#so i just sort of sifted through the old mail pile that i keep in a box and decided to send some junk back

[yo-yo-yoshiko]

A pal sent me some mail a long long while back and so I drew this and included it in my long-overdue reply! I would protect Fir with my (Cob's) life aahah!

[boom-bakugou]

‘Wedding Crashers’ - Katsuki Bakugou

A/N: Sorry for my inactivity but here’s a little sorry and thank you present for me hitting 1k! I love you all sm <3

Pairings: Pro Hero!Bakugou x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+, ooc deku; but it’s more of a headcanon, semi-public sex

Summary: Your ex-boyfriend Izuku Midoriya inviting you to his wedding is a definite stab in yours and Katsuki Bakugou’s backs. But you’ll show him.

Word Count: 5k

masterlist

You had considered your morning to be relatively normal, breakfast not burnt, coffee just that right amount of bitter to stir you awake. But those happy moments of peaceful bliss were soon to be fleeting as your mail arrived. Sifting through the pile to what you assumed would be bank statements and bills; your fingers landed on a cream white envelope. Your name printed neatly in a cursive font that when you followed it with your eyes for too long it almost made you want to puke. Tearing it open haphazardly, you read the perfumed content inside.

‘Dear Y/N Y/LN,

We are very proud to invite you to the blah blah blah wedding of pro hero blah blah Izuku Midoriya and blah blah blah.

RSVP blah-‘

Wait what? The taste in your mouth was pitiful. Yes, you and Izuku had dated years prior and after being childhood friends, yet it didn’t end… swimmingly. But this didn’t feel like inviting a childhood friend to your happiest day, no, this felt like a backhanded swipe at your ex-girlfriend who was well known to the media to be single. Pro-Hero gossip magazines made sure of that.

Throwing the invitation onto your countertop, your eyebrows furrowed with spite. You felt weak almost, watching your ex-best friend grow up to be this bountiful hero with merch in every store that you went to. Though you had triumphed well in the hero charts yourself, nothing ever seemed to compare to him. The golden boy. You never really got over the fact that he ended things because being a single hero was more postable than one who was tied down. Until now. Mr. Big shot getting married. It really made you question your integrity,

Recuperating your thoughts, you realised your phone was buzzing on the couch next to you. Checking to see the influx of text messages, you saw Katsuki Bakugou’s name fill up your lockscreen with notifications.

Bakugou: tell me you got the stupid fuckin invite too

Bakugou: the nerve that nerd still fuckin has

Bakugou: inviting his childhood ‘friends’ after all this time

Bakugou: tch, one big publicity stunt if you ask me

You chuckle as you scroll through the messages, gladly knowing that you weren’t the only one feeling this way.

Y/N: so what’re we going to do about it?

Bakugou: what do you mean?

Y/N: well we can’t show him up at his own wedding but we can sure stir something of our own

Bakugou: well that idiot is marrying some nobody extra

Bakugou: probably to show how ‘great’ he is

Bakugou: so how about if two top pro heroes rsvp’d together?

Y/N: you mean us?

Bakugou: no, midnight and grape juice. of course us you idiot

The idea brewed in your head for a moment. Izuku had always been nice when he was younger, and Katsuki hadn’t exactly been the nicest towards him in return. You were always the mediator in those situations. However when Deku grew and grew in the hero charts he started to lose touch with reality. Not really remembering what being a hero was about besides having his face stuck on a lunch box and raking in the dough for it. It was sad. You didn’t know who he was anymore.

Y/N: fuck it, i’m in

-

“You know, don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a tux before.” You chuckle, arm linked around Bakugou’s as you stepped out of the chauffeured car together. You were here to make a scene. Paparazzi glistened everywhere like a moth to a candle flame. You couldn’t wait for the tabloids in all honesty.

“Shut up.” Bakugou grumbled, almost in embarrassment. But his smile didn’t show a hint of it. “Not looking too bad yourself.”

You had coordinated well. Your maroon dress flowed in the gentle summer breeze and matched perfectly to Bakugou’s equally coloured tux. You two were such a pair it was nigh impossible to not think that you two were together today. And the paparazzi made sure of that indefinitely.

You couldn’t lie about how the service was beautiful, because it was. However you didn’t need to hear the shutter clicks of a camera go off every few words they spoke. It was distracting, and you and Bakugou shared a glance each time it occurred. Stifling a giggle, you hoped no camera would pick that up. Even if they did, they’d probably pin it to ‘look at these other heroes wishing that they were the next to get married!’ they’d eat that shit uplike ambrosia.

“Can’t wait to see the reception.” You mumbled towards Bakugou, your plastic smiles never fading for the cameras. Izuku making a show of himself and his new bride.

Watching him was almost bittersweet. The happy memories of you three as children flashing behind your eyes. Now replaced with a fame hungry number one hero. Where had all the time gone?

“What’s got you so perplexed?” Katsuki asked, filtering your way through the crowd, making your way to the cars that would deliver you all to the reception.

“Just-“ You sigh, allowing the cover of other heroes to hide you from the all seeing eyes of the paparazzi. “I miss him, y’know? Miss how we used to be.”

“Tch.” Bakugou didn’t care about the scowl present on his face, your words ate him up like some sort of bacteria. “Thought you said that he was the most selfish guy you’d ever dated?”

“He was but like-” You watched Izuku’s back as he held his new partner’s hand. Waving to the cameras and not watching her, as lovely as she looked in her wedding gown. “As weird as it sounds, I sometimes miss high school.”

Bakugou’s eyes scanned your face, following your eyesight to Midoriya. Fucking extra. The thoughts swam around his head, polluting his mind. He knew Izuku’s break up with you had been a massive toll on your mental health and your ego. He made you think that you weren’t good enough for him, and Bakugou never got over that fact. How could he pass up on you for anything else?

Breaking apart from the conglomerative of wedding-goers, Bakugou lead you to one of the specially hired cars to take the guests to the reception. Despite Bakugou’s abrasive and rough nature, you couldn’t help but notice how delicately he held your hand. Not tugging you along or haphazardly grabbing you by your wrist, making you follow him. No, his fingers interlaced with yours and you felt the coarseness of his palms due to the explosive nature of his quirk.

“Katsu?”

“Hm?”

“You can let go of my hand now, we’re in the car.”

“Yeah- whatever.”

Catching up in the car, you both realise how little time you have to actually spend with each other. Though you and Bakugou communicate 1000 times more than you do with Midoriya, heroing keeps you both busy. No times like these to goof off and be with each other. You missed it, you missed your hot-headed idiot friend.

“Hope there’s less fuckin’ paparazzi here. Think I’m gonna go blind with those extras pointing them in my face.” Bakugou rolled down the tinted window a smidge to watch as the car drove into an old looking manor hall where guests had already begun to arrive.

Flowers decorated the ground and just as you two got your hopes up, you saw a line of paparazzi at each side of the staircase leading to the double-doored entrance.

“Well, it was worth a try.” You remark to him, patting his back as you chuckled to him.

Bakugou was the first to exit, standing beside the door so he could reach for your hand to help you out while you fixed your dress. Just as the two of you began to reach for each other's arms to walk into the reception together; there was a brusque tug to your dress. Upon further inspection, a member of the shutterbugs had stood on a long section of your dress. Allowing himself to get pictures of it stretched out and flowy.

“Hey!” Bakugou didn’t waste time on pushing him off the tail end of the dress. “Try anything funny like that again with my girl and say goodbye to that shitty camera of yours!”

The man nodded, slowly letting his camera hang loose on his neck. The rest of the cameramen easily caught the scene but you both couldn’t care less. What’s a wedding without a little drama?

“Thanks Katsuki.” You note with a soft smile.

Bakugou’s hand tenderly makes its way around the small of your back until his arm is holding you close to him as you walk inside. His hand sitting in a caring way at your hip to assure that nothing could come between you both. You could not wait for the media to plaster this fake-ness on every outlet that they could! However, you liked the thought of relishing in the attention right now.

Once the dining festivities had come and gone. It was time for their first dance. Watching as he held her under the blue lighting had your heart hurting slightly. The thought that that could’ve been you. But Bakugou was right. He’s probably marrying some quirkless nobody not only to make himself look better, but being with another hero is messy. You both had media eyes on you; but… you couldn’t help but wonder how different your life would be like if Midoriya was how he used to be.

You didn’t even notice Bakugou’s eyes on you the whole time. Not wanting to waste a second of his eyesight on the show Izuku was putting on. You were a sight of your own. How could you not see that you deserved someone better? Someone like him. You always spoke about how everyone was under a facade when supporting Deku, but you never correlated that to yourself.

After a short while, others began to join in on the large dance floor. Perfectly spacious for all the famous faces and their egos. Bakugou’s hand traced down your arm until his hand clasped with yours, gently leading you to the floor yourselves.

“What’re you doing?”

“Come on, who’s to say we can’t have some fun too huh?”

Smiling at him, you followed his lead. His hand occupying your waist before pulling you in closer to his chest. Flowing with the music, you couldn’t help the cheesy smile on your face; nor the one that spread to Bakugou’s.

“Why’s no one ever tied down Mr. Ground Zero then?” Your question takes Bakugou by surprise, showing a small blip in your combined graceful swaying to the music.

