#just so I can make more progress on the Stationary Shop

[deathsweetblossoms]

Weekly stress over not being able to read six books at the same time while having to balance work and a social life ensues.

[theblue6ook]

Shit Interview PT 2

Summary: Interestingly, Y/N meets Alfred Pennyworth, and he offers her a new interview for a different assistant position? She's hesitant but decides to take the opportunity. Little did she know who she'd be working for. [B (23) & Y/N (21)] [Eventual slow burn with Bruce]

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x fem!reader

a/n: Well hello there. If you liked this story, it’s a part of my “Out of My League” series. There will be more to come ;)

John and Alfred chattered along, making pleasant conversation. Y/N had politely said hello when introduced, but since then, she firmly planted her feet in front of the petunias. When Alfred arrived... well, it was embarrassing to say the least. There was a silence after his greeting with John, and Alfred seemed like a smart man; he clearly noticed the tense energy between them. It made her want to crawl out of the flower shop on her hands and knees.

She drew in a deep breath, it was time to escape. Moving down the back end of the aisle she was in, Y/N tried to wander towards the front of the store… nonchalantly. She stepped around the cracked tile and drains carefully. This shouldn't be hard. She knew this store like the back of her hand. Scooting around the bags of soil in the corner, Y/N was in the last aisle near the front of the store. She felt guilty she had nothing to bring to Carrie, but flowers die anyway. She shrugs to herself, I’ll grab some Chinese food on the way home, and she’ll be just as happy-

Her heel snagged on a hose. A hose that is not normally lying on the floor, so much for a stealthy exit. She tried to gather her balance, but her foot literally flew out of her stationary heel and sent her flying forward. “Shit.”

“Y/N!” John watched, bewildered, as Y/N disappeared behind the back of the potting corner. “What are you doing-”

“Yeah, that hose should really be up on the rack, John,” she quipped. Frustration tore through her, and her palms dug into the tile floor. I might actually have to crawl out of the store on my hands and knees. She felt a tug on her shoulder. 

“Stop playing on the floor,” he smiled down at her. “You okay?”

She sighed and pulled herself off the ground, “That’s a safety hazard. I should report you.”

“Okay, tough girl, let me get you that arrangement for Carrie, and then I’ll get out of your hair,” he teased, pulling her towards the register. She stood by Alfred as John passed the oak door behind the counter. “Let me just add some finishing touches. I’ll be quick. Don’t let her leave without it, Alfred.” 

Alfred chuckled and turned to her, “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ms.Y/N. I’ve heard quite a bit about you from John. Good and bad.”

“Oh, you can just call me Y/N,” She chuckled politely and wrung her hands together. There was a pleasant but awkward silence between them. It was… a little uncomfortable, to say the least. “Are you here to get an arrangement?”

“Nah, I just wanted to pop in and see how John was doing.” Alfred looked toward her like he wanted to say something but refrained. Where is John? “I hear you had quite a busy day today. Job interview and all.”

“Oh yeah,” she sighed. “You know… jobs. It’s kind of a work in progress.”

“Well, I did want to let you know if you ever need anything,” he started. “-well, any friend of John’s is a friend of mine.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to take advantage-”

“It’s called networking,” John appeared in the doorway, bouquet in hand.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked bewildered, but John only waved her off. 

“Long enough to hear you pass up a great opportunity,” he turned to Alfred unimpressed, “as per usual.” 

“Don’t be cheeky,” Alfred lowly warned him, shifting his weight. He turned, looking back toward Y/N, “There is actually a position open that I know of. It’s an assistant's position, but trust me, it will pay well.”

He dug through his sweater pockets and presented her with a thin business card.

“I hope to hear from you soon, Y/N. John, it’s always a pleasure.” He tipped his head toward the tall, thin man and made his way out of the flower shop, a slight skip in his step. She turned to John.

“Meddling, John. Really?”

“What?”

-

It’s always terrifying when Carrie's appointments take extra long. She was only supposed to have her session of chemo today, but Dr.Miller had suggested a follow-up appointment. Y/N sat slumped in the waiting room, her bouquet for Carrie tucked in her elbow. John had put it together sweetly and added the lilies, pink roses, and baby’s breath, all of Carrie's favorites. When Y/N went to pay, he refused the money, telling her this one was a gift for Carrie. She didn’t have the heart to argue with him about it.

Digging in her pocket, she pulled out Alfred's business card and flipped it around her fingertips. For some reason, it felt heavy in her hands. John had taken so much time to encourage her, and she needed the money desperately, if not for her, for Carrie. 

“I cannot fuck this up,” she whispered to herself.

“Hey!” Carrie yelled from down the hall. Y/N quickly shoved the card into her pocket and stood.

Dr.Miller smiled at her and clapped a hand on her shoulder, “It’s good to see you again, Y/N. Make sure this one gets home safe and into bed.” 

“Trust me,” Y/N laughed, “I’ll strap her in if I have to.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you in two weeks, Carrie. Let me know if you have any issues before then.” Dr. Miller looked down at her watch and started moving further into the hospital. “You know how it is girls. Gotham never sleeps. I’ll be seeing you!”

They both yelled out goodbye and watched her disappear into the hallway.

“Y/N!” Carrie smacked her shoulder. “You did not have to grab flowers.”

“Well, you know I had to see John, and he had a whole bouquet planned for you, so how could I say no?”

They laughed, moving out of the hospital. Y/N told her about her van and how they’d, unfortunately, have to walk home, and Carrie quipped back that it would probably be faster than Gotham traffic anyway. They made their way block to block. Then, onto the bus and down several blocks after that.

After Y/N's dad had quite literally kicked her out of the house at seventeen, she moved in with Carrie. Carrie had just moved out of her mom's house with barely enough money for a one-bedroom and had joked that she didn’t have any money for living room furniture anyway. So they threw up curtains to separate the living room and kitchen. Y/N bought a rug and a mattress, and her makeshift room was made.

Walking into the apartment was pretty much like walking straight into the kitchen. Y/N sat her bag down and opened her curtains, throwing herself onto her bed. Carrie threw herself down next to her. 

“Bad day?” Carrie asked.

“Meh,” Y/N muttered. “Probably not as hard as yours, but still sucky.”

Carrie bonked her on the head. “Stop it. I bet your day was just as sucky as mine. How’d the interview go?”

Y/N really didn’t want to explain for the third time today how she had been late. She couldn’t even get past the receptionist, and she felt like a failure. She thought for a moment, pulling the business card out of her pocket and looking up at it. “I uh… got an opportunity for a different position actually.”

“What the hell!” Carrie tugged at Y/N's arm. “That doesn’t sound so sucky to me; we need to celebrate! I’ll call for some Chinese delivery.”

Y/N was left alone on her bed, staring up at the business card. She flipped it in her fingers for the last time before she pulled out her phone.

-

Alfred was standing in front of the stove making dinner, and he watched out the window. The sun was getting lower and lower in the sky. I need to finish this quickly before Bruce leaves tonight, he thought. He stirred an assortment of vegetables in the pan before popping the lid back on as his phone rang. Alfred didn’t recognize the number, but he answered anyway. 

“This is Alfred Pennyworth.” He rubbed his hands on his apron, waiting for the response.

“Hey, this is Y/F/N Y/L/N,” she spoke softly. “Um, we met earlier at Dorthie’s Flowers. I was with John.”

“Ah, yes!” he responded. “Thank you for calling back, Miss.Y/N. Have you thought about what I said earlier?”

“Yeah, actually, I have,” she thought for a moment. “I really wanted to thank you for the opportunity, and I’d love to have an interview… If the position is still available, of course.”

“Of course,” he smiled. “Are you available tomorrow at noon?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Where should I meet you?”

“Excellent! Don't worry about meeting me anywhere. John told me about your car issues earlier. I’ll have one of our drivers pick you up. I would pick you up myself, but I have some business to attend to in the morning.” The business is getting Bruce out of the house before he can stop me, he smiled to himself.

“You really don’t have to do that-”

“It’s my pleasure, Miss.Y/N,” he said. “Go ahead and send me your address for the driver, and I will see you then.”

[hellospriggan]

I'm giving serious thought to reopening my Patreon and would love to know what you think!

I had a Patreon about six years ago and really struggled with the idea that people would give me money just to see finished work, or even in-progress work/sketches, when that's something I already share online. I don't create work quickly enough to put some of it behind a paywall. (Honestly I don't want to put any behind a paywall.)

I have been designing a lot of stationary and enamel pins lately, and would love to offer a monthly club type format for physical rewards.

Tiers I'm currently considering:

Tip jar: no rewards, just a way to let me know you enjoy my work. But, maybe a yearly sticker for long-term supporters?

Digital rewards

Basic: Discount code for online shops, suggestion box/ voting for designs, access to a secret shop?? (*Again, don't really want to have a paywall. It would be more of an early access thing, leftovers would go in patron-only shop first, then move to my main shop later. Restocks not guaranteed, that sort of thing.)

Digital stationary: basic, plus: Monthly stationary design that you can download and print yourself. *International shipping is so expensive, this seems like a good way to avoid it.

Physical rewards

Stationary club: basic, plus: stationary that is mailed to you each month.

*Depending on price and interest, could be notepads/letter sets, postcards or greeting cards, yearly calendar, etc? I'd love to hear if you'd prefer the same thing each month, or different things?

Pin club: basic, plus: an enamel pin mailed to you each month.

Other thoughts: Shipping is seriously the bane of my existence... I'm in the US; I'd love to hear if you're in the US or not, to figure out if offering international tiers for the higher shipping is worth it. I never want to leave anyone out, but at the same time, I don't have the bandwidth to make extra work for myself. And I know it's crazy expensive right now.

If you're currently subscribed to (or running!) a Patreon like this, I'd love to know what you think. What do you like about it? What do you wish was different? Do you care about being able to vote on or suggest designs, or would you rather it was a surprise? Do you like getting a tangible reward, or do you just want to support your favorite creators without more stuff involved? When it comes to tangible rewards, would you rather be part of a Patreon, or just fund a project on Kickstarter, or just buy it in their shop when you want to?

Literally any thoughts you have on this, I would love to hear! Thanks!

[spiritwatch]

07/22/2024 - A dream collage

I woke up periodically last night so my dreams were all over the place. Here were two that I vaguely remember the most vividly.

For the first, I had been invited to dinner with a father whose young daughter I used to teach. We were eating dinner at a relatively upscale restaurant and were taken to a seat that was located in what looked like a sun house.

The table for two was pushed up against the window and we were surrounded by frosted glass. Outside, it was already dark but I could make out the bushes surrounding the restaurant and the streetlamps faintly glowing outside. It seemed to be raining too because the light reflected against the glass seemed to be rippling.

A white cloth and a three-course cutlery spread was laid out between us. The restaurant was fairly dark, for ambience obviously, and a small candle was lit on our table.

Overall, it was a very romantic atmosphere. It was also very inappropriate considering the relationship between me and the man currently sitting in front of me. I vaguely remember feeling alarm bells go off but other parts of me were wondering whether it was actually okay because I hadn't renewed my teaching license and was no longer teaching his daughter.

During dinner, he asked me about what it was like to teach his daughter. Part of me struggled to remember who his daughter even was since he hardly made any suggestions hinting at her name or what this dinner was happening in the first place. So, I just went along and tried to remember the details about his daughter from my memory of teaching hundreds of children.

After deducting who his daughter was out of the bunch, I went into detail about how she was a lovely girl to teach, but because one of her friends was in the same group as she was, she often would get distracted from the lessons. If she ended up having fights with her friend, she would then refuse to participate in the lesson, which hindered both her progress and the group's.

Before he could reply, I woke up.

—————

The second dream I had started with an apocalypse.

My parents and I had plans to pack up everything and evacuate with some family friends whose car hadn't been smashed in by the violent storms or swept away by floods. We were packing things up at my parents store, which was a small stationary shop, and I felt so disoriented that I kept forgetting the most essential items. For example, we were sitting in the car and slowly driving off before I realized that I didn't bring my bag and phone with me.

When I ran back and reopened the store, there were three kids who were browsing the store as if it wasn't the end of the world, going on about something like, "Maybe we can just take these now."

When security tried to intervene, I remember disarming the situation by introducing myself and advising the kids that they'd be in big trouble if they don't pay at least something. However, considering it was the end of the world, I wouldn't mind giving them a heafty discount.

Once the children told me that they had $35 each, I told them that I'd give everything they already had in their hands for $25 instead. Excited, they paid eagerly and left with a large collection of binders, plastic sleeves, hold punchers, and notebooks.

Closing up shop once more, I went back to my parents and told them about the strange encounter. What's even stranger is that they praised me for doing business with them despite it being the end times.

—————

Additional Thoughts: I think I know where the first dream came from. Two days ago, I had lunch with one of my friends who asked me whether it was allowed for me to date a client in my corporate job. We have an ethics code to follow, and other than needing to disclose it, I thought it was okay. Still haven't followed up on it but I think the conversation had me imagining what it'd be like.

I'm not sure where the second dream came from tbh. According to the dream dictionary, dreaming of evacuating imply that I'm isolating myself and holding back my emotions. I don't think I've been purposefully isolating myself from others but maybe I've been feeling a little isolated? I'm currently rediscovering my relationship with religion and what it means to me, if anything at all, and have been keeping this detail secret from some people because I don't trust them to be anything but cynical and judgmental. This is the only reason I can think of, and if this actually the case, then it'd make a lot of sense.

[aimasup]

So my brother and I were talking about Fnaf lore for the billionth time

we (aka my brother, bless his galaxy brain for his AUs and amazing ideas) ended up unprofessionally redesigning the Security Breach gameplay. Its not very organized and its all non-specific and just for fun so uhh long, long post warning

Premise

the same. Gremlin Gregory needs out and Freddy is great except its our rules now bitches

There's two nights. At the end of Night 1, you are given two options, leave or stay.

Leaving gives you different endings depending on what you did during the first night, staying until Night 2 gives you two endings (one of which is canon)

Pizzaplex mechanics (?)

It's a free-roam fnaf game for the love of god give us more activities

Besides fearing for your life and constantly trying not to get seen, you can now do things in the various attractions! Hold button to eat various foods at the areas, loot the shops, go bowling, play golf, play laser tag, pick a GIF to loop in the theatre, etc. Not confined to the plot really just have fun and don't get caught

The employee and customer complaints might be found in the (unkempt and unimportant) complaint boxes, which you can look at if you want for extra lore, instead of popping up in your Fazwatch to crowd your missions

All that above is available after the daycare section

The Pizzaplex opens at 7 instead of 6, and each hour is 10 minutes. Time progresses automatically, you just have to make it to the end of the night and explore

Autosaves. In addition to the monitor saves.

The security badges are cool, they can stay. But they only are really relevant in Night 2

Collectibles

They're colour-coded based on what they contain

it's either a.) something that helps you progress like the Hippo Magnet or something to throw as a distraction (a prompt will appear for 'aim to distract')

b.) A save slot, in the form of crumpled paper you can take out and crayon on at anytime. So now you have a limited supply of emergency saves (Resident Evil style), monitor saves, and autosaves.

Night 1

c.) Items for customization. Customize your watch, customize Freddy, customize the other three Glamrocks running after you, customize Vanessa and Vanny. Fun stuff

Basic plot, you encounter the Glamrocks, the Daycare Attendant, the 2 V's, ominous mystery stuff is laid out

You run and hide and fetch-quest but also have fun

When you survive the night Freddy sits you down and gives you the option to stay or leave

If you leave and had played less than 3 unique attractions, you get the 'Boring Ending'

That's one of the 'Leave' endings. There are others (one of them is where Freddy gets replaced by Mr Hippo and you played more than 3 attractions) but we didn't think too deep into that

If you choose to stay, Freddy has to go perform during the day, but there's an in-between loading screen where it autosaves and shows Freddy putting a blanket over a sleeping Gregory

Night 2

You stayed! And you have to investigate you little detective you

For the first half of the night, you have to go to a different security office for evidence against Vanessa (find security badges) but oh no you have to play against different animatronics

Basically you have to classic Fnaf your way out of each hour (it doesn't progress automatically, only after you complete like three security offices) and get rewarded with tapes and lore and stuff

Daycare Attendant one session, Chica and Roxy the next, Monty the third, etc.

In every security office, Vanny is a present threat. We don't need Gregory to be kidnapped

Again, time progresses differently, like according to the plot instead of real-life 10 minutes, because you aren't just trying to make it to 7 am this time

The next half is where you can split into two endings again

You can either boss fights and Music Man (upgrade Freddy for canon ending)

Or just Music Man without mangling anyone

The Blob isn't alive. It's more of a big, stationary ominous pile of parts that contains the last part you need to upgrade Freddy with. Gregory tugs the last part out, it comes crashing down, nothing but an empty husk.

Gregory notes how 'creepy and soulless' the Blob is, which confirms that the souls have finally moved on and left their metal prisons behind

In the canon ending, you destroy Freddy's friends, and near the end Vanny gets Freddy possessed and you have to deal with her and your bear dad, who you upgraded. Good luck idiot /lh

Crilliam Wafton gets to come back, sure, but Vanny expositions that Glitchtrap is not the same as William. William's dead and gone, this glitch is more of a back-up AI made to continue his work with his voice. This 'Burntrap' is also fixed up with parts of a dead Glamrock Bonnie

You get Freddy back, you kill Vanny and Glitchtrap without the Blob's help, you two escape in a kickass truck, hooray

No we don't know what the hell is going on with the giant animatronics and the FNAF Pizzeria Simulator underground

The ending where you don't upgrade Freddy is where you eradicate Vanny and Glitchtrap, indirectly saving the animatronics plus Vanessa, and escaping with nothing but Freddy's head. Burntrap doesn't make an appearance and the Pizzaplex remains intact

No we don't know the specifics either

Chica mechanics

The fastest animatronic

She's loud as hell, so if she's like two rooms away, she still sounds like she's right next to you, which just does not help anything

If she sees you she squawks louder, and any animatronic nearest to her comes running. Yes this will be very annoying

Will leave you alone even if you hide in front of her.

Stunnable

Shattered!Chica mechanics

Second fastest

Silent except for when she sees you

Still alerts others

Will ambush you (?idk) because you can't hear her

Stunnable

Monty mechanics

The second fastest animatronic

Unstunnable

Charges/leaps at you if he sees you (always lands close, not directly on you)

Shattered!Monty mechanics

The slowest animatronic

Stunnable

You can walk up to him and flash his eyes to be a dick

But if you do that he will leap at you

In which case you can just stun him midair and completely ruin his attack

or sidestep him

On rare occasions, he tries to get you in the vents

Roxanne mechanics

Slowest animatronic

Can see you from a certain range, even through walls

Hiding in Freddy doesn't do jack shit she knows you're in there. Will yank you out no matter what happens. Just run

We just decided that her eyes are kind of overpowered so just make her the slowest as an exchange. Her attraction is a raceway so it's ironic

Stunnable

Shattered!Roxanne mechanics

Is now the fastest

Can't see you but WILL hear you

So she's besties with Chica here I guess

Unstunnable

Freddy mechanics

The same

More voice lines

Stunnable hehe

We don't know why he jumpscares you when the batteries run out. We don't know what to do with that so uhh

In the final showdown (canon ending) you get rid of the virus while possessed!Freddy is a background menace with all the upgrades you gave him

You get him back of course

In the second ending you don't have to fight bear dad but he does get very beat up

Sun mechanics

After the daycare section and somewhere in the game, you can find him wandering around the first floor, mostly near the Daycare lobby

Talking to him as Gregory will result in several responses of him pouting or huffing or explaining why Gregory is a rulebreaker

Then again Gregory doesn't have much nice things to say to Sun

Doing it over 10 times makes him stamp his foot and go 'WEEWOO SECURITY'. So now you have to outrun every glamrock plus three security bots

Yes you can keep doing that as Gregory

Talking to him as Freddy on the other hand gives plenty of useful information, jokes, slight lore drops, etc.

