#At first I thought it was my laptops wifi card being messed up because my phone was still connecting fine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

funtimebunnyblog · 3 years

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I'M BACK!!! 🥰😍❤ Did you all miss me? I'm happy to say that I've finally gotten some WiFi where I'm currently living and updates are gonna try to be more steady here in the future but I can't make any promises because I get very busy with my work 😅😇 Please continue to bear with me!

In other words, a while back I wrote the OG version of this little short fic on A03 but I realized that I had never posted it here! 😱 Nevertheless, I decided to write the Part 2 to this and then decided to remaster that first part before posting it here! 🙂🙂🙂 I'm thinking about turning this into a little mini series 🤔🥰

Anyways, I'll stop rambling! Please enjoy! 😚

Pillarroomates (Chapter 1: Roommate wanted)

(This is dedicated to Dagdoth and Sureynot; 2 of the best bad influences I could ever ask for 🥰😍❤)

The steady click-clacking of keys filled the pleasant silence of the little kitchen, Kars typing away on the laptop before him at the table.

It was just a little after noon, a time where he usually put down his work for a brief session to sit back in silence and enjoy a cup of coffee, or maybe a mug of tea depending on his mood, with whatever baked-good had been whipped up recently. Today however, he chose to cut his little break out of schedule completely to get a jump on the deadline of the month that he was currently picking away at.

Hunched over, eyes glued to the screen, one could've swore he was a living statue perched like that so quietly if it weren't for his typing fingers.

The sweet smell hanging in the air came much closer as Wamuu strode over to the table, a soft smile was painted across the mans lips as he placed an oven fresh cookie on a plate down next to the mug of black tea his Master was letting steep at his side.

"Thank you, Wamuu." Kars said quietly, watching the blonde depart in his peripheral vision for only a beat before regaining his sharp focus on the sea of numbers staring back at him.

Kars had his own room with a desk to work in of course but he always found himself enjoying doing work down here this time of day. The heavenly smell of the kitchen when something was being baked and the pleasant background noise of the radio chiming softly, sometimes accompanied by Wamuu humming along, was something sort of relaxing to Kars.

Relaxing around here tended to be something rare too, as there never seemed to be a dull moment in the lives of the Pillarmen these days.

Not in this neighbourhood, no.

The younger man hummed in response, heading back to the stove to finish scraping fresh cookies off the pan to place on a rack to cool. He was sure Santana would make an appearance soon to try one, with the lovely smell filling the air and all.

Santana could never stay asleep (as heavy of a sleeper as he had the tendency to be) holed up in his room when there was something yummy being cooked.

The times where he appeared the quickest was when Kars flicked on the coffee machine first thing in the morning, the red-head manifesting at his side at the very first spew of hot caffeine never failed to nearly give him a heartattack; especially when it was 5 in the morning in a dark kitchen.

Kars' head lifted, cocking an eyebrow as there suddenly came a knock at the front door; three evenly spaced thumps on the wood. The thought of another complaining neighbour was the first thing to cross his mind, making him sigh as he moved to get up from his chair.

"PIZZA'S HERE!!!"

The sounds of heavy footfalls coming at a rapid speed from down the hallway accompanying the cry stopped him in his tracks.

The plum-haired man grimaced, Wamuu glancing over his shoulder with a frown, as none-other-than Esidisi sped by; the one hand clutching the towel around his waist was the only thing keeping it from blowing away completely.

Despite only catching a glimpse of his speedy companion, Kars didn't miss the fact that the other was sopping wet and trailing water.

Esidisi had simply lept out of the shower the second he heard the knock at the door, leaving with only a towel (just barely even) and the foamy suds that were still clinging to his hair and his body.

No doubt about it, he was dripping all over the place.

And all over his clean floor too.

Kars clicked his tongue, more than tempted to sigh again.

"Really, Esidisi?" He called out to the other.

It was hard to tell whether he was more displeased with his state of soapy undress or the fact that the oldest Pillarmen had gone and ordered yet ANOTHER pizza this week with only God-knows-what on it.

Sure, he the others found themselves actually partaking in "Human food" casually these days. Wamuu even went so far as to teach himself how to cook as a hobby to fill time around the house when he wasn't going to the Gym or to work, but Esidisi had become something of a strange enthusiast on the matter.

Some people in this world got a little riled up over something as simple as Pinapple being added as a topping on a pizza but Kars had a feeling those people would have an absolute fit listening to Esidisi's phone order of a multi-fruit pizza (consisting of: oranges, apples, watermelon and strawberries) with cheese, olives and pepperoni.

He was starting to wonder if his longtime companion was simply doing it just to see how far he could push a Pizza place with his barrage of odd orders until they yelled at him or worse, barred him completely from the place.

His question was only met with laughter. "I decided to ask for Mac and Cheese and Jalapeños on it this time!" Esidisi called back, voice echoing off the walls, as he finally reached the front door.

Wamuu's nose crinkled at the very sound of that, choosing wisely to direct his attention to his cookies once more.

Kars decided to follow suit and do the same with his own work.

He supposed it wasn't really his problem, therefore; he shouldn't say anything.

☆☆☆

The advertisment had been a strange one for sure, but really, you had no choice but to at least look into it. It never hurt to try and you were already desperate enough as it was.

Apartments and open housing in the area was becoming a rarity at best these days, this busy time of year didn't help things either, and you had been scouring the internet for every opportunity or opening there was to move in with someone in this portion of the city.

Sadly, you had turned up empty handed quite a few times.

The last one you had looked into had been great; a nice building, nice seeming people, decent budget; but alas, the people who put out the advert took it down just a day later.

They had decided to give the opening to a close friend of theirs who wanted to come across the country and live with them instead.

You had been starting to consider checking the complete other side of the city and trying to squeeze yourself in somewhere there or maybe even just going with the option of moving cities completely! The hassle of finding a place was just becoming too much until... this one happened to pop up.

☆ Roomate requSWIGGITY SWOOMATE, WE NEED A ROOMATE!!11!!!1!

We are Four Men seeking out a Human roomate to live with us in our rented house.

4 bedroom, 1 bath, 1 kitchen; upstairs, downstairs and basement.

Location: Western side of the city, 929 Bizzare av.

Rent and chores are divided equally among us.

Requirements as followed:

• Must be a CLEAN Human.

• Human must not bear the surname of "Joestar" under ANY means necessary.

•Must be actively working and have claims to have the ability to hold their job.

• Must be willing to contribute to the household via chores and yard work when necessary.

• must be CUTE!!!

• Mus

•

• Must like llf6io78fjjl0

•

• Jo9sjw6jnsjej27ebeolu

• Jsjsij wkk d18kkjs lkdjsjsns52jsjjsnend2njsmdv 6272jsndbdhs2672 jd Djjsija bsij eeskdnne9s782728 jd bjejrn rnusjjsj

• the human must not be loud

• It would be most appreciated if the Human was a mannered person, who holds appreciation for similar hobbies we do. -W

•

Ask within to apply! ☆

You couldn't help but wonder if whoever had written this advert had been drunk at the time by looking at the grabbed mess that took up half the page.

Better yet, you could only hope this was a real advertisement and not some sort of stupid prank.

Either way, you were determined to find out today and claim this oppertunity before anyone else got the chance.

Glancing down at the print out you had made of the ad at the Library, you sighed as you kept going down the street. You had been walking all morning and were beginning to wish you had the foresight to pack a snack or a drink for your seemingly endless sojourn for this supposed place.

There was no picture put onto the advertisement, even a proper description of the place would've been nice, and finding a direct address wasn't exactly a piece of cake to you.

Nonetheless, you kept going. Stopping at every house you passed in hopes to spot a matching address; finding nothing but different numbers and barking dogs tethered in yards.

With every different number meeting your eyes, the possibility of this just being a fake ad just kept growing and growing in your mind.

You were even starting to consider just giving up entirely when, at last, there it was. "292" the numbers were bolted to the front porch, the 9 starting to tilt to one side.

It seemed nice enough. The lawn was well kept, the walkway however looked as if it needed to be redone. The building was a sunbleached blue, probably a nice clean periwinkle once upon a time, but now leaning a tad white and staring to flake. The place was definitely in need of a touch up.

This was the place, now if someone was Home to even just talk to you about this ad that would be great.

You gathered up the courage to leave the sidewalk and start up the overgrown walkway, the wood of the porch whined under your feet as you stepped onto it. A couple of chairs, a book carelessly left behind in one, a little cage sat all by its lonesome in the far corner, and a big unmissable stain (probably coffee) caught your eye on the wood.

The word "Pillarmen" was scrawled on the name card over the mail slot of the front door.

A strange surname, you had never heard of it before, but it must've been safe to assume that it belonged to someone here. Presumably one of the men who had made this advertisement in the first place.

With only a moments hesitation, clutching the print-out in hand, you reached out and rapped on the door hard with your knuckles, then stood back and waited.

Silence... You took the opportunity to fix your appearance slightly, suddenly becoming a little self-conscious, smoothing out your shirt before clasping your hands behind your back neatly and putting on your best smile.

First impressions were important, most especially a first impression made at the door after all.

There came the sounds of voices, too muffled for you to hear through the walls, followed closely by the unmistakable thundering of footsteps coming closer and closer from within.

Finally, the door flung open.

You felt your eyes go a little wide, the smile drained from your face as you craned your neck back slightly to meet the gaze of the very tall and very muscular dark-skinned man that now stood before you.

Belatedly, as your eyes followed the droplets of water that were dripping off him, trickling down every inch of his muscular body and pooling at his feet, you realized he was practically naked; clutching only a fluffy white towel around his waist.

The towel didn't look nearly as fluffy and white as his hair, however.

"Uh--" Your tongue swole in your mouth as you both found yourselves staring at one another, seemingly sharing a similar dumbfounded moment.

He blinked owlishly.

"You're not the Pizza delivery." He said matter-of-factly, breaking the tense silence that had fallen between the two of you.

Your head shook violently, broke from your sudden stupor, pulling out the slightly crumpled piece of paper out for him to see.

"Uh-- I--... N-No! I'm not-- I'm uh.... here ab-about the-- the roomate ad...?" You sputtered, the words felt as garbled as alphabet soup falling off your tongue, you felt a nervous sweat beading on your skin under your clothes as it hit you for a second time that wasn't wearing any. "Oh! If uh-- this is a bad time I-- I can come back later!"

His face lit up suddenly, eyes shimmering like sapphires. "Oh!" He cried. "I forgot about that!"

The massive man turned, calling back over his shoulder deeper into the apartment.

"Kars! There's a Human here, they saw our advert!"

You happened to be so gobsmacked, still reeling from the slight shock of the very first of your encounter, you hadn't even noticed he distinctly used the word "Human" there.

"What?!"

You couldn't see past the mans hulking figure but you could very well hear the scraping of a chair in the distance, followed by more thundering footsteps heading towards the door.

You blinked as yet another larger-than-life sized man made his appearance, pushing past the first with a frown. The both of them looked almost comically squashed where they stood taking up the whole doorway.

This man was just as tall and as muscular as the first. His skin was like ivory, framed by dark cloth wrapped from his neck to the top of his head with only a tuft of deep purple hair dangling precariously out over his pointed nose.

More importantly, very much unlike the first, this one was fully clothed.

Clad in a dress shirt that matched his hair, slightly unbuttoned to just give you a peak of the buldging muscles he had underneath and the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, neatly pressed black dress pants and house shoes.

Kars blinked in surprise as he caught sight of you at last, eyes scanning over you. He honestly hadn't expected someone to come to their door about the advertisement they had put out so quickly, they had only put it out less than a day ago.

If anything, by the way it had turned out, he was surprised someone responded to it at all.

"Please, come in." Kars told you, making his best attempt to save this lousy first impression.

His surprised look was short-lived, turning sharp as he directed it onto Esidisi. The other man smiled sheepishly, turning and retreat back to the bathroom to finish his shower without the pizza he had left it for...

☆☆☆

☆Previously...☆

Kars hummed, reading over the advert for a 4th time with pursed lips.

He had listed all the necessary information about them and the living situation and even put down a few requirements to set the bar for any Human who would happen to want to apply.

However, even with the ground rules set, it still just seemed a little too bare to him.

"Hmm," Kars peered over his shoulder towards the living room doorway; he swore he could hear more of the crunching of the flaming hot cheetos Esidisi was enjoying rather than the actual program he was watching. "Is there anything specific you would like to add to this before I post it?"

"Shay they mush be cute!" came the reply though a mouthful of spicy junkfood. Kars could only hope he wasn't getting crumbs all over the couch again, not to mention getting too handsy with the T.V remote eating those things...

"That isn't what qualifies as a 'requirement', Esidisi..." he sighed.

The other swallowed, now blessed with the ability to speak much clearer; the crinkling of the cheeto bag hit Kars' ears next.

"Well excuse me for having standards." He heard his oldest companion grumble, drowned out by the crunch of more food.

Wamuu's head peered out of the kitchen, the pie he was just about to place in the oven cradled in oven-mit hands. He had decided to try his hand at fudge pie this time, having mastered apple so quickly.

"It would be nice if the Human were a Warrior as well," he said, disappearing from Kars' sight again as he went back into the kitchen, carrying the pie to the awaiting oven. "Or perhaps if they were interested in going to the Gym or baking as I do..."

Kars sighed, "Wamuu, I understand you would like someone to train with but this--"

"The Human must not be loud."

The Pillarman practically jumped out of his chair, the tiniest yelp escaping his lips as he swiveled his head to find none other than Santana looming over him. The sheet lines imprinted in the others face indicated he had just arisen from a deep sleep; most likely venturing out of his cave and into the kitchen to see what Wamuu was up to.

Even after thousands of years, he still couldn't get used to the youngest Pillarman sneaking up on him.

It probably didn't even count as "sneaking" anyways as Santana was just so naturally quiet he just happened to go unnoticed until he spoke up.

Kars opened his mouth to make an attempt to speak again, only to be cut off one more time as Esidisi finally made his own appearance; leaning over the purple-haired man to see the advert in the works.

"See, this is all wrong." Esidisi told him, frowning at the screen. "This is too formal! If we're going to get someone at all, we need to grab their attention somehow. Here, I'll fix it!"

The other practically clamored over him, cheeto bag tucked under arm as he reached over to type on the computer, deleting the majority of the title Kars had written out and already replacing it with one of his own creation.

Kars belatedly realized the others' hands were still coated in hot cheeto crumbs, smudging the keys of his pristine computer with imprints of red and orange as he typed away.

"Esidisi, stop this at once!" He commanded, trying to push him at arms length, only to be met with a hand pushing back and smooshing against his face. The smell of spicy cheese flavoring hit his nostrils, only fueling his fire. "This is my work computer! I'm the one writing this advertisement!"

Santana merely stood back, watching the two elder Pillarmen fight over the computer in silence. Esidisi was pushed by Kars into the keyboard a handful of times before their focus was solely on one another and no longer the ad.

"Get your grubby hands off me!" Kars growled as the other straddled him in the chair, his face now smudged like his keyboard. They kept pushing on one another, a clumsy slap war already underway, obscenities and curses getting mangled as they argued back and forth.

"You never let me--"

"I told you that--"

"I wanna do it! Just let me--"

Santana peered down at the computer curiously, uninterested in watching the display before him any longer.

The red-head typed out his own request before picking up the device and carrying it to the kitchen for Wamuu to see and whatever he wished; Santana ignored the sound of two bodies toppeling out of the chair and hitting the floor as he left.

Kars didn't even get to see the ad (or rather; the remainder of what qualified as an advert) before it was posted online by Santana.

#funnybunny #pillarmen #kars #esidisi #wamuu #santana #my writing #pillarroomies

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aliciameade · 4 years

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A Thousand Cuts

Title: A Thousand Cuts Author: aliciameade Rating: M for alcoholism and angst Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Beca doesn't realize she needs to get her shit together until it's too late, or, my take on a prompt I was sent to write something based on Taylor Swift’s “Death by a Thousand Cuts.”

Also on AO3

My heart, my hips, my body, my love / Trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

Gave up on me like I was a bad drug / Now I'm searching for signs in a haunted club

Our songs, our films, united, we stand / Our country, guess it was a lawless land

Quiet my fears with the touch of your hand / Paper cut stings from my paper-thin plans

My time, my wine, my spirit, my trust / Trying to find a part of me you didn't take up

Gave you so much, but it wasn't enough / But I'll be alright, it's just a thousand cuts

“You don’t mean that.” Beca’s voice cracks over the words; she’s moments from crying and she knows it.

Chloe’s already crying. “The hell I don’t.” Her voice is steady despite the tears. Her jaw is set, the muscles in her left cheek tensing with how hard she’s clenching it.

“Where am I supposed to go?” That’s when the first tear finally hits Beca’s cheek. They don’t stop after that and she doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away. “I don’t know anyone else here!”

“That’s not my problem.” Chloe walks away so abruptly, steps so heavy it makes Beca jump. She’s digging through the trunk that sits at the foot of their bed and pulls out Beca’s duffel bag to toss it onto the bed. “Pack. And get the rest of your shit out before the end of the month whenever I’m not here or I’m throwing it all away.”

Beca’s sure this must be what it feels like for the earth to swallow one whole. Her world’s been ripped out from beneath her feet.

The thing is, it’s her fault. She can’t argue that it’s not. She could have tried harder, not allowed herself to grow complacent. Chloe was someone who loves with her entire being, every inch of her soul. And Beca adores her. Loves her. But she has struggled to keep up with just how much Chloe needs from her in return for all the love she gives Beca. Truth be told, it’s scared the shit out of Beca since the day they exchanged their first ‘I love yous.’ She had even prefaced her confession by saying she will probably mess it all up.

Fucking self-fulfilling prophecies.

“I’m going for a walk,” Chloe says as she pushes past Beca more physically than necessary. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

When the door slams behind her, Beca fights the urge to crumple onto their bed and weep. They’d just made love on it this morning and she thinks if she touches it, it may burn her flesh.

