#your leftover fags were too funny

[makima-s-most-smile]

based on this meme

[diningpageantry]

Stew

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672919/chapters/44928196

Chapter 5/13 of Proximity (The Collision of Lonely Men)

Word Count: 2384

Chapter Summary: Nostalgic meals, red wine, and hand holding.

Chilly, late fall nights have always been a favorite of mine.

I’ve always found myself inexplicably drawn to the harsh crunching of leaves and soft, wispy scent of their decay.

I get to wear those nice jumpers the Wellbeloves bought me for Christmas, and cooking doesn't feel as much of a chore rather than a comforting task. It’s feel warm all fuzzy--like the recipes were made for me to indulge in, rather than scarf down.

My favorite of all was always stew. Whenever there was stew nights at care home, I was always begging for seconds. It's hard to really mess up stew to the point beyond any recognition, and even with canned vegetables, it somehow managed to hold a home-cooked feeling.

It's so deeply ingrained into me that it's now one of the only recipes I know by heart. Probably only because I'd made it about 40 times over the course of one fall/winter. Made it so often that Aggie got sick of it while I was off memorized every little bit.

There isn't much in life I pride myself on, and stew is one of my top things. While I'd taken the recipe from a classics cookbook, I call it my own now. I've added some flair here and there to the point where it feels like it should be mine. Aromatic and thick--I feel like it could entice anybody with it.

Hell, it somehow even got Basilton in a shock.

I hadn't heard the door open, but I hear it fall shut, taking notice of the tall man standing at the door with his eyes fallen shut.

I turn down my music respectfully, raising both brows at him as I wipe my hands on the drying cloth. “Office hours over?” I ask, half expecting no answer (per usual). He treats me to one anyway.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes still not open as he visually inhales. “Are… you actually cooking? In that shitty little kitchen?”

“Yeah. Of course I am.”

He finally takes a look at me, back straightening as his hands hover over his jacket buttons. “Oh. My apologies for intruding. You're probably expecting someone. I can leave--”

“Bullshit I’ll make you leave your own flat,” I shrug. “I don't have anyone coming over. I've got who in my life, Penny? That's about it. You're fine, come in.”

He stays put, not seeming convinced.

I exhale. “They're not serving dinner. Unless you plan on paying someone else or starving, I'd expect you to stay here. Take a seat, I'm nearly done.”

He runs his eyes over me and hesitantly slides out the top, thick black button of his coat. I stand at the small kitchen's entrance (it really is ridiculously tiny), hands on the towel as I watch him slip out of the jacket and his shoes.

He approaches slowly, one foot falling in front of the other almost like a skittish animal’s would.

I let him step closer on his own, heading back into the kitchen and eyeing my leftover wine. Enough for us to split a good bit.

Wordlessly, I settle a glass in front of him at the table and pour it up about halfway before settling the bottle in the middle. His gaze follows my hands, lips pursed hesitantly as I step back from him. I feel like a hovering parent, watching him somewhat nervously as he lifts the glass and brings it up for a taste.

He cringes slightly, frowning. “Tastes like cooking wine,” he mumbles, still going for another sip.

It makes me smile. “Wine is wine,” I shrug, walking back over into the kitchen. I can't see him, but I hear his tiny scoff. Still, there's the short scrape of glass behind me, roughing up against wood as he picks it back up. Soon enough, I'm sure he’s emptied it because I peek at him pouring another.

As I’m cooking, the creeping familiarity of the sense of being watched falls onto me. Like I’m his prey now, and his eyes are closely locked and not letting me go. And, as unnerving as it is, it’s harshly too regular now. It seems like every time we’re in a room, he’s watching me when I can’t see.

I pop the cast iron pot into the oven and silently go to fill my own glass. For now, I’m trying to stay focused on my own tasks, rather than Basilton’s concentration on them. Well, somewhat. I'm thinking about him thinking about and watching me, but that's completely different than thinking about him just watching me (isn't it?)

We're silent, but much closer than we usually are. As I lean against the table, he sits and blinks up, sipping at his own wine. Our eyes catch briefly, staring back at one another as the timer in the room over clicks rhythmically. I feel myself hold my breath, shoulders squaring out as I take an extended drink.

His head drops, index slowly tracing the rim of his glass as I struggle to find anything of use to say.

“How have your classes been going so far?”

He seems a bit shocked by the sudden interaction, snapping back into reality and staring up at me. “They've been manageable. The class average for my highest class was exemplary, but the papers of my fourth period class make me want to strike them from the gradebook, given how horrendous they turned out. It's like they learned absolutely nothing.”