Because he's kind of an NPC, you can go through the game and still head back to him at any time and repeat some dialogue in case you forget things. You just have to find him

There might be a cutscenes where someone (idk. A Glamrock? Vanessa?) asks him where Gregory is and he just goes 'teehee' with a vague answer

Sun's deal is basically information in exchange for you draining Freddy's batteries because you have to stay in him

There's a charging station nearby dw

Moon mechanics

The daycare section is the same except you get an autosave after every generator, maybe even more if you collected your own save slots

When the power goes out and you're within vicinity of Moon as Gregory, he will give chase, of course, all creepy-like

As Freddy, though, you can kind of talk with Moon? But the infected daycare attendant doesn't have much to say besides something along the lines of punishment and being suspiscious

It's still not that safe to be around Moon as Freddy because although in this version Moon can't see Gregory in Freddy, he does follow Freddy around unless you get into a charging station

Moon patrols everywhere unlike Sun, so this is a problem

During the security office sequences, maybe have some shots of two red glowing eyes on the walls to determine where the DA is through the cameras

Some lights-on lights-off mechanic in the office

General animatronic mechanics

They don't roam everywhere, they have broad but limited patrol areas

Vanny can tamper with your electronics or whatever you're doing, idk. Have her be a more active threat by showing her in monitors, where there's a virus bar you need to stop from getting too high

All animatronics are distracted by audio lures or things you can throw (except non-possessed!Freddy)

Basically apply old Fnaf mechanics in a larger scale

Boss fights

You could actually accidentally race Roxanne. It will be kind of goofy but there should be the paranoia of her constantly almost catching up in the back view

Monty's fine

Chica's 'boss fight' could really just be adding the Monty Mix you collected into a prepared pizza and delivering it to the trash compactor. Take that 'cooking distraction' section out the middle of the game and make it her official defeat.

You have to close the trash compactor yourself so the cutscenes of fighting her still happens

Also when preparing the pizza, a conveyor belt that's almost too slow instead of running station to station would be nice and tense

In every boss fight, Vanny tampers and taunts and. yknow. Its like a game to her almost

Finally, Mr. Hippo

Cute little optional easter egg, you find a rambling half-shelled endoskeleton during the first night in the maintenance area. You can stay out of range and cycle through his three very, very long stories

If you get too close it jumpscares you.

You don't die, it sits you down and forces you to get through one of his stories

It's one of the Night 1 endings. You sat and listened to Mr. Hippo all night

I think that's it tbh. If you made it this far congratulations.

no really, this was probably very hard to read

[animeomegas]

Infertlie!Omega!Neji manages to become pregnant

Hello! Do you have any hc’s for what would happen if by some miracle Neji WAS able to become pregnant? Love ur stuff!! ❤️

(Hello! Ahh, I’m flattered! Hmm, if Neji was able to become pregnant… I have a few ideas. Enjoy~)

Warnings: miscarriage mention, suppressant abuse. 

Finding out:

He’s been taking a pregnancy test every month for 18 months by this point, and nothing.

You have been telling him that he may have to start thinking about what he wants to do if he can’t have pups.

Neji knows whose fault it is that he can’t conceive.

He struggles to walk through the Hyuuga compound sometimes, knowing it’s their fault that he’s like this. That he’s broken.

You deny any such things, but he knows he is. And he’s very bitter and upset about it.

But he won’t give up yet.

2 years. That was the time frame he had given himself. If he couldn’t conceive within two years, then… Well, he didn’t want to think about that.

One morning when he doesn’t have a mission, he gets up and heads to the bathroom, taking the test automatically.

The feelings of hope and anxiety have long since faded after too many disappointments.

So, he grabs the test, gives it a cursory glance and goes to throw it in the bin before he realises what the test says.

He lifts the test back up, hand shaking. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but he could have sworn it said…

Positive.

He’s holding a positive pregnancy test.

His heart is beating very fast now. Neji just stands there for a few moments, unsure what to do.

He ends up taking all the pregnancy tests in the bathroom, seven in total.

And all of them are positive.

He won’t ever admit it, but he did cry a little (a lot).

But quickly the joy begins to fade, and fear sets in.

He needs to be so careful.

He can’t lose this baby, he just can’t.

He needs to stop taking missions, he needs to eat better, he needs to go to the hospital-

He works himself into a little panic, and then panics more because he is so scared the stress will make his lose his baby.

At this point, he’s been in the bathroom for like half an hour, so you tentatively knock and ask if he’s okay.

Neji was clutching the sink in the bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror and desperately trying to calm down. He needed to calm down, but he just couldn’t. He distantly realised that he was letting out quiet panicked whines, calling for you to help him automatically.

And then he heard a knock on the door, you were here. He let out a louder whine to try and signal to you that he needed you there with him.

“Neji?” your voice was a little alarmed, you must have heard his whining. “Neji, what’s wrong? Can I come in?”

He heard the door handle shake as you tried to open it against the lock.

“Neji, please, open the door.”

“I’m pregnant.” He blurted.

The door handle stopped moving. He waited anxiously for you to say something, still struggling under the weight of the anxiety clawing at his chest.

“…Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he swallowed heavily. “I took all the tests.”

“Let me in please, my love.”

This time, Neji follows your request automatically. The lock clicks open, and you immediately step in. Neji can feel your eyes scanning him before they flit over to the abundance of pregnancy tests lying innocently in the sink.

A smile slowly creeps its way onto your face.

“Oh, baby boy, come here,” you opened you arms for him and he immediately stepped into the embrace. His heart was finally starting to calm down, as he took deep breaths of your scent. He was safe, he didn’t have to worry, you would be here to make sure everything was alright.

“We’ll go down to the hospital tomorrow, alright? Get everything checked out, but I don’t…” you hesitated.

“You don’t what?” He knew what you were going to say. ‘I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’

You shook your head. “Nevermind, let’s just book the appointment. Would you rather go to the hospital or see one of the clan medics?”

Neji grimaced. “Hospital. I know it’s weird, but… I don’t want them to know yet.”

You rubbed a hand on his lower back. “We won’t tell anyone until you’re ready, I promise.”

 Pregnancy:

The hospital visit went as well as you could have hoped.

Neji was indeed pregnant, and everything was progressing well for the moment.

But, of course, there were some concerns.

Neji was given a gentle reminder that he was at a high risk for a miscarriage.

He was also told that a traditional birth would be too risky for him, and that he would have to have a c-section.

And, while the mednin couldn’t be sure yet, it was unlikely that he would be able to breastfeed.

Neji took all the information with a detached nod, acknowledging what was being said, but not reacting to it.

As a Hyuuga, he kept his emotions firmly pressed down in public. His scent and face were completely normal. Few would have been able to tell that something was wrong.

But the second he stepped into your house, he just sagged.

He claimed to be tired and went to lay down upstairs. You let him go, knowing that he wanted his own space to process,

But it was hard to smell his sour scent and not come running.

Things got better, however.

Once he was past three months, the chances of a miscarriage reduced hugely, and Neji was much happier.

He threw everything he could into looking after himself and preparing for the pup.

He stopped taking missions as soon as he found out he was pregnant and started to babyproof the house and make the nursery.

The nursery was very traditional. A rocking chair, a wooden crib, handmade blankets and toys.

It was beautiful and Neji was very protective of it. He wanted it to be perfect.

He was protective over the pup in general, as well.

He didn’t let anyone other than you put their hands on his tummy.

As far as the physical pregnancy, Neji had some troubles, but he pushed his way through them with no complaints.

He was most infuriated by his constant need to go to the toilet.

Pain he could deal with, but the constant inconvenience started to grind on his nerves.

He was also a little restless when he was left by himself. Without missions or training he didn’t know what to do with himself a lot of the time.

When you were home with him, he was fine, but he got bored by himself.

“No.”

You sighed, “Again? We’ve been shopping for hours, Neji.”

“Do you want to buy poor-quality blankets for our pup?” he huffed, placing another rejected blanket onto the shelf.

“What about this one?” you suggested, holding up a lovely, soft blanket.

Neji squinted at him, pulling the tag towards him to read. He pulled a face a dropped the blanket.

“No.”

“What’s wrong this time?”

“It’s part polyester. I don’t want polyester in the blankets and toys, I already told you this. Let’s try the next shop.”

You grimaced, feet already sore from all the walking. “Why don’t we just get some blankets and toys commissioned? We can afford it, and then they would be exactly what you want.”

Neji stopped, contemplative. “That’s… actually a good idea.”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so shocked.”

Yes,” Neji smiled, ignoring your complaints. “I want to do that. Let’s head to the stationary shop so I can get some materials to draw up some sketches.”

“The stationary shop?” you whined. “Can’t we just go home for today?”

“No, if I’m pregnant and I can do it, so can you.”

 Labour:

With a pre-planned c-section, Neji knew in advance when he would be going to the hospital for the procedure.

He had packed and re-packed his bag four times, just to be sure that he had everything he needed.

Neji was very calm, but it seemed to be because of the shock more than anything else.

He was escorted in, and prepared for the procedure, and exactly on time, he went in for his c-section.

You sat with him, only able to see him head as the rest of him was sectioned off with a screen. You were told not to stand until you had the signal.

You gently stroked Neji’s hair away from his face as the mednin worked. He was drowsy and disoriented. He blinked at you slowly.

“Is… everything going okay?” he whispered to you.

“I think so, baby. How are you feeling?”

“I feel strange…”

“I bet you do,” you laughed gently, pressing a kiss to his head. “Just try to relax, okay? I’m right here with you.”

The operation was exhausting, and Neji ended up being unable to do much for two months while he recovered, but the pup was healthy and Neji couldn’t be happier.

He spent hours every day in the rocking chair in the nursery cradling his pup.

Neji didn’t let anyone outside of you and some mednin meet the pup until she was three months old because he was so protective.

Neji would never be so tacky as to refer to his child as a ‘miracle child’, but sometimes, he can’t help but think it.

[hcm92literature]

‘Out Of Character’ 8th April 2022

‘Out Of Character’ master page

Read on AO3

Author’s notes: i do actually roll for the D&D stuff to make it more real… i… may have been extra extra and made character sheets for them all on Roll20, so i’ve been using them for the ability checks and so on… haha ha… gods, i’m such a nerd

“You wade and slosh your way through the swamp, the thick, muddy water slowing your progress. It’s tiring work and you feel that if you continue this way for much longer, it will have lasting effects. In other words: you’ll get a second level of exhaustion.” Marc smiled at the players as they groaned, then looked back down at their notes. “Plagg, if you roll another survival check, you can try to find a suitable place to camp - or you can decide to keep moving and try to get to the town before nightfall. Which would still require a survival check.”

Adrien looked to Alya and Nino for their opinions. Nino shrugged. “I’m pretty comfortable in the water so I’m fine with camping the night.”

Alya rolled her eyes. “You may be comfortable in the water, but I prefer being dry when I sleep.”

Glancing at Marinette’s empty seat, Adrien swallowed thickly. “What does Tikki think?”

Scoffing, Alya crossed her arms. “Tikki would defer to the majority. So she would probably say… Let’s put it to a vote. Those in favour of camping?” Nino was the only one to put his hand up and Alya smirked triumphantly. “Well, I suppose that means we’re carrying on to the town, then!”

Marc turned to Adrien. “Okay then. Plagg, roll your check.”

Adrien picked up his matte black d20 with lime green numbers, jiggled it around in his hand for a moment, then rolled it onto the map. “That’s… sixteen.”

“Alright. So, with Plagg leading the way, you all continue trudging through the swamp, feeling more and more tired the closer you get to the town and the darker it gets, but you eventually begin to see the lights in the dista-”

Marc was cut off by a loud crash and colourful swearing from the other side of the game store. The group all turned to see Marinette, flustered and apologising profusely to the person she’d bumped into, crouched over her books, stationary, and an inordinate amount of sparkly dice that had spilled all over the floor. Without thinking, Adrien shot out of his chair and rushed over to help. Marinette didn’t look up to begin with and gratefully accepted the help, but when she did look up, Adrien’s heart sank. “Oh, it’s you.” She hadn’t said it in a particularly malicious way, but something about the tone of her voice made it seem like she was surprised that he would be the one to offer her help.

He continued picking up the frankly ridiculous amount of dice from the floor, feeling his face warm from embarrassment, and avoided meeting her gaze. “I… just thought you could use a hand.”

Marinette said nothing, but carefully stacked her books and pencil case on the floor and held out her dice bag for Adrien to drop his handful in. As they both stood, Marinette looked away, her expression unreadable. “Well… thank you.” She then brushed passed him to take her place at their table.

As he turned to follow her, something red, green and pink on the pretend wood flooring by the shop’s counter caught Adrien’s eye. He stepped over to pick it up and inspected the item. It was a red string with a loop tied on both ends, and had eight beads of varying sizes and colours. Before he could ask anyone if they’d dropped it, Nino called out for him to ask if he was going to rejoin them. Pocketing the beads with the intention of asking around the shop at closing, Adrien nodded and walked over to sit back down, opposite the agitated Marinette.

“Sorry I’m late. Class ran overtime and I had so many issues with finishing my design… But I’m here now! What’s happening?”

Marc smiled at her in amusement. “It’s no problem, Marinette. Your party are still in the swamp, but you’ve all decided to keep going until you reach the next town, though it means you’ll have another exhaustion level when you get there.”

“But that’ll go back to one when we have a long rest, right?”

“Correct. But anything could happen between now and then…” Marinette groaned at Marc’s mischievous grin as they continued to describe the last hour of the party’s journey. “As you near the town, you suddenly realise that the lights are not normal street lamps or even a fire pit, but an actual fire erupting from two of the nearest buildings. Now, remembering that you all have two levels of exhaustion, how do you all react?”

Marinette was the first to speak. “Well, we have to help, right? Are there any people around?”

“With your passive perception you can easily see that there are, and some appear to be hauling buckets to and fro, but more are gathering to watch rather than help out.”

“How damaged are the buildings? How long does it look like they have been burning? And are they isolated from the other buildings?” Adrien had a calculating look on his face as he spoke that Marinette had a bad feeling about.

“Roll a perception check.”

“Fifteen.”

“Well, they’re mostly made out of wood, so they look to be pretty damaged. The fire is big, as if it started a while ago, and it doesn’t look like the other buildings are in any danger.”

Adrien turned to his companions, his face impassive. “I say we let them burn.”

Incensed, Marinette turned on him. “What?! You want to let these people’s homes burn? We should be helping them!”

Still with a mostly neutral expression, Adrien returned her glare. “I admire your desire and instinct to help people-”

“Do you, now?”

“But what is the point in wasting our limited energy on buildings that are clearly beyond repair, when we could instead make sure the blaze is contained and help the people get to safety?”

“He has a point, Tikki…” Alya flinched as Marinette’s rage was turned in her direction. “At least no-one will get hurt and we will have more energy to help tomorrow when the fire will hopefully have died down.”

“Wayzz?” Turning to Nino, Marinette was almost more enraged to see his expression was one of contemplation rather than determination.

“Tikki… how are we supposed to help when we’re so tired? And we have no spells that could help… I’m sorry, I’m going to have to agree with Plagg and Trixx.”

Marinette closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Was she being unreasonable? Was it simply because Adrien had suggested it, that she didn’t like the idea? She tried to think about it logically, attempting to calm her mind down and take in her friends’ points rather than Adrien’s. Sighing, she dropped her hand and looked at her companions. “I suppose you are right. But I do insist on making sure the residents have somewhere to stay, even if I have to pay for the inn rooms myself.”

Marc, who had been watching with a mix of interest and amusement, nodded and described the scene as the group slowly made their way to the burning houses. The party spoke to the residents and - with a couple persuasion checks - convinced them to give up the futile task of throwing buckets of water on the fire. They then made sure the fire was contained to just the two buildings and escorted the bereaved families to the inn where Tikki - and to her surprise, Plagg - paid for them to stay for a week, though Marc said that the innkeeper did allow a discount due to the circumstances.

The rest of the session progressed in a similar fashion, with Adrien suggesting mostly sensible ideas but in ways that infuriated Marinette and made her want to oppose them. She had no idea why he riled her up so much, nor why he seemed to enjoy it. Alya could tell how agitated Marinette was, but the others seemed to assume it was just her character who was butting heads with his. Is that all he thought too? Was this just Plagg being difficult with Tikki, or was this something Adrien was doing to annoy Marinette? Either way, it was giving Marinette a headache to be so worked up, especially after such a long day at fashion school, and she felt that the end of the session couldn’t come soon enough.

As soon as Marc announced that they were finished, Marinette packed her things as quickly as she could without spilling her dice yet again, gave her excuses for not going for drinks, then left. Adrien couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t look his way when saying goodnight. Had he gone too far and actually upset her? He had thought that his suggestions were all reasonable, but perhaps his delivery needed work…

Nino seemed to notice Adrien’s worrying and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, dude. She’s just stressed ‘cause of fashion school. Surely you know a bit about that ‘cause of your dad’s work, right?”

“Sort of. My father likes to keep to himself most of the time. But… it does take up an awful lot of his time…”

“There, you see? She’s just struggling with time management. Now let’s go get a drink and watch the last of Kitty Section’s set next door!”

Adrien glanced at Alya who seemed to have a fleeting look of unease, but she quickly smiled at him and closed her messenger bag. As the three of them walked out of the game store, Adrien suddenly remembered the beads in his jacket pocket, but turned back to see that pretty much everyone had left the store. He would have to keep the string on him until the next time he was there and ask around then.

[barnesandco]

AYESHA!! Can I request, "their entire body freezing for a second when their love kisses them?" For any character you feel inspired to write for!

The Pay Off

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: brief mention of therapy and allusions to Bucky’s recovery after Hydra.

A/N: This.. got wildly out of hand.... and really, really wordy. I love these prompts and I want to write all of them while my WIPs stare at me feeling betrayed.

Like sunshine honey, the woman who has been sitting two seats down from Bucky at the library for the past four months, with a smile the ambience of New York dawn aimed unguarded at the book in your lap. He’s spoken a grand total of 37 sentences to you in that time, each one laden with the weight of this new existence he is carving out for himself, softly, a breakfast knife through butter. Every interaction with you -- every stolen glimpse up from his own space magazine -- leaves his throat parched but prickling with that sensitive heat that makes him want to thirst more. Like the tingle of salt after ocean water. 

Wetting his lips, he tries to refocus on the page in front of him. It details the scientific contributions of the Hubble Space Telescope, with a colorful side-box about the Nancy Grace Roman, who pioneered the notions of sending telescopes into space to unearth its secrets. The magazine is one from a neat stack to his right, a treasure of information he gathered to go through when he arrived today, but he isn’t making the amount of progress to finish reading by closing time.