Instead, she grabs the bag Chloe threw onto it and starts stuffing clothes and toiletries into it. Her head pounds and her chest aches with the need to sob but she won’t give this tiny apartment, their first home together as a couple. She fills the bag until she can’t zip it and throws her laptop into its case to swing them both over her shoulder.

On her way out the door, she rips a photo of the two of them in front of their Christmas tree last year off the fridge—not to destroy it, but to stuff it into her bag.

She wonders if Chloe will even notice it’s gone.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Beca takes the train into Manhattan. Brooklyn feels too small, too familiar. She wants the city to swallow her since the earth only pretended to. She doesn’t have a single New York-based contact in her phone except for the ramen house Chloe and she love and the main number for her office. She doesn’t particularly like her job and has made no effort to get to know anyone there.

In the future, she’ll realize this could be a theme in her life.

She ends up at a hotel by Union Square. She can’t afford it. It’s nearly $200 for the night and it goes on an already precariously charged-up credit card. She’ll move to a hostel tomorrow; tonight, she needs privacy and space and the freedom to have the breakdown she’s been staving off for the two hours it’s been since Chloe told her it was over and threw her out of their home.

Once she gets to her room, she drops her bags on the floor and immediately throws up.

It’s the longest night of Beca’s life.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She doesn’t get the rest of her belongings back. She’s living in a hostel in a room she shares with five other people, at least one of which is new every night. She has to wait her turn to use the bathroom and to shower and most of the time, there’s no hot water.

The good thing, she supposes as she tries day after day to find a single good thing in her life, is that at $35 per day, she can actually afford her room and board and even feed herself twice a day and keep her phone bill paid.

Thank God for ubiquitous free WiFi.

But that one good thing, just keeping herself in room and board, doesn’t do anything to outweigh all the bad.

She hasn’t spoken to or heard from Chloe in two months. There was no final warning about coming to get her belongings or they’d be trashed. Chloe hasn’t checked in with her a single time.

Not that Beca’s reached out to Chloe either.

She’d thought escaping Brooklyn would help protect herself. Far from away all their usual haunts, she would be safer from the constant reminders of all the moments she and Chloe shared in the year-and-a-half they spent living together there.

Instead, she’s faced with bigger reminders in Manhattan. So many date nights spent there at restaurants and concert venues and theatres and sunset strolls through parks.

“Oh, my gosh, baby, this is so romantic, we have to take a selfie,” Chloe said as she grabbed Beca’s hands to spin them in a circle that almost had Beca tripping over her own feet. “Wait, no! Excuse me, sir?” Chloe asked a passerby. “Would you take our picture, please?”

“Sure,” he said as Chloe handed him her phone. “Tell me when.”

“Just take a bunch,” Chloe answered before Beca had even had a chance to weakly and pointlessly protest the impromptu photoshoot.

Then they were kissing on Gapstow Bridge with Central Park and the New York skyline behind them and Beca forgot why she would ever want to protest such a thing.

She can’t even walk through Times Square without her eyes pricking with tears at the memory of Chloe dragging Beca up the red stairs in the middle of a snowstorm to take a selfie at the top while they kissed wearing beanies and scarves and gloves.

The photo came out looking like they were in a snow globe and felt as magical as it looked. It’s saved in her favorites on her phone, but she refuses to let herself look through that album.

Even when she’s alone at night in a strange place that is her home but feels nothing like it, Chloe is everywhere. She can feel her phantom arms around her waist to pull Beca back against her to settle into sleep. In the shower, her hands travel over her body and she remembers all the times and all the ways Chloe has touched her here, and here, and here.

Alcohol doesn’t help, though Beca gives it her best shot.

It leads to her waking up in the beds of people whose names she only sometimes remembers.

A man she goes home with makes her leave when she won’t stop crying when he tries to touch her.

A woman she goes home with spends the night holding her. They even have sex, finally, in the early hours of the morning. But all Beca can think about is how it’s not right. How she isn’t Chloe and she doesn’t know how to touch Beca as Chloe does. It does nothing to help Beca forget or move on. In fact, it only makes her miss Chloe more.

She stops trying to escape into other people and goes back to drinking alone. It’s cheaper that way, too, which is a nice bonus. One bottle of whiskey runs her $40 which gives her far more drinks for her dollar compared to going to bars.

Eventually, she finds someone in need of a roommate through a coworker and she has a room to herself in Washington Heights. Her roommate is nice, a few years older than Beca, and works for the city’s child services department. She’s a good listener on the rare occasions Beca confides in her when her emotions become too much to take alone.

It turns into a relationship of convenience. They both acknowledge that’s what it is and that they’re setting themselves up for disaster if (when) it ends because someone (Beca) is going to have to move out when things become too messy.

But until that happens, it’s nice to feel at least somewhat normal again. She doesn’t feel like she’s ready to fall apart if someone looks at her the wrong way on the street.

She still thinks about Chloe at least once every minute when she’s conscious.

And usually, even when she’s not.

She knows she’s fixating. It’s too hard to not spend as much energy as she can berating herself for messing up and losing Chloe. It’s delicious torture to hate herself so much and replay the details of every moment of their relationship and pick out every time she fucked up and think about how she could have done it differently, how she would do it differently if she had the chance.

What’s most irritating of all is that there is no one singular cataclysmic event she can blame. It was her series of micro-aggressions, so seemingly small (to Beca), that piled up until replying to Chloe’s multi-scroll-long text message telling Beca that she needed more from her with “k” got her thrown out on the street.

And she knew—knows—she deserved it.

She wishes she could go back in time and slap herself and tell her to get her shit together before she loses the best thing to ever happen to her.

But she can’t. She keeps drinking and it’s never enough to forget Chloe.

Eventually, her behavior lands her out on her ass again, but this time, she expects it. What girl wants her not-girlfriend crying about her ex every time they have sex? At least there’s a discussion first and she’s allowed a couple of weeks to find a new place to live.

A year has passed since she fucked up her relationship with Chloe but, somehow, she’s managed to get her professional life into something resembling moderate success. She’s surprised when she downloads bank statements at the balance in her account to have when she goes apartment hunting. She’s done nothing but pay rent to her now-ex-roommate and buy what few things she’s needed to get by (mostly alcohol). She thinks she remembers an email from HR about a bonus or royalty payout around Christmas…?

It affords her the ability to get her own apartment, a one-bedroom in Harlem.

It also affords her the freedom to indulge in all her vices without someone passing judgment. She can drink herself to blackout. She can have anonymous sex. She can cry until she’s sick or lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling all night in a drug-and-alcohol-induced stupor. None of it really matters, anyway.

She fits right in with the people she’s finding herself forced to be around more often. She gets wasted with colleagues and A-listers under the guise of networking. She impresses men with her ability to out-drink them despite her stature. And if one of them offers cocaine? She can be the last one standing in the early hours of the morning.

She prides herself on her endurance, though not more than she prides herself on the fact that no matter how hammered she gets, not once has she drunk-dialed Chloe to beg forgiveness.

She hasn’t dialed her at all, for that matter.

She’s never apologized.

She wants to point out that showing up at her former apartment building when it’s dark and the streets are empty repeatedly pressing the buzzer for what used to be her apartment is not drunk-dialing nor drunk-texting.

“Hello?” Chloe’s voice crackles through the shitty speaker and Beca slumps against the wall next to the metal intercom at the sound of it. “Is anyone there? I swear if you kids are pulling this shit again, I’m calling the cops.”

Beca laughs to herself, memories of a group of teenagers that roams the neighborhood raising havoc of the relatively painless variety. Things like Ding Dong Ditch and hiding delivered packages from their recipients. It always infuriated Chloe and made Beca laugh and tell her to calm down, they’re just kids and they could be getting into much worse kinds of trouble.

She considers continuing to ring the buzzer just to keep Chloe on the line; it’s been so long since she’s heard her voice. Maybe she could just sleep on the building’s stoop?

She’s still thinking about it when she hears the familiar squeak of the door opening.

“Beca?”

She wonders if maybe she finally passed out to slip into dreamland because Chloe’s standing in front of her in plaid sleep shorts and Beca’s favorite vintage David Bowie tee.

“Hey, babe,” she slurs.

“What are you doing here?” Chloe takes half a step out of the door and starts to reach for her but stops short. “Are you drunk?”

“What if I am?” she says as she pushes herself away from the wall to stand upright again, though everything feels like it’s tilting. She points. “That’s my shirt.”

Chloe crosses her arms over her chest as if that will hide it. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

Beca has to think hard. She doesn’t remember how she got to Brooklyn. She doesn’t know what time it is. “I’m tired,” she answers. “I came home.”

“You don’t live here anymore.”

“I didn’t say I live here. I said I came home.” She tries to walk forward but trips and finds herself caught by Chloe before she hurts herself. “Cat-like reflexes,” she says with a chuckle before catching the scent of the laundry detergent and lotion Chloe always uses and the tears come out of nowhere.

She’s vaguely aware that Chloe’s helping her walk and it’s up the stairs and into the apartment they once shared, not out to the curb.

The last thought that passes through her mind as Chloe helps her into what was always Beca’s side of the bed is that even through her blurry vision she can see a picture on the refrigerator. A copy of the same photo she’d taken with her the day Chloe had thrown her out, placed in the exact place the original had been for so long.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She wakes to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Her head throbs but not too painfully; she rarely gets hungover these days. She knows where she is. She knows the feel of the bed, the softness of the sheets, the scent of breakfast and the sound of the quiet tings and thuds of cabinets opening and closing, of plates, mugs, spoons, and knives.

She doesn’t want to open her eyes. Maybe if she pretends to be asleep she could stay there all day without having to be embarrassed by her actions. She can just hold onto this unexpected return to a past life for a few more minutes before it’s ripped away from her again.

She starts when the sound of a mug being placed on the nightstand near her head comes unexpectedly.

“Morning,” Chloe’s quiet, husky morning voice whispers as she sits on the edge of the bed next to Beca.

Beca grimaces and pulls the covers up over her head. “No.”

“I have to go to work.” Beca didn’t even think about the fact that it was a weekday. Her own schedule doesn’t conform to the typical Monday-through-Friday model. “But I’m going to call out sick for the afternoon and come back at lunch.”

Beca slips the covers down until they’re under her chin. She knows she looks like shit but Chloe looks more beautiful than she remembers her.

“You can stay here until then. Help yourself to breakfast. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?”

Beca just nods, afraid that anything more than that will wake her from whatever dream she’s having. She feels Chloe’s hand on her leg, a brief touch before she’s leaving too soon.

Beca watches her gather her things and leave the apartment, locking it with her keys.

She knows she should go back to sleep. Sleep off the last bits of the drunkenness she can still feel swimming in her. But she’s been thrown back into her old life, her old home, and like so many mornings, Chloe’s just gone to work after making coffee for Beca.

Slowly, she sits up to take in her surroundings. The small studio looks much like she’s remembered it. There’s a lot more of Chloe in it now, though. More photos of her and friends Beca’s never met. The band posters Beca had insisted on putting up have been replaced with generic canvas prints from Target that feature the Eiffel Tower and a recreation of a poster for la tournée du Chat Noir avec Rodolphe Salis. It makes her smile; Chloe’s always had an obsession with Paris and it had only gotten worse after they went to Denmark—but not France—in college.

Driven by her roiling stomach she forces herself out of bed. When she stands, she has to do a double-take looking down at herself. She’s not wearing the clothes she’d left her apartment in yesterday. She’s not even wearing pants. Her legs are bare and she plucks at the shirt she’s wearing to see it’s one of her old concert tees.

A memory flashes of last night, of Chloe in the doorway wearing Beca’s shirt.

It makes her feel lightheaded and she reaches for the coffee Chloe’s left bedside before crossing the room to the kitchen. Everything’s still in the same place and it’s mindless yet spine-tingling to go through the motions of finding something to eat in that room just as she’s done countless times in the past.

She plops down at the small table that she once imagined proposing to Chloe over on a Sunday morning over a cozy winter brunch they prepared together and is about to dig into her bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch that Chloe miraculously has on-hand despite claiming to hate it when she freezes, spoon halfway to her mouth.

On the clothing rack in the middle of the room, the one they had to fight over for valuable space, hang all of Beca’s clothes she’d left behind when she was forced to flee.

Her chair screeches as she pushes it back to rush over and quickly flip through the blouses, pants, and dresses she hasn’t seen in more than a year. She tugs open the third and then fourth drawers of the dresser they shared to find them both still stuffed full of underwear, bras, socks, tank tops, shorts, and Beca’s beanies and gloves she’d really missed that winter. She drops to her knees and reaches under the bed to find the sharp plastic edge of a storage bin and pulls it out. All her shoes, still in their place.

If not for the changes in decor, she would believe she never left. Nothing has changed since her last morning with Chloe.

It’s overwhelming. Chloe had threatened to throw everything away if Beca never picked it up. Beca never did, but Chloe didn’t follow through.

Her head swims and her eyes prick with tears. She thinks she might be sick from the rush of emotions and adrenaline; Chloe hadn’t tossed their life in the trash even though she’d tossed Beca to the curb.

She isn’t sick, though. Instead, she strips off her shirt and crawls into the bathtub and turns on the shower to sit under the spray and cry.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Beca’s heart races when she hears Chloe’s keys in the hallway seconds before they rattle in the lock. She watches the door open slowly, Chloe peeking in carefully until they find Beca sitting at the table.

“You’re awake,” she says as she enters with less care now that Beca’s not asleep. “Did you find something to eat? I brought lunch just in case.”

Beca’s eyes drop to the bag in Chloe’s hand; there are familiar round plastic take-out containers stacked in it and Beca doesn’t have to ask to know it’s from the ramen place they frequented. “I did, yeah.”

Chloe sets the bag on the table and Beca watches her take off and hang up her coat. When she turns back around, she pauses. “Oh.”

Beca wonders what she’s looking at until she realizes it’s Beca’s clothes. “You didn’t throw my stuff away.”

Chloe takes a break as though she’s about to speak but instead she sighs and says nothing in reply as she sits down in her chair to Beca’s left and starts unpacking the lunch she’s brought.

Beca catches her hand when it’s busy setting up soup and sides and Chloe’s entire body seems to flinch, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. “You didn’t throw me away, did you.”

Tears are welling in Chloe’s eyes when they meet Beca’s but she still doesn’t speak.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Beca rushes when she realizes she’s the one who has to do the talking. “But I do. Will you hear me out? Give me ten minutes. Five.”

“Okay,” Chloe says quietly as she pulls her hand back to resume passing out utensils.

Beca waits until she’s finished, until Chloe’s no longer distracting herself with busywork and her eyes land on Beca nervously so she can finally say, “I’m sorry, Chloe.”

The End

#bechloe #bechloe fic #bechloe fanfic #fanfic

154 notes · View notes

alittledizzy · 6 years

Text

stray puppy appeal rating: pg word count: 2.5k Summary: There's a stranger sleeping in Dan's bed, and he's not sure how to feel about it. Notes: Written for @velvetnautilus for my thirty minute fics for charity fundraiser to benefit PhandomGives.

[read on ao3]

There's a stranger sleeping in Dan's bed, and he's not sure how to feel about it.

Most of the time people checking into the hotel during Dan's ten pm to four am shift aren't really looking for conversation. They're looking for a bed to sleep in or a bed to fuck in and either way they're not going to stand around making small talk with the guy behind the counter who is doing his level best to project a disinterest in any interaction outside the structure of doing his job. He finds reservations, activates key cards, and sends them on their way.

But Dan's got a sixth sense about people who are going to need something from him, and because he's the only one working the front desk during the graveyard shift he's got no way to avoid it.

That sense starts to tingle the minute the door opens and a man walks in wearing a very respectable suit and tie with a stain on the front and no luggage at all. The man looks around with a slightly wild expression that means he's either drunk or exhausted. If he's drunk, at least Dan can ring security.

"Can I help you, mate?" Dan asks. His voice carries across the small lobby.

The man looks at him like he's only just realized someone else was there. "I think my driver stole my wallet," he says. "And my mobile's dead, and the airline lost my luggage."

Okay. Not drunk. Damn. And it's so close to his shift ending.

"Do you have a reservation here?" Dan asks.

"I'm with the conference," Phil says.

"... conference?" Dan repeats.

There is no conference.

"Yeah," Phil says again. "The conference. We're supposed to have rooms booked out."

"There's no conference here," Dan says. "Are you sure you're at the right hotel?"

The man looks slightly queasy now. "No," he admits. "Is this the City Centre hotel?"

"... mate." Dan barely manages not to laugh. "No. It is not. You're about thirty minutes in the wrong direction."

The man rubs his forehead and lets out a very quiet, passionate. "Fuck."

It’s painful watching Phil sit in the straight back chair in the lobby. It’s not comfortable. Dan knows that, because he knows the furniture was chosen with the intent of keeping people from wanting to linger too long using the free lobby wifi.

He’s only got ten minutes left until shift change. He knows who comes in after him, and he knows Phil won’t be allowed to loiter without a reservation and looking as he does. He’ll be told politely but firmly to leave, and Dan has a vivid mental image of Phil Lester walking down the street helpless and lost and broke.

There’s a chance of rain, too.

Dan sighs. He had plans. Those plans involved going home, eating something horrible for him in front of the television, playing Guild Wars for a couple hours, then crashing until time for the routine to start again.

“Hey,” Dan says, voice cutting through the quiet of the small lobby. “If you need somewhere to crash for a few hours, you can come home with me.”

Phil looks startled. “I can’t do that.”

Dan shrugs. “Fine.” Thirty seconds later. “Not like I’m trying to rob you or anything, though. Doesn’t sound like the last guy left much anyway.”

Phil almost appears affronted, but the expression fades into something more miserable almost right away. “I’ve still got organs. You could harvest those.”

