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chicgeekgirl89 · 3 years

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The House in the Pines Where the Road Ends

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Andrea Reyes, Gabriel Reyes, The Reyes Family

Rating: K

Summary: Four sisters. Nine nieces and nephews. Dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Carlos has a big, loud, over-the-top family, and T.K. is about to meet all of them at the annual Reyes Family Barbecue. It's a day that promises food, fun, and lots of nosy questions. All T.K. wants is to make a good impression and all Carlos wants is for his family not to scare off his boyfriend. When a stray baseball ruins the fun, both T.K. and Carlos will discover that neither of them ever needed to worry.

A/N: I am so happy to FINALLY introduce you to my version of the Reyes family. They have become a character all their own and I love them very dearly. Get ready to see and hear more about them in upcoming fics! I cannot say enough thank you's to @bluenet13 who has read this fic approximately a billion times in all its different stages, has beta'ed the heck out of it, and still wants to be friends with me.

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Sports Injury

Read on Ao3

“Wait, but are you sure this shirt is okay?” T.K. asked, twisting around in front of the mirror to look at it from every possible angle.

“Do you really think my family is going to decide whether or not they like you based on your shirt?” Carlos asked with a laugh.

“It’s their first impression of me,” T.K. said, fussing with the hemline, trying to get it to lay exactly right. “I just want it to be good.”

Carlos came up behind him, wrapping his arms around T.K.’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “They are going to love you.” He pressed a kiss to T.K.’s cheek.

T.K. turned in his arms so they were face to face, anxiety trickling through his veins. “I love you,” he said.

“I know,” Carlos told him. “I love you too.”

“Your family is important to you and I guess I can’t help feeling like…there’s a chance that if they don’t like me…”

“T.K…” Carlos sent him a look of fond exasperation.

“I know!” T.K. said quickly. “I know it’s ridiculous. But if they don’t like me, I don’t know where we go next.”

“I don’t think we need to borrow trouble like that,” Carlos said. “You already know my parents love you. And so do Elena and Elías.”

They’d had dinner at Carlos’ second eldest sister’s home a few weeks back. It had been fun to meet her and her husband along with their daughter, Carolina, and twins, Marco and Diego. Marco was rambunctious and spunky while Diego was more mild mannered and T.K. had enjoyed watching Carlos chase them around the backyard, playing baseball, tag, and wrestling.

But meeting one sister and her family was completely different from attending the annual Reyes Family Barbecue where there would be hundreds of aunts, uncles, and cousins to try and remember.

“Trust me,” Carlos said. “Elena will have spread the word and you’ll already have pre-approval before we even get there.”

“What if I call someone the wrong name?” T.K. asked. “I still think you should have written up a family tree like I asked you to.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “There’s no point. We’re adding to it like every day there are so many of us. You’ll never be able to remember. If you’re not sure just call them Gabriel or Valentina. There’s a forty percent chance you’ll be right.”

“This isn’t fair,” T.K. said, burying his face in Carlos’ shirt. “I have like, four family members. The playing field is so uneven I don’t even have a chance.”

Carlos kissed his forehead. “Just relax and enjoy the food. That’s all anyone expects of you.”

“I seriously doubt that,” T.K. grumbled.

“Listen, if anybody should be concerned in this situation, it’s me,” Carlos said.

“You?” T.K. raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“You just said, you come from a small family. My family is big and loud and all up in each other’s business. Francesca alone might be enough to make you run all the way back to New York.”

Carlos had talked before about his wild child fourth sister, Francesca. Apparently she was a force to be reckoned with and had caused quite a bit of trouble as a kid. According to Carlos every time he’d gotten in trouble, it had actually been Francesca’s fault. Well Francesca and Adriana, Carlos’ cousin who was more like a fifth sister. She and Francesca had been born within weeks of each other and been an inseparable duo ever since.

“New York is a pretty long way to run,” T.K. said. “And I’ve gotten kind of used to sleeping with you. I don’t really want to have to break in a new mattress. Oh, and for all I know you’ve gotten kind used to having my exercise bike in your dining room and I would have to buy a new one of those, plus moving costs are out of sight and I am on a civil servant’s salary here.”

Carlos kissed him again. “Come on. We’re already late and if we don’t get there soon then I will be in trouble.”

T.K. had already visited the Reyes family ranch a handful of times, but he had never seen it quite like this. Cars lined every inch of the drive up to the house, from pick-up trucks to mini-vans and everything in between. “Is this a family barbecue or a Lady Gaga concert?” T.K. asked as they got out of the car.

Carlos laughed and reached for his hand. “I told you.”

“Yeah I hoped maybe you were exaggerating a little bit,” T.K. said as they walked toward the driveway. As if he hadn’t been nervous already, now he felt overwhelmed. He was generally charming and good with people, but this was…a lot.

Carlos tensed. “Come this way,” he said, voice low as he tugged T.K. more to the side of the driveway, where a row of cars hid them from view of the house.

“What are we doing?” T.K. asked in confusion.

“We’re—”

“Carlitos don’t you even try! We see you over there!” a feminine voice called.

Carlos winced and looked at T.K. “I’m just going to say ahead of time that I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

Two women came around the line of cars, each of them holding a drink. “You weren’t trying to hide from us were you?” the taller of the two asked.

“No I was just trying to get T.K. inside without the third degree first,” Carlos said, giving each of them a pointed look.

“Carlitos we’re not going to give him the third degree,” the second woman said, her many earrings flashing in the sunlight. “We’re just going to try and prepare him for what he’s about to face.”

“You don’t need to prepare him,” Carlos said with a sigh of long suffering. “There’s nothing to prepare for.”

“Oh my god Carlos, you cannot just drag him in here without some proper preparation,” the first woman said, turning to look at T.K. “So, you’re the firefighter stripper, huh?”

T.K.’s eyes went wide and he looked to Carlos who had closed his eyes and was shaking his head. “For the last time, he’s a paramedic now and he has never been a stripper.” He opened his eyes and took a breath in a clear attempt to calm himself down. “T.K. I would like you to meet my sister Francesca.”

“His youngest older sister,” Francesca clarified looking T.K. up and down. “You’re hot enough to be a stripper.”

“And my cousin Adriana,” Carlos said loudly in an attempt to stop his sister’s comments.

“It’s nice to meet you both,” T.K. said with a smile, hoping to diffuse some of the awkwardness. “Carlos has told me a lot about you.”

“Is it about how we were always getting him in trouble when he was a kid? Because that’s a lie,” Adriana said.

“Total lie,” Francesca echoed. “So, how has it been, living in sin with my brother?”

“Oh my god Francesca can you just let us get through the door first?” Carlos cried.

She shook her head and grinned. “Nope. This is way more fun. Besides, Adriana got to know about him first, so I wanted to meet him before everyone else.”

“Did Carlos tell you not to tell Tía Maria you’re living together?” Adriana asked.

“Um, no, he didn’t mention that,” T.K. said, looking once again to his boyfriend.

“I didn’t really think it was necessary,” Carlos said.

“Tía Maria has strong religious opinions,” Francesca said.

“Oh is she not…” T.K. began to pull his hand from Carlos’ but his boyfriend held on firmly.

“Tía Maria is fine with the gay, she’s just not all right with fornication,” Adriana said with a grin, eyeing T.K. for his reaction.

“Oh my god, forget it, we’re going home,” Carlos said, trying to turn around, but Francesca grabbed his other arm.

“Nuh uh hermano,” she said sweetly. “Mom and Dad are expecting you. I already texted them and told them you’re here.”

“Wait hold on, I’m confused,” T.K. said, feeling slightly panicked as the conversation moved so quickly around him. “What do I need to know about Tía Maria?”

“Tía Maria is very against pre-marital sex,” Francesca said.

“In her mind we’re all pure, sweet, innocent little virgins, waiting to give up our virtue to our husbands on our wedding nights,” Adriana said, her face suggesting that she’d rather throw up than submit to that particular lifestyle. “Little does she know that ship has sailed.”

“Under the bleachers with Jake Thompson in the eleventh grade,” Francesca said.

“In Mike Kowalski’s backseat…”

“After prom with Sebastian Chavez…”

“Okay that’s enough of the sexcapades thank you,” Carlos said, looking disgusted.

“You didn’t think I needed to know this?” T.K. said looking at Carlos.

“I am not ashamed of us living together,” Carlos told him. “I don’t care if Tía Maria knows.”

“Ugh barf,” Francesca said. “God I wanted to be mad at you for caving and leaving us all alone at the singles table but you’re so grossly in love I don’t even want you there anymore.”

“Can we go in now?” Carlos asked. “Is this little interrogation over with?”

“Oh you can go in, but it’s far from over,” Adriana said, wrenching T.K.’s arm away from Carlos and tucking it into her own as she walked him toward the house. “So, T.K. What can we get you to drink? Beer? Margarita? Or are you a wine snob? You look like you could be a wine snob.”

“He’s from New York, they’re all wine snobs there,” Francesca said.

“T.K. doesn’t drink,” Carlos called from behind him. “You already know that.”

Adriana nodded. “Just checking. That’s cool. I did the sober thing for like six months once. My skin was so great.”

“Okay, I’m taking T.K. inside now,” Carlos said, rescuing his arm from Adriana’s grip. “You two can go back to wherever it is you came from. I’m going to guess…the gates of hell?”

“So rude Carlos,” Francesca said with a roll of her eyes.

“Come on Cesca, I need another margarita,” Adriana said, pulling her toward the back of the house.

“But I have more questions!”

“Questions later! Margarita now!”

They disappeared around the side of the house, leaving Carlos looking embarrassed and T.K. feeling like he’d just been through a whirlwind. “You can literally ignore everything about them,” Carlos said as he opened the door. “Just pretend they don’t exist. That’s what the rest of us do when they get like this.”

T.K. had a feeling neither Francesca nor Adriana liked to be ignored, but Andrea greeted them immediately as they walked inside, leaving him no opportunity for further questions or conversation. “T.K.! Carlitos! Welcome!”

There were a few other people milling around inside, but it seemed like most of the family was in the backyard. T.K. could hear music playing and the smell of barbecue wafted through the glass slider doors that led to the oversized back patio.

“Sorry we’re late Mama,” Carlos said, giving his mother a kiss on the cheek.

“It’s my fault,” T.K. said. “I had a shift and it ran over.”

“No apologies necessary,” Andrea said, waving a hand. “I understand the important work you boys do. I’m just sorry your dad couldn’t make it T.K.”

“He said to tell you hello and that he will be here for sure next time,” T.K. told her with a smile.

It had been a huge relief to find out that the party was scheduled while his dad was on shift. The last thing he needed was one more thing to give him anxiety about meeting Carlos’ family.

Andrea caught his face in both hands. “We are so glad you’re here T.K.” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Now, let’s get you something to drink. I’ve got lots of that fancy water you like.”

The back slider opened as Andrea pulled a water from the refrigerator for T.K. “Boys! Bienvenidos!” Gabriel boomed as he stepped inside, bringing the scent of barbecue with him.

“Gabriel close that door before the air conditioning gets out,” Andrea scolded.

“Of course mi amor,” he said. “I was just looking for another set of tongs. Daniel is going to help with the second grill.”

“They’re in the pantry,” Andrea said. “Where they always are.”

Gabriel paused to kiss her on the cheek. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve?” Carlos suggested with a cheeky smile as he grabbed a grape off the counter and popped it in his mouth.

Gabriel snorted. “Probably.”

“All right now you two, head on outside and join the party,” Andrea said. “You don’t want to be stuck in here with me.”

“Are you sure?’ Carlos asked. “We can stay and help.”

“No, no,” Andrea said quickly. “Gloria will be back in a minute. Go! Enjoy! Introduce T.K. to the family.” She lowered her voice. “But don’t tell Tía Maria that you live together. You know how she gets and I do not need another lecture on how I raised my children with loose morals.”

“Yes, for everyone’s sanity, please keep that to yourselves,” Gabriel said, reappearing with the tongs in hand. “No need for my sister to know that you are breaking the commandments.”

T.K. turned and looked at his boyfriend. “Everyone seems very concerned about this.”

Carlos shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Everyone is overreacting. Tía Maria isn’t that scary.” He kissed T.K. on the side of his head and grabbed his hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Besides, there are so many people here, we might not even see Tía Maria.”

They stepped out the door into the backyard. To the left was a play set that dozens of children were taking advantage of. To the right were several grills, all smoking away, the tables next to them already piled high with food and drink. And underneath sprawling oak trees dozens of picnic tables and lawn chairs had been set up, all of them full of people talking, laughing, and eating together.

“I knew you should have made that family tree for me,” T.K. said, starting to feel really nervous now as he saw exactly how many people had scattered across the backyard.

They made it about four feet before they were accosted by well meaning relatives. Cousins, aunts, uncles, everyone seemed to want to meet Carlos’ new boyfriend. T.K. smiled and nodded and tried in vain to remember everyone’s names. Carlos hadn’t been exaggerating, there were a lot of Gabriels and Valentinas.

“Ay, okay, leave the boys alone,” a woman finally said, interrupting the melée. She sported a longer version of Carlos’ curls and T.K. remembered her face from some of the family photos. “Shame on all of you, they haven’t even eaten anything.”

