#the works i have proudly introduced to a number of friends has me reflecting on the fact that i have and CAN finish things after all

[hunkydorkling]

Do I think now's a good time of day to second guess myself? Yeah.

[mypoisonedvine]

The Perfect Fit | Bucky Barnes x reader (part 2)

(part 1)

summary: after getting fitted by you, bucky’s going to try on the custom-made suits he’s bought.  unless he makes his move now, he may not get to see you again, and he can’t let that happen.

word count: 6.5k

warnings: smut!!, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), a little d/s energy, mirror kink, stomach bulge kink, slight pain kink?, creampie kink, pussy spanking, light bondage, bucky being jealous

Bucky had a bone to pick with Tony, which was usually true but this wasn’t work-related for once.  It wasn’t hard to find him in the same place he’d seen him last— eating his lunch in the kitchen, with Sam nearby chowing down on lo mein with a spring roll.

“Hey lefty, what’s cracking?” Tony greeted, mouth full but talking loudly anyways.  

"I went down to that tailor you recommended—" Bucky began, but Tony was quick to interrupt.

"You went there?  Dude, it's a really nice place, you can just call and she'll come to you instead, way more convenient."

"So now you say 'she'?"

Realization dawned on Tony’s expression.  "Ahh, I get it.  You're not used to a female tailor.  Adds a little spice to getting fitted, huh?" he grinned, elbowing Bucky playfully.

Bucky’s throat felt a little dry when he heard that.  "Don't tell me that's why you use her…"

"Hey now, I'm not a creep, I use her cause she's the best, and those house calls are great for discretion— you know, being a celebrity and all.  The eye candy part is just gravy."

"Gravy candy sounds disgusting," Sam chimed in, missing the point entirely.

"Yeah, well, she mentioned some stuff that sure made you sound like a creep."

"Okay, well, you can't blame me for getting caught staring when I'm surrounded by fucking mirrors.  Makes it hard to be stealthy."

"You could try not staring,” Bucky suggested flatly.

"Is that what you did?"

Tony smirked when Bucky failed to reply immediately.  "Okay, so it's easier said than done,” Bucky admitted with a frown, “but still, I hope these house calls were strictly professional."

“What’s it to you, man?  I think somebody’s jealous,” Tony purred.  

“What?  No, it’s not that,” Bucky denied.

“You love her,” Tony sing-songed, completely ignoring Bucky.  “You looooooove her!”

"You are so immature," Bucky rolled his eyes, even though his heart was racing and he was pretty sure he was blushing.  

"No, it's good for you!  She's a catch, you're all brooding and stuff— maybe she can melt the Winter Soldier's frozen heart, hm?"

Sam laughed heartily.  "Stark, you read too many comic books."

"You're saying you don't wanna see Icy Hot here shoot his shot with my tailor?" Tony asked, turning his attention towards Sam.

Sam pondered that, much to Bucky's dismay.  "Depends.  How hot is she?"

"Mega," Tony smirked confidently.  "Legs for miles, and she wears these skirts that make her ass look—"

"I think I've heard enough," Bucky groaned.  "I'm leaving.  And don't ask when I'm going to see her again," he instructed, interrupting Tony just as he'd opened his mouth to speak, "because I won’t tell you.”

As Bucky left, he could hear Tony calling out into the hall: “But I’d be such a great wingman!”

//

Truth be told, Bucky had put off mastering the use of his smartphone.  It wasn’t just that new technology made him feel old, but that he knew nobody would be calling or messaging him anyways; if the phone didn’t work, he would spare himself the embarrassment of waiting up for nothing.

But once he knew you were going to call?  Suddenly, he was motivated to figure the sucker out.

A few hours later and now all he had to do was stare at it to make sure he wouldn’t miss you.  Luckily, you didn’t make him wait too long.  He recognized the number and decided to let it ring a few times before picking up, so it would seem like he had other things to do besides talk to you.

“Hello?” Bucky asked when he answered, so it would seem like he had other people calling him besides you.

You introduced yourself so formally that he was a little afraid that all that fun energy between you two would be gone.  Thankfully, once he asked what you were calling about, you were back to being cheery and casual again.

“I was just calling to schedule when I could come by with your new suits!” you explained, sounding chipper.

His fingertips were a little tingly just from hearing you talk, nervousness making him antsy (in a weirdly good way).  “I know you said it’s a one-person operation,” he responded smarmily, “but I figured you would outsource delivery.”

You scoffed, though it sounded more amused than irritated.  “It’s not just delivery, I have to check the fit and make sure everything’s exactly to your liking.”

“Oh, well, I’m free all day tomorrow— and I think you already know my address.”  Was it too forward?  Too obvious?  And why did Bucky spend half the time when he was talking to you second-guessing himself?

“Yes, Stark Tower is a relatively common destination for me.  If he doesn’t mind us using it, Tony has a dressing room with plenty of mirrors so you can get a good look.  But, I’d be happy to just go up to your quarters if that’s easier.”

He was not at all ready for you to see his room.  No way he could clean it enough in the next twelve hours; and even then, lots of the team had made fun of how empty and plain it was, so he knew it would just make you think he was boring.

“I’m sure Tony won’t mind you using his dressing room, but he might mind me using it,” Bucky chuckled.

“Well, if he makes a fuss I’ll be sure to set him straight,” you decided confidently.  Somehow, imagining you cursing out Tony was almost hotter than imagining you doing anything else.  “Be sure to bring down your dress shoes so you get the full look and everything.”

“Uhhh…” he trailed off as he scratched the back of his head, trying to remember if he owned anything other than combat boots.  “Not sure I still have those, to be honest.”

"Okay, you'll need shoes too,” you noted aloud, your voice a little distant; he figured you were writing things down, which was why you sounded distracted.  “What size are you?"

"Thirteen."

"I'll bring a selection tomorrow,” you announced firmly.  “And socks, of course.  And some watches, maybe?  And pocket squares."

"Is that it?" he asked sarcastically.

“Oh right, I’m bringing the ties you picked out, too.  I’ll throw in some alternates in case your original choices don’t match the way you were hoping.”

“You really are full-service,” he chuckled.

“I get that a lot,” you replied, a hint of coyness to your tone.

There it was again; that jealousy.  He hated it because he knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop it either.  As much as his mind was completely aware that you were an independent, modern woman capable of handling herself, his heart was equally determined to protect you, and spoil you, and do whatever was necessary to make sure you were safe.  

Worse, his gut was less innocent.  Mine, it demanded, all mine.  Nobody else’s.

He pushed it down and just tried to get through the rest of the call without saying something he’d regret.  You confirmed the date and time with him, and he tried not to be too aggressive when he said he was looking forward to it.  

He hung up his phone and sighed, staring off into space.  Now all that was left to do was wait, and be overwhelmed with anxiety.  Thankfully, he was good at the second thing.

//

"So, what do you think?" 

I think you look so damn good from every angle.  I think I might spend all my money on suits just to be sure I can see you again.  I think you need somebody to love you the way you deserve.  I think you’d look like an angel waking up in my bed.  

You waved your hand in front of his face for a moment, calling his attention back to reality.  “Helloooo?”

Drawn out of his trance, Bucky finally looked in the menagerie of mirrors surrounding him and admired his reflection, amazed by the perfect fit of his first suit.  The difference in quality between this and something off the rack was beyond apparent.  Most of all, your talent was undeniable.  "I think it's beautiful."

You smiled proudly.  "Of course it is, but do you like how you look in it?"

"Honestly?  I feel a bit… out of place.  I'm obviously not classy enough for a suit like this."

"Oh, nonsense," you dismissed.  

He frowned, convinced this was all flattery.  "No, seriously, this is… maybe I should just wear tactical gear to every event."

"Well, you'd still look good, but you're not always a soldier.  Sometimes you're only a man.  And every man should own a fine suit."

It was much too profound of a thing to say while you casually straightened his jacket, only to pop out from behind his reflection to smile at him in the mirror.

“Let’s get the next one on you,” you decided, helping him lose the jacket but having him move into a private dressing room to switch trousers and shirts.  “I put a turtleneck in there instead of just a regular button-up,” you explained through the door as he changed, “in case you wanted to see it that way.”

Once he’d put it on, he stepped back out and you were looking at him so proudly— well, you were looking at your handiwork with pride, really, but he could pretend it was for him and hope actually impress you that much one day.

“I went with a shawl lapel on this one, as opposed to the last one which was notched,” you explained as you traced the line with your finger.  “Spoiler: the next one has a peak lapel.  But enough about that one: what do you think of this one?”

“This looks like something my friend Sam would wear,” Bucky decided as he looked at himself in the cranberry suit and black turtleneck.  The shoes you’d had him try on with this were intricate as well, with subtle stitching in the leather and a shine so immaculate he could almost see a reflection in them.  

“Well, is your friend Sam stylish?” you asked.  

“He would certainly say so,” he smirked.

“I’m inclined to agree, because you—” you gave him a thorough glance up and down, so thorough in fact that he felt a bit exposed under your gaze, “—look marvelous.”

“Not pretentious?” 

“No, no, it works on you,” you assured, “you’ve got the looks for it.”

“And what looks are those?”

“Um… good?  Good looks?” 

He definitely remembered a time when that seemed like the obvious answer, because he had relied on being good-looking for a lot of things in life, but that felt very far away now.  Maybe it was just that people who didn’t know what he’d done could still think he was good looking, but everyone else saw the evil within beginning to leak out the way that he did.  

But you knew what he’d done, didn’t you?  You had to.  You knew Tony, you were here at the Tower… unless you were intentionally not up-to-date on current events, you must have heard of the Winter Soldier.

“Don’t act so surprised,” you huffed, “as if it’s a big secret or something.  You’re obviously very attractive.”

Bucky cleared his throat nervously.  “Uh, thanks.”  He wanted to return the compliment, but thought it might be inappropriate or rude somehow.  You broke the silence quickly as you held up two pocket squares in front of him.

“Which of these do you prefer?” you prompted.  He selected the solid gold one, making you smile.  “I knew you’d pick that one.”

“How?”

“I dunno, just fits you,” you shrugged as you folded it and gently placed it in his pocket.  Even through so many layers, your touch on his chest made his heart flutter.  Your fingers brushing over his as you slipped a watch onto his wrist was enough to cause palpitations.

He looked better in this ensemble than he expected.  This version of himself looked much more likely to be invited to parties than any other version.  If only he actually wanted to go to parties.

You put him in the pinstripe suit last, after putting a few pins in the cranberry suit to indicate minor changes you would make later, and stepped back to ponder your work.

"Hm, unbutton those top two buttons for me?" you requested with a raised eyebrow.

I will if you do, he thought to himself, but silently unbuttoned his own shirt anyway.

"I mean, it definitely works like this, but I wanna see you in a tie.  And I've got juuuuust the one," you smiled.  Soon you were approaching him with a red paisley tie, and helping him button up his shirt and tying the tie for him— you explained something about how it was a unique knot he likely couldn't do himself, but he was too lost in having you so close to notice.  It would be so easy to just reach up and grab your waist, pull you into a kiss, finally tell you how bad he wants you.

Well, it would be physically easy, but it would be very scary.  Just imagining it had his heart racing.

“I heard from Tony this morning,” you informed him suddenly, slipping the tie around his neck and popping his collar up for him.

“Really?  Is he in need of a wardrobe update?”

“Yes, but he hasn’t realized that yet so that wasn’t what he called about.”

He laughed a little at the jab, though it also made him a little worried what secret opinions you held about his own style (or lack thereof).

“We talked about you, actually,” you added.

“O-oh,” Bucky stammered, “uh, he’s not exactly my biggest fan.  So whatever he said probably isn’t true.”

“He said that you have a crush on me,” you replied nonchalantly, not even looking up from your work on his tie.

Bucky gulped, and he knew you saw the bob of his Adam’s apple because you were staring right at his neck.

“Like I said, Tony isn’t a very reliable source,” Bucky replied, but his voice cracked in the middle and he cringed internally.

“I’ll write it off as another one of Tony’s off-color jokes then,” you dismissed, perfecting the knot of his tie and stepping back to observe him.  He always felt nervous when you looked at him like that, like he couldn’t hide anything from you.

“What… what did you say, when he told you that?” Bucky asked nervously.

“I asked him what he was smoking and if I could have some,” you laughed.  “I thought it was totally impossible— and don’t worry, I didn’t tell him that you got hard when I did your inseam.”

Bucky’s throat became dry at the same moment that his palms got clammy.

“I— um, I was just—”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you dismissed quickly, still talking about this all so casually which only made him even more confused, “you’re not the first, it happens.”

“I’m not the first?!” 

“Yeah, if anything you were one of the few who didn’t say something creepy about it, which is always appreciated.  It’s just a bodily reaction, you can’t control it.”

“Did Tony ever say something creepy?” Bucky pressed, his hands involuntarily tightening into fists— another bodily reaction he couldn’t control.

“You know, Tony said you were really worried that he had been inappropriate with me, or even that he and I had a fling or something,” you added as you stepped back, giving him a quizzical look, “and now it’s sort of sounding like he was right.”

“No, no, it’s not that, I just—”

“Was he right about anything else?” you pressed, raising an eyebrow.

“I was being nosy, I’m sorry,” he sighed, “it’s just that… and I know it’s none of my business, but the idea of him and you… it isn’t a pleasant mental image.”

You laughed a little, in a way that made him feel kind of small.  “Why not?  You know how he is.  Definitely has a wandering eye… and occasionally a wandering hand.”

Bucky winced.  “I swear, if he ever put his hands on you, I’ll go find him right now and beat him senseless.”

“What if I wanted him to?”

He nearly saw red, but he knew he had no right to be angry.  You were a grown adult and he had no ownership over you… he just sort of wished that he did.

“So it’s true then?  You and him…?”

“No, Bucky,” you laughed, “it’s not.  Nothing’s ever happened between us.  I generally don’t get involved with clients like that.”

“Generally?  Is there an exception?”

You chewed your lip, seemingly a little thrown off by his question.  “Uh, I mean, no— I’ve never been involved with a client, no, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Why would you say ‘generally’ then?”

“Uh, I guess I just… I wouldn’t want to rule anything out, that’s all.  Never say never.”

And for a moment he almost wondered if you were flirting with him.  Certainly not, with him having come across as both a jealous hot-head and a bumbling dweeb who pops a boner faster than a randy teenager, but just for a second the way you looked at him was… questionable.

“I mean, who knows,” you continued, “what if, hypothetically, some gorgeous guy walked into my store one night— a sensitive guy, who made me laugh and put up with me rambling about ties for the better part of an hour— and I was supposed to dress him up when all I wanted to do was undress him?”

Your finger started to trail down his chest lightly, tickling his skin through the dress shirt. 

“I wouldn’t want to think he was off-limits just because he’s a customer… right?” you asked quietly, looking up at him and biting your lip.

He was afraid to make the wrong move, but he really really hoped this was flirting.

“I don’t think anyone would object to being dressed or undressed by you,” Bucky responded, hoping he could stay neutral until he was sure what you were talking about.

You chewed your lip, looking away as if you were thinking about something. 

"I know I certainly haven't.  And wouldn't," he added, feeling the need to say something.

You nodded, placing his tie inside his jacket and seeming happy with your work.

“You know, the fit looks great," you announced, "but I’m a little worried that one of the measurements was wrong.  Mind if I do your inseam again?”

His throat was dry all of a sudden, but he responded quickly anyways.  "Uh, go ahead…"

You looked up at him as you started to sink to your knees, very slowly.  That little move looked real good in the mirror behind you.  “Last time I did this, there was something getting in the way, made it difficult to know if I was doing it right…”

"M-my apologies," he whispered.

"Oh no, I'm not complaining," you purred as you slowly began to run your fingers up the side of his leg, keeping searing eye contact until his knees felt a little weak.

When your hand reached the top of his inner thigh, the back of it brushed against his balls and he shivered.  Delicately, and so excruciatingly slowly, your hand moved higher and gently rubbed his erection through the fabric.  

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.

It must have been all the anticipation that made it so intense, made shivers run up his spine every time your hand moved over his length, made his toes curl inside the ridiculously fancy shoes you’d put him in.

“I’m gonna take it out now, okay?  I promise I won’t measure you here,” you winked.

"You can if you want," he shrugged, deciding now was the time for feigned confidence if there ever was one.  “I mean, if you’re worried about fit…”

You bit your lip, and he was proud to see the effect his words had on you.  “I’ll be honest, I am a little worried it won’t fit…”  You were quick with his belt, but slow with his button and fly, apparently having more fun teasing him.  “Fuck, Bucky,” you groaned softly as you took his cock out.

“Don’t look so excited, doll, you’ll give me an ego,” he purred.

“Can’t help it,” you sighed, “looks delicious.”

You licked a long wet stripe up from the bottom all the way to the tip, making a show of licking up the bead of pre-cum before taking his head into your mouth, and Bucky blinked a few times to be sure that this was actually happening.

"Been wanting to do that since I first saw you," you admitted, grinning as you stroked him right beside your face, which only helped to illustrate how big he was compared to you.

"Dirty girl," he praised with a smirk.  

Flirting, he wasn’t so good at.  Conversation in any form typically stressed him out.  But this?  This he was still pretty good at.  And he’d never wanted it so bad before.

When you took him in your mouth again, you didn’t stop until you started to gag; he couldn’t stop himself from moaning through his teeth when you did it.

"Look up at me, princess," he instructed softly, grinning when you obeyed quickly.  "Now look over there at that mirror.  Look how good you look on your knees for me, choking on my cock."

You moaned around him when you made eye contact with your own reflection, and it felt so fucking good he almost lost it right then and there. He held your jaw, almost too tightly, and guided you as your head bobbed on his length.  Your mouth was so warm he thought he would burn up— and it only got warmer the deeper he managed to get.  God, he was so ready to pump his load right into your throat, but he wanted to do so much more to you first.  

In one quick motion, he pushed you off of his cock, pulled you up to face him, and flipped you around, holding you to his chest with the metal arm and letting the flesh one start rubbing your thigh.  This way, both of you were looking at the mirror in front of you, and he loved watching you gasp and moan as you felt and watched his fingers move higher and higher.

“I think it’s time to find out if you really are ‘full-service’,” he purred right against your ear, making searing eye contact with you in the reflection.  “You’ve seen so much of me, but I haven’t seen nearly enough of you yet.  Been daydreaming about what you could be hiding under these tight little skirts.”

As he pulled up the plaid-patterned fabric, he saw that you were wearing white, lacy panties and he groaned deeply.  

“What are you wearing these for?” he teased, rubbing along the edge but never getting where you wanted— and he knew you were getting desperate, because your hips were starting to buck up into his hand.  “Were you expecting something would happen today, sweetheart?”

“I— I was hopeful,” you stammered; instantly, he slapped you right on your barely-covered pussy, just hard enough to make you yelp and squirm in his grasp.  

“You’re so shameless,” he chuckled darkly, “and I love it.  I just hope this isn’t your usual routine— acting all innocent and batting your eyes so your clients will fuck you.”

“No, I swear, it’s just you, Bucky,” you whimpered, “there’s nobody else, please…”

“Please what?  Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to… to touch me more,” you whispered, as if it was a secret and not patently obvious.

He slipped two fingers underneath the thin fabric, finding your clit right away (not difficult at all with how swollen it was) and rubbing it in gentle circles.

“Oh god,” you sighed, “Bucky…”

WIth his hand on your hips, it wasn’t hard at all to push you back into him so he could rub his aching cock against you.  

"What material is this skirt made of?" 

"It's a silk blend," you answered breathlessly, "about 30% cotton."

"It's soft," he purred before yanking your skirt up higher and pressing his cock against your ass instead, "but not as soft as you."

Next to go was your blouse, which he tore open to the sound of buttons flying every direction and bouncing off of the mirrors and floors.

"Bucky!" you yelped, but he could see your nipples harden through the lacy white bra.  If there was any doubt that you had intended to seduce him today, the matching undergarments dispelled it.

After teasing your nipples between his fingers for a moment, he reached back down between your legs— and when his fingers slipped through your folds and moved down to your opening, he actually moaned just from how wet you are.

"Fucking hell," he growled, "you are drenched, princess.  You liked sucking me off that much?"

"Not just that," you clarified, "you look really good in my suits."

He gave you a toothy smile in the mirror, using it to nibble on your ear a bit.  "You deserve most of the credit for that," he purred.

"No, no, I don't," you whined, "you'd look sexy in a paper bag, honestly… you turn me on so much, Bucky."

“Did you… think about me?  After I left your shop the other night?” he asked playfully, already foreseeing your answer from the way your thighs clenched and your lips let out the subtlest gasp.

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“You’re smart enough to know I want you to be more specific than that,” he chuckled.

“I thought about you that night… after I got into bed…” you elaborated slowly, clearly distracted by the way he was moving his fingers: delicately, but with obvious intentionality.  “I thought about what it would’ve been like if you had grabbed me and kissed me, shoved me against the wall, fucked me right there on my desk… in front of the glass wall, where anyone could’ve walked by and seen you claim me…”

His cock was throbbing, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the image itself or from the knowledge that you’d been fantasizing about it.  “Were you touching yourself?” he growled.

“Yes,” you sighed, your thighs starting to visibly shake, your knees bending towards each other in the mirror.

“Show me how,” he demanded.  “Show me exactly how you were playing with your needy little pussy while you thought about me.”

Your hand found its place on top of his, your fingers starting to move his to the specific place, guiding his movements to be faster and rougher.

“Oh, I see,” he grinned, “you don’t like to tease yourself, do you?  You like to jump right into it, come as many times as you can and rub yourself raw in the process?”

You nodded feverishly, panting and whining and writhing in his grasp.

“You’re so desperate, honey… such a shameless cockwhore for me.”

“For you,” you repeated through your trance, “Bucky, ‘m close… keep touching me, please…”

He kept his thumb on your clit but gently slid one finger inside you, both of you gasping at the sensation (if for different reasons).

“So tight,” he hissed, already pulling it back out, “fuck, and just for one finger…”

“More, please,” you begged mindlessly.

“More?  Sure you can take it?”

You bit down on your lip as you nodded, and he pushed a second finger in beside his first.  He felt you struggling with it, both in your walls and in the way you winced a little, but you softly begged him to keep going so of course he couldn’t stop.  You adjusted quickly, your wetness starting to run down his hand.  

“Fuck me,” you whimpered, “now, please, can’t wait anymore.”

“Yes you can,” he encouraged, “and you will, cause I need to taste you first.”

Pulling his fingers out of you, he flipped you around again, finally kissing you the way he’d been dreaming of since he first saw you.  It was intense but not too dominating— in spite of everything.  It was a romantic sort of kiss, maybe too romantic for the situation (that being his cock out and hard and pressed against you, and his fingers covered in your arousal) but perfect nonetheless.

“That’s not what I thought you meant when you said you wanted to taste me,” you giggled when he pulled away.

“No, I meant it the other way,” he smiled, “I just wanted to do that first.”  

He picked you up suddenly, making you gasp a bit, but knelt down to lay you on the floor pretty soon after.  You looked up at him with wide eyes as he lifted your leg and kissed his way up.  He could smell your need, and he worried it would drive him wild before he reached his destination.

Pulling your soaked panties aside, he realized he could probably come just from looking at you.  “Such a gorgeous pussy,” he growled his praise, leaning down to plant a few more teasing kisses over the inside of your thighs.  Finally, he started with one long lick, just like you had with him, but you weren’t so patient to tolerate it.  Nearly instantly your fingers pulled his hair, clearly trying to guide him to tease you less, but he couldn’t be swayed to go easy on you.