“If I were in the organ harvesting trade, you think I’d still be working this shit job?” Dan asks. “I could probably pay my rent on one good spleen. Unfortunately I’m chronically undermotivated, so your spleen is safe.”

“Good,” Phil says. “I’ve only got the one. I think. Do humans have two spleens?”

“Just one,” Dan says. He sounds confident even though he’s not sure. He’ll google it later.

“But I really can’t.” Phil has polite-voice on.

“Suit yourself.” Dan goes back to looking at his phone. Eight more minutes, and he’s free.

There are a lot of things Dan would list about himself under the column of personality flaws. He's sullen and quiet, anxious, prone to depressive spells, lacks the ability to follow through on commitments, and frequently isolates himself from the people in his life that care about him.

But he's not a bad person. So when his shift ends at four in the morning he looks at Phil and says, “Come on.” and leaves work with a stray following close on his heels.

Phil a consultant for an editing software firm, and he's clearly having a worse day than Dan is but that doesn’t stop him from being chatty.

"I'll just charge my phone for a bit," Phil promises. "Then I'll be able to ring someone and figure out money.”

Dan doesn't really have money to give him. All of his meager paycheck goes towards rent for an overpriced one bedroom flat in one of the shittier London neighborhoods.

"Figure it out tomorrow," Dan says, waving a hand. If nothing else he'll be a nice person and put Phil into a car.

"It's already tomorrow, isn't it?" Phil says. "I'm all messed up with times. I flew here from California."

"Yeah?" Dan asks. He’s knows he sounds disinterested, but he’s really just… tired. He’s always tired.

"I'm actually from Manchester. But they flew me out to California to train me on the software, and I'm supposed to present it at this conference. At least it doesn't start until tomorrow, right?" Phil laughs a tepid laugh. He seems aware that he's mostly talking to himself. "Right. Where are we going?"

Dan gives him an amused look. "Would you know even if I told you? It's only five more minutes."

Walking to and from work is the only exercise Dan gets most of the time. There are days when he'd probably skive off work altogether if not for how much he enjoys his early morning walks.

"Right," Phil says a third time. "Okay."

In the bright light of Dan's kitchen, Phil looks even worse for wear.

"When's the last time you slept?" Dan asks. He'd really just planned on making some coffee while Phil's phone charged enough to make do and then sending him on his way, but now safe within his own territory Dan feels a strange stirring to do something more.

It's not often he's the one that can help other people. It's not often he feels like he can offer something that makes a difference to someone else.

Phil shrugs. "I can't sleep on planes, and the flight was twelve hours. And the night before they took me out for dinner and kept buying me drinks and then I had to go back to the hotel room and pack..."

"So, it's been a while." Dan abandons the coffee idea and heads into his bedroom.

Phil follows after him, but stops in the doorway. "What-"

Dan looks over his shoulder. "You want something more comfortable to wear? Maybe a shower?"

Phil looks surprised. "You're not going to harvest my organs, are you?"

"No," Dan says. "Can't be bothered cleaning up after that kind of mess today. But you look like shit, mate."

Phil looks down. "I spilled coffee on myself at the airport. I thought that would end up being the worst part of my morning. Before the airline losing my luggage, and the car driver taking my wallet."

He's already rung his bank and credit card company to cancel the cards, taking care of that from the hotel phone behind the reception desk.

Dan tosses him a t-shirt and a pair of joggers. "The shampoo in my bathroom is for curly hair, but have at it."

"Thanks," Phil says, holding the bundle of clothes. Dan looks up again when he doesn't move. "Where's the bathroom?"

Phil's shower is fast. Dan's not sure if he's always quick at it, or if he's just uncomfortable in Dan's space. His hair is wet and falls limply over his forehead and somehow the five o'clock shadow on his face seems a touch darker.

"Thanks," he says. "I feel more human now."

"You don't look it," Dan says bluntly.

Phil shrugs. He's at his phone already. "I'm at forty percent now. If you need me to go..."

"Didn't say I did, did I?" Dan asks. "Are you sure you're even safe to go out there? Why don't you just, I don't know, have a nap."

Dan's tired himself now, or beginning to be. He usually falls asleep around sunrise and wakes late afternoon. But Phil looks ten times worse.

"I couldn't-" Phil starts to say. "I couldn't impose."

"Fine." Dan shrugs. "I'm still offering, though."

Phil looks back down at his phone. "I could just... ring someone. To get me."

"You know people in London?" Dan asks.

Phil shakes his head. "But I could call the convention organizers..."

"At-" He looks at the time. "Five seventeen in the morning."

Phil winces. "I guess not."

"Just sleep," Dan says. "I still won't harvest your organs."

Phil gives him a grateful look. "Thank you."

Dan's a nice guy, but also a bit of a creep sometimes.

He definitely watches Phil sleep. He stands in the doorway of his bedroom and stares, because now that the buzz of a weird new situation has faded a bit he's able to recognize that Phil is quite fit.

There haven't been any fit guys in Dan's bed in a while. No fit girls, either. No one at all, except Dan and his laptop and his left hand.

Not that he's thinking of having sex with a random businessman that wandered into his workplace. He's not that hard up. Sex isn't even the first thing on his mind most of the time. He's got too much other shit to get together.

Dan stares just a bit longer, then turns and walks away. He'll nap on the sofa for a while.

He doesn't really sleep, but awareness fades in and out in stretches of five and ten minutes at a time until the sun is beaming down too directly on his face. He squints and rubs a hand over his eyes. He's tired, bone deep weary, and there's a stranger in his bed.

He opens the fridge and there's not much there. He takes his lunch around two am most days, and doesn't eat again until late afternoon. There's a lot of takeaway in his life, a lot of freezer meals.

Can't feed a freezer meal to a stranger. His nana would drive all the way from Reading just to slap him for it.

He doesn't even know what Phil likes to eat. Is he vegetarian? Vegan? Gluten free? Does he watch his carbs?

Indecision is paralyzing, but Dan's hungry and he needs something to do. He orders a pizza, but he orders what he'd normally get for himself. It's not a date, he tells himself. No need to try all that hard.

Tall, dark, and handsome-if-you-like-that-type stumbles bleary eyed from the depths of Dan's sleep cave at half two.

"Oh my god," he says, sounding mildly horrified. "I can't believe I slept so long."

Dan's on his laptop. He barely glances up. "Must have needed it."

"My phone's charged," Phil says. "If you need me to go."

Dan ignores the comment and says, "There's pizza."

"Pizza?" Phil's interest is definitely piqued.

"You must be hungry, right?" Dan asks.

"Starved," Phil says. He opens the box. The pizza's gone cold by now but he doesn't seem to mind. He takes a bite and moans slightly. "This is amazing."

"It's Dominoes," Dan says, "But it's good to know that's where your taste level is at."

"Nothing wrong with a Dominoes," Phil says.

Dan does happen to agree.

Phil eats his pizza standing. Dan pretends to be doing work on his laptop, when in reality he's refreshing twitter and watching Phil out of the corner of his eye.

When Phil's done eating, he wipes his hands on his (Dan's) joggers and then walks back into the bedroom.

Dan has a sinking feeling in his gut, and he's not sure what put it there. All he knows is that this day stands out from every other day already, and he's reluctant to let that go.

But then there's Phil, this person Dan barely knows, with whom Dan has barely even had a real conversation, and he's walking out of Dan's bedroom dressed again and regret for that unknown reason blooms even brighter.

"Guess you'll be going then?" Dan asks.

He can tell his voice sounds clipped. Phil can too, apparently. "If that's alright? Or did you change your mind on the organ harvesting?"

"Still can't be bothered," Dan says, shutting the laptop. Phil's wearing his own trousers and a button up.

"I need to get to my hotel," Phil says. "And then ring the airport about my luggage, and have someone wire me some money."

Dan can see the discarded tie making an unsightly lump in his trouser pocket, and he's got his jacket over one shoulder. The coffee stain looks even worse in the light of day. He's got Dan's hoodie clutched in his other hand.

"You can take that if you want to."

Dan's not sure where the offer comes from. He likes that hoodie.

Phil looks down at it. "Really?" He asks. "We could... we could meet up. For me to give it back to you. And pay you back."

"Pay me back?" Dan asks.

"For the money I'm about to ask to borrow so I can get the tube to where I need to be." Phil says meekly.

"Oh," Dan says. "Yeah, right."

"But I want to make it up to you." Phil takes a breath and then looks at Dan almost imploringly. "Dinner? When's your night off work?"

"Don't worry about it," Dan says. He grabs his wallet and pulls out the only cash he has. He doesn't even count it. "You don't need to pay me back. If you want to return the hoodie, drop it by the hotel."

Phil looks down at where Dan's offering it out to him. He's frowning, and Dan's starting to wonder exactly what's wrong when Phil says, "What if I just want to take you out?"

"What?" Dan stares at him.

"You're - am I wrong?" Phil asks. "I just.. I saw your quilt. And the sticker on your mirror.”

The warm, heavy quilt his friend made him in the colors of a rainbow flag. The equality sticker. "Are you asking me out? Are you even gay?"

The moment feels like a step beyond surreal.

Phil lifts up his trouser leg. His socks have little rainbows on them. Phil shrugs. "A bit?"

"You're a bit gay, or you're a bit asking me out?"

"Both?" Phil says.

"Okay I get how you can be a bit gay, but - how do you just ask someone out a bit?" Dan asks.

Phil begins to look uncomfortable. "If you don't want to, that's fine. I'll have your hoodie sent-"

"I don't work Sunday night," Dan interrupts him.

"Sunday," Phil repeats, smiling. "Alright. I'll bring the hoodie then. And buy you dinner."

Sunday comes, and Sunday goes. Dinner turns into a drink after and then a slow stumble through Dan's doorway with hands and mouths exploring. Monday morning dawns bright and early.

There's a stranger in Dan's bed again, and this time he knows exactly how to feel about it.

#phan #phanfic #thirty minute fics for charity

176 notes · View notes

marveliter · 5 years

Text

Game Night

Summary: Bruce Banner and his four children spend some quality time together playing board games, but things escalate very quickly.

Warnings: Cussing, sibling fights, UNO

Characters: Bruce Banner + OC Marvel Children

A/N: I got this idea from one of my prompts on my last post and I thought It’d be so fun to write one out :)) *also, I use one of my marvel OC’s who’s Bruce’s daughter in another AU story I’m writing which you can find on this link ;)

Bruce Banner heard the sound of thunder and looked out the windows of the lab. The rain had been pouring all day long, creating floods in the streets of New York City, backing up sewage and keeping everyone inside. It was nearing five o’clock, but the sky was so dark it could’ve been eight. He decided to call it quits when he heard one of his four children groan all the way down the hall. Jarvis was shocked to see Bruce leaving at such an early time, because usually he left before eight and crept back in after midnight after his children were asleep. Bruce loved spending time with his children, but there were days when they all needed a break from each other. Today was exhausting from being locked up inside Uncle Tony’s tower, with the power knocked out and no cellular service no matter how high the children raised their phones.

Tony wasn’t home at the moment as he was at a conference in Miami, and Bruce didn’t feel like taking the elevator all the way down to the basement. So, he decided to follow the complaints of his children until he entered the common room where they all sat lazily on the couches and chairs. Bruce’s twins, Roberta and Will sat at opposite ends of the couch, hands over their eyes as they groaned in agony from the broken WiFi. Amara, the youngest, was doodling in her sketchbook on the floor next to the coffee table, but it was evident that she had been following a Bob Ross tutorial before the video started freezing on her laptop. Her paint palette was still open and her dirty brushes scattered around the garbage bag her painting was atop of. “I guess the rain does do good,” Bruce chuckled, looking between his twins. “Remember me?” Roberta groaned, “Not now Bruce, I was watching Criminal Minds and the killer was just about to be found, and now I’m sad,” Bruce chuckles, approaching his son, Will, the older twin. “And what were you doing?” “I was playing Cup Pong on Game Pigeon with Savannah,” he muttered under his breath. Roberta cackled, “Imagine him asking her out and then sending Anagrams!” This made Amara giggle as she started to collect her paint materials to clean up. Will rolled his eyes as Roberta kept making jokes. “At least I don’t send out of context memes to my crush,” Will retorts. “What?” Bruce asked, oblivious to his children’s world. “Ollie and I are best friends—” she quickly turned to Bruce and scowled. “We will never date!” “Never say never,” Amara quietly giggled. “You’re a sixth grader, you don’t know anything about love,” Roberta snaps. “Sixth grade relationships are dumb. One day you have a boyfriend, the next you think you’re already in love with them,” “Sounds a lot like you and Tyler Kipplin,” Albert, the eldest of the Banner children retorted upon entering the room. “Whole city’s out of power, just after the WiFi stopped working I couldn’t write my paper, and now I don’t want to strain my eyes trying to do other homework in the dark,” “Weird Al came out of his cage,” Will said, standing up from the couch. “Boo hoo,” Roberta frowned mockingly. “Bert’s never going to become a doctor, just a bigger disappointment to Dad,” "At least I’ll have a job that’s doesn’t involve cleaning the streets of New York!” Albert snapped. Roberta slammed her feet on the carpet and stood up with her fists curled. Her brown eyes began to turn a bright green. “STOP SAYING I’M GOING TO BECOME A GARBAGE MAN!” “Garbagewoman,” Amara corrected. Bruce waved his hands and shook his head. “Hey! Hey! Let’s not attack each other, calm down! Let’s find something fun we can all do,” “I want to paint,” Amara sighs. “When the power comes back on we can sweetie, but let’s all do something fun!” Bruce looked around the room, and sure enough the dresser underneath the TV stand was filled to the brim with board games. “Hell no,” Roberta snapped. “What?” Bruce asked, holding out Candy Land. “Let’s find a game we can all play!” “I hate board games Dad,” “I hate that you’re constantly nagging and whining,” Bruce snaps. Roberta scoffed as her brothers chuckle and Amara scoots closer to the couch, still sitting on the floor. Bruce pulled out a small deck of red cards in a red box. “Let’s play UNO,” “No,” Will retorted. “Why?” “Robbie always looks at my cards,” “That’s because you always hold them out in front of you so everyone can see!” Roberta shouts. “I’m going to my room,” Albert waves off. “No,” Bruce irritatingly chuckles. “We are having fun family game night whether you all want it or not,” The Banners all sat in a circle with seven cards in their hands and a big deck in the middle, with candles lit all around them for a source of light. “Youngest to oldest,” Bruce said as he turned to Amara on his right. “Good,” Roberta scoffed. “Dinosaurs last,” “Or we could do brattiest to kindest,” Bruce jokingly glared at Roberta, who rolled her eyes with a small smile. Amara pulled a blue card from the deck, and the game started. There were a few practice rounds for the kids who couldn’t remember how to play, and suddenly when everyone knew what to do the game got interesting. The kids started to bet on who did their chores and who would be their servant for a day. “No! No, no, no, no, no!” Will shouted as Amara placed down the ‘add four’ card. “That’s not allowed! Albert gets the four!” “If a player has the same card, they can add it on their turn and the cards go to someone else!” Albert yells, laughing. Bruce chuckled, but he tried to hide it as he saw his son’s skin look pale green. “You’ll get them next time Will,” Bruce laughed as Will drew sixteen cards. “Bullshit,” Will muttered. Soon, it was Amara getting mad. “You can’t take away the card you placed down!” Roberta flashed the yellow ‘skip a turn’ at her younger sister. “I can and I will because it’s my turn!” “You just want an UNO because I have an UNO,” “Why do you care about the card? You’re not even getting skipped!” “By the chances of Dad I could lose and I haven’t won a single game!” Amara was protective of her cards, and no one had seen what they were and she never hinted. No one could tell what her play pattern was, and by the look of her heterochria brown and green eyes, Bruce played a normal number card that was green. Amara looked down at her card, her face blank until she slammed the card down onto the pile. “SUCK IT!” She screamed. Bruce laughed seeing all his children scream and fall on their backs in agony. Albert had his hands at his blonde hair, Roberta was laying face down on the carpet cussing, and Will slammed his hands against the ground. "Another game?" Bruce asked. "Bullshit," Will mumbled, standing up. "I'm going to pop a Lays chip bag before I pop a whole in the wall," "Do that second one you're grounded--clean up the mess from the first!" Bruce called to his son. "Bring some popcorn!" Roberta yells, lifting her head up from the carpet. "Let's play a game that won't set Junior Hulk off," Bruce chuckles, his head nudging in the direction Will walked. "Allie gave me something for my birthday last year and I haven't played it since," Albert said, standing up. "What is it?" Bruce asked.

***

"Yes," Tony said into the phone as he stepped out of his car. "I'd like to have those reports by Thursday. . .thanks doll," He entered the tower with Happy at his side in the elevator, explaining how well the conference went. "There was something about physics in there, and I wish I had Bruce with me, but he really needed to get his work done. Hopefully his ankle biters didn't bother him," Tony joked. He loved the kids, and as their godfather he swore to make fun of them for as long as he lived. "Actually," Happy chuckled. "The power went out, and I wasn't here when it happened. No sure what he or the kids did. I didn't see the tower regenerate power from home either," Tony chuckled, "Bruce doesn't like going all the way down to the basement. He's so kind and willing to do anything, but also just so lazy at times. Can't blame him though, four rascals is a lot," The elevator doors parted, and the moment Tony looked into the room he froze. His couches and chairs were half torn and tossed around, his bar table was crushed, and his piano was stuck sticking out in the wall. As he and Happy walked out in the room, looking around in awe and confusion, Roberta and Amara ran out from the hall in their battle suits, and upon seeing Tony gave fake smiles and cheeky laughter. "Hey T-Bone!" Roberta nervously chuckled. "What are you doing home so early?" "Is that a new suit?" Amara asked. "Glasses? Go-tee? Did you shave?" Tony looed around in shock, and before he could say anything, Roberta laughed. "Oh! You're probably wondering about the room!" she nervously played with her hands. "We had family game night," "And you wrecked my home?" "No," Amara said. "Dad and Will wrecked you're home. . .well, Hulk and Hulk Jr." "They battled it out more once we got them in the Hulk tank," Roberta explained. "You couldn't get them in there sooner?" Tony asked, raising his voice. "We didn't know they were changing! It was funny how it all happened, we didn't know they were actually fighting!" "Where's Albert?" "Keeping an eye on both of them from the watch room," Amara answered. Tony sighed and walked off down the hall in the direction of the Hulk Tank, also known as the cool down room, muttering incoherently in anger. "What game were you guys playing?" Happy asked, approaching the girls. "Tenzi," Amara answered. "What's that?" "Apparently a very infuriating game in the Banner family," Amara replied, looking around at the mess.