She turned a warm smile on them as the crowd dispersed and went back to their merriment. “Hola T.K. I’m Teresa.”

Carlos’ oldest sister. She and her husband Javier lived in San Diego with their four kids, Valentina, Eva, Gabriel, and Bianca. Their visit to town was the reason the barbecue had been scheduled for this particular weekend.

“Nice to meet you,” T.K. said, immediately feeling the same warmth and comfort radiate from her that he did from Carlos.

She turned and pulled her brother in for a hug, whispering something in his ear that made him laugh. “Come on. You can sit with us. I’ll fend off the nosy relatives,” she told them.

“Thank you,” Carlos said in relief. “I didn’t think it would be quite this bad.”

“You never do,” she said with a smile as she led them to the picnic table where her husband Javier was sitting with another couple that T.K. thought he recognized.

“T.K. this is my husband Javier. And have you met Lucía and Justin yet?” Teresa asked.

Ah, Lucía. Carlos’ third oldest sister. She and Justin lived with their kids in McKinney and had driven up for the weekend. They had been set to attend the dinner with Elena and Elías but one of the boys had ended up in a soccer championship so they’d had to cancel.

“So T.K. I hear you’re from New York? Nice to have another East Coaster join the party,” Justin said.

“Oh yeah, Carlos said you’re from Philly right?” T.K. asked.

“Born and bred,” Justin raised an eyebrow. “You don’t cheer for the Giants do you?”

T.K. smiled. “I’m more of a Mets fan actually. Football’s not really my thing.”

“Well that means I don’t have to hate you, but don’t say that too loud in Texas. Football is life here,” Justin told him.

“So I’ve noticed,” T.K. replied.

“Tío Carlos!” a gaggle of kids ran up to the table all of them clamoring for Carlos.

“Tío Carlos I got on my soccer team at school!”

“Can you come play baseball!”

“Did you know my tooth is falling out?”

“Is that your boyfriend?”

Everyone talked at once and Carlos seemed to take it in stride, giving hugs and ruffling hair, looking at loose teeth, and promising to come and play in a minute.

“Hey, all of you, adiós,” Elena said. “Leave Tío Carlos alone. He’ll play with you later.”

It took a few more admonishments from their parents, but eventually the children dispersed to different corners of the ranch. “We’re doing you a favor T.K.,” Lucía told him, rocking baby Nicolás back and forth. “Once Carlos goes with the children he doesn’t come back.”

“He’s their favorite uncle,” Justin explained.

“And for good reason,” Javier added. “His knees are young and spry.”

“You guys are exaggerating. The kids love everybody,” Carlos said with a roll of his eyes.

Teresa shook her head. “It’s okay to admit that you’re their favorite Carlos. You’ve earned the honor.” She looked at T.K. “Carlos is too modest.”

“So I’ve noticed,” T.K. said fondly and he could see Carlos blush a little bit.

“Okay that’s enough of that,” Carlos said. “We’ve been here half an hour and no one has offered me any food. What has happened to this family?”

The situation was fixed immediately and T.K. found himself with more food than one person could possibly hope to consume, sitting and listening to the Reyes siblings recount stories from their childhood.

T.K. felt the bench next to him shift and turned to find Francesca and Adriana joining them.

“Did Carlos tell you about the time he ran away from home?” Teresa asked.

Carlos groaned. “No, do we have to tell this story every time?”

“Yes, because it’s hilarious,” Elena said. “He was what, about six at the time?”

“I was sixteen so yes,” Teresa said. “Carlitos was mad because all of us sisters got to go to a movie and he didn’t. So he wrote a note saying he was running away and never coming back.”

“And then he disappeared for seven hours,” Lucía chimed in. “Mom was beside herself. They checked the entire house, called all his friends, she was sure he’d been eaten by a coyote.”

“Well I was the one who found him,” Teresa said with a smile. “Up in that tree,” she pointed several feet to the left, “crying because he’d climbed up too high and couldn’t get down.”

“We had to call the fire department to come and get him,” Francesca said with a smirk.

“And when they got him down, did he get in trouble?” Elena asked. “Nope. Because Mama was all—“

“My baby!” all four women chorused together.

“Carlitos never gets in trouble,” Adriana said. “Ever. All he has to do is bat his eyelashes at Tía Andrea and she starts talking about how innocent and sweet he is and how he could never start a fight or break a window…”

Carlos had put a hand to his forehead and looked like he was in physical pain. “Are you done now?” he asked.

“No way,” Lucía piped up. “We still have to tell T.K. about the time you drove the tractor into the pond.”

“The pedal was stuck!” Carlos cried.

“That’s what he says every time,” Francesca told T.K. “It’s a lie.”

Carlos burst forth in a tirade of Spanish, likely exonerating himself from the tractor-pond fiasco and all of the women immediately began to contradict him. T.K. wasn’t sure whether to smile or intervene as they all talked over each other. His high school level Spanish could only pick up the occasional word.

“This happens every time,” Elías said. “They’ll calm down in a minute.”

“A minute?” Javier said. “Forget a minute. We can all leave, they’ll be at it for at least half an hour now.”

Things really came to a head when Francesca stood, slammed her hands against the table, and shouted, “I did not put that goat in Lucí’s bed, that was Elena!”

“I watched you do it!” Carlos yelled back.

“Well then your brain is broken because that is not what happened!” Francesca said, pointing a finger at him.

The argument was broken up by the arrival of Andrea, followed closely by another woman T.K. didn’t recognize. “Girls! Ya basta! Qué esta pasando? Arguing in front of our guests, what is wrong with you?” she said, setting a large plate of taquitos in front of them.

“Disculpa Mama,” they all muttered, but T.K. caught Francesca giving Carlos the finger under the table and then she jumped a second later when he pinched her leg.

“Honestly,” she scoffed at them. “I am ashamed of all of you. T.K. I apologize on behalf of my daughters. I did not raise them to be like this.”

“See?” Lucía said with a roll of her eyes. “We’re all in trouble, but Carlitos is completely innocent.”

“Of course he’s innocent, he would never argue in front of guests,” Andrea said. “Did you all say hello to Tía Maria?”

“Hola Tía,” they all chorused.

“And Maria, this is T.K., Carlos’ boyfriend,” Andrea said with a smile.

T.K. felt himself stiffen under the intense gaze of Carlos’ infamous aunt. But he smiled and waved a hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. She turned and looked at Teresa and Javier. “Cuándo será la primera comunión de Marco y Diego?"

T.K. caught a glimpse of Francesca who smiled at him and raised her eyebrows in an “I told you so” kind of way.

“Later this summer,” Elena said smoothly. “We will send you an invitation of course.”

“They are a bit behind, no? Why the delay in this important milestone?”

“Tía, with Covid and everything it all just got pushed back. Don’t worry,” Elena told her.

“You’d better get a move on,” Adriana said. “We wouldn’t want them to miss out on all the blessings of the Lord.”

Tía Maria’s eyes narrowed as she picked up on Adriana’s sarcasm. “Is there something wrong with wanting my nephews to grow up properly in the church?”

“Of course not,” Andrea said quickly. “And they are Maria. Very good, pious little boys.”

T.K. saw the mischievous glint in Francesca’s eye as she opened her mouth. “So T.K., you live with your dad?”

Everyone at the table froze and turned to look daggers in her direction. “Ah Maria! The watermelon! We forgot it inside, come on,” Andrea said quickly, glaring at her daughter over her shoulder as she ushered Maria away.

“Cesca!” Teresa chastised as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I was just trying to take the pressure off of Elena,” Francesca said innocently, taking a sip of her mojito.

“You were trying to stir up trouble,” Lucía said as the baby began to fuss.

“Well someone has to keep things fun around here!”

“Mom! Mom! Mom!” Marco and Diego ran toward them, kicking up dirt as they skidded to a stop by the table and interrupted the conversation.

“Mom can I have another cookie?” Marco asked.

“I want a drink but Carolina said I can’t have a soda, but can I?” Diego asked.

“And Tía Teresa, Gabriel wants to know, can he get his Switch out of the car now, because he said you said he could get it later and now it’s later,” Marco spoke up on behalf of his cousin.

“Okay, hold on, everybody take a breath,” Teresa said.

The group momentarily broke up as everyone went to tend to their children’s needs and make sure they had eaten something besides cookies and chips.

“So, are you ready to run back to New York yet?” Carlos asked when they were the only two left at the table.

“I think I’m holding my own all right,” T.K. said. “You were right about Francesca though. She’s…something.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not that actually was her being on her better behavior. I swear you’d never know she was working on a masters in biochemistry.”

“She’s fun,” T.K. said. “And she and Adriana clearly have the most dirt on Carlitos.”

“Maybe we should leave now,” Carlos said with a groan. “They’ll keep at it as long as you’ll listen.”

“I like it,” T.K. said, taking a sip of his mineral water. “It’s fun seeing you like this. Baby brother Carlos is a whole new side of you.”

Carlos blushed a little bit. “The way they’d talk you’d think we were all still kids.”

“It’s sweet. They adore you.”

“I—”

Carlos was interrupted by Valentina, Teresa and Javier’s youngest, who came running over, crying so hard she was hiccuping instead of breathing. “Tío Carlos!”

“Valentina, qué pasó?” Carlos asked worriedly, gathering her into his arms and sitting her on his lap.

“Marco me dijo que no podía jugar pelota con él,” she sobbed, her little heart so clearly broken over her cousin’s refusal to let her play ball with him.

"Lo siento, Valen. That's not very nice." Carlos hugged her close and kissed her hair. "Pero no le hagas caso. What if we get you a cookie, will that help?”

She shook her head, lip stuck out in an adorable pout, fresh tears threatening to spill over.

“Two cookies?”

She held up three little fingers and Carlos opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Tres?! Ay Dios mío.” He shook his head. “Come with me, pero no le digas a mamá.”

He slid Valentina off his lap and offered her his hand, which she grabbed onto eagerly. He looked at T.K. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” T.K. said, watching them walk over to one of the tables.

Carlos pointed to several different options, Valentina shaking her head at each one until he found the kind of cookie she liked best.

T.K. felt a presence next to him and turned to find Francesca had returned. She had a strange look on her face. “You know he’s never brought anyone home before. Not like this.”

T.K.’s breath caught in his chest. “I didn’t know that.”

“He’s happy,” Francesca said. “Happier than I’ve seen him in a long time.” She turned and looked at him. “You make him happy.”

“I do my best,” T.K. said. “He makes me happy too.”

“Yeah.” She looked at her brother again, adding some fruit to Valentina’s plate. “He wants kids. You know that right?”

“I do,” T.K. said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re good with that?”

T.K. looked at his boyfriend who was tenderly wiping the last of the tears from Valentina’s cheeks. They had talked about it of course. A few times. In passing. He knew where Carlos stood. And he knew that he wasn’t sure what kind of dad he would be, but also that he would do anything to make Carlos happy; including facing his own fears about being a father. “He’ll be a great dad,” was his answer.

She squinted at him, then squared her shoulders. “I’m only going to say this once and if you ever tell anyone I will deny it and shove your balls so far up your ass you won’t know how to get them out again. Carlos is special. And I know you’re all city boy, New York, squeaky clean, firefighter paramedic, or whatever.”

“But if I hurt him you’ll kill me?” T.K. asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” she looked at him like he was crazy. “Teresa will. She’s like his second mom. She’ll take you down so fast you’ll never even see it coming.”

T.K. laughed. “I have no intention of ever breaking his heart. I promise.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s good.” She cocked her head the way Carlos did when he was about to say something he knew was funny. “You’re pretty great for a stripper.”

“Okay, one more time. Not that there is anything wrong with sex work, but I have never been, and have no intention of being, a stripper,” T.K. said firmly.

“That’s what they all say!” she tossed over her shoulder as she got to her feet and flounced away to find Adriana.

“What was my sister telling you?” Carlos asked as he returned, Valentina now seated happily with some other cousins at a kid sized picnic table. “Oh god, was she talking about the time I got arrested for skinny dipping in the lake because there is so much more to that story than the way she tells it.”

“No,” T.K. said, raising his eyebrows, “but now I want to hear the rest of that. No she was just…being a good big sister. You’re lucky to have so many people watching out for you.”

Carlos softened, his hand seeking T.K.’s. “And now I have you too.”

T.K. squeezed gently. “Yes, you do.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

All in all the day was going well. T.K. had handled every nosy question, every argument, every weird thing his sisters or relatives did with his usual charm and self-confidence. He fit in.

All Carlos had really wanted was for T.K. to like his family, but seeing them like him right back…it was doing strange things to his heart. He hadn’t known until this moment how much it meant to gain his family’s approval of his relationship. He’d convinced himself that he was fine either way, and he probably would have been. But seeing them all joke and talk and laugh together was beyond his wildest dreams. And it was making him think some pretty crazy things about the future.

They’d chatted some more with his siblings and a few other family members who’d stopped by the table. But now Lucía had gone to put the baby down for a nap, and Teresa and Elena had been pressed into kitchen duty with his mother, while the men of the group had been enticed inside by a game on TV. Which left only Adriana and Francesca at the table.

