing through your mind because what if he doesn’t like you or thinks you aren’t cute or he’s actually a fifty year old pervert who lives in his parents’ basement.

It’s how Jooheon finds you in the morning, curled up in a heap of clothes at the foot of your bed.

“How adorable,” he chimes, clapping his hands, “my sweet little bumblebee all grown up and ready to go out and get laid!”

“I can’t meet him!” You wail, “He’s never gonna like me!”

Jooheon rolls his eyes and pushes you into the bathroom. “You’re going.”

“But–”

“You’re going.”

And that’s how you end up standing outside the cafe in an itchy pink skirt and a loose white blouse. You clear your throat, steeling your nerves as you walk through the door, and you’re not exactly sure what you’re expecting, but the man with the familiar dimples sitting three tables down in a blue button up and black jeans is damn cute and he’s smiling at you and oh god–

“Ch–Changkyun,” you squeak, awkwardly waving as you stumble towards the table.

“Hey,” he responds, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he stands, nearly knocking over the kid standing behind him. He apologizes profusely to both the kid and her mother, who both send him irritated glares before stalking out the cafe. “You look nicer than that picture of you in your profile,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling.

You laugh, sliding into the seat across from him, “I would hope so, I was only twelve in that picture.” Stupid fucking dating website that won’t let you change your primary profile picture.

“It was cute,” he snickers, propping his chin up in his palm, elbow resting on the table. “I ordered us a vanilla milkshake because I’m pretty sure out said it’s you favorite.”

That was back when you were both first talking, about three months ago.

He hums, turning his head to look at the counter like it isn’t a big deal (it is).

“Do you remember mine?” He prompts shifting his gaze back to you and tilting his head.

“Strawberry shortcake,” you respond without hesitation, fingers coming up to splay across the table top.

He grins and you nearly keel over at the sight of his dimples. “Correct, m’lady!”

When the milkshake shows up, you’re surprised to see there’s only one on the tray.

“You didn’t order one?” You ask, eyebrows scrunched together.

“I did,” he replies with a grin, sticking two straws into the glass. He shoots finger guns at you and winks.

Oh.

You can’t tell if this is moving fast, but when he pushes the glass towards you, eyebrows raised, you find that you really don’t care.

So you lean forward, lips closing around the straw, and reenact all the cheesy summer teen movies you’ve seen, starry eyed and coquettish.

He leans forward, too, and he’s so close you forget exactly how to drink and he smells woodsy, with hints of sugar, like warm naps and fireplaces.

“I’ve wanted to try something,” he announces when you both leans back in your seats.

“What?”

“The woes of onlines dating do not allow me to do so” he sighs mournfully, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Whatever,” he says, jaw setting in determination, “I’m doing it.”

You’ve never been more confused.

“You’ve got a little something there,” he says, pointing at your upper lip. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion because you’ve been drinking from a straw and there’s no way there something on your face.

Changkyun fixes his gaze on you and licks his thumb, leaning over the table to swipe it across your upper lip. You shoot him a bewildered look pulling your head back in confusion.

“What are you doing?” You ask. “We’re using straws, Changkyun, there’s nothing on my face.”

His cool expression melts into a pout and he whines, voice lilting, “Just–okay? I haven’t been able to do anything cutesy because we met online and all I can do is send you memes and hope you laugh!”

Your head tilts back and you laugh, nervousness melting away as Changkyun brings a sense of comfort, of familiarity. He cracks a smile and tries to intertwine your fingers on the table because he ‘saw it in a drama once and it’s cute!’ but you only double over in laughter.

You both leave the cafe ten minutes later because he has a new shipment of beetles coming in and you have filing to get to, but he walks you back home and little butterflies flap in your stomach.

“So,” he says, standing in front of your apartment building, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I enjoyed this.”

“So did I,” you reply, fingers clutching the strap of your purse and you hiccup when he takes a step forward breath fanning over your lips. “Y’know I don’t usually kiss people on the first date.”

He takes step back and furrows his brows. “Oh.”