#bruce banner #bruce banner appreciation #bruce banner oneshot #hulk #the incredible hulk #Avengers #bruce banner fanfiction

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imaginaryculturepress-blog · 7 years

Photo

In which we launch the first-ever Tales from the Pit story/review, and Why Even Try Launch “More Than”.

Hi, hello, and welcome!

My name is Skyler and the story I'm about to tell you shall include approximately twenty thousand words of insignificant information that's definitely not aimed at increasing my website traffic. ... Definitely not... ...Anyway... I'm trying to make this a regular type of post, as with all things on this blog; a sort of "concert story", if you will. It’ll mainly include photographer-orientated content such as issues that occurred whilst shooting, though I’ll attempt to add as much crowd and band information as possible. Perhaps now that I've gained the idea, I ought to start shooting a few things around the venue and whatnot to add to these posts. Maybe train stations and car rides with a Tumblr-esque theme, stray dogs and freeways at peak hour, and whatever else is deemed suitable. I needed a name for this segment, though, something memorable and preferably a reference of sorts. So I did what any Five Finger Death Punch fan would do and turned to their extensive catalogue of music to find something even remotely similar to my requirements. And then I realised: they have a live album called Purgatory: Tales from the Pit. I didn't feel "Purgatory" was the best heading, but "Tales from the Pit" had a nice ring to it. Shorten it to TFTP and you've really got something. Sort of. So I suppose we should restart this. Hi, hello, and welcome to Tales from the Pit! *Include all the above nonsense that did nothing more than waste your time and increase my Google search rankings. * ... Let's cut to the chase, shall we? T'was the Wednesday before the With Con show when I found myself at a fish and chips shop, surrounded by drunk dudes and dogs. There were VBs on a table and a pregnant American Bulldog wagging its tail, making me question all my life decisions. Why was I at this place? Why am I a concert photographer? Why does nobody tour in Perth? What is the impact of the dog’s pregnancy on the Australian economy? Etcetera. I had one show coming up, the aforementioned one, this Saturday at Red Lighting Paradise (HQ). Plus a potential Placebo show at Perth Arena. (It later turned out that the Placebo pass was all mine. It also turned out that the concert was cancelled. Read more on that here.) But besides that, I was free and bored out of my mind. That’s the thing about concert photography; you’re either working until your brain explodes - shooting, emailing, arguing with the Internet, editing - or sitting around sending press requests. Or blogging. (School disclaimer: yes, I also study… …when I’ve no editing to work on…) And considering that in the last six months I’ve only covered nine shows and almost Placebo, that’s a lot of wasted – sorry, school-orientated - time. (Update: another show happened last Friday, Homebrand's "Shelf" launch show.) I soon returned home to a stable wifi connection to find a photographer’s favourite message: “Would you be able to cover our launch show this Friday? Sorry for the late notice!” T’was from one of my favourite local acts, Why Even Try, known for their (positively) insane sets and marvellous music. Supporting them were Grey States, Shedhead, and Crown Loser, three bands I hadn’t previously photographed but was extremely excited for. The late notice didn’t bother me, though I was left trying to back out of prior arrangements. Before long, we’d confirmed the shooting arrangements and everyone resumed with the launch show preparations: set list confirmations, instrument things that I’ve no clue about ‘cause my job is to just click a camera button, etcetera. The only problem I seemed to have (aka that my parents seemed to have) was the two-shows-in-a-row ordeal. The closest I’d gotten to this was in June, with the Boris the Blade Warpath Weekender on the 3rd and SOTA Festival two days later. Not to mention that those shows were back when I had lower self-expectations and everyone was used to waiting up to a week for photos. Nowadays, it was show day on Friday and photos by Sunday at the latest. But two shows in a row? Having to go from prep to travel to shooting to travel to sleep to editing to prep to travel to shooting to travel to sleep to editing again? Whilst suffering from an extremely annoying cold that left me coughing with every breath? This would be interesting. Friday came soon enough. T'was my first day back at school after a week of feeling sick as all hell, and the amount of work I received was definitely more than what was taught. "Test next Monday!", "This is due, erm... today!", "This is worth twenty percent of your overall mark!", "Don't forget your bibliography!", the list could go on forever. Concentrating on all those tasks was nearly impossible. There were two shows coming up and I still felt like crap. I made a mental note of everything I had to do. Prep gear, charge batteries, ensure the lenses are clean, pack, DON'T FORGET THE MEMORY CARDS, bring earplugs, and, of course, clear enough space on my laptop to load the couple thousand photos. (Photographer rant: why do laptops have such limited space and why do raw images take up so much of it?! And why aren't the affordable hard drives Mac-compatible?!) The evening rolled around rather quickly. Before I knew it, I was outside HQ, wondering why, exactly, there was a razor blade on a picnic table. As always, there were young children around with their parents, skateboarding, scootering, and just generally being really freaken loud. The weather was nice, though. T'was that perfect winter-going-onto-spring style that you usually found around there. And everybody knew each other. Well, most people did, whilst I just stalked everyone online. (Oh sue me.) Soon enough, we found ourselves inside the venue and deciphering gear. The latest edition to my kit, a beautiful 85mm f1.8 Nikkor, was my go-to lens, and I anticipated it to perform similarly to how it did at the Ambleside show. Mounted on my entry-level DSLR, the Nikon D3400, I thought I had the best setup ever. Key word: thought. The lights dimmed shortly after, and Crown Loser - aka James and Co. - were onstage, facing a crowd of fans - aka friends - and a lens that was failing to focus - aka my heavily praised 85mm f1.8 Nikkor.

When you consider it, concert photography is rather simple: you choose a subject, have your lens focus on it, press the button on the camera, and spend thirteen hours trying to save the image the next day. But when said lens cannot focus on said subject, you my friend are fucked. Because, no matter what fancy Tumblr aesthetic you were "going for", a blurry photo is a blurry photo, and a blurry photo is shit. So I could've taken a thousand fuzzy images and made them greyscale before trying to convince the band that it was "supposed" to look like that, but I wasn't about to. I knew they'd see right through it - even my grandmother would. The problem was, I hadn't realised my lens issue automatically. It wasn't until half way through CL's set that I finally noticed that the pixels were blending into a blurry mosh pit. (That made no sense but anyway...) Was my lens dusty? Dirty? Fucked? Had my friends pulled some crude joke on me at school? Oh, that's right - I don't have friends! (I'm joking, I've around three...ish.) (I also don't usually take my gear to school.)

So I had to go clean it. Except that didn't help. Nothing helped. I messed with my ISO and threw manual mode into a frenzy. Maybe it had something to do with the fogginess? That sometimes happens. The venue either uses smoke machines to create better light illusions (which are useless if you're employing green and red lighting anyway) or has a large number of people in a small space sweating like crazy. , it created fog and wouldn't be helpful. Of course, said fog would disappear soon enough, but that's the thing: fog wasn't the problem. So what was the issue? I was fucked if I knew! I continued changing my settings and attempting new angles. I made more trips to my equipment and I wouldn't blame anyone in the audience for wanting to kill me for that, because let's face it: nobody appreciates the idiot who keeps interrupting your viewing pleasure every five minutes due to lens issues. Or angles. Or memory cards. Or batteries. Or - you get the point. It was a frantic set. I managed to get a minuscule nine photos out of the entire thing, which was disappointing but better than nothing. The band was amazing, of course. I don't know a lot about music (besides how to photograph and headbang to it) but they did really freaken well, delivering a dynamic, memorable set. I'd say something even more generic such as "the crowd seemed to enjoy themselves immesely" but if you know that crowd, and if you're reading this then you probably do, they're not exactly fussed as long as they can jump around and yell random crap. (Which, quite frankly, is the best type of audience.)

As they were playing their final song, Dion said, in the way he always does, "SHEDHEAD FUCKING SUCK!" And who was up next? You guessed it - Shedhead.

With my ineffectual lens still ineffectual, the band took to the stage, delivering a magnificent set that had the whole crowd headbanging and screaming inside jokes.

I decided to swap my gear at some point during their set, as evident in the photos. For comparison, here's a shot of their (extremely talented) (I need new adjectives) lead singer and guitarist, Alex, taken with the 85mm:

And from roughly the same angle with a 35mm:

There's obviously quite a difference, as you'd expect. It's always of great appreciation to have various lens sizes, for sometimes you're after full stage shots or landscape full-body shots and other times you want close ups, but unfortunately I didn't have that pleasure for the majority of this show.

I'm not about to lie: it pissed me off. It truly did. You've probably realised that by now. Here I was, being expected to take (relatively) professional(ish) photos, depending on this bloody combination of glass and plastic Nikon dare call a lens, and it was completely failing me. (Did I mention that it was an excess of $500? Yup.)

Now, I know that most of you photographers out there will be scoffing at me, tired of my complaining and thinking something along the lines of, "It's not about the gear you have, but how you use it." Well, that's a valid claim. It is. But this usually comes from someone who either shoots with multiple lenses, or some smart ass who doesn't even do photography. You have to go based on what the bands are after, what they typically end up posting. You send them twenty-something photos, and they'll use a couple for profile photos and some for their social media. And which ones are used for social media? Predominantly closeups.

So, if the band you're shooting for is (potentially indirectly) after zoom-ins and your 85mm is broken, you my friend, are, as previously stated, fucked. And there's absolutely nothing you can do about it for the rest of the show except sit around and weep or take out your old 35mm.

But hang on, Sky! Don't you have a 50mm?

I wished I did. (Note: I purchased one soon after this gig. Like, the next day. I'll get to that in my next post on the With Con show; it was quite the drama.)

So stuck in those photographical Down Days I remained. (See what I did there? No? Go educate yourselves here.) The band continued playing adroitly, and before I became accustomed to shooting with the 35mm again, their set was over.

Halfway through.

During the intermission, I came up with a game plan: shoot the first song or two with the 85mm and hope to capture a useable image, then swap over to the 35mm.

Grey States (who I always thought were Greystates) were soon up, and I was faced with a new issue: someone - a band member's father, most likely - was Skyping a relative to show them the entire set. Whilst in the photographer spot. (Is it just me or is there an unspoken rule at HQ regarding the corner where the stage and pit meet? Like, that lil' gap? Isn't that for photographers? And, if it's a really popular band, for extreme fans as an addition to the front row? Photographers, what're your takes on this? Aren't we supposed to get stuck in that section?)

And I get it; a former member of Green Day was performing. But move out of the fucking way! If you want evidence of the set, you've got these professional(ish)(not really) photos to display. Send them to those relatives. Do what you want with them (just offer a bit of credit for ya gal here). Skype later, yeah? I was probably in the way the entire time regardless. (Side note: I can imagine that relative just saying something along the lines of, "Ko je ona budala što uvjek stoji ispred kamere? Ošni ju, jebo ju konj!" Assuming they're Bosnian. Which they most likely aren't.)

Just stay out of Sheldon Cooper's spot.

As for the band, well, damn. They delivered an incredible set, incorporating magnificent instrumentals and musical creativity. (Has anyone realised just how little I know about music and musical terminology? It's rather ironic. Comment some new words that you usually use to describe music.)

Why Even Try were soon playing, and by this point I was through with my 85mm. It wouldn't focus, it wouldn't photograph, it wouldn't function the way it was supposed to. So the 35mm it was. Back to getting ultra close to people, apologising waaaay too much, doing what I'd do anyway and taking shots from the stage, suffering, etcetera. All whilst listening to a riveting set and trying not to dance.

Honestly though, the guys were a prime example of why the Western Australian music scene isn't dead yet; their performance was dexterous and exuberant, making for a convivial night that may or may not have resulted in some pretty cool photos (if I do say so myself). "More Than" is definitely worth checking out, just as all their songs are. All the bands' Facebook links will be listed later on in this post, so leave them a like and listen to their music.

And that was that.

MUSIC SUMMARY:

Crown Loser: incredible/5

Shedhead: fuck yes/5

Grey States: outstanding/5

Why Even Try: 69/5

PHOTOGRAPHICAL SUMMARY:

Lenses: kill me now/5

Camera: for the price I paid, I'm not allowed to complain/5

Lighting: if I had the money I would change the venue's entire lighting setup/5

Editing: time consuming/5

My sanity: nonexistent/5

These aren't real ratings? Well... it's not exactly a "real", "generic", "stereotypical" music blog; one moment we'll be discussing shows, the next we'll be reviewing records and considering the environmental impacts of veganism and how minimalism influences tour life. All whilst poorly referencing lyrics and incorporating weird metaphors and Shakespearean terminology. I don't understand it either.

So that was Friday. Up next: Saturday.

No shit, Sky.

Also up next: the With Con show. On the aforementioned Saturday.

Stay tuned.

Until then, go listen to all the bands mentioned in this post. Find their Facebook links here:

Why Even Try

Grey States

Shedhead

Crown Loser

Live long and headbang, xx-Skyler Slate

#bands #livemusic #gig #concert #review #concertphotography

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sammywinchesterdsm · 3 years

Text

#BrothersSeparated

Co Written by

@MidnightRiderDW & @SammyWDSM

Sam was coming back from a hunt on his own. With his friend from college had their kind of thing when His brother was being held in the police station over the murder of his Girlfriend. The cops had CCTV of him murdering his girlfriend at their home when #Steven didn't have a tight alibi on the other side of the town when he was visiting his sister. When he left his sister home twenty minutes early to go come to his home to see his Girlfriend. Unknown to him the neighbours had called in 911 to the police when the arrival of #Steven that they thought was Steven arguing in the home with his girlfriend screaming her head off shouting his name stop please “Steven” Stop you're hurting me. When she screams “someone helps me he's going to kill me”. She runs through the house running upstairs to the bedroom window with the neighbours having a clear view of Steven and his girlfriend. With Steven carrying a knife stabbing her multi-times at the window. Until her screams had gone quiet. A few minutes later Steven had arrived home unlocking the back door, entering the house. “ Hi, babe I'm home. Where are you”. When a few neighbours ran from across the street from their home, bursting the front door down to meet Steven in the hallway calling his girlfriend. and tackle him to the ground. With the police, right behind him. “What is going on,” he asked. Steven was taking away and charged with Murder when he pleats he was with his sister and would never harm a hair on his girlfriend. Sam had taken the call from his bud and something didn't sit right with him and wanted to check it out. Dean and Sam had a conversation about him going on his own but Sam wasn't backing down on his case because of his friend. Dean stayed back and Sam went off on his own. To take on the case. He had said to Dean he would be in touch. During a fight with shift shaper who was going around the town impersonating other people to hurt there loved ones. Sam cellphone was broken and needed to pick up a new phone to get in touch with his brother Dean. He stops at the local phone store to pick up a new handset. After buying the cellphone, he went outside to his car to swap sim cards from the broken smashed up phone that's was in the glove department. Taking a cable to Power the new cell phone up and looking through to his list of numbers for Dean. When a text came through from Dean about him started dating this Julian fella. *He shook his head how long was he away he smirks* going back to find Dean number to call him. He waited for him to answer with the operator “You call can't be taken at this time please check the number and redial”. Sam made a puzzling look on his face “What” when he started to look for Dean second cell number with no signal and he tried his third and fourth. Sam knew something wasn't adding up and something was wrong with Dean. When he opened up his laptop to start making a trace on Dean cellphones with no service coming up on any of his Numbers Sam looked back to the screen that's Dean had seemed to have vanished. “Dean” he shouted.

Dean - Dean has been in this new dimension for a little over a year now. He's got a good steady job that has its perks of hunting, he's gotten engaged and now married. It hasn't been easy settling in here and he still struggles daily. If it wasn't for his husband Dean doesn't know What he'd be doing right now. Colt had explained to him and Julian when they first got here that the rift seems to be a one way portal. They've had their best men at Blackwater try to figure out what exactly it is and how it works but in nearly 20 years they haven't been able To. Which means that Dean and Julian, cowboy, Colt, Jake, Jo, just to name a few can never go back to their own world's so that leaves one option, how can he get his brother to this world. Colt has given Dean access to everything Blackwater has and deans chased down every lead Only to be disappointed that they never go anywhere. Even Julian has been helping him. Is Sam even alive, did their world get sucked into the vortex like the others has been?

Dean doesn't know how but he won't give up on finding a way to get Sam here with him.

Sammy - Sammy when got home and ran into the cabin calling out Dean Name. Checking each room but with no answer. All he saw around each Room, including his brother bedroom was the empty beers bottles but there was no trace of him anywhere. When he sat on Dean’s bed wonder what has happened to his brother. Rubbing his hands back and forth with a sinking feeling of him being alone in this world unknowing what has happened to his brother. Dean just wouldn't go and leave me behind when he put his phone and re-read his message over and over looking for clues in case there was a hidden message in his phone somewhere. Was he in trouble? Did this Julian kidnap his brother? Something didn't add up. He meets and falls for a guy and now he's gone. No matter what was going on I was going to find my brother somehow.

Dean - Sitting in his office at Blackwater Dean pinches the bridge of his nose sitting back in his chair after tossing the last folder he'd completed onto the finished pile and called his assistant in to file them

He looks at his watch and opens his laptop to check and see if there Has been any leads sent to his email about the rift or any type of lead. Not seeing anything new he closes his laptop and gets up to refill his coffee mug sighing thinking out loud

"If we got here, he can get here, think Dean...

