#I can’t even talk to my therapist because she just raised her prices and I can’t afford it anymore

[doctor-wombat]

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[dilfdemolisher]

PERSEPHONE - CHAPTER THREE

“Persephone, queen of the underworld. Hades runs Hell, but she’s in charge of punishment.”

Series Summary: A serial killer who works with the police herself has a tumultuous past with Jack Crawford and his new profiler Will Graham. While trying to rebuild what she once broke Hannibal Lecter sticks himself in the middle of the few things she cares about - Comments and critiques are encouraged.

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, dead bodies, murder that is very female targeted, canon character death, smut, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie

Word Count: 9.5k (yes you read that right…I'm sorry)

The sterile walls of the hallway close in around you as you make your way towards the autopsy room. "Agent," a familiar voice calls out behind you.

"I'm not your 'Agent' anymore, Jack," you say, wincing as you turn to face him. You were never officially an agent; Jack only started calling you that when you began sticking your nose into his cases.

"Force of habit," he deflects, his tone unusually soft for him. "I need to talk to you."

You glare at him, hoping he'll get straight to the point. The last thing you want is for Jack to drag you into his office, which always feels like a principal's office—the prelude to a lecture you’d rather avoid.

"I'd like you to resume therapy," he says finally.

Your heart sinks. "No."

"Bloom knows a therapist in Baltimore-"

You cut him off with a bitter laugh. "Are you serious? The last time I took her advice, I ended up tied to a chair and tortured. I'll pass."

"Dr. Lecter is one of the best in his field. She recommended him when I expressed my concerns." He tries to reason. 

Is he serious? "So, you discussed your concerns about me with her first instead of just asking me if I felt I needed help?"

"It's not about what you want. If you’re going to continue working on this case, you need a psychological evaluation."

Frustrated, you turn away and continue down the hallway. This is such bullshit. You don't need therapy. "I'll pass, Jack, but I appreciate your concern," you dismissively yell over your shoulder, not slowing your pace.

The moment you enter the room, everyone's eyes fall on your frame. The three in lab coats momentarily feeze while Will quickly makes eye contact before his gaze shifts to behind you and paces out of the room. 

“Were you honest when you said you two never dated—hell even slept together because this is awkward.” He says in an awful attempt to break the awkward silence.

“Any close relationship that didn’t leave on a positive note can cause tension, not just romantic ones, Price.” You state. 

Beverly clears her throat. “So Will thinks the killer is eating the girls. Elise's liver was removed and then put back in place; the killer did that after he realized she had liver cancer.”

“We also found metal shavings on her body,” Zeller chimes in. 

You sigh. “It’s plausible. It creates a very vivid image of this man. He…cares for these girls in his own twisted way. He’d view their consumption as an act of devotion, most likely a waste if he didn't. It’s a hunter's mentality; if there's anything left of these girls, it’s most likely fragments. Hair stuffed in pillows, bones made into various things—he wouldn't waste. If he is a hunter, he most likely has a dedicated space to this, a shed, probably doesn't live in the city.” You propose.

You’re met with silence for a moment before Beverly speaks once again. “I can’t believe you were never a profiler.” She shakes her head and smiles. 

"Well, I momentarily am of sorts now.” You raise your arms forward and wiggle your fingers.  “Maybe I understand him so well because I am him.” You say it in an unserious tone. 

She rolls her eyes playfully. "Hmm, yeah, I'm real scared.” You didn't even realize how much you missed Bev until now. 

"Well, is that all?” You ask. 

"Yup, that's it.” Brain tells you before grabbing something behind him. “I’ll be off then.” You smile and walk out the door.

2 YEARS EARLIER

Jack’s call came twenty minutes ago, his voice clipped and urgent. “Another one.” That was all he said, but it was enough. It wasn't just another body, not a one-off murder. He made it clear by his simple lack of words that this was connected. 

During the entirety of your drive, your heart couldn't stop beating. The dull vibration filling your ears and pounding your chest overwhelmed you so much that you felt relieved at the red stop lights, giving you a moment to collect your barring's. Jack pulled up at the same time, his grim expression mirroring your own.

As he approached, his words were drowned out by your internal rhythm. But when Jack opened the door into the room, your body finally went quiet, and you finally feel like you’re alive again—living in the present. 

A woman's body lay sprawled on the cheap, stained bed, blood soaking deep into the mattress. Your gaze travelled over her naked form, legs spread wide in a provocative display. Decaying vines twisted around her ankles and the bed frame, their dark, withered tendrils contrasting against her greying skin. It was a brutal, degrading spectacle.

There is a precise incision right above her pelvis, which is mostly one of the reasons why her entire torso is covered in her own blood, except her breasts. They look as if they were deliberately cleaned, the pink hue still lightly remaining on her skin. 

Her mouth is slightly agape; something inside it is forcing her jaw unnaturally wide. Compelled by a mix of horror and professional detachment, your feet move towards her. You hear Jack say something but it becomes mute when you hear your heartbeat pick up again.

Your gloved hand delicately touches her jaw; now, closer, you can see her features. Up close, her traits become clearer. She’s unremarkable—plain, even. A white, brunette woman of heavy European descent with a slim build. It’s odd to think how un-special she may have been in life but now, in death, she's a spectacle.

Gently, you pry her jaw open, revealing a small, fleshy mass inside. You look towards Jack in confusion and ask, “Can I pull it out?” 

Crawford gives a small nod and moves beside you. You give the object a small pull and it doesn't budge. “You hold her jaw; I’ll pull it out.” Jack says while looking at the strangulation marks on her neck. 

You move your hands and the man pulls. You watch him struggle between delicately grasping it and forcefully yanking it. 

You adjust your grip, one hand on her lower teeth and the other on the upper, pulling them apart. Jack pulls a bit harder; you watch as it starts to slide out, and just when you think its going to be stuck once again, Jack gives a final, forceful yank, and the object comes free.

Jack is holding the woman's uterus. 

“What the fuck?” you exclaim. Momentarily forgetting you two weren't the only ones in the room. Someone behind him brings an evidence bag to Jack, where he drops the organ inside the plastic. 

All eyes shift to the incision on her torso. Another forensic tech steps forward with metal forceps, his face pale but determined. He fiddles with the cut, and when he finally pries it open. You hear others gasp but you're still trying to compute the sight of the mess inside. At first, it looks like a jumble of smooth, misplaced intestines—until you recognize the pattern.

Scales. Snakes.

She’s been hollowed out, and her uterus has been replaced with dead serpents.

PRESENT DAY

It’s been days, and still nothing. The most frustrating part of working in a field that is centered around solving crimes is the cruel irony that sometimes you need more evidence to build a profile—to move forward at all. You've heard about Jack narrowing down the search by identifying the specific metal found on Elise's body, but you honestly couldn't care less.

You deluded yourself into believing that taking on this case was a selfless act, but your defenses are crumbling. You’re here for Will to glue together what was once broken. But you’ve never fucked up on this scale before, and you don’t know how to fix it. Your fingers stick together from your messy revival attempts, and the toxic fumes cloud your mind. Why did you think it was a good idea to show up at his house?

A knock at your door—your own door—in Baltimore interrupts your spiraling thoughts.

No one called to warn you of an appearance; your overactive work brain can't shut off even now, envisioning an ax murderer standing outside your home.

How comical.

"Open up, it’s Crawford." Jack’s voice is muffled but unmistakable. Not an ax murderer; that makes more sense considering it’s 10 AM and you live in an apartment building. Unless he’s here for other reasons, maybe he knows and wants to give you a chance to explain yourself before slapping handcuffs around your wrists.

Unsure how to navigate this possible confrontation, you blurt out the stupidest thing: "Why?"

“Because I need to talk to you,” he shouts impatiently. 

With a sigh, you walk to the door and begin to unlock it. “That’s what my number is for. I thought showing up at my workplace was invasive, but this is—” Your words cut off as you opened the door.

“Who are you?” you ask, your eyes shifting to the unfamiliar man standing beside Jack.

"I’m Dr. Lecter. Jack has asked me to assist in this case, similar to you," he says with a polite smile, more out of courtesy than genuine pleasure.

You recognize the name from Bloom. She mentioned him plenty of times, but this isn’t how you envisioned meeting him. It reminds you of when, after the "incident," as she likes to call it, she recommended him to you and offered to call him. You declined.

"Okay." Your glare bounces between the two men. Jack's scowl deepens while the doctor’s eyes remain fixed on you. You're not sure if he’s blinked once since you opened the door.

Jack groans and begins to speak. “I want you to speak to a professional for a psychological evaluation. I already told you this.”

You’re taken aback by his intrusion. “I’m sorry, is this an intervention?” Crawford opens his mouth to speak, but you continue before he can justify himself.

“This is ridiculous. First, you begged me to help you on this case, and now you're doubting my sanity?” 

You focus on maintaining eye contact with Jack, not fully seeing the doctor's face beside him, but through your blurry peripheral vision, it looks like amusement. What an asshole.

“I’m not doubting your sanity; I’m clearing this up for legal reasons.”

It’s bullshit, and you know it. “You know what I think, Jack? I think you’re scared of another fuck-up.” You bite, “You lost Miriam, and then, because of a lack of diligence on your part, you almost lost another one of your worker bees. And you just can’t handle another tragedy like that again.”

Jack opens and closes his mouth, more-so shocked by how cold you were to him than anything. You’ve been pissy before, but nothing like that.

It’s harsh and untrue; what happened to you or Miriam isn’t Jack's fault, but that’s not the point. You wanted to strike him where it hurts most. He confided in you about his guilt during the aftermath of your incident, and using it against him is cruel, but that’s what you’re going for, and it clearly worked.

Your gaze finally directs to Lecter, “I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I think it’s best you both leave.” 

As you swing your door shut, you see him smile. This time, it’s genuine. His crow's feet become prominent, and his top lip slides up to reveal his pointed canines. You much prefer his disingenuous smile to the one where he looks at you like a pretty little doll who just did a party trick.

2 YEARS EARLIER

The victim, a model named Clare Greene, her once beautiful face beaten until her nose lay flat across her face. Blood pools around her head from her slashed throat, soaking into the plush carpet that her back lies on. In both of her hands rest two magazines; she’s on the front cover of both. 

As you approach the body closer to snap another picture, you notice the defense wounds her wrists bore. “Who found her?” You ask, not to anyone specific; you just let the words come out of your mouth with hopes of an answer. 

“Her fiancé, ma'am. Ethan Kingsley, he was supposed to meet her for breakfast; when she didn’t show up, he came here to check on her.” The officer beside her answers.

You nod, your eyes scanning the room. Broken glass glittered on the floor near the bar; an overturned chair in the corner; the place was covered in blood splatters. 

“Jack!” You shout, hoping to get his attention. 

You hear his footsteps before you see him. “What?” He asks. 

“There's a fine mist of blood over here, most likely a result of her severed artery.” You say while motioning to your neck, “All across the back wall right there. The fatal blow happened here—then she stumbled onto the carpet, where she collapsed, and he started beating her. She was either unconscious or already dead when he started so he did it for the sake of it.” You explain. 

You move closer to her. “The long, linear streaks of blood that fan out from her indicate she was also stabbed before he started beating her. The angle and distribution suggest he was standing above her—not straddling and swinging the weapon in a very vertical downward motion.”

You continue as you lead Jack towards the bar area. “These smaller, less-directed spots are all scattered around this area. I think the first attack was here, but she put her forearms up to block it and ran, leaving the droplets behind as she ran.” You say while mimicking an X with your forearms, “It also matches the shallow defensive wounds right below her elbow; it didn’t go too deep; it seems like a very light slash.” 

Jack nods, quite for a moment. “Okay.” 

Not satisfied with his response, you say, “This is bad, Jack; four murders and no suspects. I’m just-” You cut yourself off with a sigh, ‘“I’m not very confident in my usefulness.” Your head ducks down in your admittance.

“I’m sure many feel that way; there's no point in festering it; that’s not how things get solved.” Jack scolds. 

As much as you’d rather allow Jack’s words to fall deaf on your ears, you know he's right; it’s not about you; it’s about the victims and solving what's been done to prevent more tragedies. “You’re right I’m sorry, you’re not my therapist. I don’t know why I said that.”

Jack says nothing and walks away, leaving you to stew in your own embarrassment over your unwelcome confession. 

PRESENT DAY

The next day, you arrive at your momentary office in the BAU. You can’t shake off the invasive encounter given by Jack. It sits heavily in your mind as you try to focus on the case files in front of you. It feels like your head is so full of tenacity it’ll start leaking out of your ears.

Suddenly, you hear the sound of determined footsteps outside your door. 

The door knobs twist and Beverly speedily walks in before you have time to adjust. Looking a bit more chipper than usual and dropping a stack of papers on your desk.

“Good morning. Any updates?” you ask, masking with a forced smile.

“Just the usual. Lab results, cross-references, the fun stuff,” she replies, giving you a teasing look. “‘Found out the specifics of the metal found on Elise’s body, which narrows things down a bit.” She smiles. 

“What?” you say, picking up and flipping through the papers without really seeing them. "You've got to be shitting me, and Jack didn’t even say anything to me.”

"Well, he mentioned heading off to Baltimore to talk to you but it seemed that never happened.” She cluelessly shrugged. 

Grateful for her being unaware of your awkward encounter with him and Lecter, you ask, “So what happened?”

With a smile, she turns her back and says, “Read it and talk to Jack.”

“Oh fuck you.” You say unserious; she doesn't give another response but you hear her laugh accompanied by your door closing as she leaves the quaint room. 

After reading the file, you make your way towards Jack’s office, curious as to why he didn’t bring this to your attention. As you approach the door to knock, it swings open and bumps into you. “Shit.” You say under your breath, pain blossoming where the door met your toes a moment ago. 

As you back away, Will immediately comes out. You both stand there staring at each other. You see his jaw open to speak before he turns and quickly walks away from you. 

You figure he was going to apologize for the collision, and now all you can think is if the reason he scurried off was because of the obvious stress he was exuding and decided to book it, or if he didn’t deem you worthy of an apology. 

Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you peek into Jack's partially opened door and say, “I was wondering-” You feel yourself become silenced with the notice of another person in the room, Dr. Lecter.

“Oh.” Is all you can give for an immediate response. The room is quiet, Jack looks annoyed with your uninvited presence, and the man across from him seems to be sizing you up in a clinical fashion. 

They’re both waiting for you to speak, not wanting for this unbearable silence to continue for longer than you do. “My apologies; I didn’t mean to intrude.” You say before closing the door behind you. 

You quickly scurry off, and as you turn into another hallway, you see a familiar figure hunched over a water fountain. You fasten your pace and Will’s eyes open suddenly from the sound of rapid footsteps. He pulls away from the fountain, water dripping off his chin that he wipes off when he brings his forearm to his face. 

Within the few seconds you have before you reach him, you practice what to say and points to make speak that hopefully can de escalate his discomfort. 

“I understand my presence is quite unbearable for you but I’m asking for your assistance in a professional manner. I’m being left out of the loop on plans for Nichols and I would like to be more aware. I don’t feel as if I’ve contributed much and I’d prefer to do better.” You justify your presence to him. Some parts of you feels pathetic, not because of what you are doing but because you know you would never do it for someone else.

“I’m sure I know as much as you do.” 

You want him to say more to you so desperately. You’d rather him yell at you or punch you in the fucking stomach than be so reserved. You suppose it’s best; you quite literally came up here asserting it’s for professional reasons but only wish he’d deconstruct his walls and allow you in. 

God, you’re so entitled. 

With your shoulders slumped, you cordially respond, “I understand. Thank you for your time.” Before walking away. 

As fate would have it, everything unfolded in its twisted, godly way. The call came in for another victim—a woman impaled on a stag head left to be displayed in an empty field. A stark contrast from the meticulous love of the Strike; the dissonance Jacks is unable to see is migraine-inducing. 

Ding

Your phone chimes, and you really think that whatever higher-power there is is determined to rest your patience today. 

The screen, annoyingly bright, stares back at you, displaying a name that’s foreign to your recent call history.

Will

No last name; you know multiple Will’s, but they’re contacts are accompanied by their last name. But not Graham’s; he’s much more deserving than that. 

You feel like you’re hallucinating when you look at the words asking you to see him and where he’s staying. From any other man, this might have been a crude proposition, but not from Will. Sweet, enigmatic Will. 

You’re not sure if this is meant for someone else. He would have had to search through his contacts to find you, given the long period of silence between you. He couldn't even be sure you still had the same number. 

It must be meant for you. This is the opening you’ve been praying for; you’ve never been more thankful for deities you’re not sure if you even believe in. 

Your legs feel like they're moving for you as you stand up, hardly fazed by the morning cold as you walk to where Will’s staying; leaving your dingy motel room just to go to his. 

It feels like mere seconds from receiving the text to standing at his door; time feels so warped in the grip of anticipation.

Your knuckles gently tap the door multiple times to alert him of your presence. Flashbacks invade your brain of how awful your last encounter was, though your presence seems more welcome now. 

The door opens faster than you can blink. Will’s messy hair and lack of pants make you feel like you're intruding, despite his invitation. 

He cranes his neck out to look behind you. “Come inside,” he says, hushed. 

You walk inside, and all you can think of is how “Will” this place is; it’s like he was meant to stay here. But that could also just be you holding him in higher regard than necessary and assuming the world revolves around him. 

That very well could be it. 

As he closes the door, the room becomes cloaked in darkness. “Can I—could I open a curtain?” You ask. 

"Yeah, sure,” he says, waving off. As you open the curtains to see the morning sun, you see a familiar man dressed in a fitted suit walking towards the door. 

You stiffen, your muscles tighten and lock as you feel Will give you a glance, expecting you to know the visitor. 

“Did you invite Doctor Lecter as well?” You ask, just as confused as he is. 

"No, I did not.” He huffs as he opens the door, revealing the man with his fist raised, about to knock against the wood.

“Eager.” The man outside says with a subtle, entertained smirk. “Good Morning Will” 

Walking closer to the door, tilt your head to take a peek. "Morning, Doctor.” You unenthusiastically greet. 

His face momentarily drops, just quick enough to show disappointment, before rearranging his facial movements to show false delight. 

“Good morning to you as well.” He says politely. You can’t bother to verbally respond; this was meant to be a moment for possible reconciliation. Not interruption. 

Will, who’s deep in thought, snaps back into the present and offers the doctor to step inside out of the morning chill. He accepts it happily, seemingly aware that he interrupted something but he doesn't seem to care; if anything, it seems he’s taking enjoyment in it. 

“I came bearing gifts.” He says, raising the glass containers of food he’s holding. “Though my apologies, I didn’t expect you to have a guest.” He apologizes to Will. 

“I don’t eat in the mornings anyway; it makes me nauseous.” You excuse. 

Will gestures towards the small dining area, silently and awkwardly indicating for everyone to sit. You take a spot, sitting on a stiff wooden chair, trying to ignore the piercing gaze of Hannibal.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” Hannibal asks you as he gives Will his prepared meal as they both settle into their seats, with Will beside you and Hannibal parallel to you.

Wills eyes continue avoiding both of yours. "I needed to talk to someone who understood," he responds for you. 

Hannibal, opening his container of food on the table, raises an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you need to talk about, Will?"

Will hesitates, his fingers nervously fiddling with the fork in his hand. "Cassie Boyle. The case... it’s different this time."

Hannibal leans back, looking intrigued. "Different how?"

“What is the purpose of your visit?” You redirect the conversation. This was meant to be a private conversation and you don't appreciate the way Lecter finds it appropriate to put Will on the spot. 

You watch as his hand tightens the grip around the fork in his palm; he’s mastered the art of his facial control. He really is an incredible attempt at the personification of nonchalant, but he still has his tells. 

“An attempt to befriend a coworker; I’d like to serve the purpose of a mediator, alleviate tension when possible, and give my insight on more grim- work related things.” He answers. 

You know you shouldn’t taunt, but you can’t help it; the temptation is too grand. “What makes one worthy of a visit and what disqualifies another?” 

Hannibal seems pleased by your words, oddly enough. “You are more than qualified; I figured you’d appreciate time. I understand you’re not necessarily fond of me.”

“I’d argue the only person fond of you in this room is yourself.” You bite. Hannibal says nothing in return, nor does Will. They both eat in silence as you fidget with your hands, desperate to be soothed.

Staring at the painted wall in front of you, you watch through your peripheral as Hannibal swallows a bite of food from his fork and opens his mouth to speak to Will. “I would apologize for my analytical ambush the other day, but I know I would be apologizing again.” He says, flicking his head towards you briefly in recognition. “And you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

Quickly and harshly Will responds, “Just keep it professional.”

Hannibal responds after taking another bite of his cooking, “Or we could socialize like adults; God forbid we become friendly.”

“Where's Crawford?” You ask as soon as the thought rolls into your head. 

Hannibal’s head stiffly turns to face you. “Deposed in court. The journey will be ours today.” He curtly says. 

Then why did he exclusively come to Will? Why has he seemingly made no plans to properly introduce himself to you?

It’s not that you're jealous; it’s not his attention that you want; it’s just the simple need to be recognized as an equal. You’re good at what you do—great, even. And this isn’t the first time someone has disregarded you for no apparent reason. Well, you think you know why. 

Standing up from your chair, you speak. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be off-”

“Why?” Will immediately asks, mouth full of chewed food. 

“Gotta get ready for the day. Unfortunately, it takes more effort than just a clean shirt and brushed hair for me to be presentable. I’m sure you’d understand that, Doctor.” 

The moment the words come out of your mouth, you realize the accidental insult you've just given. You didn’t even mean to insinuate that he’s someone who must put in extra effort in order to be ready for the day, but by the way his grip tightens on his fork once again and the displeasing curl of his lips, you're sure he took it that way. 

“Jack gave a rental; I can drive you when you're ready?” Will offers, as pleased and equally confused you are for his sudden change of heart on your existence. You are also well aware that Lecter will most likely be hitching a ride to.

“I actually drove here. I thought it would be good for me to have some more time to sort out my thoughts.” You say, walking towards the door. “But thank you; I’ll see you both soon.” You say, as curtly as possible before twisting the handle and making your exit. 

Files, files and more files are all you’ve sorted through since you arrived at your destination, the place where the Shrike most likely works. 

You hear a car pull up next to the dingy little trailer of the office of the work site, the sound vibrant against the noise of ruffling papers and the secretary talking to her boss on the corded phone sitting on her desk. 

The door creaks open, and as you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of Will walking in through the door held open by Hannibal. 

“I’ve sorted through these four on the left so far,” you say in reference to the seemingly never ending towers of file cabinets. “And those boxes are where I’m throwing shit that if you twist an arm and a leg, you might be able to find something slightly suspicious.” 

Hannibal walks in, closing the door behind him and Will nods. “What about her?” He asks, tilting his head to the side where the secretary sits. 

“Conversation with her boss, I think. One that doesn’t seem to be going very well.” You explain with a tiny humorous smirk. Her head snaps towards you as she glares, unable to verbalize any frustration so she settles for squinted eyes. 

“Do you need direction?” You condescendingly ask. Hannibal, seemingly unfazed by your attitude at this point, does nothing but shake his head and say, “Not yet, no. But I’m sure you’ll give me some.” His smile contradicting his pointed words. 

Moments went by, flipping through papers upon papers. The feeling of being stuck in a never ending loop is finally broken by the secretary's voice directed at the three of you. 

“What did you say your names where?” She asks, standing up. 

Before you or Hannibal could respond, Will does. “Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

With a sigh, the woman answers, “He’s one of our pipe threaders. Those are all the resignation letters. ‘Plumbers Union requires ‘em whenever members finish a job.” She says, before quickly spinning around and whispering into the phone, “I’ll call you back.” And places the landline back onto the plunger. 

Finished with her phone conversation, Will continues to inquire. "Uh, does Mr. Hobbs have a daughter?”

“Might have.” She says in her tired, monotone voice. 

“Eighteen or nineteen, wind-chafed, um- plain but pretty. She’d have auburn hair; be about this tall.” He motions a bit below his ear. 

She shrugs in response. “Maybe I don't know. I don’t keep company with these people.”

“What is it about Garrett Jacob Hobbs you find so peculiar?” Lecter's voice chimes in. 

“He left a phone number, no address.” He answers, his back still facing you both. 

 The doctor questions Will once again, turning to face more towards him, “And therefore he has something to hide?”

Taking a short breath to breathe, Will answers, “The others all left addresses; he also missed work for days at a time.” You can see he’s slowly getting more wound up. His mind is moving and scrambling around different possibilities too fast for him to make sense of, and what he can decipher is nothing short of tasteless. 

"Do you have an address for Mr. Hobbs?” You chime in an attempt to take a sliver of weight off of Will’s shoulders. 

The dark haired woman rolls her eyes and silently walks toward her desk. She takes a few moments to gather her information, the sounds of a keyboard clicking and shallow- impatient breaths fill the room. 

Grabbing a pen, she scribbles numbers onto the small square of paper before standing up once more to hand it to Will. 

As often as it happens, you feel like you’ll never get used to the way men are consistently served first in this field. It's not Will’s fault of course, and you’re sure it wasn’t intentional on her part. But in a way that makes it worse, how habitual it is to subconsciously ignore you, woman, really anything out of the typical white male mold of an old detective movie. 

You’ll never forget how Jack was so quickly disregarded in one of the first cases you accompanied him with. It was in some southern state where a series of home invasions resulted in multiple murders over a handful of months. On the way to the crime scene, the neighbourhood held lawns of homes that were decorated with not only American flags but Confederate ones as well. You watched the way the local police interacted with Crawford. The kind of people who tolerated him for his help but nothing else—aversion constantly clouded their eyes. 

It's not that you haven't encountered appalling people of that sort before, but it was the moment when it clicked that no matter how remarkable your work is, if Crawford could be so quickly disregarded because prejudice, the man who was truly their saving grace for this case, what chance do you have to truly excel in your field?

“I could start loading the boxes in the trunk; can you unlock it?” You ask, not even bothering to look at the yellow Post-it note containing the address. 

Looking at you with brows furrowed, he digs in his trouser pockets. “It’s manual, you have to unlock it.” He says while handing you the set of cool rigid metal. 

“That's fine.” You say with a smile before heading out the door. Taking a breath of metal-scented air in an attempt to calm your nerves. Things are going okay—well, even.

 Will seems to be no longer sickened by your presence, for whatever reason that may be. You're trying not to think of that, the reasoning for this sudden change of heart, and how you may already know it if it weren't for Lecter's earlier intrusion. 

You're trying not to hold much disdain for him, to put it aside for the time being when there are non-metaphorical lives on the line. But it’s hard when the only thing you now personally know him for is an invasive little bastard. Not much like Bloom had described him to you before, back when you were civil. That's not fair to her, though; she’s civil—you're not. You're much too bitter now for niceties.

Moments pass by while you, Will, Hannibal and the secretary are hauling boxes out of the small office trailer into the back of the rental car. A monotonous and tedious task. One that may not seem to be fit for all though, as the doctor allows a box to stumble in hands, paper falling onto the wet ground. 

Of course, Will’s the one to solve the problem, falling to his knees to scrounge the paper and telling the man not to worry. You watch as he doesn't even give a thank you in return; he just hustles back inside. 

Clearly, the man doesn't have as much decorum inside of him as he presents. 

Though you may not have room to speak, the moment the task was done, you grabbed the address covered note and put it into your car's GPS before telling Will just to follow you. You're sure you're contributing to his stress by being so evasive, but until you can stop being so erratic, your best bet is to stay slippery, not allowing him to get a good enough grasp on who you are before you can conceal it.

The robotic voice from your center console alerts you of the approaching destination. Turning on your turn signal a bit early to alert Will driving behind you of the driveway you are about to pull into.

You can only appreciate the home once you step out of your car. The plain suburbia of the family home becomes clearer once you get closer to the front door. 

You turn to watch Will and Lecter step out of the car, Hannibal surveying the place with an analytical gaze much like your own, while Wills is unique. It’s Wills. 

You're unsure if you should wait for Will and have him be the one to knock at the door. You’re defenceless; you have no gun, no badge, and no reason for someone to open the door for you alone. 

The decision seems to have been made for you when the door opens. Turning to look, you are greeted by the sight of bloodied hair and body weight pushed onto you. Before being granted a moment to collect your thoughts, you feel yourself falling. The sight of a man with a knife turning away is the only distinct thing you can make out as the rest melts into a scene of blurry green and blue before you and the body on top of you hit the ground.

The moment your head hits the concrete, you know you're done for. The sound of your hard skull smacking against the ground reverberates through your spine like an echo. An uncomfortable pounding takes over all your senses as Will runs up to you. The body weight of the woman is pushed off of you. You can hear the vibrations of his voice against your eardrums but nothing more—all unintelligible in your mangled brain. 

You can feel your mind quickly leave its haze as fast as it came to you, your senses returning. You pull yourself up on your forearms to try to slowly raise yourself up. “Go.” Your voice sounds weird coming out of you; it's so loud that it feels like a microphone is hiding in your throat. 

An unfamiliar hand grabs the back of your skull. “I’m here; you can go, Will.” Hannibal's voice firmly says behind you. 

And he does; he quickly stands, pulling out his gun and walks into the house as Lecter pulls you by your armpits to sit properly. “You’re not bleeding.” He states, moving your hair around your head softly to check. 

“Bleeding.” You think. Blood. You can feel blood all over your skin. You know you’re not bleeding, you don’t feel anything leaving you. But you feel everything on you. 

The woman lays beside you, face up towards the dreary sky, as the sound of a quiet pattering of blood collects in a pool below. “God.” You exclaim while attempting to push yourself up from your wobbly arms.

“Slow do-” The accented voice behind you speaks before being cut off by a series of gunshots. You feel each noise in your chest, each one causing your heart to sink further into your stomach. Ignoring the dizziness blooming in your head, you clumsily stand up. Hannibal's hands pointlessly attempt to grip you to help your stability as you quickly stumble into the Hobbs residence. 

The overwhelming smell of iron invades your nostrils—you freeze. Will huddles over a limp body, you from behind as he struggles to place his hands. Jack was right, you're not ready for this. Slumped in the corner lies a man, bullet wounds decorating his chest in rows.

Will killed him.

Your mind plays the sentence over and over again on loop as you feel Dr. Lecter's eyes bore into the back of your skull. He walks over to Will, his posture so straight that it's unnerving. The way his hands steadily grip the young girl's throat to prevent more blood from spurting out mocks your shaky ones. 

Will beside him looks just as shaken up as you do, sitting there frozen, watching as the girl on the floor clings to life. 