Every Avenger has made a comment on getting a library card, to no avail. Sam’s information, Steve’s offer to do it in Bucky’s stead, Natasha’s suggestions of giving a fake name, and Wanda’s kind offer to come with him if he doesn’t want to do it alone, along with Tony’s centenarian-themed jokes and Shuri’s gift of a Kindle containing every book she could buy, have all been politely refused and tolerated in turn. Initially, it was because he likes it at the library. It’s the quietest place he has, and is coming to claim as another safe space. An escape. Now, however, there is a new variable he does not want to introduce to the team.

The woman who sits two seats down from him. You come her every afternoon, a book bag in one hand and a gigantic tote full of Lord-knows-what in the other, both dumped on the table before you go to find a book. He’s close enough to smell watermelons and strawberries, pink, sweet-summer things, reminders of a blueberry sky and sugary lemonade, memories he doesn’t remember having but can taste in the heavy air between them. It had taken him two weeks to discover that the scents were coming from the markers that he saw peeking out from the tote, stationary behaving the same way certain books do, enabling him to live a life he has never had.

Your life is a mystery to him, but he guesses at it, reading you. A rainbow of stray marker lines litters your hands almost perpetually, coming alive when they move rapidly as you check books, sometimes chuckling softly at a particular sentence. Once, he caught a Cheese Whiz stain on your cable-knit cuff, and at another occasion, saw you. Bucky is often overcome by the feeling of sonder at the realization that the clues he is gluing together make for a complex life, a marvel of an individual. There is guilt too, for his curiosity. But your eyes, even looking down, are captivating, and he is too far gone to stop. 

The idea of asking you out, of engaging in conversation beyond the moments of stranger familiarity, scares him still. Last time you spoke was when you laughed aloud at the set of examples one particular student had given for an assignment on sensory details. Zachary, age 11, had written that cow poop was a smell he did not like, sending his library companion into brilliant, bubbling laughs that you cut off too soon when you remembered where you were. At that point, you had looked around to see if anyone noticed, and spotting him, offered an apology he had rejected, on the condition that you share the joke. And you did.

But initiating the moment takes something more than what he has right now. His hands, mismatched and cold from the table, empty and longing, shut the magazine.

-----

The courage arrives on a Thursday. An ordinary day, by all accounts, only Bucky is on his fourth week of actual therapy, and got to the library through the subway, instead of Steve’s motorbike. Small victories fill his chest.

Only, you aren’t there when he gets in, and he panics. Fear and disappointment wrestle for a spot in his belly, claiming a tie in knots and weights, as he paces through the aisles of shelves in what he hopes is an unsuspicious speed. Giving up hope, he’s returning to his seat, head bowed, dismayed, when something collides against his side.

It’s you. A hurricane of movement with a slushie in one hand, your eyes also on the floor, and you crash against him with a shriek too late to save either of you. The slushie, cold and blue, spills out and lands on both of you, as you tumble, hands on Bucky’s elbows while his are on yours as he pulls you down, and you land in a heap of ice-water and sticky saccharine snow, a warm weight on top of him.

The library goes silent, for a breath, and then, when the shock lifts, two librarians come rushing from around some hidden corners, by which time you and Bucky have composed yourselves enough to stand and start to apologize profusely in cut-off sentences and shaky stutters. The slush is sinking through his clothes but there is a flush in his cheeks, and somehow, looking at your beautiful face, he has never been warmer.

When the slushie has been cleaned up with rags -- his hand is starting to shiver -- he stands with more sorry on his tongue, but you say, with a grin, “I guess you really fell for me, huh?”

The quip is surprising, but he laughs. Looks between your now-blue blouse and his inky t-shirt, and makes the leap. “Maybe I can get you another drink to make up for it.” And the pleased shock on your mouth, lips parted slightly and breath still recovering, is worth every step and fall it took to get to that one line.

-----

It goes well. He won’t call it a date, in spite of everyone else’s juvenile cooing and teasing when he leaves the Compound on a Saturday evening in his car. It’s a 70s Mustang, body the color of his old Commandos coat, and the interior a shiny black lined with golden stitching and accents. Royal and his very own. Turning towards the neighborhood you live in, he recalls the months it took to restore the damn thing, the last weeks of which were spent practically living in the garage, breathing on the anticipation of this monstrous achievement.

Queens is neon lights and family-owned delis, the scent of tacos mingling with that of curries, and there’s a different language in each window front. You said you lived in an apartment a couple of stories above a Vietnamese bar. 

You’re exiting just as he gets out of the car, and it takes a moment to catch his breath. In jeans and a silk shirt, you are the sun, and he cannot wait to get to revel in your warmth for at least one evening. 

-----

It goes well. With the exception of nerves he can’t rid himself of but rather ignores, everything is perfect. You had enjoyed his handmade picnic in Central Park, and his disgruntled commentary on how things used to be when you got stuck in traffic on the way back. His imitations of Steve and Tony had you in stitches, after which you had fed him Doritos from a packet he did not know was in the glove-box. 

Smooth sailing, soft as cream and just as gentle, the night, until you get back. It is late, and the lights are starting to flicker out of shop windows, and you go a little bit quiet, discontinuing the steady stream of chatter you have been maintaining with him. 

Something is in the air. Something sparking with promise. It hushes your voices and tightens his throat and has his hand trembling when he opens his door and then yours to let you own. You stand in the pale glow of the corner streetlamp, and his hands are in his pockets like he’s sixteen again, wanting to kiss a girl but unsure how to go about it.

Fortunately for him, you’re not a girl. You’re a woman. Made from electric fire and whatever strength that holds the cotton clouds in the sky, luminous and wondrous. 

“I know that was a bit more than a drink, so thank you for agreeing to this,” he says, meeting your eyes.

Your finger is tracing the face of your watch absently as you smile at him. “I had a great time.”

“Really?” Bucky blurts out, and then hurries to suspend the disbelief.

The answer you give him has his heart doing somersaults. “Yeah. I’d actually love to do this again if you feel the same.”

“Of course. Yes, obviously.” He puts a brake on his train of speech, explains as he walks a little closer to you, close enough to count your eyelashes. “I’m sorry, I haven’t been on a date in 80 years, and I’m a little rusty, but--”

Like the event that started it all, your first kiss is a crash. You lean up slowly and he has time to stop you but he doesn’t. He lets you kiss him and freezes, from head to toe, upon the feeling of your soft lips. Stopping within seconds, you lean back, sheepish, ready to back away and run, he’s certain. His head clears, he thinks a little straighter. 

“Sorry, will you let me try that again?” He asks, clearing his throat, and you lift your hand to hold his. 

The warmth of your hold envelopes the back of his human hand, and twists your grip so your fingers are intertwined, so much more surface area to gain heat and the motivation to seek further touch from. “If you stop saying sorry, sure.”

He closes his eyes before you do, and this time, the meeting of your lips is soft. A kiss, not a crash, an elegant collision of mouths and shared wants. In a few breaths of movement, as your other hand rises to his hair and his holds your waist, you come closer, and Bucky grows breathless. The kiss lasts for what feels like minutes too long and hours too short at the same exact time, as you break away with a gasp for air that has pride blooming under his sternum. 

Eyes shining, he hopes he’ll get to do that again. As you kiss his cheek and turn to your door, he looks forward to sitting two seats closer to you on Monday.

[hyucks-archive]

of happily ever afters.

word count: 6,978

genre: fluff, tinge of angst, female!reader

member(s): jeno, featuring jaemin

warning(s): fictional depiction of hyperthymesia, mention of death of foster parent, ill relations with foster parent

author’s note: i have been very much in my jeno feels lately, and i can finally mark off bookstore au from my bucket list, so a big yay to this fic, i hope you enjoy

“Hey,” Jaemin greets with a smile, placing his bag on the countertop. Jeno looks up briefly, flashing a small smile at his friend. “You’re early,” he comments, eyes glancing at the antique clock that decorates the mostly empty brick wall. “It’s close to eleven,” Jaemin replies, taking a seat on one of the high stools. Jaemin rests his folded arms on the countertop, tilting his head to the side while he watches as Jeno continues to write in his log book. Pursing his lips, he scans the interior of the small, dimly-lit, vintage-decorated bookstore. Jaemin’s eyes rest on the familiar customer.

You’re seated with your left leg over your right leg, your chin resting in your palm, in the comfort of your favourite corner, in your favourite bookstore. The book of choice is laid open to page 5, resting atop the table. You’re supposed to be getting lost in the world of fantasy, engrossed in every little detail, in every little word used. But, your eyes are fixed on the text.

Jaemin raises a brow as he continues to watch you from a distance. He can tell from your eyes that you’re lost in thought. You’re not focused on the book in front of you at all. His eyes travel downwards to focus on the book that’s sitting on the table, untouched. It doesn’t look like you’ve made any progress from the previous night. It could also be that you’ve moved on to another book. His eyesight isn’t good enough for him to really decipher which it is.

“Why are you staring?” Jeno questions, tone low and quiet. He glances over at you, to ensure that you’re not listening in on their conversation. Jaemin turns his head to face Jeno, humming in surprise. “Oh, nothing,” Jaemin says, turning his head in your direction once more. “Is she reading a new book?” he asks. Jeno looks at you once more; you’re once again, zoning out. “Nope. She’s been reading that book for a month now,” Jeno shares, shifting his attention to his messy work area. He begins to clean, preparing to knock off for the night.

“A month?” Jaemin repeats, frowning. “It looks like she’s barely gotten through the first page of that book,” Jaemin says, looking up to meet eyes with Jeno. Jeno shrugs, grabbing the stray stationary to place them into the stationary holder.

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you stand up, sliding the chair under the table. Closing the book, you hold it in your left hand, while you hold up your mostly empty cup of iced peach tea with your right hand. Taking another look to ensure that you’ve taken everything with you, you walk towards the counter. Like routine, you nod your head in acknowledgement at the blue-haired friend of the owner of the bookstore. Placing the book on the counter, you slide it towards the brown-haired boy. “Goodnight,” you greet, turning to take your leave.

Jaemin watches as you turn a corner.

“Stop staring,” Jeno says.

“Don’t you find it weird?” Jaemin begins, eyes on Jeno as he continues, “She comes here every day, sits in that same seat, and leaves at 10:59PM sharp. It’s even weirder, now that I know she’s been reading the same book for a month, yet she’s still on the first few pages of that book.” Jaemin’s brows are furrowed in confusion, his eyes scanning his friend’s face for an expression. Jeno remains nonchalant, picking up his backpack, keys in hand. “How are you not curious about what’s going on with her?” Jaemin prompts, both brows raised.

Jeno takes in a breath. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t curious.

You’ve been a regular at his bookstore for five months now. He vaguely recalls when he first began paying attention to you – you’d enter five minutes after opening hours, pick the same book, claim the same seat, and order an iced peach tea with every daily visit. Then, you’d leave a minute before closing time, greeting with a simple ‘goodnight’. However, it wasn’t your routinely behaviour that sparked his interest. It was the fact that the book you picked out, was the classic ‘The Princess and the Pea’. Jeno was confused. It was a children’s fairy tale; the book consisted of huge text and cute illustrations, amounting to 48 pages in total. Yet, even after three weeks, your routine didn’t change. You’d still go for that same book.

Jeno thought he’d do you a favour by keeping the book at the counter, so that you wouldn’t have to reach for it at the bookshelves. He remembers the small, insignificant conversation from that day. He remembers the way you frowned, walking up to him, questioning, “Did someone rent ‘The Princess and the Pea’?” Jeno held out the book with a soft smile, “It’s right here. I thought it would be easier for you to just buy your drink and collect the book at the same time, instead of having to reach so high, since this book is placed on one of the upper shelves.”

He remembers the way your expression softened, but your brows remained knitted. “Thanks, but I’d prefer if you left the book on the shelf,” you had said. It made Jeno feel flustered, as though he didn’t just try to do something nice for a regular customer. After that incident, he never meddled with, nor questioned you. He was surprised when the fourth month drew to a close, and you had finally moved on from ‘The Princess and the Pea’. It remains one of the biggest mysteries to Jeno until this day – how, and why did it take you four months to finish a 48-paged children’s book?

Shaking away these thoughts, Jeno smiles at Jaemin, “It’s none of my business,” he states, bending down to lock the doors to the store.

The following night, the night sky roars with thunder.

Your eyes snap up to focus on the hazy streets, the lighted signs of the shops on the opposite side of the road barely legible due to the heavy downpour. Your eyes shift to the antique clock sitting on the brick wall – it’s ten to eleven. You let out a silent sigh; you don’t have an umbrella, and it doesn’t seem like the rain will stop anytime soon.

Jeno looks towards the small umbrella holder beside the glass doors. The previous three customers had taken the three umbrellas he had placed in the umbrella holder, and he knows for a fact that there’s no way you can fit an umbrella in the tiny purse you always carry. It doesn’t help that it’s Thursday, the day that Jaemin doesn’t drop by. He turns in your direction – you’re staring mindlessly at the rain. He checks the time, noting that there’s still seven minutes before closing, or six minutes before you’d leave. He decides to continue with his work.

As the clock strikes 10:59PM, you get up from your seat, slide the chair under the table, sling your bag over your shoulder, with the book in one hand and the empty cup in the other, you walk towards the counter. Placing the book down, you slide it towards the boy.

“Goodnight,” you say, turning to take your leave.

“It’s raining.” You stop at his words. You look up at the sky as he goes on to say, “I don’t have an umbrella either, so I won’t be closing until the rain stops. You can stay, if you’d like.” You turn to look at the boy – he dons a soft smile, the pretty crescents his eyes form still clearly visible despite his big-frame glasses. You nod your head, “Okay.” You take a seat on a high stool by the counter.

“Would you like some hot chocolate?” he offers. “Sure,” you reply.

As Jeno shifts between machines, he steals some glances at you. You’re lost in thought, as usual. He wonders what could possibly be on your mind all the time that enables you to zone out like that. He wonders if tonight will be the night he’d finally find out the reason behind the four months you took to finish a fairy tale. Maybe he’d get lucky, and you’d share more than that. Maybe he’d finally learn the name of the being he has grown so familiar with, yet still as distant as a stranger he’d meet for the first time.

“Here,” he says, placing the mug on a coaster in front of you. You give a small smile, “Thanks.” You take a sip. “Maybe I should give everything on the menu a try,” you say, “This is pretty good,” you compliment, pointing at the mug of hot chocolate in front of you. Your words elicit a shy smile from the boy, who puts up an embarrassed hand. “You’re just being nice,” he denies, with a subtle shake of the head.

“I don’t lie.”

Jeno meets eyes with you at your declaration. He’s searching for a sign, but all he’s receiving is that you’re dead serious. “Oh,” he manages; you’re merely further intriguing him with every passing second. There’s a comfortable silence as you continue to sip on your hot chocolate, while Jeno tries to piece together his words to continue the conversation. He doesn’t want to sound offensive, or probe too much by accident, that it makes you feel uncomfortable. He ponders a little more, eventually deciding to preface his queries with, “Can I ask you something?”

You turn your attention to the boy behind the counter. You smile, nodding your head, a sign for him to go on. Your smile only widens as he continues, “How do you always come in and leave at the exact same time, read the same book for four months, and drink the same drink, all while sitting in that same spot?” He looks over at the said seat, “Don’t you get bored?” You giggle, and an expression of confusion washes over Jeno’s face.

“I need routine,” you say, purposefully placing emphasis on the word ‘need’. Jeno’s features contort further, telling of how your statement did nothing in answering his queries.

You look out of the glass windows – the rain has slowed to a drizzle. Jeno watches your expression, taking note of how your smile never leaves your lips. He’s not the most intuitive, but he can tell your smile isn’t bright. There’s a hint of bitterness to it, though he isn’t sure why. Still, the way your eyes glisten from the reflection of the lights on the street, and the way you’re seated in front of him, smile plastered on your lips, makes his heart feel some kind of way. It’s always been like that. Your presence has had this effect on him ever since month three of your daily visits.

You’re a mystery to him. One where he’s willing to take all the time in the world to unravel.

“What’s your name?” you ask, turning back to look at the cute boy behind the counter. You can tell he’s flustered, but he masks it so well within a split second. “Jeno,” he tells you. You nod your head in understanding, your smile widening. “Jeno,” you repeat.

“If we get another chance,” you begin, pushing yourself off the stool, “I’ll tell you then,” you finish, backing away towards the glass doors. Jeno looks towards the sky – he hadn’t noticed that the rain had stopped. He looks back at you. Tonight, unlike all the other nights, you smile, with a small wave. “Goodnight,” you say, turning around as you pull the glass door towards you, exiting the quaint little bookstore.

Jeno’s eyes come to a rest on the empty mug of hot chocolate, the only remainder of your presence.

“I didn’t get your name,” he murmurs.

Jeno waits patiently for the next opportunity at a conversation with you. Your nightly routine of greeting him with a ‘goodnight’, has evolved into a greeting accompanied with a pleasant smile, of which he treasures very much. It’s the sixth day since you’ve started doing it, and Jaemin has finally taken notice.

“Am I missing something?” he begins, just as your silhouette disappears into the corner of the street. Jeno raises a brow, earning a smug smile and a slight tilt of the head from his blue-haired friend. “What?” Jeno starts.

“She’s smiling,” Jaemin teases, wiggling his eyebrows playfully. “And?” Jeno continues, feigning innocence.

“And,” Jaemin’s grin widens, “That means something must’ve happened last Thursday.”

Jeno shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips at the thought of the short conversation the two of you had shared. Jaemin continues to eye Jeno’s expressions, a toothy grin on his lips at how painfully obvious Jeno is being.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Jaemin says, shrugging, “I hope tomorrow night will be your second chance.”

Jaemin’s words reigned true. It’s Thursday night again, a week since you’ve had that conversation with Jeno. The pitter patter began at 10:24PM, and by 10:32PM, it had transitioned into a semi-heavy shower. It’s now 10:57PM, and it’s raining, what people deemed, ‘cats and dogs outside’. You wonder if it’s some sign, that somehow, the downpours only occur every Thursday night, when Jeno’s friend doesn’t visit.

Jeno is staring out the glass doors. It’s finally the day where he’d have the long-awaited second conversation with you. He’s prepared this time. Just as you arrive at the counter, sliding the book that you’ve barely gotten to page 6 of towards him, he places the coaster down in front of you. Reaching below the counter, he pulls out a mug, setting it atop the coaster just as you slide into the high stool. There’s a significant whiff of earl grey. You smile.

“Since you wanted to try other things on the menu,” Jeno states, reflecting your expression. Wrapping your fingers around the mug, you bring it up to your nose, breathing in the fragrant smell of the loose tea leaves. “Premium,” you comment, earning a low chuckle from the boy. You take a sip, nodding your head as you let out a sound of satisfaction, “It’s so fragrant,” you say.

Jeno is staring at you. You chuckle, knowing exactly why.

“Are you that curious?” you ask. Jeno notices the way your smile remains so pleasant, so inviting, yet still with a dash of sorrow in it. He thinks you look beautiful smiling, but a part of him feels sad to see you smiling like that. It’s ironic, to say the least. He nods his head, “I’ve been waiting,” he informs honestly. You giggle.

Humming as your eyes travel around the back of the counter, browsing through the very many machines and materials that decorate Jeno’s small working space, you begin with a question. “Jeno, do you remember what you were doing on May 28, 2012?”

Jeno raises both brows at your question. He squints his eyes, digging through his memories. If you had asked him if he remembers what he did in 2012, he’d probably be able to give you a rough summary of the scraps that he’s still able to pull out from the deep depths of his memory. But, to be asking about such a specific date, leaves Jeno at a lost. That is why he answers with, “I don’t think anyone can remember what they were doing on such a specific date.”