“But in this case,” you continue, a small smile blooming across your face, “I think I’m willing to make an exception.”

He grins and steps forward again, but this time there’s uncertainty behind his eyes, like he’s scared of doing something wrong.

You both stare at each other for what seems like eternity before his jaw sets in determination and he blurts out, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You haven’t dated in a while, but you’re pretty sure that’s a fairly unromantic thing to say. It doesn’t matter, though, because when he leans forward and presses his lips to yours, you find that you quite enjoy this feeling. Changkyun’s hands press against the small of your back, drawing you closer and you wrap your arms over his shoulders, fingers playing at the little hairs on the nape of his neck. He tastes like evening walks at the park and fireworks on the river and everything fades into the background as he tilts his head, lips moving softly over yours.

His lips feel better than they look, you note mindlessly, tracing the back of his neck with your fingers.

“So,” he breathes when you both pull apart, pressing his forehead against yours, “are we dating now?”

You gurgle back a mess of cracked syllables and broken words and nod, pulling him in for a second kiss because Lim Changkyun makes butterflies flutter in your stomach and makes your breath hitch.

So maybe, just maybe, you can learn to trust Jooheon a little bit.

A/N: 4am drabbles w nawar i wrote this in 2 hours and hAVE NO REGRETS yes i do what was this i used to write crack does it show

Masterlist

[outputcongo2-blog]

Can a Radical New High School Disrupt Education in Philadelphia?

City

A small group of reformers wants to change the fundamental vision of what a classroom should be. It’s as hard as you might imagine.

Revolution School team members Gina Moore, left, and Henry Fairfax. Photograph by Matt Zugale

Gina Moore draws a sip of grapefruit-tequila cocktail, a small black notebook cradled in her lap. A financial professional and mother of two in her late 40s, Moore is sitting in the lobby of a Manhattan hotel that’s inconspicuous from street level. A copper-clad doorway leads down a set of subterranean steps to where she sits. Her salt-and-pepper bob fashionably matches the flapper-era-inspired decor.

Moore is trying to locate one of her favorite quotes by one of her intellectual heroes, philosopher John Dewey, who passed away five miles from here in 1952, inside a residence overlooking Central Park. Dewey was an on-again, off-again Marxist and the undisputed “chief prophet of progressive education” in America, as the New York Times said in his obituary. Put simply, he’s not exactly required reading for your average MBA.

Moore’s New York visit isn’t for her day job as a high-powered principal at the Center City investment firm AJO, though; it’s for one of her side projects. For the past two years, Moore has been spearheading a bold soup-to-nuts plan to launch a visionary private high school in Center City Philly — called, fittingly, the Revolution School — that will open its doors in the fall of 2019. The school is premised on a progressive model that views grades as secondary to the production of curious, self-advocating minds. To that end, Moore has been busy researching nontraditional schools around the world, reading Dewey’s theories, and speaking with experts, some of whom she’s hired to co-create the Revolution School with her.

Today, Moore is meeting with a Canadian thought guru named Shane Parrish who runs an organization called Farnam Street. It’s an online community (185,000 newsletter subscribers) of global professionals interested in brainy stuff like mental models, theories of decision making, and something called “double-loop learning.” Functionally, Farnam Street is something of a guidebook to lifelong learning for adults. Moore is intent on adapting some of its practices and philosophies for the Revolution School’s curriculum.

“We can be modeling the same kinds of things that he’s trying to get people to think,” Moore tells me later. “We want to expand the intellectual horizon at a younger age, encourage the ability to spot patterns that exist across our natural systems and lives.”

That’s what the Dewey quote she’s been trying to locate also speaks to; it’s a line from the philosopher’s 1938 book Experience and Education. Moore reads it aloud from her notebook, then texts a photo of it to me for good measure:

For I am so confident of the potentialities of education when it is treated as intelligently directed development of the possibilities inherent in ordinary experience.

Shane Parrish arrives, looking decidedly less Jazz Age than Moore in shorts, a polo and Nike Airs. Moore speaks with Parrish regularly. A month earlier, she spent a weekend in Portugal at one of his retreats. He’s since taken an interest in the Revolution School.

