#the pain I will put myself through when I work with cotton is worth every ounce of spite I have towards them

[apprenticestanheight]

being a knitter/crocheter with a grudge against family members (it's justified. they are snobby, classist, have absolutely zero filter in a very negative way and will sidestep apologizing if you call them on it) is like. okay yep. you're getting a cardigan, you're getting a piece of wall art and some scrunchies. you're getting scrunchies and slippers, you're getting a very intricately designed hat or a pair of colorwork socks, and you? you are getting dishcloths in colors I choose. no heirloom blanket, pillow covers, ornaments or sweaters for you fuckers.

[terrm9]

Lost

Ethan X Sienna - friendship/mentorship (also mentions of Ethan X MC and Sienna X Danny)

This takes place somewhere through Chapter 18 and the time jump

Warnings: angst, mention of character death, trauma, sexist remark (1)

Words count: 1 700

So I had this idea in my head for a while now and now I decided to write it for two main reasons: 1) I can be okay with the time jump and absence of a date night and pretty much everything EXCEPT the fact that everyone ignores Sienna’s feelings ever since the accident. I mean, we get to help Jackie, we get to help Aurora BUT no diamond scene to help OUR BEST FRIEND Sienna, who lost her dear one? (And I don’t care that they were just ‘almost’ something. I have been an almost something with my now husband for a whole year before we started dating officialy and I would die if something happened to him in that year.

2) I really like to see Ethan as a good mentor. Not just to MC because he has ‘soft spot’ for her. As much as Ethan is irritated with interns and pretty much everyone, I believe that he has it in him to be a good mentor when some of his residents need help

I wrote this for myself actually but I hope someone else might enjoy it too

------- LOST ----------

It was Ethan’s sixth hour of working and, as fulfilling as working at the free clinic was, he was exhausted. Walking through the corridor towards his old office, all he wanted was to have a cup of hot coffee, ten minutes of peace and if he was lucky enough, maybe a moment alone with Chiara.

He missed her. As a mentor, he couldn’t be prouder of how she adjusted to the new situation and how dedicated she was to do as much as she could before Edenbrook’s closing. As a partner, he just wanted to have a nice free weekend with her filled with talking about everything and nothing, cooking for her, watching House, which she loved and he hated, and having undue amount of sex.

Turning around the corner, he stopped in his tracks as he noticed Dr. Trinh storming off one of the patient’s rooms and nearly running into nearest supply closet. He sighed, the scene becoming all too familiar and took a look into the room she just left. An older man was sitting on a bed, gesticulating wildly as he spoke to someone on the phone.

After evaluating situation, Ethan decided to leave the patient alone and follow Sienna into the supply closet instead. However, before he could do so, the door of the closet opened again and without as much as glancing into his direction, Sienna �� with her eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet with tears and lips trembling – walked away.

This needs to stop.

He straightened his posture and followed her tracks, finding her at the nurses’ station, talking to Chiara in quiet voice.

Approaching them, he cleared his throat and as both younger doctors raised their heads at the sound, he spoke, his voice firm.

“Dr. Trinh, a word in my office, please.”

Sienna’s eyes widened and she muttered to Chiara: “He is going to kill me. Oh, he is going to chew me out.”

Well, my ex-office. Not that it really matters.

Chiara’s brows furrowed, her eyes travelling from her best friend’s face to the one of her boyfriend. Sure, Ethan was still their attending, but he actually liked Sienna. He wouldn’t chew her out, would he?

Then she realized that when she screwed up, Ethan would give her a hard time, no matter the fact that he would take her for a dinner after that.

“Should I go with you?” she whispered to Sienna, worried about the scene that was about to happen.

Sienna smiled sadly and shook her head, already following Ethan’s steps.

He was already standing behind his desk when she came in, his expression unreadable.

 “Take a seat, Dr. Trinh,” he gestured towards a chair, not taking a seat himself, however.

Sienna sat down, her head hanging low, waiting for the outburst.

“I was about to make myself a cup of coffee. Can I offer you one?” Ethan asked quietly.

She lifted her head up abruptly, not believing the words she just heard and nodded quickly, before Dr. Ramsey would change his mind.

“Is this about me leaving a patient and crying in a supply closet, Dr. Ramsey?” she asked with voice so quiet it could have been a whisper, as he handed her a mug.

“Yes. This is the fifth or sixth time I have seen you walking in or out of a supply closet, crying, Dr. Trinh and I am speaking of a period of last three weeks maybe. What is going on? You know this cannot go on like this anymore.”

Sienna put the mug on a desk and started to play with the hem of her white coat, hoping that Ethan wouldn’t notice the tears streaming down her face again.

“I am sorry, Dr. Ramsey. I know my behavior hasn’t been professional and that leaving a patient like that is unacceptable and I promise to do my best to avoid such situations in the future.”

Ethan sighed, leaning into his chair, tilting his head slightly as he observed the obviously broken form of a tiny doctor in front of him. He avoided these situations as much as he could – Naveen was the one to confront while also comforting. Ethan was the bad cop, always.

But Naveen wasn’t here and Sienna needed a good mentor, badly.

“I asked what is going on. I know you are a professional, Dr. Trinh, so I need an explanation of the situation.”

Sienna was openly crying now, all the awful thoughts running through her head.

“It’s just�� this patient, he was so, so rude to me. He walked into free clinic and I knew he needed to be admitted so I’ve had a nurse admit him and as soon as I could, I went to his room to do the tests and all the time, he was telling me to fuck off – he literally used these words – and asked me to get him a real doctor and that I was just a child pretending to know what I am doing and that he would never let me do as much as draw his blood,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her white coat.

Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a nice white cotton handkerchief, handing it to her without saying a word. She nodded thankfully, acknowledging the gesture and after a while decided to go on.

“And you know. Dr. Ramsey, this is not an unknown situation to me. Because I am so tiny and smiling all the time, the patients tend to question my abilities as a doctor. Men, mostly. Sometimes, they have these terrible sexist remarks, I remember one patient telling me that I could take his pain away with my pretty little hands,” she blinked rapidly several times, fighting the tears of disgust.

“I am used to these situations and I believed I could handle them well. The thing is, every time I have had a patient like this and I felt uncomfortable or even unsafe, I would just page Danny with our secret code and he would storm into the room with his ‘badass nurse’ face on and usually that would work. These men respected him more than me, because he was a man too, you know? And I felt safe when he was there with me. But now,” she covered her mouth with her hand as a terrible, broken sound left her, her whole body shaking with sobs.

Ethan stood up from his chair and walked past the desk to kneel down next to her, putting his reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Now he is gone and every time I deal with a patient that is rude, I am hit with the fact that I will never get to see his badass nurse face again. And I know I should be happy. I should be happy about Chiara being okay and Rafael being okay, and I am, oh God I am so thankful that they are here, alive and well, but still it hurts like hell, not having Danny around. It has been months and I still feel like I can’t breathe every single time I pass that room. And I keep screwing up, again and again. I screwed up with my intern and now he is gone. I screw up with my friends and with my patients and I am trying so hard to go on with my life, because all of my friends can do that, even Chiara can do that, but it’s just all too much now, you know? I just wish I could leave this city for some time and just… do something entirely else for a while. Be someone else.”

Ethan kept staring at Sienna for a long time, realizing for the first time, how much the accident has affected her.

He wouldn’t get through losing Chiara, if she didn’t make it that day. He would rather die with her and it didn’t matter that at the time of the accident, they weren���t official.

So what was the difference with Sienna and Danny? Did it matter that they weren’t official, if they cared about each other deeply?

He stood up again and grabbed his coffee, intending to finish it before they would have to leave his office to work again. There was an idea playing in his head and by pretending to savour every sip of his beverage, he was gaining himself some time to compose the proposition in his head.

Sienna, too, decided to finish the coffee, preparing herself to go back to the room 421 to draw the damn blood.

“You probably haven’t heard about it, Dr. Trinh,” Ethan finally broke the silence that was becoming a little bit too uncomfortable. “But there’s this thing… Dr. Mirani, I mean Baz Mirani, is leaving to Philippines after Edenbrook is closed. He will go with Doctors Without Borders for six months to help at Calicoan Island. If you could see this as an opportunity for you, I could be able to arrange for you to join him as his protégé. Don’t feel pressured into this, please, but knowing Baz, he would be happy for your company and it could help you after all. I am now speaking from personal experience.”

“Your little trip to Amazon, huh?” Sienna couldn’t help but smile a little.

Ethan simply nodded, finishing his coffee. There was no point in telling her that in his case, leaving to Amazon didn’t help his problems at all.

“I will think about it. Thank you, Dr. Ramsey. I should go to see Mr. Lowes, I still need to draw his blood.”

Ethan nodded and grabbed his white coat. “I’ll go with you.”

If Sienna was surprised, she did a good job at hiding it. She just smiled thankfully, the first genuine smile that day.

“And for what it’s worth, if you ever find yourself feeling uncomfortable or unsafe with a patient, you can always page me.”

There was another kind of tears now threating to fall from Sienna’s eyes as he said that. She gulped visibly but instead of thanking him again, she said: “Chiara is really lucky to have you, Dr. Ramsey.”

Ethan smiled at her with the soft, gentle smile she has never thought could be addressed for someone else as Chiara.

“She is also incredibly lucky to have you, Sienna.”

[milazka]

Painkiller - part one | John B. Routledge

(I laughed so hard when he did this ahah).

content : smut

words: 1405

warning : swearing, oral sex (male receiving), blood.

request : —

a/n : just wanted to say thank you for all your likes on my first jj one shot! it means a lot to me that you liked it. i hope you will like this one as much! it’s my first time writing smut, i hope it’s not too bad? also, i didn’t correct myself, maybe i’ll do it later, sorry for the mistakes!

summary : your boyfriend, john b, injured himself when he went down the well under mrs crain’s house. you take care of him and give him the best painkiller that he could have wished for...

——————————————————————

It’s dark outside, the only light you have is coming from the moon that’s shinning high in the sky. You are tense, your bad habit of chewing on the inside of your cheeks comes back like every time you find yourself in a situation like this. Being the weakest of the group, the choice had been easy; you were the one who would keep the van while the others tried to find the gold in the well. You could have been the one going down in the well, but John B made it clear that he didn’t want you to get hurt.

It was getting cold and you were only wearing jeans short and a long sleeves shirt. When a shiver runs through your body, you decide to leave your position on the roof and look for something to cover yourself in the van. The first thing you find his John B’s black hoodie. Once in the clothing piece, you find comfort by inhaling the Cologne of your boyfriend.

You two met a year ago, when his dad brought him to the library where you worked. You were helping his dad with his research on the Royal Merchant. It took John B months to finally ask you out, but the wait was worth it.

Suddenly, you are interrupted in your thoughts by the yells of your group of friends and the beams of light that are coming from the woods. As you all have planned in case of a problem, you quickly install yourself in the passenger seat and put the key in the contact for JJ or John B to quickly start the van when they arrive.

Soon enough, you see your tree friends jump the fence and rush to the van. JJ quickly sets himself behind the wheel, breathing heavily.

“Where did you all fuck up this time?” You ask you friends once they are all in the van. “And where is John?” You add.

“Mrs Crain! She was fucking crazy!” Kie yells, her eyes wide open by the fear.

“I told you! Why are you never listening to what I say?” JJ shouts while he starts the van.

They both continue to yell at each other, but you were more concern about your boyfriend’s missing.

“Fuck, where is he?” You whisper while trying to hold back your tears.

“He was still down in the well when she started to shoot at us.” Pope says.

“You know him Y/N, he’s the king of getting out of any sort of shit.” JJ add while rubbing your back to comfort you.

A few tears slide on your cheeks before you lift you head, hearing something coming from the woods. A few seconds later, you can see the silhouette of your boyfriend jumping above the fence and rushing into the back of the van.

“C’mon JJ, roll it!” He shouts as soon as he sits in the van.

You barely recognize him with all the dirty and smelly mud all over his body. He finally makes an eye contact with you and his face softens when he sees the tears on your cheeks.

“Hey sweetheart, don’t cry, I’m fine.” He smiles to you, blowing you kiss. “Plus, I found it, I found the gold!”

A mix of emotions rush into you and you start screaming of joy like the other, a big smile on your face.

***

You finally arrive at John B’s home after dropping the other at their own house. Exceptionally, you were the one driving because of John B’s injury. After parking the twinkie in front of the house, you open the passenger’s door, helping you boyfriend get out of the van. He grunts in pain, his hand still applying pression on his bleeding wound.

“I’m sorry babe.” You whisper to him while he put his arm on your shoulders for support.

“It’s not your fault, love.” He says, his face clenched by the pain.

You slowly take him to the bathroom where you start the shower. You help him take out his dirty clothes and throw them in the dirty clothes basket. Your eyes stare at his wound which makes him suffer. You lock your sad eyes with his; you hate to see him suffer.

“I’ll be fine baby, it’s just a little cut.” He says before getting his pants off. “You can join me if you want to.” He winks at you, clearly implying some dirty things.

You slowly move your body close to him and laying your hand on the bulge in his boxer. You move your hand on it, making it grow while teasing him with kisses on his jaw.

“Maybe later, babe.” You whisper sensually taking a step from him.

“You’re a tease Y/N.” He says pointing the hard bulge in his boxer. “I’ll get blue balls because of you.”

“Poor baby, just asks your hand, she’ll help you while I go get you some clothes.” You smirk, leaving him alone in the bathroom.

***

After he is all cleaned and dressed, you help John B settles on the living room sofa.

“I have the first aid kit; I’ll disinfect your wound.” You say before gently kissing his lips.

He smiles back at you, putting a strand of hair behind you ear. His hand gently touches your face while his looking into your beautiful eyes.

“It may hurt.” You warn him as you put some alcohol on a cotton pad.

“It’s not the first time that you clean my wounds babe, I’m used to-OH FUCKING HELL IT HURTS YOU BITCH!” He yells in pain before giving a little clap on your hand.

“Hey! Excuse yourself?”

“I’m sorry, but it hurts a lot love.” He whimpers in his baby voice.

“I know what would help with the pain.” You mutter, licking your bottom lips.  

Your hands reach the buckle of his belt and undo it. John B’s eyes widen when he understands what you are about to do to him. You grab the jeans sort and pull them down to his knees. You press soft kisses on the fabric that starts to expend with his bulge.

  ��God baby, you’re making me hard.” He compliments you when you finally take off his boxer.

Without hesitation, you slowly begin moving your hand up and down his cock, making him moan. You smile; you love seeing him react to your touch. You drag your tongue on his erection, making him clench his jaw. He closes his eyes, dropping his head back.

“Fuck Y/N, just put your little mouth on it already.” He grunts, running his hands through his curly wet hair.

“Ask and you’ll receive.” You say before wrapping your lips around his cock.

You start by slowly pumping the top of his flesh, your hand around the base of his cock. You feel his fingertips grabbing your hair while you are going down on him, taking him in as much as you can. He lifts his hips, urging you to take him all.

“Oh fuck baby girl…” He moans out loud.

“Do you want me to keep going?” You ask, locking your eyes with his, your hand still moving up and down.

“Do I really need to ask? Just wrap your pretty damn lips around it baby and make me cum.” He grunts, clenching his jaw.

You bobble your head over his cock, putting more pressure on him. Your eyes lock with his as you keep the pace. You see his chest rise and fall heavily, soft moans coming out of his mouth.  His hand grabs your hair, helping you took him deeper down your throat. He loudly grunts, leaving you there for a few seconds. He was breathing heavily, still watching you, he thought that you were looking amazing with his cock in your mouth.

“I’m gonna cum baby.”

It was your cue to pump him harder a few times with your lips before replacing them with your hand. You didn’t like swallowing and John B was respectful of it. You move your hand up and down his cock at a fast pace and feel his warm cum on your hand as he lets out a loud moan. Slowly, you take your hand off, letting him calm down a bit.

“So, best painkiller ever?” You ask, washing your hand with the cotton pad.

“Hell yeah baby girl, you’re my best painkiller ever.” He whispers, kissing the top of your head.

part two

milamaybank’s masterlist

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Flashback Friday || Morgan & Luis

TIMING: Distant past, in the days of yee-haw

LOCATION: The Magick Cauldron, Houston, Texas

PARTIES: @ontheluis & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Luis wanders into a magic shop looking for some herbs, Morgan spies an opportunity, and the cards know more than either of them reckon. 

CONTAINS: Mellow yee-haw vibes

“Welcome, traveler, to the Magick Cauldron! Browse at your pleasure and inquire if you have any questions!” Morgan had given the scripted greeting so many times, it came out of her in full customer service cheer every time the shop door opened. She didn’t even look up from the book she had open under the cash register anymore, but flipped another page and let the customers let her know if there was something worth talking about by shouting ‘lady!’ or coming into her peripheral view.

The Magick Cauldron was the only occult shop still standing West Houston after the Y2K stress fads had died away and the first bout of shiny, corporate development had found its way into Montrose and bulldozed a crystal shop, a Greek deli, and one of the few ladies-only gay bars in favor of a mixed use building that so far only housed a nail salon and a Jamba Juice. Ralf, the fine proprietor of the Cauldron as he called himself, said that this space was protected. As the door chimed open again and Morgan made her welcome speech, bright and shiny as the plastic plate armor hanging in the kid’s section, she wondered if he was right. She never seemed to serve more than a dozen or so customers during her shifts, but the lights stayed on, day after sweltering day. If Ralf was right, it might just be the one piece of real magic in the place, not that she could say that to anyone’s face.

The warped outline of a boy rippled over the glass counter and Morgan blinked up from her book. “Is there something I can help you with, weary traveler?” She asked wryly.

“Sorry ma’am,” Luis assured, “didn’t mean to bring the stray in here,”

Evening had fallen outside, heat from the blistering still wafting off the pavement. Telephone poles and streetlights were thin black columns that stood stark against the blazing orange and wane blues of sunset.  

“Go on, git!”

At the Magick Cauldron’s threshold was an enormous black dog. Even while quietly sitting on its haunches the shaggy canine was easily as tall as the teenage boy snapped at it. Pupiless red eyes regarded Luis impassively, only an ear twitch showing that the dog wasn’t just a statue.

When the black dog gave no indication of actually entering the store nor stopping its scrutiny of Luis, the young man cut his losses and regarded the woman at the counter again.

“Here,” Luis reached into a pocket of his jeans and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, smoothing it on the counter. The names of herbs and powders were written in someone else’s prime neat handwriting. “I uh don’t know what any of this is…,” he confessed.

Morgan took the paper carefully between her fingers, trying not to let her discomfort at how damp and sweaty it was show too much. It didn’t take much to figure out she was looking at an herbalist mixture for anxiety and sleeplessness. She looked up and the boy, and down to the list again. “We’ve got everything you need over here,” she said. She lead the boy over to the bulk aisle where the dried herbs and bottled oils were kept and alphabetized. “Did you want these bagged separate or together? Or--you probably don’t know how these work huh? We’ll do separate, so you can use any excess as you wish. But fair warning, we have a purchase minimum of one ounce for each item.” She put a small paper bag on the shelf in the middle of the display and started shovelling the herbs in. As she worked, she glanded sidelong at the kid and the dog that had decided to become instantly fond of him. Someone cared about them, to throw together this recipe, and he looked embarrassed enough for a kid his age to seem like he needed help. Would it be wrong to squeeze a few more dollars out of him if it so happened to brighten his day or give him some direction? Sure, he was scruffy, but not so much as to be desperate. He could afford a few extra bucks, right?

“Hey, you okay there?” Morgan asked him. “You seem a little lost. I’m getting some ‘needs direction’ vibes from you.” She gestured vaguely. “If you’re looking for Niko Niko’s, it’s just further down the street. You’re not supposed to leave your car here while you go over there, but I won’t tell. And if you need something a little less literal, I might be able to help you with that.” She nodded toward the oracle room at the back of the shop, with its hand painted sign hanging crooked from a nail and entryway draped with lavender beads. “I do have sliding scale rates, if it helps you make up your mind.”