“I hope you’re not forgetting who’s in charge,” he smiled hungrily.

“And what if I am?” you returned, clearly looking to get on his nerves so he’d get rough with you.  He was happy to oblige.

Bucky sat up and loosened his tie, slipping it off of his neck with a smirk.  "Now, this is 100% Venetian silk, so it should feel nice around your wrists," he cooed.  You offered your hands willingly, and he got a chance to show off a few complex knots of his own.  "Now be a good girl and keep those hands above your head, alright?"

You did as he asked, freeing him to hold your legs open as he devoured you, alternating between teasing your bud with the tip of his tongue, and fucking you with it.  

"You taste like heaven, doll," he growled when he came up quickly, "and the way you moan when my tongue's inside you?  I swear I could die happy right now."

"I wish you wouldn't though," you whimpered.

He laughed a bit before he got back to it, letting his tongue focus on your clit while he filled you with his fingers again.  Your walls clenched down on him occasionally, and when it became more frequent just as your moans became louder, he knew you were close.

"Stop, stop," you sighed suddenly, pushing him away.

"Are you alright?" he asked, nervous he'd done something wrong.  

"No I'm fine, I just… I don't want to come yet.  I want you inside me first."

"And what about what I want, hm?  What if I want to watch you come just from my tongue?" he offered instead, though he was definitely still very persuadable in this regard.

"I know you wanna fuck me, Bucky, don't make me wait any longer,” you moaned, your back arching up a little from the floor.

Not needing to be told twice, he flipped you onto your elbows and knees, making sure you could support yourself with bound wrists before letting you go.  His hands running over your exposed ass and thighs made you shiver, and he smiled down at you.  At this point, he was probably more desperate than you were, but he was doing a much better job of hiding it, even taking the time to reach up and undo a few of the buttons of his shirt, because wow suits are warm and not meant for his level of physical activity.

Still, he figured he had waited long enough— he needed to fuck you while he still had at least a shred of patience left.  He was going to need it if he was going to give you time to adjust to him.

Holding his cock and rubbing it through your folds, he chuckled when you whined and dropped your head down in a pout.  He loved watching your expression shift into a gasp as he pushed in.

He went slow, but he didn't stop either.  He wanted to test you just a little.  He wanted to stretch you open.

"Fuck," you cried, "god, you're so… you feel so…"

"Look in the mirror," he instructed coldly, although the coldness was just a front for the way he was holding himself back as your body swallowed him so beautifully.

You moaned again, higher-pitched and weak, just as he finally got all the way in.  He waited until he felt your body relax a bit before he asked if it was okay for him to move yet.  You answered with a quick nod, a breathy "please," and he didn't need any more encouragement.

It was probably too fast to start off with, but god, he'd been waiting so long to fuck you like this.

"Baby," he whispered, "you're so perfect."

He held you steady and thrusted deep, so deep that it made you gasp each time.  You looked incredible, and you felt incredible, but the way you sounded was just… divine.  He could never have imagined the beautiful way you would sound when he was bringing you pleasure like this.  Having heard it, he wanted to make you sound like this as often as possible from now on.  Technically he couldn’t even be sure he’d get another chance to, but surely sounds this perfect meant you had to be having a good time, right?  Ideally a good enough time to call him again?

He was snapped back to focus when he saw your eyes flutter shut with pleasure.

"Don't look away from that mirror, honey," he growled, "don't close your eyes.  Look how pretty you look like this."

He could tell you loved it from the way your channel fluttered and flexed.

"You like watching yourself get fucked, princess?"

"Yes," you sobbed as he grabbed your hips harder, hoping to leave a bruise, "it feels so good, Bucky, please don't stop!"

"I won't stop, pretty girl.  Not until you cream on my cock," he grunted. 

"Fuck, I'm close," you whined, "Bucky, I'm gonna come— oh god right there!"

And he was sure it couldn’t be fake from the way your body tightened and released so many times, the way you quivered and your breathing seemed to stop for a moment.  Even though he could barely take it, he kept fucking you through it until you were shaking so violently that he worried about your health.

“You feel so goddamn good when you come, princess,” he moaned softly.  “Tryin’ to milk my cock for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

You laughed a little, sounding exhausted, but as he kept fucking you he could feel how sensitive you had become.  When he reached down to push your skirt back up to your waist after it had started to fall down a bit, he felt his own movements in your gut and it took so much not to lose his cool in that moment.  Instead, he pulled your upper body into his so that you could see in the mirror the way your lower stomach was bulging a bit each time he pushed in all the way.

"F-fuck, Bucky," you whimpered.

"Anybody ever been that deep inside you before?"

"No, not even close," you moaned.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked gently, kissing up and down your neck slowly to match his lazy, teasing thrusts.

"A little," you admitted, "but it feels good.  Don't stop."

He wasn’t so brutal with his thrusts, still deep but with a patient, measured pace.  It staved off his orgasm a bit longer, and it made you moan all slow and throaty which was not better or worse than the needy, high-pitched moans, but enjoyably different.  You didn’t sound as desperate anymore (probably because you’d already come), instead seeming relaxed and calm— if still arching your back and biting your lip nonetheless.

"I wanna come inside you," he whispered right against your ear; he could feel the way you shivered as a result.

"Please," you whimpered.

"Is that what you want?  Wanna be full of my come?"

"Yes," you sobbed, "yes, please Bucky I need it so bad!"

"Fuck, gonna fill you up so good, doll," he promised gruffly.  "Want me to make you mine, beautiful?"

He knew it was a risky thing to say, but his risks had paid off so far, and he wasn't in his most cautious mood.

"Already yours, Bucky," you sighed, "I'm yours, please come in me…"

It hit him suddenly when you said that, and harder than he expected.  He hadn't come like that in… he hadn't come like that ever.  He preferred not to think about the sudden, wavering moan he let out in that moment because he wondered if it sounded unsexy, but thankfully his mind was distracted by the overwhelming sensation of his softening, sensitive cock still within you.

He managed to maneuver you in the way he needed as he pulled out, leaning you back into him and holding your legs open to the mirror in front of you.

"Look in the mirror, sweetheart,” he instructed, his whisper a little labored as he was still catching his breath, “watch my come leak outta your pussy."

You seemed to be in awe of it, despite it being the obvious outcome of what had just happened.  To be fair, he was in awe of it in a sense, too; a thick, slow stream of sticky white come dripping down from your swollen hole and onto the floor… it was mesmerizing.

Your body was limp in his arms as he finally allowed you to rest, your eyes falling shut as you melted into his embrace.  He took a moment to untie your wrists, tossing the garment aside with an exhausted sigh.  “Bucky…” you mumbled sleepily, apparently just to say his name.

“Was that… sort of what you were hoping for today?” he asked softly, kissing your temple.

“And more,” you giggled.  “Oh my god, I… I don’t even know how to describe that… you’re so… fuck, I don’t know, my brain is totally jelly right now.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

He smiled, admiring your vacant-yet-pleased expression and feeling satisfied with his work.  You turned over to lay your head on his chest, and he gladly draped his arms around you in response.  Holding you like this felt so purely right, in a way so few things did to him.  Funny enough, even just having fucked you on the floor and already holding you afterwards right now, he felt nervous again that he would say something wrong.  You were a modern woman, after all, and maybe this was this ‘hook-up culture’ he kept hearing about.

“Was that true what you said, doll?” he asked gently, feeling you stir a little and slide a leg up to rest over his.  “Did you mean it when you said that you were mine?  Or was it just, you know, the heat of the moment…?”

You smiled a little, looking kind of embarrassed.  “Um, yeah, I meant that… I’m yours, if you want me to be.”

He didn’t feel as guilty for feeling so possessive over you now.  Clearly it was appreciated, in the right context.  And he was now at least 75% sure that this wasn’t a hook-up.  “Well, I’m yours, too,” he replied with a soft laugh, “whether you want me or not.”

“I want you,” you confirmed.

You laid in silence together for some unknowable amount of time, but it was a purely unawkward silence.  A peaceful silence, and one filled with possibilities, but not uncomfortable.  Maybe it was uncomfortable in the sense that the carpet, while still being very plushy and expensive, was still the floor and not as forgiving as a bed… but it was completely worth it.

Part of him feared to ruin the moment by speaking, but much more of him feared that you would slip out of his grasp if he didn’t say something.  "This may be the wrong time to ask this— or maybe just the wrong order to do this stuff in— but I wanted to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner sometime."

You laughed, but cuddled deeper into his chest.  "Um, yeah, that would be nice."

"I just hope I'll find something nice to wear," he grinned.

[shortytori]

Tori Tales

Robert Moss: First Day of School

“What is this?” Robert angrily demanded as he slammed a class schedule on the kitchen counter in front of Delta. 

Without looking at him or the schedule he took a sip of her morning coffee and responded, “Those are the classes you’ll be taking starting next week. We know that you haven’t been going to school for some time, and I have decided that it would be best for the team if you also worked out your mind as well as your body.”

“Bu-but,” the young teen took a deep breath, “but I didn’t join the Alliance to go to school--I joined because I want to get to the same level as those on Team B and Team A!”

Delta looked down at him from the side, “As long as you remain dumb and ignorant you will never be on their level. You will go to Townsville High Monday to Friday, and you will not skip any of your classes. I have requested Adam and Zuri to keep an eye on you and make sure you are on the school grounds during school hours. If you do go to your classes there will be consequences, understood?”

Robert wanted to object but as he looked her in the eye he just frowned and nodded. He knew she was strong and a great leader, and he respected her commands even when he didn’t agree with them. “Yes ma’am.” He picked his schedule back up and walked back to his room. As he walked he passed Zuri and Adam and slipped them a pouted glare.

“What’s his problem?” Zuri made a face back at him.

Back in his room, Robert slammed the door and threw himself on his bed. This would be the first time he’d ever go to school. The last three years he had Cherry and Boss teach him what he needed to know to survive living on the streets, and before that he learned some things in the science lab. Was school like how shows and movies made it look? Drama about romance, teen girl fights in the hall, clique arguments? ‘What if I get made fun of and they all don’t like me?’ He sat up and frowned at himself in the mirror, then smirked after seeing his reflection. “Nah, I’m too handsome for anyone to make fun of!” He shook his head as he fed his ego.

Robert was humming to himself as he brushed his hair, getting ready for the big day ahead of him. He had woken up two hours early and had already gone for his morning swim, his strength workout, taken a shower to smell fresh and clean and eaten breakfast. Since today he decided to switch up his look and dressed in a white button up shirt tucked into light seafoam green pants and finished the outfit with laced up white vans. One last brush and finished! He smiled proudly to himself and winked, “Looking good like always!~”

With a knock on his door, Zuri called out, “Are you done looking at yourself yet? We have to make our way to the school now. I wanted to hang out with Gigi before classes start!” Robert took one deep breath as he stared at his reflection, getting rid of any nerves that were trying to make their way up. 

Opening his door he smirked at Zuri, “How can I not look at myself when I look this good?” He did a few poses to show off his pampered self while Zuri rolled her eyes and walked away. “Hey! I wasn’t done showing off how good I look!” Closing his door he ran after her and they, along with Adam, made their way to their private driver--which was curtesy of the Alliance. Within twenty minutes they were in front of Townsville High. 

Getting out of the car Robert looked up at the school and was only shocked for a second. It was pretty big for a school--didn’t these things usually only have one building? There were multiple! But those were the only things that impressed the young teen. As the three of them walked up to Gigi who had been waiting for them, Robert looked around while Zuri elbowed Adam playfully causing him to blush. It was similar to a mall that there were teens everywhere, which was good for him because he enjoyed hanging out with people his age. 

Gigi waved excitedly at Adam, who shyly waved back blushing and quickly made his way into the school alone. She looked at Zuri and Robert questioningly which they just shrugged and walked into the building together. “It’s really cool that you’re going to be going to school with us Robert!” She threw an arm over his shoulder and brought him in for a side hug. “Lucky for you, you have a cool and awesome older friend who can tell you the ins and out, the whose and what’s, and the best places to hang out!” 

“Already covered all of that in the car ride here,” Zuri smirked as she too wrapped her arm around Robert’s neck. Gigi pouted and Robert laughed at her reaction.

“Don’t worry, Gigi,” Robert smiled at the blonde, “since I’m new I’m going to need some help. So please be my ‘cool and awesome older friend’ who makes sure I don’t make a fool of myself.” She nodded with a grin and threw an arm up in a cheer. 

They showed Robert where his locker was, got his books from the school library, and showed him where his first class was. “This is your first period; 9th Grade English with Mr. Go,” Zuri gestured to the entrance of the classroom, “a warning before you see him. He looks big and intimidating, but he’s a big softie who is really into helping his students.” Gigi nodded along in agreement. “The rest of your classes are pretty close by, so just pay attention to the numbers by the classroom doors and hopefully you won’t get lost too much on your first day. We’ll see you at lunch, don’t make any trouble!” Gigi and Zuri waved as they walked to their first period class.

As he opened the door and walked in, all eyes were on the new kid in the classroom. Mr. Go stood up and Robert immediately realized why Zuri said he looked big and intimidating--the guy was huge! He walked up to him and reached out his hand, “Hello, you must be Robert! It’s great to have you in our class. Once the bell rings I’ll have you introduce yourself to the rest of the students and we’ll start our first day! If you ever need any help, please don’t be shy with asking me anything.” He pointed to a seat in the second to last row, “no one is currently assigned to that seat, so that’s where you’ll be sitting. Get your materials out and get comfortable because there’s about seven minutes before class starts.” He smiled, then walked back to his desk and took a seat.

Robert, unsure of what he needed, looked around the classroom and saw that some students had their notebooks, their copy of Lord of the Flies, and a pen or pencil so he copied them. He had noticed since he walked in that a few students were talking and looking at them, and he smirked at the thought of them talking about how good he looked. A few classmates came up and introduced themselves and made some small talk, but none of them were very memorable. 

The “bell” sounded more like a loud buzzer and it made him jump. “Alright class, in your seats! You know when the bell goes off it’s time to start the day’s learning. I know you all have noticed a new face in our class, and I’m going to give him the floor so he can introduce himself.” Mr. Go gestured to Robert who nodded and stood up.

Loving the attention, Robert smiled as he spoke, “My name is Robert. I like swimming; I actually have swam a few times in local competitions where I used to live. I also making myself look good all the time, because I do not like looking like a mess in front of other people. I also love taking walks on the beach,” at his last statement he laughed to himself and winked at the student to his right, causing them to blush with a confused look on his face. 

Mr. Go laughed as well as Robert sat down. “You seem like a character Robert, so I know you’re going to fit in well with the class. Now we’re going to start class by reading the next chapter in Lord of the Flies. Last class we finished chapter two, so can everyone please open to the start of chapter three.” As everyone opened their books and found the page, Hue’s eyes scanned the room, and his eyes met Robert’s. “Robert, since you’re new how about you take the honor and read the first page of chapter three?”

Nodding, Robert looks down at the page and began to read. The way he read was slow and choppy, and he made multiple pauses to slowly sound out words. It took him about seven minutes to read the entire page, and as Mr. Go thanked him with an awkward smile and moved on to picking the next student, Robert could feel the rest of his classmates talking about him and giving him weird looks. His ego was deflated and he felt weird, his shoulders felt tense and his stomach felt like it was flipping around inside of him. The rest of class didn’t get better, they had a group conversation about the book and he didn’t know how to take part in and they had to write and he wasn’t able to finish and was lucky to have at least wrote a page. First period ended, and Robert put his writing face down on Mr. Go’s desk and quickly waved goodbye before he had the chance to look at his work.

Second period went even worse than first, and by the time the lunch bell rang he was ready to go home. ‘I don’t get any of this. Why does any of this matter? Haven’t seen Adam or Zuri since before classes started, so how would they know if I skip my other two classes?’ He then remembered that the teachers took attendance and Zuri has most likely been hacking into the school’s system to make sure he had been in his classes. He groaned and not looking where he was going, accidentally bumped shoulders with another student. He looked at them and saw it was a girl with blonde hair and looked like someone poured 90s fashion all over her and dyed it all pink.

“I’m sorry,” the girl apologized.

“No, it was my fault. I’m sorry,” Robert mumbled and walked away before she could reply. 

Having followed a crowd of kids to the cafeteria, he looked around and couldn’t find Gigi, Zuri, or Adam anywhere in the mob of teens. As he took out his phone from his pocket to text one of them, someone shoved him as they walked passed him causing him to drop his phone. “The hell!” He bent down to pick it up and tried to glare at the jerk that bumped him, but was shocked when he saw who it was. “Vain?!”

The said teen turned around and looked down at him, looked surprised for a second, then smirked. “Well, well, well, I didn’t know you went to Townsville High.”

Wiping the dirt off his pants, Robert shook his head as he stood up. “I didn’t before today. This is my first day here.”

“Hopefully not being a complete loser,” Vain circled around Robert, “because last time I saw you was last year at the local swimming meet behind me and losing.” He then leaned in to Robert and whispered in his ear, “do you think others would find it weird that you’ve been living in Townsville all this time but haven’t been attending school? Hopefully word doesn’t get out.”

Robert’s eyes flashed red for a second and he snapped at Vain, yelling out, “Why don’t you just mind your own business!?” The students that were around the two all turned and looked at them.

A hand was placed on Robert’s shoulder, pulling him back and he heard Zuri’s voice, “There you are Robert! Already making friends I see. Hey there, hope he wasn’t being too friendly with ya,” Zuri gave Vain a friendly yet deadly glare and he scoffed.

Before he could reply another familiar face walked up in the form of Mr. Go, “I heard some yelling over here. Not fighting now, are we?” He gave all three teens a look, and with a frown Vain shook his head.

“Why of course not, sir,” he then looked Robert and Zuri and then looked back at the adult. “If you don’t mind I’m going to go eat lunch.” Without getting a response he walked off.

Mr. Go shook his head as he looked at the two teens still in front of him. “Thank you, Zuri, for helping Robert here out. It’s good to see that he’s already made some friends while he’s been here--I know being new to a big school like this can be hard to adjust to.” Zuri and Robert shared an eyebrow raised look, if only he really knew. “Though if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to talk to Robert for a minute.”

Not having an excuse to argue Zuri nodded her head. “After you’re done talking to Mr. Go, you can come sit over there with us,” she gestured to a far off table where he finally spotted Gigi and left to go sit with her.

With a smile Robert looked up at his teacher, “What’s up Mr. Go?”

The man had a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face as he rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I saw this morning you were having a hard time in class, and I’ve talked to your second period teacher and found out you had a difficult time in their class as well. I know it’s your first day, but I could tell that you’re quite behind academically. So I...” he hesitated, feeling bad and mumbled, “I hate doing this.” He took a deep breath and looked Robert in the eyes, “I sent an email to your guardian. You’re not in trouble, but I don’t want you to fall even more behind.”

From there all Robert could think about was what would happen when he got home. How was Delta going to react?

--

Finally home, and instead of running to his room to hide, Robert walked into the kitchen and found Delta sitting and waiting at the dining table. Nervous, he sat down as well and waited for her to speak first. 

“First day of school and already getting emails from your teacher? I know this is all new to you, but I never expected I would get news so quick.” She looked at him and noticed his head was down, his eyes looked sad, and his hands were clenched into fists. She picked up the mug that sat in front of her and took a sip of her tea. “I know you feel disappointed in yourself. You’re a crucial member of this team, and you feel you’ve let us all down by being so behind in school.” She placed a hand on his head and smiled, “But you haven’t.” 

Robert looked up at her in surprise. He’d expected her to be mad, to get yelled at, or even a punishment of some kind. It’s what he was used to. But Delta wasn’t like that. She is understanding, she’s smart, she’s a good leader and knows how to help her comrades--that made Robert’s respect for her grow even more. Giving him a couple pats on the head she folded her hands in front of her. 

“Luckily for you there are ways to help you out with your schooling. You’re going to go to tutoring after school Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.” He looked at her in horror as she continued to speak, “it will be good for you to get the extra help so you can get to where you need to be.” Robert rubbed his face in annoyance; he understood why but it was just going to take time out of other things he could be doing. “I also heard that you almost got into a fight today during lunch--”

“Who told you--” Robert tried to interrupt her while he spoke but immediately stopped talking when she gave him a cold look. 

She sighed. “Because of your ‘almost’ fight and the large amount of information the Alliance apparently failed to collect on you, you will be seeing a professional psychologist by the name of Jocelyn Drakken every other Tuesday.” Robert made a face at the therapist’s last name, wasn’t that-- “yes, she is Charles’ younger sister.” Delta got up from the table and pushed in her chair. Before leaving she told Robert, “I know you will be able to handle the additions to your schedule and will work hard to improve mentally and emotionally. You are an amazing member to this team and we wouldn’t be as strong without you. Just know that all of this extra work doesn’t give you an excuse to skip your strength and combat training.”

Robert groaned as she gave him another pat on the head and left the kitchen with a soft smile. She was happy that he had a teacher like Hue that cared about their students’ education. 

‘That actually could have gone a lot worse,’ he thought to himself and smiled while he stared out the window to the beautiful view of the beach. 

Hue Go belongs to @kururu418 and is a part of the callyieverse

Mention of Blair Mystery Vanquez belongs to @aj-thegreatest​

Delta, Vain, and Jocelyn belongs to @princesscallyie​ 

Adam belongs to @purfectprincessgirl​

Zuri belongs to @des-the-girl​

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Partying and Poker Faces

Criminal Minds x Supernatural

Word Count: ~3350

Warnings: Errbody gettin drunk. Terrible zamboni puns. 

A/N: No, seriously, it’s just random drunk conversations. They are ridiculous. It’s fun. Thanks to @stunudo​, @fookinghelljensensthighs​, @lastactiontricia​ and everybody else in the Slack chat who listened to me ramble and helped with Nutcracker jokes/Winchester band names. Hair clip scene inspired by this post. 

Part 6 of the Rockstar AU! 

-

-

The “Wayward Sons” World Tour: Pre-Tour Kickoff Party

. . .

“Okay, seriously though, my friend found all these pictures of them at Bonnaroo walking around with a girl with blue hair, right? So she did a side-by-side analysis and she swears it’s Harry Styles in a wig. Like, honest to god.” 

“Who’s Harry Styles?” Spencer asks, putting his book down and rubbing his eyes as he comes out of his reading trance.

“Only the love of my life,” Penelope tells him. 

“Penelope,” Emily interrupts. “You are not allowed to ask him if he’s really friends with Harry Styles.” 

Penelope deflates slightly. “But -”

JJ tells her, “You are definitely not allowed to ask if you can have Harry Styles’s phone number.” 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Apparently there’s a whole group of crazies who think he and Sam are actually dating. There are conspiracy theories and everything.” 

“Let’s just outlaw the subject of Harry Styles altogether,” JJ says hurriedly. “Okay?” 

“Oh my God, I wouldn’t actually ask. Are you ready yet, Em?” 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Emily replies, glaring at her reflection. She’s been trying to even out her wings for like half an hour now. “I look like a raccoon.” 

“So… normal then?” Spencer asks, with his cheekiest smile. 

“Uh oh, we’ve got Sassy Spence tonight,” JJ says. She grabs Emily’s arm to tug her away from the mirror. “You’re gorgeous. Let’s go.” 