“Call in.” Hannibal's voice shakes you from your thoughts. As if on autopilot, your bloody hand messily dials for an ambulance. Your words sound so foreign, entirely not yours, as you explain the scene in front of you, eyes locked on Will as he dissociates from his surroundings. 

It happens so slowly and so fast. A whirl of paramedics running in. Ushering you all to leave, but you can’t. The moment you exit the door, you freeze at the woman's body in front of you.     

She was murdered, died on top of you and was the last bit of warmth she felt before she went cold. You feel sad, A woman's life was brutally stolen from her far too early. You feel sad about the surrounding context of her death, but mostly you feel gross, dirty, sticky, and frustrated that she had to expel her life force all over you. 

You want a shower.  

After getting checked by the waiting paramedic outside, who confirmed a grade 1 concussion. You can't stop thinking about what just happened to Will's head. He just murdered a man to save a life and you know what that can do to someone—it's the exact thing that ruined you. 

You’ve done it again, showing up uninvited again, only this time to his motel room and not his home. But you have to talk to him. 

Some agent you never even got the name of drove you both back to your respected quarters. Neither of you were in a state to drive; you can’t for the next 48 hours and Will... God knows how Will is. 

That's why your visit is needed; it’s not for your peace of mind; it's not an apology; it’s to make sure he's not alone with thoughts and has someone to help clear them. 

After knocking at his door once again, he opens it. “Hi.” Your voice cracks.

“Hi.” Greets back. He sounds…tired.

“I wanna come in.” You tell him there's no point in pleasantries; he’s known why you’re here since the moment you knocked on the door. 

Fortunately, that gets him to crack a small smile and say, “Sure.” 

As you both walk further into his room, he closes the door behind you. The room’s dimly lit, and the curtains drawn tightly to block out the world. You can see the disarray around you—books strewn across the floor, papers piled haphazardly on the desk, and an untouched dinner plate on the nightstand.

“I brought a gift.” You say, sticking your arm out, handing him the bottle.

"Vending machine root beer, you shouldn’t have." He attempts a joke, but the effort is hollow. Everything he says only deepens your concern; he’s so quick to brush off everything that's happened and act as if everything's fine.

“You’re freaking me out, Will,” you awkwardly laugh. “I know your feeling pretty fucked up right now. You don’t have to act unbothered.”  

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a defensive look quickly absorbing his eyes. “Just because you couldn’t handle it doesn’t mean I can’t.” The moment the weight of the words he’s thrown at you registers, Will's face drops. His entire guarding demeanour immediately shatters the moment they come out.

"I-I’m sorry." You stutter out in shock of how his attitude is instantaneously flipped by words. "I know what happened was different; I just wanted to check up on you." Your words are met with silence, the two of you just pitifully staring at each other. The room feels colder, the silence is more suffocating.

He breathes out your name so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I don’t know…why I sa-said that.” His hand roughly runs through his hair as he takes a step forward. “I want you to stay.” He states, uncharacteristically bold from him. 

Unsure what to make of his words, you just stand there. Both your minds are reeling—Will’s for a way to apologize and yours to just disappear. 

“I know I didn’t handle myself well.” You say, taking a deep breath, “I’m not saying my actions will be your own; I just wish I had someone to understand what its like to take a human life and not hate it.” 

That's it—the thing you could never admit, not even to yourself. So much time was spent sprilling about why you are the way you are. Trying to convince yourself that this feeling brewing inside you is new, that it had been manually moulded. 

Panicking from your admission, you quickly follow up. “I didn’t mean to project—fuck, I just don’t want you to wallow in the guilt of change like I did. What Hobbs did- who he was—was entirely irredeemable.” 

Another step closer and the gap between you both becomes bridged, and his large hands rest gently on your cheeks. “I’m sorry.” He delicately whispers. 

You can’t help it; you fall apart and the dam behind your eyes breaks. The tears cascade down your cheeks faster than you can blink them away as he pulls you into his chest. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat, the reminder that he’s real, he’s here, and he’s okay.

“I was so fucking scared when I heard those gunshots,” you whisper into his chest. His grip on you tightens, pushing you further into him. You both stay like that for God knows how long. From how heavily you’ve soaked his T-shirt with your tears and how you feel it around your brow bones and eye sockets, you’d guess it’s been a while. And with a deep sigh, you finally feel him pull away. “Are you okay?” He asks, gently looking you up and down.

“I should be asking you that.” You scoff, “Minor concussion; I’ll be fine in a couple days and a good night's sleep.”

He raises his brows in shock. “Yeah, well, good luck getting that.” You can’t help but laugh at his tone and reaction, as if you just said the most bizarre thing in the world. 

A grin makes his way across his face at the sound of your laugh. “I miss you.” 

You freeze. It’s what he said that took you off-gaurd, just the way he said it. The tone wasn’t sad or nostalgic; it was happy. Present tense too; he didn’t once mourn you and, over time, healed the wounds of a lost friendship. No, they’re still open, and he still misses you.

You were so caught up in your concern for him that you never had a moment to grasp the closeness between you too. Looking up, you see him. The individual hairs growing out of his chin, forming his stubble; the small scar on his cheek that he got when he was a child but doesn't remember how; and his eyes. Those blue eyes that hold so much patience, so much care and so much understanding it makes you weak to your knees. You see Will—sweet, complex, deserving Will. 

His hands grip your face more firmly this time, peering into your soul like you just autopsied yours. He's drinking you in your image, like he’s been starved, dehydrated, and famished. You wouldn’t dare pull away and deny him what he wants; you’ll give him anything and if he wants your soul, you’ll bare it to him. 

“The only thing I regret is everything I did to you.” It’s such a heavy admission—one that’s entirely out of left field, and he still doesn’t know the true weight of it. “Please,” The words so delicately come from you. You’re not sure what your pleading for—forgiveness? But for which of your sins? In what context are you begging for repentance?

It doesn't matter what you decide. The only thing that does is how close his lips are to yours and how it’s still not enough. 

“I know.” His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, then more certain. The kiss is a soft exploration, a silent conversation filled with all the words you couldn’t bring yourselves to say. You feel his hands trembling slightly against your skin, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying to maintain. 

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. He’s quiet, waiting for the moment for you to turn and run like you do, but it doesn’t come. Instead, your hand finds itself on the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his curls as you pull him in for another kiss. 

Just as eager as you, he deepens the kiss, his hands moving from your cheeks to your waist, desperate to have you as close as he can. You could feel his heart beating against his chest, rhythmically in-sync with your own.

Energy intensifies, with hands greedily grabbing whatever they can, saliva coating each other's lips, feet scrambling across the floor until your back hits the crumpled sheets of the unmade motel bed.   

The thin mattress creaks under your combined weight, but you barely notice—too preoccupied with catching each sound that spills from Will's mouth. His hands explore the curves and slopes of your torso with an urgency so similar to yours. Every touch, every kiss, makes your body buzz with ache, desperate to consume him from the outside-in. 

He breaks away for a moment, his breath ragged, eyes dark with desire. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

"Yes," you reply without hesitation, your voice as steady as you could be despite the pounding of your heart. "I’m sure."

With that, he captures your lips again, his hands slipping under your shirt, the warmth of his calloused fingertips on your ribs sending shivers within you. You lose yourself in the sensation, the world outside the room fading into oblivion. 

All you can think of is Will. 

Will's hands slipping off your shirt. 

Will’s chest bare against yours as you slip off his. 

Will’s mouth on your neck, nibbling on your collarbone. 

Will looking deliciously vulnerable covered in crimson outside of the Hobbs house. 

The moan that slips out of your mouth as his tongue meets your nipple is involuntary; his wet mouth lays kisses and bites along the fat of your breast as he grips the other. 

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and hungry as he breathes your name out, his voice thick with lust coating his vocal cords like honey. His hands roam lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your hips. His kisses trail down from your sternum to your stomach, getting sloppier as his breath contrasts with the coolness of his spit. 

You gasp as he reaches your underwear, his fingers teasing the fabric. "Will," you whimper, your voice a mixture of need and desperation you’ve never heard from yourself before. 

He peers up at you, his silvery eyes filled with desire—desire for you. "Do you trust me?"

Without a moment of hesitation, you reply, "Yes."

With a smile both wicked and tender, he pulls your underwear down and spreads your legs, revealing you to him. His eyes roam over your body, taking in every detail, every curve, and every inch. He leans in, his breath hot against your slick center, and then his tongue flicks out, tasting you.

You arch your back, a moan escaping you as he explores you with his mouth. His fingers tease your entrance, rubbing just around it in circles while his tongue dances around your clit. 

You grip the sheets tightly, your nails digging into the fabric. You’d latch your hands onto his head but you're afraid you’d rip his scalp off his head. The sensations are overwhelming, not because of the pleasure coursing through you, but because it’s Will distributing it. 

Will's mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking and probing, while his fingers continue to tease.

He was devouring you, and you were more than happy to be consumed. 

“Will," you moan, your voice breathy, desperate for more—anything else he’s willing to give. "Please." 

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with lust, then slides two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out in a slow, steady rhythm. You cry out, your body bucking against his mouth, your hips grinding against his fingers as you feel the prickle of his facial hair on your thighs as you squeeze them tighter around his head. 

“So good,” he whimpers into you, his voice a mixture of need and desperation while he works you closer to your ledge. He does nothing but continue his assault, his tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers thrusting in and out of you. You can feel the orgasm building in your stomach, the pressure mounting higher and higher as he desperately bucks into the bed for some form of friction.

"Will," you cry out, your voice louder this time, begging him for your release. He’s still so wordless—nothing but the vibrations of moans and grunts coming from him. Instead, he responds by increasing the pace of his fingers, his tongue more aggressive as you feel yourself tipping over the edge. 

You feel your body move for you, sporadically convulsing as your orgasm washes over you as he drinks up release, coating his mouth and fingers. He continues his movements while you come down from your high, his hands prying your thighs open as he fucks his tongue into you, savouring your taste.

You're left panting, your body trembling, and your mind swimming in a foggy haze of pleasure when he finally pulls away from you with an expression of satisfaction. He moves up your body, his lips finding yours in a tender kiss. 

You can feel your slick coating his facial hair as he kisses you, rubbing it onto you. It’s a messy and filthy action but fuck does it get you going. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice gruff but gentle. 

You can’t help but smile; he’s so fucking perfect. 

A grin coats your face. “Yeah.” He’s gorgeous; the light is low, the cool light of the moon peeking out the sides of the curtains. You can’t see Will in his entirety, but that’s fine. His face so close to yours, his body on top of yours—you don’t need to see him; just feel him. 

He smiles a small-relieved grin. “Good,” he whispers before pulling away. You didn’t realize he removed sweats until you felt the tip of his cock teasing you. A whine escapes from your lips as he rocks his dick back and forth along your pussy, coating himself in your cum. 

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, his pace deliberate, giving you time to adjust. Your brain short-circuits from how deeply he’s stretching you out every time he slips himself further inside you. 

He pauses, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot against your skin. “You feel so fucking good.”

You feel braindead; you've never been so pilant in your life. “More.” You manage to whisper out, your voice shaky. 

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and shallow. Just the feeling of his cock repeatedly entering you makes your brain feel fuzzy. You can feel every inch of him, the way he fills you, how tightly you’re wrapped around him. 

You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he picks up pace, his thrusts becoming more forceful, more demanding. “‘Missed you so fucking much,” he grumbles into your neck.

“M’sorry.” You whimper, “M’sorry, M’sorry.” You say fragmentedly, it took him nothing to fuck you dumb and yet your entire brain is filled with nothing but the repetition of his name. 

The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the wetness of your bodies, and the occasional moan that escapes from either of your lips—the both of you soaking up the feeling of each other in this moment. 

You can feel the pressure building up again—the familiar prickle in your abdomen. “Please, don’t fucking stop.” Your voice desperately cries out.  

He doesn’t slow down; instead, he picks up pace, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. You can feel him shaking, his body trembling as he nears his climax. Not bothering the silence himself anymore, he becomes just as loud as you, no longer speaking coherent praises, just moans and grunts that slowly raise in pitch with each stroke inside you he makes. 

Nothing but each other’s names spill from your lips in affirmation that you're both here, together. You cry out, your back arching off the bed in a desperate attempt to be closer as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clenches around him, milking him as he spills himself inside you, as he collapses on top of you. You feel his breath against your neck in ragged pants as his cock continues to twitch inside you, the last of his cum filling you up. 

You wrap your arms around him, you're both spent. Bodies slick with cum and sweat, the euphoric high wearing off allowing the reality of how tired you’ve been the last couple to take hold of you. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You breathlessly ask. As sleepy as you are, you have to make an attempt to do what you came for—someone to talk to. 

Head on your chest, you can feel his smile form. “I was liking how little talking we were doing.” 

A laugh puffs from chest at his response, “That works too.” You say, gazing down at him. As if he could feel your stare, he raises his head to look at you, chin resting on your breast. “I’m happy.”

A small laugh now finds its way from his chest at the juvenile remark. As ridiculous as it seems, that is the best way to describe it. It doesn't need complex-flowery language, you're just glad to be in his presence, alive and healthy. You're just happy. 

And he understands, his gaze softens as a sincere smile crawls on his face, “Me too.”

[boldlyvoid]

Million Dollar Man | chapter two

18+

summary: Spencer's therapist recommended he branch out and meet new people who don't want to talk about his work... she didn't expect him to sign up for a Sugar Daddy website.

Content warnings: sugar daddy!spencer, age gaps (14 years), daddy kink, blow jobs, kissing, drinking mention, lowkey perv!Spencer, cum play, praise, oral (female receiving), grinding, love confessions, arrangements, Spencers anxiety, (more to add)

word count: 3.4K

a/n: updates on Wednesdays and saturdays at 2 pm est

Chapter Two | Masterlist

She sat on the subway with an anxious pit in her stomach and her purse held close to her chest. Her laptop in her bag, she didn’t want to lose it on her way to the most important meeting of her whole life.

Her story was becoming a book, she was almost done the final draft, they were making touch-ups to the cover and picking the type of paper today.

Her dreams were coming true within the next month, soon she’d have a physical copy of her book, her pre-sales were showing that she’d be on the bestseller list, and her name was finally going to be on the cover of this one.

She sighed and reached for her necklace, holding it between her fingers as she took a few deep breaths. She was doing so much better today than she was last year and it was all because of Spencer, he was the best thing to happen to her. To think she complimented his sweater vest and now he’s the only person in her life she can count on.

All she can think about is him for the rest of her journey, through 4 more stops she keeps her eyes closed as she thinks of all his little facts and his cute laugh. She smiles to herself and the anxiety slips away, she loves him and she knows that for sure, but she just doesn’t know how she loves him.

She’s never had a sibling, her best friends are all women, her previous boyfriends were all shit and her other sugar daddies were never this wonderful, and her parents are lesbians… she doesn’t know what her feelings really are for Spencer, mainly because she’s never known any other men to compare him to.

But she does know the exact moment she realized she fell for him.

He booked a hotel room in DC after a local case, asking her to meet him in there at 10 pm. She was waiting in the bathtub when he arrived, bubbles galore, her hair up and arms open, “welcome home, honey.”

He laughs, “you want me to get in there with you?”

She just nods, “let me take care of you, daddy?”

He takes off his blazer, pulls his tie off and starts to unbutton his shirt. She watches patiently as he gets undressed, and it’s not sexual to her. He’s her person, her best friend, the only human being she would ever share a moment like this with and that’s when it hits her.

She doesn’t accept it just yet.

It’s not until he’s lying on her chest, between her legs, cheek resting on her boobs as she runs a sponge over his back while he gives her a little run down on his terrible week. His co-worker almost died, his mom is stressing him out, the only good thing he has left is her and she knows that.

“And then I get to my moms facility and she’s had a really good day, she knows me and she knows all of my childhood again and she’s all right there in front of me and yet she’s so far away. I’m never going to get all the time I want with her and it’s really hard to accept.”

He shares things with her that he doesn’t even tell his therapist. Because his therapist doesn’t hold him like a child against her chest and tell him he’s okay when he get’s upset.

Y/N loves him, so she kisses his forehead, “I’m so sorry, I have 2 moms if you’d like to have one?”

“It’s okay, I would love to meet them sometime though,” he wraps his arms around her waist a little tighter under the water. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Did I mention my leg is 44 inches from hip to toe?” She asks in the middle of the silence, quoting pretty woman, knowing he hasn’t seen that far into the movie yet. “So basically we’re talking about 88 inches of therapy for the bargain price of $800 dollars a week.”

Her legs wrap around him and their naked bodies are closer than they’ve ever been and yet it’s completely platonic, “I’d spend a million dollars on you if it always meant feeling this good after.”

She runs her cheek along his wet hair as he snuggles into her neck, “mmm, I like the sound of that,” she teased. “My million dollar man.”

Her stop rolls around and she pulls herself out of her day dreams to get off the train and head to her meeting. She smiles as she walks through the station, up the stairs and onto the busy downtown streets when she gets a text with Spencers special chime. She opens it when she gets to where she’s going, safely inside and in the waiting room.

It makes her laugh in the waiting room. People look at her but she doesn’t care, he’s so special to her she feels butterflies in her stomach even when he’s not around.

“Y/N!” She hears her name being called by her editor, he’s over ecstatic as he comes running out to get her. “Come, come we have so many choices to make!” He jumps up and down as he holds her arm, like a child in a candy store.

“Andy, chill man,” she laughs at him and plays it cool, “It’s just the cover being finalized.”

“It’s our baby!” He teases back, pushing his glasses up and tugging her behind the glass doors of the office.

She’s surrounded by people and paper and huge versions of her book cover. She has a sharpie as she fixed mistakes and jots down final ideas. “And I wan’t Phil to look more human and less like data from Star Trek?”

“But Dorothy looks okay?” The artist asks, nervously and Y/N can tell.

“She looks beautiful! You really brought her justice,” she smiles, “really she looks the same in my head! It’s just Phil and I’m sure it’s tough getting a drawing to look like a robotic human, let alone human.”

“I have some ideas?” She opens up more, taking her iPad out and sliding it across the table, “I wanted to give him more of a Sophia feel? His face is silicone but his joints and everything are more like an Elon Musk crash dummy.”

“That’s perfect!” She’s shocked, “why didn’t that go in the first draft?”

“I was worried it was too much,” she’s a little older than Y/N, and yet her anxiety is that of a teenage girl. “I’m going to get working on the final, do you want some emailed versions tonight?”

“Yes please,” she smiles.

“So we’re done?” Andy asks, “we’ve made all our final calls?”

“I believe we have,” Y/N closes her laptop and takes her phone out, taking a photo of the final rough sketch of her book cover on the table to send to Spencer before he comes to pick her up. She can’t wait to see him now.

—

They’re sitting side by side in matching spa robes, he’s getting a pedicure while she gets her nails done. Leaning back in her chair with a face mask and cucumbers on her eyes, she’s never felt more relaxed in her life. And just in time too, her back was killing her from writing, her knuckles hurt and she just needed a break.

Spencer did too, he was genuinely not having a good time at work anymore, every case made him spiral and he always looked to Y/N on days like that. They met more than once a week now, she got $800 every Friday and she didn’t even really need it anymore. He was coving for so much of her bills and lively hood that her savings account was growing and growing because of him.

For the first time in her life she thought she would be okay if a man left her. As terrible as it was, as much as her moms tried to raise her differently, she fell down the daddy issues rabbit hole and she’s never going to find her way out— however, luckily for her, Spencer is down here too, and he brought a flashlight.

He understands her, more than anyone else on earth. He knows all her secrets, every crush and bad grade and snide remark she’s ever kept to herself. He didn’t judge her, he could actually listen to her issues and tell her why she had them. He gave better advice than a therapist and he was able to get information for her if he didn’t know the answer to what she was going through.

He’s absolutely everything to her and yet he’s 14 years older than her, he’s still traumatized beyond belief, he’s sad and ashamed and recovering… but he’s the best man in the whole world and she wishes he could see that. If he just looked at himself from her eyes, if he felt how she did in her soul when they were together, he’d love himself.

They’re too relaxed to drive home, and Spencer knew that would happen beforehand, bringing her a change of clothes (lingerie) and that robe me mentioned. He books a hotel above the spa and takes her to it. Arms linked as they enter the suite, she’s amazed to find more than one gift bag on the bed.

“How many gifts is this now?”

“We’re at 5 out of 24.”

She laughs as she wraps her arms around him in a thank you hug, “this is what you consider 4 gifts? Spencer there are like 8 things on the bed, let alone the massage and manicure?”

“If you think this is too much I guess you’re going to get really mad next week,” he teases as she looks up at him with a surprised look on her face.

“Spencer, I am so busy next week, I cannot be galavanting around with my sugar daddy,” she tries to act like she doesn’t want to go on an adventure with him again.

The last trip they took was the best week of her life. They went to all the historical sites in the UK that she and Spencer had talked about. Mainly old churches and castles, strange poets graves, random art and most importantly; stone henge. It was a trip of a lifetime and he took it with her.

“I watched the rest of Pretty Woman the other day,” he smiles, “and I thought I’d pull an Edward Lewis and really surprise you because you deserve it.”

“You know how the movie ends, right?” Her heart beats really fast in her chest and she wants him to love her so bad but it’s also terrifying now that she’s this close.

“He lets her choose,” he whispers.

“He rescues her,” she corrects him.

“And she rescues him right back,” he really did watch the end of the movie.

It makes her heart skip a beat as she swallows sharply, “what does this mean for us?”

“I have a whole plan, a whole sequence of events I want to stick to. I wanted to make you fall in love with me this week and ask you on your birthday, can we still do that?” He pleads with her, he’s so serious. He’s clearly put a lot of effort into this.

“Absolutely,” she smiles, “but if you’re going to make me wait that long for you to ask, you still can’t kiss me till then. No matter how much I already love you.”

“Really?” He’s so soft with her, she knows he’s not reacting to the teasing. He’s never had someone tell him they love him and then stay after.

“I would never lie to you about that, spence. I know what love means to you, I know how scared you are and I’m scared too. But I know there is no one else in the whole world I’d rather be scared with than you,” she holds him tighter and rubs her nose against his, “so what’s in the bags, daddy? Finish your surprise.”

She plays along perfectly, stepping back and hauling him towards the bed. “I got you some outfits and things for the next 2 weeks, we have a few things planned. We’re going on a flight soon, I have new luggage being delivered to your apartment this week and we’re going to see your moms for 3 days.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “there’s no way, Spencer, I haven’t seen them in 5 years, I’m going to cry.”

“I know,” he cups her jaw with his hand. “They’re really excited to see you.”

She hugs him tight, kissing his neck as she holds him. “Thank you, daddy, do you want me to put something on for you now?”

“I’m just going to take it off you, plus, what your wearing is sexy enough, he whispers back. “You’re always so beautiful, baby.”

“I thought you were saving the best for last?” She asks as she pulls back, overly eager and he can tell.

“I want to repay the favour from the other night.”

She doesn’t mean to gasp and yet she does, “please?”

He pulls on the tie of her robe, opening it enough to snake a hand behind her back and draw her in with a hand on her bare back. “Please what?”

“Please, daddy?” She looks up with her best begging eyes, perfect pout and all. “I want you to touch me, I promise I’ll be a good girl.”

He steps away from her to swipe all the bags off the bed before picking her up and laying her back against the pillows. He kisses down her body, hand on her lover back as she arches, he drags his bottom lip from her belly button to her cleavage. Nipping and sucking at the exposed skin on her chest, pulling her breasts out of the bra to suck on her nipples, she moans and it’s louder than she expected.

As she plays with his hair, he marks her, bruising small little love bites all the way down as he makes his way between her legs, “take me, please?”

He’s been dreaming of this for so long, he can’t even give you an accurate number of times his mind has drifted to the thought of how wonderful she would taste, how beautiful she’d sound…

“Tell me how badly you want me?” He asks as he spreads her legs and kisses her left thigh.

“I haven’t had sex in 10 months while waiting for you. Daddy, please you’ve owned me for so long, just take what’s yours already for gods sa- OH!”

With a broad lick, his tongue flattens against her core and it shuts her up. She gets what she wants, holding into his hair as she tosses her head back, taking it all in and enjoying it. He’s been on her mind for months, every time her vibrator was where he is now, she thought of him. he’s been the man of her dreams longer than she’s known him, and he was proving it.

“Right there, daddy,” she speaks through shallow breaths, “do you know how much I’ve thought of this?”

“You know I don’t,” the vibrations of his voice against her skin are glorious, he looks up at her through his lashes as his tongue flicks over her clit and she shakes a bit.

“Fuck,” she gasps, gripping his hair tighter, “better than I thought you’d be, fuck, too bad you— Jesus, don’t have the stash anymore…”

He stops and looks up at her, the smirk on his face glistening with her juices, “the stash?”

She nods, “I’ve thought about calling it the pussy tickler,” she teases, running her hand down his cheek and swiping her thumb across his bottom lip before bringing it up to her mouth to taste, “I want more of you.”

He kisses back up her body and she reaches for his robe the second he’s close enough. “Just grind against me? I know you’re waiting but we can still feel good together?”

He kisses the side of her mouth and she takes that as a yes, wrapping her legs around him so his hard cock is pressed right against her core as they move their hips in synchronicity with each other. His breathing is heavy as he kisses her cheek and jaw, her nails scratch down his back, he feels absolutely amazing against her.

She feels so empty, she wants him so bad she’s clenching around nothing as she squirms against his cock and wishes she was full.

“I wish I could move time,” she whispers. “Fuck, why can’t it be my birthday?”

He laughs against her, grazing his teeth over her neck and drawing another moan from her but then he stops moving his hips, “why are you so impatient?”

“Remember I said I stopped enjoying everything? Well, taking a 10 month break from sex and thinking about you every time I got off has made me desperate,” her hand cups his cheek, “I’d wait forever for you, but a girl needs to be fucked hard every once in a while.”

Only she could find a way to make something both profoundly beautiful and whorish at the same time, he loved her for it and she knew that now. He smiles and leaned in to rub his nose against hers and it takes everything in her not to kiss him. The same way it was taking everything in him not to slip into her as he began to grind against her once more.

She’s so close, the accidental edging has added a whole new level of desperation she’s never felt before. She wants to cum for him so bad, but more importantly she wants him to cum for her.

“Take my bra off,” she whispers, Spencer’s hands travel behind her back to unclasp it and he helps her out of it before tossing it to the floor.

“Cum for me daddy,” she whispers in his head with a hand in his hair, gripping him tightly as he bites at her neck, “cover me with your cum like you’re marking your territory.”

“Shit,” his hips sputter against hers.

“Say it, I know you want to,” she teases, so close to the edge but it’s too good of an opportunity. She loves seeing him fall apart like this and she can’t wait to see it again. “Who’s am I?”

“Daddy’s girl.”

He grinds down on her harder and faster and she’s so close, the bubble in her gut is reaching a fever pitch and with a gasp, she’s cumming and then she feels it. His load covers her stomach as he pants against her neck and grips her hips tighter as he comes down.

She wraps her arms around him and holds him as close as humanly possible, her breathing still heavy as he rises and falls on her chest. He’s heavy but she doesn’t care, she just kisses the top of his head and thanks him.

He brushes his nose against her neck, nuzzling her like a cat, “do you really mean it?”

“What, honey?” He remembers so much, this could be a question about something she said 2 months or 2 minutes ago and she has no clue.

“You’re not just playing along with my kinks right, you genuinely want to be mine?”

For being her million dollar man, his heart sure was broke. This is why he wasn’t ready, he still didn’t understand why she would want to stay without anything in return, he’s gotten so used to paying her for her time now that his anxiety has managed to convince him that she’ll leave when he stops being worth it to her.

“What does my necklace say?” She asks, knowing how close he was to it. “Read it to me, I forget.”

“Daddy’s girl,” he smiles again.

She soothes her hands over his back, “I would do anything with you because I love and trust you, but also because everything you do is sexy… you could read me the dictionary and I’d still want you to pump me full of cum after.”

“It sounds so crude after,” he laughs, “speaking of, we really need to have a shower.”

“I’ll wash your back if you wash mine?” She teases as he gets up.

“Only if you let me wash the front too?”

She smacks his bare ass and races him into the bathroom, turning on the water and getting in with him while still laughing and carrying on. He’s her best friend in the whole world, there’s no one else she would rather do this with… there was no one she has done this with. No one has made her feel this good, before during and after sex.

Spencer Reid was an anomaly, but he was hers.

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Sugar daddy fic (Some tags didn't work)

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[debbierhea]

and the world around us shatters / better call saul / wc: 2392  / kimmy jimmy omaha cinnabon reunion / special thanks to @kimberly-wexler for the beta <3

Summary: 

She’d been searching. For years.

She’d been searching. For years. Hired a PI and then another. Scoured every database she had credentialed access to and then a few she didn’t. Even adopted a cat to soothe the loneliness, lull the throbbing emptiness she felt in her chest. She’d had one as a girl once, a stray really, whom she loved. But this cat was as sulky and capricious as she had become and no matter how committed she was to ignoring it, the ulterior motive of pet adoption was glaring, if not to anyone else, to her.

After three months of No. Not like this. You can’t. Leave it alone. Don’t get involved, the ill-tempered tabby was Kim’s foot in the door. It was a Thursday when she sat across from his veterinarian, cat on the exam table, and said, “I need your help.”

“What kind of help are we talking?” He eyed her, stroked the tabby between her ears.

“I’m looking for someone.” Silence followed.

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that.”

“You know him. Jimmy McGill.”

His eyebrows rose. More silence.

“Well, can you help me or not?”

“You know it’s not always a matter of can I help.”

Kim tilted her chin, raised her eyes to meet his, unflinching. “Does that mean you won’t help me?”

“Hm?” The cat was purring into his hand, licking his thumb. “Oh, no. Just that my price may be something you’re unwilling to pay.”

She swallowed. “That’s not possible.”

“Okay then,” he nodded, stuck out his hand. She shook it.

Now, she was wandering through a sea of midwesterners in puffy coats and mittens, dusting snow off their shoulders, chattering about the weather. She hasn’t been back to this part of the country in years and it oddly feels like a homecoming, though she stopped considering Nebraska home the moment she left. It was simply a place she had lived, never one that offered family or comfort or love. There were sparse memories of joy with the odd classmate and a fond recollection of the first grade teacher who encouraged her to read, helped her get her very own library card. But now as then, there never existed a sense of ease or belonging for her. Even so, the familiarity of the Casey’s General Store on the corner, the Runzas on menus across state rest stops, the flurries of snow reddening her nose and chilling her bones, fostered a small flame of hope deep inside. She could still recognize, even find comfort in, a place she so detested. After the passage of so many years, this place was still the same and, underneath the new high rises and parking meters and sushi restaurants, she could see the bones of this city. Maybe the same could hold true for other things in her life.

