#there can be like bids to narrow the distance that Dick might take but

[trashbatistrash]

,

[xaphrin]

This is way longer than I anticipated, and also I hope you don’t mind it gets a little adult-ish at the end there. 

- - -

Ending up in urgent care at ten in the evening was not where Damian had expected this night to end, but here he was. He perused the eight month-old issue of Golf Digest a third time, looking at the pictures, but not quite reading. He felt uncomfortable and helpless, sitting out here in the waiting room. He’d driven her to the urgent care, but Raven had been too embarrassed to allow him into the examination room, and so he was relegated to this corner of the room, trying not to feel panicked and worried about her. It was just a fall down the stairs, painful and probably mortifying, but nothing life-threatening. But, still… that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to worry about her either. Of course he was going to worry about her.

He leaned back, his head resting against the wall as he stared at the ceiling, and let his mind wander. 

It doesn’t mean that I can’t change my mind in the future.  

His stomach tightened as he thought about what that implied - that Raven might actually like him. Or, was at least learning to tolerate him a bit more. He knew that finding himself even kissing her was a pipe dream, but actually making love to her? Ugh. He’d already had one too many sleepless nights thinking about what he would do to her and with her if he was ever blessed with the opportunity to have Raven in his arms. His tongue wet his lower lip, and he let go of a frustrated sigh, reminding himself that this was just a date. She’d made it perfectly clear that this was nothing more… even if her purse was packed full of condoms.

He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to calm his breathing. Just because he was eighteen months into his self-imposed dry spell, didn’t mean that he had to start thinking about Raven like he was a horny teenager discovering his dick for the first time. Jeeze. Damian ran his fingers through his hair and looked over towards the examination rooms when his name was politely called from the doorway. 

“Mister Wayne?” 

Raven was hobbling out of the exam room on crutches, her ankle wrapped tightly with a bandage and a new still-healing scrape along her left cheek and over her chin. She met his stare with a frown and then walked over to him, looking more than just sheepish. She looked like she wanted to crawl in a hole and die. 

Damian stood up and walked to where she was. 

The nurse padded up behind her, looking sympathetic. “Luckily, it’s just a sprain. Raven is advised to stay off it for the next few weeks, and only go out if absolutely necessary. She may need some help getting paperwork and classwork if she can’t make it out on campus.” The nurse gave a polite smile, her eyes darting between them as if seeing something Damian didn’t. “And I wanted to make sure she had someone to get her home safe and sound.” 

“I’ll make sure she gets back right away.” Damian gave a polite smile. “Thank you.” 

The nurse nodded and bid them good night before taking another patient back with her. Damian stared down at Raven, but she refused to make eye contact with him. He nodded slowly, his voice sympathetic and soft. “So… I take it our date is officially over?”

Raven groaned and turned away from him, accompanied by the soft click click of her crutches on the linoleum floor. She hobbled towards the exit, ignoring Damian as he caught up with her. 

“I thought your flirting was cute.” Damian smirked, and she glared at him from the corner of her eye, but continued to stay quiet. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, pretending to think. “Admittedly your tumble down the stairs was somewhat left to be desired.”

Her eyes narrowed and she whispered a curse under her breath. “Jerk.”

He just smiled and guided her to the car. “If anything, this will be an interesting first date story to tell our friends.”

Raven’s face paled and she stopped hobbling long enough to turn towards him. “We are never going to speak of this again. And our friends will never know. No one will ever know.” 

Damian opened the car door and helped her inside, putting her crutches in the backseat. “You sure? I think it’s pretty funny. You trying to charm the pants off me, and end up careening down the stairs, barely missing the murky water of the marina.” He walked around the car and slid behind the wheel. “It’s almost like a romantic comedy.”  

“Please. Stop talking. I don’t want to talk about this ever again.” She buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Our first date and instead of making out by the bay, you ended up taking me to urgent care.”

Damian glanced over at her and lifted an eyebrow. “You make it sound like we were going to make out by the bay.” His heart skipped beats, and he swallowed, letting her words ring in his ears. Make out. She wanted to make out with him? His stomach clenched again, and he tried to keep his voice calm. “After you explicitly said you weren’t going to sleep with me?”

“Sleeping with you and making out are two very different things.” She sniffed and glanced away, her lips pursing in annoyance. “Besides…” She shrugged, as if thinking about what she said to him. “You were making me forget why I wasn’t going to make out with you in the first place. You’re unnervingly charming sometimes.” 

Damian’s eyebrows lifted, and he glanced over at her as he pulled the car onto the road. “Is that an offhanded way of saying you were actually enjoying our date?”

She glanced at him before looking out the window again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Yes. Yes, he would. If she still wanted to make out with him he would pull this car over the side of the road and crawl into the back seat with her. Bury his hands in her hair. Feel her breath against his own lips. Hell, he would do anything she wanted just so he could taste that vanilla chapstick she was always using. His heart twisted his chest and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep his body from reacting to the sudden onslaught of need. She was injured, and he needed to stop acting like a horny idiot. All he had to so, was take her home.  

Raven sighed and rubbed at her cheek. “I just want to go back to the house and pretend this night never happened.” 

Damian nodded and pressed down on the gas, making his way back to her house. The sooner he got her out of the car, the sooner he could turn around and pretend that this night was over, and they could go back to being whatever they were before. Although… he wasn’t sure if that was what he really wanted. After tonight, he realized that he couldn’t keep pretending for much longer. He couldn’t keep making himself believe that he could ignore her or keep her at a distance. Damian wanted Raven in his life, in a way he didn’t want anyone else. He might get hurt, and his heart might shatter into a million pieces, but… he had to at least try. Right?

Damian found himself lost in thought as he pulled up next to her house, the lights turned down dark.  

“Donna and Karen went out to a party, so…” 

Raven’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he glanced over at her. “I’ll help you to your room.”

“Please don’t. I’m already going to die from embarrassment, please don’t add insult to injury.” Raven hobbled out of the car, struggling to pull her crutches out of the backseat as she leaned all her weight on her good ankle. “I’ll be fine. Slow. But fine. So, good night.”

Damian stepped out of the car and watched her with amused fascination. She pulled out the crutches, hobbled up the short walk, and stopped at the porch steps, staring at them as if they were a mountain she was supposed to climb. She stood there for a moment, obviously trying to figure out how to navigate the walk into the house. Honestly. She was so damn stubborn. With an annoyed sigh, he walked up to her, bent down, and hefted Raven over his shoulder, carrying her fireman-style up the porch steps. 

“Put me down!” 

Ignoring Raven’s complaints, he reached into her purse, still packed with condoms, pulled out her keys, and opened the front door. 

“I am serious! I am not going to let you just manhandle me like this, Damian Wayne.” 

Damian just rolled his eyes, but made a note that she wasn’t really struggling against him. Her anger seemed more of an indignant act to save face, and he would let her have that small bit of pride if she needed it. He walked into her house and set her purse on the sofa, before heading upstairs. “Which one is yours?”

“First door on the right.” Raven sighed, obviously defeated. “It’s open.” 