“Forward, march!” Penelope orders. “To Suite 202!” 

. . . 

“So then Sammy asks if she’s his daughter,” Dean finishes. 

Hotch and Spencer laugh; it makes Hotch look about ten years younger. 

“What did she say?” Spencer asks, tucking his hair behind his ears again. With his legs crossed in his ratty Chucks, he looks too young to be drinking. 

“Just said ‘I’m his wife,’ ice cold, and walked away.”

“You should’ve seen the look on Sam’s face,” Cas adds. He settles down next to Dean, handing him a fresh drink and sitting close. For a moment Dean forgets that they’re allowed to be close, that he’s not in public any more, and then he puts an arm around Cas, smiling to himself. 

“What about you?” Dean asks. 

“I haven’t gotten starstruck since Kurt Cobain,” Hotch answers. “But you should ask Spencer what happened when he met David Byrne.” 

“Spencer, what happened when you met David Byrne?” Cas asks with a smirk. 

“Well… you know how Freud talked about seeing the Acropolis for the first time? The feeling of derealization?” 

“No,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows. “Should I?” 

“What you have to understand is that my mom was playing me the Talking Heads while I was in the womb,” Spencer continues earnestly. “Remain In Light, mostly, because it came out that year, but — anyway. Research shows —“

“David Byrne is his Acropolis,” Hotch translates. “He didn’t speak for almost two hours after they were introduced.” 

“And I get the feeling there aren’t many things that render him speechless,” Cas says dryly. 

. . .

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Penelope says, and she sits in the empty spot next to Derek on the couch. She almost kicks Spencer as she does so; he’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch, hunched over one of the acoustic guitars that everybody’s been passing around. 

“You know there’s another chair, right?” asks Sam, who’s sprawled out in one of the armchairs opposite their couch.   

“Trust me, it’s pointless,” Derek tells him. “He hates chairs.” 

“That’s not true,” Spencer says absent-mindedly, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I like the ones with wheels.” 

“Wait, you play keys, right?” Sam asks, watching Spencer pluck out a quick, dexterous open-tuned thing that Penelope is pretty sure he’s improvising. 

“And synths,” Spencer says, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. “But also… a little bit of everything, I guess.” 

“Guitar, bass, drums, violin, cello, saxophone, clarinet,” Derek rattles off proudly. “What else? There are some weird ones.” 

“Didgeridoo!” Penelope adds. 

“She calls it my didgeri-don’t,” Spencer says, and it’s true; it’s her least favorite instrument, which is unfortunate because it’s one of her favorite words.“And there are a few things I built, I guess, but haven’t really named yet.”

“That’s awesome,” Sam says, looking suitably impressed. 

“You need a goddamn haircut, Pretty Boy,” Derek says, as Spencer tries to get his hair out of his eyes again. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Sam tells Spencer, running a hand through the shampoo-commercial situation he has on his own head. “And don’t let my brother start in on you, either.” 

Penelope rummages in her purse for a second and pulls out a neon green butterfly clip. She combs some hair back from Spencer’s forehead, twists it, and secures it so that the butterfly is right on the crown of Spencer’s head.

“Thanks, that’s much better,” Spencer says, giving her a quick smile over his shoulder. Sam stifles a laugh. 

“Hey,” Derek says, in an undertone. “Got any more of those?” 

“I love the way your brain works,” Penelope stage-whispers back. She digs around until she has a whole handful of aggressively colorful glittery barrettes (some are shaped like flowers, some have pom-poms) and passes half to Derek. She leans down and starts to braid a little section of hair near Spencer’s temple. He doesn’t seem to notice. 

. . . 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Hotch asks, as he starts mixing himself a drink. “I don’t think we met at the surprise show.” 

“Jack,” the kid says, with a sweet smile. He’s all fresh-faced and earnest. Hotch has concerns. 

“I’m Aaron, but everybody calls me Hotch,” he says. “What‘s your part in this whole circus?” 

“I’m their guitar tech,” he chirps. “Cas is my uncle, also. He’s the one who got me the job.” 

“Uh-huh. First tour?” 

He nods. “I’m excited! This is going to be great.”

Hotch has a feeling this is going to be trouble. 

Jack has a hand on the whiskey bottle when Hotch notices and asks, “How old are you?” 

“He’s twenty,” Charlie interrupts, snatching the bottle from Jack’s hand. “Down, boy.” 

Jack shrugs, not seeming particularly bothered, and wanders away with his soda. 

“Good to know,” Hotch says wryly. 

Charlie gives Hotch an apologetic look and says, “I feel like a spoilsport. Like, let the kid have some fun, right?”

“So you followed all the rules when you were his age?” 

“Well, no, not so much, although I wasn’t into drinking so much as… um. Mild felonies.” She wrinkles her nose expressively. “But I have strict orders from Cas. He might look like a teddy bear, but Cas can be scary.” 

“Felonies,” Hotch says, trying to keep a straight face. Charlie nods. 

“Hacking, mostly?” she says tentatively. “There was some… environmentally focused cyber-terrorism, I guess you’d call it.” 

“You should talk to Penelope, she used to do that sort of thing as well.” 

Charlie looks over dubiously at Penelope, who is pulling up the hem of Derek’s shirt and showing off his abs, Vanna White style, for Sam’s benefit. Sam looks shockingly unaffected, so odds are he is straight, in which case, Rossi owes Hotch some money.

“Really. She was actually contacted by the FBI, they wanted to hire her, but.” Hotch smiles at the way Charlie’s mouth falls open. “She has a whole… sordid history. They used to call her the Black Queen.” 

“Are you… what?” Charlie asks incredulously. 

“I know, it’s a ridiculous name, but —”

“No, that’s — I can’t believe it,” Charlie stutters. “Really?” 

Hotch raises an eyebrow. “Really. Does that mean something to you?” 

Charlie shakes her head, eyes wide. “You don’t understand, she’s a legend. She’s like a frakking rockstar.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“No, like an actual rockstar,” Charlie insists. “Not that you’re not a rockstar, I didn’t mean — holy crap.” 

“Would you like me to introduce you?” Hotch offers. 

Charlie goes pale. “I don’t — um.” 

“I think you’re the first person who has ever been intimidated by Penelope Garcia,” Hotch muses. 

Charlie does a quick shot of whiskey before nodding. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” 

. . . 

“I am so fuckin’ glad I don’t have to deal with this every night,” Bobby says gruffly, with an expansive gesture at everyone in the room and their varied levels of inebriation. “We’re too old for this shit. Don’t know how you still want to go out on the road.” 

“Of all the groups I’ve managed, believe it or not, this one’s the easiest.”

Bobby looks across the room to where JJ is passing around shots and Emily is talking everybody into a game of Truth or Dare, as a “bonding exercise.” Spencer is clinging to Morgan’s back like a gangly white Yoda; Morgan, who’s serenading Sam with “Wonderwall” (Sam is covering his ears and looking pained) doesn’t seem to notice his weight. 

“I don’t believe it, actually,” Bobby tells Rossi, who shrugs. 

“They take care of each other, really. No ego involved, with any of them, which is rare enough in this business.” Rossi pauses as Penelope shrieks; Hotch, who is standing between her and Charlie, looks vaguely alarmed, but nobody seems to be in any real danger. Rossi adds, “They may act like a bunch of assclowns sometimes, but they’re much smarter than they look. I told you, didn’t I?” 

“Fair enough,” Bobby says. He’d called Rossi on a whim, looking for an opener for Dean’s surprise show and hinting about “discretion” and “liberal types,” trying not to give too much away. He’d expected Rossi to put him in touch with a friend of a friend, or something. He didn’t expect this to work out so well.

Bobby’s not used to things working out well. It’s a nice change. 

“Good to see you again, anyway” Rossi says. “You’re coming out to a few more shows, right?” 

“Course. I’ll be around here and there.” 

“Bet you’ll miss them soon enough. I was bored stiff when I was retired,” Rossi says. 

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to get those two through their teenage years,” Bobby grouches. “Just about put me in an early grave.” 

“They seem like good kids,” Rossi says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since they were… how old?” 

Bobby can’t help but smile at that. “Yeah, they’ve got good heads on their shoulders. They grew up. Just in time, too. I kept tellin’ them, success is going to change things, but I don’t think they believed me. Idjits.” 

Rossi nods knowingly. “Cheers to success, then. And old friends.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” 

. . . 

“Pastor’s son, in the church,” Emily says. 

“Twins,” Dean replies smugly. 

“Nice.” Emily gives him a fist-bump. “Backstage during a performance of The Nutcracker.” 

“I’ll be very disappointed if there were no nut jokes.” 

Emily smirks. “Well, there were no actual nuts involved, but the fairy did, in fact, taste like sugar plums.” 

“Yeah, okay, not bad,” Dean says. He clinks his beer bottle against hers and they drink. “On top of a zamboni.” 

“You mean zam-bone-y?” 

“Thank you! Sam rolled his eyes so hard I thought they were gonna fall out when I said that.” 

“The Roxy.”  

“Green room? C’mon,” Dean scoffs. “Amateur hour.” 

“Nope,” Emily says triumphantly. “In the crowd, during a Guns N Roses show.” 

“Okay, that’s fuckin’ awesome,” Dean laughs.

“It really was.” 

Dean’s eyes flick across the room, following Cas, who just deadpanned something that’s making Hotch double over with laughter. Dean’s eyes go crinkly at the corners as his smile gets even brighter — a full-on megawatt movie star smile — and his expression is so sweet and soft and utterly adoring that Emily melts a little bit. 

“Gross,” she says, elbowing Dean. He elbows her right back. 

“Shuddup,” he mutters. 

“No more twins for you,” Emily sing-songs. 

“Worth it,” Dean says firmly, and even she can’t think of anything snarky to say to that. 

. . . 

JJ can only understand about one in five of the words Penelope and Charlie are chattering to each other, so she gives up and leaves them to it. She’s slightly concerned they’re plotting to take over the world, or something. They don’t seem to notice her leaving. 

Dean and Emily are side by side on one of the couches, both slouching, with their feet up on the coffee table and beers resting on their stomachs, giggling about something as if they’ve been lifelong friends. The whole tableau is unexpected, but not in a bad way. 

There’s something about Dean that JJ just didn’t like, at first. It’s mostly that he’s too likable. In every interaction they’ve had, he’s been incredibly charismatic, warm, polite, funny… but it’s not him. 

JJ is an expert at getting people to trust her without ever showing her hand. She recognizes a bluff when she sees one. 

She’s been watching Dean, whenever he thinks she’s not paying attention. He lets his guard down, sometimes, when he’s with his brother or Cas, but there’s a well-disguised wall that goes up when he talks to anyone else. It’s defensive fortifications camouflaged as charm. 

Apparently Emily’s shoved through whatever wall Dean usually puts up when he’s around strangers. Emily can do that to a person, though. JJ knows that better than anybody. 

Emily’s clearly teasing him about something. He’s grinning, boyish and bashful and genuine, and JJ likes him a hell of a lot more, suddenly. 

She heads over to join them on their couch, sliding over the armrest to sprawl halfway over Emily’s lap and cuddle in close. 

“Are you two still playing Truth or Dare? This doesn’t look very daring.” 

“Debauchery pissing contest,” Emily informs her. 

Dean is watching her, and his walls are up again: pleasant smile slapped on his face, eyes calculating, playing it close to the chest until he figures her out. 

She raises an eyebrow and prompts him: “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me?” 

He looks suspicious, but he goes with it. “What’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” JJ says primly, and for a second Dean’s actually thinking about taking her seriously. She rolls her eyes. “Kidding. Middle of a Guns N Roses show.” 

He looks confused for a second. Then Emily and JJ high-five, and Dean barks out a laugh. 

“I didn’t know you —” 

He hesitates. 

“Swing that way?” JJ supplies. 

“Yeah, that.”

“Most people don’t, and we’re gonna keep it that way. Understood?”

Dean seems surprised by the sudden sharp edge in her voice. “Gotcha.” 

“I used to think she was crazy for not coming out publicly,” Emily tells Dean, but she’s looking at JJ with a little half-smile on her face. “But now that people are starting to give a shit about us, sometimes I think she might’ve had the right idea.” 

“Don’t lie, you love being an ‘inspiration to the youth,’” JJ says, with mocking finger quotes. “And you’ve been disappointing your mom for years, she’s used to it. Mine would probably have a heart attack.” 

“Yeah, but the number of times I get that fucking ‘Does that mean you’re attracted to pans?’ bullshit, I swear to God…” 

Dean’s looking at JJ again, but this time it’s less calculating and more admiring. He nods slowly like something just started to make sense.  

“Helluva poker face,” he says approvingly.  

JJ grins. “Yours isn’t too bad either.” 

. . . 

“I gotta ask,” Spencer says, slurred and slow. “How’d you choose the band name? The Ceiling Fires?”

Sam shrugs. “It was a recurring dream that Dean and I both used to have.” 

“Weird image.” Spencer makes a face as he undoes one of the tiny braids Penelope left in his hair. “Not that — weird isn’t a bad thing. It’s memorable.”  

“Yeah, I guess so. Dean called it that as a joke, to start with, I think, but...” Sam rambles. He’s right at that point of drunk where words just keep rolling off his tongue. “Feels like a long time ago. I mean, I did not in a million years think we’d end up here.” 

“Linear time,” Spencer comments. 

Sam waits for him to finish the thought, but apparently that’s it. 

“Linear time,” he repeats agreeably. “It’s not just… time, though, you know? It’s the whole deal. Success, I guess. People listening.  Expecting you to look a certain way, or… I don’t fucking know.”

Spencer nods pensively, combing his fingers through his hair again. “We did a magazine photo shoot the other day and they wouldn’t let me wear any of my own clothes. I like my clothes. And people keep asking if I’m dating anybody.” 

“Yeah, I’ve been getting that question too.” Spencer doesn’t know the half of it. Sam laughs to himself, rubbing his forehead, and takes a big gulp of his drink. 

Spencer pulls out another barrette with a grimace. “I mean, why would anyone care if you’re dating… who was it? Harry Styles?” 

Sam chokes and spits whiskey everywhere. 

“Who —” he wheezes, and has to stop to cough. “Fucking — how did you know?” 

“Wait, really?” 

“What?” 

“Penelope said it was just a stupid rumor,” Spencer says. He’s squinting at Sam like he’s seeing double. 

“Shit.” The adrenaline rush is going a long way toward sobering Sam up. He shakes his head and tries to pull himself together. “Shit. I just… shit.” 

“Is that a big deal?” Spencer asks, with a mild sort of confusion. “Penelope made it sound like a joke. She called it a conspiracy theory.” 

Sam stares at him, open-mouthed, before dropping his head into his hands with a groan. “Yeah, let’s just keep calling it a conspiracy theory, okay? I already owe his publicist a fucking… fruit basket, or maybe just a lot of wine.” 

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t actually know who that is,” Spencer offers. Sam laughs weakly. “No, really, I won’t tell anybody. Even Penelope. Especially Penelope.” 

Sam studies him for a second. He looks earnest enough, in a boozy, unfocused way, but Sam’s learned the hard way that most people can’t be trusted. 

Still, worth a try. 

“If you could — yeah. Please? Just… please don’t tell anybody.” 

“Believe me,” Spencer says. “I know how it goes. If you let people see the things that matter…” He trails off, his eyes sliding to a point somewhere over Sam’s shoulder, and his voice gets unexpectedly clear and fierce. “People can be vicious. I wouldn’t give them a weapon like that.” 

Sam’s pretty sure he shouldn’t feel so reassured — Spencer still has a glittery butterfly clip sticking out from behind one ear — but he is, somehow. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. 

Spencer shrugs, like it’s nothing, and settles the guitar in his lap again. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

“Oh hell no,” Sam grumbles, and throws a couch cushion at him.  

. . .

“Okay,” Hotch says decisively. “Everybody have their room keys?” 

“Aww! He’s like the world’s cutest drill sergeant,” Charlie says. Hotch scowls at her, but he has a feeling it’s not very intimidating. She just giggles.

“Rossi?” Hotch asks, looking around and doing a quick head count. 

“Went to bed an hour ago to listen to the latest episode of his fucking true crime podcast,” Emily says. 

Hotch frowns. “Without me? Sneaky bastard.” 

“Of all the weird fucking hobbies…” JJ mutters. “Hey, Morgan, is it my turn to be the jetpack?” 

“Fuck no. I am way too buzzed to be carrying any of you home tonight. You can walk.”

“I’m not sure I can, actually,” Spencer says morosely. He looks like a rag doll, sitting on the floor, propped up by the side of the couch. 

“Somebody come get Schroeder,” Dean mumbles, from where he’s curled up on the couch with his head in Cas’s lap. 

“We got this,” Penelope says determinedly. She grabs Spencer by the wrists and hauls him to his feet, and they lean against each other heavily, somehow managing to stay upright. 

Sam opens the door for them, smiling bemusedly as they all start to trail past: Morgan first, uncharacteristically wobbly on his feet; Emily and JJ, with their hands tucked into each other’s back pockets; Spencer and Penelope, staggering dangerously; and finally, Hotch bringing up the rear.

“Thanks,” he tells Sam, and waves at the others. “See you tomorrow.” 

Before the door closes behind him, Hotch hears Dean say, “It’s gonna be a fun tour.” 

.

.

.

[random-writing-things666]

Dumpweed Chapter 3

I woke up the next morning, slightly sore from last night. Mark was laying next to me, watching as I shifted from my slumber. "Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well?" He asked. "I sure did, and you?" I asked, Mark nodded his head and leant over to kiss me. "I'll take that as a yes." I chuckled and sat up. "Where can I use the bathroom?" I asked him, he pointed to the closed door. "Just through there." He replied.

When I got to the bathroom, I instantly noticed the hickeys on my neck and shoulders. Ruby was definitely going to question those. Mark came in after me and kissed the back of my neck. He too noticed the hickeys in my reflection. "Sorry, I didn't mean to...y'know." he stuttered. I turned around to face Mark, running my hands along his shoulders. "I honestly don't mind. It's going to get Ruby off of my back about getting laid." I laughed. "Plus, I had fun." I finished off, kissing his lips. "I had fun too. Thanks for keeping me company, Ivory." He smiled down at me. "I'm going to get in the shower, you want to join?" He asked. "Nah, I'll have one after you. I better tell Ruby that I'm alive." I replied. Mark laughed in response. "Fair call, there's a robe of mine on the couch that you can use if you don't feel like walking around the hotel room naked." He laughed.

I scanned the room and found Mark's robe, it was so soft! I slipped it on and pulled my phone from the coffee table. I had about 11 missed calls from Ruby, I dialled her number and she picked up straight away. "Girl, where are you?" She asked in a worried tone. "I'm at the hotel. I'll be there soon..." "Hotel? Oooh, who did you fuck? Actually, tell me when you get here." She replied eagerly. I laughed in response. "When are you getting here anyways?" She asked. "Soon I hope, I'm just waiting on the shower." Just as I finished that sentence, Mark came out of the shower.

Mark and I pulled up at the back of the venue, where the party last night was. "Hey, can I please get your number?" He asked. "Because I was serious when I said I wanted to hang out with you more." He smiled, handing me a pen and paper. I quickly jotted my number down. "Text me. I have to find Ruby." I smiled, leaning over to kiss Mark. I pulled away to see a pout on his face. "I really wish you didn't have to go." He said quietly. "I do too, but I'll see you when you perform later on." I reassured. "You better be front and center dancing." Mark smiled. "I will be, see you later." I said before climbing out of the car and making my way to mine and Ruby's shared camp spot, but not without bumping into Brendon Urie again. "Hey, there you are." He smiled. "Yes, here I am." I replied. "Thanks for dancing with me last night at the party." I smiled back at him. "It was my pleasure to dance with such a beautiful woman." Brendon smiled, slinging his arm around my shoulder. I was sure that if Mark saw this, he would probably get jealous. Brendon was an extremely good looking guy. But Brendon wasn't the guy I was wanting to fuck. "So, where did you disappear to last night?" He asked me. "I went back to Mark's hotel with him." I replied a little too proudly, before wondering off, leaving him in the lurch.

I eventually found Ruby and our campsite. Thankfully she had already set it up. "Yay! Ivory is finally here!" She shouted excitedly, getting up and pulling me into a bear hug. She eventually let go and went back to sitting down. She patted the empty seat beside me. "So, tell me. Who was the lucky guy?" She asked. "Was it Alex Gaskarth? Cause he was kinda cute and I did notice him eyeballing you at the party." She tried guessing. "No, it was Mark Hoppus." I replied proudly. Ruby looked at me with a dumbfounded look. "I had a funny idea that you two would end up fucking." She laughed. "So was it a one night stand, or are you two a thing?" She asked. "At the moment, we're just keeping it as a casual no strings attached thing. Maybe, we'll turn it into something more serious down the track, but we will see how we go." I admitted. "Aww, I hope you two work out." Ruby smiled. "Though, I did notice him eyeing you up for most of the night." She laughed. I laughed in response, thinking of the moment Mark admitted looking at me, just before we made out on the hood of his car.

It had been a few hours since the end of all the bands had finished playing their sets for the night. Just as Ruby and I were walking back to our tent, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It was from Mark Mark. Hey, Mark here. Saw you dancing at the show. You looked fine. Would you like to come to the after-party? Your friend can come too. You felt Ruby looking over your shoulder. "Girl, you should go. I'm going to get some sleep though." She gave me a wink, before letting out a small yawn. "If you're sure." I replied, not really wanting to leave Ruby alone. "Seriously, go. Or I'll walk you there myself." She smirked. "Plus, I know you want more of Mark's dick." She joked. I raised my hands in defeat. "Fine, I'll go." I replied, before pulling my phone out to text Mark back. Ivory: I will be there soon, can you or someone wait outside for me? Mark: I will wait, see you soon :-*

It took the good part of half an hour to get to where Mark was wanting to meet me. And to credit him, he did stick to his word. "Hey, Mark." I tried saying as nonchalantly as possible. "Hello, my Ivory. Still as beautiful as ever I see." He winked, before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. I looked up at him and feigned annoyance. "Hey, my lips are here." I said, pointing at the corner of my mouth. "I know where they are. I just don't think I'll be able to stop once I start kissing them." He winked. "Maybe I wouldn't want you to stop." I replied, pecking him on his lips. He laughed. "You, Miss Ivory are a hard soul to bargain with. Let's get inside." He smiled, taking my hand and leading me inside to where everyone else was.  I looked around and saw where Matt and Travis were sitting and chatting between themselves.

"Would you like to sit down with them, while I order drinks?" He offered, gesturing towards his band mates. "Sure, I'll see you soon." I replied, turning around to walk towards Matt and Travis, but not without bumping into Alex Gaskarth again. "Hey, Ivory. It's good to see you again." He smiled, pulling me into a friendly hug. I gladly hugged him back. "Good to see you too, Alex." I replied with a smile. "So, what happened to you last night? You just disappeared." He asked, Mark was soon behind us with our drinks. "Good to see you two have met." He smiled, handing me my drink and taking a sip of his own. "We met last night, remember Alex was the one who introduced us." I had to remind Mark. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. It's been a long 24 hours." He smiled before carrying on to Travis and Matt.