“No ones good enough.” Such a Bakugou answer.

“You’re sounding like Izuku, but he probably got that from the old you.” You jested, earning an eye roll from Bakugou. “I’m being serious! Come on you can tell me.”

It takes him a moment to figure out an answer, so much so that he doesn’t focus on dancing anymore. He just stands there holding you before locking eyes again.

“Just haven’t found the right person to deal with my bullshit I guess.”

There’s a beat of silence and your eyes search his face for answers. You didn’t even realise how close you were to him. His breath fanning your face, the smell of oak and fire and burning sweetness engulfed your senses. You also didn’t realise how the two of you sank closer and closer into one another.

“Hey Kacchan, mind if I steal her from you?”

Izuku’s voice almost sends you two flying away from each other like same sides of a magnet.

“Ask her yourself she’s not mine.” You turn from Bakugou to give a friendly smile to Midoriya, allowing your hand to rest in his. “I’ll be at the bar. Free drinks and all.”

His answers are short, curt. Yet before you can ask him if he’s alright Deku spins you and begins to dance with you in his arms at the tempo of the new music track that’s playing.

“Long time no see Y/N!” His manner has always been so chipper, despite the facade of it all. Though Bakugou and you went there to purposefully to cause discourse; you don’t think you have it in you to be mean to Izuku’s face.

“Yeah, look at you! Married man now, must be scary.” You chuckle, almost nervously. It was like speaking to a stranger.

“Well I guess I’ll find out! But come on that’s been the subject of the whole day! I wanna know about you and Kacchan.” You felt like Bakugou right now, the old nickname boiling your blood as it did his. There was no doubt Izuku took influence from Bakugou and his fiery personality; but he took it in all the wrong ways. Using confidence to become cold, uncaring.

“Oh- haha, Katsuki and I aren’t-“

“Y/N. Don’t lie to me! I can see the way he’s burning holes in my tux from over here.”

Turning you to the music so you could face where Katsuki was standing, you peaked behind Midoriya’s arm to see Bakugou with an all too familiar scowl on his face. Chasing down a beverage in a crystalline glass in one easy gulp.

“If you ask me Midoriya he’s always looked at you that way.” You laugh your statement off but you meant it with malice.

“Midoriya? Feeling formal today are we Y/N?” He had completely lost touch of who he used to be. “I used to look at you like that when I saw you with other guys, I know what that look is.”

His comment stops you dead in your tracks, not allowing for him to swing you to and fro to the music.

“Actually Midoriya I don’t even remember you looking me with jealous intent other than when I was higher than you on the hero charts.” Shaking yourself free from his towering position on you, you stormed off to the patio doors, letting yourself be eaten by the oncoming darkness of night.

Crying at your ex’s wedding. Not something you’d think you’d ever do in your lifetime but here you were. Thankfully you couldn’t see any reporters or such outside so for now, it was just you and your tears. Maybe you were too harsh on him? You used to be friends right? What happened to that kid who wanted to be a hero who you looked up to? What happened to the boyfriend you had who kissed you goodnight and ignored you when your face was on the TV more than him or snapped at you when he was announced lower than you and broke up with you because ‘heroes dating are messy!’ No. Bakugou was right. He was a self-righteous bastard now.

“Y/N?”

You half expected Midoriya to come out after you but he was probably entertaining other guests. Luckily, as you turned you saw Bakugou standing outside with you, signature hands in his pockets with a dumb, sympathetic smirk on his face.

“Hey.”

“I promise I didn’t punch that asshole at his own wedding but I can tell you he got a fuckin’ earful from me. Hope the paps got a good pic.” His tone was joking but it hadn’t cracked a smile from you yet.

“S’alright. Wouldn’t give two shits if you did.” You sniffled, collecting mascara tears on your fingers and wiping them on the decorative concrete bannisters of the balcony. “Shouldn’t’ve fucking come. This was stupid I have too much baggage for this shit.”

You turned away from him, allowing yourself to lean out on the barrier, looking into the distance on the warm night. You could hear Bakugou give a small sigh before his arms snuck around your waist, pulling your back into his chest before placing a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

“That fuckin’ idiot didn’t know what he lost and it’s my fault for influencin’ him.” The pain in his voice was evident. Did Bakugou blame himself for the hurt Midoriya caused you?

“Katsu-“

“No. That extra is so blinded by the shit everyone has to say that he’s forgotten what real life is. Doesn’t care about his stupid fans or his friends or the best most understanding girl in the whole fucking world. A girl I know does the best for everyone no matter what her own situation is.” You turn around to face him, not wanting to leave his embrace. “Y/N. No matter how much I’ve always wanted to fuckin’ win I’ve just wanted the best for you. And when that bastard did what he did to you- I- fuck. You look at him, like you’re waiting for him to just notice you; but every time I see you it’s like I’m seeing you set the stars in the sky every fuckin night. You just- you’re fuckin’ everything to me Y/N.”

It was completely silent on the balcony besides the low thump of the music from indoors, but it was deafening. But it all faded when his lips attached to yours. It was so clear. All that pining over Midoriya when he was just copying the one who actually saw you for who you were. He even copied Bakugou’s crush on you, most likely to make him jealous. But your mind had no time to think of that when all you could feel was Bakugou.

It was like you had never been kissed before, never felt the love and sensuality behind it. Soft and moist but breathy and warm. For once Bakugou didn’t wish to win a battle, he wanted unity and to be together with you. His hands danced over the delicate curves of you in your dress; taking in every inch of your perfect body. The gasp that fell from your mouth was perfect entrance for Bakugou’s tongue to mingle with yours. The sparks hot and electric between you both was like liquid lightning.

Just as your hands found home in his hair, you heard the all too familiar sound of today of a photo being taken. Bakugou is the first to break the kiss to find the intruder of your special moment. Your lips already feel blushed and bruised but your heart was nearly pounding out your chest.

“Fuckin’ print that in your gossip magazine you extra!” Bakugou couldn’t help but heartily laugh at the man as he shook with worry after catching the intimate moment. He wanted to show you off. He wasn’t ashamed that his lips had captured you to be his.

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” He whispers into your ear and you eagerly nod, grasping his one hand with your two as the both of you manouvered your way through the wedding guests until you finally found a small closet down a hallway where no one from the party had entered.

Slamming the door shut behind you, your eyes drank in Bakugou’s frame. How had you missed that small boy you once knew had now become this beefy, beautiful man? Who was looking at you with the same awe and intent? Bakugou cornered you against the door of the supply closet, latching his lips together with yours once again as if he was scared he’d never be able to taste you again.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect.” Katsuki’s lips mashed with yours as his hands slid up your dress, the coarseness of his fingers against your soft skin sending shivers down your spine.

All those years of being a hero really showed on Bakugou, he lifted you with ease as your fingers traced scars on the back of his neck; holding on for support. His hips pin you against the door and you feel his cock hardening between the fabric of your underwear and his suit pants, you can’t help the whimper escaping your lips at the friction of him.

Bakugou’s hands slip under the straps of your dress, letting them fall delicately to your sides as his lips ensnare yours. His grunts and your whimpers enough to make any passerby know what was going on in the confined space of the closet. His fingers glide beneath the dress which allowed it to fall further as Bakugou felt the weight of your breasts in his palms.

“God you’re fucking everything princess.” His fingers slide beneath the lacy fabric to thumb your nipples, perking and tugging it with his forefinger.

Breaking the kiss, his head lowers to encapsulate the bud in his mouth. Gently suckling it before rolling it feverishly between his teeth. Your hands snaking through his hair only spurring the assault on your supple flesh. Biting your lip to stop the obvious moans that were threatening to spill out of your mouth. You swore you could see stars as his tongue flicked against the pointed nub- sending your nerves wild.

“Bet that fucking extra never treated you like this baby.” He matched your height, his gaze never leaving your own as he took both of your tits out of your bra; kneading the flesh and buds of your nipples as he spoke. “Just wanted to get himself off, I know how to fuckin’ treat you right.”

“Then do it… Kacchan.” You spoke with such gusto in your breathy state, knowing that the old nickname would make him see red. And god did it send him feral.

His body pressed you further into the door, even if it felt like he couldn’t. The aching feel of his cock rubbing against your clothed core made you mewl in want of him. His fingers slid beneath the hem of your dress and made little pricking motions into your inner thighs until he traced a slit over your panties.

“Shit you’re fucking wet.” The pads of his fingers kneading against where you wanted him most, a chuckle falling his lips as your hips did their best to try and get any sort of relief.

“Katsuki please- please fuck oh my god-“ Your neck craned back as you felt your body take control. The low growl in Bakugou’s throat at the sight of you barely touched and already begging for him.

Tracing his fingers along your décolletage he stopped when he met your parted lips before roughly shoving his fingers in your mouth, pressing down the body of your tongue.

“Please please please-“ Katsuki mocked. “Please what princess? Better use your fuckin’ words or else.”

An insufferable smirk played upon his lips as he felt your cunt clench around nothing at his dirty words. Pulling his fingers from your mouth, he wiped the remnants of your spit across your tits; awaiting for your response.

“Fuck me Katsuki- please you’re all I want. God you’re all I need.” Although said in your aroused state. You meant it- and he knew that.

