#20 minutes of day less than three weeks ago

[pumpking64]

oh these scandinavian summers, with their endless light that doesn’t even leave the sky during the gentle night — at the same time exhausting yet filled with hope and comfort

[peridots-pixiwolf]

yknow I play a lot of hard games but usually not "took 73 days to beat" hard

[endlessthxxghts]

Biology

“Uncle”!Joel Miller x afab!reader | w/c: 5.4k

Summary: Joel hurt his back at work, so you've been helping him around the house until he heals.

Content/Warnings: able-bodied, female sex anatomy, and inherently fem!reader. No description of reader, everything is neutral (ex. “your bottoms,” “the curve of you” — nothing is specific in the way “you” are described). Age gap (reader early 20s, Joel in 50s). EXPLICIT MATERIAL PRESENT. HEED THE WARNINGS. WEIRD boundaries are crossed…you're not blood-related to Joel, but you were raised like you were. You call him “uncle.” Pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, etc.). Pussy pronouns (she). Innocent touches until it isn't. Sexual tension galore. Slight dub-con. Icky Joel. Icky reader. Pussy grinding. Dirty talk. Slight degradation (“bitch” is used only once). Multiple orgasms. P in V unprotected. Reader is on top. Lots of teasing about the nature of yours and Joel’s relationship. If there’s anything that should be up here but I missed or I made any improper tags, please let me know!

A/N: Hi, my loves! This is slightly different than what you’re used to coming from me… All I can say is, you’ve read the warnings! Don’t bite if it is not your flavor! But for those who do like, I really hope you enjoy! And to my love @strang3lov3, thank you for prompting this and encouraging this side of my brain to finally stop hiding in the shadows. And thank you for your eyes on this and the mood board as well. I love you.🩶

masterlist | notifs blog

“Hey, hon, when you headin’ over to uncle Joel’s?”

You glance at the timer on the oven. “In about ten minutes after these cookies cool. Need something from me?”

“Can ya grab my toolbox before ya leave? Forgot it there the other day,” he replies. “Figured you could get it since you’re already goin’ there today.”

“Sure thing. It’s not the heavy one, is it? Because I don’t know if that old man’s back is ready for a heavy lift like that yet.” The timer on the oven beeps. You slide on your oven mitts to pull the tray out. “Made two batches by the way. How many you want? I’m taking some to Uncle’s, too.” 

About a week ago, Joel had a contracting accident. Some newbie wasn’t watching the older man’s back as Joel climbed up a wobbly ladder, and the next moment, Joel’s footing slipped. He landed right on his lower back, a piece of wood perched on the ground, sitting at just the right spot on the floor to render him immobile. Tommy, Joel’s younger brother, and your father, his best friend since before you were born, are the only two Joel trusts to get the job done perfectly, so Joel put them two in charge until he heals. 

Bed rest, the doctor had ordered Joel, for at least three weeks. It’s been one so far, but with you offering to be his nurse — one that forces him to stay in bed unless he needs to eat or use the restroom — he thinks he just might be back to work by next week. If you’ll let him, that is. 

“No, it’s the small one, hon, you got it,” your father reassures you. He lovingly slaps his growing belly as the trays hit the kitchen counter. “Y’know, darlin’, ever since you moved back, I’ve been gainin’ some weight. Can’t imagine what you’re doin’ t’ Joel over there.”

Your lip pulls up in a smirk. “Joel is in good hands, y’know. And technically, I don’t have to leave you any,” you say with a challenging brow, pulling the cookie trays out of his reach. 

“No, no, I’m not sayin’ that,” your father’s eyebrows raise in worry. His daily cookie is very important to him. “You can leave me like… five… or six.” 

“I’m just gonna leave you a whole batch. The six are gonna be gone before I even leave the house,” you tell your father as his hand subconsciously reaches for the cookie tray. 

He scoffs, “Ya have no faith in me.”

“So what’s in your hand already?”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, walking away with a mouthful of warm cookie dough and melted milk chocolate chips. 

“Uh huh,” you yell back. “Gonna be leaving in just a sec. I’ll see you later.”

It takes less than ten minutes to get to your uncle’s house. You unlock the door using the spare key he gave you as a teenager, and immediately, nurse mode is activated. 

“Uncle Joel!” You yell, exasperated. He turns around from his place in the kitchen, painfully slow. He’s going to make his back worse. “What do you think you’re doing?” You place the fresh cookies on his dining table along with your keys. You cross your arms angrily for good measure. 

“My coffee’s cold. I was warmin’ it up,” he huffs, annoyed.

“Bed, please.” Your hands find his waist, and you guide him back to his room. “You know I’m here around this time. You didn’t wanna call me first to see where I was?”

You ease him in a sitting position at the edge of his bed. He grunts as his ass meets the mattress. He grumbles his response. “Need to start gettin’ back to everythin’ independently, y’know that, don’tcha?”

“Is your memory going with your back, too, unc?” 

“‘Scuse me?” He looks at you incredulously. 

“Three weeks were the doctor’s orders. Not one,” you tell him, putting your foot down. 

He lays himself down with another wince at the motion, no acknowledgement to your words. God, he’s so stubborn. 

“I’ll go make you a fresh cup,” you tell him, feeling sympathetic for the man. His work is his life, and it’s not going to get any easier with age. 

Making your way back to his kitchen, you wash out the coffee pitcher, replace the grounds and the filter, and do some light cleaning as you wait for the bitter, brown liquid to brew. 

It’s only been five minutes since you returned to the kitchen, and the painful moans and groans from his bedroom have only gotten louder. You search around the place and find the heat pack you bought a few days ago and pop it in the microwave. You grab some pain meds, fill up a glass of water, and just in time, the microwave sings to you, telling you your contents are ready. 

Ignoring the coffee for a moment, you make your way back to Joel’s bedroom. His eyes are closed, but his entire body is tensed up in pain. Poor guy. You knock at his door to catch his attention before entering. “Unc?”

One eye peels open. “Yes, nurse?”

“Funny.” A sarcastic laugh leaves your throat. “Come take these.”

He makes no move to get up. 

You set the painkillers and the water on his bedside table, the heat pack wedged underneath your armpit. You start to reach for Joel to help him up, but he stops you. “I got it,” he grunts. You let him have this win. 

You hand him the glass of water first, then the pills. He swallows the painkillers in one big gulp, swallowing down the rest of the water in another. He eyes the heat pack in your arm. 

“Do you want-”

“Yes,” he says immediately, reaching for the soft warmth. 

“Lay down first, I’ll put it underneath you.”

Without another word, he positions himself. His body jerks when your soft hand slips underneath his back, pushing him to lift a little while you slide the heat underneath. “This okay?”

“Mhm,” he forces out, eyes clamped shut. It’s not okay, you think. 

“How would you feel on your stomach?” you suggest. 

“Dunno. Never tried.”

“Well, then.” You set the heat pack down, and it’s your turn to crawl, uninvited, into his bed. You walk on your knees towards the opposite, unoccupied side, adjusting the pillows in a way you think might be the most comfortable. This isn’t your first rodeo dealing with an old man’s back; you’ve got your dad. This is, however, your first rodeo dealing with an old man more stubborn than a screaming goat not getting his way. “Come on.”

“No.” 

“What do you mean no?” 

“That ain’t gonna be comfortable.”

“How do you know?”

“I jus’ do.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. “I swear to God. I will flip your ass over myself if I have to.”

“You’re bossy,” he spits.

“So you’ve said.” 

Not giving him a chance to prepare, you hook your one hand at his side and your other on his hip, and you pull him towards you. It doesn’t fully flip him over, but it does the trick in getting him to finish the rest of the action himself — albeit, with a very strained yelp from the back of his throat. 

He groans for a few minutes more as you adjust some flat pillows underneath his belly and then prop the lukewarm heating back right at the base of his spine. You’ll probably have to heat it up in ten minutes again, but it’ll do for now. You stay in your spot for a minute, and already his pained noises begin to subside. 

“Better?” You know it is. You just want him to admit it. 

And when a single huff with zero protests from the grumpy man reverberates around the room, you know you’ve won this round. 

“I’ll go get your coffee now,” you hum. 

A soft rasp of your name has you spinning back around as you reach the room’s threshold. 

“Hm?”

“Thanks,” he tells you. 

“It’s what I’m here for, unc.”

You put his fresh cup of coffee in a thermos this time. You can’t imagine how often he’ll get up being in this position, but at least the freshness will be there with every sip he does end up taking. 

“How’s it going?” You ask him as you set his coffee nearby. You feel the heat pack on his spine, and it’s as you called it to be by now: room temperature. “Want me to reheat it?” 

“‘M okay,” he replies, voice groggy. He must’ve fallen asleep. 

“Okay.” You stand there for a moment. You can tell the heat helped, but his body isn’t entirely relaxed. He’s still tense, as if a nerve or something is being pinched. 

You recall your memory from a while ago before you moved back with your dad. Your brother, who is a mixed martial arts athlete, had a sparring session that hurt his back, nearly in the same area as Joel. He had you running his massage gun over his muscles nearly every night for a month straight. “It needs to uncoil somehow,” he told you. An idea crosses your mind then. 

You saunter to Joel’s en suite bathroom in search of some type of lubricant. Sitting loud and proud on the center of the bathroom counter is a little bottle of Equate’s Personal Liquid Lubricant. Your brain falters for a second, the bottle of lube throwing you off your original plan. That is absolutely not the kind of lubricant you were looking for. Shaking away the image from your mind, you bend down to look in the cabinets underneath. Bingo, a bottle of Aveeno body lotion. This should do. 

You invite yourself onto his bed for the second time today. “Let me give you a massage.”

“What?” His head turns to you now, utterly confused. He definitely heard you wrong, he thinks. 

“Let me give you a massage,” you repeat. “It’ll help.”

A massage actually does sound nice right now. But you’ve been nothing but bossy this last week while Joel lays here helplessly. He’s bored. And he’s had enough. “It ain’t gonna help.”

“How do you know?”

“I jus’ do.”

Jesus. Haven’t you had this conversation before? You mentally slap your forehead. Again, leaving him no other options, you reach for his flannel atop his shoulders and begin to pull them down. 

“Hey, hey, wait, now what in the hell-” He tries to stifle back a laugh as he wriggles in your hold, trying to playfully push you off without hurting himself more in the process. 

You quickly release his clothes, hands up in surrender where he can see them. You’re just realizing now just how forward your action must’ve been. “How am I gonna massage you-” 

The embarrassment written all over your face has Joel tearing up as he tries to hold his wheezing laugh in. With his eyebrow quirked at you, he responds, “If you wanted me naked, kiddo-”

“Jesus, ew! Really?” An unbearable heat spreads across your cheeks. Your eyes are downcast, looking everywhere else but him. “It- it’ll be better if I can directly touch-”

Only then do you feel the bed shaking with his laughter. He’s fucking with you. And here you were, about to offer something that would relieve a whole lot of pain. “Oh, fuck you,” you scoff, pulling yourself up and making your way off of his bed. 

“No, okay, wait,” he laughs, trying to catch his breath. “Jus’ messin’ with you, who am I to deny a massage?” He raises his eyebrows once, twice. Still messing with you, seeing how far his taunting with you can go. 

“You’re disgusting,” you deadpan. 

“‘M not the one tryin’ t’ massage her uncle,” Joel says as he attempts to shrug his shoulders at you.

“I’m gonna leave now.” One foot makes it to the ground before Joel speaks again. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, ya can’t take a joke? I’m only messin’ around. Come back. Gonna leave me hangin’? In pain? C’mon, nurse.” His tone falls softer, sweeter. You can hear the shit-eating grin in his words. And, fuck, why is it making you heat even further, in places beyond your face? In places you shouldn’t be?

“Fine,” you relent. “Stop saying weird shit then.” You still can’t look at him. Not after the way your body decided to react in the shift of energy. An abrupt shift of energy, as far as you can tell. 

He’s your dad’s best friend. Your uncle, for crying out loud. Not by blood, but still. There’s never been a feeling beyond that. Sure, you’ve had your silly little school girl crush on him during your young teenage years, but that was your hormones being your hormones. You grew out of them. Even your own father can’t deny the conventional attractiveness of his best friend. 

Plus, suggestive commentary is bound to make anyone feel hot. It’s basic biology. Your response is nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. At least, that’s what you convince yourself of when you climb back into your uncle’s— no, into Joel’s bed, trying to ignore the way your panties stick dutifully against your throbbing core.

Joel leans onto his side as you get yourself situated, unbuttoning the bottom half of his flannel, so you can flip up the bottom to reach his lower back. After the bottom half of the buttons are undone, he lays back on his front. “Here,” he calls your name. “Jus’ lift it up from the bottom.”

You scoot closer to him, standing on your knees, and you reach over to grab the hem of his flannel, pulling it up as gently as possible, exposing just enough to be able to reach the irritated areas. You frown at what you see. Inflamed skin, purples and yellows dancing all across his lower back, forcing him away from the very thing he lives for. He may have been a stubborn bitch this entire week, but that doesn’t stop the sympathy you feel for the man. 

You put some of the lotion in your hand, rubbing it between your two palms to warm it up a little. You place your hand on the side closest to you first, moving in circular motions and adjusting your pressure ever so often. “Let me know when the pressure is good.”

So far he hasn’t said much, a slight groan here, an exhale there. You feel a knot as you move lower, so you increase your pressure. You’re met with a literal moan, and you swear you have to bite back your own vocal response. “Fuck,” he sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah, jus’ like that, ‘s perfect, darlin’.” 

“Okay,” you squeak, your thighs clenching together to attempt any kind of relief to the heat between your legs. 

After a few more passes over the area — and a few more indulgent, harder presses of your palm to pull more angelic sounds from him — you switch to the other side. Except, at this angle, you don’t really have as good an angle as you did before. Your leg swings over his ass, bracketing him in between your thighs, before you can even register the move your body just made. A soft gasp falls from your lips as you feel the new angle you’ve just given yourself. 

“Joel?” You call sweetly. Innocently.”I- I’m not hurting you or anything, am I?”

Hurting? No. Putting him through Hell? Close enough. 

Joel has done many questionable things in his lifetime. Getting involved with taken (married or otherwise) women, couples who wanted a third… Joel has lived through it all. Mainly in his younger years, but nevertheless. He has done and seen many things. But none of these things have ever included getting a fucking hard on for a girl — a woman? — he practically had a hand in raising. You call him uncle, for crying out loud. 

His physical response means nothing. It’s basic biology. The tender yet skilled touch of your warm hands directly against his even hotter skin, lighting every single nerve ending on fire, forcing the blood to course through his veins, to make its way down south— 

“Christ-” he snarls as you practically sit on him. His mouth shuts instantly as his eyes shoot open. He didn’t mean for that to come out. “Y-yeah,” he corrects. “‘M alright.” 

“Just- just let me know,” you tell him. He can hear the shake in your voice. He can tell biology is doing a number on you, too, based on your tone alone, if the heat engulfing his rear as you try your best not to make contact with it isn’t enough to go by. 

He focuses on his breathing as best he can as your hands push slightly past his jeans, getting underneath the seam of his boxers, and then immediately softening your touch as you run your fingers up his spine, awaking a chill he never knew was possible until now. You rub beyond the exposed area of his lower back, reaching his shoulder blades and entirely up to his shoulders, forcing the flannel to rise with your hands. He’s so broad and warm, and you would absolutely be drooling all over him by now if you weren’t so shocked at how tight his muscles really feel. How has this man not gotten any injuries sooner? How was he still doing all this heavy lifting? You dig the pads of your finger tips further into the thousands of tiny knots you feel, and his body jerks in actual pain this time. 

“God damn, girl,” he snaps. “What are you doin’?” 

“How the fuck do you even function?” You sound genuinely horrified. 

“What-”

“Your shoulders and neck are fucking covered in knots how do you even-” you cut yourself off with a disappointed click of your tongue. “You need to flip over.” 

Fuck. 

“Why?” He asks defensively. 

“I’m gonna break these knots. I need to start from the front.” 

“Ya ain’t gettin’ anywhere near my neck, I swear to God-”

“Quit being stubborn. What did I say earlier? I’m gonna flip you myself if you don’t-”

“Alright, fine, gimme a sec,” he bites. Joel takes a deep breath, at war with himself for how he’s going to handle his next course of action. 

Whatever happens next, there is no avoiding the fact that you will be made aware of the bulging erection between his legs. You can know about it, that’s fine, but the second you make contact, he doesn’t know if he’ll have the strength to control himself. Which is why he rips off the band aid quick. Flipping himself over with you still hovering over him, he tries his best not to touch you. Though, the second he’s comfortable, his focus is on your waist, grabbing you immediately and missing the way your eyes widen at the tenting fabric of his jeans. He pulls you higher up to sit on his lower tummy. 

You squeak out a little gasp as he adjusts you, and fuck it makes the pulsing between his legs even worse. He releases you, bringing his hands back to his sides. 

“Comfortable?” you whisper. You try so hard not to use your voice, worried that it’ll reveal just how turned on you are by this situation you’ve put yourself in. He gives you a single nod, and with that, you lean to grab more lotion. 

The angle you are at forces you to lean the front of your body onto Joel to be able to reach his shoulders. You can feel his body tense underneath you; you can hear his labored breathing as your hands further push away his flannel, working away at each knot. 

You lean forward further, giving yourself the ability to reach just below Joel’s neck. With this action, your hips shift, pressing down against Joel’s belly in a way that sends a sudden jolt of butterflies through your core. Your hands freeze in their movement, breath and fingertips stuttering as your entire face and neck heat up. You sneak a quick glance to Joel, and his eyes are still relaxed. He didn’t notice. 

It takes you a moment to start your movements back up again, but when you do, you can’t help the way you repeat exactly what you did before — allowing yourself another experimental roll of your hips against his soft abdomen. Only this time, you’re way less sly, for the whimper of pleasure you thought you could hide slips right out, right for his sharp ears to take note of. Shit. 

“Y’ alright there?” His eyes are trained on you now; he knows what you just did. Joel sports a quirked eyebrow as he waits for your response. 

“Mhm,” you rush out, ignoring his piercing gaze. 

It takes every ounce of willpower for you to run over the knots in his shoulder again without driving your hips into him, but even the push and pull of your arms is a full body movement, and you feel it. You feel the growing wetness in your core, the growing heartbeat that his bare tummy no doubt can feel now. 

Your body is splayed across him, the warmth of you leaking through your bottoms and onto his hot skin as you pathetically try to play off the fact that you aren’t grinding your wet cunt across him right now. With a rasp of your name, he takes a sharp breath in. “What are ya doin’?” He grunts, pained. Conflicted. 

This is so wrong. But it feels so good. Your arousal — how utterly desperate you are for the older man underneath you — is shone all over your face, brighter than any other feeling of disgust or wrongness you’re trying to convince yourself of. But the internal battle is still there, though, and it forces your hips to come to a full stop. It forces cries of apologies from your lips. It forces regret. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you choke back a sob. “Please, I- this is so wrong, I’m so stupid, uncle, I-” 

God damn it. Joel is too damn hard to deal with this shit now. “Oh, Jesus Christ, will you cut the fuckin’ uncle bullshit?” He finally snaps. His hands spring to life, finding their way up your thighs, tightening once they reach your hips. He forces you to move again. “Ya think I wanna hear that fuckin’ word while you fuckin’ soak me? Huh? While ya rub on me like a fuckin’ bitch in heat?”

“Shit,” you moan, the strength of his hand making the assault against your mound all the more intense. “Joel, please,” you cry, your fingers shaking as you hold onto his chest. 

Your thighs begin to tremble as he maintains a rough pace to your movements, his bed creaking with every shove of your hips against him. His grip on you is one of steel, the pads of his fingers digging into your flesh, no doubt leaving tiny bruises as a reminder of today’s actions. 

He is fucking covered in you — the slick of your desire pooling through your bottoms and into his skin, making each grind smoother. He licks his lips at this, his eyes dark as he drinks you in from above; your own eyes glossy and a sheen of sweat along your skin. “Look at ya, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low enough to send a fresh wave of arousal pouring from your hole. “Fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby. Needed me that bad, did ya? Was tryin’ t’ tell ya earlier,” he grunts, “Y’know ya just had to ask.” A lazy smirk pulls across his lip. 

You let out a whimper at his words, your hips finally rolling alongside his own guidance, instinctively searching for more friction. “Atta girl,” he groans, “That’s it, fuck- makin’ a fuckin’ mess a’ me, darlin’.” 

You’re panting now, the rhythm and pressure mixed with the filth of his Southern drawl ignites every single nerve ending throughout your body. He watches you with a dark intensity, the brown of his eyes replaced with pure black lust, his eyes unable to stray away from the pleasurable desperation filling your features. 

“Gonna come like this, sweetheart?” He taunts, driving you into him even harder. 

“Mmm- my God, yeah- yes,” you cry out, eyes rolling back as the coil in your belly finally tightens, your breathing ragged as needy moans escape your lips. 

With a final roll of your hips and the utterance of a that’s my girl, the coil finally snaps, pleasure crashing over you, coursing through your veins as you come all over him, your slick unable to stay within the limits of your clothes, leaking and dripping down the sides of him and onto the mattress below. Your thighs convulse around his waist, his hold on you continuing your thrusts, dragging out your orgasm until your own hands find his and rip him away from you.

“Ya ain’t done yet, sugar,” Joel gruffs, grabbing the globes of your ass cheeks and dragging you down, letting you feel his ignored and now raging erection. 

“Never said I was,” you purr, a soft moan blessing his ears at the feel of his bulge against your ass. He can feel your smirk against his chest. 

Body still trembling, Joel lifts your ass in the air, sliding your bottoms down over the curve of your body. The stickiness of your panties pulls off with a wet squelch, the cool air of the room mingling with the wet warmth of your bare pussy, the stark contrast forcing chills to run through your veins. 

“God,” he murmurs as you give a little wiggle of your ass in the air. “Pretty as a peach, huh, darlin’?” He guides you lower, pushing you down onto his bulge. The hardness of him beneath you immediately sends a fiery need to your core. Your hands move on their own as you pull your body up, reaching for the buttons and zipper of his jeans, undoing them with ease despite the eager shake of your hand. You pull the jeans down just enough to let his cock spring free, thick and angry and leaking. 