Sammy - Sammy ran his fingers through his hair while sitting in Dean’s bedroom in the cabin. When he couldn't just work out how Dean just had vanished. No words or communication from Him. This wasn't like Dean, he was always in contact with me. Now he's missing for how long he wasn't sure. When Sam stood up from his brother bed. Walking over to the desk he had in his room, to start Going through his things looking for some clues to wonder what made him leave the cabin. Sammy started to go through his cd’s and tapes selections when this made him feel sad and alone. When he put dean favourite albums back down on his desk. He thought strange. “He never took his music” when he looked at a pile of cases files sitting on his desk. Starting to look through the cases files that Dean might have been looking at before he left. Flipping through the files with nothing major showing up. Sammy moving and walking around his room. Trying to think what was happening in Dean head. When he messed up his bedding and flipping the mattress over to see if he had anything hidden under his bed. Just the normal a few wrappers and his gun and blade. Which set alarm bells going off in Sammy's head. He didn't take his gun and Blade? What was the hurry for him to just take off so quickly? *Sammy ran his hand over his beard and just wondered* what is going on with his Brother was he in trouble. Sammy wasn't going to panic just get about dean when he started to put his brother room back together to the way it was before within a few minutes. When Sammy finished up in his room, walking toward the door to exit the room to think his next step to finding Dean.

Dean - Dean shuts down his office for the night. Turning off his music and shutting off his light but before he leaves he gets ready to close his laptop screen to put it in is bag but ends up sitting down instead. He pulls out his cell and sends his husband a quick text to let him know that he's staying later than he expected because he wants to do some research to see if he can find out any new information on that rift. Anyone who knows Dean knows how badly he hates research so that should tell you how desperate he is to find his brother.

Sammy - It's been a matter of weeks since I found out my brother Dean has been missing or vanish. Whatever you want to call it. This was out of Dean character in every way. Sammy has been hunting high and low for his brother Dean. He's been chasing down every sighting on Dean description and working every case coming up just in case Dean would just show up. Sam couldn't handle the fact his big brother was gone when he packed up the cabin with his clothes ad stuff into his car. Driving town to town hunting for Dean. When he stopped by the local library to use the wifi to scan for any signals on Dean cellphone.

Dean - Getting sucked into this other dimension hasn't been easy. Not knowing if his brothers ok, if he's dead or alive, hell if their world even still exists. The one thing he does know for sure is the fact he will never give up on trying to get his brother here with him.

Sammy - Sammy had been chasing down every lead and fighting the supernatural world with apart of him missing. He had never felt so lonely without his brother since all the years it's always been them against the world. Now every day was a challenge carrying on without him. He just couldn't understand what or why Dean was gone. Not one day would go by without Sammy searching for Dean. No way he was going to give up on Dean. He even went to crossroad demon and torture the red-eye demon to get any news on Dean.

Dean - Dean walks out to the Impala rubbing the back of his head. His birthday is coming up, him. And his brother never really celebrated holidays except for their birthdays. They'd take those two days off and drink, watch movies, go shoot some pool. He's already went his birthday last Year and Sam's and they were damn hard to get thru

He starts up his Baby's engine and pulls out of Blackwater's lot heading down to the bar for a drink but first he goes to the place where that damn rift is. He gets out and leans against the door crossing his arms just looking Out over the street.

Sammy - *Sammy had been driving for the last few hours coming back from a dead lead on Dean. When one of Dean’s songs came on the radio. "Anything goes" Sammy turning the volume dial-up and trying to imagine Dean face while travelling down on the road he was following. *

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fursttimes · 3 years

Text

Pandemic trip to South Korea

10/22/20 - 11/22/20 If you haven’t yet been to South Korea, I highly recommend it.

Why South Korea?

I wanted to visit South Korea for over a year since I discovered K Pop (and especially K R&B) and started watching K Dramas. Here’s a gorgeous scene from the historical romance Mr. Sunshine.

My goal is to consume K content without subtitles. After studying on my own and hiring two different language teachers, I wasn’t improving much. In this situation, I rely on immersion.

I also listened to Miyoko Schinner’s Home Comforts where she cooks every Friday on a theme. That day, she was cooking Korean food inspired by her recent trip to South Korea. She said there was an entire vegan street in Seoul. Then she said she brought a rescue dog back to SFO as the volunteer courier and that it was really easy.

As a 1st world country, South Korea shouldn’t be as challenging to navigate as other places.

Why now?

Yes, it’s odd that I’d be traveling during a pandemic where there’s a deadly airborne virus spreading across the globe. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few bright spots during the year, Animal Run’s 1st Virtual Event being one, but combine the factors of

South Korea being a model for having one of the best containment strategies in the world (they never truly had a shut down)

Random lock downs in California

Weight gain from working from home

Working from home all by myself (with my cats)

I was buying useless things online

One cat passed away

Heat waves

Multiple forest fires

An extra-depressing day of being trapped underneath the dark smoky skies without sunlight

6 months left in a contract job that doesn’t require much brain power

Another crazy presidential election looming

I haven’t gone overseas since 2014

I’ve never been there before so my anticipation level was high

I wanted to bring a rescue dog back with me

My partner was OK with holding down the fort for a month without me

My job approved working remotely for two weeks and then taking two weeks off

10 days after getting approval from work, I boarded a plane to quarantine for two weeks and then explore the small but mighty country.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I could die. But when it’s time ...

I could catch the virus and spread it. But I was quarantining so bringing it back to the US was more likely than bringing it into South Korea.

My work laptop wouldn’t work.

Flight to Seoul

The direct flight was 12 hours and super easy. The plane was only 1/3 full so I was able to lie down and sleep for most of the trip. When I woke up, there was only 1.5 hours left before I landed at 4am.

Stuck 4 hours at Incheon Airport

I pride myself on my research. Sure, I only had 10 days to study but I’ll watch a few YouTube videos and do some Google searching of what quarantine would be like. Then once done with my quarantine work day, I’d plan how to navigate the country which I knew very little about.

Fact: When you don’t know what you don’t know, that’s just life testing you.

The plane landed smoothly and I turned on the airport wifi which was much stronger than SFO wifi. We walked over to immigration and they asked me why I was here. I’m a tourist. Do I know anyone in South Korea? No. I was able to pass to the next section.

Down the hall, there were several tables with young military people interviewing everyone who just landed. I sat down and they asked what I was doing here. I’m a tourist. Do I know anyone in South Korea? No. Do I know anyone with a South Korean phone number. No.

They explained they needed to call a South Korean phone number with someone on the other end who would pick up and say that they would be my “guardian” during my time in South Korea. I told them that I thought the procedure was to install a sim card in my phone so I could be tracked wherever I went. They said no, they didn’t know about that, but I still needed the Korean phone number.

I told them to call my hotel which I reserved for after quarantine. The hotel denied my request. Until I could come up with a phone number and guardian, I could not leave the airport.

This was the moment I became worried. I wracked my brain for someone I knew might have a contact or relative living in South Korea. I called Greg first to tell him the situation and to see if he had any patients who could help. He did not.

Next, I called a co-worker from several years back and several companies ago. She picked up and suspiciously said “Hello?” I explained my situation and it was a VERY awkward conversation. Ultimately, she was not able to help.

I decided to text a friend of a friend whom I’ve never met. A good runner friend FB introduced me to him a few days before my flight. He was kind enough to give me some recommendations of places to visit. I explained my situation in text. If I was lucky, maybe he would respond in the next hour or two.

After 3 strikes, I felt some panic and decided to sit down on the airport floor and take several deep relaxing breaths. After a few minutes of sitting quietly, it occurred to me to call the US Embassy. This thought came directly from my Peace Corps experience where I learned that embassies are there to bail out their citizens in trouble. So I requested a call to the US Embassy and he thought that was a great idea ... except that they are closed on Sundays. Sigh.

I knew they have an emergency number though. I hesitated in calling that number since my situation was not life or death, but I thought about sleeping overnight at the airport ... so I asked the guy to call the emergency number.

The woman on the other end was confused. She told me she had not heard of this requirement and thought that the procedure was to install a sim card on my phone. But she spoke to the guy and said she would straighten this out in 15 minutes.

WHEW!!!!!!

While we were waiting for her to call back, I learned that these full time military guys (not the 2-year mandatory military people) are rotated into the airport twice a week to do this interviewing job. I asked if there were other people like me who didn’t know about this requirement. He said yes. I asked him what those people did. They also panic dialed people they knew, but I was the first (that he knew about) to call my Embassy.

I made it it through that critical step. My next step was to go ahead and install the sim card anyway. Another nice English speaking guy said he would help me, which was great, because the sim card lady spoke no English. Everything was going well until she hit a screen on my phone asking for an unlock password.

UGH!!!

I had paid AT&T in full to own my phone so it could be unlocked for this trip. This was a big missed step. Oh well. The nice lady gave me my receipt, instructions on how to install my personal sim card back into my phone and a Customer Help number to call from my hotel during quarantine.

Just one more interview before I was allowed into baggage claim. This guy asked me what I was doing in South Korea. I’m a tourist. Did I understand that I’d be quarantined for 2 weeks and that I would be paying between $1,400-$2,100 USD and that these prices are set by the Korean authorities? Yes.

Finally I was allowed to get my bags. With my brain completely fried, I descended to baggage claim and promptly made a wrong turn. I wandered through the intimidatingly cavernous baggage claim section. It was a strange experience to be in a fully lit air hanger with no other soul around, with no sound and where nothing moved. I certainly got my steps in. After what felt like forever, I finally saw someone who pointed in the right direction. I picked up my bags and was told to board a bus headed to my quarantine hotel. My plane landed at 4am and I boarded the shuttle at 8am.

Quarantine

It took 30 minutes from Incheon Airport to Gimpo’s Ramada Encore Hotel. This is a random quarantine destination probably depending on the time of day each bus leaves from the airport.

I was excited. I officially entered South Korea ready to experience a two week quarantine in a new country. Hopefully, this was going to be the closest thing to prison that I will ever experience.

When we parked in front of the hotel waiting for our instructions to disembark, a Russian woman with an infant started to cry. She had an apartment in Seoul so the quarantine thing was a mistake. She didn't pack any diapers or formula for her baby. She decided to stay on the bus because she didn't want to implicitly agree to the quarantine. I hope it worked out for her. There were about 10 other people on the bus with me.

We disembarked and lined up in front of people in hazmat suits who told us to line up, leave our luggage, and enter the processing room. This was the hotel dining area or conference room which looked like a semi-organized mess. Tables and chairs were stacked on top of each other. The hotel was no longer a hotel but was a "processing center" so it looked like things were just shoved aside to make room for processing equipment. There is no hotel staff. These were employees of some agency.

The hazmat people taught us how to use the daily temperature check app (we need to take our temperatures 2x day) and assigned our rooms. I asked how many people were quarantining in the building? ~300. How many quarantine centers there were? 5-6 hotels. I told them I was vegetarian since vegan was not an option. They charged my card $1,450. I was lucky.

I got room 901. Once I went in, I cannot step outside of it for 14 days. As I took the elevator up and walked down the hall, I noticed orange bags filled up in front of the doors. Those were the orange garbage bags with the hazard sign on it so that it would all be disposed of like radioactive waste.

I entered my room and it was HOT. I looked at the temperature gauge and it was 28C (82F). I tried opening the window and it opened, but not enough to let cool air in. I tried the air conditioning setting but it was broken.

There was a sign on the inside of the door warning me not to leave the room but to call the command center for questions. I called that number and told them that my air conditioner was broken and they said they turned it off, because it was fall, but they'd send up a fan. Sigh.

There was a white plastic bag on the floor with my welcome kit. 2 bottles of water, a toothpaste tube, a toothbrush, several small hotel hand soaps, slippers, five small hand/face towels and what looked like a cigarette box but had 10 small servings of instant coffee.

I heard a knock on the door and it was food along with the fan, both wrapped in plastic bags. The food was AMAZING! It was in a plastic tray and the main item was cauliflower and two awesome banchan, chillied perilla leaves and sweet yellow pickled radish. So much flavor! Whatever I suspected containing egg or dairy was thrown out along with the rice. With three meals a day, I was never hungry and I even managed to lose 4 pounds during quarantine.

I started unpacking and took a shower because it was so hot. When I stepped out, the hotel PA system turned on and a woman's voice said in English "Sir on the 9th floor in a red shirt, please go back to your room immediately." Oh boy. I would find out later that my room has a hidden camera, because the PA system would go on reminding people not to smoke inside the room.

I checked if my laptop worked. It did! Whew!!! Then I heard a knock on the door. It was two guys in hazmat suits ready to give me my first covid test. I asked the first guy to help set up the TV screen as my 2nd monitor. BIG win since I didn't need to struggle with the Korean instructions.

Then the 2nd guy took my temperature, swabbed my throat (I gagged) then told me the last step was going to hurt and which nostril would I prefer? I said "suprise me" and he proceeded to invade my brain through my right nostril. It was HUGELY uncomfortable but not quite painful. It felt like that nostril was drowning while I was still able to breathe through the other nostril. Once it was over, I had a headache. I decided to call it a day and knocked out hard.

Quarantine Days 2-13

I woke up Bay Area time at 8 am which is midnight in Korea. The deal was to work during Bay Area hours then take 2 weeks off to explore. I arranged the room to make it a home for the next 13 days.

I pushed up the twin beds to give me more floor space. I set up my work station. Hung up my clothes. Placed all wastepaper baskets outside my door so that I wasn't collecting garbage inside my space.

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My biggest fear was that something would happen to my work Chromebook during the trip from my house to the hotel. I was SO pumped to know that it was working once I popped it open. The following morning though, I noticed the battery was really, really low. OMG!!! I only had an hour of charge left.

I checked the cord connections were firmly attached and looked up the voltage requirements. The US has 110V and South Korea has 220V. The plug said the laptop was fine to use in both. I verified online as well. Basically, I didn't need to have the cord plugged into the $50 voltage converter I bought specifically for this trip. I could plug it straight into the wall with an adapter.

My humidifier, my toothbrush and my monitor had appeared "broken" as well. I plugged in my humidifier directly into the wall and it started working straight away. Although I was VERY nervous about it, I did the same for my laptop. I listened for a “pop” sound in case the higher voltage fried the device, but I didn't hear one and saw that the laptop was charging normally. WHEW!!! That made me realize that most of our electronics are made in Asia and probably had to be modified for the US. I didn't need to spend over $100 on two voltage converters from Best Buy. Lesson learned.

I needed Greg's help with contacting AT&T to unlock my phone screen. That was a huge help. But then, I realized that I wasn't getting text notifications, required for some apps for identity verification. So I contacted Korea Telecom (KT) hotline to ask them how to fix it. They sent me an email with English instructions but the texting still didn't work. Ugh! They told me I needed to talk to tech support but but since they don’t speak English, I would need help from a Korean speaker. This ended up being very inconvenient but not terrible.

Lesson: Next time, I’ll just rent a phone from the airport with a separate data card installed.

Luckily the room was non-smoking so I didn't have to deal with a bad smell. Plus, there was ample shampoo/conditioner and body gel wash in the shower so I didn't have to use my supply. But what I saw in YouTube videos, I didn't get detergent and daily coffee. One YouTube video guy, who also quarantined at the Ramada, did mention that the floor was dirty, which I can confirm.

I asked for a vacuum, detergent and coffee from the command center. They gave me a sticky roller for the floor (I used two of them), an extra bar of soap for my clothes and told me they don't give more coffee. I can have as much water as I wanted though. I went through two sticky rolls, used the gel soap for my clothes and ordered coffee online from GMarket. Delivery takes 3 days so I had to ration my little mini sticks of instant. Rationing those sticks was my biggest challenge during the quarantine situation. Otherwise, it was fairly pleasant because I stayed busy working, exercising and vacation planning.

I strapped my phone onto my body to track my steps and tried to surpass it every day. The highest I got was just over 5k steps and averaged around 3.5k steps. I wrapped the 50-pound band to the door handle and did rows every time I threw something out on the other side of the door. I used the other 50 pound band for triceps and biceps.

The early morning wake ups are cold and that's the best time for me to cardio. Then once 8am hits, the sun hits my window and it gets warm very fast so I have to use my blackout curtains and turn on the fan. I wash my clothes while I'm in the shower and let them dry overnight.

I would also get infrequent Covid cell phone alerts (like Amber Alerts) related to the residents in Gimpo.

As I traveled around the country, I would get these alerts for the region I was in. When I returned to Seoul, I noticed the alerts were more frequent, but then again, 50% of all South Koreans live in Seoul.

Day 14 Covid-Free and Freedom

If I had someone to pick me up, I could’ve left at midnight on my last day. But I had to wait to take the shuttle at 8:30am to be dropped off at Seoul Station, which is the main hub to the rest of South Korea via KTX train or subway.

When I finally left my room to go back down that elevator to Floor 1, the wind hit me like a jump into Lake Michigan. My room had been so warm that the 45 F degree weather shocked me.

Once we were dropped off 30-minutes later, I took a taxi to the hotel, initially to the wrong hotel, but eventually landed at the Nine Tree Premier Hotel Myeongdong II on 28 Mareunnae-ro. There are three Nine Tree hotels so getting the address correct is important.

Check in was at 3pm, so I left my bags and hit the streets like a race horse out of the gate. I happily overdid it by getting lost on the subway and walking over 10 miles on Day 1. Four of those miles were pure stairway climbing because the subway system in Seoul is like navigating an underground mountain range. I continued to overdo it on Day 2-3.