Not wasting any more of the precious time you two had before you were inevitably found out considering your blatant disregard for being quiet; Bakugou used his hand to tug off his belt. Nearly setting his suit pants on fire as his quirk crackled in anticipation for you.

Your body clung to Bakugou’s for support, his whole body easily keeping your pinned high between himself and the door. Once his lower half was sufficiently stripped, it was easy enough for him to rip the sides of your underwear off.

“Katsu-“

“Shut up.”

Not wanting to disagree; you did. Hips bucking against nothing as the cool air prickled at your hot cunt. Bakugou held his manhood in his hand, rubbing the head of it in your slick and providing stimulation to your clit. Your thighs tightening around his waist like a vice grip at the well needed attention.

“You’re fuckin’ soaking baby. So needy.” Bakugou mumbled against your neck, allowing himself and you to get off momentarily at the friction. You could only nod to his words which were making you more and more wet for him. He was such a tease.

“Come on princess. Tell me you want my cock. Tell me.” His voice growled as he repeated himself, leaving marks upon your nape that would surely bruise because of his harsh bites and sucklings.

“Katsuki I need you- only you. Only you.” Your repetition is barely a whisper but he heard it, and despite his rough nature Bakugou confines your lips in a kiss as he sheaths himself inside of you.

Taking a few slow thrusts to allow yourself to adapt to his size, it’s only a moment before Bakugou completely bottoms out inside of you. He watches your face shiver in pleasure which he mirrors. He clasps your hips so firmly his knuckles turn white; it didn’t even hurt as all you could focus on was him inside you. Your hands find their way to his biceps, gripping on for some tension relief and you could still feel his muscles flex even beneath his suede blazer and the shirt.

“What a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock like this.” Bakugou’s voice is a low growl as he thrusts into you, the sounds of your clothes brushing against one another and the slaps of your skin interacting was like a sinful symphony.

The smell of caramel danced in your brain as Bakugou worked up a sweat absolutely pummeling himself into your sex. You grasped onto him as if your life depended on it, moaning into his neck as his cock slid in and out of you. You didn’t even know how much time was passing as he rutted himself into you relentlessly- yet as you both came to your highs, you could both barely move from the thrill of it all.

Steadying your breaths back to a regular pace; Bakugou slid you down from where he had pinned you against the door and let you fix yourself as he then did himself. You sorted your dress and pulled any tugs from your hair when he had pulled it before slapping Bakugou’s arm.

“You dick! You ripped my underwear!”

“Hot.” He chuckled, fixing his belt loops and stuffing the ripped panties into his pocket.

“Not funny! I’m not parading about with no underwear on!”

“We’re getting the fuck out of this extras stupid wedding. You can wear my clothes at my place.” Suitably sorted and not looking like you had just had the brains fucked out of you in a closet (despite the reddening bites and bruises that were now appearing on your neck), Bakugou held you close. Yet instead of taking the corridor to the exit, he was leading you back to the main dance hall.

“Where’re we going?” You hashly whispered to Bakugou, your thighs still wet from your slick and the cool air against your unclothed pussy making you heat up from embarrassment.

“Gots to do one thing before we go.” There’s a shit eating grin on his face, you couldn't help but wonder what on earth he was planning now.

Midoriya stood talking to other heroes all dressed in their formal attire and Bakugou (with no consideration of their conversation) roughly tapped his shoulder to get his immediate attention. His arm around your waist was so tight but being see with Bakugou like this made you feel almost proud.

“We’re just heading off.” Bakugou had replaced his smile for his usual scowl, something he had always looked at Izuku with.

“Going so soon? It’ll be a shame you guys!” Izuku’s voice was plastered in falsehood. He probably regretted trying to gloat over you two. Bakugou held out his hand for Midoriya to shake it, your brows furrowed on what was obviously a stepping stone to Bakugou’s plan.

“I know I might not be better at you right now in the hero charts.”

Uh oh.

“I’m glad you’ve finally come to recognise that Kaccha-“

“But I am better at you at something for sure.”

Bakugou used Midoriya’s hand in his to pull him closer, readying himself to whisper in his ear.

“Cause I just fucked the shit out of your ex-girlfriend and I know you never made her come as hard as I did.”

Your face burned with the heat of a million suns, but the glower on Izuku’s face was priceless. And you couldn’t help but see the flash of a camera capture the moment as Bakugou’s hand fell from his and slipped once again around your waist.

[cpknightly1]

Hello Surgy Buddies,

Thyroid 2 B removed next month. Yes, I'm petrified. Of having my voice turn into a bar maids voice. 1% chance. (Not that there's anything wrong with that now) But, I could lose my singing voice. I've tried 2 think of a prank I could pull on the nurses & doctors..& I can't. If I do, I couldn't yell 4 help! Sh*t! I'm sure I'll think of something. Hehe. "I see dead people". Well, no. Maybe not smart 2 say that in a hospital.

I've been so busy cleaning & getting 2 the more simple life, I crave & used 2 have. Realizing how much crap I have. Putting things in a "Sale pile" & toss pile. I've got some comics 2 sell. I'm hoping they will sell good. Then there's the problem of having my landlords things mixed with mine. Never, ever blend separate households so early! I threw away a lot of my things when we were a couple."You don't need those, I have them". Ahhhhhh! She didn't have them in order. FGS Everything I had was alphabetized, sorted. The way I like to live. I don't know. I like being able 2 know where things R. Oh lord, a kick in the teeth. I used 2 tape "Friends" every episode. Minus the commercials. Yes, I paused my VHS machine. All tapes gone. 1 of the floods. SOAB. Has become a harder process. I wouldn't take her things. That's not me & it's just wrong. I found some of my make-up (yes, sometimes I wear it, the natural look especially when I'm wanting 2 look sharp, in a gigantic box. Wtf? My office is so beautiful. It's only been used as a storage unit 4 years. Christmas, Halloween etc. I designed it like a 1940's Detective office set in Michigan. Paint, wainscoting, sconces..so cool. Everything in there was made b4 1947 or carries the art deco feel.

Some items I added from our time in history. A small bust of Chopin. The project was 2 b bare bones, not so fancy. A bit carried away of what I found on Etsy & Ebay. They were coming from all over the world.. Australia, Ukraine, The Czech Republic & more.

The old typewriter, radio, phone, furniture etc. The desk is very heavy. Made in 1935 & came cross country from California. I have real newspapers 1. D-Day 2. V-E Day 3. FDR Dies & 4. I had to get this one. It came from Michigan- where I'm from. It's a paper dated on my Birthday 1945 or 46. Pork butts were up. (No kidding). Ration stamps & Russian money my Busia brought over on "the boat".

I hope 2 put some pictures up once it's cleaned out. I have a great portrait of FDR. Planning on making it capable of opening & having a TV hidden behind it. My private room.

Busia's couch & chair were reupolstered, almost ruined in 1 of the floods. The furniture was brought over, also on the boat- from Poland. Many items were lost. I heard a woman who specialized in de-clutering your life. She said that if U go for 6 months, without using or needing it U don't keep it. There R boxes, plastic tubs, & bags all over my room. (The living room is my bedroom)

In the meantime my landlord has decided 2 renovate the living room, floor, hallway & kitchen. A wrench in my progress. It's wonderful 2 see things that R or had been precious 2 you. My Mom's graduation ring 1946. My Busia's wedding ring & a piece of her wedding dress. 2 out of the 3 pictures of my Grandfather smiling. Picture of my Uncle Boris in his half-track during the "Battle of the Buldge" & more. Yesterday going through dvds. Missing disks. Merlin-The L-Word-Charmed-Avatar & more. Video games missing discs. FRUSTRATING. They could B in the attic-basement in the storage unit. Sifting through every box. It's keeping me busy & stressed. She doesn't realize how much order makes your life easier.

I've been writing Ruby and the Kid's story. When I have a moment or 2 & trying 2 keep up as much as I can with Mail-YouTube-Pinterest. If I haven't responded 2 you the reason is that I'm working on all this stuff. You R always in my thoughts. Off I go again. Dinner time first. I adore you.

Always,

Chris

XOXOXOX

🌹❤🙃

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “On the Two” (Chapter 1/9) (au)

Summary: He’s one bad trip from ending up in AA, and she’s one performance away from a solid job and moving closer to home. Their paths were unlikely to cross until Camp Hope brought them together. How and why they meet and intertwine is against the odds, and definitely against the rules, but will that really stand in their way? A Dirty Dancing inspired modern au.

Rating: E 

Content Warnings: Borderline alcoholism, very brief mentions of past relationships, mentions of the loss of a limb - this fic is primarily tame but I’ll do my best to tag anything that might need tags. 

Chapter Specific Warnings: Alcohol use, past injury mentions

A/N: Holy. Shit. I’ve finally found a minute to post chapter 1. Hoping to stick to a Thursday schedule for posting, and I can’t wait for you all to see this unfold. 