The great black dog continued to watch Luis in silent stillness, the Barghest’s posture poised as if waiting for something.

“No offense ma’am but I don’t believe in…,” the teenager half-turned but caught sight of the enormous stray waiting for him in the darkening sunset. Those pupiless red eyes immediately filled Luis with a nameless dread. Cold sweat stained the back of his T-shirt as Luis’ skin went clammy despite the Texan heat. Luis couldn’t process why some random big-ass dog would wig him out so much. He wasn’t even afraid of it biting him or even the dog itself.

So why was his heart pounding in his temples?

“Yeah uh..s-seperate would be great,” Luis reaffirmed to Morgan needlessly. The labels on the tinctures and herbal selections blurred in his vision as Luis tried to get a handle on his thoughts. “Direction like, oh you mean to the interstate,” Luis replied in a misinterpretation of Morgan’s broader meaning. “I’m alright thanks, yeah merging on that triple hairpin by Foster is a pain in the ass but it's chill.”

Luis looked over to the oracle room with the dubiety of someone for whom the occult was just a vague ‘other’ mentioned at Mass or when abuela suggested a Sonora Market cure for whatever new cold was going around. He seemed about to decline again until the creeping skin-crawl of Barghest’s glare boring into his back made Luis amenable to any distraction.

“Yeah uh sure,” he said, taking a step towards the beaded shroud. “I’ll give it a shot.”

Morgan followed the boy’s eyes to the dog. He was looking pretty well fed for a stray, and his eyes--red, alert, sharp with an uncommon intelligence--made her shiver. Definitely supernatural. She didn’t know, how, or what, but it didn’t look good. “And I mean--” How to put this in just the right way? Or at least the more convincing way? “I mean your spirit, your chakras. Believe in your connection to the universe or not, but are you really going to say to my face that you know how you’re going to make your life worthwhile to yourself? That you know how to reach your greatest good?” No one did. Heck, she was a devout wiccan most days out of the year and even she didn’t know what her highest, greatest good looked like. “And if you’ve got the cash, I’ll throw in a cleansing, something to make--” she gestured at him vaguely, “Whatever negative heavy energy this is that’s stuck to you. Seriously, do you ever feel tired out of nowhere?” It was summer and the sun was exhausting; everyone got tired out of nowhere.

Maybe she was laying it on a little thick, but Morgan was tired of ordering off the dollar menu for dinner and she felt like she was taking her life into her own hands when she conjured money from school pens and laundry lint cotton. This kid’s money might get her a pot pie that didn’t come from the freezer, or enough tacos to last her a week, or maybe she’d blow it all on seafood, or a dress that hadn’t been worn by someone else. “I’ll ring you up first, and then we’ll see about getting the rest of you squared away.” Morgan did, and when that part of the transaction was over, she lead him into the oracle room.

In truth, the oracle room was an old storage closet with the door taken out. Morgan breezed through them and went to the antique flea market find armoire, where all the necessary items were kept. Morgan took out a small tray of tarot decks and took the one she liked best, a well loved Raider-Waite with stars on the backs and gold-gilt edges. “I’ll shuffle them myself, but you should tell me when to cut and start again and when to stop. When I’m done, you’ll spread them. You’re the one who needs to connect with the deck, after all.”

Rafael Martininez had given his son that smirking half-smile while Malia had given Luis the pale blue eyes watching Morgan shuffle cards. Sweaty light brown hair clung to his forehead beneath the Dallas Burn hat, stray strands dangling back his eyes. The lanky teenager sat awkwardly across from the cartomancer, doubting not only her veracity but that a term like destiny could even apply to someone like him.

Like many children who’re so profoundly blessed to grow up in a home of unconditional love, Luis had no idea that Rafael and Malia given him a protection rarer than talismans, weirds, or wards. Rafael had come to this country for a better life, and Malia had wanted a home that was safer then the hell she’d left. Together they’d given both dreams to their children, so Luis and his siblings would never have to go through what they had.

The freckled face that lifted to Morgan’s was innocent of hate, abuse, or fear of abandonment. Even in following a strange woman into a shrouded back room, it’d never occurred to Luis to worry about anything more sinister than carnival charlantry.

“So uh...like this ma’am,” Luis asked as he placed some cards face down on the table.

It was this very innocence in Louis that dulled the edge off Morgan’s guilt. It was wrong (if wrong was a real concept) to spoil something pure, but if she was really the worst thing that was going to happen to this kid in his teenage years, he was pretty darn lucky. At least he was getting some introspection out of the deal. Could he have gotten a tarot deck from the discount bookstore two blocks over for a quarter of what she was going to charge him, or thought everything out on his own for free? Yes. But he was also some bushy tailed high school kid; could happen wasn’t the same thing as would happen.

She’d had more instructions to give, some arbitrary waving of hands and maybe some visualization in what one of her co-workers called her ‘yoga voice’, but Louis, in his eagerness, had taken more than the requisite three cards she had planned on, wich just meant she had a ready-made excuse for the forty dollars she was going to take from him. “My, my, aren’t we eager?” She said. “What’s interesting to me already is that you have intuitively drawn out one of the more complex and energy taxing card spreads. Imperfectly, but--” She straightened them out at random until they made more of a geometric pattern. “See? I barely did anything at all. These cards must really like you. I don’t normally do something this involved, but it looks like there’s something here that wants to come out, and I’m not in the business of stifling anyone’s growth or energy.”

Morgan flipped the first card over to reveal The Fool and managed to keep her laughter light and soft. “Well, even if I hadn’t been doing this for so long, this is you, where you are right now. Don’t take the title personally, these are antiquated terms. He’s just young, and at the start of a great journey, not even begun, just on the precipice. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and the sun, see? It’s shining on him to show that the universe is aligned with his desires. The world wants you to support you, wants to see you succeed.”

The second card. The Tower. Morgan’s eyes widened. Not really vibing with the story she’d been telling, but maybe the one after… Eight of Cups. Morgan flipped over the last ones. Death and The Moon. “Hmm...Fascinating...” Morgan said, stalling for a way to spin this. “The thing about the major arcana is the magnitude of forces. Forces like destiny and fate and the collective consciousness. These forces are bigger than a ten minute fight with your friends or what you want to do after graduation, these are ‘beyond your control’. And you have four. The universe really does have plans for you, that’s kind of exciting, right?” She smiled, hoping to get some confirmation from him, or at least some more of his trust. “What does your intuition tell you about this journey, honey?”

Morgan’s performative coaxing elicited a dubious look, but the striking illustrations of the Tarot drew Luis’ attention regardless. The fool was poised with one foot over the cliff, smiling blissfully as the sun warmed his back. The tower’s blackened crenellations tumbled down the cliffside as the once indomitable edifice was battered into ruins by a storm. A haggard traveler slumped down in relief on a river bank as eight golden chalice stood resplendent over the churning rapids. Death rode on its pale horse, a scythe clutched in one skeletal hand while offering an exquisitely detailed rose. The Moon slept in the sky above a verdant shore. Wolves howled in its light while pelagic creatures breached on the lunar tide.

“Woah that art on these is something else,” admitted Luis as he squinted at the intricate illuminations, clearly sensitive to aesthetics but not the higher esoteric meaning.

Unfortunately intuition is only as good as the experiences which inform it and Luis Martinez had been sheltered from the world’s cruelty. It was a blessing to be sure, but it also made Luis unable to imagine that evil doesn’t need consent to claim you.

“My intuition is uh,” floundered the young man who had about as much affinity for divination as the average block of cedar. “The ranch’ll catch on fire, maybe a relative will die, but we’ll find like eight things that’ll make it better before the next full moon,” Luis posited.

Morgan’s stomach rumbled as the boy ogled the artwork on the cards. She was tempted to commend the kid on his ‘uncanny insight’ into the realm of the divine and take her money and run down the street for a hot stack of tacos. But the kid was so bright eyed and easily awed. She felt like she owed him at least some of her knowledge, even if she thought the tarot was psychological self-talk at best.

“Fortunately for your relatives, nothing here is quite that literal,” she said, laughing warmly. “But this journey you’re on, both within and without, is going to be perilous.” Perilous to the point of being seriously dangerous and traumatic, if this really was his subconscious sensing something on the horizon. But that wasn’t something she was going to say to his face. She wanted money without having to lie to her mother about where it came from later. “Even though your desires are upheld by the earth and stars, there will come a time when it feels as though you’ve been cast out and lost everything. But the key to staying your course is to…” What was a precious uplift-y way to spin this? “Hold fast to your sense of self. Remember the core of who you are and what you want. Because, if you do, then you will survive the upheavals, and you will be able to choose wisely what to keep, what to leave behind, and end up so strong, it’ll feel like you’ve been resurrected and leveled up into a new, better, cooler version of yourself!” She had no idea how to make sense of the moon card in a positive five star customer service rating sort of way, so she moved it underneath the spread, smiling like this had been her master plan all along.

“This card with the moon and the wolves isn’t your endgame, it’s an indicator of the vehicle, the thing that encompases the whole. All this massive change ahead of you isn’t necessarily going to be visible to everyone. It comes from within, sometimes hidden, like how you can only see the stars when it’s dark out and most of the world is asleep, and wolves howl when the world is in shadows. It’s like that. And it’s going to be amazing.”

Morgan checked her watch and slumped back in her chair as if she were exhausted. Not a hard thing to do when it was this hot out. “So, that’s gonna be forty dollars for the energy and the insight. Technically, with how many cards you pulled, it should be a little more, but I can tell you’re taking a risk on something new here and I want to honor that. But we can keep going if you have any more questions!”

“Vehicle huh...not sure dad’s gonna let me spraypaint moons and wolves on the truck,” Luis mused, perhaps taking the ‘vehicle’ thing a bit too literally or not wanting to think too hard about the possibility of his life changing.

Luis looked over the intricately illustrated cards, eyebrows wrinkling as he tried to parse through the profound chicanery Morgan had spouted. A bite of the lower lip hinted that Luis had never really encountered those who could appear to say everything while stating nothing particularly specific.

“Well shiiiii..,” the teenager breathed before glancing up at Morgan and catching himself with a small hssk of inhalation, as if some inner parental voice had scolded him about cursing in front of a lady. “That was pretty cool,” he amended, clearly at a loss before everything he’d been told, too polite to claim he didn’t believe any of it, but also too much a child of modernity to heed the weird feeling in his gut that recognized something...hit different...about this chance prophecy.

Luis grinned bashfully and unknowingly let fate’s final warning pass him by.

“Forty bucks huh, I’ll havta explain that somehow,” the young man noted with the mild consternation of someone blessed enough to just worry about a family member who’d be more peeved about gas money going to “fortuneteller” then the actual cash itself.

The bills slid across the table after some awkward wallet-riffling. “Thank you ma’am.”

Morgan snatched up the bills and shoved them down her shirt before the kid could change his mind. Whatever ominous feelings his subconscious were trying to air out was no concern for her. She had too many problems of her own to bother with anyone else’s. “It takes a long time to read the cards,” she drawled smugly. “And lots of energy, to open oneself and reach beyond the veil.” She waved her fingers as if to say tootles, and went back to fanning herself until he was gone.

She helped a lady find some yarrow and made up a policy about consultation fees to get another $10 in her pocket. She was using her agency to bridge the gap between minimum shop girl wage and living wage, working her will to get the right kind of energy flowing her way. Mostly, the energy of not-starving and not invoking the ire of darkness from using alchemy to get ahead. It didn’t line up with the rest of what she understood, neutral magic forces should be lining up to help her right her cosmic access and be less chronically miserable, but that was a problem to untangle another day.

At the end of her shift, Morgan shuffled the cards once again and lined them up on the cleansing plate the shopkeeper wanted the used decks put on. By chance, or so she told herself, she picked up the topmost card to see what was there for her. But it was just the death card, and Morgan knew the last thing that was gonna happen to her life was a hard reset. She stuck it back in the middle of the deck and slipped away into the long shadows that marked the summer evening.

[outroshooky]

no halo | kth

⇢ genre: oneshot (brief angst, fluff, smut) (exestolovers!au)

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader, bestfriend!min yoongi x reader

⇢ word count: 5.3k

⇢ audio: brockhampton’s ginger album

⇢ warnings: brief angst (it’s exes to lovers, what do you expect), a smoking mention, some varied cursing; implied and explicit smut (soft!! body worship). there’s a happy ending, i promise.

⇢ a/n: i sat down at my laptop today, turned on no halo by brockhampton, and started writing. six hours later, i cannot believe that i managed to smash a brutal writer’s block by churning this out in literally one day. i hope that this is a bit of bright light for you, dear reader, in a time where nothing seems to be going your way. you will make it through no matter how messy or uncertain life seems to be, and you will come out on the other side all the more stronger for having survived it. 

Believe it or not, it’s the pair of battered red Converse slung over his shoulder that tips the whole thing over the edge.

It’s inexplicable. Perhaps it’s the memories attached to it, knotted and strung through metal rivets scuffed with night rides and hard asphalt. Tastes like cigarette smoke and ashen dreams wafting from the driver’s side window, but there’s something more bitter there. Heartbreak veins, like you’d expect them to pulse with anything but. They say love doesn’t last when it’s not built on something solid, but somehow, heady summer nights and network love aren’t enough to pass the time.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing with those?” It bites, thickened with venom. Somewhere far-off is a headboard banging, curses of those stupidly thin walls of the motel complex. 

“They’re mine,” Yoongi says. Which they are. Unfortunately. “I need them to like, go outside and stuff.”

“Fuck you,” you fire back.

“A ray of sunshine you are,” he remarks. “Any particular reason you feel like biting my head off in this shitty hotel room?”

The silence explains absolutely nothing. What he doesn’t know is that it’s not his fault. It’s right there in the middle of the dingy carpet, cracked and bleeding, privy to one and one alone. You’re too stubborn and he’s too good and here you find yourselves, locked at an impasse. He doesn’t know how good he is, how he’s patched your wounds up with wind in your hair and sand between your toes. He tries his best; it’s better than anything you would allow yourself, a luscious pleasure in such a stark world. So you settle for what you’ve got, and he shakes his head.

“You know you can come to me, right? About what’s on your mind?”

You finger the fraying tear in the bedspread, the cotton crumbling between your thumb and index.

“Look, I’m not good at this feelings thing and you know that. But you’re my friend, and I care about you, and I want to hear you out, okay? Whatever you’re thinking about. You’re not gonna hurt me; it’s not like I haven’t been through the ringer myself. You’re not so different, yeah?” Yoongi’s eyes search your own for acceptance. Defeat. Anything at all. “You’re not some kind of lost cause because one asshole in particular who shall not be named made you feel that way. Maybe it was two assholes. Whatever. Your worth isn’t dependent on their opinion of you.”

It feels like rambling but burns like an iron, sears through the darkness hovering over your consciousness, casting shadow. That thing twitches, bent and broken deep inside, staining down the bedsheets and spilling onto the beige carpet. He’s hit home, and Yoongi knows it when the defiance in your brow drains, floodwater evaporating against the creamy popcorn ceiling. He’ll forever hold that he doesn’t have a way with words; you’d kindly argue the opposite.

“I’m sorry, Yoon.” You look up at him for the first time since you’d woken up on opposite sides of the same bed. Something about childhood innocence preserves moments like those, in spite of years gone past since the last time you shared a bed like that. Nothing dirty about needing companionship in the form of a brother you’d had since you’d skipped stones down at the pond in grade school. He knows you intrinsically, like the scars that cross his knees and the freckles that dot his neck, no better and no less. “You deserve better than the way I’ve been treating you. Because you’re right, you know. But right now, it hurts.”

“Hurt doesn’t make you any less human. It’s a part of life. And it’s okay to hurt sometimes. Just don’t let it consume you till there’s nothing left.” He readjusts the shoes tied together by one string, sitting on the narrow angular of his shoulder. “Breakfast ends in an hour. I’ll grab you something and bring it back, and then we’ll figure out what to do next, yeah? I don’t have work till Tuesday, so we don’t have to be back for a few days more.” He pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and for the record, fuck Kim Taehyung. I’ll knock his teeth through his ass for the shit he put you through.”

The small smile you crack brings a toothy grin to his own visage. “Excellent advice.”

There’s a wry fondness dancing in the deep russet of his pupils, burning umber in the low light. “I try.”

Fuck Kim Taehyung. The exact advice you needed to hear, and the exact advice you decided to act upon, in exactly all of the wrong ways.

It’s the number that is stamped on your brain like a fifty-dollar tattoo— not necessarily the most tasteful, a pain in the ass to remove. Unfortunately, it is the tattoo that your thoughts like to trace with gentle fingers, rubbing at the lines, blurring the edges. Laser removal takes time and patience, but the contrary nestles in the form of stupid decisions and late-night mistakes. Like a dead battery on your Wrangler at 1am on the back streets, a useless cell phone, and three weeks of time to think.

Grief gave way to rage gave way to kindling coals of sadness, burning low but bright enough to light your way. Gone were your attempts to fan them back into the roaring bonfire those motel walls once contained, but here were your best efforts to cradle them close, nurture them that they might die out on their own, and most of them had. Moving on tasted ginger-sweet and minty-bitter, the chill in the air as the leaves tumbled and crunched underfoot, ignited with reds and yellows and everything in between. A summertime flame left for the autumn rain.

Pour the rain did, leaking rivulets down the windshield as you sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the dashboard. In times like these you’d call Yoongi, but he didn’t get off work till the morning and an impossibly timed dead zone did nothing to help your wireless suffering. Nighttime meant comfort for souls like yours, an escape into the quiet of dusk when everyone else sought the dreamy confines of sleep. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone else sought sleep while you were cursedly awake and stuck in the downpour. No place to go, no one to find.

You let your head fall forward and hit the steering wheel with a thunk. Fuck.

Knock knock.

It’s a glance to the left, out the driver’s side window that reveals a silhouette framed in darkness, wrapped in a thick coat, peering through the glass. Hand raised to brow and you can’t help the involuntarily yelp that leaves your mouth from the sheer proximity of the stranger. The figure flinches back in response, and you can’t help the immediate pang of worry. You can’t afford to miss a chance for help, but you also can’t roll down the window, and thus you’re opening the door and squinting into the rain as it blusters through the open gap. “Hello, I’m sorry, my cell phone isn’t working, is it possible for me to borrow yours so I could call somebody to pick me up?”

“Wait, what?” The stranger hunches slightly, peering through the watery onslaught. “Is that who I think it is?”

Oh god.

Oh god no.

The sheer absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on you, not like the way relief is wrapping that thick timbre around yourself like a familiar blanket. The irony of your car happening to die only a few blocks away from that little blue two-story, the coincidences of such a familiar stranger going out for a stroll in the middle of a fucking rainstorm. Of course he had to.

“Unfortunately,” you can’t help but grimace. “Taehyung, what the fuck are you doing out here in weather like this?”

You can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. It almost aches. “Are you saying this isn’t ideal weather to take a walk and enjoy the fresh air?”

“No,” you reply bluntly. Infuriatingly positive he is, always has been. “Ideal weather isn’t a fucking thunderstorm.”

“Mm.” The momentary quiet, save the rainfall, hints at what goes unsaid. “So what are you doing out here?”

You bristle. How to formulate a response that would not warrant help, but also warrant help? “I was out taking a late-night drive and stopped to take a break. I was getting drowsy and I prefer to be a responsible driver, so I pulled over to make sure I was awake enough to drive home.”