Looking over the map in the lobby, she cupped her hands before her mouth and blew into them. The chill rested deep inside her, the hope she fostered in her heart doing little to warm her weary bones. All her work was to lead to this: trudging up the tiled stairs in damp snow boots surrounded by people who knew nothing about pain, not really. Not pain like hers.

She smelled it before she saw it, curving with the second floor walkway past storefront after storefront of clothes and books and knick knacks. She had just side-stepped the man trying to give free lotion samples when the warmth of cinnamon and sugar wafted over her. Her footsteps stuttered and her gait slowed. It was like watching a car whose engine was stalling out. She was light-headed, unable to string a thought together, parse out what she was feeling in her body besides a deep urge to run. Her therapist would tell her that she wanted to run because of her fear of being vulnerable and then being left behind. Again. Kim pushed hair that had fallen loose of her ponytail behind her ear, took three deep breaths, and followed her nose.

A small line stood in front of the cash register, three or four people, waiting for a treat to get them through their holiday shopping. She contemplated her next step from across the food court. Anticipation fluttered through her, givinggave rise to goosebumps beneath her layers of knit and down. Then further, deeper, beneath the adrenaline, lived something twisting and gnawing inside of her chest. She knew this thing like she knew the location of every security camera at the Hinky Dinky or the route she took home after school when her mom got too lost in the liquor aisle to remember to pick her up. This thing she knew was fear—fear of hope, of the inevitable ache of a further bruised heart. She crossed the food court despite it.

Trying to slip back into her midwestern skin, move through this world unassuming and deferential, she stood to the right of the registers, observing the ebb and flow of workers behind the glass. Dough was being kneaded by one, another opened an oven to check the progress of the bake. A third manned the register. A second till was sat unused, cash drawer open and empty. She stood there, just outside the current of customers, twitching her chapped fingers, tapping them against the inside of her own palm. He used to tease her for it. Five minutes passed, then ten. The line grew longer. Her flame of hope was waning.

Then, a voice—a bellow, more like—broke through the low hum of conversation in the food court.

“Coming! I’m coming, Miranda!” Kim froze.

A man in an apron and mustache came through the door marked “Employees Only” and made his way to the front of the store, a full cash drawer in his hands.

“Sorry! For some reason the safe just wouldn’t open.”

Kim was drifting through the crowd, pulled toward his voice. Her eyes began to burn.

“Here are some quarters for you. I figured you might be running low.” His eyes flicked up, scanning the crowd, estimating how many rolls they should throw into the oven. “I’ll open this one up and—,” his roaming gaze stopped. “And I, uh....”

She swallowed, her throat tight, eyes glassy. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He stood, slack jawed, staring.

“Um, Miranda I—Just, uh, just take this,” he handed the cash drawer to the teenager standing next to him, eyes never leaving Kim’s. “I’ll be right back.”

His shoes squeaked as he made his way around the counter and out into the seating area of the restaurant. Kim hadn’t moved, stunned like a deer in headlights on a Nebraska back road. He seemed as though he was moving in slow motion, each step towards her an eternity, and yet it was still not long enough to prepare herself for him to be standing directly in front of her. She felt like she’d just fallen through the ice into a glacial lake. No, she hadn’t fallen. She’d jumped. On purpose. And broke through.

He stood there, inches from her; she could see the gray in his mustache. He paused, just for a moment, then said, “Follow me.”

And she did.

They weaved in and out of tables and shoppers and janitors picking up fast food wrappers off the floor. He glanced back at her once, as if he was scared she wouldn’t be there behind him, as if she hadn’t been following him, chasing him, for what felt like her whole life. He led them down a hallway, empty save for a woman waiting on a bench between two bathroom doors, one labeled with a dress, the other a tie. Kim gave her a close-mouthed smile.

Jimmy stopped abruptly, reaching for the door to the family restroom. He held it open, looked into her eyes. Kim gave the woman another glance, cheeks reddening, and walked through the door before she could think or feel or do anything that would make her stop herself. She moved towards the far, tiled wall and as she turned, heard the clicking of the door’s latch, then the lock.

He paused then, there, gripping the door handle, his head resting against its grain. His body was tense, coiled and bound and, she realized, foreign to her. Stooped shoulders, billowing polo, slight waist cinched by an apron. Even from behind, he looked bleary, posture like a drooping flower on the sill. What happened to him?

Kim was grateful for this pause he was granting her. Everything seemed to be moving at a pace she was incapable of matching, an emotional marathon she had not trained for; she never did have much emotional stamina outside of simply holding them all in, like a child holding their breath in the deep end of the pool.

Then, he turned.

He was just as unfamiliar from the front as he was from behind, cheeks a bit sallow and stippled with five o’clock shadow, wiry glasses. His nametag read “Gene.” But Jimmy McGill was still the same in his bones and in the time it takes to exhale that breath you’ve been holding under the gentle waves of your childhood pool, the split second it takes for that breath to form a spray of bubbles racing you to the surface, they were in each other’s arms.

Centered on the yellowing, speckled tile, they grasped at shoulders and elbows, knees knocked, tears fell. Finally, Kim slipped her arms around his ribs and clutched him to her chest, nails digging into cotton and, beneath, soft skin. His face caught between shoulder and neck, he inhaled the scent of her, goosebumps rising as her puffy, down sleeves brushed against his bare arms. His hands roamed her back, skidding and sliding across slick fabric. It felt as if his hands had been frozen and he had finally found the fire he’s sought to warm them. Sneaking his right hand up and up and under the thick wool of her scarf, he hesitated just a moment before placing his fingertips to the soft skin of her neck. She gasped, a sob drawn out on a breath. His left hand pushed into the small of her back. She pulled him in tighter.

They held each other there, flushed and desperate and weepy, for a time—how long, neither could say. As the hand rubbing her back would slow, she would squeeze his middle gently as if to say Not yet and he would answer with gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. When her grip on him would loosen, his fingers would drift into the hairs at the base of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer, and she would let him. This is how they stayed, questioning and answering each other as only they could with little more than a sigh passing through their lips.

Then, Kim began to pull gently away. He stiffened the moment he sensed her movement from him, but she did not try to leave his embrace, this wasn’t her intention, not truly. She only wanted to see his dear face, maybe say hello. Placing one hand on his chest, she leaned ever so slightly back as his arms moved to circle her waist. Tears clung to his lashes and dripped from the tip of his nose. He swallowed hard as her eyes roamed his face, different but somehow entirely the same. She felt like she was back in the HHM parking garage bumming a smoke from the new guy in the mailroom. Hundreds of days and miles from then, he was still hers.

Bringing both hands up, cupping his jaw, brushing his cheekbones with the pads of her thumbs, she smiled. “Jimmy.”

At this, his eyes closed, Kim holding him tenderly in her palms. He hasn’t heard that name in years. When was the last time he thought of himself as anyone other than Saul Goodman? Saul the criminal defense attorney. Saul on the run. Saul posing as a Cinnabon manager. More tears fell free.

Removing his hands from her waist, he held her delicate wrists, one in each hand, his thumbs mimicking her caress across his skin. She gave the slightest tilt of her head and he answered with a reed-thin voice, a sad smile, “It’s you.”

She knitted her perfectly arched brows, that tell-tale wrinkle emerging between them, her eyes soft and wet, red-rimmed. She bit her lip and began to shake her head, never removing her gaze from his. After a moment, she smiled again, smaller this time, lips closed, and slipped one hand smoothly into his, the other onto his shoulder, not willing to break contact.

“Sorry it took me so long.”

More tears welled in Jimmy’s eyes as he rolled them to the ceiling, heart aching.

“Kim…I…”

“I know.” A pause. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Baby, I know.”

From shoulder back to his neck, Kim guided Jimmy with her hand, resting his forehead against her own, meeting in the middle, holding him there.

“Oh god—” a sob broke from deep in his chest.

Kim stroked his neck, shoulder, face, back. Jimmy wept.

Tears darkened the collar of his polo shirt and the tremors running through his body prompted Kim to wrap herself around him once more, burying her nose in his neck, focusing on the sickly-sweet scent of yeasted dough rising, cinnamon, and icing sugar over the pain so fierce living in the main between her arms.

As all things do with time, his sobs became weaker and fewer, until his breathing returned to a shallow, exhausted inhale, sniffly exhale. Kim lifted him from her shoulder and he raised his eyes towards hers. Her lips twitched, and then she brought them to his cheek. One, then the other, over and over, like salve to a wound she covered his drying tear tracks with her lips. Gentle and soft, like the flap of a butterfly’s wings did she kiss him. And then, she centered herself, hand threading into his hair, she moved to his lips.

“Kim,” he whispered, a breath from her lips.

“Yes?”

“What if you’ve come all this way to find someone who…doesn’t exist. Not anymore.”

Again, Kim knit her brows and shook her head. She placed her right hand over his heart, lifted her shoulders gently in a shrug.

“It’s you.”

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

pause, m | myg | 3

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: Life is like a cassette tape. It seems like it’s constantly repeating, flipped from side A to side B, and the songs can’t be skipped. You can only pause, rewind, fast forward, play after you’ve already heard the song. After you’ve already lived it. All Min Yoongi knows is his own tape, until it smashes right at his feet, and then he has to learn to dance to a different beat.

warnings: rated M (18+) - please be warned this story has a physically and verbally abusive relationship; language; gender stereotyping; mentions of therapy; non-idol!AU; music producer!Yoongi x dancing fanatic!reader

rated M because I know how sensitive a topic domestic abuse is.

--

2.

-

Morning. Night.

He wasn’t on the night train.

Morning. Night.

He wasn’t on the night train.

Morning. Night.

You were the only one exiting at the last stop. Running. Running.

Morning. Night.

You hated this replay. This song sucked. This cassette tape sucked. But you kept going, ending all your bad days with dancing, dancing until you wore your own heart out, dancing to sad songs with happy beats, attending your dance party of one. Never had you wished your dance party to be of two.

Never, until now.

Morning. Night.

You were wandering around your neighborhood on your off day, idle and antsy. There was a garage sale happening. You walked over, seeing all the old things. Weird lampshades with no bottom half. Chipped coin banks. A pair of ping-pong paddles with no ping pong ball. Single teacups without the rest of the set. Old VHS tapes that no one had a player for.

Cassettes.

A bunch of cassette tapes, sitting there, spilled out. You tilted your head, picking one out. Love Songs for my Love. It was written in faded pen, a barely legible scribble. You flipped it over, but there was no indication of said songs. Just a Side A and Side B. Did someone make this? Did they use a tape player and record this by playing the songs on scratchy audio?

You suddenly remembered Yoongi’s girlfriend throwing a cassette tape on the subway concrete as she declared she hated him. The thin plastic has shattered, black ribbon flying everywhere.

Did Yoongi make her one?

And she smashed it, just like that?

“Do you want that?”

You started as an old woman indicated the tape in your hand. She was wearing a blue and white floral dress, a bright pink fanny pack at her waist. Her hand held a wad of change bills.

“Uh…” you said, not knowing if you did or not.

“I have a cassette player too.” The old woman tucked a gray hair behind her ear and rummaged around her, producing a silver and brown cassette player. It was huge, nearly the size of your forearm. “Still works. Needs batteries though.” She stated the price.

You walked out of the garage sale with the cassette and the player, wallet lighter.

You went home and played the tape after shoving some batteries into the player. It was full of old, cheesy eighties songs. You didn’t know any of these songs. They were all weird. Some were poorly recorded, cutting off strangely. The speaker was terrible, scratchy and pitching the audio due to its age, not that the audio was very good to begin with.

But you danced to it.

You danced to it.

Danced to these terrible love songs of a different time, of a different couple, not knowing if they were still together or not, not knowing if they were still in love, not knowing if they were even in Korea, but dancing to these retro beats anyway, not caring. Because someone, at one point, tried clumsily to make this for the one that loved, only for it to be sold like cheap candy decades later and you might as well enjoy it, because, hell.

What else was there to enjoy?

Morning.

Night.

You stopped at your doorstep.

Someone was sitting there, wearing a black parka and black sneakers. Black face mask. He raised his head as you stopped. Dark eyes, void of any sparkle. He stood up.

You swallowed. Bowed your head politely.

Opened your door for Min Yoongi.

-

You hadn’t changed the couch all this time. Left everything there, waiting.

Blankets. Pillow. The suitcase of his clothes.

Everything.

Yoongi didn’t say anything.

You went to your room, wordlessly.

In the morning, the blankets were folded neatly and the pillow set on top, as if he was never there.

Pause.

Fast forward.

He would be there one night and then not there several nights. He would stay several nights in a row, but not be there in the morning. Never saying anything. You didn’t say anything. You just went to your bedroom and danced to sad songs with happy beats, door closed, the pressure in your chest unbearable.

Replay. Turn the tape around. Replay. Turn the tape around. Replay.

You wanted to fast forward. You wanted to pause. You wanted to rewind.

But you had to press play.

You had to live the moments.

You had to run as you exited to night train, run and run and run, sometimes finding Yoongi sitting at your doorstep, sometimes finding nothing but air. And it didn’t matter. They were all bad days, ending with you dancing to gloomy songs with upbeat tunes, dancing and dancing until you passed out.

You were stuck.

Stuck in this odd loop of reality.

Trapped in sad lyrics with a happy melody.

-

You talked to your former therapist about it. 

Explained the situation, trying to remember all the details. He was retired already, but as usual he listened patiently and with kindness. He didn't have to. When your therapist retired, he let you know that he meant it when he told you that you could call him any time and he would set aside some of his day to talk with you. You were grateful and never tried to abuse it. Sometimes you would just call and say hello, ask him about his health. Send him cards every once in a while, wishing him well. He had been a great therapist and now he was a good friend.

Those were really, really hard to come by. 

You saw Yoongi once again, sitting in front of your apartment doorstep. Bit your lip seeing his crumpled form wrapped in his black parka. You walked up to him and smiled, but Yoongi didn't look at you. He only stood up and moved out of the way for you to unlock your door. 

Your former therapist's words echoed in your head. 

You need to consider the effect of your kindness, not only on him, but on you. 

You held up your keys and found your hand shaking, missing the keyhole. 

It is up to you how much you want to say. But remember to communicate with empathy. He is a victim and he may not respond rationally because his thought processes have been manipulated and warped.

"I'm sorry."

Yoongi's whisper was very soft, almost inaudible. You wanted to scream, cry, laugh it off, hug him, all at once. Instead, you took a deep breath and put your key in your front door. Turned around and beckoned him warmly into your home. 

"Come in."

Everyone's reality is different. Even if you're sharing moments together, one person might have a completely different way of interpreting and processing events. 

Yoongi stepped into your apartment once more, carefully taking off his shoes. Trying to keep his eyes on the floor. You didn't see any visible bruises on his face, but you could see the bruises to his soul as he timidly walked to the couch.

In life, you get to choose only how you feel about things. You only get to choose your own reaction.

You closed the front door, locked it.

You can't choose for other people. 

You turned around to see Yoongi looking at the pillow, blankets, the little bag of toiletries. The suitcase of his clothes, washed and folded. You kept them on the couch, all this time.

"Yoongi."

He didn't turn his head, but you saw him move his chin slightly to indicate he was listening. 

"This time... this time, before you leave in the morning," you said quietly, gently. "I hope you reconsider. Even if it's only for a second."

Yoongi didn't respond. 

-

The next morning, you didn't know what you would find. The same folded blankets with the pillow on top? The same empty couch?

You went out to the living room. 

Folded blankets. Pillow on top. No Yoongi on the couch. Your heart sank. Okay. It was worth a shot. 

"I told myself this would be the last time."

A familiar raspy, soft voice. You jerked your head to the door. Yoongi was standing there, fully dressed, face mask on, sneakers on his feet. He wasn't looking at you. He was staring at the couch. 

"I told myself I wouldn't take advantage of your kindness anymore."

It's okay, you wanted to blurt, but you hesitated, because was it? Was it okay to watch this all the time, to witness this toxic relationship, and not be able to help because you can't help unless they want to be helped?

"I'm weak."

Yoongi raised his head. He made eye contact with you. And it hurt so much, seeing those eyes and knowing you could do nothing, knowing he was just going to go back because that's all he knew. 

You smiled even though it hurt so, so much to smile.

"You might think you're weak," you said softly. "But you always have a choice, Yoongi. Even if it's a small step. Even if it's something dumb, like taking off your shoes."

You couldn't tell his expression, most of it hidden behind the face mask. You thought of that time, in the convivence superstore, where his fingers had accidentally gotten caught in your sweater and unfurled the yarn, tangling you two together with red string, an awkward, embarrassing moment. Your lips curved a little wider, remembering that time. If anything, at least there was that one precious memory.

Yoongi looked down. 

He placed his hand on the doorknob. 

You closed your eyes, not wanting to watch him go. 

You heard shuffling. Then a presence close to you. Your eyes snapped open. Yoongi's shoes were by the door. You looked up, right in front of you. Yoongi gazed back at you with uncertainty. Then he pulled down the face mask and stepped closer to you. Voice trembling, still so soft. 

"What... what should I do now?"

You couldn't help it. 

You began to cry. 

It all came out, the tears spilling like a broken dam. Yoongi's eyes widened, startled at your sudden reaction. You wrapped your arms around yourself and buried your face in your chest, sobbing ugly tears. You turned away quickly, wiping them away and attempting to talk, but it was impossible. They kept coming. 

Was it happiness? Relief? Stress? Anxiety? The crying racked your entire body. All those weeks, all those days, all those moments. You were just a person. You wanted to say, don't do this to me anymore, but that wasn't a fair thing to say, so you never said it, but, please, please Yoongi, don't do this to me anymore. 

Arms appeared around you, black parka covered arms, and they encircled you, first a tentative hold, then tighter and firmer, steadying your sobs, turning them into sniffles. You realized your sweatshirt sleeves were wet and gross now, covered in snot and tears.

"Thank you."

The whisper behind your head, making you freeze.

"Thank you so, so much."

You didn't want to start crying again. 

You started crying again. 

-

Pause.

Fast forward.

-

Yoongi looked back at you, face full of uncertainty. Black face mask on his chin, squishing his cheeks together. You smiled at him from the waiting room, waving. The doctor’s name was printed clearly on the door. The name of the therapist you had helped Yoongi find. They specialized in domestic violence victims.

“I… I can’t do it.”

He said it softly, but the waiting room was dead silent.

You smiled at him.

“You only have to take one step,” you replied gently. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

Yoongi looked forward again. He took one step. Then another. Then more, walking into the door and closing it behind him.

Pause. Rewind.

You remembered your similar moment. You were by myself at that time, years ago, confused and alone, about to walk into an old man’s office who you thought could do absolutely nothing, but you didn’t know what else to do. You knew there was something wrong with you and you didn’t know what and you knew you needed help. But there was no one to tell you to take a step forward. You were frightened, scared of being alone. Equally scared of being with someone else, which was why you were so boring in every relationship, never putting in any effort, because you were afraid.

The therapist had noticed your hesitance. He stood up and said your name kindly. You snapped to attention, nodding slowly. The old man had smiled, hands crossed in front of his waist.

“You only have to take one step,” he had said. “Just one.”

You looked at the ground.

Took one step.

That seemed too small. Maybe one more.

One more.

One.

More.

You were now in the office, standing in front of the sofa.

The old man had beamed at you proudly.

“You did it.”

Pause. Fast forward.

“You did it.”

Yoongi stepped out of the office. His eyes found yours. “I did.”

You smiled proudly.

“Wanna go buy some bread?” you asked, pointing in the direction of the market plaza next to the clinic. “There’s a bakery nearby. It would be nice to have bread for breakfast, don’t you think?”

Yoongi gave you his little half-smirk. “Yeah, it would.”

-

Reset.

Pause.

Play.

-

“Why do you have that?”

You looked up from your bed to your desk. Yoongi was pointing to the cassette tape player. His face was white, almost tense. His other hand was holding yours. He held it tighter, biting his lip.

“I bought it at a garage sale,” you answered truthfully. Yoongi lowered his hand, not quite looking at you. You continued. “I was walking around the neighborhood and someone was selling their old stuff and I saw some cassettes, so I bought one. The lady upsold me the player too. It was after the first time you…”

You left me.

You felt a painful pluck of your heartstrings, like a guitar strand pulled too tight and producing the wrong sound. Yoongi turned to face you, but you shifted your eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s not his fault. But it had hurt. You couldn’t pretend it didn’t.

You laughed apprehensively. “It was full of eighties love songs anyway. The audio is scratchy and old. The couple probably aren’t even together anymore.”

“That wasn’t that long ago.”

“The eighties were forty years ago, Yoongi.”

Silence. Yoongi was still holding your hand.

“How many times do you think it’s been replayed?” Yoongi murmured.

Your eyes shifted back to the silver and brown tape player. “I don’t know. But I kept playing it.” Your voice was a little choked up now. “I kept playing it until you… until you came back.” And sometimes I think… sometimes I think there might be a chance you’ll leave again. And maybe that was impossible, but you knew better, because impossible things happen all the time and it would be easy to think a person could fully heal, but things like that don’t heal so easily.

You know, because you witnessed it firsthand.

“They’re all terrible,” you said quietly.

Yoongi squeezed your hand. “But you kept replaying them.”

“Yeah.”

He took a deep breath. And then another. You waited. He seemed like he wanted to say something. You rubbed his thumb gently with yours. He kept staring at the cassette player.

“That… was the first gift I gave her.” His dark brown eyes were misty, gazing into the past. “Our hundred-day anniversary. I gave her a cassette of my favorite songs. I thought it was more original than a mix CD or a link to a Spotify playlist.” He looked down, not quite at the floor. “She was so excited and happy. She told me she was going to play it as soon as she got home.”

Silence.

When Yoongi spoke again, there was a quiver of hopelessness.

“I never saw a tape player at her place.”

You saw the pain in his eyes.

“Did she play it even once?”

He shut his eyes, hiding them with his hair. His voice was getting smaller and smaller, almost disappearing.

“And then she smashed it.”

He was clutching your hand so tightly that your fingers felt numb, but you didn’t move away, listening carefully.

“She smashed it so that not even people like you could pick it up years later and listen to it. Smashed it so that not even one person in the whole world could appreciate it.”

“The Yoongi at the time appreciated it,” you said softly.

Yoongi hid his face with his hair.

“The Yoongi back then was a fucking fool,” he sighed.

“It’s not so easy to have a pure feeling.” You placed your other hand on top of his. “Not everyone can feel that way. It’s not fair when someone takes advantage of that.”

He hung his head. “I could have gotten out. I could have been a man and left. But I kept going back. I enabled her. I was just as bad.”

You sighed softly. “You know things like that are easy to say and impossible to do in the moment.”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

Yoongi lifted his head, looking at you through his bangs. Not wanting to fully show you the pain in those dark brown orbs.

“For going back?”

You shook your head. “No.” Your lips curved into a sad smile. “I watched my dad crawl back over and over. I watched it happen right in front of my eyes.” You exhaled the tenseness from your chest. “He kept thinking that because they had kids he had to come back.” The next breath was rougher, pushing out all your anger. “I think it would have easier if she was my stepmother. But she wasn’t.”

And the fear stabbed through you.

“I keep thinking, what if I’m like her? What if I’m just like her and I don’t know?”

You shut your eyes.

“All of my previous relationships ended because I didn’t invest into them.”

You suddenly let go of Yoongi’s hand, pulling away, but Yoongi held on, held on desperately, interlocking his fingers with yours. You dropped your hand, all strength gone, measuring your breathing, trying to calm yourself down.

“What if…?”

Silence.

“We’ll never know unless we try.”

Pause.

“I can’t ask you to try after what you’ve been through, Yoongi.”

“You don’t have to ask me.”

You opened your eyes and slowly, slowly raised your head. Your eyes connected with his.

“You know you won’t be that way,” Yoongi murmured quietly. “Because you know and can recognize it. You recognized it when… when I saw nothing.”

You held his hand.

Fell back on the bed and the two of you stared at the ceiling, holding hands.

-

You laughed as you exited the train car with Yoongi. At the last stop, stepping out to the harsh streetlights and concrete.

“What do you mean, is that where I got my dance skills? It’s just a music video! They’re supposed to be weird!” you were saying, shouldering your backpack.

“That was bizarre and that’s putting it lightly,” Yoongi chuckled.

He didn’t look at the edge of the train station anymore. He was only looking at you, with his dark brown, cat-like eyes full of sparkle, smirking at you fully now. There was still space between you two at this particular place, this last train stop, but somehow it had gotten smaller. Shrunk. Not because he was shrinking either. He was a smoothed-out piece of paper now, still winkled; the old marks erased but still etched on the page. Not forgotten, but finally able to be written over.

“Get the fuck over here, Yoongi.”

Both of you froze.

Yoongi frowned and looked up. The pressure on your chest returned.

The woman. Yoongi’s girlfriend.

No.

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“I told you it was over. It’s still over.”

Ex-girlfriend.

She furrowed her brows, bristling. “You can’t do this to me, Yoongi! I’m the only one who loves you! Me! Or did you forget, you stupid bastard?”

Yoongi paused. He took a deep breath and stared up at the streetlights, up to the sky. For a second, you despaired, thinking he was going to consider it, thinking he was going to walk away from you. Then he let out a puff of air and ticked his head.

“I don’t have anything more to say to you,” he said evenly, not looking at his ex-girlfriend.

Yoongi turned away.

He caught your eye. He wasn’t smiling, but you could tell there was something different this time. Resolve. He nudged your arm with his.

“Wanna race?”

The pressure on your chest lifted suddenly, leaving you breathless.

“What?” you gasped.

Yoongi chuckled. “You’re gonna lose.”

And then he tore off. You started, running after him, the young woman shouting after you two, but neither of you heard, neither of you listening, because you were running, running, chasing after that black parka with indignation, calling his name and him mockingly bellowing yours back, causing you to run faster, faster, smile on your face, tackling him into your front door laughing. Yoongi snickered, stating he won and you chastised him, telling him he cheated as you unlocked the door.

“Your fault for getting distracted.”

“I wasn’t ready!” you flailed, dumping your backpack onto the ground. You took out your phone and accidentally pressed the play button on your music. Your Bluetooth house speakers started blasting quirky guitar, snazzy drums, and twanging bass, ridiculous lyrics singing along. In frustration, you tossed your phone on the couch and began to wiggle your arms, pointing accusingly at Yoongi, as if to say, this isn’t over, but kicking off your shoes and prancing about your apartment, bouncing your shoulders to the beat.

Yoongi shook his head, but you didn’t care, singing on the top of your lungs.

“Don’t know a night without dancing, don’t like the night without dancing…”

“Is that dancing?” Yoongi interrupted, but you just wiggled up and down like a fish out of water, and Yoongi shook his head once more, looking exasperated. You spun, you frolicked, you whipped your hair around until you were lightheaded, not caring about anything, not caring about what Min Yoongi was seeing, because this was your time, your time to shine, your nighttime dance party.

You tripped on the couch and Yoongi darted forward to snatch you from the air. You laughed at your own clumsiness, dizzy from spinning so much, not realizing how close you were to Min Yoongi, not realizing until the song ended and you were staring up at him and he was staring down at you, still in his black parka and face mask squishing his cheeks.

The next song began.

But for some reason you couldn’t brush it off. You couldn’t get up and begin dancing again. You were only looking up into Yoongi’s eyes and he was looking down at you. You were reminded of his face that day in the grocery store, when the red yarn from your sweater unraveled due to the Velcro on his sleeve, reminded of that split second where you were happy and sad at the same time, happy and sad at the idea of red yarn attaching you and Yoongi together.

Happy because it was funny.

Sad because you knew you had to pull away.

Yoongi’s dark eyes looked down at you and he leaned down a little. Stopped.

You raised yourself a little. Stopped.

Pause.

Heart beating fast, so fast. Was it from running? From dancing like an idiot? From staring into Yoongi’s eyes? From being so close to him? From knowing you shouldn’t kiss him, because maybe he wasn’t ready yet, but really, really wanting to?

Yoongi leaned down the same time you rose upward.

Your foreheads knocked together.

“Ow!”

“Motherfuc–”

You swore and he jerked up, rubbing his forehead as you winced, massaging yours. It was a hard hit and you felt woozy from all the emotions and the physical exertion. You grabbed his arm for balance as you stood, and he grabbed yours, grimacing as he rubbed his head.

“Damn, that fucking hurt,” he mumbled.

“Ugh, am I bruised?” you asked, removing your hand.

He squinted. “No?” He leaned forward a little.

You leaned forward too. Stopping just a centimeter away. Yoongi’s eyes widened. You looked into his wide eyes with your wide eyes, waiting. You shouldn’t kiss him, because you didn’t know if he was okay with it, you didn’t know if he was even thinking about it. It was way too early, it was too soon, and you should just back off–

He pressed his lips to yours.

You both stared at each other with unblinking, huge eyes, lips on lips.

You jerked back, sputtering. “Y-You’re making this weird!”

Yoongi pointed to you and all around him. “And this bizarre indie rock isn’t making this weird?”

“D-Don’t blame the music,” you stuttered, fingers on your lips. “You shouldn’t stare like that!”

“You were s-staring back!” he accused.

“F-Fine!”

And then you grabbed his face and kissed him, deeply, fully. You kissed Min Yoongi, kissed his soft lips with your eyes squeezed shut, breathing in his scent and his presence, a presence you never wanted to go away. You didn’t know if it was right or wrong. You didn’t know if this was the start of a wonderful story or the end of a rollercoaster one, but it was yours, your cassette tape with your love songs, and you wanted Yoongi on the playlist, you wanted his song to play on repeat, and he grabbed your arms and pulled you close, kissing you back, murmuring your name, wrapping his arms around you, and you knew you had his song, his song on your cassette to dance to.

Don’t let this beginning end.

-

4. smut.

--

masterpost

[sunmoonandeddie]

saturdays

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3,467

summary: Bucky Barnes has a new routine.

warnings: Some swearing

a/n:  This was my March 2020 one shot for my Patreon that they received early access to.  Let me know what y’all think!

Bucky Barnes has a new routine.

Sundays are for sleeping in before eventually making his way to Brooklyn, where he picks up three bouquets and an egg, bacon, and cheese breakfast sandwich from Sal’s bodega before going to the cemetery.  He sits against his sister’s tombstone—his parents’ to his right—and eats his late breakfast.  He sits and talks for a few hours before leaving the flowers on their graves.  He always has to have peonies, since those were Becca’s favorites.