Immediately, they begin discussing education. “We don’t teach people how to learn, and yet we put them through school for 15 years,” Parrish says.

“Not all experience needs to be educational,” Moore says, returning serve. “Some experience is miseducation, teaching you how not to do it.”

When it comes to education in America, almost everyone agrees that elements of the system — if not the entire system itself — are broken. Gina Moore, who is the financial mind and self-described “cheerleader in chief” — fund-raiser, booster and business planner — behind the Revolution School, concurs. Except instead of moving to the suburbs or writing a check to her favorite charter du jour, she’s reaching for something more audacious. Moore wants to disrupt the fundamental vision of what a classroom should look like.

•

Revolution School team members Noelle Kellich, left, and Tom McManus. Photograph by Matt Zugale

Two months earlier, in June, a couple dozen parents are gathered in a Society Hill living room full of antique furniture and bright Impressionist paintings. They’ve come to an information session held to hype interest in the Revolution School a full summer before open enrollment begins. Moore, dressed in a loose-fitting gray outfit with a name tag attached, is handing out note cards that ask attendees to “share your aspirations for high school.” When the parents settle in with paper plates of Pure Fare — the gluten-free restaurant catering the info session — Moore, ever in motion, skips introductions and asks everyone to turn toward the television for a bit of inspiration.

Photographs flash on the screen: a smartphone followed by an antique phone; a car from today, then a horse and buggy from 150 years ago; a modern classroom, then … well, an early-1900s classroom that’s eerily similar to today, with kids seated at desks facing a teacher standing in front of a board. The video — produced by a corporate-funded education venture called EdCycle — pulls back. The pictures are faux courtroom exhibits being presented by a prosecutor to a judge and a jury. School itself is on trial, it turns out, and the rap sheet doesn’t look good. “Turning millions of people into robots” is one charge. “Killing creativity and individuality” and “intellectually abusive” are two more. The litany of misdeeds gets compiled by the prosecutor, who builds his case for the “educational malpractice” of modern-day schooling.

The brokenness of the education system is a familiar refrain in Philly, and yet, with a handful of exceptions (see “19 Philly-Area Schools Rethinking Education in Big Ways and Small” for some examples of a little progress), it’s remarkable how scant change has been. We live in a supposed golden age of innovation, with digital technology disrupting human existence at unprecedented velocities. Somehow, the futurists can’t crack education, though. Smartboards and iPads haven’t been the game-changers they were supposed to be. Vouchers and charters — whether you believe they’re toxic or a panacea — are reinventing the market but not the classroom. Whether public, private or charter, school is much like it was for our grandparents: Students migrate from room to room, passively absorbing instructors’ commands and, if we’re lucky, becoming inspired enough to finish their homework.

Cognitive dissonance settles in when we imagine something else. “Our biggest issue is communication and narrative,” Moore tells me, drawing a business analogy. “One of the really challenging aspects of selling a school is that it’s a product almost everyone is familiar with. But parents’ opinions of that product are 20 or more years old.”

In other words, the societal image of school remains a force to be reckoned with in spite of the collective wisdom that education needs a hard shake-up. Teachers grading pupils, handing out report cards, and doing it over and over again is a circadian rhythm we’ve all experienced. It’s hard to let that shared history go.

Moore is trying to clear that hurdle with the audience tonight. “Our aspiration for high school is a revolutionary experience,” she says after the video. “An adventure that feeds curiosity and creativity and evokes passion and purpose. A community where we recognize diversity at the heart of our perspective. A structure built to allow teachers to thrive and share in the joy of the journey. We will need to live John Dewey’s insightful and timeless words. … ”

Moore began thinking radically about education a decade ago. She grew up mostly going to public schools outside Harrisburg (the exception was a stint in Germany, where she attended a nontraditional elementary school while her father was working for DuPont) before studying accounting and German at the University of Delaware. But a few things changed in adulthood. Not long after moving to Philadelphia 16 years ago, she began sending her son, Anthony, to the Philadelphia School in Fitler Square. It’s an example (at the K-8 level) of the same type of progressive, project-based education that Moore is advertising at the Revolution School. (A recent TPS middle-school project on pre-colonization and the early Americas offers a window in. During weekly trips to the pine plantation at the Schuylkill Center for Environmental Education, small groups of teenagers made maps, built substantial forts and resolved land disputes — each activity leading into more traditional subjects like geometry, geography and literature. Throughout the three-month-long endeavor, kids journaled on their social and intellectual journey.)