“What a considerate person you are!” Taehyung trills, and you’re almost positive it is completely unironic. “How are you feeling then? Do you think you’ll be able to drive home?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine.” A tight smile. Polite. It takes every ounce of will to not study him deeper, all of the curves and edges hidden snugly in the darkness. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure? It’s raining really hard as well; you won’t be able to see well even if you aren’t feeling drowsy.” There’s genuine concern in his tone, warmth bubbling from his throat like liquid sunshine. Maddening. But he’s right; he’s shining a bright light through the flimsy veil of your lies and you’re pinned. Even more maddening.

“Taehyung, it’s—” you clamp your mouth shut because in a slip of the tongue, you were that close to letting anger seep into your tone. That close to losing your stance as the better man, but the line of who exactly is the better man is smudged beyond sight in the downpour. You take a deep breath. Start again. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Lightning flashes, jolting the clouds and cleaving them in two. The very world could be coming down in tatters around him and Taehyung wouldn’t think twice about being his everyday self, annoyingly cheery and maddeningly gentlemanly. You swear you see a flash of teeth, a boxy smile despite the water dripping from his umbrella, striking the pavement with an irregular heartbeat. Not your own, of course. “Nonsense! We can’t have you left out here to soak like this. Come on, you can drive us home!”

Oh my god, he certainly has not disappeared quicker than the very implication left his mouth. He is not shaking his head like a dog shedding wetness, nor opening the passenger’s side and hopping in, pausing to fold his umbrella in the gap before pulling the door neatly shut. You are not seated in your dead Wrangler with your ex-boyfriend at one-thirty in the morning in the middle of the very heavens coming apart with a religious fervor.

Taehyung brushes his wet hair out of his face, dribbling water down his cheeks. For all of your expectations, he looks no different than when you saw him last, standing on the curb with all the world’s joys flickering in his pretty almond eyes. The shadows cast his profile in a gaunter light, sweeping down the hollows of his jawline, his cheekbones; your fingers tighten around the door handle. Apparently, three weeks might not change much after all.

“Oh sorry, did I rush you?” He opts to ignore your blank-eyed stare of shock, reaching out to you before pausing, his hand outstretched to touch you. “I didn’t mean to rush you if you’re not ready to drive yet. We can sit here as long as you’d like! There’s no rush for me to be home. I just wanted to get out of the rain; it was starting to soak through my umbrella!”

For all of this, you can manage a brief: “Yeah.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to go!” The optimism in his voice is painful.

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah!”

“I lied.”

You don’t need to look at him to know the way his forehead will furrow. “What?”

“Gah!” You can’t help pinching your brow between two fingers. “I can’t fucking believe this—”

“Believe what?” Blinking doe-eyes, long lashes wet and thick in the dimness.

“Taehyung, my car battery died three blocks from your house and my cell phone isn’t working, and now I’m sitting here with my ex-boyfriend in the passenger’s seat and I have no fucking idea how I ended up here.” You sigh. “Do you not see the irony in this?”

He blatantly ignores the gesture towards the massive elephant basically perched on the center console. “No wonder your car is off! We’ll walk then.”

“Taehyung, please just make it easier for the both of us and l—”

It’s no use. Dear god. How you had ever put up with him, shared a bed with him is currently escaping you, but regardless of this, he is already out of the car as the words punctuate empty air. Weighing options is impossible when you have none to choose from.

“-use my phone to call somebody to pick you up!” The driver’s side door opens and he’s there, right there, not across the console or the bar or whatever. Right there. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste!”

“Kim Taehyung, for god’s sake, I am your ex-girlfriend!” The exclamatory stops him in his tracks. Finally. “Why are you helping me?”

The rain pours rivulets down his black slicker, drenching his hair and bunching along his shoulders and running down his arms. And yet, he brushes the water from his brow with a swipe of his thumb, peers at you, sneakered feet planted firmly in the asphalt. He raises a finger to the sky, smiles— not a half-smile, lopey and lop-sided, but a true grin, squared and gummy and full of wonder. “Ideal weather.”

“Kim Taehyung, you are absolutely ridiculous—”

“Ideal!”

“So let me get this straight,” Yoongi grits as you sit across from him, your frame molded into the plush of his second-hand loveseat. “Your car died on the back streets, coincidentally three blocks from Kim Taehyung’s house, who is— just to double check— the asshole who shredded your relationship, and he happened to be out for a walk in the rain and stumbled across you in your car, and offered to take you back to his house and let you stay there till morning until you could get me to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

“What the actual fuck.”

You gesture at him with your free hand, the other occupying a mug of steaming tea. “Join the club.”

“Just to double check, we’re talking about the same Kim Taehyung. The dude who you officially dated for a solid four months but fucked around with long before that. That guy, right? That Taehyung?”

You release a deep breath; the steam rising from your mug winds away. “Yes, it’s the same Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi looks like he is about to spit nails. “I hope you took the chance to kick him in the balls.”

“Yoongi!”

“Just saying.”

“It could’ve been a lot worse, actually.” Your companion raises an eyebrow. “He gave me his umbrella when we walked back.”

“Ah yes, because giving you his umbrella once undoes six months of emotional damage—”

“Yoongi, chill. I did what I had to do—”

“Which is good, because survival skills are important.” He searches your face for any hint of something other than stoicism. Forgiveness, maybe. “And it doesn’t have to be any more than that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” you affirm. “But even if I don’t like him, I owe him credit where it’s due.”

Yoongi frowns. He knows not to push, but curiosity pecks his bones, nips his intuition. “For the third time— why didn’t you call me last night when you got back to his house?”

You sip at your tea. Flaxen sweet, mild on your tongue. “You were at work and I didn’t want to bother. Paying rent is more important than saving my sorry stranded ass.”

“You’re neglecting to mention the Kim Taehyung part.”

He rubs a fine nerve, one push too far. “Yoongi, what are you so worried about?” You sit up, place your mug on the fold-out table. “It’s not like I’m suddenly pining over him just because he happened to be there when I needed help. It’s not like I had any other options; I can handle myself. Taehyung and I broke up a month and a half ago; I’m not as… broken as I was before.”

It’s written on Yoongi’s face that he doesn’t like it, but protectiveness wins out over stubbornness. It always does when it comes to you. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

You soften. “I know.”

The tension drains from his hunched figure. “I know you can handle yourself when it comes to people like him. But I also know how hard you cried over him in a shitty motel all those weeks ago.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t want you to feel like that again because of someone. Fool me twice, you know? You deserve better than that.”

Your eyes flick to his. Steady, warm, weighing justice by the tawny flecks that glint in the raven black of his irises. “I do. And I don’t doubt that. It won’t happen again.”

His own mug clacks as it meets the wooden tabletop. “You know, you never told me what exactly happened between you two that ended it. Like, I know the rough idea, but not play-by-play. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but…” He trails off, leaving the gap.

“Ah.” A remark, neutral in sheen but bitter in taste. Like biting into the shell of a crisp apple, only to find that it’s not as sweet as once hoped it to be. “Sure.”

So Yoongi listens.

It’s strange how someone so vivid in nightmares, so seemingly real as the pen between your fingers or the breath in your lungs, can fade away so quickly by daybreak. Before you ran into Taehyung again (for better or for worse? For worse), he loomed as some larger-than-life figure in the back of your consciousness, spewing traumas and terrors like a river gully. But there he was in the passenger’s seat, no larger or smaller than before. Just Taehyung. Terrifying in premise, in rationality, on the contrary.

With that in mind, it was hard to not wonder if you had, perhaps, not given him credit where it was due. The Taehyung you met in the pouring rain was the same Taehyung whose hair you brushed sand from and temple you kissed and sides you pinched to get him to squeak when he laughed. Memories you tried to stuff away, filter through a new lens with every flicker in your mind, like a crackling film reel. But there he was, and here you were, and you weren’t quite sure who you were running from anymore.

Is it easy to run from someone who your lips know the taste of, fingers know the feel of? Is it easier to run from yourself when you strip away the miscommunications, aches and pains?

Yoongi knew the full story now. Terrifying to admit your fault, any measure of it, because you never liked to show him what being broken looked like. Some measure of personal freedom exercised, but with the wrong heart in mind, because he would never judge anything you had to say and instead, simply listen. He was always an older soul than you ever tried to be and he knew it, rugged wisdom at its finest. But ultimately, he only knew what he was told or taught, and there you were, spilling the unmangled truth to him on a Wednesday morning over two cups of chamomile tea. 

Coming to grasp with imperfections is part of the cursed struggle of being human, of embracing those little nicks and dashes that make us who we are. It does not mean we are loved any less, but loved because of them; none of us are angels. These messes are our measures, our faults and our pleasures. How terrifying it all is, being ourselves. Being raw and vulnerable and attacking those thoughts that weigh heavy on our consciousness, day after day.

And it is easy to wonder if you matter through all of this, through the chaos of that inner dialogue. It’s moments like these that put those perspectives into frame, click them like camera shutters pausing time to breathe and think. To look at the white-framed ink is to rewrite tangibility, printed blurry on those transparent rolls. Nothing is so unforgettable when it is angled just so.

In the evening, in the comforts of your apartment, you uncork a Polaroid from where it is hidden behind some cheery optimistic phrase you stole off of tumblr. Bullshit for the purpose it serves, painfully ironic for the task it demands. A picture of a boy with cherry-red hair and a boxy grin on his face, arms wrapped around you with all of the comforts and ease of home. There’s mirth in your eyes, sheer joy and laughter. No alcohol involved, just two people who found it easy to slip into each other’s company just-so. A jasper gem for you, polished to perfection and printed right underneath your fingertips.

Anxiety clenches at the base of your jaw, massages your throat with the cruelest intentions. You swallow it back.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Crackles to life.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Taehyung?”

His voice melts through the receiver like buttery chocolate, smooth and warm. “You still have my phone number! Hello! I thought I’d never hear from you.”

“I-I’m sorry, what?” You blink in confusion, then shake your head. “Never mind.”

“I thought I’d never hear from you. That guy who picked you up didn’t seem to say much, but I figured you’d call eventually to say that you made it home safe. So I guess you did! And I’m glad.” You can hear Taehyung smiling through the phone, easy inflections of speech.

“Yeah.” You fidget, playing with the edge of your sleeve. Now or never. “Taehyung, I owe you an apology.”

This is the first time he falters, hints at something deeper. “What for?”

You take a deep breath. “You were kind to me. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time, so I was a complete asshole to you. And I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it was the least I could do! Nobody deserves to be stuck in the pouring rain—”

“I’m not talking about the rainstorm.”

He stutters. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Taehyung.”

He’s quiet. It is terrifying.

“Taehyung, both of us know what I mean.”

You momentarily wonder if the line has gone dead. Perhaps it has. A saving grace, and then that deep timbre crackles to life on the other side. You nearly miss what he says.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers.

“You were kind to me,” you stutter. “Kind to me; so, so kind. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was w-when you gave it to me. And I was a complete asshole to you. I’m sorry.” You wait for something, anything, but he gives no intention, and you continue. “Taehyung, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was so terrified that I stuffed it away into some far-off corner and tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. I turned so much outward onto you that you didn’t deserve because I didn’t know how to be good enough for someone like you. I took you for granted, Taehyung, the exact opposite of everything I should have done. You glow like the literal fucking sun, and I’m a little cloud drifting through the sky. I should’ve let you shine through me, but instead, I just blocked you out. And I’m sorry,” you confess, the tension in your shoulders collapsing. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time in weeks you wish you could see him in front of you, gauge his reactions like barometric pressure, but instead he’s across town and you are here, feeling ever-so-small in spite of yourself. It was easy to read what he was thinking, painted across his face in swaths of joy and sadness and everything in between, but here, he gave away nothing. 

Please say something, Taehyung. Please say anything.

“Ideal weather,” he murmurs.

“W-What?”

“A sun without clouds in the sky shines blindingly. Clouds temper all that light; certainly we don’t need all of it.” It sounds so cheesy, some Shakespearean verse he quotes from off the top of his head, but it is the closest thing he’ll phrase to acceptance, and you swallow down a relieved sob. He calls you by name then, lets it ring warm and sweet, the way he used to say it. With life, energy, everything it lacked simply because it rang from all the wrong mouths till then. “Everything happens for a reason. You did the best you could. It just didn’t work out at the time.”

“Taehyung, it’s okay to blame me. It’s okay to say that I was the one who fucked it all up, not you. For god’s sakes, you never did anything wrong. It was always my insecurity, my mistakes—”

“You’re only human. You did the best that you could, just as I did. Who could blame you for that?” Taehyung’s words seep heat into your bones, calm your trembling fingers. “I couldn’t. Nobody could. I certainly don’t think any less of you for it. None of us are angels; we did our best with what we had. And that’s alright.”

You can’t help but laugh, dry, monosyllabic. “You handled this so much remarkably better than I did, god.”

He’s breathy with amusement. “It took a little while.”

“I could imagine.”

He hums. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Your index finger finds the edges of the instant photo. His smile catches in the light of your desk lap. “There’s another reason I called.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“Believe it or not, no.” You trace his shoulders, the planes of his chest. “I just wanted to say. I have a Polaroid of us from July, from that bonfire that Jeongguk had with like fifty people down at the beach. I kept it, selfishly. It’s been pinned up on my bulletin board behind another piece of paper. But I took it out today. And I think I might pin it up in front now.”

“Oh, the cherry red hair.” The fondness seeps through the receiver. “I loved that night.”

“Me too,” you admit. A beat of silence. “Goodnight, Taehyung. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re hanging up already?”

“What?” You nearly sputter.

“I haven’t gotten to talk about the Polaroids I kept, too.”

There are two ways to fundamentally seduce Kim Taehyung: make his coffee exactly how he likes it, or play with his hair while he’s lying on your chest. Both of which you achieved, and both of which led to your current predicament.

But we’ll rewind a bit.

That phone call, the first of many, lasted into the early hours of the morning, that sacred time that you both hold dear. It tasted like nostalgia and fondness, feelings you corked and bottled out of fear of what might lie on the other side. But in this case, the other side was a friend and more, a living history book for all of the cracks in between. And he simply adored filling them in.

That lazy afternoon where you planned on having a date at the park, but it had poured rain nearly as intense as the day you reconnected with him. You danced in between the raindrops instead, bare feet on the gravely asphalt, wishing you could touch heaven and so you kissed the boy whose cheeks were between your palms. The spontaneous road trip you took to the next big city over, five hours away, simply because for the first time in so long, you had nowhere to be but with each other. Hands held between library shelves, firelight’s glow on faces untouched. Sharing a tuft of blue cotton candy with sticky fingers, talking about everything and nothing under the moonlit, cloudless sky. For every instant photo saved were memories tenfold that he plucked from that mind of his like stars placed in the breadth of the cosmos.

One phone call became two, became four. Became texting over a break at work, FaceTiming over dinner. Became meeting each other for a late breakfast, studying at the cafe for an early afternoon cup of espresso. Depth and understanding, and Taehyung is slotting into your life without a second thought, as easily as you’re slipping into his. You let him this time, so much smoother than before. You want him to.

Neither of you can deny what it is happening, but neither of you can find a complaint to lodge. So when he asks you out, fingers entwined over the metal arm of the park bench, a bouquet of sunflowers tucked next to you, he already knows what your answer will be.

Indeed, there are two fundamental ways to seduce Kim Taehyung, and as a master of both of them, it is only a matter of time before you find yourselves at the foot of your bed; he pulls you closer to press his lips to your own. He tastes like cappuccino and chocolate and you’re humming into the kiss, shuddering underneath him. He still knows your body, every divet, every edge. He never stopped loving it— never stopped loving you.

He worships the way he loves— selflessly, giving every ounce of himself without abandon or question. When he eases himself between your thighs, the look in his eyes is nothing short of sinful adoration, seeking out every secret to your pleasure. It’s ingrained in his memory, the way you gasp or grab his hair when his fingers dance along your skin; he couldn’t forget it even if he tried. It is worth every wince as your digits tug at his scalp; he swallows down everything you give him and begs for more, more, more.

And likewise you lavish him, devoting minutes to dot his heaving ribs with kisses, stroking comforting palms down his sinewy thighs. Taehyung is every work of art you have wanted to see in a museum, living, breathing, merely mortal but so much more. So vibrant, so raw.

And afterwards you lie together, unable to tell where he begins and you end. Breathing in the heat, piecing each other together in the silent din. Clothes are tossed about the room; you can’t find it in you to care. You turn to him, caress his cheek, run a thumb over his lips. “Stay here tonight. Please.”

He smiles and your thumb brushes his teeth, boxy and exposed through the gap of his grin. “Was the overnight bag not enough?”

“How did I not notice you packed an overnight bag?” You sit up, wrapping the blankets around your torso, scanning the room to spot his duffel.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, wraps himself around you like a human koala. “I’m very good at being sneaky.”

“Mm, I noticed.” There it is, against your dresser. Your heart swells, fit to burst.

“Come to bed,” Taehyung hums, gritty, a little seductive. It sends a chill down your spine. You don’t think it’s meant to. Your fingers find his own and knit together over his knuckles.

“I’m right here, sunshine.”

He kisses behind your ear, the gentlest of intentions. “I love you,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”

You squeeze over his hand. Everything left unsaid, in the space of a breath. Two. “I love you too,” you whisper. “And I will always be here, loving you, with everything I could possibly give you. Every ounce of my heart. I love you.” 

He squeezes back, wraps the blanket around your frame, tucks you in tight. He kisses your shoulder with lips of silk, and you roll on your side to get comfortable, his arm draped over your waist. 

Against the far wall, propped up on his duffel, lies a pair of Converse sneakers, as scuffed and beaten as they were saturated with rain, on the day you fell in love with Kim Taehyung all over again.

[surlybobbies]

The Noises of Routine (deancas 3.7k)

Excerpt: 

Cas’s apartment has always been quiet, but now he’s even more thankful for it because he can hear Dean everywhere: the creak of his footsteps on the floorboards, the running water of the shower, the music that sometimes drifts from behind his closed door into the living room.

Cas wants the sounds even closer. He wants Dean’s footsteps in his bedroom, Dean’s murmur from the pillow next to his, Dean’s music from the nightstand while he gets ready for bed. He wants the noises of a lifetime of routine, the noise of a life with Dean in it.

(quarantine fic. Dean and Cas stay in Cas's apartment.)

Rating: T Tags: Quarantine fic, friends to lovers, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending, roommates

Notes: A fic written for the “Quarantine and Chill” round of gift exchange on the Profound Bond discord. My giftee is @zigostia!  I’m glad they enjoyed it, and I’m glad to be able to share it with you all too!

You can read it on ao3 here or

When the news breaks, Dean and Cas’s eyes connect over Cas’s tiny kitchen island. Dean is standing over a pot of chili. There’s an empty bowl in his hand. Cas is perched on his secondhand stool with a chili stain on his collar.

They stare at each other while the broadcast continues from the TV behind Cas. He can see the light shifting on Dean’s throat when he swallows.

“With the confirmation of the first case of covid-19, the governor has issued a statewide stay-at-home order effective midnight Monday. We can expect to hear about how long this order may last during her press conference in a few minutes.”

Dean puts the bowl down. He doesn’t break eye contact with Cas, though it’s obvious his mind is miles away. “That’s… not good.”

Cas opens his mouth but he can’t find anything to say. He had known this moment would come eventually, his eyes having been glued to the TV now for weeks, but here in the moment he can’t quite comprehend it.

Dean’s hand skates over his eyes. “Fuck.”

“We’ll be fine,” Cas says, startled out of his shock by Dean’s distress. “Let’s make a trip tomorrow to Costco - “

But Dean is shaking his head.

Then Cas remembers. “Your lease is up next month.”

“In three weeks.” Dean gestures toward the TV. “This isn’t going to be over in three weeks.” He walks to the couch in front of the TV and sinks down into it. “How the hell am I going to find a new place in quarantine?”