"So, you and Mark. You're a thing now?" Matt asked. I was now sitting down next to Matt. Mark and Travis were getting drinks. "I think we're just a casual, no strings attached at the moment." I replied, smiling at Matt. "Well, hopefully those no strings attached means you can come on tour with us. You're good company." He smiled. "I hope so too. But I don't want to be in Mark's hair the whole time." I admitted. "I don't think you'll be a burden at all. I've seen how Mark has been looking at you. He's head over heels for you." Matt assured.

Before I knew it, it was 2 in the morning again. For tonight, I was only planning on going back to the tent to catch up on some much needed sleep. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the hotel with me?" Mark asked, having me pinned between himself and his car. Just like last night. "I'm sure. I need sleep and I don't want to worry Ruby." I replied, trying to convince Mark. "Fine, but can I at least walk you back?" He offered. "I don't think I can say no, come on" I replied, taking his hand.

The walk back felt quicker than what it should have been. "I suppose this is where we part ways." I sighed. I was really enjoying Mark's company over the weekend, and was sad to have him not around. "It's only for now, but we don't have to separate." He hinted, but I had no idea what he meant. "Why don't we share your tent for the night? We don't have to have sex, just lay there and enjoy each other's company." He offered, making me smile up at him. "I don't think that I can refuse such an offer. I'm up for it." I replied.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Peaches and a tyrannical sea

(I decided to play around with this prompt, trying to make the story not overly contrived. I’m not sure I succeeded at that 😂, but it was SO fun to write what I imagine of young Hayffie 💕. I became a bit addicted to this fic, and I didn’t know when, where, or how to stop. Plus, I discovered a path to joy through writing dialogue for Caesar Flickerman, and who can resist a path to joy? So this story got long, probably the longest one-shot I’ve ever written, and if you read all the way through to the end, then I’m in awe of your stamina and devotion to THG/Hayffie crack.)

Category 5 “Hurricane Cronus” hit the coast of District 11 less than a month after the 60th Hunger Games, right in the middle of the summer harvest.

Being inland, the Victors’ Village was barely touched, but Chaff’s hometown was destroyed. Every shack collapsed, and every citizen who couldn’t get to higher ground perished.

The Capitol projected the fallen into the night sky with lights and music. 24 decimated crops: apples, beans, blueberries, cabbage, cantaloupes, eggplant, figs, gooseberries, grapes, herbs, kale, muscadines, nectarines, okra, peaches, pears, peppers, potatoes, raspberries, summer squash, corn, tomatoes, and watermelon.

Montages on screens throughout Panem showed flooded fields, flattened plants, and broken orchards. The images were accompanied by the voice of Caesar Flickerman, thick with serious tones. “Cronus, Titan of the Harvest, has unleashed His wrath upon Panem. But through the strength of the Capitol, we will replant. We will rebuild.”

Haymitch hurled a half-empty liquor bottle at the screen in the Hob, nicking the corner and leaving a crack. If he’d been more sober, he would’ve nailed Caesar in the face.

“You’d better be careful, honey,” Greasy Sae warned him. “They can still find ways to hurt you.”

“I doubt that.”

The older woman knew Haymitch well enough to not touch him when he was angry, but she soothed with her voice.

“Is that friend of yours okay? ...The one in 11.”

Over the past decade, Chaff had become a lifeline for Haymitch. His companionship through each Games was effectively an antidote to alcohol poisoning. If Chaff didn’t drink more than his share, then Haymitch probably would have had cirrhosis of the liver before age 26. His buddy always managed to bring some laughter into the atrocities of mentorship.

Sae was right. Haymitch still had people to lose. The Capitol could still hurt him. They would keep on hurting him if he didn’t feign indifference. And throwing a bottle at the screen showed the opposite of indifference.

“He’s okay.”

Sae offered a smile. “Good. That’s good, boy. From the way the Peacekepers are talking, it sounds like there’s been a lot of death. At least a thousand with the count rising. Some people got no fresh water to drink.”

“And the Capitol eulogizes crops.”

“It ain’t right. That’s for sure.”

Haymitch wasn’t drunk enough to face this conversation. And he was pissed about having thrown away the rest of his liquor.

“Can I offer you a bowl of beef stew? ...It’s on the house,” Sae added.

Normally Haymitch wouldn’t turn down a free supper, but the mystery meats that Greasy Sae served up under the name of “beef” sometimes turned his stomach.

“Not hungry,” he lied, “But thanks for the offer.”

“You take care, honey.” Her face fell as she watched Haymitch walk away to buy more booze.

***

The Capitol was abuzz with excitement about the fundraising event planned for hurricane relief. Replanting and rebuilding would come at a cost, and an auction was an opportunity for the wealthy to show off the depths of their family pockets.

“‘Picnic with a Victor’ is the promotional title,” Claudius Templesmith announced on screens throughout Panem.

“Sunshine... a day in Capitol Park... by the water...” Caesar responded with a neon white smile and a slap to his knee. “I LOVE it!”

Seated side-by-side in red velvet chairs, the two bantered back and forth about event details.

“The baskets will be stocked with delicacies prepared by the Capitol’s finest chefs, and made from crops harvested before Cronus hit our very own District 11.”

“Claudius, I’ve heard whispers that the picnics will include artesian wines made, not from grapes, but from muscadines.”

“Ah, muscadines! Amazing and desired for their incredible super-fruit properties.”

“Sweet, aromatic, and native to District 11. A truly unique Panem experience and proudly exported across the globe.”

“Caesar, do we know yet which victors have volunteered to picnic with the highest bidders?”

“Well, we’ve been trying to keep that, shall we say, under wraps, but if you twist my arm, I might be able to let out some hints.”

“Well then consider yourself twisted!”

“Ha HA, you know me so well!! And ouch, not so hard!” The two of them filled the airwaves with hysterial laughter.

“Seriously now. Let’s tell them.”

A drumroll began off camera as Caesar and Claudius took turns dramatically listing off numbers of the Games of the participating victors.

Effie was listening with mild disinterest until Caesar said “50.” When he said “50,” she knew her life was about to change. She was bound and determined to MAKE it change.

***

“Mother, Daddy, this is an excellent opportunity to be noticed, not just by society but by the professors who will be influencing my education and future career opportunities,” Effie lobbied hard to bid in the auction. At 18 years old, her parents’ permission was not as deep of a concern for her as their financial backing.

An afternoon with Haymitch Abernathy would draw a price. He was reclusive and young, but not young enough to deter the interests of wealthy older women, and men for that matter.

Effie would have competition in the bidding. She was certain about that in the same way that she knew wigs would be all the rage in a few years. Some things an observant and savvy woman simply KNOWS, and Effie considered herself to be both observant and savvy.

She’d inherited money from her great-grandmother, but she could keep that in savings accruing interest if her parents would back her now.

“Which victor will you bid to picnic with?” her mother asked.

“I’ll decide based on the way they present themselves on stage,” Effie answered evasively. “I want an investment which reflects positively on our family.”

“You need to be careful,” her father insisted, “Alto made such a showing in the Games last year that he’ll surely draw a high price, probably more than we can afford. Whoever you bid on, you need to win.”

“I’ll judge by applause and whispers in the crowd. I’ll be discerning; I won’t bid if I can’t win. ...Daddy, do I EVER lose?” Effie glanced between her parents without a single blink of her false purple eyelashes.

When her father blinked, she knew she had their support. “Your budget is $5000. Invest wisely.”

Effie would not be deterred by the limits of her parents’ generosity. Haymitch would be hers for the afternoon, no matter the cost. She’d imagined a connection with him for too long to let this opportunity slip through her fingers. Her classmate, Fulvia Cardew, would help. She was sympathetic to Effie’s interests, and with extended family in banking, Fluvia had deeper pockets than the president.

***

Haymitch would’ve almost preferred death over participation in the *dog and pony show* that this fundraiser was sure to be. Except Chaff had confided in him details of how badly the coast of District 11 had been wiped out. Since the Capitol depended on 11 to literally feed the lavish lifestyle of its citizens, then money raised would be of some help to the people of district. The Capitol needed workers alive, and for people to be stay alive to work they required basic shelter, drinkable water, and rations of food. Since Cronus, many towns in 11 lacked most essential survival needs.

Haymitch took pleasure in imagining Snow in fear about where his next meal would be coming from. Though he knew the tyrant would be the LAST person in Panem to go hungry. It would never come to that. Surely a traitor in his inner circle would slaughter that pig and eat him before either of them starved. The traitor would probably die afterward from the poison in Snow’s veins. Haymitch would have taken pleasure in all of that imagery too if it didn’t make him want to vomit.

August was warm in the Capitol. Late afternoon temperatures usually reached high into the 80s. So the auction was set for morning with the victory picnics beneath shade trees by the lake. An elaborate system of misters had been rigged up throughout the covered amphitheater and the Capitol Park.

Oh, the *horror* if one of these hoity-toity Capitol people should melt in the sunshine before the bidding even started. Haymitch had the thought, but the misters actually felt great by mid-morning when the participating victors were called on stage one-by-one for their interviews with Caesar, who was functioning as Master of Ceremonies.

Caesar introduced each of them to the audience by name, number of their district, and number of their Games. Each victor had been directed the night before to memorize a brief script about what moved them to volunteer for the fundraiser. The script Haymitch had been given included a ridiculous ode to peach trees.

He had let himself be dressed up for the event. He’d even let them trim his hair and shave his face. He’d get up on that stage mostly sober. He would smile and let himself be auctioned off to the highest bidder. But there was no way in hell he was going to eulogize peaches when nearly every person in his best friend’s hometown was a corpse.

He had a flash of the Seam and the dead bodies of his loved ones, poisoned. That was 10 years ago, and the flashbacks still came to haunt him with pale faces. In earlier more innocent times, he and his brother had found a peach tree while exploring north in the district. That was in the days of fewer Peacekepers and fewer questions about destinations. His brother picked two peaches, one for each of them. The flavor, texture, and color were unlike anything Haymitch had experienced before. That peach was full of dualities: sweet and tart, uncomfortable skin yet soothing flesh, solid and juicy. Yellow and red swirled on his tongue.

He thought of that peach years later when he had sex with his girlfriend the night before the Reaping. HIS Reaping. She felt like that peach when he came inside her. So tender. It was his first time. A few weeks later she was a ghost.

Haymitch shivered under the misters, waiting like livestock in line for slaughter. He needed a drink, badly, but if not for sobriety, then in lieu of delivering an ode to the fruit, he might inadvertently describe making love with the girlfriend murdered by Snow.

That conversation would not only get him killed, but would get him the wrong type of bidders. He was a volunteer today, not a prostitute. This commitment did not carry over from afternoon into evening. He would not be fucking the fool willing to pay hundreds of dollars for his company, some food, and a hill-billy-red-neck bottle of wine.

...Except for maybe HER, he thought as he scanned the paddle holders in the crowd. That girl with blonde hair. He’d fuck somebody like her, all soft and shit, dressed up in clothes and makeup that made her look older than she probably was.

***

“He’s looking at you,” Fulvia whispered to Effie, “He’s been staring at you for at least a minute.”

Of course he’s looking at me. Have you seen me today? Effie thought. Manners prevented her from praising herself out loud.

She met Haymitch’s gaze and offered him a controlled smile, warm but not flashy. I see you, was what she wanted to communicate for now. The rest could wait until after she won the bid.

Their eye contact broke when someone poked Haymitch in the back. Caesar had called him onstage, “Winner of the 50th Hunger Games, from District 12, Haymitch Abernathy!” While eye-fucking with her, he’d missed his cue.

Effie watched him saunter over to Caesar, as if things like cues and pace were irrelevant. He relaxed into the chair with his knees slightly splayed, like he and Caesar were old friends meeting at a bar. Effie half-expected Haymitch to call out for a server to bring them drinks. Maybe he and Caesar actually WERE friends. She knew nearly nothing of the life of a victor.

“Haymitch...” Caesar began, “It’s a rare treat to have you here, the victor of a Quarter Quell.” Then to the audience he added, “Isn’t this exciting!!”

The audience cheered wildly. They’d been served pink champagne all morning in an effort to up the bidding. A few people were already raising their paddles. Effie held hers firmly by her side. Patience. Control, she told herself. She would not appear too eager. With this event televised throughout Panem, her every move was a reflection on herself and her family.

“Now, hold on, ladies and gentlemen,” Caesar continued, “Let’s allow this young man to introduce himself.”

Effie liked the way Caesar called him young. Over the past several years, Haymitch’s shoulders had broadened and his body had filled into its frame. His eyes sunk deeper with each Games, but his face was still boyish. She still saw in him the kid who held Maysilee’s hand as she died.

“What inspired you to volunteer to be here today?” Caesar asked gravely.

Haymitch pushed his hair back from his eyes, and spoke not to Caesar, but to the cameras, to all of Panem.

“I have friends in 11.” He thought of Chaff and Seeder. “They grew up there climbing trees in the orchards. Kids are light enough to reach the fruit at the top, so they climb a lot and grow strong — but not as strong as a tyrannical sea...

“...I ate a peach once. The kid who picked it is gone now. I couldn’t save him, and I couldn’t save those kids in 11 either who were flattened under the walls of their own houses. When you’re a scared kid, you run home.” He looked straight at Effie, and in that moment she felt the weight of so much she didn’t understand.

“...But sometimes home is the least safe place to be. I’m here today to help raise money so the families that survived Cronus can have shelter, fresh water, and food again.”

Caesar was as stunned into silence as the crowd.

Haymitch quickly added from the script that he’d ripped up the night before, “...So they can replant and rebuild through the generosity of the Capitol.” He skipped the ‘Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever’ victory tour-style bullshit.

“And replant and rebuild they shall.” Caesar’s gloom rapidly up-shifted to elation. “...Am I right, folks?!”

The crowd broke into thunderous applause, and the bidding for a picnic with Haymitch began.

“Shit...” Fulvia muttered, “After that speech, he’s going to cost a fortune.”

“Language!” Effie chastised her lightly, “We’re all on the monitors.”

“Well, he will. How much do you have?”

“$5000 plus the money my Nana left me, but I’m hoping to save as much as I can of that for after University.”

“Let’s see if that’s enough.”

Effie pressed her paddle to the side of her skirt. Her hands were shaking. She watched the bidding go back and forth between several individuals, with Caesar raising the amount in $100 increments, as he had with the other victors.

Most of the bidders eventually fell away, and a battle commenced between two women Effie didn’t recognize. Fluvia knew them through her family’s social circle.

“The short one’s divorced. The other is widowed. Her husband died last year of a heart attack while screwing his secretary. Both of their investments are shit right now.”

“Once again, language! ...And thank you for the information.”

“Let them tire each other out, and then jump in.”

When Caesar said, “$4500. Do I hear $4600? No? $4500 going once...” Effie raised her paddle as high as she could reach. Since she was wearing 5 inch heels, her bid couldn’t be missed.

“$4600 it is! Do I hear $4700?...”

The bidding continued between Effie and the widow. Effie selfishly hoped the dead deadbeat husband hadn’t left her with millions in insurance money that Fluvia knew nothing about.

$4800... $4900... $5000... “I am absolutely thrilled! Are you thrilled!?” Caeser chimed in, and the audience cheered again.

Effie refused to be distracted. She didn’t look at the audience or the widow or Fluvia or even Caesar. Just Haymitch. Just those sunken eyes that had seen things she wanted to understand. She didn’t dare glance at his mouth. Patience. Control. She needed to stay on task.

She kept her paddle up now, trying to intimidate the widow, wanting her to think that Effie was bidding with all the money in the world, rather than an allowance from her parents and her personal savings.

The widow took the bid to $5100, but Effie refused to let go. She kept her paddle up, dipping now into the money from her great-grandmother. Nana would approve of this investment, Effie justified. Because this is an investment in ME.

Effie kept her paddle raised as the widow volleyed with her until Effie had the bid at $7000. The widow glared at Effie whose eyes stayed fixed on Haymitch. Fluvia, however, flashed the widow a wry smile and waggled her fingers in a clear message... This girl is with me, Fluvia Cardew, of the multi-millionaire Cardews. We own the banks, honey, and we’re not backing down. You’re wasting your time.

“Do I hear $7100? No? $7000 going once... going twice... and the picnic is sold! Congratulations to the winner! Ms...” Caesar glanced at the monitor which matched her paddle number to her name, “...Effie Trinket!”

Everyone cheered except for the widow, the divorcee, and a handful of earlier competitors. Fluvia embraced Effie, pressing a plump silver-flower-tattooed cheek to Effie’s flushed one. “Holy shit! You did it.”

Effie didn’t bother to chastise this time about language. Her hands were steady now, but the rest of her body was shaking.

***

Haymitch knew he wouldn’t forget the intensity in those blue eyes for as long as he lived. A tyrannical sea was nothing compared to this girl. He shook Caesar’s extended hand and then left the stage to gather with the other chosen victors as the bidding continued for the rest.

“$7000 for lunch with me?” He uttered with incredulity. “Capitol people! That girl isn’t a fool though. She was stoic as fuck. What’s her motivation?”

“She wants more than lunch.” Chaff clapped him on the shoulder and left the pressure of his hand there to emphasize a point. “I saw you two eying each other before you even went on stage. I know she’s hot, man, but she’s jailbait. Maybe she’s technically legal, since she was bidding and all. But if you touch that girl, I guarantee her father will hunt you down for his own picnic, and he’ll hand you your ass on a platter.”

“I wasn’t thinking about touching her. I was thinking about 11 and the goddamn script and peaches...”

Chaff lifted his eyebrows, and Haymitch lowered his voice to confess.

“...And now I’m thinking about eating peaches off her body. Jesus Christ. Did you see her out there?! Who is Effie Trinket?”

“I don’t know, but you’ll find out soon.”

***

Effie had spent her entire life rehearsing the practice of patience and control. She wore those manners as masks while the auction continued and the sun climbed the sky. She didn’t let her guard down, even as the cameras moved on to other bidders and winners. She could credit the heat with flushing her cheeks. No one would notice her shaking, except maybe Fluvia, but her friend wouldn’t make a big deal of it. Effie applauded when the audience applauded. She declared, “Wonderful!” with each sum of money raised.

Inside herself she was a cyclone of insanity with a pounding heart, feeling everything but patience and control.

When the auction was finished, she made her donation through a system of direct withdrawal from her bank account. Sometime between her winning the bid and making payment, her parents had transferred an additional $2000; therefore, she wouldn’t need to dip into her savings today. OF COURSE they did. There would have been nothing more embarrassing for the Trinkets than their daughter coming up short financially in such a public way. Then again, her inheritance from Nana wasn’t a secret, so maybe they simply saw wisdom in Effie’s investment.

When the donation was complete, an official escorted her across the Capitol Park lawn to her picnic. Haymitch was sitting on a shaded blanket with his back against a tree and his legs out straight, crossed at the knees. His pants were rolled half-way up his shins, and his shirt sleeves to his elbows. His tie draped over the back of his neck, the buttons of his vest were unhooked, and his shoes and socks were off.

He watched her approach and didn’t stand up to greet her. This would have miffed Effie if he didn’t look so good sitting there, casual, like with Caesar on stage, as if she was a friend he was waiting for before ordering drinks rather than a stranger who just paid thousands of dollars to have lunch with him.

“You’ve come undone,” she said, as she kneeled across from him on the blanket, just close enough to reach out and touch.

“Not yet, sweetheart. Me undone is not such a pretty sight.”

She mulled over his words, and chose hers carefully, “We’ll see about that.”

She held out her hand, covered from wrist to knuckles in lace gloves woven with golden thread. “I’m Effie.”

Haymitch consided his options. He could shake her hand. He could hold her fingers and kiss her knuckles. Or maybe...

He leaned forward and slipped his fingertips beneath the lace at her wrist and peeled off her glove slowly enough for her to object, but she didn’t.

She liked the way he did it, gently and without asking. His hands were uncaloused. The touch was soft along her skin.

He laid her glove on the blanket between them and captured her hand between both of his. “Haymitch,” he said.

“I...” She could feel her cheeks blazing and made a mental note to wear more layers of makeup in the future to prevent her feelings from being so readily exposed. “...I’m pleased to meet you.”

“I can see that,” he chuckled. “These picnics are being televised. Is your father watching?”

“Possibly. ...Act chivalrous.” She presented her other hand, which he divested of its glove in the same manner as the first.

“I don’t ACT, sweetheart.” He whispered, “Chivalry isn’t what I have in mind when I take off a woman’s clothes.” Shit. He was flirting with this girl, and he MEANT it. She was lighting him up like crazy.

Effie thrilled at the thought of him regarding her as a woman. She had wondered if her youth might prevent him from perceiving her as she was.

“And chivalry isn’t what I’m thinking about when a man takes off my clothes,” she whispered back.

He recognized that despite the differences in their ages, she possibly had more experience with nakedness than he did. He found himself picturing her that way. wondering what shape her breasts would take when not fashioned by the stays of a corset. Would they be soft, like her hands?

“My eyes are up here, Haymitch.”

This girl was bossy beyond her years. Either she was precocious or a bitch or both. He didn’t know yet. Whatever it was, he was amused and turned on, especially after imagining her breasts in his hands. How did this turn personal so quickly? This Effie was a Siren. He would need to be cautious.

“I was just wondering where’s your school uniform?” He teased her, subtly inquiring about her age.

“Burned! I’m attending University.” She was vague about her age with intention.

Too bad, Haymitch thought. He wouldn’t mind seeing her in one of those pleated Academy skirts.

“Thirsty?” The wine was uncorked and chilling in a bucket of melting ice.

Effie nodded, eager to be just a bit drunk with him. Not too much, but enough to let go of a modicum of tight control.

Haymitch had been sober all morning. This girl had been a welcome distraction from craving, but he was salivating now in anticipation of a drink, even if it was just muscadine wine. Stemmed glassware for a picnic was Capitol nonsense. He was tempted to drink straight from the bottle and pass it to her to do the same, but he resisted. He set the goblets on the breadboard and filled them. The wine was the color of crushed plums.

Effie curled her legs to the side and relaxed onto the blanket. She unzipped her boots and slipped them off along with knee-high stockings. “When in Rome...“ she said as Haymitch stared at her bare calves and feet.

“Let’s drink to that.”

She swirled the wine in her glass before clinking his. “And what else did the Romans do — besides picnic in bare feet?” she asked after a sip.

He drank the contents of the goblet in one swallow. He wouldn’t hide who he was, not from this girl or anyone else. “The Romans were into self-indulgence.”

She followed his lead and swallowed half the wine in her glass. “Satisfying one’s desires, pleasures, lusts, and whims without restraint?”

Capitol parties, he thought, wondering if she was old enough yet to take part in that life.

“A lot of that happens here...”

He admired her for being aware of at least that much.

She lowered her voice. “Except in the House of Trinket, where the only *indulgence* encouraged is in perfecting oneself.”

He took another look at her in light of that personal information. Her long blonde hair swooped over her forehead and trailed down her back in immaculate soft curls. Not one hair was out of place, even with misters and fans blowing at a summer picnic.

“Is there much self-indulgence in District 12?” she asked.

Clearly an Academy education didn’t teach much about the real world. “Only in the *House of Abernathy.*” He refilled their goblets and drank more slowly this time.

“Are you mocking me?” she asked straight-up.

His tone had indeed been mocking, and he hadn’t really meant for it to be. He liked this girl, and he wouldn’t judge her for things she’d never seen or heard before.

“I’m mocking my own reality, sweetheart. ...You know how many victors live in 12.”