 “Okay.” He opened the door and walked in, suddenly assaulted with how much of her was packed into such a small space. Books lined every wall and were stacked neatly by her bed. Her room was clean and organized, decorated with artistic prints and photos of her friends. His stomach clenched as he took in the scent of her - vanilla and lavender, and he found himself wanting to stay here forever, in this little oasis of her. 

He was hopeless. 

“You can put me down now, Dami.” 

Damian shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, and set her down on the bed. With a smirk, he stared down at her. “See? I saved you ten minutes of struggling.” 

Raven gave him a deadpan stare. “How heroic.” Without really thinking, she reached behind her and started to unfasten the dress she was wearing. “Can you grab my t-shirt and leggings on the chair by the door. If I have to spend one more minute in this dress, I swear I’m going to scream.” 

Damian grabbed her clothes and when he turned back around, Raven was sitting in nothing more than a black bra and a pair of lacy underwear. Well, fuck. It felt like he could see miles of creamy skin, her body gently toned from her yoga and pilates classes, and her secrets hidden by only a thin barrier of lace. The soft light from a bedside lamp cast beautiful shadows over her skin, and he watched to trace every single one of them. His mouth watered and he stood there, feeling helpless as he stared at her. Blood rushed between his legs and she found himself desperate to touch.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a girl in her underwear?” Raven grabbed the clothes from his hands, and wiggled into them, giving him a flat stare. “I would have thought with the way girls on campus talk about your-” She paused and pitched her voice high and breathy, fluttering her eyelashes in a tease. “-giant cock that you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked girls.” 

Oh. Ouch. Sure, he’d gone through a spell where he had slept with every girl who wanted to find themselves in his bed. But he learned quickly that it wasn’t really about sex. It had never been about the sex. The only thing he really wanted was to drive Raven from his mind, and he thought that if he found the right girl, maybe it would make him forget all about her. Maybe he wouldn’t find himself dreaming about her every night, and watching her from across the room. But, it never worked. And all it had done was hurt him even more. It had been eighteen months since he slept with anyone. Eighteen months since Raven had been at the frat house, and watched the trail of girls come into his room and leave with wistful smiles on their faces. 

He remembered the sharp bite to her voice as she pushed past him to Jaime’s room for her Spanish tutoring. 

Whore. 

“None of them were you.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and Damian felt panic claw at his chest. What was it about Raven that made him feel like he was a damned idiot? He needed to learn how to control his thoughts, or he really was going to make himself a fool in front of her. He swallowed and glanced away, pretending to look at one of the prints on the wall. 

“You make it sound like you like me, Dami.” There was a sharpness to her voice, as if she was trying to guard her heart against him. “And we both know-”

“Oh, shut up.” Damian turned and stared at her again, feeling anger rise into his chest before he could stop it. He wanted to fight with her, to try and make her understand what she was saying. Didn’t she realize that he didn’t believe her anymore? “Come on, Raven. We already had this conversation tonight. You want to push at me because it puts distance between us. And, if there’s distance between us, then you don’t have to admit that you had a good time tonight. You wouldn’t have to admit that maybe you kind of like me, and maybe you still want to make out with me.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you’re just a little bit jealous of the girls I slept with.” 

Her face burned. “I am not!”

“No?”

“No. I bet I’m not missing a damned thing.” Raven tilted her head up, staring at him from the end of the bed. “I bet you’re a terrible kisser, Damian Wayne.”

His lips tilted to the side. “Are you goading me?” He leaned over her, his hands resting on either side of her hips. “Because if you want me to kiss you, all you have to do is ask.”

There was a moment’s pause and she continued to glare at him, a sharp, unspoken retort dancing on her lips. And then everything seemed to slow. 

Raven fisted her hand in the front of his shirt. 

She pulled him forward.

And kissed him. 

Damian groaned and slammed his eyes shut, giving into the sensation of Raven’s lips on his own. He had never allowed himself the luxury of imagining what it would be like kissing Raven, but it surpassed all possible expectations. She was soft and cautious, as if she found herself in a new and unfamiliar situation, and she wasn’t sure what she needed to do next. He’d be more that happy to guide her. His tongue darted out to stroke along the swell of her lower lip, and his fingers curled into her hair, scattering bobby pins over the floor as he dragged her closer. He tasted that sweet flavor of vanilla chapstick, and before he could stop himself, Damian pushed her back against the bed. Raven met his low groan with one of her own, and her hands shot to hair, as if to keep him pinned to her. 

He wasn’t ever going to let go. 

Damian crawled over her, his arms caging her in as he carefully navigated her body, trying to avoid her injured ankle. Her mouth was like fire, burning hot and destroying every good thought in his head with each pass of her lips. He found his fingers trailing over her, unable to tear his touch away from her skin. His palm rested against her collarbone,not daring to let his fingers travel any further south, but with a whine, Raven wrapped her fingers around his wrist and brought his hand to her breast. Damian lost all contact with the real world. 

He cupped her breast through her t-shirt, feeling her nipple tighten under his touch. She arched her back, thrusting her soft breast into his hand as another moan hummed along his lips. She wanted this, and he wanted to give it to her. And then some. Damian teased her nipple, ran his thumb along it, traced it. He let himself learn everything she wanted from this touch alone, reading every sigh and twitch and gasp, until it felt like his head was going to burst.  

Slowly, he kissed down to her ear and nipped at the lobe. “I want to make you come.” 

He felt her stiffen under him, unsure about what he had said, and Damian pulled back, letting his hand fall to the side. Stupid. So, fucking stupid. What in the world was he thinking? That was way too much, way too fast. Just because he’d been pining for her for four years, it didn’t mean that she felt the same way. He was an idiot.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he stepped off the bed and stumbled backward. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

“No. It’s not…” Raven flushed and looked away, shifting uncomfortably as she searched for the right response. “I… haven’t… done that before.” 

Damian was turned away from her, trying to will his erection away. Her words struck him, and he glanced back at her, trying to understand what she meant. “Made out? I thought you dated Gar?”

“No.” She flushed and pulled her shirt down. It had ridden up with their… activities. “That’s not what I meant.”   

The confession clicked in his head. Oh. Oh. Orgasmed. She had never had an orgasm before. Damian blinked, finding himself trying to understand the confession. “I… um… never?”

“I… only ever slept with Gar, and he was high most of the time, and… just… didn’t really know what to do with my body. He tried though, he just… didn’t think to ask what I needed. So, I faked it a lot.” She shifted, and then scrambled for explanation, as if she needed to excuse herself to him. “I mean, I can… when I’m alone. And… not stressed out about school.” 

Which was never. But still, his mind was filled with a sudden image of her in this exact bed with her fingers between her legs, her head thrown back in pleasure. His cock sprang to life again and Damian turned away. Dear god, the last thing she needed to see was him this absolutely desperate for her.  He took a steadying breath and let it out slowly, hoping he could clear his head well enough to continue the conversation.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She pushed at her hair. There was a moment’s pause and she gave a teasing smile, obviously trying to lighten the mood between them. “But, I guess I have to say that I’ve been proved wrong. You are a pretty good kisser.” 

Damian gave a weak laugh, but it didn’t match the mood. His eyes searched her face for a long moment. “That wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment confession, Raven.” 

