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nytb · 1 year

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Hero At A Price

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Alexia's injury hit Fc Barcelona at the worst possible time, heck it was the only player that they couldn't afford to lose. The team took a hit, a position was left to fill and the objective for the season remained the same - win everything.

Luckily, the team had a gem producing academy. Y/N Y/L/Y was one of the youngsters that had come through la Masia, but a stacked first team gave the future star no other choice, she had to leave.

After leaving Barcelona, Y/N established herself in the German league. The first season was rough, Eintracht Frankfurt fought to be one of the top sides, but as previous seasons dictated, they remained a stuck in mid table. That season was all it took to get Y/N familiarised with the style, the cold, the people. Now - Frankfurt had been fighting the top dogs two seasons in a row. They comfortably occupied the third position. Her connection with Laura Freigang and Géraldine Reuteler made them rise to the top of the goal and assist leaderboards.

Her unending run of form prompted Frankfurt to offer their star a new contract. Everything Y/N wanted, she got. The club was at her heels, they couldn't let their star go.

Her Barcelona past was known, Y/N was a la Masia graduate, she bled blaugrana. Throughout the years, Frankfurt carved their own little spot in the midfielders heart. She was now one of their own.

Before season-end, the Euros took place. The stacked up National team didn't let the Frankfurt star shine as she should - she wasn't even called up. To Spain's dismay, Alexia's injury hit them hard. Their star was out for the foreseeable future. Now Spain and Fc Barcelona were left scrambling, they needed the perfect replacement.

The past Y/N and Xavi Puig - now the sporting director at Fc Barcelona - shared prompted the man to seek out her services.

Xavi was Y/N's loyalest follower. He watched the Catalonian rise through the ranks, and as he didn't occupy a position within the club at the time, he watched how Y/N was forced out - his hands were tied. He kept watching Y/N grow, but this time from a distance.

Despite Frankfurts unwillingness to let their midfielder go, Xavi wasn't going to let his star go - not again. He moved hell on earth and got the German club to sign on the dotted line. A one year loan with an option to buy, a record signing fee attached to Y/N's name.

Now, Xavi only needed to break the news; "I've been trying to get you home" An unexpected call during Y/N's holiday with an unimaginable opportunity. The sporting director explained the ins and outs of the deal to his star.

Frankfurt Eintracht fans hearts were broken that day. The heir to the captain's band had switched sides. For most of them, hope dictated the return of their star; she wouldn't leave them stranded.

Returning to Barcelona, Y/N was hit with a wave of nostalgia. The blue sky, her old teammates, the Johan. Y/N was home.

The now Fc Barcelona midfielder was welcomed with open arms. Every training session had the academy players in the stands, the sporting director and captain joined in. Y/N was the talk of the town. Her precision on the ball, the technique, her utter class - Y/N was born to wear the Fc Barcelona badge on her chest.

Her statistics portrayed just that, leading the assist leaderboard - Y/N was an essential piece in Jonathan's XI. Her name rang everywhere. Frankfurt's local newspapers kept a reserved spot on their weekly issue for their star. She wasn't forgotten by her beloved club - something that Fc Barcelona had done way back when they let her go.

"They are in love with you" Mapi informed the midfielder as they returned to the dressing room post-match "Have you heard their chants?" Patri enquired further before Jana interjected "They're almost as loud as Mapi's" the defender laughed "I'm happy for you Y/N" she took the midfielder under her arm "You deserve this"

Jana and Y/N had risen through the ranks together, this made Jana's words that much meaningful for the Catalonian.

The conversations in the dressing room soon changed, the international break was imminent and everyone knew it. Y/N's name was amongst the possible call ups for Spain.

As per usual, Alexia joined in on the post-match celebrations in the dressing room and as it died down, she made her way to Fc Barcelona's new star - Y/N. "So, you're going" Alexia assumed the worst, the new midfielder would surely take advantage of the hole the 15 had left in the national team. It was the perfect opportunity to make herself an unquestionable starter, even if some of the 15 decided to return further down the line.

The captain's words cut deep. In Y/N's mind, Alexia had become a close friend, a role model. In her defence, Putellas didn't know where Y/N stood in the 15 vs Federation matter. "Well actually, I just asked my representative to put out a statement" the words left Y/N's lips without hesitation. The 24 year old was ready to make her opinion on the matter known.

Alexia's eyes shone brighter than ever. The possible jealousy, the anger, the sadness, the disappointment - it all went away. "They will retaliate" the captain warned Y/N before the midfielder made a further declaration "Let them come, I'm not scared" Y/N expressed nonchalantly as she made her way out of the dressing room, heading home after the match. Mapi, who was now left celebrating Y/N's words, was quick to verbalise how she felt "I told you, she's not here to mess around" the defender was beyond proud of Y/N's words "Y/N will change Spanish football - mark my words"

Y/N's statement hit the internet, followed by words of encouragement from her Barcelona teammates - but this time, the whole world echoed them. Frankfurt Eintracht had put out a statement of their own; they backed their star. Y/N was going up against the Spanish Federation and the whole world was watching.

Giving interviews to international news outlets, her words spread like wildfire. Y/N had the Spanish Federation scrambling. The National team's sponsors applying unimaginable pressure. For a long time, nobody wondered how the 15's fight switched the narrative and ended up on the winning side. They turned the "capricious" narrative upside down.

Vilda's mask fell. The whole world saw what the Spanish players had endured for years. Unprofessional treatment, lack of support from their federation, inadequate preparation.

Meanwhile, Y/N was seen attending Germany's games. Wearing her best friend's jersey - Y/N celebrated Freigang's call up. In the stadium, the Germans love and support for their Frankfurt stars was vocalised. After the game, not only Laura was praised. German fans approached Y/N, asking for pictures, autographs; they applauded Y/N's fight against the Spanish Federation. The midfielders heart was now divided. Not many people knew, but Eintracht Frankfurt's support in the matter came at a price.

The German club had soon realised that Fc Barcelona would gather the money for the transfer. The Catalan team wasn't going to let their star slip from their hands for a second time - so the German team proposed the only thing they could offer. A possibility to switch the narrative; make the Spanish Federations lies known. They fought Vildas statements to the nail. Every move they made, the German's came up with the perfect counter. Using all their contacts and influence, they directed Rubiales to a solution: fire Vilda and reinstate the 15. The so call blacklist had to be ripped to shreds.

The war had been won, but only the German club, the Spanish Federation and Y/N's close circle knew how.

For the rest of the season, Y/N's loyalties were shown. The midfielder traveled to watch every possible Eintracht Frankfurt game she could. Showing the German team her dedication and love for them.

Back in Barcelona, nobody seemed to understand what was going on. The dressing room was questioning Y/N's motives. How could an academy player, a blaugrana bleeding Fc Barcelona player stop fighting to stay. Nobody dared to enquire on the matter, not until Jana was fed up with the silence.

Fc Barcelona had lifted the Supercopa trophy, they had won the league before it even ended, they reached the Champions league final and were on their way to the Copa de la Reina final. "Spit it out" the defender confronted Y/N "You can win everything here, you can make our childhood dreams come true. Why don't you want to stay?" Jana's enquiry left Y/N speechless. The whole dressing room was watching - silence struck.

Alexia Putellas was silently watching, seeing how Y/N was lost for words - she soon realised what had happened months prior. There was no way that a 24 year old had managed to win a war against the Spanish Federation all by herself.

Y/N's love for the blaugrana club was big - but the midfielders desire to fight for what's right won.

The dressing room; Jana, were left without an answer. It wasn't for a lack of trying, every time anybody brought up Y/N's possible departure up, Y/N fled the scene.

That same week, Fc Barcelona were up against Wolfsburg in the Champions league final. A hard fought match, but Fc Barcelona came out victorious. Y/N's performance against the German team left everyone speechless. The midfielder became Wolfburgs nightmare, ending the match with a goal and a hat trick of assists.

Her performance in the Copa de la Reina final - what would be Y/N's last match with Fc Barcelona - had her leaving with the trophy and the MOTM award. Celebrating it with tears in her eyes, Y/N's short stay at her beloved club was coming to an end.

The very next day, Y/N made her way to the Ciutat Deportiva. Everyone on the team was given a day off, even Y/N; but that didn't matter. This was Y/N's final week with Fc Barcelona.

Alexia Putellas, the captain, didn't take days off; today wasn't an exception. The Catalonian made her way onto the training field, sitting herself down next to Y/N "Thank you" the Spaniard had been looped in, she knew what Y/N had done.

The ultimate sacrifice; Frankfurt's help was a quid pro quo. If the 15 were to win, Y/N had to lose - she had to return to them.

#woso imagines #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso fic #fc barcelona femeni woso #fc barcelona woso #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #lgbtq

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alwaysbethewest · 1 year

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Triple Frontier fic: A Pilot for Christmas

It's @pedrostories Secret Santa day!! My assignment was for @frannyzooey, who requested domesticity, roommates-to-lovers, and fluff or smut 🥰 I had some of the most fun EVER writing this fic, so I hope it will make you smile, too, Kelli. Merry Christmas!! 🎄 Thank you to @mourningbirds1 and @fleetwoodmactshirt, both of whom I—not to be dramatic but—basically can't live without at this point, and at the very least couldn't have written this fic. And she's not a Pedro fan so I can't imagine she wants to be tagged in this, but thank you to my friend Alyssa for kindly helping me with one of the very few pieces of actual research I did for it.

Title: A Pilot for Christmas Pairing: Frankie Morales/f!Reader Rating: Mature Word Count: 4.8k Content/warnings: roommates to lovers, hot single dad Frankie, pining, yearning, lusting, questionable romance novel smut, compromising positions, sexual content, fade to black, food, domesticity. Unbetaed, so please let me know if you spot any typos/errors!

There’s a note for you on the kitchen table, written in Frankie’s even, boxy print: Mac + cheese + trees in fridge if you want some.

Your schedules never align on Wednesdays; your boss’s mandatory mid-week team meetings inevitably keep you late and Frankie is always on his way to Laura’s place by the time you get home. You haven’t met his ex-wife, but you think she must be nice enough since he’s usually in a good mood when he gets home from their weekly family dinners. They’re co-parenting, as he’d explained when you first moved in, and along with providing dinner on Wednesdays he does his part by taking their daughter on the weekends. He’s given you a break in the rent to make up for sharing your apartment with a three-year-old two days a week.

This is technically a sublet, and it’s technically temporary, but you get along well enough with Frankie that sometimes it feels a little like kismet. His old roommate had landed a contract overseas for a year just as you were moving to town, and a mutual friend had connected you. There are four months left on the contract, but you’d heard from the roommate recently that he was expecting the position to be renewed, so most likely you’ll get to stay longer if you want to. Nothing is official yet either way, and you’ve decided to give yourself another month before you start to worry about it.

Having the apartment to yourself once a week is the perfect opportunity to watch your favorite guilty pleasure TV shows without fear of male judgment—not that Frankie gets really rude about it but his silent raised eyebrow speaks volumes—and you happily warm up a bowl of macaroni and cheese and “trees” (broccoli; it turns out toddlers lose interest when you use the B-word) and settle in on the couch.