“Only you...” She didn’t know what that meant for him other than the words sounded lonely. Victors were celebrities here in the Capitol. Maybe it wasn’t like that in the districts. Maybe... “Are you alone?” she asked, “In the *House of Abernathy*...”

What to say to her? She surely didn’t pay all that money to spend an afternoon listening to his sad stories. Though something about her made him want to speak openly in the way he told the cameras about 11. Something about her made him want her to know the truths of the world, while her mind was still supple like her skin.

“I’m not alone today, not here,” was his answer. Evasive, yet true.

She watched his mouth say the words. His lips were lightly stained by the wine. Effie had never wanted to kiss a person so badly in her life. “Haymitch...” She touched him instead, caressing tanned skin and fine hair just beneath the rolled up hem of his pant leg.

She felt so good; he closed his eyes for a moment. Then they shot open. Chaff was right. If he wasn’t careful, this girl would be his downfall. “Effie... the cameras...”

It was the first time she heard him say her name. She smiled and reluctantly withdrew her hand. “Are you hungry?”

That question was safer to answer, but barely. “What’s in the basket?”

Effie took out one item at a time: Steak sandwiches with melted cheese on dark crescent-shaped rolls dotted with seeds, the signature bread from district 11... A warm succotash of corn, shelled green beans, diced potatoes and summer squash, tomatoes, multi-colored sweet peppers and okra... And for dessert an apple pie, plus sliced peaches in a jar full of honey. The latter inspired Haymitch to revisit his daydream from earlier. The honey only added to the fantasy.

This one basket contained more food than an entire family from District 11 or 12 would eat in a week or more. Should he mention that in response to her earlier question about self-indulgence? Maybe later. For now he’d rather be with her in the fantasy.

“A $7000 picnic. Is it what you were hoping for?”

“Let’s taste everything and find out.”

As they ate and drank, their questions for one another grew more intimate.

“I always watch for you among the victors at these events, but I’ve never seen you do this kind of thing before.”

“You watch for me?” He grinned. “HOW LONG have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to know you’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

“I don’t do these kinds of things because I don’t like feeling like livestock... or a hooker.”

Effie gasped. “Haymitch, I wouldn’t! I’ve thought about you a long time. This isn’t a passing fancy. My interest is too marked to pretend I’m not pursuing you. But I’d never expect you to...” She lowered her voice to a murmur. “I didn’t invest that money so you would... fuck me.”

...I want more than that, she didn’t say.

...I’d fuck you in a heartbeat if these cameras and people would disappear, he didn’t say, but he’d decided it this morning the first moment he saw her.

He grazed her pinky with his, liking the idea of her *pursuing* him, whether or not her efforts were misguided. “HOW LONG?” he pressed,

“This feels like confession.”

“Sweetheart, I ain’t a priest. I just want to know you.”

Effie released a long sigh of feelings she’d been holding in forever. “10 years.”

“Shit. Since the Games?! You were just a kid.” You’re still just a kid. ...Only she wasn’t.

“I sat for an hour every day for years as my mother wove pink ribbons into my hair. In the stillness I thought a lot about the boy who separated from his friend in the Games so they wouldn’t have to kill each other — the boy who held her hand so she wouldn’t have to die alone. I watched you grow up in my mind more than anyplace else.”

Her honesty deserved his in response. “That boy is gone. It’s just me now... a man who drinks in order to try to sleep through nightmares — a man who goes to bed alone so I don’t accidentally slit anybody’s throat. ...It may not be what you paid all that money to get to know about me, but it’s the truth.”

Effie was stunned into silence and sympathy. She felt pity for him now, and she didn’t want to. There were some realities she wasn’t quite ready to face. His description wasn’t what she imagined the life of a victor should be.

She wore masks well, but he could see the change in her expression, and he didn’t like it. Pity, especially from a Capitol girl, was the last thing he wanted. But better that than her wasting her life dreaming about somebody who isn’t even real.

“Why DID you come here today? Beyond what you told Caesar.”

“One of those friends I mentioned in 11 — well, the hurricane flattened his hometown. Hundreds of people died, and the survivors have nothing, honey.”

“HUNDREDS of people died?”

“Over a thousand.”

“Why did the news show only crops?”

“That’s for you to figure out. I don’t expect they’re gonna teach you that at University.”

More sympathy crept over Effie. She was overwhelmed and started shivering like during the bidding.

Haymitch wasn’t sure what to offer her. She was so close to still being a kid herself. But with the face and body and guts of a goddess.

“Do you want to get out from under these misters and walk down to the water? We could pack the food away and eat more later. If we just have this one day...” He didn’t finish the thought. This day was hers. He’d let her fill it in anyway she wanted.

“We’ll have more than this one day. Every fiber in my being tells me we will.”

There was no point in arguing with so much gumption. He stood up and held out his hand. She grasped it, and he pulled her up. They walked barefoot through the grass, then ran across the beach to the water’s edge where the damp sand cooled the soles of their feet.

The lake lapped at Effie’s toes and she scribbled in the sand with one. How many times in adolescence had she come to this spot and written “Effie Abernathy” over and over again, dotting each “i” with a heart? Had she been a fool?

“There’s a lake near 12. It’s a secret spot. My brother and I used to sneak there as kids and swim naked so we wouldn’t have to hike back home in wet clothes.”

Now she was picturing Haymitch naked. And wanting him naked, regardless of his drinking and nightmares and sleeping with knives — and regardless of what she said she didn’t expect from him. She’d been with boys, plenty of boys, but he was a man, and she was so curious about the way he would fill her.

Effie cleared her throat of unspoken longing and pedaled backward in the conversation. “You have a brother...”

“I had a brother then. ...He died a couple of weeks after the Quarter Quell.”

She brushed her fingers against his, wishing she could offer more, but the cameras were on them. “I’m sorry,” she said in reference to everything.

“It was a long time ago.”

“You must miss him.”

Haymitch nodded. “He’s more free dead than alive. It’s a small comfort.”

Effie wanted to understand. She just didn’t.

“My great-grandmother died too shortly after your Games...”

District 12 is in your future, dear, Nana had said. And that boy is an important part of it. Effie dwelled a moment in silent memory before confessing more.

“...She told me you’d be in my future.”

Haymitch had no faith in fortune telling wishes and dreams. He usually flipped people off who tried to tell him how the future would be. The shit he’d been through was unfathomable. How could anyone predict anything but more horror.

“That said, Nana was a bit eccentric in the end.” Effie smiled wistfully.

“You still miss her...”

“Every day. Unconditional love is a rare gift.”

“Do you think her *prediction* was just eccentricity?”

“It was a long time ago, but I remember how certain she was.”

“How can anyone be certain about anything in this world?”

Effie considered his question. “Did you know I would win the bid today?”

Haymitch thought of that drawn out moment with her eyes on him and her paddle in the air. “Yes.”

“How did you know?”

“I saw it in your eyes... Determination, and this... wild control.”

“Maybe that’s how my Nana knew.”

“She saw our future in your eyes?”

He said ‘our future’ like it was almost fated. Maybe it was a slip, but Effie wouldn’t ignore it.

“I didn’t ask her. And then it was too late to ask her.”

She gazed down at the sand, and the tips of her long purple eyelashes touched her cheeks. They were the same color as her skirt which loosely hugged her curves then flared at mid-thigh. The hem brushed her knees as she moved. She reminded him of the violets that bloom in 12 after the snow melts. Birdfoot Violets his mother used to call them. He smiled at the name, watching Effie’s toes curl in the sand.

When she looked up at him, her eyes reflected the water, the sky, and intensities of her own. Haymitch had never wanted to kiss a person so badly in his life.

“Later, when these cameras are gone, do you want to go somewhere together?” she asked.

“Cameras are never gone. They’re always watching, even when you least expect them to be. He recalled Greasy Sae’s warning, “You’d better be careful. They can still find ways to hurt you.”

He’d been so preoccupied with thinking that Effie might be his downfall that he hadn’t considered the possibility that he could be HER downfall. Intensity crashed over him in waves. He hadn’t expected to feel any of this. Yet here it was.

Effie picked up a stick and started writing in the damp sand. To anyone at a distance it would look like play. ‘Cameras aren’t watching quite everywhere.’

He erased her note with his foot then took the stick and wrote, ‘Where would we go?’

Her turn to erase and write. ‘I know a bar. It’s just dark enough...’

‘When?’ He wrote.

‘Tonight?” ...She hesitated, then dotted the ‘i’ with a heart.

“You’re so young,” he said aloud, “You have your whole future ahead of you. I don’t want them to hurt you.”

“I hold my own. No one’s going to hurt me. ...Not even you, honey.”

He wanted to believe her. He erased the letters, leaving the heart for an instant, then brushed that away too. The word stuck in his throat. He could either swallow it or say it out loud.

“Tonight,” he whispered, “...And bring the jar of peaches — in case this afternoon isn’t enough.”

[moon-elves-cult]

Going Home

Hey! This is Quil, (bookwyrm), and I wrote a short little snippet I couldn’t get out of my head involving the melves in the KoTLC world about why and how they first leave Earth. Please tell me what you think, it motivates me to write more.

Enjoy. 

Either read below or click here to read on Ao3

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: like one sentence of implied homophobia, but that’s it

Wonder is a finite resource, and the Earth is quickly wrung dry of pleasures when it’s boundaries are so isolated and conservative. You cannot see what brings you life, you cannot dance to the sound of the sky, and you cannot reach. Reach what? They don’t know. 

 All they know is the constant scorching heat from above, the infernal tug on their core from below, every sight and sound so rough and harsh and demanding and cruel.

 You could cut yourself on the wind and bleed dry in the deserts and the Earth would simply grin. 

Once an elf has scaled each mountain twice and swept the ocean floor to the tick of a clock, they are done. They are done with the ‘wonders’ of the surface and the entrapment of the clouds and the ropes of weeds clawing at their feet, trying to hold them down in greed. They are done with the expectations of society and the restrictions where everyone is the same and is expected to love the same, live the same. 

So they leave. 

They leave and they never look back. Why would they? 

What on Earth is left for them? Those they hold most dear no longer look to them, and instead have little ones looking up to them in wonder and curiosity. They are just an old story now, mentioned here and there. Their presence is no longer required. They can only steal kisses behind closed doors, only hold hands when they’re alone.

So they leave.

When an elf leaves they always take three things. No one knows why. No one tells them to. They have no guide, yet the story is always the same. 

Item number one: a jewel. A necklace frothing with diamonds, an earring dripping molten gold and burning their skin, a diadem laden with feather carvings and crushed starlight, it doesn’t matter. Just pick the one you can’t forget and wear it proudly. It doesn’t matter its original purpose, just put it on. 

Item number two: their second favorite scent. They may be confused as they grab a stick of cinnamon and place it in their pocket, or tuck a bloom of wisteria into their braid, but it’s essential. To what? They don’t know. But they hold it near and dear and don’t let it go. The grass will try and take it, seeking to keep them here, but they will persist. 

And lastly, item number three: a memory. This part takes more time. They take a moment to stop and peruse through each moment of time like a bibliophile in the buried tomb of a library, the lights dim and flickering, the scent of rotting pages and dust floating through the air. They’ll take a moment to grab a volume, sift through the pages, and gently set it aside. 

Once they’ve chosen, they will no longer be the same elf they were only moments before, but that’s for the best. 

Then they wait.

They wait for the golden rays of light to turn hollow and blue and cold. And then they step beneath the leapmaster’s cascades of crystals, and they don’t say a word. They don’t need to. 

Instead of the burst of warm feathers beneath the skin that typically accompanies a leap, this feels as though cold water is dripping down their skin as though the light is frozen rain, the condensation clinging to a cold cup on a warm day. 

It’s the longest leap an elf will ever take, following the beam up and up and up into the sky, past the clouds, the particles of their being slipping through the atmosphere and dancing among the stars. 

Of course, once they truly get out there, they realize just how alone the universe really is. The stars are years and years away, and there is nothing but a dark, blank expanse between them and their destination. They won’t forget that. 

They don’t know how long they were in that void when they arrive, their form still slightly scattered as they stumble to the ground, disoriented.

Their hands slap against a floor made of solid black, small dots of white and gold and red and blue and purple splattered throughout. It takes them a moment to notice their reflection staring back, and a moment more to recognize the dots as stars and constellations.

There is a small crystal next to a window, directing the beam of light they leapt with to form a perfect circle in the middle of a circular room. 

They’re still on the floor when another form shimmers into being in front of them, kneeling down to help them to their feet. 

The stranger has sharply pointed ears, the trademark blue eyes, and curling silver locks reflecting in the soft light. They have so so so many questions, but the stranger simply shakes their head, smiling.

 “Welcome home.” 

And they are. They can feel the pressure holding them down lighten, the restraints have eased. The stranger doesn’t ask why they came, doesn’t need to. They’re both there for the same reasons. 

Love. They love themselves. And they were no longer willing to let their inner beauty be stifled by the people who claimed to care about them, and desires are sacrifices for the sake of pleasing others.

The stranger introduces themself. “Aydan,” they say. They give their name and Aydan asks if that is really the name they want to keep. They say that they changed their name when they arrived, stopped being she, and became they. Became Aydan. 

Some elves take up the offer, either immediately or with time. There is no time limit to discovering and loving yourself. Others keep their name, keep the same personal identity, and Aydan smiles just as bright either way. 

They ask what jewel they chose to bring, and tells them to observe it now. Silver rings turn iridescent, a faint speck of moonlight is suspended in the place of a diamond in a diadem, the center of white sapphires have turned black as the void. 

They can see Aydan’s own jewel, a layered necklace displaying three phases of the moon, glinting as softly as their hair. They notice the stare and give a mischievous smile.

“You will look the same one day,” they say, “the moonlight has its effects. The more you leap with it, the more the light will seep into your body, and it will eventually be physically noticeable. It may be silver hair, or freckles of constellations, or a map scrawled across your skin. Who knows? Your eyes may even turn black”

Next, Aydan asks for their scent, and it takes a moment to remember the flower in their hair or the cloves in their pocket. They hand it over, and Aydan places it in a small pouch they didn’t realize they were carrying. They don’t know what Aydan will do with it, but perhaps they’ll find out eventually. 

Curious, they ask about the memory they selected before leaving. Aydan doesn’t respond right away. “You’ll know what to do with it.” 

They begin to walk away, gesturing for them to follow. As they approach the wall, a small light passes through them, and a tall circle in the wall rolls to the side, revealing an iridescent hallway. Stepping through, they see small specks of light coming from small swarms of lightning bugs, and they find themselves on a balcony,  far up above they see a bubble surrounding on all sides. A clear force field--likely the work of a few psionipaths--protecting the elves from the harsh reality of the outside. 

Looking down, they see a sprawling city, rising up on mountains and sinking into craters, elves of all kinds bustling around and laughing. There are women in suits and boys kissing behind alleyways and children passing below in wheelchairs alongside friends. The dull lights shimmer for miles and miles, farther than they can see. A small burst of flame catches their eye, and they turn to see a group playing with fire--literally. The restrictions from Earth are non-existent here, that’s why they all laugh so loud and smile so bright. 

It’s home. 

[temilyrights]

He doesn’t deserve you

Anon RQ: Could you write a Sloane x reader fic where reader is upset about how her boyfriend is treating her and Jack keeps telling her that she deserves better. And eventually, while she’s encouraging reader to break up with him Jack gets really passionate and ends up confessing that she has a crush on the reader then gets a bit embarrassed. Reader is shocked because she feels the same and was only dating other people because she thought Jack wasn’t interested.

Warnings: major relationship red flags, alcohol and swearing.

Read on AO3

“You should bring your boyfriend!” Bishop grins excitedly.

You laugh awkwardly “But this is a team thing, I don’t want-”

“McGee is bringing Delilah! And I think Jimmy’s bringing Breena too!” At your resistant expression, Bishop continues “Awh come on! We’d love to finally meet him!”

“Alright, alright.” You manage a small smile but even you can tell its unconvincing, Bishop doesn’t seem to notice though already turning to talk to Jack, who’s watching you curiously. You duck your head and head off to somewhere quieter to phone him.

Your boyfriend was called Adam. You’d been dating for just over two months now. You and Torres had been out getting coffee for the team when he comes over to you. You’d both flirted and he’d given you his number. You were just going to throw it anyway but when you’d gotten back to the office Jack was talking to Bishop about a date she’d gone on the week beforehand and you’d felt that familiar stab of jealousy and longing and decided it was probably about time you tried to get over your feelings for Jack.

You’d texted him and the next evening he took you out for dinner. He was nice. He made you laugh, and it was good to have someone. It made you feel less lonely.

You’d been resistant to introduce him to the team. The only reason they even really knew about him was because Torres had made a few remarks about him that the rest of the team caught on to.

Adam had been pushing to meet your friends, you having already met his, so when you ask you aren’t surprised, he immediately says yes. You give him the details for tonight, and he says he’ll meet you there.

It’s bad you’re silently hoping for a new case to come in so that the plans are postponed however, for the first time, it doesn’t happen.

Adam’s already there when you arrive, he’s talking to someone at the bar. You head over to him, while the team go and find seats.

“Adam!” You shout over the music to get his attention. He looks up, and the woman he’s talking to turns around to face you too. She looks annoyed but you don’t have time to think about it because then Adam is pulling you into his arms and kissing you.

“Hey, you.” He smiles and you offer a small smile back. “Let’s get drinks and then I can finally meet those friends you’ve been keeping from me.”

The team have found a booth in the corner of the bar. “Hi, guys, this is Adam” you smile pointing to your boyfriend, as he snakes an arm around your waist and pulls you softly into his side. You smile up at him. “And Adam this is everybody” you grin brightly and begin to point around the table “That’s Delilah and Tim, Gibbs, Jack, Kasie, Jimmy and Breena, Nick, and lastly, Ellie.” Everyone offers out pleasantries and you then slide into the booth next to Ellie, Adam slipping in next to you.

Adam seems to be a hit with them all. McGee tells him about a case they’d been working the week beforehand. “You should have seen the way Y/N and Sloane got him to confess in interrogation.” You look to Jack smirking proudly and see the same looked reflected back on her face. Adam’s arm is still wrapped around you and he pulls you closer looking down at you and presses a quick peck against your lips. You smile as you pull away, your eyes forbiddingly go back to Jack and you see an emotion cross her face that you don’t recognise before she’s quickly turning to Kasie and joining the conversation between her, Jimmy and Breena.  

You frown slightly but turn back to Adam, leaning into his side and focusing back on the conversation between him and McGee.

Adam’s arm hasn’t moved from your waist since you both sat down and you’re beginning to get really hot and uncomfortable because of it. Jimmy’s telling a story which everyone is listening to so you get Adams attention by softly patting his hand and quietly whisper “Hey can you let go, it’s really hot in here.”

“Aww but I like holding you”

“I like it too but-”

“See” There’s a smug tone in his voice that you don’t like. He pulls you back into his side.

You instantly move back again “Seriously Adam, It’s really hot” you can see Delilah watching you both subtly before leaning over and saying something to McGee.

Your confused, unsure how the conversation had spiralled so quickly. Adam’s about to say something but McGee interrupts.

“Adam! I’m going to the bar to get drinks, join me?” Adam looks like he’s going to decline but he notices he’s also gained the attention of Gibbs (who’s giving him a not so friendly look) and Jack and instead slips out of the booth following McGee.

The tension you didn’t realise you’d been holding slips away as you lean back into the booth. “You ok?” Delilah questions.

“Yeah of course.” Your smile is too big to not be completely fake and Delilah must notice because she just raises her eyebrows. “I promise. He’s just a lot more into PDA than I am” You shrug slightly trying to play it off as if it’s nothing and steadily avoid looking at Jack who you can feel watching you closely.

When the guys return 15 minutes later McGee is watching Adam cautiously and the tension you’d been feeling comes right back. McGee places the tray of drinks on the table handing them out to everyone and Adam falls into the booth next to you, sloppily handing you your own drink.

“Are you drunk?” Adam doesn’t respond, instead, he leans back into the booth. You look to McGee for answers.

“He did a couple of shots” McGee responds awkwardly before sitting down and taking a sip of his own drink.

It gets out of hand pretty quickly after that. Adam and Torres are talking about the protein powder they both apparently use when Torres makes a jokey comment about definitely being able to out bench him.

“Is this why you didn’t want me to meet your friend’s Y/N? Think I’d be intimidated by the special agents.” The comment may have passed as a joke if it wasn’t for Adam’s tone. You tense and you notice everyone is now focused on Adam with a mix of uncomfortable, disapproving or curious looks.

“Adam” You warn quietly, and the man looks down at you rolling his eyes dismissively.

“Awh what Y/N. Don’t think I could take any of your friends?”

“Ok. Adam and I are going to go. Thank you every-” You start to push Adam from the booth, but he doesn’t move and instead cuts you off.

“Oh, look she’s embarrassed by me” Adams laughs and your face heats up.

“Adam stop it. Let’s just go back to mine-”

“You know she talks about you guys all the time. I’m surprised she even knows I exist. It’s all ‘At work this’ and ‘Rule number 280’ and ‘Ellie was telling me this’ and oh god and we can’t forget about Jack.” Adam turns to glare at the blonde “It’s always Special Agent Jack Sloane” Her name is spat out and you can’t even look at Jack as you duck your head moments away from tears “god anyone would think it’s her Y/N wants to be dating-”

“That’s enough.” Gibbs barks from his seat. McGee gets up and Gibbs follows. Gibbs grabs Adam roughly pulling him out of the booth.

“Is this the famous Gibbs glare?” Adam smirks

“I highly recommend you go home now Adam.” The only time you’d ever heard McGee speak like that was when he was trying to intimidate a suspect.

Adam scoffs “Whatever.”  Adam goes to step forward, reaching for you, but Gibbs moves in front of him.

“She’s not going with you tonight”

“She’s my girlfriend-”

“Stop it!” You snap. You take a deep breath, finally moving from the booth and standing behind Gibbs. “Adam go home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He goes to refuse again. “That was your last chance” Gibbs growls. He and McGee both grab Adam by the upper arms and begin to walk him out of the building.

Everyone is silent as you turn back around. They’re all watching you worriedly and when your eyes connect with Jack’s you have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from sobbing. “I’m going to…” You point in the vague direction of where the toilets are and immediately turn around and walk away.

You start sobbing the second the toilet door falls closed behind you. You were so embarrassed. Adam had just made a complete fool of you in front of the people who were basically your family. You’d never be able to look them in the face again. He’d never been like this before, you really thought you’d met a nice guy. You shake your head. How had you been such an idiot?

You’re so consumed by your thoughts that you don’t notice the door open and close behind you. It’s not until someone places a hand on your shoulder that you snap around. The second Jack sees the tears streaming down your face she pulls you into a tight hug. You bury your head into her shoulder, allowing yourself to cry.

After a while, your sobs begin to subside, and you notice just how close you and Jack are. She pressed right up against you; one hand wrapped around your body while the other brushes soothingly over your head. The smell of Jack is comforting, you feel so safe in her arms and you push closer into her neck only to immediately realize what you're doing.

Pain erupts in your chest and you quickly take a step back, wiping away tears. There are tear stains on Jack’s shirt and you duck your head embarrassed.

“I’m sorry” your voice is rough from the crying and you finally look up, surprised to see Jack wiping at her face as well.

“For what?” Jack frowns.

“For ruining the whole evening. I promise you Adam’s not normally like that, he just got too drunk, he’s honestly so good and kind-”

“And you’re not going to dump his arse?” The words rush out of Jack’s mouth and you can’t tell if her shocked expression is from her own words or yours.