Impressed by her kids’ development at TPS (where she got involved and eventually became board chair) and reflecting on her own career, Moore began to put together the pieces of what kinds of education were meaningful to her. Most valuable were skills she gleaned from interactions with curious minds like Parrish, who inspired her to go further than a textbook assignment ever could.

That, she says, is her “personal motivation” in starting the school. “I feel there’s a whole version of education that would have prepared me much better,” she says. “I’m truly a lover of Philadelphia, and if we can do this, it will be part of a contribution to the city. We have a seed that was planted in the Philadelphia School, an anchor in a way that a lot of places don’t.”

All sorts of schools are promoting the virtues of progressive education as part of their curricula these days, and some schools are even comparable in philosophy to TPS, such as the Jubilee School in West Philly and Project Learn in Mount Airy. But those three options don’t go past eighth grade, and there’s a lack of truly progressive high schools overall. The choices end at eighth grade for just about every progressive school in the city. What makes the Revolution School so groundbreaking is the idea that this style of education can succeed right up until college.

But that’s more controversial than you’d think. Even in this room full of families predisposed to progressive models — almost every parent at the info session has a child who’s gone to TPS — there’s resistance. Noelle Kellich, a longtime teacher at TPS and the “head of teaching and learning” at the Revolution School (essentially the principal), explains why to me later.

“What some families think is that the Philadelphia School” — or a similar progressive program — “has been a lovely, wonderful place and has served their kids in all the ways they’d hoped,” Kellich says. But when it comes to high school, parental attitudes shift about what’s right for their kids. “Maybe they need something less caring, less safe, less in tune with them. Something more dehumanizing, so that they can learn to do it, learn to survive.”

Moore leaves time for questions. The conversation inevitably turns toward college. The Revolution School won’t offer AP classes, which sounds all well and good in theory — until a kid gets a rejection letter from Yale. “We believe colleges will be really excited to accept students from a school that has the courage to do this,” says Moore, who points to the University of Chicago’s 2018 decision to make the SAT and ACT optional for applicants.

Later, in private, Moore is candid about how difficult it is to break the educational model we all know.

“Some of the challenge comes in resisting the temptation to build a school in the fashion that people think of as a school,” she says. But she’s determined. “One, that’s expensive, and two, that’s isolating. It doesn’t take advantage of what the city has to offer.”

•

It’s late July, and after having considered a dozen different rental options in Center City, Moore and Henry Fairfax, the Revolution School’s head of school, are looking at a space for sale at 25 South Van Pelt Street. They make a formidable duo, with Moore dressed in one of her zippy business outfits and Fairfax probing the realtor about air rights. He’s six-foot-four to her five-foot-five, and the building dwarfs them both. It’s a 14,000-square-foot brick fortress hiding in plain sight between 21st and 22nd streets, surrounded by surface parking lots, the Mütter Museum, and the First Unitarian Church.

While they retain a degree of flexibility on the location, the team behind the Revolution School is dead set on being in Center City. “We are a place-based school, which means that kids will be outside the walls of the classroom regularly — not once a month, not a special field trip — partnering with institutions,” Kellich explains later. “We want kids getting out there, mucking it up a bit.”

Inside, the building is a pile of rubble, offering a blank canvas for the Revolution School to make its own. The owner — a smiling, tanned older man with a cigarette in his mouth — won’t give an exact price point, and eventually Moore and her team decide it’s not the right option for them. As with any start-up, the ability to stay nimble could be key, so a rental makes more sense.