Living with Frankie has gone better than you’d feared it might. Knowing he was the friend of a friend of a friend had alleviated some of your anxiety about moving in with a stranger, and he’s turned out to be a mostly quiet, respectful roommate. After maintaining clear-cut boundaries for the first couple of weeks, you had both relaxed a little bit and settled into something of a shared routine. He likes to cook but doesn’t enjoy grocery shopping, so you often take his list along with your own to the store—and reap the rewards on nights like this when he keeps you well-fed. You both like to keep a tidy home, and neither of you minds the other person throwing in a few items when you’re doing a load of laundry. You’ve even mostly gotten over the embarrassment of the time Frankie had delicately handed you a pair of thong underwear he’d found trapped in the sleeve of one of his clean shirts. The barely-contained amusement on his face had haunted you for a full week.

When you’ve finished your dinner you pause the TV to go wash your bowl, and while you’re in the kitchen you take a few minutes to put away the dishes Frankie had left drying in the dish rack. It’s an easy symbiosis, you muse, a give-and-take that seems to suit you both. Underneath his note, you write back: Delicious!! Thank you, and sign it with a heart.

Most of the time your editing job allows you to maintain a reasonable work-life balance, but this month you’ve found yourself scrambling to get everything done before the upcoming holiday break. Your co-worker Deandra is off on an unexpected leave, and after taking on a share of her work on top of your own, the projects have started to form an intimidating pile. One Monday, two weeks before Christmas, you compromise your typical boundaries by logging back onto your laptop after dinner to work on a manuscript. Frankie is watching a game with the volume on low and it makes for comfortable background noise while you work from the opposite end of the couch.

Deandra’s specialty is romance, and while you’ve had to get used to covering a new genre, having some variety has been interesting. But a detail in this book is bothering you. You glance at Frankie, whose expression is quietly focused. His team is leading the scoreboard by a healthy margin. You don’t think he’ll mind a brief distraction.

“Hey. I could use your piloting expertise. Can I ask you a weird question?”

Frankie raises an eyebrow and shrugs his assent. “Go ahead.”

“Okay, so—is it logistically possible to have sex in a cockpit?”

You have his attention. He slowly turns his head to give you a long, wide-eyed look. After a moment of silence, he narrows his eyes, contemplating. “What kind of aircraft are we talking?”

“Like a regular… A commercial passenger plane?”

He nods, pursing his mouth and tilting his head up so he can gaze off into space, like he’s visualizing it. He glances at you again.

“Two people?” he checks.

“Two—yes, it’s—” he’s surprised you a little, and you fumble for words. “It’s not a cockpit orgy,” you tell him.

He laughs. “Pilots like to party,” he says opaquely, and now you’re the one narrowing your eyes at him, but he’s ignoring your questioning look. “Okay, is it possible? Theoretically, sure. Especially if the other person is short. Is it comfortable, though?” He pulls a face. “It wouldn’t be my choice. It’s a cramped space. Someone’s gonna end up hitting their head, or accidentally kicking the instrument panel, or…” he trails off, shaking his head in disapproval. “It’s… inadvisable.”

“Got it. Thank you.” You make some notes in the Word document on your screen, still internally recovering from his follow-up question, and Frankie turns his attention back to the TV, where the opposing team is starting to close the lead.

You’re no prude, but the genre you usually work in fades to black more often than not, and this author’s penchant for smutty detail has you feeling slightly in over your head. You’ve made it past the cockpit quickie but four chapters later Frankie’s team is on the cusp of winning their game and your protagonist is finally about to have her tall, dark, and handsome pilot love interest in a real bed.

“This love scene is… really something,” you comment. Frankie looks over in interest.

“Read it to me.”

“It’s dirty,” you warn him.

Frankie smirks. “I think I can handle it.”

You take a breath and start to read aloud from the page: “Isabella’s heart raced in excitement. Roderick was standing so close she felt as though his breath was entering her lungs with every inhalation. He took her hand and pressed her palm to himself, making her feel his turgid cock stirring in his pants—Obviously that needs to go—”

“Which part, the turgid cock?” Frankie asks. “I like it.”

“You like it?” you ask, incredulous.

“What?” he says. “A guy can’t enjoy a turgid cock now?”

“Jesus,” you laugh. Your face is starting to feel warm. “Isabella’s petite hand could barely fit around Roderick’s girthy length and it made her whimper with arousal. Roderick smirked down at her. ‘I can’t wait to be inside you,’ he rasped hungrily. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her flush against his body. ‘Tell me you want it,’ he growled.” You glance at Frankie and see he’s got one arm slung across his chest and the other hand resting at his mouth, thumbnail running distractedly over his lips. He’s staring at the TV without really watching it, and after a moment of silence he finally blinks and meets your eyes again.

“It’s weird you get to read porn for work,” he says dryly, and you bury your face in your hands and laugh.

When the game ends, Frankie switches on an episode of Star Trek that he seems to be half watching while he does something on his phone. On your laptop screen, Roderick has you stymied.

Roderick’s muscular arms tossed Isabella onto the bed like she weighed nothing. “Ohhh,” she moaned. “Give it to me.”

“Give you what, baby?” he rasped. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Give me—” Her pale cheeks blushed prettily. How could she say it out loud? But he was looking at her with such lust in his eyes that she knew he only wanted to make sure she was ready to turn herself over to him, to let him use her any way he liked. The thought of it made her shiver with anticipation. “Give me your cock, Roderick. Make me yours.”

With a growl from deep in his chest, Roderick dragged her hips down the bed so that she was balancing on the edge, where his body loomed over hers. Turning her onto her side, he leaned down to nose under her ear, nipping at the delicate skin of her neck and making her moan. His broad hand clutched her thigh, maneuvering her leg to tuck her knee around his hips, and his other hand he ran tantalizingly down her back until he reached her other thigh. He opened her legs, like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking, and he straightened up, lifting her ankle to rest against his shoulder, and grinding his hard member against her core.

You go over the last few lines again, whispering the words under your breath to yourself as you try to picture the position. You feel like you need a diagram.

“I’m lost,” you declare.

Frankie glances up from his phone. “Hm?”

“I don’t understand where these limbs are going,” you tell him. “I don’t know if my brain just isn’t working because it’s 9 PM or if this passage needs rewriting. Or if this sex is too advanced for me.”

He laughs and makes a grabbing motion at your laptop. “Lemme see.”

You hand it over, standing up to stretch while he reads it to himself.

“‘He opened her legs like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking,’” Frankie reads out dramatically. “Really?”

“Don’t get caught up in the simile,” you say. “Focus on the legs. Is that position even feasible? For someone who isn’t a contortionist?”

“Maybe in the next chapter they reveal she was raised in the circus,” he suggests, but he squints at the screen again, reading through the text. “I think I get it. It’s like—” He gestures with his arms, posing them to mimic Isabella’s legs. It’s borderline incomprehensible.

Later, you’ll blame the late hour and your overworked brain for what happens next. If you’d been running on all cylinders, you would have thought through the boundary-crossing implications of this and stopped yourself, but as it is you frown down at him and say, “Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” you urge him, already heading down the hallway to your bedroom. He hesitates, but then follows a few paces behind, and it’s then—the moment he crosses the threshold behind you—that your brain finally catches up to your actions and you begin to realize this was a terrible, terrible idea.

But somehow, coming up with an excuse to turn back feels more mortifying than plowing forward. You sit on the edge of the bed, trying to focus on the matter at hand. Frankie is hanging back, but you give him an expectant look and he takes a step towards you. He clears his throat softly.

“On your side,” he says. It shouldn’t sound like a command—he offers it gently, a reminder of the scene you’re playing out—but something inside you can’t tell the difference and you feel a spot deep in your core go hollow and needy. You turn, obediently, and lay on your right side. He touches the knee of your right leg, urging you to pull it forward.

“This leg around me.”

He steps into the crook of your knee, between your thigh and your calf, and looks down at your other leg, tucked awkwardly between your bodies.

“This is where it gets weird,” he says, and you laugh out loud. The sound dies out when you feel his fingers firmly wrap around your ankle and slowly maneuver your left leg, straight in front of you and then pivoting towards the ceiling. You feel the stretch in your hips, your body turning to follow so you’re halfway between your back and your side. It’s awkward, and he must see your face twist in discomfort, because he stops midway through the movement and rests your foot on his left shoulder. His body is solid and warm against the back of your leg.

“I think in the book it was over here,” he says, tapping his right shoulder. “So maybe she is a contortionist.”

“Or I need to do more Pilates,” you lament. He looks amused.

“Does this position even make sense? Would this work for you?” you ask him, regretting the question as soon as it’s left your mouth. He blinks down at you and his eyes rake down the length of your body to where you’re tangled around him. His hand is still resting over your ankle.

“Your bed is too low,” he says.

It’s—You’d meant the question in a more hypothetical sense. With some other partner, in some other scenario, would this position work? The knowledge that he has taken in the question and assessed the situation—looked at your two bodies in relation to each other, here, in your room, and thought about whether he could fuck you like this—makes you lose your breath.

“Plus—” he continues. He nudges at you to roll you onto your back, carefully lowering your foot from his shoulder so he’s standing between your open legs, nothing between you but empty space and a secret, aching want. He leans in, bracing his hands flat on either side of your body, not touching you but close enough he would only have to lean in. “I like to be able to kiss someone when I make love to them,” he says softly.

He shoots you a smile that could almost be a smirk as he stands up and heads out of the room, leaving you clutching the duvet cover as the world around you tilts on its axis.

It’s not like you’ve never noticed Frankie is attractive. Anybody could see that he is. He’s boyishly cute when he’s playing around with his daughter, their matching, dimpled smiles on display; smoldering when he gets cleaned up to go out on the town with the guys, if a little less runway-ready the morning after; and confusingly, unrecognizably handsome on the occasions he goes clean-shaven. But he’s been so firmly relegated to “platonic male roommate” status since you moved in that you’ve never, even for a second, thought about pursuing anything more. Lusting after your roommate can only end in awkwardness and moving boxes.

So discovering that the man you live with isn’t just good-looking, but has the ability to leave you wet and aching with desire, without even trying, has you looking at everything through a new lens.

On Tuesday, mid-morning, your phone lights up with a text from him. It’s a picture of a small plane cockpit interior, just two seats and a display of navigational instruments.

See how tight she is? he’s written.

You blink at your phone. SHE??

…

She = the plane. Sorry, pilot speak.

Mortifying. You nearly pull up the local apartment rentals page on Craigslist right then and there. You dive into your work instead—not Deandra’s romance, but the grisly thriller in your regular docket. Roderick and Isabella need to give you some space this week. It’s not them, it’s you—and the images of Frankie and you in compromising positions that had popped into your mind when you attempted to pick back up the draft.

He’s like a specter, haunting you.

Wednesday evening is your night with the apartment to yourself, and you’ve never been happier to be alone. He’s left you dinner, again, and you almost don’t eat it on principle—you’ll have to get used to feeding yourself, after all, once he kicks you out for making it too blatantly obvious you want to jump him.

But it would be an actual crime to pass up his enchiladas. You savor the plate. Maybe he’ll give you the recipe as a parting gift, if you ask nicely.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and catch up on one of your shows, and some of the tension you’ve been holding starts to drain from your body. But underneath is a familiar, restless energy buzzing through you, desperate for a different outlet, that you can’t ignore.

You go to bed early. What you need is just a little quality time with yourself, to reconnect and remind your body that you’re perfectly capable of satisfying it on your own—or with the no-strings-attached assistance of a vibrator.

It’s a valiant, miserable attempt. Every tried and true fantasy keeps rerouting back to Frankie. You turn your toy to its highest setting and the sensation still pales in comparison to the thrill of his fingers wrapped securely around your ankle, the line of his body pressed against your legs, and his low, deadly voice telling you how to move.