My Itinarary

Some pics and videos from each place

Seoul 3 days

Jeju Island 2 days

Busan 2 days

Gyeongju 2 days

Seoraksan 1 day

Seoul 4 days

Seoul - Olympic Park

Seoul - Museum of Modern History - Picasso’s Massacre in Korea 1951

Seoul - teamLab at Dongdaemun Plaza

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Seoul - Royal Palace

Seoul - itseoulgood.com Mike Kim took me on a Vegan Food Tour

Jeju Island - Iho Tewoo Horse Lighthouses

Jeju Island - Haenyeo Female Divers

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Jeju Island - Hallasan

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Jeju Island - The best vegan yogurt @ Cafe 901

Busan - Landscape. The buildings look like fake cardboard cutouts

Busan - Steamy Cart

https://youtu.be/M9Sy3zvg17U

Busan - Seaside Temple

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Busan - Gamcheon Culture Village

Busan - Cinema Center (Skater kids enjoying the enormous public space)

https://youtu.be/NHoiDJoiMUY

Busan - Cinema Center (Busan International Film Festival)

Busan - Joung Eunsun and her three challenges (which I brought home)

Gyeongju - Incredible Photo of Korean Refugees at a Restaurant

Gyeongju - Tumuli Park Burial Mounds

https://youtu.be/6pnKCMYgnIY

Gyeongju - “Cheomseongdae is the oldest surviving astronomical observatory in Asia and possibly even the world. It was constructed in the 7th century in the kingdom of Silla. Cheomseongdae is mentioned in the popular Korean drama Queen Seondeok. In the 2009 drama, Cheomseongdae was constructed when Queen Seondeok was still a princess; this was her first decree as a princess. Cheomseongdae was meant to share the knowledge of astronomy with everyone, rather than letting one person (Lady Misil) abuse the knowledge of it. By doing so, she also abdicated her divine rights. Because this was uncommon at the time and unsupported by many conservatives, at the opening of Cheomseongdae, barely any nobles showed up.” - Wikipedia

Gyeongju - Wolji Pond

Travel Day! View from Gyeongju to Seoul on KTX

https://youtu.be/7LOpwQHFKpk

Travel Day! View from Seoul to Seoraksan on bus

https://youtu.be/XtUWWYcWjDE

Seoraksan - Giant screen at the park entrance

https://youtu.be/ZuTFW3acURg

Seoraksan - Yes, that is a guy riding down outside of the gondola

Seoraksan - Temple

Seoraksan - Reunification Buddha

https://youtu.be/HUo4IhzdWoU

Seoul - Insadong entrance mural of Royal Painting of Sun and Moon

Seoul - Art in Insadong

Seoul - Subway scene (this is far from crowded)

Seoul - Night Hike along 600 year old Seoul Wall

Drinks afterwards

Seoul - My first makgeolli. It was good!

Seoul - While waiting for the Secret Garden Tour to start

Seoul - Secret Garden

Lessons Learned

0 notes

gloss-kitten · 7 years

Text

A Helping Hand

Pairing → Yoongi x Jungkook Genre → Smut Word Count → 2,986 Summary → Yoongi accidentally stumbles upon Jungkook’s private time...

Yoongi, Jin and Namjoon were relaxing in the hotel’s private bar, drinking beer. They’d finished their final fan meeting in Japan and had an entire evening of free time before their flight back home the following day. This was the first time in four days they’d really gotten to explore the hotel, and they’d only just realised the full extravagance of the five-star establishment.

“I’m never going to be able to buy my parents a house if I keep treating you guys” Jin scowled at the receipt from the bar.

“We don’t often go to places that require a seating charge before you’ve even bought anything” Namjoon teased, “But I’ll get the next one”

Yoongi stretched and yawned obviously “I think I’m going to head back up to the room”

Jin looked outraged “It’s so early!”

“I feel like raiding the minibar and watching rubbish on TV” Yoongi reasoned

Jin looked upset. For all his whining about the prices, Yoongi knew he was pleased they’d finally found the time to relax somewhere and share a drink. Thankfully, Jin didn’t press it, knowing him well after many years of rooming together.

Yoongi downed his drink and bode farewell to the other two as he headed across the enormous lobby to get the lift back to the room. Yoongi expected Jungkook would still be awake and playing games on his laptop, despite him refusing to stay for a drink because he wanted to go to sleep. He slid the card key into the door when he reached their room and pushed as the light flickered green.

Jungkook was on his laptop, but he definitely wasn’t playing games.

Lewd moans were emitting from the speakers of the computer propped between his legs, and Jungkook’s head was tilted back against the headboard of the bed, his neck taught and teeth biting hard down onto his lip. Bedsheets were scrunched up in his left hand as his right hand was working quickly up and down his cock.

Yoongi froze completely as the door fell closed behind him, announcing his arrival with a gentle click of the lock.

Jungkook’s head whipped towards the source of the noise and he saw Yoongi standing there, frozen in position with the key card still in his hand.

“Hyung!” Jungkook’s eyes were wide as he tried to simultaneously shut his laptop and cover himself, fumbling in the process, but eventually managing to close the screen and put a pillow on his lap.

“Uh...” was all Yoongi could think to say. Jungkook flushed deeply, eyes filling with tears in humiliation.

Oh no, Yoongi thought. He instinctively walked towards the younger and sat down on the bed with him, rubbing his shoulders comfortingly. “Jungkookie, it’s okay!” Yoongi said soothingly, before he became painfully aware that he had his hands on a man who was nude from the waist down. “Jeon Jungkook. Look at me.”

Jungkook kept his eyes firmly down, as a single teardrop fell into his lap. Yoongi didn’t know what else to do, so he pulled the younger into a hug and nuzzled his nose into his soft brown hair. “Jungkookie, it’s fine, we all do it.”

“But nobody sees you do it” Jungkook muttered

Yoongi chuckled “yeah, that’s the unfortunate part”

Jungkook leaned back and met Yoongi’s eyes quizzically. Yoongi realised too late what he’d just implied. “I mean- we have to do it ourselves, that’s what’s sad.” oh god, he was making it worse.

Jungkooks tears had dried up and he was gazing at Yoongi with interest, still nestled beneath the olders arm.

“Has anyone ever - done it for you, hyung?”

“Well, yeah.” Yoongi muttered, suddenly interested in the crease of the bed sheets, smoothing them out beneath his free hand.

“... A girl?” Jungkook asked tentatively. Yoongi’s head snapped up immediately.

“Yes a girl!” he said, perhaps a touch too defensively. It wasn’t a lie. A girl had done it for him... but that wasn’t the only time.

“I feel like nobody will ever touch me” Jungkook admitted quietly.

“Don’t be stupid, you’re an idol. There’s people queuing up to do that for you”

“Maybe” Jungkook snorted, “But when do we ever get the chance?”

Yoongi fell silent. Jungkook was right. The boys all knew dating was more or less off the table, not forbidden but frowned upon. Not that they had the opportunity to meet or date anyone. There were plenty of groupies, sure, but when did they have the spare time and privacy to indulge in that kind of activity? The boys were stuck with their own hands, and to leap at sudden opportunities of being alone, unoccupied and with wifi. Even then, there was always the chance of being disturbed, just like Yoongi had perfectly demonstrated a moment ago. Jungkook had been with them all since he was fourteen, Yoongi at least had his teenage years free from being a trainee or idol in order to experiment and mess around.

Yoongi felt the slight sweatiness of Jungkook’s skin as he breathed deeply underneath his arm. He was wearing a white vest top, and his fringe was stuck to his forehead. Yoongi found himself wondering if Jungkook was still hard.

“I just wish” Jungkook said, turning to face Yoongi and staring at him. “I just wish there was … I just feel… ” He clenched his fists and bit his lip slightly.

Yoongi knew exactly what he meant, and felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline.

“Do you want hyung to take care of you?” he said quietly, before he could think.

Jungkook’s lip twitched nervously. He scanned Yoongi’s face for any trace of insincerity, any hint that this might be a joke. He nodded his head once and then whispered

“Really?”

Yoongi nodded. They both stayed very still, sirens were sounding in Yoongi’s head, his conscience screaming at him that this was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever had and he should stop before anything goes further. But there was a strange, giddy feeling in his stomach that was encouraging him to continue, to touch Jungkook and watch him turn into putty beneath his hands.

Yoongi moved the large pillow from Jungkook’s lap, and saw that Jungkook was indeed still hard - and he was also perfectly smooth. “You shave?” Yoongi couldn’t help exclaim.

Jungkook blushed “...I just like it” he mumbled.

So do I, Yoongi had to stop himself from saying. Jungkook’s cock was laid flat against his stomach, surprisingly pale, but with an irritated red flush from the head.

“Are you doing it dry?” Yoongi frowned.

Jungkook looked confused “Dry?”

Yoongi stood up, giving Jungkook a ‘just a minute’ finger. He went into the bathroom and through his wash bag, where he found a small bottle of lube. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought that Jungkook was in for a treat if he’d never used any lubricant while jacking himself off before.

Jungkook looked terrified as Yoongi came back to the bed, but made no attempt to cover his obvious erection.

“Sit between my legs” Yoongi directed. Jungkook leaned so his back was pressed against Yoongi’s chest. He squirted some lube onto two fingers. “It’s going to be a little bit cold” he warned. Jungkook nodded, looking too nervous to speak. Yoongi felt a wave of doubt.

“Are you sure you want to -” he began

“Hyung” Jungkook interrupted, pleadingly. That was all the encouragement Yoongi needed, as he gently rubbed the lube along Jungkook’s perfectly smooth shaft. He felt him shudder violently as he thoroughly coated the head with the thick substance.

Yoongi gently wrapped his fingers around the base of Jungkook’s cock, barely giving any pressure, but still causing Jungkook to gasp loudly. Slowly and delicately, Yoongi ran his hand all the way up his length, smoothing his palm over the head and back down again. When Jungkook began shifting his hips needily, Yoongi squeezed. Jungkook cried out as Yoongi began pumping him, the slick lube aiding his speed. Jungkook threw an arm over his mouth to act as a muffler as he whined, but Yoongi pulled it away, pinning it down and pressing his other arm to his side so Jungkook couldn’t touch anything. Once he was confident Jungkook wasn’t going to move, Yoongi took his other hand and rubbed his hand over the head of Jungkook’s cock as he pumped harshly up and down his shaft.

Jungkook’s gasps and moans grew increasingly louder and more pleading as Yoongi worked him with both hands, voice breaking as Yoongi twisted his wrist just right. Jungkook’s head fell back onto Yoongi’s shoulder, and Yoongi felt gorgeous pressure on his own erection as Jungkook shuffled back in his lap.

“Hyung - are you - ?”

“...Y- yes” Yoongi gasped into his ear, surprised to hear how out of breath he sounded. Jungkook let out what could only be described as a sob as he pushed back into Yoongi’s bulging crotch. Yoongi picked up the pace as he began gasping lightly himself, and turned to find his face pressed against Jungkook’s neck. Thoughts of biting and sucking at the soft skin filled his head as Yoongi worked Jungkook’s cock even faster, biting the inside of his cheek to stop him attacking the maknae’s throat.

Yoongi felt beads of precum dribble from Jungkook and smoothed that over the head with his thumb, still pumping the base with his other hand. Jungkook began to cry out, long beautiful drawn out moans that made Yoongi grit his teeth in frustration. He took that frustration out on Jungkook’s cock, and it wasn’t long before the younger was stiff backed and near screaming as cum slowly splurted from his cock. Yoongi pumped harshly through his release, and it took Jungkook over a full minute before he finished cumming.

Jungkook leaned his head back onto Yoongi’s shoulder, panting loudly. His fringe was stuck even more to his forehead now, his chest rising and falling rapidly, mouth still hanging open. He looked completely ruined, and just stared at Yoongi, awestruck. They cleaned up with the tissues on the bedside table and stayed like that for a good ten minutes, Yoongi gently rubbing his fingers up and down Jungkook’s muscled arms soothingly the whole time.

“Go get your hyung a beer.” Yoongi nudged Jungkook’s shoulder with his nose and gestured to the minibar. Jungkook groaned lazily and didn’t budge. “Don’t be a brat” Yoongi chastised, and Jungkook shuffled off the bed, sighing.

He returned with two large bottles and opened them.

“The drinking age is twenty in Japan” Yoongi said flatly.

“I’m twenty in korean age.” Jungkook took a swig from his bottle and handed the other to Yoongi, grinning widely.

Yoongi had quickly decided to simply act like he hadn’t given a handjob to BTS’s youngest member, and thankfully Jungkook wordlessly seemed to agree, immediately slipping back into maknae mode, ignoring advice on how to pack and shoving his clothes messily into his suitcase as Yoongi checked they hadn’t left anything behind. However, when they decided to watch a film before sleeping, Jungkook had sat awkwardly next to Yoongi on the bed for a few minutes before he leaned his head on Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi couldn’t help but stiffen slightly, remembering the way Jungkook’s moans had sounded as he came in Yoongi’s hand. He quickly shoved that thought to the back of his mind. This was Jungkook, he told himself, he’d decided he wasn’t going to act any differently. So Yoongi put his arm around the maknae and rested his cheek on the top of his head like he’d done countless times before. There was never this strange feeling in his chest before though.

-----

A week had passed since the incident in Japan, and Yoongi occasionally found himself doubting if it had even happened. Despite this, during his own private time, usually in the morning shower, his mind would wander back to the moans and the way Jungkook’s cock had felt in his hand.

They’d just gotten back from dance practice, and Yoongi had spectacularly lost at rock, paper, scissors making him last in line to take a shower. He dozed on the couch as the other members got washed and ready for bed. He woke up to the largest pair of brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. Jungkook was more or less nose-to-nose with him and whispering hurriedly, “Hyung!”

Yoongi licked his lips as he tried to decide what threat to dish out for the crime of waking him, but Jungkook pulled him up and dragged him towards the bathroom. Where was everyone? He thought as he rubbed his eyes.

Jungkook locked the bathroom door and switched the shower on as Yoongi stood dumbly in the middle of the room.

“Shower time hyung” Jungkook said, sliding Yoongi’s t-shirt up his body and over his head, and unbuttoning his jeans.

“Jungkook -” Yoongi warned but Jungkook just tapped the back of his ankles, indicating for him to step out of his jeans. Stupidly, Yoongi obliged.

“I figured out how I can say thank you.” Jungkook explained, resting his hands on Yoongi’s hips, thumbs brushing against the waistband of his boxer shorts. He paused for a moment, and when Yoongi didn’t move he pushed down and slid Yoongi’s underwear off, just as he had with the jeans. He stood up and looked down slightly, his eyes quickly scanning Yoongi’s face for any sign of discontent. He pushed Yoongi towards the shower and got in the spacious cubicle after him, closing the door.

Yoongi reveled in the comfort of the warm water, then he felt Jungkook press up against him. Jungkook squeezed the soap onto the loofah and began to wash Yoongi gently, from top to bottom. His hands began to slide in circles over the soap on Yoongi’s ass, squeezing gently and the loofah fell forgotten to the shower floor. Yoongi felt himself harden and that appeared to be Jungkook’s cue. He dropped to his knees.

“Jungkook! No, wha-” Yoongi began but it was too late, Jungkook already had nearly half of Yoongi’s cock in his mouth. Yoongi swore he could feel the blood rush to his crotch as he felt Jungkook’s tongue circle the head of his hardening length. He took his mouth off and licked slowly from the base to the tip.

“I didn’t count on you being THIS big, Hyung. I can’t get it all.” Jungkook sounded sulky. Yoongi stared down in disbelief at this comment but already Jungkook had taken him back in his mouth and was bobbing eagerly up and down.

Yoongi couldn’t help the grunt that escaped from his mouth, and Jungkook seemed to take this as encouragement as he went faster. Yoongi tried to stay focussed but Jungkook’s mouth was so damn hot and wet, his tongue wouldn’t stop moving around his shaft, keeping Yoongi constantly on edge. He tried to grip the tiles in the shower but found his fingers slipping. Jungkook took Yoongi’s hand and placed it on the back of his head as he dipped lower down and sucked gently on one of his balls, pumping his cock with his hand for a moment, making Yoongi feel dizzy.

“Jungkook -” this time it’s not a warning but a pleading. Jungkook knelt back up, and looked at Yoongi, a determined expression on his face. He took Yoongi in his mouth, and then deeper, and deeper, Yoongi felt his cock bend slightly as he hit the back of Jungkook’s mouth before he sunk down into his throat.

The pleasure was so intense Yoongi felt like bursting into tears. He bit the inside of his cheek as he stifled his moans, but Jungkook was relentless, pushing on Yoongi’s ass, encouraging him to fuck his mouth as he gagged around his cock.

Yoongi dared to glance down at the scene below him, meeting Jungkook’s eyes, which looking up at him, large and full of innocence, before they scrunched in concentration and he spurred Yoongi to buck harder into him.

“I’m -” Yoongi tried to say, causing Jungkook to go even faster, sucking and moaning around Yoongi’s length. Yoongi came in his mouth, as Jungkook took it all, his tongue lapping at Yoongi’s slit as his release spurted out of it.

Jungkook pulled back, and stuck his tongue out, the white cum managing to be both obscene and gorgeous as his beautiful doe-brown-eyes blinked slowly up at his hyung. Jungkook closed his mouth and swallowed deliberately. That was the final straw for Yoongi, he pulled Jungkook up and kissed him intensely, quickly slipping his tongue in and moaning as he tasted himself, salty and warm in Jungkook’s mouth. The water beat down on them as they continued to kiss in the shower, Jungkook had laced his arms around his hyungs neck and was kissing back eagerly like his life depended on it.

When they broke apart it was difficult to see through the water, so Yoongi turned around and switched the shower off. They stared at each other in silence, panting slightly. Yoongi was at a complete loss of what to say, he’d just come down the maknae’s throat in their own dormitory. Jungkook got the pair towels and stayed silent as they dried themselves off.

Yoongi was having a crisis. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed what the fuck had just happened, what the fuck was he supposed to do now, why didn’t he stop it, he was the elder here, oh god he’s four years older, what is he doing. He looked up at Jungkook as he was pulling a black tshirt over himself. He caught the younger’s eye and saw the expression on his face.