“We need to form our character before deciding where the walls are going to go,” she says.

Lack of building notwithstanding, the nuts-and-bolts aspects of the Revolution School are largely in place. It has filed for 501(c)3 status and is a permanent legal entity under the auspices of the Urban Affairs Coalition. Employees like Kellich and Fairfax are receiving salaries and benefits more than a year before opening. Around 90 percent of the start-up money has come from Moore, supplemented by some private individuals. And a financial plan, largely developed by Moore, has been put in motion for the first year. The Revolution School will begin with a class of at least 30 ninth-graders and four instructors. (Teacher pay will be substantially higher than what we’re used to; “Teachers need to be able to afford to send their kids here,” Moore says.) It will then successively add one class each year, along with instructors (at no more than a 10-to-one ratio with students), until it’s a fully formed high school.

Although the tuition will be north of $20,000, Moore has developed a sliding-scale formula that she believes will make the school accessible to students of all income levels. (Most families will pay 10 percent of their pre-tax income, with bottom- and top-end caps.) The Revolution School is broadcasting a commitment not only to racial but also to socioeconomic diversity. Part of the way the school intends to save on costs is the light footprint it will have, using the city — its libraries, green spaces, experts and museums — as its toolbox.

If it all sounds somewhat vague, Moore insists that’s intentional. “If we want to live up to being a school that’s truly progressive, it has to be a living and breathing thing,” she says. “The first class of students is going to play a big role in defining what this could be.”

But even a year before opening, some educators bristle at the Revolution School’s lack of definition and lofty ambitions. “Their website is really uninformative,” says Karel Kilimnik, co-founder of the Alliance for Philadelphia Public Schools and a longtime teacher in the city. That website — a landing page that as of late August was full of inspirational quotes — puts little flesh on the bone. “If you go to the Revolution School, what do you do, spin around all day? Study the Russian Revolution? It’s a name with no substance,” says Kilimnik. “Teachers have been doing ‘project-based learning’ for years. We didn’t market it, but now somebody has made it into a product and is selling it as a curriculum.”

Recruiting families to a school with no name recognition, no building, and little semblance to what we think of when we think of school is a hard sell. But the climate of dissatisfaction around education these days makes it a worthy gambit. Between kindergarten and 12th grade, public-school students in Pennsylvania take, on average, 112 standardized tests with numbingly similar names: PSSA, PASA, NAEP. … There’s no doubt parents and pupils are eager for something different.

“What you learn is that these kids have all been part of a transactional system,” says Fairfax. “We need to take the educational experience from transactional to transformational.”

Fairfax, a youthful 38-year-old, is chock-full of such aphorisms, picked up over his 15 years as an educator at independent schools. He also favors the kind of coachspeak one absorbs playing college basketball at Drexel. Over the course of the past three months, he and Kellich have visited more than a dozen potential feeder schools; they plan to reach 100 living rooms by the end of 2018. “We need to get into homes and recruit, Coach K-style,” Fairfax says.

Without students or a building in place, Gina Moore is betting on the collective reputation of the Revolution School’s leadership to garner buy-in from parents. Prior to joining the school this past summer, Fairfax was a vice president at Girard College; before that, he was director of admissions at the Haverford School on the Main Line. After years on the inside of institutions, nudging reforms ahead slowly, Fairfax decided to make a leap into the unknown. “It’s really hard to move a dinosaur,” he says.

It’s a sentiment shared by each member of the Revolution School team. Jane Shore, the team’s quantitative mind, spent the past decade working at Educational Testing Service — the folks who mastermind the multiple-choice bubbles on the SAT. “My experience at ETS was that we were rarely, if ever, touching the ground, looking locally at our impact,” Shore says. Her role is to monitor the latest research on neurodiversity — the way different students learn — and ensure that the free-form curriculum of the Revolution School remains guided by science, if not the usual statistical outcomes.

Then there’s the head of mission, Tom McManus, who until recently was the high-school principal at the Mid-Pacific Institute in Honolulu, a school that’s earned national acclaim for its progressive approach. Moore recruited McManus, who recently was featured in a book called What School Could Be that’s a sort of reverse Waiting for Superman — a celebration of schools doing nontraditional education right all over the country. McManus is a true believer in the potential for progressive education to take hold here, too.