I nod slowly, glass settling against my lips as I chat. “How's the students? Your schedule?” Easy enough talk, especially since he seems loosened up in the slightest from his drink. He's even got a small drop in his shoulders.

“Students themselves are fine. There's one student who wishes to be called ‘The Behemoth’, since that's what his rugby mates call him, and he might be the most obnoxious arse I've ever met.”

“Behemoth?”

“I'm assuming it's all in irony, given how short he is. He's not scrawny, but definitely not the biggest kid you've ever met.”

I feel myself chuckle, watching the downturn of his lips as he speaks. It makes me fight the impulse to simply reach out and rub my thumbs over the corners, smoothing them out to a more tolerable expression. “Well then, why is The Behemoth a nightmare?”

His head lazily tips back, eyes falling shut. “I can't begin--it's everything. Incessantly rude, impulsive and disruptive, no sense of respect for the classroom. I caught him trying to carve another dick into the table, and when I sent him off for it, he said ‘Thought you liked those’. It's a wonder I can't get him expelled.”

“Students can just… say that you?” I ask in a bit of a shock. He seems a bit amused by my surprise, raising a brow at me.

“With the amount their parents pay, they can call me a fag if they want to.” He simply stares up at me, glass reflecting spots of light down his wrists as we keep a shaky eye contact. I don't know what to say, if there's even anything left to he said.

“Fucking hell.” That's all I can manage from that. “Bloody fucking--have any students said that to you?”

He shrugs, soothing my anxious gaze by glancing out the window across the room. I listen to the settling of his glass against the table, making note of his uncharacteristic response. Does this mean I should comfort him? How the hell do you react to the person you like the least feeling like shit?

He finally speaks after what must be at least a full minute of silence. “Once. I gave the class a history on the word, and made it so tedious that nobody ever wanted to say it again, since they'd have to sit through another lecture.”

That's funny to me. I don't know why, but I'm laughing. And, suddenly, as if by a miracle, he's chuckling along. A quiet, hand-covering-face chuckle. One that, if he had his usual composure, would've never slipped out. It's stunning--soft and melodic. So much of him, yet so foreign and new to his usual reactions that it's making me smile openly.

We stop ourselves short to the beeping timer, signaling me to grab the pot.

We're calmed by the time I carry two bowls over. We sit adjacent to one another, hands only at reaching distance. The tiniest, cowardly part of me wonders what it'd feel like to push his skin against mine. To know what his hand feels like is to empathize, and to empathize is to bring that compassion we lack.

I don't know if I really like our fighting. I've never been a fan of pointless bickering or condescending arguments. If he was more like how he is now, a few glasses in, he'd be a lot more tolerable.

He polishes off that second glass and goes for a third, eyes blinking heavily as he stares down into the cheap drink. “How has your first quarter gone?” His voice is near-silent; a quiet chirp over the clinking of our bowls and spoons. I nearly could've missed it.

“Can't particularly complain. Boring, frankly, but it's temporary.”

“Temporary?” I suppose that's the best of a conversation spark as I'll get from him.

I shrug mindlessly, watching my carrots push around in the bowl. “Only a few years, then I wanna move back to the city. I miss the people being around me. It's far too quiet here.”

He raises his brows briefly before they drop back down. “Back to London then?”

“Back to London.”

The look on his face makes it seem like he has something to say, but nothing comes out. I let the moment between us pass in a safe silence, finishing my first bowl and going back for seconds.

As I sit, I allow myself to break the space again. “Thank you, Basilton,” I say, letting him meet my eyes quizzically before continuing. “I'd never properly thanked you for letting me come to your meeting a few weeks ago. It was really nice, and I never really go a chance to say that.”

He takes a moment between us, eyes traveling over my face and focusing on every little detail before he silently relents. He nods, eyes soft and a very faint blush spread over his cheeks. The light rosiness, of course, he can't really hide.

No matter how much I may want for it to be progress between us, I'm really sure it's entirely from the wine.

I find myself nodding back to him, a smile creasing my cheeks as we hold an equal gaze. One second, two seconds, then it's done. He drops his face, focusing on finishing up his dinner.

I start to do so too, barely able to enjoy it from the distraction of his closeness. Part of me says to not get too close--a dog may not have rabies, but that does mean it won't leave a nasty bite.

Although, the smallest part of me wonders whether or not his bark is far worse than his bite.