“So, T.K., now that the boring adults are gone, tell us everything,” Francesca said, a sneaky smile on her face.

“Ooh yes,” Adriana said, getting comfortable on the picnic bench. “Tell us all your dirty secrets T.K. You lived in New York so do you actually work for the mob? And how hard was it for you to learn to put gas in a car at such an advanced age?”

“Unfortunately no mob connections, although that probably pays better than firefighting or being a paramedic,” T.K. said with a laugh. “And the learning curve on driving was actually pretty quick. We have to fuel the engines, even in New York.”

“Well that’s boring,” Francesca said as she picked up a tamale. “Come on, you have to be more exciting than that. Any secret lovers you’re keeping back there on the side?”

“Cesca!” Carlos said sharply.

“I’m watching out for you!” Francesca cried. “I mean if you two have an open relationship or something that’s your business, but if he—”

“No,” T.K. said quickly. He looked at Carlos. “There’s no one in New York. Or anywhere else.”

Adriana and Francesca both wrinkled their noses, but Carlos hardly noticed, too busy looking at T.K. who was gazing at him with so much tenderness and love. He was taking it all in stride, the insanity, the prying. Questions that might have set him off a year or two ago he now brushed off like it was no big deal.

“Ugh, come on!” Adriana said. “There has to be something. You basically grew up on the set of Gossip Girl. You have to know at least one Kardashian or something.”

“Yes, how many private helicopter rides have there been?” Francesca asked eagerly. “Or penthouse ragers? You have to have been to a penthouse rager of someone famous!”

T.K. shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Adriana pouted. “So boring. Not one secret?”

“Oh, I have secrets,” T.K. said with a grin. He laced his hand through Carlos’. “But only Carlos gets to know them.”

“You play dirty, Strand,” Francesca told him with an approving smile.

Carlos had had enough. “Come on,” he said, pulling T.K. to his feet and away from the women without a backward glance or apology.

“Where are we going?” T.K. asked and Carlos wished the answer was a dark corner somewhere that he could kiss his boyfriend’s face off and show him how much he appreciated his efforts today. But that would not be happening anywhere on the premises. Francesca and Adriana could sniff out a couple having a quickie from a mile away. They’d caught Teresa and Javier in a Sunday School classroom during Elena and Elías’ wedding and had never let them forget it. Although Bianca had been born nine months later so apparently getting caught hadn’t been too much of a turn off. He definitely wasn’t risking it though.

He pulled T.K. over to the patio where the music had cranked up to an all time high now that his cousin Rafael had arrived and was playing DJ.

“Okay,” T.K. said, looking nervous all over again. “You know I can’t really dance right? That first night at the bar, that was all just to get in your pants, you know that right?”

“What?” Carlos feigned surprise and then rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. And considering that you managed to get into my pants about half an hour later, I’d say it worked pretty well.”

“Not the point Carlos.”

“I’ve seen you dance. You’re fine,” Carlos told him.

“Yes in the club!” T.K. told him, eyes wide as he took in the way some of Carlos’ relatives were dancing around them. “This is like something out of Grease! Did you all rehearse this before you got here?”

“Look, Justin’s dancing.” Carlos nodded to where Lucí had managed to get a moment free from her children and pulled her husband onto the impromptu dance floor.

“Justin’s been in your family for five years. He’s had practice.”

“You’re just going to follow my lead,” Carlos told him confidently as he pulled T.K. close. “Relax.”

“I can’t relax. Your Tía Maria looks like she’s about to come over here and remind us to leave room for the Holy Spirit,” T.K. hissed.

“Like I said earlier, I don’t care what Tía Maria thinks. I haven’t for a long time. I just want to dance with you.” He cocked his head and turned on his most charming smile, eyes pleading a little bit.

T.K. rolled his eyes and groaned. “You know I can’t say no to that face.”

“Exactly,” Carlos allowed himself a full on smirk.

He put one hand on T.K.’s shoulder, the other on his hip and gave a comforting little squeeze. “And now you just follow my lead.”

He took a half a step forward, slowly, not following the music at all, encouraging T.K. to step back with his opposite foot. They managed fine for about three beats until T.K. stepped wrong and they stumbled over one another’s feet. “Sorry,” he said, face going slightly pink. “I told you.”

“You’re tense,” Carlos said. “You can’t dance when you’re tense. Relax. It’s all in the hips.”

“I’m from New York. I barely have hips at all, let alone beautiful, sexy, latin caderas like yours.”

Carlos laughed and bumped up against T.K. with said caderas. “You like my caderas?”

“You know I love your hips and normally I wouldn’t complain about anything you do with them, but everyone is staring at us.”

“They are not.” Carlos took a quick glance around the area and found that indeed, many of his relatives were staring, and he could read wedding bells going off in their eyes. “Okay they are but that’s because they’re nosy, not because of your dancing. Don’t worry about them. Focus on me.”

“Just don’t blame me if I break your toes,” T.K. said nervously.

“I think I’ll survive,” Carlos told him. “I’ve never seen you like this before. I like it.”

“Like what?”

“Completely off your game,” Carlos told him. “You never approach anything with less than one hundred percent confidence and charm.”

“Well I only do things I’m one hundred percent confident in,” T.K. said. “That way I never have to look like I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Ahhh, now it all makes sense,” Carlos said with a laugh.

The music changed and Carlos shifted so that they were closer together, one hand entwined with T.K.’s, the other on his lower back. “So. Tell me the truth. How glad are you that your dad didn’t come today?”

T.K. laughed. “Oh god so glad. You know how he is. He and your sisters would have spent the entire day trying to one up each other on embarrassing stories about us. And he might have won.”

“Oh I doubt that. We’ve got about two more hours until my sisters bring up the bathtub incident.”

T.K.’s eyes widened. “The bathtub incident?”

“Let’s just say it was very expensive and mostly Francesca’s fault.”

“You know, your sisters seem to take a lot of the blame in these stories even though you have a starring role in all of them. I’m starting to wonder who’s really telling the truth here.”

“Shh,” Carlos said, pulling him a little closer. “I’m a cop. I’m very trustworthy.”

“Uh huh.” T.K. looked amused.

“Hey, guess what?”

“What?”

Carlos leaned forward so his lips were touching T.K.’s ear. “You’re dancing.”

And indeed he was, their bodies swaying back and forth, T.K. following all of Carlos’ movements without any trouble. T.K. opened his mouth to respond but he was interrupted by the reappearance of Adriana. “I take it back,” she said, causing them both to pause their movement.

“Take what back?” Carlos asked in confusion.

“There’s no way he’s a stripper. Not with dance moves like that. Yikes.”

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted,” T.K. said.

“Good,” she said, giving him a mischievous wink. “I like to keep people guessing. Now step aside gringo and let us show you how it’s done.”

She grabbed Carlos’ hand and before he could protest she’d pulled him out to the center of the dance floor, yelling at Rafael to put on something they could really move to. Rafael smoothly transitioned into a song Carlos recognized and Adriana grinned as she began to salsa, clearly expecting him to partner her. He rolled his eyes, but obliged, catching her around the waist and moving back and forth in time with her.

“We approve,” she said as he spun her back and forth.

“Of my dancing?” Carlos asked.

“No, of T.K.,” she said with a smile. “We really like him. Me and all your sisters.”

It should not have warmed his soul so much to hear the words, but it did anyway. “Good,” Carlos said. “Is that why you pulled me out here? To tell me you like him?”

“No, I pulled you out here so he could check out your ass while you dance,” she said, looking over his shoulder, her grin widening. “Which he totally is by the way.”

“Adriana, shut up,” Carlos said, but he smiled anyway and dipped her, really letting loose as the music hit the chorus. Because apparently he was not above showing off for his boyfriend.

By the time the song ended he was sweating and breathless and so was Adriana. “You’ve still got it cousin,” she said. “Now go on. Go over there and take a victory lap with your boyfriend and his puppy dog eyes.”

Carlos looked over to find T.K. looking suitably impressed at the edge of the patio. Carlos shook his head, a blush rising to his cheeks as he walked over. “Well someone’s been holding out on me,” T.K. said when Carlos got close.

“It’s just dancing,” Carlos said.

“Just dancing? Carlos that looked like…I don’t even know, but it was freaking amazing!” T.K. said, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know you could dance like that. Why are you over here dancing with me?”

Carlos rolled his eyes and pulled T.K. close to him. “Trust me, Adriana might be a state champion in Salsa, but I prefer dancing with you any day.”

“She’s a state champion?” T.K. asked in surprise.

“Yep,” Carlos said, pulling him back onto the dance floor. “Three years in a row.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, Adriana is good at pretty much anything she decides to be good at. It’s a little ridiculous.”

“That doesn’t explain where your dance moves came from,” T.K. said, looking expectant.

“I um,” Carlos thought for a half second about lying before he decided to give in and tell the truth. “I may have partnered her for a few years.”

“How long is a few?”

Carlos sighed and squeezed his eyes closed. “Like fourth through seventh grade.”

T.K.’s jaw dropped. He pointed a finger at Carlos’ chest. “I can’t believe you’ve never told me that!”

“Well it’s not like it’s relevant to everyday conversation! When would it have ever come up?”

“I don’t know!” T.K. shook his head. “What made you stop?”

Carlos shrugged. “I’m good, but I’m not championship level good. And I was getting into baseball. And Adriana is…really difficult to work with.”

“Carlos! T.K.!” They both turned to find a very welcome presence interrupting their conversation.

“Tía Luci,” Carlos said, pulling back from T.K. so he could give her a hug. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming.”

“Well you know I had a date querido. T.K. mi amor! It’s so good to see you!” The many bracelets she was wearing jangled loudly as she hugged T.K. with equal fervor.

T.K. had been to several Sunday dinners at this point and Tía Luci had accepted him exactly the way Carlos hoped she would, with nothing less than complete and total love. She’d always encouraged Carlos to be exactly who he was and love whoever he desired. It helped of course that she’d had four husbands of her own and was currently single and dating with astonishing frequency.

“It’s good to see you too Tía Luci,” T.K. said with a smile.

“I thought mom said you had a pottery class,” Carlos said.

“I had a date at pottery class,” she said and then leaned closer. “And the clay wasn’t the only thing that got handled, if you catch my meaning.”

Carlos’ cheeks burned as T.K. laughed. His aunt was a free spirit and that meant she was pretty free with most things. Including her sex life. And while Carlos didn’t judge, he definitely didn’t always need all the…details she provided.

“Oh don’t look so scandalized,” she admonished, squeezing his arm. “It’s not like you’re a saint either, sobrino. With a boyfriend like this you must get up to all kinds of nonsense. And if you’re not you should start. You’re only young once!” Someone caught her attention and she waved. “I must go see Alejandro, but you two have fun dancing.”

“How about we run away to New York together?” Carlos asked as she floated away.

“You love her,” T.K. said knowingly.

“I do. But I don’t need to know every detail of her dating life. And no matter how many times I tell her that she doesn’t quite seem to get the message.”

“Seems like Francesca and Adriana come by it honestly,” T.K. said. “Oversharing runs in the gene pool.”

“Yes along with nosiness, a strong desire to meddle, and a life long obsession with the Astros,” Carlos said with a roll of his eyes.

“And yet somehow you have none of those qualities,” T.K. said, raising his eyebrows in a way that suggested he was being sarcastic.

“Me?” Carlos said. “What are you talking about? I don’t do any of those things.”

“Maybe not so overtly. But when you found out Mateo’s house had blown up, you organized all those donations to help out him and his roommates.”

“Because it was the right thing to do!”

“Of course it was. But it was also meddling. Kind meddling. But meddling. And we’ve talked about the cow eyes.”

“What do the cow eyes have to do with anything?” Carlos asked, slightly annoyed.

“When you want to know something that I don’t want to share, you waste no time turning them on. And you know that neither I, nor anyone else can resist. Nosiness.”

“That’s not nosy! It’s…digging for information.”

“Information your chosen suspect may or may not want to share. The suspect being me. Admit it Carlos. You’re more like your family than you’d like to believe.”

“I—“ Carlos struggled to come up with a reply. “I don’t like that you’re siding with my sisters. That was not the point of bringing you here. You’re supposed to back me up.”

“Oh I will never speak to your sisters about this,” T.K. told him. “I’ve got your back. I just want you to know that I know.”

Carlos opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a small body hurtling into his legs so hard he almost fell over. “Tío Carlos!” Marco practically yelled. “You said you would come in an hour. It’s been more than an hour. Will you pleeeeeeeeeeeease come throw the ball with me? You promised!”

Carlos looked a T.K. who smiled and nodded toward Marco. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not sure I want to leave you alone with my sisters after what you just said. I’m scared about what other things they might put into your head.”

T.K. laughed and gave him a little push. “Go. I’ll try not to be swayed further to their side.”

“You heard him! Go! Go!” Marco pushed Carlos from behind over toward the grassy area past the picnic tables.

“Marco, Marco, relax,” Carlos said, breaking away from his nephew’s aggressive pushing.

“I waited all day,” Marco told him with a glare.

“And you’re going to wait longer if you’re not polite,” Carlos told him.