“In places like Silicon Valley and even in Hawaii, if you’re not in the innovation game within education, the community is telling you to get with it,” he says. “This is happening at a rapid pace. Frankly, it’s not happening as quickly in Philly, but there is a community here that needs these sorts of options as well.”

•

American education wasn’t always so standardized. It wasn’t until the late 19th century’s wave of mass industrialization that the one-room schoolhouse went away and we began to turn education into a Foucault fever dream in which pupils go in and metrics come out: test scores, graduation rates, college attainment.

Slowly, though, that paradigm seems to be unraveling. Penn’s school of education now has a teacher certificate for project- based learning. Meanwhile, there are a growing number of nontraditional elementary schools in the city, all potential feeders to the Revolution School. Progressive education is a lot sexier than it used to be.

“When my kids started going to TPS 15 years ago, the school was selective, but not what it is today,” says Jennifer Rice, former board chair at TPS. (Moore preceded her as chair.) “Now, it’s ‘the’ school.”

Aside from the raised eyebrows its progressive approach will engender in some parents, the Revolution School will also need to counter the narrative — which will inevitably emerge — that it’s nothing more than an oasis for children of the city’s elite. “Do I sometimes worry about our financing and think, oh no, what if I build a school for rich kids? Yes, I lose sleep over that,” says Kellich. There will be rich kids, of course, but as is true for the Philadelphia School, hitting benchmarks for socioeconomic and racial diversity is central to the plan.

The Revolution School is aiming to be more than just a symbol of what high school can be, a shining city upon a hill. It’s also meant to be a think tank for progressive educators all over the city. It could be the start of a broader movement that brings progressive education solidly into the mainstream.

“If we do it right, we’ll impact all the kids in all directions and the city itself,” says Kellich, who taught in public schools for a number of years. “If that story gets told over and over, I hope people will come and say, ‘Hey, I want to see how you’re doing it.’ And we’ll say yes!”

As with any start-up, getting traction is a challenge. The school was turned down for the one grant it’s applied for, and meetings Moore has had with self-styled disrupters who are throwing money into charter schools haven’t yet borne any fruit. Meanwhile, some people have been irked by the raised fist (of a kid clutching a bunch of colored pencils) prominently displayed on the school’s website. As much as people are angry with the education system today, there’s still a conservatism that reigns over attempts to change it — the same old story in Philly.

Frankly, Moore likes that the school is generating visceral reactions. Revolutions don’t happen quietly. If the founders need to change the website down the road, so be it. The one thing she has no plans to lose is the John Dewey quote that figures prominently: “Give students something to do, not something to learn; and the doing is of such a nature as to demand thinking; learning naturally results.”

Published as “New School” in the October 2018 issue of Philadelphia magazine. Read more about Philadelphia-area schools rethinking education here.

Source: https://www.phillymag.com/news/2018/10/06/revolution-school-philadelphia/

[ghoulluck]

When Indy woke up, everything hurt. His neck had a creak that paired up too well with a creak in his lower back. Ryan was using his arm as a pillow. She was asleep on her side with her arm around a sleek doberman who’s head rested on the teenager’s neck as he was nestled perfectly against her. 

Indy shifted some and he felt something on his neck. Loud purring started in his ear. His sleep logged mind couldn’t identify it until Priscilla nestled up behind his ear. It was a soft white cat. He pet it weakly as he put his nose in ryan’s hair. She needed a fucking hair cut. He pet her boney back a minute and began to slide out of bed. 

There was a petite woman in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. He tried to remember her name as he rubbed his neck. “Good morning, indy,” she greeted in a sort of cheery tone. In the hospital she had looked different, sort of sallow, tired and had an angry glint in her eyes that highlighted the almost invisible scars that ran across her skin. Indy wasn’t usually unnerved, or anything like that, but particularly Eddie sent off alarms in his brain that said ‘this bitch will poison you’. 