“Surely your landlord won’t kick you out - “ Cas shuts his trap when Dean sends him a look because they both know his landlord’s reputation. At a loss, Cas wanders over and stands behind the couch. For a while they watch the news. The governor is late to his press conference and the anchor is repeating the talking points of the breaking news. Cas’s eyes slide to Dean, sitting on the right side of the couch. Cas knows there’s a permanent divot in the cushion from all the time he’s spent there. Struck by a sudden idea, Cas says, “If you don’t find a place, you can take my couch for as long as you need.”

Dean’s head sinks slowly into his hands. “Thanks,” he mumbles to his lap.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Cas stares at the back of Dean’s head, trying to figure out the reason behind his behavior. Then it hits him. “But before that you have three weeks stuck in your apartment.”

“With my neighbors stuck in their apartment.”

“Their dog,” Cas remembers.

“Their dog,” Dean groans.

A silence falls between them, though meanwhile the governor has finally made his way onto the TV screen. “Looking at the data, if we all do our part by staying home or otherwise practicing social distancing, we can expect to emerge from this situation in about four weeks.”

Dean, his head still in his hands, says some very choice words about his opinion.

“Stay with me, then,” Cas says.

Four beats. Quiet. Then, “Say again?”

“I’ve got a spare bedroom. You’ve got clothes here already. Pack your things and stay with me for four weeks.”

Dean lifts his hand and twists around to stare incredulously at Cas. “Pack my things? Cas, that’s a whole fucking apartment’s worth of shit - you want me to get it here in three days?”

“So you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m not thinking about it.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “The dog.”

Dean’s face falls suddenly. “The dog,” he sighs in defeat. “Fuck.”

So he moves in. Cas’s apartment is suddenly full of beat-up boxes, most shoved under tables and stashed in corners, ready to be moved again for when Dean finds a place of his own. Dean takes a few of the boxes into Cas’s spare bedroom.

Within a few days there’s evidence of Dean’s presence all over the apartment: his jacket in a pile with Cas’s near the door, his toothbrush in a separate cup near Cas’s, his shoes by his bedroom door, a spare sock in the dryer. It makes Cas feel warm in a way he doesn’t dwell on, even when he notices the way Dean smiles at him without fail every morning when he finally emerges from his blanket cocoon in the spare bedroom.

It’s hurtfully easy to live with Dean, but every time Cas wakes up looking forward to spending his day within Dean’s orbit, he walks into the living room and catches sight of the boxes under the coffee table and remembers why Dean’s there, why Cas is there, and why the streets outside are empty. Their days are simple and easy, yes, but there’s always an undercurrent of anxiety that Cas can’t seem to shake.

The first time they go grocery-shopping during the stay-at-home order, they go together, and only because neither wanted the other one to go, but neither could no one go, and so their stubbornness resulted in this:

Dean, driving. Cas handing him a disposable face mask before they get out of the car. Worried frowns hidden behind cotton and elastic. Without speaking, they quickly understand their roles: Dean handles the cart and Cas handles the groceries. They watch each other - what they touch and what they don’t. Cas watches as Dean weaves through the shoppers, his mouth a thin line every time someone gets too close to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but once they get into the car and wipe down their hands with antibacterial wipes, Cas heaves a huge sigh. Dean looks at him, and his eyes are gentle. They don’t speak on the ride home and eventually Cas’s heart begins to calm.

In the apartment, they take 45 minutes to wipe down their groceries. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” Dean sighs, after stashing the milk in the fridge.

Cas has spent the last 45 minutes watching Dean’s hands under the guise of health and hygiene. “I’m getting used to it,” he says.

Their routine takes shape over time and ends up looking a little like this:

Cas wakes up first. He makes the coffee. Then he skims through the news on his phone while he waits for Dean to wake up and start breakfast. They didn’t plan the arrangement: it came about only because Cas never ate breakfast and Dean figured out very quickly that if he wanted food in the morning he’d have to make it himself.

Eventually Cas starts joining him for breakfast, but Dean is still without fail the one standing at the stove every morning with a spatula in his hand.

They sit near the window to eat for the most part. They chat about the pains of working from home, all while watching the eerily empty streets outside and carefully avoiding the topic that dominates the news.

They go through bacon at an alarming rate, and one day when they run out Dean sulks the whole day.

“Threw me off,” he complains at the end of the day, sprawled across the couch with an arm over his eyes. “Accidentally left my meeting when I wanted to mute myself.”

Cas cooks dinner to give Dean a break. Cas is not a great cook but Dean always clears his plate with relish and claps a hand on Cas’s shoulder before clearing up and starting on the dishes. Cas lets him handle the dishes to avoid the judgmental look Dean had cast on him the first time he saw Cas washing up. “You’re using too much water,” he’d said, wincing.

Cas had blinked at him. “You’re welcome to do them yourself.”

“Honestly, I’d prefer that.”

So Dean handles the dishes and Cas wipes up the table and waits for Dean on the couch where they channel surf for a few hours.

When Dean starts to nod off, Cas will shut off the TV and nudge Dean until he trudges toward the bathroom to brush his teeth.

At the end of each night they end up behind different doors.

The stay-at-home order continues. The four weeks that the governor’s data had projected at the beginning passes as cases have not shown a decline. Quarantine edges into months. Cas’s hair gets long and Dean laughs every time he catches sight of him. Then one day he runs his hands through it in passing, and neither of them laugh. Dean just quirks a smile and takes his coffee and goes into his room to start work, and Cas collapses into an armchair because he’s in love with his best friend and can’t stand it.

The next day Cas lets Dean take clippers to his hair. It’s gotten out of hand, he says, but mostly he wants to feel Dean’s hands again. Dean turns on the clippers and Cas watches him in the mirror.

“You don’t need to look so worried,” Dean says, grinning.

“I’m not” is all Cas says.

Their eyes connect in the mirror. Dean’s grin falls a little, replaced by something soft and surprised and thoughtful. He’s silent through the rest of the haircut, and Cas lets his eyelids fall shut with every pass of Dean’s hand through his hair.

When they’re done Cas nods his approval at his reflection, turning his head left and right. “Who needs a barber when you have Dean Winchester?”

He catches Dean’s eye. Dean has been staring.

“Dean?”

Dean grins suddenly and begins packing up the clippers, winding the wire around his fingers. He won’t look at Cas. “Not bad, eh?”

The TV says the state will reopen in phases beginning in a week. The chyron across the screen confirms what Cas thinks he’s hearing, but it’s difficult to believe after so long in one place. Cas tries to catch Dean’s eye, but is unsurprised not to succeed. In recent days Dean is either staring into Cas’s soul or looking away completely and it’s more often the latter than the former.

“I still don’t think it’s safe,” Cas ventures, a little hesitant because Dean’s staring out the window again at the empty streets.

“It’s not,” Dean says. There’s a trace of anger in his voice, but Cas knows it’s not directed toward him.

“Will you stay a little longer then?”

Dean looks at him finally. He looks sad. “Yeah, probably. Sorry.” He clears Cas’s plate from in front of him and walks it to the sink.

They spend the first few weeks after the reopening of the state in much the same way as they did in quarantine. Cas’s apartment has always been quiet, but now he’s even more thankful for it because he can hear Dean everywhere: the creak of his footsteps on the floorboards, the running water of the shower, the music that sometimes drifts from behind his closed door into the living room.

Cas wants the sounds even closer. He wants Dean’s footsteps in his bedroom, Dean’s murmur from the pillow next to his, Dean’s music from the nightstand while he gets ready for bed. He wants the noises of a lifetime of routine, the noise of a life with Dean in it.

The want is not new. What is new is the sour feeling in his gut knowing that everything he wants is only just out of reach. If he could stretch out his fingers just a little bit more, he’d be able to pull Dean closer and keep him from leaving. Every day the boxes in his living room greet Cas and remind him that despite whatever routine they’ve established, Cas’s apartment is destined to return to its silence.

One day Cas finishes work early and wanders into the living room to see Dean sitting on the couch scrolling through pictures on his phone with a frown.

“Finished up?” Cas prods cautiously as he reaches for a glass in his cupboard.

Dean barely looks up. “Nah,” he said. “Took the day off so I could concentrate on looking for an apartment.”

Cas’s stomach sinks. He thinks of his next words carefully as he turns on the tap and fills his glass. “How’s it going?”

“There’s a few options. I might take a look at one of them later on today.”

Cas doesn’t respond. He’s staring at his glass of water.

“Wanna come with?”

Cas suddenly realizes how much he’s missed sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car. The trips they’ve taken recently have only been fraught with worry and tension, and Cas desperately wants to correct that. “If you’ll have me,” he replies.

Cas can hear the smile in Dean’s answer: “You know I will, Cas.”

The apartment building is nice but painfully far from Cas’s. After almost three months of living with Dean, the concept of having him almost an hour away makes Cas feel sick.

“You okay?” Dean asks, as they make their way to the building door. “You’re squinting again.”

Cas scowls, but Dean can’t see it behind the mask. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Dean says, in the tone he’s reserved for when he doesn’t want to bother with Cas’s attitude. He presses a buzzer. A few seconds later, they’re being ushered up a set of stairs by a sweet old lady with curlers in her hair who coos over them and chatters about the possibility of having another wonderful tenant. She opens up the apartment and lingers at the door while Dean and Cas wander.

“At least it’s furnished,” Cas comments. The furniture is mismatched and a little beaten, but it will do.

Dean just shrugs. He’s been quiet since entering the apartment.

They make their way to the single bedroom. In it is a queen-sized bed and nothing else. They stand at the door and look at it for a long moment. Cas bites his tongue and digs his fingernails into his palm, trying not to think about who Dean might share it with. “It’s a decent size,” he manages to say. It might be the mask covering his mouth, but to his ears his voice sounds distant.

Dean looks at him with raised eyebrows.

“The place, not the bed,” Cas corrects.

It’s difficult to read Dean’s facial expression through the mask when he says, “I wish there were another bedroom for you.”

“That’s very kind,” Cas replies, a little taken aback. “But don’t let me influence your decision. It’s your apartment.”

Dean just shrugs and turns away.

In the end they leave only with words of thanks for the old lady and reassurances that Dean will get back to her.

When they return to Cas’s apartment, Dean throws his keys onto the table near the door and then takes off his shoes. His jacket goes on top of Cas’s on the door hook. He takes off his disposable mask and holds out a hand silently for Cas’s. When he gets it, he throws both into the trash and washes his hands.

He looks like he’s headed toward the fridge when he notices Cas watching him from his spot by the door.

“What?” he asks as he reaches for the fridge handle.

Cas takes a long breath. “Stay here.”

Dean freezes just as he opens the fridge. He blinks at Cas. “What?”

Cas has just watched Dean move through the apartment like it was his own, and it makes Cas desperate to be understood. “You’ve been here for two months already. Your clothes keep getting mixed up with mine, and you’ve taken over the fridge. We haven’t killed each other. You might as well just stay.”

Dean grabs a beer from the fridge. He looks at it, looks into the fridge, then looks at Cas. Cas knows from years of experience that Dean��s going to crack a joke, and he does: “Is that your only requirement for a roommate? ‘Must not murder me’?”

Cas still hasn’t moved from his spot near the apartment door. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Dean says. He closes the fridge and then pops the top off of his beer to take a long swig. When he’s done, he just looks at Cas and blinks.

“That’s not a yes,” Cas points out after an uncomfortable few seconds of silence.

Dean leans against the counter and stares at his socks. “I gotta think about it.”

Anxiety worms its way under Cas’s skin, but he’s determined to quash it. He moves toward the sink near Dean to start dinner. He had plans to make a pot of chili again, but for the life of him he can’t remember where to start. After washing his hands, he opens the cupboard and grabs a few spices that sound familiar. Dean is still leaning against the counter a few feet away.

Cas puts the spices down and stares at them, hands on hips. He must looked stumped because Dean clears his throat and says, “Onion.”

Cas doesn’t acknowledge it but he turns to get the onion anyhow. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he reaches for the bowl behind Dean. Cas is close enough to smell Dean’s aftershave and almost crazy enough to lean in closer. He doesn’t, though he desperately wants to. Cas can feel a blush blooming on his cheeks but he avoids Dean’s eyes and turns away, onion in hand.

Cas begins to dice the onion. He’s never been great with a knife but this time, with Dean’s eyes on the back of his neck, he’s somehow even worse. It takes forever, and by the time forever has passed, Cas’s eyes are irritated from slicing the onion. Dean snorts at him when Cas turns around, eyes squinted, to wash his hands and rinse out his eyes.

“Every single time,” Dean says. Cas’s eyes are barely open so he can’t see Dean’s expression, but he can hear the traces of affection in his voice. “Go faster next time.”

“You’re hired the next time I need to cut onions,” Cas says as he washes his hands.

Dean’s quiet. Cas hears him take another swig of his beer as he leans down to try to rinse out his eyes. When he straightens, he feels Dean pushing a towel into his hand.

“Thanks,” Cas mumbles as he wipes his face. When he’s finished blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Cas is finally able to focus on Dean, who’s watching him intently.

The apartment is silent save for the whir of the fridge and the swing of the ceiling fan. If Cas listened really closely he might be able to hear the murmur of conversation from his neighbors, but right now he’s focused in on Dean, who’s living and breathing in front of him, a testament to the wonders of the universe.

In this moment it’s almost as if Dean is thinking the same thing about Cas. His eyes dance between Cas’s. His throat bobs. Cas is about to ask what’s wrong, but the words die on his tongue when Dean suddenly puts his bottle down and then lifts a hand to fit around Cas’s jaw. His hand is cold and slightly wet from the condensation. A shaky thumb grazes Cas’s mouth.

“I do want to stay, Cas,” he says quietly. “But you need to know what that means for me.”

Cas’s heart is in his throat. He opens his mouth to speak, and Dean’s thumb follows his bottom lip. He forgets his words.

Dean waits for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he gives Cas a pretend scowl. “You gotta say something.”

“P-please clarify,” Cas stammers. His cheeks are on fire, and his eyes are welling up again.

Dean kisses him. It’s just a touch of his lips against Cas’s, small enough to argue that it was barely anything at all, but Cas knows it for what it is: a question he has to answer.

“Clear enough?” Dean asks softly, staring at his socks again. He’s dropped his hands and linked them together in front of him. He’s still leaning against the counter. Cas would be angry with him for looking so goddamn cool but he’s too busy trying to process the fact that Dean has just kissed him.

Cas swallows. The towel in his hand is crushed by his nervous fist. “My offer still stands,” he says. “My home is always open to you.”

Dean looks up at him through his eyelashes with a slightly exasperated look. “Where I’m gonna live is not really the most important issue at hand right now.” His eyes dip down to Cas’s lips then back up to Cas’s eyes. It’s an invitation if Cas ever saw one.

Cas steps forward and kisses Dean. It’s a proper one this time, one that involves Dean’s hands on Cas’s ribs and Cas’s hands in Dean’s hair. Cas feels like there’s a current of electricity running through him, up to his ears and down to his toes, running through Dean everywhere their skin touches. It’s only when Dean makes an eager noise low in his throat that Cas pulls away (not without an effort), making Dean scowl.

“Dinner,” Cas says, his vocabulary greatly reduced. He wants to wrap himself up in Dean but knows there has to be a long talk beforehand, and they can’t do that when Dean’s hands are trying to inch down Cas’s waistband.

Dean closes his eyes. “Fine,” he mumbles.

Cas steps away and Dean’s hands drop. “But I take it you’re staying.”

Dean’s mouth twitches upward, though his eyes remain closed. “You couldn’t pay me to leave after that, Cas.”

Cas indulges in a pleased smile because he knows Dean can’t see it. He returns to the cupboard. By the time he’s gotten the ingredients gathered, Dean has gotten the bowls and cutlery, the pot and the stirring spoon. He arranges them on the kitchen island, then steps away.

Cas watches as Dean drags a box from underneath the coffee table and opens it. The sound of the cardboard is comforting in the silence.

“Hey,” Dean says, looking toward Cas. “Where should I put my mom’s picture?”

[mldrgrl]

Wise Up

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Summary: Scully needs someone to take her home after dental surgery.  Pre-Millennium.

He came back from getting coffee to find her mid-conversation with her mother.  She gave him a glance over her shoulder when he put the to-go cup quietly on her table and then lowered her chin so that her hair obscured her face.  She switched her cell phone from one hand to the other and he shuffled to his own desk pretending to give her privacy.

“It’s fine, Mom,” she said.  “I promise.  I’ll just try to get it rescheduled until after the new year.  No, I...no, I don’t need...Mom, it’s fine.”

He sipped his coffee and opened a file, but kept his gaze higher than necessary to keep her in his periphery.  She pinched the bridge of her nose in silence for the next ten seconds and then she finally lifted her head.

“Mom,” she stated.  “I have to go, I need to finish a report.  I’ll reschedule for January.  As for Thursday, don’t worry about it, you just feel better.  I know.  I know.  I love you too.  Bye.”

Scully disconnected her call with a deep sigh that Mulder pretended not to notice.  He was burning with curiosity, however, and it was only a matter of time before he would ask.  He just had to wait for the right opportunity.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

He nodded as she stood and rubbed the back of her jaw a little.  He’d noticed she’d been doing that a lot lately, but hadn’t said anything about it.  She left without her coffee, her jacket, or her satchel, so he assumed she was headed to the ladies’ room.

Only minutes later, she was back, and he was sipping his coffee and reading email.  She stayed standing, lifting the lid of her own coffee and blowing across the top.  He gave her a sideways glance as she paced in front of his desk with a pensive expression.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said.

“A few dozen more and I might make a dent in what I owe you.”

“Mm.”  The left corner of her mouth twitched into a half-smile.

He thought he might have an opening.  “Everything alright?”

“Fine.”

He thought wrong.  He nodded and clicked open another email advising an early release tomorrow for administrative personnel due to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday.  He’d be surprised if he saw anyone but his own shadow at work tomorrow.  Even Scully had taken the day off.

By the time he opened and deleted three other emails, she was still pacing by his desk, so he tried again.  “How’s your mom?”

“She’s…”

“Fine?”

“She has the flu, actually.  She called to tell me that she didn’t think she’d be up for Thanksgiving this year.”

“Oh.”  Mulder sat back in his chair.  Now he was the one pulling a pensive expression.

“It’s fine,” she said, quickly.  “I wasn’t actually…”

He raised his brows in question and she shook her head dismissively.  He swiveled from side to side in his chair and tapped a pencil against his chin as he looked at her, which he knew made her nervous.  It worked.  She shifted her feet and suddenly couldn’t decide if she might speak or drink her coffee.  Her exasperation was palpable.

“I have a dentist appointment tomorrow,” she blurted.  “Well, I was supposed to, but now I have to cancel.”

“Why?”

“I’m having a wisdom tooth removed and Mom was supposed to take me.  I was going to use the long weekend to recover.  She has the flu now, so…”  She shrugged and finally took a sip of her coffee and then rubbed her lips together.  “They don’t let you leave on your own after anesthesia.  So, I have to reschedule.”

“I can take you.”

“No, Mulder, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking.  I’m offering.  I can take you.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s not like I’d be getting much done here by myself anyway.”

“I thought you always accomplished so much with me out of your hair.”

He smiled at her.  “I just tell you that so you don’t feel guilty about leaving me on my own.”

She snorted softly.

“So, what time do I pick you up?” he asked.

“Don’t you have plans for Thanksgiving, Mulder?”

He got up out of his seat and walked over to her, extending his hand.  “Fox Mulder,” he said.  “We’ve obviously never met before.”

She bashfully lowered her head a little and hesitated for a few beats.  “I need to be there by 9:15,” she finally said.  “It’s only about ten minutes away from my apartment.”

“The Skinman’s gonna have a heart attack when I submit my request for time off.”

And that’s how he ended up sitting in a dental surgeon’s office splitting his attention between vintage copies of Reader’s Digest and anxiously checking his watch every five minutes.  Occasionally, he would get up and inspect an elaborate fish tank taking up half the wall in the waiting room to watch the yellow tangs and clownfish pass from side to side.