I have to give shoutouts and love to three very important people to this process. @initiala sent this over a year ago:  look i know you're busy and have a lot of fics, but just hear me out: CS Dirty Dancing AU. So. Now you know who to blame/thanks, like I’ve been doing! To @phiralovesloki for the heaps of emotional support and handholding when I needed it. I can’t imagine my life without you in general, let alone my writing process. And of course, my beta, my dancing expert, my sanity: @captainstudmuffin. Thanks for all you do for me, from proofreading to slapping me into action. I’m sure we’re even on boob punches... for now. 

Catch it on FFN & Ao3!

Welcome to Camp Hope!

About Us

Years ago, Ruth Nolan operated these camp grounds as a haven for children to explore the fruits of the Earth and come into their own. For fifteen years, she oversaw the summers of thousands of children, all in need of the room to grow and eager to learn the skills of the outdoors.

In honor of Ruth’s hard work, we’ve re-opened the camp to those who still want to learn about the wilderness, explore the rich terrain that this coastal Maine property has to offer, and take the classes you’ve maybe not had time to take in the past. It’s not all outdoors, either! Our staff is composed of very talented individuals that are available to teach you almost anything, from dancing to the arts, yoga and fitness routines, as well as anything you’d expect from the average camp of summers past. You’ll enrich your body and mind and connect in ways you never have before!

A summer camp for adults may seem like an outdated or unconventional thing, but here at Camp Hope, we aim to improve the memories you may have of summer camps long past, or make new ones if this is your first time. Plus, now is your chance to try things like zip-lining without getting a consent form signed! There are plenty of perks to trying new things when you’re old enough to decide for yourself.

Please check our FAQs and pricing packages; your stay can be as short as a week or as long as the whole summer. Our accommodations range from your own private cabin to our brand new, hotel-style lodgings. We welcome you, and hope you’ll enjoy your experiences!

Sincerely,

Snow and David Nolan

Owners, Camp Hope Ltd.

-x-

Sifting through the mail on his table, Killian tosses the pamphlet for some kind of camping place into the stack to be thrown away. It joins the myriad of advertisements and coupons that he doesn’t bother to look at or ever use. Besides, if it’s a camp marketed towards adults, it’s likely something religious or a thinly veiled addiction recovery facility, and while he’s probably edging along the lines of alcoholism, he’s damn well not there yet.

There’s roughly a week’s worth of mail here, as it’s been a couple days since he’s even thought to check his mailbox, but he’s sure Liam will be up his arse any day here to go over his finances. If he makes it look like he’s been keeping things in order, Liam is less likely to give him his Worried Brother speech this month.

He sips at his coffee, pausing just a moment to pop two painkillers before resuming his sorting. When he’s hungover, the phantom pain where his left hand should be is stronger, and today is no exception to that. He hasn’t bothered to put on his prosthetic, content instead to leave it off until he has to go into public.

Days like this, though, he has nothing but time to mindlessly sift through his queue and get day-drunk. It’s been ages since Killian can remember going more than two or three days without a drink. That doesn’t stop him from unscrewing the top of his favorite brand of rum when he pours the second cup before he settles in to watch Netflix. He sprawls across the couch, happy as he ever can be to live off the settlement over the accident that cost him his hand.

There’s a bar down the street that he visits when he needs personal interaction, and if he’s lucky there might even be a woman willing to help with even more personal interactions. That’s what last night had been – him in the bar until closing, a brunette that he can’t remember the name of giggling as she pulled him towards her car. A short while later, a cab brought him home, alone, with a little less dignity than he had before.

The sound of a key in the door announces Liam’s arrival before the man himself calls out a greeting, and Killian is minimally glad for the distraction from the road of self-pity and/or loathing that he was about to embark down. He knew there was a good reason to starting his sorting today. He stashes the bottle of rum beneath the coffee table again, running his fingers through his hair real quick to tame it down.

“Ah, you are awake. Excellent. I thought we’d set your bills straight, and maybe head out for some lunch. Breakfast? What meal are you on?”

“Let’s just call it brunch. Eat first, bills second,” Killian declares, sending his spiked coffee one forlorn look as he realizes he’ll have to go get dressed and act like a responsible adult for a few hours. He takes one more gulp before taking the mug to the kitchen to dump it out.

He’s in his room for just over five minutes, using food as a motivator to get him out the door sooner. The shirt is mostly wrinkle free, and he thinks the jeans he slides on are clean, so he’s at least presentable and won’t have to deal with Liam’s tongue-clicking. He makes sure to snag his sunglasses off the entryway table before ushering his brother out the door. Had he taken much longer, Liam surely would’ve declared that the bills looked quick or manageable, and they’d take ‘just a minute more’ to complete. As it is, he can see his piles have been tampered with, straightened and organized to his brother’s preferences, as he glances back on his way out; he timed it just perfectly.

Halfway through eating, Liam takes a sip from his water before placing it back on the table, steepling his fingers as he rests his hands on the table. “I’ve just had a thought,” he says in a way that really gives away that he’s been sitting on this for a while now. “How would you like to get out of town for a while?”

“When? How long?” Killian asks, preoccupied by the task of trapping all the toppings on his sandwich. He hates using his prosthetic to eat, doing his best instead to wrangle the whole thing with his right hand while his left arm stays beneath the table.

“Over the summer? We could make an adventure of it. Maybe go back home, visit the relatives. It’s not like you’re doing anything here. As my own boss, I can afford to take some time off. We go, we live a little, return in the fall as new men. What do you say?”

The prospect of getting out of the city, away from everything that holds painful memories for him, does sound appealing. Spending the whole time with his brother, however, tarnishes it just a touch. It’s not that he doesn’t love his brother, but Liam has a tendency to be… a little overbearing.

Of course, for a long time after Killian’s accident, Liam probably had every right to be. He’d just lost a hand, for fuck’s sake. Coming just after the loss of his fiancée probably didn’t help, either, but Killian was deep in a hole of depression for so long he wasn’t sure he was ever going to see the surface again. Now, he’s not so much depressed as he is resigned to this life, unemployed due to disability, living off the accident settlement, and drinking away his feelings as often as possible without officially becoming an alcoholic.

The thing is, Liam’s overprotective shadowing of Killian’s life is nothing new. He’s been this way for as long as Killian can remember, and since Killian can only half remember a handful of instances with either their mum or their dad, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibilities that Liam feels more like Killian’s father than his older brother. Still, every bird has to fly the nest sometime.

And Killian did for a bit. He flew, and was so close to having everything he wanted in his life – a job doing a craft he loved, a woman that he intended to marry and grow a family and home with, and still the taste for adventure on the tip of his tongue if he ever chose. But all good things come to an end, in his experience.

First was Milah’s passing. Her brief but destructive illness soaked up all their life savings, leaving Killian with a broken heart and empty pockets. He didn’t care about the money, and why should he? He lost the reason he was saving it in the first place. He could earn it all again, but he’d never have Milah back. And then, shortly after, as he helped wrap up a custom boat build for a wealthy client, something went wrong. He still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, just that one minute he had a left hand, and the next he didn’t; it really was that simple.

“I’ll think about it,” Killian finally says, abandoning the hand-held option for his food and dropping it back into the basket it came in. He stabs at the pieces of it with his fork and considers the offer. He will think about it, too; he’s not just saying so to change the conversation back to footy and traffic patterns. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten away. He’s set for life on a permanent vacation if he so chooses, but a change of scenery would be welcome at this juncture of his life.

The idea marinates all while they finish their meal, and the whole walk back to Killian’s apartment. He’s so hung up on the possibilities involved that he doesn’t even complain as they sit down with his meager stack of bills. He signs when he’s told to do so, with no remarks about the tedium of the task while they work.

By the time the afternoon is wrapping up, Killian has made up his mind. As Liam stamps the last of the bills and puts Killian’s checkbook back where it resides, Killian speaks up. “I’ve thought about your offer to get away for the summer. Might not be such a bad idea, after all.” He keeps his tone light, nonchalant, hoping that Liam won’t catch on that it’s something he might genuinely be excited about for the first time in longer than he can recall.

“Excellent. Leave all the planning to me,” Liam says as he stands and throws the trash into the bin. “I’ll send you a packing list when I’ve finalized the plans and we can meet up again to get everything squared away for a couple months out of town.”

With a shrug, Killian extracts himself from the couch in order to see his brother out since all their business is complete. In his distracted state, he misses the gleeful look on Liam’s face; it’s an expression his brother was infamous for as they were growing up and meant that Killian was about to be served a life-lesson, and he likely wasn’t going to enjoy it very much. But he’s so lost in his thoughts about all the places they may go – both familiar and new – that he bids his brother goodbye and settles back in for his slightly interrupted day of Netflix.

He doesn’t even slip more rum into his glass until after he’s had his dinner.

-x-

Emma Swan is just as much a part of Camp Hope as the camp is part of her. For the last fourteen years, Emma has been making the journey of varying lengths back to the campgrounds; it’s something a lot like flocking home for the summer, and she’s made the trip from right in Storybrooke – the tiny town closest to the camp – and from as far as Tallahassee, all those years ago.

This year, she’s traveling from just outside Boston along with her roommate, Ruby. While the stories of their upbringings are vastly different, Emma and Ruby have been two peas of a pod since Emma’s first trip.