Your smile widens, further confusing the boy.

You prop your arm on the table, resting your chin in your palm, leaning a tad bit closer towards Jeno. It’s a first for him to be able to take in your entirety at such proximity.

“Well, I can,” you say. Jeno spots the sparkle in your eyes, but the slight bit of regret doesn’t go unnoticed. He furrows a brow, expression doubtful. “You can?” he says, tone sceptical. You don’t shy away from the eye contact as you go on to explain, “My mind is like a movie reel. It’s constantly replaying every memory in distinct detail. It’s not just May 28, it’s May 1st through 31st, June 1st through 30th, and basically, anything and almost everything since 2012, it’s etched in my memory.”

Jeno is searching for a sign of a joke. You can tell he doesn’t believe you. Who would? Having autobiographical memory is so rare. You didn’t even believe you had it yourself back then.

“I can’t get through a book without the text triggering the reliving of my memories,” you continue, still trying to convey sincerity and honesty with the eye contact that you’re maintaining with Jeno. “That’s why it took me four months to finish ‘The Princess and the Pea’,” you conclude, smiling proudly. At least you got to the end of the book, the process doesn’t matter.

Jeno is trying to register the information. He’s doubtful, but he’s still trying to process it. He’s heard of eidetic memory, but never memory so distinct, that you’d remember every detail of your life.

“What’s so significant about May 28, 2012?” is what Jeno chooses to pursue, of the many piling questions that has accumulated within seconds of your revelation. That’s when he sees how your smile fades, the sparkle in your eyes dimming. His brows knit. You break the eye contact, choosing to fixate on the wooden countertop as you continue to tell your story.

“My foster father passed on that day,” you state, almost so matter-of-factly, that it scares Jeno. How can you be so nonchalant, so detached when you’re talking about the death of a parent figure? He rationalises, waiting for you to elaborate, when he realises that it could’ve been an ill-fated relationship. But, it only scares him more when your smile returns, though the glint in your eyes doesn’t. “It feels like everybody has moved on with life, but I haven’t.”

It’s silent for a moment. There’s the sound of the rain, but you’re focused on the eye contact. Jeno is looking you in the eyes. He isn’t sure what it is that he’s feeling. It might be pity, it might be sympathy, but it might also just be pure curiosity. How can you say that like it’s a good thing?

“What do you mean?” he probes.

“When a memory plays in my head, I experience the emotions as raw as they were, in that very moment. People told me it’d get better with time. People told me I’d heal with time. But then it became 2017, a good five years since, and I still cried like I had just heard the news. My foster aunt thinks I’m crazy, that I’m hopeless for not being grown up enough to move on. But she doesn’t understand this, nobody does.”

You cried. You were so nonchalant about stating that your foster father had passed, but you cried. Jeno doesn’t understand. Still, Jeno decides against probing. He doesn’t want to poke his nose in places where you might not be comfortable with him being in.

“It’s okay, you can ask,” you urge, giving a nod of encouragement. You’re willing to share, if Jeno’s willing to listen.

“Do you miss him?”

You clasp your hands together. “Do I?” you murmur, audible enough for Jeno to hear. He watches as your lips spread into a smile once more, a smile that he has come to realise, that you use whenever you’re trying to mask how you truly feel. “I don’t, actually,” you say, looking back up to meet Jeno’s eyes. His lips form an ‘O’, as he nods his head, unsure in which direction he should steer the conversation. You chuckle.

“I didn’t like my faux pa.”

“Faux pas? As in mistake?” Jeno clarifies.

“Well, he was notoriously known for his faux pas. But no, faux as in fake, and pa as in papa – my fake father,” you explain. Jeno breaks out into a laughter; your words seem to have lightened the mood. You smile, as you go on to say, “He never liked me either.”

“Why?” Jeno asks. The look of genuine concern in his eyes warms your heart. It propels you to continue.

“I was a replacement child. Just that, I wasn’t good enough in his eyes. Isn’t that what they always say? That blood is thicker than water?”

Jeno’s gaze softens at your sentence. His lips form a small, comforting smile, as he corrects, “Blood is thicker than water, but only if it flows both ways.”

“That… doesn’t really comfort me,” you reply, raising a doubtful brow, letting out a gentle chuckle. Jeno purses his lips, shying away, “I tried.”

“Effort acknowledged,” you say, holding out a thumbs up.

The two of you exchange laughter, so engrossed in the comforting presence of each other, that you didn’t realise the rain had stopped. You look at Jeno once more, finishing up the earl grey tea. “Thank you,” you say, “For this conversation.”

“I still haven’t found out why you need routine,” Jeno says.

“I guess we have the topic for our third conversation,” you reply, sliding off the stool.

“Goodnight, Jeno,” you greet, giving a slight nod of the head.

“Goodnight,” he returns, watching as you exit through the glass doors.

The third conversation comes way earlier than expected. It’s only the following day, but it’s pouring, once again. You look towards the antique clock that you’ve grown to love – it’s 10:55PM. You shift your attention to the empty counter; the blue-haired boy isn’t here today. You wonder why; it’s a Friday night, and he’s only ever absent on Thursday nights.

As usual, when the clock strikes 10:59PM, you’re standing opposite Jeno, the counter the barrier between the two of you. You take a seat on a stool, and Jeno places a mug of strawberry tea in front of you. You smile, “Refreshing,” you say.

Jeno did his research last night. He was still doubtful, but he believes you now.

“I’m ready,” he says, resting his arms on the countertop. He gazes into your eyes, a sign for you to begin your storytelling. Jeno hasn’t told you, but there’s something about the way you talk, and the way you story tell, that pulls him in. He’s mesmerised, to term it simply.

“I guess the information on the internet corroborates with what I told you?” you comment, raising both brows knowingly. Jeno smiles, nodding his head, “You guessed right,” he validates. You tilt your head to the side, looking into his eyes. The two of you share a moment, and you’re sure Jeno felt it too, but you turn away so quickly, he may have also missed it altogether. Taking in a breath, you search for the right words as you continue to dictate your story.

“Routine helps me. When something triggers my memory, or my brain just decides to replay a random memory, I’ll just be reliving the same day that I’m living.” You pause, blinking a few times, “Does that make sense?”

Jeno looks up at the ceiling with his brows furrowed, taking a few seconds to process what you had said, before nodding his head. “Yeah, it does,” he says. “That’s it,” you say, throwing your hands up in a conclusive manner. “What else are you curious about?”

Jeno hums in thought. “Why did you choose to read ‘The Princess and the Pea’?”

“Because it’s supposed to teach you that you shouldn’t jump to conclusions without knowing all the facts. I’m trying to understand that,” you share.

“Why?”

“Maybe then I’d understand that there were reasons as to why he behaved the way he did.”

You didn’t need to be specific for Jeno to know who you were referring to. He doesn’t push you any further, though, for he feels that it’s a topic that you’d tell him about yourself, when you’re ready to. Jeno points towards the book that you’re currently reading. “Why ‘Cinderella’?”

You smile. “It’s supposed to teach you to always be kind. I can’t forget, so I have to learn to forgive.”

“Why fairy tales? Won’t anecdotes be more effective?”

“For one, I’d never be able to get through a non-fiction book on the art of forgiveness. And secondly, conversations are killer. They’d replay in my head so much that it’d give me a headache. You’re the first person I’ve held a proper conversation with in the longest time.” Strangely, your declaration makes Jeno feel tingly on the inside. It’s like, you’re indirectly telling him, that he’s special.

Again, the rain has slowed to a drizzle for the night. You get off the stool, hands wrapped around the strap of your bag. “I guess that’s it for tonight,” you say, backing away, towards the glass doors. Before you’re able to end off with a ‘goodnight’, Jeno cuts in, “You forgive to free yourself. Forgiveness allows you to leave everything in the past and move on with your own life.”

You pause. There’s the comfortable silence again, coupled with the comfort you seem to be able to find in Jeno’s eyes. Your smile widens, and for the first time, Jeno isn’t able to identify any sadness in your expression. It’s a pure, genuine smile. He reflects your expression. Although, he doesn’t know how much his words, and his gaze, mean to you.

“Goodnight, Jeno,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

A few days go by, with only subtle gazes and shy smiles exchanged.

“I’m pretty sure you’re hiding something from me,” Jaemin says, shaking his head disapprovingly. “I thought our friendship doesn’t involve secrets,” he sulks further. Jeno rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “Are you not going to tell me?” Jaemin whines, trying to get his friend to concede.

“There’s nothing to tell you,” Jeno insists.

But, the occasional glances that Jeno sneaks at your focused self doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaemin. Jaemin smirks, a teasing smile forming on his lips as he continues to play along with Jeno’s ‘there’s nothing going on’ narrative.

And then, it’s Thursday again.

Jeno bites down on the inside of his lower lip, picking at his fingers as he continues to rehearse the conversation he has in mind in his head. He glances towards the clock – about a minute left, before you’d walk through the glass doors. Inhaling once more, he continues to mouth the words, a part of him nervous because he doesn’t know what to expect. You’re so unpredictable, your reply can easily go both ways.

That’s when you enter the quaint bookstore, shooting a shy smile at the boy behind the counter. Jeno returns the smile, eyes following you as you head towards the bookshelves. You reach up, pulling out the ‘Cinderella’ book that you’ve been working on for the past month and a half. You’ve gotten to page 8, which is somewhat of an achievement. It’s hard to go through a book that uses the word ‘prince’ so many times. Every time you get to that word, the highlight reel of Jeno’s handsome face begins to play in your mind. You’d term it torturous, but to be able to view such a beautifully sculpted face so vividly in your head every day isn’t exactly what people would deem ‘torturous’.

Arriving in front of the counter, you state your order. “One iced peach tea, please.”

As per routine, you hand Jeno the exact amount of cash, and he proceeds to prepare your drink. You tap your finger against the wooden surface of the countertop, pursing your lips as you wait patiently for your order to be ready.

As per non-routine, Jeno doesn’t immediately hand you your order when it’s ready. Instead, he stands opposite you. You raise a brow, a cue for Jeno to speak his mind.

“This is probably kind of sudden,” he begins, finding your eyes. “Do you want to have dinner? Together?” He gestures between the both of you, a physical demonstration of the word ‘together’. You smile – the offer is sweet, and you’d love to grab dinner with the boy. However, dinner would lead to another, and you can’t risk it. With an apologetic smile, you say, “That’s nice, Jeno, but I don’t want to do dinner. It interrupts my routine.”

Jeno’s prepared for this. Why else would he have spent the entire night searching for conversational tips and rehearsing his answers to the potential statements you might throw at him?

“Can’t you give me a chance?” he says.

“I’d have to live with the hurt forever,” you reply. Yes, you’d very much like to have a taste of what a relationship is like. Yes, you’re tactful enough to be able to pick up on the undeniable chemistry you share with Jeno. Yes, you admit that you harbour good feelings for the boy. But no, there’s no guarantee that things will work out well. And if they don’t, you’d be left all alone once more, to deal with the excruciating aftermath, while everyone else just moves on, leaving the past in the past. You’re not ready for that, and you’ll never be.

“As friends,” he pushes. “A platonic dinner.”

Your mind wishes to reject him, but your heart is eager to accept it. You know that this conversation would never leave your head, and you’d have to live with the regret of saying ‘no’, so that is the only reason why you decide, “Okay. Dinner.”

It’s the brightest smile Jeno has donned yet.

As evening comes, you find yourself following behind Jeno, a look of disapproval on your face.

“My idea of dinner’s a cute little diner,” you say, facial features twitching, “I didn’t know we’d be eating grass.”

Jeno breaks out into a laughter at both your expression and what you said. He had decided to close the bookstore early, claiming that it’d be a nice, cosy dinner. Yet, after a ten-minute drive, you find yourself in the middle of a park, surrounded by nothing but greenery, and probably a bunch of bugs that cannot be seen with the naked eye, and a bunch more that you’d scream at the sight of.

Jeno has his backpack slung over his shoulder, leading the way as he brings you towards an empty spot. You eye him up and down, “Picnics aren’t platonic, Jeno.”

Jeno doesn’t reply, his pretty smile still plastered on his face. He sets his bag down on the pavement, reaching inside. He gestures for you to move closer, so you abide. He pulls out an object, placing it on your palm. You let out a sound at the sudden weight.

“Sandbags?” you question. Jeno pulls out more weights, setting them on the ground beside your feet. Silently, he picks one up, wrapping it around your left ankle. He fastens the strap, securing it. You watch as he adds another weight on top of the one he had just secured. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“You’ll find out,” he says.

Although you aren’t sure what his motives are, you allow Jeno to continue attaching the weights onto your body. He fastens two sandbags on each leg, which means 3 kilograms of extra weight on each leg. With the two remaining sandbags, he fastens them on each of your wrists. In total, there’s an extra 8 kilograms of weight on your body. You frown, eyes never leaving Jeno’s face, waiting for him to provide an explanation of some sort.

Satisfied, Jeno looks into your eyes. “Trust me,” he assures. You nod your head.

You watch as Jeno jogs away from you, coming to a stop about 200 metres away. He turns around to face you, cupping his mouth as he shouts, “Run as fast as you can towards me!”

You’re not sure what Jeno is on about, but you did agree to trusting him. Letting out a sigh, you position your body, getting ready to sprint. Taking in a deep breath, you push yourself forward, forcing your legs to move at maximum speed. Despite the short distance, you’re panting heavily when you arrive beside Jeno.

He looks at you, a small smile on his lips. “How did it feel?”

“How did what feel?” you manage out between pants, hands propped against your hips as you continue to gasp for air. “How did running with weights feel?” he prompts, waiting for your response. “The weights slowed me down, obviously,” you reply, brushing the baby hair away from your face. “I could’ve gone much faster without the weights,” you add on, the competitiveness in you brewing.

“Prove it.” Jeno begins to remove the weights off of your body. With every weight lifted, your body immediately feels lighter.

Gathering the weights in his hands, Jeno jogs back to the original starting point, dumping the weights onto the ground, beside his backpack. He gestures for you to run over, “Come on!” he shouts. Smirking, you jog on the spot to warm yourself up, before sprinting forward, dashing across the 200-metre distance that seems so much shorter than it did before.

Jeno hands you a bottle of water.

“How did that feel?” he asks.

“Good,” you say.

“How did it feel in comparison to when you ran with weights?”

“It was easier, definitely.”

“Like you were freer?”

You look at Jeno, nodding your head. “Yeah,” you agree, taking another gulp of water. Jeno’s smile spreads even wider, “Exactly,” he says. You raise a brow, failing to understand the situation. “Exactly what?” you question. Jeno breathes a breath of relief, “That’s what forgiveness is.”

Jeno notices your expression going blank. He maintains his smile, continuing, “Useless grudges and hate is like these weights that you don’t need. Yes, they train you to become stronger, but at the same time, they slow you down. Forgiving is like removing all of this useless weight, and moving on with your life, so that you can move at whatever pace you’d like.”

“I should forgive to free myself,” you say, recalling Jeno’s exact words from the other night. Once again, a smile of pure sincerity pulls at your lips, and it warms Jeno’s heart to know that his words had an impact on you. “You went through all that just to explain your concept of forgiveness?”

“I’m simply proving myself to be worthy of your time,” Jeno says, bending down to place the weights back into his backpack. You watch him, loving the fact that his smile never leaves his lips. Saying that you’re touched by his actions would be a severe understatement. It’s the first and only time in your life that someone has ever put in so much effort just for you. If only you can find the courage in you to admit to your feelings, to admit that you want to give Jeno a chance too.

You walk forward, bending down next to Jeno. You place a hand over his, gently holding on to his warm hand.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” you say, conveying your heartfelt sincerity through the eye contact. Somehow, that’s enough for Jeno.

Baby steps, right?

Then, it’s Friday night. It’s 10:58PM, and it’s pouring with thunderstorms.

You look towards the counter – the blue-haired boy is here today. You’ve been hoping that it’d rain again, so that you can have another late-night conversation with Jeno. You wouldn’t mind if it became a part of your routine. Unfortunately, it’s not Thursday today, which means you’d have to share the conversation with a third party.

As usual, you head towards the counter, placing the book on the countertop, sliding it towards Jeno. He smiles at you. Meanwhile, his curious blue-haired friend peeks over at the title. “Cinderella?” he blurts, almost too incredulously. Jeno shoots him a look, and his friend immediately cowers back, a hand over his mouth as though he had said something wrong. You let out a chuckle, “Not a book choice you’d expect out of someone my age, huh?” Jeno glances over at you, before averting his attention back to the elderflower tea he’s brewing. He’s glad you’re able to react well to Jaemin.

Jaemin gives you an embarrassed smile, holding a hand out, “I’m Jaemin.”

You acknowledge, shaking his hand as you tell him your name. You slide into the stool beside him, and he immediately raises both brows in realisation, his lips forming an ‘O’ as he looks at Jeno, who is avoiding eye contact at all costs. “I see what you’ve been hiding,” Jaemin teases, his brows dancing along with his playful smile.

Jeno waves a dismissing hand at his friend, setting the mug of elderflower tea atop a coaster in front of you.

“So the two of you have been having secret date nights while it rains?” Jaemin probes.

You glance up at him, sipping from your mug. “Just meaningful conversation,” you correct. Jeno’s still avoiding his friend by pretending to be busy with cleaning the machines.

“What kind of meaningful conversation?” Jaemin digs further. Jeno shushes his friend from the side, earning a soft laughter from the blue-haired boy. “Okay, I won’t ask,” Jaemin concedes, holding his hands up in surrender. “Why are you reading ‘Cinderella’, though? Are you one of those girls who believes in happily ever afters?”

You’re about to respond, but Jeno butts in. “I thought you wanted to go to the toilet, Na Jaemin.”

“Oh, right!” Jaemin exclaims, almost too dramatically. You can’t help but giggle. “I’ll be right back. You guys have fun,” he says, sending a wink at his friend, before disappearing into the washroom.

“Sorry about that,” Jeno says, placing the cleaning rag down. He leans his weight on his palms that are resting against the surface of his work area, his veins in full view. Jeno is attractive all over – his looks, his body, and above all, his personality. It’s rare to come across guys who are so sincere and sensitive to the feelings of others these days. You consider yourself quite lucky to have discovered this little bookstore, and you consider yourself even luckier to have become acquainted to the owner of this bookstore.

“It’s fine,” you reply, “He’s amusing.”

There’s a short pause, before Jeno says quietly, “You know, people do read fairy tales for the happily ever afters.”

You look at him, a soft smile decorating your features. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as happily ever after.” The two of you remain still, sharing another moment as you look into each other’s eyes. This time, you don’t avoid it. Somehow, your heart rate begins to increase. You can feel your heart thumping against your chest. From what moment, did Jeno become this attractive to you?

Jeno inches in, his face the closest it has ever been, but still, respectfully distant. “What if I’m your happily ever after?”

You gulp. What if? No one has ever had such an effect on you before. There’s a growing urge for you to just lean forward, to just attach your lips onto his. But you know well enough that you shouldn’t, because, “What if you’re not?”

“You haven’t given me a chance to prove it to you,” he says, almost so affirmatively, that you’re wavering on the line of committing to him. You swallow.

“Convince me,” you challenge. You catch the way Jeno’s eyes dart down towards your lips, before he looks back up into your eyes. You know well enough that that’s the sign that he’s going to lean in. Just as he does, you press your fingers to his lips. “With words, Jeno.” He reaches for the wrist of the hand you have held up against his mouth, shifting it to the side as he declares, “You have your ways, and I have mine.” He closes the gap between the two of you.