“I don’t know…it’s been really nice having someone and he is a great guy.” You respond defensively.

“But you deserve someone so much better” You scoff at that and don’t miss the irony of the conversation. Jack telling you, you deserve someone better when the only reason you’d even started dating Adam was because you couldn’t have the one person you wanted most in the world. You look at her wistfully before shaking your head to dispel the thoughts. You weren’t about to have another failed relationship because you couldn’t get over your feelings for Jack.

“You name one person that’s lining up for me” You laugh sourly and continue before Jack can say anything. “I really do like Adam, You saw the flowers he’s been sending to the office, it’s sweet no one's ever done that for me before.”

“Well then you’ve only been with assholes” You bristle at that “I’m sorry but he was rude and condescending. He had no respect for your boundaries even after you asked him to let you go” you duck your head at that unaware that Jack had noticed that certain exchange. “That man screams red flags.”

“But-”

“No! Y/N this whole evening you’ve looked uncomfortable and tense. Adam belittled you and your job the whole night. When you had to cancel your plans with him the other day for that stakeout with me you spent 5 minutes on the phone as he made a fuss about it!”

That was true. You were meant to meet Adam for dinner when Gibbs had put you on stakeout duty last minute. You’d phoned to cancel with Adam and ended up arguing with him as he was claiming you always cancelled the plans you two had. You eventually got him off the phone with reassurances that you’d make it up to him.

You’d spent the rest of the night in a freezing cold car with Jack and despite the fact you were scared your fingers were going to fall off they were so cold; it had been pretty enjoyable.

Jack continues “You are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met Y/N. You are a brilliant friend and agent. You are kind and beautiful and funny and you deserve to be with someone who only makes you shine brighter. Adam is not that guy. He’s not good enough for you. You deserve someone who’d do anything just to see your smile, someone who will thank the stars every day that you walked into their life, someone who understands your job is there for you through the bad cases, someone who would happily volunteer to sit in a cold, uncomfortable car with you for 6 hours just so they could spend time with you, someone who loves you so much it hurts-” Jack’s voice cracks and a tear escapes her watery eyes which she quickly wipes away.

You stare at Jack in confusion. Was she saying? You’d never thought in your wildest dreams that this would be happening, that she might like you back. You are snapped out of your thoughts when Jack releases a sad chuckle. She takes a step back, hanging her head.

You just stare at her in wonder. “But you don’t like me like that.”

Jack laughs again, emotion still thick in her voice “Yeah I tried telling myself that for a long time too.”

“No! because I only started dating Adam because I was trying to get over you!”  The words woosh out and Jack freezes.

“What?”

You laugh “I was tired of pining over you. Why do you think I commute 20 minutes out of my way each morning just to get you coffee from that coffee shop you love? It wasn’t because I was just being nice it’s because of how your face lights up and that adorable little jiggle you do when I appear.”

A smile spreads across Jack’s face as she laughs “I love the coffee sure, but the reason I get so happy is just because of you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’d been trying to convince myself that I wasn’t in love with you but after I went on a date that Vance had set up for me and all I could think about was how I wanted the woman to be you, I knew it was useless. I was going to finally come clean but then you started seeing Adam and I thought that meant you weren’t interested in me.”

You shake your head in disbelief, a wide smile crossing your face as well as you step closer to her. “I’m in love with you too.”

Jack smiles back and you want nothing more than to pull this woman to you and kiss her senseless. If Jack’s sparkling eyes were anything to go by you think she’s thinking the exact same thing. Jack’s hand reaches out and brushes your cheek, but she takes a deep breath and steps back instead of forward.

“I need to break up with Adam.” You say and Jack nods.

“I’ll give you a lift home?” You agree. You leave the toilets, following Jack over to the booth. You aren’t surprised to see most people have left but Gibbs, Bishop and Torres are still waiting.

“Are you ok?” Bishop quickly moves from the booth and pulls you into a hug.

“Yeah, I’m ok. I’m really sorry about Adam, I’d never seen him like that before. Trust me you guys won’t be meeting him again” You laugh awkwardly.

“Good” Is Gibbs’ gruff response but you can see the concern in his eyes. He surprises you by pulling you into a hug and kissing the top of your head. “We put him in a taxi.”

“McGee had to go because the twins were playing up, but he wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“I’ll text him and thank him. Thank you all too. Jack’s going to give me a lift home, so I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

Ellie pulls you into another hug, and you think you see Gibbs smirking at Jack, but you can’t be sure.

It’s not a long drive to your house but when Jack parks the car you’re surprised to see Adam sitting outside. “Oh, shit” you swear. Jack tenses when she follows your eyes and notices the man as well. “You stay here and call him a taxi; I’ll get this over with.”

“Y/N” Jack goes to protest but instead sighs “Just be careful okay?” You grip her hand smiling slightly before jumping out the car and up the path to your house.

“Adam. You aren’t meant to be here.” He quickly stands up and you automatically take a step back. You can see he’s sobered up a little bit, but he’s definitely still tipsy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Adam let’s talk tomorrow when you’re sober. Jack’s calling you a taxi-”

“Jack?” Adam's eyes snap over to the blonde who’s now standing next to her car. You swear he almost growls.

“She gave me a lift home-”

“Sure just a lift.”

“Adam-”

“Here I was apologising because I’m a good guy-”

You laugh “Wow.” You shake your head “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”

“What!”

You rub your face laughing “We’re over Adam.”

Adam starts spluttering “You little bitch.” He walks towards you threateningly and you don’t step back this time, instead, glaring back at him.

“Go home.” He just glares at you and then over to Jack who is now standing a few steps away looking like she’d be ready to fight him if it came down to it.

He huffs “I’m too fucking good for you anyway.” Muttering he makes his way over to the taxi that had just arrived and gets in. You watch as it drives away and breath a sigh of relief.

Jack pulls you into a hug before pulling back slightly to look at you, hands still wrapped around your waist.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m really good.” You smile brightly. Your hands go to Jack’s face and you finally pull her towards you.

The first touch of your lips and its fireworks. You’re both smiling too much so it’s a little awkward, but you don’t care. The kiss begins to deepen, and you reach your hands into Jack’s hair. She moans lightly and it isn’t fair how something so small can do so much to your body.

Jack pulls away slowly and you look at her dazed.

“I love you, Jack.”

“I love you too Y/N.”

[drblueneck]

Little Naruto is a time traveller

Naruto has been a time traveller his whole life. It just took him years to realize it...

.

.

The first time it happened, the four year old boy just tripped on his own two feet. One second he was in a backstreet, waving his arms around trying to regain his balance, the next he was in the main avenue of the village, spitting out a mouthful of dirt as he stood back up, knees bleeding from the hard impact with the ground.

The blond kid just looked around him, confused, before shrugging it off and going about his day, shoulders hunched around his head and shooting suspicious glares at the villagers who had yet to show distaste at his presence.

He ended up relaxing, mingling with the crowd and bumping into people just to see their reaction. Some scoffed and told him to look where he went, others sighed with indulgence and a small number even laughed and apologized. It was surreal. Feeling daring, he even bought an apple from the old woman who usually pretended he didn't exist. It was a good day, Naruto decided.

Then he tripped on a stone, his nose met the ground, and when he looked up, he was still in the main avenue, but there was a wide breadth around him. His sharp ears caught a mumbled sneer, "little freak, always gets in the way" and he turned around, stuck his tongue out and bellowed an insult that went along the lines of "poop face" before storming away from the market place.

So much for having a good day.

.

.

The next time was similar. He walked, tripped, and went he got back up, people were nicer -- or at least didn't mind his existence. Naruto happily went along with the weird fluke, thinking that adults were odd creatures with strange rites.

He decided to fall more often just to escape the stares.

It never worked.

.

.

He tried buying an apple from the woman. Her face kept changing one day from another. Naruto wondered if it was a cool jutsu. He asked the Old Man and he laughed, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling with mirth. "No, no, my boy. This is just a trick from life. No one escapes the mark left by the passing of time."

Naruto didn't get one word from that speech and shrugged, placing that under the "mysteries of life" mental checklist he kept.

Still. The lady kept changing faces. One day wrinkled. One day smooth.

He quickly learnt to which face he could buy his apples.

Stingy old hag. Adults were weird.

.

.

He met a boy one day. The villagers kept shouting at him, scoffing at his excuses and muttering about no good orphans causing trouble.

Naruto kept his distance -- it was a "good" day, the villagers left him alone and he got his apples plus a full bag of lemons, which was a real treat as the yellow fruit was a rarity in Konoha and always sold out fast. He definitely didn't need to attract bad attention by associating with the other troublemaker.

Nodding wisely at his decision, the blond boy munched on his green apple, enjoying the sweet-acid juice and thinking about the lemonade he'd make when he got home. Not a second later, the other boy bumped into him and his lemons spilled onto the ground.

"WAAAA!!! SORRY!!!! I DIDN'T SEE YOU!"

Almost jumping out of his skin at the screamed apologies, Naruto just stared with wide eyes and apple-filled-cheeks as the boy grew teary-eyed the longer he apologized and bowed to him.

He bowed.

Nobody ever apologized to Naruto, or bowed or even talked really. They just ignored him.

Blinking owlishly, the blond boy mumbled "it'sh okay" through the crushed apple bits he had yet to swallow in his surprise.

Immediately, the other kid beamed at him and Naruto felt his eyes prickle.

Someone was talking to him and smiling. Just for him.

"I'm Obito, by the way! I never saw you around before."

Sniffing back the snot that wanted to trickle down his nose, the four year old roughly scrubbed his eyes and tried to introduce himself after swallowing his mouthful. He took a step forward, a smile tugging at his lips, "I'm Uzu--" and promptly met the floor, right foot rolling on a forgotten lemon.

When he got up, rubbing at his smarting skull, there were no more lemons and the brown-haired kid was long gone.

There was a burning feeling in his eyes and he sniffled before slapping his cheeks. He won't cry. It didn't hurt at all.

.

.

"AH! YUZU!!"

The yell came from behind him and before he could react, a boy was draped over his back, talking a mile a minute about how he missed him and where did he go and he forgot his lemons and was it a shunshin and it was so cool he should teach him and--

"What did you call me?" Naruto asked, confused.

Surely Obito mistook him for someone else. No one missed Naruto Uzumaki, ever.

Obito looked sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Sorry, you were gone so fast I didn't quite catch your name. Then I saw the lemons and "yuzu" just stuck."

Yuzu. Huh.

Maybe it was better than telling his name. People always seemed horrified when he told them who he was. It was like a curse.

But Yuzu...

"I like it," he decided, and Obito smiled proudly.

They spent the rest of the day together, running up and down the streets, echoes of shrieking laughters the only sign of their passage.

It was a really good day.

.

.

So Naruto quickly understood that there were two Konoha. There was the one that recoiled at his name, and there was the one that didn't care about him. There was the one where he was known as Naruto Uzumaki and the one where he was simply Yuzu.

To his young mind, it was just the normal order of things. Everyone had bad days and good days. Everyone experienced cold Konoha and warm Konoha. People changed moods, changed faces, some streets even disappeared, but Naruto guessed it was normal in a ninja village -- once you witnessed a shinobi breathing fire nothing seemed strange anymore.

All in all, he only wished that he could have more good days than bad days.

And if sometimes at night he'd close his eyes and wish really hard to be Yuzu, just Yuzu... well nobody had to know, right?

He didn't realize he was so dependent on Good Days until he met with the Old Man one morning and had to clear his voice twice before talking. Nowadays, the only one he spoke with was Obito, and it'd been a month since they last met. He tried searching for the older boy, but he didn't know his last name, nor did he know where he lived. Naruto would never say it, but he often wondered if he was just "touched in the head", like he heard people say with sympathy about the old Taka-san who lived down the street. He wondered if Obito was even real, if the Good Days even existed.

"Old Man... you're real, right?" He asked as he looked up at the only person who seemed to care about Naruto Uzumaki.

They were walking down a worn out path in the forest where they first met. The Old Man had promised they'd fish.

He seemed surprised by the question but took it in stride as he pondered his answer, a large, wrinkled hand coming to pat his head.

"I'm as real as you are," he settled for as he offered his hand. Naruto grasped it, sticky fingers squeezing around calloused flesh. The Old Man squeezed back, tight enough that Naruto could almost feel his bones grinding together as he gasped in shock. "See? No illusion. Now come, I think this spot will be nice for fishing."

They sat and fished and Naruto kept quiet, unsure if he was happy or sad that this Konoha was the real one.

.

.

He started the Academy and things were good. He was learning about being a ninja! He hadn't seen Obito in months, and the stingy old hag hadn't sold him apples in months too, but it was okay, the Academy kept him busy enough to forget about his tentative friend. Maybe the other kid was a civilian and that's why he hadn't seen him at school.

Naruto didn't make any new friends, but it's not like he had been trying, to be honest. He spent much of his time trying to understand the given homework or planning a prank on some mean villager. It had nothing to do with the fact that most kids just ignored him to begin with. He didn't care one bit! So what if the blond haired girl in his class was always with the pink haired one and seemed to know every other kids but him? She clearly didn't see that Naruto was awesome, and that was her problem, not his.

With that thought in mind, he jumped over a puddle of mud and landed right into another. He blinked, confused. Either his aim was crap or he hadn't noticed the other puddle.

The blond boy shrugged, looked at his stained clothes and after a moment of reflection, decided to jump again in the puddle to see how far the splashes went. Now that his clothes were ruined, no need to be careful!

He was so absorbed by his silly game that he didn't see nor hear anyone coming.

"Yuzu?!"

At that, the boy looked up, startled. Oh, he thought, this is a Good Day then.

A smile quickly grew on his lips, genuine joy spreading in his little body as Obito ran towards him. There was a forehead protector tied above his protective glasses and Naruto shouted with delight and awe. "You're a ninja!"

Obito grinned widely and adjusted the spotless headband before gasping dramatically like he remembered something, eyes going wide as he reached for the blond boy’s shoulders and violently shook him.

"Where have you been?! I was worried ya know... I thought you died..."

The older boy quickly pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes.

Naruto blinked, startled. He tilted his head on one side, then the other, as if trying to understand a complicated math problem. "Are you cryin'?"

"NO!" Obito said as he snatched a bottle from his pouch and dripped some liquid in his eyes. "There was dust or somethin' in my eyes... that's all! Uchiha don’t cry." The last sentence was recited with so much conviction that Naruto didn't have the heart to point out that the boy still had snot dangling from his nose from his dramatic crying feat, nor the fact that he had glasses that should've kept the dust away.

Instead, he went with sympathy. "Once I squeezed a lemon so hard I got juice in my eyes," he confided, pursing his lips in remembrance.

That got a snicker out of Obito who patted the younger boy on the back, still sniffling a little. "I missed you Yuzu, I'm glad I finally found you again. Say, wanna meet my team?"

.

.

PLEASE SOMEONE STOP ME I HAVE NO FUCKING LIMITS WTF WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?? WHO NEEDS THIS STORY ANYWAY?! AAAARRRRGGGHHH

[metallicaredemption]

Dumpweed Chapter 3

Chapter 3 is here, folks! No NSFW warnings here or anything to worry about. Hope yall enjoy it :)

I woke up the next morning, slightly sore from last night. Mark was laying next to me, watching as I shifted from my slumber. "Good morning, beautiful. Sleep well?" He asked. "I sure did, and you?" I asked, Mark nodded his head and leant over to kiss me. "I'll take that as a yes." I chuckled and sat up. "Where can I use the bathroom?" I asked him, he pointed to the closed door. "Just through there." He replied.

When I got to the bathroom, I instantly noticed the hickeys on my neck and shoulders. Ruby was definitely going to question those. Mark came in after me and kissed the back of my neck. He too noticed the hickeys in my reflection. "Sorry, I didn't mean to...y'know." he stuttered. I turned around to face Mark, running my hands along his shoulders. "I honestly don't mind. It's going to get Ruby off of my back about getting laid." I laughed. "Plus, I had fun." I finished off, kissing his lips. "I had fun too. Thanks for keeping me company, Ivory." He smiled down at me. "I'm going to get in the shower, you want to join?" He asked. "Nah, I'll have one after you. I better tell Ruby that I'm alive." I replied. Mark laughed in response. "Fair call, there's a robe of mine on the couch that you can use if you don't feel like walking around the hotel room naked." He laughed.

I scanned the room and found Mark's robe, it was so soft! I slipped it on and pulled my phone from the coffee table. I had about 11 missed calls from Ruby, I dialled her number and she picked up straight away. "Girl, where are you?" She asked in a worried tone. "I'm at the hotel. I'll be there soon..." "Hotel? Oooh, who did you fuck? Actually, tell me when you get here." She replied eagerly. I laughed in response. "When are you getting here anyways?" She asked. "Soon I hope, I'm just waiting on the shower." Just as I finished that sentence, Mark came out of the shower.

Mark and I pulled up at the back of the venue, where the party last night was. "Hey, can I please get your number?" He asked. "Because I was serious when I said I wanted to hang out with you more." He smiled, handing me a pen and paper. I quickly jotted my number down. "Text me. I have to find Ruby." I smiled, leaning over to kiss Mark. I pulled away to see a pout on his face. "I really wish you didn't have to go." He said quietly. "I do too, but I'll see you when you perform later on." I reassured. "You better be front and center dancing." Mark smiled. "I will be, see you later." I said before climbing out of the car and making my way to mine and Ruby's shared camp spot, but not without bumping into Brendon Urie again. "Hey, there you are." He smiled. "Yes, here I am." I replied. "Thanks for dancing with me last night at the party." I smiled back at him. "It was my pleasure to dance with such a beautiful woman." Brendon smiled, slinging his arm around my shoulder. I was sure that if Mark saw this, he would probably get jealous. Brendon was an extremely good looking guy. But Brendon wasn't the guy I was wanting to fuck. "So, where did you disappear to last night?" He asked me. "I went back to Mark's hotel with him." I replied a little too proudly, before wondering off, leaving him in the lurch.

I eventually found Ruby and our campsite. Thankfully she had already set it up. "Yay! Ivory is finally here!" She shouted excitedly, getting up and pulling me into a bear hug. She eventually let go and went back to sitting down. She patted the empty seat beside me. "So, tell me. Who was the lucky guy?" She asked. "Was it Alex Gaskarth? Cause he was kinda cute and I did notice him eyeballing you at the party." She tried guessing. "No, it was Mark Hoppus." I replied proudly. Ruby looked at me with a dumbfounded look. "I had a funny idea that you two would end up fucking." She laughed. "So was it a one night stand, or are you two a thing?" She asked. "At the moment, we're just keeping it as a casual no strings attached thing. Maybe, we'll turn it into something more serious down the track, but we will see how we go." I admitted. "Aww, I hope you two work out." Ruby smiled. "Though, I did notice him eyeing you up for most of the night." She laughed. I laughed in response, thinking of the moment Mark admitted looking at me, just before we made out on the hood of his car.

It had been a few hours since the end of all the bands had finished playing their sets for the night. Just as Ruby and I were walking back to our tent, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It was from Mark Mark. Hey, Mark here. Saw you dancing at the show. You looked fine. Would you like to come to the after-party? Your friend can come too. You felt Ruby looking over your shoulder. "Girl, you should go. I'm going to get some sleep though." She gave me a wink, before letting out a small yawn. "If you're sure." I replied, not really wanting to leave Ruby alone. "Seriously, go. Or I'll walk you there myself." She smirked. "Plus, I know you want more of Mark's dick." She joked. I raised my hands in defeat. "Fine, I'll go." I replied, before pulling my phone out to text Mark back. Ivory: I will be there soon, can you or someone wait outside for me? Mark: I will wait, see you soon :-*

It took the good part of half an hour to get to where Mark was wanting to meet me. And to credit him, he did stick to his word. "Hey, Mark." I tried saying as nonchalantly as possible. "Hello, my Ivory. Still as beautiful as ever I see." He winked, before giving me a quick peck on the cheek. I looked up at him and feigned annoyance. "Hey, my lips are here." I said, pointing at the corner of my mouth. "I know where they are. I just don't think I'll be able to stop once I start kissing them." He winked. "Maybe I wouldn't want you to stop." I replied, pecking him on his lips. He laughed. "You, Miss Ivory are a hard soul to bargain with. Let's get inside." He smiled, taking my hand and leading me inside to where everyone else was.  I looked around and saw where Matt and Travis were sitting and chatting between themselves.

"Would you like to sit down with them, while I order drinks?" He offered, gesturing towards his band mates. "Sure, I'll see you soon." I replied, turning around to walk towards Matt and Travis, but not without bumping into Alex Gaskarth again. "Hey, Ivory. It's good to see you again." He smiled, pulling me into a friendly hug. I gladly hugged him back. "Good to see you too, Alex." I replied with a smile. "So, what happened to you last night? You just disappeared." He asked, Mark was soon behind us with our drinks. "Good to see you two have met." He smiled, handing me my drink and taking a sip of his own. "We met last night, remember Alex was the one who introduced us." I had to remind Mark. "Oh, yeah. I remember now. It's been a long 24 hours." He smiled before carrying on to Travis and Matt.

"So, you and Mark. You're a thing now?" Matt asked. I was now sitting down next to Matt. Mark and Travis were getting drinks. "I think we're just a casual, no strings attached at the moment." I replied, smiling at Matt. "Well, hopefully those no strings attached means you can come on tour with us. You're good company." He smiled. "I hope so too. But I don't want to be in Mark's hair the whole time." I admitted. "I don't think you'll be a burden at all. I've seen how Mark has been looking at you. He's head over heels for you." Matt assured.

Before I knew it, it was 2 in the morning again. For tonight, I was only planning on going back to the tent to catch up on some much needed sleep. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the hotel with me?" Mark asked, having me pinned between himself and his car. Just like last night. "I'm sure. I need sleep and I don't want to worry Ruby." I replied, trying to convince Mark. "Fine, but can I at least walk you back?" He offered. "I don't think I can say no, come on" I replied, taking his hand.

The walk back felt quicker than what it should have been. "I suppose this is where we part ways." I sighed. I was really enjoying Mark's company over the weekend, and was sad to have him not around. "It's only for now, but we don't have to separate." He hinted, but I had no idea what he meant. "Why don't we share your tent for the night? We don't have to have sex, just lay there and enjoy each other's company." He offered, making me smile up at him. "I don't think that I can refuse such an offer. I'm up for it." I replied.

[belonglab]

More than fed up with being labeled “less than”

by Neha Sampat, Esq.(!)

December 15, 2020

You know what bothers me about the whole brouhaha (or shall I call it “bro”haha) about Dr. Jill Biden’s use of her earned title? It’s not just Joseph Epstein’s mega-misogyny or even that the Wall Street Journal chose to publish the piece and then doubled-down on their bad judgment. That this [bleepity-bleeper] had the audacity to think he can publicly cut down someone who has out-schooled, out-accomplished, and clearly out-classed him says a lot about our society. He and the WSJ made themselves easy targets, and trust me, I’m not here to block your aim at them.