She blinked, color filling her face. “Oh.”

“I… you…” He raked his fingers through his hair, feeling himself stumble over everything. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, meeting her stare. “I should go.” 

Raven glanced away. “You don’t even want to try?”

His stomach dropped and his cock twitched again. Try to give her an orgasm? Yes. Yes, he desperately wanted to try. But… she wasn’t sure, and he could hear it in her voice. He slammed his eyes close and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Are you asking?”

“I don’t know what I want.” Raven pushed at her hair and looked back at him, her eyes dark with confusion. “I just know that you’re making me change my opinions on you. Including whether or not I would make out with you… and let you finger me.”

His fingers clenched. “Maybe I wasn’t going to use my hand.” He wet his lips, watching as Raven’s eyes followed the line of his tongue. He wanted to strip her down, to make her realize that not only did he know exactly what he was doing, but he was damned good at it. He wanted to watch her break apart under his touch over and over and over. He wanted to do everything he never dared to let himself dream about. 

But… he could sense her hesitation, and he knew one thing for sure, he didn’t want her to regret this. He wanted nothing less than her enthusiastic consent when they slept together for the first time. 

“I’m not going to take anything more than you want to give me, Raven.” He turned to her and gave her a soft smile. “So… let’s leave it here tonight. And if you want to revisit this conversation at another time, you know where to find me.” 

Raven lifted her eyes to his face, searching his expression for a long moment. Finally, she gave a slow smile and pitched forward. “You’re a surprisingly good guy, Damian Wayne.” 

He snorted and rolled his eyes. 

“Keep making me change my mind about you.” 

His heart turned over, and at the sight of her soft smile, he thought he might melt right there in front of her.

[bernadineisreborn]

Reality V

Draco Malfoy x Reader

Author’s note: Heyyyy, I’m back!!! *lowers eyes in shame* Anyway, I am continuing this story thanks to the inspiration I received after reading almost all of @acciodracoo​ ’s stories (thanks, btw!) I don’t remember what my initial vision for this was, but I am pretty sure it’s quite different now, and that’s okay. Also, the reader is officially a Ravenclaw because it was necessary for plot. Thanks and enjoy reading!                            –Bernadine

Warnings: Swearing/vulgarity, not-canon-ness

Word count: 1636 :)

Series Masterlist

You needed to talk to Trelawney. Yes, you knew she was crazy and irrational and, maybe, probably, a bit of an alcoholic, but there wasn’t anyone else who could help. You briefly wished you could ask Marcus to go with you, but he’d been an absolute dick earlier, and there was no way you were going to approach him for help.  

But, now, you had to focus on dinner, and detention with Slughorn afterwards.

Malfoy, of course, would be there, and you were in no mood to deal with his moodiness or his bullying.

You head for the Dining Hall reluctantly, dreading the inevitability of seeing Marcus, wondering if you’d be eating alone.

You did have other friends, but none as close as Marcus. Until now, there hadn’t been a need for other people to talk to. Marcus knew everything about you. His parents had been friends with yours during their years at Hogwarts, and you and Marcus had grown up spending every summer alternating your time in between each other’s houses. You were so similar; you just clicked. Both the only child and both exceptionally intelligent, in your own ways.

So, when you trudged into the Dining Hall and locked eyes with Marcus, who’s expression looked notably apologetic, it was not easy for you to turn toward the girls you dormed with, and ask to eat with them instead.

“Hello. Do you guys have room for me to sit?”

Mandy Brocklehurst and Sue Li turned their heads and looked at you. Mandy met your eyes with glee as she scooted to make room for you to sit, “Sure, Y/N! Not sitting with Marcus today?” Her eyes shifted down the table, where Marcus was eating with a distinctive look of displeasure on his face.

You shook your head, and sat down, “No, we got into a bit of a fight earlier.”

Sue nodded knowingly, “I’ve noticed it too, Y/N. He’s distancing himself from you.”

You frowned at her a bit. Mandy and Sue were, like most Ravenclaws, a bit weird. You were, however, a bit weird as well, and willing to accept the weirdness and move on, so you just gave her a resigned shrug.

“Y/N would rather not talk about it Sue,” said Mandy, shooting Sue a not so subtle glance, “Anyway, how have things been with you? It’s been forever since we’ve chatted.”

You spent the rest of dinner talking gratefully to Sue and Mandy. Sue, a half-blood witch, was graced with silky black hair and kind eyes. She was rather short and thin, but you’d seen her casting spells in class, and she could clearly hold her own. Mandy, on the other hand, had wavy, chestnut-colored hair and hazel eyes. She was taller than Sue, and quite popular with the boys for her figure. Both of them were rather pretty, you noticed, and by time dinner was over, you were remembering why you hadn’t spent more time with them: they made you feel exceptionally average.  

“I was just about to jinx the bitch, but instead I tripped and fell at her feet. I was so embarrassed, and Sue just stood there and didn’t help at all!” laughed Mandy as she finished another story, and you laughed along, enjoying yourself quite a bit and successfully forgetting about both Marcus and Malfoy.

It was only when you happened to glance up and see Draco standing that you remembered. You watched him leave the room, robes billowing behind him, and excused yourself, “Ugh. I’ve got to go to detention with Slughorn…and Malfoy,” you said, rolling your eyes to Sue and Mandy.

“For being late today? Hm, rather harsh for Slughorn, don’t you think, Mandy?” asked Sue, a sympathetic look in her dark eyes.

Mandy nodded her head, expression scandalized, “Yes, I do. Though, I suppose he is rather traditional. And he doesn’t seem to like Malfoy much.”

“Hopefully Malfoy doesn’t murder me while we do whatever menial task ol’ Sluggy deems appropriate,” you mused. Sue and Mandy giggled, and you continued, “He seems a bit off lately, yeah?”

Mandy nodded again, “Draco has been a tad crueler than usual, yes.” You considered telling them about what happened in the hallway a few weeks ago, when you had seen him crying by himself, but something told you that it would be better kept between you and him.

“Well, anyway, I’ll see you later!”

They waved cheerily as you scurried away, nervous once again about the evening when the effects of Sue and Mandy had worn off.

You walked down the halls quickly, and by time you had arrived in Slughorn’s classroom, it was 7:30 pm. Draco was standing by Slughorn’s desk, and Slughorn was bent over, rifling through a drawer in his desk.

“I know I’ve put it in here somewhere, Mr. Malfoy, don’t worry,” he muttered as he searched frantically.

Draco, unsurprisingly, did not look a bit concerned with whatever object Slughorn was desperate to find. His blonde eyebrows were pinched and his lips were pursed, an expression that displayed mild annoyance with the professor.

As you approached, you called, “Why not try an accio spell, Professor?”

Draco and Slughorn turned toward you, Draco raised an elegant eyebrow and Slughorn looked perturbed, as usual.

“Oh, hello Miss L/N. While that is an excellent idea, this particular item is enchanted so that it does not respond to the accio charm.”

Draco huffed, as if you had been dumb to suggest this, and your cheeks tinted red, “Sorry, Professor.”