He looked at her cup of coffee and she offered it to him. It was black. “Ah, no, I can get my own,” he told her. “Suit yourself,” she stated with a twist upwards of her lips, “there’s coffee mate in the fridge. Edmund went food shopping this morning, so if you want to make Ryan breakfast, feel free to. I’ll be taking care of me and julien, we have special diets.” 

She stepped around him to get a cup down from the cabinet. 

“Kosher, right?” 

He had seen the keen observance of packaging when he had taken julien to a seven eleven once to get Ryan some sour punch straws. Eddie tilted her head some, wide doe eyes narrowed some, “how observant.” She returned to a more pleasant demeanor with a smile as she set his cup on the counter. With that, she left him in peace. 

Indy poured himself a cup of coffee and opened the fridge to take a look inside. It was so full of food he couldn’t see over half the groceries. “Coffee mate in the door.” Julien’s soft colicky voice made him look over the refrigerator door at her. Her hair was damp and she had blood on her night gown’s collar. she smelled like cold sweat and he closed the door. 

“You okay?” 

Sometimes he forgot he wasn’t the only one who stressed out over ryan. She had that funny blank expression he had seen last night. In the weak morning light, he could make out the raw road rash on the side of her face he hadnt seen before. she walked away without another word. 

indy chewed his cheek as he opened the fridge again to look for the creamer. On the lower right side of the door were two gallons of coffee creamer. Hazelnut and french vanilla. He poured a generous amount of french vanilla in his cup. Indy admittedly liked frilly coffee. He was starting to crave a cigarette. He filled the rest of his cup with coffee and made his way back to ryan’s room. 

Julien was where he had been laying, she had an arm under ryan’s head and her head over the goth’s. Her hair covered ryan from sight. He almost missed the fact that they were holding hands. He sat on the edge of the bed to rub ryan’s side. The dog and the cat were on the floor, nose to nose seemingly discussing private animal business. He could see the cat was agitated and the dog too. They were probably as stressed out as their owner. 

Indy took a sip from his cup with a little groan of satsifaction. Good coffee. It was that nice expensive stuff too. He rummaged through his bag for his smokes and opened up a window when he stepped away from the bed. He sat outside on the ground. Smoking quietly and drinking is coffee. 

He felt a paw on his head and looked up at the fluffy white cat. She meowed softly at him. "Go back inside," he told her as he continued to smoke. The cat lifted her fluffy white tail, obviously put out and she jumped back down into the house. Adolf's head was hanging out, watching the clouds pass by with bleary eyes and a sad puppy face. "What do you want?" Indy asked as he threw his finished cigarette over the fence. Adolf gave a soft whine and nosed the man. Stressed probably didn't cover it. He scratched the dog's chin and climbed back through the window. 

Julien was gone again and Ryan was still asleep. He checked his watch. It was seven in the morning. He put his empty coffee cup on the dresser before decidedly going for another cup. When he came back, smoke was filtering through the open window. It smelled strongly and he looked out to see julien. She was showered, wearing one of his shirts and pyjama pants that didn't look like they belonged to her or ryan. Probably her dad's. She was smoking out of a glittery pipe. 

He took his cup of coffee and another smoke to join her. With her hair pulled into a bun on her head, he could see her scars more clearly then he had before. He could see she had a little bald spot either from stress or pulling it out herself right at the nape of her neck. Her nails were bitten down to bloody little stumps. He didn't know what had happened to her and when he had asked ryan, she could only say she had never asked, but there were rumors. 

He didn't see any hardness in julien. He didn't see what Eddie and e had in their eyes in her's. He imagined julien and Ryan probably had a lot more in common then he wanted to admit. Her knees were drawing up like they had the first time he met her and most of the times after. He touched her back hesitantly and she flinched away out of the range of his arm. 

Indy smoked his cigarette and finished his second cup of coffee. It didn't feel right to leave her alone, but he did. He went inside to lay behind his sister, rubbing her back until it was about mid noon. 