There’s a burst; an overwhelming wash of feelings that blossoms in your heart. He feels right. He feels like the security that you’ve needed, but you’ve never had. Jeno makes your heart swell in the best way possible.

Jaemin keeps himself hidden, only the tip of his head peeking out as he tries to get a good view of Jeno and you. He smiles proudly, waiting for the right moment to enter, to make sure he doesn’t walk in on anything.

Jeno pulls away, eyes on you. Your lips are slightly parted, eyes searching for a sign from his.

“I’m back!” Jaemin announces, striding towards the two of you. You pick up the mug of elderflower tea, gulping it down, just so that if Jaemin happens to notice your lips, you’d be able to just pass it off as the moisture from the tea. He reclaims the seat beside you, smiling so widely, you’re almost able to see his molars.

“So, tell me, what do you see in Jeno?”

“What?” You look at Jaemin with both brows raised, while he has on the most relaxed, composed expression. “Come on, I’m his best friend. How long more do you guys intend to keep this,” he uses his finger to connect the two of you, “a secret?”

You look towards Jeno, who’s looking at you with an expression of anticipation.

You’ve come to a point where you’re learning to forgive your foster father. That would mean you’d be able to learn to get over heartbreak should the need arises, right?

At the very least, if it’s with Jeno, it’d be worth it, right?

You’re still hesitating, but when you engage in eye contact with Jeno, and you see the genuine affection and sincerity that’s pouring out of his gaze, you subconsciously give a slight nod of the head. Jeno understands you immediately. He breaks out into the brightest, loveliest smile, a light shade of pink painting his cheeks.

Jaemin fails to contain the fatherly smile that spreads across his lips. While he might’ve been mostly irrelevant in this whole situation, a part of him always knew, that he’s Jeno’s personal fairy godfather.

And that might just be the sign that happily ever after has the chance of existing.

[darkblueboxs]

Best Laid Plans

For #aftgsummer

Prompt: Day trip

Pairing: Kandreil 

Read here or on AO3

*

Kevin’s plan for the last day of summer is bullet-proof: he has a huge wall calendar, a copy of his class schedule, a note of every Exy match and banquet date, a print-out of essay deadlines and exam dates, and enough pens and sticky notes to stock a stationary shop. All he has to do is put it all together.

Unfortunately, he forgot to factor his partners into the equation.

He is laying out his highlighters by order of preference when the sound of Neil’s head hitting his desk echoes across the room. Kevin doesn’t even bother with a cursory upwards glance; he can imagine well enough the image of despondency that would meet him if he did.

“Is all of second year going to be like this?” Neil groans into his stack of textbooks.

“No,” Kevin answers, at the same time that Andrew says, “Yes.”

“It’s a matter of planning,” Kevin continues, sending Andrew an arch look. “As long as you make a schedule, stick to it, plan out your work periods and your rest times and stick to a regular sleep pattern-” Neil huffs sceptically, but Kevin continues as though he didn’t hear, “You’ll find it perfectly manageable.”

Neil sits up to cast a doubtful look in Andrew’s direction. Andrew simply shrugs. “It’ll work out.”

“You can’t just say that about everything.” Kevin turns back to his planner. He doesn’t realise Andrew has moved from the sofa until he feels the brush of his breath on the back of his neck. Bracing his arm on the back of Kevin’s chair, Andrew leans over him to inspect Kevin’s progress.

“You have every minute of your every day planned from now until Christmas,” he observes flatly. Curiosity piqued, Neil joins him on Kevin’s other side.

“Wow,” he says as he studies the neat blocks of colour denoting Kevin’s activities. “I’m amazed you didn’t plot your bathroom breaks onto this, too.”

“I don’t need a planner to tell me when to take a shit,” he says irritably.

“What about me and Andrew? Do we get our own highlighter colour?” Neil leans forwards, pretending to read from a particular quadrant. “Sunday, seven am, get boned.”

“You two can ‘bone’ all you want at seven am on a Sunday, I’ll be enjoying my one lie-in of the week, thank you.”

Tired of their bickering, Andrew reaches between them to flip Kevin’s planner shut.

“Hey!”

“We’re going for a drive,” Andrew announces. He doesn’t wait for Neil or Kevin’s response, but leads the way with the typical certainty that they will follow.

Kevin and Neil flick a look at each other. The three of them have come as close to telepathy as anyone ever will, and this is the look that says, is this worth fighting him over?

The answer is, as always, a resounding no.

After Neil wins the scuffle for the front seat, Kevin settles into the middle back seat, arms crossed. Neil flicks a triumphant smirk over his shoulder, which Kevin replies to with a scowl. The Maserati’s engine purrs through the leather as Andrew throws it into gear. Kevin lets his head fall back as they pull onto the motorway, mentally mapping out and re-arranging his plans for the day onto the blank fabric of the ceiling. There’s a rustle as Neil finds the packet of peanuts Kevin stashed in the glove compartment, and a moment later one bounces off his forehead.

“Andrew,” Kevin complains.

Andrew sighs heavily through his nose. “Children.”

Neil cackles, and Kevin reaches around the seat to throttle him, and Andrew threatens to pull over and stuff them both in the boot, bringing the scuffle to an end. At some point during their distraction he pulled off from the road that would take them to downtown Columbia, electing instead to loop around the metropolis.

“Where the hell are we going, Andrew?” Kevin watches as buildings give way to long stretches of scrubland, bleached brown by weeks of sun. Midday is approaching, and soon a stuffy car will be the last place any of them want to be trapped. Andrew shrugs and merges onto another road seemingly at random.

“I think I hitchhiked here once,” Neil muses.

“How? It’s so empty.” The road stretches out like an endless tar river ahead of them. Other traffic is sparse to non-existent; the idea of breaking down out here is daunting enough. Kevin can’t imagine trudging along the roadside in the summer heat, waiting for a truck to take pity on him, subject to the chaotic whims of the world. Kevin isn’t as dependant on company as he was when he left the nest, but still the endless stretches of emptiness scratch at the remaining agoraphobia in the back of his mind.

Suddenly, Andrew slams on the breaks, hard enough that the strap of Kevin’s seatbelt cuts off the flow of oxygen. Neil jolts forwards, saved from smacking his face off the dashboard by Andrew’s arm. The bag of peanuts is not so lucky, scattering over the front seats in a cascade of empty shells.

“Fuck,” Neil chokes out. Kevin reaches forward to grasp his shoulder, and Neil clamps his hand down over it, reassuring each other of their presence. They look to Andrew; the hand that was not thrown out to protect Neil is clamped, white-knuckled, on the wheel.

Their explanation stares at them from the other side of the windscreen, a tall, slender deer with large, brown eyes. Its ear twitches as it watches them, caught between fear and curiosity.

“Move,” Andrew says as though the animal can hear him. “Move, you idiot.”

Neil leans across him to tap the horn. Startled by the noise, the deer darts across the road and disappears amongst the trees. After flicking a glance over Neil, Andrew turns to pinch Kevin’s chin between his fingers, turning his head back and forth to inspect the damage. The seatbelt left a red line across his collarbone, which Kevin insists does not hurt. Andrew prods it with his forefinger, and when he receives no reaction, he nods. He cups Kevin’s cheek briefly before letting go, the closest Andrew comes to acts of reassurance.

“She came out of nowhere,” Neil says. Andrew hums in agreement. He taps his fingers against the wheel, but does not start the engine up again until Kevin’s breathing has returned to normal.

They end up weaving along Lake Murray, bursts of endless, glittering blue backing the rows of trees that flash past. Andrew’s speed is unaffected by their brush with the deer, but his eyes don’t stray from the road ahead, not even to take in the glowing vistas as they pass.

Andrew picks an exit at random, and they pull up near a small jetty. At the peak of summer it would be swarmed with fishers and families in campervans. As the season draws to the end, only a few stragglers remain, a mother watching her toddlers chase each other around the picnic tables while kayakers splash each other with their oars a little way out from the boathouse. The boathouse shares its building with a shop that sells snacks and children’s toys. Andrew swings past the plastic bats and balls to raid the slim freezer of its popsicles while Neil stares at a map marking hiking trails and beauty spots.

They sit on the end of the jetty, feet swinging over the edge while they devour their purchases. Kevin catches Neil using his soda as an ice-pack, and the ensuing squabble nearly ends with them tumbling into the lake. Andrew watches them through lidded eyes, popsicle dangling from his mouth as he leans back on his arms. Noticing the reddening patches spreading across the back of Andrew’s neck, Kevin sends Neil back to the shop with a nod, distracting Andrew from his absence by debating which bird species were responsible for the orchestra of chirps and calls echoing across the forest. Andrew scowls when Neil returns with a bottle of sunscreen, but after a lecture from Kevin and pleading eyes from Neil, he submits to having his arms and neck slathered with factor fifty.

Andrew finds a picnic bench in the shade to drape himself over while Neil drags Kevin along a walking trail that meanders along the ins and outs of the coastline, finishing at a sandy outlet that gives then a panoramic view of the lake. Kevin ruminates on geographical quirks and features of the area until Neil grows tired of Kevin’s musings and persuades him to abandon his socks and shoes on the white sand so they can wade along the shallow embankment. The sludgy sand of the lakebed gives way so easily underfoot that for a second Kevin fells as though he’s being sucked down into quicksand. He stumbles, knocking into Neil as he does so. Neil mistakes it for a challenge, and bumps him back. Kevin, having barely recovered his balance, loses it all over again. He reaches out for Neil’s arm in the vain hope of steadying himself, but succeeds only in pulling Neil over with him.

They crash into the water with identical shouts. When Kevin looks up, Neil is pushing his sodden bangs back from his eyes. Neil takes one look at his expression and bursts out laughing. Kevin reaches for Neil’s shirt, the idea of drowning him in the sapphire lake water growing in its appeal, but is distracted from his mission when Neil catches Kevin’s mouth with his instead.

They stay there a while, drenched clothes plastered to their skin as the cool water swirls and laps at them, kissing the salty-sweet taste of the lake from each other’s lips.

They stumble back to the picnic benches, where they find Andrew absorbed in watching birds flit back and forth between the bird feeders hanging overhead. He levels the dripping pair with a long look.

“You have a hickey,” he says to Neil at last.

“Jealous?” Neil responds. Andrew’s eyes flick to Kevin, as good a confirmation as any. Kevin’s lips twitch as he tilts his head to one side, making a show of looking Andrew over.

“He needs more sunscreen,” Kevin announces. Andrew rolls his eyes.

When Andrew is slathered up once again to Kevin and Neil’s satisfaction, Kevin rewards him with a soft kiss to his pulse-point, enjoying the way Andrew’s body shivers under the point of contact.

“You’re dripping everywhere,” Andrew says.

“You think I did this?” Kevin levels Neil with a pointed look. Neil shrugs the accusation off.

They find an empty stretch of sand to settle down on, leaving the sun to do the heavy work of drying them off. After a cursory glance to ensure they’re alone, Neil pulls his shirt over his head and lies it out on a rock, stretching out on the sand.

“Sun lotion,” Andrew reminds him smugly.

“Fuck you.” Neil yawns. Soon, he is fast asleep, head pillowed in his arms while the sun warms his shoulder blades.

Kevin slides his feet around in the sand, mesmerised by the patterns it makes as the grains shift and tumble around him. Andrew arches an eyebrow at him.

“I travelled a lot, back when I was… in the nest. Never to places like this, though. It was always major cities, sporting events, press ops. Even then, my every minute was filled with promotions and endorsements and matches and interviews. I never had time to see much of anything.” Kevin picks up a handful of sand, enjoys the way it sifts through his fingers. “It’s quiet.”

Andrew pushes up suddenly, stalking off back in the direction of the boat house. He comes back with – Kevin blinks – a plastic toy set in a net bag. Little shovels, a bucket, brightly coloured moulds for pressing shapes of crabs and starfish into the sand. He dumps the contents into Kevin’s lap save for a shovel.

“Sandcastles work best with damp sand,” he offers, before moving off to work on his own project. When Kevin looks up several minutes later, most of Neil’s torso is buried in sand.

He makes a sandcastle, then another, then stacks one on top of the other two, quietly proud when the structure holds.

Neil wakes up as Andrew is smoothing sand over his shoulders with the blunt side of the spade. He wriggles to dislodge the wet sludge before hurling a clump at Andrew’s head. Andrew rolls behind Kevin’s larger frame in time to avoid Neil’s attack, and Kevin glares at Neil until he raises his hands in surrender.

As the sun sinks, the sky smooths into a pool of pinks and oranges, and the lake winks the colours back up to the heavens. They lean against each other and watch, side-by-side, while Andrew points out osprey and egrets as they flit from one end of the horizon to the other.

As the sun falls behind the line of the trees, Kevin realises with a start that the day is over, and he hasn’t done any of the things he planned to do with it. Then, he realises with a slow, creeping kind of irritation that quickly gives way to something warm and painfully affectionate, that this was Andrew’s plan all along.

“Andrew,” Kevin says. Andrew hums, but does not lift his head from its resting place on Kevin’s shoulder.

The words escape him, so Kevin doesn’t try to find them. Andrew will understand; he always does, after all.

It’s going to be a great school year.

*

Thanks for reading!

[myghostmonument]

13xReader: Pyrite

Notes: What do you mean it’s January and I’m just now posting requests from the festive prompt list? SJSKJSKS yeah sorry guys December was a bad month for me but I’m getting them out now because it’s always Christmas in my heart and that’s how it is. This prompt was: “Oh hey, mistletoe!” It was supposed to be short n quick and here we are! All the clown schools are actively recruiting me, thanks for asking. I hope you all enjoy anyways! I’ve more writing on the way. This is of course gender-neutral for the reader!

Summary: The Doctor takes you and the fam to what should be a fun and carefree winter festival, except that from the moment you step foot out of the TARDIS, security droids open fire. Festive! Taking refuge in an abandoned shop, you discover an interesting rock, debate the authenticity of mistletoe, and almost experience death via shelf. All in a day’s work right?

Warnings: None unless heavy and repeated eye-contact is an issue. There may also be a rugby tackle.

WC: 3800 gdi 

“I told you! Christmas - never good with me!” The Doctor’s words were shouted as she ducked a flying chunk of debris.

“What?” Yaz hollered back, crouched behind a much larger and presently stationary chunk of debris. “I said, Christmas and me - every time - “ the Doctor broke off with a yell, ducking another narrow miss. “What?” Ryan and Yaz both yelled. “Maybe we could save this conversation for another time,” Graham shouted. “When we’re not under attack, for example!” “What?” the Doctor yelled back. You couldn’t help it. Hunched up against a chunk of smoking rubble, covered in dirt, and most certainly in mortal peril (and hardly thirty minutes into what the Doctor had promised to be a ‘fun and cheerful’ shopping excursion, no less), the sight of your friends yelling back and forth was too much to take. You started to laugh. The Doctor glanced over her shoulder at you, and an explosion briefly backlit her. Limned in gold, with wild hair and a smudged face, the Doctor looked slightly wild as her eyes flicked over you rapidly, perhaps assessing you for damage. She then grinned back. It did nothing to lessen the wildness. “Now that’s the spirit!” she called approvingly. “You lot, take notes! Better team morale, we can’t carry it all.” It was unlikely that anyone other than you heard her, but her general meaning seemed to carry over well enough. “We can’t stay here much longer,” you said, ducking another blast. This was definitely not Christmas, wherever (whatever, whenever) it was. Not the Christmas the Doctor had begrudgingly agreed to after you and the others had pestered her. You sometimes suspected that she initially refused requests for the sole purpose of being convinced; she certainly seemed to thrive on the banter and, when she inevitably agreed, was all enthusiasm. “Right, okay,” the Doctor said, pushing hair out of her eyes and peering over the top of her debris shield. “There’s a little shop just over there, I think we can make it!” “And then what?” you started to ask, before glancing up. A flash of light was all the warning you had. Lunging forward, you grabbed a fist-full of the Doctor’s coat and yanked her back down just as another blast demolished a chunk of the shield, precisely in the space her head had previously occupied. “I have a plan,” the Doctor said cheerfully, taking out her sonic and acting as if she hadn’t just narrowly avoided decapitation. She caught your expression and scrunched her face. “It’s a work in progress!” she chided, chancing another look over the still-smoking debris. Yaz darted over to join you, followed by Ryan and Graham. “What’s she doing then?” Graham asked, eyeing the Doctor as she scanned the air with her sonic. “She says she has a plan,” you informed them. The four of you then shared a look. “I heard that,” the Doctor said without turning around, still fiddling with her sonic. “But we didn’t say anything - “ Yaz began. “Your silence was very loud,” the Doctor replied, and you supposed that you couldn’t really argue with that. She clicked something together on her sonic and made a triumphant sound. “Right! Got it! Stage one of my plan: I’m going to overload the sensors and we’re going to head for that shop right around the corner, sharpish.” She surveyed you all expectantly, looking pleased. “What’s stage two of the plan?” “How long will the sensors be overloaded?” “How sure are you it’s gonna actually work? “And you reckon this shop’ll be safer?” “Enough with the questions!” the Doctor exploded, her indignant gaze moving between the four of you. “I told you it’s a plan in progress! Unless any of you lot have something to offer up, then I suggest you pipe down!” She waited a beat, then nodded. “Good. So, my plan - when I say go, you run like mad to that shop and get cover.” “What about you, Doc?” Graham asked. The Doctor pushed hair out of her eyes and waved a hand vaguely. “I’ll be right behind you. Should be fine.” The four of you exchanged another very loud look. But it was as she said: you really didn’t have a better plan. And the shop couldn’t be much worse than your current position, smack dab as it was in the middle of the cross-fire. So when the Doctor nodded at all of you with a (slightly wild) smile, leapt up with her sonic buzzing, and hollered ‘go’, you went.  “Well this is cheery,” Graham observed a few breathless moments later, looking around the dim shop you had all piled in. You were all crouched low, instinctively avoiding the windows. “Creepy, more like,” Yaz muttered, her own gaze lingering on the shadows. You were inclined to agree with her. The cramped and shadowed room was clearly some sort of flower shop, one which no doubt would have been bright and serene with the lights on and under less lethal circumstances. As it was, the uncertain gloom of the room lent it vaguely sinister, as if the silent plants were watching you. Waiting. Judging. Moving, ever so slightly? You swallowed, looking away from the shadows and meeting Ryan’s gaze. He didn’t look entirely at ease either. It wasn’t much comfort. A breath of air, a brush of sensation, fingers running across your neck and plucking at your collar. It turned out to be just the trailing vines of what looked like potted ivy, but you only realized that after you’d yelped and scrambled backwards, slamming your back painfully against the shop’s counter. Ryan and Yaz didn’t do a very good job of hiding their sniggering. You glowered at them, rubbing your back. “Keep it down,” Graham hissed, craning his neck to peer out a misty and smudged window. “I think the Doc’s coming!” Sure enough, there was a sudden upsurge in noise outside, and threading through the weapon blasts was a voice you knew very well. Graham chanced another look, then leapt to his feet and opened the shop door just in time for the Doctor to dive through the threshold. He slammed it and crouched again as she tucked and rolled. It was an impressive display of timing from the two of them. Ryan even gave a low whistle. “Did you lose them?” Yaz asked. The windows rattled as another blast rang out, and she winced. “Ah, maybe,” the Doctor panted, sitting up and pushing hair from her eyes. The window rattled in its frame again. “Possibly. Doubt it, to be honest.” She pushed herself against the counter with you, peeking over it before ducking back down and looking at you all, then the shop. She was, you were exasperated to see, looking quite cheerful. “This is cozy! How are we doing?” “Seriously?” Yaz asked, sounding as exasperated as you felt. You couldn’t help but be amused, and the Doctor caught your grin. “Now that’s more like it,” she said. “We’re together, we’re safe-ish, and we’re in a little shop. A flower shop! I love shops.” 