You go to sleep more frustrated than when you started, only to dream of him. He’s hovering over you, pressing you into the bed, his hot mouth on your neck and sucking on your tits and working his way down to eat you out and bring an orgasm crashing through you—and you wake up at 3 AM with your cunt throbbing between your legs.

One of the things you’ll miss most about this place when you inevitably have to move out due to your incurable roommate attraction is the in-unit washer and dryer. Perhaps in solidarity with your own resolve and self-control, the dryer abruptly breaks in the middle of the week.

“Do you want me to call the landlord, or will you?” you ask Frankie, but he immediately shakes his head.

“Let me take a look at it,” he says.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

Two hours and one trip to a hardware store later, he’s on his knees in front of the machine, working quietly save for an occasional soft grunt of exertion when he has to fit something into place.

There’s a bare strip of skin on display where his shirt has ridden up, and a black waistband peeking out from under his jeans. Your mind drifts, imagining away the denim and picturing how the tight boxer briefs would cup his ass and grip his muscular thighs, until your own thighs are clenching and you force yourself to go clean the kitchen instead.

“I’m moving out,” you call over your shoulder as you go.

“I promise I can fix it,” he says, like he thinks you’re just fed up with one broken appliance, not your own internal breakdown.

If only.

It’s 7 AM Friday and you’re fixing your coffee when Frankie ambles into the kitchen, bare-chested and barefoot and wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms. If you allowed yourself to look, you would see the soft curve of his modest belly and the sparse line of hair trailing down to disappear enticingly under his waistband. His voice is early morning-deep when he mumbles a good morning. His hand steadies casually on your wrist when he stands next to you to grab a mug from the cupboard just to your left, and you hope he can’t feel your pulse quicken under his touch. When his coffee is ready and he takes his first sip, he lets out a satisfied groan. You want to die.

“You must be doing this on purpose,” you say, dismayed.

He blinks at you over the rim of his coffee cup. “Doing what?”

You gesture helplessly, at his naked chest and effortlessly rumpled bedhead. “Just—being all—”

He glances down at himself, then back at you, raising an eyebrow. “Being all…?”

“Just—sexy, I guess,” you finally admit.

For a moment, he looks surprised. Then an amused smile spreads slowly over his face and he takes a step towards you, clever eyes taking in how your body straightens and your breath picks up.

“I didn’t realize it bothered you,” he says. “Didn’t you say you were going to move out, anyway?”

“I am,” you say. “I can’t stand you anymore.”

He takes another step closer.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I could give you a reason to stay.”

You slump against the counter at your back, helplessly wanting him.

“Please,” you tell him.

He touches you carefully, one hand skimming your hip and the other on your arm. He cocks his head, looking skeptical.

“You really think I’m sexy?” he asks.

You nod miserably. “It’s torture.”

He laughs and you are desperately endeared by the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the hint of a dimple peeking out under his beard.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and he leans in, and the touch of his lips to yours makes you feel like you’re floating, like your body might drift up to the sky if not for his sturdy frame anchoring you in place. Like your legs might give out, sending you sliding to the floor, except that he’s pressing close enough now that his body is touching yours, bending you back just enough to easily reach, and his hand has crept up from your arm to wrap around the back of your neck, holding you securely even as he finally pulls his mouth away, leaving you breathless and dazed.

You think you understand the overwrought prose of Deandra’s romances now.

“I can’t stand you either,” he says quietly. “You were torturing me the other night, with all the dirty talk from that book and then making me go to your room. Christ.”

“Sorry,” you say, not really meaning it. You’ve never felt this intoxicated this early in the morning. You’ve never looked into his eyes this close up. They’re a rich, deep brown that you feel halfway hypnotized by.

He glances away and must spot the microwave clock, because he pulls away with a look of regret. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Take a sick day,” you suggest.

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says. “But what would you do if I did?

You take a deep breath. Your eyes drop to his waist, and you touch your fingertips gingerly to the soft skin on display there. You lift your gaze to meet his own.

“I’d ask you to take me to bed,” you tell him.

He forces himself to leave. You watch his fingers clenching as he turns away, closing around the empty air as though he wishes it was you.

You go to your own room on unsteady legs and finish getting ready for work, thinking of Frankie’s mouth for your entire commute and almost missing your exit as a result. This time, opening Roderick and Isabella’s romance is a whole new kind of torture, and you end up claiming a headache by 3 o’clock to go home early, not caring if your boss can see through the lie.

Getting home early means you have plenty of time to shower and shave and moisturize with intent this time instead of your regular lazy girl morning routine. You’re soft and smooth and clean, in the kitchen making a snack of crackers and cheese to distract your anticipatory nerves, when Frankie comes home.

He gives you a small, familiar smile and sets a grocery bag on the counter between the two of you.

“You pick which comes first,” he says, nodding to the bag. He steals a cracker off your plate while you peer inside.

He’s brought you two pints of Ben & Jerry’s and one box of condoms.

“All the essentials,” you observe, and he grins. You pluck the condoms out of the bag and hand them to him meaningfully. His smile turns a little sly and he leans in and kisses you, too briefly for your liking, before pulling away again.

“I have to take a quick shower,” he says. “Wait for me?”

You let out a sigh, turning to put away the ice cream. “Don’t take too long,” you joke, gesturing to the pints. “I’ve got two other men waiting for me.”

“Ha, ha,” he says, already halfway down the hall.

Out of the shower, he comes to you with damp hair curling softly around his head, dressed simply in a navy t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, and looking so good you think you might combust. After a moment of flirtation—your room or mine?—you finally find yourself in his bedroom. He leans in to kiss you and he takes his time this time, cupping your face in his large hand, teasing gently at your mouth, sliding his tongue along yours to deepen the kiss. When he pulls away to trace his lips down your jawline, you take a breath to steady yourself—and then squint in confusion. There’s a familiar scent in his hair.

“Is that—did you use my shampoo?”

He goes still for a moment, caught, and then laughs.

“Mine ran out,” he admits, a little sheepishly. He pulls in closer, nosing at your neck. “Yours is nicer, anyway. I always like how it smells on you.”

“We can share,” you say generously. “I’ve never been one of those roommates who labels all their shit.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth hot against your collarbone. “‘Cause I also ate your leftovers.”

You make a sound of exasperation and he tackles you to the bed, promising apologetically that he’ll make it up to you. And then proceeds to do so.

Very thoroughly.

You awaken to find a note on the pillow next to you, in Frankie’s familiar printed handwriting: Going to pick up Baby M. See you soon.

You give yourself a minute to luxuriate in his bed, enjoying the calm, satiated feeling in your body, and the warm scent of him in the sheets, and then you straighten up his bedding and scurry back to your own room to get dressed before he arrives home with his daughter. You’re just pulling your shirt over your head when you hear their voices in the living room, and you go out to greet them. He’s juggling a Starbucks tray in one hand along with his keys and her travel bag. She’s munching contentedly on a snack and doing her part by carrying her favorite stuffed seal plushie.

Over her head, he shoots you a warm, intimate smile. You feel a giddy thrill bubble up in your chest and you grin back at him.

“We made a coffee run,” he says, nodding to the drinks. “Someone wanted a cake pop.” The toddler tips her face up to offer a beatific, icing-smudged smile. Frankie sets her bag on the couch and leads the three of you into the kitchen.

“That one is yours,” he tells you, pointing to one of the cups. Then, to her, “You want some real breakfast, mija?”

You look at the label on the drink and your jaw drops in surprise. “How did you know London Fogs are my favorite?”

He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, but you catch a self-satisfied smile on his face as he turns away. “I notice things.”

He keeps a platonic distance while his daughter is in the kitchen but when she leaves to go put her stuffed animal away in her room, he pulls closer, nudging your hand with his. “You alright?” he murmurs.

You rub your thumb across his knuckles. “I’m really, really good.”

“I convince you not to move out?” he asks. You pretend to think about it.

“Almost. I think you could tip the balance if you make me some eggs.”

He clicks his tongue in affirmation. “Got it.”

Later, when the three of you have settled at the breakfast table with piles of fluffy scrambled eggs and buttered toast, his face changes like he’s just remembered something.

“Hey, how did that book end up, with Roderick and what’s-her-name?” he asks you, taking a sip of his coffee. “You never mentioned it after Monday night.”

You haven’t actually made it to the end yet, but you already know the answer.

“They lived happily ever after,” you tell him. “It’s a staple of the genre. The couple always has a happy ending.”

“Huh,” he says. He gives you a small, private smile, and taps his foot against yours, out of sight under the table. “That’s good to hear.”

#pedrostoriesgift22 #pedrostories #my fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal #triple frontier #francisco morales

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 6 months

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WIBTA if I asked someone to stop bringing their dog to a community group where dogs are allowed?

I, 32F, am in a crochet group that meets weekly to chat and work on our projects. I'm not technically in charge of the group (no one is) but I have been a member longest.

Recently, two people have been coming to our sessions and there's a situation of competing needs:

Gloria, 70sF, has a small dog who has been a "service dog in training" for about 5 years. He's a small spaniel type dog who is very vocal and whines a lot, and also barks if she ignores him for too long. He isn't wearing a vest at these events, he's just being a dog. Gloria says she can't leave the dog at home with her husband who has parkinsons because he can't take care of him if something goes wrong.

Laura, 40s F, has recently been bringing her daughter Hope, 14F. Hope has down syndrome and has been homeschooled since covid because she has immune issues. Hope really seems to enjoy hanging out with us and loom knitting, but she's afraid of the dog. If he barks she gets very upset and needs to put on her noise canceling headphones and calm down outside the room. Recently Laura let me know that Hope asked to not come if Gayle and the dog were going to be there, even though she'll miss me and the other members of the group.

I'd like to ask Gayle to stop bringing the dog, since he's not actually a registered service animal, but I'm worried I would be the asshole bc she would have to arrange for either her husband or a neighbor to watch him while she is out of the house. On the other hand, I don't think Hope should miss out on one of the few in-person socializing events she can do because of an animal.

Additional info ppl may ask for: we have all known each other for years before this group even existed, but none of us are related except Laura and Hope. Animals are allowed in the space that we meet in. Gayle's husband is currently at the stage of parkinsons in which he can't drive, but is able to walk, feed himself, operate most of the appliances and technology in his home, etc. (I'm not a doctor, or smart at this stuff) He's a nice guy, I think he's just anxious about being home alone.

WIBTA if I asked Gayle to leave the dog at home?

🧶for search

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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magnetictapedatastorage · 1 month

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full article under the cut

Big CITY

She Took a Picture of the Man Who Attacked Her. It Didn’t Matter.

In an age of widespread surveillance, why was a police lineup, a method known to be unreliable, treated as the gold standard?

The assumption that humans are the most dependable witnesses to traumatic events contradicts decades of social science research. Credit...Spencer Platt/Getty Images

By Ginia Bellafante

Ginia Bellafante writes the Big City column, a weekly commentary on the politics, culture and life of New York City.

Feb. 2, 2024

Last year, on a cool September afternoon around 2 o’clock, a friend who lives in my building was walking to the post office in Downtown Brooklyn when she was attacked by a stranger. She had been on the phone when she vaguely noticed someone in her periphery. Suddenly he was right in front of her, mimicking her movements as she tried to step away. Assuming the position of a linebacker, he tackled her to the ground, leaving her at the curb with various injuries.

He walked away, but before long he turned around and came back. By this point my friend, Laura, a slight artist in her 50s (who asked that I not use her full name because she continues to feel vulnerable) was safely inside the closest building. From behind a glass door, she was able to take a picture of the man with her cellphone. And there was other visual evidence: A nearby security camera had recorded the attack, footage of which my friend eventually watched in the company of detectives at the 84th Precinct.