Back then, she was journeying to Camp Hope as part of a foster kid outreach program. It was two glorious weeks that she and twenty-some other foster kids got to go to someplace new, rather than waste away in a group home or get shipped off to bible camp again. She was fourteen, and while some of the crafts and activities were aimed at kids much younger than her, she still sat at the table and made bracelets, tie-dyed a shirt and bandana, and participated in capture the flag with water balloons like it was her first time, but that’s mostly because it was.

At the campfire that night, Ruby plopped down next to her, showing her the “right” way to toast marshmallows and offering to put red streaks in Emma’s hair so they could match.

Emma passed on the streaks, but the next day when Ruby dragged her to a special meeting for future counselors, it was all history from there. More than just finding a way to spend her summers that didn’t involve wallowing in her own loneliness and isolation, Emma met David Nolan during the counselors program. Upon picking up bits and pieces about her, David decided to introduce Emma to his mother. As soon as Ruth met Emma, she was set on bringing her on as a permanent fixture in their lives.

Having previously thought that she’d never find a place that wanted her, a place that wanted someone old by foster standards and jaded beyond reason, Emma was shocked. Not only was she wanted, she was loved. Despite the three year age difference, and the short time they’d been together, David became her best friend and brother, with Ruby a close second.

There was a shared passion of dancing between Emma and Ruby, and when they weren’t raking in the volunteer hours during the summer, they were saving every penny they earned from their respective guardians to take dance lessons one town over. And that’s the way it went until they graduated.

Remembering what happened after graduation always leaves Emma with a pit of shame in her stomach that feels a lot like indigestion, so when she wanders to the kitchen, she pops two antacids before starting up the coffee maker. It used to be worse, but time heals all, even wounds that don’t feel like they’ll ever scab over.

It’s time for their annual trip back, just two days away, and Emma has too much to do to spend her morning in a guilt trip over things that happened in the past. Instead, she wanders down the hallway to get Ruby up. There’s a whole list for her friend to complete today, and she’s pretty sure she’s also battling with a hangover from being out too late the night before.

She knocks, only twisting the knob and entering the room after hearing the faint groan of invitation. “Hey there, champ. Good morning!”

Ruby groans again, struggling to push her eye mask off her face and groping for the pain killers and water on her nightstand. She’s one of those drinkers that’s always considerate to her morning self – something Emma has always been in awe of. “You’re not the morning person, stop sounding so chipper,” Ruby instructs after drinking down half the water. She hauls herself to sit up, patting the edge of her bed for Emma to sit down. “What’s on your Snow-style agenda for the day?”

“I’m going to clean. You’re going to wrap up the sub-let on the studio space. Graham is supposed to be down there around noon, so you’ve got time, but I need you to grab the costumes we’ll need for performance nights.” She leaves Ruby to get herself out of bed, and calls out that she’ll get breakfast started.

“Don’t break the toaster!” Ruby calls from behind door that Emma closes on her way out, and while Ruby can’t see Emma rolling her eyes, she knows her friend will sense it. It was one time.

Leaving for Camp Hope has always been a little tumultuous for them, but after this many years, Emma thinks they’ve gotten a little better at it. There were a few years where they weren’t going back to work camp, and those are the years that make Emma’s heart ache most – more than the year she refuses to think about.

They closed the camp when Ruth’s health suddenly declined the year after the year-that-shall-not-be-named, and Emma and David only made the journey every week to tend the growing weeds and mend the deteriorating buildings the best they could. With Ruby’s help, they were able to keep the camp from falling apart, but the same couldn’t be said for them. Ruth passed the winter after Emma turned twenty, and she lost the closest thing to a mother she’d ever found.

Luckily, they had one more to hold their family unit together. A year after Emma met him, David met Mary Margaret Blanchard, better known to her friends as Snow, and Emma got to witness fairytale levels of Love at First Punch between them. Down the road, the wedding was a bit rushed, so that Ruth could watch her son get married. Years after the quick engagement and marriage saw them going stronger than ever.

For two years, the camp remained closed, but David and Snow, thanks to an off-hand comment from Emma, decided to reopen the beloved summer camp as an experience for adults. It took a whole other year until they could renovate everything up to standards, but it was worth it. The first year they opened again, it was so profitable and the waitlist was so long that they were easily able to expand and enhance the experiences.

Shaking her head, Emma realizes she’s spending way too much time reflecting and not enough time moving. Down the hall, she hears Ruby’s water start up, and knows she has until the time the taps shut off to get that woman some hangover worthy breakfast. Pouring herself a large mug of coffee, she takes three deep, scalding gulps to get herself going.

She’s just plating up some eggs and bacon, snatching a bagel from the toaster so Ruby can construct her own breakfast sandwich when the roommate in question comes ambling into the kitchen.

This is Emma’s favorite version of Ruby. Stripped of her makeup, without a product in the world in her hair post-shower, wearing an old t-shirt and boxers for her pajamas. Her usual persona is an elaborate mask, with the heavy makeup and killer manicure, flirtation just as exposed as her long, lean legs normally are. The short shorts and low-cut tops are standard everywhere but at home. That’s the Ruby that will likely crawl into her car bright and early in a couple days, but today she’s happy to spend time with average Ruby, and she’s happy when she does not break the toaster again. There are small miracles, after all.

When both of them are settled at the breakfast bar with their food, they start talking strategy, both in prep for leaving and for camp itself.

“Are the costumes for the Waltz demo here or at the studio?” Emma asks as she alternates sips of coffee and bites of her pop-tart.

“The studio, I think. I’ll grab them when I meet with Graham and lock up everything else of ours.”

“Good. Don’t sleep with him this time, okay?”

“No promises,” Ruby says, a wicked grin spreading across her lips even as she tries to hide it behind her coffee mug.

At the very least, they might get a deal on the rent again, which is the only consolation Emma can think of. The rest of their day is a whirlwind, with Ruby taking care of the studio and Emma tidying up their apartment. She packs the bulk of their non-perishable foods to take with them, cleaning as she goes, until the whole kitchen is spotless. She also takes the time to write down the instructions and emergency numbers for Aurora, their downstairs neighbor that’s been kind enough to take care of their plants and fish while they’re gone.

It’ll be weeks until either one of them can make it back to the city, if they do at all, but Emma doesn’t mind. While she loves Ruby and living in the city, she gets her own cabin for the summer. They converted one of the old lodges into a dance/yoga studio, located just a short walk along the west trail from the main lodge. Behind said studio, they relocated one of the cabins and refurnished the whole place to act as the dance director’s housing for the summer. Thankfully, Ruby likes to throw herself into a multitude of activities, so she bunks in the staff cabins up the hill and leaves Emma to have her solitude.

Mostly, all that means is that no one will know that she’s in the studio putting in extra hours. Maybe this will be the year she can quit hunting down bail skippers and be able to focus on nothing but dancing. She can always dream, at least.

Ruby stops in only briefly to drop off a case of their costumes and check in, taking the time to change into a date dress and do her hair and make-up. She gives Emma a wink before she leaves and tells her not to wait up, before disappearing in a flurry of stiletto clicks and perfume. She doesn’t get home until late, when Emma is already tucked in her bed hoping to fall asleep. Her friend is humming and heads straight for the shower.

Emma’s not a bit surprised two days later when Ruby announces that Graham decided to pay more than they originally negotiated, and laughs at the wolfish grin on Ruby’s face as they throw their bags into the backseat and boot of the Volkswagen Bug that Emma’s had for years. They’re actually running on time for once, but Emma doesn’t expect that to last long, especially when, after only an hour, Ruby announces that she’s famished and starts calling out the name of food places they pass.

The trip to Storybrooke, on the coast of Maine, is one of Emma’s favorites. The scenic views from Boston onward are ones she’s familiar with, but that still lift her heart. The trip is only four hours if they don’t stop, but with Ruby’s pea-sized bladder, and her bottomless stomach, it’s more likely they’ll get there in five hours… if they’re lucky.

One year, it took them almost twice as long to make the journey because Ruby was chasing down the International Cryptozoology Museum and her cheap-o GPS meant that the museum (which was on the way) eluded them for hours until Emma screeched that they were done looking and if Ruby really wanted to see it, they’d find it on the way home.

They found it on the first try on their return drive, and Ruby bought her the biggest cone of Rocky Road ice cream they could find at a nearby ice cream stand, to make up for the original disaster.

This job that they do, this ability to go up and demo and teach dances to the souls that will wander through the paths of Camp Hope, is only possible because of the popularity of the camp. The first year, Emma and Ruby would switch off every two weeks, with Ruby piling all her lessons into the two weeks she was home and Emma trying to catch ask many bail skips as possible in between her own lessons and classes. When the popularity of the camp became apparent, they were able to rent out their studio space to a few other dance teachers in the area while they took the whole summer to attend to the camp. It helps that David is able to pay them, and pay them well, for their time and energy.

Along the way, Emma has met the heartbroken and the heartbreakers, she’s met dreamers and lovers, she’s taught cynics and optimists, and she’s danced for every person in between. The two of them together have dealt with perverts and assholes, handsy men and women who don’t take “no” for an answer, and people who have gone on to contact them once the summer ends to continue their lessons in the city. It makes it all worth it, these months away from all the comforts of home, to spend their summers in another version of home.

Plus, thanks to an excellent network of friends in Boston, they never want for anything from home if they forget it. It’s all just a PayPal and overnight shipping away, really.