“Oh, fuck,” you swallow your gasp. “God, I need you so bad,” you whine, already lifting up to line the tip of him to your swollen cunt. 

You sink down with a breathless moan, your head flying back as your hands grip onto his tummy to keep you from buckling. 

Joel’s breathing stutters, his moans filling the air as you practically choke his cock. “Shit- so fuckin- fuckin’ tight.” His hands find their home on the meat of your ass, holding you tight, grounding himself from coming like a damn teenager.

You move slowly at first, savoring the way he feels inside of you, how big he is. God, you don’t think you’ve ever taken anything quite as long and as thick as him. Your heart skips a beat at that, knowing that he’s ruined you for anyone else. 

It isn’t long before the raw need takes over, and you move faster, hips rolling back and forth as you ride him, the wet sound of skin against skin as you alternate to a bounce ever so often. 

Despite the risk of hurting his back even more, he can’t stop himself from gripping you tighter, his nails digging into your flesh as his hips buck up into you, starting their own rhythm, meeting every one of your thrusts. The sensation is overwhelming with the size of him; it’s a perfect mix of pleasure and pain, mixing sweet whines of ecstasy with whines of overstimulation, and it’s the best music to have ever graced his ears. 

“Look at ya,” he grunts. “Fuckin’ made for this, weren’t ya? Fuckin’ made for takin’ this cock, huh, sweetheart?” 

You nod weakly at his words. They send a flutter down your belly to your pussy, and his mouth is all it takes to send you to your second brink of collapse — your heart beating rapidly in your chest as you move, as he drives himself into you without abandon. 

Every thrust pushes you further to the edge, the sting of the stretch, the sensation of being so full — it’s almost too much to bear. He can hear it in the way your cries change. It’s becoming too much. 

“Y’ can take it, sweetheart, almost there,” he grunts. His hands take over in guiding your movements, urging you faster, harder, bringing you both to the cliff’s edge. 

“C’mon, baby, can feel her squeezin’ me, know she wanna come, baby. Breathe, doll, jus’ let go,” he rasps, his words coming in staggered.

The wet tightness of your walls, both the feel and the sound, causes Joel to fall first — a low, guttural groan filling the room as he fills you with his hot, thick spend.

The sensation of him pulsing inside you, unloading everything he’s worth, sends you over your edge, your pussy clenching around his cock as you come, the sensation rippling through you, shredding your vocal cords as you scream out in pleasure. 

Everything goes dark for you, nothing but the fuzzy sound of Joel’s sweet praises at the top of your head as he guides you through your come down. 

“Did so fuckin’ good f’ me, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl.”

For an asshole, who knew he could be so sweet? 

You roll off of Joel as soon as your heart steadies, your entire body on fire from all the exertion. You can feel Joel’s body stiffen as you use him for support. His back is killing him right now.

A few moments pass as your eyes slowly start to close, but the deep gruff of your name stops you from dozing. 

You turn your head to the man beside you. “Yes?” 

For the first time today, it’s Joel who can’t make eye contact with you. “Can you, uh… can you-” he clears his throat, trying to rid himself of his awkwardness. “Can you warm up the heat pack again?” 

Your smirk lifts your cheek before you can even try to stop it. “Come again?” 

He lets out a frustrated huff. And he can’t turn away from you. His back is killing him right now. “My back-”

“Yeah, what about your back?” 

“You fuckin’ little shit-”

You giggle as you flip onto your side, your hand holding your head up to get a better look at him. “Your back is hurting, baby? Need me to get the heat pack for you, hm?” 

He doesn’t respond. He just has the deepest, most grumpiest scowl known to man on display. 

“Oh, come on. You need my help, is that it? Need to hear you say it, unc.” You emphasize the last syllable of your sentence, a belly laugh threatening to escape you. 

Oh, two can play at that game. “Yeah, baby, I need your help. I need the help from my beautiful, beautiful niece, hm? My beautiful, needy niece whose pussy gets all soaked jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout me, huh? Gets all wet and needy thinkin’ ‘bout her uncle-”

Your resolve finally snaps, your eyes clamping shut as you cover your ears, loud la la la’s coming from your mouth as you ungraciously roll yourself off of his bed. “Enough, fine! Fine! Fuckin’ nasty,” you groan as you make your way to the kitchen. 

“‘M not the one who started it, sweetheart,” Joel says, a triumphant smile plastered across his cocky face. 

“I made you cookies by the way,” you yell after a beat. “Want one?” 

Joel’s hand reaches for his belly. He doesn’t need one, that’s for sure. “Yeah,” he responds not a second later. 

You come back to his bedroom, heat pack in one hand, no cookie in the other. You hand him the heat pack. You make him adjust it himself. 

“Where’s the cookie?” He asks, a tinge of impatience on his tongue. 

“Oh, I thought you were gonna come down and get it.” 

He looks at you incredulously. 

“I just figured you wanted to start being more independent and all. Given how strenuous you were being a few moments ago,” you offer with a faux innocence.  

“I swear to fuckin’ God, when I get my hands on you-”

“Your hands on me? Yeah? When?” You start making your way out of his bedroom. “Come get me if you wanna show me a lesson. Know you been dying to all week.” 

If he can fuck you the way he did, maybe full-time bed rest isn’t what Joel needs. He needs to stretch and move around; he needs to activate his muscles, especially being on the older side. It really is basic biology.

I would absolutely love to hear what you guys thought of this! Any and all your love and commentary truly keeps me going and motivated even when the writer’s block is at its strongest. Wouldn’t be here without you all. I have so much love in my heart for you! Talk to y’all soon🩶

I cannot get myself to write for Joel or for TLOU without mentioning the horrors occurring in Palestine. Please check out the links in my navigation + bio to learn about the situation in Palestine and also learn about some ways in which you can help🇵🇸. Reading and interacting with those links takes 5 minutes of your time at the bare minimum.

Leaf divider by @saradika-graphics

[joelscruff]

feelings on fire (joel miller x f!reader) 18+ PART ONE

"trying to play it coy, trying to make it disappear"

⚠️ new series alert! ⚠️ and also my 1k follower celebration!!! (altho it might as well be the 2k celebration now considering how fast my following has grown. thank you ;-;) i polled my followers a little while ago to choose between 3 different fic premises and this one was the winner! it was originally meant to be a stand alone but i'm actually more interested in making it a brand new series, so i hope you guys enjoy! i'm not exactly sure how many parts this will be yet, i'll let you know when i do. title and lyrics are from 'bad liar' by selena gomez.

summary: you're back from college for the summer, staying with your devout catholic parents in your childhood home while they order you around and try to keep authority over you. as an act of rebellion you ask your new neighbor mr. miller to teach you how to play guitar, but it turns out there's a lot more he wants to teach you. (no outbreak, no use of y/n) rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact) warnings: (for this fic in general) age difference (reader is in her 20s, joel in his 50s), innocent/inexperienced reader, dirty old man joel, corruption (but it's consensual), praise kink, dirty talk, general smut, mentions of religion (reader's family are very catholic) -- (for this chapter) wet dreams, mentions of masturbation. word count: 5k ao3

The sun is warm and pleasant on your bare skin as you lay out in the freshly mown grass of your backyard, absorbing the heat and smiling languidly despite the humidity. You're grateful for your family's wealth on days like today, knowing that at any moment you could take a few steps and dive headfirst into the cool water of your pool, fresh and inviting. It's been about a month since you returned and you've spent almost every day outside among the green grass, the chlorinated water, the burning Texas sun. It's been heaven.

The backdoor suddenly swings open and your father's voice booms out into the backyard, "Family meeting," he states, loud and serious, "Five minutes."

Or hell.

With a groan you slowly sit up, hands digging into the thin towel laid out beneath you. You know better than to ignore an order like that. Being back from college for the summer has certainly had it's perks; no annoying roommates, no loud parties, a large backyard and pool to yourself, but having to deal with your parents again certainly isn't one of them. You'd thought coming back after three years might have softened them a bit, lowered their guard, made them less strict. Instead, it's almost had the opposite effect.

You slide into your flip flops and walk begrudgingly inside the house, making note of your mother standing anxiously by the stove with her arms crossed. What's the issue now? At least once a week your father calls these "family meetings", which always pertain to you and only you, seeing as you're their only child. Last week they'd spent half an hour berating you about forgetting to put the garbage out, the week before they'd tried to explain the importance of an early bed time to you, like you were seven.

You're a grown woman, a full fledged adult. Sure, you're only twenty one, you're unemployed, you're currently in the process of obtaining an arts degree that probably won't secure you anything tangible in the real world, but you're an adult nonetheless. You only have one year left of school before you can leave all this behind and start fresh somewhere else. You'd thought coming back home for one more summer would bring nostalgia and happiness, a few months of normality before life exploded in front of you.

Turns out your parents had pictured something different.

Your father gestures toward the kitchen table, urging for you to sit. You hate when they do this, make you feel small and childish while they both stand above you and reiterate rules they've had your whole life, rules that apparently you'll never grow out of. You wonder what rule you've broken now.

"We've noticed that you barely leave the house," your father begins, voice deep and authoritative, "We were under the impression that when you came home you'd be spending time with old friends, doing some volunteering again."

"Going to church," your mother adds beside him, a frown permanently etched on her face, "You've only gone twice since you've been here."

Call the cops, you think to yourself, forcibly holding back an eyeroll. Ironically your father is a police officer, and you highly doubt he'd ever come if you called.

"Instead, you just spend all your time in that backyard," he continues, nodding along with your mother, "We didn't invite you back to simply laze around all summer, there have been clear expectations you're not meeting."

You take a deep breath, feeling a hint of anger and stubbornness burning in the pit of your stomach. You shove it down, back to that secret hiding place you've cultivated throughout all these years of having to deal with them.

"I'm sorry, dad," you say, trying to sound as earnest as possible as you look to him and then your mother, "Sorry, mom."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, we need to see action," your father replies quickly, brow furrowed, "No more lounging around in the backyard on weekdays, that's a weekend activity from now on, we clear?"

You nod, "Clear."

"We want you to get involved in something," your mom takes a step forward, places her hand awkwardly on your shoulder, "Why don't you call Bethany? She's always looking for more helpers at Sunday School, or maybe Alice? I hear she's been volunteering at the soup kitchen for the summer."

You haven't spoken to either Bethany or Alice since you left for university three years ago. The thought of calling them, let alone having to work with them in either setting, makes you feel ill. You nod again, pretending to agree.

"That sounds good, I'll call them tomorrow morning," Both of your parents smile, appeased, "I think I'll go for a walk now, if that's okay. Clear my head, think about things I can do to improve."

"That's the spirit," your dad says, wrapping an arm around your mother, "Remember, be back before dinner or the door will be locked."

"I know," you nod, forcing a smile, "I won't forget."

--

Well, that's it, then. You'll have to leave.

It sounds dramatic to say that your parents telling you to get off your ass is enough to send you packing, but it goes so much deeper than that. You've spent your entire life doing everything these people say, nodding and smiling when you're meant to, apologizing for everything, doing anything you can to appease and impress them. You'd spent your high school years in youth choir, church group, organizing fundraisers, studying your ass off, tutoring, joining as many extracurriculars as possible until you had no free time. And even then, nothing ever seemed to be enough for them.

When you'd left for college they'd both cried at the airport, held you in their arms and told you with sincerity that they'd miss you so much. Your mother had kissed your face and held your hands and your father had hugged you for the first time since you were eleven years old. And because of their sudden burst of emotions, of affection, you'd actually missed them once you left. You remember you'd cried on the plane, scrolling through pictures of them on your phone until the battery died, thinking to yourself that maybe they weren't the horrible, authoritarian people you thought they were.

They called you once a week while you were at college, asking for updates, telling you they missed you, giving you neighborhood gossip that made you laugh and feel nostalgic for home. Being away from them, it was like they suddenly became two entirely new people, bonded together by their suddenly empty nest and seemingly trying to do right by you now, even if it felt a little too late. You'd thought about coming home a few times for a visit, but the memories that triggered the anger in the pit of your stomach kept you from doing so. You'd kept them at arm's length until you felt ready to come back.

And now you're back, and nothing has changed. They're the same people they always were, expecting too much of you, thinking they can control you, never quite believing that you're trying your best. You'd told them before you came that you just wanted to relax this summer, spend some time at home, maybe meet up with some old friends - keyword being maybe - and they'd seemed totally on board with the idea. There had been no mentions of keeping busy, no mentions of Sunday School or soup kitchens or rules. Then you'd arrived and realized how stupid you'd been to believe that they could ever change.

Your entire life you've been their perfect girl, their A+ student who volunteered and read bible verses and tutored the neighborhood kids, sacrificed your happiness more times than you can count for the sake of keeping them satisfied. But that's the thing: they're not satisfied, and they never will be.

Your flip flops smack against the concrete of your suburban street, sun beginning to set in the distance as you think about how exactly you're going to escape this hell. Yeah, you could just walk out the front door without a word, but it's not like you have anywhere to go or the money to do it. You have your plane ticket for your return flight back to school, but it's not 'til September and it's under your father's name. Your family might be wealthy but none of that wealth has ever gone directly into your pocket, and you doubt it ever will if you just bail on them in the middle of the night with no warning.

Your thoughts scatter when you hear someone call out your name nearby. Your head swivels and you see one of your neighbors, Mrs. Lillard, waving from her front porch. You wave back, give her a small smile.

"How's college treatin' ya?" she calls to you, taking a sip from a bottle of beer, "Got a boyfriend?"

Your cheeks warm immediately and shake your head, "Not yet!" you call back.

"I bet you're battin' 'em all away," her voice is slurred and you're sure that's probably not her first beer of the day, "Nobody's good enough for ya, huh?"

"I guess," you say awkwardly, continuing to walk and hoping she won't ask you to join her for a beer, "How's your husband?"

"Pain in my ass," she responds with a grunt and takes another swig, "Bet you can't wait to have your own white picket fence, perfect as you are."

Her words make you uncomfortable but you just give her your signature fake laugh and flip your hair, waving again, "Bye, Mrs. Lillard."

Your face falls as soon as you turn around, anger burning again. You've spent so much of your life being the picture perfect little suburban girl, doing everything your parents say, saying your prayers and reading to the elderly, killing yourself to get straight A's and only speaking when spoken to. Your reputation is widely known around the neighborhood; the sweet little girl, the pure and innocent God fearing angel. You've portrayed yourself as that girl for so long that you almost don't know which part of you is real anymore.

You keep walking down the street, eyeing the sunset as you go and wondering what would happen if you just didn't go back home tonight. As your father had said, he locks the door every night after dinner; you don't have a key, you've never had a key. You're only allowed into your house on the basis of trust and good merit. If you just refused to go back tonight, how would they react? The thought of doing something like that sends a warm flush of rebellion across your skin, eyes bright with intrigue. But where would you go?

You turn the corner and your nose is suddenly hit with the delectable scent of a barbecue, smokey and delicious. You slow a bit, closing your eyes and breathing in the warm air, stomach growling. You suddenly realize that if you don't go home tonight you'll also miss dinner. Another rule broken. You keep walking, trying to follow the scent like some kind of bloodhound. Maybe you know whoever's cooking and they'll invite you to eat with them.

A few houses down you start to hear the sound of music. There must be a party going on, a birthday or some other special occasion. It's only as you get closer to the sound that you realize it's not being played from a speaker or stereo, but from someone's front porch; a real guitar, live and acoustic.

You approach the house in question and see a man sitting on his front step, guitar in hand as he strums a steady tune. He's looking down, watching his fingers, monitoring his movements, but you see dark brown curls with hints of grey peppered throughout, a stubbled jaw line and curved nose. You slow your speed, furrowing your brow as you try to place him. You're not sure you've ever seen him before.

His music is calm and inviting, a plucky sounding tune that seems vaguely familiar. You're suddenly filled with intrigue, trying to place the song and slowing to a complete stop in front of the house without meaning to. You watch the man's callused fingers pick away at the strings, fast and professional, like he's been doing this for years. He probably has.

You're still trying to place the song, biting your lip and swiping through songs in your mind like an invisible rolodex. Johnny Cash? Bob Dylan? It sounds like one of those songs your parents would forbid you to listen to as a kid, the ones with devil worship in their lyrics, sung by bad men who didn't believe in God. You'd always questioned this logic, wondered how songs about living out in the country or falling in love could be inherently against your religion. They didn't even listen to it, just blindly told you it was against the rules.

Suddenly the man stops playing and you realize the song has come to an end. He looks up then, notices you standing there at the end of his walk with your furrowed brow and flip flops. His eyes are brown, expression startled at first but then fading into something softer as he gives you a small smile.

"Been there long?" he asks, voice crackling slightly, like he hasn't spoken much today.

You shake your head quickly, "I'm sorry, I heard you playing and I-"

"S'alright," he replies strumming his guitar absentmindedly and giving you a shrug, "I don't mind an audience."

He's southern, definitely a Texan, but you're sure you've never met him before. His face and voice are unfamiliar to you, but certainly not unwelcome. He's older, probably in his 40s or even 50s, but he's handsome and slightly boyish in a way despite his greying hair and freckled skin. He reminds you of one of those men on album covers your father had slammed down one day in the record store when you were nine, yelled at you in front of everyone that the men who made that music were filthy sinners. It hadn't stopped you from listening to them, though, curiosity getting the better of you.

Is that who you're looking at now? A filthy sinner?

"You okay?" he asks slowly, tilting his head. You realize you're just staring at him, gathering your thoughts.

You shake your head again quickly, feeling yourself blush under his gaze, "Sorry," you repeat, "I'm uh, I was just passing by and I heard you playing that song. It sounded really familiar."

He gives you a crooked smile and a nod, "Tangled Up in Blue, Bob Dylan."

"I knew it was Bob Dylan," you say, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. That song was from one of the albums you'd listened to in secret, one of the only times you'd had to delete your browser history. You feel pride swell in your chest at the smile you elicit from the man in response, like he's recognizing a fellow music lover.

"Good ear," he continues to lightly pluck at the strings of his guitar, "You play?"

"Um, not really." It's a half truth but mainly a lie, you've never played in your life. You feel slightly disappointed in yourself and you're not sure why; it's not like you've ever felt any kind of urge to learn, especially considering your parents would've made sure you only learned appropriate songs. When would you have even found the time between all your extracurriculars?

"Well, it ain't difficult," he starts playing the song again, slower this time, "Pretty repetitive chord progression, room for some adlibbin' here and there once you get the hang of it."

You nod like you understand what he's talking about, suddenly lost in the way his fingers pull at the strings, make the music come to life out of nothing. His hands are big, fingers long and thick as they curve back and forth, up and down. It's hypnotic to watch. He stops again and looks up, catches you staring.

"How old are you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You swallow, unsure what exactly the right answer is. Part of you wants to lie, tell him you're older than you actually are so he doesn't just see you as some bright eyed kid. This is the first person you've encountered since coming back who doesn't know who you are, doesn't know about your reputation. You could tell him anything, be anyone, and he'd take it at face value.

"I'm twenty five," you lie, but it sounds unnatural in your mouth.

He looks you up and down, eyes raking your body in a way you're unfamiliar with. Like a man. Like the way your roommates back in college get looked at, sensually and flirtatiously, being eyed up by drunk guys at the bar who only have one thing on their mind. You feel your heart begin to thrum quicker in your chest; is that really how this man is looking at you? This grown man, not a high school crush or a college fratboy, a real man?

"Sweetheart, we both know that's a lie," he says with a chuckle, eyes coming back to rest on your face, "I'd guess twenty."

You make a face, "I'm twenty one, actually."

He laughs again, putting his hands up in surrender, "My bad, twenty one."

You watch as he starts to strum once again, something new and unfamiliar. You listen for a few moments, eyes trained back on his fingers, watching him play.

"You wanna come in for a bit?" he asks, voice nonchalant, like he's asking you something completely casual.

And maybe he is, but the words make your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat. The way he'd looked at you just then, laughed at your words, wanted to know your age... now he's inviting you into his house? You've never actually been flirted with before, not when it mattered, and you're not entirely sure if that's what's happening. But it feels like it, even though you can't imagine how someone like him could see anything sexy about a girl like you.

"...Why?" you ask quietly.

He looks up at you with another smile, still plucking the strings, "If you need to ask then maybe I read you wrong," he chuckles again, eyes trailing down your legs and taking in your short dress, the way it stops at your knees, "Now that I really look at you, maybe I'm talkin' to a good Christian girl."

"You're not," you say it too quickly, "I mean, I'm not. I'm not a good Christian girl."

"No?" he smirks, "Don't have a good southern daddy waitin' for you to come home? Momma waitin' with a pie in the oven?" he's not being serious but you feel your skin flush at the accuracy of his words.

"Maybe," you mutter, hand going down to touch your dress nervously, "But maybe I don't wanna go home."

He nods and stops plucking, licking his lips and thinking to himself. You have to admit, there's something about him that draws you to him, something masculine and new. He's much, much older than you but not in a way that creeps you out or makes you want to run away. You find yourself hoping he'll ask you to come inside again so this time you can give him the right answer, the one he wants to hear.

"You probably should," he finally says, then stands up on his porch steps and slips his guitar onto his back. The strap digs into his broad shoulders, accentuating his size as he suddenly towers over you on the step.

"Sh-should what?" you ask breathlessly, and you wonder if he can tell your heart race has picked up, see the thumping of your pulse in your exposed neck.

"Go back home," he says with a shrug, "I mean, if they're waitin' for you..."

"They're not," you say it with firm finality, shaking your head, "I'm twenty one, I do what I like."

He walks down the steps then, getting closer and closer to you until he's suddenly standing directly in front of you. His eyes cast downward, assessing your expression; you swear he looks at your lips and licks his own again.

"So would you like to come inside?" he asks again, peering down at you with a dark sense of desire that makes you swallow roughly, feel a light and steady thrum between your legs, "Let me teach you how to play that song?"

Here's your chance. Just say yes.

"N-no," you gasp, taking a step back from him, "Um, n-not today."

He smirks, almost like he knew that would be your response. He hitches his guitar up his shoulder and gives you one last smile before turning around and walking back up his steps.

"Well, I'm here if you change your mind," he calls back to you, reaching for the doorknob on his front door and peering at you with another side glance, still assessing you, "Would love to teach a pretty thing like you how to use her fingers."