The incident struck me not only because it happened in the middle of the day, to someone I know and care about, in what is considered a very safe part of Brooklyn, but also because of what followed procedurally and what it revealed about the still dubious place of technology in modern law enforcement.

On Oct. 23, five weeks after the attack that left Laura with bruises to her lower back, a chipped tooth and scrapes on her elbow and forearm, she was called in to the precinct house to identify a suspect. There were no actual people in the lineup; instead, she faced a presentation of eight pictures of different men who, she said, looked unnervingly similar.

“The idea that I might wrongfully accuse someone weighed on me,” she told me later. Although she could quickly eliminate five of the eight, she found it hard to distinguish among the remaining three — each of whom had a point at the top of his cranium, she noticed, and eyes that were cast downward.

She made a selection. Then, detectives told her that her assailant was No. 5; she had chosen the wrong man. She hadn’t registered any details about her attacker’s appearance during the incident itself, but she had looked at the picture she had taken. He seemed to be in his 20s or early 30s, and was wearing patched jeans, white sneakers and a black parka. He had a vacant gaze, a small, distinctive bump over his right eyebrow and a tiny scar over his left. If you looked closely, you could see a cigarette clutched in his left hand.

Detectives told her that despite the photographic and video evidence, her mistake would prevent them from taking anyone into custody. When I asked sources at the New York Police Department to explain why victim identification, known to be so unreliable, would trump visual imaging — which, in this instance, included a high-resolution iPhone photo taken immediately after the attack — a spokesman responded with an email that said: Detectives “work closely with District Attorney’s Offices to build the best possible prosecution,” which includes “taking several investigative steps” to “effectuate an arrest.”

In other words, no matter the clarity of the imaging, the human determination remained the gold standard, and in the absence of an accurate one, the case was considered too weak to move toward conviction.

This implicit understanding of living creatures as the most dependable witnesses to traumatic events contradicts decades of social science research. According to a report by the Innocence Project, titled “Re-evaluating Lineups: Why Witnesses Make Mistakes and How to Reduce the Chance of Misidentification,” empirical and peer-reviewed research “reaffirms what DNA exonerations have proven to be true: Human memory is fallible.” For all the downsides of living amid ever-present 21st-century surveillance, one benefit would presumably be the capacity to correct for exactly these errors of human observation.

Memory formation exists in three phases: encoding, storage and retrieval. “When someone is in a moment of stress — when someone has attacked them — that stress impacts both the encoding and storage functions,” Alexis Hoag-Fordjour, a criminal-law professor at Brooklyn Law School, explained. There is a frustrating lag, she said, between developments in technology, pathology, social science and science in general and what happens in the law.

There is not a uniform approach to using pictures and security camera footage when making decisions in criminal cases. “The irony,” Alex Vitale, a sociologist who has studied policing for 30 years, said, is that if Laura had died, the police “would have been perfectly happy” to arrest the suspect “in the absence of a positive eyewitness ID.”

Some lawyers, like Julie Rendelman, formerly the deputy bureau chief of the homicide division at the Brooklyn district attorney’s office, maintain that mistaken identifications should not necessarily prevent prosecution from moving forward, or, as she explained, “that the level of crime should be relevant to bringing the case.”

What happened to Laura was psychologically disruptive above all. The release of her assailant is the sort of outcome bound to enrage those who see New York as an increasingly dangerous place where law and order have been subjugated to the ostensible virtues of progressive reform. But it would also gnaw at progressives who view inadequate attention to the psychological well-being of homeless and other marginalized people as the problem animating our sense of unrest.

Detectives asked if she wanted to press charges, and she did — so that the man who attacked her, she reasoned, could get help.

Lincoln Restler, the City Council member who represents the area where the attack took place, said that the decision to prosecute an assault like this one “should be made by the D.A.’s office every single time,” adding: “If that case is taken up, then the courts, a judge, could refer the alleged assailant to treatment services, even housing,” assuming that is what is needed.

As Mr. Vitale suggested, “It is not as though we don’t know who these people are who are responsible for these quality-of-life problems.” The challenge, as he put it, is that “we don’t know what to do about them.”

Ginia Bellafante has served as a reporter, critic and, since 2011, as the Big City columnist. She began her career at The Times as a fashion critic, and has also been a television critic. She previously worked at Time magazine. More about Ginia Bellafante

A version of this article appears in print on Feb. 4, 2024, Section MB, Page 3 of the New York edition with the headline: An Attack and a Tale of Law and Disorder. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

#nyt

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megaboy335 · 3 months

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Soaring Sky Precure and All Stars F Thoughts

The end of January is always a bittersweet time to be a Precure fan as the currently airing series comes to a close and the next series begins the following week at the first of February. I have been watching Precure on a weekly basis for 6 years ever since Hugtto in 2018 and I watched the entire backlog of episodes over roughly 2 years. I wanted to write a post about why All Stars F and Soaring Sky Precure were the perfect anniversary projects. The staple of any Precure milestone year is a new All Stars movie. They used to be yearly until there were simply too many characters to sustain the purpose of the format so now its saved for special occasions. I'll start by saying All Stars F was phenomenal! The action has never looked better and unlike Memories, it was almost completely in 2D. It's hard to miss when they distill the franchise into its purest form of magical girls beating monsters. The main point I want to focus on is the film's antagonist Cure Supreme.

(note the fake logo, Supreme is merely going through the motions) They are an unworldly existence who completely destroyed all the cures. Kind of like an end of series boss character. Yet on a whim Supreme wanted to learn more about where a Precure's strength comes from such as why did they try so hard. Supreme recreated earth, gave themselves a mascot, a ton of monsters to defeat including a boss figure, all to essentially live as the main character of a Precure series. It's a very cynical way of looking at the franchise with its repeatable formula. She sees all the parts as simply something they have. In the climax of the film Supreme is faced with Precure being more than the sum of its parts. They see the hardships, trials, moments of happiness, and the moments of sadness that have occurred in the history of the franchise. A Precure is someone who puts their best foot forward and looks to make a better tomorrow regardless of any obstacles. By splitting part of their power into a mascot and trying to imitate being a cure, Supreme has already taken the first step of their redemption story. In the end, All Stars F uses Supreme to show the audience why Precure is such a long lasting franchise. It might be a repeatable formula, it might appear silly, but ultimately what defines a Precure is someone giving it all their to improve themselves. That is something that can resonate and inspires an audience of all ages which even Supreme is not immune from. The film concludes with Supreme and they're mascot Puka realizing that perhaps together there is more to life when they share experiences.

(Manatsu grinning with happiness as her first encounter with Laura replays before their eyes. You can feel how proud she is of having a friend like Laura. It completely changed the trajectory of her life for the better) If All Stars F is a refresher of Precure's overarching themes, then Soaring Sky Precure is a throwback to the duo dynamic of the early days with a theme of Heroes. We have the central duo of Sora and Mashiro. Sora is an outsider and the team lead. She befriends Mashiro, the human character, who is a kind person who doesn't always have the best self confidence. Together they teach other how to exert themselves more. Both Mashiro and Sora come to learn how acts of kindness come in many forms. Similarly, Tsubasa (first male cure, aspiring knight) and Ageha (adult, nursery school teacher) form a secondary duo. They're mostly stuck in supporting roles for most of the series, but both show anyone can embody the qualities of a Precure in their life. Super heroes don't always wear fleshly capes after all. Elle is a somewhat of a throwback to Luminous as a supernatural entity in the group. She's mostly the insert character for Precure's young target demographic. By becoming Cure Noble it adds to the idea of people in supporting roles being heroes in their own right. Even if they are fallen nobility. Precure's don't let their past define them. This brings us to the main antagonist Kaiserin. If Sora finds positivity from those around her, then Kaiserin is her foil as someone who has a pure heart but became tainted by negative surrounding circumstances. Kaiserin had been told over and over that strength is everything. These ideals were forced upon her through fabricated events. At the climax with Kaiserin wavering, the dark power went into Sky because surely a hero with strong convictions would desire the ultimate power at all costs to save a friend. But turns out Sora's bond with Mashiro is even stronger than that. Power for powers sake can only go so far and Mashiro never stopped believing in Sora. They both push each other to new heights that senseless strength could never obtain. Kasarin sees this and rejects the power. Giving in to those desires has only stunted her ability to cultivate relationships. She can now get a second chance with her loyal followers now seeking to redeem themselves as well.

The franchise began as "Futari wa Precure" (We are Precure) for a reason. It's about how people can connect and push each other. Whether its someone from another world and a human on earth, an alien being destructive powers, or.... a dog and her pet owner? Sometimes the larger group dynamic and gimmick is more important in modern precures, but going back to those roots from Futari wa Precure every once in awhile is a good reminder of how it runs through every installment to this day. Tldr - I'm thinking way to hard about a children's television series whose main goal is selling toys. We're lucky it consistently has such strong character writing. I really like when the lead can shout their dream at every turn and grows to embody that ideal. We got spoiled by having a full 50 episode series this year. The power of 4 cour is amazing. Late night anime could only dream of having that much time.

#Precure #Mega's Words

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quackquackcey · 1 year

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How Stiles Almost Became a Fitness Diet Nutritionist

Fic written for @sterekweekly’s prompt ‘bacon’. Rated E, 2.8k words. Tags: pining, fluff, smut, & bacon lol. Read on AO3.

Summary:

Stiles somehow lands a date with the ripped, hot guy from the gym that he’s been crushing on for months by praising bacon, but accidentally digs a hole he can’t get out of in the process. Can he keep up the lie or will it all fall apart?~ 🥓🐷

“Why don’t you just ask him out?”

Stiles smacked Scott’s shoulder. “Keep your voice down!” he hissed. “What if he hears you? I can’t just go up to him! I’m just a random stranger; he’d be so creeped.”

“Stiles, he’s literally on the other side of the gym.” Scott huffed out a laugh as he put down his weights. “Besides, you drool over him so much he’s probably long noticed you. Just say hi and that you’ve seen him around, and ask if he’d want to go out on a date with you.”

“I don’t watch him that much!”

Except he did, and he knew it—he even changed his weekly grocery shopping from Mondays to Fridays because he noticed Derek at the store a few times when picking up ice cream on movie night Fridays.

He wasn’t a stalker.

He wasn’t. It was just the grocery store, and it wasn’t like he followed Derek around.

He just…peeked over sometimes.

That was it.

It was hardly his fault that Derek was practically a walking god.

So he continued living his life sneaking glances at Derek sometimes, until one Friday when he saw Derek shopping at the grocery store with a dark-haired woman. Usually, he’d jump to conclusions and assume she was his girlfriend, but they looked similar and bickered as siblings did—(no, relief did not fill Stiles’ chest at that realization).

Currently, the woman was berating Derek for only putting meat and a plethora of bacon in the shopping cart, which Stiles had noticed seemed to be Derek’s favorite food item by far.

Stiles pushed his cart beside them to get himself some bacon, too—what did he need bacon for again?—and then took a step towards the eggs section when—

“Hey, tell my brother that this is not healthy!”

Stiles looked around, but no one was there.

A beat of silence.

He pointed at himself. “Me?”

“Look at all this bacon!” the woman forged on as Derek stood there pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you think this is healthy? Derek won’t listen to me!”

Stiles just sort of stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “U-Uh, well, uh, maybe some, er…variety could be good…?”

It only took him at least a minute to say that garbage line, and he wanted to dig a hole.

The woman nodded approvingly. “See? He agrees!”