He finishes his food as I do, and I make the quick move to clean up after finishing my second glass. He doesn't make to stand, watching me go take them to the sink. There's an odd comfort in the feeling of him studying me now. In it gives an equal peace of mind to where he is (so he can't really sneak up on me). And yet still, there's an equal concern to where his mind is. Plotting a rude snap, trying to get me to move out faster. Something. Anything evil.

I quickly look at him while I'm wrapping the leftover container, and he immediately turns away, finishing what must be his third glass. Innocence doesn't fit him well--it's like a cheap suit. Stressed.

He stands once I'm done, following me nearly side-by-side as we step off to our bedrooms. He halts right as I'm reaching for the door, and I feel the flashing grip of his hand closing around mine, holding my skin to his. My breath catches, mind melting into a confusing puddle as he simply gawks at me.

He stays silent for a full moment, jaw hanging as he searches for something clear to say. Hesitantly, I turn my palm around, comforting him with a soft squeeze back. It does nothing but stun him further. It's a long minute before he speaks, chin tipping up as he finally manages out, “You're welcome to come to meetings anytime.” It's barely choked, and comes out in a quiet rushing flow of words. He exhales slowly, looking down upon me as I stare. “And… don't call me Basilton. Makes me sound sixty. Baz is just fine.”

I relax a bit, nodding a bit as we keep our eye contact, and I keep hold of the soft hand of his. It's warm at the palm, and cool at his fingers, making me worried briefly for the state of his health. Still, it's a mindless comfort of knowing right where he is, looking back at me.

Seconds pass, and then minutes. It starts dragging onto a staring competition--one where I feel set to win as I'm now stuck on the sight of his strong grey eyes. They're less harsh now, softened by the night and the alcohol in his blood. They're nearly human. Like I could do this forever.

I contemplate doing so briefly, but the touch of his hand and gravity of his gaze keeps me longing for such an odd moment.

It finally breaks when I yawn, noticing how flushed his cheeks are now. I bet they'd be warm to the touch. “Tired,” I mumble, eyes finally falling shut. I feel his hand loosen. “I think I'm gonna get ready for bed.”

His hand drops mine fully, and as I'm opening my eyes, he's already retreating to his room. I can't help but feel empty, watching the door of his swing shut and closing him away. As if there was a missing touch there, or a final word, before we let this night rest.

I'm too tired to fight it, and just slightly buzzed enough to respect it. So, I take my leave to my own room, letting our moment pass us by.

[guksthighs]

The Seducer ( v )

Chapter 5: Strip Poker

chapter: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

Pairing: BTS X READER

Summary: The younger boys don’t understand what ‘no funny business’ means and all end up topless in front of you.

Genre: drama, action, humour

Length: 1.4k

A/N: maknae line strip poker ayyyy

The youngest boys seemed unsure of what funny business included, as you sat in what seemed to be their bedroom passing around a big bottle of vodka and playing Go Fish. The room smelled like cigarettes, the fire alarm had a bright green bag secured over it and you felt overdressed, as they were all slurring their words as they shouted card names at each other.

“Any sixes?” You asked you were aware that there was a six on the top of the pack as they all shook their heads and you picked it up, they had been too drunk to notice you reordering the cards as you shuffled, you smiled slyly to yourself.

“Sixty nine,” Taehyung laughed as he hit Jimin on the arm, Jimin groaned as Jeongguk joined in laughing and you wondered if you had met people who became this immature when drunk. And yet you found yourself taking a long swig from the bottle with a grin, the burn warmed you up and you were still trying to understand how maybe a few hours ago, Hoseok had been kicking you in the stomach.

“Let’s play strip poker!” Jeongguk looked so proud of himself, and you knew why; you were wearing a black dress, so with one loss you’d be almost naked and fuel for his fantasies. But you shuffled the pack again, dropping a few useful cards into your lap, as they tried to light their fags, like second nature. You had always found cheating in card games to be easy, and you’d been forced to learn how in the hotel you had stayed in, but they seemed unaware of your past so you completed the actions smoothly.

The first round was lost by Taehyung, his hand had been a complete shambles reflecting his current state; Jimin and Jeongguk had lost but more respectfully managing to create a one or two pairs but you still won, the amount of grumbling they did make you laugh. Taehyung was the first to take his shirt off, his hands gripping the bottom of the fabric as he met your eye and bit his lip slowly peeling it off with a smirk, as he sat there without a top, his hair slightly sticking up you wondered what it would be like to run your hands through it. But you didn’t get to mull over your fantasy for long before he shoved the glass bottle in your hand complaining you hadn’t drunk enough and that was cheating, little did they know.