You feel your lips part in surprise, an unfamiliar tingling sensation flooding your body as he gives you a wink and walks into his house, shutting the door behind him. You've still got that steady throbbing feeling in your underwear, something you've only felt a handful of times. You know what it is, you're not completely clueless, but you can't remember the last time it happened.

You take another step back slowly, heart still pounding in your chest as you stare at his closed door. Then you turn on your heel and speed walk back the way you came, flip flops slapping against the ground aggressively. You revel in the way your thighs rub together as you walk, soothing that ache.

Any thoughts of not going home have gone from your mind. You need to ask your parents who this man is. As soon as possible.

-

You get home right before dinner, giving yourself just enough time to formulate exactly how to ask your parents about the man with the guitar. You're slightly afraid that you might seem too eager, too curious, and that they'll see right through you; you can't imagine how they'd react to knowing their perfect little girl is getting butterflies over a middle aged man.

But that's what you have: butterflies. In your tummy, all over your skin, between your legs. Being talked to the way he did, being looked at the way he did, it's making you feel hot all over, itchy and uncomfortable but in a good way.

The last time you felt this way was during your first week of college, at a party you'd gone to with your roommate. You'd seen him across the room, tall and blonde, watched as he licked his lips and looked you up and down. He was gorgeous, an angel you were convinced God had placed at this party just for you. You felt that tingle between your legs, swallowed down the nervous lump in your throat and imagined what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Then he'd approached and you realized he'd been looking at your roommate the entire time.

Your mother is just beginning to plate the meal when you slip into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table beside your father. She serves you both with a smile and sits, then extends her hands to both of you.

"Bless us, O Lord, for these, Thy gifts," she begins quietly, and you quickly hang your head and close your eyes as she continues, "which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," you and your dad echo, then begin your meal. Just the same as always.

"How was your walk?" your father asks.

Here goes nothing.

"It was nice," you say, nodding thoughtfully to yourself and hoping you sound nonchalant, "I said hi to Mrs. Lillard."

"We've been praying for her," your mom interjects immediately, "She's an alcoholic, you know."

Your mom stays on top of all the neighborhood gossip, part of the reason you feel she might know something about the mysterious man. With a nod of your head you continue, "And then I saw someone else, a man playing guitar on his front porch, but I've never seen him before."

"Oh, him" your mom rolls her eyes, "Mr. Miller. Piece of work."

Bingo.

Your eyebrows raise, intrigued, "How so?"

"Kindness, dear," your father says with a disapproving nod to your mother, "He's done nothing to us."

She sighs and shakes her head, "You're right, I'm sorry."

The conversation is definitely going somewhere but it's already taking a turn into dangerous territory; you're not one to question, to interfere or interject. Pressing them further might make them suspicious, but you have to know.

"What did he do?" you ask, trying your best to sound casual, "If you don't mind me asking?"

Your mother is about to speak but your father gives her a look, almost a warning. She closes her mouth and sits back in her chair, waiting for him to answer you instead.

"He didn't do anything," your father explains, "Your mother invited him for dinner and he declined, that's all."

"It's the way he declined," your mother sits forward again, voice curt and irritated, "He was very rude."

"Rude?" You can tell your mom wants to talk about it, dredge up something she hasn't been able to discuss for a while; you're surprised she hadn't already told you over the phone while you were at college.

"This isn't appropriate conversation for the dinner table," your father says sternly, and you're not sure if he's talking more-so to you or your mother, "End of discussion." As usual your mother folds in on herself, picking up her fork and starting to eat again.

"Your father's right," she says, though you know she doesn't really believe that, "Let's just eat."

You wonder what the man - Mr. Miller - could have said to make your mother react this way. It's not unusual for her to get stiff and bothered by people - it's pretty easy to push her buttons, actually, but the list of things that offend her is long and detailed. He could have said pretty much anything to set her off. The specifics are lost on you.

You resign yourself to defeat and eat your dinner, sincerely glad that the tingling sensations in your body have subsided. You do not need to be feeling like that with your parents in the room.

-

You dream about him.

It's muddled and confusing, taking place simultaneously back at college and in your childhood bedroom, but he's there. In both places, somehow. You're back at that first week of college party, but instead of the blonde boy it's him standing across the room, eyeing you up and down. But this time he doesn't go for your roommate, he walks over to you and looks deeply into your eyes, gives you that delicious smirk and brings his hands down to touch your waist. He's so big compared to you, so much older. He pulls you in with a strong grasp and holds you to his broad chest, runs his hands down your back.

Then you're both transported from the college party to your parent's house. You're on your bed, sitting next to him atop the covers and watching him play guitar. You watch his fingers, long and thick, hypnotizing you with their movements. He stops playing and brings one to your chin, tilts your head up to look into your eyes again.

"You're not a good Christian girl," he whispers in that southern drawl, breath ghosting across your face, inching closer and closer, "You're all mine, aren't you?"

You wake up with a start and immediately feel the dampness in your underwear, the butterflies back again with a vengeance as your pussy throbs and pulses. You've never felt anything like this before, grasping your chest and reaching for your bedside lamp in the darkness. You sit there in bed for a few moments, catching your breath and waiting for the feelings to vanish again, for your aching core to stop reminding you that it's never been touched, not once, even though you know it's absolutely begging for it.

With shaky hands you reach down and run a finger through your wet folds, shivering at the soft touch. You've never masturbated before, never had sex or anything else you've learned about from your friends at college. They'd looked at you with disbelief when you'd told them you'd never even had an orgasm; one of them had gone so far as to ask if she could give you one.

"No," you'd said curtly, "No thank you."

Now you sit on your childhood bed with your legs open and a finger pressed lightly against you within your underwear. You're not even sure what to do, where exactly to touch, how to bring yourself to completion. You're twenty one years old but you've spent your entire life being the good, pure, God fearing girl waiting for marriage like her parents taught her.

"Enough," you whisper into the darkness, "I'm done waiting."

You yank your finger out of your panties and lay back on the bed, switching off the lamp and closing your eyes again. You've already decided before you drift off that you'll be paying Mr. Miller another visit tomorrow, as soon as possible.

He told you he wanted to teach you how to use your fingers; you intend to make sure he does.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Danny had no idea what a meta was, but appearently he had something called a meta-gene. One would think a mutation that can cause people to manifest superpowers from lab accidents would explain his disastrous career as a superhero, but they would be wrong. Dannys meta gene was never activated and the whole ghost fiasco was just eldrich shenanigans at its finest.

No, Danny's meta gene activated just two weeks ago on his fifteenth birthday where he was celebrating at Sam's place with Tucker. They had gotten into one of thier usual fights about food and Danny just did not want to deal with it and went into another room.

Sams cat didn't love him per say but it usually didn't hate him either. Today was not his lucky day. The kitty scratched him and wouldn't you know? His meta gene wasn't activated by an interdimentional portal opening up on top of him, it wasn't activated by the numerous energy blasts he had been hit with nor the various electric shocks.

No, it was activated by a freaking cat scratch.

He stared at himself in the mirror, glowing green eyes with slit pupils stared back at him. His kitty ears were folded back to show his shock and displeasure over the situation but it was still rather obvious what they were. The tail wagging slowly behind him was the same snowy white as his hair and ears.

He looked like Phantom. He looked like Phanton as Fenton. Ancients. There was no way he was going to be able to hide this. Transforming brought about no change other than the hazmat suit. He was so screwed. He couldn't go home like this.

Breathing heavily and on the verge of a panic attack he called Jazz once, twice, three times, but she didn't pick up. Danny knew he couldn't stay in the human world, it was too dangerous.

But if he wasn't there to protect the ghosts than it would be too dangerous for them to stay too. He knew for a fact Dani was staying with Dora while she taught her how to read and write so he had pretty much no qualms about destroying the portals and outing Vlad through a pre-made video of him transforming and boasting about his crimes to Phantom, courtesy of Tucker and him filming it all.

He felt bad about ditching his friends one last time, and at his own birthday party no less! But he knew if he tried to say goodbye they would guilt him into staying and it would end horribly so he left a note explaining what happened and bounced.

Destroying the portals hadn't taken much time or effort nor did destroying over 20 years of research between the three. It was exploring the Ghost Zone that was giving him problems. He was always warned by Wulf not to open portals in the Ghost Zone unless you were very experienced cause if you screw up theres no telling when or where you will land. He thought back to Wulfs lessons and tried to conjure the image of lush wildlife and abundant food.

The place he ended up portaling to had neither of those things. In fact if felt like the opposite when he landed in a grimey alleyway in the dark of night.

A spotlight was pointed toward the sky, painting the clouds above in a yellow light holding a stylized image of a bat in the center. Danny wondered what that was about for only a minute before he heard the tell tale whoosh sound of someone landing in the alley behind him.

Dannys new instincts reacted before the logical part of his brain took hold causing him to whirl around with his ears flattened to his head and he hissed so furiously that the man with the red helmet (mask?) back up several paces while cursing furiously. The man also mentioned something about a "Pit" but Danny wasn't paying attention, he was scared out of his mind and bolted down the alleyways and out of sight before phasing into a dilapidated building and hiding under some rubble.

Later, Red Hood told Nightwing about the Lazarus Pit catboy demon and described it as nightmarish as possible before adding that it was kinda twinkish. He also added "for the love of God dickwing, don't let demon brat adopt that thing"

In Damians defence, he found Danny asleep next to Alfred the cat in Batcows barn and just decided he was thier new cat. In other news hes far more concerned with hiding Danny From Catwoman than from father.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Aita for not taking down a jokey sign on my bathroom door when my parents came over?

Cw: talk of diarrhea. Not explicitly.

So I (21f)and 2 of my friends (20f,lets call her lilly and 23m, lets call him matt)moved into an apartment about 2 years ago and so far, everything has been good. We've been able to manage our bills, keep a clean home, I couldn't ask for better. We've known each other since middle school, there's ackward moments and small disagreements when Matt brings over his boyfriend (he almost always yells when he speaks and slams doors) but everything is generally all good.

Every apartment shared by more than one gen z is gonna have some quirks and ours is the "code brown" sign. Me and matt have IBS and occasionally have some mild to moderate.... Bowel problems and there's only one bathroom. Usually it's not a problem but there's been a few occasions where someone will be taking awhile scrolling tik Tok or whatever or taking a long shower and me or Matt have an issue.

Originally it was a group chat half joke warning that someone was having a "code brown" and no one could lolly gag in the restroom because one of us might be making trips. It became an inside joke and last year, lilly had a cheap small hanging sign made by some wood burner on Etsy that basically read on one side "All clear, private!" and on the other read "Code brown! Get going or get down!". It was hilarious and we hung it on the bathroom door and now use it unironically. All our friends enjoyed it, Matt's boyfriend loudly so but not so much my parents.

About a week ago, I finally allowed my parents to check out my place. They aren't super Christian like evangelicals but my dad has been going red pilled and more so by the day so I tried to make my apartment look less like it was shared by three liberals and wore something nice and cooked a nice dinner. I paid for lilly and matt to go catch a movie and some Wendy's on me so they'd be out of the house. All was good until my dad went to the bathroom and came back with the damn sign looking like his head was going to explode. He screamed at me that he thought I was an adult, that I was failing at getting my shit together (they don't pay for anything and i live on my own?) and I was a child for hanging up such a clearly inappropriate sign. My mom agreed, though much less Intensely and my dad proceeded to break the sign over his knee and chastise me for a good 20 minutes before grabbing his things, demanding an apology in a few days and leaving with my mom.

Once lilly and matt got home I apologized and offered to buy a new sign. Lilly and Matt were just happy nothing else was broken and I was ok. I did eventually apologize to my dad because I can see where a poop sign might be a little inappropriate for important company but tbh I forgot about it and I was so busy making dinner I didn't realize it was still up or I would of tossed it in my room and moved on. Lilly and Matt just say my dad has a stick up his ass and shouldn't of messed with the sign(it was flipped to the no code brown side so he had to flip it to see it).

Was i the asshole for not taking down a gag sign about poop when my parents came over?

What are these acronyms?

[deantfwinchester]

Hands

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AU, Joel x Teacher!Reader as usual (let's just assume these No-Outbreak Joels are all the same couple tbh), established relationship

Summary: Friday nights are reserved for sweatpants and relaxation, of course. But when Joel's work week leaves his hands a bit worse for wear, the night may need to include a break for a little extra attention.

Warnings: extreme fluff once again. expect it at this point. i'm a one-trick pony, i fear.

A/N: finally got around to putting one of my many bulleted notes-app idea fics into paragraph form again! Will we get another one before the year's out? It's anyone's guess! -_-

——————

Friday nights are your favorites. No dinner to cook or rattling rolodex of tasks to come in the next twelve hours give you both a little room to breathe — to gently unwind from yourselves and into one another. It’s typically quiet, and when it isn’t, the volume is born of laughter from games or stories the three of you share.

Joel comes home from an exceptionally long week. You know he’s been on site every day—the whole team has—working longer and longer hours to wrap up the latest project before the client’s deadline. You’re pleased to hear his keys rattle in the door not long after five o’clock, and relieved because the air’s rapidly cooling earlier each night. Daylight Savings time is coming to an end, and today he barely beat the sunset getting home. 

You know the hour means little, however, and are less than astonished at the weary grin he bears on catching sight of you and Sarah on the couch when he walks in the room. She’s already got her purse on her shoulder, eager to head out when her friends arrive, and she’s excitedly recounting the events of the trailer for the movie they’ll be catching tonight. He stands idly in the doorway for a moment, just listening to the two of you chat. You make brief eye contact and smile back, assuring you know he’s there. Neither of you wants to interrupt her avid storytelling.  

“Well don’t you sound excited?” he says when she pauses to catch her breath. You both turn to greet him, and he moves more quickly toward you as you attempt to rise, gesturing to you to remain seated. He’ll come to you both.

He plants a kiss on top of Sarah’s head before leaning down to kiss you as he does each night. You place a hand on his chest and pause when he pulls back to get a good look at his face. You see the fatigue in his droopy-eyed smile, but can’t say anything to him. You already know it’s mirrored in your own expression.

The doorbell rings before either of you can speak again, and Sarah jumps up to head out the door. You wish her a good night, and he follows her to the door, checking for a familiar parent in the driver’s seat and seeing her off. You see him hand her some cash to go with his reminder to make good decisions, and he hugs her. You can’t help but giggle when she takes it with a wide smile.

He turns to you laughing when he sees she’s in the car, and shuts the door.

“What?” he asks, brow furrowed in confusion, but amused at the sound of your laughter.

“Smart girl. I gave her a 20 before you got home,” you grin back at him. He stills in understanding and rolls his eyes. 

“You couldn’t tell me that two minutes ago?” he asks you in mock exasperation.

“But it’s so much funnier this way!” you add, giggling again. You both know he’s wrapped completely around her finger, though she so innocently does not. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him. One of the first reasons you fell in love. 

He shakes his head fondly, and places a hand on his stomach, which begins to grumble softly at him. You raise your eyebrows and meet his gaze. “Any thoughts on dinner?” he asks, and you grin back at him in amusement.

“Handled. Pizza’s already on the way,” you respond and he feigns relief. 

“You’re brilliant.” he says, walking up and grabbing your hand on the back of the couch. You run your thumb in little circles on the back of his hand and give it a light squeeze.

“Duh. Now go get changed! It’s do-nothing time starting now,” you respond, patting the top of his hand in encouragement.

“You read my mind,” he says, leaning down for another quick peck before heading off into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes. Naturally, you’ve been in sweats for over an hour now, shedding your own outfit immediately, peeling the school day from your skin. The unspoken uniform for these Friday nights is extremely specific.

The pizza arrives before Joel can even return from the bedroom in a feat of incredible timing. You’re gathering plates and filling glasses with ice when he emerges ready for the night. He moves forward to help you grab the dinner, but you shoo him away to the couch. 

“Nope, I got this. You sit,” you say, lightly shoving his chest away. You leave no room for argument. He grumbles a bit and raises his hands, backing away to the living room. You follow behind him with the pizza and plates, and return once more for the drinks before settling next to him on the couch. He sits on one end, and you sit in the middle, leaving little room between you.

You lean forward, putting pizza on one plate you pass to Joel before grabbing your own, then settle back against the cushion, both sinking in so comfortably a nearly audible sigh fills the room. The comfort in this relief is palpable, and the decompressing can begin. You grab the remote and put on the series you’ve been binging together recently, more for background noise than anything else. 

A few slices and sitcom episodes deep, you’ve set your plates down on the coffee table. With your bellies comfortably full, you’ve somehow slumped deeper, though Joel into the couch and you into his side. His arm is draped over the back of the couch behind you, and you’re nearly laying on him, head propped against his shoulder. 

You hold his free hand in both of yours and absently play with his fingers for a second when you notice the aggressive wear this week has lent his hands. They’re a raw, angry red at the knuckles; his nails are cracked in some places and peeling in others. Moving your fingers gently down toward his wrist, you focus more directly on the state of his, catching sight of a few hangnails and stretched cuticles that can’t be comfortable. He looks down as you begin to worry them beneath the soft pads of your own fingers, and you meet his gaze, brows furrowed as you look between his face and hands. 

“Keep doing that, please,” he says with a sigh before closing his eyes, “I wait all day to feel your hands on mine. They’re so soft.” He lifts your hand to his lips before pressing a feather-light kiss to your knuckles. He loves the delicate, reverent way you play with his hands, like they’re small, fragile things in need of tender attention. You take his hand once again into both of yours and gently rub it between them, looking back up at him, concerned. 

“How do yours feel? They look like they’re hurting you,” you gnaw a bit at your bottom lip in thought, and he tries to assuage your worry.

“I’m alright, darlin’. Nothing worse than I’m used to,” he says. He knows from your deepening frown that you’re less than satisfied with this response.

You couldn’t care less if he’s used to it, he shouldn’t be. You know the protective callouses forged there don’t mean those hands are unfeeling in the slightest.

“Wait there. I’ll be right back,” you say, rising from his side and hastening to the bedroom. It’s his turn to frown now, both in confusion and at the sudden draft that’s appeared at his side.

You return not a minute later with a small tote around your wrist, and hands filled with half the manicure items you own. You sit down next to him and unpack, laying clippers, files, cuticle oil, and two different hand creams — a lotion he’s seen you use regularly, and a jar that must be a new addition — on the coffee table in front of you, along with the selected polishes and remover you had in the tote bag. You’ve been meaning to do your nails, anyway. 

Joel looks incredulously at you, unsure where this is going. Not that he’s a stranger to nail polish — he raised a little girl on his own long enough to have worn the rainbow on his fingers, but tonight? 

“Sorry, no color for you today, honey. Certainly not before these are healed,” you say. He’d chip half your handiwork away by Monday afternoon anyway the way he’s been working lately. Facing him, you cross your legs on the couch and smile, holding your hand out expectantly for his. He raises his eyebrows at you, but places his palm gently in your own. 

You grab the clippers and get to work on the hangnails first. Any peeling skin or cuticle right there at the nail you clip as gently as possible, making note of the reddened and slightly swollen areas at the base of his nail from which they protrude. Those will need careful attention at the end. He doesn’t squirm or react in any way, but you know they’re more sensitive than he’s letting on. 

Next, you clip back any breakages and unevenness in the nails themselves. You’d never find Joel Miller with dirty hands ��� he gets them clean as soon as he gets home, but all the scrubbing it takes to keep them that way takes its toll. A little trim at their length might help reduce the need for so much each day upon his return. 

After clipping, you grab his first hand again and rest it gently in the palm of your left while your right files steadily to even any rough edges left behind and prevent further injury. It won’t take much, but you’re sure to get them smooth so they won’t catch on anything or bother him later on. 

The cuticle oil is next. He looks at it questioningly, clearly a bit skeptical, only having seen it a few times when you or Sarah used it. He’s never ventured so far himself. While you brush it gently onto each of his nails, you explain its purpose. 

“This’ll just help your nails get a little stronger. It’ll get them hydrated a bit, keep ‘em  from peeling so much when your hands get dry. It’s kinda crazy how much better this stuff is for your nails than even water is. Water’ll make the peeling worse, actually. Weird, huh?”

He just nods along, listening to you, content to learn something new as always. Finger by finger, you massage the oil into his nail and nail bed. After the first round you go back through to massage again, both to make sure no oily feeling is left behind, and to prolong the rapidly concluding process. He could use the attention, anyway.

Finally, you pick up the jar he identified as a new addition: a canister of a hand repair cream labeled for “Healing of dry or cracked skin.”

“Never seen that one before,” he says, reading the label, “What d’ya need this for? Your hands are never dry! I think they’ve been soft every time I’ve held 'em since the day I met ya,” he smiles at you, and you bashfully brush off the compliment. 

“I don’t need it. I use the other one,” you say with finality, opening the jar and pulling the first of his hands into yours. You don’t grab a large dollop of the stuff. You don’t want him to feel a disconcerting weight, grease, or stickiness from this unfamiliar formula, so you get a little and begin. You add a bit more each time you reach a new spot on his knuckles, palms, wrists. 

You take your time, gently massaging into those roughened, tender hands far more than a simple healing salve. He understands why you have the jar now, looking at you knowingly, and you smile back. No words need be exchanged.

Once you’ve finished the last finger and the last stroke on his hands, you squeeze the one in your own, then pat it gently with your other, “There. Gotta feel better now, yeah?”

Joel stares at you like he just watched you reach up and place the moon in the sky, if for no reason other than to light his path. 

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Thank you sweetheart,” he says, squeezing your hand back and smiling reverently at you. You blush beneath his gaze and look away, unsure what to do with the admiration rolling off of him in waves. You lean back against the couch, file in hand as you start going at your own nails. 

“Good. Don’t let 'em go that long again, either. Where they start hurtin’ ya? Maybe we oughta make this a weekly thing. Manicure night? Been needing someone to do my right hand,” you grin, wiggling the corresponding fingers at him. He smiles back at you, then reaches over and pulls you toward his side, back to your original position laying against him, head resting once again on his shoulder.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says fondly into your hair, planting a kiss to your head in the process. You get comfortable once more, foregoing any plans to do your own nails tonight. You both know those “manicure nights” will be for him — and you’ve got Sarah to do your right hand already, when you do hers.

You grab the same free hand once again and admire your work, then lace your fingers between his own, and rest your twined hands on his leg. You’re satisfied knowing the hand behind you on the couch is comfortable now, healing from the week’s toils and melting into the comforting haze of the early autumn evening.