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays are for training.  He wakes up at five in the morning to go running with Sam, something he thought would end when Steve went back to be with Peggy Carter.  But he wasn’t bitter.  No.

But which thing he wasn’t bitter about, he’d never tell.

Along with the run, he spends most of the day sparring and battling simulations in the gym.  He has short breaks for meals, but he pretty much is on go until after dinner, when he goes straight to bed.

But Fridays are his favorite.  Because he gets to sleep in until nine-thirty in the morning, which is a luxury he’s not used to.  Then Sam and him grab a late breakfast together before Bucky goes into the city for his therapy session.

And Bucky likes his therapist!  Which he was really, really surprised about!  But Marlene is good.  Marlene is good because she doesn’t placate him.  She calls him out on his shit, and pushes him forward.  Because if it had been up to him, he would’ve stopped seeing her after their third meeting, when she had him drawing with fucking crayons that snapped in his hand way too easily.  But it’s been over a year since he started seeing her, and even though he still has his bad days, his bad days now would’ve been his best days before.

“So, you think you’re finally ready to go through Rebecca’s things?” Marlene asks, looking at him with a peaceful expression.

“I don’t think so, I am,” he says firmly, feeling a rush of triumph as a smile spreads across her lips.  “It’s time, you know?”

She nods in understanding, humming.  “Do you have someone going with you?”

Usually, Sam would go with him for things like this, and just in general.  They were attached at the hip, especially after the whole Steve leaving thing.

Yeah, they were both hit pretty hard with that.

“Yes, but I…”  He sighs, rubbing his hands on his jeans.  “I think this is something I need to do alone.  At least, the going through her stuff part…  But he is going with me to move the stuff to the Tower.”

“Good, good,” she says, her brows slightly furrowed.  “And how are you feeling today about Steve leaving?”

Bucky lets out a huff of air, taking a moment to think about it.  “To be completely honest with you…  I’m kind of over it today.  I have other things to do and yeah, I would’ve liked him to be here for it, but that’s not how it is.  And him leaving is more about him than it is about me.”  He shrugs, his lips pressed into a thin line.  “Just because he decided to go back doesn’t mean he wanted to leave me.”

Marlene sets her clipboard to the side, a warm smile on her face.  “Well, Bucky, I think we’ll end today on that thought.”  She stands up, offering her hand for him to shake as she does everyday.  “You’ve done well today.  You should be proud of yourself.”

He leaves with a wave and a “See you next week!” as he always does.

He hadn’t known about the storage unit full of his sister’s stuff until about eight months ago, when he asked Maria Hill if there was anything left of hers.  He knew that SHIELD had been the ones to take control of her assets when she had no children, since she was the sister of a Howling Commando and the best friend of Captain America.

Becca had died in December of 2013.  He’d missed her by less than six months.

It was heartbreaking when he first found out, and still is, if he was being honest.  But at least he has her stuff to go through, even though he has no idea what all is going to be in the storage unit.  Stevie hadn’t had anything other than what the Smithsonian had snatched up.

The car ride to the storage facility is quiet, Sam at the wheel.  Bucky still hasn’t gotten his license, since he doesn’t see a point.  Why should he when there’s the subway and Uber and even just good old fashioned walking?  “You’ve gotta save the Earth, Sam,” he says when he really feels like irritating the other man.

“You sure you’re ready for this, man?” Sam asks as they stand in front of storage unit 429.

“Yeah,” Buck says, punching in the key code and lifting up the door.  “Yeah, I’m ready.”  He flips the light switch on the wall, and is shocked by just how much stuff there is.  There’s boxes upon boxes upon boxes.

Sam’s hands go to his hips as he looks at it, whistling.  “Alright.  Let’s get it loaded.”

It takes several hours and three trips to get everything from the storage unit to the Tower, and by the end of it, the both of them just collapse on the couch with a couple of beers and a pizza to share between them.

But Saturday morning comes bright and early, and even though it’s his only day out of the week where he has absolutely nothing to do, Bucky knows he has to start going through her things.

The first four boxes are just clothes.  Clothes upon clothes upon clothes.  He finds a baby blue dress that she used to wear for church, starched to perfection, and he holds it to his chest for a long time.  He cries then.

And he knows that the fact that she’s hoarded so many clothes has a lot to do from growing up during the Depression.  He still finds himself falling into old habits of checking the price of food, despite the fact that he never has to worry about money again with his Avengers salary and the backpay from being a POW.

He finds his parents’ wedding rings, and the string of pearls his ma wore for special occasions.

And then he finds an old shoe box, and when he opens it up, he finds letters.  Letters upon letters upon letters.  They’re in bundles, tied together with fraying ribbon.  The paper is yellowed and soft from being folded and unfolded so many times, and he can see the looping black letters that covered the pages.

He takes the ones that look the oldest and unties them, he takes the top one from the stack and sets the rest to the side, before carefully unfolding it.

“Ruthie,” he says quietly as he reads the name at the bottom, not even bothering to read it yet.  “Ruthie…”  His eyes pop open as he suddenly remembers, remembers receiving letters everyday from a girl in the Bronx.  They were never romantic, but it was nice being able to write to someone and not having to hide how bad it was, like he had to with his ma and Becca.  She even sent her picture once, so he could know who he was writing to.  “Ruthie!”

He spends the rest of the day reading the letters, and passes out sometime around four in the morning with his face on a letter.  He takes the letters with him to his family’s graves the next day, reading to them after he replaces the flowers.

It takes him two more days to finish reading all the letters, in between breaks while training and staying up until he absolutely can’t.

He cries a lot while he reads it.  He’s not afraid to admit that.  But it’s nice to remember that he had a friend to listen to him during one of the worst times of his life.

Bucky’s almost afraid to look her up, to find out if she was still alive, and if he could go see her, to thank her.  They wrote back and forth until the day he fell off the train, and he knows that had to be pretty jarring for her.

But then Sam finds out about the letters—it would be hard for him not to, considering that he was walking around with his nose in the letters for days—and it’s all over.

Turns out, she’s alive.  She’s alive, and she’s still in Queens.

He goes the next Saturday, taking his bike all the way to the other borough.  He looks a little intimidating and extremely different from how he looked back then, but he hopes she recognizes him.  He really, really hopes she recognizes him, because otherwise this’ll be real awkward.

He stands in front of the door for a long time, taking his hands in and out of his pockets about eight times before he finally reaches up and knocks.

And then the door opens, and there’s Ruthie.

Well, not Ruthie, though at first glance, you’re the perfect picture of her.  You’ve got her hair and her eyes, and the curve of her lips.  But the nose is different.

“Can I help you?” You ask, raising your eyebrows at him.  You’re wiping your hand on a hand towel, peering at him like you recognize him from somewhere but you don’t know where.

“Hi, uh,” he says slowly.  His throat is suddenly so dry that he can barely talk.  “I’m Bucky.  Bucky Barnes.  I was pen pals with—”

He’s cut off by Ruthie herself appearing in the doorway.  She’s much older—she is ninety-nine, after all—but it’s definitely her.  “Did you say Bucky Barnes?”  The little old lady’s eyes widened as she saw him, her hand over her heart.  “Oh, my stars, it’s really you.  I heard about what happened to you, and I…”  She shakes her head, clicking her tongue.  “Why, it almost gave me a heart attack, you know.”

“Little Ruthie Pratt from Queens,” he says, reaching in his pocket and holding up the letters.  “I found these while, uh, going through my sister’s stuff.”

“I still have mine!” Ruthie says, pulling him inside.

It’s nice and homey and everything that Bucky had thought it would be.  The front foyer is covered in photos, and there’s quite a few of you.  You’re clearly one of Ruthie’s pride and joys, if the sheer amount of them has anything to do about it.

“I used to read these to my grandbaby here,” Ruthie says as she comes back with an old oak jewelry box in hand.  “Anytime she stayed the night—her parents worked a lot when she was growing up—she always asked me to read her one of my ‘Bucky letters.’”

“Grandmama,” you say, cheeks flushing as you avoid his eyes.

“It was so cute!  She used to recite them word for word along with me!” Ruthie teases as they go to the living room.

It’s quaint, with soft pastel colors dominating the room.  He sits on a floral sofa that’s got a circle with dark hair on it, the marking of a furry friend’s favorite spot.  He watches as you move to the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of what looks like tea and a few glasses.

You sit beside her with the ease of knowing that you belong here, pouring yourself a glass.  “Grandmama, do you want some tea?”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes as she opens the box and looks for the oldest one.  “You keep that monstrosity away from me,” she says.  Seemingly remembering Bucky’s presence, she says, “My daughter’s husband is from Louisiana.  Ridiculous man got both her and my grandbaby addicted to that absolute sludge.”

The secret smile you give him as the two of you listen to her tirade about sweet tea makes him feel at ease, and sets the tone for the rest of the afternoon.

Things go on as normal, or as normal as they can.

And Marlene happens to think that all of this is absolutely fantastic for him.  She loves that he’s now spending time with Ruthie and you, reconnecting with his past while understanding that he doesn’t have to be the person he was in the letters.

He’s different.  He’s not the Bucky that Ruthie knew back then.

It’s an unusually warm day in November four months later when he takes you out for a coffee, just the two of you.  And it isn’t a date—really, it isn’t—but he finds himself wanting it to be about halfway through his second coffee.

And that’s why he starts talking about dating to Marlene, who had, quite frankly, been waiting for him to realize his feelings for a while.

“I think I’m in love with her,” he says as he storms into his therapy session, eyes wild and hair a disarray.  He’s clearly been worrying real hard about it.

Marlene looks up at him, peering over the silver rim of her glasses.  “Oh, really?” She says nonchalantly, as though she doesn’t have you in her notes about him.  “And why is that?”

Bucky can’t help the frown on his face as he realizes that she didn’t even ask who he was talking about, because she knew.  “I…  I don’t know,” he says, slumping into his usual chair.  “She makes me happy.  Happier than I’ve ever been.  And she always makes me laugh, even at the most inappropriate of times.”  His gaze softens the more he thinks about you.  “And she isn’t scared of me.  She doesn’t judge me.  She’s read about everything I did in the war, even before HYDRA, and she doesn’t care.”  His hands are sweating as he rubs them together.  “Actually, it’s not that she doesn’t care—she does care—but she cares because she… she loves me.”

You love him.  And sure, he knows that.  You’ve said that you love him multiple times, even if you only mean it as a friend way.

But the thought that he has someone who loves him that doesn’t have to is… groundbreaking.

“She loves me, and she wants me to be okay,” he says, looking up at Marlene then.

His therapist has a pleased look in her eyes, even if she won’t let it show with a smile.  “I think she’s good for you,” she says simply, her pen held loosely in her hand.  “Are you seeing her again soon?”

“I’m seeing her tomorrow night,” he says, his heart growing light.  “We’re grabbing a few drinks to celebrate her finally graduating from cosmetology school.”

It’s a big deal for you, completely something.  You’re smart, there’s no denying that, but when it comes to schooling…  You’d done well in high school, but college proved to be the bane of your existence.

You’d dropped out in the middle of your junior year, and that had been it.  You’d moved to Queens to live with Ruthie after, working various low level jobs and trying to find something that fit.

But you’d fit in at cosmetology school.  Hell, you excelled.  And you enjoyed it!  You enjoyed waking up in the morning and going to your classes!

You cried when you got your certificate, and it was now framed in Ruthie’s house until you start your first salon job in two weeks.

“Are you going to tell her about your feelings?” Marlene asks curiously.

Now that makes him pause.

“... Should I?” Bucky asks, feeling a wave of anxiety coming over him.  “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?  And she sees me as just a friend?”

“If she’s really your friend, she won’t abandon you just because you tell her you have romantic feelings for her.”

“You sure about that?”

Marlene fixes him with a look, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

He runs his tongue over his teeth.  “Fine.  You’re sure,” he says, slumping a little in his chair.  “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

She snorts, making a note on her pad.  “I never said it was going to be easy, Bucky.  Doesn’t mean it can’t be done.”

The next night, he spends an hour and a half trying to decide what to wear.  “It shouldn’t be this hard,” he grumbles as he switches shirts for the forty-ninth time.  “It’s just drinks.”

Sam, however, is having a great time watching his new best friend freak out over seeing a girl for the first time.  “I mean, she already agreed to going out with your ugly mug, man.  It’s not gonna matter what you wear.”

And in some way, that helps.  A little.

But he does have to threaten Sam with bodily harm if he spies on his date that’s not really a date.

He almost boxes him the ear when he insists for the fourth time that it’s a date.

He shows up at your door with a bouquet of flowers from Sal’s bodega, the buttons of his dark blue henley left open, exposing a smattering of chest hair.

When you open the door, the air is knocked from his lungs.  You look absolutely radiant.  The light from the sinking sun is giving you a halo-like glow, and he’s sure, not for the first time, that you’re an actual angel.

“Hi,” you say, a flush on your cheeks as you see the flowers.  “Are those…  Are those for me?”

He nods dumbly, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat.  “Y-Yes,” he says, pushing them into your arms.  “As a congrats.  For, you know, graduating.  And stuff.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take them, handing them to Ruthie.

She’s standing just inside the door, a giddy look on her face as she holds the flowers, watching you take the motorcycle helmet from his hands.  “Have her back by twelve!”

“Grandmama!”

“Fine!  Twelve-thirty!”

You’re clearly embarrassed by her antics as he helps you on behind him, guiding your arms around his waist.

“You ready?” He asks, his voice breathy.

A shiver runs down your spine as you nod, wrapping your arms tighter around him as he starts the bike, taking off.

“She doesn’t actually mean that,” you say as he leads you into the tiny, out of the way bar.  You’re fixing your hair, trying your best to appear presentable.  “I’m grown, you know.  I don’t…  I don’t have a curfew.”

A slow smile spreads over his lips as he listens to you ramble.  “I know,” he says finally, figuring he should put you out of your misery.  “Ruthie does like to tease those she loves.”

The bar is quaint, clearly a local place that tourists haven’t invaded.  He leads you to a high table, calling out your order to the lone bartender.

“So, I—”

“I like you,” Bucky says, unintentionally cutting you off with a wince.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I really, really like you, and I really, really want this to be a date, but if you don’t feel the same way then I completely understand and we can just forget that I ever said anything and everything can just go back to normal and that might be the best thing because, quite frankly, I haven’t dated since the forties and I have no idea how dating is supposed to work nowadays, but I’d really like to try it with you but only if you—”

His rambling is cut off as you place your hand on his, intertwining your fingers.  “Okay,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing ever.  “It’s a date.”

He stares at you for an embarrassingly long time, his mouth dry.  “Uh…  What?” He says quietly.  His heart is pounding at an unnaturally fast pace, and he honestly thinks he might be on the verge of a heart attack.

“I like you, too,” you say, smiling at the bartender as he brings you over your drinks.  You look so beautiful, your eyes the brightest thing in the dim lighting of the bar.  “So this is a date.”

“Okay,” he breathes out, a wave of relief washing over him.  “It’s a date.”

He’s a little starstruck as you continue on with what you were going to say before, a pink blush dusting his cheeks.  Your hand stays in his for the rest of the night, occasionally giving a little squeeze as though you’re reminding him that you’re still there and you’re not going to disappear.

And it feels good.

And okay, Marlene may have been right.

And yeah, Fridays might be good.  But as he sits there with you until the late hours of the night, he’s sure: Saturdays are his new favorite day.  Because Saturdays brought him a new beginning when he wasn’t expecting it.

[mcu-fan-fics-blog]

The Helping Hand

This is a Repost from my Ao3 I wanted to bring it to Tumblr. I hope you like it Its currently 5 chapters I will be uploading the rest throughout the rest of the week.

Word Count: 3300 approx

Summary: Y/N Krast Illegitimate Daughter of Tony Stark. Product of an unwanted teen pregnancy. What would Howard Stark be capable of doing to assure his sons future? What will happen when Tony meets our Beautiful, young, genius, rich philanthropist.

Tw: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug use, Drug addiction, Teen Pregnancy. (If there are any I missed please tell me.)

Ch.4

Chapter 5: Age of Ultron pt.2

Ch.6

"Y/N you can't keep coming in and not talking." Your therapist tells you quite frustrated. "I'm paying you aren't I, I'll do what I please with the time I pay for." You say finally making eye contact with her. She only sighs. "Y/N I find that often people ask for help in the most obvious yet concealed manner."

You turn away, she continues. "You said it yourself you're paying me… If you don't want me to ask these questions, walk out and stop paying me." You look back "I can't… because I feel like I might just explode at any point." She nods encouraging you to continue. 

"Recently I went through something that combined with all the other shit i've gone through… I can't cope. I don't know how." You wipe your eyes and continue. "I've never been stable, but i've always been okay with that. I've never lost anyone in a traumatic way." Your therapist lifts their head. "Who have you lost?"

"I never knew my parents so I didn't really lose them. I knew that Howard was going to pass and I got closure." She jumps in when she realizes you stopped talking. "And what makes this loss different?" You look at her with a tear rolling down your cheek. "The fact that it was my fault."

Three Weeks Ago 

Wanda speaks first "I read your mind and all I saw was destruction." He promptly asked her to check again. He then goes on to have some sort of existential crisis not knowing what he actually is. I didn't really start to listen until Clint mentioned where Nat was… Sokovia. You immediately got pale once you heard what Ultron was planning to do with Sokovia. "I need to make a call" you say mostly to yourself but Pietro heard you. 

No one noticed you stepped out of the room but him. "Who do you think you're calling?" You jump as he sped in front of you. "I need to warn my family they need to get out." Pietro only laughs "Forgive me but you don't seem like one to have family much less in Sokovia of all places. Why don't you just tell me the truth"

"Im aware you might not know me but I'm Y/N Krast… I run the practice I need to warn my friends.  They'll spread the word and start an evac." He sighs. "You need to tell the rest of the guys. It might not be the best move." You nod and walk back into the room there all in. Tony notices you and walks straight to you fearing the Maximoff kid did something to you. 

"Did he do anything kiddo because if he did I swear to…" you cut him off. "Im fine but I need to ask you something." He nods telling you to proceed. "Can I warn my friends back in Sokovia? They can help get the people out of there." Tony looks at you and nods. "I guess it can't hurt to take some precautions. Do it." You smile and walk out the room Dialing David immediately. 

"Y/N are you okay, it's like three in the morning." You're relieved to hear his voice. "Listen to me David, you need to get as many people as you can out of Sokovia. The people are in danger." Davud sighs "Are you having another melt down remember breathe. In and out…" 

"David this is not a game, you have to get as many people as you can out now… Tell Viv too she needs to get her family out. Do as I say David please the people will listen to you." David starts talking again, the panic rising in his voice. "Y/N what do you know… more importantly how do you know?" You raise your voice. "FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE DON'T QUESTION ME! Just do it." 

David, shocked by your reaction shifts his tone. "I'll do my best. I need to go." He hangs up not even giving you a chance to say goodbye. (This is what you'll end up regretting later.) 

"You truly care for these people… your family or friends." You look up and see the last person you expected. The witch is standing there in the doorway. "Yes, I do care, Wanda because believe it or not we're not all bad people." The comment came out more spiteful than you expected wincing at your own words. You're about to apologize when she beats you to it. "I'm sorry about earlier." She looks down picking at her hands. 

You sit down on the steps facing a window and signal for her to sit as well. She joins you reluctantly. "I'm not going to bite." You say. Drawing out a small laugh that made your heart flutter. "Did you see inside my head?" You ask. Her head tilts at your question, but ultimately she shakes her head. "Yeah it happens sometimes I can't control it." You nod. "For the record I dont think youre a bitch. Well I did in the moment…" she cuts you off laughing. "I believe the words you used were 'Crazy Bitch'." You chuckle. 

"We should get going…" You stand, helping her up and go to the team. “I contacted my friend David, and I texted my… other friend Viv. They’ve started evacuating people as we speak.” Tony nods and gives you an understanding look. “Now what's our plan to save Nat.” Steve goes on to explain his plan which consists of getting as many people as we could out then fighting Ultron. Once you arrived in Sokovia the streets were desolate. Not a soul in sight.

Pietro gazes in astonishment. “Your friends are good.” You nod relieved seeing that David and Viv did what you asked. “Well check if there are any people left behind…” Wanda cuts in. You weren't given the time to check for any last bystanders when she city starts shaking, and there are bots everywhere. You realize that Sokovia is flying. Tony then informs you of Ultrons plans. You all split up fighting the bots and Bruce made his way to Nat. Not long after Hulk and Natasha had made their way to the now floating Sokovia. Long story short the bad guy was defeated, and all was right in the world again.

Present 

“Alright Doc, have you been following this I know first hand it can be a little complicated.” She nods as you continue. “Well my friends, not the Avengers. Umm… their names were David, and Vivian.” She notices your struggle to continue but you power through the tears building in your eyes. “You see, saving the world came at a price, a price that I was willing to pay, but not like this. I got to the compound, and dialled David and what did I find?” She tells you to continue. “Five… Five missed calls from David telling me that he was going to stay behind in the Practice with Viv.” Tears are now streaming down your cheeks. “Now I imagine that you know what happened to Sokovia ‘Boom’.” You signal with our hands telling her that it was all gone.

Suddenly a timer goes off and your walls are up again. “Y/N you can continue if you want to, I don't…” You interrupt her standing up and heading to the door. “Actually I think that, that was enough for today.” You say walking out. It was confirmed both David and Viv dead… and it was all because of you. After this you distanced yourself. Declining Maria Hills offer to become an Avenger, and also walking away from the Stark Industries collaboration. Unfortunately falling down a deeper hole than you'd ever been in with our addiction. When walking out of the office building your shrink is in when you bump into someone.... 

“Long time no see Y/N!” You recognize the voice immediately. “I saw you following me last week, as a matter of fact i've spotted you multiple times Natasha.” She laughs, and you roll your eyes. “Now why are you mad Y/N what did you think would happen? You ghosted everyone after Sokovia, why are you angry?” You sigh and start walking away but she stops you. “Because you were right Natasha there was a cost to this and it's taking quite the toll.” Natasha lets go of your arm confused “What are you talking about everything came out great.” you laugh bitterly “For almost everyone else oh and feel free to tell Pepper than I'm not taking her calls no matter how hard she insists.”

“Does this have anything to do with the drugs Y/N because if it does I know some people that can help you.” The way she says it almost makes you believe that she cares, but at the end of the day you know she had orders. You look at her incredulously walking away again, this time she doesnt stop you.  

Natashas POV

“Well if you're not going to tell me guess i'm going to have to find out the hard way.” You walk into the building Y/N just came out of and make your way to the Shrink's office. You not so nicely asked for Y/N’s file. As youre reading the file you remember her words bitter and angry “For almost everyone…” Now it makes sense her friends died and no one was there for her. Fuck. You pick up the phone and dial Pepper. “I know what's going on. Call a meeting in the compound and I'll get there in thirty minutes.”  

You meet up with everyone at the compound. You share the files with the team and everyone is shocked talking with each other until you notice Wanda. She doesn't look surprised. You pull her aside. "Why are you being quiet? What do you know about Y/N." She sighs "It was an accident alright when we came back I looked into her head. She looked so happy I was curious… When I looked she was grieving, tearing herself apart." 

You look at her. "And you said nothing you let us believe that she just didn't care." She laughs. "She doesn't! She doesn't want your help, she made that quite clear already. The one person she thought that she could count on was some guy named Logan." You querk your head, was she jealous, are you jealous. You shake your head. "What else did you see?" Your ask casually. Testing the waters you didn't want to expose Y/N but you have to know what she knew. 

"Was there something else I was supposed to see?" You shake your head no, and make your way back to the team. There's fighting over who should talk to her. "I think Tony should go…" Steve says like it's nothing. You almost laugh. Tony gives you a dirty look. "I think pepper should go." You say matter of factly. She asks you to elaborate. "She cares for you the most, but she is angry not at you in general." She nods and everyone else agrees for lack of a better idea. 

Peppers Pov 

You walk out of the compound with Tony by your side. "You can come if you want to." Your say to break the silence. He shakes his head. "When are you going to tell her that you're her father." He only sighs "I can't tell her… I can't ruin Howard for her because she loved him." You quickly counter "It's going to be worse the longer you wait." You continue "The only reason I didn't push before was because you weren't sure but now you are Tony she's your daughter." 

"That's exactly why I can't tell her now she's dealing with a lot. It's not a good time." You nod "Fine." Is all you can say. You walk into Krast industries expecting to be greeted by a busy work floor but are surprised when you see the exact opposite. You do see a familiar face though commandeering the floor. Logan. "Hey logan how are you? I'm hoping I could talk to Y/N." Logan stops in his tracks. 

"What do you mean if i've seen her? I thought she was with you guys." He says the panic growing in his voice. "Umm… no she's not been with us for a couple of weeks now. Are you sure you haven't seen her and what's going on here." 

Logans Pov 

Of course you knew where she was, but you weren't about to tell them. "Yeah no I've talked to her on the phone I just figured she was with your guys." Pepper is still confused about what is happening. "She asked me to get ready for major remodel… all our employees will work from home for the time being." She nods. "Do you know where I could find her? I really need to talk to her." Well that's not going to happen now. Seen as she's currently passed out on your couch. 

"She might be at home… She does this sometimes. She runs, but i'll give you her address if you really want to talk to her."

Your Pov 

After running into Natasha you went to a bar. A complete rookie move. You knew better, but at the same time you didn't care you've been loading up taking a larger doses and mixing with alcohol. You called Logan to come pick you up and he was there like always. "I can't lose you Logan, I wouldn't survive it. Why does everyone I love die?" He holds his tongue you can tell. "Tell me what you're thinking it's not good to hold your emotions in…" He laughs bitterly. "You think I'd survive losing you Y/N this feeling goes both ways. You're blind to my pain Y/N seeing you like this hurts me it shakes me to my core."

"I'm not blind to your pain… I know you better than I know myself. I'm going to therapy, and before you say it i'm actually talking this time. I'm getting help." He nods "Every step of the way that includes relapsing. Y/N just don't make me lose you." You nod tears building in your eyes. "I won't." 

When you wake up you're in Logan's apartment it's nice. Your head is pounding. You decide to go home… in hindsight that was a horrible idea. You have no idea where you are and also have no idea where you're going.  "Fuck… taxi, TAXI." 

They dont fucking stop you dont blame them you look like trash, hell you feel like it too. You make it to a coffee shop and just sit there. Waiting for what you don't know at least not until the owner comes around. "I don't want to have to kick you out but it's nearing closing time, want me go call a cab." 

You laugh "See id say yes and please but I don't remember where I live." He nods feeling bad for you. "Having a bad day, want to talk about it?" You sigh “I would, but sadly my opening up to complete strangers quota is full for the day.” They laugh handing you some coffee. “It 'll help you sober up, So what is it? Alcohol, meth, let me guess pills.” You widen your eyes. “Don't worry, I'm not judging I meet people of all walks of life.” You nod. “Do you mind if I make a call my friend is probably worried sick.” He hands you his phone and you dial Logan (the only number you know by heart.) “Y/N where are you ive been worried sick. Why did you leave?” 

“I went out for coffee you know to sober up faster I needed air.” He sighs “Can you make your way back or do you want me to pick you up?” You turn from the barista person in front of you. “Um I want to go home but I can't for the life of me remember my address.”  David gives you your address and calls you a cab. You thank him and end the call. “So it looks like I'm heading home in a minute the taxi won't take long.” He smiles reaching his hand out to take their phone back. “I’ll see you around probably…” You nod "probably not.” You say hesitantly, and he laughs. You Are interrupted by the taxi honking its horn. “I hope to see you around by the way. I'm Zack Gordon.” your smile drops immediately. 

You compose yourself before he notices your change in attitude. You plaster on a fake smile and make your way out turning one last time. “We’ll see each other around Zack.” He smiles. The whole cab ride was silent, you're contemplating fate. What are the fucking odds of all the cafe’s you could have walked into you walked into his. When you least expect it you’re in front of your house. You walk in and immediately notice something off. You walk into your living room only to see someone sitting in the dark. You know who it is immediately. “Always with the theatrics, it's starting to get old. Would you like something to drink.” She sighs “Y/N I want to talk.”  You sit clapping your hands causing the lights in the house to turn on.

“Right Pepper talk, i'm listening” Her eyes widen, showing her confusion. “Look, I'm not angry with our team or you, but I just have some crap to deal with… Alone.” Pepper looks down. “You don't have to go through this alone, you have us now.” Your eyes bolt to hers. “And how exactly do you know what i'm going through… You know what I don't need to know because it doesn't matter.” you sigh “I’ve gone through life alone. I dealt with the punches life has thrown my way by myself. This won't be the exception.” You see Peppers complexion turn red, she's angry. “Why can't you stop making yourself a martyr, talk about dealing with children? You and Tony are the only ones who can make me this irritated.”

“Because I'm broken Pepper and before Natasha or Wanda decide to tell you I'm an addict. Everything is wrong right now so I need to take a step away, I need to get clean.” Peppers eyes soften moving to sit next to you. “You know i'm not leaving your side right?” Your eyes begin to water. “I relapsed… it's bad Pepper. I've never fallen this hard and I'm scared.” She hugs you. “I’ve never had this… people who really care it was just Logan and I.  As of recently it was David, Viv, and I. Now I lost them and I can't. I can't sleep, I can't breathe, and I'm so tired Pepper I don't know how much more of this I can take.” 

“Okay come on Y/N let's get you to your room.” You and Pepper stand on your way up the stairs and you start to stumble. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this. I am very sorry I drank coffee to sober up but it didn't work.” She nods “It’s okay we’ll talk about it tomorrow.” You both finally make it to your room and as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall asleep.

When you wake up you are surprised by your surroundings you didn't quite remember how you got here. You sit up and hear chattering downstairs. You go down stairs, the memories of last night making their way to you now. THE AVENGERS HAVING BREAKFAST IN YOUR KITCHEN. You watch as thor brakes your plates making you flinch. “As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm I dont think Y/N would appreciate us breaking her plates.” you clear your throat and as you do everyone goes quiet. “Good Morning everyone.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Religious Trauma Syndrome: How Some Organized Religion Leads to Mental Health Problems

By Valerie Tarico

Marlene Winell interviewed March 25, 2013

At age sixteen I began what would be a four year struggle with bulimia. When the symptoms started, I turned in desperation to adults who knew more than I did about how to stop shameful behavior—my Bible study leader and a visiting youth minister.  “If you ask anything in faith, believing,” they said. “It will be done.” I knew they were quoting [3] the Word of God. We prayed together, and I went home confident that God had heard my prayers. But my horrible compulsions didn’t go away. By the fall of my sophomore year in college, I was desperate and depressed enough that I made a suicide attempt. The problem wasn’t just the bulimia. I was convinced by then that I was a complete spiritual failure. My college counseling department had offered to get me real help (which they later did). But to my mind, at that point, such help couldn’t fix the core problem: I was a failure in the eyes of God. It would be years before I understood that my inability to heal bulimia through the mechanisms offered by biblical Christianity was not a function of my own spiritual deficiency but deficiencies in Evangelical religion itself.  