“No need to apologize, Miss L/N,” He stands upright, a small, rusty gold key in his hand, “I’ve found it! Alright then, let’s get you two to work.” With this, he shuffled to the back of the classroom, you and Draco following suit, where there was a door that you had never seen be opened before. He thrust the small key into the door’s lock, revealing a cramped room full of labeled vials that you recognized as various potion ingredients.

“Ah, yes. This is our master ingredient room, where Hogwarts stores all of the potions and potion ingredients not used regularly for classes. The regularly used ones, as you know, are stored in the cabinet just there,” he gestured behind you, “For your detention, I’d like you to condense these vials. There may be repeat vials with the same ingredients, I just need you to organize them into larger containers and sort them.”

Your eyes swept across the rows, there was no way you would have this finished in one night.

Just as you were about to protest, Draco spoke up, “Professor Slughorn, sir,” his grey eyes were clouded and his nostrils flared, “Forgive me, but I don’t see how we can have this done in one night.”

Slughorn nodded vaguely, “Yes, I suppose it might take more than a few days, it hasn’t been organized since before I started teaching years ago, as far as I know. Might teach you a lesson about tardiness, hmm?” He chuckled under his breath, “You can continue working each night until it’s done, then,” he made eye contact with you and Draco, “Well, get working, I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

With that he trotted off, leaving you standing in the tiny room with a clearly agitated Draco.

“Erm, I guess I’ll start on this side,” you pointed to the shelf closest to you, “and we can meet in the middle?”

Draco’s fists were clutched tightly at his sides, and his eyes were narrowed, focused away from you blankly at the shelf in front of him.

You cleared your throat, “Erm… Malfoy?”

His eyes shifted over to you. For a split second, you could have sworn his expression was panicked. Then, his brow hardened and he turned away, “Fine.”

The next half-hour was filled with only the sound of tinkling glass bottles being rearranged. You turned around, wondering how far Draco’d gotten. His back was facing you, broad and tall, robes perfectly ironed. His platinum hair was perfectly styled, even from the back.

He must have felt you looking, because he turned around and looked you up and down with narrowed eyes, “Spying on me again, are you?” His tone seemed less hostile than earlier, and you cleared your throat and turned back to your shelf.

“Of course not, just wondering how far you’d gotten,” you replied.

Your mind wandered as you worked, and you came to think about the box Draco had been lugging around during Potions. Silence filled the air a few minutes more before curiosity got the better of you, “So, what was the box for? Earlier, I mean?”

Draco tensed, and glanced back at you, not that you saw. Your eyes were locked on the shelf in front of you, which you had barely managed to condense in the 30 minutes you’d had already.

His tone flipped again, “None of your business,” he snarled.

“Well I’d say it’s my business if you getting it caused both of us to be stuck in here together,” you retorted.

At this, Draco turned around, “What’d I say about being nosey, L/N?”

You turned too, and were surprised to find him, once again, inches away from you in an attempt at intimidation. You could feel his breath hitting your face as his chest heaved dramatically.

Reluctantly, you backed down, “Fine. I was just curious. Seemed important.”

Draco emitted a grunt, and you both went back to working in silence.

Another hour or so later, Slughorn returned and bid you goodnight, allowing you to return to your dorms for the night.

Draco bowed his head to Slughorn in begrudging respect, “Thank you, sir.”

You followed him out of the classroom. He turned towards the Dungeons without looking at you, and rushed off.

This was sure to be a fun week.

----

Tag List (let me know if you want to be added): @drawlfoy​ @buckys-hoeee​ @silversslytherin​ @acciodracoo​ @afootnoteinyourhappiness​

[thingr1]

Weighing One’s Worth (1/2)

Rating: T

Warnings: Depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt.

Characters: Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.

Preview: There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?"

Cross posted: FFN and AO3 (1-15-16). (A/N found on both sites)

Prequel: Of Milkshakes and Marathons. (Not necessary to understand story.)

Second Chapter: Here

Sequel: Focus on the Fallout

So you thought you had to keep this up


All the work that you do so we think that you're good


And you can't believe it's not enough


All the walls you built up are just glass on the outside

~"Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North

There were good nights. There were bad nights. There were somewhere in between nights. There were great nights. There were horrible nights. And then there were nights when you really began to wonder if it was really even worth the fight at all.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Everyone copes with things differently. Tim? Well, he typically ended up curled up in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, cynically considering his options. One of which included a handgun tucked away in a shoebox under the floorboards.

A handgun that now found itself hanging heavy in his hand.

There were definitely other, less violent ways to end it all. Downing a couple pills, braining himself on the bedside table, slitting his wrists and bleeding out on the bathroom floor... But Tim didn't need any more time to think. Nothing was faster or more efficient than a bullet to the head. It was also less painful, though he tried not to think about the selfishness of that.

Not to mention the irony of using a gun, the start of Batman's career and, in essence, the beginning of Red Robin's.

Tim had thought it through. He had never been one to rush into something, especially such a life-changing—he held back a snort—decision as the one he was about to make.

The best part? No one even knew what Tim really felt.

Because Tim was an expert liar. Actually, better than expert. It came as naturally to him as breathing. He supposed that should probably disturb him, but it didn't. It happened to be a very useful skill in the face of nosy coworkers, friends, and relatives. Lies were nearly always easier to face than the truth.

Hiding his true feelings was one such lie. Facades and masks defined him, his true emotions corked tightly within a bottle inside, never ever to see the light of day; only the waning moonlight filtering through the curtains of his apartment, or, at the moment, his Wayne Manor bedroom. This practice of falsehood had extended to himself, almost so he was convinced he was okay; that he could handle the horrible stress and pain that was life.

He remembered the time when he'd hated the lying involved with the mask: to his father, to his friends, wanting nothing more than to give them a straight answer for once. But now...

Well. There comes a time when even the best liars start to crack.

And if Tim was being honest (haha), he lied to himself as often, if not more frequently than he did to his friends and...family.

Could he even call them his family? Sure, it was all down on paper, but just like blood, ink wasn't what made a family family.

His fingers ghosted over the safety mechanism, hesitating before flicking it off.

Replacement. Pretender.

At least Jason knew what Tim really was.

Tim had practically forced his way into this secret life in his desperation to be Robin after Jason's death. He had never been Robin; not really. He had been (still was) unwanted and unchosen. The outsider in Bruce's hand-picked family. Why should he even bother sticking around if no one had ever really wanted him in the first place?

A harsh laugh escaped his throat. After all the pain, all the danger, all the narrow escapes brought on by patrolling the streets of Gotham, the mighty Red Robin was going to go down via a handgun by his own volition. The irony.

Rock steady, he raised the gun barrel to his temple, the cold tip pressing against his scalp. He couldn't fight this feeling anymore. It was better for everyone this way. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his finger around the trigger.

"Drake!" called a familiar voice, shattering the previous silence as Tim's room door flew open (hadn't Tim locked it?) and slammed into the opposite wall. Before Tim could overcome his shock and slide the gun under the bed, footsteps echoed across the room.

"Grayson is..." The pompous voice trailed off, a tiny shadow stretching along the wall pausing at the foot of the bed as its owner halted his footsteps.