Stiles thought that’d be the end of his first not-really-a-conversation-but-maybe-it-counted-indirectly with Derek, but then the woman introduced herself as Laura and Derek as, well, Derek.

Stiles nearly tripped saying his own name.

“Yeah, I’ve seen you at the gym,” said Derek with a casual, blinding smile that rendered Stiles speechless now that he was on the receiving end of it. “We work out on the same days, I think.”

Stiles acted like he had no idea. “Oh, really? Huh. Small world.”

Small world, his ass.

And then Derek laughed, and Stiles’ brain simultaneously short-circuited from the heavenly sound and spiraled, because why was Derek laughing? Was he laughing because he thought Stiles was funny?

Or was it because he knew Stiles was full of shit and had been subtly and discreetly staring stealing glances at him at the gym for who knew how long now?

Whichever one it was, Stiles didn’t have the time to parse it out, because Laura started telling Derek that eating different types of bacon wasn’t any nutritionally better than eating one type of bacon, and Stiles, being the fountain of random knowledge no one gave a shit about that he was, opened his big mouth to defend Derek’s cartful of bacon and proceeded to spiel about how regular cured bacon had 30% protein and 70% fat per serving while back bacon had 65% protein and turkey bacon had 53% protein, so actually, Derek’s selection of bacon did make sense to an extent, and—

“Oh my god, are you a fitness nut, too?” asked Laura. She squinted at him. “No, wait, are you studying nutrition? I have a friend who’s studying that and they spout off random facts all the time when they’re preparing for exams.”

And that was when it all started going wrong.

Continue on AO3!

#sterekweeklybacon #sterek #sterek fic #sterekweekly #sterek fanfic #sterek fanfiction #sterek is eternal #derek x stiles #derek/stiles #derek hale #stiles stilinski

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bixbiboom · 1 year

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The weekly schedule is out!

✨ Tuesday, February 7th, 7pm PST: The third watch party for the second season of The Legend of Vox Machina streams on Twitch, featuring Laura, Ashley, Taliesin, Sam, Travis, Mica Burton, Troy Baker, Young Heller and Arthur Loftis.

✨ Thursday, February 9th, 4pm PST: The final three episodes of Season 2 of The Legend of Vox Machina drop on Prime Video.

✨ Thursday, February 9th, 7pm PST: Campaign 3, Episode 48 of Critical Role streams on Twitch and YouTube.

Check out the details »HERE«!

#travis willingham #marisha ray #sam riegel #critical role #cr schedule

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invisible-storyteller · 1 year

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Derek felt defeated as he reached for the phone. Dialling his number was a weekly routine that carried no less shame and feeling of incompetence than the first time around, but it was a necessary and (still) inevitable measure to be taken.

Derek didn't want to blame himself. He had tried everything on the list, including giving Eli his favourite snacks, sitting with him to watch his comfort TV show, taking him outside to get a breath of fresh air and play in the woods in hope of finding solace, and eventually, pulling out every trick there was to make his restless son fall asleep. None of it worked. Eli was back to crying or throwing tantrums within the span of ten minutes and the worst part was that Derek knew the real reason behind his son's moody behaviour.

Nowadays, nothing could give Derek the kind of relief that the sound of a familiar engine on his driveway did.

"Thank you for coming over."

The sentence was out of Derek's mouth before the man could even close the front door behind him.

"Of course, you know how much I love spending time with Eli," The sheriff smiled brightly, even though Derek had just called him out of work and the bags under his eyes had to be at least three days old. "Speaking of which, where is my little wolf?"

"Here, here!" Eli ran towards them with outstretched arms, the sheriff groaning softly as he lifted the kid and settled Eli on his hip. "Can we play hide and seek, Shiff?"

"We can if you promise not to wander off this time."

Derek winced. Eli still had to learn that not everyone could find him by smell and among all his supernatural relatives, the sheriff was an amazing teacher of the human perspective.

"Kay," Eli nodded, then rubbed his nose into the sheriff's neck to scent him. Derek's heart clenched at the display as always - still a bit surprised by how fast Eli had accepted the sheriff into their little pack.

"We'll go outside for a while. You go lie down, son." Sheriff Stilinski said, his tone resembling the firmness of a command. Derek didn't mind, though, he just gave the man a grateful nod as the pair exited the house and Derek was left alone with his thoughts for the first time that day.

He soon found himself collapsing onto his bed with ears perked to listen to the first chime of laughter from Eli. He wished he could do the same, but his body didn't want to move from his position of staring up at the ceiling blankly and Derek had to close his eyes to remember the words his therapist had been parroting for weeks, all in preparation for this day.

Let yourself feel it.

He wasn't sure how to go about doing that exactly but he figured that his old methods were as good as any. It actually took less time than he had thought to dig out his father's old leather jacket, and even spraying the room with Laura's old perfume was an easy task. It was like he was checking things off of his mental list, functioning completely on autopilot against what his therapist had suggested but at least he was getting somewhere. The next step was a phone call to Cora - you're not the only one suffering, Derek, remember that - and her chatter about pack business in Colombia was able to temporarily numb Derek's mind, even if he hung up rather quickly as soon as his sister had muttered the words 'I forgive you, you know'. Talking to Peter afterwards was even harder, but thankfully, his uncle didn't appear to be in the mood to reminisce about fond childhood memories or anything regarding the past, really. Derek did promise, though (not without heaving a heavy sigh), that he'd join his uncle on a morning run through the preserve, and that had a bit of Peter's usual smugness seeping into his voice which was still better than the hollow comfort neither of them could draw from each other.

After an hour of listening to his mother's favourite songs, Derek emerged to the sight of Eli already sound asleep and tucked into bed. The sun was setting below the horizon where the sheriff was standing at the front entrance, quietly putting on his jacket.

"Thank you." Derek wished he could say more than that.

"You know I gave you my number for a reason." The sheriff's mouth curled into a kind smile. "You just give me a call, kid, and I'll be here. Anytime."

Derek didn't know why, but he felt something crack. Maybe it was the illusion he had been chasing all day, but the older man could clearly see it on his face.

"Oh, Derek," The sheriff sighed, beckoning him with a hand, "Come here."

Derek barely noticed himself walking closer to the sheriff, and when the older man put his arms around him, he unconsciously mirrored the movement.

"I'm here." The sheriff whispered despite his obvious discomfort, and the only thing Derek could do was hold on for dear life.

And for a moment, Derek could imagine that those hands belonged to his father.

"Shhh," The sheriff gave a small rub to Derek's back and the werewolf wondered just how many times the other man had to do the exact same thing for his son. "It's okay. I got you, son."

Derek couldn't stop it. His tears started falling for the first time that day - maybe even years - and the sheriff just stood there, embracing Derek's shaking form and making him feel safer than ever since Laura's death. The sheriff waited for Derek to pull back, even if Derek himself was unsure of just how much time had passed with him silently sobbing into the older man's uniform. When Derek eventually stepped back, the sheriff's hand stayed heavily on his shoulder.

"I meant it," He said, and finally, Derek was able to return the other man's smile.

They parted ways with a nod and Derek watched the police cruiser drive away before turning off all the lights inside the house and opening the door to his son's room. He slipped under Eli's blanket without rousing the small 'wolf and let his son cuddle up to him on instinct, pulling Eli closer to his chest and letting his eyelids fall shut.

Anniversaries were always hard, but now Derek had a pack to get him through them.

#teen wolf drabble #derek hale #sheriff stilinski #eli stilinski hale #hale family

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fazcinatingblog · 1 year

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"no person is more important than profits" can't believe my boss won an oscar. terrible stuff

#laura watches the weekly

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levyscripts · 2 months

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Happy Nine Years to Critical Role!

I unfortunately didn’t start then. I have only been here for two years. I did watch Bells Hells first episode when it aired but I struggled on watching it on my small laptop. I was given the go ahead a week before their 7th anniversary that I could have the tv weekly.

I had watched Vox Machina season 1 by then and was hooked. By March 2022 I was writing fic. It brought me joy to write Vax and Gilmote fics (yes I know what happens) i spoiled myself so I could prepare myself emotionally.

Because I fell in love with these characters, the players, and Matt. Most of them are voices of my childhood. Who remembers staying up late in 2002 to watch Naruto on Toonami or 2004 to watch Full Metal Alchemist? Remember watching Yu-Gi-Oh! Saturday mornings? Watching Recess?

Not only that but characters I loved. Gaara, Roy Mustang, Lust, Tristan (first 20 episodes), and Gretchen. Matt has been practically so much I have watched or played. So yes, I loved Nerdy Voice Actors.

I’m currently watching campaign 1 slowly. Knowing my heart is going to be ripped out in the end. Yes, Vax is my fav. This past February I got a D20 tat with two small feathers, one black outline (Vax) and the other black outline filled in with blue (Vex). I am a dice goblin even before this but seeing Laura with her dice hoard. She is the dice queen.

I was lucky last September to meet some of them at RCCC. It was such a stressful day. It was my second con ever. I have adhd and anxiety. Crowds is a big problem for me and I can’t go alone. My mom was nice enough to go with me but it only afforded me one day. She was kind enough to take a day off work.

I was stressed, nervous, and scared Because 3 out of 4 were on my dream list to meet since childhood. I was able to meet Taliesin, Liam, Laura, and Travis. My four favs!!!

Taliesin was first and he was so kind. I gave him some of the d20 stickers I designed. I don’t know if he used them but it was nice of him to tell me he just got a new bottle and had to decorate it. It made me feel good even with how scared/nervous I was to talk.

Liam I was tongue tied. I was only able to say Vax is my favorite and gave him the stickers. He thanked me but he was kind.

Laura was a sweetheart l. I was also getting a signature for my friend. He paid for it and I got it while there. She was so kind. She talked to me even though I didn’t say much. The thanked me for my stickers.

Finally I got to my final autograph, Travis. I did end up getting a selfie and I regret not doing the others because that day seems like a blur because of my stress. But travis was so kind. I told him I had been a fan since FMA 2003. He told me I was an OG fan and shook my hand in thanks. I gave him my sticker pack for him.

They all were smiles and they made my stress worth it. Because when I’m having bad days I think of CR, read fic, go look at fan art or watch episodes. Because they have created these stories and characters that inspire many of is. They give us an escape in this crazy, difficult world.

So thank you to Critical Role. You have done so much for my mental health. I hope to meet all of you again! I know there is not enough words to fully say to say how thankful I am. I just wish i got into it since the beginning.

Thank you!!!!

#critical role

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likeadevils · 2 months

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She wrote enchanted while she was with Taylor lautner?

i mean debatably? i’ve made a bunch of jokes about how similar 2009 was to 2016– we’ve got kanye drama, we’ve got taylor getting ready to move out of her parents and we’ve got taylor getting ready to move to london, and we’ve got three men trying to date taylor at the same time

my guess is in september, her and taylor lautner were still in the friend stage, or at least very early dating with no commitments. i don’t think she and taylor lautner were never exclusive, because she also starts dating john mayer in the middle of dating taylor lautner, and when taylor lautner tried to make it exclusive in december she broke up with him

if you want to make up your own opinion, here are the parts of that whole saga that have been made public:

March 1, 2009: John Mayer tweets "Waking up to this song idea that won't leave my head. 3 days straight now. That means it's good enough to finish. It's called Half of My Heart and I want to sing it with Taylor Swift. She would make a killer Stevie Nicks in contrast to my Tom Petty of a song."