Dr. Marlene Winell is a human development consultant in the San Francisco Area. She is also the daughter of Pentecostal missionaries. This combination has given her work an unusual focus. For the past twenty years she has counseled men and women in recovery from various forms of fundamentalist religion including the Assemblies of God denomination in which she was raised. Winell is the author of Leaving the Fold – A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving their Religion [4], written during her years of private practice in psychology. Over the years, Winell has provided assistance to clients whose religious experiences were even more damaging than mine. Some of them are people whose psychological symptoms weren’t just exacerbated by their religion, but actually caused by it.  

Two years ago, Winell made waves by formally labeling what she calls “Religious Trauma Syndrome” (RTS) and beginning to write and speak on the subject for professional audiences. When the British Association of Behavioral and Cognitive Psychologists published a series of articles on the topic, members of a Christian counseling association protested what they called excessive attention to a “relatively niche topic.” One commenter said, “A religion, faith or book cannot be abuse but the people interpreting can make anything abusive.”

Is toxic religion simply misinterpretation? What is religious trauma? Why does Winell believe religious trauma merits its own diagnostic label?

Let’s start this interview with the basics. What exactly is religious trauma syndrome?

Winell: Religious trauma syndrome (RTS) is a set of symptoms and characteristics that tend to go together and which are related to harmful experiences with religion. They are the result of two things: immersion in a controlling religion and the secondary impact of leaving a religious group. The RTS label provides a name and description that affected people often recognize immediately. Many other people are surprised by the idea of RTS, because in our culture it is generally assumed that religion is benign or good for you. Just like telling kids about Santa Claus and letting them work out their beliefs later, people see no harm in teaching religion to children.

But in reality, religious teachings and practices sometimes cause serious mental health damage. The public is somewhat familiar with sexual and physical abuse in a religious context. As Journalist Janet Heimlich has documented in, Breaking Their Will, Bible-based religious groups that emphasize patriarchal authority in family structure and use harsh parenting methods can be destructive.

But the problem isn’t just physical and sexual abuse. Emotional and mental treatment in authoritarian religious groups also can be damaging because of 1) toxic teachings like eternal damnation or original sin 2) religious practices or mindset, such as punishment, black and white thinking, or sexual guilt, and 3) neglect that prevents a person from having the information or opportunities to develop normally.

Can you give me an example of RTS from your consulting practice?

Winell: I can give you many. One of the symptom clusters is around fear and anxiety. People indoctrinated into fundamentalist Christianity as small children sometimes have memories of being terrified by images of hell and apocalypse before their brains could begin to make sense of such ideas. Some survivors, who I prefer to call “reclaimers,” [8] have flashbacks, panic attacks, or nightmares in adulthood even when they intellectually no longer believe the theology. One client of mine, who during the day functioned well as a professional, struggled with intense fear many nights. She said,

“I was afraid I was going to hell. I was afraid I was doing something really wrong. I was completely out of control. I sometimes would wake up in the night and start screaming, thrashing my arms, trying to rid myself of what I was feeling. I’d walk around the house trying to think and calm myself down, in the middle of the night, trying to do some self-talk, but I felt like it was just something that – the fear and anxiety was taking over my life.” Or consider this comment, which refers to a film [9] used by evangelicals to warn about the horrors of the “end times” for nonbelievers.

“I was taken to see the film “A Thief In The Night”. WOW.  I am in shock to learn that many other people suffered the same traumas I lived with because of this film. A few days or weeks after the film viewing, I came into the house and mom wasn’t there. I stood there screaming in terror. When I stopped screaming, I began making my plan: Who my Christian neighbors were, who’s house to break into to get money and food. I was 12 years old and was preparing for Armageddon alone.”

In addition to anxiety, RTS can include depression, cognitive difficulties, and problems with social functioning. In fundamentalist Christianity, the individual is considered depraved and in need of salvation. A core message is “You are bad and wrong and deserve to die.” (The wages of sin is death [10].) This gets taught to millions of children through organizations like Child Evangelism Fellowship [11] and there is a group organized [12]  to oppose their incursion into public schools.  I’ve had clients who remember being distraught when given a vivid bloody image of Jesus paying the ultimate price for their sins. Decades later they sit telling me that they can’t manage to find any self-worth.

“After twenty-seven years of trying to live a perfect life, I failed. . . I was ashamed of myself all day long. My mind battling with itself with no relief. . . I always believed everything that I was taught but I thought that I was not approved by God. I thought that basically I, too, would die at Armageddon.

“I’ve spent literally years injuring myself, cutting and burning my arms, taking overdoses and starving myself, to punish myself so that God doesn’t have to punish me. It’s taken me years to feel deserving of anything good.”

Born-again Christianity and devout Catholicism [13] tell people they are weak and dependent, calling on phrases like “lean not unto your own understanding [14]” or “trust and obey [11].” People who internalize these messages can suffer from learned helplessness. I’ll give you an example from a client who had little decision-making ability after living his entire life devoted to following the “will of God.” The words here don’t convey the depth of his despair.

“I have an awful time making decisions in general. Like I can’t, you know, wake up in the morning, “What am I going to do today?” Like I don’t even know where to start. You know all the things I thought I might be doing are gone and I’m not sure I should even try to have a career; essentially I babysit my four-year-old all day.”

Authoritarian religious groups are subcultures where conformity is required in order to belong. Thus if you dare to leave the religion, you risk losing your entire support system as well.

“I lost all my friends. I lost my close ties to family. Now I’m losing my country. I’ve lost so much because of this malignant religion and I am angry and sad to my very core. . . I have tried hard to make new friends, but I have failed miserably. . . I am very lonely.”

Leaving a religion, after total immersion, can cause a complete upheaval of a person’s construction of reality, including the self, other people, life, and the future. People unfamiliar with this situation, including therapists, have trouble appreciating the sheer terror it can create.

“My form of religion was very strongly entrenched and anchored deeply in my heart. It is hard to describe how fully my religion informed, infused, and influenced my entire worldview. My first steps out of fundamentalism were profoundly frightening and I had frequent thoughts of suicide. Now I’m way past that but I still haven’t quite found “my place in the universe.”

Even for a person who was not so entrenched, leaving one’s religion can be a stressful and significant transition.

Many people seem to walk away from their religion easily, without really looking back. What is different about the clientele you work with?

Winell: Religious groups that are highly controlling, teach fear about the world, and keep members sheltered and ill-equipped to function in society are harder to leave easily. The difficulty seems to be greater if the person was born and raised in the religion rather than joining as an adult convert. This is because they have no frame of reference – no other “self” or way of “being in the world.” A common personality type is a person who is deeply emotional and thoughtful and who tends to throw themselves wholeheartedly into their endeavors. “True believers” who then lose their faith feel more anger and depression and grief than those who simply went to church on Sunday.

Aren’t these just people who would be depressed, anxious, or obsessive anyways?

Winell: Not at all. If my observation is correct, these are people who are intense and involved and caring. They hang on to the religion longer than those who simply “walk away” because they try to make it work even when they have doubts. Sometimes this is out of fear, but often it is out of devotion. These are people for whom ethics, integrity and compassion matter a great deal. I find that when they get better and rebuild their lives, they are wonderfully creative and energetic about new things.

In your mind, how is RTS different from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

Winell: RTS is a specific set of symptoms and characteristics that are connected with harmful religious experience, not just any trauma. This is crucial to understanding the condition and any kind of self-help or treatment. (More details about this can be found on my Journey Free [15] website and discussed in my talk [16] at the Texas Freethought Convention.)

Another difference is the social context, which is extremely different from other traumas or forms of abuse. When someone is recovering from domestic abuse, for example, other people understand and support the need to leave and recover. They don’t question it as a matter of interpretation, and they don’t send the person back for more. But this is exactly what happens to many former believers who seek counseling. If a provider doesn’t understand the source of the symptoms, he or she may send a client for pastoral counseling, or to AA, or even to another church. One reclaimer expressed her frustration this way:

“Include physically-abusive parents who quote “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as literally as you can imagine and you have one fucked-up soul: an unloved, rejected, traumatized toddler in the body of an adult. I’m simply a broken spirit in an empty shell. But wait...That’s not enough!? There’s also the expectation by everyone in society that we victims should celebrate this with our perpetrators every Christmas and Easter!!”

Just like disorders such as autism or bulimia, giving RTS a real name has important advantages. People who are suffering find that having a label for their experience helps them feel less alone and guilty. Some have written to me to express their relief:

“There’s actually a name for it! I was brainwashed from birth and wasted 25 years of my life serving Him! I’ve since been out of my religion for several years now, but I cannot shake the haunting fear of hell and feel absolutely doomed. I’m now socially inept, unemployable, and the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”

Labeling RTS encourages professionals to study it more carefully, develop treatments, and offer training. Hopefully, we can even work on prevention.

What do you see as the difference between religion that causes trauma and religion that doesn’t?

Winell: Religion causes trauma when it is highly controlling and prevents people from thinking for themselves and trusting their own feelings. Groups that demand obedience and conformity produce fear, not love and growth. With constant judgment of self and others, people become alienated from themselves, each other, and the world. Religion in its worst forms causes separation.

Conversely, groups that connect people and promote self-knowledge and personal growth can be said to be healthy. The book, Healthy Religion [17], describes these traits. Such groups put high value on respecting differences, and members feel empowered as individuals.  They provide social support, a place for events and rites of passage, exchange of ideas, inspiration, opportunities for service, and connection to social causes. They encourage spiritual practices that promote health like meditation or principles for living like the golden rule. More and more, non-theists are asking [18] how they can create similar spiritual communities without the supernaturalism. An atheist congregation [19] in London launched this year and has received over 200 inquiries from people wanting to replicate their model.

Some people say that terms like “recovery from religion” and “religious trauma syndrome” are just atheist attempts to pathologize religious belief.

Winell: Mental health professionals have enough to do without going out looking for new pathology. I never set out looking for a “niche topic,” and certainly not religious trauma syndrome. I originally wrote a paper for a conference of the American Psychological Association and thought that would be the end of it. Since then, I have tried to move on to other things several times, but this work has simply grown.

In my opinion, we are simply, as a culture, becoming aware of religious trauma. More and more people are leaving religion, as seen by polls [20] showing that the “religiously unaffiliated” have increased in the last five years from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults. It’s no wonder the internet is exploding with websites for former believers from all religions, providing forums [21] for people to support each other. The huge population of people “leaving the fold” includes a subset at risk for RTS, and more people are talking about it and seeking help.  For example, there are thousands of former Mormons [22], and I was asked to speak about RTS at an Exmormon Foundation conference.  I facilitate an international support group online called Release and Reclaim [23]  which has monthly conference calls. An organization called Recovery from Religion, [24] helps people start self-help meet-up groups

Saying that someone is trying to pathologize authoritarian religion is like saying someone pathologized eating disorders by naming them. Before that, they were healthy? No, before that we weren’t noticing. People were suffering, thought they were alone, and blamed themselves.  Professionals had no awareness or training. This is the situation of RTS today. Authoritarian religion is already pathological, and leaving a high-control group can be traumatic. People are already suffering. They need to be recognized and helped. _______________________________

Statistics update:

Numbers of American ‘nones’ continues to rise

October 18, 2019

By David Crary – Associated Press

The portion of Americans with no religious affiliation is rising significantly, in tandem with a sharp drop in the percentage that identifies as Christians, according to new data from the Pew Research Center. …

Pew says all categories of the religiously unaffiliated population – often referred to as the “nones” grew in magnitude. Self-described atheists now account for 4% of U.S. adults, up from 2% in 2009; agnostics account for 5%, up from 3% a decade ago; and 17% of Americans now describe their religion as “nothing in particular,” up from 12% in 2009.

https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2019/1018/Numbers-of-American-nones-continues-to-rise

_______________________________

Marlene Winell interviewed by Valerie Tarico on recovering from religious trauma Uploaded on January 31, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIfABmbqSMA

24:12

On Moral Politics, a TV program with host Dr. Valerie Tarico, Marlene Winell describes the trauma that can result from harmful experiences with religious indoctrination. Dr. Winell explains that mental health issues are widespread and need to be understood just as we understand PTSD. There are steps to recovery, treatment modalities, and resources available as well. She now refers to this as RTS or Religious Trauma Syndrome. _______________________________

Links:
 
[3] https://www.biblestudyonjesuschrist.com/pog/ask1.htm 
[4] https://marlenewinell.net/leaving-fold-former 
[8] https://journeyfree.org/article/reclaimers/ 
[9] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Thief_in_the_Night_%28film%29 
[10] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+6%3A23&version=KJV 
[11] https://valerietarico.com/2011/02/04/our-public-schools-their-mission-field/ 
[12] http://www.intrinsicdignity.com/ 
[13] https://www.maryjohnson.co/an-unquenchable-thirst/ 
[14] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+3%3A5-6&version=KJV [15] https://journeyfree.org/category/uncategorized/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qrE4pMBlis 
[17] https://www.amazon.com/Healthy-Religion-Psychological-Guide-Mature/dp/1425924166 [18] https://www.humanistchaplaincy.org/ [19] https://www.christianpost.com/news/london-atheist-church-model-looking-to-expand-worldwide-91516 [20] https://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise/ 
[21] https://new.exchristian.net/ 
[22] https://www.exmormon.org/ 
[23] https://journeyfree.org/group-forum/ [24] https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/

_____________________________________

Get God’s Self-Appointed Messengers Out of Your Head

Valerie Tarico Which buzz phrases from your past are stuck in your brain? “God’s messengers” were all real complicated people with biases, blind spots, favorite foods and morning breath. They were not gods and they are not you. So how can you get them out of your head or at least reduce them to muffled background noise?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElfyYA420F0

[untaemedqueen]

Chocolate?

Idol!Jeongguk x Reader

Valentine’s Day One-Shot 

WordCount: 5k

Genre: Mutual Pining, Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers!AU

Warnings - Cunnilingus, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Food Play, Fingering, Praise, Dirty Talk

"What are you doing?" Your best friend asks as he enters your house unannounced. You scream loudly dropping the bowl in your hands as Hoseok screams in return. 

"Why?!" You scream loudly putting your hands to the side of your head as the metal bowl filled with melted chocolate drops on the floor scattering the sweet brown confection across your white tile floor. 

"JUNG HOSEOK!" You yell loudly furrowing your eyebrows at your older best friend. 

"Jesus Christ." He mutters putting a shaky hand over his heart. 

"You scared me!" He whines loudly brushing back his black hair. You walk around the small rolling island you bought for your new Itaewon apartment. 

"I. Scared. You? WHY DO YOU WALK INTO PEOPLE'S HOUSES UNANNOUNCED?!" You yell thrusting your arm out and pointing at him, he looks at the chocolate on the floor as a sly smile spreads over his face. 

"Only people who feel guilty get so scared like this." Hoseok says as he smiles at you brightly. You roll your eyes before looking down at the floor and whining as you grab paper towels. 

"You suck!" You say to your best friend as you bend down to clean the mess. 

"Why are you feeling guilty then?" Hoseok asks as he throws some paper towels into the garbage. 

"I'm not!" You counter standing back up as you pick up the metal bowl. Hoseok gives a sly smirk before standing up and sitting on the bar stool in front of the island. 

"Y/N!" Hoseok sings as you add more chocolate to the bowl. 

"What?" You murmur as you feel his gaze on you, "Who're you making chocolate for?" He asks cutely putting his hand under his chin.

"For myself." You mutter as you turn back to the stove to melt the chocolate. 

"Are you sure it's not for an oppa that you really love and appreciate?" Hoseok asks with a laugh. You turn your head to him before folding your arms. 

"I'm not giving you chocolate on Valentine's Day." You say loudly making him frown.

"Then who are you making it for? You aren't even from Korea. You don't have to follow these silly traditions!" You pout before turning back to the double boiler as the milk chocolate begins to melt once more.

"I'm making it for me." You say finally, Hoseok gives an unsure hum. 

"You sure it's not for the other man that you pretend not to like?" He asks talking about the maknae of his group. Your ears turn red as you tilt your head farther down. 

"I don't know what you're talking about." You say before taking the melted chocolate off the double boiler and wiping the bottom of any water to not seize the chocolate. 

"I invited Jeongguk and Taehyung for the massage thing today." You grip the hot bowl as he mentions Jeongguk. 

"Why?" You ask a little too loud. Hoseok looks down at his phone hiding his smirk, "Because two best friends can't go get massages without it looking strange. Besides, they're single. They can get massages on Valentine's Day, too." 

You add cream to the chocolate along with almond extract you know that Jeongguk likes. Although, the chocolate WAS NOT for him. It was for you. You purse your lips at Hoseok's words before rolling your eyes. 

"Fine. Whatever you say." You say as you think about seeing Jeongguk. Your hands begin to shake in excitement as you pour the now ganache into a piping bag.

 "That's a lot of chocolate." Hoseok comments looking up from his phone. You look up at him through your eyelashes sheepishly. 

"Nevermind." Hoseok whispers patting your hand as you begin to fill the silicon heart trays on your island counter.

You put the finished chocolates in the pink box on the coffee table before hearing your door ring. Your legs begin to shake knowing Jeongguk was at your door. It wasn't a crush you could have, he was your best friends younger brother and group mate. It wasn't right. Hoseok felt badly about this, knowing you keep all of your emotions about this subject to yourself to not make him feel uncomfortable. 

"Will you get the door?" You ask Hoseok trying to calm your breathing. He hums in agreement as you put the top back onto the pink box. You scurry back to the kitchen taking off your gray apron and throwing it on the island counter. Jeongguk walks in with a large bomber jacket on and ripped black jeans. You swallow uncomfortably as you stare at the hot man before you. 

“Y/N!” Jeongguk says loudly running over and hugging you with a big smile on his face. You tense up underneath his hug, his jacket was cold from being outside but you could feel the heat from his hands on your back as he hugs you tightly.

“Hi.” You say quietly as he pulls away. He wrinkles his nose as he looks down at you, “Yeah, okay. Move. My turn.” Taehyung says pushing Jeongguk out of the way, you laugh as Taehyung picks you up and spins you around. 

“Where have you been? We’ve been lonely without your dark jokes and bad ass attitude?” Taehyung asks with a laugh as he puts his chin on top of your head. 

“You’ve been on tour.” You say as you let go of the hug. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Jeongguk says clapping and pointing at you, Hoseok hands you your coat before blocking your face from view as you blush at Jeongguk’s words. He winks down at you and you turn away putting on your coat. 

“Stop.” You mutter buttoning your coat before turning around to all three men in front of you. 

“Let’s go go go!” Taehyung cheers pulling you and Jeongguk towards the door. Hoseok peaks around the doorway before grabbing the pink box of chocolates from the table and sliding them into his handbag. “Because I want you to be happy.” Hoseok whispers before following you into the doorway.

You step into the spa’s reception with a smile. “Reservation?” The girl asks at the front. 

“Yeah! Jung. For four o’clock.” The receptionist nods before looking up, “One couples massage and two regular massages.” You look over at Hoseok wide eyed. 

“Couples? No. I wanted just four regular massages.” He says trying to rectify the situation, little did you know he booked it this way on purpose. 

“Oh? Is that so? I’m sorry, sir. Since it’s Valentine’s Day I only have these spots available.” The receptionist says awkwardly as she looks up at him, her eyes narrowing trying to see who he is under his face mask. 

“No problem!” You say quickly pulling Hoseok away from the desk. But, it wasn’t okay and in your nervousness of Hoseok being recognized you agreed to getting a couples massage. 

“Who’s going in with Y/N?” Taehyung asks with a laugh as the reception goes to the back to tell the massage therapists you were ready. 

“What? With me!? Why do I have to go into the couples thing?” You whine folding your arms. 

“What if the massage people know we are in BTS and then they think we’re gay and tell the media?” Hoseok says peaking down the hallway, “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.” You deadpan to Hoseok, he looks over at you narrowing his eyes. 

“Of course I know that you fuckin’ idiot. I love everyone equally. I’m talking about it news wise.” He obviously has no problems with anything except knowing you would try to back out because you were frightened. You grab a cucumber water from the reception desk. 

“Oh, okay. Then what if they recognize you or Tae or Kook and see me with in a couples massage and they tell the media that you were on a date.” Jeongguk puffs out his cheek as he contemplates both ends.

“Couples massages are more expensive, so you get treated better.” Taehyung mutters looking at the pricing list. Hoseok knows this, this is why he chose it for you and Jeongguk. Four massage therapists come out and you go wide-eyed at the handsome man. 

“I’m Jungsoo.” He says holding his hand out towards you with a smile on his face. Jeongguk scoffs mentally before shaking his hand. 

“Jeongguk. You’ll be with me.” He says blocking your body with his. Hoseok smirks before looking over at Taehyung and winking. Taehyung had recently told Hoseok about Jeongguk’s most recent heart confession, because, Lord knows Taehyung can’t keep any secrets to himself. Hoseok had talked to Yoongi about his concerns, mostly stating that above all he just wants you to be happy and of course, he wants Kook to be happy too. So be it, he’ll bring you guys together like the smiley angel that he is. Jungsoo gives a nod to Jeongguk before moving out of the way. 

“Mira. Nice to meet you.” A smaller girl says to you as you both bow to each other. “This way.” Mira says leading the both of you towards the hallway. Then, it finally hit you. You were going to be in a room, naked with Jeon Jeongguk. You stop in your tracks before you feel Jeogguk’s chest to your back. 

“What?” He asks peaking down at you, you swallow before shaking your head. 

“Good. Come on.” Jeongguk says happily pulling you along with him as you turn your head towards Hoseok who is leaning on the reception desk. He gives you a small wave as he shakes his black hair into his face. 

“Have fun.” He says before laughing. You whine mentally as you are pulled farther down the hallway. Hoseok peaks down the hallway before grabbing his bag from the desk. 

“You can follow us.” Hoseok’s massage therapist says pointing down the hallway. 

“Sure!” He says happily taking off his face mask. This spa was very secretive, only idols come to this spa so discretion was always of the utmost importance. Not that you needed to know that. Hoseok begins to walk down the hallway as Taehyung joins him. Hoseok, Jimin and Taehyung have been coming here for years since their debut and have gotten to know their massage therapists pretty well. 

“Minjung noona.” Hoseok whispers as they pass the couples room. Minjung looks up with a raised eyebrow, “Can you put this into the couples room? It might come in handy later.” Hoseok asks digging the pink box out of his bag and handing it to her. She nods with a smile before opening the normal massage room door for both of them. Taehyung and Hoseok walk in before chuckling to each other. 

“This will be interesting.” Taehyung comments as they shield themselves from each other with the linen divider of the room. Hoseok takes off his shirt before smirking. “We’ll see if they’re brave enough.”

You stand awkwardly in the room next to Jeongguk as the smell of calming lavender hit your nose, the rooms aura was so relaxing and that only made you more nervous. Piano concertos begin to play as the massage therapists get the tables ready for the both of you. 

“If you would care to take off your c-” 

“I have to pee!” You say before looking around frantically. Mira looks at you before laughing, she points at the only door in the room. You scurry off leaving the room behind as you close the door to the bathroom and quickly locking it. 

“What am I supposed to do?” You mouth to yourself in the mirror as you press your back against the apricot colored wall. You were going to be in a room all alone with Jeongguk. Naked. Next to each other getting massages. You stomp your foot before having a silent tantrum, your arms and legs flailing wildly as you close your eyes. How could this possibly happen to you? How could Hoseok have made such a mistake?! Maybe it’ll be fine, y’know? Maybe Jeongguk finds you so revolting that he won’t even look at you. 

“Why can’t you just hate him?” You ask yourself quietly before putting your hands to your face. The answer to that question is that there is nothing to hate. He’s perfect, and handsome, totally down to Earth, just an all around great guy.... That’s going to be naked. Next to you. 

“Don’t be a baby. You can do this.” You say to yourself shaking your fist. You turn around confidently and open the bathroom door. You step out as Jeongguk takes off his shirt and turning towards you. 

“Feel better?” He asks with a smile, you look over his six pack abs and his right sleeve of tattoos before looking down at the floor. 

“I’m fine.” You squeak out, “Good.” He says before taking his pants off and hopping on to the table. 

You look at his toned thighs and calves before mentally screaming. Why is he so hot? Who gave him permission to look like this? Jeongguk puts his hand under his chin as he looks over at you. 

“Aren’t you going to get a massage?” He asks as Jungsoo hands him a glass of champagne. His soft full lips encase the lip of the champagne flute and you feel your throat clench. 

“Y/N?” Mira asks with a smile, Hoseok had told Mira all about you. Both Mira and Jungsoo knew the plan to get you two together. Jeongguk looks you over before smiling, he was so smitten with you. He’s liked you ever since Hoseok had introduced you to him. It was probably your loud jokes and voracious laughter that first made him fall in love, then it was how adorable you could be when you drink. How you smile at everything Jeongguk says and how enraptured you would be in all of your conversations. But, like you he wouldn’t take that step forward for Hoseok’s sake. Seeing you this shy in front of him confirmed his suspicions, you like him too. Minjung opens the door before looking at you and smiling. 

“From Hoseok.” She says stepping in and handing the box to Jeongguk. You stare at the pink box before gasping. 

“No! Kookie!” You say quickly as he opens the box. 

“Chocolate?” Jeongguk asks before picking up a piece of the heart shaped confection. He looks over at your with furrowed eyebrows. “Is it poison?” He asks with a laugh. 

“We’ll be right back we have to go get tea tree oil.” Jungsoo says leaving the room with Mira in tow. Just another part of the plan. Jeongguk takes a bite of the chocolate before going wide-eyed. 

“Wah! It’s so good!” You feel a bit more at ease before mentally cursing Hoseok. What was he trying to do?! Why did he bring that stupid box. 

“Almond is my favorite.” “I know.” You whisper pulling at your black turtleneck. Jeongguk look down at the box before looking at you.

“You know? So what, you-you made these for me?” Your heart beats rapidly as you lean against the door frame of the bathroom. 

“I-” You look down at the floor embarrassed as your ears heat up. 

“Y/N?” Jeongguk asks surprised. Was Hoseok really trying to hook both of you up right now? Was he giving the green light? Jeongguk sits up putting the chocolate box in his lap. You notice how his tan leg muscles stretch and contort as he folds his legs under him on the massage table. 

“I made them.” You say before clearing your throat. Jeongguk picks up the box before smiling at you, “You made them for me? For Valentine’s Day?” He smiles at the notion. You didn’t have to, this wasn’t even your tradition and you still did it for him. 

“I did.” You whisper shyly. Jeongguk hops down from the table before pushing his hair back.

“You know what this means in Korea, right? It means you’re confessing your feeling for me.” He says walking towards you, you back up slightly into the now dark bathroom. 

“I know. I wasn’t going to give them to you, but Hoseok took them anyway.” You answer honestly as he enters the bathroom and turning the light on. 

“You like me?” He asks with baited breath, you nod to him and he smiles widely. 

“I like you too. I have for a while but because of hyung, I-I haven’t said anything, y’know, out of respect.” You nod before rubbing the back of your neck. 

“Me too.” Jeongguk lets out a sigh of wonder. 

“Wow. I didn’t know you felt this way. I’ve felt this way for years!” Jeongguk says towering above you. You swallow, “I’ve made you chocolate four years now but I haven’t given it to you.” Jeongguk puts his tattooed hand on his mouth as he gives a chuckle. He feels crazy, but the good crazy, the crazy when you’ve been lifted off your feet and as butterflies dance around inside you. 

“Maybe hyung is saying we can like each other.” Jeongguk says stepping back and grabbing your hand. Your stomach does flips as if you were falling down the biggest roller coaster. 

“Maybe.” You answer honestly, although Hoseok was your best friend he knows everything about you without you even having to tell him. Jeongguk’s brown eye bore into yours as you stare at each other in the small bathroom. 

“I like you, so much.” Jeongguk whispers, his arm betraying his mind as he wraps his arm around your waist. You gasp in surprise as he wrinkles his nose. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks quietly, you could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife. You nod to him giving your consent. Jeongguk bends down, his soft full lips kissing your ever so gently. You kiss back before closing your eyes, Jeongguk’s hands trail up your sides before cupping your face. The kiss begins to turn frantic, your hands reaching into his hair and tugging him towards you. Jeongguk moans into the kiss and you respond with one of your own. This is what you both have been waiting for, the sexual tension between you always encasing the other for years. 

“Fuck.” Jeongguk curses pulling away from you, you look up at him sheepishly as he grips your wrist pulling you out of the room. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He mumbles to the open air before picking you up effortlessly and putting you on the massage table. You begin to pull him to you before he puts up a finger. 

“One minute, hm?” He asks before bending and giving you a peck. His feet stride over to the door before locking it. He grabs the box of chocolate off the lonely massage table before walking around to you, his six pack rippling as he opens up the pink box. 

“They’re delicious. Care to try.” He whispers before putting half in his mouth and smiling. You bite your lip as Jeongguk bows down. You open your mouth and bite off half before beginning to kiss him, the chocolate ganache melting in your mouth as Jeongguk forces your mouth open with his thumb and index finger on your chin. His chocolate tasting tongue rubbing over yours as he grips at your hips. Jeongguk lets off a low moan as you grasp his biceps. 

“Shit.” He whispers before pulling at the bottom of your turtleneck. 

“I want to fuck you.” He whispers lifting your shirt and caressing the skin on your stomach. The sweet moment suddenly turning into something more sinful. You have to admit, you’ve been dying to know what it’s like to be with Jeongguk. You’ve been dreaming about it for years. So, as he pulls at your shirt you take the courage you don’t normally have with him and pull your turtleneck off. He takes in a deep breath before letting out a low whistle, his chocolaty breath making your panties dampen. 

“You’re stunning.” He kisses you before trailing downwards, his foot hooking under the rolling stool by the foot of the massage table. 

He wheels the stool in front of him before sitting down, his mouth leaving small kisses and suckles wherever his lips found purchase. His arm snakes behind you and he looks up at you with lust laden eyes asking for your consent. You smile down at him and with two fingers your bra was undone. 