[lottesreads]

Why Me? - Part 11

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Mitchell! Female Reader (Callsign Mantis)

Warnings: Forbidden relationship, ANGST, violence, nightmares, mentions of PTSD, mentions of child abuse, swearing, mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, therapy (we love), mentions of death/being sick

Word Count: 12k

Summary: You're still reeling after what happened with Bob, but it all comes crashing down to reality when you go to work the next day. As you reminisce on memories you thought were lost, you make a move you know you should have made a long time ago. Things come to a head with Rooster once more, and you find yourself grieving for something you never had.

A/N: Well hellooo beautiful people!! I apologize for being gone so long, writers block had me in a chokehold and... yeah. But I'm back and I hope you enjoy! I'm not making any promises, but hopefully the next part will be out MUCH sooner than this one was.

p.s. I love every single one of you and comments and reblogs keep me going. That is all.

Masterlist

21 years ago

“Bug!”, Carole yells up the stairs, “We gotta meet your dad and Bradley at the school, we’re gonna be late!” It was only your first week of being back with your dad and the Bradshaw’s for the summer, but it was a busy one at that. Bradley was still finishing up his last week of school while yours got out two weeks ago. And while your dad just got home from a 6-month deployment three days ago, Carole and Bradley were more than happy to make the weekend trip up to Ohio to come get you before he came back.

“Bug!”, she yells one more time with no response. Breathing out a sigh, she ascends the stairs and knocks on your door. “Are you almost ready sweetheart? We’re gonna be late for Bradley’s piano recital” Using two hands to open the door, you stand before her in the frilly yellow sundress the two of you bought while shopping the previous day. “Well don’t you look pretty! Are you all ready to go?” She watches as you shift your mouth to the side of your face. Bending to your level, she moves to push some of your hair behind your ear.

“What’s a matter?” You shrug and look into her big blue eyes. She hums in question as she looks you over. Your lip wobbles as you reach to touch the necklace around her neck, admiring it with gentle fingers. They trace over the silver butterfly pendant hanging just below her collar bone. Something was wrong this time around. You were… different from the little girl she said goodbye to last August. More timid, almost frightened to do anything you would deem as wrong. You weren’t even like this when you spent your winter break with them. It might have been the excitement of the impending holiday that kept her from noticing, but something changed since then.

It wasn’t uncommon for you to run into her arms when you first saw her for the summer, but the way you clutched onto her shirt and wouldn’t let go, so hard to the point that she had to carry you to the car, she knew something was wrong. And now, you’ve been so quiet. So unlike what she’s used to when you’re with Bradley, or just in her presence for that matter. When she got you all buckled in and on the road, it took less than 20 minutes for you to be knocked out completely, like you were finally able to let your guard down and sleep.

“I missed you and daddy. And Bradley.” Her heart breaks as she watches you sniffle. As you let go of the necklace, she reaches forward and effortlessly wraps you in a hug.

“Oh bug, we missed you, too. So much.” Her hand rubs circles up and down your back as she comforts you. “But we’ll get this whole summer together, and we’re gonna have so much fun. Right?” She moves back to watch you nod your head and rub a small fist over your cheek. Instinctively her hands move to replace your own, swiping your tears away with her thumbs.

Your eyes move back to the necklace and she follows your gaze. Without a second thought, her hands move behind her neck, unclasping it as she holds it in her fingers for you to look at.

“Did I ever tell you where I got this necklace from?” Shaking your head, you sniffle once more. “You know how I told you about your uncle Goose? Bradley’s daddy?” You nod as you trace your fingers along the chain. “Well, on our first date we went to a movie, then walked around in this big mall, kinda like the one we went to. We passed a jewelry store, and this necklace was in the window. I stopped to look at it and I told him how pretty I thought it was.” She pauses for one second before lightly pushing on your shoulders to turn you around.

“We went on a few more dates after that. And then-”, the necklace falls into your view as her hands come up to clasp it around your neck, “He finally asked me to be his girlfriend. I asked what took him so long, and he told me he was so nervous I would say no. Isn’t that so silly?” You giggle as she turns to have you look at her once more. “I of course said yes, and then that goof, he reached into his back pocket and gave me a little bag. And inside of it was this necklace.” She pokes the spot where the butterfly sits on your chest, hanging a little longer on your small body than on hers. “In that moment I realized two things. First, was that he bought the necklace still thinking I would say no. And knowing him he would have given it to me either way. And second, was that I was pretty darn sure I was gonna marry him.”

“Do you miss him?” your tiny voice asks as she looks up from the necklace back to your innocent eyes.

“Everyday. I used to wear this necklace to remind me of him, or look at my wedding ring that he picked out all by himself. But I realized I can just look over to Bradley and know there’s still a little piece of him with me everywhere I go.” Her eyes fill with unshed tears, not unlike most times when she thinks about her husband, but she smiles through it like she always does. Her hand smooths over your head as she looks at you wearing her necklace.

“Oh he would have absolutely adored you.” She clears her throat once before changing subjects, “Now whenever you look at this necklace I want you to remember that me, Bradley, and your Daddy are always with you, ok? No matter what.”

“I can keep it?”

“Of course!”, she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world she’s gifting you something that means so much to her. “But you have to promise me one other thing, ok?”

“What?”, you whisper.

“I want you to be brave like your uncle Goose. Because even though he was scared, he asked me anyway. And if he were here, he would tell you it was so worth it. So bug, do you think you can be brave for me?” You silently nod your head at her words, hair falling in your face as you do so. She doesn’t need to push it back for you as you do it yourself this time in order to look at her with your head held high.

“Good”, she whispers with a smile. It falls slightly as she asks you, “Is there anything you wanna tell me?” She holds her breath as you nod.

“Does Bradley practice piano a lot?” She stifles a laugh as her brows furrow.

“All the time, why do you ask?”

“Last time he was playing he wasn’t very good.” Hiding her face, she takes both of your hands in hers, rubbing your fingers.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, he’s gotten a lot better since then. And even if he didn’t, we’d still be front row cheering him on, right?”

“Right”, you say with a big nod.

“Speaking of, we’re gonna be late!” She squeezes your hand as the two of you bound down the stairs and into her car. 

“Was uncle Goose good at piano?”

“Oh he was so good at piano.”

“I hope Bradley is, too.” She laughs as she buckles you in the back seat.

“If he’s anything like his daddy he’ll be great. He’ll look like a wild bird doing it, but he’ll be just fine.”

-----------------------

Present Day

Your dad wasn’t lying when he told you he’d be waiting until you got home. Opening the door, you’re presented with the back of his head as he watches an old rerun of M.A.S.H. The door clicks as you lock it, and he turns off the t.v. at the sound. You give him a slight smile as he rounds the couch. Even though you drove the entire ten minutes back to your house with all the windows down and the AC on full blast, you can still feel a flush taking hold of your cheeks.

“How was dinner at Marcello’s?”, he asks as he folds his arms across his chest, yawning. You search your brain for what the hell he’s talking about until you remember what you told him you were doing.

“Oh yeah, it was good. Sorry it took so long, we started catching up and I didn’t realize what time it was”, you attempt to step past him.

“Who were you seeing again?”

“Just a friend from high school, she was in the area on a work trip”, you lie. It was easier this way. If you told him you were going to Bob’s he might ask questions about him, and it could lead to more invasive things you didn’t want to answer. Making something up completely different was easier than lying about Bob at all. Your dad hums at your answer, and you think he can almost see through you.

“Rooster was there on a date. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him.”

“It was packed for a Wednesday night. And since when does he tell you about his dating life?”

“Oh I don’t know. He called to let me know he had a box of my old things and we just got to talking. You might actually know her, he said she was a friend of Phoenix’s girl.” You stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you can almost feel your eye start to twitch as you slowly turn around. “For the life of me I can’t remember her name.”

“Does it happen to be Emily?” He snaps his fingers as he starts readjusting the coffee table and turning lights off.

“That’s it. You know her?”

“Oh”, you scoff, “Yeah I know her. Rooster knows her very well, actually.” He stops what he’s doing and turns to you.

“What does that mean- You know what? I don’t wanna know”, he decides as he walks over to you, placing a kiss at the top of your head. “Goodnight kiddo”, he says with a yawn. He walks down the hall to his own room, while you remain at the bottom of the steps.

“What an asshole”, you mutter under your breath. For a moment, you aren’t thinking about what just happened with Bob, you’re thinking about just how rude both Rooster and Emily were to him only a week ago. And after Rooster’s “apology”, he is now going on a date with the woman who had the audacity to laugh in Bob’s face? Typical.

-----------------------

You hardly sleep at all that night. Worried that you might wake up from another dream. Or not wake up at all and be trapped. These are paranoid thoughts, you know that. But all the same, your body will not allow you to relax for more than an hour. It isn’t until you’re sure you’ve fallen asleep for at least 20 minutes that your alarm startles you awake.

Groaning, you get up and head to your bathroom. You can already hear your dad starting his morning routine from his room below yours, and you focus on the noise to distract yourself from what you have to walk into today. Not only do you try and fail to forget how Bob’s hands felt, or how rushed he was just to kiss you, the worst part is that you don’t want to forget. You don’t want to pretend like nothing happened. You want to walk up to him and give him a kiss, ask him how the rest of his night was, if he wants to go see a movie with you on Saturday. But no. You learned from a very young age that getting what you want wasn’t really written in the stars.

However, pulling your hair back into a tight bun, you remember that you do have something that you want. You had to sacrifice a lot for it, but you got it in the end. The career you’ve always wanted, what you knew you were meant for deep down. Your eyes flicker from your hands as they deftly work to make sure not a hair is out of place, and then back to your face. Your hands stop as you stare at the slope of your nose, the shape and color of your eyes, anything that you think reminds everyone else of her.

You shake your head and get back to the task at hand. Once you’re finished, you eye strictly your hair in the mirror to make sure it’s up to standard, and your eye catches on your phone at the edge of the counter. You begin to chew your lip before unlocking it and searching through your contacts. Under Avila Clinic, your finger hovers.

Contrary to what Penny might have thought, you did have a therapist once upon a time. After your first few nightmares at the Academy, and with the support of Phoenix, you started therapy. Your therapist, Mary, was extremely helpful and understanding. You went to her for years while at school, but then deployments started happening and you got distracted. Life started to finally make sense, and your dreams were few and far between. Eventually they stopped happening altogether, and your naive brain thought that meant they were gone for good. Her practice is on the other coast, but you know it’s going to take a while for a new therapist to get your entire backstory to try and help you. You need someone who already knows, possesses the knowledge on how to help you. Someone you are already comfortable with sharing your feelings with.

A knock comes from your door taking you out of your thoughts.

“You almost ready to go?”, your dad asks from the hall. Your stomach flips at the thought of having to go to work, even if you do love it. Things have been… complicated recently. And even if you did pretend nothing happened already, you have a gut feeling it’s gonna be a lot harder than it was at the beginning of the week.

“Yeah”, you respond, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

-----------------------

Your father is none the wiser as you walk onto base. Your heart is beating so fast you’re worried he might be able to hear the echo against your chest. While he heads to his office to gather what he needs for the day, you set your things in the locker room. You know he’s going to be in there when you walk in the room. Like he always is. Because he’s always so prepared. Groaning, you shut the metal door to your locker and rest your forehead on the cool surface.

“Everything ok Mantis?”, Phoenix’s voice sounds from beside you.

“Oh everything is fine and dandy.” Her locker closes as she moves you by your shoulders, leading you out of the room and to your anxiety-induced nightmare.

“Ok weirdo. You gonna tell me what’s really on your mind?” She doesn’t stop as she marches you through the classroom where Bob is patiently waiting in his seat. Your eyes meet for the briefest moment before the influx of the rest of the group forces you to move toward your seat. 

“Maybe later”, you whisper to her as she sits. Your gut twists as you try and fail to not stare at the back of Bob’s head. Just last night your fingers were running through that same hair, and now you have to pretend like you don’t know what his body feels like against your own. Those thoughts are extinguished rather quickly as Rooster sits next to you. Your body goes rigid as you remember what else your dad told you last night. How dare he? After everything he’s already put you through, he’s so blatantly blind when it comes to other people’s feelings. He must feel your energy or the fact that you keep glaring at him through the corner of your eye. So when he looks up and gives you a small smile, you reciprocate. You’ve learned your lesson on confronting people at work, and if you want to fly on this next mission, you’re gonna be on your best behavior.

You are nothing if not professional in the air. You’re paired up with Phoenix and Bob on your first hop of the day, and if you were an outsider you wouldn’t even know there was something else going on. The three of you successfully pull off each paired maneuver your dad assigned with perfect communication. The entire time you were focused on flying, but Bob’s deep voice through the comm system didn’t help. It was extremely difficult to focus on what he was saying, not how he was saying it, but you did it anyway. 

When lunch comes around you walk into the mess hall and sigh. There are two options you’re weighing as you stand near the doorway, clutching your lunch bag in hand. Your “regular” seat sits empty next to Bob and Rooster is still sitting by himself in the corner. On one hand you could pretend everything was fine and sit next to Bob, or you could pretend you’re not mad at Rooster and sit next to him. Rolling your eyes they land back on Bob’s table where Phoenix is now sat across from him. Your hands sweat as you hold your lunch, eyeing the way Bob’s hands wipe the crumbs of chip dust off onto a napkin. Taking a breath, you allow yourself to be sad for a second.

Bob is quite literally the most perfect man you have ever met. He’s kind, thoughtful, and funny. Not to mention damn handsome and from your experience the best kisser. Your heart aches at the thought that he deserves to hear all this praise. He told you some of the nicest things anyone has ever said to you, and what did you do in return? When given the chance to tell him how you felt you reached for the logical side of your brain and refused to. In another life, you tell yourself. If you weren’t restricted by these stupid rules, if you had the courage to tell him how you felt. But here you still stand in the company of no one but yourself.

His head turns suddenly and you’re met with his eyes as he gives you the slightest smile. An invitation to take a seat at his side. But you swallow and tear your eyes away. They land on Rooster instead who is already looking at you, then at Bob. It’s too much as you breathe and choose the secret third option. Turning on your heel, you head toward your dad’s office.

Knocking on the cracked door before entering, your dad welcomes you with a surprised smile. His brow furrows slightly as you take a seat across from him at his desk, but he doesn’t say anything as you start to eat with him. Even just asking him how his day is going, you catch the smile on his face as he looks across to you, and then back down to his desk. You can’t see what he’s looking at, but whatever it is keeps him content until his phone rings.

He quickly apologizes like you were in the middle of a very important business meeting before answering with a, “Hey honey”. And you know it’s Penny on the other end. Smiling, he holds up a finger, telling you he’ll be back in a minute as you watch him leave his office. You turn back to his desk and only see the backs of what look to be a few picture frames littering the top. Funny. You don’t think you saw these when you helped him move his stuff in here a couple months ago. That being said, you haven’t been in here very often.

Turning back to the door, your dad’s voice faintly echoes down the hall with a laugh, and knowing you have a few minutes, you take a seat in his chair. Your eyes roam over his desk, his aviators sit in front of a Navy mug.There’s a few small models of previous jets he’s flown, you take note of the F-14 Tomcat, sitting right in front of a picture of him and Goose. Smiling at the frame of your and Bradley’s dads, your eyes trace to the others. A more recent picture of you at your Top Gun graduation, Iceman and your father flanking your sides as you triumphantly hold the trophy sits next to one of 7-year old you with Bradley at his piano recital. He was a lot better than you gave him credit for that day, and now you know all that hard work paid off. He can practically play any song you ask him to, and he makes use of that talent whenever he can at the Hard Deck. Penny even joked she should put a tip jar out for him.

There’s another picture of the two of them someone must have taken on the carrier right after their triumphant return during the Uranium Mission. Everyone is cheering in the background, and you even have a smile on your face. But you don’t remember feeling happy. You were relieved, of course. But it still doesn’t erase the hour of agony thinking they were dead. You move on to the next picture of yourself in a dirtied softball uniform, clinging on to Bradley’s back like a monkey as he walks you to the car after a long summer tournament. Your feet hurt so bad Bradley had offered to give you a piggy-back ride if you shared your popsicle with him. The red juices melted down your arm and onto his shirt, but he didn’t complain once.

The last picture is of Goose, Carole, and a tiny Bradley. You smile fondly as you pick up the frame and watch their smiling faces. Your dad told you once that it was one of the last pictures of them all together. God, Bradley looks so much like his dad. Your finger absentmindedly traces where Carole stands, and stops at the silver chain around her neck. A small butterfly pendant sits between her collarbones and a wave of guilt washes over you.

You weren’t brave like you promised her. At least you thought you weren’t. You held on to that necklace for the few years that you had it, but ultimately when Carole got sick, you couldn’t bear it anymore. She slept a lot toward the end, the medication making her tired. One night, you crept into her bathroom and put the necklace back in her jewelry box hoping she wouldn’t notice, or wouldn’t say anything to you. She never brought it up, so you assumed it was one of the two. But looking at it now you wish you would have kept it. Kept that little piece of her she so generously gave to you. Maybe that little reminder would have made it easier to keep going after her and Bradley left.

Placing the frame back in its place, you chew your lip. You grab your phone and before you can decide not to, you press the call button. It rings a couple times before someone answers in a cheery voice.

“Avila Clinic, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’d like to make an appointment.”

-----------------------

Bob sits in silence the entire rest of lunch. He thought maybe you two would be civil toward each other. He also thought that last night meant you cared about him, but right now it doesn’t feel that way. The initial sting of you not sitting next to him today is gone. He gets it. But the fact that you didn’t even acknowledge him when he smiled at you? That hurt.

He’s so conflicted as he walks back to the classroom. Maybe you have your own things going on and this isn’t about him. But how could it not be? You two talked last night. You kissed for crying out loud. You asked him to and pulled him against you. God, he literally begged you to kiss him again and now he’s feeling embarrassed. Something he thought you would never make him feel. What hurts most of all is how he misses just being around you. As much as he loved kissing you, he loved being your friend. Listening to you talk, learning about your life. Everything was so easy. You never even had to try to make him like you, it was as simple as breathing.

He decides he can’t take any of this personally. Easier said than done, though. 

You don’t look in his direction the rest of the day. He doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head, but if you were looking at him he’s pretty positive he would have felt it. In fact, you’re pretty quiet, too. He’s hardly paying attention as Mav goes over everyone’s flights, but perks up when he mentions your name.

“Alright, Phoenix, Bob, and Mantis.” Your flights are brought up on the screen as well as what maneuvers you were practicing together. “Or as I like to call you guys; The Dream Team.” Phoenix breathes out a laugh to his left as Mav continues to praise you for your team work. Kind of ironic that you work so well as a team together even though he feels like he’s had not only his body, but his head in the clouds all day.

“So you three, give yourselves a pat on the back. Great job.” Phoenix turns to him first to give him a fist bump, then turns over to you. He turns with her and finally catches your eye as your smirk falters. He watches you clench your fist before offering it toward him, and with a forced smile his knuckles tap your own. There was no celebration to be had when all it does is create more awkward tension between the two of you. He used to relish in these little moments the two of you shared, but now knowing that you want absolutely nothing to do with him it only serves as a reminder for what he lost.

-----------------------

You’re quiet again as you head home with your dad. Guilt is eating you alive at the way Bob smiled at you today. It’s not real anymore. Nothing about it is genuine, and why would it be? You continue to create situations in which someone’s heart is going to get broken, and it always ends up being your own. This time there’s another casualty and you can’t stand it being Bob. He deserves so much more than that.

Your father is humming along to the radio while you stare out the window when your phone buzzes. AVILA CLINIC flashes on your screen and you’re quick to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Tiffany from the Avila Clinic, am I speaking to Miss Mitchell?” The same cheery woman from earlier asks.

“Yes, this is she.”

“Hi Miss Mitchell. We spoke earlier about setting up an appointment a couple weeks from now on the fourth of October, but your therapist Mary had a sudden cancellation for tomorrow. I know you said you wanted to get in as soon as possible, does tomorrow at 4:00 pm Pacific Time work for you?”

“Yes”, you’re quick to agree, “Yes, that absolutely works for me.”

“Perfect. We’ll email you a Zoom link thirty minutes before your appointment.”

“Sounds great, thank you so much.” Hanging up the phone, your dad clears his throat, expectantly waiting for an explanation as to who that was.

“I have a zoom meeting at 4:00 tomorrow.” His brow raises as he urges you to continue. “It’s a therapy appointment-”, you try to ignore the way both his brows raise at the admission, “And it’s at the house, so I would really appreciate it if, ya know….”

“I get it, I get it”, he waves you off, “I’ll make myself scarce.” A weight is lifted from your chest as he continues driving. You know how men of his generation view therapy, but he himself has benefited from those services over the course of his life. In your own opinion you think he could benefit from some more, but, you really don’t think he’ll go for it unless he’s doing it for someone else.

“Thanks, dad.”

-----------------------

You didn’t expect it. You thought you were safe. Especially after last night of nothing, you went to bed naively thinking you could have a peaceful night’s sleep. Awaking with a choked gasp, you reach for your throat begging it to open up. Breath after breath gets a little easier, until the tears start and you just can’t stop. The dark does little to ease your racing mind.

It started normally, just a hazy dream of you walking down the street back in Ohio, stopping at a storefront and staring in the window. Your reflection is what set you off. It was you at first, you were able to identify little features that were your own, but then- It turned into her completely. You ran as fast as your feet would let you, but the only destination was your old house. Still, you tried to get as far away from her as possible, you couldn’t see her, but you could feel her not far behind you. Running up the stairs, you booked it to your room and slammed the door shut, holding your body against it so she couldn’t get in. She banged and screamed as hard and as loud as she could until it finally… stopped. It was silent as tears streamed down your face. Giving you a false sense of security, you stepped away from the door.

Holding your breath, you made it three steps away before the door flung itself open. You were already walking backwards when she pushed you into the wall, and head first you hit it. You must have started choking on your own tears in real time, and you imagine the lack of air is what caused you to wake up.

Even as you sit up in bed now, the thought that it was only a dream does nothing to reassure you. The room is too hot, and instead of making the same mistake of running to your bathroom, you tiptoe down the hall so as to not alert your father, and sit on the back porch. The cool September breeze blows over your sweat slicken skin as you breathe in… and out. In… and out. You’re still sobbing as quietly as you can, and you know it was a dream. Just a dream- this time.