There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?" Damian asked carefully, cynically—uncaringly.

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Tim managed, cheeks flushing at being caught by the brat, of all people. Well...the brat was better than Bruce or Dick. At least Damian wouldn't try to stop him. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian said, completely ignoring Tim's last statement.

"And why would you care?" Tim countered, finally glaring up at the smaller boy.

Crystal blue eyes stared down at him, not a single emotion crossing the 10-year-old's face. He didn't respond.

The minutes ticked by, Tim's initial discomfort being overcome by anger at Damian's lack of response. "Look," he snapped, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

No reply. Well, he'd given him a chance.

Damian watched him in continued silence, eyes narrowed as Tim double-checked the safety was off, raising the barrel to his head.

Briefly, Tim wondered if this was really appropriate to be doing in front of a 10-year-old. He immediately dismissed the thought. This was a baby assassin who'd been killing since birth and who'd been not-so-secretly wishing Tim's demise since the day they'd met. To him, this would be a show.

Why not go out entertaining the brat? If he couldn't satisfy his peers, why not the son?

His finger tensed on the trigger.

"Stop."

Tim flinched at the sound. It wasn't quite an order. Damian almost sounded...young. Like his age, for once.

"If you're insistent upon doing this," Damian said, tone deceptively flat, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

Tim blinked. "It's not that simple."

Damian folded his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Surprised, Tim hesitated. The truth pressed up against the lies, squeezing under his skin and begging to be set free. But after all these years, could he really just let them go? "No one would notice if I was gone anyway," he murmured, bidding for time.

Raising an eyebrow, Damian said, "Care to elaborate?"

Before Tim could make up his mind whether to actually answer the brat or not, his mouth decided for him: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even Dick didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he wanted to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner.

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade. I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

Impassive blue eyes stared down at him. Tim imagined he heard the brat mutter under his breath, "That's not true," but Tim was already launching into his next justification, unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd finally loosened the cork on his pent up emotions.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't deal with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye, fighting back the overwhelming pressure of panic squeezing his heart. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffs, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Out of breath, he glared at the 10-year-old mulishly. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

Damian made no move to either confirm or deny that fact. Not that it mattered. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his little head as the demon attempted to drop the blame on someone else.

"Nobody will miss me much," Tim said matter-of-factly, hammering the final nail in his own coffin. "I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

There was a tense silence, two pairs of blue eyes glaring stoically into each other.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," Damian stated flatly, startling Tim at the sudden interruption from the formerly impassive boy. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces—again." The young hero fixed Tim with a glare worthy of the Bat. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitating. "You already hate me," he offered weakly.

Damian tutted. "What does my opinion matter? You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced at the mental picture.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, not quite an afterthought: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Tim huffed. "Fine." He allowed the barrel of the gun to drop, swinging it to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked. "Why?"

Damian snorted. "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

Tim hesitated. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

No. It was too late. Damian already knew, so if Tim didn't go through with this he'd run the very high risk of the rest of the Bats finding out. Tim didn't think he could stand that; he could practically see the disappointment in Bruce's eyes as yet another of his soldiers failed his mission...

Almost absently, he buried the gun barrel back into his hair. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Missing nothing, Damian's eyes flared. "Very well, Drake," he announced imperiously. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Before Tim could blink, a knife was in the child's hand, the gleaming tip pressed against Damian's jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean everyone—will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

Of all the ways this could have gone down from the moment Damian walked through the door, Tim would never have thought of this outcome in a million years.

Tim blinked slowly.

But no. Damian still stood before him, the razor sharp knife pressing dangerously into his own neck, an almost wild glint in his eyes.

"Because people will miss you, Drake," Damian continued in a strange, almost choked tone. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can do, but just because you're you. And that's good enough for them."

Blinking rapidly, Damian's eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter in the lowlight.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued with a barely noticeable sniff. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

"No, it's you who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. And then it clicked. "You're trying to guilt trip me," he realized.

Damian smirked savagely, a sick, twisted little smile that had no place on such a young face. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said levelly. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. The gun suddenly seemed very there in his hand; the solid weight of the warming barrel pressed against his head and tickling his scalp, the pad of his finger wrapped around the trigger. He became aware of every breath in his lungs hissing through his larynx to his nose, of his heart beating slightly faster in his chest. All of his body parts functioning as one in a beautiful creation for the sole purpose of keeping Tim alive.

Doubt crept in at the edges for the first time since he'd made his life-changing—ha, still funny the second time 'round—decision. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Staring up at Damian, Tim could swear the demon's lower lip was trembling slightly. "Go ahead," the boy challenged, steel blue eyes sending him a silent challenge over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, Drake. Do it."

Blood pumping through his veins, hairs on the back of his neck bristling at a phantom chill, sweat trickling down his forehead, sweater rubbing irritatingly along his collar bone...

The family would be devastated at another death, especially if it was at Tim's own hands rather than an actual Gotham villain. After all, yourself wasn't supposed to be included as a "flight risk."

Damian was right. Tim was a selfish coward. Selfish to believe that his death would affect no one, that his work would take care of itself if he were gone. A coward because he was desperate enough to try and take the easy way out rather than suck it up and face his mountain of problems.

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to go through life alone.

If Damian, of all people—the one who'd tried to kill him when they'd first met, the one who threatened to murder him on a weekly basis, the one who daily insulted Tim's very existence—was trying to talk him out of it...

He cared. To some degree, the one Tim was sure hated his guts cared whether Tim lived or died.

And at that moment, Tim had never felt more alive.

Almost numb, his grip loosened on the weapon, fingers shaking as his muscles mushed into jelly.

Before he'd dropped it hardly an inch, the gun was snatched from his hands, the former assassin snapping open the cartridge and emptying the bullets onto the floor with one quick motion. With a look of utter distaste, Damian tossed the weapon into the corner, along with the knife that had somehow slipped past both Bruce's and Alfred's scrutiny.

Silently, Damian dropped to the floor at Tim's side. What he did next took Tim a moment to process: the Bat's son scooted closer, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against Tim's chest, even as one arm snaked around Tim's middle to grasp firmly at the fabric of Tim's sweater.

Tim stared. Damian...was cuddling?

The bundle of assassin huddled at his side radiated heat, slowly warming against Tim's side. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the little furnace decided to crawl up next to him.

It was...nice.

"Don't kill yourself," Damian whispered, so low Tim could barely hear him. "I would never forgive myself."

Not Dick. Not Bruce. Damian would never forgive himself.

"You've been spending too much time with Dick," Tim managed weakly.

"Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."

[3one3]

The Sequel - 793

The Wounded Swallow

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

The “Erotic: Passion & Desire” preview exhibition was understandably weird. Most of the cocktail attendees were not actual, interested buyers, but still art regulars. They were comfortable with the theme of the works on display. The others, less so. There was a lot of whispering among those folks, while the relaxed group spoke freely and conversationally. The quiet group moved from lot to lot in pairs or threesomes and wore shocked or aghast faces. The less awkward people seemed to be having a better time, and seemed to enjoy discussing the various pieces with unabashedly presented penises, vaginas, and butts, and the activities portrayed. Christina and Juan were in the middle. They kept their voices low but discussed the art freely too.