It was nearly noon when the nurse came out to collect Mulder.  “Your wife is ready for you,” she told him.

“Oh, um…”  He tossed the Reader’s Digest aside and decided it wasn’t worth it to explain his relationship to Scully.  Instead, he followed her to a tiny, all-white recovery room at the back of the office where his partner was curled up on a cot with her eyes closed.

“Miss Scully,” the nurse said, shaking her gently on the shoulder.  “Your husband is here to take you home.”

Scully opened her eyes and stared blankly at the woman standing above her.  She sat up slowly with the nurse’s help and then Mulder crouched down and put a hand on her knee.  Her right cheek was puffed up, full of cotton swabs that poked out of the corner of his mouth.  The size of her pupils caught him off guard, so dilated her eyes almost looked black.

“Muller,” Scully murmured.  “My mowf ish mishing.”

“Your mouth is missing?”  He chuckled softly and rubbed her knee.  “Certainly not the whole mouth.”

“She might be a little loopy until the anesthesia wears off,” the nurse said.  “The tooth was impacted and took some work.”

The thought of it made Mulder cringe.  He helped Scully into her jacket and then to her feet and she swayed into him, leaned against him for support.  The nurse handed him a small white bag with painkillers and instructions, which she rattled off to him as he escorted his partner slowly down the hall.

“Take the gauze out when you get home,” she said.  “Don’t let her prod the jaw or use mouthwash for at least a week.  She’ll probably want to sleep for a few more hours, but by the time she wakes up, she’ll be in a fair amount of pain.  Give her one of the painkillers immediately, and then as needed, but no more than four in 24 hours.  Ice packs will help with the swelling and the pain.  She might feel lightheaded or woozy the next couple of days and that’s normal.  No exercise for the next week, no drinking through a straw, and no eating or drinking at all for the next two hours.  And then soft foods and room temperature liquids are fine.  The pamphlet there has all the information you need.”

Mulder nodded along, suddenly nervous about the responsibility he’d volunteered for.  He’d never had dental surgery and had no idea the amount of recovery involved.  Maybe he should have let her reschedule the appointment so her mom could take care of her, but then again, he struggled to imagine Scully’s mom, as slight as she was, getting her daughter out of the office when Mulder was practically carrying her down the hall to the door.

It took some time, but he managed to get Scully into the car and buckled in.  She turned her head towards him when he got in and gazed at him like she had just awakened from a pleasant dream.

“You’re susha good driver,” she said.

“Well, thank you,” he answered, latching his seatbelt.

“Even whener losh and dunno whereer at.”

“Lucky for you, there’s no chance I’ll get lost from here to the apartment.”

“Are we goin’ to your parparmen, Muller?”

“I’m taking you home.”

“Mm home.”  

Mulder started the car and that was the last thing Scully said until they arrived in front of her building.  He would look over at her at red lights and she was still turned towards him, her eyes half-open, blinking slowly.  When he parked the car, she turned her head and her brows came together with a deep frown.  He helped her out of the car and she took baby steps across the lawn, leaving footprints in the thin layer of snow that covered the green.

Her face contorted as though she was in great pain and he stopped with her at the foot of the stairs up to her front door.  “Muller,” she whined.  “Thish isna wherer coush lives.”

“No, it’s where your couch lives.”

“I can’d shleep on my coush.”

“Good thing you have a bed.  Come on, almost there.”

It was slow-going up the stairs.  She took them one at a time, making sure both feet were planted securely before moving forward.  By the time he got her through the door, she was sagging against him again and he considered just picking her up and carrying her the rest of the way.

“Home sweet home,” he said, unlocking her apartment door.

“Where’sh the dog?” she asked, blinking up at him.

“What dog?”

“My dog.”

“Queegqueg?  He uh…”  Mulder paused.  It probably wasn’t the best idea to let her know her dog had been eaten by a lake monster three years ago.  “Queegqueg isn’t here right now.”

“Queegqueg.  Thash a weird word, Muller.  Queeeeeeequeeeeeeeeeeeg.  Queegquegqueegquegqueegqueg.”

He put the bag of painkillers and nurse’s instructions on the table in her kitchen while she tried to wrap her head around the odd word.  “Yeah, I always thought it was a weird name for a dog, too.”

“What dog?”

“Your dog.”

“I dun have a dog.”

Mulder raised his brows.  “Okay, let’s get you to bed.”

Scully sighed a little and let Mulder lead her towards the bedroom.  He sat her down on the bed and then knelt in front of her to unlace her tennis shoes.  He wondered if he should try to coax her into getting into some pajamas, but figured it might be more trouble than it was worth.  Jeans and a sweater should be comfortable enough.  He got both shoes off her feet and then remembered the gauze needed to come out of her mouth.  

“Can you…?”  He gestured to her mouth and she followed the wag of his finger until she turned cross-eyed.  “We need to get those cotton balls or whatever it is out of your mouth.”

She opened her mouth for him and tipped her head back a little.  If he didn’t know she was drugged up before, he definitely knew it now.  A sober Scully would’ve insisted on gloves and sterilizing and sanitizing the entire room before letting him near her mouth.  A sober Scully would’ve insisted she was fine and could do it herself.  Gingerly, he plucked out the saliva and blood-soaked pieces of cotton from the inside of her cheek, trying not to let his squeamishness show too much or  get in the way.  It wasn’t lost on him that if the tables were turned, she would do the same for him, and more.

When he was sure he’d removed all the gauze, he took it into the bathroom to dispose of, not looking at the little pile of gore in his hand.  He shivered and then washed his hands with the soap that Scully had been smelling of lately, which he definitely wasn’t going to complain about because it made her smell so good.  It made the night he’d ‘taught’ her how to play baseball even more memorable.  He thought it might have been a new lotion or bath gel, but it turned out it was hand soap the whole time.  Or maybe she had a whole set of it lurking in the bathroom.  He dried his hands and peered at the bottle.  It was simply called: Almond.  He would buy her another bottle or a dozen for Christmas.  He liked it.

Back in Scully’s room, he found her poking at her cheek with the pads of her fingers and he took her hand away from her face to stop her.  “You can’t do that,” he said.

“Can’t feel anything.”

“It’ll wear off soon enough.  Let’s get your coat off and into bed.”

“We can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Go to bed.”

“I don’t see why not.”  He started to unbutton her coat.  “You have the day off, tomorrow’s a holiday, and then you-”

“It’s against the rules.”

“I’m not familiar with any rules that prohibit adults from taking post-surgery naps.”

“The FBI says so.”

“I haven’t read the handbook in awhile, but I don’t think this’ll warrant an official reprimand in your permanent record.  If it does, I’ve got your back.”  He struggled to get her arms free from the jacket and she was no help.  Just looked solemnly up at him while pouting her bottom lip slightly.  He finally pulled the jacket loose and then reached behind her to turn down the bed.  “Time to break some imaginary rules,” he said.

“I want to,” she whispered.  “I really want to.  But…”  She winced and then reached up to cup her jaw.

“Hurting?”

“Kind of.”

“Okay, stay put.”  He turned to leave, but was stopped by a pull on his back pocket.

“Where’re you going?”

“To get you an ice pack.”

“You’ll come back?”

“I promise.”

“Promise, promise?”

He traced an ‘x’ against his chest.  She let go of his pocket and raised her hand up to him, all her fingers folded down except for the pinkie, which was crooked slightly.

“Pinkie swear?” she asked.

He chuckled and then hooked his pinkie finger with hers and gave it a shake.  “Lay down,” he said.  “I’ll be right back.”

Afraid she might try to stop him again, he hurried out of her room for the kitchen.  While there, he read over the instruction pamphlet on the table and checked her fridge and cupboards to see if she had any soft, bland foods, in case he might need to call out for delivery later or run to the store.  He found some yogurt and cans of soup and figured that would be sufficient.  What he couldn’t find, however, was an ice pack.  He searched her freezer high and low, but found nothing.  He decided to make do with a package of frozen corn wrapped in a tea towel.

He’d hoped to find her asleep when he came back to her room, but she was still awake, albeit drowsily staring up at the ceiling and rubbing at her jaw.

“You have to stop doing that,” he said, taking her hand away from her face.  He gently placed the makeshift icepack against her cheek and sat down next to her to hold it in place.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand.  She turned her head slightly and then closed her eyes and sniffed a little.  She looked up at him.

“You used my soap,” she said.

“Had to wash my hands earlier.”

“You like it don’t you?”

“It smells nice.”

“I noticed that you’ve been breathing me in lately.”

“If I have, I’m-”

“So, I went back to the shop I got the soap from and bought the lotion and the shower gel as well.”

“Oh.”  The first thing he thought was that he was right.  She did have a whole set lurking in her bathroom.  The second thought he had was that she’d just admitted she was wearing it for him.  Heat flooded his chest and tightened it, followed by a flutter low in his abdomen.

“You okay, Mulder?”

“Sorry, Scully, maybe I’m coming down with something?”

She struggled for a moment to sit up and the icepack slipped out of his hand and from her face, landing in the space between them on the bed.  She grabbed his head with both hands and pulled his towards her.

“Scully, wha-?”

“Checking for fever,” she murmured, resting her left cheek against his brow.  “You are a little warm, but I think you’re fine.”

“Not very scientific.”

“Some things are better than science.”

“I’m going to need you to repeat that when you’re no longer under the influence.”

“I haven’t been drinking.”

“You’re not exactly sober.”

She let him go and laid back down.  He retrieved the icepack and rewrapped it in the towel that came loose.  She waved him away when he tried to put it back on her cheek so he reached over to set it on her nightstand.

“I want to break the rules with you,” she said.

“Finally succumbing to my bad influence, are you?”

“I’m afraid though, Mulder.”

“What’re you afraid of?”

“The end of the world.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.  We’re gonna save the world together.  I promise.”

She shook her head.  “Our world, Mulder.  The world of you and me.”

“You’re gonna be stuck with me for a long, long time, Scully.”  He chuckled and raised his hand up, folding his fingers down and keeping his pinkie up.  “Pinkie swear.”

She grabbed his finger loosely with her own.  “I’m sorry I’m so sleepy.”

“You’re drugged up, partner.”

“Oh.”  She rubbed at one eye with the back of her hand.  “You won’t go, right?”

“I’ll hang with you until you kick me out.  You’ve got HBO, don’t you?”

“Even if we can’t go to bed?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted to take me to bed.”

“Oh.  Oh.”  He almost laughed.  Now her talk of rules made sense.  Except, what she said, what she’d been saying, was that she wanted to break those rules.  With him.  “Scully…”

Her eyes closed lazily and she took a deep, slow breath, exhaling with a sigh.  “I love you, Mulder.”

“Oh brother,” he whispered.  He sat absolutely still for the next few moments as that warm, fluttery feeling washed over him again.  He touched her shoulder and then leaned closer to her, watched her breathe slowly and evenly.  “You’re the only one I want to break the rules with too, Scully.”

Even though she was caught in sedated slumber, he was pretty sure she knew how he felt.  And he was definitely going to get her that almond soap for Christmas.

The End

[raevenlywrites]

The Ties That Bind 1 of ???

They say the first of my kind was a woman named Alasdair, a human raised by hawks. She learned the language of the birds, and was gifted with their form. It is a pretty myth, I admit, but few actually believe it. No record remains of her life. No record except for the feathers in every avian’s hair, even when otherwise we appear human, and the wings I can grow when I choose--and of course the beautiful golden hawk’s form that is as natural to me as the legs and arms I wear normally. This myth is one of the stories we hear as children, but it says nothing of reality or the hard lessons we are taught later. Almost before a child learns to fly, she learns to hate. She learns of war. She learns of the race that calls itself the serpiente. She learns that they are untrustworthy, that they are liars and loyal to no one. She learns to fear the garnet eyes of their royal family even though she will probably never see them. Of course, I have. I have seen them look to me in fear and pain, a young prince’s final moments. I have seen them look at me in consideration, a new ruler sizing up the woman who would be his enemy. And I have seen them beneath me, cushioned on a pillow of down, soft as my own hair. They taught me how to hate those eyes. No one taught me how to read them.

Danica Shardae, Tuuli Thea

The Mistari Disa spoke to the entire hall as she concluded, “The best advice I can offer is this: Tie the two royal families. Make the two sides into one. If you are willing to trust each other, and willing to put aside your anger and your hatred, then Zane Cobriana, take Danica Shardae as your mate. Danica Shardae, have Zane Cobriana as your alistair.”

The Disa’s words rang in my head as I dressed for bed, numb and mechanical. The serpiente prince had cried out as vehemently as the rest, as I had sat in shocked silence. The rest had reacted; I had observed. I watched garnet eyes flash with temper, right alongside normally sedate avian gold. But I also watched Zane’s face crumple as the Disa kicked us out, his desperate hand reaching as if he could see the fleeting peace slipping through his fingers even as he struggled to grasp it.

Take Zane Cobriana as your alistair.

I still couldn’t process the idea. “Alistair” was a word that meant so many things to me, none of which matched the fiery cobra. My first alistair, Vasili, had been taken from me too young to truly remember him. And after that, alistair was a word most often followed by the ragged grief of a newly made widow.

It was not a word I could fathom associating with Zane Cobriana.

I realized my hands had been working the same button over and over. I shook myself, trying to return to reality, to keep moving through this latest shock. My composure was shot to hell, and I jumped when a knock sounded at my door.

“Shardae?”

The familiar voice of long-time personal guard--oh, hell, my best friend, sounded through the door. Rei had been the most outspoken at the Disa’s suggestion, and he hardly sounded calmer now, though at least he was hiding it better. Shaky, and craving the comfort of his familiar presence in this unfamiliar place, I bid him enter.

He paused in the doorway, and I watched his face as a thousand thoughts chased their way behind his eyes. Already I felt better, just seeing him as shaken as I. Rei had been my friend since childhood, and was the only person I ever truly relaxed around. I had seen him in his grief for his father, lost when he was but a boy of twelve. He had seen me cry over countless deaths, until I had grown up enough to no longer let the tears show. We knew the shape of each other’s grief; and we knew how important it was to have somewhere safe to let it out, to be weak. He was weak with me now, and I sank into that uncertainty gratefully.

“Dani,” he breathed, only after the door was closed firmly behind him. “I’m sorry I lost my temper in the hall today. It’s my fault we were banned from further discussion.”

I straightened my shoulders, gathering my strength as he fell apart. We did this in turns, my Rei and me, being rock and crash wave alike.

“I don’t believe you were the only one shouting,” I said lightly, fighting back the shiver that threatened at the memory of those flashing garnet eyes. Zane had been exquisite in his anger, a fine, shimmering thing. It had been beautiful, and terrifying, like a lightning strike. I wrapped my arms around myself, unable to stop my reaction.

Rei mistook the gesture for fear, and I suppose that was in there too, and placed his hands over mine. It was utterly too forward, unspeakably inappropriate, and far from the first time. Rei and I had always been each other’s exceptions, our refuge for strength and comfort. I leaned into him, resting my forehead against his chest. His arms encircled me, fitting around me perfectly through years of habit. I had grown since that first night we’d curled up together, frightened and alone and crying ourselves to sleep, and so had he. But we’d grown together, and his arms still fit around mine as I held myself and tried to keep from falling apart.

This. This was what an alistair should be. This feeling of warmth, of solidness, of safety.

Rei would be my alistair, and I would grow to love him in that way, in time. And even if I never did, friendship was still well worth protecting.

Alistair.

Protector.

Fighter.

My thoughts flashed on Zane Cobriana again, reaching out for the fleeting dream of piece. He was willing to fight for that dream. And I was cowering in the arms of a man I was too afraid to love, for fear of losing him.

Losing him to the war we were here to stop.

I must have tensed, because Rei pulled back, searching my face.

“Dani... You know I care for you, and I’ll always protect you. The thought of the snake coming anywhere near you...”

His hands flexed on mine, grip growing uncomfortably tight. I pulled away and he let me go, falling back into that careful soldier’s ready. The moment had passed. Time to put our weakness away.

“We’ll find a way, Shardae. I should go, let you sleep. Things will look brighter in the morning.”

I wished I had the courage to ask him to stay, to tell him that a night in his arms would bring me more comfort than the tossing and turning I knew was sure to come. I always slept better in Rei’s arms. But we hadn’t done that in years. And until I was ready to declare formally what the entire court already knew, he would keep his careful distance, expect in rare moments like this.

I closed my eyes, and I wished I could remember how to cry. - I began to undress again, but a flicker of movement caught my eye--

And suddenly I was face to face with garnet.

Zane Cobriana stood in my room, stepping elegantly from shadows and moonlight.

His hand was on my mouth before I could draw breath, the other cradling the back of my head.

“Please, I’m terribly sorry, but we need to talk, and so I need you not to scream.”

I stared at him wide-eyed, eyes lingering on impossible details--the stray strands of hair that fell across his face, the thick, sweeping curve of his stunningly dark lashes--as the world paused between one heartbeat and the next. I was utterly frozen, drowning deep in radiant red, the hypnotic gaze of the Cobriana garnet.

My people told stories of this gaze, the near-demonic power to enchant and posses. I forgot to breathe, drinking down those eyes, edges tight with pain. Pain... Zane Cobriana looked pained. It was barely there, just a tightness around the eyes, but his eyes were all I could see. We were not but a breath apart, and all I could do was gaze into those eyes, and nod.

Zane nodded to, head moving with mine as if uncertain of the motion’s meaning. Finally, he gave one certain shake, mind made up. He sprang away from me, leaping to the far side of the room as he released me, falling into a warrior’s ready. I just stared, mind refusing to process. Zane Cobriana had snuck into my room, and he was crouched and on guard against me.

“What.... what do you want?”

My mouth was cotton dry as I struggled to speak, tongue darting out to wet paper lips. They tingled with the memory of Zane’s fingers, soft and cool, so delicate, but so firm...

“To talk.”

He hedged his words, carefully controlled and guarded, just like his posture. But when I didn’t scream, or really react in any way, he relaxed, pulling himself up into a liquid, wary posture. Those elegant hands disappeared into pockets, but the underlying tension in his shoulder belied the casual gesture. He was a coiled spring, and no amount of leaning carelessly against the wall would disguise that.

I shook myself mentally, trying to come to grips with this fevered dream. No, no dream. In my dreams, I was often painfully aware I was dreaming, and able to pull together my careful avian reserve. Here, in this moonlit room, I was wide awake, and utterly lost.

“Won’t... won’t you sit down?”

Internally, I shrieked at myself. The mortal enemy of me and my kind had broken into my room for goddess knows what purpose, and I was observing social niceties. Won’t you sit down? What was the matter with me?

Zane smirked, a sardonic twist of his sculpted lips. My mind kept focusing on the most inane details--the perfect press of his cupid’s bow, the strong line of his jaw--as he folded himself elegantly onto a cushion. His long legs glittered in the moonlight and for a moment I thought he must have been in armoured form. But no, merely snakeskin pants. My gut filled with ice. The prince of the serpiente in snakeskin pants. Yikes.

“Why thank you, Danica. May I call you Danica?”

Mutely I nodded, sinking down onto my own sleeping pallet. I watched myself in bemused horror, like an out of body nightmare, as I sat and calmly waited for the prince of the serpiente to say his piece. Then again, compared to his dramatic entrance to my bedroom, this behavior was rather sedate. Formal even. The manners between us seemed almost absurd.

“Then you must call me Zane,” he insisted. I realized this casual chatter was his own nervousness, as my mute manners were mine. Neither of us really knew how to handle one another, and that somehow gave me courage. If he was shaken too, that somehow put us on more even foot.

“Alright... Zane. What did you come to talk about?”