“Doc,” Graham said, and you could see how much the effort of maintaining his patience was costing him. Traveling with the Doctor was a crash-course in many important life skills, emotional management included. “What are those things, and why are they shooting at us?”

“Security droids,” the Doctor said, frowning. “Sophisticated models, too. They shouldn’t be attacking us like this.” She peeked around the counter, tongue poking between her lips. “Seems to have quieted down a bit, at least.”

Yaz was frowning too. “If they’re so sophisticated, why haven’t they tracked us in here?” 

“And why are they shooting at us, if we haven’t done anything?” Ryan added, sounding a touch offended. 

“Good questions,” the Doctor said. She stood up cautiously and skulked over to a window.  “This should be a peaceful era, I don’t know why they have these droids at all. Unless I got my eras messed up.”

“I wonder what that’d be like,” Graham said dryly.

Yaz snorted. “What, the Doctor mixing up her eras, or her landing somewhere peaceful?” 

“Oi, that’s enough of that,” the Doctor said indignantly while you, Ryan and Yaz laughed. “We’ve been to loads of peaceful places.”

“Yeah but generally speaking, if it’s peaceful when we land, you do your best to find out why and then upend everything,” Graham said, pushing himself to his feet with a groan. The Doctor looked as if she wished to argue the point, but settled for peeking out the window again in what she evidently considered to be a dignified silence. 

Taking your cue from them, you, Yaz and Ryan cautiously stood up too and, when the Doctor didn’t say anything, began to poke around the dim shop. It seemed to be decorated for a winter holiday, with tinsel and lights and bows.

“Weird, that this place has a Christmas too,” Ryan said, poking at a decorative, softly lit tree.

“Most civilizations have a Christmas,” the Doctor said absently. “Not Christmas, Christmas, of course. But most people have a holiday in the winter, when the harvests are done and the cold sets in.” She touched a bell, her nose wrinkling into a delighted smile as it chimed softly. “They’re almost always like this, with bright lights and gaudy decorations, all centering on hearth and home and coming out of the long, dark nights with hope and joy.” 

You watched her as she spoke. You loved this, loved watching her wax eloquent on the quirks and details of a new people or planet. There was a certain light and energy that seemed to suffuse the Doctor, when she found something new and unique and hopeful; her joy in the quirks of the universe all but radiated from her. It was a tangible thing, almost visible in her wake as she talked and moved around. It was so quintessentially, authentically her. 

You couldn’t help but smile, watching her. When she glanced over her shoulder, your eyes briefly met. Before you could feel much more than the first stirrings of self-consciousness that she’d caught you staring at her, smiling at her… she smiled back, and the shop felt brighter.

“Is this mistletoe?” 

Ryan’s question wasn’t loud or sudden, but you still jumped, startled. You caught Yaz’s eye as you turned around. She gave you a cheeky look, her eyebrows raised. Mature and unruffled person that you were, you scrunched your nose in response. It was an imitation of the Doctor you’d all picked up, and utilized with decreasing irony. She didn’t seem to have noticed it yet. One of these times, though, she was going to catch you all as you pulled increasingly dramatic scrunches behind her back. You personally hoped that she would catch Ryan (his were the best and most ridiculous). 

Graham walked over to Ryan, examining the draping plant in question. “Couldn’t be,” he said, though without much conviction. Traveling with the Doctor had done a lot to blur the lines between impossible, improbable, and just another Tuesday. 

“Unlikely,” the Doctor said as she moved over, pulling out her sonic. She ran it across the leaves of the plant, the muted glow and soft whirr making an island of light and colour in the shop. 

“Anyways how do you know what mistletoe looks like, Ryan?” Yaz asked interestedly. 

“I’d like to know that as well,” Graham said, never one to pass on an opportunity.

“Ha, ha,” Ryan said groused. “Obviously I don’t know, since I was wrong.”

“That’s not really better though, is it?” Yaz observed, and she and you both dissolved into giggles as Ryan’s face underwent a series of complicated and interesting emotions. When he settled on his signature Doctor-scrunch, you only laughed harder.

“Shh,” Graham said, perhaps taking pity on his grandson, though he seemed to be fighting a smile. “We don’t want to attract those things’ attention. I’m not built for all this running.” 

“They should be down for a bit longer,” the Doctor said. “Long enough to figure out what the next part of the plan is.” She looked away from her sonic, towards a window. “Can’t stay here forever; the security droids are bound to figure it out sooner or later and we need to find the locals, find out why they’re so afraid of newcomers.”

She moved restlessly around the shop. Graham and Yaz asked her some more questions, but you drifted away, examining the back shelves. While some of the items were readily identifiable as plants and flowers, others were much more ambiguous and even downright strange. You stooped to look at what seemed to be a potted rock. Why would anyone put a rock in soil like that? It wasn’t a remarkable rock, just striated grey, dull and lumpy. Except - was that a slight glimmer, that caught your eye? Curious (and lacking the appropriate degree of caution that traveling with the Doctor had instilled in you) you reached out your hand. Your fingertip had just brushed the rock - warmer than you thought it would be, and smooth - when an arm appeared from over your shoulder, a hand wrapping around your wrist. You jumped, startled, and felt your back press up against someone. 

“No touching things, what have I said?” The Doctor’s voice was laced with exasperation, but you were more distracted by the way it came from so very close to your ear. “I thought it was just Ryan I had to watch - oh, what’s this?” The Doctor’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist. Combined with her body so close to yours that you could feel the heat and energy emanating off of her, you were extraordinarily distracted. So much so that you almost missed it, at first. The Doctor’s sharpening attention was palpable, and you blinked as you watched the rock shudder, fine cracks radiating across its surface. Before you could even make sense of that, the cracks unfurled into tendrils, the rock transforming before your eyes into an impossibly delicate plant. It swayed gently.

“How did it do that?” you asked, your eyes tracking the sinuous, gentle movement of the rock-plant. It wasn’t the strangest thing you’d seen on your travels, but for some reason you were having trouble wrapping your mind around the fact that the bland, unassuming, solid little rock had transformed into this wispy plant.

“Touch responsive,” the Doctor said musingly as she leaned past you and peered at it. “An interesting adaptation. Probably to lure in the unwary,” she added severely, glancing back at you. 

You wrinkled your nose at her. “That’s not what I meant, I meant how does it go from a rock to -” but you broke off. Something had flashed out of the corner of your eye, and you turned, frowning. Just a glimmer of light bouncing off something in the shop, surely? But even as you thought that, another flash of light drew you attention - from outside the window. Uh oh. 

“Doctor,” you said, tugging at one of her sleeves. She was still in the middle of expounding upon both the plant’s alleged properties as well as your foolishness, but she glanced back at you, her hair falling over her face. She followed your gaze to the window.

“Hey Doc, there’s something moving out there,” Graham said from the other side of the shop. The Doctor’s face underwent a series of rapid changes as she stood up straight. She looked from Ryan, Graham and Yaz to you, and then the window again. “Everyone away from the windows,” she said, while promptly doing exactly the opposite of that. She only made it a step before she froze, then whirled back around. “Down!” she shouted, lunging forward and half-tackling you. She pulled you closer as you fell, so that her body was shielding yours. You thought maybe you’d shouted in surprise as you were forcibly tackled. It was hard to tell though, because even as you hit the ground (ow,) the wall across from you exploded as something tore through it. Several more shots ricocheted through the room, and bits of wood, ceramic and other debris crashed to the floor all around your head. You weren’t thinking about that much, though. Partially because you were still winded from the takedown, but mostly because the Doctor was still crouched over you, her head ducked against your shoulder and her arms on either side of your head as she shielded you. It was extraordinarily distracting. A booming crash rattled the floorboards as one of the shelves tipped over, and the Doctor yelped as she was showered with yet more debris.

Silence slowly reasserted itself in the shop. The Doctor cautiously lifted her head from your shoulder, turning so that her hair brushed your face. “Yaz?” she called, coughing. Smoke hung thick in the air, sullen and acrid. “Graham? Ryan?” “We’re fine,” Yaz called back. “Uh - Doctor, where are you guys?” You thought that a rather odd question to ask; if anything it was only you Yaz ought to have wondered the whereabouts of, given that the Doctor was still draped on top of you. You heard scuffling from the other side of the shop. “Stay down,” the Doctor said sharply. “They’re motion activated. We’re fine, just a bit cramped.” She shifted gingerly as she said this, and as her head moved you got a good look above you for the first time. It seemed the crashing shelf you’d heard had fallen directly over the Doctor, and presently lay propped up against the counter. It had probably protected you both from the worst of the debris, but it was now also effectively pinning you down. Ah. 

The Doctor turned her head again so that she was looking at you. Your noses were all but touching, her hair still brushing against your cheek. You wondered distantly if this was what a heart attack felt like, as you counted the freckles dotting the Doctor’s cheek like so many stars. “I’m just going to ease out, slowly,” she said, her tongue poking out between her lips as she concentrated and, in the process, almost murdered you. Perhaps this was what a heart attack felt like, actually. “Stay very, very still.” You swallowed and nodded minutely, not trusting yourself to speak. The Doctor pushed herself slightly off of you, one hand twisting as she tried to ease to the side. She froze as the shelf groaned and slid down further. Her eyes met yours again, wide and gleaming.

“Right,” the Doctor breathed. “Maybe we ah. Wait for help then.” She scrunched her nose as she spoke, obviously disliking the sentiment. You weren’t really surprised when she followed the statement with another attempt at shimmying out from under the shelf. It slid down another solid inch, hitting the Doctor and pressing her against you. “Ah,” she said, glancing at you guiltily. She looked so absurd that you couldn’t help but smile. Her guilty look melted away into a smile of her own. “Don’t you dare laugh,” she muttered. “I may have made a tactical error. It does happen.”

Something fell off the shelf, shattering very close to your face. You could hear something else slide to what must be the very edge of the shelf; you could just see the draping green tendrils of a potted plant, teetering on the edge. The Doctor’s eyes were very wide as she looked at you. ‘Don’t move,’ she mouthed, as if you were the one inching the shelf lower and lower. “I think we’ve got company,” Ryan’s voice called. You realized that you could hear voices, growing louder as they approached. “Must be the locals,” the Doctor said. She looked frustrated; you imagined that being rescued from the shop she had broken into and helped destroy might slightly undercut her position.. She shifted just slightly, and the potted plant rattled above you. She looked up, carefully moving only her eyes. 

“Huh,” she said after a beat. “I think it is mistletoe.” Her eyes moved back to yours, and your gazes locked. The Doctor had propped herself up with her arms so that she didn’t crush you, but in that moment you still felt the air leave your lungs. The moment stretched, the two of you staring at each other, noses just touching, eyes reflecting each other.  You were suddenly, horribly aware of your lips, and the bare sliver of space between them and the Doctor’s.. You thought you could almost feel the heat coming from them. From her. You could certainly feel her hearts beating against your chest. The door to the shop banged open, and you both jerked. “Doctor!” Yaz cried, over the sound of more voices. “It’s okay,” the Doctor called, turning her head and filling your face with her hair. “Just a bit of a misunderstanding!” She tried to move again as Yaz began arguing with someone, and the bookcase creaked ominously. You could hear rapidly approaching steps, and Graham’s shoes appeared in your line of vision, followed by the rest of him as he crouched down. He cast an appraising eye over you, the Doctor, and the shelf, and then lifted his brows. More footsteps, and then he was joined by Yaz and Ryan, and several other sets of shoes you didn’t recognize. The angry locals, presumably. “Doctor, they seem to think we’re here as part of an - army, or something,” Yaz said, also crouching down. She blinked. “Are you okay?” “You are under arrest,” a voice snapped out. “You are surrounded and will surrender your weapons and the whereabouts of your reinforcements.” You saw Yaz’s fist clench on the floor in silent anxiety, though she said nothing. “Hello! No weapons,” the Doctor said brightly. You could feel her words resonating through her chest to yours. “No reinforcements, either. Just travelers who happened to end up on the wrong side of those security droids of yours. I’m the Doctor, by the way, and these are my friends, and we’re here to help.” 

Somewhere in the depths of the shop, another pot crashed to the ground and perhaps managed to undercut the Doctor’s words, slightly. You could see her face scrunch. Then she abruptly flattened against you as the shelf slid another inch or two down, and you both grunted. You could feel her nose against your neck and shoulder, and for a moment your whole brain flashed blank. She smelled like tea, and vanilla. 

This was definitely what a heart attack felt like. For sure. “But maybe a little help for us, first?” the Doctor managed, her words brushing across your skin, thrumming through your chest. She was still trying to wiggle about as she listened and watched as the others set to trying to lift the shelf off of you, presumably so that you could all then be put under arrest. 

It was going to be a long day.

[dothwrites]

spn advent calendar--angel

ahhhhh i’m so behind on these, i’m sorrrryyyyyyy =) have some light smut and humor to make up for it

{Read on Ao3}

---

Of all Christmas tasks set before him, Castiel minds decorating the Christmas tree the least. It's the kind of repetitive task that he enjoys, one that has a clear beginning and end, and one where he can see the evidence of his progress with every step he takes. Not to mention that when Dean decorates, he hums Christmas music under his breath. Hearing Away in a Manger in Dean's low voice is one of the best rewards Castiel can think of.

Also, they're at Dean's place, which means, blessedly, no Gabriel.

Castiel might camp out here for days.

"Looking good babe," Dean mutters as he takes a step back. "There's an empty space over here; can you grab something to fill it up?"

Castiel reaches into the box and passes Dean an ornament. He's much more interested by the look of concentration twisting Dean's face into the tiniest pout. A thin line appears between Dean's eyebrows, like someone took a pencil and flicked it over the skin. His lower lips sticks out and, if he's thinking hard like he is right at this moment, his chin quivers just a little. As he watches the furrow between Dean's brows deepen, Castiel can see, with startling clarity, what Dean will look like in fifteen years.

It's a beautiful sight, and one that Castiel wants to see with all his heart.

So he doesn't roll his eyes when Dean tells him that he's put an ornament in the wrong place. He doesn't wrinkle his nose in disgust when Dean shows him an ornament that Sam and Jess brought back from a business trip to Salt Lake City (Look Cas, it's made out of salt! You can lick it! Lick it Cas, come on, lick it!). He doesn't comment when Dean goes and tweaks the branches to what he considers optimal angles.

In fact, the only thing that can break his mood is the monstrosity that Dean pulls out of the bottom of the box. Dean holds it aloft like he's starring in the shittiest remake of the Lion King. If he tries hard enough, Castiel can almost hear the swelling chorus as Dean holds up the tree-topper for his perusal. "Look at him," Dean breathes. His eyes are actually misty as he stares at the object in his hands.

It's an angel. But no regular angel with their vapid smiles and empty cornflower blue eyes and cheap blonde polyester hair. No, this is an angel that God looked at and thought better of, this is an angel who might have fallen with Lucifer but got put in the back of the picture lineup with a blurry Also Pictured caption to try and distance them from the rest of the team. This angel either got into too many fights or not enough, depending on how you look at the sneer on their face. This angel is a fan of bargain shopping at the Goodwill and considers $25 a steep price for a new suit.

The angel's gender is indeterminate, and Castiel's a fan of eradicating the superfluous binaries of society, but it's disturbing, because he can tell that the artist who designed this angel had a clear gender in mind when they placed the facial features on the tiny ceramic head. Castiel just can't figure out which gender was intended, which leaves the angel with an uncanny valley sort of ambiguity in their expressions.

Forget Elf on the Shelf. If this demon is going to be sitting in Dean's house for the rest of December, Castiel will donate money to any charity he can find, vacuum daily, and even give Gabriel whatever Gabriel's twisted little heart desires. That angel looks into his eyes and knows his sins.

"Look at him!" Dean says, as he brandishes the angel towards Castiel. Castiel takes an inoffensive step backwards, away from the meanly squinted eyes and goading leer.

"I am," Castiel says, carefully, because the last time he inadvertently insulted one of Dean's decorations it turned out to be a timeless, priceless relic from his mother. But surely, surely Mary Winchester would have had better taste than to put this monstrosity on her tree? "It's, ah...unique," Castiel says, trying for something diplomatic.

"Jo picked him up at a yard sale four years ago. He's the best." Dean has the shit-eating grin on his face that says he's perfectly aware of what he's doing. It invites Castiel in on the joke, and after so many years of being on the outside, he relishes the opportunity.

"And you kept him because...There's an ancient curse and when you picked it up it activated, thus ensuring that you were stuck with this creature until your untimely death?"

Dean's expression twists into something mingling confusion, exasperation, and fondness. "No, you weirdo. It's funny."

"It's funny. You think that horrific little thing is...funny?"

"Of course." Dean gives the angel a little threatening shake, which will undoubtedly haunt Castiel's nightmares for days to come. "Look at him." Dean takes his own advice and then looks at Castiel. Castiel very much distrusts the look dawning over Dean's face, and his doubts are validated when Dean says, "You know, he kind of looks like you."

Had Dean slapped him across the face, Castiel could not have been more offended or shocked. He looks from the angel's sneer, to Dean, and back again. Has his boyfriend, the man he loves, the man he contemplates raising children with one day, gone completely insane?

"You know," Dean says. His voice is a little too even, his face too impassive. As Castiel watches, the corner of his mouth wobbles and twitches. "You have the same, uh...the same eyes. And the same...the same nose. And he's an angel, and you're named after an angel, so...You're like twins."

By now, Dean's mouth is performing a series of fascinating contortions to remain stationary. Several hitching breaths puff out of his nose and as Castiel continues to stare, a strangled cough rasps out of his throat.

"Twins," Castiel finally says, and it's that single word that sends Dean in paroxysms of laughter.

Dean laughs a lot, but these laughs are Castiel's favorites--big belly laughs that come from deep within Dean, that leave him shaking and slapping at his thighs. He reaches out for Castiel, for balance or support, Castiel doesn't know, but it's nice either way. Dean wheezes and Castiel is surprised to see that there are actual tears welling in the corners of his eyes. "Ah Jesus, Cas," Dean chokes out around his laughter. "Come on. Put him on top of the tree. Make friends with him." Dean pushes the angel into Castiel's face, close enough that his eyes cross as he tries to keep eye contact with the gremlin.

"You're very lucky that I love you," Castiel owns, gingerly accepting the angel from Dean. Part of him wants to refuse, but he's too familiar with the look on Dean's face. This ends with either Castiel storming off, or Castiel putting the dreadful angel on top of the tree. Between the two of them, Castiel knows which one he would prefer.

He tries not to look at the angel as he stretches towards the top of the tree. He can't believe that he's going to have to look at this creature every time he comes to Dean's house over the next month. Between the angel at Dean's house and the Gabriel at his, Castiel doesn't know which is worse.

"Mm, that's it baby. Right up on top." Dean crowds behind him, hands on Castiel's hips. Presumably it's to steady him, but, as Dean's thumbs stroke over the thin sliver of skin revealed, Castiel suspects an ulterior motive. "Little bit farther...little more..." Dean turns his head to nuzzle in at Castiel's neck.