Marco looked only slightly chastened. “Sorry.”

“Mhmm.” Carlos tried not to roll his eyes. “Do you have a ball and a glove?”

“Yes!” Marco ran ahead and grabbed them off a picnic table. “Here. This one’s yours. Abuelo got it out of the garage for me.”

Sure enough it was Carlos’ high school mitt. It was beyond worn out, but it would do for a quick round of catch before he rescued his boyfriend from the clutches of whichever sister had decided to grill him next.

“Okay you go over there and I’ll go over here,” Marco said excitedly, running several yards away, ball clutched in his hand.

His first throw took Carlos by surprise. “Whoa! You’re getting really good at that,” Carlos said as he tossed it back.

“Dad says I might make the travel team this year,” Marco said excitedly as he delivered another throw that made Carlos’ palm sting.

“Yeah I think you’ve got a good shot at it,” Carlos told him. “How’s your fast ball?”

“So good! But I have to work on my curve ball. It doesn’t always go the right way.”

“Ah, I’ve got a trick for that. Let me show you.”

It didn’t take long for all of Carlos’ nieces and nephews to realize he had left the adult table and was available for fun. After he finished with Marco, a game of tag was requested by his other nephews. Then Bianca and Elena wanted to show him the crafts they’d been working on and make him a friendship bracelet which he immediately put around his wrist.

Nearly an hour had gone by and Carlos began to look around for his boyfriend, feeling guilty for having left him alone for so long. But just as he began making his way back to the picnic tables, Carolina found him and wanted to tell him all about a school project she’d finished recently.

One minute he was chatting with her about orca whales and the next something was colliding with his skull, hard and fast. He felt his head snap to the side, fingers automatically going to touch the spot directly behind his ear.

Carolina had frozen her eyes wide. “Tío Carlos? Estás bien?” she asked tentatively.

The world seemed to tilt and he sank down slowly onto a picnic bench, fingers fumbling against the weathered wood as he tried to aim successfully and not miss and fall to the ground instead. “Sorry!” Marco called, running over.

Oh. The baseball. That’s what had hit him. That explained the extreme throbbing that had started and why he could already feel a knot growing at the site of impact.

“You hit Tío Carlos right in the head!” Carolina scolded.

“I didn’t mean to!” Marco protested back. “I just threw it, that’s all! I was working on my curveball! It wasn’t my fault!”

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Carlos said calmly, even though his vision was starting to blur at the corners. “It was an accident.”

“See? It’s fine!” Marco told her.

“I’m telling Mom!”

“No you’re not!”

The two continued to squabble and Carlos closed his eyes as their raised voices cut through his skull like a knife. “Carolina,” he interrupted finally. “Can you go find T.K. for me? Tell him I need to ask him something.”

“Yeah.” She narrowed her eyes at Marco. “I’m still telling mom,” she hissed, causing him to take off after her as she ran away.

Carlos swallowed against the sudden queasiness in his stomach. He was regretting the number of tamales he’d eaten now.

The sunlight was really starting to hammer into his skull so he closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing through his nose, trying to keep his stomach from becoming violent. A hand on his knee startled him. “Carlos?” T.K.’s voice was quiet and concerned.

Carlos opened his eyes and found his boyfriend or rather, several blurry versions of his boyfriend, looking up at him. “Hey,” he said quietly. Even talking seemed to hurt his rattled brain.

“Are you okay? Carolina said something about a baseball.”

“It was an accident,” Carlos said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Okay,” T.K. said slowly, clearly trying to gauge the situation and read between the lines of what his boyfriend wasn’t telling him. “Where did it hit you?”

Carlos took another slow breath in through his nose as his stomach clenched. “Behind my ear.”

“Which side, this side?” T.K. asked, lifting a hand and gently probing at Carlos’s skull.

His fingers found the knot almost immediately and even though his touch was gentle it sent a stab of pain shooting through Carlos and his stomach lurched. He jerked away, unsuccessful in suppressing a tight lipped moan.

“Okay, hey I need you to talk to me, all right?” T.K. said, his voice going serious as his fingers instinctively sought the pulse point on Carlos’ wrist. “How bad is your pain?”

Carlos had had concussions before; you couldn’t play varsity baseball without the occasional injury. This was ten times worse than he remembered. “Like a seven?” His voice was shaky and opening his mouth at all felt like a huge risk given the discontent happening in his stomach. “And there are about four of you right now.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

Carlos squinted at him. “Are you really asking me that?”

“Answer please,” T.K. said, eyes serious.

“Carlos Nicolás Reyes Moreno.”

“And where are we?”

“My parents’ ranch.”

“Good. And what’s your badge number?”

Carlos opened his mouth and found his mind strangely blank. “I—”

“You can’t remember?” T.K. asked.

“I—no.” He felt panic start to well up in his throat. “T.K…”

“It’s okay,” T.K. said calmly, gently cupping the non-injured side of his face. “You’re going to be all right. But we need to go to the hospital, okay?”

“Oh god,” Carlos groaned partly from pain and queasiness and partly from panic. “Any chance we can sneak out of here without telling my family?”

“Oh, babe, I think that ship has sailed,” T.K. said sympathetically.

“Carlitos? What happened?” Andrea approached at a rapid pace, the Reyes sisters flanking her along with Adriana, Tía Maria, and Tía Luci. He was sure his father wasn’t far behind.

Even as pain clawed at the inside of his skull Carlos tried to assuage their fears. “I’m fine, just a little accident,” he managed.

“Carolina said Marco hit you in the head,” Elena said worriedly.

“Head injuries are very serious,” Tía Luci told them. “I once dated a tennis player who got a concussion.”

“He got hit with a tennis ball?” Elena asked.

“No, we got a little overly enthusiastic in the bedroom. No half assed sex from that one!”

Carlos heard Tía Maria start muttering a prayer.

“Andrea! What’s going on? Is he all right?” Predictably Gabriel had caught up with the group, a large grill spatula still in his hand.

“Let’s just give him a little room to breathe,” T.K. said calmly, holding up a hand to keep them from coming in closer to smother him with concern. “Francesca if you could go get me some ice and a towel please.”

She disappeared in an instant toward the back of the house.

“Should we call an ambulance?” Teresa asked.

“I am fine,” Carlos insisted again, squeezing his eyes closed as another wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him. He would be. As soon as he was away from his coddling family and in his bed at home.

“Carlitos you be quiet and listen to your boyfriend. He is a professional,” Andrea scolded, worry coloring the sharpness of her tone.

“Yes, T.K., what does he need?” Gabriel asked.

“We’re going to get some ice on here and go from there,” T.K. said. “I don’t think an ambulance is necessary at this point.”

Francesca returned with ice and a towel. “Thank you,” T.K. said, wrapping the ice up tightly and then ever so gently pressing it against Carlos’ head.

He hissed in pain, knuckles gripping the edge of the picnic bench so hard he felt splinters of wood begin to dig into his fingertips. “I’m sorry,” T.K. murmured sympathetically. “We need to try and get the swelling down.”

“It’s okay,” Carlos said through gritted teeth. He hadn’t thought it was possible for his head to hurt more, but the added coldness of the ice was proving to be too much and he felt the tight hold he had on his composure starting to slip. He wanted to leave, he wanted to lie down and sleep, he wanted T.K. to hold him while he cried like a baby because everything hurt like a motherfucker and he was embarrassed as hell about it.

His family was still carrying on around him, he could hear them asking questions and making plans, but all he focused on was T.K.’s free hand, the one that wasn’t pressing ice to his skull. That hand was resting comfortingly on his knee, thumb moving slowly back and forth. Thank god T.K. was here to mitigate the chaos.

He didn’t realize he was starting to drift away until T.K.’s hand squeezed his knee more tightly and then moved up to his shoulder, keeping him upright. “Hey, hey, no, don’t go to sleep,” he said urgently.

Right. Sleep was not a good idea. Carlos forced his eyes open and tried to focus on his boyfriend’s worried face, but it swam in front of him and made his stomach churn. “T.K…”

“I’ve got you,” T.K. said firmly. He turned and looked up at Andrea and Gabriel who had come to hover a little closer. “We need to get him to the hospital.”

“I’ll drive you,” Andrea said immediately.

“You’re entertaining all these guests mi amor,” Gabriel said. “You stay, I’ll take the boys.”

“We’re all coming,” Lucía said immediately.

Carlos felt his heart rate quicken at the thought of his entire family standing around in the hospital waiting room and the kind of chaos that would cause. He didn’t need to worry though. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” T.K. said quickly. “There’s no reason to believe this is anything more serious than a concussion. It will be quick, not worth everyone coming out.”

“I will update you the entire time,” Gabriel promised.

“Text messages every five minutes,” Andrea ordered.

“Can you stand?” T.K. asked and Carlos nodded his affirmative, immediately regretting the motion when the throbbing in his skull increased.

T.K. took his arm and Carlos got up on wobbly legs. He made it about two steps before his knees began to give out and he felt his father grab his other arm. “Steady mijo,” Gabriel said.

It seemed like an eternity before they passed through the house and into the front driveway. Out of sight of his family Carlos felt the last of his control slip away. The blood drained from his face and he gagged.

“Whoa!” T.K. said, quickly lowering him to the ground as he began to heave out the contents of his stomach onto the concrete.

By the time it was over Carlos’ pain had ratcheted up to somewhere in the nines and he heard himself letting out a pathetic whimper as his brain exploded inside of his skull. “Easy Carlitos, easy,” his father said, the words barely registering as he and T.K. lifted Carlos back onto his feet and basically carried him the rest of the way to his dad’s truck.

He ended up with his head in T.K.’s lap, his boyfriend continuing to hold ice against his head with one hand, while the other ran soothingly up and down his arm. “Stay awake for me, all right?” he said.

“Trying,” Carlos said, his voice sounding cracked and broken. Mostly he was trying to breathe because he really didn’t want to throw up again. Every bump in the road, every touch of the breaks, sent pain ricocheting through his head. “It really hurts.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. We’re almost there,” T.K. said softly. “You’re all right, keep breathing, okay?”

Gabriel pulled directly up to the ER doors and he and T.K. helped Carlos into a wheelchair. If he’d been in any less pain he would have found the entire thing humiliating, but every bit of his energy was currently being spent on staying awake and not vomiting all over the floor.

“I’ll park the car and meet you inside,” Gabriel said as T.K. pushed him through the doors.

The next few hours were a hellish blur. They ran a battery of tests including an MRI and a CT scan, asked him dozens of questions, all of which he was able to answer thank god.

Despite his best efforts, he threw up twice more, T.K. holding a basin in front of his face each time, then rubbing his back comfortingly as he curled into a ball, knives stabbing through his head after such violent movement.

He hated being reduced to a shaking, moaning mess, especially in front of his father, but there was no help for it. The pain was only growing worse and there was no relief in sight, not until the tests came back.

“Breathe,” T.K. said, running a thumb back and forth over Carlos’ hand. “Carlos you have to breathe and try to relax.”

“I can’t.” The words came out on a whimper. “It hurts.”

“Carlitos, you have to try,” his dad said, sounding beyond concerned. “The more tense you are the worse it will feel.”

Tears slid down his cheeks as the pounding in his head beat on relentlessly. It had been hours and there was never any relief to the waves of pain, just a constant throbbing, knifelike agony. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled in on himself, ragged, stuttering breaths tearing from his chest.

“I’m going to go find the nurse,” Gabriel said. “My wife and daughters might be better at nagging, but I’m sure I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

He disappeared out the door and the next thing Carlos knew the bed was shifting as T.K. climbed in with him, wrapping his arms tightly around Carlos’ body. “What are you doing?” Carlos choked out.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his lips by Carlos’ ear. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Breathe. Just a little bit longer and we’ll get you some medication. I promise.”

T.K.’s fingers stroked up and down his arm and he continued to murmur soothing words into Carlos’ ear. Carlos felt his muscles slowly begin to unclench one at a time. The agony in his skull began to ease, just enough that he could breathe easier and think a little more clearly.

His dad must have given someone a piece of his mind because within fifteen minutes the doctor had returned. “Okay, Mr. Reyes we are looking at a grade two concussion here. All your scans came back clear so while painful, your recovery should be pretty easy.”

“No brain bleed?” T.K. asked.

“No. No brain bleed, no skull fracture.”

He could see T.K. and his father sag in relief. They were both putting on a good front, trying to be strong for him, but in that moment the worry in the room finally lifted off like a cloud, dissipating into calm.

“We’re going to keep you for a little bit, start you on some strong Tylenol to help manage the pain. I’ll come check on you in an hour okay?”

It was another two hours before they were finally able to go home, Gabriel dropping them off with promises to bring Carlos’ car over in the morning.

He was more steady on his feet now and the medication had helped both his headache and the nausea, so with T.K.’s help he was able to manage the stairs without too much difficulty.

T.K. sat him on the bed and began undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I can do it,” Carlos said, but his boyfriend gave him a stern look and continued.

This behavior persisted until Carlos was settled in bed, an extra pillow behind his head, a glass of water on the nightstand along with additional Tylenol. “Better?” T.K. asked as Carlos leaned back against the pillows with a sigh.