As Ruby climbs back into the car from their third rest stop, this thought comes in handy. “I left my favorite performance shoes by the door,” Emma groans out as her friend seatbelts in and starts the car.

“Good, because I forgot to grab my sleeping pills off my nightstand,” she says, grinning quickly and dropping the sunglasses back onto her nose.

“I’ll text Aurora now.”

With the promise of a package imminently to be sent their way, Emma relaxes as the last of their journey passes by outside the windows. She zones out to the sights, not perking up again until they hit the Storybrooke town limits. They’ll top off the tank and stop in to see Granny for lunch (second or third lunch by Emma’s count) before heading up to the campgrounds. Her car crawls by each familiar sight, and Emma smiles at the simplicity of it all – the never-changing nature of their sleepy little town. While she only officially lived in Storybrooke for three years, it’s still the only place she’s ever called home.

Granny is already outside by the curb when they pull up, and Emma takes a minute to let Ruby climb out of the car to reunite with her grandmother. It’s only after she sees their hug loosen up that she opens her door, languidly stretching as she unfolds herself from the passenger seat. Then it’s her turn for Granny to gather her up and hug her so hard that Emma’s back cracks. She won’t complain, it definitely eases the travel tension to get a hug from Granny. They’re ushered inside the small diner the elderly (and boy, would be lose her shit if Emma said that term out loud) woman has run for the last billion years.

“When should I expect the first package from your neighbor?” Granny asks after their lunches have been set in front of them.

Ruby laughs, not even ashamed of the fact that they’re so predictable that her grandmother knows they’ve already left something behind.

“We’ll be back in town over the weekend to get it,” Emma answers.

“I already saw one of the trucks of shipment head up to the campgrounds,” Granny remarks as she refills Ruby’s coffee cup. “Your brother has been up there for weeks getting everything ready.”

“Please tell me he’s at least eating.”

“Snow has badgered him back home a couple times now to eat and sleep, and she picks up meals on the days they decide to stay up there. Sounds like you’re gonna have a full camp most of the summer.”

“That’s the plan,” Ruby says, beaming before she takes the last bite of her sandwich.

Emma waves them both off when they move to go into the back for more family time. It’s not that she and Ruby don’t get to visit ever, it’s just that the stretch between Christmas and camp time can sometimes feel like much longer. The same itch resides just below her skin – the need to see her brother and sister-in-law so strong that she almost slips away before she’s done eating and leaving Ruby to hitch a ride out later with one of the counselors that lives in town.

Instead, she idly swirls her onion rings through her ketchup, taking her time with making sure every crumb is gone from the plate while she waits. She glances around, waving to the familiar faces in the booths and at the counter beside her, and she grins at the large board already propped near the entrance that loudly welcomes the campers to town. Since the grounds are two miles north of Storybrooke, many will pass through on their way. Some will stay overnight in the bed and breakfast while others will stop for a bite and a fill-up before continuing on to Camp Hope.

Thankfully, the business that the camp brings to the town will mean that the owners of most, if not all, of the establishments will have their pockets lined for months to come, making the onslaught of guests and visitors worth it when the summer ends and they go back to something less than a speck on the map of Maine.

Ruby and Granny are back a short time later, while Emma is idly catching up with a sweet yoga teacher that goes by Tink. The name is fitting of the cherub-faced woman with the perfect curly bun of blonde hair on top of her head. She’s new to the staff, but not to the town, so Emma is happy to listen to her excitement bubble over as she discusses all the classes she’ll be teaching for the next few months.

“A little help?” Ruby asks, and Emma finally glances up to see her friend’s arms laden down with several bags of what Emma assumes are home-cooked meals, prepared in advance and packaged for the crew that’s already working on getting the grounds ready for the summer. She moves around the counter to take a few of the cloth totes, waving farewell to Tink as they head out.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly; they use the main entrance to deliver the food to Snow, who’s waiting for them beneath the welcome sign when they pull up. Emma hugs her tight before transferring two of the bags to her. They make the short trek down to the main lodge where Emma gets to give her brother his own hug, tight and bracing and full of the warmth she misses when she’s away from him for so long. With lunch delivered, Ruby and Emma head back up to the car to move it to the staff parking.

The lodges they’ll each be staying in are much closer to their hidden lot than they are the main entrance, which works out well when they’re unloading enough luggage for four months, and maybe a kitchen sink or two. It takes them three trips up and down the steps leading to the lot: one to Ruby’s space in the staff lodges, one to Emma’s private lodge, and one to the studio itself.

Emma wastes no time turning on all the lights and stepping up onto the vast wooden floor. There are mirrors lining one wall, floor to ceiling, and another has all the cabinets where they store their costumes and gear. The wall opposite her reflection has windows spaced evenly apart, which she immediately starts working open even as Ruby brings in the last tote of their stuff. The air is a little stagnant, but flipping on the overhead fans will get it moving again.

Ruby drops the last container with their gear, rushing out to choose her space and start unpacking as soon as she can and promising to come back later to help get the studio in order. Emma waves her off, already itching to have the space to herself. Her muscles are practically begging to be warmed up, to take advantage of the wide open space that calls her name.

She knows she needs to clean first; the mirrors and windows all have that faint tinge of grime that comes from a long winter of neglect. The air conditioning unit needs to be tended to, as well, and tested to make sure it’s in working order before the summer starts in full. Then there’s the cleaning and organizing and stocking and… and Emma doesn’t care. She rips open the first bag she finds and pulls out leggings and a sports bra – they’ll do in a pinch. She changes quickly before skipping along the path back to the studio.

It’s only a matter of time before she’s selected something with an upbeat tempo, thankful again for the auxiliary port that allows her to play her own music from the impressive sound system. She sits on the dusty floors for a moment to slip on a beat up pair of practice shoes and lamenting again how she’ll have to turn her focus to cleaning next.

She takes her time stretching, making sure to work out all the kinks from the drive up and getting her muscles and body all warmed up. As soon as she’s on her feet, she’s running through swing patterns that she can do on her own. Through lines of sailor shuffles and slides, she dances using the whole dance studio, going from one end of the spacious floor to the other. She doesn’t get this much room in Boston. She doesn’t get this solitude. She doesn’t get this freedom. Maybe this is the real reason she loves coming back to camp so often, and there’s probably something in her psyche to deal with in those regards but it’s nothing she’s willing to look too closely into.

By the time the playlist switches to something for cooldown, Emma has worked up an impressive sweat. She grabs a towel from the same bin she found her shoes in, wiping down her face and neck before dropping back to the floor for final stretches. Placing the towel on the floor, she stretches out briefly, staring up at the ceiling and watching the fans whirl peacefully above her. This is it. This is home for the next couple months. And nothing will change how happy she is to be here.

With that thought, and a beatific smile, Emma changes back to her tennis shoes and hauls herself off the floor. There’s hours of cleaning ahead of her, after all.

Chapter 2

[umflowers]

Gramma is.

Homemade dresses. French braids. Egg salad with celery seed. Letting me raid the pantry for “provisions” in my blanket fort. Gummy candies. Raisin cookies that were actually good. Homemade butterfingers. Slices of raw potato, no matter how weird she thought it was. American Girls books and dolls. Teaching me to wash my hair til it lathered when I was little, otherwise it wasn’t clean. Sorting through buttons, just cuz. Sifting through piles and piles of fabric to find scraps she thought I’d like, so I could make a patchwork Christmas tree skirt. Light pink lipstick and a little pale blue eyeshadow. Never anything more, just that. Letting me pound away for hours on her old typewriter. That black paper that you can write on, and it bleeds through to the paper underneath. I wasted so much of it. Teaching me an old swing song on the piano. I could only play it one-handed, but it was one she’d liked in her youth. Stepping on a hornet barefoot and not flinching. Keeping the peace when the barn burned down. Keeping the peace always. Cooking for her family and all the farmhands every day for many summers spent haying, dawn til dusk. Sending Christmas and birthday cards to every single one of her 17 siblings’ 200+ children every year, even when arthritis twisted her hands to claws. Signing every single one, usually writing a note. $25 in the mail, to make sure Jack and I could go on a date and relax. Building snow forts and playing cops and robbers with my cousins, and not getting called in til dark cuz she wanted us to have our fun. That cookout at Seneca Lake a few years ago. Dad, Jack, and grampa were fighting with the grill. She sat next to me at the picnic table and she leaned in and, in a conspirational whisper, said, “Boy! He finally doesn’t look 16 anymore!” She loved Jack as one of her own because he makes me happy. Didn’t need any more reason than that. Loving me no matter how hard I fought it, felt I didn’t deserve it, felt betrayed and confused by the notion of family. Gramma is realizing way too fucking late that every good, or peaceful, or just not bad memory of my childhood that I have comes back to her. I know you don’t care about my gramma, and that’s okay. Every person feels this loss like the end of their own world, but the broader issue of death is an inevitability that we don’t all feel personally every single time it happens to anyone. That’s the way it should be. But I’m posting this anyway, because I can. Because my gramma wasn’t perfect, but she was good, and it’s worth it to acknowledge a good woman.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I Will give you my firstborn if you could do a chapter on the Vietnam AU where Jamie is jealous or Frank And Claire meet again

Vietnam AU

“Bree! You got some mail!”