There’s a brief flirtation with Lucas Til in April, but that fizzles out in the span of two weeks, so I’m not going to go into detail

May 22, 2009: John Mayer is a guest on The Fearless Tour and preforms "White Horse" and "Your Body Is A Wonderland"

May 23, 2009: John Mayer tweets “I couldn’t get Taylor Swift on my record so I found the world’s greatest impersonator, Laura Jacksheimer.” alongside a photo of Taylor

July 30, 2009: Taylor and Taylor Lautner are photographed filming Valentine's day and Taylor tweets "Spent all day with the other Taylor. Lots of laughing, lots of confusion over which one was actually being called to set.."

September 8, 2009: Taylor tweets "Watching the video for "Fireflies" by @owlcity over and over again." I assume he responded asking if she was going to be at one of his shows, because a few minutes later she tweeted "@owlcity If I was in town, I'd be there! Front row, super-fan style."

September 13, 2009: Taylor and Taylor Lautner hug at the VMA awards

September 15, 2009: Taylor says kissing Taylor Lautner in Valentine's day was "life-changing.” That night, Taylor attends an Owl City concert in New York and writes "Enchanted" on the way home

October 10 & 11, 2009: Taylor Lautner attends the Fearless Tour in Chicago and Taylor hugs him while she walks through the crowd

October 25, 2009: Taylor picks Taylor Lautner up from the airport, attends a hockey game in with him, and they both go back to the same hotel (where Taylor is staying with Andrea)

October 28, 2009: Taylor Lautner tags along while Taylor goes shopping with Andrea. Later that night they have a date at a steakhouse and the famous car photos are taken

October 29, 2009: Ellen asks Taylor if she and Taylor Lautner are dating, to which Taylor giggles

November 7, 2009: Taylor is on SNL and mentions dating Taylor Lautner in her monologue

November 17, 2009: Half of My Heart, Taylor's collaboration with John Mayer, is released

December 3, 2009: Taylor and Taylor Lautner have an fro-yo date in Los Angeles

December 6, 2009: Taylor posts on Myspace that she's in the studio, likely recording Ours, which she wrote "when [she] was about to turn 20. [she] was in a relationship [she] knew people wouldn't approve of, and it was just a matter of time before everyone found out."

December 8, 2009: Taylor and John Mayer are photographed at the launch of VEVO

December 11, 2009: Taylor and John Mayer perform Half of My Heart together

December 12, 2009: Taylor Lautner hosts SNL and mentions Taylor in his monologue

December 13, 2009: Taylor Lautner reportedly surprises Taylor by showing up to her 20th birthday party

December 14, 2009: Taylor and Taylor Lautner have breakfast together in Nashville

December 29, 2009: Us Weekly announces Taylor and Taylor Lautner have broken up, with the source stating "There was no chemistry," "He liked her more than she liked him," and "He went everywhere he could to see her, but she didn't travel much to see him," before concluding "They plan to stay friends."

#asks*#i’m on my lunch break at work rn so no links

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nytb · 1 year

Text

White Never Suited You

Click Here first <3

Nostalgia was never this sour. Y/N's arrival in Germany came at a cost - her short lived love story left behind in Ibiza - everything was bound to change.

The cold breeze that gazed Y/N's skin, the empty apartment she once shared with Laura, all the memories started to kick in. This time, the memories tasted sour; feelings of sadness and anger burning deep in her stomach. The heartache shifted - it was no longer just about Barcelona.

Behind the scenes, preseason hit the Catalonian hard. Her physical state was out of this world, but her focus - nonexistent.

The lack of commitment Y/N showed wasn't well perceived by the German club, they had put their ass on the line for her; now she had to deliver.

Doubting Y/N's professionalism backfired quickly - the Germans lifted their first trophy after beating Arsenal in their preseason tournament. A victory that was taken as a symbol of how Eintracht Frankfurt, they were ready to compete for big things; European trophies.

What they failed to see? Her quick trips to the land of the sun - Y/N took every opportunity to see her Catalan love.

For the most part, said trips didn't affect Y/N's performances. Eintracht Frankfurt was second in the German league, top of their group in the Champions league. The best part? Y/N was the top goalscorer in both competitions and her best friend - Laura Freigang - followed suit, topping the assists she delivered game after game.

Y/N was ruling the world - in an Eintracht Frankfurt shirt - something that a while back was implausible.

Quickly enough, cracks started to show as the Catalonians relationship created its own foundation - it soon crumbled. The fear of commitment hidden in Alexia's eyes; who would have thought that such heartbreak would follow.

The daily FaceTime calls became weekly check ins. Their night time rituals were nonexistent. The constant holiday planning out the window. Having a tight schedule might have been a good excuse - but not for Y/N - the Catalan star was adamant in keeping her relationship, their break up was inconceivable.

Missing Alexia lead Y/N to Barcelona; an impromptu trip, an unannounced one.

Showing up to the Ciutat Deportiva an hour after training ended, Alexia was surely still there - the woman always put an extra shift in.

Seeing her practice free kicks, going on solo runs towards goal, Alexia was in her element. The sparkle in her eyes, Y/N was smitten once again.

"Didn't see you there" Alexia approached her lover "Gimmie 10, I'll get cleaned up" Little did she remember, Y/N loved Alexia in all states, sweat included. Quietly, she made her way into the locker room, following Alexia, making sure nobody else was on site.

The sight of her body, all the curves shining, her hair wet and loose. Y/N was turned on - who wouldn't be - drenching herself in water, Alexia's shower no longer mattered. Now, it was just them, standing together, holding each other.

Magical moments followed, even Alexia's fear of commitment wasn't enough to stop her - the love they felt for each other was undeniable.

A connection people would die for. A relationship that was soft and rough at the same time. Calm with it's own storms. Caring and forgiving. A relationship people dreamed of.

Interrupting the fun - Patri walked in before Y/N's hunger for Alexia could be soothed. "Sorry Sorry" the midfielder excused herself "Wait, Y/N?" now she was confused.

Y/N's old teammates knew that Alexia had something going on, but they were sure that this Catalan love story had ended back in Ibiza. They might have been inseparable during their holiday, but Alexia was never a fan of long distance relationships and everyone knew that.

Not wanting to put salt in the wound, they stopped talking to Y/N - Imagine your exes friends reaching out 24/7, not fun huh? - so they didn't. They kept their distance, watching from afar. They imagined that Y/N's heart would be torn to pieces, but that moment - it was unexplainable.

"Who else would it be?" Y/N laughed, oblivious of the situation. Behind her, Alexia looked at Patri with pleading eyes, hoping that her teammate wouldn't blab, wouldn't sell her out - and a loyal soldier she stayed, betraying Y/N in the process - laughing at Y/N's question, diffusing the situation.

Not thinking much of it, their evening plans continued. A romantic dinner in Y/N's favorite restaurant. Luckily for Alexia, she hadn't stepped foot in that place with her new side piece.

Talking of a possible future, Y/N filled Alexia in; Fc Barcelona were moving to sign her once the season ended. The lack of a clinical winger showed and Y/N was the perfect fit.

Not sure of Alexia's feelings on the matter, Y/N inquired "I don't get it? Aren't you happy that I might be back soon?" a possibility that months ago, Alexia would have died to hear, but now: it sounded like a nightmare.

"I am, I..I didn't expect it" she answered, showing uncertainty, she still tried to hide it "I guess white never suited you" she laughed it off.

Playing the whole thing down, dinner went as planned. Making out in the uber on their way to Alexia's place, time hadn't stopped for them.

Alexia had ran to the bathroom to freshen up, but Y/N; she made her way to the bedroom and what she saw was unforgivable.

Alexia's side piece laying there, wearing lingerie, posing with rose petals around her. It was Y/N's nightmare. A woman she once described as the love of her life - betraying her - in the worse way possible.

In the other room, Alexia wasn't aware of the situation, a surprise for both parties; a parting gift from Patri. She was the only one that knew of Alexia's side piece surprise, yet she kept it secret. Betraying Y/N had a limit and Alexia reached it. Patri couldn't - wouldn't - allow her captains betrayal to go any further.

Running out of the apartment, quietly, Y/N made her way to Patri's apartment. She couldn't see the full picture, but surely - her friend turned sister - would be in her corner. Little did Y/N know, Patri showed no surprise when she broke the news to the midfielder.

Feeling betrayed from all angles, Y/N was out for revenge. What minutes before felt like heartache turned to anger and who better to relieve it than Mapi.

Alexia's best friend, a person that Y/N found attractive from the moment she laid eyes on her. Leon was the only person that made Alexia feel insecure when it came to the Catalonians relationship - the only person that could break them.

That night, anger won. Y/N's hunger for revenge, biting down on the defenders shoulders as Leon pleased the Catalonian to no end. Leaving scars behind that only Alexia would recognize, scars that Y/N had once left on her body.

Revenge was sweet, until the sun came up.

In Mapis bedroom, the defender didn't question her luck. She had lusted over Y/N since she met the Catalonian - who wouldn't.

Quietly putting her clothes back on, Y/N didn't realize that the defender was awake. Was it regret that she felt? Maybe.

Y/N was unreachable, whatever the defender had tried in the past had failed - and as usual - the defender was quick to put 1 and 1 together.

This unbelievable night was only revenge to Y/N. Mapi's dream was only a means to an end for the Frankfurt star; hurt Alexia in any way possible.

#woso imagines #woso imagine #woso fic #woso fanfics #woso #fc barcelona femeni woso #fc barcelona x reader #fc barcelona imagine #fc barcelona woso #fc barcelona femeni #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas imagine #mapi leon woso #mapi leon x reader #mapi leon imagine

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m0ther-of-p3arl · 11 months

Text

not nearly enough

(robert aeor high au p10)

masterpost

ITS BEEN TOO LONG- ok ok ok yEEEEeeEeEe im excited to post this one :000 ITS PART 10 GUYS OMG WE HIT THE DOUBLE DIGITS also 40,000 words in total in the entirety of the fic so YEYY

Before Jim came to town, Scott was… well, not fine, exactly- but he was laying low, he was safe, in a sense. He was biding his time until he could leave, until he could get out of the hellhole of a town he still lives in. He had a plan, and Jimmy interrupted that in the worst- oh, who is he kidding- best way possible.

or, its been SIX MONTHS time skip jumpscare HAHHAHAHAHA

TW: anxiety, depression, self-hatred, MAGICAL FLASHBACKS, references to past abuse, etc etc the usual

(5141 words)

And so the months pass, months of sleeping uncomfortably in Jimmy’s bed, months of trying to stay calm when he has flashbacks in the middle of the night, months of staying inside as much as he can for fear that he’ll see Father at the park or the grocery store or anywhere, really. John and Laura bought him a new phone, so at least he can still communicate with the people he relies on.

The others, Joel and Shelby and Owen, were irate when they heard that Scott was now living with Jimmy and Beks, or more so, the reason why: Scott can still remember Shubble shrieking “WHAT?!” when he told her the news, so loud he’d actually heard ringing in his ears- after the initial shock, she kept ranting for about twenty minutes straight about abusive parents and neglectfulness and yada yada yada, stuff Scott’s heard a million times before.

Owen, to contrast, stayed very quiet, the anger simmering right below his voice, just enough so that Scott could hear the hints of it, the bits of raw emotion his best friend couldn’t quite keep hidden. Joel had literally stormed over to Jimmy’s house and started yelling at everyone and everything, including Scott, Beky and her parents, and Jimmy- three different reactions from three different people, all displaying their personalities really well.