He chuckled, the sound rolling through the dark like velvet. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself, and madly, half expected Rei to wrap his hands around mind. Had only been moments ago that Rei had been in my room? If Zane had come any sooner--

“We were thrown out of the Mistari hall quite abruptly. And in all likelihood the same will happen tomorrow unless we have a chance to properly discuss their suggestion beforehand,” he said lightly, cutting through my thoughts. They scattered like early morning fog, as thin and ephemeral and impossible to hold onto. If he thought we were going to make any more progress here than we had in the hall, he was sorely mistaken. I couldn’t think my way out of an egg like this. If I’d been able to, I probably would have screamed for my guards by now. Really, it was only the utter bizarreness of the situation that had kept me from doing so already. We never trained for what I should do in the event of a security breach. In the Keep, it was unthinkable. And in the fields, I was quite literally surrounded at all times.

Zane had found my security’s one weak spot.

My blood ran cold.

“Are you here to kill me?”

Zane gave me a tired look and sighed.

“I just said I was here to discuss peace with you, Danica.” He shook his head. “What is even the point. How can they possibly expect us to entertain marriage when you’re too frightened to even talk to me?”

“I’m not--“

I snapped without thinking, pride pricked. He’d broken into my room, assaulted me--of course I was startled, I was also exhausted. At his chagrined look, I realized I’d actually spoken those thoughts aloud.

“Of course. It’s late. I apologize for any offense.”

I laughed. “Offense? Offense? Offensive was the way you acted so utterly repulsed at the mere thought of marrying me. This? I don’t believe there are words to cover what this is.”

Zane snorted. “I suppose that’s fair. If it was only a matter of your lovely body, well.” His eyes flicked up and down my frame, and I felt my cheeks turn scarlet. “And I’ve seen you have no trouble with mine, either.”

At that my face caught fire, enough that surely the room should have been ablaze with light. I clenched my fists in my lap and locked my gaze to the floor, counting slowly to ten. Shouting at him would bring my guards crashing in here for sure. And he had a point; we did need to talk. If we broke into a shouting match tomorrow, the Disa would simply kick us out again.

“Comments like that are also why we could never work,” I said hotly. “An avian alistair defends his pair bond’s virtue, not mocks it.”

“And is your pretty guard captain to be your pair bond, then?”

At that my eyes flew to his in complete shock. “Wha--“

“Oh don’t play coy, pretty Danica. I saw the way he held you. That is not a man unfamiliar with your body.”

I could only stare at him in open mouthed horror. Zane went on as if he didn’t notice.

“It’s not a deal breaker for me. I’m sure you don’t expect me to come to you as pure as the driven snow either. Keep him, for all I care. We both have heirs to produce, after all.”

Heirs?

Again, I must have spoken aloud, because Zane seemed to stop midthought, changing his words at the last moment.

“You’re the only Shardae left,” he said softly. “I at least have my sister and... her child.”

His gaze felt, soft and uncertain.

“Her announcement is what finally convinced me. I’ve already lost one sister with child to a soldier’s knife. I cannot bear to lose another. Irene was so frightened when she told me--“

His voice cut off with emotion. The strangled sound reminded me too much of Gregory.

I rose, not certain what I intended, but it was lost to Zane’s reaction anyways. The serpiente was off the wall and crouched almost before I’d finished standing, and his speed took my breath away. I cried out in spite of myself-- and the guards came pouring in.

Zane’s form flashed to lightning black, the shift to his cobra form nigh instantaneous. I threw myself forward, blocking Rei’s movement into the room, shielding him from Zane’s attack. It was utterly stupid, and pure instinct. I threw myself between the man that would be my protector, and the man who would pay lip service to the job in the name of peace. But Zane did not attack, rather doing on the evasive than the offensive. His liquid form shot between the soliders’ legs, gone and lost in the shadows before anyone could truly tell what had happened.

Rei stared into my eyes, lost in utter bewilderment. Neither of us knew what to make of my throwing myself before him, breaking every rule of our working relationship. I hadn’t acted as his queen. I’d acted as his dearest friend.

Rei reacted as my guard, pushing me aside and scouring the room with his eyes. Checking to make sure the room was secure before checking to be certain I was unhurt. The guards scattered around the room and hall, people spilling out at the noise and ruckus. Zane appeared behind a wall of guards, Mistari standing firm between the avians and serpiente. The tigers ushered us all back into our rooms, effectively placing us all under arrest.

Locking me into the room with Rei.

The Ties That Bind Tag list: @thehellinsideyourhead @therecouldbecolorsandlove

Raev’s Gen Tag List (should I tag you guys in this? It IS a thing I wrote. I’m gonna say yes unless you guys are like “no of course not we’re sick of hearing about your stupid fic for a twenty year old book XD)

List is currently: @lordkingsmith  @writinglyra @drbibliophile @mperialscribe @adie-dee @lexiklecksi @writinginslowmotion 

[dawninlatin]

I never thought you’d be the fussing type

Part 4 of the Manorian Teacher AU (you can find the other parts here)

Words: 1177

AO3 Link

Summary: Dorian gets sick, so Manon takes care of him. This is all fluff<3

The last person Dorian expected to find knocking on his door at 9pm, a stormy November evening was Manon. The only time he’d heard from her today had been through a text, asking why he wasn’t at work. Dorian had answered that he was sick, which he really was.

His head wouldn’t stop pounding, he was burning with fever, even just the slightest movement sent bolts of pain through his body, and every five minutes it sounded as if he was coughing up a lung. Having the flu was an absolute nightmare. Therefore, he’d been forced to stay home and instead spend his day switching between sleeping and watching trashy daytime TV.

Manon had replied to his text, but not with the usual are you okay? or asking if he needed anything, or just a hope you feel better soon<3 No, she had simply written Ok. with a period and all.

Dorian wasn’t surprised, she didn’t seem like the type to play nurse, which was why he couldn’t help but look a little shocked when she showed up at his door, a worried look on her beautiful face. She had changed from her usual work attire to loose pants and a soft cotton shirt, her long, white hair pulled up in a messy bun. She was also carrying two bags, filled with what looked like groceries.

«You look like shit,» she pointed out, stepping into his apartment.

He laughed at her comment, but immediately regretted it when it sent him into a coughing fit so violent he had to grip the doorframe to stay upright. «I feel like shit,» he managed to croak out once the coughing had subdued.

Manon stepped closer and put her palm against his forehead. «Gods, you’re burning up!» She moved her hand to stroke his cheek, and Dorian savored the touch of her cold hand. Her brow furrowed as she tried to assess his condition. «And you’re pale, you should go and lay down.»

With that, she grabbed the grocery bags and drifted into the kitchen. Dorian didn’t dare disobey, so he dragged his aching body back to the couch. He listened as the woman he could now proudly call his girlfriend - as of two weeks ago - stuffed various foods into his fridge.

They had been dating for months now, and two weeks ago, when he’d asked her to go to a party with him, he had also asked if he could introduce her as his girlfriend. Manon’s whole body had tensed at the question, and Dorian had begun to worry if he’d just made a huge mistake, if he’d moved too fast and read the signals wrong, if he’d managed to fuck it all up. But as he was about to brush it away and tell her to just forget it, she had looked into his eyes - her molten gold meeting his sapphire blue - traced her thumb along his lower lip and said, «Only if you’ll let me call you my boyfriend.» After that, they had made love. It hadn’t just been sex, Dorian knew there was a difference now.

Said girlfriend interrupted his thoughts by peeking her head through the doorway, asking if he’d eaten anything today. When Dorian said he’d eaten some leftover cake from the fridge, she shook her head, saying that he needed to eat proper food if he wanted to get well. Then she let out an exasperated sigh, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Was she fussing? The thought made him feel all warm and cozy, despite the flu barreling its way through his body.

A few minutes later, Manon emerged from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of steaming soup that would have smelled delicious if he still had a sense of smell. She sat it down in front of him, before grabbing the thick blanket discarded at the floor. «You should eat, you’ll feel better.» Then she tucked the blanket around his body and sat down next to him.

«I never thought you’d be the fussing type,» he said, his attempt at looking smug interrupted by a violent cough. Manon quickly handed him a glass of water, urging him to drink it.

«Just eat your soup.»

-

After practically spoon-feeding him the soup, which tasted delicious by the way, Manon motioned for him to put his head in her lap. She begun stroking his hair, and kept stroking it through several episodes of some sitcom playing on the TV.

The motion almost lulled him to sleep, but Dorian willed himself to stay awake for a little longer, gazing up at the woman who made him feel like the luckiest man in the world. Manon smiled faintly, and Dorian decided at that moment that he never wanted to be with anyone else.

«Thank you,» he whispered, his voice almost gone due to a very sore throat. «It means a lot to me, that you came here tonight.» He closed his eyes, relishing the touch of her delicate fingers.

«I didn’t want you to be alone like this,» she whispered back. Dorian opened his eyes again, and saw that she was gesturing towards his feverish body. «And,» she begun, taking a deep breath, «I found myself missing you today.»

At hearing her words, knowing that she’d missed him today, a strange, but very good feeling coursed through him. He had missed her too, today. «You should go to bed, sleep it off,» Manon said, her voice quiet, the howling sound of the wind filling the otherwise quiet apartment.

Dorian hummed in response as her fingers kept stroking his hair.

«Is it okay if I stay here tonight?» his girlfriend asked, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. Dorian pushed her away, before her lips could meet his skin.

She looked confused, almost betrayed, so he quickly explained himself, «There’s nothing I want more than for you to stay, but I don’t want you to get sick too.»

Manon only snorted, looking at him as if he was an adorable little kitten. «Don’t worry, I won’t get sick.» He raised an eyebrow, a protest ready on his lips, but he was interrupted. «I haven’t been properly sick in years, I’ll be fine.»

It was Dorian’s turn to reach up and kiss her then, so grateful to have found this brilliant woman who kept surprising him over and over again. «Lets go to bed, then.»

-

That night, something between them had changed, Manon thought. The whole situation had felt so domestic. The way she’d made him dinner, how they had brushed their teeth together, how they had spent the night wrapped in one another’s arms, Manon lying awake, listening to his breathing, checking if his fever had gotten any worse.

There had been nothing sexual with the way they slept, their limbs tangled together, yet it was one of the most intimate nights she had ever experienced.

And as she woke up a few days later, her body burning with fever, her head pounding mercilessly, she couldn’t help but think that it had been worth it.

A/N: I should study for my math exam, but I just had to write this!

Thank you so much to everyone who comments and reblogs and give kudos etc!!! You have no idea how much it means to me<3

Peace&Love<3 -Dawninlatin

[spnfanficpond]

May 2020 Angel Fish Awards

(New Angel Fish design by @slytherkins!!)

Every month all of you fantastic writers work your asses off to post some truly incredible stories. Our Angel Fish Awards are the way for all of us, as a community of writers and readers, to lift each other up and give praise to those who have captured our attention and deserve a few kind words.

The monthly Angel Fish Awards are peer-nominated, meaning ANYONE IN THE POND CAN NOMINATE ANY POND MEMBER’S FIC. While the Pond was founded to support the Guppies, everyone in this community deserves to be showered with love and feedback, and we hope that by opening this up as a Pond wide system, we’ll be able to share the love as far as it can go.

NOTE: WE’VE BEEN HAVING OCCASIONAL PROBLEMS WITH ASKS GOING MISSING. Please use the Submit button when submitting your nominations and make sure you’re signed into Tumblr or your URL won’t show. (If the form asks for your name and email address, then you’re not signed in.) If you like, you can also send a message to Michelle @mrswhozeewhatsis or Mana @manawhaat to check and make sure we got your submission.

Be sure to read through this whole post as people who were nominated more than once only had one tag activated for tumblr tagging purposes!

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, HERE ARE MAY’S ANGEL FISH AWARDS!

Nominated by @focusonspn

A Night on the Town (oneshot) by @supernatural-jackles

I completely love this fic!! Jensen is a total sweetheart, it’s really easy to read and all those words felt like only five minutes. This is everything a Jensen!girl could’ve asked for!!

Hunger (oneshot) by @impala-dreamer

HOLY. MOTHER. OF. HOTNESS. It was a fucking pleasure for my eyes to read every single word of this fic!! hot as hell, dark, Demon!Dean and in character as always.

Nominated by @mrswhozeewhatsis 

Handkerchief (oneshot) by @babypieandwhiskey

I don’t usually read RPF, but this is an AU, so I dove in. Mechanic!Jensen with a magical supply of handkerchiefs, ready and willing to clean up whatever mess I find myself in? SOLD. Sweet, appeals to my love of Jensen’s back-pocket bandannas, and it activates my competence kink! Excuse me while I go wibble in the corner.

Nominated by @supernatural-jackles

Still The One (oneshot) by @luci-in-trenchcoats

I have a lot of respect for the way Michelle writes such difficult topics. She approaches them with such grace and accuracy, that makes it all the more realistic. This series is no exception. I deeply enjoy this series and the way things are playing out between Dean and the reader. It’s an extremely heartbreaking story that most of us don’t really think about until it’s put into this kind of perspective. This one is still ongoing, and I’m extremely excited to see how she handles the rest of the story. I highly recommend checking this one out. Just heed the warnings beforehand.

Nominated by @peridottea91

Healthy Competition (Series) by @kittenofdoomage

This! Omg this series! I love it so much!! It’s slower moving but keeps you itching for the next chapter and is oh so relatable. What woman hasn’t had body image issues? And what plus sized woman hasn’t had to deal with rude jerks and bullying? This fic is actually super realistic and hits all those relatable issues. Can’t wait to read the rest!!

Dangerous Signs (Series) by @kittenofdoomage

Ok, let me start by saying that I am a sucker for a good “character transported to alt. universe/world” fic. That said, I got soooooooooo addicted to this fic! It was so well written and you could just feel the reader’s hesitation and torn emotions. Should she stay? Should go? Ugh! Fantastic!! Also, kudos for the Norse mythology!! *chef’s kiss*

Nominated by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters

Cotton Candy (oneshot) by @ellewritesfix05

“It was always nice knowing [...] you could always find ways to bring light into Dean’s life.”

And he damn well deserves it! This was so sweet. No one can resist that “I didn’t do it” smile of his ;)

The Oath (Series) by @thecleverdame 

This series is definitely dark, but it’s so so good. If you’re okay with reading about the heavy subjects covered in these chapters, you won’t regret giving this series a try. I can’t seem to stop diving into all of this author’s content. She’s just too good.

Choices (CYOE) by @talesmaniac89 

I’ve been excited about this impressive project since I first saw the announcement post. Though I’m ashamed to say I haven’t gotten into reading the full thing yet, I plan on making time for reading ALL the different endings. I’m excited to see the different ways in which the story plays out, depending on the brothers’ personalities. For now, I’m recommending this first chapter, the starting point, which was already a beauty of its own. If you haven’t started yet yourself, prepare to be amazed.

Not Safe (Oneshot) by @torn-and-frayed

I love this. Spicy but sweet… Is that a cringy enough way for me to try and put my thoughts into words? I also just really miss Bobby, man.

nominated by @impala-dreamer

Safe Here (series) by @because-imma-lady-assface

This is one of the greatest Dean series. Ashley writes Dean amazingly well, too well sometimes, and this series gives him exactly what he needs; a place to feel safe and find comfort. I love this one so much!

Losing You (series) by @idreamofhazel

This is a superbly done Sam series that has stuck with me for a long time. I literally can’t go into Bed, Bath & Beyond without thinking about the ending <3

nominated by @kittenofdoomage

Blind Luck (oneshot) by @crispychrissy

A great Sam x reader that hits the holy trifecta of smut, fluff, and angst.

 Blood And Water (series) by @crashdevlin

Pretty sure I’ve recc’d this before but it’s such a good series, so twisted and angsty, my dark little heart loves it. Heed the warnings!

Just Sam (oneshot) by @dontshootmespence

This might not be everyone’s cup of tea but for me, it’s perfection, because I am a kinky bitch and any other kinky bitches out there would definitely enjoy this XD

nominated by @deanwanddamons

Private Party With A Rockstar (oneshot) by @mummybear

@mummybear Has been working her butt off this month for her RolePlay May. She wrote this story for me and put me in it (my name is Sian). Rockstar!Jensen is one of my weakness’s, and she knows that, and clearly knows me very well too, as included everything I like 😉

She’s Not You by @winchest09

@winchest09 is one of my fave authors. This is a super cute, super fluffy fic which really cheered me up.

Dangerous Signs (Series) by @kittenofdoomage

I LOVED this series. it was so good and lots of fun with some very sexy going’s on. Rhi’s work is just fantastic 💕

Wedding Bells (oneshot) by @katehuntington

This one shot is super cute and fluffy! I love her writing so much and this is not exception 💕 

Not Much Left (oneshot) by @impala-dreamer

Demon!Dean is another of my weakness’s and fic really hit the spot 🥵🔥

Dear Dean (series) by @smol-and-grumpy

This series made me laugh, made me cry, made me horny and made me gasp. One of the best series I have read 💕

nominated by @emilyshurley

Jensen’s Self Care Routine (oneshot) - @luci-in-trenchcoats

It is just adorable. People taking care of themselves for their loved ones. You can’t get more fluffy.

The Proposal (series) - @katymacsupernatural (Ongoing)

If you love fake dating fics, you’ll definitely love this one. Really like the character of “the reader”.

Private Party with a Rockstar (oneshot) - @mummybear

This one is both hot and adorable at the same time

You shook me (oneshot) @myinconnelly1

It’s Myin writing Demon!Dean what more do you want? No seriously that’s the perfect combination

Dancing the Spiral (oneshot) by @myinconnelly1

One of the only times I genuinely felt like a fic was creepy in a good way. And the passing of the whole thing is great. Am I little biased because its Myin, yes but that doesn’t make the fic any less good. sure it’s on the longer side but definitely worth it.

The only exception (series) - @ne-gans and @negans-lucille-tblr

I have only read the first part so far but I had to mention it. It is a serial killer AU so read the trigger warnings just in case.

Make it Big (series)- @negans-lucille-tblr

Again I’m still catching up It’s one of those fics I thought I won’t like reading but was really glad that I started.

Cast no Shadow (series) @kittenofdoomage

It’s Rhi, I can fangirl a lot about her fics. Really enjoyed (?) (that might not be the right word) the whole fitting a new relationship in existing ones. Felt to real in a weird way. It might seem like I don’t like the fic because of how I’m wording this but that’s really not the case.

Nominated by @deanwinchesterswitch

Sunshine (oneshot) by @talesmaniac89

If you like angst, this is the fic for you. It is utterly captivating and heart wrenching. It’s a cut your heart out with a dull centuries-old wooden spoon style hurt. The use of the song lines in this fic is well thought out and poetic. Make sure to have a box of tissues handy. If you don’t at least tear up while reading this, then you don’t have a heart to cut out, and your soul is already in hell.

Choices (CYOE) by @talesmaniac89

A clever interactive series where you get to choose your favorite Winchester, and the ending of the story. This is so detailed and intriguing. I loved the story I ended up with the first time, and excitedly went back in to pick the other options. Each story was unique and well written. 

Babe I’m Gonna Leave You (oneshot) by @waywardbaby

This one shot is an absolutely stunning piece of smut. The lack of dialogue makes it that much better. All you’re left with is the option to feel the detailed emotions—sexual tension to the max.

No Words (oneshot) by @because-imma-lady-assface​

Beautiful, detailed, and heartbreaking. Dean’s pain and need for comfort are palpable, and I cried while reading it. I can’t find the proper words to describe how this fic made me feel, but man did it ever make me feel.

Sky Full of Stars (oneshot) by @smol-and-grumpy​​

This is the sequel to Something Just Like This and is just as exciting as the first series. A roller coaster of suspense. The characters continue on their journey of love, dealing with the good and bad that comes with every relationship—the perfect combination of angst and fluff with a healthy dose of smut.

Something Just Like This (oneshot) by @smol-and-grumpy

A perfect combination of big badass Dean and soft, fluffy Dean, along with all the incredible smut your little heart could desire. I usually don’t like to read a series until it is complete, because I am impatient and don’t want to wait for the next chapter to post. However, this story was intriguing and sexy, and I couldn’t keep from reading each chapter as soon as it posted and then eagerly anticipating the next.