“Oh, you do this a lot.” You say raising an eyebrow at how deftly his fingers work. Jeongguk chuckles darkly as the bra falls down your arms revealing your breasts to him. 

“Believe me, baby. It was all just practice for this.” He mumbles hooking his hands behind your knees and pulling you closer to him. His tongue wets his lips before enveloping your nipple into his mouth, you moan lowly at the feeling. His soft hands kneading at your clothed thighs as his tongue begins to flick your areola. Your hands find his hair as he lavishes on you, his warm wet mouth sending shivers down your spine as he groans against you. 

“Kook.” You whimper out as you feel your cunt begin to pulsate around nothingness. He pulls away before unbuttoning your pants. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous. I’ve always wanted to hear you moan my name. I think about it at night as I jerk off to you.” He admits as you raise your hips, his arms ruthlessly pulling down your pants as the flesh of your thighs meets his eyes. Your pink panties darkening with your arousal making Jeongguk’s eyes widen. 

“So horny for me, aren’t you baby?” He whispers running his fingers softly over your clothed pussy. You whimper out biting your bottom lip as his index finger rubs over your clothed clit. 

“You have to be quiet, or else everyone will know you’re getting fucked like the good little girl you are.” Jeongguk says before standing up and kissing you, his hand gripping at the back of your neck as he spreads your legs wide. 

“I take it you’ll be my girlfriend then if you’re letting me fuck in such an open setting.” He chuckles before ripping at the edges of your underwear, you gasp allowing him the perfect opportunity for his tongue to enter your mouth. Your tongues fighting for dominance as Jeongguk’s fingers begin to stroke your wet pussy lips. He pulls back licking at his now kiss-swollen lips. He grabs a chocolate from the box before smiling at you, “They’re delicious. Thank you baby.” You smile in return as he puts the chocolate to his mouth. 

“But I bet it’ll be even more delicious off your body.” He whispers before putting the chocolate between his teeth. He sits back down as he holds your sides, his mouth approaching your breasts as he rubs the chocolate over them, the heat from your body causing the chocolate to begin to melt. The feeling was foreign and exciting, never have you experienced such a thing especially with the man you’ve been crushing on for years. You look down enraptured as the chocolate leaves lines on your skin as Jeongguk inches downward. 

Jeongguk stops above your pubic bone before sucking the chocolate into his mouth. “I bet your pussy tastes so good, hmm?” He asks cheekily as he chews the chocolate. You bite your lip in excitement as Jeongguk leans forward licking up the chocolate mess he has made on your body. Your mouth opens as he grips your hips, small moans emit from him as his tongue continues downward dipping into your bellybutton and then going lower. He runs a flat lick over your cunt that makes you weak to him, your body sagging as his hand snakes behind you to hold you up. 

“Fuck.” You whine as he licks at your clit. 

“Mmm.” He moans quietly, the taste of your arousal on his tongue sends him into a frenzy. His hard cock straining against the fabric of his boxers begging to be free and the feel the warmth of your cunt around him. His middle finger approaches your soused entrance. He swirls his finger around gathering your arousal before dipping in. You put your hand over your mouth as you moan loudly. Jeongguk’s hand straining on your back as he holds you up. 

“Jeongguk.” You moan and he shuts his eyes at the sound. He has never loved his name more than he does now. He pumps his finger in and out, his tongue never ceasing on your swollen clit. 

“Oh yes. Like that.” You moan gently gripping at his head pulling him closer. Another finger is added and he curls them upwards rubbing that sensuous spot. 

“Oh my God.” You moan clutching him tightly.  You feel yourself unraveling for him, all the nerves you’ve had around him for years getting lost into his touch. 

“Kook.” You whisper wantonly into the piano filled room. He could feel your pussy getting wetter and tighter as he pulls away from you. He pulls down his boxers revealing his two-toned cock, “I can’t wait to feel you around me, Y/N.” Jeongguk says as he pulls you more to the edge of the massage table. His cock beads with precum and you watch in awe as it drips down his sizable length. 

“I stroke my cock every night to thoughts of this.” He pumps his cock a few times before rubbing the head on your soaked pussy. Both of your arousal mixing together in a tantalizing way.

“I think about this a lot too, in the shower.” Jeongguk’s eyes snap to yours as he eases the tip of his head into you. 

“Yeah? While you’re all naked and wet, fingering this pussy thinking about how badly I want to fuck the shit out of you?” You moan at his words as he enters you in one fell swoop. He buries himself to the hilt letting a strangled groan leave his lips. His forehead is on the nap of your neck as he holds you to him. You wrap your legs around him as he gives small thrusts. 

“You’re so nice and wet for me. Fuck, baby.” He moans out quietly, Jeongguk’s lips nipping at the soft skin of your neck as he begins to thrust. Your head lulling back as he snaps his hips to yours. Your mouths opening in tandem at the euphoric feeling of each other. 

“So tight. Baby.” Jeongguk’s fingers gripping at your hips as he suckles on the skin of your clavicle. Small moans rolling off your tongue as you whisper his name in the calm room. 

“Your cock feel so big, I love it.” Jeongguk moans screwing his eyes shut as a hand begins to rub at your clit. 

“Oh!” You moan loudly, Jeongguk’s hand leaves your hips as he thrusts his thumb into your mouth to quiet you. 

“You’re such a good little girl.” Jeongguk whispers pulling his cock all the way out, savoring the way your pussy juice looks on his cock before diving back in. You moan against his thumb as you swirl your tongue around it. 

“Oh fuck!” He mutters as his thrusts pick up pace. He knows he’s taking too long in this massage room. 

You whimper out as his thumb begins to rub quicker circles on your clit. Your vision beginning to get spotty as Jeongguk sends you closer to the edge. “I want you to cum all over my cock. I want to feel your cunt beg for my cum.” He whispers pulling his thumb out of your mouth, his thumb and index finger on your chin as he clasps it between his fingers. Your pussy beginning to clench slowly around his cock. 

“Fuck, yes. I feel you wanting to cum on me.” He mutters in awe as he pulls you in for a kiss. You grip at his biceps as he picks up your knees angling your body to fuck you deeper. You gasp into the kiss as your body begins to writhe against him. 

“I’m going to cum!” You whimper screwing oyur eyes shut. 

“Good girl, cum on me. Cum on your boyfriends cock.” You moan gently before biting your lip as you cum throwing your head back. Your body spasming as your cunt clenches around him. 

“Oh fuck yes. Good girl. Oh shit, babe.” Jeongguk curses loudly before pressing his lips together as his brows furrow. 

“I’m so close to blowing a load in this pussy. My pussy.” He moans claiming you as his own. You moan gently as he presses your body tightly to his as he thrusts deeply and slowly. 

“I’m gonna cum, fuck. Y/N. I’m cumming.” Jeongguk moans throwing his head forward onto your shoulder as he orgasms. His cum painting the walls of your cunt as he holds you close to him. You sigh happily as he hugs you, both of your chests racking against each other with harsh breaths. 

Jeongguk pulls away from you before pulling out his softening cock. “Keep that cum in there. I’ll fuck it out of you later.” He whispers in your ear making you giggle. A knock comes at the door and Jeongguk looks up surprised.

“Yes?” He calls loudly, “Ready for your massages?” Jungsoo calls through the door. Jeongguk slides on his boxers before looking at your panties and closing his eyes in defeat. 

“One minute.” He calls back before handing you a towel. 

“Put this on for now, sorry I ripped your cute little panties.” He says grabbing them off the table and shoving them into his bomber jacket hanging on the wall. You giggle as you hop off the table putting on the towel before shaking your head. 

“I think it was pretty worth it.” You say making him bite his bottom lip and kiss you once more. 

“I mean it, stuff that cum inside you.” He whispers rubbing your supple breasts in his hands. “I’m not done with you tonight.” He winks before grabbing the chocolate box off your massage table. He waits until you hop on the table before unlocking the door. He lays back down on his own table as Mira and Jungsoo reenter the room. 

“Oh, baby?” Jeongguk calls as you turn your head towards him as Mira begins to lather some lotion between her hands. 

“I will expect chocolate every year from now on. Chocolate is fun.” He says making you snort and close your eyes.

“If you like.” You say as Mira begins to rub at your tensed muscles. 

“I do indeed like. Very much so.” Hoseok peaks in before smiling widely. 

“You got the chocolate I assume?” He asks giving you both a thumbs up. 

“Thanks, hyung.” Jeongguk says giving him a heartfelt smile. 

“Just call me cupid!” Hoseok calls back as he retreats back to his room. 

“Have any vanilla at the house?” Jeongguk asks randomly. 

“Ice cream.” You reply as Mira works on your shoulders. Jeongguk takes in a sharp breath.

“Ice cream it is.” Happy Valentine’s Day Jeon Jeongguk.

[swimyghost]

Snazz's Birthday Bash

TODAY IS @holyfandomsnazz 's birthday today! EVERYONE WISH THEM A HAPPY B-DAY!

@self-insert-nonsense @wickedhellagoodtime ARE HERE TOO!

The heat was getting to everyone. Even though the region was known for its cooler summers compared to the rest of the country, the wave of moist warmth was ruining the entire Roomies' day.

"Swimy," Snazz said, their blonde hair frazzled and covering their weary eyes, "did you pay the goddamn rent for the electric bill?"

"Unfortunately, until I get my ID, I'm still a minor in the eyes of the law," the recently made adult replied, pulling their blue hair away from their sweat covered brow, "so, no, I didn't pay the fucking electrical bill,"

"Well, couldn't you have gotten your ID earlier!?" Snazz shouted.

"I wasn't eighteen until three days ago, genius!" Swimy fired back.

Formerly lounging on the couch, the pair were now locked in a fierce glaring match with both of them looking like they were ready to fight each other.

"You're the adult here, why didn't you pay!?" Swimy yelled.

"Because I haven't been paid yet!"

"Neither have I!"

"Enough!"

A pink-haired figure stepped out into the living room with a tired, yet annoyed, look on their face. In her hand was a paper bag with the name 'SIN' scrawled on the forehead which was dotted with sweat stains. Their floral patterned shirt was just as ruffled as Swimy's hoodie and Snazz's gray shirt. Putting both hands on their hips, the eldest member of the roommates frowned at the duo.

"Do you want us to get another noise complaint?"

"No," Snazz grumbled, leaning back into the couch.

"But Dawn-" Swimy started.

"No buts!" Dawn interrupted, "it's already hard enough to find a four-bedroom apartment in our price range, I don't need you guys making it harder,"

Snazz raised their hand, "Technically my room is a former closet,"

Dawn turned their gaze away, clearly embarrassed, "It still counts,"

"Why can't we just ask your boy toy to help us out?" Swimy questioned.

"Karamatsu is just as much in a financial struggle as us and you know that," Dawn said with an even deeper frown.

"What's the point of a man if you can't even get him to pay your rent?" Snazz muttered.

All three went silent for a few moments before Dawn sighed, "I get my Patreon money at midnight. When is the latest we can pay?"

"The sixteenth," Swimy replied.

"And what day is it today?"

"The fourteenth,"

"Okay, so tomorrow I need to-"

"Oh shit really?" Snazz said, their eyes wide.

Both Swimy and Dawn blinked in confusion. "Is that a problem?" Dawn asked.

"No, no, it's not that," the blonde waved their hand nonchalantly, "I just... Well... It's my birthday tomorrow,"

"What?!" Swimy exclaimed, "I didn't know your birthday was in the same month as mine!"

"I- We're siblings how did you forget!?" Snazz said with their nose scrunched up.

"You know I'm bad with dates!"

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Dawn asked, ignoring Swimy's outburst.

"Hey, I forgot it myself," Snazz raised their hands defensively, "besides... It's not like we celebrated it much anyway,"

The oldest and youngest of the Roomie siblings glanced awkwardly at each other as an uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Several moments passed before Snazz stood up with a grunt. "I got commissions to finish. I'll pay the rent with that next time. Later,"

Dawn reached out to grab hold of their sibling, but they managed to dodge their grasp and entered their room swiftly, closing it with a soft thud. While the apartment was dead still, Dawn and Swimy rushed over to one another and began talking in hushed tones.

"How could you forgot Snazz's birthday!?" the pink-haired singer whispered angrily.

"You forgot it too, don't you try and deny it!" Swimy countered back in an equally low voice.

"Well... Did you get them a present?" Dawn asked anxiously.

"I forgot that Snazz's birthday was even this month, did you really think I'd get them a gift?!"

"Well, I don't have anything either!"

The two sighed, but their emotions were still running high. They had under twenty-four hours to purchase a gift for their sibling with the little amount of money all of them had, all while a desert-like heat filled the region in its unbearable cloud of misery.

"Alright, get your shoes on and try to get Sam out of their room," Dawn ordered, referencing their other sibling.

"What for?" Swimy asked, already reaching for their shoes near the old front door.

"Because we need to go out and get Snazz a gift before it's too late! They already probably think we're a bad sibling so we need to hurry and get something they like!" Dawn explained.

"Alright, alright, keep your voice down!" Swimy hissed, glancing over at Snazz's room.

Dawn nodded and began putting on her shoes while Swimy rushed over to the third oldest Roomie sibling. They grimaced at the yellowing paint on the walls as they swiftly knocked on the door.

"Sam. Sam! I know you're in there and we need you!" the blue-haired teen begged.

"...Go away," a muffled voice stated tiredly.

"Sam, we forgot about Snazz's birthday! All of us need to go find a gift for them!"

"...I'll search online for something. I'll Venmo you some money,"

"Ugh! Why won't you just come out!?"

"...Too hot. Too bright,"

"...That's fair,"

"What did they say?" Dawn asked, all ready to go. Swimy walked over to them with a huff.

"They said they'll look online for something," Swimy complained.

"Let me guess, it's too hot for them?" Dawn guessed.

"Bingo,"

"Well," the eldest sister sighed, "we don't have time to argue. We have a birthday to save!"

"Alright! Let's do it!"

---

"We're not going to be able to do it!"

Dawn looked down at the completely worn-out Swimy, watching as sweat rained down off their body onto the asphalt road as they were uncomfortably hunched over. Their blue hoodie was completely ruined hours earlier and had been tied around their waist in a desperate amount to stay cool, revealing a Mothman T-shirt underneath the read "Eat. Sleep. Lurk.".

"C'mon, one more store," Dawn said with exhaustion seeping into her voice. Her floral pattern blouse and her skirt were completely soaked in sweat and her skin was beet red. Still, determination held strong in her green eyes as she tried to pull her sibling up.

"No! No more stores! We've been into too many stores!" Swimy whined, resisting their sister's efforts.

"We need to find a birthday present!" Dawn argued.

"And I need to find a new therapist but you don't see me spending nearly four hours walking in unbearable heat to find one!" Swimy growled, motioning towards the setting sun, "besides, I think Snazz is starting to think our "double date" excuse is a little suspicious,"

Dawn sighed, "I know... But we need to prove we care about them. Just one gift will be enough,"

Swimy's eyes darted to the side, "I care too... But don't you think that maybe I caused Snazz's forgetfulness? That I'm the one to blame?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean," Swimy looked uncomfortable, "I was the youngest and born literally four days before their birthday. Snazz's birthday has always been overshadowed by me, the "baby" of the family,"

"Swimy-"

"What if... What if I'm the reason Snazz forgot? That I've been a terrible sibling this whole time and I've been blissfully unaware? That I've been able to happily celebrate my birth while they've been forgotten,"

Dawn, nothing tears welling up in their eyes, pulled Swimy close, "Don't talk like that. I doubt Snazz blames you for your birthday or the fact we never celebrated theirs as much as kids. If anything, they should blame Mom and Dad for that. You have nothing to do with this,"

"But... We if they do blame me?"

"Then we have to show Snazz the perfect gift!" Dawn gave her young sibling a tight squeeze, "What do you say? One more store?"

"...Yeah, one more," Swimy looked up concerned, "but how are we going to find one that-"

Suddenly, Swimy's phone went off with a loud buzz. Startled, the pair broke apart while Swimy awkwardly fumbled around with it. There was a single text sent by Sam:

I'm making a pie. I also found something Snazz will most definitely like.

Attached was an address to a nearby store. Sin blinked in surprise after she looked it up.

"It's a weird occult and true crime store. What does this have to do with a birthday present?"

"Who cares!?" Swimy proclaimed with a big grin, "we have a lead! And you said we needed to look in one more store!"

Dawn, still looking unconvinced, simply nodded, "If you say so,"

With that, the pair took off, ignoring the shouts and glares of passerby's. Dawn and Swimy managed to weave their way through tight alleys and crowds with ease with their newfound energy. It wasn't long before the two were situated outside a dark-colored store with black tinted windows. Crystals and occult symbols were carefully hung visibly through the glass. While Swimy appeared eager, Dawn seemed less than sure.

"You okay?" Swimy asked.

"Yeah just... It's creepy," Dawn shivered.

"...I'm married to Death's ferrywoman, Dawn," Swimy lifted their hand, showing off their black and silver wedding ring.

"That's different!"

"It really isn't,"

"Fuck off!" the pink-haired girl shoved Swimy into the store.

Inside was surprisingly bright which went against the darkness of the clothes, books, and crystals. The wood made a hollow thud with every step. Shelves were spaced in rows that carried various occult items. Walls were lined by clothes and posters containing demons or hard-core metal bands to-

"Is that Al Capone?" Dawn pointed at a poster.

"Yeah... And that's Haurkichi Yamaguchi," Swimy motioned to another poster, referencing the creator and former head of the Yamaguchi-gumi yakuza organization.

"Ahem,"

The Roomies siblings turned and, across the store, was a teenaged Japanese cashier. She had a combination of boredom and exasperation as she parted her black hair from her eyes. "Welcome to Crimes and the Concealed, a true crime and occult experience where there is something for everyone," she waved her hands less than amused for a supposed to be dramatic effect.

"Uh... Thanks," Dawn replied, nudging Swimy forward.

"If you buy one poster, the other is 15% off,"

"Thank you! But we're looking for something else!" Dawn hastily shoved Swimy into the back of the store, away from the prying eyes of the cashier, who seemed equally glad not to deal with them.

"That was rude," Swimy glared

"Sorry! This whole shop gives me the creeps," Dawn whined.

"I'm never taking you on a double date to the Underworld," Swimy muttered, blissfully unaware of the sound of the store door opening.

The siblings went looking for something buy, pouring over the many candles and strange objects as the setting sun remained a looming reminder of their limited time. After looking at the fifteenth crystal necklace, Dawn was about to give up when Swimy let out a gasp. Dawn instantly turned and was stunned to see what was hanging in the corner of the store.

Body pillows. Over a dozen body pillows of famous gangsters and criminals from Billy the Kid to Calogero Vizzini to Pablo Escobar, the rather morbid idea of placing known men that went outside the law for their evil deeds in alluring poses made the two shiver. But the one that caught their eye was the lone female in the mix. Long lavender hair matched her dazzling amber eyes. She donned a pirate outfit with a black corset that complimented her figure. Black boots with gold accents that reached to her knees, similar to how her all-knowing smirk reached across her face.

Dawn reached out and touched the pillow, "That's... Snazz's girlfr-"

"MY WAIFU!"

Suddenly, two large men shoved past the Roomie siblings. One had thick-rimmed and lens glasses with a greasy ponytail and sweat and grease-stained shirt that showed a bunch of underage anime girls in tight clothing and the other looked similar but had shorter black hair with glasses that blocked out his eyes and was slightly skinnier than his friend but still wore questionable attire.

"Oh my dear waifu, how I've looked for you for so long!" the ponytail man wailed, almost crying on the pillow.

"Hey! We had our hand on it first!" Swimy said, shoving past their older sister and glaring at the men.

"Eh!? What would two normies want with this?!" the smaller of the two gasped, his green jacket fluttering with the sudden movement showing that he had two anime girls sitting on their knees with one only wearing an open suit and fedora and the other an Italian suit with a cigar in her mouth.

"Did you use normies unironically?" Swimy muttered with disgust.

"You two don't get it clearly!" the larger man snorted, "If you were real fans of Chibi Wakai Gyangu No On'nanoko, you'd understand how rare this pillow this is!"

"Chibi Young Gangster Girls?" Dawn repeated the title, confused.

Both men turned their attention to Dawn. The ponytail man spoke first, "It's an anime where all the famous gangsters are turned into cute little girls! But the modern-day pirate mob boss can't be added because she keeps targeting the animation studio anytime they try!"

"I wonder why?" Swimy rolled their eyes.

"Quiet pipsqueak!" The jacketed man yelled.

"Easy, Kurai," the larger man leaned into Swimy's personal space, "those this one look like Al Capone-chan?"

Kurai blinked then let out a small smile, "She does, Terro! All she has to do is change her hair and-"

"It's 'they' and you stay away from my sibling!" Dawn shouted, pulling Swimy behind them.

"Shut up, pinkie! You have no right to judge since you're cosplaying that Sin idol!" Terro shouted.

"Their boobs are clearly fake! They're such a fake cosplayer she can't even get her most noticeable features!" Kurai pointed out.

Dawn gasped and wrapped her arms around her chest. Swimy leaped forward and practically hissed at the two, "We're taking that pillow and you're going to leave us alone, or else!"

Terro sneered, "Or else what?"

With the snap of their fingers, a bright blue beam of blue particles swirled around Terro's head. He tried to swat them away, but the blue solidified and turned into a dense water bubble around his head that spun like a cyclone. He tried to scream but inhaled a bunch of water instead. Kurai immediately went on the defense and tried the grab hold of Swimy. Dawn, realizing that talking wouldn't be successful here, stepped aside as Swimy leaped backward and willed her hand into a fiery blaze. With a primal scream, she slapped him full force, sending both him and his glasses flying in opposite directions. A bright red handprint was left on his face. A sudden gasp alerted the siblings that the water bubble had burst. Before they could react, Terro was on top of Swimy and trying to hold them down.

"You crazy bitch!" He screamed, trying to land a hit on the smaller person.

Swimy used their free leg to deliver a swift kick to the stomach before headbutting him off them. He groaned in pain and rolled onto his side. Dawn took this opportunity to light her foot ablaze and slam it down right onto his crotch. He howled in pain as his pants and his manhood were burned by the attack.

"Get the Hell out of here before we do worse!" Dawn ordered, readying their fists with Swimy following close behind.

Whimpering, the two took off running, leaving behind Kurai's set of glasses and several clothes that had fallen during the scuffle. Tired, Swimy grabbed hold of the body pillow and trudged towards the register. The cashier trembled as they set it down.

"W-Will that be all?" she stuttered.

"Yeah," Swimy replied bluntly.

The cashier nodded and quickly rung up the pillow. She practically shoved the item into Swimy's arms and nearly dove under the counter. Dawn rested a weary hand on Swimy and sighed.

"C'mon, let's get out of here before the cops arrive. We have a birthday to save,"

---

All Snazz wanted to do was sleep. Not only had they remembered that their birthday was a thing but they had spent the whole night trying to finish commissions in an attempt to forget it again. Even though their body was worn out, their mind was rushing with memories of all the birthdays that were forgotten of the years.

It's like they never cared Snazz thought.

They rolled onto their side for the hundredth time that night, trying to force sleep to come. What they didn't expect was their door to suddenly slam open and a large weight crashing onto their side.

"Oof! What the fuck-!"

"Wake up, sleepyhead! Time to have the best day you've ever had!"

"...Swimy?" Snazz looked up, seeing the smiling face of their youngest sibling looking down on them. They had thick eyebags that hung from under their eyes that balanced out their high amounts of enthusiasm radiating off them.

"Do you know another blue-haired bitch that's related to you? Now come on before I drag you out!" Swimy exclaimed, pulling on Snazz's shirt sleeve.

"I'm still I'm my pajamas and I haven't even showered!" Snazz argued, trying to resist their pulling.

"You also haven't cleaned your room in two weeks but you aren't worried about that!"

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck yourself!"

With the help of both their powers and natural strength, Swimy managed to help drag Snazz out of their bed and made them cover their eyes.

"This is stupid," Snazz grumbled.

"You're stupid but I love you anyway. To the kitchen!" Swimy shoved Snazz forward.

After several near attempts of Snazz crashing into a wall and one toe snubbing, they made it to the kitchen with Snazz less than amused.

"This better be good,"

"It is! Now... Open!"

Snazz did so and gasped. Not only was their favorite pie, chocolate coconut perfectly sat on their rickety table, but a large wrapped present was sitting beside it. Snazz and Sam, wearing their infamous multi-colored gradient mask, stood there with birthday poppers and wide grins.

"SURPRISE! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SNAZZ!" all three siblings shouted, pulling the poppers and sending cheap confetti everywhere. Instead of being excited, Snazz stood there motionless with a blank expression. After a brief pause, Sam leaned over and whispered into Swimy's ear.

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything!" Swimy whispered back.

"Swimy," Sin said sternly.

"I didn't! Honest!"

Sam crossed their arms, "Well why are they-"

Wails exploded from Snazz as fat tears ran down their face. Immediately, all of their siblings rushed over and began to comfort them.

"Is it the pie? Is the pie not good enough?" Swimy asked nervously.

"I made that fucker by hand! It's perfect!" Sam yelled.

"Well if I have to be blamed for something so do you!" Swimy yelled back.

"Was it the poppers? God, I knew they were a bad idea!" Dawn nearly pulled their hair due to stress.

"You wanna go?" Sam snarled.

"Yeah, let's go!" their blue-haired sibling smirked, readying their fists.

Snazz grabbed all three of them and pulled them into a tight hug pile on the floor. Still crying, they managed to choke out a few words.

"I-I'm so happy! Y-You did a-all of this fo-for me!"

"Of course we did! We love you Snazz!" Dawn said, flinching as Snazz began to cry harder.

"C'mon, open the gift!" Swimy said, pulling the present down to the group.

Snazz didn't hesitant into tearing it open. They gasped in shock when they saw what it was.

"Is this my girlfriend? On a... Body pillow?"

"Don't ask how we got her," Dawn butted in.

"I-"

"Don't. Ask."

"I- Alright. Thank you. It's a lovely gift," Snazz said, setting it aside.

"Let's eat the damn pie already. I spent all night working on it so let's put it to good use," Sam said, standing up.

"I'll get the plates!" Sin called over her shoulder.

"Lemme get the forks and knives!" Swimy started to rush over to the drawers.

While the three started to gather everything for their meal, Snazz watched them fondly. They grabbed ahold of their new gift and squeezed it tightly.

Whatever being rules this hell of a universe... Thank you for my siblings... And thank you for this birthday.

[chimericaloutlier]

Yesterday morning at breakfast (I had spent the night with my grandma, after a family reunion) I got into a screaming match with my parents about minimum wage - well, it started there, but it ended with me shouting that Trump is a traitor and a murderer who belongs in prison, so it all went really well. 🙃

As i told twitter,

It's really devastating to feel that the more your parents get to really know you, the less they love and respect you. To realize that they PREFERRED the version of you too scared to talk back, too ignorant and indoctrinated to know better, too passive to assert your own ideas.

They're fundies. They chose to raise me as a fundamentalist christian, and all the pain and terror and trauma of my upbringing was intentional. I really, really, shouldn't be this shocked and heartsick; I knew who they were. I've always known. That's why I've always been afraid.

It's just a gut punch, to have all the final illusions of your parents as good people who could love you unconditionally destroyed. My faith and trust in every other institution of human society has already been eradicated this last year. This was just the last bastion.

I don't know where to go from here. I'm done pretending to be the version of their daughter they can love. They can either choose to love me as I am, or to stop. I can no longer traduce myself and my sense of morals with silent teeth-clenched smiling anymore.

The worst part, though, is that on the car ride home my mom basically told me that i just would never understand the kind of love biological mothers have for their children if I never have my own. That my love for Ian isn’t the same. That she’s actually kind of surprised by how much I love Ian.

there isn’t an adoption tradition in korean culture like, at all. Along with a lot of other factors, the fact is that korean parents just … don’t want to adopt children that aren’t related to them by blood. (This has been changing with the many other cultural mores Korea has borrowed as they've modernized, but it's still an issue.) It’s part of WHY there are so many Korean-American transracial adoptees.  

I told her that if she didn’t want me to love all the people in my life, irrespective of how they are actually related to me by blood or legal ties, then she shouldn’t have had me hanging out with dad’s side of the family so much, with all their permutations of stepparents and step-cousins once removed. Because that’s how I love. 

Then she apologized (sort of?) for not spending as much time and money on Ian as she does on Graeme and Everett. I told her he has plenty of people in his life to love him and give him things, and that if I wanted more from her, I would simply ask for it. That I wanted her and dad to see Ian and spend time with him because he’s a wonderful kid to be around. But that I didn’t expect if of them.

I was kind of numb with shock at the time, which is really, really good in retrospect. I was running the “Make the Person Talking to Me Comfortable and Happy” routine, and it doesn’t even occur to me when processing conversations that way to get angry or confrontational. (I think part of my mistake at breakfast was how tired and out of it I was – I'm really not a morning person at ALL.)

It was only while mulling over it on the drive home that I started to get really angry about it.

What I wish I had told my mother is that I only want people around Ian who can love him freely, and that if she can’t do that, then she shouldn’t bother.

I’m just devastated, and so profoundly disappointed in my parents, that they would choose their racism over their black/biracial grandson, over me. 

But I got the message. I don’t think my parents understood what they were communicating to me: how visible was their contempt, disdain, and disinterest.

I don’t know. I need some distance. I want to be done, to be fucking finished with them. Any possible benefits derived from having a relationship with them can’t be worth either feeling this way, or the unendurable labor of continuing to mask and smile through gritted teeth.

I think trying to get closer to them was a mistake. The impulse I have followed over the last decade, of staying as distant and disaffected as I can by them, was the right one, and I shouldjn’t have tried to ignore it because I wanted their love. At the price it is not worth having.

Right now I just feel numb. I think the rational bits of my brain are trying to prevent me from doing anything irrational. I need counsel, but I need to find a therapist to replace the one I had.

[goldenraeofsun]

the best day with you

Part of this verse!

Dean taps Claire on the shoulder. “You got plans for this weekend?”

Claire twists on their couch to see him and sets aside her laptop. With narrowed eyes full of suspicion, she grabs the remote and mutes Dr. Sexy. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. This is why he became a teacher. To help teenagers. Not to strangle them for sassing him to his face. Sure, Claire might be a sophomore in college now, and she’s not really a teenager anymore, but Dean’s never going to see her as anything but an angsty junior in high school. Especially if she keeps up the this attitude. Dean says, as evenly as he can, “Because I want to do something with you.”