But for the most part, it’s been good living with John and Laura; they let him skip school when he needs to, John is an excellent cook (it’s so nice not having to eat peanut butter jelly sandwiches anymore) and Laura makes the second-best tea Scott’s ever drunk (first is Jimmy’s, of course.) His favorite part of his current arrangement, however, is his evening “Jimmy time,” as he’s come to think of it- every evening, he and Jimmy go down to the TV room and watch a movie, play a video game they’re both trash at, or video call Shelby and Joel.

Looking back from where he is now, it’s kind of unclear to Scott where and when Jimmy time started, but he knows it’s been going on since at least a week after he moved in. At first, he’d worried that Jimmy didn’t enjoy spending that much time with him, but the avian’s never complained and so Scott has grown accustomed to this little routine, he’s grown to enjoy the three or four hours they’ll spend together every night.

But on the more negative side of the cucumber, things are not going well with Owen. He’s drifted further and further away from the center of their group, and especially since he lives so close to Scott’s old house, they haven’t had any time to hang out just the two of them. He’s tried to text Owen a bit, but things have grown strained between him, not the easy-going friendship Scott’s so accustomed to, the friendship he relies on. Something’s shifted, and though he can’t put a finger on exactly what, he’s pretty sure it has to do with Jimmy.

Why does absolutely everything in Scott’s life always boil back down to Jimmy?

He’s still running his morning jog on the weekends, though he’s changed his route significantly so it doesn’t go anywhere near his old neighborhood, as just the possibility of seeing his father, or even the mansion, make Scott feel like he’s going to throw up. But other than this little weekly routine, Scott doesn’t spend much time outside at all.

His days are now spent in solitude, watching YouTube on his phone in Jimmy’s room or simply laying on the bed, getting lost in his anxiety and self-hatred. Often, Jimmy, Shelby, or Joel will try to invite him on an outing, but he declines every time, brushing away their worried glances and hushed comments. Most of the time, Scott is alone. And he has to admit, he kind of likes it that way.

If he’s alone, he doesn’t have to focus on the stresses of small-talk and human interaction, he doesn’t have to pretend to smile behind a curtain of self-doubt, he doesn’t have to act like he’s getting better, the way everyone expects him to. Because he’s not getting better. It’s been six months, six months, since he moved in with Jimmy- he’s almost eighteen, and Jimmy’s finally seventeen, another half of a year has gone by but nothing’s changed; he just can’t shake the beast that roils within him, the dark, biting cloud that gnaws at him from the inside out.

Jimmy’s great and all, Scott really appreciates all he’s done for him, but the simple fact of the matter is that Scott’s basically in love with the avian, and Jimmy decidedly does not reciprocate his feelings, meaning that there’s always some sort of catch when they’re hanging out. Scott can’t let himself go all the way, can’t make the same sort of raucous jokes he can with Owen, there’s always this slight weird formality between them. Not anything noticeable from an outside standpoint, but Scott sees it, and he knows Jimmy does too. It tends to make things… more difficult than necessary

He misses his best friend. Scott misses Owen, more than he’s ever missed anyone in his life. He misses the way they used to laugh at the park, he misses when they would climb trees to get away from Owen’s multitude of little sisters, he misses every fleeting moment he and his best friend have ever shared. And as much as he loves Jimmy, the avian can’t give him back the simple, platonic moments that have made up some of the best parts of his life.

Memories are a strange thing, Scott supposes as he sits alone on the bed, because though you always wish you could go back and change things, you can’t. There is no possibility, there is no feasible way that Scott could ever change the way things have worked out. But sometimes, when he’s sat alone with nothing to do, feeling the safety in boredom, he finds himself wondering what he would change if he could.

Usually, he tells himself he would’ve chosen to choose his words more carefully that fateful night when everything changed forever, he would’ve skirted around the issues and just been a good little boy. Sometimes he thinks that he wouldn’t have kissed Jimmy, sometimes, when he’s feeling really terrible, he tells himself he would’ve just made it so he doesn’t exist.

But at times like this, when he’s alone and sane and completely transparent with himself, he knows that what he would’ve changed is the fact that he even met Jimmy in the first place. And yeah, he knows it sounds weird and ungrateful but it’s true- as much as he loves and cares about the avian, Jimmy’s basically the godfather of all Scott’s struggles.

Everything’s kind of gone downhill since he met Jimmy, but he’s enjoyed almost every second of the fall, and that, right there, is a problem. Scott’s addicted to the change, he’s addicted to the presence and light the avian brings to his life, but he’s also completely drawn in by the hurt that seems to follow Jimmy like a dark haze, bringing nothing but grief to those he comes to know.

He wryly recalls, all those months ago, mentioning to Joel how canaries are harbingers of death- but that was never the whole proverb, was it? No. If Scott remembers his mother’s stories well enough, it was “canary call, first to fall.” Mother would always speak of how Scott should never trust a canary; how they were nothing but trouble no matter what, even if it wasn’t intentional. And he supposes she’s been proven right, but also…

He doesn’t know. He just- something about him just can’t let Jimmy go. Something about the avian is just so… easy. Or it was. Before the concussion, before…

He can’t think about that. Every time it crosses his mind, their supposed kiss, Scott’s mouth goes dry and his cheeks flush, he’ll just find himself blushing at random points in the day whenever something reminds him. He wishes… he kind of wishes he could remember it. He wishes he hadn’t forgotten, he wishes Jimmy would like him, he just can't stop wishing-

Scott just can’t stop thinking about how things could have been, the way they could have gone if only the slightest things had happened differently, but it hasn’t, it hasn’t it hasn’t it hasn’t and Scott’s starting to panic-

The door to the room creaks open, snapping Scott out of his thoughts. Speak of the devil. It’s Jimmy, and as much as Scott hates it, his whole face lights up at the avian’s presence. “Hey,” Jimmy greets, dumping his backpack on the bed. “How’s it going? I brought your homework, by the way.”

Scott tries to smile, tries to pretend he hasn’t just been thinking about all the things he wished were different, tries to pretend his brain hasn’t just been riddled with thoughts of the boy now stood in front of him. “Hey,” Scott replies, mimicking Jimmy’s nonchalant tone, just the sight of the canary stood in front of him as panic-inducing as ever, his heart beating faster than a rabbit’s. “How’d school go?”

“It was alright,” Jimmy mutters, flopping down onto the bed and spreading his limbs every which way, leaving Scott to look down at him, pulling his knees to his chest to make sure he’s not sitting on Jim’s feathers. “ELA was a beast, though- I don’t envy you having to do that homework with no context.”

Scott groans, tilting back his head to look up at the ceiling, bracing himself up with his hands behind him. “Would you help me?”

“Obviously,” Jimmy scoffs, maneuvering into a sitting position, his hand brushing momentarily against Scott’s before he wraps his arms around his knees. The warmth lingers on his frigid skin, as it always does whenever he and Jimmy touch. “But do you wanna go get food first? I’m famished, and knowing you, you’ve probably kept yourself locked up in this little room all day.” It’s true; Scott doesn’t think he’s left the bedroom at all today, except for maybe once or twice to use the bathroom or take a shower.

“Ha, fair enough,” Scott concedes, pushing himself up off the bed and following Jimmy through the door. As they trundle down the stairs, Scott can’t help but recall the first time he came to this house- how Jimmy had stood upon these very stairs, resplendent and practically glowing in his light green dress. Scott remembers how his biggest worry that day had simply been things ending up awkward between him and Jim. Little had he known that later that very same day, he would literally be evicted from his own home.

He tries not to think about the part where he literally kissed the boy he was hoping not to be embarrassing around.

They enter the kitchen, John’s favorite place in the whole house; purple and green and yellow and so many other colors adorn the walls in alternating stripes, the cabinets painted with the complement of the walls around them. Jimmy’s citrusy scent mixes into the cinnamon and cilantro of the kitchen as he pulls open the door to the fridge, pausing as he surveys the contents.

“What do you wanna eat?” Jimmy asks, turning back towards Scott.

“Um, I don’t really know.” Scott can’t remember the last time he’s felt genuinely hungry, but he does know that if he doesn’t eat he will starve regardless of what it feels like. So every night he gulps down a quick meal, and that’s all he’ll eat for a day unless he and Jimmy are having popcorn with a movie. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, I guess.”

The canary nods, used to this response by now, and pulls out a can of chicken tikka masala left over from the last time they’d ordered Indian food. “Shall I pop this in the microwave?”

“That’d actually be great, thank you,” Scott agrees. “I think some CTM might actually hit the spod right now. By the way, where’s Bek?” He hasn’t seen her yet, which is strange- Beks is usually right up in everyone’s face, yelling for attention.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you? She’s gone over to Krow’s for a sleepover.” Jimmy doesn’t look back at him as he mixes the masala with rice, separates it into two bowls, and pops them both into the microwave.

Scott laughs, propping himself up on the island with his hands. “But doesn’t Bek always come home angry at Krow from those sleepovers because it’ll use its siren song to get her to tell it all her secrets?”

Jimmy lets out a tinkling snicker. “Well, yeah, but El’s going to be there as well, so I’m hoping that she’ll act as some sort of peace-maker. She’s, like, the only one Krow’ll ever listen to. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

They stand there in silence for a couple minutes, the air tinged with more awkwardness than Scott cares to admit, especially for someone he’s lived six months with. He can tell almost instinctively that they’re both thinking about the kiss, Jimmy probably replaying the actual memory over in his mind while Scott sees the approximation he’s managed to piece together. He can practically see Jim’s disgusted face, shocked eyebrows and an angry furrow to his forehead- a thick feeling of shame wells in the pits of Scott’s stomach, and it’s not the first time.

Scott’s been thinking about it for months, and yet he still can’t believe that, delirious as he was, he actually kissed Jimmy. The typical version of him could never work up the courage to do that- not in a million, billion, trillion years. Scott could count all the stars in the sky before he would try to kiss Jim.

“So! What do you wanna do tonight?” Jimmy asks, reaching up on his tiptoes to pull the food out of the microwave.

“Um, I was thinking we could watch a Disney movie? One of the newer ones, maybe Big Hero 6, Soul, or Luca?” Scott suggests, running a hand backwards through his snakes.

“Soul and Luca are Pixar, silly.” Jimmy laughs, and just like every time his high, chirping bird-like snicker escapes his mouth, Scott feels like he’s soaring above the clouds, and he can’t help but remember how much easier it was when he was still in denial about his love for the canary. But then the laughter is cut off abruptly and a look of panic crosses over Jimmy’s face. With shaking hands, he sets the bowls down on the counter, and Scott can tell that if he’d been holding them for a moment longer, they would have been dropped.

Scott’s there in an instant, working his way around the island to Jimmy’s side. He cautiously places a hand on the avian’s shoulder. “You good?” Scott asks, surveying Jimmy’s face with concern.

“Y-yeah, I think I’m-”

Suddenly Scott’s somewhere else, a playroom full of toys much too young for someone his age, the windows and doors barred from the outside, simple, almost blindingly white walls pressing in imposingly on all sides. There are two people peering through the iron bars at a canary avian sat in the middle of the room, one a salmon Seafolk and the other an axolotl, like Lizzie, Joel’s crush.

“Which one is it?” A biting voice comes from the axolotl, not something Scott would expect from such a typically peaceful species- but his voice is directed unmistakably towards the canary in the middle of the room.

“Oh! Hi, Patty, do you have guests?” The avian speaks before the salmon, presumably Patty, can respond, and as they step eagerly towards the door, Scott catches a glimpse of their face.

His face is about five years younger, fuller and hair less scruffy, a voice somehow even higher than the one he currently possesses, but Scott knows him.