The little shit was grinning. He looked completely and utterly pleased with himself. He threw a towel over his head, ruffling his wet hair, he unlocked the door and just before he slipped through it he called, “Goodnight hyung!”

x posted to ao3

#sugakookie #yoonkook #jungkook x yoongi #yoongi x jungkook #bts smut #jungkook smut #yoongi smut #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fan fiction #bts imagine #jeon jungkook #min yoongi #kpop smut #kpop fic #fan fiction #helping hand

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everlarkbirthdaydrabbles · 7 years

Note

My birthday is May 16. I would love a fic that features Age!Gap Everlark with Katniss 5 - 10 years older than Peeta. M or E rating. Thanks for running this fabulous web site.

Wishing you the happiest of birthdays, @ldyglfr62! Your gift - the penultimate offering from everlarkbirthdaydrabbles, was written just for you by @xerxia31. We hope you enjoy!

When Irish Eyes are Smiling

rated M, for language and adult situations.

It’s not completely unexpected, but it’s still a shock to see it. Thick, expensive card stock, pale pink with roses and their names embossed in gold.

Madge Undersee and Gale Hawthorne, along with their families, request the honour of your presence at their wedding…

I’m happy for them, I truly am. I’m just still kind of shocked that after nine years together, it took Gale less than three months to marry my replacement.

It’s not like I thought Gale and I would ever marry each other, even if our friends all expected it. And our breakup was completely mutual. But that he moved on so fast is kind of a slap.

“You should go on vacation,” Prim says when I phone to tell her the news. “That way, you can skip the wedding without looking like a jerk.” Trust Prim to cut right to it. Because she’s right; even though Gale is my oldest friend, I’d rather rip out my intestines with a fork than watch him marry the woman of his dreams while all of our mutual friends look at me with pity.

“I can’t go sit on a beach somewhere by myself,” I groan. “That’s even more loser-ish than going to my ex’s wedding stag.” But the wheels are turning. I do need to get away, and not just from the wedding. I could use a break from my entire pathetic life. “Maybe I could go see Effie?” I mumble. My late mother grew up in Ireland, she moved to America before I was born to marry my father. Her sister still lives near Dublin, and is always asking me to come see her. It’s been a long time since my last visit.

A fabulous deal on the flight seals it. Since I’m a freelancer, there’s no one to arrange vacation time with. I can work from anywhere that there’s an internet connection. My neighbour agrees to check my mailbox periodically, and my friends all understand.

o-o-o

I arrange to stay six weeks with Effie. The first week passes in a haze of jetlag, lumpy pillows, and daily afternoon tea on her garden-gnome-and-flower-strewn patio. It’s calm, quiet.

Since I’ll be gone over my birthday, Prim insists on paying for a week-long bus tour of the Scottish Highlands for me, both as a birthday gift, and as a break from my aunt. “Better not be one of those singles tours,” I grumble as she details everything over Skype while I sit in Effie’s formal living room, surrounded by creepy porcelain dolls, a pair of lace doilies protecting her mahogany table from my computer. Prim’s in med school in Seattle, I haven’t seen her since Christmas, and I think she feels guilty about not having been there for me - in person - when Gale and I broke up, no matter how many times I tell her that I’m fine about it. But since Effie is already driving me crazy, I don’t put up much of a fight.

“Do those exist?” she asks, and on my shitty laptop screen she looks pensive. I can tell she’s wishing she’d thought of looking for one. “Wild and Sexy Tours. Huh. I wonder if I can change it…” She starts clicking away on her keyboard and I balk.

“No, geez Prim, this is fine, great really.” The website she’s linked me to shows small tour buses, catering mostly to elderly vacationers. Just my speed.

“Have you met anyone over there yet?”

“Sure, Effie’s friend with the strange beard came by for cocktails yesterday.” Prim’s face screws up.

“That’s not what I mean, Katniss. Have you been out to the pubs at all? Or gone to a rugby match?” At my shrug, she groans. “Dammit, you’re too young to be spending your time holed up with Effie’s antiques. You need to get out there, meet people, date.”

“I’m not really ready for that,” I tell her, and I can see by the way her expression changes to pity that she thinks I’m still hung up on Gale. I don’t bother correcting her. Gale and I should never have been more than friends, we both knew it, but being together was easy, like a comfortable pair of jeans. I’m not in love with him, I really never was. But I’m not anxious to put myself out there just yet. Or maybe ever. Because Gale’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. At not-quite twenty-seven, I have no experience dating at all.

“Just promise me you’ll talk to some of your tour mates at least,” she says sadly. And I promise, because I can never tell my sweet sister no.

o-o-o

Edinburgh is a confusing mess of streets and hills and hilly streets and more freaking hills, and by the time I find my way to Waterloo Place, where I’m supposed to catch the bus tour, I’m late and in a panic. When I see the little red bus still at the stop, I’m almost weak-kneed with relief.

“‘Bout time you showed up, Sweetheart,” the driver grumbles, grabbing my backpack and tossing it unceremoniously into the back. I climb on board, and my heart sinks. I’m too late to have gotten one of the single seats, and am now going to be stuck sharing. There are only two empty seats, one on the bench in the very back, between a young woman with spiky hair and a serious case of bitch face and a man who might be a professional football player; the other right behind the driver, next to a startlingly handsome man, who glances up at me through a mop of ashy blond waves, and smiles shyly.

I hope Blondie isn’t a talker.

o-o-o

Blondie is a talker.

His name is Peeta Mellark, and he fills the first hour of our drive north with mostly one-sided conversation. But I find I don’t mind all that much. He’s Irish, from a village on the Irish sea, and his gently lilting accent is much nicer to listen to than the rough Scottish burr that our driver barks as he points out one thing or another along the route.

“You know a lot about Scotland,” I finally say.

Peeta smiles wistfully. “My da used to bring me here, when I was small. We’d walk the hills and sleep in the heather.”

“How long has he been gone?” Peeta lifts an eyebrow, but I know I’m right. I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s the same expression I wear when I think about my own father, whose death when I was just a kid marked the beginning of the end of my idyllic childhood.

“I was seventeen when he passed,” he says quietly.

“You miss him.” It’s not a question, I can see in Peeta’s eyes. He nods. But any further discussion is cut off by our first stop on the tour.

Though it’s a bus tour, it turns out to be a fairly active one. We make multiple stops all along the route to the Highlands, exploring an ancient cathedral, touring a distillery, even visiting a heritage village. And as what appears to be the only two people travelling alone on the tour, Peeta and I end up spending most of the day together.

It’s… nice. He’s sweet and interesting, and it’s refreshing to talk with someone my own age.

When we arrive at Inverness, our stop for the night, I realize that Peeta and I have been assigned to the same bed and breakfast, along with the linebacker, whose name is Thresh, his girlfriend Rue, and our driver, Haymitch. That’s going to make keeping to myself that much more difficult, I realize. Then Haymitch arranges for the whole group to eat together at a pub on the river. I want to say no, that I’m too tired or some other excuse, but somehow I get sucked along anyway.

I hate being forced into group situations, but Peeta, seeming to sense my unease, sits beside me and acts as a bit of a buffer between me and the throng, not speaking for me, but deflecting attention when I get overwhelmed.

And it’s compelling to watch him interact with the others. He’s so friendly and well-spoken, so intelligent and insightful, easily moving between discussing the differences between American football and Gaelic rugby with Thresh, and the impact of Brexit on tourism in the Republic with the South African lawyer seated at the next table.

And though I promised myself that I wouldn’t think about Gale, it’s impossible not to compare him with Peeta. Gale has always been sort of closed minded; conversation with Gale is only possible on the narrow range of topics he cares about, and generally involves either a recitation of his opinions with no room for dissent, or a re-living of his glory days. But Peeta is so thoughtful, I watch him absorb and consider everyone’s viewpoints, watch his reflect back intelligent discourse in a way that feels engaging and exciting, not like a firestorm. I can’t help thinking that maybe Prim is right. Maybe I do need to spend time with people my own age instead of feeling like I’m still stuck in highschool with Gale.

o-o-o

The sun rises ridiculously early in Inverness, and the curtains in my room are barely translucent. By five-thirty, I’ve given up on sleep entirely, and decide to sneak down to the common lounge, where the wifi signal is better.

I’m surprised to find I’m not alone. Peeta is already there, dressed for the day and facing the large plate glass window, beyond which the sky is streaked in pink and amber. He doesn’t hear me at first, and I can see in the reflection that his usual easy expression has been replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I decide to steal away, to leave him to his musings, but he catches the motion and turns, the faraway expression resolving into a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. “Good morning, Katniss,” he says.

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask. There’s an empty teacup on the windowsill, he’s clearly been here awhile.

“I’m a baker,” he laughs. “I’m used to the pre-dawn wake-ups.” I grin, I heard him mentioning his business over dinner, and I’m curious about it.

He makes me a cup of tea, and another for himself, and as we sit together in the early morning hush he tells me about the bakery he owns in the tiny coastal village where his family has lived for generations. The picture he paints of his bucolic life there makes me ache, my own empty, tetherless existence in sharp contrast to his certainty. It makes me realize how stunted my growth has been, having wasted all of that time with Gale. Playing things safe instead of living.

I’m ready to live.

o-o-o

Our tour guide, Haymitch, is gruff and grouchy, but he seems to know all of the hidden gems of Scotland. As we head to the Isle of Skye, he makes frequent stops to walk nature trails with stunning waterfalls, to show us multiple off-the-beaten-path lookout points, and we even spend a glorious hour searching for shells on a Carribean-blue beach. But in the mid afternoon, the bus starts to make a strange noise. And as we pull into our next stop on the itinerary - the enchanted-sounding Fairy Glen - it comes to a shuddering halt.

“Ah shit,” Haymitch grumbles.

“Well,” Peeta murmurs in my ear. “There are worse places to get stuck.”

He’s right, this place is utter magic. As a group, we explore the strange rolling hills and mini lochs of the glen, walking the concentric rings and pressing coins into cracks in cave walls. Peeta is half mountain goat, I swear, practically jogging up the steep hills, gently teasing me as I lag behind. My laughter, unfamiliar but free, echoes all around.

And eventually, Peeta and I end up in a little meadow-like depression at the bottom of one of the hills. I haven’t felt so free since I was a kid. I’d love nothing more than to lie in the grass and watch the clouds float by; when I say so, Peeta pulls off his sweater and spreads it on the ground, tugging me down to lie beside him, my head pillowed on his arm.

I must drift off because the next thing I know, the patchy blue sky has clouded over completely, and Peeta is sitting beside me.

“Peeta, you should have woken me,” I say, rubbing the sleep crud out of my eyes.

“For what? Nothing’s going on here,” he says. “Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.” This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. “I’m kidding,” he laughs. “You’re beautiful, scowling or not.”

Something flutters in my chest, but I push it away. I don’t have room for that in my life. Instead, I nod towards the notepad in his hands. “What’s that?”

He tilts the paper towards me. It’s not writing, like I’d assumed, but a drawing. A sketch of a sleeping girl. My breath catches at the image on the paper. It’s me, clearly, and the talent in the pencil lines is mind-blowing. But it’s more than that. The girl in the picture looks softer, calmer, like all of her worries have been cast away. Peaceful. No, not peaceful… content. I haven’t been that girl in a long time. “This is incredible, Peeta,” I whisper.

“I have an eye for beauty,” he says, and it should sound cocky, like a come-on line. But from him, with those earnest blue eyes smiling, it just doesn’t.

Haymitch comes stomping into the clearing, greasy handprints marring his kilt. “Bus is fixed, git your arses on it,” he grunts.

Peeta gathers his sweater and notepad, and we trudge back to the bus. The tour continues in near silence, but it’s a good quiet. A comfortable quiet. Peeta wraps his arm around my shoulder and I find myself leaning into him as he strokes my hair. It’s uncomplicated and intimate. And though I’ve never been a cuddly person, I love it.

Our last stop is a trail that winds around a glassy Loch. The whole group is subdued, introspective maybe. Or maybe just hungry. Peeta and I lag behind though, enjoying the calm.

We emerge from the cover of the trees into a patch of yellow flowers, glowing in the sunlight. “Gorse,” Peeta answers my unasked question. “It’s everywhere at home too.”

“They smell fantastic,” I sigh. “Coconutty. Like the beach.” He chuckles, but when I reach for the golden flowers, he grabs my hand. I scowl.

“Thorns,” he says, delicately moving the blooms aside to show me that what I thought were flat leaves or needles are actually sharp spines. “Beautiful on the outside, but nasty underneath.”

“Just like me,” I say absently, but his brow wrinkles.

“No, Katniss,” he says. “You’re not like the gorse. You’re a bluebell.” I roll my eyes, but he continues, so earnestly. “Bluebells are shy, unassuming. Most people hardly notice them.” He leads me with a gentle hand on my lower back to the shady part of the hill. Only when he points them out do I realize the bluebells are in full bloom here. “But they’re strong and resilient, stubborn even. And once you see them, you can’t tear your eyes away from their beauty.” I turn to face him, but his hand doesn’t fall away, shifting instead to trace circles on my hipbone.

I want to scoff, to dismiss his words as the polished pick up lines of a player. But I can’t. As I stare at him, utterly speechless, he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I lean into his touch, and he smiles, just the barest lift of his lips. Sweet and hopeful. Before I can even consider what a terrible idea it is, I lift up on my toes and kiss him.

It’s a gentle kiss, but the desire that flares in my gut from that brief touch is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I haven’t kissed a lot of guys in my life, a handful back in highschool, only Gale after that. But no kiss has ever before felt so electric. I need more.

It’s clear he agrees, because almost as soon as I press my lips to his again, he takes control, one huge hand cupping my cheek, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. Exploring me thoroughly. I can’t hold back the little noises that escape me, and he groans softly in response.

I lose all sense of time and place, gripping his shirt, kissing him with a passion I wasn’t certain I was even capable of. It’s only when I hear the rest of the group heading down the path towards us that I pull away, reluctantly.

Peeta’s eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded, pupils fat. “I have wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you,” he whispers.

We don’t talk about the kiss, but for the rest of the day Peeta holds my hand. Even through dinner at a quiet little restaurant right on the harbour, he plays with my fingers, looking at me with something like adoration.

When we get back to our B&B I’m not ready for the evening to end. But there are other guests in the common lounge, playing a raucous game of cards. “Would you like to come to my room?” I ask, then immediately feel heat climbing up my cheeks. “Just, uh, just to talk a while longer.” I can’t meet his eyes. I’m incapable of flirting, or of communicating at all, really. Yet he follows me unquestioningly.

We sit side by side on my bed, talking. But there’s a tension between us that wasn’t there before, a crackling awareness. I don’t even know who makes the first move, but one minute we’re talking, the next I’m sucking on his tongue and his arms are pressing me tightly to him.

Kissing Peeta here in my quiet room is even better than on the nature trail. Free from distractions, I can let my hands wander, trace the firm musculature of his shoulders and arms, feel the pull and flex of his back. He unravels my braid and runs his fingers through the locks. “Beautiful,” he whispers against my lips.

We kiss and caress, hands becoming more bold. It’s when he lays me back on my bed, the hard length of his body cradled by my own, that I begin to panic. “Peeta,” I start. “I really like you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at my face. Then he smiles fondly. “But you’re not ready,” he says, and I’m shocked that he anticipated my words. “I know,” he says, and there’s no anger, he doesn’t even look disappointed. “We won’t do anything that you don’t want to,” he promises.

“Could we keep kissing?” I sound all of thirteen, pathetic and immature. But he doesn’t laugh at me.

“I’d like that,” he says.

We kiss and touch, chastely, fingers on napes and cheeks, tangled in hair. Making out like teenagers. Like the teenager I never really was. And eventually we fall asleep wrapped around each other.

o-o-o

I expect the morning to be awkward, but it isn’t. It isn’t at all. When I wake up, he’s still there, lying beside me, awake and smiling contentedly. He kisses me, just lightly, before retreating to his own room to get ready for the day.

We tour two different castle ruins, climb down (and back up) a gorge, and check out dinosaur fossils. He’s gently affectionate through it all, holding my hand, kissing my cheek, but never demanding anything else.

But I tug him into my room and my bed again that evening. And again he kisses me to sleep.

o-o-o

Gale’s wedding day falls on the fourth day of the tour. I’m cranky, and Peeta notices. He asks me what’s wrong but I brush him off. But even in the face of my moodiness, my pique and my - as Haymitch says - ‘slug-like charm’, Peeta is patient with me. Willing to take whatever little bits of myself I offer. And it’s that acceptance that prompts me to open up to him. In fits and starts over the course of the day as we walk and tour and explore, I tell Peeta about Gale, about the wasted years, about the holding pattern I’ve been in since we split.

He listens attentively, neither judging nor offering platitudes. But his quiet support means the world to me. “Do you still love him?” he asks as we sit on the dock in a quiet harbour town, watching the seabirds circle and dive.

“I never did,” I confess. “But after so long, I don’t know how to move on.”

When we return to the B&B, I again tug Peeta into my room. But this time I know something has shifted between us. Our sweet, chaste kisses rapidly escalate. And though Peeta tries to slow us down, tries to be a gentleman, I want more. And after a few attempts, he gives up on the idea of reining us in, surrendering to my demands and my searching fingers.

Our clothes fall away, until I’m down to my bra and underwear, and he’s only in shorts. He stares at me in awe, as if I’m something exotic instead of plain Katniss Everdeen, far too bony and wearing threadbare panties. And though I’ve only ever been naked in front of one man before now, I don’t hesitate to reach behind me to unhook my bra. But Peeta stills my hands. “Are you sure?” he asks. “We don’t have to…”

“I want to,” I tell him.

When the cotton falls away, he shudders. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “You have no idea, the effect you have.”