Christina even got a nearly incurable case of giggles when they arrived at the penis table. It was too ridiculous for her hold on composure. Supposedly delivered to Catherine The Great, the round table featured a cross-shaped base with four erect, veiny penises reaching up and out from the center, each with its own pair of balls adorned with nipples, and grounded in gold painted swirls meant to look like pubic hair. The tabletop itself had random hard penises and balls glued every 12” or so around its border- some with their bulging red mushroom heads pointing up and some down, and interspersed with the spread thighs, vagina, torso, and chest of a female. Neither the rider nor the player could imagine a room or circumstance that would call for a baby blue and gold table made out of and decorated with erections.

Works by Picasso, Klimt, De Kooning, and Howard Chandler Christy garnered a more scholarly response from the duo of friends. They pretended to take them in analytically and try to appreciate them as important art. Mostly, they discussed how surprisingly low the bid estimates were. They thought it should cost more to own a sketch by Picasso. Another prospective buyer who overheard them butted in to suggest that “he made so much art, everyone in London could have a Picasso”. That statue of the two lovers that Christina reacted to in the online catalogue was among the more expensive, at £180,000-220,000. She told Juan that she really liked it because of how real it was, and she was very real herself in telling him, in a whisper like those awkward and uncomfortable people, that it made her think of being with him. The equestrian with the husband and the sort-of-side-boyfriend assured him that she would never want to own such a thing though. The Helmut Newton print she did want wasn’t what she thought it was. It was part of a portfolio of 9 silver prints and a CD of the photoshoot in a fancy case, published by Volkswagen. They were all photos of naked women with a Beetle from 1999. She only liked the one of a woman on her back holding up a TV screen with a front view of the car with two other women sitting in it. It was shot from between the naked woman’s legs but cropped to exclude anything more explicit than her breasts.

“Now you have seen all of the lots- which one do you think I was talking about the other day when I said I want it?” the Chelsea man asked her after they got their second glasses of Chardonnay and returned to the “scene” to people-watch.

“Well that’s a cumbersome way to ask the question, so I’m going to assume you don’t want it now that you’ve seen it,” she posited thoughtfully, scanning the pieces that weren’t obstructed by other people. “Otherwise you could just ask “Which one do you think I want?” yes?”

“No, I still want it.” Juan smirked a little and then shifted his eyes side to side, as if to make sure he didn’t accidentally lock onto the piece in question and give it away.

“It’s the dick table, isn’t it?”

“No,” he laughed.

“Umm....is it the painting of the girl’s butt and thighs and arms with her hand kind of over the middle? The girl with the tattoos? I kind of like that one. Probably because it’s only 30 years old.”

“Nope.”

“One of the 19th century watercolors with the dick sucking? You know, I kind of always assumed oral sex was a more modern invention. Threesomes, too. There’s that ivory box thing with one woman sucking the guy’s dick and one licking his butt. That’s even older!” Christina truly marveled at the sexual habits of significantly older societies. “How long ago do you think it was when someone first figured out that putting his penis in a woman’s mouth can be as nice as putting it in her vagina?” she whispered.

“However long ago Adam met Eve. And no. You have two strikes. One more chance to guess.”  

“I’m going to Google it.” She took her phone out but paused for one more quick glance around the room for a final guess. “I have no idea what else here you might like. The pin-up girls?”

“The angel.”

“Really? I didn’t know you’re a sculpture guy.” Christina looked up from her phone to locate the white marble angel in the nude. She was a little more than 2’ tall and sat on a rock with her lengthy wings hanging down behind it. The piece was buy a French artist who lived from the middle of the 19th century into World War I. Christina didn’t have any special feelings about the work when they stood in front of it, and she didn’t have much special interest in Juan’s interest in it either. He articulated a very specific interest.

“She’s you, cariña,” he told her, a hand at the small of her back to steer her back to it off to the right side of the room. She was already rolling her eyes. What’s his deal with angels? Are religious people really into them? “L’hirondelle Blessée,” he read from the information placard accompanying the sculpture. “The Wounded Swallow. She’s a beautiful angel who has hurt her ankle.” Indeed, the angel was sat on the rock to assess an injury to her lower leg, which was lifted up for inspection. Her head was tilted down to look at it, and her left hand gripped it to palpate the painful area with her thumb. She had strong looking thighs, a narrow waist with clearly defined abs, round hips, and ample, pert cleavage. The muscle in her neck even stood out proudly from her posture. The only obvious thing differentiating this “Swallow” from the player’s friend was her short hair. And perhaps her height. The angel looked as if she’d be a bigger person than Christina. It was the wrong ankle too.

“I didn’t even notice that she was injured before,” the latter mumbled as she took the sculpture in for the second time, her tone a little absent because she was surprised and still trying to understand the parallels. It was a little shocking.

“I’m going to make a bid on her before we leave.” The Spanish midfielder wore a fond and slightly excited smile while he too studied the figure. It was his muse’s turn to get shifty-eyed. Anybody looking? No? K. She leaned over to smooch his cheek in a way that was just naughty enough to need privacy. An innocent peck could be seen by anyone. A momentarily lingering kiss was for no one’s eyes. “You like her?”

“I like that you think she’s me and duly want to bring her home.”

“I want to bring you home too, but I want to eat first.” Juan chuckled in her periphery. I can’t tell if he liked that I just did that, if he didn’t even really notice, or if he’s ignoring it because he doesn’t want anyone else to notice, she thought. I also don’t know if I care which it is. Also, I’m starving. “Have you seen enough? Should we go find out how I make a written bid and get moving for dinner?”

“Yes! Where are we going?”

“Walking distance is Bellamy’s, Hakkasan, Wild Honey, and Sexy Fish. French, Chinese, British, or Japanese?”

“Hakkasan doesn’t serve dinner after like 7, so that’s out. Bellamy’s has approximately 10 items on the menu and 9 of them are fish or veal, so no Bellamy’s. Wild Honey is boring. I vote for the long walk to Sexy Fish. I haven’t been there since you got that red card and made me go there with you,” Christina sniggered, remembering the match and how silly the sequence of events was that led to the Spaniard’s dismissal. “I want a grilled rib eye steak with Asiany flavors, and fried spicy noodles, and-“

“Your eyes are so much bigger than your stomach.” Juan watched her drink the wine and lifted his brows questioningly when, mid-sip, her eyes narrowed deviously. She was on to something.

“Juanin, you’re always complaining that I eat all the food and don’t share enough with you, or hog it all to myself. Now you say I order more than I eat. You can’t have it both ways,” she reminded with her nose in the air.

“I can. You order a steak the size of your head and eat three bites, and instead you eat all of my food. Or you say “I want this, this, and this, so will you eat some so I can order everything on page-2?” and I say okay and order the things I really want, and then you eat those things and tell me I should eat the ones you wanted.”

“Not true. Not true at all. You’re going to get some icky fish thing I won’t eat anyway.” The German rider stuck her tongue out and marched toward someone with a nametag, assuming that person could help the player set up his bid for the angel auction.  