Six-year-old William Fraser theatrically slammedLallybroch’s old, heavy front door, rattling the blue vases carefully arrangedon the window ledge. For the past year he had delighted in trekking thehalf-mile gravel track connecting the Big House to the main road, emptying thegiant mailbox, and bearing all the letters and packages and magazines for thefour Frasers (not including Murtagh and Suzette, who had their own cabin andmailbox) and eight Murrays who lived cozily in the four-story house thatgreat-great-great-great-great-great-great grandpa James Fraser had constructedhimself more than two hundred years before.

Cousins Ian and Kitty scampered in from the parlor, wherecousin Michael kept pounding away at an old song – something about boats in thesky – on the worn piano.

“Anything for us?”

William staggered under the weight of the mail. “Don’tknow – let’s go into the dining room to find out.”

Ian and Kitty raced ahead, clearing one end of the longmahogany table – crafted (they were told) by great-great-great-grandfatherSimon Fraser right after the War Between The States – and watched William spilldozens of envelopes onto the polished surface.

“Will?” There was Brianna – aged seventeen – rubbing acrick on the back of her neck. William knew Mama and Da were a bit worried forher these days – she spent *so* much time studying for that SAT test, so thatshe could get into a good college…

“Yes! Highlights!” Ian exclaimed, grabbing thebrightly-colored magazine and dashing toward the sitting room, heedless of theenvelopes that showered to the ground.

Kitty sighed as she bent to clean up Ian’s mess. Williamsquinted at the pile. “Hi Bree – you got some more college envelopes andmagazines.”

“Oh cool – do you know from where?”

Now she joined them at the table, but not before pullingher brother – much younger, and so beloved – close for a quick hug.

She felt him shrug against her. “I don’t know. It alllooks the same.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway from the study.

“William! Did you get the mail again?” Da breezed in,pencil over his ear, hair all mussed – evidence of deep thinking.

Brianna pulled away from her brother to tear into herpile of envelopes.

“I did!” William exclaimed, smiling as his father ruffledhis dark curls.

“Thanks, buddy – you know how much we all appreciate it.Anything for me?”

“Bree got some more college stuff. Doesn’t look likeanything fun for you.”

Kitty finally found what she had been looking for – thenew kit of paper dolls in 18th-century clothing – and quietlyretreated upstairs to share with her sisters.

Jamie pulled out a chair to sit while sifting through thepile, then pulled out another one for Brianna, already engrossed in her mail.

“What did you get today, love?” he asked gently.

“Some more course catalogues…informational packets…and amagazine,” she replied absently. “More stuff to read.”

“From where?” Ah – there it was, last month’s feed billfor the horses and sheep. A quick glance to William – now busy sorting mail bythe recipient’s name – before returning his attention to his daughter. Hismiracle.

“Virginia Tech…MIT…Georgia Tech…Duke…”

Jamie lay a gentle hand on Brianna’s forearm – and hereyes snapped up to meet his. His own eyes looked back at him – and not for thefirst time, he was amazed at how much of himself he saw in her.

“You know you’ll get into everywhere you apply, right?You’re smart, and you work hard, and you’ll be successful.”

She pursed her lips – eyes wide – and nodded.

“Just enjoy this time. It’s so exciting – you’ll have somany choices in your life, and you’ll do so many great things with that mind ofyours. Don’t let any of this intimidate you.”

“I know, Da.” Her voice was quiet – hesitant. Butconfident. “If you and Mama keep telling me, that must make it true.”

Then she blessed him with a smile – and his heart meltedas much as it had that first time she had smiled at him when she was just a fewweeks old.

A daughter nearly grown – where had all the time gone?

The side door slammed – which only meant one thing –

“Mama!” William raced toward the kitchen, abandoning histask.

“Hello, love! *Ciamar a tha thu?*” Jamie and Briannashared a smile as Claire’s voice echoed through the house.

Jamie shook his head. “She’ll always have that accentwhen she speaks the Gaidhlig. Unlike you, and me, and Will, and the rest of ourfamily – she didn’t grow up speaking it. And it’s so hard for your mouth tolearn new sounds without it sounding terrible.”

William’s muffled exclamations to his mother in theGaidhlig grew louder.

“I’m just grateful we can speak it, Da.” Brianna tidiedher magazines into a neat pile on the table. “It’s like our secret language.And I know it’ll make me stand out on my college applications!”

He shook his head incredulously – clever girl. And then –

“Hello loves!” There she was, William hoisted on her hiplike a wee monkey, smiling broadly at her redheads.

“Hi Mama! Look what came today!”

Dr. Claire Fraser strode around the table and settledinto the chair Jamie pulled out for her – easing William onto her lap andbending for a quick kiss from her husband.

Brianna pushed the magazine from Duke toward her mother.“This one looks really cool – they have a great engineering program, but thereare so many other things to study, too.”

“Raleigh – not too far. And yes it’s a fantastic school.”

William settled against her shoulder – just enjoyingbeing held by his mother – and Jamie opened the magazine on the tabletop,flanked by his women.

“Let’s see…table of contents…alumni in the news…recentpublications by professors…here’s a new building going up…”

Absently he thumbed through the pages one by one –

And then Claire’s hand darted out, slamming to the table.

William – startled out of his hazy half-sleep – gasped insurprise.

Brianna watched her mother’s hand lay flat on the page,then slowly draw her fingers inward to clench into a fist.

“Mama?” So confused.

Then Claire gently scooted William to Jamie’s lap, stood,and quietly left the dining room.

“Mama!” Brianna called. “What’s wrong? What is going on?”

Panicked, she turned to her father. To see his facealmost white with shock.

“Da? You’re scaring me – what is it?”

Only then did she turn her attention to the page. A smallarticle, just a few paragraphs, in the “Alumni News” section. Something about asubstantial donation to the school, to endow a program in the historydepartment. Made by someone in California. Frank Randall, class of ’62. Andthere was even a picture of him – looking straight into the camera, notsmiling, ensconced in a stuffy office.

“Da?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “Can you mind William? I need totalk to your Mama. Wait here.”

Wordlessly she opened her arms, and William snuggledagainst her, and she watched her father stride out of the dining room. Headingupstairs, to the master bedroom.

With her free hand she pulled the magazine closer,squinting at the photograph of this man who ran a real estate business innorthern California. Had amassed a fortune, and given much of it to the school.Something about having no children of his own, and wanting others to benefitfrom his labors.

Gently she stroked William’s back, soothing.

Waiting, and thinking, and worrying, until Mama and Dacame back into the room, holding hands.

[mindthump]

Riding a Time Capsule to Apartment 8G http://ift.tt/2AJrQeZ

Below the indicator box, where a modern elevator just has blank space, is the black-handled mechanism that drives the elevator. It’s called a control switch. In Mr. Rivera’s elevator, the switchworks are hidden within a weathered-bronze Frisbee-shaped cover bearing the logo of Haughton Elevators. (Haughton’s competitors included Gurney, Watson, Otis and A.B. See. Only Otis still exists.)

As Mr. Rivera throws the handle to the left, a swiveling contact bar inside the cover opens one circuit and closes another. This sends two electrical messages to a control panel in the basement: to power up the motor, and make it spin forward. The motor pulls the cables that lift the car.

Riding in an old manual elevator makes you realize how boringly quiet today’s elevators are. An old elevator makes a sort of music: the reassuring low hum of the motor, the gentle creaks of turning wheels, the click as each floor goes by, the jingle of the gate closing, like parting a bead curtain or sifting a pile of coins. The only jarring note in Mr. Rivera’s elevator is the call buzzer. It sounds like the wrong answer on a game show.

One of Mr. Rivera’s colleagues, Peter Gari, said he could identify certain residents by the buzz — long or short, or a double hit. “Some people buzz and then a couple of minutes later they buzz again. You get to the floor and they tell you, ‘I’m running late.’ Not my problem, wake up earlier.”

Over the decades, 47 Plaza Street has made concessions to modernity. The elevator signals are now routed through a computer in the basement. And since about 1993, the elevators have been what is called “self-leveling.” Mr. Rivera demonstrated what this means. “I get to 11, 11½…” He let go of the handle and the car glided to a halt at the 12th floor. “It stops by itself. How beautiful!”

Photo

230 West 39th Street renovated its elevators cosmetically but left the ancient manual control system intact.

When Otis developed the self-leveling elevator in 1917, it was a big deal. James Montgomery Flagg made a film the next year called “The Good Sport” in which the hero invents a self-leveling elevator and receives a $100,000 check. “Your invention is a boon to humanity!” says the owner of the Social Uplift Elevator Co. “Ladies and gentlemen — No more ‘Watch your step’ — This is the first elevator that ever stopped even with the floor.”

The technology spread slowly. Very slowly, in some cases: There are still many elevators in the city that are not self-leveling and must be landed precisely, kind of like a plane.

“I was terrible when I first started,” said Mike Merille, who has operated an elevator at 890 Broadway, home of the American Ballet Theater and the Ballet Tech dance school, since 2001. “But it’s muscle memory by now. I don’t even look.”