Nominated by anon

Request 42 (oneshot) by @thegirlwhorunswithwinchesters

This was super-duper cute!! I love frustrated soon to be parents especially when one of those parents is Dean! Great work, well worth the read!

Just A Daydream (onesho) by @maddiepants

This fic is refreshing with its canon-ness! I love Sam's little dream, and you get so wrapped up in it, you forget. Absolutely masterful and HOT AS HELL! Also, Tall People, WTF? 

Thank you all for the awesome work and great feedback!

These are not actual awards! This system is set up so everyone in the pond has a chance to share the love and promote a fic/author that has grabbed your attention. The more people that participate, and the more everyone remembers to submit their own fics after posting, the better this will be :D

THANK YOU ALL AGAIN, KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK, AND AS ALWAYS, HAPPY WRITING!

[youknow-igetit]

A playlist for our favorite mafia sports gays. songs and the meanings below the cut

1. sex - EDEN

‘Cause you said it meant nothing And I should’ve kept my silence But I guess I’m too attached to my own pride to let you know That all these words meant nothing And I’ve always been this heartless And we’re just having sex, no, I would never call it love But love Oh no, I think I’m catching feelings And I don’t know if this is empathy I feel

“This,” Neil flicked his finger to indicate the two of them, “isn’t worthless.” “There is no ‘this’. This is nothing.” “And I am nothing,” Neil prompted. When Andrew gestured confirmation, Neil said, “And as you’ve always said, you want nothing.” Andrew stared stone-faced back at him.

2. Be Kind (with Halsey) - Marshmello, Halsey

I know you need, I know you need The upper hand even when we aren’t fighting ‘Cause in the past, you had to prepare every time, yeah Don’t wanna leave, don’t wanna leave But if you’re gonna fight then do it for me I know you’re built to love, but broken now, so just try I know you’re chokin’ on your fears Already told you, I’m right here I will stay by your side every night I don’t know why you hide from the one And close your eyes to the one Mess up and lie to the one that you love When you know you can cry to the one Always confide in the one You can be kind to the one that you love

“No one’s said a word to them since they said we couldn’t see you.“ Nathaniel’s heart skipped a beat. The heat that gnawed at his chest was an ugly mix of gratitude and shame. He tried to speak but had to clear his throat before trying again. “But why? I’ve done nothing but lie to them. I willingly put them all in danger so I could play a little longer. They got hurt last night because of me. Why would they protect me now?” “You are a Fox,” Andrew said, like it was that simple, and maybe it was. Nathaniel dropped his eyes and worked his jaw, fighting for a center he was quickly losing hold of.

3. I Think I’m OKAY (with YUNGBLUD & Travis Barker) - Machine Gun Kelly

I guess it’s just my life and I can take it if I wanna But I cannot hide in hills of California Because these hills have eyes, and I got paranoia I hurt myself sometimes, is that too scary for you? Watch me, take a good thing and fuck it all up in one night Catch me, I’m the one on the run away from the headlights No sleep, up all week wasting time with people I don’t like I think that something’s fucking wrong with me

“Trust you.” Andrew enunciated each word like he’d never heard them before. He laughed curled his fingers tight around Neil’s chin. “You lie, and lie, and lie, and you think I’ll trust you with his life?” “Then don’t trust ‘Neil’,” Neil said. “Trust me.” “Oh, but who are you? Do you have a name?” “If you need one, call me Abram.” “Should I believe that?” “I’m named after my father,” Neil said. “Abram is my middle name; it’s the name my mother used when she was trying to protect me from his work.” It was the name he went by at his little league practices so the coach would actually let him play. It was strange hearing it aloud when no one had called Neil “Abram” in eight years. “Ask Kevin if you don’t believe me. He would know.” “Maybe I will.” Neil waited, but Andrew didn’t let go. With so many people watching them Neil couldn’t lift his shirt. He did the next best thing and dragged one of Andrew’s hands under the hem. He pressed Andrew’s palm to the ugly scarring across his abdomen. Andrew’s eyes dropped to Neil’s shirt like he could see Neil’s marred skin through the dark cotton. “Do you understand?” Neil asked. “Nothing Riko does will make me leave him. We will both be here when you get back.” Andrew’s fingers twitched against Neil’s skin. “Someone lied to me. These ouches feel a little rough for a child on the run.”

4. Lover of Mine - 5 Seconds of Summer

Lead to where your secrets are Where we’ve been a thousand times Swallow every single lie Take all of me

When I take a look at my life And all of my crimes You’re the only thing that I think I got I right I’ll never give you away

“It’s always been ‘go’,” Neil said. He turned his hand palm-up and traced a key into his skin with his fingertip. He’d toyed with Andrew’s house key so many times he knew every dip and ridge by heart. “It’s always been ‘lie’ and ‘hide’ and ‘disappear’. I’ve never belonged anywhere or had the right to call anything my own. But Coach gave me keys to the court, and you told me to stay. You gave me a key and called it home.” Neil clenched his hand, imagining the bite of metal against his palm, and lifted his gaze to Andrew’s face. “I haven’t had a home since my parents died.”

5. Vowels (and the Importance of Being Me) - HUNNY

I was a queen last night I said “Take to the water” And let you drink my lies Like, “Okay, you’re right” You can’t spell pain or kiss Or run away or little mistake Without me, or A, E, I, O, U

“I’ll always have and be nothing.“ Andrew reached up and forcibly uncurled Neil’s fingers from his mouth. He pushed Neil’s hand out of the way and stared Neil down with nothing between them. Neil didn’t understand the look on his face. There was no censure over Neil’s crooked parents or pity for their deaths, no triumph over having backed Neil into admitting so much, and no obvious skepticism for such an outlandish story. Whatever this look was, it was dark and intense enough to swallow Neil whole.

6. BLUE - Troye Sivan

I can’t say no Though the lights are on There’s nobody home Swore I’d never lose control Then I fell in love with a heart that beats so slow I want you I’ll color me blue Anything it takes to make you stay Only seeing myself When I’m looking up at you

Nathaniel watched until the hotel disappeared out the window, then looked to Andrew and asked in German, “Can I really be Neil again?” “I told Neil to stay,” Andrew said. “Leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father.” Nathaniel looked out the window again and wondered if that was possible. He knew in a sense he could never really leave Nathaniel behind. Even if Stuart could talk the Moriyamas down, they’d all know Nathan’s child was alive and kicking. Nathaniel would always be a security risk to them. But the thought was thrilling and chilling in turns, and Nathaniel turned his hand over to consider his palm. He traced Andrew’s key into his skin with a bandaged finger. “Neil Abram Josten,” Neil murmured, and it felt like waking up from a bad dream.

7. Some Kind of Disaster - All Time Low

I wore the crown, I sold the lie I lived the life and paid for every crime, yeah It’s all downhill 'til it’s a climb Through blood and tears, but I don’t mind I’ll just keep singing on and on and on And it’s all my fault that I’m still the one you want 'Cause I’m a liar, I’m a cynic I’m a sinner, I’m a saint I’m a loser, I’m a critic I’m the ghost of my mistakes And it’s all my fault that I’m still the one you want So what are you after? Some kind of disaster

Andrew pressed two fingers to the underside of Nathaniel’s chin to turn his head. Nathaniel let himself be guided and said nothing while Andrew looked his fill. When Andrew dropped his hand and clenched it in Nathaniel’s hoodie, Nathaniel risked looking back at him. There was violence in Andrew’s eyes, but at least he hadn’t shoved Nathaniel away yet. That had to count for something. "I’m sorry,” Nathaniel said. Andrew’s fist went back, but he didn’t take the swing. Nathaniel knew it wasn’t because that was the hand cuffed to Wymack; Andrew’s arm actually shook with the effort it took to not knock Nathaniel’s head off his neck. Nathaniel said nothing to tip the balance either way. At length Andrew uncurled his fingers and let his hand hang limp from the cuff. “Say it again and I will kill you,” he said.

8. The Space Between A Rock and a Hard Place - 5 Seconds of Summer

Faded, I’m wrapped in your arms While you’re waiting to tear me apart With a last kiss, you leave me wanting more You, you’re a catch 22 Win or lose, I’m screwed I’m trapped under your spell It saves me, breaks me 'til I fall back to you You’re a catch 22

“You are a Fox. You are always going to be nothing.” Andrew stubbed his cigarette out. “I hate you.” “Nine percent of the time you don’t.” “Nine percent of the time I don’t want to kill you. I always hate you.” “Every time you say that I believe you a little less.” “No one asked you.” With that, Andrew caught Neil’s face in his hands and leaned in. Nicky’s drugged assault aside, Neil hadn’t kissed anyone in four years. The last girl was a scrawny French-Canadian who’d held him with just her fingertips and kissed like she was afraid of smudging her tacky-bright lipstick. Neil couldn’t remember her name or face anymore. He remembered only how unsatisfying the illicit encounter had been and how furious his mother was when she found them. That awkward peck wasn’t worth the punishment that had followed. This was nothing like that. Andrew kissed him like this was a fight with their lives on the line, like his world stopped and started with Neil’s mouth. Neil’s heart stuttered to a stop at the first hard press of lips against his and he reached up without thinking. His hand made it as far as Andrew’s jaw before he remembered Andrew didn’t like to be touched. Neil caught hold of Andrew’s coat sleeve instead and knotted his fingers in the heavy wool. The touch was a trigger. Andrew leaned back just enough to say, “Tell me no.” Neil’s lips were sore; his skin was buzzing. He felt winded, like he’d survived a half-marathon. He felt strong, like he could run another five more. Panic threatened to tear his stomach to shreds. Common sense said to refuse this and retreat before they both did something they’d regret. But Renee said Andrew regretted nothing, and Neil wouldn’t live long enough for it to matter. He hadn’t figured out which way to lean before Andrew pried Neil’s hand off his coat.

9. Medication - YUNGBLUD

You cannot pretend there’s no dirt on your shirt 'Cause that’s not how it works, that’s not how it works You try to perceive that you’re so squeaky clean But that’s not how it works, that’s not that’s not how it works

“I’m not going to apologize for thinking you’re being idiotic.” “Is your spine the spine of the righteous?” Andrew wondered. “Are you trying your best to step on my toes because you’re feeling the tragic weight of the holier than thou?”

10. Take Yourself Home - Troye Sivan

Talk to me There’s nothing that can’t be fixed with some honesty And how it got this dark is just beyond to me If anyone can hear me switch the lights I’m tired of the city Scream if you’re with me If I’m gonna die, let’s die somewhere pretty

“Don’t dismiss me for lying to you then ignore me when I tell the truth.” “This is not truth,” Andrew said. “Truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. Sunrise, Abram, death: these are truths. You cannot judge a problem with your obsession goggles on and call it truth. You aren’t fooling either of us.”

11. Trouble Is - All Time Low

All that I know is I just can’t say no to you Funny how things never change All that I wanted was just to get over you Trouble is I can’t find a way You’re part of me

Andrew bit the question into the corner of Neil’s jaw. “Yes or no?” “It’s always yes with you,” Neil said. “Except when it’s no,” Andrew said. Neil put a plastic-wrapped finger to Andrew’s chin, guiding his head up for another kiss. “If you have to keep asking because—I’ll answer it as many times as you ask. But this is always going to be yes.” “Don’t ‘always’ me.” “Don’t ask for the truth if you’re just going to dilute it.”

12. Safety Pin - 5 Seconds of Summer

No more waiting, we can save us from falling This time, maybe this time We’ll safety-pin the pieces of our broken hearts back together Patching up all the holes until we both feel much better Deleted things, I really meant So now I’ll say the things I never sent

Neil remembered too well what it was like to say goodbye. He remembered what it was like saying hello again. A hint of Friday’s panic and outrage flickered in his chest, hot enough to burn the air from his lungs. He didn’t know what this thing between them was anymore. He didn’t know what he wanted or needed it to be. He just knew he had to hold on for as long as he could. “You are a mess,” Andrew said against Neil’s lips. “What else is new?”

13. My My My! - Troye Sivan

Spark up, buzz cut I’ve got my tongue between your teeth Go slow, no, no, go fast You like it just as much as me Now, let’s stop running from love Running from love Let’s stop, my baby Let’s stop running from us Running from us Let’s stop, my baby Oh my, my, my! I die every night with you Oh my, my, my! Living for your every move

Time was nothing. Seconds were days, were years, were the breaths that caught between their mouths and the bite of Neil’s fingernails against his palms, the scrape of teeth against his lower lip and the warm slide of a tongue against his. He could feel Andrew’s heartbeat thrumming against his wrists, a staccato rhythm that echoed in Neil’s veins. How a man who viewed the world with such studied disconnect could kiss like this, Neil didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to complain. Neil had forgotten what it was like to be touched without malicious intent. He’d forgotten what body heat felt like. Everything about Andrew was hot, from the hands holding him down to the mouth steadily taking Neil apart. Neil finally understood why his mother thought this was so dangerous. This was distraction and indiscretion, avoidance and denial. It was letting his guard down, letting someone in, and taking comfort in something he shouldn’t have and couldn’t keep. Right now, Neil needed it too much to care.

[stevemoffett]

A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

*

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

*

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

*

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

*

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

[nikkigrand]

There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m abandoning all of my works. Everything.

This post is going to be long, honest, triggering and deeply personal. So for those who don’t want to read through all of my bullshit, the gist is that I’m not emotionally or mentally capable of writing anymore.

TW ARE IN PLACE.

If you’ve followed me for a while, then you know that my boyfriend was killed in Afghanistan last year. Since then, my life has been a breathless decline into self destruction. I didn’t know—I still don’t know—how to recover from happily waiting for his return to painfully knowing he never will. I swear that some days I feel like he’s still out there and some day he’ll come home and this will all be just a bad dream. I want to wake up to a reality where he steps off that plane and into my arms, where I don’t keep a crumpled old t shirt that smells more of me than him under my pillow, where the shock of hearing certain songs doesn’t make me throw up. A reality where I don’t have to sit in front of his ashes every time I visit his mother and look at his singed necklace around her neck.

I wanted nothing more than to wake up. Just wake the fuck up and feel alive again because for so long I had felt this choking pain and grief and misery and then nothing.

Everything became an escape, something to fill that void in me. I tried all the healthy things. I ate, I worked out, I ran. I talked to people about how I felt and reached out, but nothing helped. I volunteered, i planted trees and flowers, I channeled my grief into kindness. I tried to take all this pain and turn it into something beautiful, and still I felt nothing. I was falling falling falling into this black pit and was reaching for anything to keep me from hitting the bottom.

So I started chasing highs. The standard shit at first. I drank so much alcohol that I’d wake up in bushes with my friends, limbs tangled in ways that left me sore and stinging for days because who the hell passes out in a Rose bush?

At first, drinking was fucking hell, because no matter how much I drank I’d always end up with my head cradled in the palms of my hands, fingers digging into my scalp as I screamed and wailed and asked why why why why when he was so close to coming home and why was life so goddamn mean??? I’d be in bar bathrooms, just curled in the corner and sobbing like a dramatic princess until my friends carried me out. This happened about a dozen times before it just stopped, because I figured I wasn’t drinking enough if I could remember everything.

So I drank more and more and more and then I realized that it wasn’t making me feel better, it wasn’t doing anything for me.

So I started smoking. Just weed, you know. Nothing too crazy at the time. But all that did was make me hyper-fixate on all of my failures and short comings. It made me hate myself so viscerally, so deeply that I wondered if this is who I truly am at my core. A mean bitch who drinks, smokes, parties. A maneater who fucks these poor kind hearted men to fill that hole her dead man left inside her and still finds herself cold and numb after because it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

I’m sure you know where this is going. But I hated myself. I’m a beautiful girl, I’m not blind, and yet I found myself to be so fucking ugly. So fucking ugly and grey and all I wanted—all I needed—was something to breathe life into me the way life itself did before.

I just wanted to feel happy and normal. Only for a little while. That need was so encompassing it would grip my insides and I’d cry from how much I wanted it, how much I had convinced myself I needed it. It was all I fucking wanted.

So the bumps came. And then the lines. And then whole baggies to myself. And it felt amazing, it was wonderful. The world was alive, things were different. I had more energy, more life in me than I had in months. Then the other type of lines came and it made me feel like I was floating away. There was no pain, no misery, no death hanging over my shoulder to remind me that the strength of your love can’t make people stay.

But soon, that too wasn’t enough. Like every other thing, I felt there was something better, something that could make me feel more. So here is where I tell you about all the pills I popped, all the different colored presses and how each one pulled me out of that hole I was falling into and deposited me above the ground —much higher than I could have ever dreamed of—and filled my grey world with beautiful gorgeous colors.

Then I can tell you about all the tabs I let dissolve on my tongue, or fully swallowed out of impatience, all of the lines of ketamine I combined with ecstasy and acid in one night. The things I saw, the way I felt—it took me far from this dismal life and was addicting. I was chasing something every weekend until it became every other day, chasing some feeling I still can’t name, and I knew that it was ruining me.

My grief and my drugs were killing me, and I knew it. With every cotton mouth, every clenched jaw, every pounding headache, I fucking knew and didn’t care. I’d look at my friends faces and I knew, I knew they loved me and would be devastated if they knew what I was doing, and I still didn’t care. What was life if it felt this empty?

My grades dropped, i turned down a contracting job I wanted for years, I spent all my money on psychedelics and stimulants, and it had gotten to a point where I’d pop a pill while sitting at home just because I didn’t want to be sober and didn’t want to think about how fucked up my life was becoming.

Then one day I was at a concert, high in the clouds with a joint settled comfortably between my lips and frizzy hair piled messily atop my head, when I saw a girl get carried out the venue by medics. She was probably a few years younger than I am, and i remember looking at her face impassively as they pushed through the crowd with her body thrown over this bear of a man’s shoulder as if in slow motion. She was pale and foaming at the mouth, with her arms dangling limply down his back, and she looked dead—she was dead. I knew in that same way you know that the sky is blue when the sun is up, I just knew.

And in that moment—those few seconds it took me to acknowledge that she had most likely overdosed and died—this intense yearning shot through me, so strong that I felt it in the crooks of my fucking elbows, like I wanted to embrace whatever the fuck it was that I desired to live inside me, and this voice cried out, “I wish that were me.”

And you know what, I didn’t even know I had spoken until the guy next to me shoved me in the shoulder and said, “no you don’t.”

And that terrified me. I remember dropping the joint, fumbling it in my shaking fingers, burning myself on the lit end, before handing it off to that same random guy and running off to get some air.

I’m not stupid and I’m not blind. I know I’m depressed, I know I’ve got issues, but I had never said something so suicidal out loud up until that point. I’ve never vocally wished for death and even as I sat there, as I looked out at the people outside the venue huddled together doing whip it’s and killing brain cells, I still wanted to be that poor dead girl on that man’s shoulders.

That was it for me. I remember calling an Uber home on the spot and taking everything I had and flushing it. Im not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you that it was easy. I had convinced myself that I needed these things to make me happy, and i don’t know if I can ever see life the same way after them. The feelings you get off these things are otherworldly, it’s so damn good, but they come at a price. You dont feel the same way you did before you took them, and you never will. You’ll never be who you were before that high, but you can almost convince yourself that it’s worth it. So it was pretty damn hard to take my neon presses, my rocks. my capsules, my bud and my tabs, and flush them down the toilet.

Almost immediately after I did it, I cried. Mostly because i had flushed hundreds of dollars down the fucking toilet, but also because I had become that girl in those cheesy college movies. You know the one, the one where the party girl gets addicted to drugs and goes on a bender and her whole life is just one big goddamn tragedy that won’t end. I hate those fucking movies and I, for the life of me, could not believe I was that girl.