Claire grimaces. “Really? Don’t you have other boring old man friends to do things with? Like, for instance, your boyfriend?”

“No,” Dean says. “Cas is going to visit Gabriel in LA this week.”

“And you chose to stay behind with me instead?” Claire says, her eyebrows rising to her hairline.

“Yes.”

“Are you dying?” 

“What?” Dean gapes. “No!”

Claire squints at him. “Are you hoping I can score drugs for you?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I can get my own drugs, thanks. It’s one of the perks of being a real live adult.”

“Do you need money?”

“If I did,” Dean starts incredulously, “why would I ask a broke college student?”

“I don’t know,” Claire says with a shrug. “Dementia? That kicks in about now for you, right?”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “I’m barely thirty-four!”

Claire shrugs. “Alzheimers?”

“That’s a kind of dementia,” Dean tells her flatly. He runs a hand down his face. “Look, are you free or not, kid?”

Dean is pretty sure she doesn’t have plans, judging by the way she’s religiously camped out on their couch for the past two weeks straight. She's abandoned her spot only to go to the bathroom, eat meals, and, on one memorable occasion, visit her parents for Sunday dinner. The living room her space now - which is fine with him, Dean’s been doing his summer school grading at the kitchen table. Along with her computer, Claire’s got the coding handbook Charlie Frankenstien-ed for her out of a bunch of different documents, probably all downloaded and printed illegally. On the television, she cycles through daytime soaps and CW evening dramas.

Claire grins. “On Saturday or something? Yeah.”

He rolls his eyes. “Was that so hard?”

“No, but it was fun.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a handful?” Dean says as he turns to head back into the kitchen. Lunch wasn’t going to make itself, and Cas was due back any minute from his errands.

“Just my parents, every day from age thirteen to eighteen,” Claire says casually as she reaches for the remote to resume Dr. Sexy.

Dean freezes. “Hey,” he starts, not really sure where he’s going with this.

“What?” Claire snaps as if annoyed, but her face is guarded. 

“Your parents were asshats, you know that?” Dean says. “They shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about family,” Claire mutters as she turns up Dr. Sexy.

In the middle of her junior year of high school, Claire moved in with Cas for about six months.

Early in the year, she had an explosive argument with her parents about transferring from their preferred private school to Edlund High. She also came out to them.

Dean has the sneaking suspicion Claire doesn’t think she had it that bad. Her parents didn’t hit her. They didn’t kick her out. They didn’t even stop giving her her allowance.  But they didn’t talk to her for days on end. They ignored her until she needed something from them, or the other way around. By Christmas, Claire had had enough. She left.

Back then, Dean told Claire her parents were in the wrong as many times as she would let him - which wasn’t many.

Cas took the lead with her, instead. She was his family. He found her a therapist and encouraged her to make friends at Edlund. Dean didn’t really feel like it was his place. She was Cas’s niece, and Dean was the guy who stayed over a couple times a week when she was crashing there too. And then he became her teacher when the transfer to Edlund became official. Still, she wouldn’t consider him family.

“My uncle always said, ‘family don’t end in blood,’” Dean tells her seriously.

Claire slumps back on the couch. “Right,” she says dully.

Dean takes a step back, rubbing his neck as he swallows down his next few words. He’s not about to give a heartfelt lecture on family and healthy boundaries to someone who’s going to grumble and groan through it. He jerks his head towards the kitchen. “I’ll get started on-”

Claire interrupts, “But that’s not grammatically correct. Aren’t you an English teacher? Who gave you a license to teach?”

Dean snorts. “Just think about it, will you?”

“Uh huh,” Claire waves him off. “If you’re going to the kitchen, can you make me a sandwich?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. Cas finished off the strawberry jelly while he was grading essays last night, so you’re gonna have to settle for grape.”

Claire makes a face but nods. Dean’s almost at the kitchen door when she asks, “Your uncle, was he really your uncle?”

Dean shakes his head. “Not by blood. He was a good friend of my dad’s. But he was as good as family - better than, sometimes.” He swallows. Bobby’s been gone two years now. Dean had thought the grief when his dad passed was bad, but it was a whole other beast with Bobby.

Claire squints at him, looking so much like Cas Dean can’t help the warm feeling in his chest. “This is your show, right?” she asks out of the blue, gesturing to the television.

Dean blinks. “Yeah?”

And that’s how Cas finds them ten minutes later, eating PB&Js on the couch, watching Dr. Sexy - with Claire skewering every characterization and costume choice, and Dean defending Dr. Sexy’s cowboy boots with his life.

* * *

“Minigolf, really?” Claire asks as they pull into the parking lot on a bright Saturday afternoon. The early-summer temperatures are already high enough to make Dean sweat in the Impala, and Claire’s shorts could double as bikini bottoms, they’re so small.

She adds, “You realize I have a fake ID and we could probably go to a bar or something.”

“One,” Dean says as he slams the car door shut, “minigolf is a classic American pastime. Much better for your liver than drinking. And B, don’t ever tell Cas about that fake.”

 Claire clambers out of the car. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Just making sure,” Dean says airily as he starts walking. He holds out his hand as she jobs to catch up to him. “Lemme see it.”

“Why?” she asks suspiciously as she digs for her wallet in her purse and fishes the ID out.

“Nice job,” Dean says as he holds it up to the sunlight shining overhead. “Ash?”

Claire stops short, surprised. “What?”

“Did Ash do this one?” Dean asks. “Come on,” he tells her as he nudges her shoulder to keep her moving out of the middle of the parking lot. “Nobody else does ‘em this good.”

“How do you know that?” Claire demands.

Dean laughs. “I told you I can get my own drugs.”

“Ash deals too?” Claire asks, looking hopeful.

Dean leans over to ruffle her hair. “His dope is a little out of your price range, squirt.”

“Hey!” Claire squawks as she tries to smooth everything back into place. “And nobody calls it ‘dope’ any more, you doof.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, I know.”

They enter the main building and get in line to rent the putters. It smells strongly of sunblock and worn down parental patience. A few parents wait ahead of them, all older than Dean with kids younger than Claire. A group of high schoolers are inspecting a row of putters on display on the far wall. Through the windows to the back, Dean can see a splendid display of mostly-intact astroturf and course obstacles with sun-faded paint.

The guy behind the counter is wearing an obnoxiously bright shirt and smile. “Hiya,” he says cheerily as they step up to the counter, “I’m Garth, welcome!”

“Two adults please,” Claire says quickly, like she knows Dean was going to ask for a kid’s ticket to mess with her.

“You got it,” Garth says as he bends down to grab two putters. “The bathrooms are by Hole 7, and if you want to grab lunch across the way at Fenris’s Diner, show them your receipt and you’ll get 15% off.”

Dean steps forward with his wallet. “Do you know if they have pie?”

Garth smiles wider, showing even more teeth, which Dean didn’t think was possible. “You bet! The best darn cherry pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“Awesome,” he says. “Thanks, man.”

“Thank you!” Garth says as he rings them up. “And good luck on the course!”

* * *

Dean is uncomfortably sweaty by Hole 2, and Claire piles her hair on top of her head in a messy bun to cool off her neck halfway through Hole 4.

“Swing batter, batter, swing!” Dean shouts from right behind her as she hits the ball at Hole 6.

Claire glares at him as her ball knocks against the windmill blade and skips off to the side. “That’s for baseball, idiot.”

“But you still missed,” Dean points out as he sidles up to tee. “So does it really matter? Hey!” She kicks him in the ankle as he strikes at the ball. “You cheater,” he gasps dramatically.

“So what?” Claire asks, putter swinging ominously at her side, “You gonna tell on me?”

Dean frowns. “No, but I won't buy you any pie when this is all over.” He keeps his eyes peeled for an opportunity to mess with her as she takes another stab at the windmill.

“Fine with me. I like cake better.”

Dean raises his head to gape at her. “Seriously?”

Claire throws him a funny look. “Does it matter?”

Dean’s mouth works furiously. “You ate the last slice of pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving two years ago.”

Claire’s eyebrows climb to her hairline as she leans against the windmill and watches him take another stab at it. “You remember that?”

Dean hardly watches where his ball goes. “Of course I do.”

Jimmy and Amelia had elected to have Thanksgiving at Cas’s mother’s place. Cas, whose frosty relationship with his mother wasn’t helped by her dismissive attitude towards Claire, hosted a separate Thanksgiving at the (then) new house he shared with Dean. Sam and Jess flew in from California, and Claire was, of course, invited too. They were having a fucking blast, until Claire stole the last slice of pie right out from under Dean’s nose.

Claire snickers under her breath. “You’re so weird.”

Dean glares. “I called dibs.”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about, McMurphy,” Claire says, the liar. She crouches to get a better look at the windmill. 

Dean tries to suppress his smile. “Was that a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest reference?”

Claire rolls her eyes. “I paid attention in your class, you know. Even if you gave me an A-minus.”

Dean grins. “But you got a 5 on the AP Exam.”

Claire does a little jig as her ball falls into the hole. 

* * *

“What the fuck?” Dean howls as his ball stops just short of Hole 9. Parents chaperoning a group of five kids at Hole 10 glare daggers at him.

Claire laughs uproariously. “Sucks to suck, old man.”

“Hey!” Dean glowers as she sinks a hole in one. 

“What’s that?” Claire holds her putter up in victory. “Did you see that? Did that go in the hole? I wasn’t watching. Did the ball go in the hole?”

“Shut up, kid,” Dean grumbles as Claire smirks. “It wasn’t funny the first time.” He concentrates on his next shot. God help him if he fucks up with his ball barely half a foot from the hole.

One of the toddlers at Hole 10 lets out an ear-splitting shriek, and Dean’s ball skips off in the direction of Hole 13.

Claire doubles over laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles as he sidesteps her to go fetch it, “Like you would’ve done any better.”

“I just did. Or did you miss my hole in one?” Claire asks from right behind him.

“I’m hungry,” Dean declares.

“Okay…?” Claire squints at him.

Dean nods to a hotdog stand by Hole 14. “Whaddya say to a dog?”

“Mystery meat at a roadside attraction that hasn’t been renovated since ‘97? Sign me up,” Claire says sarcastically.

Dean claps her on the back, just a shade too hard. “That’s the spirit.”

She stumbles but doesn't fall - exactly Dean’s plan - and glares at him. “If I get E. coli, it’s your fault.”

Once hotdogs are in hand, they sit and eat on a worn bench that’s more chipped paint than bench, facing a dinky little fountain. A few pennies glint dully from at bottom, almost obscured by the bright midday sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water.

“So,” Claire says after she takes her first bite. “You wanna tell me what this is all about?”

“What?”

“This whole distant dad trying to reconnect with his kid routine,” Claire says.

“I - I’m not your dad,” Dean stutters, face heating. 

“Duh. Dad was more of Church retreat guy.” She leans back on the bench, stretching out her legs, and tilts her face up to catch more sun. “I would’ve had a better time if there was no singing and 100% more hitting things.”

Dean asks haltingly, “So you don’t think this is weird?”

“What hanging out with you?” Claire asks, her smile guileless. “I heard elder enrichment is important to prevent cognitive decline, so I’m just doing my duty.” She laughs at his disappointed frown. “Relax. This has been… great.”

“Really?”

Claire finishes off her hotdog and balls up the aluminum foil wrapper. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Dean gets up to put her trash and his in the garbage and manages to stow his broad smile before he gets back.

* * *

“Hole in one!” Dean crows at Hole 15.

“Do you want a gold star?” Claire snarks as she tees up.

“Shut up.”

Claire swings, and they both watch as her ball deftly navigates around the bumps and turns to sink neatly into the hole.

Dean’s smile falls off his face as Claire jumps around in victory. “Lucky shot,” he tells her as they troop to Hole 16.

“Uh huh,” Claire says. “And that makes, what seven lucky shots for me? And how many holes in one have you had?”

At the next hole, they have to wait for the large family ahead of them to finish up.

“Oh my god,” Claire mutters as one of the parents demonstrates how to properly swing the putter for the youngest child, “it’s minigolf. Not the Olympics.”

“I know, right?” Dean says in an undertone. “Who cares how she hits the ball? If she wants to bowl it down the course, let her.”

“Seriously, who gives a fuck?”

“I bet she’s gonna scream before they’re done with the lesson.”

“What?”

“Water works in 5… 4… 3…”

They wait with bated breath as, sure enough, the child sits down in the middle of the course and wails. She refuses to even touch the putter.

“How did you know that was gonna happen?” Claire asks as the family moves on. She eyes him critically. “High schoolers aren’t the tantrum type.”

“Shows what you know,” Dean snorts. No matter the point of spending today with Claire, he wasn’t about to tell her how he became an expert in toddler care. Christ, he can still remember the sticky feeling of Sammy’s vomit all over his front when he cried so hard he puked. Dean’s crime? Telling Sammy his favorite blanket needed to be washed. Dean hadn’t even taken it away yet. 

Dean tells Claire instead, “I’ve seen more meltdowns over bad essay grades than I’d like. And it’s not like I can say, well, you should have read the damn book, Ava.”

“You wouldn’t say something like that,” Claire says as she bends down to set up her ball.

“Of course not,” Dean rolls his eyes, “that makes it worse.”

Claire straightens. “No, I’m saying, you would probably ask her why she didn’t have the time to read the book; if she’s tried the audiobook instead; if you should talk to Mr. Lafitte for her since she spent too long on Algebra and didn’t get to your homework.” She shrugs, meeting his eyes briefly. “You would do something like that.”

Dean blinks because she’s got him exactly right. He’s a firm believer that there’s no such thing as a lazy student. There are unmotivated students; there are students with undiagnosed ADHD or dyslexia; and there are anxious and/or depressed students. Hell, there are students with side-jobs, bills to pay, and little brothers to look after.

“Yeah,” he agrees, discomfited. Claire was his student for one year, but her presence in class was kind of eclipsed by her rocky home life. In senior year, she was back with her parents, but she also caught up regularly with Cas. In class, she faded into the background - Kaia’s blonde shadow. Cas’s stories provided Dean with more insight than any discussion on The Plot Against America ever did.

“All the seniors loved you,” Claire says. “Max Banes would’ve slept with you if he could.”

Dean hits his ball right into the mini sand pit. “What?”

Claire smirks. “You didn’t know?”

“No!”

“Uncle Cas was right, you are oblivious,” Claire says as she whacks her ball straight into the hole.

“Hey,” Dean says, but the protest is weak. “Cas wasn’t much better.”

Claire grins. “No one’s arguing that.” She waits until Dean’s mid-swing to say, “Max would’ve slept with Uncle Cas too - which, gross.”

“Dammit, Claire!”

* * *

“Okay,” Claire says as they walk away from Hole 18. “I’m gonna need to sit in AC for at least forty-five minutes.”

They’ve been out in the sun for nearly two hours now. Dean pulls his damp shirt away from his stomach with a grimace. “You down for pie?”

“Sure,” Claire says gratefully as they leave minigolf behind them.

In the diner, the air conditioning hits them like a bucket of cold water to the face. Claire throws herself into the first both they see as Dean troops off to relieve himself in the bathroom. He checks his phone - one grumpy text from Cas about Gabriel’s inappropriate choice of swimwear for a hotel pool - and exits with a smile on his face.

Back at the booth, Claire is twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger, smiling coyly up at the waitress from lowered lashes. But Claire's inviting expression flips off like a switch as Dean drops down into the opposite seat.

The waitress’ own sunny smile takes on a distinctly plastic sheen at his arrival. “Hello!” she chirps as Dean picks up the menu. “Is there anything I can get you besides water?”

“Can I get a coke?” Dean asks the waitress - Maggie, according to her nametag. She’s tall, probably taller than Claire, and dark-haired. She seems around Claire's own age, so Dean would bet she’s only working here as a summer job.

Claire is still glaring daggers at him, so Dean asks, partly to be a dick, “And what’re you getting, Claire?”

“Water,” she says through gritted teeth.

“A coke and a water, please,” Dean says cheerfully to Maggie. 

She bobs a nod and casts a lingering look at Claire. “I’ll be right back to take your order.”

Claire kicks him under the table as she disappears into the kitchen. “You couldn’t have waited another five minutes?” she hisses “I was just about to get her number.”

Dean grins. “My bad.” 

“Now she thinks I’m here with my dad or something.” Claire crosses her arms across her chest.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You call me an old man, but I’m, what, twelve years older than you? We’re more likely to be on a date.”

Claire’s flat-out horrified face is enough to make Dean’s week. He’s still laughing as Maggie makes a return, one water and one Coca Cola in tow. 

“So what can I get you both?” Maggie asks as she reaches for her pad and pen.

“One slice of cherry pie, thanks,” Dean says brightly.

“Nothing for me,” Claire mumbles.

Maggie looks from Claire to Dean and back again. “One cherry pie,” she confirms slowly. “Should I bring out two forks?”

Over Dean’s fresh bout of laughter, Claire says loudly, “We’re not together!”

Maggie blinks a few times, and Dean can’t tell if she’s more shocked by his reaction or Claire’s. “Okay.”

As she leaves, Claire buries her head in her hands. Her voice is muffled by her hands and hair, but Dean can make out, “This is all your fault.”

“How?” Dean asks as he sucks on his straw. “It’s not my fault if you’ve got no game, kid.”

Claire slumps onto the table. “I used to.”

“Stalking doesn't count as ‘game’ or else Cas and me would have gotten together way before we did,” Dean says sagely.

Still face-down on the table, Claire flips him the bird.

“Have you spoken to Kaia lately?”

Claire doesn’t move for a long moment. When she finally raises her head, her expression is pinched. “Not since Spring Break last year. She was doing good, I guess.”

Awkwardly, Dean says, “It’s okay if you’re still hung up on her.”

Claire waves his assurances away. “It’s been a whole fucking year."

Dean sighs. “These things can take time. You were with her while a lot was going on in your life, and she was there for you through all of it. Just ’cause you're young doesn’t mean it meant less. But if you want to move on, sometimes you don’t have to wait until you’re 100% ready.”

“Thanks, Senpai.”

Maggie approaches carrying a large slice of cherry pie.

“Here you go,” Maggie says as she sets the plate down. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing for me,” Dean butts in before Claire can get a word in edgewise, “But Claire, here, would like your number.”

Maggie goes bright red.

“Dean,” Claire hisses, completely mortified. “What the fuck?” She turns to Maggie. “Forget what he said. He’s a moron who doesn't know what he’s talking about.”

Maggie glances to Dean before settling back on Claire. “So… you don’t want it?”

Claire splutters, “I - no - yes, but not if-” She takes a breath, clearly trying to compose herself. “Yes, I would like your number. But not because he said so.”

“You don’t have to decide now.” Dean fishes out his wallet and takes out a five. “It won’t affect your tip,” he says with a wink as he shoves the bill under the napkin dispenser.

Maggie bites her lip. “I’ll think about it.”

Once Maggie’s left, Claire leans over the table and punches Dean, hard, in the arm. “Oh my god, are you actually braindead?”

“Hey, watch the pie!” Dean yanks his plate closer, out of Claire’s line of fire.

“What on earth possessed you to do that?” Claire demands.

Dean eyes his pie, planning his perfect plan of attack. “You needed a push in the right direction.”

Claire’s eyes flash. “I don’t need your help.”

“Tough luck, because you got it anyway,” Dean says with a shrug as portions off his first bite. “You’re only here for the summer. You don’t have the time to pine from across the softball field for a whole season.”

Claire frowns, saying warily, “I know Maggie isn’t Kaia.”

Dean points his fork, dripping with pie filling at her face. “So you gotta try a new strategy.”

“How?”

“Well, get yourself a capable wingman, for starters,” Dean says around his next bite of pie.

“Who? You?” Claire asks incredulously.

“Probably not,” Dean says, shuddering at the thought. He’d intervened with Maggie because was fucking funny as hell to see Claire get Cas-levels of awkward, but scoping out any more romantic prospects for Claire makes him feel sleazy. “I’m more of a pinch hitter.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t pay attention to a single softball game, did you?” Dean says, almost impressed.

Claire glares.

“They’re the guys called in last minute to fill in for a batter,” Dean says. He shovels the last bit of pie into his mouth, saying, “Did you keep in touch with Krissy?”

Claire shakes her head. “They were all Kaia’s friends first, so…”

“She got them in the divorce?” Dean says sympathetically.

Claire nods, her expression darkening.

“I know she’s back home for the summer too, taking care of her dad,” Dean says. “I bet she could use someone to hang with - if you ever get bored coding from our couch. Data entry for Charlie can’t be that exciting. Don’t tell her I said that.”

Claire rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to set up playdates for me, Dean.”

Dean shrugs. “Suit yourself. But none of Krissy’s other friends are back home - Josephine’s abroad, and the rest of ‘em are staying in their college towns.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Dean nods. That’s probably as good as he’ll ever get with Claire - she’s not the type to gratefully accept help. She’s more likely to complain to his face while going behind his back and doing it anyway. Which, fine, if it gets Claire out of their apartment and out of her funk.

On their way out, Maggie leaves her number on their receipt.

* * *

Claire slams the Impala door shut and relaxes in the passenger seat. “Well that was fun,” she says sarcastically as Dean twists around to pull out of the parking lot without mowing down an unfortunate 1999 Toyota Camry. “Let’s do that again soon.”

“Really?” Dean asks. At her blank stare, he adds, “I never know with you. Did you really have a good time?”

She fiddles with her seatbelt, biting her lip. “I won’t say this again, so cherish this moment: today was not the worst day I’ve ever had.” She huffs out a long breath. “It was almost fun, if you forget that shit in the diner.”

Dean laughs. “I’ll take it, I guess.” He taps his fingers against the wheel as he waits for an opening in traffic to merge onto the highway. “I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Claire mutters, so low he can barely hear her.

Dean lets the noise of the road take over for a few minutes: the reassuring rattling of the toy soldiers in the back air vent; his baby’s engine purring like a dream; the low ambient hum of her tires carrying them across miles of pavement.

Once he’s as calm as he’s gonna get, he says, “I have a question for you.”

Claire shoots him a look. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Dean shouldn’t have bothered asking. She really is incapable of being anything other than a teenager. 

“I’m thinking of asking Cas to marry me,” Dean says quickly. As Claire absorbs his words, his heart kicks up to double-time, hammering away in his chest. “Would you be okay with that?” 

“Why are you asking me?” Her eyebrows are drawn together in that same furrow that Cas always has whenever a student stumps him with a question. 

“Because you’re his family.” He’s honestly surprised he has to say this part out loud.

“Shouldn’t you be asking Grandmother instead?” Claire asks.

Dean shakes his head. “Cas doesn’t care about her opinion - or Jimmy’s.”

Claire takes another long moment to think that over. “So… are you, what, asking my permission?”

“Yep.”

“To marry my uncle.”

Dean shoots her a look. “I really don’t think the concept is that hard to understand.” Claire’s a smart kid. She’s probably drawing it out on purpose.

“Yeah, but -” Claire breaks off, “It’s weird, though.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You literally called me a weird old man yesterday.”

“But… not this weird.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Claire,” Dean reminds her testily.

Claire waves him off. “I mean, yes, obviously, but what the hell?” Her eyes narrow, accusatory. “Is this why you made me do this weird bonding thing with you today?”

“I -” Dean stutters. “I didn’t make you-”

“It is!” Claire crows. “Were you thinking about it for all 18 holes?”

“No,” Dean says shortly.

“I don’t believe you.” Claire grins. “Were you nervous?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I’m calling BS again. You gotta work on that poker face.” She sits back in her seat, her smugness practically radiating off her in waves. 

Dean has the strangest urge to hug her.

Claire lets her hair fall over her face as she picks at her nails. “Just so you know,” she starts in an undertone, “I know it was you who convinced Uncle Cas to take me in. Back in high school.”

“Cas wanted to be there for you,” Dean says quickly, “He just didn’t know how. Honestly,” he says with a laugh, “Cas was scared he’d piss you off more, and then where would you go?”

“Really?” Claire asks, surprised.

Dean nods. “The guy is a great teacher, but he’s not great with kids if there isn’t a desk between them, you know? He's been working on it, though. Having you around taught him a lot.”

“That makes sense,” Claire says, almost to herself. “Anyway, I’ve only really known Uncle Cas while you were together. It’d be more weird if you didn’t get married.”

Dean doesn’t bother turning on the turn signal as he pulls over to the side of the road.

“What the-?” Claire starts, twisting in her seat to look out the window. “Why’d you - oof.”

Dean wraps his arms around her, squeezing tightly.

“Ugh,” she groans, “You smell.” But she hugs him back anyway.

[gunmetal-magnus]

And what if I can’t?  What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

As I stare out my apartment window and watch the drizzling sky, I’m drawn to the subtle gradient of yellow.  Clouds coasting through the sky, gray yet without dismay.  And the sun?  The sun will live to break another day, that I am confident in.  I only wish I were so confident in myself.

....

Life is strange.  Mine in particular looks like it might be going in a good direction.  I’ve been getting interviews for jobs and as someone who’s spent their fair share of time hopelessly unemployed and depressed, not knowing what to do with themselves (besides salsaing with suicide ideation), I should be elated about any progress.  I wish I could say that I am or even that I was but that wouldn’t be accurate.  The truth is that I’m a harrowing hailstorm of things - surprisedsleepybusycuriousthankfuloptimisticexposedhorrifiedcriticalnervousanxiousinsecurepressuredtired - it’s all a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?

Knocking on the looming doors of success, I find myself feeling the crushing weight of my expectations.  The walls are a deafening white with not a texture or pattern in sight.  If you try to touch them they ripple like water.  There are no windows for me to peer through.  Fog creeps around me like a cheetah stalking its prey.  It’s so thick you could choke on it.  Success is...scary.

I know I know, that sounds a ridiculous thing to say, shouldn’t I be more afraid of failing?  Welllll...no.  You see, the weight I mentioned earlier was not merely crushing, it was also comforting.  Over time failure became familiar and eventually, my friend.  I got used to failure as the status quo, smothered in its cosy embrace and the threat of change, of combing out of this embrace into the chilling embrace of uncertainty, of becoming someone worthy of their success - it’s unfamiliar, it’s scary.  But just what is so comforting about not achieving your goals - about not getting what you really want?  For me it’s because of one paralyzing question: And what if I can’t?  What if I’m not worthy of my ideals?

“But…I’m…I’m just a soldier, I-I’m not worthy.”

It’s a terrifying prospect that I could give something my all and find that I just couldn’t do it.  I don’t want to be saying “I did my best and it wasn’t good enough,” because what I may mean is “I wasn’t good enough.  I don’t have the power.”  But that’s exactly the point!  I do have the power and if that is true then I have to come to terms with my responsibility to that power - that it’s up to me to use that power because when you can do the things that you can do...and then the bad things happen...they happen because of you.  I don’t want that burden so it’s easier to cast it off and reinvent the narrative by claiming powerlessness.  It’s easier to identify as a fraud and be done with it, to say to myself “men like me should’ve never dared to believe.”

Haha…paradoxically in our journey to discover our own power we discover just how little power we hold, that our only power is in ourselves.  Time and how bound we are to what we know at present, our surrounding circumstances, and the fact that we’re only people who can only do people things - these serve to remind us that the power of what we control and free will are only so vast.  It’s strange - you are responsible for how you use your power but not the outcome because you’re not omnipotent.  Bad things don’t always happen because of you.  Sometimes they just happen.  Sometimes things in general...just happen.

Let’s say I achieve success, what then?  The pressure to maintain is immense and to exceed - it’s even more so.  Who perpetuates this pressure?  For many of us it’s society but the greater threat lies within the darkness of our own hearts.  The societal gaze is nothing without validation and that validation comes from our self-worth and how grossly entangely that is with achieving success.  There is an expectation of linearity and escalation in progress, if you get good grades you’re expected to keep getting good grades and then some, so it’s shocking and disappointing when you don't.  People wonder how that could’ve happened, you wonder how it could’ve happened, you start to doubt yourself...should you though?  Writer and retired athlete Christopher Bergland challenges the expectation of linearity in success and explained in a conversation with his daughter, “I learned as an athlete that in order to succeed and become the best that I could be, I had to fail again and again—but always keep trying. Inevitably, every time I raised the bar, and took on a new athletic challenge, I would have to fail first in order to ultimately succeed and break a record." He embraced failure as part of the ebb and flow, it was part of success.  To him, failure was no reason for doubt.  So why should it be for me?  I don’t know, because life’s not that simple I suppose?  Identifying as unworthy and fraudulent, these are not easy to shake.  Negative self-identity manifests itself in habitual self-sabotage.  Worrying about how we align with our perceptions of ourselves, procrastination via instant gratification distractions like Instagram scrolling and going back on our promises such as taking that drink we know we shouldn’t become commonplace - habitual and they will take habitual work to undo them.

Even so, is this really just about the burden of ideals?  Perhaps not.  Susanne Babbel writes in her article “Fear of Success'' that the physiological reactions to trauma and excitement over success are similar - too similar. “When we experience a traumatic event — such as a car accident or a school bullying incident — our body associates the fear we experience with the same physiological feelings we get while excited.”  Heart tensions, shortness of breath, quivering and more - they are triggered in me by both stimuli and my body cares not for the messenger, only the message and that message is “be afraid.”  

if I’m responding to excitement as if it were trauma, the question is what is my trauma?  

…

Babbel mentions that throughout our lives, we may be made to feel less than, “many of us — especially if we've been subject to verbal abuse — have been told we were losers our whole lives, in one way or another. We have internalized that feedback and feel that we don't deserve success.”  I knew someone who made me feel like this, I called her my mum.  I spent a lifetime being told by her in one way or another that I wasn’t good enough.  I remember being dragged into the unlit attic by her for losing a crayon as a child, I remember being shouted at for getting some mediocre grades in junior high school - being told that I better do better, I remember being told that she had given up hope on me - I remember, all of it.  We don’t talk anymore - except we do.  I internalised her voice and I made it my own, I began to identify with failure.  I have an excerpt from an old journal entry that illustrates this identity crisis all too well.

                                                                                                                               5.11.20

“Sometimes I really wonder

If it’s better

To be a 

Fuckup

Than a Success

Without

The Interesting Mess.

...Why do I have to compromise the things that make me who I am to be happy?...Why can’t I have my misery?...I hate doing the right thing...Maybe I like being a failure, a mess, a no man’s man.”

By this time I had long since left home but you can’t outrun your demons, only challenge them.  I have only begun to unravel this voice due the therapy I have recently completed and am fighting this battle every day.  Sometimes I lose and they gain territory.  Other times I manage to reclaim it and even add more.  It’s an endless battle.