In the 1930s, a series of strikes and strike threats by elevator operators led bosses to respond with threats of their own. “Building owners fear that any substantial increases in wages for service employees will force them to install labor-saving devices, which will result in a large displacement of labor,” The Times reported in 1935. Elevator operators in those days worked up to 72 hours a week for as little as 30 cents an hour, equivalent to about $5.60 an hour today. (Now they make around $24 an hour.)

Push-button elevators had actually been around since the 1890s, but were not practical for larger buildings. They were slow. Initially they could make only one stop per trip. Later, they could make multiple stops, but only in the order the buttons were pressed.

Photo

Brian Naidoo pilots the elevator at 518 West 26th Street, a former factory filled with galleries.

It took until 1950 for Otis to perfect a push-button system smart enough to handle the traffic and shifting demands for service over the course of the day in a multi-elevator building. The company’s Autotronic system, Otis boasted in advertisements, “minimizes the human element” and “gives tenants a sprightly feeling of independence.”

The elevator man’s fate was sealed.

Almost.

Sixty-five years later, the human element still has its fans. At 47 Plaza Street West, on that same morning in early November, Mr. Rivera opened his elevator door and Bob Rubin got on.

“How you doing, Ramon?” he asked.

“I’ve had my ups and downs,” Mr. Rivera replied.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” Mr. Rubin said.

In the kitchen of the apartment he has lived in for 41 years, Mr. Rubin, a construction lawyer, expounded on his love for the elevators.

“What intrigues me about them is a kind of elegant simplicity,” he said. He fetched a stovetop espresso maker known as a moka pot. “This thing,” he said, “makes a better cup of coffee than that one,” and he pointed to the Keurig on the counter.

Photo

Clockwise from top left: The annunciator at 33 West 67th Street. The switch handle at 35 Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn. A Gurney elevator switch in Brooklyn. The inner gate in an elevator at 41 Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.

Mr. Rubin does not lock his apartment door. He has found the elevator men to be paragons of trustworthiness. “They know everything that’s going on in the building, but none of them has ever been a gossip to the best of my knowledge,” he said. “There is just an exceptional level of discretion.”

Discretion is sometimes called for, said Mr. Gari, Mr. Rivera’s counterpart at the north elevator that day.

“Sheeee, woohoo!” said Mr. Gari. “Boy, through the years, oh, yeah.”

“At my old job” — he used to work an elevator on Park Avenue — “sometimes people would ask, ‘Is my spouse home? And when did they get in?’ Home or not home, I’d say yes or no. But as far as when, I’d say, ‘I don’t remember, you can ask them.’”

Visitors must be carefully screened. “One time we had a process server show a gun to me and Ramon,” Mr. Gari said. “He asks, ‘Is so-and-so home?’ He showed me a badge. I called up on the intercom, no one answered, I told him, ‘They’re not there.’ He wanted me to take him up there. I said no. He said, ‘I’m the law, you’re obstructing justice,’ and he shows this gun. Ramon is like, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

Not everyone is charmed by the old elevators. “I’d lean toward push-a-button, convenience, quickness,” said Brian Kramer, a member of the co-op board at the Kenilworth on Central Park West, which has had some difficult conversations in recent years about upgrading the elevators. When there is only one doorman on duty, he has to somehow keep an eye on the door while running the elevator. “It’s tricky,” Mr. Kramer said.

Two doors down from Mr. Rivera’s building, at 39 Plaza Street West, a resident who would not let her name be published for fear of reprisals from the co-op board voiced exasperation. “If you want to go down to the laundry, it’s six trips, and someone has to take you up and down,” she said. “And the elevator regularly breaks down. It’s beautiful but it’s past its usefulness. It needs constant maintenance.”

Photo

Vladimir Gerasimovski says the 113-year-old elevator he operates at 33 West 67th Street in Manhattan runs “better than the new ones.”

Many old manual elevators are maintained by McGlynn Hays and Co., a 117-year-old concern that claims to be one of only two service companies in the city that has its own machine shop, on West 47th Street. Sooner or later, every moving part on an elevator needs an overhaul, said the company’s president, Gerard Carlucci.

“There’s relay failure, the pins wear out, the housing, the contacts wear out, the carbons wear out, the car switch — same thing,” he said. “The traveling cables, they get brittle over years. The door locks, door contacts — everything wears out. They’re opened a million times. The machines have made five million trips if you think about it. What do we make now that runs for a hundred years?”

At Mr. Rivera’s building, Mr. Mehl, the manager, said he did not foresee the elevators getting replaced anytime soon. This cheers Mr. Rivera, who has not lost enthusiasm for his job at an age when most men are retired or dead. “I love it,” he said, “because I go up and down. I don’t go only down. I’ve been doing it for 35 years. Oh, yes. That’s why I’m still here.”

Mr. Rivera switches elevators halfway through his shift. After lunch, the mail comes and he brings it down the basement to sort it. He is continually interrupted — every time someone buzzes, he has to run back upstairs. This time of year, the process can take hours. “Garbage, garbage, this is all garbage,” Mr. Rivera murmured as he filled cubbyholes with holiday catalogs.

At 3 p.m., the afternoon elevator man, Felix Mina, came on to spell Mr. Rivera and finish the mail. After Mr. Rivera changed out of his uniform, Mr. Mina brought him back up. “Until tomorrow,” he said. “Bye, Ramon.” Mr. Mina closed the elevator door. From within came the sound of the scissor gate creaking and then clicking into place, and the car descending.

Continue reading the main story

[ashelyhooton1-blog]

ways To develop a House Filing System

Another beneficial suggestion along these lines is to save similar items together. For example, if you have a number of flower vases, shop these together. The next time you reach for a vase, you only need to go to one place to find all them. There will be no going to the first place, just to understand that the best vase is hiding under the stairs in the basement. Then, you Work through the challenges. Challenges might be where you 'd find the time to get rid of two daily; the fear that as soon as you eliminate a book, you 'd want you had it; the concern that stuff will fall down if you begin getting books; and so forth. Since only clever individuals check out these posts, I'll wager when you call these obstacles, you can work through them. If not, let someone aid you. Humans likewise enjoy to help others. Event details and suggestions can go on your refrigerator or bulletin board. Magazines and other reading product should be kept where you do your reading. That might be the living room or bedroom. Designate a shelf or get a basket to hold publications. When it gets complete, you have to dispose some! The excellent news is that with compact computer towers, flat panel monitors and laptop computers, today's computer desk does not need to be the oversized room hog of a decade back. In fact, with a couple of modifications, any desk can function as your computer system desk. Let's take a look at some features you may desire. Leg room: Set your workplace chair at a comfy height. Ensure your feet are flat on the ground. A chair that is expensive, or too low will cause posture issues that cause back, neck and arm stress. Now, sit in your chair and step from the flooring to the top of your legs, include 2 or 3 inches for clearance and an inch for the density of the desk top (more if you want a pencil drawer,) this is how tall your desk will be. Likewise keep in mind the width of your chair so you can plan the best area between drawers and the side of the desk. Remember not too crowd yourself. You wish to be able to swivel from side to side quickly. It's easy to find yourself putting out fires all the time or week long, but you absolutely MUST make a schedule that provides you time to work ON business. Do whatever it takes and stick to the schedule!!! Now you can produce systems that take the pressure off you and your staff members. Now you can begin to grow your company while positive that the issues will be fixed by the appropriate individuals. I mean, somebody, someplace has to handle the business, right? Where is it written that it has to be you? Placing yourself right in the middle of your home and all of its activity is a certain time stealer. How can you avoid distractions from chores, folks, people, and animals knocking at your door attempting to sell you publications or financial services? While the kitchen area table is excellent because it enables you to spread out and work in a comfy area - there are probably plenty of windows and sunshine there too - there are no doors to stay out the diversions. Sweep up the crumbs and any built up dust on the flooring. Discover someone to assist you move the fridge and other heavy pieces of furniture and sweep under them too. You'll be surprised at exactly what you may find! Computer system and Printer- These are the staples of the craft. In the old days it was pen and paper, but now a computer and printer are important. Among the advantages of having a computer system is that it reduces the number of materials you require. You understand longer need cabinet drawer cabinet drawer a thesaurus, calendar, or dictionary. All of these products are offered as software application for your computer system. The computer system also makes modifying your very own posts easier for numerous factors. One is that there is modifying functions in many word processing programs you can utilize as a beginning point for your editing. You are likewise able to alter passages of text much easier on a word processor than you can with a pad and paper or the old variation of computer systems which was a typewriter. While there are lots of advantages working from home, discovering a suitable space to do business without disruption is not one of them. Take a minute and believe back to your normal work week prior to ending up being an entrepreneur. The number of of your desktops were jumbled with infant wipes and leaking sippy-cups every day? Did you discover yourself sifting through a pile of expenses, approval slips, and males's magazines just to discover your day organizer? Not likely the standard for a lot of. Take the time to sort it and weed out the chaff when you bring in the mail. Put bill due dates in your calendar with pointers so you always remember to pay them. When your file tray gets complete, do your filing. When your cooking area looks total, it still is not! There are still many devices to select from, and add. Hardware, such as drawer pulls or knobs. Task-lighting for the counter tops. You can also set up Child-Safe cabinet, drawer, and home appliance locks.