As you chugged the from the bottle, your teeth making a light clinking sound as they knocked the rim; you found your eyes wondering down his tanned, toned chest; it was littered in knife scars and a large plum-coloured bruise had blossomed around his ribs, you desperately wanted to reach over and trace the constellations of cigarette burns but you clenched your hands turning your attention to your hands that were clenching into fists, “don’t drool, Y/N.”

You looked over in surprise at Jimin, who was holding the bottom off his shirt, happy to have gotten your attention as he began to unbutton it, you became unwillingly hypnotised by his sensual actions, your mind dulled by the drink and unable to be ashamed by your outright staring. Jimin was smirking at you as he watched your eyes wander over his surprisingly muscular body that had slowly been revealed, so you darted your eyes away to the cards as you began to shuffle again, taking Jeongguk’s leftover cards and noticing he was still wearing his top and decided to forego his trousers, your eyes darted to his toned thighs before you bit into your lip, it seemed you were the most affected as your face began to heat up.

The boys laughed at your flushed face and you laughed along, the alcohol beginning to numb your rationality as leaned over to Jeongguk, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, he pulled the fag from his lips to look at you in interest, “let me have a drag Gukkie,” you leant your head on his as you began to shuffle your cards waiting for him to pass you the straight, but instead his finger hooked under your chin as he tilted your face to his. You opened your lips apprehensively as he took another drag, holding your eye contact before he moved closer, his bottom lip brushing yours before he exhaled slowly as you inhaled the smoke from his mouth, Jimin tried to pull you away slightly, before he laughed, “you’re not alone guys!”

“I know, that’s what makes it so exciting,” you replied, winking over your shoulder and you watched as his cheeks began to redden, there was something about seeing such a pure reaction to your hinted sexual words, he seemed so untainted; eyes wide and suppressed smile as he watched you deal the cards, you fingers flicking them as if you had done this action many times before, and you had.

The group had become silent, everyone lost in their thoughts until Taehyung’s hiccups broke the silence but the alcohol could no longer hide the reality that they had kidnapped you earlier in the night and as the rounds continued and the boys were the only ones shedding their clothing, resorting to pulling off socks and as you sat there still fully dressed, you finally felt superior.

“I’m too sober for this shit,” Taehyung hiccupped, a phrase you had not expected to hear from him, as he picked up another bad hand, you couldn’t help yourself as you watched the frustration seemingly consume him as he slammed his hand on the floor before lunging forward for the bottle, downing the rest of it in seconds with a loud burp.

There was something about being drunk you had always liked, you seemed to forget the negative thoughts and memories that usually hid just under the surface and you became quick to laugh and enveloped in burning warmth. And with the last set of hands they lost once more, they begrudgingly moved their hands to boxers, slowly pulling down and you couldn’t say you were pleased when the door slammed open, “Namjoon said no funny business!”

You turned to look at Hoseok who was in hysterics at the sight of what looked like the hard boys of a gang, accustomed to fighting and killing with ease, almost completely naked in front of you. Yoongi seemed to have been the one to shout at them and as Namjoon walked in, deep in conversation with a man you had yet to meet although you assumed it must be Jin, you wondered if they had gathered to kill you. If it was a gang protocol for all of them to shoot you at once, you desperately racked your brain thinking of all the mafia movies you had watched and what had happened to useless hostages, but then you wondered what useless mafia took the wrong hostage.

Namjoon finally stopped talking as he looked up to see your group still sitting on the floor, frozen in fear of a punishment and then he let out a loud laugh before nudging Jin and pointing to you before whispering something in his ear, you wondered what it was, your heart began to hammer as even under the alcohol induced fog you knew you were fighting for your life. But Namjoon simply smiled at you, with what seemed an innocent smile for once, but his next words had you paralysed in shock, “You used to play at the poker tables in the old hotel,” the younger boys looked at you in interest, before Taehyung understood what that meant as he stood, pointing an accusatory finger at you,

“Does that mean you were cheating that whole time?” You nodded, trying to suppress a smile as you remembered with a shock the deadly grin that had spread across his friend when he had tackled you from the bodyguard, but instead he walked around behind you and you were shocked to feel the zipper being pulled down your back, as he stated matter of fact tone, “you cheated and this is your forfeit.”

But he was quickly pulled away by Namjoon, who sent you an apologetic smile, “you can prove your worth to us and keep your life. You will work downstairs with one of the members cheating in the way you used to and bring in some extra money; you’re one of us now.”

You didn’t bother asking what the second option was.