After a long and enjoyable Asian-themed dinner, he asked his real live angel if she wanted him to bring her home to his place or hers, with the understanding that they were spending the night together either way. Christina told him that she still needed to go home even though Lukas was in Germany with his dad, as she had two dogs waiting for her to let them out and needing her there to feed them in the morning, and because she wouldn’t be able to spend her whole Friday in bed if she woke up the wrong one. Juan was welcomed to stay though. He earned that, with his attraction to the sculpture and with his always-charming company throughout the night. She wanted him to stay. She wanted to finish her night with him. It was again a situation in which she hadn’t seen him in about a week and missed him. The Spaniard was becoming the thing that felt like normal in her life. Spending time with him was the constant that she returned to after every competition, work trip, Dortmund visit, etc. Having a normalcy to come home to was something she valued and needed. While doing the same thing day after day and living a “normal” life by any average person’s standard clearly proved many times not for her, having at least a sense of a normalcy was still important. It was for that reason that she wrapped up a decent day and a fun night tucked under his arm and on his chest, watching TV and talking about big picture current affairs, personal current affairs, and nonsense, and not because they’d spent some enchanted evening together and she fancied a romantic or sexy nightcap. The denouement of their evening was anything but sexy, as they were both overfull, overtired, and overrun by Toy Fox Terriers thrilled to score a second consecutive night of bedroom access.

One of the most satisfying aspects of this new normal was that it felt like maybe Juan thought of it as his constant too. Sometimes when Christina needed a person to snuggle with and unwind on, it was like he was doing her a favor. He made some sacrifice to listen to her troubles when she and André couldn’t stop plucking at each other’s last nerves. It was something he had to endure. He tolerated it. In truth he seldom said or behaved in a way that should have made the rider think that, but still, the belief persisted, perhaps because of her own propensity for labeling herself a burden on others, and for feeling like a victim. That was no longer the case. Juan was there on equal terms with her. And if the previous week were an indication, he wasn’t just there and wanting to be because he thought it was an opportunity to get some ass. The two friends hung out twice during her last quick London stopover and there was no hookup of any kind. It seemed like just spending regular time together was his constant too- that he sought it too, and relaxed in it too. He gave off no sense of waiting or expectation.

For a few minutes that Thursday night, while they were talking about the cultural differences in late night talk shows between the US and England, Christina thought of Jill. A Monday afternoon playdate for shopping, a great dinner out, and many hours vegging in front of the TV with her best friend was what she came back to after horse shows. Sometimes Jill was at the shows too, and sometimes she wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The first order of business after coming home, and after working at the barn in the morning, was using her free time to let down with Jill. Monday was pretty universally accepted as the day off in Long Island equestrian culture. Trainers didn’t do lessons and nobody really came to ride. It was by design because usually everybody went to a horse show on Sunday and tired out the horses, or everybody had lessons over the weekend when off from school and work, so the barn-owned lesson horses were tired from that. The grooms had much of the day off too. They had to feed and clean stalls in the morning and throw the horses outside for the day, but then they were free until evening feeding time. Simon never showed up on Mondays. Christina went in to help the guys make sure all the horses were okay after traveling, and to check legs and feet unwrapped and unpacked, and deal with anything that happened while she and her boss were away. Then she had the rest of the day off too.

That was her normalcy for much of her adult life. Then she moved, and got married, and grew into a whole new career, and André was normalcy. He was it for more years, actually. There wasn’t a set thing like Mondays with Jill. It was everything. He was there and whatever they did was the constant, even though whatever they did varied a lot. That had been gone for 7 months and it took probably 6 of them for Christina to adopt a new tether- a new thing that grounded her at home, that she could point to as a pillar to give her life structure. In some ways it was the only scaffolding- the only point of reference. Even her riding schedule when she returned home was different all the time, or nonexistent because she had to go somewhere else after a show instead of home. So there was just Juan.

“How do these little dogs not get cold out in the stable all the time?” he asked absently as Spencer pawed at the top of the black satin duvet- a request to be let under it so he could burrow next to a human. “Their blankets only cover a small part of their bodies. Don’t their feet get cold?”

“When it’s really cold I put their fleece shirts on under the blankies,” the animal expert explained. It definitely wasn’t cold in bed. She had half of Juan’s body as a heater, and the blanket covering most of hers. “They even have little hoodies, but I kinda bought those just to take cute pictures. They can’t actually wear the hoods so they don’t really make them warmer. Actually, I meant to look online today for square beds for them. The barn builder guys did a clever thing for them in the tack room at the new place. There are two open cubby-type things under the shelves and cabinets and they’re just a couple of inches off the floor, so you put their beds in there and then they have private, out of the way spots to nap, and they’re up off the cold floor. Their barn beds now are round though and I hate the idea of round bed in square cubby. Also I think I should probably get ones I can stick some Velcro on so that they don’t slide out of the cubbies when they move around or jump into them.”

“That’s smart,” her friend nodded. She picked up her phone from where it was sitting on his chest with one of his two phones, and tapped to open Chrome so she could look for cozy puppy beds.

“There’s this company in the US that sells stuff for outdoorsy people but like classy, WASPy outdoorsy people rather than redneck hunters. So think fly fishing and canoeing and a lot of subdued plaids instead of camo and neon. My mom always got the catalogue and used to buy weird and random things from them, like pencil sets. I don’t know. Anyway, they opened an actual store near one of my favorite diners and their dog beds were like the featured section. So I want to look there for- Oh, I forgot I was trying to find out about oral sex before,” Christina chuckled. The Wikipedia page for that subject was already open in a tab. She scrolled through impatiently to find the answer to her original question, which was when oral sex became “a thing”.

“What does it say? Did ancient Egyptians do 69?” Her small Spanish pillow yawned and removed his left arm from behind his head to put it around her back again. Her Googling included lifting her head off his chest and leaning away from his side just a bit. That wasn’t allowed.

“Oh my god Wikipedia actually references “facesitting”. Shocking. I’m not seeing anything about like origin though, or history. Oh wait. “In Ancient Rome, fellatio was considered profoundly taboo. Sexual acts were generally seen through the prism of submission and control. This is apparent in the two Latin words for the act: irrumare, to penetrate orally, and fellare, to be penetrated orally. Under this system, it was considered to be abhorrent for a male to perform fellatio, since that would mean that he was penetrated, parentheses controlled, whereas receiving fellatio from a woman or another man of lower social status such as a slave or debtor was not humiliating. The Romans regarded oral sex as being far more shameful than, for example, anal sex”,” she read from the phone.

“See! Even ancient Romans knew anal sex is great!” Her friend was triumphant and giggly.

“No, they knew it was not shameful. My objections are not about objectification though,” Christina argued. “It’s just literally disgusting. Not morally. Whoa this is cool. So primates sometimes get into oral sex, which is understandable I guess, but did you know fruit bats do it? It says mating pairs spend more time copulating if the female first licks the male. I find that weirdly cute.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the Valencia bat mascot getting head in the costume now.”