Despite the distractions, Castiel manages to place the angel close to the top of the tree. He rocks back to examine his handiwork, which is exactly what Dean wanted. His arms wrap around Castiel's chest, pulling him closer.

He places a series of careful nips down Castiel's neck, nosing underneath the collar of his shirt to the skin underneath. "Dean," Castiel pants, as Dean's nips grow a little more insistent, the wandering of his hands a little more purposeful. "Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean walks them backwards until they're toppling over on the couch in a tangle of limbs. Castiel is fairly certain that his elbow ends up in the vicinity of Dean's stomach, but Dean doesn't complain. Instead, Dean keeps on rolling until he has Castiel on top of him, hands sneaking under the waistband of Castiel's jeans to grope at skin. "What do you want?" Dean asks, craning his head upwards to nip at the column of Castiel's throat.

"To go somewhere else?" Castiel asks, even as his hips roll down into Dean's. "Somewhere that we're not being watched?"

"Aw, you don't like an audience?" Dean teases, working at Castiel's belt. "Don't like your twin seeing what you get up to?" He says that just as his hand works its way into Castiel's boxers and wraps around his half-hard dick.

"You--" Castiel gasps, bucking into Dean's grip, even as he glares down at him. "You can't think of a better mood setter?"

"Maybe after Christmas I won't even put it away," Dean teases, eyes sparkling wickedly as he works over Castiel. "Maybe I'll keep him in the bedroom. Right on the table." Dean kisses him, hot and insistent. His hand works faster now, its way eased by the precome Castiel is leaking. Dean pulls back, a wide grin on his face. "Maybe he can hold our lube!"

It's unfortunate that Dean knows which of his buttons to push. Unfortunate, because Dean chooses to push them all almost immediately after saying that horrific sentence. Helpless under the onslaught, Castiel comes into Dean's hand with a low, long groan.

Dean waits for a few seconds, long enough so that Castiel can catch his breath, and then he's grinning so wide his face threatens to split. "That what gets you hot?" he teases, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Cas' mouth. "Angel holding our lube? Blessing our fornication? Is there an angel of fornication? Can we name our angel that?"

Dean's teasing stops when Castiel wraps a single, sure fist around him and starts stroking with purposeful motions. If Dean knows all of his buttons, then he knows all of Dean's, and it's not long before Dean is falling apart underneath him, turning his head to gasp his release into the arm of the couch.

"If you ever bring that hellish thing into our bedroom," Castiel says, punctuating his words with small kisses to Dean's cheeks and forehead, "I promise you that it will find a new home housed up your ass."

---

The angel mysteriously is turned around to face the wall the next morning. Dean refuses to explain why, leaving Castiel to assume one of two conclusions:

1) The angel is actually possessed and will, in short order, make good on its plans to murder both him and Dean in a way that will leave law enforcement baffled for years to come,

or

2) Dean is actually a kind and caring individual who takes his wishes into account.

Dean is a kind, caring, compassionate partner who Castiel knows would walk through fire if he asked him to. But between the two options, Castiel's more willing to believe the former.

---

Tags--if you want to be added/removed, just holler at me!

@screamatthescreen @queenvee08 @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @dizzypinwheel @homeriics @stay-inside-the-salt-ring @deansbff @spaceshipkat @rogerslouis 

[chsamuseum]

Homebound Hobbies

In mid-March, my winter final exams were moved online and all lectures remaining in the quarter were cancelled. I remember jumping in joy, excited to go back home a whole two weeks before spring break was scheduled to start. Little did I know that I would be remaining home for much longer than a few weeks. The shelter-in-place that was supposed to last just a few weeks has turned into the “new normal,” with my school recently announcing an academic/housing plan that would make it best for me to continue my classes remotely. That means that I am l unlikely to return to campus until September of 2021 and ultimately 18 months of remote learning. 

These past few months have been a roller-coaster ride. As an introvert, I was initially quite happy to be able to stay home and closed-off from the rest of the world. I packed on the units during the spring quarter and spent my days huddled in my room working on homework assignments and attending my classes on Zoom. I was often kept very busy by classes, but when the summer began, I found that I had more free time! I then started to realize how restrictive this lifestyle can be -- limited shopping with stores closed, no hanging out with friends, no eating out… the list goes on. To fill my time, I have been interning at CHSA and I was able to pick up some hobbies and other fun activities to do at home over the summer. Hopefully this inspires some of you who are looking for a new hobby or activity as we continue to shelter-in-place!

1. Learn a new language

I have always enjoyed learning languages, but quarantine has really freed time in my schedule to hit the books. From January to June of this year, I was taking Korean classes at my university. These days,  I continue to practice my Korean regularly (calls with friends, Korean dramas, etc.), but I also have begun studying Mandarin. Although I am ethnically Chinese, my parents are originally from Vietnam, and I grew up speaking a much smaller Chinese dialect called Teochew.  I have had some exposure to Cantonese (having grown up in an area of the San Francisco Bay Area where Cantonese was a bit more common), Mandarin is uncharted territory for me. My goals often shift depending on my progress and confidence in the languages I am studying, but I currently hope to gain or maintain proficiency in five languages (English, Spanish, Teochew, Korean, Mandarin) with the possibility of picking up Japanese and/or Cantonese in the future.

Language Learning Materials

Here are some of the materials I have been using, as well as my brief reviews on them.

Duolingo - This app is free and great for memorizing characters. However, it does not explain grammar structures.

Quizlet - Quizlet allows you to create your own online flashcards or study sets created by other users, a great tool to memorize new vocabulary.

HelloChinese - Considered one of the best Mandarin study apps, HelloChinese integrates real-world dialogues into their lessons, making them engaging and game-like, although many features are exclusive to Premium members.

Also, I plan to check out CHSA’s online MandoMeet sessions -- the next one is on Sunday, August 9th!

2. Art

Throughout middle and high school, I never once took an art class (I was more of a band kid). College was when I finally had the opportunity to. I ended up enrolling in an introductory drawing class where most of my classmates were actual art majors. It was a bit intimidating, but I learned a lot from the experience. I continue to do charcoal drawings every once in a while. I usually do a Google search for a photo, put a black and white filter on it, increase the contrast, and use that as a reference photo, which makes it super easy for a beginner like myself. Here is a video that explains the basic process.

If you are looking for something to do at home with family, I highly recommend doing a paint night! All you will need are canvases, brushes, and paint. Then, go ahead and search on YouTube “paint night tutorial” with whatever other keywords you like. They are surprisingly easy to follow and a very fun, relaxing activity. Here is the video we followed for the paintings above.

3. Community gifting

This is probably the most fun thing I have done during quarantine so far, and I highly recommend anyone who can to get involved. A few weeks ago, I joined my neighborhood’s Buy Nothing page on Facebook. The Buy Nothing project is a worldwide movement that encourages people to declutter their lives and give away the things they do not need to their communities, and in return, receive items for free. During these difficult times, it has been an amazing experience seeing the generosity of my community. It has also been a great way for me to get in exercise, as I always walk to my neighbors' homes to pick up items from their porches. My siblings and I have received items such as plant pots, a can opener, and candles. In return, we have gifted tons of clothes, stationary supplies, and other knick knacks. It is much more gratifying to know that the things I am giving away are going to be used by someone who needs them, versus donating to thrift stores, where they simply resell them for profit or throw them away if they feel that someone would not buy them.

Takeaways

I am very fortunate to be a full-time student during the school year and intern at CHSA this summer. Despite keeping myself busy, there are times when I feel a bit isolated or bored at home. These hobbies and little things I do on the side help keep life interesting and a little bit different everyday. In addition to wearing facial coverings, washing our hands frequently, and keeping a safe distance from others, I encourage you all to make the most of these unique times. Stay productive, but also know that this is a great time to relax if you can. Simply getting through this pandemic is a great challenge, and in order for all of us to overcome it, we must stay healthy, both physically and mentally. Good luck!

Submitted by Anna Chang. Anna is a Marketing and Communications Intern at CHSA and rising sophomore at Stanford University.

[peachyteabuck]

fashión (bucky barnes x reader)

Summary: At one of your best friend’s drag shows, Bucky catches your eye. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the dance pop blaring through the bar’s speakers, but for some reason you’re feeling a little more daring than usual.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 2,536

Trigger Warnings: Blowjobs, shitty flirting, people are drunk and do sex things

Notes/Other: This was done for @propertyofpoeandbucky ‘s mystery writing challenge!! My prompt was “You’re my best friend. How could I put anyone before you?” and has been bolded within the fic! Also, I feel like this is the total opposite of what I’ve written recent but when I got this prompt I knew this wip was perfect for it. 

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Dating has always been hard for you. Friends and family have always tried to set you up on dates - as has Tindr - but nothing seemed to stick. No one ever seemed to do the trick.

“C’mon, babe…” your friend coos to you. You’re in a dressing room at some fast-fashion establishment, the wide and tall mirror forcing you to stare back at yourself. The too-bright lights burn your eyes, the top radio hits from last year only depress you, and the smell of weed and regret radiating from your skin is making you want a sandwich. “Listen, I know you don’t want to do this-”

Your sigh cuts her off. “Then why are you making me?”

She steps over to you, readjusting the floral jacket before speaking. As you look in the mirror you realize actually kind of…like it. Which is weird. “Because I know better than you, you’re a shut-in, and every moment you’re not being ravished by a muscular hot dude physically kills me.”

God, her brazen personality always catches you off guard. That’s probably why she’s the performer and you just sit alone in the basement of your shared home - sewing and eating and writing all day.

In the end, you don’t buy the jacket. Lucy ends up taking you to her favorite thrift shop and you pick up a deep blue faux-fur coat and some velvet heels in the same shade. Boujie? Maybe. But it’s something you feel confident in, so you don’t grumble too much when you see the total.

You both get to the club early so she can get ready, focus on turning her face into the inside of an elementary schooler’s pencil case – one young enough to understand that there’s never such thing as too much stationary (or too much color) but young enough to constantly be losing caps. As she steps into the threshold of the famous bar, Lucy’s met with jeers from janitors and bartenders and sound techs alike – all people ecstatic to see their favorite person like a dog left alone during a long work day. As she greets them with the same overjoyed smiles, you slip past the jolly merriment to the dressing room in the back of the building – her outfit bag and make up suitcase in your hands, her shoes and wig in your hefty backpack. Despite the outfit you’d picked out earlier you’re donning the same outfit you’d been wearing since the techie days of middle school – black jeans, black t-shirt one size too big, and all black sneakers. All the better to blend in.

Three hours later Lucy has officially turned into Boudoir Z, her drag persona and the username for her long-abandoned Neopets account. The club is packed with people, almost as tight as her dress is with her pads, and some old Kesha song thumps the floor to its beat.

“Are you ready?” you ask, double checking her hands for any loose nails.

She grins as wide as she does right before every show, eyes bright and sparkling like a child on Christmas. “Hell yeah.”

As her intro song starts you scurry away to find your way to the bar, hoping to grab something strong before the show really starts. You don’t really like attending your friend’s (or anyone’s) drag shows, they’re loud and crowded and normally that’s your definition of Hell. Sometimes, though, you can muster up the energy. For whatever reason, today seems to be one of those days. Or nights.

Whatever. Time is an illusion.

The first few beats of the song are long, edited for artificial pauses to build excitement in the crowd. You know the version of Lady Gaga’s Applause well, so it throws your entire brain through a loop when someone pumps into you when you try and grab your rum and coke.

“Sorry,” the guy hisses, immediately moving to make sure he didn’t spill any of his wine cooler on you. You’re about to brush him off, thinking he’s just another guy trying to cop a feel while the main attraction distracts from any protective butches within eye shot. But when you notice he’s carefully avoiding your chest – and pulling away when he notices the lack of dampness on your sternum – you allow yourself to give him a half glance at the brick wall of a man in front of you.

God, you’re so ashamed you noticed that. You’re also ashamed to notice his thick thighs, massive arms, silver hand with black lining, his perfectly mused brown-black hair, and beautiful scruff.

“H-hi,” you stutter, deep exhale one close to dramatic women in movies when they think they’ve seen God. Good luck ladies, I’ve already found him – he’s in the shadiest gay bar in NYC. you think as he shyly smiles at you with cheeks you want to shove between your thighs and lips you want attached to your-

“I’m so sorry,” he tells you, checking again to make sure he didn’t turn your shirt into a bar tap. “I got distracted by-“

You sigh. Of course, he was looking at Lucy. “It’s fine, really, I promise.”

In a brief pause between songs, you two lock eyes. Grey-green ones meet your own and fuck, he’s so dreamy.

“I’m,” he seems hesitant to introduce himself. “Bucky. Name’s Bucky.”

You murmur your own name while looking him up and down again. Black combat boots perfectly shined, black jeans tight enough to rival your own, and black hoodie thick enough for winter in Upstate Main.

“Aren’t you hot?” you blurt, alcohol loosening your brain’s tight grip on your thoughts.

The man, Bucky, shrugs. “I run pretty cold.”

Another few moments of silence dialogue between you two - and judging by his set jaw and the hungry look in his eyes he’s thinking the same thing you are.

But, if you’re anything besides an introverted stylist, seamstress, and occasional therapist for the person up on the stage…it’s a tease.

You lean towards Bucky’s ear, music starting up again. “Wanna come join me close to the stage?”

He smiles, picking his drink back up. “Sure thing.”

Lucy, as always, is dressed to impress. Or scare small children.

Either way one perceives her, she’s killing it.

The large, sheer nightgown’s puffed sleeves make the look even more dramatic. The black contrasts extremely nicely with her large platinum blonde hair, and combined with her large, maroon lips and thick, pointed eyeliner - it’s a nice reminder that drag is both an art and something weird as hell. Watching your best friend to what they love and truly one of the best experiences of your life.

The pair of you are off stage left, Lucy on the other side grinding on some speakers. As some Nicki Minaj song plays, you can feel Bucky bounce to the beat behind you. He’s got a surprising amount of rhythm, and as your hips sync his body presses closer and closer to your own. It doesn’t take long, maybe half a chorus for it to turn into full-on grinding, your ass pressed into his crotch so hard you’re worried he’s going to be bruised when he wakes up tomorrow.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, though, nipping at the outer shell of your ear with his lips pressed into the tender skin.

“You do this kind of thing often?” he asks, already deep voice now at a low growl.

You shake your head, moving to take another sip of your drink before answering. “Not really, but Lucy is my best friend so sometimes I get dragged,” you snort a little at your unintentional pun. “To shows and stuff.”

Bucky snickers a little. “That’s totally not what I was asking about, but you also don’t seem like the person who’d be friends with Boudoir Z.”

Your cheeks immediately heat hotter than the Equator as you attempt to backpedal. After a few seconds of stammering, though, the liquid courage surging through your veins comes to a head. “Can I suck your dick?”

You turn to face the man behind you, who seems just as surprised at your inquiry as you are. Still, with his eyebrows raised to his hairlines and his eyes wide, he agrees. “Fuck yeah, lead the way.”

The bathrooms here are surprisingly clean, even if the lock of the door doesn’t quite work. But, judging by the second Pink song of the night, you’ve got awhile before the masses become unoccupied and their bladders realize how much alcohol they’ve consumed.

He shoves you against the tiled wall, lips plush and a stark contrast to his scratchy beard. You want it between your thighs, you sigh into his mouth and a wave of heat rolls through your center. But that’ll have to wait for another time.

Locating his zipper as you kiss him is hard, but not impossible, and soon you’re able to free his cock from its painful confines. Bucky gasps at the rush of cold air, a sound that turns into a deep moan when you wrap an eager hand around him. Maybe some other time, some other night when you’re not fueled purely by endorphins, caffeine, and several glasses of bottom-shelf alcohol, you’d do some foreplay, maybe some dirty talk.

Now, though, your mouth waters at the sign of his hard length, and before Bucky can even get a good grip on your hair you’re spitting on him before taking him as far as your throat permits. He moans deep and guttural, jaw going slack and head leaning against the wall. One of his hands feels cool on your head and it’s nearly sobering, how the freezing material feels against the fire dancing across your skin. You’d question the (seemingly) nonhuman appendage, but the progressive soaking of your underwear and his cursing brings your focus to a pinpoint.

Every single one of his “oh fuck”s and “oh baby that feels so good”s drive you to take him harder, faster, and all too soon Bucky’s getting the message and fucking into your throat. Spit falls from your jaw to between your knees, some slick reminder of how gross this is. That only pushes you, though, to wrap a hand around his base with the other massaging his balls.

“Fuck I’m gonna come,” he moans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as both hands wrap around him. “Gonna fucking come down your throat, fuck.”

Fuck yes he is, you think, shoving him back down your throat one last time before the grip on your scalp gets impossibly tight and his thrusts suddenly still and his lets out the deepest, most erotic noise you’ve ever heard in your entire fucking life. The salty taste of him rolls down your tongue and down your throat, his whole body tense as he shoots his load into your mouth.

The second he releases your hair you fall back against the sink, air you’re gulping tainted with the taste of Bucky’s cum. He seems stunned, a little out of it, but still offers to reciprocate. It’s then you realize that Patti LaBelle is playing, and if you’re remembering the song correctly, you’ve got thirty seconds to be backstage and ready to help your best friend get de-dragged.

“Fuck, I gotta go,” you hiss, splashing cold water on your face and trying to calm your ragged breaths. Just before you can open the bathroom door, though, Bucky stops you.

“Wait, just,” he huffs, digging in his pockets for something. Quickly he produces a phone, and he hands it you with the “new contact screen” on it. “Please, give me your number.”

It’s obvious he’s the stronger of both of you, so you slam your fingers on the cracked screen to string together your phone number. It seems the man’s satisfied, because he releases the ajar door from your grip and lets you flee backstage. Lucy comes off just in time for you to meet her, ready with make up wipes and chapstick. Instead of taking both from you, though, she brushes past you to grab at a bottle of water – a surefire sign she’s not done.

You begin to protest, knowing she’s too drunk to lip sync to choral music, let alone her traditional encore playlist. But she waves you off.

“I’m just going to meet some people at the bar take some pics,” Lucy downs the entire 32 ounces of water in record time, barely getting any lipstick on the mouth of the thing. “Don’t worry, just…I don’t know,” she rolls her eyes at her own inability to speak. “Go kill a Westboro Baptist Church member or something, alright? Just…” she hiccups and starts to lean to the right, but adjusts herself before you can do anything. You steady her with a hand on her shoulder, and she lowers her face to yours and juts her lower lip out to pout. “Just wait up for me, okay. I don’t think I can find my way home alone.”

Before you can respond she pushes past you and into the screaming crowd, her shouts and shrieks almost as loud. A quick scan of the dimly-lit bar reveals no Bucky, and without his number you’re stuck putting her reveals back together and unused the unused supplies.

At the end of the night you meet Lucy back where you left her – only this time in black leggings and a purple NARAL shirt shirt three-sizes too big. As she wipes away at the thick cosmetic mask with a dirty make up wipe, your eyes meet hers in the mirror.

“I saw you with some guy tonight,” a smirk paints her lips as heat paints your cheeks. “Did anything happen?”

You bite at your bottom lip, hoping she won’t press further. Luckily, she remains covert, just giving you a once over before speaking again.

“Are you gonna run off with him and abandon me to do all my drag shit by myself?” She asks. Lucy’s tone is playful, but you can tell there’s a hint of seriousness to it.