“Yeah,” Carlos told him. The lights were dim, causing his splitting headache to dull to a throbbing one instead.

He heard his phone buzz for the thousandth time in the last few hours. “Do you want to see who that is?”

He couldn’t look at the screen without feeling like someone had stabbed a knife through his eyes. Hopefully that would pass quickly. It was only a grade two concussion and most of his pain was coming from the actual injury itself, not his brain rattling around in his skull.

T.K. punched in Carlos’ passcode and then scrolled through. “You have forty seven unread texts. Most of them are from your sisters. A few from your mom and aunts. And one reminding you to vote next week.”

Carlos groaned. “You’d think I was dying. This isn’t even as bad as the time Elías flipped the four wheeler over while we were on vacation. He broke his leg in two places and had to have surgery and nobody was all over him.”

“Oh, the texts aren’t about you,” T.K. said, eyes lighting up with mirth.

Carlos squinted at him. “I’m confused then.”

T.K. cleared his throat. “You listen to T.K. and do what he says. That one is from Teresa.” He scrolled a little further. “Congratulations on picking someone who’s not a dick. He actually comes in handy, that’s Adriana.” He snorted. “And this one from Francesca just says, ‘Remember not to fuck again until your brain is better.’”

“You know, Tía Maria campaigned pretty hard to send her to a convent when she was a teenager. Some days I think we should have let her,” Carlos said.

“The rest are variations on how great I am and how you need to eat a lot of soup and get a lot of rest. And I have a text from your mom.”

Carlos cracked one eye to look at him. “Are you going to share?”

“Mm…I’m not sure you can handle this one.”

T.K. was grinning from ear to ear, clearly beyond proud of himself and delighted to have information Carlos didn’t.

“T.K. just read it. I can see that smug look on your face.”

He cleared his throat. “T.K. thank you for taking care of our Carlitos. You are such a blessing to our family.” T.K. grinned. “They like me.”

“Of course they like you.”

“They really like me.”

“Yes, T.K. My family loves you. Just like I always knew they would.”

“Well I appreciate that. But you really didn’t have to get hit in the head with a baseball just so I could endear them to me with my paramedic skills.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Marco,” Carlos said. “He’s the one with an arm like a Major League baseball player.”

“Yeah he can really throw huh?” T.K. said, brushing a gentle hand through Carlo’s curls, careful to avoid the area the ball had struck. “How’s your pain?”

“Tolerable,” Carlos said.

“And the nausea?”

“Better,” Carlos said.

“Good.” T.K. seemed relieved. “Listen, next time you want to get out of a family activity, you can just tell me. You don’t need to give yourself a grade two concussion. Just say the word and I will fake an emergency and get us out of there.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t fake an emergency after hour one,” Carlos said. “Thank you for today. You getting along with my family it…” Tears threatened to close his throat and he forced them back because he really wanted T.K. to know what he was feeling. “It means everything.”

“They’re easy to get along with,” T.K. said. “And we have a lot in common.”

“Oh?”

“We all love you.”

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minaslittleone · 3 years

Text

Fission & Fusion (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: How did the refined and proper Wilhemina Venable end up working for two coked-up tech bros out of the back of a van?

An origin story of sorts, dedicated to the amazing @lucyintheskywithxanax who has developed such a beautiful and nuanced depiction of Mina. This was inspired by her incredible story “And I failed to climb the mountain”.

Word count: ~2500

Professor Thompson was not surprised that she had to go searching for Wilhemina the following evening. Part of her had hoped that the young woman would have been waiting for her, a sign that she was allowing herself to accept the genuine support proferred to her. That was not to be. It was only natural, she supposed, as she made her way through the concrete wasteland that served as the hotel's parking lot, that after a lifetime of being belittled and dismissed, of being told she was nothing but a burden, that Wilhemina would find it difficult to accept help. To even believe that the offer of help was genuine.

The older woman shook her head as she raised her her hand to knock on the door indicated by the disinterested girl working reception. The world, and people, really could be so cruel.

When her initial knock went unanswered, she tried again slightly louder this time. Again she was greeted by only silence.

"Wilhemina." she called out, as she knocked for a third time. "Wilhemina, it's Professor Thompson. Can you let me in dear?"

In the beat of silence that followed, she could feel Wilhemina's indecision - her pride balking at the idea of reaching out to accept the tender care that her heart so dearly yearned for. For now, pride relented.

There was a jangle of keys as nervous fingers fought against the lock and deadbolt. The door eased open a crack to reveal Wilhemina, shoulders curled in on themselves, head bowed, face obscured by a curtain of red hair and supporting a significant portion of her weight on her cane. Her form fitting dress from the previous day had been replaced by black leggings and a loose fitting faun jumper which dwarfed her slender frame, sleeves extending well past her wrists where her fingers toyed anxiously with the cuffs. As the older woman eased the door slightly further ajar she couldn't miss the way Wilhemina flinched, obviously uncomfortable with any kind of physical proximity.

"Wilhemina?" the older woman coaxed. Glassy brown eyes peaked from beneath swollen lids, tentatively meeting her gaze. As she did her long hair shifted just enough to reveal the array of grazes decorating her right cheek and temple, chronicalling the previous night's events like braille across her skin. Wilhemina fought against the instinct the pull away as the older woman gently lifted her hair to inspect the damage. And as much as she hated allowing anyone to bear witness to her weakness she couldn't help but wonder when she had last been touched with such tenderness.

And maybe that was what gave her the courage to recount the events of the night before, those soft, caring touches that spoke more than words ever could, that whispered insistently that she deserved so much more. From the grinding weight against her fingers to the sickening crunch of her skull on the concrete, the smell of stale alcohol and tobacco, and the taste of dispair as calloused fingers rifled through her book bag and located the money that was supposed to be her lifeline. And more than all of that, the shame of laying sprawled out on the concrete unable to move.

Eventually the sound of the steal capped boots had disappeared into the distance, apparently deciding she wasn't worth any further humiliation. You're too ugly even for that, her mother's voice cooed. Slowly, she had managed to lever herself from the ground, bracing herself between her cane and the wall. Her trembling fingers had finally managed to overcome the lock but all too late. She stumbled across the threshold, collapsing onto the bed, curling in on herself in a futile attempt to prevent any further pain.

Professor Thompson's fingers were back at her cheek, tenderly chronically the array of scrapes and bruises that were beginning to blossom across her pale skin. How hard had she hit her head? Did she lose consciousness? Does it hurt if I push here? Any blurred or double vision? Any other injuries? Her hands? Her knees? Her back? No. All just bruised, like her ego, and her heart.

Wilhemina remained fascinated by the cuffs of her sweater throughout Professor Thompson's assessment, fingers picking at small imperfections in the fabric. By the time she raised her eyes the older woman was already moving busily around the room collecting her meagre possessions into her discarded book bag. "Have I missed anything dear?" Wilhemina could only shake her head dumbly in response though her confusion must have permeated her features for Professor Thompson quickly added "If you think for one moment I am letting you stay here on your own Wilhemina, after what happened, you are very, very mistaken".

The older woman slung the sum total of Wilhemina's possessions easily over her shoulder, before extending her hands to the younger woman to help her to her feet. And for once Wilhemina felt no pity or judgement in the gesture, only genuine care.

It felt good to let go for a moment, she thought, as she allowed herself to be escorted to the older woman's car. To hand over the reins, even if momentarily, to someone who genuinely had her best interests at heart. She had always been independent, self-sufficient, mature; garnering praise from countless adults for how grown up she was ever since she was tiny. There had been other words too - bossy, control freak, frigid bitch - a need for order and precision in the small parts of her life that she could control. But she was so tired after trying to hold it all together on her own for so long. Because in reality she wasn't in control at all.

Wilhemina jumped as the driver's side door opened, having not really registered that Professor Thompson had disappeared, let alone returned. The older woman shot her a sympathetic glance in apology for having startled her before starting the car and pulling out of that god damn parking lot.

Not long after she found herself seated at her professor's kitchen table, a warm mug of sweetened tea once again pushed into her hands whilst the older woman cooked. She managed to only feel slightly guilty about that. The room reminded her a lot of the woman herself, no frills and practical but with an undeniable warmth, full of mismatched crockery rather than complete sets, as if each piece had been hand picked for its bawdy colour or intricate pattern. Like her office, Professor Thompson's home seemed a little worn around the edges in the best of ways, it spoke of memories and a life well lived. From the rings on the wooden table from endless hours of conversation over tea, to the dings in the plaster from exhuberant grandchildren the house could not be further from the modernist sterility Wilhemina had become accustomed to.

The next thing she knew a steaming bowl of stew was being placed in front of her and the older woman was joining her at the table. "I hope you don't mind, dear, I know it's nothing very fancy" the older woman added as Wilhemina stared fixatedly at the bowl in front of her. Don't be so rude you ungrateful idiot. "No of course not, it's smells wonderful, it's just that I don't think anyone has ever cooked anything for me before. Thank you."

The older woman paused at that, spoon left resting against the side of her bowl. "Surely your mother did, at least?" Wilhemina scoffed at that, the very idea of Fleur Venable undertaking a task a menial as cooking was almost amusing. "No, my mother never had much interest in cooking, especially when she could pay someone to do it for her." A wry smile passed over the older woman's face "Maybe I should have listened when everyone told me to go into private practice rather than academia, it certainly seems to have worked out well enough for your father. Though I don't think I would have found much contentment in commercial law, I don't think I would have been particularly fond of spending my professional life making rich people richer."

"I don't think it brought my father much contentment either, though that might have been living with my mother" Wilhemina muttered, drawing unapologetic laughter from the older woman. After that the meal was finished in comfortable silence.

Wilhemina was about offer to help with clearing the table when something fuzzy brushed against her leg drawing an embarrassing squeak from her, which she quickly clamped her hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle. "Oh it's alright, my dear, it's just Miko. Hello my sweet boy" the older woman cooed to the grey tabby cat rubbing affectionately at her ankles. "Oh I know sweetheart, I missed you too."

Miko, seemingly satisfied that he had greeted his mistress appropriately, took that moment to return his attention to Wilhemina, who's anxious gaze flicked between the cat and his owner. "Oh I'm sorry my dear, you're not allergic are you?" the older woman asked in response to Wilhemina's obvious apprehension. "No, I'm just not very good with animals" Wilhemina replied as Miko began sniffing at her ankles.

"He likes it if you scratch behind his ears" the older woman suggested.

So, slowly, Wilhemina allowed her right hand to unfurl from it's safe home in her lap downwards towards the inquisitive feline, or at least as far as her spine would allow. Miko craned his neck upwards to bridge the gap, first sniffing at her fingers before quickly beginning to nuzzle against them. Hesitantly Wilhemina began to trail her nails along the cats scalp, concentrating her ministrations behind his ears as his owner had suggested. She was rewarded by purrs of contentment, as Miko nuzzled into her hand with increased vigour. She couldn't help but smile at that.

Soon after Miko raised his front paws onto the bottom railing of the chair in an effort to get closer to Wilhemina, and began nuzzling into her thigh in earnest.

"What is he doing?"

"Oh don't worry, dear" the older woman replied. "He's just saying that he likes you. Well I suppose to be more correct he's transferring his scent onto to you to claim you as his, just in case any other cats get any ideas."

"I don't think anyone has ever claimed me as theirs before" Wilhemina whispered, fingers still threading tenderly through Miko's fur.

"Well Miko certainly has and so have I" the older woman replied, "and we both happen to have excellent taste."

Wilhemina could only reply with a small, trembling smile.

"Now come on dear, you've had quite an eventful few days and I doubt you slept much last night"

Wilhemina nodded and allowed herself to be escorted up the stairs towards the guest room, Miko following closely on her heals.

The room which Professor Thompson showed her to was already bathed in warm light from the bedside lamp and her book bag had been placed upon the quilt covered bed.

"Now the bathroom is just across the hall, dear, and I've put out fresh towels for you. If you need anything during the night my room is just down the hall, ok?"

"I'll be ok, but thank you" Wilhemina offered the older woman a shy smile.

Professor Thompson made to leave for the night before turning back unable to stop herself. "Forgive me asking dear, but haven't you heard from your parents? Surely they must be worried where you are?"

Wilhemina did not share her certainty. "I haven't checked my phone." Perhaps childishly she didn't want to check, because until she did she could cling onto the slim hope that maybe her parents did want to know where she was.

"You should check, my dear" the older woman coaxed. "I'll give you some privacy, but I'll be downstairs if you need me"

"Actually" Wilhemina blurted before the courage abandoned her, "would you stay?"

Professor Thompson took a seat on the bed beside her as she rifled through her book bag for her cell phone. One missed call. She almost couldn't believe it when her father's cell phone number blinked back at her on the LCD screen. With trembling fingers she retrieved the voicemail.

"Wilhemina, I understand that your mother can be difficult but surely all this fuss isn't necessary. If this was about making a point, you've made it, you can stop with this childish fit and the two of you can discuss this like adults. Honestly Wilhemina, you know I don't have time for this right now, the McMahon case goes to trial in less than a week, I have better things to be doing with my time than be refereeing some petty squabble between you and your mother. Just sorted it out."