I had been military, straight laced with a good head on my shoulders and a hard worker. I was smart, respected, the girl everyone wanted to bring home to mom. And now I was a hot mess crying in my bathroom because I had just flushed my addiction down the shitter.

Now I’m just home, trying to gather the pieces of myself in a way that doesn’t cause long term damage when I’ve yet to hit my 27th birthday.

I still go out with my friends. They know nothing about what I’ve done because I’ve always gone out and done things alone. This is the first time I’ve ever spilled my guts.

So where does FanFiction come into play in all this. Well, it’s simple, really, if you’ve gotten to this point and picked out all the mistakes in grammar. My brain is so fucked up that I can barely write a passable 3 page essay. I can’t remember words, much less how to string them together to form something beautiful in the way I used to. Trust me, it kills me and I’ve agonized over it for hours. I once tried to take this amazing idea I had and put it to paper but it would just not flow. Nothing made sense. Where before writing was effortless and focused, now my brain could barely concentrate on forming a sentence that didn’t sound like gibberish.

My attention span is so short that I literally have to isolate myself with no internet and my textbooks to get work done. It’s so bad that I have anxiety and panic attacks about the fact that I feel like a whole dumbass with one brain cell, where before I was proud of my intelligence and could hold decent conversation.

I’m still pretty, as if that fucking matters, but now I’ve got a stutter and can’t hold eye contact because my paranoia makes me think they’re judging me. And let me tell you, I’m so fucking pissed about that because I know it’s just my fried brain thinking these things, and there’s no one to blame but myself.

And I still feel empty and numb. How can I write about love and human emotions when I don’t feel anything? How can I write about looking at someone and loving them when the memory of love faded like my lover’s ashes in the wind? I just can’t.

I know love as it whispers against my skin with each interaction between me, friends, even other men, and yet I look at them and feel absolutely nothing.

So Yeah, I can’t write my stories if I can’t get my brain or my heart to work.

I’m really sorry to all my loyal readers. I really am. I wish I had been stronger. Thank you for all of your support throughout the years.

Don’t do drugs.

[softguks]

pls write an angsty imagine about the pr thing with like a fight and a sad ending, pls. ik you have a lot of requests, but pls pls pls do this if yu can! ur writings are amazing. thx so much!

pinky promise

a little over 400 words of angst and a part-sad/part-happy ending.

her fingers grip onto the mint colored cotton fabric, bunching it up into tight balls as she squeezes her eyes shut, willing the pools of tears to go away. it hurts —has since the PR thing with Camila— but what hurts more is the fact that he doesn’t understand that he’s crossed the boundaries between PR and cheating on her.

broken shards of a glass vase lay scattered along the cold wooden floors, her hair pulled into a messy knot with strands flying out along her face. the skin around her cheeks are blotchy and red, shining glossing under the dim lights as she sniffles, trying to muffle her hitched breaths and wipe away the loose tears.

the sweater engulfs her figure in warm cotton, hem laying flat against her thighs, a pair of shirts pulled on as she paces the living room, avoiding his hard gaze.

“so you’re crying now, huh?”, he scoffs, crossing his arms as he huffs out, shooting her a dirty glare.

“i’m sorry! it’s just that you promised only hugging, handholding, and forehead kisses. but now you’re kissing her?”

his curls flop around his forehead, retracting and stretching out as he pulls on them, eyes cold and fists clenched, hanging limply by his sides. there’s the steady swishing as his sock-clad feet pad along the floors, the shuffling of his feet a telltale sign of his frustration.

“it’s for PR! it’s promotion, it’s for my career, do you not understand? god, just be supportive instead of a whiny baby for once!”

“but you promised-“

“grow the hell up! maybe i wanted to kiss her, maybe i wanted to do this because you’re so damn clingy, being all over me!”

the second his harsh words are muttered, the air changes, a pause of silence as the tension thickens between them. his eyes are wide as he murmurs out softly, “i-i didn’t mean that.”

“then why’d you say it?”

his response is silence, lips pursed tightly as guilt turns in his eyes, because he’s begging her to understand, begging her to forgive him.

she laughs out dryly, something void of her usual happiness, bitter and dark instead.

“y’know, i try really hard, shawn. i really really do. it’s hard when i’m just a normal average girl with no worth or talent, and that you always go on tour. with these beautiful models and people who i could never in my life, compare up to. so while you go live your dream, i’m stuck here crying myself to sleep and feeling shit about myself. but i know it’s your dream, and i love you, so i don’t say anything. not once, have i complained about your job, because it makes you happy and you love it. it’s important to you. but am i not?”

her voice grows increasingly rough, choked with raw emotion as she swallows back the tears, trying to put her point across.

“i’ve had enough of this. i understood the PR, i’ve supported everything you’ve done, tried to be there for all the shows, all the events, th interviews, and i’ve never forgotten anything important. i’ve skipped out on my own things, spent my money, and done all this. it hurts okay! it fucking hurts to watch you kiss and slobber all over someone like her, because i know that i could never be her. she’s prettier, smarter, more famous, richer, i get it. because i have to live in fear every minute, every second of the day, hoping that you don’t leave me for someone who deserves you more than i do.”

she doesn’t bother to wipe away the tears that trail down her cheeks, instead letting them slide down her skin and soak into the fabric of her hoodie, glancing up at him with pained eyes. they’re broken, and it hurts him so much to look up at the love of his life, and what he’s reduced her to.

“so i’m sorry that i’m holding you back. never was my intention. it just hurts so fucking much to know that i was right, and that you don’t love me.”

her chest is burning now, body shaking as she sobs quietly, burying herself into her hands as she cries. they sound lifeless and broken, describing the state of her heart, their relationship, and her.

“i-no, i love you so much, and please don’t ever doubt that. i-i’m sorry. i never meant to be so cold or make you feel unwanted. i just wanted to get enough money, just so i could take you places and make up for the fact that i’m not a normal boyfriend. i’m so sorry, i love you so much and i-i”

his eyes are puffy and red, glossy with tears as he reaches for her. she pulls him close, hushing softly in his ear, sniffling as he melts into her. he clutches onto her, afraid to let go and afraid to be left alone. so he doesn’t let go, whimpering when she forcibly pulls her off of him.

“please don’t leave. please, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i love you, i love you, i didn’t mean it. please, i’m begging you. you’re my world, you can’t leave me.”, he’s pleading as he clutches onto her hand, tears streaming down his cheeks as his breath hitches, sending sounds of agony that echo through their condo.

“bub. stop. i need you to listen to me, okay?”

“i can’t be with you while you’re doing this PR thing, it just, i can’t do it-“

there’s something between a wail and a heartbreaking sob that elicits from his throat, and she’s shushing him as he wipes at his eyes.

“but-SHUT UP FOR ONE MINUTE YOU IDIOT. i need time, okay? just, give me time, and we’re not working out right now. and i need you to focus on this, and i need to work on myself, alright?”

he looks up at her, eyes tired and droopy as he nods, mumbling out softly, “do ya know how much time? like, one day okay?”

she cracks a small smile, “little more than that.”

“two days?”

she giggles softly, and he watches entranced by her quiet laugh as she plays with his curls.

“i’ll even give you four because i love you.”

she shakes her head slowly, voice gentle and soft as she lets him down, trying not to disappoint him.

“need a little more. a month or two, m’kay?”

he nods half heartedly, because some time is better than no chance at all, and he loves his girl so much, so he pulls her close, whispering in her ear with a mild rasp.

“can i kiss you?”

she tiptoes up to meet his lips, melting into him and humming in approval. after, he tucks his head into her neck, clutching onto as much of her as he can and relishing in her as he immerses himself into her.

“i’m going to miss this.”, she states, eyes brimming with tears.

“but we’ll be okay, right? pinky promise?”

he grins at her, sticking his pinky out.

“pinky promise, love.”

permanent taglist: @sunrise-shawn @curlsofshawn @tell-me-when-ur-ready @particularnervous @artemissravenclaw @heyits-claire @shawnieeboyy @turtoix @leiamutuals @waiting-to-be-myself @michellemxndes @shawnmednes (lmk if you want to be added/removed)

[monochromemedic]

The Sierre Madre. You only hear about myths like that once in a life time. A hotel that was suppose to be the vacation spot of a life time. A casino full of gold and coins, celebrities that’d play every night and light up the place with class. It was suppose to be great. Well until the bombs hit.  Always about the bombs... Then it just became a legend. People who would travel to that area of where the grand hotel was suppose to be built only said that a fog covered the land. Ominous blood red fog, and eerie songs from artists long forgotten. No one ever thought to go in, at least the ones that survived. As for the ones that did go in, they were never heard from again. I don’t know what I thought when I heard that message over the radio. The alluring sound of riches and fun... I only thought about the possibility of my friends and I having a good life. At least for a while. I walked in to where the radio told me to go, and was knocked out almost immediantly. I woke up with a bomb collar strapped to my neck, and a jumpsuit to my name. Told to find others, to rob a casino or be blown up. Told to fight creatures that couldn’t die. It was a death trap. Every second was a living hell. I hid from the gas mask wearing creatures. Ran past the speakers that blared frequencies that activated my collar to explode. It was a constant struggle and every night I’d wish to just go back to the Mojave, to go back to my friends. To Rex and his happy barks and playful attitude. To Arcade and his sarcastic, witty responses to nearly every situation.  To...him. I did what I had to. The makeshift group of characters I recruited stormed the hotel, and turned on the man that forced us to do his dirty work. We killed him. And when we did our collars were finally turned off, and we could leave the hellscape with the blood money that wasn’t worth the effort.  Bittersweet was a joke of a term considering what we all went through. I had to walk back, to the Mojave. Tired, bloody, battered.

-------- Arcade paced around the Lucky 38, stroking his chin nervously. Boone sat at one of the couches, sipping a beer as his eyes followed Arcade’s steps. “Stop it.”  “I can’t. Aren’t you worried? I mean her radio is down, there’s no signs of her at that little bunker except for her stuff... but there wasn’t a body so unless she became some sort of ghoul, or undead creature she disappeared into thin air!” Boone watched as Arcade flailed his arms as he spoke before he pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing them as he leaned against the cold wall. “It doesn’t make sense but... I don’t think she’s dead. Not until I see the body. Then again with every horrid creature in this arid wasteland I wouldn’t put out the notion of her just being eaten in one gulp but... then the clothes-” Boone clasped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, handing him a beer to which he took with a sigh, almost finishing it in a single gulp. As Arcade readied himself to finish the bottle the sound of the elevator reaching the penthouse suite with a small chime. I stumbled out, head raising to see my two companions standing there with wide eyes. “’Cade... Craig.” I croaked, my mouth feeling like it was full of cotton. It was hard to talk, trying to find water on a trek through a desert wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. Arcade quickly set his bottle down, running over and steadying me with his hands. “Dear god we were just talking about you, w...is this a slaver collar? What the hell happened to you? You’re dehydrated! Boone,” the man turned to the soldier, his expression cold and pained, “get me some water and a first aid kit.” For a moment Boone was still, only wavering a bit before slowly starting to walk to the kitchen. Arcade pulled me to a couch and laid me down, asking question after question as to what happened to me, where I had gone, what happened. I tried to answer to the best of my ability, but as I tired to force myself to talk I could only manage out coughs and sputters. My journey took so much out of me, and the soft cushions of the couch beneath began to lull me to sleep. It wasn’t long before I fell asleep, the last words that I could remember was Arcade begging me to stay awake. ----- The first thing I felt when I woke up was the heavy fabric of something pressing against my finger tips. I let my hands explore the coarseness as I tried to wake up, lids heavy. “You’re awake.” A low voice muttered, a hand touching my own, causing me to wake up. Boone sat beside the couch, a chair pulled up against the couch, showing he’d been there for a quite a while. I gave him a little smile, hand weakly touching his chest as I spoke. “Yeah... I missed you.” I could feel the tears welling up before I remembered the collar, hand going to grasp for the hard metal, only to find nothing there. I shuttered, my smile widening a bit more. “It’s gone.” “Who did this?” Boone barked, his voice full of venom and anger. His hand moved to shadow over mine, fingers brushing my sore and scratched throat. “It’s not like that... It wasn’t... it was some crazy guy who was forcing people to run a heist for him. The collars were to make sure we didn’t turn on him or runaway. It was bad Boone, it was... really bad.” I felt my jaw tighten as I tried to keep the tears at bay “There were things I couldn’t kill, I had to worry about my head bursting at the slightest of movements or sounds, I was just so alone. I didn’t think i’d make it to be honest. But he’s dead now. We got him, that’s how I got out, how the rest of us got out so it’s not that big of a deal now right? It’s fine, i’m back.” A couple of tears trickled down my cheeks as the reality of it all came crashing back. All the stress, all the noise, the relief that it was over and I was back. Although I was with friends I couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t truly over, and it scared me like nothing else.  I grabbed for Boone’s shirt again, knuckles white as I began to sob, staring up at him as I forced a smile as best as I could. “It’s fine. It’s alright.” I repeated, mostly to myself. Boone stared back, eyebrows crinkling as he slid himself closer, moving my head onto his lap to cry against as he rested a hand against my back to comfort me. I sobbed. I gasped. I screamed against him. Trying everything to get the horrible feelings out of me. And when I couldn’t cry anymore, Boone was still there, hand sliding up and down my back in comfort. “Do you want to know what got me through that shit?” I hiccuped, my voice nothing more then a whisper with how hard I cried, “I thought of you. I thought about wanting to come back to see you, and have you yell and, glare, and make fun of me. And I thought how strong you were and I wanted to be that strong.” I felt his hand stop for a moment, before continuing to comfort me, fingers digging ever so slightly against my back. “Looks like it worked...”

[unabashedrebel]

Holiday Cheer

Winters Veil was always a whole ordeal in the Duskhaven residence, even before a certain Sunshine came to brighten things up. Boxes littered the apartment, stacked one atop the next, with some open offering peaks at the brightly colored ornaments and holiday themed streamers. The early days of December only served to stoke the decorating craze as laurels were hung awaiting their bows to be tied, ceramic village houses sat on a bed of cotton waiting to be arranged, and of course a tall tree sat off in the corner of the spacious living room still au naturale.

With the way Kirollis bounced around the apartment spreading holiday cheer and sorting the decorations, it became clear that the lack of work led to a small case of stir craze. He was almost manic in the way he hastily packed the boxes where they needed to go, all in the name of making it easier when the more artistic part of the process came into play. It was as if everything needed to be up to the rogues standards before he began to tackle the once a year tradition.

Soriya, on the other hand, was happy to take advantage of her father's invigorated holiday spirit and decidedly clear schedule. Every year he had gotten like this, and every year she decided not to ask too many questions. Instead she just enjoyed the time they spent catching up on all the Winters Veils they had missed.

“I think this is the last box from storage.” She said as she shimmied through the front door with a brown box in tow.

“Awesome.” Kirollis replied, mulling over aloud a moment later, “That’s gotta be where the star is.”

“You sure you checked all of them?”

The rogue gave her a look. That unspoken form of communication that seemed prevalent every time the other asked a silly question. “Just open the box.”

Sure enough Soriya did just that as she pulled open the top of the box like it was a present from Father Winter himself. Digging her hand in only to pull out a golden star for atop their tree. With a clear of her throat the younger Duskhaven slipped it back into the box without a word.

“It was in there, wasn’t it.”

“...yes.”

A small smirk curled over Kirollis lips as he dug into his own box only to pull out a rope of arcane powered lights. A little something to add a little color and character to their woefully underdressed tree. “C’mon squirt, come help your old man with this.” Surprisingly passing on the opportunity to give her a hard time.

“Someones really in the holiday spirit.” Soriya finally voiced that observation that she had been so hesitant to ask about. Though all the same she joined her father in coiling the lights around their tree. “You know, you never really told me why you love Winters Veil so much. You never really struck me as the type for ugly sweaters and yuletide cheer.”

“Yeah… it was, well, it was your moms favorite holiday.” He confessed. “I guess after a century and a half of putting up lights and decorations it sort of grew on me. She always had this glow around the holidays that always made all the work so very worth it.”

Every time her mother was brought up it was always a tearful affair. Ripe with emotions from the duo who both had hang ups over Nelah Duskhavens untimely death. But this time was different, it was calm, not that the emotion wasn’t there, rather it was celebrated instead of mourned. And Soriya was content to drink in this moment as long as he would allow it.

Kirollis continued, “I think after she passed on it was… well, just one of those things I kept doing to keep her spirit alive. You know, remind myself that she’s not gone so long as she’s in here.” Patting his chest soon after. “I guess it became just as important to me to keep doing it.”

Once more the younger Duskhaven was caught off guard by her fathers candor. It was strange to see him so happy about something that caused him so much pain. It warmed her heart to hear, and a part of her wanted to just let him keep talking as long as he would. After all, the happiness he usually professed surrounded her, almost to the point where she wondered if she was his only source of happiness in the world. It was a reminder, albeit small, that while she currently occupied the center of his universe? She wasn’t the only one who had.

“Is there anything else you do to keep her memory alive?” Soriya asked sheepishly, afraid that if she pressed him to far he would stop talking entirely. The pause he took before answering only causing her heart to sink into the pits of her stomach.

“Well…” Kirollis finally peeped out as he connected the loop of wiring and the brilliant array of colors lined the tree. “Uh, well sure. Yeah, there’s a couple things.” Pointing to the box full of ribbons as to ask for them he continued, “She used to always laugh at my really bad puns.”

“Really?” Soriya questioned with a sneer of a snicker. “-Your- puns?”

“Well yeah. You didn’t think she fell for me just because of my dashing good looks, right?”

“I didn’t think it was the puns.” She confessed.

“How else did you think I found out she was the one?” Kirollis countered with a snicker, mostly at himself. “Your mom was… she had the patience of a saint, lets just put it that way.”

“What else?” Soriya questioned as the pair continued to line the tree with ribbon.

“Nicknames.” He stated without missing a beat. “She loved to give people nicknames. She said it was like your personal greeting to someone important.”

“What did she call you?”

“She always called me Ace when I fucked up. It uh… sort of carried over.”

Soriya knit her brows together as her face scrunched in suit. “You’ve called me Ace before.”

“Maybe don’t fuck up next time.” He replied before poking his tongue out in her direction.

The young monk smiled brightly at the lesser mentioned relationship between her mother and father. Even if she did try and tuck it away and hide it from view. It was almost refreshing how honest and open the conversation had been thus far, and with each passing moment or private concession Soriya was emboldened to ask more about the one thing she was too afraid to ask about: Her mom.

Once the ribbons were finished with, the duo focused on the round little orbs that coated the tree. Though their approach was far more different then the two person job of setting lights and ribbons. Almost at random both Kirollis and Soriya would take a bulb or two before hanging it up on the pine.

The rogue, however, paused a moment as he pulled the golden star from the box. Letting his gaze linger a few moments longer as a fond smile crept up onto his lips. “Your mom used to always put up the star.” He muttered out before offering it over to her, “What’cha say you do it this year?” He posed as emerald tinted orbs drifted toward his daughter.

Her face practically lit up at the offer, in that same glow Kirollis spoke of seeing in Nelah. With a hand placed over her chest looking every bit like it was the highest honor in the world she replied, “I’d love to!” Though she quickly held up her hand to stop him from getting up, “Wait! No stay right there!”

Of course Kirollis obliged, and remained in the same kneeling posture, as Soriya scampered around to his back. “This is easier than getting a ladder.” Soriya confessed as she hopped one leg after another over her dads shoulders.

Snickering the rogue handed the star up to Soriya before standing himself. Using his hands to hold her legs in place and stabilize her as she reached up to the very top of the tree. Carefully sliding the precious ornament into its place.

It had taken twenty-eight years for him to hoist his kid on his shoulders, and he would wait another twenty-eight if he had to for a moment just like this one.

{Art Creds: @the-zombee-cat ❤️}