If you enjoyed this, please do not hesitate to like, reblog and comment~

And tell me your thoughts in the comments/ask box <3

For my drabbles: click here

For my fics:  click here

[elliyoyo]

Home (Teen!George Washington/Trans!Reader)

Day 4 of @hamwriters writeathon (Worldwide Day)! This has no real location to it, but I’m growing up in a rather tight-knit area that is generally filled with religious people or extremely judgmental people, so I haven’t come out to many people, but most of my peers have been rather accepting. This is what I wish would happen when my family makes fun of me for who I am or talks shit about the LGBT+ community. Also ;) @boss-headcanons I know you were kinda excited for this and I just adore my platonic soulmate twin babe @gunsandfics so you get tagged, too.

This is based on a female-to-male transgender teenager, but you can change the pronouns and easily make it male-to-female.

Warnings: Extremely homophobic and transphobic language/word usage, swearing, mentions of the whole transgender bathroom thing, and me not knowing how to characterize Teen!GWash or his parents.

(Y/B/N) is your birth name and (Y/N) is your name that you prefer that people should respect and call you by or they will have to face my wrath :))))))))

Words: 2212 (I got carried away but this is really personal for me and I was almost scared to post this)

Coming home was always something you looked forward to. Not home, not where your biological family was, but home to George. You had known each other for most of your lives and even though you weren’t fond of each other as children, you grew closer as you grew older. Your house was just down the street from his, which turned out to be a blessing once you realized you were transgender. Whenever your parents would make remarks or make fun of you for how you dressed, you would tell them you were going out for a bit and just go to his house so you could cheer up and tell him what happened.

Today was an especially bad day. Your parents had been especially into the recent news today and saw that there was recently a case about transgender people using the bathroom of the gender they identify that had gone to the Supreme Court. You sat on the couch, taking small bites of your dinner, knowing exactly how your parents were going to act once the news had gone on to another subject.

“Tch, fucking perverted trannies need to just shut up and be thankful for what they’re given. They ask for more and more everyday, but what do they do? Bitch and moan that it isn’t enough. The fuck is up with those fags?” Your dad laughs and takes a sip of his drink, sitting down next to you, placing an arm around you. “Right, (Y/B/N)?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, dad,” you say, frowning into another bite, holding back your sigh. He knows how upset this shit make you and he knows that bringing it up will make it worse.

“You don’t seem too enthusiastic about shit talking those faggots. You wanna say that again?”

“Not really, no…” You give him a side glance and set down your fork, putting your hands in your lap.

“What, you one of them? Huh, (Y/B/N)? You a tranny, too?” He pushes you and laughs, looking over at your mom who is laughing as well.

“Maybe I am.”

There is a long silence before your dad starts to stand up.

“You’re fucking with me. You’re fuckin’ fucking with me. No way I raised a goddamn pussy like a tranny,” he snarls, looking at you with a fierce expression that makes you want to bolt out the front door. You start standing up as well, dashing off to your room instead of the front door, so you could grab a few small things, knowing full well you weren’t staying the night here to deal with their shit.

You grab a small bag and stuff in your phone charger, a lighter, a toothbrush, a few bobby pins, and a twenty dollar bill just in case, then run back downstairs. Your father catches your eye and opens his mouth, continuing his hateful rant from before, but you just go towards the door, trying to push away what he’s saying.

“You fuckin’ get back here! We gotta have a conversation about you thinking you’re some piece of shit fa-”

“Dad, seriously, shut up! You don’t know anything about what you’re talking about! You’re in absolutely no place to be shit talking my peers, my friends, my people, so just shut up!” With that, you slam the door behind you and walk towards the only place you really could go at this point- George’s house.

Ever since your parents had started getting really bad, like your dad was then, you started going over to his house, simply telling him and his parents that you would explain it all later when it was over with. His parents didn’t like the idea of you staying the night with their son, but they soon came to realize that you quite literally only had the energy to go to their house, plus George calmed you down well, so they weren’t complaining. Since about the third time you stayed over at random, they’d basically been like a second set (or rather, a better set) of parents to you. You’d eat meals with them and they’d congratulate you on your grades and they’d make sure to pick up snacks you like at the store so George can give them to you in school as a little pick-me-up. You practically never stop thanking them, even though you know they’ll probably act like your parents did once they eventually find out that you’re transgender.

You’re knocking on their door, mid-thought and glassy eyed, before you even know it, so used to the routine. The door opens mere moment later and George is looking back at you, wearing his usual outfit of a worn out t-shirt with some fuzzy pajama pants.