“Show me,” I whisper. And he does. In his arms, I get what might be my first taste of real, raw passion. Sex with Gale was fine, good sometimes. But never like this. As I shatter, and shatter, and shatter again, everything I think I know about myself is turned inside out, and I am changed forever.

It’s fucking terrifying.

o-o-o

The last day of our tour is quiet, too quiet. The weather is unsettled, the group members tired. Even Haymitch has lost his sarcastic edge. Leaves me too much time to think about Peeta, sitting next to me. Playing with my fingers and humming in contentment. Too much time to panic.

How can I say goodbye to this man? This man who has opened my eyes and my heart, who has shown me the barest hint of a life I never even knew I was missing out on.

What choice do I have?

It’s pouring rain when we pull into the stop at Waterloo Place, and in the soggy pandemonium of luggage unloading, it’s easy for me to grab my small backpack and slip away unnoticed. I get into the first available cab and am whizzing up the Royal Mile within moments.

I don’t look back.

o-o-o

I love Effie, I do, but sometimes I just need to get away. There’s a coffee shop near the rail station that’s a perfect escape, it’s outside of the touristy area and the patio is a great place to people watch.

A swarm of men in sharp black suits rounds the corner, heading straight towards me en route to the train. Slim-fit wool trousers cling appealingly to athletic bodies before spilling downward in perfectly pressed lines to where polished black shoes click on the cobbles. It takes a moment to realize that, no, the swarm of outrageously attractive men sauntering in the spring sunshine are not, in fact, men at all, but boys. Irish schoolboys - fifth and sixth years by the looks of them - splendid in their crisp white shirts, perfectly tied windsor knots and shiny shoes. I shake my head at myself. Leering at a bunch of teenagers? I’m too old for that. In my defense, they’re much better dressed than any of the men I know. I mean, I assume Gale wore a suit to his wedding, but it would have been the first time. Even when he dragged me to his senior prom, he wore a dress shirt open at the collar and a leather jacket.

I bet Peeta wears crisp suits like these, though.

And just like that, my mood falls again. I miss him. I miss him so much. I’ve spent the past five days lying to myself, trying to make myself believe that the week we spent together was no big deal, a little fun, a lot of great sex, nothing more. But my heart, the frail, foolish thing, is singing another song. I miss him. I feel his loss acutely, despite only having known him a few days. I know I made the right choice, leaving him on that rainy Edinburgh street. His life is here, and mine, what’s left of it, is in Philadelphia, I guess. There’s no chance of a future for us. And no sense mooning over impossibilities. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t fantasized about hiring a car and driving to the coast, just to see him one last time.

It’s the melancholy that’s making me see things. In the middle of the group, a golden head stands out. For a split second, I’m sure the broad shoulders and narrow waist attached to them belong to Peeta. But it’s impossible, these are school children, Peeta is back in his hometown, living his life. But the crowd shifts, and I can see his face clearly, blue eyes shaded by lush golden lashes, the smattering of faint freckles that kiss his sunburned cheeks.

And I drop my teacup.

The clatter catches his attention, his head swivels until he meets my eyes. I’m helpless to look away from the myriad of emotions that play across his handsome face. Surprise, relief, joy and anger. But I’m sure my own face reflects only a single sentiment.

Horror.

He says something I don’t catch to the people he’s with, then changes course to walk purposely to where I sit, frozen and mute, heart pounding so hard that I feel light-headed. He covers the few yards in long strides. The sun catches his hair, crowns him in gold as he stands above me, a wide smile curling those sensual lips. “Katniss,” he says, in that molten sex voice that I hear in my head every time I touch myself. The soundtrack to my every recent fantasy. The lament of my regrets. “I didn’t know you were in Dublin! I thought you’d gone back to America! I’m so bloody happy to see you! You were gone so fast after the tour, I didn’t get your number, and you’re not on Facebook.” He’s reaching for me, and my body instinctively reacts, warmth pooling low in my gut. Which is what snaps me out of my stupor. I jump from my chair, angling myself so that the narrow café table is between us.

“Katniss?” His brows furrow in confusion, his hands dropping to slide into his pockets. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re in school?” It’s barely a whisper.

“For another week, yes,” he says, still looking puzzled. As if it isn’t a big deal. A big fucking deal. He’s a child!

“You didn’t tell me you were so young.” I’m not certain I say it out loud until Peeta’s face twists, like he’s tasted something unpleasant.

“I’m eighteen,” he says. “I’ll be nineteen next month.” Eighteen! As if seeing him in that school uniform wasn’t bad enough, the confirmation that he’s a just a kid, that he’s almost nine fucking years younger than me makes my stomach lurch. “Is that a problem? For the record, you never asked.”

“You’re a child!” I say, much more loudly this time, and his frown deepens. “I’m… shit, I’m a pedophile!” Peeta’s jaw tightens, and an angry flush streaks up his neck. He grabs my arm, not hard but not leaving me much recourse, and walks the two of us away from the patio and around the corner of the building, into a quiet alley.

“Knock it off,” he hisses, and for a moment I feel like a naughty child being chastised. Which just serves to piss me off, I’m the grown-up here! I wrench my arm away from him, and back up, crossing my arms in front of me. But the alleyway is narrow and I’ve only moved a step before my back hits the wall. He steps forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to feel the tension that radiates from him in waves. “I’m an adult, Katniss,” he says lowly, his words skating across my lips as he leans in. “Old enough to drink, to vote.” His next words brush against the shell of my ear. “Old enough to fuck you senseless.”

A full-body shudder rips through me, equal parts arousal and revulsion. He’s a child! I took advantage of a child! I push against his chest and he takes a single step back, still in my personal space, but giving me enough room to clear my head a little. “I’m, fuck!” I gasp. “I’m twenty-seven. I’m nine fucking years older than you are!”

“Eight,” he says, “and so what? Doesn’t change how I feel about you, or what we have together.”

“It’s wrong-” I start, but he’s having none of it.

“Bullshit! We’re both adults.”

“You lied to me!”

“I did no such thing,” he snaps, but I’m pissed now.

“You told me you owned a bakery on the coast!”

“I do!”

“You’re a child!” His jaw tightens again, I can see the anger in his stormy eyes. Anger and hurt.

His hand reaches for me and instinctively I draw back, but he simply slips my phone out of my pocket. “What the fuck?” I sputter, but he’s already unlocked it and apparently messaged himself.

“Where are you staying, Katniss?” he asks, handing my phone back. I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but I just can’t. The pain in his eyes compels me to tell him.

“My aunt has a house in Clontarf,” I grumble. Peeta nods.

“Come with me tomorrow,” he says.

“What? No, that’s not a good idea Peeta.”

“Please, just do this one thing for me. Then I’ll leave you in peace.” The pain in his eyes is shocking. Guilt eats away at me. It was cruel, I know, sneaking away like a thief in the night. I can see how much I’ve hurt him. He takes my silence as acceptance. “Meet me here tomorrow morning,” he says. “Half eight. Wear a jacket.” Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the alley.

o-o-o

I fight with myself half the night and all morning. I’m not going to show up. He’s not going to show up. I owe him a chance to explain. He’s a fucking child! By the time I make it to the café, I’m an absolute mess.

But an absolute mess wearing mascara and a cute top. I’m a hypocrite, on top of everything else.

Removed from the cold horror of discovering I’d been cavorting with a schoolboy, I have to admit to myself that seeing him again ripped down the walls I tried so hard to construct around my feelings for him. Damn him! Damn him for being gorgeous and sweet and Irish and a toddler!

He pulls up only moments after I arrive, riding a smallish motorcycle, blond curls sticking out from under a black helmet. In jeans and a leather jacket, golden stubble glinting in the thin morning light, he’s even more impossibly handsome. But it’s clear he hasn’t slept well, his wary gaze is ringed with faint purple. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he says softly, pulling off his helmet. I don’t bother to tell him that until I got off the bus, I wasn’t sure either. I simply shrug. He dismounts; I pretend I’m not checking out his ass in those snug-fit jeans. But he merely pulls a second helmet from his saddlebag, handing it to me without quite meeting my eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask, but he shakes his head.

“Put on the helmet, Katniss, then get on the bike.”

“Don’t you have a car?” I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before, and Irish streets with their too-narrow lanes, cobbles, and the whole driving-on-the-wrong-side issue are scary enough in a vehicle with four wheels. His lips twist.

“No. Let’s go, we have a long ride ahead of us.”

It’s madness, but I do as he asks.

I sit stiffly behind him, trying to put some distance between us, but as soon as the bike is in motion, I have no choice but to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. And having him again cradled between my thighs provokes the most confusing rush of emotions. This is such a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea.

We don’t talk as he pilots us out of the city, we simply can’t. The rush of wind makes that impossible. But from time to time as we pass through the suburbs, then out into the countryside, he’ll squeeze my knee to catch my attention, pointing out an old tower or a ruin, or just the way the sun catches the gorse on the mountainside, making the world glow in sunny yellow. In spite of what I’ve learned, he seems like Peeta, like the man I met in Scotland. He feels like comfort, and like home. When he points of a patch of bluebells clinging to the side of a hill, my heart hurts. I stop fighting with myself and lean into him, my helmet-encased head resting against his broad back, his warmth soothing me. He squeezes my hand where it wraps around his ribs. Acceptance.

About forty-five minutes later, we drive into one of those quintessential Irish postcard villages, narrow medieval buildings crowded along the street - though here they’re painted in lush pastels - colourful bunting zig-zagging across the road and cars parked haphazardly everywhere. He circles a statue of what appears to be a young fisherman, then heads down an impossibly narrow alleyway, parking the bike in a tiny courtyard.

When he offers me his hand to help me off the bike, I take it gratefully. My legs are like jelly, and not just from the ride. He holds my fingers just a little too long, smiling wistfully. Then we rid ourselves of the helmets, and he leads me out of the alley, to stand in front of a building. It’s tall and narrow, like most of the buildings here are, but unlike most, it has an enormous plate glass window facing the street. The building itself is painted turquoise, and Mellark’s is spelled across the front in swoopy gold letters. “Welcome to my bakery,” he says softly, and with a hand on my back he ushers me inside.

The interior is even more charming than the exterior, and for a moment I can only gawk. Polished wood floors, pristine glass cases displaying a decadent array of goodies, and paintings on every wall that feel familiar. But none of that really means anything, does it? He’s in school, it’s clear that this isn’t really his bakery. It probably belongs to his family, and he works here on school breaks.

I turn my attention to the people working behind the counter, three of them. They smile warmly at me, but right away their expressions change as they catch sight of Peeta. They seem to stand a little taller, attempt to look a little busier. “Peeta,” one of them calls out. “We weren’t expecting you.” Well of course they weren’t, it’s Thursday, he’s supposed to be in school.

In school. Ugh. What am I even doing here?

“Just popping in for a bit,” he says with an easy smile. “Have a little business I need to attend to.” He heads towards a swinging door that separates front shop from back, but pauses with his hand on the frame. “Coming, Katniss?” Three heads snap to me in surprise, and I can feel my cheeks burning as I follow Peeta into a small, but modern industrial kitchen.

Here too, the workers stop and straighten, as if they’re trying to impress Peeta. It’s subtle, but I notice it. He greets each warmly by name. And I quickly realise that it’s not fear that makes them all snap to attention. It’s respect. Inexplicably, all of these people seem to respect him.

But it’s not really that inexplicable, is it? He carries himself with a confidence that goes beyond boyish ego. I can’t reconcile the businessman in front of me with the eighteen year old schoolboy I saw yesterday.

Peeta leads me to a small, windowless office at the rear of the building, and gestures for me to sit. Before I’ve even gotten comfortable, one of the women from the front shop has appeared with a pot of tea and a pair of cups. “Thanks, Dell,” Peeta says genuinely. The woman beams at him, then backs out of the office. I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hang on,” he says. “She’ll be back again.”

He’s right, she reappears a few moments later with a plate of food. I haven’t been able to eat since I saw Peeta yesterday in Dublin, and my stomach clenches painfully at the yeasty, cheesy scent wafting from the treats. “You call me if you want anything else,” she says, and Peeta promises he will. With one last wink in my direction, she leaves and this time Peeta closes the door behind her.

“What was that all about?” I ask, trying not to be obvious in my coveting of the buns. He notices anyway, and pushes the plate in front of me.

“Irish hospitality,” he says absently as he pulls the bags out of the teapot. He knows, even without me ever having said anything, that I prefer my tea weak.

I know all about Irish hospitality, know that Delly would continue bringing us more food and more tea and just generally fussing if Peeta hasn’t shut the office door. But this is different. “Not that. The weird way she was looking at me. She… she winked!” He glances up, and a flicker of amusement crosses his face before the sadness creeps back.

“I’ve never brought a woman here before,” he says. I wrinkle my nose at the implication of that, I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m somehow special or because, as a freaking child himself, I’m the first ‘woman’ he’s been with.

“Why have you now?”

“Because I want you to see me. To see that I am exactly who I said I am. Now eat your bun,” he says, nudging the plate again, “while I tell you about my father.”

My heart breaks again and again as Peeta paints a picture of his life. The only child of a single father, he had a typical childhood right up until his father got sick. Terminal cancer. The man spent all of his remaining time preparing his young son to take over the bakery that had been in the Mellark family for generations. At only fifteen, Peeta traded rugby for accounting, friends for responsibility. He even spent his transition year working full time at the bakery, learning the ordering system, studying food safety compliance.

By the time his father died not quite two years ago, Peeta was running the bakery himself.

He has an uncle who deals with the day to day while Peeta finishes school, something he’s doing because he promised his dad he would. But Peeta is the owner, and the one in charge.

It goes a long way to explain his maturity. He hasn’t been a child in a long time. On the face of it, the story sounds unbelievable. But I know what my eyes are telling me. What my heart is telling me. He may be younger, chronologically. But he’s the one with his life together. While I haven’t really grown since high school, his life has leapt light years ahead.

I sit in silence, picking at the cheese bun - which is incredible but which I can’t really enjoy - feeling like a pile of shit. The office door opens. An older man strides in, clapping Peeta hard on the shoulder. “Peet,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting you today! Glad you’re here though, I have those contracts for you to sign.”

“That’s great, Dalton,” he says, taking the proffered papers, his lips moving as he skims the words. But then he frowns. “The wage is wrong,” he says, pointing.

“They’re students,” Dalton says dismissively, and Peeta’s jaw tightens. It’s fascinating to watch, even if I don’t fully understand.

“That’s not how we do things here. I pay everyone a living wage.” Peeta stands, moving around the desk to take my hand, pulling me out of my chair. “When you’ve redone the contracts, leave them on my desk. I’ll pop in later to sign them before I head back to Dublin.” And with that, we walk out, leaving the older man behind.

We walk down the narrow cobbled street towards the waterfront, weaving among the tourists, past the harbour before finally stopping at an overlook right at the edge of the village. Peeta sits heavily on one of the empty benches, and drops his head in his hands. I lower myself beside him.

“You’re a good boss,” I say softly, breaking the silence that hangs between us. He doesn’t look at me.

“The bakery is more than just a job,” he says. “It’s my father’s legacy and my future. I have eight employees who directly depend on me, not to mention the suppliers and lorry drivers and pubs who benefit from my business too.” He lifts his head to look out over the water, and the weariness I see in his face speaks to a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Yet he’s uncomplaining.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“I’ve never lied to you, Katniss. I might be younger than you thought, but I am exactly the man I said I was, exactly what you saw in Scotland.” Wary blue eyes meet my own. “Can you say the same?” My breath catches. It’s a valid question.

Katniss Everdeen is quiet and closed-off, reserved to the point of unfriendly. Difficult to get to know. Resistant to change. That’s not the woman who spent a week adventuring through the Scottish highlands. That woman smiled more, laughed more. That woman tried new things. That woman opened her heart, if only just a little. I shake my head, and his drops again to stare at his lap. The real Katniss Everdeen is the one who left this kind, gentle man standing on an Edinburgh street in the rain, without a backward glance.

Right now, I don’t like the real Katniss Everdeen very much.

He sighs. “My age isn’t really a problem, is it Katniss? It’s just a convenient excuse. You took off before you knew.” He’s right. When I really search my heart I know that the age gap between us is just a number. In many ways, in most ways really, Peeta is the more mature of us. The one with his priorities straight, with his shit together. Our ages don’t matter at all.

After what feels like an interminable silence, he asks, “Why? Why did you leave without a word? I thought there was something between us. Something real.”

“There is,” I whisper, startling myself with my honesty. He glances up at me, confusion in his expression, but also a heartbreaking flicker of hope. “You’re right,” I tell him. “I was a different person in Scotland. And… and I think I like that person better.” I swallow hard. “I like who I am when I’m with you.

“Then what’s the problem, Katniss?” The hint of frustration in his voice threatens to put me on the defensive.

“Your life is here, Peeta! And I live three thousand miles away!”

“You’re here now,” he says.

“For four more weeks,” I say, and sadness creeps in as I realize that I don’t want to leave him again, that even pissed off and hurt and, yeah, young as he is, just his presence makes me feel alive. “And then what?”

“Why do we have to figure that out now,” he asks. “Why can’t we just take it day by day, see where things go. Live without a plan, without a safety net.” He reaches for me, cradling my face in his hands, and my eyes slip closed. “Live, Katniss. Be the woman you want to be.”

What’s left of my defenses melt away as he kisses me so softly it’s like a dream. My hands wrap around his wrists, holding him in place. Keeping him with me, at least for the moment.

I know the only thing really standing between us is my fear.

“Okay,” I whisper, the words hanging, fragile and afraid, in the space between our lips.

“Yeah?” he smiles. And at my nod, he kisses me again.

I’ve wasted so much time living in complacency, afraid of change. But this feels like a second chance. An opportunity to grow and mature, instead of staying safely stuck in the past. And the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it’s Peeta beside me as I step into the unknown.

—–

#Everlark birthday drabbles #ldyglfr62 #xerxia31

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