Professor Thompson killed the voicemail halfway through the pre-recorded list of options, they certainly didn't want to listen to the message again.

"I'm so sorry, dear, I shouldn't have pushed you to check."

Wilhemina shrugged. "If I'm honest with myself, I didn't really expect anything different. I just hoped that maybe, I don't know..." she sighed. She did know, she had hoped that for once her parents would show ounce of love and affection, or even just anything more than apathy. Anything to indicate she was more than a burden or the fulfillment of a tickbox in the game of life.

"You would have thought that by now I would have stopped getting my hopes up" Wilhemina muttered, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.

"Never" the older woman asserted. "You get your hopes up because you care and you have such a capacity for love, which makes you so much more than either of them will ever be."

She reached up tenderly to wipe the tears from the younger woman's cheeks, careful to avoid to avoid the dark purple bruising now staining her right cheek.

"Besides, their loss is my gain and you have a place here for as long as you need it"

#wilhemina venable #sarah paulson #baby mina #mina #lucyintheskywithxanax

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xaandiir · 3 years

Text

Last Stop to Nowhere - Chapter Two

AO3 Link | FF.net Link

First | Previous | Next

Summary: Ryan and Min got off the train, but spending several months away from home while dealing with a very traumatic experience on an interdimensional judgment train. Recovery is not instantaneous and one good band session does not mean that everything is solved. It’s going to take more work, more talking, and being honest. However, it’s very hard to have an absolutely honest conversation in the 1980s, especially with everything that both boys are withholding.

Warnings: Implied homophobia, micro-aggressions

Word Count: 2036

A/N: The chapters will typically go back and forth between each boy’s perspective, so we’re back to Min-Gi this chapter.

———————————————————————

Min wakes up in an actual bed. He is back in his room. It felt familiar, yet foreign. The sheets smell musty after several months of the room not being occupied. It is hauntingly quiet. Min realizes that it's late morning and not only had he forgotten to set a morning alarm, but his parents hadn't come to wake him up when he didn't arrive for breakfast. It was a kind of quiet morning with lack of responsibility that he hadn't had since he was a child.

When he gets out of bed, Min runs himself through his usual routine pre-train. He changes into his clothes for the morning. It feels great being able to dress in a new outfit rather than the one outfit he'd recycled during his stay on the train. He combs his hair, pushing it back so it doesn't fall out of his eyes. He brushes his teeth and his mouth feels clean for the first time in ages. The minty taste is almost comforting.

It's after Min picks up his phone from his bedside table that his mini-synth catches his eye. He had discarded it that night before bed, feeling too exhausted to put it in its proper place, so it sits on the edge of his dresser. Min picks it up, holding it firmly in one hand. He smiles and uses the pen to click on the keys, listening to the quiet tune.

His hands slow, hesitating before playing another note. He sighs and sets the synth down again. Min tears himself away and moves down the stairs.

"There you are, Min," his mother says. She's preparing lunch already. She goes over and gives him another hug and kisses his cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

Min nods and kisses her cheek back. "It was a great night's sleep. Thank you for letting me sleep in."

"You need your rest after coming all the way from New York," she says. "Lunch is almost ready. Go get your father, will you? He's in his study."

"Of course," Min says.

He walks down the hallway to his father's study. He knocks on the door and pokes his head inside. "Hi Dad," he says. "Mom says that lunch is almost ready."

His father looks up from his laptop and smiles. "Of course. I'm finishing up a report." He points to the other chair at the desk with his pen. "Join me for a moment?"

Min obediently takes a seat. He clasps his hands in his lap. A long silent moment is spent between them. His father types away at his laptop and Min's gaze wanders around the room. He looks at the books on the shelves, some written in Korean and some written in English. His father had to take to learning English more than his mother, since his father worked with a lot of American businesses. Min never learned any Korean while he was growing up. It just never stuck with him.

"How was New York?" his father finally asks. "I know that you were taken there against your will, but, I hope that it was at least a good learning experience."

"Oh." Min hesitates. "Yeah it was...It was really nice actually, Dad."

His father glances at him out of the corner of his eye. "So Ryan really didn't let you call us for months, hmm?"

Min rubs the back of his neck. "It wasn't exactly his fault," Min says carefully. "He...There...It was an issue with our phones. I couldn't get a call out to you-"

"Min-Gi. It's alright," his father says. "Your mother and I understand that Ryan put you in a very difficult position. It wasn't fair that he forced you there and I know he probably did everything he could to keep you from reaching out to us. He knew that we would have taken the next flight out to New York to get you."

"Dad, it's really not as bad as it sounds," Min says. "it was a good thing I went, I think."

His father doesn't seem to really hear what he's saying. "I thought that he was a bad influence on you. Even when you were a child. He always seemed to have this..." He gestures vaguely. "You were really applying yourself before he whisked you away to New York." He sighs and shakes his head. "Ryan didn't even seem to understand the kinds of things he was taking away from you. You'll be lucky if you can get your job at Dumpty's back. Not to mention that you've lost this entire school year as an opportunity to move to college and get started on your higher education."

"I can always go next year," Min replies. He plays with the lower button on his jacket. "Dad, Ryan asked me if I could join the band, and-"

"Absolutely not," his father laughs. "After the stunt he pulled?"

"Dad-"

"You have so much you have to catch up on. And I'm sure you've had plenty of your fill of Ryan. Several months with him? You two spent a lot of time together but you never stayed over at his house for longer than a night. You always had to come home and get your quiet." He shakes his head. "It's better that you didn't stay there long either. I didn't want him getting any ideas." That makes him pause and he looks at Min. "He didn't try to tempt you at all, did he?"

Min blinks a few times. "Dad, no. He. Ryan took good care of me."

"Good care of you?" His father scoffs. "That boy is not someone that you want taking care of you. He can't even look after himself. I'm sure that's why he came to drag you off with him."

Something boils over inside of Min. "Dad, just listen to me."

His father pauses and looks at him fully. "...yes?"

Like a fire that has just been smothered, the words that had danced on Min's tongue suddenly dissipate. "...I'm sorry that I worried you and Mom," he manages to say.

His father smiles. He squeezes Min's shoulder. "We know that it wasn't your fault, Min. We aren't upset with you." He lets go and gets to his feet. "You said that lunch was almost ready, right? We don't want to leave her waiting." He chuckles and moves to wards the door.

Min struggles for his words, but they don't return to him. He can only follow obediently after his father, sticking his hands into his pockets.

The table is set for them when they arrive. Min's mother is just serving up the food onto plates and bringing them to the table.

"Looks delicious, Mom," Min says as he sits at the table. His mother smiles and pats his head before she takes her own seat.

"He slept very late today," she says to her husband. "Got his good rest. He'll be up for any challenge now." She laughs warmly.

"Good. We need you well-rested," Min's father says, giving Min a smile.

Min looks down shyly at his food and moves it around with his fork. He's hungry, but he can't bring himself to actually eat.

It is quiet at the table for several long minutes before his mother wipes her mouth with her napkin. "Min-Gi...Your father and I have been worried. Of course. When you were with Ryan--nothing...happened, did it?"

Min glances up from his plate. "Nothing like...what?"

His parents share a silent look. His mother clears her throat. "You know that we would support you through anything."

"And we would never blame you for something that wasn't your fault," his father continues. "He may have--gotten you drunk or gotten you confused, or forced-"

"Stop, stop!" Min cries, waving his hands. "Ryan never did anything to me. He was great he--we had a nice time in New York. Nothing like--that ever happened."

Min sees his parents visibly relax at the assurance. A sick feeling pokes in Min's stomach and he looks back at the plate.

"We know that you'll need time to readjust being back home," Min's father says. "But I think it would be a good idea to reapply to university soon."

"Reapply?" Min asks numbly.

"You disappeared for months. You were accepted, but then you didn't show up. You'll have to apply again," his father explains. "It's important that you get your education, Min. If this trip was as nice as you say, then I'm happy for you. But your education can't be put off any longer."

Min chews on his lip for a minute. He sets down the fork. "I don't know if I want to go into finance."

Min's mother laughs. "See? I told you he'd rather to go to law school. Not everyone can have a knack for business."

"I don't know if I want to be a lawyer either," Min sighs.

"A mathematician?" his father offers. "Oh! A surgeon!"

This was getting out of hand already. Min looks at his parents and crumbles his napkin in his hand. "I want to do music."

His parents' eyes go wide. It's the longest pause they've had in a conversation in along time. It makes Min's palms go sweaty and he can't help but let his gaze drop.

"Min-Gi," his mother finally says. "The--The viola is a wonderful instrument, but-"

"No, not..." Min's cheeks glow with shame. "Ryan, he-"

"You will not join that boy's band," his father says firmly. "Min-Gi. He kidnapped you for several months. You cannot then just go with him, with no job security, no education! He practically dropped out of high school just so he could escape in that van."

Min rubs his thumb over the fork. "He never got close to flunking any of his classes. He just really loves music."

"It's not a good idea," his father insists. "I will not allow it. You have a plan. You're going to reapply, go to college, get your degree, and then move onto a stable career and starting a family."

"But--But that won't-!" Min's lip trembles. It won't make him happy. He doesn't know how to say that without sounding like a child on the verge of a tantrum.

His mother reaches across the table and puts her hand over his. "Min-Gi. You really think you're going to live on the road? Eat all this fast food and performing in front of people who will judge you based on something you never even properly learned?"

"I--I..." The very thought makes Min's mouth grow dry. If he thinks about getting on stage for too long, he feels the blood draining from his face.

"You're pale at the thought," Min's father points out. "It wouldn't be good for you."

"You deserve to go to university," his mother says gently. "It's a very respectable thing, Min-Gi. Not everyone needs to go out on the road chasing some useless artistic dream. You need stability."

His father sighs and shakes his head. "Ryan really has been a bad influence on you."

"No...No, he's...I've learned a lot from him," Min weakly protests.

"We can talk about this another time," his father says. "Right now, you need to eat. And then you need to reapply to college. We can talk about this music nonsense after you've settled more. Okay?"

Min wants to say more, but his words fail him. He can't seem to form any sentences in his mouth. He just nods. The food looks even less appetizing than it did earlier and his stomach recoils as he brings a forkful to his mouth. But he keeps eating, knowing that his parents will want him to keep his energy up and eat properly. His parents seem satisfied with his silence and the relief on their faces make Min feel even more guilty. They're right. He has a plan. He can't just up and abandon that plan because of--because of what? An absolutely wild experience on a train? He learned things, sure, but that doesn't mean that everything can just suddenly change. He needs to put more thought into this. He can't just decide. He can stay in place and think on it for a bit.

#infinity train #infinity train season 4 #infinity train spoilers #rymin #ryan akagi #min-gi park #xaandiir fic

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songsformonkeys · 3 years

Text

12 days of Christmas Pedros. Short little ficlets based on prompts that can be found here. One ficlet every other day. Thank you @yespolkadotkitty for the beautiful banner!

Day 10 - “I’m freezing, you’re warm. Hug me” - Whiskey

The van skids to a halt on the snowy road and you yank the door open to stare out into the winter landscape, scanning the spaces between the snow-covered trees for any sign of Agent Whiskey. It doesn't take you too long to spot him once he staggers out from behind a big tree trunk.

Suddenly, you're feeling grateful that he had insisted on wearing his trademark black Stetson tonight. Without it, the white suit jacket would have made him blend into the background, much like a rabbit's winter fur.

Whiskey's got his arms wrapped around himself and he looks like he's seconds away from toppling over so, rather than waiting for him to hopefully make it to the van, you jump out to meet him. In your thick jacket and winter boots, you're much better equipped to handle the weather than Whiskey in his formal attire and cowboy boots.

”Brandy,” he greets you when you reach him and hook an arm under his to steady him. ”Fancy meeting you here.”

His teeth are chattering like castanets but your heart still flutters the way it always does when Whiskey talks to you. It's a stupid crush that you've been carrying around since you started working for the Statesmen a little over a year ago and your first assignment was to provide support and intel for Whiskey on one of his missions. The mission had been so far below what Whiskey was capable of that he had hardly needed your help at all. But he'd been polite and thanked you so much for the help once the mission was over. He'd managed to steal both a necklace and your heart that day.

”It's nice to see you again,” Whiskey continues as you walk him back towards the van, as fast as his feet will carry him. You try not to read too much into those words. Whiskey is clearly halfway to hypothermia. Of course he'd be happy to see anyone right now. Your stupid crush on the charismatic cowboy needs to calm down.

Instead of replying, you focus on helping him climb into the waiting vehicle.

Once you're both inside, you slam the door shut and bang on the thin wall separating the back of the van from where Agent Vermouth is sitting behind the wheel.

”We're in! Time to go!” you yell and then you almost fall over as Vermouth seems to press the gas pedal to the floor to speed out of there. You're very grateful that it's her navigating these icy roads. She's the best driver of all the Statesmen. She’ll bring you home safely.

You sit down to avoid further accidents and near falls. You look around the back of the van for something warm to cover the shivering Agent with. Even in this condition, he looks devilishly handsome, although the blue lips are a little disconcerting.