“(Y/N)! Come in, it’s gotta be cold outside! We were just cleaning up dinner, would you like anything?”

You can only bring yourself to respond with a shake of the head. He immediately sees that something is wrong. You’ve had this look in your eyes for far too long and he doesn’t like it. He likes his (Y/N). His (Y/N) with the dorky but captivating smile and eyes that shine brighter than all the stars combined when they talk about things they admire, like music or him.

“...My room?” You nod. “Mom! Pop!—sorry (Y/N),” he whispers to you before continuing, “—(Y/B/N) is over! We’re gonna go up to my room!”

“Alright Georgie, but no funny business okay?” His mom always joked about that, but knew nothing would happen. You could hear it clear as day in her voice. George laughs at her and convinces you to let him carry your bag even though it’s small. You walk up the stairs to his room and upon entering, you collapse onto the carpet, a blubbering mess. He sets your bag down and sits down next to you, wrapping an arm around you.

“Hey hey hey, what happened? Your parents again?” He rubs your shoulder supportively, pulling you to his chest.

“I came out,” you barely manage to say before you knot a hand in his shirt, letting out a sob.

“Wh- oh, (Y/N)... they didn’t touch you, did they? I swear to god, if they did I—” You quickly shake your head and start pulling at his shirt, telling him to stop. “Okay, good…” He goes silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. “I’m sorry that they’re like that… You’re always welcome here, whenever they pull anything like that again.”

“Thank you s-so much, George… You have no idea how much it means to me.” You wrap your arms around him and begin crying on his shoulder. He doesn’t mind, he simply rubs your back and lets you cry it out, whispering to you that it’s okay. “We should tell my parents about this, though. They’re really confused about why you’ve been coming over so much lately.” He looks down at you, searching for approval in any form, but only finds more tears and what he can only guess is a held back scream of no.

“Please, no. No, they’ll never let me over here again because I’m… I… I’m me…” You look down at the ground, wiping your eyes with your sleeves.

“(Y/N), you know they’ll accept you. My parents aren’t like yours, they’ll still love you and support you just the same. They might have a few questions, but other than that, it’ll be like nothing changed.” You still shake your head, fearing that they would never let you near the house, or let you see George, again. You were more worried about not seeing George because he was your rock and whenever something happened, he was there and you couldn’t lose that.

“...Can I just stand there and you tell them? ‘Cause I don’t think I’ll really be able to talk. You know how I-”

“Lock up when you get nervous? Of course I do. Look, if I can order your lunches at school for you, I can come out to my parents for you, okay?” He presses a kiss to your temple and helps you stand, beginning to lead you downstairs.

“If I lose my only safe haven because of you, I will never forgive you.”

“You won’t, now stop it.” He walks downstairs, smiling at his parents, who are there waiting.

“We heard crying… Do you mind if we ask what’s wrong, (Y/B/N)?” At his mom’s use of your birth name, you cringe and look down, then at George.

“...No, um… Mom, Dad, he doesn’t like being called (Y/B/N)... his name is (Y/N) and he’s transgender and can confirm that he’s deathly afraid you’ll hate him for it.” George forces all of that out in one breath. His parents are silent for a good fifteen seconds before you can’t control your quivering lip or tears any longer. You put your hand over your mouth to muffle the sobs and catch the tears falling over the previously dried ones. You couldn’t believe it, but you had practically trained yourself to accept that even the ones that say they love you and care about you can be changed by the tiniest of things.

“...(Y/N)? It’s kind of a weird name, but I like it. It’ll take some getting used to, but hey, we’ll try our best.” Mrs. Washington says, smiling at you, pulling you into a soft hug with teary eyes as well. “Right honey?”

“Of course. You’re welcome to come over anytime you need it. There’s always leftovers in the fridge and you know where we keep the soda, so you and Georgie can study and, well… I don’t know, what do teens do these days?” His dad laughs and clears his throat before continuing. “Anyway, we’re not going to push you away or bully you or be pricks because you’re different than us or we don’t quite understand all of this yet.”

“I have an idea,” George says, smiling over at you while you’re still being smothered by his mom. “How about we go to the diner down the street in a bit after (Y/N) gets cleaned up and cheered up, and we get some dessert with him?”

“I think that’s a great idea, son. Now, Mary, stop suffocating the boy, we have to get the dishes done and give them some time.” Mr. Washington puts his arm out, practically pulling his wife off of you.

“Oh, ha, yeah, right. Georgie, please bring him upstairs and just hang out until we’re ready to go.” She smiles at her son who slides his hand into yours, nodding. He leads you back up the stairs and notices that you’re grinning from ear to ear, tears still falling, but the tone of the tears has changed.