You don’t tell your dad exactly what happened, but he knows. He was surprised to see you outside when he got up this morning, but you just told him you couldn’t get back to sleep so you sat out to see the sunrise. It was when he tried resting his hand on your shoulder and you flinched away that he knew you left some details out. Without him having to say a word, he gave you a look and you reassured him you were fine. You knew you weren’t, really. But the only thing keeping you going was the idea of getting up in the air, and the fact that you had therapy later today.

-----------------------

For the first time in a very long time, Bob wasn’t looking forward to going to work this morning. He felt like a kid dreading going to school again. But, he forced himself anyway, and now as he walks the halls, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to face another day where you completely ignore him. This isn’t the best way to deal with… whatever happened between you two, you must know that. Right? In the end no matter what you told him he was still going to be your friend, but you’re giving him the idea that you don’t want that.

He’s surprised to find you already in the classroom, your pen tapping at the sheet of maneuvers in front of you. No one else is there but the two of you, and he takes a minute to breathe in the silence that settles. Your mouth is twisted, you keep switching from chewing one side of your lip to the other. Your brow is furrowed to the point that there’s a sharp knot in your forehead. Whatever you’re looking at can’t possibly be that perplexing. You could fly each of these tasks with your eyes closed, and yet you look deep in thought. He opens his mouth to say something, taking a step forward at the same time, but a hand claps down on his shoulder as he does.

“Morning, Bob, Mantis”, Phoenix greets the two of you. You hum in acknowledgement but your eyes never leave your paper. Bob watches as she taps your knee with her hand. You quite literally jump at the movement, dropping your pen in the process as it rolls under his seat. “Hey, you ok there?”

“Yeah, sorry”, you rush out as your hand trembles. Bob can hear Phoenix ask if you’re sure, while he kneels on the floor to retrieve your pen. When he gets up, he’s still on his knees holding your pen out to you. Your hollow eyes look back at him as the two of you freeze, sharing a moment that feels stuck in time. A shaky hand extends to grab your pen from him, and it takes everything in him not to reach further and squeeze your hand. Letting you know he’s there.

“Thank you”, you practically whisper.

“Any time”, he responds just as softly. The rest of the squad enters the room as you tear your eyes away from his and look back to your papers. He watches as you continue what you were working on when he entered, but instead of your pen, your foot taps the floor.

You walk away too quickly once Maverick assigns you to the first flight of the day, but Bob knows something’s wrong. So he waits until it’s his and Phoenix’s turn, hoping to catch you out on the tarmac as you land, but you’re still in your cockpit as they walk past. He slows, feigning a loose shoelace as he urges Phoenix to keep going.

-----------------------

Your flight had done well to get your mind off of last night, but it’s still with a deep breath that you grip the ladder as you descend. Helmet in hand, you turn to make your way back inside and grab a needed drink of water.

“Mantis?” Bob's gentle voice has you looking up at him.

“Hi- Bob”, you respond, a little taken aback he was waiting for you. He keeps his distance as Fritz and Hangman walk past the two of you.

“Are you- are you doing ok?”

“Yeah”, you clear your throat, “I’m doing ok.” It feels like his sapphire eyes can see right through you as you shift on your feet. You can lie all you want, but you know he can tell. It’s his turn to shift on his feet as he blinks rapidly before realizing what he needs to say.

“I know it might be hard, but you can still talk-”

“Bob!”, Phoenix yells from her ladder, “It’s go time!” Lost in his train of thought, He struggles to find the words as he clenches his helmet in his hand.

“Bob, I’m ok.” He’s hesitant as Phoenix yells his name again, pointing at her watch this time.

“If you say so”, he nods as you stare at your feet. With one last look at your shifting eyes, he jogs over to Phoenix who is beginning to grow even more impatient. You watch him climb into his seat before trudging back to the hangar where Rooster waits at the door.

“Don’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t gonna.” You roll your eyes as he walks behind you. He still doesn’t know that you know about his little date Wednesday night. You continue to bite your tongue as you sit across from him in the ready-room.

-----------------------

After another lunch-date with your dad in his office, you do your best to avoid both Rooster and Bob. And thank goodness all of you are being let out early today, or you wouldn’t be able to sit through another hour of going over everyone else’s flights.

“Alright, that’s everything I have for today. Depending on weather conditions on Monday, we may not have you come in, but I’ll keep you posted. Stay safe this weekend everyone.” Checking your watch, it reads 3:00, only an hour before your session which leaves you a little anxious. But after last night you are more than ready to get the help you need.

You’re out of the class room before everybody else, and soon enough gathering your stuff from your locker. Phoenix stops you before you can get out the door and to your dad’s office to wait for him.

“Hey! Floyd was looking for you.” You try your best to not look surprised at the notion, but you can feel your face contort in confusion.

“Oh, is he-”, you motion to the door of the locker room, asking if he’s waiting for you outside.

“No, he had to go. But”, reaching into her pocket, she grabs something and holds it out for you, “He did tell me to give you this.” And in between her fingers, Phoenix holds a penny. The sight of an object so abundantly common as a coin has you holding your breath. You have seen so many pennies throughout your life, but who this one came from means so much more to you than any other has. Swallowing, you reach out and gingerly take it from her hands, as if it would break if you dropped it. Strangely, you can feel your face heat up at the notion. That’s what he was trying to tell you earlier. He’s still ready and willing to listen if you need to talk.

 “Is this some kind of weird inside joke between the two of you or did he really just owe you one cent?” You grip the copper coin as if it were his own hand reaching out to you, and place it in your pocket.

“No”, you laugh, “it’s just something Bob does.” Her brow raises as she stares at you with a weary eye. Obviously not understanding what’s so funny about it.

-----------------------

As if you couldn’t be more anxious for this zoom, your dad was held up by both Cyclone and Warlock when you got to his office. There’s only 20 minutes before your meeting when you get home, so unlike what you had planned you can’t take a shower beforehand. Still needing to change out of your flight suit, you put on a random shirt and jeans that were lying around your cluttered room. You glance at your own watch, 3:55. Before you forget, you run downstairs to find your dad putting his tennis shoes on.

“Hey”, you grab his attention as he looks up from the couch, “I just thought I’d let you know my meeting’s about to start in like five minutes so…”

“Don’t even worry about me”, he reassures you, “I’ll be outside doing yard work the entire time. Might as well do it now before I can’t do it this weekend.” Smiling, he gets up with his sneakers on and gives you a wink before shutting the front door behind him.

Popping your earbuds in, you open your laptop. Your palms are sweating as you click on the link in your email. A blank screen pops up with a small wheel telling you it’s loading, and then you see her. Mary. Your first and only therapist. The first person you ever told your deep dark secrets to. Bob being the second and only other. She speaks your name softly as you smile at the warmness in her tone. It takes you back to when you were only a student, having no idea how to traverse the world without the proper support.

“It’s good to see you”, her honey voice greets you.

“It’s good to see you, too”, you nod. You notice that even through the camera, she’s letting her gray hair take over what was mostly a thick and lucious black when you first met her. There’s a few more crinkles around her eyes that you find when she smiles at you, but it’s still like greeting an old friend.

“So how’s it going, how have you been?”

“Um”, you laugh awkwardly, “Things could be better.”

“Ok, why don’t you go ahead and tell me why you reached out.” Breathing out a shaky breath you start talking. You tell her about the dreams returning, the panic attacks, how you didn’t know where you were when you were gone for hours. She takes diligent notes the entire time, nodding and assuring you she’s listening.

“So let me ask you a question; do you know what triggered these nightmares? Did something happen?” You think back to the night you kissed Bob and before you can even get butterflies, the image of your mother in your dream pops the bubble. Taking a leap of faith and a deep breath all in the same beat, you turn back to the camera.

“This is all in confidence, right?” She sighs your name before answering.

“You know it is. Unless what you did put other people or yourself in harm’s way then we are fine to discuss it without me telling anyone.” Taking out one earbud, you can still hear your dad with the lawnmower, so you continue.

“I kissed someone. Twice. It was after the first time that I had a nightmare.”

“I’m not seeing the problem here.”

“He’s on my squadron. And there is a pretty strict no fraternization rule.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yeah. So I broke a rule, made him break a rule. And I guess I just feel so guilty about it. And I did something wrong, which is why I had the dream.”

“And you had the second dream after the second kiss?”

“Not the night of. I didn’t get a lot of sleep because I was scared of it happening again. But last night was the second one. It was…terrifying. I didn’t think they were gonna come back. And I just blew up on everyone the first time around. My dad, Bradley-”

“Wait, Bradley as in, the Bradley that you grew up with?”

“That’s the one.”

“And you just see him regularly now? I mean I was looking through all your old notes and you were still pretty upset with him. Does time really heal all wounds?” You chuckle at her sarcasm.

“No, not really. It was awkward at first. But I hardly talked to him while we were working on the special detachment. After it was over, it looked like he made up with my dad, and we were made a permanent squadron. That’s when it started going downhill. Long story short, we were just kind of bickering, not really talking about the elephant in the room. He ended up saying something, I had a panic attack, then I punched him, then he started-”

“Wait, wait, wait- You punched him? I am going to need the long version of the story here. We don’t do short stories in therapy.” So you explain. Everything. How your little comments started to quickly cut deeper, how he told you to be careful before your drinking contest, and all the little warnings after the fact. And then the devastating moment where he betrayed your trust completely, leading to Bob comforting you at one of your lowest moments. And then of course, when you punched him, and how he’s been trying to get on your good side ever since, how he claims he thought you were calling to brag. As if he didn’t know what your mother was like.

“Wow. That’s a lot.” You nod in agreement. “How has it been with him since?”

“It’s so weird. He’s tried to do a complete 180, and claims he’s watching out for me. He was actually at the party, the one where I kissed- um…”

“You don’t have to say his name, it’s ok.”

“My teammate”, you find the courage to finish.

“This is a lot to process in such a short amount of time. How have you been handling it?” You scoff at just how many times you’ve had panic attacks and cried within the last month.

“Not well. Which is why I thought I should reach out.”

“I’m glad you did. I wish that therapy was a one and done kind of situation, but it’s going to take some time. Are you ready for that kind of commitment again? I know it got busy last time, and with deployments it was hard. But are you ready to put in the work?” You sigh and silently nod your head, biting your lip to avoid speaking with a frog in your throat.

“Well I hate to say this, but I think your dreams may be happening for a different reason than they did way back when they first started.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you came to me such a short time after the abuse stopped.” You try not to flinch at the word, but instinctively shut your eyes when she says it. “ When you stopped seeing her you were scared she was going to come back and find you. Now, I think your brain is reliving some memories to punish yourself. Because you feel guilty. And the fact that you see parts of her in you is making you resent yourself even more. Making you push people away before they can do the same to you.” Huh, you think.

“Does that resonate with you at all?” You laugh because it’s the only thing you can do at the moment. She hit the damn nail on the head.

“Yeah. Yeah it does.”

“Next time if you have a dream, here’s what I want you to do: I want you to find at least five things about yourself that are completely different from your mom. It can be little things in the way you look, the way you act, or anything. Because you are different. You aren’t her.” Your eyes sting at the influx of tears, and you lean your head back to stop them from falling.

“Ok, I know this was a pretty heavy session, so I want to end it on a higher note. I would like you to tell me at least three people in your life right now that make you feel loved, special, or wanted.” You shake your head, physically trying to put your mentality in a different spot than where it was at with your mother. Reaching for a tissue, you dab the straggling tears that threaten to fall.

“Um- ok. My dad, my friend Natasha”, you list out, still thinking about a third person. You can’t help that the third person your mind is pushing you to say is also the one person you’ve been trying to avoid thinking about. But it’s true. He makes you feel special and so wanted it’s kind of overwhelming, “And my friend Bob.”

-----------------------

With a deep breath you close your laptop and take out your ear buds. Your room feels stuffy all of a sudden, like all your thoughts and feelings are trapped into the sealed box. You stride across the room to open your window, and you hear your dad talking to someone. Then the snap of what you only know as a baseball hitting a glove echoes across the house. Unfortunately for your snoopy personality right now, your window faces the side of the neighbors, so you descend the stairs and look through the window in the living room.

The weather is surprisingly warm and sunny for a day before a storm. Perfect weather for spending outside you suppose. Your dad stands at one end of the yard, throwing the ball as you follow the line to the glove worn by, of course, Rooster. All of these old feelings came to life when you had to talk about him and everything else that has been happening for the past hour. When thinking about everyone who makes you feel loved, special, and wanted, Rooster did not make the cut. In fact, he has made you feel unwanted, unloved, and unimportant for the past 10 years. He threw you away like you were nothing, and even if he did apologize, it doesn’t take away the hurt that he left you with. But here he is. Throwing a baseball around with your dad like he didn’t avoid him for the last 16 years.

You huff out a breath before opening the front door, and plastering on a fake smile. If you were going to talk to him now was as good a time as any. You kind of feel bad for him, he had no idea he was walking into when he came over today. 

“Hey dad”, you squint through the fading sun as the two men look your way.

“Oh hey kiddo! How was your… meeting?”

“It was good, very”, you turn and squint slightly more at Rooster who tosses the ball up and back into his hand, “enlightening.”

“That’s good. Rooster here just popped over with a box of some old things, and we found our baseball gloves.”

“I can see that. Mind if I have a go?” He tries not to look as surprised as he feels by your request, but starts taking off his glove as you walk over to him.

“Sure.” You take the warm leather glove, slipping it onto your hand as you adjust to the feeling. Slapping the worn palm, you flap it a couple times in Rooster’s direction as he tosses it at you. Not throws. Tosses. Catching it in your bare hand, you raise your brow at him.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You act like we weren’t taught to throw a ball by the same person”, you note as you hook your thumb to your dad standing just to the side. “Throw it like you mean it.” Rolling the ball a couple times in your hand, you grip it and throw the fading white ball straight at Bradley’s chest. He manages to catch it with little time to spare, obviously underestimating just how hard you can throw. He glances over to your dad with wide eyes as he shrugs back with a smile. A hint of pride in his features. Rooster looks back at you while you open and close your glove a couple times.

“You sure you can handle it?” You roll your eyes at his assumption. Either he thinks too highly of his throwing ability, or way too low of your ability to catch a damn ball.

“Yes. I’ve handled a lot worse that you’ve thrown my way, so-”, you flap the glove once more, “try me.”

Rooster winces at the insinuation. But he gives up holding back, not all the way quite yet, but he throws it back with some of the power he was using with your dad. You continue throwing and catching the ball as your dad watches on with a warm smile.

“Alright”, he comments, “Looks like you two are doing fine, so I’m gonna go finish mowing the lawn.” He heads through the gate to the backyard as Rooster gets finished catching your last throw to him. Rooster takes the ball into his hand to throw back, but hesitates before putting it back in his glove.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know”, he responds as if pondering the question himself, “You’ve just got this look in your eye.” He winds up, and you catch the ball as he throws it at your chest. Mirroring his earlier action, you roll the ball around in your palm as you contemplate your next move.

“I’ve always got that look in my eye. If I don’t have it, that means something’s wrong.” You throw it back the tiniest bit harder, but Rooster does well to mask his surprise at the force. He’s still got that hint of suspicion on his face, but otherwise ignores it and is about to throw the ball back before you speak up.

“Oh, there is one thing”, you laugh without any real humor, “How was your date with Emily?” The ball slips from his hand as he attempts to throw it at you, causing it to fly up in the air before landing and rolling to your feet. His mouth opens and closes before he finally decides to say something as you raise an eyebrow at him.

“It was- it was- Where’d you hear about that?” Stepping forward, you pick up the ball.

“For an old man who means well, my dad can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

“I-”, he stands with his hands on his hips, confusion written on his face. There is no way you were supposed to know about this, and now he’s been caught. It feels good for a fraction of a second. “It wasn’t a secret.” He says as he kicks the grass. He reminds you of that little boy you once knew, getting in trouble and trying to hide his guilt. But before you stands the grown man who still can’t handle the consequences of his own actions.

“I just can’t believe you Rooster.” You throw the ball back to him as he looks up. Hard. It pushes the glove back into his chest and his lips twist into a grimace.

“For what? Going on a date?”, his voice raises the slightest bit as he throws it back to you. Just as hard. The only difference being you were ready for it.

“Not for that you idiot. For going on a date with her!”.

“What’s wrong with her?” Without meaning to, your jaw drops as you look around the street of your neighborhood. Your dad’s lawnmower is still going in the backyard as you turn to him.

“Are you kidding me? Rooster, it was your idea to set her up with Bob, and after she laughed in his face you decided to stick your tongue down her throat in the middle of the party and then what? Ask her out?”

“Ok, she kissed me. And it obviously wasn’t going to work out between the two of them! Why are you so upset about this?”

“Because even if she supposedly didn’t know she was being set up with Bob, you did! I mean, what the hell kind of wingman are you? But you know what?”, you decide as you throw the ball back to him, closer to his face this time, “You two assholes deserve each other.” The ball lands in his glove as he’s quick to catch it just below his chin.

“Whoa. Hold on. You’re kind of being an asshole right now.”

“Are not”, you huff.

“Are too”, he mimics.

“How am I the one being an asshole for trying to defend my friends?”

“Uh-un. Friend. Singular. And you’re being a little too defensive for someone you claim is just your friend.” You swallow, glancing to the gate leading to the backyard, the hum from the lawnmower still going. There’s not a chance he could have heard what he said, but you’re still paranoid nonetheless. Rooster’s winding up as you look back at him, giving you barely enough time to catch the ball right in front of your face. You’d be lying if you said your hand didn’t sting from the force of his throw.

“Keep your voice down”, you grit in his direction. He just shakes his head.

“So I’m right then”, he scoffs. “You just don’t learn, do you?” You snap back to him as his lip lifts. As if he knows something more than you. He couldn’t be more condescending if he tried.

“Learn what?”, you snap, “Don’t act like you’re not doing this for any other reason than to rid yourself of whatever guilt you have left.” You grunt, throwing the ball as hard as you can as he catches it with ease. Almost as if you’re playing catcher, he plays his part as pitcher beautifully, winding up even more than before, throwing the ball back to you almost immediately. The ball snaps in the glove you hold up in front of your face.

“That guilt will live with me for the rest of my life.” The draw of his brows beneath the beating sun tells you he’s angry. Maybe not with you, but it’s still anger either way, and it has to be let out somehow. “So if I can stop you from making a mistake, keep you from breaking your heart even more than I have, I will do whatever it takes.” Oh you’re angry now. You throw the ball with everything you have back at him. You are not some dumb kid like he was when he left. You’ve been through enough to have grown up younger than you should have.

“If you really cared about how I felt- or how anybody other than yourself felt that for that matter, you wouldn’t set someone up with a woman who is so obviously wrong for him. And then”, you laugh, “after she’s embarrassed him you wouldn’t kiss her in front of him and go on a damn date with her!” He only shakes his head at the ground before gripping the baseball in his right hand, rolling it around.

“I set him up to try and stop you from making a mistake. I was doing it to protect you!” The sound of a dog barking has you whipping your head to the street to your left. It sounds almost identical to Sylvia but you can’t seem to find the source of the noise. Your heart beats a little faster at the thought of him taking her for a walk nearby. That would be such god-awful timing. The thought of him possibly walking Sylvia down your street has you too rattled, and you’re slightly disappointed with yourself.

The searing pain hits you before the ball even falls to the ground, as you do with it.

“Jesus Christ!”, you scream as you fall to your back, cradling the side of your face the baseball hit.

“Oh shit! Oh my god- are you ok?”, Rooster appears on his knees right next to you, brown eyes wide as you’ve ever seen them as he grimaces along with you. The glove is just big enough for you to be able to throw it off of your hand, hitting him in the chest as you writhe on the freshly cut grass. You can’t help it as the hot tears slide out of your eyes, the pain too much.

“Hey, hey you’re fine! Don’t cry, please don’t cry!”, he pleads as you try to open your eyes long enough to glare at him.

“You hit me in the face with a fucking baseball of course I’m going to fucking cry!”, you scream. “You IDIOT!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I thought you were looking!” You glare at him through your uncovered eye as his hands hover over you. “Ok, are you bleeding? Lemme see.” You glare as hard as you can at him as he backs away. The pulse emanating from the side of your face is stopping you from feeling anything else, but you’re pretty sure that liquid sliding down your face are just stray tears that refuse to stay put.

“Ok, that’s fine. Um-”, he panics as you beg yourself to stop crying in front of him. “Alright, I’m gonna go get some ice, stay right here.” And before you have the mind to make a smart comment about going anywhere, your hands reach out and wrap around his ankle. The unexpected movement causes his weight to shift forward, giving him no time to brace himself as he falls to the ground. It doesn’t relieve any pain, but it feels good to watch him face plant onto the grass. There was still so much to say, too much you feel as though you can’t even get out your feelings through your words.

“Hey, what the hell?!”, he turns over as you grab your discarded glove.

“You were protecting me?!”. He does his best to dodge your blows, but it’s no use as he puts his hands up to protect himself and his stupid face. With the glove in both your hands, you whack at his torso. “I have been taking care of myself since I was 12!”, you grunt as you continue to hit him. “I am a grown woman! I don’t need to be lectured by anybody, especially not you!”

“I’m sorry, just stop!”, it’s obviously more of a nuisance than actually hurting him, but you are in so much pain right now you just want to get him back anyway you can. He attempts to crawl away on his back, but you stop him by sitting on his stomach, causing him to grunt at the unexpected weight.

“HEY!”, you pause at the sound of your dad’s voice, arms lifted in the air mid-blow. Rooster is still covering his face with his arms as he turns to look at your dad. “What is going on?!” Your arms are still in the air as the two of you look at each other before attempting to speak over one another.

“He started it!” “It was an accident!”, you yell at the same time. The sound of his voice has you looking down at the audacity of the man you are currently pinning to the grass.

“Why would you throw a ball at someone who isn’t looking?!”

“I thought you were!”, he’s quick to defend himself. You catch his gaze soften as his eyes shift to the right side of your face where he hit you with the ball.