Indy had started meal prepping. He put a cigarette behind his ear as he pulled out pans from the pantry to study which were the best to use. Ryan had woken up and looked pretty disappointed there wasn’t food already made. He heard voices and he listened. It wasn’t eddie’s articulate and meticulate voice or julien’s soft colicky voice. He put a pan on the kitchen when the voice clicked. It was Edmund. normally he wasn’t so nosy, but he had little idea of who this man was aside from knowing the guy probably had more in common with a saint then he did with Ted bundy despite having seen the kind of damage the man could do. 

He eyed the living room through the crack in the door. Edmund was running his hands through julien’s hair as she sat in his lap. Eddie was sitting beside him in the lazy boy and he had his arm around her. Both of them looked absolutely disarmed. Julien was crying and Edmund was consoling her as she filled a pill box with new medications from a white Walgreens bag on eddie’s lap. Indy shut the door all the way quietly to let the family have their moment. 

He took out a few things, ground beef and some fancy ass artisian bread. He wondered exactly how much money the perita family had. His stomach was churning and he went back to ryan’s room. She was laying in bed watching a TV Edmund had brought in from his room as a temporary holder. It was surprisingly old, nineteen years are the very least and it’s picture resolution was kinda bad.

 Ryan was laying on her side at the foot of the bed. Adolf had his head on her hip and was watching TV too. His ears perked happily. “ey what does yer–” honestly he knew they had to be more then friends, “w-what does barbie like?” He licked his lips at the awkward phrasing. Ryan rolled her head towards him, “soft stuff.” 

“Ry, what the fuck does that even mean?” 

The goth exhaled, she didn’t feel like using so much energy to think. “Like stuff you don’t have to chew hard or something,” she explained and he looked at his watch. She was getting a little lucid which probably meant she needed to take some more medication. He’d get her antibiotics into her when she had some real food in her or else she’d get the shakes. He came to sit by her side and rubbed her back, “stuff she don’t have to chew hard?” Sounded like an old person to him. 

Ryan turned over and the dog adjusted to keep his head on her, he seemed aware of where she was hurt. “Does she like cake or something like that?” Ryan scrubbed her face as she tried to think and couldn’t recall, “why are you trying to make me think– I don’t know.” 

“Awright whiny. You want coffee while you wait?” 

“Mmm,” the teenager hummed, “coffee.” He chuckled, “they got these like crazy gallons of that coffee creamer shit.” 

“Oh god, I know. It’s so good.” he chuckled a little as he ruffled her hair, “so how’d you fall in with Blondie anyways?” Ryan adjusted to put her head in his lap as she tried to recall, “I think she gave me a concussion.” 

“How the fuck did that happen?” 

“She skateboards at that old water park you use to take me to.” 

“Still doesn’t answer my question smart ass.” Ryan groaned and Adolf suddenly stood to get her a pillow. The goth put it over her face and she groaned even more loudly. Indy laughed, “awright, I rest my case. Grub’s up in thirty.” 

“Make her your banana pudding. No wafers.” 

That answered his first question at the very least.  

When he returned to the kitchen, Priscilla was on the counter. He gave her a poignant look to move. the cat gave a delicate meow and she looked back over the counter. She looked back at him. “Move.” She put herself in the sink. he felt like he was dealing with precioso’s smart ass. “Fine. Stay out of of the prep area.” He put two hands on the counter to claim the area. She looked at it disinterestedly. 

He washed his hands, then the counter. Indy didn’t want to add food poisoning on top of ryan’s preexisting condition. He formed a few patties from the ground beef. The cat had great interest and her little meows her tiny pieces of beef, but she seemed more interested in the tomatoes then anything else. The cat was just as weird as her owner. 

Getting to cook for indy was surprisingly stress relieving, particularly when he knew it would feed someone he cared for. 

Adolf had come to check out the smells and Priscilla knocked the little pieces of beef indy had given her on the ground for him. The dog ate this eagerly and his little stubby tail wagged. “Clean up duty?” He asked. the dog’s paws clicked the fancy tile floor eagerly. That was a yes.