“...They… accepted me… George, your parents accepted me! Automatically! Straight up! Oh my god!” You pull him down into a tight hug, pushing your head into his neck.

“Well, of course they did. My parents aren’t as bad as their shitty puns suggest, (Y/N),” he jokes, rolling his eyes. You snicker and look up into his eyes, the joy of the situation reflecting back at you. You two get closer and closer without realizing it, but before you have the chance to meet in the middle, George’s mom calls for him from the kitchen. You flush red and pull back, sparing him one last glance before going into his room to change into some more comfortable, not tear-soaked clothing. You smile in his mirror, feeling much more refreshed, looking at yourself from pretty much all angles before he returns.

“C’mon, time to… You look incredible, (Y/N).” He smiles at you and walks over to you, standing next to you, checking himself out in the mirror as well. “I gotta say, you look about five times as good as me.”

“Ah yes, the pure neighbor-magnets that are my old sweatpants and t-shirt. Real sexy, huh?” You laugh and tug at your worn t-shirt that you’d had for a good few years now.

“Extremely. Alright, not sexy, per se, but rather cute.” He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him until you two were pressed together. Now he’s either just really teasing or he’s actually genuinely ignorant for not realizing what he was doing. You roll your eyes, figuring it was the first, and lean up to plant a small kiss to his lips. He looks down at you after with wide eyes filled with adoration, wonder, and the literal embodiment of fucking finally.

“We have dessert to eat. We can do this later.” You take his hand and pull him down the stairs, smiling at his parents.

“Let’s go, kids,” Mrs. Washington declared with a smile.

“To the diner!”

You, from that moment on, ended up going there as soon as you got off the bus, only grabbing a drink from your house, then going over to your home. Where you belonged and where you were loved and where you were kissed while homework was supposed to be being done and where the dinners were always home cooked with love and most of the spice cabinet (not that you minded much).

It was nice to have a place to call home for once. Even better to call it home with those who made that house a home.

[tigerlilynoh]

J&F DS: Aftermath - Words & the Power Behind Them

Word count: 1,349 Spoiler warning: Spoilers if you haven’t read Job & Family. Trigger warning: Homophobic & racial slurs 

6/3/2010

“I don't understand how you can eat so much.”  Jeremy comment while shaking his head.

“I have a great metabolism.  It's one of the only good things my dad gave me.”  Dean placed the bag of to go boxes on top of the impala and turned back to Jeremy.

“I'll bet your rugged good looks came from him too.”  Jeremy wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, inviting a kiss.

“Please, I'm pretty.”  Dean corrected with a little grin.

“Not just pretty.  You're dangerously sweet.”  Jeremy kissed Dean.

“Get out of here, fags!”  Someone shouted from a ways off.

There was a group of three men standing on the other end of the restaurant’s parking lot staring at them.  When Dean & Jeremy looked over at them the men stood a little taller, welcoming conflict.  Jeremy stopped hugging Dean, putting a bit of space between them, though he subtly took Dean's hand.

“You're disgusting!”  One of the men yelled.

“Come on, let's go.”  Jeremy whispered to Dean.  “Dean, I know you're upset, but please.”

Dean could hear the suppressed fear in Jeremy's voice.  He nodded without taking his eyes off the group, then squeezed Jeremy's hand in reassurance.  Jeremy started moving around the impala to climb into the passenger side while Dean started to put the leftovers in the car.

“Yeah, run you chink faggot!”

Dean froze.  He clenched his fists.  He couldn't think straight.  He wanted to leave it alone, but they kept pushing and the way they were intimidating Jeremy was just too much.  He could hear their footsteps coming up behind him.  When he turned around he saw that the leader was only a few feet away.

“You got something you want to say?”  The leader goaded Dean.

“No, we're-”  Jeremy started to answer for Dean, but the leader pointed at Jeremy.

“Shut the fuck-”  

Dean punched the leader in the face before he could finish threatening Jeremy.  The bigot’s nose cracked loudly on impact and blood began pouring down his face.  

Dean had a momentary feeling of panic at the realization that Jeremy didn't know he could fight.  Before he could figure out whether to pretend to be bad at fighting or how to explain being good at it, the leader charged at him, tackling him to the ground.  The leader punched Dean twice in the side of his torso before Dean could land a hit on the guy’s face.