But what also is bugging me is the fact that Epstein and the WSJ gave voice and amplification to a too commonly shared notion that women are “less than” and should be maintained as “less than” by being cut down when they reach beyond the confines of the patriarchy and threaten those glass ceilings. This notion is so commonly shared that I suspect many of all gender identities first bristled when they heard Dr. Biden referred to or introduced as “Dr.” I teach people (especially women) to shout from the rooftops about their accomplishments, I try to model that by standing firmly and publicly in my own expertise, and one of my dearest and oldest friends is a brilliant woman with a PhD. But I admit (with horror) that even I was momentarily startled at first when I heard Dr. Biden introduced as “Dr.” a while back, and I had to take a good, hard look at myself to explore why.

So, like it or not, we now have an opportunity to look inside ourselves to examine our own biases (even the women among us harbor bias against ourselves and other women). Were you taken aback (even ever so slightly) when you first heard/read Dr. Biden introduced with her title? Did it bug you in the slightest bit to hear her husband and her referred to as “Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden?” Hmmm…why is that? Please, take a moment to sit with this, as it will help you de-bias yourself, and we all need to constantly be combatting our biases.

And, yes, this also is an opportunity to look outside ourselves at a culture that allows for (and in fact rewards) the cutting down of women and the minimizing of their accomplishments. Don’t even get me started on how multiply and historically excluded women such as WOC (and especially Black women) have their achievements and expertise questioned, belittled, and censored on a daily basis and to a far greater extent than most others! (Check out how Dr. Timnit Gebru was treated by Google, and read The Memo by the incomparable Minda Harts to learn more.) This absolutely is a societal, structural, and organizational issue.

Parallel to the Dr. Biden story hitting the headlines, I had been noticing a number of programs and posts attempting to debunk Imposter Syndrome, including some from colleagues I admire and trust. Yet, I have observed (and experienced, myself) Imposter Syndrome as a very real struggle. (I do wish we had another name for it that could be universally recognized; I’ll work on that).

Where I think my colleagues and I agree is here: Imposter Syndrome is not another externally-imposed mark against those who have it (which, by the way, is most of us). Imposter Syndrome is not a disease or personality flaw. It is not self-inflicted. It is not a black or brown person issue. It is not a women issue. There are plenty of black and brown women, for example, who don’t struggle with it, so let’s be careful about making generalizations. Imposter Syndrome is a human issue.

That said, the causes of it for historically excluded people are unique: Imposter Syndrome is a manifestation of internalized bias/oppression for many of us. Imposter Syndrome is the damage done by a society built on exclusion and othering, bias, prejudice, and marginalization. When Dr. Biden and other women are told their doctorates don’t matter and have their expertise publicly questioned on such a powerful platform, they (and all other women) are being told that they are not good enough, that they don’t matter, that they are “too big for their britches” (a phrase Dr. Brené Brown satisfyingly dismantles in her work). When the world is constantly telling you that you are not the giant force you are, you may start believing it. That voice of the doubters can become the voice in your own head that tells you that you are out of your league, that you are maybe not so great, that you are “less than.”  That’s how Epstein’s effort to take down Dr. Biden serves as a perfect example of how Imposter Syndrome can be created.

By acknowledging Imposter Syndrome is real, we are not saying that it is the fault of the people who have it, and we are not letting off the hook the excluders and otherers, the biased and prejudiced, and the structures that support them. Society and orgs create and cultivate systems that birth and feed Imposter Syndrome. They are the cause, and Imposter Syndrome is the effect. Work must be done on societal and organizational levels to address this (and we are proud to do that work!). But at the same time, healing can happen in the individuals who experience Imposter Syndrome as a form of the harm done to them. External oppression does not have to become internalized oppression.  

Thus, it has been so heartening to me to see women publicly claim (and for some, reclaim) their earned titles on social media this past week. We as women shouldn’t have to offer proof of our academic and other accomplishments to be taken seriously, but the truth is that we are constantly having to prove ourselves worthy of respect. By stating our credentials, we are honoring ourselves and our achievements and also honoring the credential itself by letting it sit proudly next to our blessed names.

I don’t have Ed.D., but you can bet that if I did, you’d know about it! But I have other achievements of which I am proud and which position me uniquely to make this world better in ways only I can. You, too, have achievements and credentials that position you uniquely to make this world better in ways only you can.

As we close out this year (finally!), I’d like to refer you back to a blog post we wrote to close out 2018, “Wrapping Up the Year: Turning the Page from To-Do to Ta-Da,” which empowers and encourages you to take a reflective moment to honor all that you did (your “ta-das”) this past year. But let’s take it a step further this year: Once you note your ta-das from 2020, I challenge you to boldly share at least one of your ta-das publicly. It can be on social media, or it can be with someone with whom you normally wouldn’t share it. By doing so, you practice owning (and believing) your own value and, like Dr. Biden so beautifully does, you create space for all people to stand strong in their expertise and be valued and celebrated for it!

[victoria-daydreams]

Skylark

GIF by @silent-force

Summary: Living in the midst of a war while working to make ends meet was nothing new to Alice Lloyd. That was until a chance meeting between her and a RAF pilot would forever change both their lives.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: So this is my first time posting a story on this site and I’m slightly nervous about it. But I had to write this story because it’s been my head for months now. I also wanted to write it because I have not seen any Dunkirk stories with a Black/POC character which is understandable to a point. Anyways, I hope you like it to those who read it.

Sitting backstage at The Garden Rouge Club sat Alice Lloyd humming to herself as she concentrated on painting her lips red with lipstick. Alice screwed her lipstick down and placed the cap back on before placing it on the desk of the vanity mirror. Opening her mouth, Alice looked at her reflection, making sure there was not any lipstick on her teeth. The upbeat sound of jazz music being played from the band onstage was muffled, but yet Alice could still feel it vibrate into her ears, bounce off the walls, and emanate from the floor.

Alice stood up from her seat at the mirror and closed her eyes, placing her hands on her stomach and breathing deeply. Her heart began to race at the thought of her upcoming performance. The feeling of butterflies had entered her stomach as well. Alice had performed multiple times at the club, so she didn't understand why she was always nervous before each performance.

Out of nowhere, two pale hands landed on each of Alice's shoulders causing her eyes to snap open in fright.

"Why do you do this to yourself every time?" a man asked laughing.

"You ass!" Alice cursed, softly elbowing him in the ribs. "You scared the living daylights out of me James!" she added, shaking his hands off her shoulders.

James Allen's droopy gray eyes crinkled as he grinned proudly, shoving his hands into his pockets. He towered over Alice short stature of only five-five as the two of them looked at their reflection.

"You're going to do amazing Alice," the dark-haired man assured. "As you always do," he added, with a smile on his face.

"I know, but I always get a little anxious before I go on stage," she stated, shaking her head.

James breathed out a laugh, "Well think of it this way," he began, placing his hands on her shoulders again. "Even if you make a mistake onstage, the crowd won't notice because they'll be too enamored with this beautiful face," he stated, lifting her chin up with two of his fingers. "You look gorgeous Alice,"

Alice looked down and smoothed her red halter cocktail dress that complimented her warm, almond brown complexion.

She looked up at him with a small smile on her face, "You think so?" she asked, nervously running a hand through the black, glossy waves of her hair.

"Of course!" James said, sounding playfully exasperated. "Now come on, you don't want to keep the crowd waiting do you?" he asked, and she shook her head as he lead her to stage right.

James gave a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder before walking away from her to return to his to stagehand duties. Alice slightly peeped her head out to see the club was in full swing as couples danced happily on the dance floor. The band played the final note of their number and a loud applause echoed in the hall.

"Allow me to introduce our very own Miss Alice Lloyd,"

Alice walked onto the stage, waving and smiling at the audience as she made her way to the microphone.

"Let's keep this party going shall we?" she asked enthusiastically, and the crowd cheered in agreement.

She grasped onto the microphone as the rhythmic beating of the drum started up soon followed by the blaring of trumpet horns. Alice tapped her foot to the beat and smiled as she sang the opening line to 'Marvellous Party'.

Alice's eyes scanned through the smoky atmosphere of the club, watching friends and couples dance wildly and whirl each other around the dance floor. It brought a smile to her face as she snapped along to the verse she was singing. It was at this moment Alice's bright brown eyes met a pair of intense blue eyes looking back at her. The man had blond tousled hair and looked to be her age if not a little older. Feeling bold, Alice sent the man a playful wink as she continued on with her singing.

Belting out the last note, the room was filled with whistles, cheers, and applause.