It’s Jimmy.

“What can you tell me about Chicago? I’ve heard about Chicago,” the younger version of the boy Scott’s come to love asks, wrapping his hands around the bars of the door and staring with excitement up at the disgusted axolotl, who recoils from the canary, a sneer wrapping around his features.

“Shut up, kid,” Patty hisses, before regaining her composure and turning to the salmon. “Ahem, Mr Barnaby, that is… Jimmy, he’s a canary avian whom I found on my many travels throughout the globe.”

“Why’s it asking so many questions? Aren’t they all supposed to be tame?”

“Oh, haha.” Patty laughs; a small, fake giggle that grinds into Scott’s teeth and sets his skin on edge. “Jimmy’s always been a curious little bird.”

And then Scott’s back, back to the kitchen, reeling from the whiplash he’s just experienced. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s staring right into the same exact avian’s eyes, but 5 years older. For a moment, neither of them speak, thousands of words communicated in simple eye contact. Scott never used to be able to look anyone in the eyes, and for most people, he still can’t- but Jimmy’s a rare exception.

“D-did you-” Jim breaks the silence, looking shaken beyond words, his skin ashen as he tries clearly to hold back his tears.

“I saw it, yeah,” Scott says, taking Jim’s hand in both of his own before he can think about it too much. Selfish, selfish, selfish. “What was that? How did we both see- okay, the how isn’t important right now, we can talk about that later. I just need to know if you’re okay- I remember you told me about a Patty once, but I didn’t think- I never expected-” Scott’s at a loss for words, because whatever he’s just witnessed is so- so despicable-

She hurt Jimmy. She hurt him and no one’s allowed to hurt Jim, he’s too sweet and kind and he always puts others before himself, he laughs at the stupidest jokes and is undeniably the most genuinely kind person Scott thinks he’s ever met. He begins to feel a rage building in the back of his throat, because who would- what kind of monster- who could ever find it in themselves to hate Jim?

Jimmy’s struggles and the way he’s dealt with them put what Scott’s been through to shame, and he can feel the guilt beginning to gnaw up at him from the insides biting and churning. Here he is, sitting alone and feeling sorry for himself, when Jimmy was held fucking prisoner, a hostage in a cell, by a person he professed to trust, maybe even saw as a mother figure?

“No, it-it’s fine, I left, I got out of there, she doesn’t matter anymore,” Jimmy mutters, wrapping his free arm around himself but not removing his hand from Scott’s grasp. “I’m fine. I just don’t- I just don’t think about it, very much. That bit you saw, when she said-” he takes a deep breath, as if the next thing he’s saying takes a lot of power to conjure up- “when she said, ‘Jimmy’s always been a curious little b-bird,’ she used to say that a lot, and it’s-” his words all come out in a rush now, and Scott knows the feeling- Jimmy’s just trying to rush all his emotions out before they consume him too much.

“It’s kind of ingrained in my memory,” he continues, looking down at the floor and gripping Scott’s hand so tight he thinks it might fall off. “I don’t know why, but she- her voice- it’s in my head, it won’t g-go away, it’s been a year and a half and now just at the most random intervals I’ll just hear- her- saying that thing and it’s so stupid because I didn’t even have it that bad, it’s not even the worst thing she would say, not by a long shot, b-but it felt- it feels-” Jimmy swallows, angrily swiping the tears from his eyes.

“I ran away. I left. I shouldn't even be thinking of her, of that place, anymore but I can’t shake the feeling- and sometimes when I’m sleeping, I have d-dreams, it feels like I’m there, again, and she’s showing me to people through the window as if I’m some sort of exotic specimen, and I’m not, I’m just- just me- simple, stupid, trusting Jimmy- and there’s nothing special about me it’s just pure luck that it’s me she found. It’s m-my fault.”

Scott feels his mouth tighten and he wraps his free arm around Jim, the avian letting out a small, startled gasp before sinking into the hug, shaking from the memory while Scott shakes from rage. They stand like that for a long time, Scott not quite trusting himself to speak.

“I. Will. Murder. Her.” The words growl out of his mouth before he can stop them, glaring protectively over Jimmy’s shoulder, trying hard not to clench up and hurt the canary.

Jimmy looks up at him, surprised, moving his head from where it had been pressed to Scott’s chest. “W-what- but it was-”

“It was not your fault,” Scott says, anticipating Jim’s question and intercepting it before Jimmy can blink twice. “Where and when did she find you? Were you fucking kidnapped?” Scott can tell that he probably looks very scary right now, and he can feel his skin freezing up, see the frost beginning to creep over his shades.

“I- I was- well, from what she said, it was back when I was still an egg, back from wherever I came from. The way she told it, she found me, or, my egg, I guess, in a nest in a tree when she was on a hike in Borneo. She always s-said it was the smallest egg in the nest. Do you know what that implies? I have siblings, Scott. I have brothers and sisters and-” he has to stop talking for a minute, and Scott holds him closer, as if just by wrapping the avian in his arms, he could solve all Jimmy’s problems. “She said my parents were away, so she nabbed me out and took me for her own. She said she saved me.”

Scott is infuriated. He is beyond anger, he is beyond hatred, he is the pure embodiment of rage. He wants to murder this woman, he wants to mince her up into a pie and serve her to the sharks. “She did nothing of the sort. Any even half-decent person would know not to take an egg from an avian’s nest- your parents were probably foraging, do you even know your true name?!”

Jimmy looks up at him, surprised. “How do you know about true names? But yeah, I know. It’s kind of- well. I mean I’m not going to tell you what it is, at least not right now, sorry. But an avian’s true name- we just kind of know that instinctively, ever since we’re little.”

“Okay, good,” Scott says, though it’s just a small modicum of relief when compared to the magma that’s begun to flow through his veins instead of blood. “I know about the name thing because we did a unit on avians in Species Studies early last year, you know, before you came.” Jimmy mouths silent “oh,” and then Scott realizes how tight he’s been holding the avian and how he’s probably very uncomfortable with this and-

He quickly releases Jimmy, pushing away from the canary quickly and slightly forcefully, hoping Jim doesn’t take offense. With a muttered “sorry,” from both of them, the awkwardness is back, and Scott almost curses. Every part of his body where Jimmy’s been now feels cold, even colder than usual, as if even his body is protesting the lack of the one he loves.

“So, movie,” Jimmy says, breaking the silence and turning back to the tea, hiding his face from Scott and obviously trying very hard to act like the whole memory thing hasn’t happened. Without looking, Jimmy slides Scott his bowl of chicken tikka masala down the counter, and Scott very nearly misses it. Luckily, he catches the bowl at the last second, and saves them both from the disaster of being lectured about the importance that things stay clean in John’s kitchen. “Out of the things you said, I think I’d be down for Soul the most, though I kind of want to watch HSMTMTS? If that’s okay with you?”

Scott barks a dry laugh, not quite ready to return to normal himself. HSMTMTS, or High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, is Jimmy’s favorite show, a high school soap opera kind of scene full of stupidity. But Scott follows Beks’ parents’ logic: if Jimmy loves it, by extension, Scott does as well. Or, he pretends to for Jimmy’s sake. “Sure, why not? Where were we at?”

“Um, I think it was- gimme a second to think.” Scott nods, passively observing how to anyone else, Jimmy would seem absolutely fine right now, you could never guess in a million years that he’d just had a breakdown- but Scott knows Jimmy well enough that he can see the little details, a slight shaking of his hands, the way his eyes dart fearfully back and forth, the subtle extent to which he’s drawn in his wings to his back.

How does he do it? How does Jimmy pretend everything’s fine when it’s not, when it’s actually fucking terrible and has been for a long time, how on Earth does he do it? Jimmy seems to possess a certain strength of character Scott’s always been lacking in, a willingness to keep going that’s so strong it’s almost a fault. It’s one of the things Scott loves and admires the most about the canary.

But also- Scott’s been so caught up in what he’s seen that he hasn’t thought about how- he remembers it had happened once at the movie theater, all those months ago- he’d forgotten. They’d shared a memory. As far as he’s aware, it’s only happened the two times- and both with Jimmy’s memory, and he’s pretty sure no one else had seen them either time, so it’s almost certainly a thing that’s just between him and Jim.

He supposes it has to be his siren heritage, because if he’s being honest, there’s no way it’s Jimmy’s doing. Scott loves the avian and all, but there’s no way he would have magic powerful enough to do that.

He’s never thought he’s really gotten anything particularly siren-like from his mother, other than the cyan and ice (though ice isn’t really a siren trait, now that he thinks about it) so he’s never really felt like it’s very important for him to read up on sirens. He hasn’t learnt about them from school, either; they’ve never done a unit in Species Studies, and if he’s being honest he hasn’t really spent enough time with Mother to learn about siren things from her.

So all Scott knows are the obvious things: sirens can sing, they have gorgeous voices that hypnotize the listeners, blah blah blah. He’s never heard anything about seeing other people’s memories, but he supposes it really doesn’t seem too far fetched at this point.

“Oh! I remember,” Jimmy calls from his perch on the counter, shaking Scott out of his theorizing with a start. “We were at the part where Seb is singing at Carlos’ quinceanera.”

“Were we?” Scott honestly can’t remember, it’s Jimmy’s favorite show, but it sure as hell isn’t Scott’s- he can barely follow the plot, and because they only watch HSMTMTS about once a month (Scott doesn’t know if he could stand watching it more often), it’s even more difficult to remember.

“Yep,” Jimmy says, gesturing for Scott to grab his tea as he heads to the basement. Scott does so, holding his bowl of masala in one hand and balancing the warm mug in the other, carefully plodding down the steps into the TV room.

Jimmy’s already sat down on the cushy marshmallow couch, and Scott joins him, placing his dishes on the coffee table and making sure he’s at least a foot away from the canary. He doesn’t want to make Jimmy uncomfortable.

The show starts off about as normal, pretty meh, just as Scott remembers it. Doldrum lovesick lives of typical teenagers, and because it’s a Disney show, of course they sing out their sorrows. But Jimmy loves it so he always puts up with it, because he has to pay back the avian in some way from letting him stay in his literal house, right?

And then something unexpected happens: Scott finds himself being sucked into the show, actually interested in something that until now, he’s been completely bored about. He starts genuinely watching as Seb sings a song for his boyfriend, Carlos, and of course Scott had known they were dating before, it’s one of the main plot points, but this is different-

It feels real.

It feels like him. He imagines himself up there, in the back of that tractor with that piano, singing to Jimmy. And then the song’s over and Carlos walks up and-

They’re kissing.

Two characters, in a live-action Disney show, are kissing. Scott finds his eyes drifting not-so-subtly to Jimmy, and then their hands are touching and it’s so close, so feasible, so possible that Scott can feel it and something’s about to happen and their heads are moving closer closer closer to each other, so close that Jimmy reaches out and his hand brushes momentarily against Scott’s cheek and yes yes yes Scott wants this-

A door slams from upstairs and Bek’s voice rings through the house. “Jimmy! Where are you?”

And the spell is broken, Scott shakes off the lavender haze and the rose-colored glasses, muttering a shallow apology under his breath but Jimmy doesn’t seem to hear it, he simply stands and walks upstairs, wings drawn tightly to his back, without so much as a backward glance. Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Scott tries to call out for him, tries to make him understand, but his voice isn’t working and it’s too late, all he can do is watch with horrified eyes as Jimmy walks away, and now it’s all over and Scott’s broken everything for a second time. And so the tears boiling behind his eyes leak out, sharp and biting against his cold skin.

Ice-cold.

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