“Inside, now!”, he orders as you and Rooster scramble to your feet. He walks ahead of you as your dad trails behind you. “Good afternoon Mrs. Callahan!” You turn to find your neighbor walking her goldendoodle just across the street, eyeing the state of all three of you that your dad doesn’t try to hide. One of the biggest differences between your parents. Your mother would have walked you delicately into the house pretending everything was under control and just fine. Until she closed the door. Your dad on the other hand, he knows things aren’t under his control and he doesn’t try to hide it. He’s not trying to keep up some image. It’s easy when you don’t care what other people think.

The dog barks once more before your dad ushers you inside.

He urges the two of you to sit on the couch as he runs to grab the first-aid kid, and you take one side begrudgingly as Rooster takes the other. Your face is starting to throb, but once you look down at your jeans you notice the grass and dirt stains on not only your knees, but your hands as well. You’re sure the back of them look the same, as do Rooster’s clothes.

Your dad sits on the coffee table before you, leaning forward as his hand gently moves your face so he can examine it. He tuts as you’re forced to look over at Rooster, who as you expected, is covered in grass stains as he twiddles with his thumbs. You can’t help but wonder why he’s still listening to your dad, it’s not like when you were younger and he was left in charge of the two of you. He can leave if he wants to.

“Well”, your dad starts as he reaches for the gauze, “It’s not bleeding too bad…” Huh, so you guess some of that liquid was blood. “Probably from the stitching”, he talks to himself as you wince from the pressure he’s applying.

“It’s gonna leave a nice bruise, though”, Wordlessly you push his hand away and apply the pressure yourself as he eyes you once before looking at the man on the other end of the couch.

“You ok Rooster?”

“‘M fine”, he mumbles back.

“Good”, he says as he rounds the coffee table. “Cause what the hell is going on? Huh? I left for two minutes!” He takes one hand off of his hips to point at the two of you, ready to go into a rant before his phone rings from where he left it in the kitchen. Glancing between the pair of you and back to the kitchen he slides a dirty hand down his face.

“Wait right here”, he demands pointing at the two of you before locating the source of the ringing. The only thing you can hear is the muffled sound of your dad talking on the phone, and the slight shift of Rooster on the other end of the couch.

“I’m really sorry-”

“Just-”, you cut Rooster off, “shut up.” He’s quiet for a second. Just a second. Before he decides he’s not going to listen to you.

“I got a concussion from getting hit in the head with a ball”, he comments as you roll your eyes. As if you could have forgotten. “Mom took me to the ER just in case, and as per usual, she was right.”

“I know, Rooster”, you interrupt him. “I was there. It was the summer you were on that comp baseball team.”

“I know you were. I just wanna remind you in case you feel like brushing this one off.”

“I’m not-”, you scoff, “What makes you think I’m gonna ‘brush this one off’?” He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck.

“I just remember you always saying when you got hurt that it wasn’t a big deal. Concussions are kind of a big deal.”

“I know- I’ve had one.” His brow furrows as he turns to face you, concern written into the creases in his forehead.

“Wait- when did you have one?” Your face turns hot as you realize you’ve revealed more than you would have liked to.

“I don’t know”, you shrug as you try to avoid his gaze, ”I was like 14.”

“Well what happened?” Taking away the gauze from your face, there’s a small line of blood, but nothing else. You trade it out for the icepack on the table and gently press it to where you’re hurting.

“I fell into a wall”, you tell him as you focus on the sting it brings to your cheek.

“You just fell into a wall?”

“Yeah- I tripped over something in my room.” It’s quiet for a moment as he mulls over what he’s about to say.

“Did you fall or were you pushed?” The color drains from your face as you clench your jaw. How dare he? You turn to face him, dropping both hands into your lap so he has to look at your entire face. Look at what he did.

“No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t just get to pick and choose when you’re loyal or protective. You left, Rooster. You knew what was going on and you still decided to leave. So whatever happened after I didn’t see you for 16 years, you don’t deserve to know.” He’s quiet as his eyes soften at you.

“And as for Bob-”, you clear your throat, “He’s my friend. And I will defend any of my friends. That included you at one point. I did in fact. I defended you when Hangman made his stupid comments, but now you’re the one who keeps running his mouth, and- and hanging around people who think it’s fine to be so blatantly rude. So you know what, Emily might just be perfect for you.” His mouth opens and closes before he thinks better than to say anything.

“As far as I’m concerned, you don’t owe me anything and I don’t want anything from you. So stop thinking you’re protecting me when all you do is keep reminding me of everything I have lost and can’t have.” He’s actually quiet now, you think you  have stunned him into a complete silence. This may just be the time for him to listen, so you’re gonna say what you’ve been wanting to say for a long time.

“When your mom died- I wasn’t just grieving for her. I-“, your throat starts to close up but you push through it anyway, “you left. You left and I never heard from you again and I had to grieve for someone who wasn’t even dead. He chose to leave and never come back. And I know that you were hurting, but so was I.” He clears his throat as you listen to your dad finishing up his conversation. The ice pack crinkles as you press it against your face once more. It really does fucking hurt. “So please, just once, think of how your actions affect anybody else but yourself.”

He doesn’t bother saying anything else. What else is there to say? A sorry won’t even make a difference anymore. He’s said it too many times for the words to have meaning when they leave his lips. You watch his adam's apple bob before deciding you don’t want to look at him even more. The only thing you can hear is the faint sound of your dad from the kitchen, tying up the end of his phone call. Then you’re almost sure you can hear Bradley sniffle before he abruptly stands, staring at his hands.

“I’m gonna go. There are a couple things for you in that box”, he motions to the cardboard rectangle sitting on the coffee table. He clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck. “If you keep getting headaches that won’t go away- just please go get checked out. I uh-”, this is the first time in a long time you’ve seen him so nervous he can’t find his words. One of the last times was speaking at Carole’s funeral, and your eyes can’t help but tear up at the parallel. “Mantis- I don’t want to hurt you. But I know I already did, so I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry”, he whispers his apology before heading to the front door. Your dad is walking in just as he leaves.

“Where’s Rooster?”

“He had to go”, you say with a clogged throat. He stands with his hands on his hips, perplexed at the entire situation.

“Well- do I need to talk to him?”

“No”, the words fall from your lips, “It’s fine.” He catches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare at the cardboard box on the table.

“Hey”, he almost whispers to get your attention. You look up with unshed tears in your eyes. “Are you ok?” It hurts to swallow as you try your best not to break the barrier of crying.

“It just hurts”, you explain, not entirely sure what part you’re talking about. He opens his mouth to say something else, but you stand before you let him talk. “I’m gonna go lie down. I’ve had a long day.” With a skeptical eye he lets you go, but not before sending you with the ice pack and letting you know he’d be up to check on you.

Once your back is turned and you’ve made it up the last steps, the first of many tears fall without much trying. You turn the shower on instead of lying in bed, deciding to do something somewhat productive. And once out you try your best not to look in the mirror, but catch sight of your cheek. It’s already swollen, an undertone of purple creeping out from the tiny cut from the stitching of the ball.

After getting into bed you stare at the ceiling, letting the day sink in. You lie there for a moment, trying to quiet your thoughts in order to let you sleep, but they’re too loud. Turning over, you stare at your bedside table. A framed picture you keep of you and Carole sits next to your phone. You can almost hear her laugh through the glossy finish of the photo, but you see Bradley in her smile through and through. A tear slides across your face and lands on your pillow, darkening the fabric. And you let it happen. You let the next one happen, too. And then you don’t stop yourself from crying.

Letting the rest out, you fold your knees to your chest and allow yourself to cry. You cry for Carole, for how much you miss her and how much life she missed out on. And you cry for Bradley. Even if he did hurt you, you cry because you miss him, too. And you cry because you wish you were brave. You wish you had the courage to say something to someone when you were younger. And even now, you cry because you wish you had the strength to look Bob in the eye and say- anything. Get past your own fears of rejection and punishment, and let him know that you see him for what he is. A good person, who deserves everything and more. And you know someday he’ll find someone who is more than eager to give that to him. Even if you already are, it can't be you.

Taglist:

@lemmons1998

@itsmytimetoodream

@theamuz

@harrysgothicbitch

@mygyn

@luckyladycreator2

@marve2014

@wretchedmo

@callsignwidow

@finnydraws

@melsunshine

@jostan456

@okiegirl24

@beebeechaos

@eclecticfashionbookszipper

@hunbomb

@nerdgirljen

@knight-of-the-doctor

[pinksatinsashes]

The end of the year is the best time of year for us self improvement obsessed girlies because the planners are out, everyone's making vision boards and its finally time to write a nice long list of New Years Resolutions and achieve precisely nothing! Nothing!

Then the end of that year comes and we start the cycle again, making lists, checking them twice, achieving absolutely nothing, staying exactly the same and sometimes worse! How exciting! :)

When I was 16 I thought I'd have my life together at 18...lol! When I was 18 I figured I'd be totally together when I was 20. I'm 20 now...I think I've genuinely gotten worse.

But this year I am determined! I have said absolutely no more, absolutely no way is another year going to pass me by and I'm going to be stuck here in the exact same place. I NEED change.

Your 20's are meant to be the 'best years of your life'!

This is probably the easiest I'm ever going to have it! I have no children, no husband and I don't pay rent yet, if I don't do it now I will never do it..I don't want this to be my life forever.

Want to know how I'm going to make this year my year? Keep reading.

About two weeks ago I coined 2024 as the year of the Glow Up and started to meticulously plan out exactly what I wanted out of it.

My main goals for 2024 are:

To Hit My Goal Weight.

To Save Up Enough Money to Move to London.

To Be 75% of my Dream Girl

There are tons of other things I want to achieve of course, but If I don't achieve those three 2024 would genuinely have been a waste of time for me.

Now a couple years ago I would've just written those two goals down, put them on a vision board and went about my business...but Oh No, not this time.

I had a nice long think about the person I wanted to be at the end of 2024, financially stable, clear skin, goal weight, ready to move in spring 2025, closer to God, found her signature scent.

Each of these goals had a wider theme:

Routine

Fitness and Body

Food

Skincare and Hygiene

Beauty & Makeup

Hair

Clothes

God

Books & Brains

Music

Budget

I fired up Notion, created a home page that had a sub page for every month and then finally I created the Overall page, which has a sub page for every Goal Category and then I broke down each goal into lots of SMART goals. (Specific Measurable Achievable Realistic Time-Based)

So my 'get down to my goal weight' goal became:

Fitness and Body:

[ ] Size 10 clothes or under and 140 lbs (I'm 5'9 with naturally big boobs so this is my ideal weight)

[ ] Hour Glass Figure, building up glutes and upper body

[ ] Maintain Goal Weight for at least 3 months

[ ] Able to Stair Machine for 10 minutes

[ ] Able to go on a full Run

[ ] Do at least one form of Excerise a day

[ ] At least one form of Excerise a day

[ ] Take the Dog on Daily Walks

Food:

[ ] Try 12 New Recipes

[ ] Learn How To Cook 4 Different Nigerian Recipes

[ ] Form Consistent Eating Routines

[ ] Eat out twice a month or less

[ ] Stay in a Caloric deficit until I reach my Goal Weight

See how much more specific this is?

Having my goals listed like this makes everything so much easier because I'm tackling multiple things at once. First I'm changing the majority of my goals to habits or tasks (things I can control) from outcomes (things I may not be able to control).

Now I know that if I do all of these things written out, staying in a caloric deficit and excising daily there's a 90% chance I'll reach my goal.

This is much more effective than writing an outcome with no plan on how to achieve it.

From here, I'll break the Goal Down Even Further, into monthly goals.

For example, to reach the goal weight Goal by the end of December, January may look like this:

Eat at 1500 calories a day or 10,500 calories a week (to allow for the high calorie company lunches I often attend as part of my work, I'll simply eat less on the other days

Go to the gym 4 times week,

Complete X Fitness plan

Go on one Dog walk a week

Meal Prep ever week.

Lose 10lbs

To Save enough Money to Move to London by the end of the year, January might look like this:

Prep for no Spend Months in Feb and March (stock up on skincare, budywash etc)

Meal plan every week

Sell £200 worth of clothes on Vinted to spend on Spring Wardrobe (I'm not buying any clothes unless I use the money I get from selling my current clothes)

Stick to Budget

My Goal to get Smarter and Stop Mindless Scrolling may look like this in January:

Read at least 1 book

Listen to 4 Podcast Episodes

Limit Social Media use to 1 hour a day

Write 6 Blog Posts

Watch one Documentary

Setting the tasks in this way also allows me to feel a sense of achievement, every month I'm able to tick off my goals which can increase my motivation, instead of writing down a list of things to do and forgetting about it until the end of the year. It also allows me to recognise when I'm going off track faster and adjust for the next month.

You see how this is better?

I was strategic in using notion because I knew that I could then use it not only to set out my goals, but as a home base, a setting point to house all the things I could use to achieve them.

Under each section I've also included a bunch of things to help me, the Food section for example has a list of my go to recipes, so that when I can't think of anything to eat and want to run over to the closest KFC I have something to choose from. The Hair section has a list of hairstyles I've done and the Pro's and Cons, the Skincare section has a list of the products I've tried, if I liked them and If they worked for me.

Each month has its own page with a section for each wider goal and a spot for me to have a monthly write up, detailing what works and what didn't work so I can change and approve the following month and prevent falling behind.

I'm determined to make this year my year so let me know if you'd like me to keep you updated, feel free to ask any questions or send them to my asks. Also let me know if you want my notion template, here's a little peak-

Till we speak again!

-hannah🤍

[petermorwood]

Crisps / Chips again

Associated with this post, here's an artefact, two anecdotes and an opinion.

The artefact is a slightly dented but still remarkably airtight "Charles Chips" tin.

It was bought, full, many years ago from the Vermont Country Store, from whom we subsequently bought reflll packs - given their size, "sacks" would be more accurate - which were shipped to Ireland in sturdy cardboard boxes.

VCS no longer carry Charles Chips in either tin or refill. I know. I checked. BUT...

The Charles Chips company, which per Wikipedia was doing just fine in 1990 then got sold and went bankrupt twice in less than three years (gosh!) is Back In Business, and note has been taken, with considerable interest - oh, you bet - that they do international shipping...

*****

Anecdote No. 1 is from when @dduane lived in Bala Cynwyd near Philadelphia, in what was known as "The House of Dangerously Single Women" (ahem). She tells me that the household used to get Charles Chips delivered to the door about twice a week, by the company's own vans.

Speaking as a long-time crisp fan, I found that both very neat and a source of mild envy. :->

Anecdote No. 2 is from 30-ish years ago, when we were in New York for something or other and, being rather jetlagged with our internal food clocks out of whack, did our usual thing and went out for a walk.

Curiously enough, this involved visiting several food stores and supermarkets where we bought a lot of Interesting Foreign or Much Missed (i.e. American, in both instances) junk food for grazing on back in our hotel room.

In one of them DD was about to lay claim to a huge bag of Wise potato chips (its bag would have been the design in the middle)...

...while nattering to one of the shop staff how much she missed them. He told her that a new delivery was expected in about 20 minutes and if she wanted to wait, she'd get much fresher chips.

And So It Came To Pass.

Well done, that guy!

*****

Finally, while Saratoga Springs may have been where potato crisps / chips were popularised, standardised, commercialised or whatever, it's definitely not where they were invented.

Even the oft-repeated "creation myth" frequently has its hard-to-please celebrity demanding to have his potatoes sliced and fried really thin "The Way I Had Them In France" - which kinda sorta suggests they were, um, being made there just like that well before the Saratoga thing happened.

Myths are okay, even marketing myths - so long as they're recognised as myths and not shilled as true by places with reputations like the Smithsonian.

*****

It's a bit like the still-current nonsense about spices being used in medieval kitchens to disguise bad meat. As far as I've been able to find out, this originated with a historian called J. C. Drummond in the late 1930s - yup, just before World War Two - simply because he didn't know his period terminology.

"Green" meant fresh - even nowadays, an inexperienced or immature person is "green" - so green cheese was newly made, and green meat was newly slaughtered, unaged and consequently tough and flavourless.

Just ask any steak fan the difference between a fresh steak and a 30-day dry aged one.

Drummond, in his overspecialised-scholarship wisdom, assumed that "green venison" meant meat which had gone off, and that a recipe to improve it with spices was to cover the bad smell and taste.

In fact it was somewhere between a marinade and a rub, meant to improve the tenderness and flavour of fresh meat as if it had aged for a while, thus shortening the waiting time between killing a beast and getting it to the table of a hungry court.

As I've said before, it's always easier for no-proofs-given pop history to dismiss medieval people as (insert derogatory observation here) than take the time needed to explain why and how they in their time were not that different to us in ours.

*****

PS: when looking for that previously posted stuff about green meat I found a post where, with even less evidence than Saratoga Springs inventing crisps, a Brit poster claimed Brits invented curry.

Snrk.

Among other more or less pertinent observations, I mentioned that what Brits invented was BRITISH curry, and anyone who has read "Nanny Ogg's Cookbook" will know what I meant by that... :->

[neonblessing]

2.

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

LAYER 22 - THE DILUVIAN DISTRICT

EST. POPULATION: 100M HUMANS, 12 GODS

POINTS OF INTEREST: CHURCH OF MANIFOLD SORROWS, THE SACROLITH, A DISUSED DRAINAGE PIPE

Maggie’s house wasn’t the nicest place Shiv had ever crashed. That honor went to the hotel room the Floodkin had broken into for the night of her eighteenth birthday. Maggie’s wasn’t her favorite, either–that hideout was long gone, torn down and turned into a casino years ago. That said, she’d definitely slept in worse places: Mags didn’t expect anything from her besides chipping in on rent where she could; and the house was soundproofed, an essential in the Diluvian District.

Shiv stepped outside and slipped in a pair of cheap earplugs to drown out the roar of water. They deadened the sound but couldn't outright eliminate it. Distant waterfalls thundered at a trillion gallons a minute, kicking up the famous Diluvian Mists that could be felt anywhere in the district. The water cascaded down from the layers above and went coursing through a thousand canals and rivers on its way further down and deeper into the city. In the late morning glow of the street lamps, brilliant rainbows played about the skyscrapers. The ceiling of the layer was invisible under a blanket of fog.

Thankfully, most of the filtration happened on Diluvian 20, so the water here was clear and more or less safe to drink. The fountains were fed by the channels, and people huddled around them, holding cups out to the metal mouths of the godly statuary.

The streets of Diluvian 22 were full of people no matter the time of day. A train swept by overhead on suspended tracks, while cars careened through the narrow, twisting streets, and on every sidewalk and bridge and platform people of all sorts went about their business.  An ear-splittingly loud torrentpunk song filled the morning air, courtesy of some band of street performers a block or two over.

Everything in the Diluvian was loud: the music, the people, and the fashion choices. It was always easy to tell when someone was new to the district: they tended to speak too quietly to be heard above the waterfalls, and wore shapeless and utilitarian raincoats. The dark fabric of formal suits and ties stood out against the riot of color, islands of corporate pretension amidst a sea of high-vis vests and neon street clothes.

Maggie’s house was located along Grief St., a little closer to the Church than Shiv would have liked. She was always careful to give it a wide berth, staying at least three blocks away from its stony facade where possible. By Shiv’s reckoning, there were twelve gods who called Diluvian 22 home, and Aluel was the worst of them.

The Church of Manifold Sorrows policed much of the district, from way down in layer 24 and up to 19, but the 22nd layer was where their goddess had built her cathedral. Aluel and her Sorrows (or Crybabies, as the Diluvian public called them) didn’t have that much weight to throw around, and mostly busied themselves protecting VIPs, confiscating firearms, and breaking up rowdy parties. Every few weeks they killed someone.

Nine of Diluvian 22’s gods were inconsequential: homeless, powerless, without domain or altar, too weak even to be conscripted as labor or as batteries. Even the Diluvian's mightiest were frequently ignored in prayers, with people choosing to throw their lots in with more influential gods. 

As for the two remaining major gods, Ebrelurge’s name was cursed more often than it was praised, and no one of repute would be caught dead consorting with Ornarch. Shiv had gotten Ornarch’s black wings tattooed onto her shoulder blades when she was fourteen years old, and she figured she owed the old man a house call.

As she passed by a corner cafe wafting the smell of fresh-baked bread out into the foggy air, her stomach growled in appreciation. She hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday’s lunch.

First Page – Previous Page – Next Page

[blossominghunnie]

𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞

Pairing: Eric x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, established relationship

Summary: Studying sucks, but it sucks less when you have your sweet boyfriend by your side.

Warning: None

Notes: Just finished exams and omg, it was the worst week ever. I think I slept like two to three hours per day. 🫠

This week you were living a literal hell, it was exams week. You hated them more than anything in the world and of course you didn’t like to study.

You weren’t the best student but you had pretty decent grades. What made you a not so great student was the fact that you loved procrastinating, which you had been doing until an hour ago.

You had an important exam tomorrow morning and it was getting late, so you had to start soon.

You had learned from your most reliable source (a tiktoker) about the pomodoro method and how having a study buddy helped a lot.

So you decided to FaceTime your boyfriend, Eric, who was on tour now with his group. He was always your support system and biggest fan so you knew that he would be helpful.

“Stop distracting me by looking at me like that.” You giggled as you paused your studying for a minute and looked at him through the screen.

“Like what, sweets?”

“Like you’re in love with me or something.”

“But I’m in love with you.” He laughed. “I thought we had established that a long time ago.”

“Well yeah, but it’s distracting me.” You pouted. “You know I have the attention span of a fish.”

“But I can’t stop looking at you, you’re too pretty.” He smiled sweetly.

“Stooop.” You covered your reddened face. Which made him laugh.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He smiled. “When can I look again?”

“When I finish my 20 minutes, in my breaks you can do anything.”

“Okay, I like that.”

Eric kept his promise and only really interacted with you when you were resting. Well, almost, he kept glancing at you from time to time, thinking of how cute you looked. And admiring your dedication and hard work.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The Boyz masterlist || Main masterlist

[afreakingdork]

Crush Too Much - Part 19

RotTMNT Donatello x GN!Reader

Warnings: Longing, Angst, Fluff, Embarrassment, Overbearing Siblings, Aged-up Turtles

Synopsis:  So you met a customer three times at work and that made a pretty big impression on you? That’s nothing to necessarily get worked up over, but when you’re all prepared to ask for his number the next time you see him and his brother gets involved instead, you might be in for something more than you bargained for.