”Jesus Christ, Whiskey,” you mumble, possibly too low for him to hear you over the engine. This had not been part of the plan. Whiskey had been supposed to get in, mingle about for a bit, get the hard drive, and then make a smooth exit. Not trek through the snowy woods in the least practical clothing.

You find an old blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. It smells vaguely of gasoline but it's the best you can do for now. There would be proper help and warmth once you reached the safe house.

Whiskey thanks you and you give him a small smile as you reach for the hard drive he's still clutching in his hand. His fingers are stiff from the cold and barely cooperate as he tries to move them. You still manage to wiggle the hard drive free and put it in your bag. You wonder how many minutes he was out in the cold before he signaled and asked for backup, and you almost feel a wave of irrational anger towards him for putting himself at risk like that. He could have frozen to death!

”I'm freezing,” he says as if to confirm what you'd just thought. He lets out a content hum at the touch of your hands as you attempt to rub some life back into his cold ones.

”That's what happens when you don't stick to the plan,” you can't help but comment. But Whiskey doesn't seem to be listening.

”You're warm,” he continues.

”Because I stayed indoors.”

”Hug me.” That stops you dead in your tracks.

”What?” You look up at Whiskey's face. His lips are still blue but his eyes look surprisingly sincere.

”For warmth. This old blanket would help keep the warmth in but... the problem is, sweetheart, I've barely got any left.”

You eye Whiskey, a little skeptically. You know Whiskey is a flirt. Although he's never been anything but polite towards you, you've heard some of the flirty remarks he's made to just about everyone else that has set foot in the Statesmen HQ. If this is an attempt at flirting, it's a change from the usual, and you can't tell if you like it or not. Whiskey picks up on your hesitation, it seems.

”I can barely feel any extremities, sugar. Even if I were the scoundrel you seem to think I am, there's not much I could even do about it...Please.”

It's the please that does it. It's said without a smile and with a look of slight resignation in his eyes that tells you that he's ready for a no and willing to accept it.

”...Fine,” you agree, and the agent's shoulders slump as he relaxes and lets out a shaky breath you hadn't even noticed him holding. You shrug out of your jacket and sit down next to Whiskey, pulling the blanket around the both of you.

Whiskey immediately presses himself against your side and you hiss. It shouldn't be possible for a living human to be this cold. Awkwardly, you put your arms around him and Whiskey slides down just a fraction so he can rest his cheek against your warm shoulder.

”This okay?” you ask and Whiskey just hums in response. Despite the cold, he feels strong under your hands. You rub your hands up and down his back to get some warmth going from the friction. Whiskey makes a happy sound and you look up at the ceiling of the van, wondering what sins had made you deserve to be in this situation.

Slowly but surely, Whiskey regains some warmth and a more human color. Vermouth seems to feel confident that you're far away from the hotel for it to be safe to slow down because the driving is much calmer now than it had been earlier.

Whiskey suddenly snorts out a laugh.

”What?” you ask.

”You know, sugar. All the times I imagined being held in your arms, I can't say that this was ever the way I imagined it happening”

You smile before his words fully register. All the times he imagined... Wait what?!

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

Taglist: @yespolkadotkitty @agirllovespancakes @pedropascalito @pedropascallion @ohpedromypedro @knittingqueen13 @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @mourningbirds1 @alwaysbethewest (as always, SORRY!) @heatherbel @larakasser @fromthedeskoftheraven @seawhisperer @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @mrschiltoncat @pajamasecrets @phoenixhalliwell @ilikechocolatemilkh @dornish-queen @holographic-carmen @thirstworldproblemss

#12 days of Christmas Pedros #whiskey/reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels #my writing

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

Text

Being Fake Soulmates with Dr. Chilton (Part 2)

<- Part 1 | Part 3 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader | The Good Place crossover

1,200 words

It had been a few weeks since the start of your afterlife and your introduction to your pompous, preening soulmate, Dr. Frederick Chilton.

At first, you were sure you were soulmates in the way Michael Myers and Laurie Strode were soulmates: destined to torment each other through all of eternity. He was exactly the type of entitled asshole you always wished you had the guts the stand up to, and the thought of playing house with him made your skin crawl.

After catching him in a vulnerable moment, however, you began to have sympathy for the lonely psychiatrist. His prickly exterior and well-guarded emotions drove everyone away, but once you got beneath that, he turned out to be an affectionate, needy snuggler. There was a void of love in his life on Earth that he was starving to fill, and maybe it wasn’t so bad that you were destined by the universe to fill it.

It still drove you crazy when he asked Janet for Beluga caviar and white truffles (which you knew he secretly hated), and it frustrated him that you dressed comfortably (when Janet could create the most glamorous outfits you could imagine), but you had settled into a mutually fond relationship.

This was paradise, after all. He was your soulmate. If you trusted him, coaxed him to open up, then you would understand each other as only two perfect halves of a whole could.

“What a bunch of judgmental ash-holes,” you muttered, elbow linked with his as you returned from a ten-course dinner party at the Al-Jamil residence—the only home even bigger than Dr. Chilton’s.

“Get to know your neighbors, Michael said. What a nightmare,” replied Chilton with biting sarcasm. Complaining about other residents in the neighborhood turned out to be the one hobby you had in common, so you indulged in it ruthlessly. It wasn’t mean; it was a bonding exercise.

“I know this is the ‘good place’ but does everyone here have to be so… obsequious?”

“Arrogant is what they were,” Chilton corrected. “All because of, what was it, a hundred acres of rainforest?”

“A hundred thousand acres. Didn’t you hear, they saved at least two dozen species from extinction. And they had the nerve to correct me on what spoon to use!”

The doctor’s lightly-stubbled face twitched at that. The nature of his scowl shifted. “You could have at least made an effort to learn table etiquette.”

Your arm stiffened, considering pulling out of his. “You could have been on my side.”

“You were using the dessert spoon for—”

“Sorry I embarrass you!” Your arm yanked away from his elbow and crossed your chest. “Just your soulmate here.”

The night sky was lit by a dazzling show of stars glowing in a sea of deep blues and purples that swayed in the cool (never cold) breeze like a Van Gogh painting come to life. You stood outside the magnificent door to the Chilton Estate, face heating as you reconsidered why you agreed to live with a spoiled buffoon.

His cat-like green eyes evaluated you just as critically. “Why is my soulmate so…?”

Insulting comments perched on his tongue about your clothing, your manners, your overall lack of high-society finickiness, but faltered.

You did embarrass him, it was true, but not as much as he was embarrassed by himself. He was in a foul mood because the neighbors were better than him in every way. Dr. Chilton prided himself on his grooming, yet Tahini Al-Jamil made him look like a pauper. He longed to be admired and respected among his peers, but with peers like these—the best of the best of humanity—he was nothing. Without achievement of note. Dinner had been a sharp reminder of that.

If his soulmate were glamorous, they could elevate his status instead of dragging him down. He had hoped, when he was introduced to you, for a prize he could show off. It was an ego-crushing disappointment when he discovered his soulmate was so… common. But you gave him something better than status—something he never had before. Whenever his facade slipped and he couldn’t keep himself from falling apart, you didn’t attack him for being weak. You sat with him, and held his hand, and reassured him. He didn’t have to be perfect when he was with you, didn’t have to perform the role of the dignified doctor who squashed down his emotions—the role assigned and enforced since childhood by parents who did not tolerate failure.

Pursuing esteem and glory only brought about his early death. Perhaps you were the universe’s way of showing him a better path: the person who saw him and loved him beneath the mask.

His tongue flicked over the roof of his mouth as he let go of the next cruel syllable without uttering it.

The sculpted wood doors of the mansion unlocked, recognizing their owner’s arrival. Using the sound as an interruption from the brewing spat, Chilton put a soft hand on your lower back and guided you inside to privacy. You scowled as he turned, shoes clicking on the marble floors, to press a kiss to your forehead.

“...so stunning?” he finished his thought.

You grumbled your opinion as to the likelihood that that was what he had meant to say, but he gently grasped your chin and turned your pout toward him.

“I should not have let them talk down to you.” Because you make me complete, he meant to say. Because you deserve better. “As if they have any right to speak down to anyone” he scoffed instead. “A standard single-pocket napkin fold? Tasteless. They could not be bothered with a proper fleur-de-lis? At least a double-diamond.”

His voice had taken on that particularly snobby affect it slipped into when he wanted to drive home his superiority—that almost-British accent meant to sound classy. It wasn’t quite an apology, but he was using his snobbery in your defense rather than against you now, and you felt the warmth of his intent.

You rested your head against his shirt collar, where his shoulder joined the pulsing heat of his neck, hands finding his hips reflexively. His arms quickly followed your lead, surrounding you.

“I could have stood up for myself, too,” you murmured. “I already felt like garbage for thinking I made a difference by recycling when Tahani was out saving half the Amazon basin with her vast fortune.”

He held you silently. Though he was a merciless gossip and often said too much, Chilton was careful with his words. When he was not sure what to say, he preferred to say nothing, so he was often tight-lipped when you were upset. He wished it were different—that he could give words of encouragement to magically make you feel better—but empathy did not come naturally to him. Should he open his mouth, he was inclined toward giving helpful advice or psychoanalysis, neither of which were comforting. It was one of many reasons he spent his life alone.

So he simply held you, stroking your back as your humid breath warmed his neck. He understood how you felt, at least. Small. Insignificant. Humiliated.

It was as if that dinner party was perfectly designed to strike a nerve in both of you.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #Frederick Chilton #My writing

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cotncandyboifics · 3 years

Text

1989 [High School AU]: Chapter 6

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 3 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 7 ~ Chapter 8 ~ Chapter 9 ~

Pairings: slight Logince, eventual Prinxiety & Logicality

Word count: 1,987

Story summary: Roman Prince is your stereotypical Jock, with everyone swooning after him. Every day a crowd of people follow him around, only to disperse at his personal whim. In reality, he's lucky to have such good acting skills that help him cover up the disdain he has for his life. He only wishes he could use his skills properly.

Patton Whitelock's always there to lend a helping hand, no matter who you are. If you need a favor or just need someone to talk to, go to him. In reality, he's been taught from a young age that kindness should be held above all else. No one suspects that he took it the wrong way.

Logan Montgomery is the smartest boy in the Senior class. He's stern, and most people are too intimidated to speak to him. In reality, he despises most all of his fellow students. He sticks to his studies and doesn't stray, for fear of being stuck in his father's shadow his whole life.

Virgil Black is the most emo kid in school, let alone 12th grade; everyone knows to leave him be. In reality, he's very fortunate. He has two parents who love him dearly. But everything beyond his life, everything within his mind, is utter chaos and turmoil.

what will happen when they're assigned a biology project together?

General CW: food, swearing, implied s-lf h-rm, non-graphic descriptions of s-lf h-rm scars, graphic and non-graphic descriptions of anxiety attacks and panic attacks, drug abuse, minor character intoxicated on heroin, non-graphic drug overdose description, sickness/description of sickness, blood, non-graphic descriptions of needles, (will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: food, (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: I hated writing this chapter because I love Logince and I'm intentionally writing this story so that Logince doesn't work and I just- my heart and my creativity have a conflict of interests here :')

...

Roman was left alone in his room, staring at the door where Virgil had slipped out silently a few minutes ago. He'd turned off his music, and was sitting up, staring, thinking.

What was even the point of asking Logan out? I didn't have any interest in him before, he was just a nerd who i never bothered, and he never bothered me... perhaps for the challenge? when I saw him in class today something just sparked, and i felt the need to pursue him. I didn't think he'd entertain it, especially so quickly. And what of Virgil?

What of Virgil?

Roman shook his head and stood, leaving his room to see what his parents were doing, and if he could help with dinner. He needed a distraction, and he knew homework wasn't going to do it.

...

The next few days at school were strange, to say the least.

Patton was the same, as far as the others could see. He tried figuring out some of the routes Logan took to different classes, just a few so as not to seem suspicious, but Roman was more often than not already there and bombarding Logan with his charms. Patton still caught him alone sometimes though, and did his best to make conversation about little things, just wanting to get to know Logan. They had an engaging conversation about Logan's surprisingly extensive knowledge about drug abuse, and Patton was thankful for the bits of advice he could get. They'd also run through proper methods for caring for various species of turtles.

Logan continued to hound himself about why he had accepted Roman's courting after such a short time knowing him, let alone that they were very... different people, to say the least. He'd told his father that one of his friends had requested an outing to a cafe to study for an upcoming calculus quiz. His father was reluctant but upon Logan's presentation of evidence of such atmospheres increasing the effectiveness of studying and concentration, his father granted him permission to go. Logan knew his father would never permit any,, frivolous activities, when Logan had so much academic potential. And Logan made himself feel the same way, acquiring knowledge and more importantly incredible accolades was all that mattered until he was out of school. And yet, here he was, about to go on a date behind his parents' back with a jock, very stereotypical of a teen and yet very atypical for him. He couldn't explain to himself why he'd allowed himself to get into this situation, but it wasn't causing any immediate problems, so he decided to try and let the topic rest.