"I hope we're not tired out there," Alice began, as the band started playing their next song.

~~~x~~~

After singing two more songs Alice exited the stage, but the band kept the party going. She made her to the bar, maneuvering through the packed crowd as best as she could. Finally at the bar, all Alice had to do was lift one finger and the bartender nodded his head as he had her order memorized.

"Thank you!" she called gratefully, as the bartender walked away after handing her a gin.

Drinking deeply, Alice leaned against the bar observing the club-goers, nodding her head along the upbeat song that was being performed. Until a voice from beside startled her.

"Ye sounded lovely up there," a Scottish-accented voice stated.

Alice whipped her head to the right and looked up to see the blond-haired man from earlier. The man smiled at her revealing his dimples in both of his cheeks, he had quite a boyish face. In Alice's opinion, the man was quite handsome. The man lifted an eyebrow at her silence and Alice cleared her throat as she felt heat flush her face from embarrassment for studying the man's features too long.

"Thank you," she finally said, a smile pulling on her lips. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," she added, with a slight nod.

An awkward silence fell between the two of them and Alice lowered her head before taking another sip of her gin. Sneakily, she glanced over at the blond-haired man who was staring out into the crowd. When she was on the stage the man was sitting alone, and now here he was next to her still by himself. Alice began to wonder if the man came here with no friends.

"Did you come here alone?" Alice asked curiously, and he turned his head toward her.

“ Yes,"

"That's quite sad," Alice stated mindlessly, downing the rest of her drink.

The man chuckled, "Ouch," he commented, putting his hand over his heart.

Alice's eyes widened and she placed her drink down, "Oh my goodness, that's not what I meant," she apologized, shaking her head. "I wasn't calling you sad, I meant no offense sir," she clarified, waving her hands.

The man lightly laughed and shook his head, "No offense taken," he assured. "I found it rather amusing lass," he added, a smile on his lips. "Jack Collins," he introduced, sticking his hand out.

Alice smiled, relief flooding through her like a tidal wave, "Alice," she responded, shaking his hand. "Alice Lloyd," Smiling at one another, the two of them slid onto the bar stools that were next to them. "So what brought you to the Garden Rouge Mr. Collins?" Alice asked, somewhat playfully as she had her gin refilled.

Jack lifted his stout, "I came for a drink," he answered, before taking a long pull from it.

"You could've went to a pub if that's all you wanted," she pointed out, a chuckle escaping her lips.

"I suppose so, but a pub doesn't have the same lively ambiance a club does," he quipped, with a smirk.

Alice shrugged and nodded in agreement, "But going to a nightclub by yourself would be rather boring wouldn't it?" she posed, raising her glass to her lips. "I mean where are your lads?" she asked, putting the cup down.

Alice noticed that Jack's smile seemed to drop a little at her question and soon began to sense a change in his demeanor.

"They're gone," he answered, while examining the wood of the bar counter. "Off fightin in the war," he added, a distant look in his eyes.

"Oh," Alice breathed, in shock. "And you were left behind due to being rejected for medical reasons?" she guessed, her tone soft.

Jack shook his head, "No lass," he said. "I'm a pilot in the Royal Air Force," Jack corrected, lifting his head to finally look at her. "I'm just on leave," he added.

"Ahhh, a fly boy," Alice stated, tilting her head with a grin. "Well in that case, thank you for your service," she smiled, raising her glass which made a tiny grin appear on Jack's face. "I once thought about serving this country as a nurse, but it seems Britain would rather let Nazis invade the country before they ever accept a colored nurse," Alice joked bitterly, before sipping her drink and watching everyone still on the floor dancing or socializing.

"This job looks teh be more fun in my opinion," he commented, with a slight shrug.

Alice laughed, "It has its moments, when the pay is good," she replied, turning her body to face him. "Before the war broke out, I wanted to be a famous singer like Billie Holiday," she told him, resting her arm on the counter. "But now...it doesn't matter, war or no war, the chances of me singing professionally are slim," she finished shaking her head.

"I don't see why ye couldn't. Ye certainly have the pipes for it," Jack complimented.

"Thank you Jack," Alice said, a small smile forming on her lips. "But colored people don't achieve fame easily, even if we're talented," she added, shaking her head. Alice pushed herself off the bar stool, her feet hitting the floor with a soft click of her heels. "I best get back to work," she said, glancing over her shoulder at the stage. "I doubt my boss would be pleased to see me not doing what he hired me for," she chuckled, interlocking her fingers in front of her.

“It was nice meeting ye Alice," Jack said, smiling brightly at her.

"And you as well Jack," she told him. "Maybe I'll you see around here again. Hopefully, with friends," Alice jested, before walking away from him.

A/N: If this garners enough attention I’ll probably write the second chapter or maybe even if it doesn’t I’ll probably still post the second chapter just to get this story out of my head

Chapter Two

[vpjdrums]

Rethinking the Zildjian Stamp on the 105th Anniversary of the Armenian Genocide

I’ll never forget the day my first “real” set of cymbals were delivered to my house. I was 17 years old and up until that point, I was playing on a beginner set of Sabian B8 cymbals (Sabians entry-level cymbals) and a Tama Swingstar drum kit (Tama’s entry-level kit). I ended up selling those drums and cymbals to a young student as I had acquired a black wrapped late 70′s Niles, IL badge, Slingerland maple drum kit from a family friend, which I still have and play now. To go along with this superb drum kit, my drum instructor, the legendary, Sal LaRocca (Teddy Wilson Quartet, Junior Mance Trio) suggested I look into purchasing a set of used Zildjians.

I ended up ordering, I believe it was from Steve Weiss Music in Pennsylvania, a pair of 1950′s Avedis Zildjian Hi-hats (which I still own... fantastic hats), a 16″ A Zildjian Medium-Thin Crash (recently sold), a 1970′s 18″ A Medium Crash (it’s somewhere in a bag around here), and a 20″ A Zildjian Medium Ride (loved that ride, thanks mom and dad). This was sheer excitement for me because all my favorite jazz drummers played Zildjian, and after all the Zildjians, like me were Armenian. Playing on those cymbals (I’ve since traded in the medium ride for a K Ride, but, I’ve recently acquired a 1960′s 20″ Avedis Medium Ride) felt like I was playing on pieces of history. However, the one thing that has bothered me is Zildjian referring to their cymbals as “Turkish”.

Cymbal and bell making goes all the way back to the 2nd millennia B.C. to the Karmir Blur area in Yerevan, Armenia. Bronze and metal work is intrinsically connected to Armenian history. The Armenian plateau, rich in ores, was one of the first places to practice metallurgy and was ahead of neighboring regions in the use of copper and iron. Throughout history Armenians have been master metalworkers and jewelers. Arts of Armenia-Music and the Art of the Book - Fresno State University

Some of my Zildjian cymbals

Zildjian Family History

The history of the Zildjian family and Avedis Zildjian Co. (the oldest family-owned company in North America and the oldest cymbal company in the world) dates back to 1618, when the first Zildjian cymbals were created. Avedis Zildjian was an alchemist exploring for ways to turn metal into gold. During the process of experimentation, he created an alloy (the exact formula is a closely held family secret) combining tin, copper and silver. It was soon discovered that when flattened into a sheet it could make musical sounds while still being durable enough not to shatter.

The Sultan Osman II the Young gave Avedis the name Zildjian (Zilciyân) (zil is Turkish for "cymbal," ci means "maker", and ian is the Armenian suffix meaning "son of"), and Avedis Zildjian began to manufacture cymbals for the mehter, Ottoman military bands consisting of wind and percussion instruments, which belonged to the Janissaries. Mehter ensembles performed during battle and performed courtly music for Ottoman rulers. The Zildjians also produced instruments for Greek and Armenian churches, and for Sufi dervishes. Zildjian worked primarily for the Sultan’s court. In 1623, because he was an Armenian, the Sultan had to grant him permission to leave the palace to start his own business. He set up shop in a suburb of Constantinople named Psamatia, and began to produce cymbals commercially.

In 1850, Avedis II built a schooner in order to sail cymbals produced in Constantinople to trade exhibitions such as the Great Exhibition in London, and to supply musicians in Europe, where Zildjian cymbals won many awards. Later in 1865, Avedis II died, and his brother Kerope II took over the company. He introduced a line of cymbals called K Zildjian, used by jazz and classical musicians to this day. Kerope II died in 1909 in Constantinople.

By the late nineteenth century, Aram Zildjian (Avedis’ son), who was then head of the family, was forced by the political conditions in Turkey to flee to Bucharest, Romania. The reality was, Aram had become so enraged by Turkish atrocities against Armenians that he had joined a (failed) plot to assassinate Sultan Abdul-Hamid II. Turkish police were able to track down the conspirators and Aram fled Turkey, settling in Bucharest. There, he set up a second Zildjian factory, while Kerope I's daughter Victoria ran the Constantinople factory. This arrangement continued until about 1927.

By 1910, Avedis III and his family also fled Turkey due to the country's increasingly volatile relationship with Armenia. The Zildjian family eventually settled in Boston, Massachusetts. While the Zildjian family situated themselves there, on the other side of the globe, the Armenian Genocide, also known as the Armenian Holocaust (the systematic mass murder and expulsion of nearly 2 million ethnic Armenians committed by the Young Turks and the Ottoman government) was well under way. As a matter of fact, during WWI, nearly 4 million Armenians, Greeks, Assyrians, and Yezidis were killed at the hands of the Ottoman Turks. Genocides the Turkish government denies to this day.

Around 1928, Avedis III, his brother Puzant, and his uncle Aram Zildjian (who had arrived in Boston the year prior) began manufacturing cymbals in Quincy, Massachusetts, and the Avedis Zildjian Co. was formed the following year in 1929. Avedis III’s father, Haroutiun had altogether left the Cymbal business to focus on his law career. In fact, at some point in the early 1900′s he managed to become Attorney General of Constantinople. If my memory serves me he later ended up in London or Paris. There’s a lot of other details I’m sparing here about the Dulgaryian cousins who took over the K factory in Istanbul against the wishes of the Zildjians, Aram losing interest in cymbal making, and about Avedis initially going into the confectionery business in Boston. Therefore, we’ll jump ahead about 40 years.

In 1968, Avedis split production into two separate operations, opening the Azco factory (at the suggestion of his son, Robert to be able to sell directly to the UK markets) in Meductic, New Brunswick, Canada. And in 1975, Zildjian began making K. Zildjian cymbals (the Zildjian family, some years prior bought back and soon after closed the Istanbul K factory from the Dulgaryians who were exclusively making Ks for Fred Gretsch and his famous Gretsch Drums) at the Azco plant. These were made until 1979. Within four years (1980), all K Cymbals were being made in the Norwell US plant. The A Cymbals line continued to be produced at the Meductic factory.

In early 1977, Armand Zildjian was appointed President of the Avedis Zildjian Company by his father. Soon after, Robert Zildjian split from the company amidst a conflict with his brother, Armand. In 1981, Robert named his new company, Sabian (The name 'Sabian' comes from the first letters of the names of Robert's three children: Sally, Andy, and Billy; and “ian” is the typical modern Armenian surname suffix) and started making Sabian cymbals in the Canadian Azco factory. Robert's son Andy (Robert passed away in 2013) is the most recent president of Sabian. (Most of this history and information is from Wikipedia, and others from an interview with Zildjian’s Director of Cymbal Innovation, Paul Francis... there’s a much more in depth analysis on this, and of cymbals and cymbal making over at Drum Magazine). This is where our modern day understanding of the Zildjians in North America begins.

“My problem is that Zildjian cymbals aren’t made in Turkey anymore. They’re made by an Armenian family here in the US.”

Zildjian family tree

All Zildjian cymbals have a stamp. It’s essentially a seal of authenticity. In fact, all metal products from Victorinox Swiss Army knives to Jean Paul brass musical instruments have a stamp.

A Sabian stamp consisting of their logo and Canada, the country they’re produced in.

The Zildjian Stamp

The stamp on Zildjian cymbals today have the trademark in Ottoman Turkish (Perso-Arabic characters) on top and below it in English. Underneath that it is indicated that it was produced in the USA, and below that might be a serial number. For one reason or another, the Zildjians continued to employ the Ottoman Turkish trademark and referring to their cymbals as “Turkish”. “Turkish” has come to be known as a style and sound of cymbal crafted to this this day by of course, Zildjian, Sabian, Instanbul Agop, Instanbul Mehmet, Bosphorus, Turkish, Smyrna, V-Classic, and other cymbal companies. All cymbal makers (aside from Zildjian and Sabian) who are based in Turkey have had in one form or another direct ties to the old K Zildjian factory. My problem is that Zildjian cymbals aren’t made in Turkey anymore. They’re made by an Armenian family here in the US.

Zildjian stamp of a cymbal that was made in Turkey.

I believe it is time for Zildjians to change their stamp. I believe they should change the top portion of the stamp to Armenian, and start referring to their cymbals as “Genuine Armenian Cymbals”. It just doesn’t make sense anymore to continue to refer to their cymbals as “Turkish” as their company is no longer based in Istanbul. And last I checked, the Zildjian family is still Armenian. I don’t think it reflects well on the company, the family, nor their history to continue to refer to their cymbals as “Turkish”. How can the Zildjians continue to refer to their cymbals as “Turkish” when their family’s DNA is in the cymbals their forefathers and foremothers handcrafted? Cymbals cherished and revered by musicians worldwide.

The Armenian Perspective

From my perspective it is a disservice to Armenians, particularly Armenian drummers and percussionists (many of whom are descendants of Genocide survivors) who proudly use Zildjian cymbals knowing the rich history of the family and company. Who know the history of the Armenians in the Ottoman Empire, and who also feel like they themselves are contributing to that rich heritage with their musicianship and art. I’ve never hid the fact that Zildjian cymbals are my favorite cymbals. I’ve used Sabian’s before and they’re great, after all they use the same family secret in their cymbal production. However, to me Zildjian cymbals sound the best and also maybe my affinity to them has to do with that fact that they still use their family name.

As I mentioned, I propose ZIldjian replaces the Ottoman Turkish trademark with Armenian text, and replaces the “Genuine Turkish Cymbals” tag with “Genuine Armenian Cymbals”. I think it make more sense. I also think it’s time the Zildjians honor their family heritage and history. At the very least, honor us Armenian drummers and percussionists who are descendants of Genocide survivors. I cannot think of a better time than the 105th Anniversary of the Armenian Genocide to do just that.

[nervydamned]

i don’t usually cry anymore. the medication and the crushing numbness that comes with 31 years of hard living and dead ends has created in me a cold grey stone, typically invulnerable to all but tragic movies and commercials that were obviously designed with surgical precision to ensure that at least a small portion of viewers will immediately log onto the website and purchase, like, boat insurance while crying so hard they can’t do the capcha on the first try. i used to be a dramatic cryer, responding to almost any intense emotion with deep and gusty sobs. then 2016 happened. i lost my father. my spiral into alcoholism intensified my incredible appetite for self destruction. the shame that ensued formed that grey stone like a grit of sand forms in an oyster-- slowly, slowly-- until the day i told my sister that i wasn’t sure i would ever laugh again.

so i sought treatment. fresh from admitting to my husband that i had 1) secretly relapsed and 2) repeatedly been unfaithful with some of the worst people, i put my phone number into a “need rehab?” webform. i received a call about three minutes later. scared out of my mind, i would have agreed to do basically anything to clear the dark menacing cloud of divorce. they said they had a pool! i wanted to go swimming! i wanted to be instantly forgiven for my transgressions, and rehab seemed the best way to me to demonstrate that by god, i was SERIOUS about this recovery thing! he said the only rehab i qualified for was in south bend, indiana. they would buy the ticket. could i leave tomorrow? i guess i could.

i showed up to a building that looked like a 90s middle school with a smoking porch. terrified out of my mind and drunk on the four pints of heineken i’d slammed at chili’s with a sympathetic bartender at 7am across from my boarding gate, and disoriented from the klonopin that i took almost subconsciously at any sign of emotional turmoil, i was a rag doll with button eyes. i entered, stripped, spread, and coughed. i vomited in the toilet while a girl with perfect cat-eye liner did her best to discreetly look away. i was there-- it was happening-- but WHAT was happening? all i knew was that rehab was like a shiny gold star on my behavior chart. if i did it, nobody could say i hadn’t. 

rehab is the best place in the world for a vulnerable drunk. i mean it! you’ve never had more shoulders to cry on. i remember hysterically sobbing until my heaving shoulders locked up and the only sound i could make was tiny clicks from my frozen throat. i’ve never had my shoulders patted so authentically. it never occurred to me at the time that this display of raw, scream-it-to-the-heavens emotion was such a part of their daily lives as intake detox counselors that they probably could have done it in their sleep. but somehow they remained authentic.

the funniest part about the rehab was that it turned out to be run and staffed by die-hard scientologists! i guess we can get into that later. 

rehab also brought out my “daddy please be proud of me” personality in full force. i joined the “peer counsel” which was essentially just in charge of taking nightly attendance and clapping for sobriety milestones. i befriended everybody, impressing them with my uniquely pretentious affectation of sarcastic intellectualism that only fools people less smart than i am. i was the queen of rehab! life was good! everyone there had forgiven me. the next step was me forgiving myself. the final step was my husband forgiving me. at the time, i still thought that was a completely realistic goal. all i can say to that, ineloquently enough, is: HAHAHAHAHAHA.

my husband came to visit me, once, on the sunday after easter. having practiced healthy communication and effective use of boundaries six hours a day for the last three weeks, i promised him that we could talk about anything he wanted in the two hours he spent with me on the grounds. he got there and shrugged his shoulders over and over again. determined to make his long drive worth the time, i enthusiastically dragged him around to meet all of my rehab friends, proudly introducing him as my husband to anyone who would listen. that day, i believed we had a chance. that night, i found out he spent half the drive home texting my phone, which was locked in a drawer in the rehab office, accusing me of ignoring him in favor of my friends and strongly implying that i was sleeping with at least one of them. this delusion continued for months after and may still fester in his brain. i just wanted him to meet the people who were helping shape my recovery. he could never see the point of that. he didn’t understand that to me, connection is such a fundamental part of who i am that i HAD to make friends there. all he saw was the potential for pain.

i nakedly vied for the approval of everyone around me to the point that my rehab friends petitioned for me to win “patient of the week” at my graduation. when i realized what they had done i was simultaneously flattered to my core and mortified. how obvious it must have been that i set this artificial award ceremony in motion?

my husband was late. he missed the whole thing. in the car ride home, i chain smoked cigarettes and listened to his music. i talked about finding my rehab friend jacob on facebook so that we could attend meetings together since he was the only one who lived close by, and he accused me of having an extramarital relationship with him. his evidence was that “i brought him up all the time!” jacob came out as gay six months after we graduated from the program. we never got a chance to be friends.

my whole family was waiting at my sister’s house to welcome me home; they were babysitting my son while my husband drove to pick me up. they were so proud! again, i felt raw and abashed. just more confirmation that everyone knew--everyone knew--everyone knew everything. my husband had made my infidelity no secret with his family, and of course i had told my mother and my sister. 

being the family fuckup is like being naked under a microscope. like living your life in the invasive, creepy bodyscanner at the airport. well-wishes come with a tinge of pity; there is a frantic and all-too-apparent urge to avoid any conversation that might bring up my past transgressions. i’m used to it because i’ve been a drug addict since 2008. but coming back from rehab was the worst. there’s nothing like seeing what the future could be like-- bright, beautiful, beatific. the feeling of stepping out of a confessional booth and feeling the light on your face, reflected through the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary and her son. but the comedown happens when you realize that the forgiveness you’ve given yourself stops with you. the crushing realization that your husband is either incapable of or unwilling to extend you the trust and forgiveness and freedom from shame that you’ve finally decided to give yourself makes you question everything. 

i just don’t understand why he can’t admit that he doesn’t love me anymore. i’m glad i went to rehab. but now i know it wasn’t for him. i could give him anything in the world and i’d still be the adultress, the sly sociopath, the woman that enjoys torturing him with emotion and conflict. our relationship can’t ever work again and he won’t admit it because he’s scared to be alone. honestly, i’m starting to feel sorry for him. i know i could find some normie guy, one with an unkempt beard who makes that face-- you know that face! the nintendo switch face!-- in his twitter avi. he can quote every line from the office and he loves bar trivia, but makes sure to go to the bar and grab me a sparkling water before the beers arrive. he’s a bit boring, maybe not as smart as i am (or pretend to be), but he’s authentic, and he laughs at my jokes, and he always wants to know how my day went. he makes sure to find something thoughtful for christmas, and he sometimes goes out and gets my car detailed on the weekend because he knows how messy i am and how frantic it makes me when i have to face those messes. he has a group of friends who all like the same things he does and they hang out after work most tuesdays, but not when we have something to do at home.

but i know who i am and i know i am not fundamentally healed and i know i’d get bored and break his heart. and my husband would still be alone.

who even knows anymore? the status quo definitely has something going for it. i don’t have to apply for WIC or share a one bedroom apartment with my son or drive for Grubhub on the weekend to make sure i can afford peanut butter because that shit is expensive. we can sit, and sit, and then drift off to sleep and wake up in the same place that we were the day before. maybe i’m adapting to my husband’s sense that it’s better to just endure and stay quiet. i know that pattern because it’s how my family handled every bit of turmoil since i was a child. it’s never worked, but i guess it might someday!

this is my first blog post in 15 years. hopefully it won’t be my last.

[parisianpicnic]

Partying with les pompiers of Paris (Bastille Day part 1)

Five months into my trip, I was feeling as Parisian as ever. I was proudly downing two pain au chocolat for breakfast each morning, I knew where to get the best coffee, and I could mostly get around without having to glance at a map on my phone. I was reminded of just how far I'd come when July—tourist season—struck. With each successive jump of mercury there was what seemed like an extra thousand tourists sprawled throughout the city. I, now a self-confessed local, felt totally justified in my dramatic eye rolls whenever getting stuck behind a conglomerate of slow-walking said tourists in the métro or in the street. Yes, I'd branded myself a true expat. What better way to show off how much of a local you are than by celebrating Bastille Day?

Bastille Day, also known as la fête nationale or le 14 juillet marks yet another of France's colourful (by which I mean violent and bloody) spots in history. ('Which one?' you ask. 'The prison-storming, social class upheavel one in the French revolution', I reply). It largely, however, acts as the country's national holiday, with a nod to the aforementioned revolution whilst celebrating the union of France. Meanwhile, my framework of what constituted a national holiday was only guided by my experiences growing up with Australia Day. As such, I was set for a fairly relaxed day of music, drinking, and a few snags on the barbecue (or whatever the French equivalent of a barbecue is). How wrong I was.

Turns out, there's another tradition that is celebrated—and with excellent reason—on Bastille Day. Friends, (single guys and gals out there in particular, pay attention), allow me to present what is perhaps one of the reasons why France is one of the greatest countries in the world: le bal des pompiers.

The bal des pompiers (or 'Fireman's Ball') is what I consider to be the ultimate way to 'get amongst the traditions of France'. For two (I repeat, two) nights only, the firemen of the local firestations of Paris open their doors to the public to throw what can only be described as a the richest cultural experience a little old foreigner like me could ask for. Flowing booze, an electrifying dance floor, and eye candy dressed in uniform that does not disappoint, plus... a four hour wait to get in to the best firestation. Unless, of course, you're one half of the Australian and American girl duo.

Introducing Brooke, my new all-American BFF. Just a month prior, I found Brooke wandering my workplace as a customer, and she left as my new favourite expat in Paris. We hit it off, swapping hilarious and somewhat cringeworthy dating stories and life as an expat over numerous coffee dates, and she's been the 'g'day' to my 'mate' ever since. She outright refuses any opportunity to eat Vegemite (a work in progress), has no problem befriending strangers (even when she shouldn't) and is the life of any party. Her heart and mind are both bright and genuine, and she's as California as they come. She makes her way through life with the beauty, confidence, and killer dance moves to make her the belle of any ball. Luckily, the bal des pompiers was no exception.

Not being brave enough to front the ball (or many events for that matter) on my own, I gladly took on the role of Brooke’s plus one. Before hitting the town, our first stop was at a friend of Vincent's (Brooke's boyfriend)—just a little soirée in Rue Blanche of the 9th arrondissement. Being a resident of the 9th myself, I was keen to meet some of my fellow neighbours. Turns out, Vincent has some seriously glamorous friends, and I am officially their very unglamorous neighbour.

The party was well and truly underway by the time I arrived. I stepped into a beautifully furnished apartment, with wooden floorboards sweeping out onto a terrace boasting views of Sacré Coeur. Across the balcony, seemingly painted onto the glass of the building opposite, was an iridescent reflection of the Eiffel Tower. Most of the guests were out in the presence of said view, seemingly oblivious to its magic (I guess they were real locals). Being a plus one (let alone a plus one's plus one) means that you can often quietly take in a few of these moments for yourself. Tonight was certainly going to be full of many ‘pinch me’ moments.

By the end of the night—despite being twenty years younger than the median age and way underdressed for the occasion—we'd mixed, mingled, and danced with Vincent's friends. I even scored some makeup tips from Stephane, a very glamorous and very Parisian man who worked in the fashion and makeup industry (and who even had his own makeup line!). The guests were all charming, sophisticated, and charismatic, and fortunately, the conversation steered well away from work (given the calibre of the guests, Brooke and I weren't that confident that 'au pair' would qualify us as being sufficiently cool to be there). It wasn't until just before we left that Vincent revealed just with whom we were mingling: the director of Dior, the man who discovered Alexander McQueen, Kate Moss's manager, and Stephane Marais, one of France's most highly regarded makeup artists (I was now seriously thankful that I asked him earlier in the night about his favourite foundation). No wonder the champagne was so good.

Not wanting to overstay our welcome, and being insatiably curious about the traditions around Bastille Day, Brooke and I decided to bid au revoir to our new high profile friends and check out the firestation down the street. We flew down the stairs and headed to the gate's of Sapeurs Pompiers, the firestation of the 9th arrondissement. Admittedly, we knew that on a night like this, we needed to play the foreigner card—and it worked. Before long, we'd befriended the pompier manning the gates, and were swiftly let through the entrance. We linked arms, determined not to get separated, and climbed over bottles and through crowds of people, eventually making it to the bar. At these parties, the firemen are partying hard but they're also working hard. They filled every role of the party: bartenders, security, dancers, and they’re still technically on call as firefighters. We honestly didn't know where to look. Our bartender was so hot could've started fires. Brooke and I raised our eyebrows at each other whilst he fetched us a drink each. Next thing I know, Brooke had handed him my phone and he was entering his number. Did I mention Brooke is also a fabulous wingwoman? It wasn't long before the crowds were clearing out of Sapeurs, so we decided to get to the real heart of the action. Rumour has it, the firemen Saint Paul in Le Marais throw the most outrageous, wild parties of them all. Of course, we had to check it out.

It was well after midnight by the time we arrived, and fortunately, the four-hour queue had turned into just a few minutes. We practically paraded through the entrance, bestowing the firemen at the entrance with a kiss on each cheek (they winked and told us that the kiss on the cheek and a gold coin donation were for charity). Despite the late hour, the place was absolutely booming, and we headed straight to the bar before hitting the dancefloor. Our exoticness was no secret: by the way we were loudly talking and obnxiously dancing, I don't think that there was any risk of being mistaken for two chic Parisian girls.

It seemed to work though, because before long, one of the chief firemen had taken a shining to Brooke. We got an 'off limits to the public' tour of the actual firestation which was actually super interesting, and finished the night having, in our posession, an extremely coveted invitation to return to the party the following night. Each fireman only gets two of these invitations (allowing the recipient to skip the monstrous queue) for close family and friends. And this delightful fireman had bestowed his rare, handwritten invitation, to Brooke, with yours truly scoring the role of her plus one.

Having locked in our spots for round two of the party, and eager to witness the full majesty that is the Bastille Day parade in the morning, we decided to call it a night... or so we thought. At the exit? A red-eyed, panicked Vincent was waiting for Brooke, simultaneously distressed and furious that he hadn't been able to get a hold of her. I won't spill the dirty details here (that's what Brooke's blog is for), but it's safe to say that one of those firemen would've come in real handy to put out the flames that was Vincent's temper and ability to jump to conclusions. Within minutes we were at his apartment, and grabbed what we could of her things (what hadn't been sprawled out across the floor in anger at least), and called an Uber back to mine. Paris is for the romantics, true, but even here, romance as a dark side, too.

[roidespd-blog]

Chapter Three : THE DESOLATION OF THE GRINDR USER

« Grindr is a sociopath nest », Anonymous 

Grindr was launched on March 25, 2009. About a month or so earlier, I lost my virginity to the sweetest guy you could imagine. I met him on what we could consider one of Grindr’s ancestors, Gaypax— I still have that account, out of nostalgia. The design is so ugly I wonder now how I did spend so much time on it (we weren’t picky back then…) So Grindr was born at the exact time my sexual and romantic life was unfolding. It means that, except for the few years I’ve spent frenetically masturbating to La Redoute’s underwear catalogues and downloading dirty pictures of Brad Pitt naked with a very slow wifi, I’ve always been accustomed to gay apps.

Recently, the new and improved french magazine Tétu published an article called « Faut-il brûler Grindr?». Though not as detailed as I was hoping it would be, it did not changed my general opinion about the dating app paradigm. 

FLASHBACK France, 1971. A young gay man living in a beautiful city called Paris. Mike Brant just released his first major hit, Rock’N’Roll is slowly dying and Les Bidasses en Folie is this year’s biggest success at the box office. Unfortunately for him, the Gay Rights Movement is just at its infancy, homosexuality is still considered a mental illness and sodomy is punishable by law. So he shut his mouth and do his dirty business privately. he spends time around Place de Clichy and finds very discreet bars that can welcome him without too much judgement. He takes long walks toward the Tuileries bushes and sucks a stranger’s dong without any verbal exchange. He ends up marrying that fine young Marie, daughter of a friend of his dad, makes a couple of kids and from time to time, goes back to those places, shameful of himself.

That was the life of a gay man in France. If he didn’t get killed along the way. CUT TO 2009. Grindr is the first official gay dating app launched around the world. In France, the ban on sodomy disappeared in 1981 and since 1992, you are no longer considered a crazy person for being attracted to a person of the same sex (well, not from an official medical point, anyway). The app came to fruition through a simple question asked by its creator, Joel Simkhai : « WHO ELSE IS GAY AROUND HERE? ».

By 2012, 4 million people were using the App. 27 million as of 2017. Tinder followed in 2012 — you are welcome, straight people. Then SCRUFF, GAYROMEO, HORNET, BLUED, … What is wrong, then ? You damn well know something is wrong.

SMARTPHONE, 21st CENTURY’S NEW BACKROOM

If you go to a bar, you have to talk to the bartender, exchange a least a fews words with strangers, even dance as your look around and are being seen by others in the flesh. If you go to a gaybar, the same thing happens. If you go to a gaybar then the gaybar’s backroomn, rules change.

As the dating apps was closing in on worldwide domination, it became clear that the natural human kindness and respect would ultimately have no effect on the way people would communicate with one another on Grindr. I’ve been working in a bookstore for the past four years, you see. I expect a “hello”, “goodbye” and a smile during any interactions with clients — from them and myself. So there’s nothing more annoying that someone coming up to you, barking what they want to and leaving without any civility whatsoever. The Grindr equivalent would be Step 1 : A DICK PICK (or ass pick. I once had a fisting commemorative photo sent to me) straight up. Step 2 : A terribly convenient “cc sava tu ch?” or a “cho?” Step 3A : If you are polite enough to answer something, a conclusive “tu reçoi” or “tu bouge” Step 3B : you did not answer a singe word and the guy either sends you a “????” or insults the shit out of you. I sometimes do not answer impolite clients at work. Guess what ? Bitches say hello if you stare down at them long enough. On the internet, never gonna happen.

I remember the first couple of times I went on Grindr. I tried to answer everyone, even a “no, thank you”. There was always some “Hello”s, “How are you?”s, a few “My name is”s. But as the years went by, gay men (as I mostly talk to gay or bisexual cis men on these apps, I can only give my opinion on that category of people) adopted a series of unofficial rules to talk to each other.

1. If we are on this app, we are ready to fuck. 2. We do not have time for small talk. 3. We do not need your name, but dick size and multiple nudes are welcome. A picture is worth a thousand blablablahs. 4. We need to be very precise about what we want, so as not to waste our precious time. 5. Seriously, give us a full diagnosis of your body shape through pics, boy. 6. Chems ? 9. There are no rule 7 & 8, because 6 & 9. Now, turn around.

There are also lots of personal rules users seem keen on sharing them publicly as to implement unofficial rule number 4.

NO FEMS, NO BLACKS, NO ASIANS

“Pretty chill guy here. Very open minded and friendly. I love men from different cultures. Just no Asians. Asians leave me alone. I’m not racist” “Don’t message me. I’ll message you :). No Blacks Asians or fems. Love it when fats call themselves masc. hahahaha.” “Tell me if top/btm. Don’t really believe in “vers”. […] Attracted to Latin & White (trying to sound PC)” “Chill masc sane… just described nobody on here… Over 35, Asian or fem = block.. haha” “99% of you are losers. I’m the top 1%. So prove yourself first” The last one was written by a white male, by the way. They all were.

In our modern society, we’re not fools enough to believe that racism disappeared and everyone is accepting of others. Just look at the whole series of events called “while Black” where white people called cops on black folks for getting out of their airbnbs, talking in a Starbucks without ordering or falling asleep in a communal room at college. Nevertheless, you don’t see parades of racists proudly marching with “NO BLACKS” signs on the streets — you see another type of marches, yes. Free speech and stuff, sure. So why has it become acceptable in people’s minds to shade light on their racism in their profiles, barely hiding behind the “sexual preference” bullshit excuse ?

In an article dated September 2018 called “Why is it OK for online dates to block whole ethnic groups?” (2), the Observer related the appalling anecdote of an elderly white man who responded to a Grindr user of asian descent : “Asian, ew gross”.

I myself was told that I was too fat, too small, too twinkish, then not enough of those, or too white (but so we’re clear : RESERVE RACISM IS NOT A THING. STOP TRYING TO MAKE IT A THING!).

Racism also works with the beliefs that if you look or act a certain way, you obviously are what someone’s fantasy is. You are a black man so I assume that my hole will expand by ten once you’re inside me. You a blond light weight with feminine traits. You’re a submissive bottom and a real whore.

The world works on assumptions (ex : the myth of the BIG BLACK DICK or the for-sure global instinct that Tom Hanks would never have to face any #MeToo accusations) and apps follow that same path but without any policing. The absence of ramifications from someone’s actions further implement a feeling of unapologetic mindfulness — the same way being in a dark backroom with strangers you can’t see does not seem to add any consequences to what you’ll do next.

Recently, Grindr tried to course correct its past errors by creating “Kindr” (3). Was it a new app that would prevent people from actively using hate speech ? WELL WHY DON’T YOU PREVENT IT ON GRINDR THEN ? Was it a new platform to exchange ideas and experiences so that we can find another way to communicate together ?

Here’s how they introduce Kindr on their official site : At Grindr, we’re into diversity (MONEY), inclusion, and users who treat each other with respect. We’re not into racism, bullying, or other forms of toxic behavior (YOU ARE THE TOXIC BEHAVIOR). These are our preferences, and we’ve updated our Community Guidelines to better reflect them. Same app. New rules (DID YOU THOUGH?) Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Their type. Their tastes. But nobody is entitled to tear someone else down because of their race, size, gender, HIV status, age, or — quite simply — being who they are. (AS LONG AS IT DOES NOT PUT YOUR BUSINESS IN A RISKY POSITION) Join us in building a kinder Grindr. (DO YOUR OWN DAMN WORK). Express yourself, but not at the expense of someone else (OR US). Report discrimination when you see it (LIKE WITH THE JEWS BACK THEN. ALSO, WE THE USERS, ALREADY DID THAT). Use your voice and share your story to call out prejudice and spark change. Together, we can amplify the conversation and take steps towards a kinder, more respectful community (SEE, WE AT GRINDR ARE WOKE).

There you have it. A marketing scam to ease the pain of millions of users whose relationships and self esteem were affected by Grindr’s lack of interest in their consumers. How many years did it take for a simple statement from the CEO ? What’s actually concrete about these actions ?

in the community guide lines, it is stated that they “will remove any discriminatory statements displayed on profiles. […] Profile language that is used to openly discriminate against other users’ traits and characteristics will not be tolerated and will be subject to review by our moderation team”. FINE. So, if someone says “no short fat asians”, theoretically it would be removed from the profile. But if it says “more into vanilla and spice than chocolate and rice. So hit me up if this is you” (an actual Grindr profile, by the way), what can a Grindr moderator do about it ? The racism is still there. Are we to believe that EVERY single profile is being reviewed in detail ?

#deletegrindr was a popular hashtag over a year ago. I’m not on twitter and I still heard about it. Was it a cultural shift in the way gay people wanted to treat other gay people ? Were we on the verge of a revolution ? Nop. Grindr released data informations of thousands and thousands of profiles about HIV status (something that you can put on your Grindr profile) to third party companies. Since then, Grindr released the Kindr initiative and rewrote its policies.

I’m not against dating apps. I think it was a wonderful tool back in the day to extend one’s horizon, explore and experiment with love, sex and adventures. It no longer works that way. I didn’t even talk about the spreading of drug using through profile description and the real danger of stimulants in someone’s sex life.

#deletegrindr should come back and this time, it has to work. Silicon Valley, go make an app from scratch. One that would implement actual kindness to the machine, not based on popularity. Think of what people need, not what they want. People are shitheads. I’m a shithead. What I want is never good for me.

And YOU. You, little queer boy reading this. Don’t go on Grindr before going to bed to check the hotties in your area. Forget about that 6'2 monster cock Swedish god that lives nearby and offered you a quick hump for the ride. Ask him for a drink, put down your phone, get to know him a little and then fuck his brains out. You’re still gonna fuck but you’ll find humanity where there was once none.

That’s my preaching for the night. I gave up long ago on apps. I delete them all and stay away for months. Then, I feel lonely and get back to one or two. I met this new guy that way (4).The nice thing about it was that we did not talk dick sizes, favorite positions or any sexual desires until way after we actually met (and we’re talking two full weeks of messages). I’m not on any dating apps now.

(1) https://tetu.com (2) https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/sep/29/wltm-colour-blind-dating-app-racial-discrimination-grindr-tinder-algorithm-racism (3) https://www.kindr.grindr.com (4) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezra_Miller