FIRST 💜 PREVIOUS

Mikey's Merriment

Leaned against a trunk and just tucked into a grouping of trees, Donatello stared across the road. Twilight cast odd shades of orange against the concrete exterior of the American Museum of Natural History.  He told himself he hadn’t meant to arrive so early, but there was also no denying his excitement. In less than a week’s time since the successful boardwalk outing, his text chain with you no longer felt abysmal. In fact, it seemingly rivaled a less encumbered time earlier in your friendship. His lips downturned slightly from their neutral position. He wasn’t sure if 'friendship' was the right word for it. At the time he thought it was, but now having himself in the position you had been at the time complicated the matter. It was an odd spot where the seeds of close platonics begged to be sprouted into the romantic. Though the botany metaphor was something he adored, he was unwilling to maintain that headspace.

Flicking his thumb aggressively over his device, the text chain cycled backwards until an image of your key chains appeared. It had been a running joke between the two of you to put the plushes in increasingly ‘dangerous’ situations. The amusing roleplay you had come up with had been a great icebreaker and excuse to continue texting at near any hour of the day. Smiling to himself, Donatello remembered how he’d even convinced Hypno to pose with it mid-battle. There was something to be said about the banter in a long-term hero-villain association. After several rereads of the thread, he glanced across the street again to find the museum closing up for the day. It meant there were exactly 30 minutes until the scheduled meet-up time. Losing focus, he watched as a continuous stream of people filtered by on the sidewalk.

The late October weather made his hoodie a cozy hideaway. With the nights dipping lower, it was almost time to dig out his winter wardrobe. Letting his head gently rest against the tree, he ruminated over the last year. The technical anniversary sat around a month ago, but there hadn’t been time to consider it. Tapping a finger to his phone’s case, he shifted as a thought took hold. Scrolling back through his meticulous calendar he found the date you officially considered your meeting. He then cycled back through to this year and found the fashion show was only a single day off from 365. It was oddly fortuitous to the point where he wished it were just exact. Giving a satisfied hum to himself, he brought his gaze back to the museum and immediately spotted you walking up.

Flicking his eyes to his phone found you 20 minutes early. It wasn’t as if you were late, but your punctuality was predictable. Curious, he dropped his goggles down to watch you more closely. You walked up, vigilantly scanning all the nooks and crannies of the exterior. He smiled as he presumed he was the cause. Having not located him, you seemed to give a long sigh of relief. You then hopped up to sit on a stone ledge and brought a hand up to your chest. He adjusted the zoom as your lips started to move, but you stopped as soon as he did so. Instead, he got a close up of your furrowed brow. Your lashes descended and your lips came together into an o-shape. He swallowed hard. Your body relaxed as you seemingly blew out a stream of air in a focused exhale. Your eyes then popped open and you gave a single tight nod. Lifting his goggles, Donatello wasn’t sure if that was something he should brood over. A shred of his imagination was already running wild with love-struck implications, but he shook them away. Rather than marinate on it for the next 15 minutes, he instead emerged from the park and crossed the road.

You caught sight of him as he reached the opposite sidewalk. “That’s not the direction I expected you to come from…”

“I seem to remember something…” He tried to suppress his giddy smile to make the comment more convincing. He hid what he could through an extended arm and a digit pressed to his forehead as if it could recall his memory. “’Everything is a surprise with you?’” He then removed his hand and pushed the finger against your forehead in a mock show of transferring the knowledge.

“You’ve got me there.” You reached up and gently pushed his arm away.

He might have imagined it, but it almost seemed like you lingered. “We did not exchange salutations.”

“Of course, my mistake.” Into the motion of rolling your eyes you hopped off the ledge and onto your feet. “Hello, humble protector. We meet today in the shadow of a closed museum.”

He was sent right back to the rooftop. The flighty feelings as you’d offered your hand to him were something that he chalked up to patrol adrenaline. He knew far better now, but the fact you were joking about such a time wasn’t something he knew how to handle. “Well, citizen…” He straightened his posture and put authoritative hands on his hips. “The museum before you has closed for the general public.”

“We’re not breaking in so you can keep the cover of night, right?” You broke character as anxiety flooded your voice.

“What, no.” It frustratingly brought him out of the charade as well. “Tonight’s member’s night.”

“Oh, you’re a member?”

“Of course I am!” He crossed the distance to the steps as he nursed the supposed insult to his dignity.

You gave a light jog to catch up. “Want me to ask for forgiveness? How dare I not know that!?” You hopped a few steps and turned to look at him now eye level.

“It’s an investment.” He retorted flatly. “The thinned crowd and late night hours are just bonuses.”

“I suppose that is pretty cool…” You turned to look at the building. “But how do I fit into this?”

“I’m going to assume I haven’t inflated your ego somehow and instead venture to ask if you mean ‘how does this fit into the expiatory extravaganza?’”

“Since I’m not the one with an ego stroking issue, let’s just say with your alternate phrasing works.”

He made a face. “Using such language in front of this.” He cleared a few steps in a single bound and threw his arms up at the museum. “A hall of learning!” 

“I don’t…” You let out a laugh. “Which word?”

He gestured to the building again with a pointed grimace.

“Ah.” You snapped your fingers. “I thought I could get you.”

“Not with that poor excuse of an attempt.” He looked down his nose at you and stepped up to the building where an elderly couple were granted entry. “If you follow me, I can answer your question.”

“Some kind of experiential learning?” You wondered, following.

“If I answer that it defeats the purpose.”

You snapped again.

“Is this going to be a thing tonight? I just need to know how long to keep my guard up for.”

“If I answer that it defeats the purpose.” You did a little impression of him before taking the door handle.

You opened the door as he approached, but he stopped shy of the threshold to crowd you for a moment. “Cute.” He dropped the phrase simply, eyeing you up before straightening and strolling in with his hands clasped behind his back.

The fact that it took you 37 seconds to follow meant the move had its intended effect. He considered it retribution and not flirting. When you’d resumed your place at his side, he checked in at the front desk with reserved tickets before steering you to the Halls of Gems and Minerals.

He stopped just before entering the exhibit and did an about face.

You took careful note of him and then the display above the wing before a little smile played on your lips. “I see now.”

“Yes, well…” He sneered over his shoulder.

“Doing something you hate is a pretty good marker of how sorry you are.” You side stepped him and entered to hall.

He trailed behind. “That is some people’s opinions.”

“It makes me kinda want to guess which brother suggested it.”

“Only partially?” Donnie would latch on to any conversational crumbs that could distract his mind from the rocks.

You approached the first display case on the left and looked over it thoughtfully. “Since I don’t know what the next two events are, it wouldn’t be a good guess.”

He hummed with approval, passing only a glance at the informational placard.

You both moved through three more displays cases and he couldn’t mask his disdain. Unlike the pier, there were no airs to put on. It was just cabinet after cabinet filled with different types of rocks. There was some novelty to their formation and ancient status, but beyond that they were mostly bland, roughly textured hunks. He slouched further and further into himself with the only solace being he was upholding his end of the bargain.

“Psst.” He shifted from the depths of his hoodie to find you looking up at him.

“Yes?” Maybe he’d withdrawn a little too much.

You tilted forward and threw a finger up to your lips. You then pretended to glance around the room as if there were a crowd.

He gave a curious nod.

“You got the stuff?” You whispered, leaning in closer with a hand held up to cover your mouth.

He eyed you carefully and took particular note of how your other hand was jammed into your jacket pocket. He instantly grasped what you were reaching for. “Oh, I got it.” He stuffed his hands into his hoodie.

You mouthed a countdown and at the same time you both pulled out your plushes. You giggled happily as they twisted near each other until the magnets clicked them together. “They had such a hard week apart.”

“The blender debacle was quite the stress on purple.” Donnie gave his head a sympathetic shake. 

“White was caught by a supervillain! That can’t possibly compare.” You released your keychain and Donnie brought the pair close.

“Don’t judge an individual’s struggles.” He clicked his tongue before observing the plushes once more. An idea formed so he laced his drawstring through both key rings and tied it off. The pair happily clung to each other from off his hoodie.

You stopped and bit your lip in an attempt to dampen a huge oncoming grin. “That’s too much. Can I take a pic?”

“But of course.” Donnie struck a pose and you shook your head with amusement as you unearthed your phone. As soon as you lifted the camera, however, he dropped out of the act and put on an aloof expression. 

“Say ‘I’m not having any fun!’”

“Does it need to be said when it’s a simple fact?” He brought up a palm to enforce his point and the shutter went off.

“I must say that while this idea was fine in theory, in practice it’s kinda bumming me out.” You reviewed the photo carefully.

He frowned. He should have considered that fact. It was something his brother’s had grouched to him about on multiple occasions. He adjusted his posture in preparation. “I see, I’ll strive to-”

“Nah.” You held up your phone and took a few more photos of him.

Though his was mostly unprepared, he was able to muster a few different facial expression amongst the series. “You did not let me finish.”

“Because I don’t want you to fake it.” You nodded to your phone, satisfied, and pocketed the device. “How about a game?”

“Color me intrigued.” He agreed as you lead him to the next display.

“Kinda like these cuties.” You poked the plushes. “Let’s find each other’s stone.”

He turned and looked out at the expanse of the hall. “You want me to select a rock that represents you?”

You seemed amused. “There’s also gemstones.”

“Shiny colored rocks.” He brought his gaze lethargically back to you.

“Not even a game can get you into this, hm?”  You tipped your head to one side.

He sighed and reviewed the room again. “Or rather how am I supposed to compare you to some hunk of earth? A flower would do you better justice, something with-” He froze, realizing the connotation of the words spilling out of his mouth. His throat tightened and this time the slow trip his eyes took back to you was done out of fear.

You didn’t seem upset, but instead your were colored with mild surprise in the shape of raised brows and parted lips.

“Are we going to just keep ignoring the absurdly large geodes?” Donnie’s voice was so tightly coiled it almost teetered into laughter. His limbs moved robotically as he waddled over to the closest suspended object. He wasn’t really looking at it as he was through it. Still, he felt you approach.

“Woah…” You breathed.

He didn’t dare glance at you, but instead forced his eyes to focus on the behemoth in front of him. Within the geode was a veritable galaxy of purples bespeckled with reflective stars of white. He felt his blood pressure bottom out as it reminded him of the meteor shower. That night had yet to be fully scrubbed of his transgressions.

“It says it’s a amethyst with purple quartz crystals and it’s 9 feet tall.”

He nodded dumbly.

“There’s a taller one over there, but it’s skinnier.” From the way your jacket rustled you must be pointing. Unfortunately, he was caught in a mix of unable and not wanting to look away.

You stood by him in solemn silence until an exhale was ripped from him. He wasn’t sure when he’d started to hold his breath.

“Guess I don’t need to pick then.” Your voice was warm with understanding.

“What do you mean?” His, on the other hand, sounded far away.

“This one’s you.”

He blinked.

“Funny answer or the deep one?”

He wondered if you looking at him or the geode. “Both.”

“Purple.” You stated flatly.  

Though it didn’t illicit any comedic response, it did give him enough wherewithal to close his eyes.

“But it’s also a kind of sweep you off your feet sort of piece. It has a clarity that means you can see everything, but there’s so much to see that it’d be impossible to catch every little detail in a single lifetime. It’s somehow both uplifting and grounding at the same time…”

The words and their contextual meaning seeped into his brain slowly. As they did, they translated into a rapid pre-heating of his face until his cheeks were fully aflame. When he finally snapped his head to the side to catch a glimpse of you, you were wandering off to the next display. There was no way he could follow something like that up. In desperation, Donatello scoured the space with his eyes as his feet were glued to the ground. He’d already stated his case and point on the stones. You saw something in them, or maybe him, that he certainly didn’t.

Then, as if reading his mind, you spoke. “Guess we’ll have to go to the Botanical Garden sometime.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” He watched as your rounded a slab of teals and greens. “I expect you to tell me which flower I am.”

He had to wrap a hand around his mouth to keep a confession from slipping out.

-

Leo's Levity

“An often overlooked aspect is the tightness of the laces.” Donatello wound the string around his fingers and gave it a tug.

“Mhm.” You listened above him from your perch on a bench.

He slipped a hand behind your skate and gave the laces another tug. “It helps keep your ankle straight, a folly that many first timers fail to take into consideration.” Satisfied, he tied the strings. “It’s much safer when there’s no wiggle room.”

“Huh.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see your fingers curl around the bench and squeeze.

Pausing he glanced up from where he was knelt down in front of you, tying your skates. “Rambling?” He wasn’t sure why he dropped the full sentence structure.

“No.” You lips wrinkled. “Your explanation is enlightening, I just…” You clinked your one skate against the ground. “…usually tie my own shoes?”

He blinked at you and then down to your other, yet to be tied, skate. Stiffening, the last few minutes flooded back to him. He’d been so caught up in the euphoria of exposition that the skate rental process sort of flew by. After getting a pair, you took to a bench where he continued on in his account and rounded you unconsciously. He then paired his verbal instructions to physical ones without even asking you if that was alright.

His mouth opened and closed.

He brought his gaze up to you and hoped it translated enough regret.

You giggled as you seemingly connected the dots. “You might as well finish the other one?”

Rigid, he began to twist the undone laces through the hooks. “I apologize. I’d say I don’t know what came over me, but…”

“Just another Donatello surprise.” There was a soothing quality to your voice.

He shook his head and similarly tugged on your shoestrings. “For the record, I am confident in your ability to do this yourself.”

“I wasn’t worried. It’s honestly fine.” You shifted your foot slightly to kick up his attention. “You hear that Donnie’s brain?”

He flicked his eyes up for just a moment as he finished tying off a knot. “He hears you loud and clear. It’s the application of said concepts that I can’t attest to.” He stood and slipped his own skates from where they were threaded across his shoulders.

“Sure, sure.” You clinked your feet together, testing their new outfitting. “I’m sure you can guess what my brain is thinking.” He rounded you to take his own seat on the bench and watched you gesture to his skates as he passed.

“I am beginning to think you’re just jealous you do not have a signature color.” Through a single finger he held up his still knotted purple skates.

“I will neither confirm nor deny.” You made a show of rolling your eyes and continued to admire your laces. “I’m surprised you have your own pair. Do you skate often?”

“No. In fact…” Between untying his laces, Donnie sorted through his mental files. “I don’t believe I’ve ever properly skated. Though, there have been a few makeshift "work" sessions however.”

“Some kind of ice mutant?” You wondered.

“Not specifically, no. More like forethought into environmental manipulation.” No longer putting on a show, he made quick work of suiting up.

“So you bought them just for this? I hope that’s not a waste.” You leaned forward at the thought to get a better glimpse at his skates.

“Made.” He corrected, taking to his feet.

“You made them?!” You bent forward until your chest touched your legs to better study the footwear.

“When you compare that to the price of custom skates that accommodate these feet, you’ll find I made the wiser choice.” He took a few steps forward and turned with an outstretched hand.

“I should have thought of that.” You shook your head and rose up to take his offer.

“Not at all. There’s a reason we all prefer to go barefoot.” With a little tug he pulled you to your feet.

You bounced up and down a few times, testing the thin blade you were balanced on. “Barefoot in New York…”

“There are some things better left unsaid.” He pretended to give you the queasy cold shoulder as he headed to the shoe locker. He found that you kept tether to his hand on the way. Pleased that you were behind him, he let the mushy expression as a result run over his features before tucking it away. To access the lockers, contact was lost, but he didn’t let it get to him. He focused as you both headed over to the rink.

The little inlet approached and he took to the side of it. “Ready?”

You brought prepared fists to your chest. “Rockefeller is going down!”

“The titular brothers are long dead, but I am always for dismantling wealth inequality.” He waved you to go first and watched as you carefully set out on the ice.

He hovered behind and you awkwardly waded into the rotation of skaters. Keeping close to the wall, you seemed stable enough so he slid up beside you. You passed him a glance from where you’d been focusing on your feet. “You’re so stiff.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He lifted one of his skates and in a twist of momentum, used it to turn himself around so he was gliding backwards.

“Your body.” You flapped a hand at him and it shifted your balance. You snuck the flub under a more aggressive thrust, which put you a little pace ahead of him. “You’re like a plank of wood!”

“Hm?” He looked down and found his posture impeccable. “It’s easier to balance when your core is tight and the weight is properly distributed.” He used a similar turn to right himself as the first curve approached.

“I have… so many questions…” Your sentence clipped as you focused on maneuvering the semi-circle.

“I have an adequate amount of answers.” He languidly replied, taking the same curve on a single skate.

“This is seriously the first time you’ve skated!?” You squawked as soon as the straight away resumed.

“Your sarcasm is duly noted.” He chuckled. He was quite enjoying the chance to show off. So far, Leo’s ascertain had been completely wrong too, which happened to be wonderful little bonus.

“Oh, of course.” You seemed to throw your hands up, but caught them from going higher than your shoulders. “You probably trained for years standing on the tips of bamboo poles!”

“Stereotypes are unbecoming.” He mused and outpaced you a bit.

“Did you though?” You called out after him, shuffling in an attempt to catch up.

“Not bamboo per say…” He trailed off.

“But definitely the balance training?” You huffed, finally joining his side once again.

“Do you want me to go into detail about our regimes or would you rather pay me the envious compliment that is skating on the tip of your tongue?” He slowed a bit and bent at the knees to redistribute his weight. Once he was cleared, he used the change to bend forward and brought his face close to yours awaiting a response.

A moment of shock passed over your features first and then a tepid glare. He watched as your lips started to part when a young voice screamed out.

“Watch the flow of traffic, love birds! Gross!” A pre-teen rocketed by, purposefully wedging himself in the tiny space between you and the wall. It caused an inevitable drive-by and immediately threw you off balance.

You floundered, your arms darting out wildly. In his bent position, he couldn’t correct you or himself in time. Your skates rapidly clicked against the ice in search of traction before finally sliding out from under you. Hurtling forward, you grasped frantically until your fingers found the first object they could get a hold of: the flaps of his trapper hat. With your full weight a counterbalance at his neck, Donnie’s reflexes kicked in. He dropped down under the load, shifting it to his feet. With them skating on a blade, he then pushed off and against the wall to keep from an outright collapse.

With the crisis averted, he took a moment to breath before surveying the result. He pulled back to find you nestled between his chest and the wall. You seemed alright, though you weren’t quite at the processing stage as he was. He had a hand gripping the partition on either side of you and, as you blinked off the adrenaline, the intimacy of the position seeped into his skin. Through his thick jacket, he couldn’t feel your warmth, but that didn’t keep his body from imagining it could. Regaining your bearings, you looked up at him with owlish surprise.

“Kids, right?” You spoke, your gaze dropping down just as quickly as you’d found his.

“Yeah.” He responded curtly, pivoting around to find the culprit and not in a pathetic attempt to give you some distance from his person. He found the boy already off ice and being scolded by someone. Smugly satisfied, Donnie turned back to find you hunkered into yourself. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah… My hearts just still racing…” You mumbled, your voice muffled against your jacket.

“Let’s take a break then.” He pushed off the wall.

“Wait!”

The smooth ice meant he drifted back incrementally from one of your outstretched hands.

“Yes…?” He was thankful for the cold air on his face as it was a quick tempering solution for his overactive imagination. It almost seemed like you didn’t want him to let go of you. That had to another one of cupid’s tricks.

“W-we haven’t even done a full lap yet!” You were practically buzzing. He watched as you scooted into a turn and pushed off into the flow of skaters.

“You sure you’re alright?” It took him a single stride to catch up.

“Yes! It’s just… scary! It WAS scary, I mean!” You made shorter strides as if you were trying to run away, but it only translated to a treading water motion.

“Gliding is easier and takes less effort.” He offered quietly. Your anxious energy paired with your resistant attitude meant he wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“Would you-!” You started and stopped to give him a passing glance.

He recoiled from the strange look on your face. You then seemingly used that hitch by grabbing the wall and propelling yourself forward in one quick slingshot. He stared after your from as you then took his advice and started making longer strides. Confused and with his own nerves starting to fray, he kept his pace steady. He watched as your gritted form then proceeded to circle the rink, lapping him twice. Each time you passed, he couldn’t quite grab your expression. It took until the third pass for you to finally join his side once again.

The silence between you felt deafening amongst the idle background chatter. 

As another lap ticked by, Donnie could only nervously glance at you out of the corner of his eye. Your face was staunchly out of his view. The looming threat of his first make-up failure resonated on the horizon. As far as he could tell it didn’t seem to be a fault of his own at least. It also wasn’t something he’d stand for, however. He closed his eyes for a moment and practiced a re-centering technique. A calm wave swept over him and his leant himself over to his brain’s processor. It quickly conjured up a hundred or so possible actions. Sorting the data into categories of likely and unlikely to help, he paused when Leos’ suggestion came up. He was about to swipe the offending note to "unlikely' when April’s voice reminded him that he was supposed to be putting his trust into them. Frowning, he came back to the rink and stared you down.

“Let’s race.”

For a moment he wasn’t sure you heard him. Then slowly, you turned to look at him. He took note of your otherwise blank expression. “What?”

“A race; we’ll do a lap around the rink and the winner gets full gloating rights; a much needed release if you will.”

You were again slow to process the information, but you shifted to survey a couple who skated by. “What about them?”

“What about them?” Though his heart wasn’t in it, he put on his best smug smile. “One lap won’t harm anyone.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Probably won’t harm anyone. I suppose that will all depend on whether or not you try to take someone else out again.”

Fire immediately lit in your eyes.

A little bit of innocent chiding wasn’t usually his style in this type of scenario, but Donnie had come to find that a little violent outburst could be a great remedy for a brush with mortality.

“Fine.” You ground out. “Starting line is the entrance.”

“Let’s also put hot cocoa on the line. Loser buys.”

“Doubling down before you’ve even won?” You responded coolly.

“You think you have a chance?” Pushing onto one skate, he did a single twirl.

“Keep it up.” Your voice was still smooth, but your shoulders bunched up.

“It’s coming up.” He pointed, steeling himself. He needed to believably throw the race. Mapping out the rink and its attendants into mental blueprints, he located an older man presumably with his grandson and charted their velocity. Then accounting for his own speed, he marked off an intersection point where he could fake getting hung up by the pair. If he estimated your speed accurately, then it would just cause him to lose. It was foolproof. Parting a final glance to you before hitting the starting line. He found your ever neutral expression unnerving somehow. He tried to brush it off as the last few feet quickly disappeared.