One of the other men circled around the car after Jeremy.  Dean kneed the leader, then threw him back into the other flunky and scrambled around the car.  He grabbed the guy from behind before he could attack Jeremy.  The bigot elbowed Dean in the stomach, making him buckle, but Dean didn't let go of him.  While Dean held his arms, Jeremy kneed the attacker in the crotch.  Dean delivered another quick hit before they hastily got in the car and left before the three men could recover.

“Sit down on the couch.”  Jeremy instructed when they entered his apartment.  “Don't lay down though.  I don't want you passing out.”

“I'm not gonna pass out.”  Dean assured as he sat down.

“You might have a concussion.”  Jeremy started making a bag of ice wrapped in a dishcloth, then handed it to Dean before hurrying to the bathroom to get the first aid kit.  “You sure I can't take you to the hospital?”

“I don't need a doctor.”

“If you're worried about the bill, I can-”  Jeremy said as he sat down on the couch next to Dean.

“J, please,”  Dean took his hand.  “It's okay.  I'm fine.”

Jeremy silently stared at Dean for a few seconds before he began cleaning the scrape from the asphalt on Dean's upper back.  The fight had obviously been upsetting for Jeremy- he hadn't said anything on the drive back to his apartment.  Dean wasn't sure what to say.  He'd never been in a situation like that.  The whole thing was fucked up, but seeing someone he cared about so hurt & frightened by those slurs- Dean could feel his guilt flare at the memory of the things he'd said to & about Dee.  The thought made him regret not beating those bigots even more.

“You can't fight them.”  Jeremy finally said in little more than a whisper.

“I think I just did.”

“That's not funny.”  Jeremy stopped what he was doing, put down the gauze, and looked at Dean with a very serious expression on his face.  “I need you to listen to me.  You're new to this, so I don't expect you to get it right away, but that wasn't just a scuffle.  People like that kill us.”

“He called you-”

“I know you were trying to stand up for me, but I don't want you risking your life over some words.”  Jeremy took Dean's hand in his.  “I need you to hear me, really hear me, okay?  We don't get to have a relationship like straight people get.  Seven years ago we could get arrested- hell, Kansas hasn't even taken its anti-sodomy law off the books- People like us get murdered everyday and nobody cares- and people like them know it.”

“What do you expect me to do?”  Dean asked, still trying to process what he'd just heard.

“Just ignore them and we'll leave.”

“But they’ll walk all over you.”

“This is my life- my whole life people like that have been there.  My friends have been beat up.  I've been beat up.  You just got beat up.”  Jeremy's shoulders slumped and he looked at his lap instead of meeting Dean's eyes.  “I don't want you getting hurt.  I don't want to be up at night worrying that you're out there and it went too far.”

Dean kissed Jeremy softly.  He could taste tears.

He had been facing danger for his entire life and in a lot of ways violence had stopped frightening him long ago- but this was different.  Not only did he have more people who cared for him, the threats were new.  These weren't werewolves or ghosts, they were humans.  They had human motives and human means.  There wasn't any doubt in his mind that he could take one or two guys in a brawl without trouble, but humans had guns- humans had systemic forms of persecution that Jeremy had suffered through his whole life.  If the cops had shown up during the fight, what were the odds that the cops would side with the bigots?

“I'll be more careful, I promise.”

“You better be.”  Jeremy squeezed his hand, then looked down bashfully.  “I think I might be in love with you.”

Dean stared at him completely dumbstruck.  He'd only ever been in an emotionally invested relationship with Cassie and that'd just lasted a few weeks.  He'd told her that he loved her, but that relationship had been simple- young & naive.  After Cassie, he'd largely given up on substantive relationships, until Jeremy.  For months Dean had avoided trying to label & quantify any aspect of their relationship- it’d taken five weeks of them seeing each other almost every day before Dean had seriously considered whether they were dating.  Regardless of how much Jeremy meant to Dean, the talk of love was a huge step of vulnerability.

“J, I… it's hard for me to let people get close- I'm used to getting hurt.”

“Are you…”  Jeremy let go of Dean's hands.  “is this not going anywhere?”

“No, god no.  That's not-”  Dean hastily corrected.  “I just… I don't know when I'll be ready for… more, but thinking about this ending- that's the last thing I want.”

“I'm not pushing- I'm really not.”  Jeremy was always careful to make sure that Dean wasn't feeling pressured to move their physical relationship to the next level.

“I know, it means a lot to me.”

“If you don't love me-”  Dean pulled him into a long kiss, then rested his forehead against Jeremy's.

“I want you and I want this- I know it's dangerous, but I'm happy when I'm with you- and I want to be safe.  I don't want you to be scared.”