“This other fellatio-specific article says the Kama Sutra talks about it, and that’s form the first century AD, so I guess it’s been a thing for a long time. But the author didn’t really endorse it. How can you come up with all of those sexual positions and not think blow jobs are a good idea?” The rider put both the phone and her head back down on Juan’s chest. The device was turned sideways so that she could get a better view of the oral sex depicted in a picture in the article. “There is this plate or bowl or something with a dude blowing another dude, labeled “Depiction of fellatio on Attic red-figure kylix, circa 510 BC”. I don’t know what that is but I guess it means dudes have been blowing dudes since at least 510 BC.”

“I look forward to your in-depth written report and presentation about the history of dick sucking, cariña,” the player told her. He, like most of the people close to her, knew that when she had a question, she dug deep to answer it. She had that curiosity and that thirst for learning and knowledge.

“That’s so sexist. I would report on the history of oral sex, not just fellatio. Hindus thought cunnilingus was a means to transcending old age and death, and could lead to a state of nirvana.”

“I can believe that. I know how it feels to find a kind of nirvana between a woman’s legs.” The Chelsea man’s non-serious comment earned a non-serious eye roll. His expression then turned defensive. “What? You don’t believe me? I don’t understand why you’re always so skeptical that guys really, truly, honestly like to eat pussy. You American girls are conditioned to think guys only care about themselves in sex. Taylor is completely the same. She argues that guys who like to eat their girls only do it because they like the way the girl reacts and it makes them feel like even better lovers, so it’s like a selfish thing, and has nothing to do with us wanting to give girls pleasure too and just feeling good about it.”

“I agree with Taylor. You like giving girls pleasure because it’s you who gave it to them, because they’re reacting to you. Maybe you don’t realize that that’s what it is, but it is. You’ve even said that to me before- that you love making me orgasm because you know it’s because of you.”

“No, I’ve said that’s one of the reasons,” Juan corrected. “I have also said that I just love your reactions, and how beautiful and free and happy you look.”

“Uhhuh.” Christina was still dismissive. And more interested in shopping for dog beds than arguing. “Orvis has a dog bed selector thing, like when you do a Buzzfeed quiz and it tells you something about you. It tells you which dog bed to get.”

“Exciting.”

“Is Lucky using you as his dog bed right now?”

“He’s between my knees, and the other one is right below him. They want to make sure I can’t move.”

“It’s what they’re good at. Okay, rectangle or round, rectangle. Side bolster or no side bolster? Side bolster. They like having walls.”

“Like my knees and calves.”

“Yes. Polyester fill or memory foam? The fill probably gets lumps, but I don’t know if they even weigh enough to sink into the memory foam enough for it to be comfy. What do you think?”

“I have to shake out my featherbed all the time to get rid of the lumps. No one is going to remember to take their beds out of the shelf to fluff them up for them. Go with the memory foam.”

“Good call. Can you...” Christina paused to arch her back and wiggle about. “Can you scratch right above where your hand is? Quickly.”

“Emergency itch?” Juan did as asked and scratched a big area between the rider’s shoulder blades. She twisted into it some, and pressed her forehead into his left pectoral muscle, experiencing the intense satisfaction of having a sudden and urgent itch tended to. She even opened her mouth and kind of closed her teeth on him as she then tried to nod in affirmation. The iPhone was abandoned face down on him, and she let go of it to squeeze some of both his t-shirt and the satin quilt in her hand. Her scratching servant tugged her tank top up so he could get to her itchy skin directly, as it was evident it wasn’t just a momentary ailment. “You have a little bump, cariña. Like a hive.”

“My skin doesn’t like the amount of time it spends covered by a sweaty sports bra. I always pay extra attention to that part of my back when I shower, and I use a salty exfoliating soap, and then if I don’t moisturize after, it gets dry and itchy. I was too lazy to lather myself in lotion this afternoon. Ahh, that’s good. You can stop.” The player’s grateful appendage sighed and relaxed all of her tensed muscles, and he reverting to rubbing the small of her back instead of the previously itchy part. Having her tank pulled up meant the tips of his fingers slid just under the wide waistband of her underwear when his palm moved back and forth there. “Thank you,” she said contentedly upon returning her cheek to his shirt.

“Dog beds.”

“Oh yeah.”

Orvis didn’t have any acceptable beds on first look. In the photos of the products recommended in accordance with her selections, even large breed dogs weren’t making any kind of impression on their memory foam. It didn’t absorb them. They simply rested on top of it. Christina had to abandon the selector and just look at all the beds. There was something called the “Deep Dish Couch Bed”, and it was as plush as it sounded. It had tall bolsters on three sides, double-stacked cushions, and a water-resistant, removable microfiber cover. She left the tab open so that she could order them in the morning. For the low cost of nearly $400, Spencer and Lucky could have small-size beds in slate gray with their names embroidered on the front shipped to their future home. Their mom just couldn’t remember the address of said new home, and didn’t feel like getting up to fetch her bankcard. She did feel like browsing Instagram though while Juan was in the bathroom and she was supposed to be looking for something to watch because they were out of DVR’d episodes of Criminal Minds to not really pay attention to. André posted a picture of her and naturally the app ensured it was the first thing she saw because she liked all of his pictures and it’s designed to show you content from accounts you engage with most. The photo made her smile with happiness at first at its surface merit.

Dirk is so cuuuuute and I look okay too, she thought. It was a picture of her braiding her favorite stallion’s forelock and winking at her husband, who was obviously taking a photo of her. Christina sort of remembered thinking he was making a video, but it was from three summers back so the memory was fuzzy. It was the beginning of Dirk’s post-WEG vacation and his owners were on a sunset walk with their new puppies, very much entrenched in the kind of happiness that comes from surviving a kidnapping, bagging some silver medals at WEG, and trying really hard to get pregnant. I think I might have already been pregnant then, the rider realized. She knew when it was thanks to clues in the picture. The grass was green, the horse had his darkest and most shiny summer coat, her skin was bronze, and she could see the ties of a bikini top in a bow at the back of her neck. Their evening walk took them out to the paddocks to visit with each of the horses just turned out for the night, and the animals were all disappointed that the humans didn’t bring any treats. Christina remembered that she and her husband each had to carry one of their three-month-old puppies home from there because they were too tired from the first leg. And she got a bit lost in that memory as it became clearer, until she read the caption with André’s post.

Is he a psychic like Juanin is sometimes? This is so...so. “My North Star and her compass”, the expat read for the second time. You look for the North Star to know where you are...and you use a compass to figure out...where you’re going? Does he mean I’m his point of orientation in life, and that D-Money shows me where to go? Is he deep enough to come up with something like that? I kind of love it. He must have stolen this concept from somewhere. He’s not usually so thoughtful, and certainly not in public. Aww. This is so close to what I was thinking about before, in terms of structure in life. Awwww. Christina’s insides turned to mush and she hurried to comment on the BVB player’s post. She could have texted him, or called him back again even though he said he was going to bed when they last spoke, but she wanted the whole world to see her comment too. She wrote “I love you” and added the space rocket emoji in hopes that he would get that she meant it like a vehicle to the stars, like a vehicle he could take to get to her, his Polaris. Because of her profile’s popularity, her comment went straight to the top.