You shake your head, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear and tucking your hands into your jean pockets. “C’mon, you know I’d never do that. You’re my best friend. How could I put anyone before you?”

Lucy turns around and smiles, perfectly white teeth especially pearly surrounded by the smudged deep purple lipstick and thick, black eyeshadow, a misplaced lash, and what looks to be a twenty-dollar bill stuck behind her ear due to excess wig glue. “Good, because there’s no way I could do Boudoir Z without you.”

Silence settles over both of you as she wipes off the rest of her make up (and pulls out the cash stuck in her hair and to her neck). The only sounds are her throwing loose powders and eye shadow into her make up suitcase and, soon, your phone vibrating in your back pocket. On the screen flashes a text from an unknown number, Bucky you think, and then another right after.

wanna see you again

when are you free

You smile at the screen, giddy like a middle schooler being asked out by her crush. “Hey, Luce…” you wait until she’s facing you to continue. “When’s your next show?”

[dontstopbereaving]

I don’t have a story

The podcast I co-host got sponsored by a new-wave bra company that champions body positivity and body diversity, and as part of our advertising agreement I had to order a bra from them. I was very interested and excited in this, because bra shopping has more or less been a non-question for me. Blessed with what would probably be a 36AA if such a bra was ever manufactured — I am wide and flat and should have been a swimmer, probably — the adolescent horror and thrill of suddenly having boobs to manage and shop for has never really been on the table. I remember so vividly, the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, staying with an old friend from middle school and hanging out in her bedroom. She was lying on her bed and reading a magazine and said, apropos of nothing, "ugh, don't you hate it when your boobs slide down to your armpits when you're reading?" I nodded, having no idea what she was talking about.

Anyway, this bra company didn't carry a 36AA, but after taking a quiz about what $68 expertly engineered bra would be perfect for me, I ordered whatever they recommended. It arrived wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper, and I took it out and held it up and felt my heart sink. I knew from looking at it that it would look ridiculous on me; trying it on confirmed that. They had a number to call where you could talk to a "fit specialist" and of course I did that, and some nice girl in the Bay Area told me that if that bra didn't fit me, they had a selection of leisurewear bralettes.

But I don't want a bralette, dammit! I am not a tween, and though they aren't much to write home about I do have breasts that must be managed. This company's advertising seems to trumpet the arrival of a "bra for every woman," and even within their progressive spectrum of what that means, I fell on the outside of it. The whole process carried a lot more gravity than I expected.

The bra arrived in the heat of the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation firestorm, which had me on edge and moody all week for both the obvious reasons and reasons that I was more confused about articulating, or whether or not I should. The prospect of an attempted rapist and alcoholic being given a post in the highest court in the land is the most harrowing and torturous chapter of the MeToo world we now live in, and the stories from my friend and peers and people I don't know but follow on Twitter started being dropped almost hourly. Most women I know have been raped or sexually assaulted in their lives. The most visible and audible woman's experience right now is that of the victim; those with platforms and followings are being encouraged to share their story in solidarity, in order to shore up the most prominent, contested ones, to create a narrative that yes, this does happen, it happens all the time.

I don't have a rape story, and I don't have an assault story. In the past year, wondering why I don't has led me down a weird guilt spiral that inevitably ends with the re-realization that there's no reason that I don't. There's nothing I did right. It just didn't happen to me. This is disconcerting to me, in the context of a life where I have always felt left out of the things that supposedly comprise the experience of being a woman. It's not just the bra thing, though that's a useful metaphor. I've always felt left out of femininity, I've always had more male friends than female friends, going back to early childhood. Girls tormented me as a child, and as an adolescent, and as an adult; on the whole I have felt the emotional violence of other women more acutely than that of men. And yet, I know the latter exists.

Sometimes it feels like sharing one's own story of assault is the only powerful tool a woman can have against a patriarchy in its violent death throes, which often leaves me feeling useless in our social media-driven dialogue. The stories of sexual violence coming from women both famous and not, while harrowing, has also, to this outsider at least, appeared as a kind of global bonding experience. Which is really important for those who have been victims. But I want there to be a language for women to be advocates for each other that goes beyond "me, too" in its most literal sense. Because I cannot honestly say "me, too," and yet, nearly any woman I've ever been close with enough has told me about that time in college, or that date that went bad, or that time in eighth grade. I believe them, and I believe women I've never met before, not because it's happened to me, too, but because I know how the world works and I believe them.

I want to tell one story that is not a rape story, but it is a Hollywood story, and it's a story about a powerful Hollywood man. This story might not end the way you think it will!

When I was in college, a male classmate of mine wanted to cast a famous actor, let's call him Gary, in his thesis film. His dad had some connections, and I had gamely signed on to be my friend's AD, which meant when he went to a swanky event with the purpose of being introduced to this guy and hopefully turning it into a collaboration, he asked me to come along. I was excited, we were very young and to land this actor for a student film would be a coup; it felt like a bank heist. On the way over we were giddy and silly, "what if Gary says yes? What if he wants to do a feature?" etc etc. It was fun to at least be party to a young white man's Hollywood dreams on the cusp of coming true.

We went to the venue with his father. I expected that at some point my friend's dad would introduce us to Gary, and then let us take the lead and talk about this film my friend wanted to make. But my friend's dad didn't seem to know how to go about it. Maybe he didn't really know Gary at all. Who knows. My friend had also frozen up, and I remember sitting at the bar, my gaze going from this father and son, over to Gary in the corner of the room, who looked all too approachable. "You guys are too scared?" I asked incredulously. "Why don't you go over and charm him with your feminine wiles," my friend said. It was a joke, but of course it wasn't, and I felt like I had a lot to prove, so I went over and introduced myself to Gary.

I don't remember much about our conversation, I remember his eyes on me, and I remember feeling giddy and high with the power of his attention. I should maybe emphasize — Gary is extremely famous. You all know who he is and you probably love him. He has a pretty stellar reputation. I didn't have a particular thing for him, but after that conversation I remember feeling like I understood what real stardom was about. I had "dated" a minor TV star very briefly before that but this was on another level. Still, I was very mission-oriented, and made sure the conversation came back to praising my friend's script, and how awesome the film was going to be. I told him he had to see the film he had worked on with his dad, that had played at Berlin — Berlin! — so he could appreciate their genius. Gary seemed amenable to this. I had some little note cards from a Japanese stationary store in Little Tokyo on me, and I wrote my phone number down on one of them and gave it to Gary, who seemed beyond charmed. Then I went back to my friend and his dad, buzzing, but cynical enough to shrug. "I'm sure he'll never get in touch, but we'll see!"

We left shortly after. I remember wondering if this had been the plan all along, to throw me at Gary like in order to have an audacious, talked-about thesis film. I probably felt more flattered at the time than anything else to be considered worthy bait.

I remember where I was when Gary called my little Motorola flip phone — in my cubicle at the camera shop I worked at, probably reading Jezebel. I remember the surreality of his voice — that voice! — coming through the speaker. "This is Gary," he said. Duh, I thought. He wanted to know if I wanted to see a movie with him, maybe get dinner after. Ever the professional, I asked if we would talk about my friend's film. He seemed uninterested. I also, it should be mentioned, had a boyfriend at the time, and though I was starstruck I was not starstruck enough to just go to dinner and a movie with Gary with no pretense of artistic ambition on the table. I refused politely, but said that if he ever wanted to watch the film, I would get him a copy.

My friend, obviously, was tickled beyond belief by all this. This had become a secret extracurricular, a spy mission we would whisper about in between classes. My friend was adamant that we get Gary a screener of my friend's father's film, and soon I had negotiated an arrangement, with the stipulation that I now wonder about the legitimacy of, that I could not just leave it with him. I had to watch it with him, at his house, and take the DVD with me.

I remember driving up the winding hills to Gary's house, playing M.I.A.'s Kala extremely loudly to pump myself up. I remember being buzzed in at the gate and walking up a staircase through tropical plants and water features until I arrived at Gary's modernist, castle-like home perched in the hills. I remember how empty his home was, how sad it seemed. He asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I said, water, and he opened up his impressive Sub-Zero which contained a Brita pitcher and a lone tray of grocery store sushi.

We went to the living room, me clutching the little plastic DVD case like it was the one legitimizing thing in the whole room. I was there to help my friend, I was there to help my friend. I gave it to Gary, and he put it in the DVD player — shockingly, the DVD player in the living room didn't work. We would have to go to the one in his bedroom.

I don't remember if I could see right through this at the time, certainly by the next day I could. Gary put in the DVD in his bedroom entertainment system and then laid back on his California King bed, his lanky legs crossed over the fur throw. He held out one arm, beckoning me, and I pretended not to notice. There was a small ottoman at the foot of the bed, and I sat on it, hunched forward throughout the entirety of my friend's dad's stupid awful sophomoric Berlinale-approved movie, sipping on my water, being so good and professional and helpful.

Gary eventually turned down the opportunity to be in my friend's UCLA undergrad thesis film, no fucking shit. I never heard from him again. I wonder if what would have happened if I would have joined him on the bed, and if my friend would have had Gary — THE Gary, in his thesis film, and if it would have set him off on an exciting idiosyncratic career as a young auteur. How great that would have been for my friend.

I got a lot of mileage out of that story for many years — the time I went to Gary's house and he tried to get me to watch a movie with him in his bed. I played it up for laughs. I was certain that I looked like the cool person in that story.

A few things I appreciate a decade after the Gary incident:

Gary never tried anything with me. I sat on that ottoman, and there I stayed. I took the DVD with me when I left, he kissed my cheek, and that was that. Gary, in my experience at least, was a good guy in a Hollywood full of bad ones, and I was lucky.

My friend 100% tried to offer me up as bait to get Gary to be in his UCLA undergraduate thesis film, and so did his adult father, and this was funny to them.

Yes, I was good and drank water and sat on the ottoman, but Gary is a big person, and if he wanted to change that he could have. It wouldn't have mattered what I did right

Whenever I see Gary in a film — or in person, which has happened a few times because of my job — I get incredibly anxious and crazy feeling, despite the fact that he was good and really didn't do anything wrong — because I remember being in that weird empty luxurious house, and now I can look back and realize how young and dumb I was and how one of my young dumb male peers decided to use that to his advantage.

The MeToo movement has me reinterrogating events like this and others, where I was powerless but the worst didn't befall me. Why, why, why? It's a stupid question. Is there something about me that just doesn't attract violent men, socially or romantically? Is it my AA tits? My general left-behindness in all things popularly understood to be a part of the "female experience?" I've been so stupid, so many times, and experienced plenty of degrading shit that still doesn't fall into the category of assault and isn't something worth airing because it doesn't torture me; I don't have PTSD, it hasn't meaningfully disrupted my life. (My own brain does that on its own.) This is not the moment for non-stories like mine.

But I absolutely believe that there was nothing particularly game-changing that kept any of that from happening to me. And I understand the dynamics of a scene like that — where you're alone in a guy's house way up in the hills and he's the one with all the power, when you're alone with a guy in his car and he won't unlock the door to let you out, when you black out and find out a guy you thought was your friend was throwing himself on you in your absence. Any of those guys could have been rapists, and they weren't. Nothing about me or my actions would have changed that.

I have felt pent up with all of this for a year, as soon as it became apparent that the dominant dialogue among women would be sharing stories of trauma and violence. Because I don't have a tale of horror to peel off and lay before the reading public, but I have just a regular-ass life experience that absolutely corroborates all those tales of horror. It is not much — and I hope it stays that way. But I thought I'd share it.

[dgcustomer-blog]

12 Secrets of Dollar Store Employees

1. PAPER GOODS ARE THE BEST DEAL IN STORES.

You can discover essentially anything at dollar stores, including solidified nourishment (more on that in a minute), toys, and cleaning items. Collections can fluctuate broadly by store and by establishment, however as per Brenda, the store supervisor of a Dollar Tree in the Midwest, clients get the best arrangement staying with paper items. In any event, that is the thing that representatives purchase generally much of the time. “The things that my representatives and I buy at Dollar Tree for esteem would be tissue, paper towels, birthday cards, treats, inflatables, plastic product, paper plates, envelopes, stationary items, and the every day paper,” she says. At her store, bathroom tissue and the neighborhood paper are the top venders. While the previous is a quite clear need, papers at her area are commonly less expensive than in different stores; the Sunday release specifically is up to a few dollars less expensive. (Like a great deal of their stock, the chain likely gets a gigantic rebate for purchasing the papers in mass.)

2. THEY KNOW YOU WON’T BE IN THE STORE FOR TOO LONG.

Dollar stores ordinarily have little signage, couple of laces, and a little land impression (Dollar General’s is around 7300 square feet, or one-tenth the extent of a Walmart). However, having constrained space with effectively open things is by plan—the normal shopping trip for a Dollar General store is only 10 minutes. “Arranging the store around quick outings is one great approach to improve the quick experience numerous clients are searching for, while additionally keeping deals high by enabling clients to see numerous items,” says Hank, an associate Dollar Tree store director in Canada. Clients “will in general need to get in and out quick. They are regularly occupied and have different designs for the afternoon and would prefer not to invest an excessive amount of energy meandering the store.”

3. THEY WANT CUSTOMERS TO FEEL LIKE THEY’RE ON A TREASURE HUNT.

As per Moody’s, an income and credit examination firm, Dollar General pivots its stock all the time to make clients feel like they have to purchase things presently on the off chance that they’re not around later—sustaining what it calls a “treasure chase” feel. That enables the stores to contend with online retailers like Amazon, which regularly keeps up load of famous items and may not incite a similar feeling of earnestness in purchasers.

Dollar Tree’s methodology is somewhat extraordinary. While new stock arrives from providers, it’s not as often as possible. “When we are doing the truck we get truly energized when we see another item,” Brenda says. “We just observe perhaps 10 to 15 new things for each week out of 1500 things that are falling off of the truck, so when we get something new we quickly cut open the case and inspect it.”

4. THEY CATCH A LOT OF SHOPLIFTERS.

You can leave dollar stores with an armful of merchandise for $20, $10, or less, however that still doesn’t hinder individuals from swiping even the least expensive targets. “The shoplifting is incredibly wild,” Brenda says. “We get somebody pretty much consistently.”

Strangely, the cost may help encourage the robbery. “The thing with the low costs is that there is no genuine obstacle from individuals taking since none of the items have any security around them,” Brenda says.

5. THEY RECOMMEND YOU SKIP THE STEAK.

Looking for solidified nourishments at the rebate chains can be all in or all out. A few things may be OK: “I’ve had the little pie cuts, the wiener and flapjack nibbles, and the Cinnabon chomps are astonishing,” Brenda says. “The solidified meals are great too. Individuals likewise love the solidified vegetables and natural product.”

Be that as it may, with regards to natural sustenance, similar to meat or fish, you ought to likely consider a visit to the neighborhood food merchant. “I don’t eat any of the solidified fish or rib eyes since I don’t confide in solidified fish or meat that costs a dollar,” she says.

Nate, a Dollar Tree chief in Minnesota, concurs. “I could never purchase the steak,” he says. “I’ve gotten notification from more than one individual that it doesn’t cook [well] and it feels like elastic.” In 2016, TV member WCPO in Cincinnati endeavored a trial, presenting the four-ounce $1 ribeye alongside a butcher’s and grocery store sliced to some zone firemen. Among the reactions: “I get it was meat” and “It’s not awful.”

6. Different STORES USE THEM TO STOCK UP.

At the point when most everything is a dollar, it’s anything but difficult to perceive any reason why markdown chains wind up going about as a distribution center for neighborhood independent ventures. Hank says that he’s watched autonomous owners coming in to stock up on things. “There is limited who runs a comfort store and purchases boxes of chocolate bars and containers of soft drink,” he says. “We likewise get a lot of occasion coordinators purchasing supplies in mass, now and again many things at once.”

7. THEY DREAD THE SIGHT OF HOT WHEELS TOY CARS.

While many toys at dollar store areas are of suspect quality, there’s at any rate one piece of stock that causes a ton of energy in walkways. “We get a great deal of the notorious ‘Hot Wheels Hunters,’” Nate says, alluding to gatherers of the prominent bite the dust cast toy vehicle line from Mattel. “I surmise they scour the web and discover when stores are getting shipments. I’ve had individuals show up multi day after my 2000-piece truck [arrives] and request I go get the one box of Hot Wheels I got so they can be the first to get them.”

On the off chance that they’re amenable, Nate will attempt to oblige them. A portion of the more pleasant Hot Wheels fans even nominate themselves as true workers. “The one person that is an incessant guest will take the crates I have and stock them flawlessly on the racks while he searches for what he needs,” Nate says.

8. THEY SELL PREGNANCY TESTS. Furthermore, THEY’RE RELIABLE.

In case you’re careful about the exactness of a home pregnancy test pack that expenses $1, well, you likely ought to be. Be that as it may, as per Nate, his store stocks a solid brand. “The pregnancy tests we sell are similar ones utilized in many medical clinics,” he says. Most all pregnancy tests recognize a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin, or hCG, which is created during pregnancy. Progressively costly tests can identify lower levels prior in a pregnancy, while less expensive tests—like the ones in dollar stores—probably won’t enlist a positive until a lady is somewhat further along.

Be that as it may, they’re as yet compelling. What’s more, as indicated by Brenda and Nate, they’re likewise among the most-stolen things in their stores.

9. Inflatables KEEP THEM ALOFT.

Most Dollar Tree and numerous other dollar store areas have a counter dedicated to mylar inflatables planned for birthday parties and different occasions. That is on the grounds that the ease and simple stockpiling of the un-expanded inflatables makes them a truly gainful undertaking. “Inflatables complete a huge amount of business for Dollar Tree,” Brenda says. “A ton. Particularly for enormous occasions.”

In a given week, her store may pitch 150 to 200 inflatables: “Things being what they are, each day is somebody’s birthday, infant shower, graduation, or commemoration.”

10. THEY MIGHT WARN YOU AWAY FROM A BAD DEAL.

In case you’re going back and forth about whether a dollar buy is advantageous, you can generally ask a worker. They may let you know whether it merits the money. “I realize that the nature of our items isn’t generally the best and I clearly am not going to always bring this up to clients, however I am not reluctant to give them a touch of heads up when I realize a specific thing is particularly poor, or could be discovered a lot less expensive at a contender,” Hank says. “I realize that the organization will get by without those couple deals, and I like to satisfy clients over adding a couple of more dollars to the wallet of the organization.”

11. THE STORE MANAGER IS OFTEN OVERWORKED.

Dollar Tree, Dollar General, and different chains have experienced harsh criticism lately for entrusting store chiefs with a ton of duty so as to keep the expenses of staffing low. As per Nate, that looks at. “In my region they are preliminary running having the stores empty the semi-trucks rather than the drivers,” he says. “In any case, they won’t allow us the hours to include an additional person, which means I’m the supervisor on obligation while being in the back of a semi tossing 1800 cases.”

12. THEY CAN’T KEEP DONALD DUCK ON THE SHELVES.

In stores loaded up with a ton of new brands, clients like to see one conspicuous face: Donald Duck’s. The Disney character is up front on Dollar Tree’s squeezed orange, and his grinning bill is a standout amongst the most famous things in the stores. (The beverage is created by Citrus World, which possesses the Florida’s Natural mark and licenses the Donald symbolism and name from Disney.) “The Donald Duck squeezed orange is our third most-sold thing,” Brenda says. “Frankly, I don’t know why it’s so famous. Many individuals stop at our store while in transit to work or any place, so it’s sort of a snappy get.”