And yet, the voice of Failure clings to me like some foul smog.  Since he doesn’t want to let me try and fall, he’ll say, “It’s comfortable here.  Flounder into the fondue of failure, it’s what you know - it suits you.  What precisely is so wrong with failure in the first place?”

…

It’s a good question.  In an ideal world, the answer may be, “nothing in particular,” because I don’t need to succeed to be valid - do the people you love need to be successful for you to love them?  I should hope not.  However, it is not so simple for me to love myself.  Failure will cost me something more than money and a career.  The price of failure is stagnation, embracing the non-linearity of progress and I hate that.  I’m grossly impatient and want to move forward with my life, not wallow in the depths of Misery Mires.  I’ve been stuck here all my life and I’ve just begun the journey out of here.  Failure, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t suit me as well as you think.  I must change sometime because I don’t want to die in the claws of the demons from which I was born.

I can’t stay in my comfort zone.  Yet I can - I’d even quite like to.  Why?  Because...because...deep down I’m still reconciling with the idea that I’m worthy, that I’m worthy of living a life worth living, that I can be what I say I am without fear that it’s all a lie and always will be.  The only way for me to challenge such a belief is to fly in the face of it - to say that “I am worthy” and to act like I mean it, whatever that means - I don’t quite know yet.  My therapist and I agreed that this would be a long road and that ideals are nothing without practice.  I guess all I can do now is drive…

“If you aren’t worthy, you’ll keep trying until you are.”   In order for me to be worthy of my ideals, I first need to believe that I even have a shot.  Beyond that, I need to believe that I deserve to take it. Being worthy means recognising my power to change and the responsibility to act that  comes with that.  Simultaneously, my power is not all-controlling as I am only a person.  Success isn’t linear and failure is a part of that.  However the burden of trauma is heavy.  The self-sabatory habits I picked up from that will require me to reinvent my self-identity and in turn deconstruct those habits.   Lastly and perhaps most importantly, I need to be willing to give the process time.  Can I?  Haha! - s-sure, why not?

Perhaps one day I will find myself staring out into the sky - maybe it’s drizzling, maybe it’s not.  Maybe through an apartment window, maybe in a lush field as the gentle breeze brushes by.  The clouds are coasting by as they always have, slowly but surely.  What colour are they?  Who cares, I don’t even know what colour the sky will be.  Maybe it’s illuminated with a lovely peach pink that reaches out and touches the heart of my inner romantic.   Maybe it’s an apocalyptic red that leaves you weak in the knees - the possibilities are endless but it doesn’t matter - it doesn’t matter what may be.  What matters is what will be and 

I will be watching.

I’ll say I’m worthy and

I will mean it.

I don’t know yet know how

But I will

Because that’s what I’ve decided.

[221castiel]

“Castiel,”

“I would begin by saying I love you, but that wouldn’t be enough. I love you you can say to anything, or anyone, what I feel for you is so much more. What I feel for you is every happy moment, every single sunset, and cloud watch. What I feel for you is the good moments, but not just the ones like Christmas, the small things, the grass against our feet, the smell of fresh rain, the colour of your eyes. Everything you’ve helped me through, and taught me. I love you is not enough, but for now it will have to do.”

“Castiel Novak, would you give me the honor, for more moments, more memories, and the time to find the proper wording, by marrying me?”

Dean opened the small velvet box raising it as he did so. He kept it raised for another second before closing the box, letting his arms fall back to his side, “what did you think? Would you have said yes?” Dean asked the man behind the counter who looked back with what Dean could only describe as utter exhaustion. “Maybe I should try again with the silver one, you know with the huge fucking diamond.”

“No!” The man quickly cried. “I think the one you have is perfect, and even after hearing it three times I think your speech is also perfect. Now shall I ring you up?”

Dean nodded. He reopened the small box, starting at the ring inside. It was gorgeous, the band a shiny silver, with a black strip across the middle, and in the center a dark blue gem. Matching the velvet it sat on. He knew it was the one, but even still he had the smallest feeling of uncertainty. Maybe it was too simple. Maybe Cas would prefer a diamond, or at least a bigger gem.

“Do you think it’s expensive enough?” Dean asked looking back to the jewler.

“You are aware it’s five thousand dollars?”

“Yah, but my boyfriend comes from a rich family, maybe I should go for a seven thousand one? I heard that's the average price for New York.”

The man raised an eyebrow, as he looked Dean up and down, Dean’s own gaze dropping down his body, to the old t-shirt and faded jeans he wore. “I don’t know your boyfriend, but I have reasons to believe price isn’t his biggest concern,” he paused, finally stopping his judging look and giving Dean a forced smile. “And that you should be putting your money in other aspects of your life.”

Dean only gave a nod in understanding, instead looking back to the ring, the smallest smile on his lips. The gem was the same shade as Castiel’s eyes, the black almost the same shade as his hair, it was so perfect the ring could’ve been made for him.

Dean looked back to the seller, the smile not dropping from his face, “I think I wanna try the first one again.”

~~~

Slowly Dean crouched to one knee, raising the opened box. The cold night wind blew, and for a second all he could think about was how he wished he hadn’t left his jacket in the car, his fingers already numb.

“Angel.”

“From the day I met you, you were different. You were kind and patient, and you loved everything so much. And you had me amazed. I couldn't understand how you could do it, find the good in everyone and everything, you made games out of traffic jams, and brought homeless people for lunch, even when I told you not to. But you never cared what others thought, or said, and you loved with every inch of your being. I never thought I could have that, but when I’m with you, I do. I love you with everything I have, and everything I am.”

“Castiel Novak, would you please make me the happiest man on earth, and marry me?”

“Of course!” Charlie cried, throwing herself into Dean’s arms, the moment he had stood, it didn’t stop the nerves. Her cheery smile, the adorance she had for the date Dean planned, despite it all his heart still hammered. He was going to mess up, when he had to do it for real, he knew it. “Dean, that was beautiful. I’m so happy for you two!”

“He hasn’t said yes yet.”

“Which he will. If you ask,” Charlie replied. She stepped away looking up with an obviously disapproving look, though with her red hair messy, strands falling in her face, it wasn’t nearly as intimidating. “You are going to ask him soon? Right?”

Dean took a hesitant breath. , he knew Charlie was right, it had been over a month since he had bought the ring, but the timing never seemed right. Something always went wrong whether it was the weather or or car problems, things just couldn’t be perfect. “I’ve tried to, I just- I just want everything to be perfect, you know? What if he doesn’t even say yes?”

“Dean.” He nodded his gaze never leaving Charlies, though every inch of him screamed to run. “he’s going to say yes. I have no doubt in my mind, just ask him tomorrow you’re going to drive yourself crazy waiting.”

“Fine. Tomorrow.”

~~~

“Dean, this is weird.”

“Just shut up.”

Slowly Dean crouched to his knee, raising the box, and opening it. “Castiel-” Dean began though as he looked up to Sam, he could only sigh, letting his arms fall back to his side. “You’re right this is weird.”

Instead of standing Dean sat, his gaze staying locked on the ring, the blue gem seeming to mock him. Even as Sam sat next to him, Dean continued to stare, studying each inch of the ring, every single detail, no matter how small. Did he even choose the right ring, how was he even supposed to propose if he didn’t.

“How many times have you practised?” Sam asked

Dean shrugged, he slowly looked up from the ring and to the park that spread out in front of them, it was quite, something unusual for New York. It would've been the perfect night to ask Castiel, if only he wasn’t such a coward. “To another person? Cause I can’t even count all the showers.”

“I really don’t want to know what you do in the shower.”

The smallest smile tugged at Dean’s lips. “Want to hear what me and Cas do in the shower?”

“Dude!” Sam cried. “I don’t want hear about your sex life!”

“I was going to say talk about our favourite dog breeds, but if your head’s that far in the gutter.”

“I hate you.”

A small laugh parted his lips as Dean looked to his brother, who sat to his left. “Did you like the date?” He asked, getting a nod. “Did you think it was enough? Or should we do something else as well? Go to the movies? Maybe a ball? Are those still things?”

“Dean it’s Cas.”

“Really? I had no Idea!” Dean cried sarcastically, which caused Sam to roll his eyes.

“Even I know he would prefer something small.”

Dean sighed, he dragged his hands down his face. His brother was right, no matter how much Dean wished he wasn’t. “I know, I'm just.” Dean let out a shaken breath, “what if i'm not enough? His family already hates me, I'm broke, on the verge of being homeless every second week.”

“what if he realizes he can do better?”

There was a moment of silence as Sam didn't speak, his eyes only wondering across Dean. This was the first time those words had left Dean’s mouth, the thought that had been spinning though his head since him and Cas had been dating. He wasn’t good enough, it will only take a matter of time before Cas realizes it.

Dean wasn’t good enough, and it terrified him.

“You’ve slept with his sister.”

“Thank you,” Dean cried, not caring to hide the anger that was so clear in his voice. “Thank you so fuckin’ much doctor Phil.”

“Let me finish,” Sam snapped back, for once Dean listening, holding back his sarcastic comments.

“You’ve slept with his sister, you’ve gone through debt, and therapists, and you’ve pushed him away, and torn yourself apart.” Was this supposed to be a pep talk, Dean wasn’t sure. It definitely didn’t feel like it. “Dean, he’s seen you at rock bottom, and he’s still with you, because he loves you and nothing is going to change that, He’s going to love how ever you propose, not because of how big the proposal is, or how pricey the ring is, but because it’s from you. Could you get that through your thick skull”

Dean looked back to the ring. He could see it on the other’s finger perfectly, it would look beautiful against his tanned skin. “I'm going to ask him this weekend.”

~~~

“AND THEN, THERE WAS A FUCKING RING IN HIS CHAMPAGNE!” Dean screamed, “WHAT SON OF A BITCH PROPOSES IN CHAMPAGNE?”

“It ended up being for the table next to you. Then because you’re an idiot you told Cas that you think marriage is stupid, usless, and gouverment propaganda-” Sam paused, “I don’t think you know what propaganda means.”

Dean glanced at his brother then back to the road, “I’ve told you this already?”

“At least twenty three times, and it’s only been a week.” Sam replied, “when was the last time you’ve seen him?”

“Well it’s been a week since the ring incident, so a week.”

A sigh came from his right, though this time Dean didn’t turn his head, instead continuing to watch the road. He could drive the route in his sleep, though Dean preferred the familiar scenery over his brother’s disapproving looks. Sam had insisted he needed a book from Castiel’s apartment, and that Dean had to drive him, which was absolute bullshit.

Sam knew where Cas lived

He had his own car.

Dean guessed Sam was just done watching him mope around.

The rest of the drive was done in silence, until they pulled up to Castiel's apartment building, a tall expensive one at least triple the size of Dean’s own, when Sam pulled out his phone. “Shit,” he cried, sliding unlock, “I missed a call from work could you grab the book for me?”

“Fine,” Dean mumbled.

He pushed open the drivers door, making sure to give Sam one last glare before he got out. “Fuckin’ idiot.” Dean continued to complain as he walked to the building's front door, typing in the code before he pushed open the front door, and stepped into the main entrance.

His annoyance didn’t falter, as he took the elevator up to Cas’s floor, and then made his way down the hallway. He missed the other, but he didn’t want to see Cas. He didn’t want to be reminded of the ring that burned in his pocket, or of his failure to propose. He didn’t want to be reminded of his fears.

Frankly all Dean wanted was to lay in his bed, and listen to sad Led Zeppelin songs.

“Who even reads fuckin books,” Dean grumbled, unlocking Cas’s door. As he pushed open the door Dean’s mouth opened to yell a greeting, though as quickly as his mouth opened, it was shut again, his breath hitching in his throat at the scene in front of him.

Roses, candles, Cas. On one knee. A box raised. Ring rested in the centre.

Cas proposing.

Shit.

Dean lips parted only to close seconds later, then open once again, the words never seeming to come. He could only focus on the hammering of his heart, and Cas. Cas proposing.

Cas was proposing.

Cas was proposing to him.

Shit he really needed to say something.

“Well fuck me,” Dean finally whispered, the smallest smile spreading across the others face.

“Hello Dean.”

“Cas-“ he didn’t know what he wanted to say, he wasn’t even sure if it was truly happening as he hesitantly walked towards the other, vision seeming to blur worse with each step. He was going to cry. He didn’t care. “Cas-“

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel began in his usual steady voice. That was all it took before the tears began rolling down Dean’s face, a hand going to his mouth to stop the sobs that he knew would be quick to follow. “There are billions of people in this world, there are endless possibilities, and I understand that you don’t believe in faith, despite that we somehow came together.”

Cas paused for a moment, his blue eyes staring up, wide and hazy. Cas was proposing. Cas was proposing.

Was Dean breathing? He wasn’t sure.

“We were not destined to be together.”

“It was not faith that had brought us together.”

“It was our choice.”

“We chose to be together, through every day, through every fight, through every impossible battle. We choose each other.”

“Dean, would you please do me the honor of choosing me again?”

Dean could only nod frantically as tears fell from his eyes, a choked sob passing his lips. “I-” Dean began using one hand to wipe away the tears as Cas stood, and took his other to slide the ring on. “I love you so fuckin’ much.”

“I love you as well.”

Dean stepped forward pulling his fiance into a tight hug. He rested his chin against Cas’s shoulder as the other wrapped his arms around Dean in a just as tight hug. For a moment he couldn’t speak, a mix of emotion twisting his stomach, his heart hammering frantically in his chest.

Through it all only one thought stayed clear in his mind, Cas proposed to him.

Cas proposed.

“I was going to.” Dean explained as he pulled away, his gaze darting across the other’s features. His blue eyes, his tanned skin, dark hair. God he was stunning. Dean could stare forever. “Propose I mean, but you know things weren’t working, and It just never seemed to be the right time, and-”

“Sam had told me,” Cas said, interrupting Dean’s rambling much to his relief.

Dean didn’t reply, his gaze staying locked on the other. They were so close, they were always so close, though for once Dean finally looked away, and instead down to the ring on his finger. It was a shiny silver one, with a diamond in the centre, adn small ones lining the band. It was gorgeous, Dean couldn’t stop staring, or the smile that spread across his face.

He couldn’t even find it in him to be angry at Sam.

“Yes,” Cas suddenly said, Dean’s gaze darting from the ring and back to the other, a small frown grazing his lips

“What?”

“Yes,” Cas repeated, “My answer to your proposal is yes. I will marry you.”

Dean grinned, his gaze once again locked on the other. “I love you so fuckin’ much.”

[enkelimagnus]

Raised Jewish

Bucky Barnes Gen, 2709 words, rated M for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky's therapy session with Dr Raynor takes a turn for the worse when Raynor starts asking him about his identity.

TW: queer used as a slur, mention of Bucky's 1945 "death", Raynor being the worst therapist

Read on AO3

Part 5 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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

Dr Raynor isn’t nice.

She’s not kind, or sweet. She doesn’t speak the way Sam does when he’s trying to figure out if Bucky’s okay. She’s harsher, more commanding. She seems more used to orders than to niceties, and so is he.

Yet, he can’t stand it.

He can’t stand her. He can’t stand the way she looks at him, with her notebook and her pencil clicking. He can’t stand her questions, and the fact she knows everything he’s talking about. She has access to all his files, the Hydra ones, the Army ones, everything. She knows everything about him.

Why is she asking all these questions? Why is she even pretending to give a fuck? She’s here for a paycheck, and he’s here because he has to be. He suffers through this shit because he doesn’t want to go back to prison.

He spent one month in the Raft after Stark’s funeral. They put him in custody the day after Steve left, and he was there until his trial. It was hell. Claustrophobic and silent and… he has to breathe in deeply whenever he thinks about the absolute despair of that month.

The whole prison smelled like seawater and cleaning products, there was a heavy, unmistakably nefarious bracelet around his left wrist, and the cell was too small. Way too small.

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to chase the phantom of the Raft’s smell from his nostrils. He gets drying flowers and washed out perfume instead, coming from the vase on the table by Dr Raynor’s chair and from the woman herself. It’s not unpleasant, as far as smells go.

He’s stopped paying attention for a moment, and when his eyes refocus, she’s staring at him with that pinched look that says she’s expecting him to explain what he was thinking about, what pulled him from the session and made him lose focus. She hates when he’s not focused.

He sets his jaw and shifts his fingers in his gloves, hearing leather creak over his left knuckles, and stares right back at her, silent. He doesn’t like talking to her about the things in his head. He’s fought for them too long and too hard to give them to the first person he’s told to give them to.

She’s the closest to a handler he’s had since Colonel Helmut Zemo in Berlin. Or, as he introduced himself back then, Doctor Theo Broussard. What is it with Bucky and shrinks?

“I see our usual conversation isn’t enough to keep your attention, James,” she says. It feels like a reprimand. She says ‘James’ the way handlers said ‘Soldier’. Like it’s a threat.

He stays stubbornly silent. He’s always been the stubborn kind. Hard to get through, hard to break. Much stronger people than Dr Christina Raynor have attempted to break their way into his mind. They had to torture him to do so.

“Let’s change subjects then,” she nods, and pulls her notebook out. Bucky wants to scream. It’s not red, but it feels red.

“I think it’s time we dive deeper into your identity.”

Alarm bells go off in his mind and he freezes. Your identity . What is she referring to? What does she know? There are things that Bucky prays aren’t in the files. Things he never wants anyone to ever find out, especially her. Old instinctual fears of teenagehood suddenly rise and the leather creaks harder, the sound mixing with the wiring noises of the arm. It’s a quiet threat wrapped in a sound, like a wolf’s warning growl.

“Please remember to control yourself, James.”

She’s so very good at reminding him he’s only free because she wants him to be. The second he shows any sort of aggression, he’ll be put back in that tiny cell, with that bracelet and won’t see the sun for the rest of his overly long life. He knows it. He can feel it.

His obedience is part of the deal he made with the government. He has to comply with their demands. And that includes humoring Dr Raynor.

“What do you want to dive into?” He asks, letting his irritation obviously show. She can’t take that from him. He will comply, but fuck them if they believe he’ll do it without attitude.

If she starts asking about his relationships and Steve, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He can’t escape. He’s trapped in this room, with this woman, until she decides that their session is over. This is the price of his freedom.

He can’t tell her, or anyone, about Steve. He can’t do that to him, to his name, to his legacy. He just can’t stain him this way. It’s the kind of secret that has to die with him. Captain America can’t be a queer.

He forces himself to stay still, to not let nervous motions betray his emotional state, and he just waits to see what Dr Raynor knows. The other shoe will drop. He’s just trying to prepare for it.

She drums her pencil against the side of the horrible notebook and exhales through her nose, obviously irritated by his attitude. He just stares back at her.

“I’ve read your files, James,” Dr Raynor starts, the way she does so often. “And you’ve mentioned the word shul some time ago. I’m guessing you did not use it to mean school. You don’t have German ancestry.”

Bucky relaxes a little at that. Alright, it’s not about Steve. He silently thanks anyone who might be listening.

“My mother spoke a little German,” he replies conversationally. From what he remembers, it was only bits and pieces, picked up from growing up in a large city. It was probably mostly Yiddish.

“You were raised Jewish.”

Bucky can’t help the full body shift at that. He bristles. It feels like an attack, like an accusation. It feels ugly and menacing coming from that woman who knows too much. It feels disgusting in her mouth.

What does she want him to answer to that? What does she want from him?

He knows he’s not much of a Jew anymore. He knows what he’s done is too much, too ugly, too against everything he was ever taught. He was taught to save lives even if it breaks religious rules, to take care of people, to be kind and helpful and make sure to do good in the world and all he’ll ever be remembered for is ugly disgusting acts of horror.

He knows all of what he was raised to be is gone. He’s pretty sure it was gone the instant his hand slid on the train railing and he felt himself pulled down by gravity.

That moment where he saw the horror and anguish written all over Steve’s beautiful face. That moment where he knew he’d never see his mother again. His sisters. That moment he screamed in fear but tried to drink in Steve’s face for the last time. As if it could make it less terrifying and painful and lonely.

There was too much time during the fall. Too much time for him to think and feel. I’m going to die alone. He’d wanted to die old with his loved ones or the Chevra Kadisha with him. No one’s supposed to die alone.

The pain had been blinding. Some nights, he can hear his own wails again. Life and death have that in common. The screams.

“James.” Dr Raynor’s voice snaps him back to the present and she still looks pissed at him.

Bucky exhales and his breath is shaky. Panic curls into his bones. He can feel something inside of him tremble and he looks at the window. He could jump through it. Escape it that way. There are no bars on the window, it’s just glass, and it’s only two levels high. It’s doable, easy even. It won’t hurt that badly. He inhales, deep. Ayo taught him that one. Breathing. Focus on your body rather than on the storm in your mind, White Wolf.  

He focuses on his body, but mostly on Ayo. The memory of her is strong and firm in his mind, in the same way she talks and walks. Ayo’s eyes always have weight. The kind of weight - smothering or comforting - depend on how he behaves. He’s trying to be good. He’s trying to be good for Wakanda, for Ayo, and for Princess Shuri and for King T’Challa.

Dr Raynor should be the one helping him, not the memory of Ayo.

He calms down, eventually, and sighs deeply, closing his eyes for a second. There’s a clock ticking loudly. It’s a wonderful sort of noise for him in this moment. It’s rhythmic and predictable.

“I was,” Bucky replies to Raynor’s earlier comment. He was raised Jewish.

In all truth, he was born Jewish more than he was raised Jewish. At least that’s what his father would say. That he was born into a legacy, born into a community. Born to sing songs in age-old tongues. Born with knowledge and strength in his soul.

He hasn’t thought about those words in years.

“You don’t talk about it.”

Why would he? There’s nothing to say. Words and experiences that he’s half-forgotten over the time, that he doesn’t have anyone to share with anymore. Community and family were such important parts of every ritual, and now he’s alone. Completely and utterly alone.

“There’s nothing to say,” he says out loud.

Raynor crosses her legs and leans back in her seat, watching him. “I would expect there’s a lot. You worked for an organisation that was born from Hitler’s government. You spent seventy years furthering nazi ideology and agenda.”

Bucky wants to scream. It’s salt in an open wound. It’s violent. He closes his eyes and tries to keep his cool. He can’t lose it here. He has work to do still, amends to make still, in the free world, and he is so desperate to stay out of prison.

“I know,” he replies. His voice is so tight it might break any second.

He knows. He’s very intimately aware of what he did, what it meant, who he was for seventy godforsaken years. He’s aware that it means he can’t possibly claim that part of his life back. He can’t be a Jew anymore. Not after being a Nazi agent for so long.

Even if he wasn’t actually one, even if he had no choice. He killed people and said ‘Hail Hydra’ and made the world a worse place every day of his existence. His actions are why fascism has such a prominent place in today’s political landscape. He’s responsible for it, for putting people in power, for killing good people. It’s on him. It isn’t his fault. It’s still on him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells Dr Raynor, and now his voice is quiet. “Not to you. Not to anyone. Ever.”

How can this part of his life possibly be of interest to the government? Do they think his jewish upbringing means he’s less likely to go back to Hydra and their neo-nazi friends? Do they see him reclaiming that part of his identity one more reason to keep him free? Is it a ploy? Is this going to be used against him, again? Can’t he have one thing in his life that isn’t used by someone else for their gain?

“It could be a way for you to form connections.” As if she gives a flying fuck if he has friends and family. As long as he doesn’t start killing people, comes to his appointments and does whatever the government tells him like a good fucking dog, he can pretty much go fuck himself.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this angry with her before.

How dare she touch this part of his life? How dare she prod him about it, let him know she knows? How dare she take that one thing that no one has been able to touch before?

Even Hydra didn’t know.

They never asked, his dog tags had P on them, and there are a lot of other Americans that were circumcised. They didn’t know.

But she does. The US government does. And he can’t have it be his secret anymore.

“Stop,” he asks, louder than he expected. “Stop, I said no.”

As if that has ever stopped anyone. As if those words have ever brought him anything but renewed suffering.

He doesn’t see her anymore. His eyes are open but he can’t see anything, and he’s panicking and he wants to run so far away. He wants to leave Brooklyn, and leave the US, and disappear and never come back. Fuck his pardon, fuck Sam, fuck everything and everyone, and he can go back to living in Romania and having no name and no handlers and no one.

He stands up suddenly and she flinches. She’s scared of him. Of course she is.

“The session’s not over,” Raynor tells him quietly, calmly, despite her earlier flinch. “Sit back down.”

“No,” he bites back.

He’s trapped, and he can’t actually leave because they’ll put him in prison for it, and he can’t do anything but stand there and shake with barely controlled emotion and try to wait it out. But he doesn’t have to take her orders, and he doesn’t have to be happy about it, all he has to do is be here and answer with more than a grunt.

He can say no. She can’t make him sit down. She’s not strong enough. Physically, anyway.

It takes on average three expertly-trained soldiers to take him down, and that’s when he’s half-starved and in pain. He’s been eating well, he’s clear of any sedative, and he’s not in physical pain. There is no way she can take him down, unless she has a gun. But in this room, if she makes a move for a gun; he’ll snap her wrist before she manages to touch it. She can’t do shit.

“Alright then,” she nods.

He narrows his eyes. She should be mad at him.

She looks down at her notebook and back at him. He stares at her, glares at her, trying to convey that if she starts writing in that fucking book, shit is going to happen. So she doesn’t.

“Why is this upsetting to you?” She asks him, back to her bullshit questions, and it makes Bucky want to punch something, anything. But he can’t.

Everything he has is devoted to controlling himself. His gloves creak again, with the exertion of containing his fists. The prosthetic is loud in the silence, threatening. At least it’s loud to him.

“I said no.”

“So it’s all off limits?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Boundaries, that’s what they’re called. And that part of his identity is behind the line. He thought he was ready to talk about everything that’s in the files, but he was wrong. Not that. Never that.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily, looking away from him. He can tell she’s only pretending, trying to make him feel a little more at ease.

“I need to know about these things, James.”

He huffs. “I’m doing the work you want me to do. I have a quiet life.”

“You’ve told me about the shul already,” Dr Raynor points out.

“Yeah. I did.” And it was a mistake.

He just wants to be left alone. He wants to do his job and be left alone. And she doesn’t get that. She scoffs when he tells her he wants peace and serenity, she needles him about the things he’s not ready to say. He’s pretty sure she’s not a good therapist, and he literally doesn’t have any other experience.

Dr Raynor sighs heavily again, parading her irritation out to him. He doesn’t move.

“Well. We won’t get anywhere today. You’ve won. The session’s over, you can go home.”

You’ve won. He tastes something sour.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and nods at her. There’s no use in dignifying her with much of anything. He mumbles ‘goodbye’ because he was raised right by his ma and calls it a fucking day.

He’s pretty sure he finishes his pack of cigarettes by the time he gets home.

[i-am-gusu]

Yesterday, I discussed a lot with my therapist. I… I guess I made up for all the things I couldn’t say during our couple’s therapy. We talked about how often I’ve been letting others make decisions for me. And we talked about the bullying. It wasn’t as much as I wanted to discuss, but she reassured me that we will go through everything with each new session. She also smiled at me and said I have reasons to be proud of myself. And that she is “happy that you take such an active role in your well-being.” 

I… I thought it was important to write down. To remember. 

She also asked me about my desires. What I really want in life. I only had two answers for that yesterday. The bunny café. And Wei Ying. And then she said I can desire more than what I already have and it… I had to think about that. 

I… I feel like I want a lot of things. But I also feel like I shouldn’t try to have them all. Focusing on one thing at a time was already so much for me… I don’t know how to want multiple things at once. I wanted the café. I left behind the Lans for that. I wanted Wei Ying. That… That is not entirely my decision to make, but… I am with Wei Ying now. I don’t want to take him for granted. And I don’t want to take the café for granted either. Even if, lately, I’ve been very poor at being present at the café. I’m grateful for Mianmian and Qin Su. They truly know how to make the business flourish. 

I should give them a raise. 

… I should do that right now. 

… Come to think of it, Wen Ning and Jiang Yanli deserve one too. And Wei Ying. 

I will focus on that afterwards. 

… I have been thinking about my relationship with Mianmian and Qin Su… I… I should apologize to them. I have been deeply ungrateful to their efforts. To their friendship. I wrote that Wei Ying is the first person with whom all of my desires align perfectly. While this remains true… Mianmian was the first to desire this one thing I did too. The desire to leave behind our high ranking jobs for something that has more purpose, even at the price of being looked down on. Mianmian… Mianmian listened to me. To the idea I had. And… She believed in it. She believed I could make it happen. She believed we could make it happen. And she pulled Qin Su in, and she believed too. 

This life that I have now wouldn’t exist without them. And I have been… I have been unable to see their friendship for what it truly is for too long. It’s my therapist who made me realize. She asked about my friends. “Not Wei Ying,” she said, “someone outside of the realm of your marriage.” I talked about Huaisang and Xichen. She was happy that I consider my brother a friend, “families might love each other, but they are all the more precious when you like each other.” And I hesitated before mentioning Mianmian and Qin Su. Because… We have never spoken of each other as friends. It has never been explicitly acknowledged, like with Wei Ying. And we don’t have a long history behind us for me to see it that way either, like with Huaisang. But, after I was asked to talk about the way we met and what we built together, I… can’t unsee it. “Surely, these two women trust you deeply to follow you like they did,” my therapist said. That, of all things, shook me the most. 

Mianmian and Qin Su are my friends. They trust me. I trust them too. I have trusted Mianmian the moment she didn’t laugh at me for my stupid idea of a bunny café just so I could have more bunnies. I trusted her when she said “let’s make it happen!” And I trusted Qin Su the moment I met her, because Mianmian trusts her and she has always proven worthy of that… They are my friends. And… I want them to be my friends too. I want to be their friend. 

There is so much I need to do better to be worthy of that title. 

I want to talk with them. Lay it out in the open. Even if they might think I am stupid for taking so much time in realizing. I have been a very bad friend to them. I have no excuses. They deserve to be treated better. 

I want to be a good friend to those I care about. 

I want to be a good husband for Wei Ying. 

I still have homework to finish. 

Wei Ying. I invoke Peru. Not because I do not want you to read, but because I want you to read only if you are in a good mind space. Or, if you want me to be there with you, only if I am here to hold you through the reading. What is left to write is… It’s not as painful as what happened before. Not as I think about it at least. Not after these few realizations in therapy. But… I know how painful it is for you. I know you don’t want me to hold anything back. I know you don’t want me to censor myself for you. I know I have to do this. For us. But… I want you to care for yourself first. Take the time you need before you read the rest. Ask me to be with you. I want to be there with you. You are worth being there for. You are worth caring for. 

I love you.