You shot off as soon as the inlet was breeched.

For a split second, he stared dumbfounded at your suddenly Olympic form before his mental alarm bells went off. He dropped his center of gravity and took off after you. Your head start and decisive skating meant he struggled to make headway. He’d almost thought you’d been putting on airs the whole time. That was until you suddenly swung wide in order to avoid the earlier logged old man and grandson. Unequipped for the wide arc, your arms flew out and spiraled as you teetered onto one skate in the sharp momentum. He was about to cut across the rink to help, when the half-moon instead carried you through and back into a straight line.

Staring, he’d lost even more distance. He pushed his legs to their limit, but there just wasn’t enough time to make up all the rink he’d lost. Coming around the second curve, Donnie watched as you hopped right out of the rink at the finish line and took a few awkward steps on dry land. Adjusting, you then quickly spun around and pressed yourself up against the wall just before the door to watch his approach. He forgot to keep his speed when he noticed you’d dropped the indifferent veneer. He snapped back to his board-like stance when a bright smug smile burst out between your cheeks. He drew in close to the wall as he rounded the rink towards you.

“What was that?” He remarked with an accusatory finger as he drew in close. He couldn’t waste time being awestruck. Though he’d honestly lost, he still had a role to play. A shred of your usual self returned and he’d assume any character to keep it that way.

“Vengeance!” You shouted and all but threw yourself over the wall to grab his hand.

His head jerked as you caught hold of him and sharply pulled at an angle. The lack of friction underfoot meant he wasvsuddenly hurtling towards the inlet at an uncontrollable speed. With nary a moment to think, his skates hit the metal separation point and all he could do was force his weight up when they inevitably hooked. You released your hold on him and he, on the tips of his skates, made several clumsy jumps before teetering as his momentum finally slowed. He was just about to blow out a relived puff of air when he felt a finger tap to his shell. It had just enough pressure to cause him to collapse over in a heap.

Snapping up and spinning around in an instantaneous recovery, he found you gloating next to him.

“You’re right. I do feel better.”

You were close enough that he could see it in your eyes as well; you were utterly unencumbered. The feeling was infectious and his own features softened before he grasped what was happening. He only realized he’d let one of his enamoured smiles out when surprise began to steep your featurs. He felt his throat constrict as he forced his lips into a tight line. He was sure you caught the fear in his eyes. He waited for disappointment, but instead you took on what he labeled as compassionate smile.

“I believe you owe me a hot cocoa?”

“Yes. I believe I do.” He mentally blessed the reprieve you’d granted him. He was safe, at least for now.

“Were you really going to make me buy cocoa when you’re supposed to be the one making up?” You held out a hand and he took it.

“I was going to throw the race.” You gave a small tug and he stood.

“What?” You recoiled and released his hand. “That’s terrible!”

He dusted himself off. “Your legitimate victory serendipitous then. You inadvertently saved me from myself.” 

You continued to drill him about his plan as you went back to grab your shoes. He made sure to praise your dodge maneuver as you put them on. The realization that you’d beaten a ninja at something sunk in as you returned your skates. Your glowing excitement ended up warming him up more than the cocoa.

NEXT

[nualaofthefaerie]

Who am I, and why I'll always show where Nuala is mentioned?

So hello guys.

I came to the realization that a lot of people on Tumblr do not know me, and I came kind of suddenly to you guys. So, allow me to tell you who I am and why I hope to become a big part of your "Sandman" experience. I will attach some pictures for references 🩷🪷

My name is Li. My main platform is Twitter. Most of my friends are there too. I hope I can make a lot of mutuals here, too. I came across "The Sandman" one year ago. Now, the Sandman is a wonderful piece of media for people to explore a plethora of dynamics they enjoy. For me, it was a bit of an adjustment.

Before reading the comic, I tried to stan Dreamling. However, for me personally, I very rarely enjoy dynamics with no women in them. That is, of course, me personally. I am not the one who should tell people what they should enjoy. Bi/Pan WLM and WLW, those are dynamics I truly enjoy. However, at the time, I was trying to fit in with what was popular. Truly, it didn't make me very happy because I just don't see it the way Dreamling shippers see it.

So I tried changing my angle. I tried to get into Calliope and Morpheus (I apologise, I do not know if they have their own little ship name). This one fitter me a bit better. However, I have personal issues with the concept of divorce, and I could never quite brush aside the fact that at the end... they were divorced. I even made a Calliope cosplay at the time and met Tom (loveliest person on Earth).

(I envisioned this ballerina Calliope cosplay, and for the most part, I made it work. This was my VERY first attempt at anything.)

He kind of convinced me to just read through the comics. And I did. And it all really fell into place. And Nuala of the Faerie became my spark. I want to make it clear that I love Nuala so much more and so BEYOND Sandflower. She is just so exceptional, so complex. I became SO excited to explore what the Internet could offer on her only to get...nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whatever little official art there was (three-five drawings and it was usually not even Nuala centered, she was just there) and two three pen drawings on DivienArt made in 2010.

Now, one thing about me is that I am persistent as all hell. And it is completely out of line that Thessaly is a "main character," but Nuala isn't. So, in January, I had a very "If no one is going to do it, I will" moment. I began talking about her every day. Analysing, sharing panels, commissioning artists (uni student making commissions, I was kinda of crazy for that one. I made one commission once and then had 20 bucks left for the week to buy food) and every minute since January until today, I do it all for her. Because she deserves to be recognized. Nuala is no less than Lucien/ne or the Corinthian. I have an ask sitting in my inbox that I simply don't know how to answer:

"Why do you think "x" is more popular than Nuala?"

I do not know, to be honest. Frankly, I also try not to care. Because my love for Nuala is not based on bringing other characters of the Sandman down. I do this to uplift her to a status where one day, I won't be the only person on the Nuala tag (I was SO happy the other day when like five new people had made art, SO happy) and not the only one on the Sandflower tag (that is ONLY me for now). And until then, I will be the only one. It's okay. And when I no longer have to be, I will sit back and enjoy the fruits of my hard work.

This may appear very self-centered to those who do not know me, but those who do will tell you I work day and night for her. I have a 70k Sandflower fic, 50k of which is only its first arc, just sitting in my google Docs. I have sketches upon sketches. I talk with artists about more commissions and how to make it so she gets a new outreach. I have conversations and try to introduce her to as many people as possible until they notice her and care for her at least a fraction of how much I do. She inspired me to try sewing and really get to cosplay a SOLID version of her (still working on that).

(I sewed most of the outfit and and it was my second attempt to do anything from scratch. I'll get better at it 🪷🌿🩷)

I like to think she would love it. She only ever longed to be loved. And I love my girl.

So much. We help each other every day. We exist together. And when her actress joins our little triangle, we will make the perfect fairy. The perfect personification of womanhood the way I see it.

My Nuala (Lala, Lali, Lalita, flower, the pearl, sun, if I missed any of my moots nicknames for her, hit me up).

So that's it, dear Tumblr. I am afraid you won't be able to mention Nuala of the Faerie without me because somewhere in May, we started co-existing.

And we are not going anywhere.

Love,

Li and Nuala 🪷🌿🩷

[th3-0bjectivist]

Dear listener, I turned on my car radio for about five hours on a long drive this week and found myself suffering and appalled through the advert-heavy and song-lite nature of it all. Seriously, this is what passes for radio programming these days? The ninety-nine and one-half trillionth T-Swift breakup ballad? Pop-country tunes that manage to all sound the EXACT same as the previous pop-country tune?? Radio rock stations featuring tunes with less balls than a castrati troupe!? Modern hip-hop/rap music that all sounds roughly equivalent to setting up a lawncare sprinkler system in my car only without the water!!? Nine-to-ten agonizing commercials in a row before you get to the commercial-free hour, only to be then reminded between each individual song that it’s the commercial free music hour!!??!?!!?? I flipped from station to station hoping for some form of alleviation, for SOME hope that music is still alive and well on the radio in 2023. Y’know what I found out? The absolute BEST music programming on modern radio is based on tunes created around two to three centuries ago. That’s right folks! The best radio station I came across was a classical one. The classical radio deejay was informative, his voice was soft and pleasant, there were minimal commercials and the musical interludes lasted forty-five minutes at a stretch until the next commercial break. Inspired by this, until the end of 2023, I’ll be posting 3 classical tune sets (Bach, Vivaldi, and Brahms) starting with my personal favorite German musician of all-time, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Generally regarded as one of the greatest composers in the history of Western culture, this man was truly fit for the title ‘Master of Composition’. Starting off as a mega-talented organ player and violinist, Bach had a distinct flair for blending widely varying instruments and regional musical styles, regularly synthesizing multifarious sound techniques to make a noise ain’t nobody on Earth had heard before. Having been employed by local churches early on, Bach began composing his own ‘sacred music’ (see also ‘church music’) and being something of a musical jack-of-all-trades engaged in his own ‘non-secular’ works which did not jive with very simply defined and rigid church traditions. Having a penchant for engineering complex and experimental arrangements, Bach developed a special talent for weaving melodic lines and immensely complex interdependent harmonies together to provide compositional structures that were simply second to NONE in the early 1700’s and even up to this very day. His concertos for orchestras, sonatas, suites, cantatas, keyboard works, choral works and organ works really are the stuff of legend which is why they are hailed up to the current day! I could go on endlessly about his accolades, but instead I’ll just leave you with the following final thought. Some of Bach’s individual works are like observing an incredibly detailed drawing or painting, except with audio. If you concentrate enough on a single piece, you’ll very clearly hear the overlapping elements, the solid lines accompanied by the abstract rudiments floating softly in the background and be moved emotionally by the very physics of the harmonic motions. It’s not just the melodic nature of the man’s tunes, but also the harmony that accompanies them. Smash play and enjoy a variation of Cantata BWV 147: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and experience for yourself why people like Bach were truly the rock stars of their era. And if you want more, like way more, click just below for The Best of Bach and enjoy!

He also married his own cousin, had 20 children through separate wives, and died after eye surgery in 1750. I like to separate the art from the artist on my blog. Nobody’s perfect, it was different times back then with vastly inferior social and medical standards at play. I don’t judge too harshly. I mean, he was so talented that Duke Wilhelm had him imprisoned after Bach simply tried to leave the Duke’s royal court to find a better gig. He did something that the vast majority of modern musicians just can’t seem to be bothered to do… innovate (to simplify that word for modern musicians, it means creating brand NEW stuff that no one has heard of or tried before, you’re welcome…)! And for that reason, he has more than earned his placed in the annals of human history as one, if not the greatest composer, and my personal favorite classical composer of all time. Image source: https://www.nationalgeographic.co.uk/history-and-civilisation/2019/07/how-bachs-anatomy-may-have-handed-him-greatness

[ithinkineedamoment]

2. Paris, France

1 of 1,000

I feel like it’s way too early in this process to even fully begin to unpack this one, but here we go. 

Realistically, it makes sense. Barely a month ago, Sergio and I got off a plane from attending the 2024 Summer Olympics in France. It was a once in a lifetime event that I had been planning and replanning tediously since January 2023. There were tickets to be won, booked out hotels, over priced planes, and a whole lot of unknowns. 

Sergio had never been to Paris or France. I, on the other hand, grew up no less than 20 minutes from the French border, in Germany, for my teenage years. Birthdays, long weekends, grocery shopping, flea marketing - it’d all happen in France. So in planning this Tour de France, it was less about me, and more about what I thought was worth seeing in France for Mr. Man’s first time. I stressed over every detail - was it worth going out of our way to Mont Saint Michel? Will he like staying in this neighborhood in Marseille or should I pick somewhere closer to the water? I begged and pleaded for his engagement for over a year and piecemealed together a plan. So much needed to be figured out, but not for a single minute did I worry about our weeklong stay in Paris. 

It was September 25th, 2010 and our high speed train from Kaiserslautern had just arrived in Gare Montparnasse. My family had barely been in Europe for two months and there we were, dressed in our American best pretending we were citizens of the world. The photos of this trip are hilarious given that these were before years of military propaganda and attempts at assimilation (our military TV, AFN or Armed Forces Network, showed several commercials threatening terrorist attacks if you left your military base looking or acting like an American). 

Regardless, we were there for one day to celebrate Mom’s birthday. It had not been an easy move to Europe. Over the past few months, Dad returned home from a year long deployment and he and I quickly fell into a quasi-estranged relationship. Weeks later, we found ourselves in Germany living in a concrete box on a military base, ostensibly, in the middle of nowhere. Mom would lash out, leaving scuffs and indents in the walls of the staircase that would never be fixed. The four of us were each other’s only support system, changed by the reintroduction of Dad to the mix after his yearlong absence. Who we were to each other and how we operated as a family unit was actively being rewritten in a militaristic world we had always been a part of but never formalized. It’s been 14 years, but I don’t remember we were ever happy in those early months. So stepping off that train felt energizing. Here we were in Paris - Paris! We were finally fulfilling the promise we were told of travel and seeing the wonders of Europe. It felt like the pain of getting to this point was finally paying off. 

Truth be told, I barely remember anything from this specific trip to Paris. Scenes of this trip playback like the photographic screensaver that used to run on the family computer. But there would be more trips. A Memorial Day foray through the Louvre and the Gardens of Versailles with family friends, a spring break stay at EuroDisney, the three of us zipping through the Metro to catch sights of Mom running her first and only half marathon, a couple days here, an evening or two there - all these visits from our time in Europe exist in my mind as a living map of the city. “Remember when we were here last?” we would ask each other, only to respond “of course! New years 2011,” while standing under the Eiffel Tower. Each trip was significant enough to be noteworthy, but when played back over and over again, they lose their place in time.

This timelessness, I feel, is the point. When you’re sneaking down the Cour du Commerce Saint-Andre, just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain on the Left Bank, it makes sense. The stories you hear of winding streets flush with candlelight, the chattering of wine glasses and the clinking of vape pens against the metal tables, and somewhere, a street performer playing an Edith Piaf song because beauty is innate in every Parisien (and not because they’re catering to a tourist economy) - all of this combines to reaffirm your preconceived notions. Some find it romantic, others, a caricature to be avoided at all costs. And yet, we visit - experiencing a city designed to be beautiful by people who inspired its destruction.  For every cathedral vault, there is a riot and barricade, for every newly built city wall, there was a force itching to invade. 

In the fall of 2019, in the “blissful” months of post-college “freedom” that usually consisted of downing a bottle of wine by myself in bed watching old seasons of “The Amazing Race”, I felt the need to leave. I had some extra cash, not because my job paid well, but because I was paying next to nothing to live in the converted living room of a shared apartment with two former classmates. It was lonely - feeling as if you were entering adulthood having spent the past four years destroying yourself for a chance at success. So I planned a trip that I knew would hopefully spark some joy into my life. I booked my first solo trip to Paris. 

Except it wasn’t solo. Within a few weeks of booking, I reconnected with Rick for the first time in months. I don’t remember who reached out first but after my fallout with Sergio, it felt harmless enough. While sipping a margarita at some restaurant in Midtown New York, long since closed, we caught up. He pummeled me with questions about what I was doing, where I was living, who I was fucking - convincing himself that the two classmates I was sharing an apartment with were my two boyfriends. I sipped on my drink and wondered what I was even doing there. It was just good to see him. 

Eventually, we parted ways, tearfully. Texts became more frequent and the fear of repercussions dwindled and I mentioned that I was going to France - had booked a whole trip to go to Paris and see other places in the country I had never been to as a treat for myself. I never asked him to or made any indication it was something I wanted, but the next thing I knew, I was planning a trip for two. It’s funny how organizing a trip with someone who has money makes the entire planning process significantly easier. I didn’t complain, but knew that it was most likely a disaster in the long run. 

A few days before the trip, Rick visited the doctor with a horrendous cough. He was told it was the flu and it’d pass, but it certainly wasn’t contagious anymore (Covid was knocking at the door). He could walk only steps at a time before needing a break and was constantly breaking out in a cold sweat. He was adamant that he’d still go on the trip. So there we went. 

The trip was emotionally brutal for the most part. Traveling to Paris with him felt like trying to recover from alcoholism in a winery. Insane on my part. But he was sick! He couldn’t do anything. I’d leave the hotel and roam for hours just to return back to sweaty and upset Rick. I didn’t blame him. He could barely talk yet wanted to know everything, he couldn’t walk, but wanted to experience the city. I felt bound by some duty to give up the things that I wanted to do to support a man who I had loved through the city of it. Suddenly, the sights and sounds of the city I had treasured as the escape from my life through my youth felt like a prison. I was there but I shouldn’t be, I wanted to grow but I couldn’t. I was reminded of all the ways I would minimize my existence growing up in my parents house and performed them with wine stained lips - filling the silence while refusing to acknowledge my part in it. I missed him and I missed his company. I still do now, at times. However, that shouldn’t have been the reason I let him come on this trip. A part of the depression and mess I had been recovering from in New York was now sitting across from me at the dinner table in a foreign country I wasn’t supposed to be in. He wanted so desperately for me to love him again, and I knew a part of me did, but to admit that would have destroyed what was left of me. 

So on the day before we were to leave Paris for our next city, I set off on the day’s journey. I remember the streets being quiet as I crossed the Île de la Cité. In December, the cold hangs over the city like a layer of frost no amount of warmth could penetrate. The buildings, the sky, everything seems a bit paler than it should be. I roamed and I roamed, climbing to Montmartre and realizing I had never been there. Ascending the winding streets and into Sacre Coeur, my mind flicked through the rolodex of bad ideas that could save me from my current situation. After cresting the hill, I found myself going west and eventually to Montmartre Cemetery. The sun was peeking through the grates of the Pont de Caulaincourt while the trees’ remaining leaves swirled down to their crunchy grave. It was cold, and it was quiet. 

I took to the uneven cobblestones that lined the cluttered pathways of the cemetery. The tombs and mausoleums crowded each other like the misshapen buildings of a neglected city. I was alone in this necropolis, the city of the dead.

At a certain point, surrounded by the silence, I found a bench under a Maple tree.  I don’t remember how long I sat there, sipping in the silence as one might a Vin Chaud, letting it numb me. Hector Berlioz, Edgar Degas, thousands of others all lay in their final resting place around me at peace and I was living. Why couldn’t I be at peace? Why did I have to be living? Living with the regret of not being strong enough to save myself, with the want of falling asleep there in the cold and praying I’d awaken to a different life. I had loved so hard and loved so deeply, but could never seem to love correctly. I gave everything I had to everyone else, and with everyone gone - I had nothing left. 

Almost in response to my isolation, a small black cat emerged quietly from the untrimmed brush that twisted between the two tombs in front of me. The only other sign of life in the cemetery curled their way to the top of the tomb and pawed gently at the leaves, clearing a place to rest. I don’t remember whose tomb it was but time seemed to collapse. It didn’t matter whether the interred died 100 years ago or 500 years ago. Side by side, they were all equal in death. And we, the cat and I, were there now.

In the epilogue of Alistair Horne’s Seven Ages of Paris, which I only read this past year, he muses on the significance of the French words for love and death being so similar. Paris, to me, had always been a city of history, of art, of good food, and of love. It was an escape - a vision of a better world, a better life. It was never anything real. Love, as I knew it growing up, was using and being used - it wasn’t care. Paris was a city I used. Now death - death I could understand. Growing up in the military, it surrounded me. I begged for death several times before I should have. Death is inevitable and everyone will know it. All around Paris are markers of this knowledge - these memento mori. Cemeteries, catacombs, monuments, statues - all in remembrance of those who have come before us and had made this city beautiful. It is on the mounds of the dead that the sprouts of new love and life are able to be shared. It is in death that a tomb can become a bed to a sleepy cat. 

I can’t say I bounded from the cemetery, energized by the notion of life. I did not run back to Rick and take him in my arms and promise myself to him forever. I knew that France would be the last time I would ever see him and as of today I’ve yet to be proven wrong. For the rest of the trip, I treated the death of our connection with patience and care, lulling it to sleep as you would a child. I knew that I could not give more of myself to him and I had to stop pretending that I could. What mattered more now was remembering that I will, in fact, die having lived a life for myself. I knew what was left of me was worth saving. I might have felt there was nothing left for me to give, but I could always create more. I couldn’t die without ensuring I left even the smallest bit of beauty behind. 

Now, almost 5 years later, I’m freshly returned from another stint in France, this time with Sergio. We still have never discussed what happened between Rick and I or what happened in France, and I don’t know if we ever will. As I stated at the beginning, we were there for the Olympics and I cannot overemphasize how incredible it was. Yes, most of the city was empty save for the hordes of tourists, but who am I to complain? We were tourists too. It was exciting to return to a city I felt I had history with and not for the city’s sake. Seeing Sergio witness the city with fresh eyes and fresh criticism brought the city to life. In walking hand in hand down the banks of the Seine, it didn’t matter that we were passing the Musée d’Orsay. It mattered that we were there together. We had multiple, lengthy conversations about the struggles of our relationships and the ways we don’t show up for each other while also unpacking complicated feelings of family and home. It was hard, tiring, emotional - but the person I was 5 years ago could never have done so. My parents, who were also attending the games, made guest appearances a few times during our trip. It’s worth noting that shortly after that cemetery visit in 2019, my parents and I fell out of touch - no longer on speaking terms for years. Yet, here we were, back in the city that started it all in 2010, each willing to give Paris and each other another chance. 

On our final night in Paris, as the Olympics drew to a close, Sergio and I grabbed a bottle of wine and made our way to the Jardin du Carrousel. The Olympic cauldron, as made famous by the fact it wasn’t a fire, was a giant hot air balloon whose basket was a ring of lights and smoke that would lift into the air at sunset and shine over the city and all the various arenas. I posited that it was most likely because the first manned hot air balloon ride that brought man to the skies back in the 1800s had taken place in Paris. Either way, we stayed in the garden commenting on the past 16 days of travel and what it meant to each other. For him, an opportunity to discover and appreciate a history he had always known but had strong prejudice against due to France’s imperialism (fair, lol). And for me, an appreciation of feeling present in a place with a history that had not always been easy. Home is a concept that I struggle with, but sitting there with him, it felt like home. 

The sun set and the crowd around us leapt to their feet as the giant balloon in front of us unceremoniously slid into the sky. The empty wine bottle laid at our feet as the two of us stayed seated. The city had never felt so magical and this love had never felt so beautiful.