Virgil was acting stranger than ever, at least from Roman's perspective. He seemed even more cold and distant, except on occasion he'd strike up a conversation. Sometimes they got rather lively, debating about which were the best Disney movies, even if they had very... differing perspectives on what messages they portrayed. Roman was baffled, Because he didn't think someone who was previously unconcerned with Roman for the most part could become so black-and-white, switching between completely ignoring and/or glaring at him, and coming into a room and immediately proposing a topic of conversation.

Roman had his hands full with courting his new love interest, and trying to figure out what was going on with Virgil. Virgil himself was very conflicted. Any time he saw Roman, his feelings became intense and he never knew how to act.

The group's dynamic had shifted accordingly whenever they were in class together. In Biology, Logan was usually hard at work on their report, Patton doing his best to help. Roman often attempting to fluster Logan in any possible way he could, and Virgil, ever unpredictable.

...

Finally Thursday came, and Roman got into his mustang to pick up his date. He drove quietly up to a large white house, with a very systematic garden laid out in the front. He got out and leaned against the closed passenger door, and messaged Logan, letting him know he was there to pick him up.

Logan had hoped Roman would have the sense to pick him up around the block, but upon exiting his house and seeing him directly in front of the house leaning against his red mustang with a single red rose in his hand, Logan brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and massaged it, trying to keep from getting aggravated before their date even began. He walked over slowly, trying to keep an open mind instead of letting his logical self shut everything about Roman's love language down.

Roman had to keep himself from staring. Logan was dressed... well, typically his own style, but... he had gelled his hair back so it became one big dark tuft instead of it's usual gentle messiness, and he had on a silk navy button up and a black bowtie instead of his trademark necktie. He had on Black corduroy pants that accentuated his slender legs, and white and blue converse that complemented his shirt and pale skin. Roman was impressed at the attention to detail yet the simplicity of his date's outfit, and was indeed that much more attracted to him.

"Well hello there," Roman said as Logan neared, looking him up and down, "don't you look ravishing."

Logan's cheeks glazed a bit. "As do you," was all he could think to reply. Roman had on a dark red v neck and a black and gold baseball jacket, dark grey ripped skinny jeans with a silver chain, and red checkered vans. Logan realized he'd let his eyes linger on Roman's exposed collarbone a moment too long. God, why am i acting like this?

Roman just smirked and stood aside, opening the passenger door he'd been leaning on and making way for Logan. Logan sat, his knees nearly touching the dash. Roman got on one knee and dramatically presented Logan with the flower. Logan smiled gently and took it, examining it. Roman shut the door and made his way around to the driver's side and got in.

"Will you relay the whereabouts of our destination or will it remain a mystery to me?" Logan asked as Roman opened his door, not looking up from the flower.

Roman smiled with a glint in his eyes. "Well it would be no fun if i were to spoil the surprise, now would it?" He put the key in the ignition and started the car, and the engine hummed smoothly to life. "Completely unrelated to said surprise, but have you had dinner?" Roman rolled down his window and rested his forearm on it.

"Yes, unfortunately I follow a strict meal plan." He adjusted his glasses.

"Well, i wont question that, but that works for me." Roman left it at that and pulled out his phone.

"Would you happen to have a music preference?" Roman asked as Logan smelled the rose, and finally set it down in his lap.

After a moment of thought, Logan replied, "Well I suppose not. I don't listen to much music other than classical on occasion, and at this point i find it rather..."

"Boring?" Roman mused.

"Insufferable," Logan smiled.

"Alright, I'll enlighten you to something other than Beethoven and Bach," Roman reached for the aux chord, plugged his phone into it, and picked a particular song he felt was... fitting for the moment. The song intro began, and Roman pulled the e-break down and shifted into first gear, pulling out onto the road.

he said "let's get out of this town,

Drive out of the city, away from the crowds..."

I thought "heaven can't help me now,"

Nothing lasts forever...

Logan watched things pass on the road, absentmindedly tapping his ankle to the beat. He didn't recognize the area of town they were heading to, but he didn't expect Roman to kidnap him or anything, so he just observed.

But this is gonna take me down

He's so tall, and handsome as hell

He's so bad, but he does it so well.

I can see the end as it begins

My one condition is

Logan looked straight ahead at the road now, wondering if Roman had selected this specific song for any reason.

Say youll remember me,

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just in your

Wildest dreams, ah, hah...

They were driving up a hill now, and the road was getting steeper. Logan was beginning to wonder if he should have just rejected Roman from the beginning.

Roman sensed his unease, and turned the music down so that it was just background noise. "I promise I'm not about to murder you in the woods," he said with a small laugh, "There's just a nice spot up here to... observe," he assured vaguely, glancing at Logan.

He nodded with a small smile from the passenger seat, returning to looking around as they passed sloping driveways and mossy-trunked trees.

Just moments later, they emerged into something of a clearing, with a cul-de-sac and a large meadow. There were clusters of small flowers and clovers all over, and the trees cleared perfectly to display the sun was crawling toward the horizon.

They parked and Logan got out, and turned to realize Roman was still in the car, seemingly reaching behind his seat awkwardly and rummaging around. He emerged with a plastic bag and a rolled up plaid blanket. Roman locked the car and led them to the meadow, where he dramatically unrolled the blanket and laid it out, after ruffling it in the wind. Logan sat cross-legged facing what would soon become the sunset, the bottom of the sun's visible sphere nearly dipping itself below the horizon.

Roman sat as well, beginning to dig through the mystery bag, Logan now paying him attention. Roman pulled out two large paper cups, with plastic tops and straws in them. He handed Logan one of the cups, and Logan began inspecting it. It appeared to be a milkshake, likely chocolate flavored due to the brown hue... It looked rather delightful. Logan took a sip and was not disappointed; he'd never actually had a milkshake, at least not since he was very young, so he had to attempt to hide his enjoyment.

"That is quite tasteful," He looked back to Roman, who was tasting his own milkshake.

"Yeah, you struck me as a chocolate type," he leaned back on one hand. "Hope you like the view. I thought it would be nice as a first date to watch the sunset and talk."

Logan gazed out at the sky that faded from blue to purple to red to orange and a bit of yellow, clouds peppered around and absorbing the hues. He certainly did appreciate the view.

"Alright, let's talk then."

...

A few hours later, it had gotten dark and stars were spattered across the sky. Logan was laying with his hands behind his head, watching the sky, and Roman was laid next to him, leaning up on his side and watching Logan's eyes. They'd talked about anything, from childhood memories to opinions and briefly about their home lives. Roman felt very... usual. Everything was going perfectly, and he could feel that fact slamming against his chest. Do I actually like him or is this all just a game to me? Am i being fake, or completely real?

Soon Logan checked his wristwatch and informed Roman it was time he be heading home. They stood, and Logan shivered as Roman collected the blanket. He sighed upon seeing Logan's arms loosely held around himself, trying to keep warm.

Roman rustled his baseball jacket off and draped it over Logan's shoulders.

They made their way back to the car, and as Roman drove them, all Logan could do was lean his head on the window and stare up at the hazy white moon.

Roman dropped him off, walking him up to his door. Logan thanked him for the evening, and tried to return Roman's jacket, but Roman insisted he hold onto it. They shared a small kiss on the doorstep, and bid each other goodnight. Roman drove off into the night, pondering heavily.

#ts logan #logan sanders #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts roman #roman sanders #patton sanders #ts patton #sanders sides #thomas sanders #sanders sides fanfiction #high school au #slow burn #prinxiety #logicality #patton x logan #roman x virgil

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clareguilty · 4 years

Text

Sharing a Stolen Name

Read it here on AO3! Arthur Morgan/Reader Rating: Explicit | No Warnings Word Count: ~5500 Thank you to @verai-marcel for looking over this for me <3

You stroll into Rhodes head high and eyes wary. You've never been this far south before, but you need to speak with Hosea, and his letter said Lemoyne was the place to find him.

Fear races down your spine as the door to the sheriff’s office bursts open. You've been here for less than five minutes, and you really can’t afford any trouble.

A greasy sonovabitch comes racing down the street towards you, chased by a few harried lawmen. Just as the fugitive gets closer, you swipe a kick at his ankles and he goes flying into the red dirt.

An outlaw for sure. Not that you’re any better. The man curses you and tries to scramble to his feet, but you knock him back to the dirt.

"Thank you for that, miss," the sheriff pants when he catches up, ordering for his deputies to round up the man. "And who might you be?"

"Callahan," you give him the first fake name you've got. This sheriff looks like a fool but you have no doubt he can read a wanted poster.

"Callahan? You got siblings?" The sheriff asks, a wave of recognition crossing his features.

"No, sir," you answer quickly.

"Huh. We got another Callahan back in the office right this moment. He's working with some fine gentlemen around here. Figured y'all might be kin."

Another Callahan? Might be no one. You had borrowed the name, and this Callahan may very well be authentic, but you can't keep from asking.

"Arthur?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"Arthur's here? In the sheriff's office?" Is he in trouble? It didn't sound like it. Why would Arthur be hanging around lawmen?

You follow the sheriff, fear and worry stirring in your chest. Every worst case scenario plays out all at once in your head.

The sheriff pushes open the door and you're surprised to see Arthur leaning back in a chair, lazily smoking a cigarette. Even stranger is the silver badge on his chest.

"Arthur!" You run to his side, unable to contain your relief. He’s safe. He’s… deputized?

"Well, would you look at that. Mr. and Missus Callahan," the sheriff teases.

Arthur hesitates a moment, surprise and confusion crossing his face. He hasn’t seen you in months, yet here you are, sharing his stolen name. You throw your arms around his neck, whispering to him. “Looks like we’re married this time, Mr. Callahan.”

He plays along, rubbing circles into your back and leaning into the embrace. “Darling,” he says loud enough for the other men to hear. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I missed you,” you place a hand on his cheek. You mean the words, and you hope Arthur can see that even through the act.

“How touching,” one of the other deputies drawls. “Didn’t know you was married,” he raises his eyebrows at Arthur.

“She’s been working in the city these past months,” Arthur lies easily. “I ain’t seen her since she left last winter.” His hand wraps around your middle, settling on your hips. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to give my wife a proper welcome.” He begins to usher you to the door, and you flush bright red as the sheriff and the deputy whistle and howl their congratulations.

Arthur helps you onto his horse and slips into the saddle behind you, riding quickly out of town. You whistle for your own horse to follow behind you. A peal of laughter escapes you, ringing out across the meadows. “Thanks for being so quick back there, cowboy. Saved our skins.”

“You weren’t bad yourself, Mrs. Callahan.” He chuckles. “May need to find yourself a new name, though, unless you wanna stay tied to me?”

You roll your eyes. “Did you see that sheriff? He was eating the whole thing up. Everyone’s a sucker for love.”

“If I see them again, I just know I’m gonna hear more about my lovely little wife.”

You’re glad Arthur can’t see your face. You’re positively pink. Lovely. Arthur called you lovely. Even if he was just teasing.

This was your problem. When you had first joined the gang, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from falling for Arthur. He’s kind, handsome, strong. You had tumbled head over heels before you had even realized, and by then it was too late. Arthur was in love with Mary. He was going to propose.

No matter what you did, your feelings hadn’t subsided, but you knew there was no use in torturing yourself. With Hosea’s blessing, you had gone off on your own, only returning to the gang every few weeks. It was easier that way. You could ignore your feelings and throw yourself into your work, whatever that may look like. But you knew you always had a home to go back to.

So you lived that way for years. Staying away from the gang longer and longer each time. It hurt, every time you returned and every time you left. Arthur was still your friend, but things had to be this way.

Yet now Arthur was calling you lovely. Arthur had held you. The danger had passed and you could only think about how you wished the embrace was real.

“What brings you around?” he asks.

“Needed to talk with Hosea. I was doing some honest work for a family near strawberry, but there’s a lot of money in that town, and I think he could work his magic on the rich folk.” The town attracted wealthy northerners like flies to honey. Hosea loved nothing more than stupid rich people who wouldn’t know what hit them.

“Honest work? What sort?”

“There was a widowed gentleman who needed help. He has two young kids and no one to care for them. He paid well, and the house was nice. I grew rather fond of the children. I may go back for a few months if he’ll take me. I could see myself having some kind of life there.”

Arthur makes an indignant sound. “You were some kind of nursemaid?”

“More of a governess,” you correct him quickly. “I’m smart. And I know my way around polite society. I’m more than just an outlaw or a farmhand.” Arthur’s comment had gotten under your skin. You were respected in that house. Mr. Rochester was kind, and he treated you as an equal.

“You are,” Arthur says. “But is that really what you want? To live in another man’s house and care for kids that ain’t even yours?”

“What choice do I have, Arthur?” you snap. “I don’t have a house of my own. I don’t have kids of my own. I was married today for all of ten minutes and the whole thing was a lie. People like us don’t get a happy ending. You said so yourself.”

He’s silent the rest of the ride to camp, and you’re thankful for it.

Your return is joyful, despite your argument with Arthur. Mary-Beth is enamoured with your life at Mr. Rochester’s home, and she keeps you up well into the night with questions.

“He paid for your clothes?” she asks, eyes wide.

“Anything I wanted,” you grin. “I just marked it in the catalogue and gave him my measurements.”

“And you had your own room?”

“And I could use the washroom whenever I wanted.”

“What about the children? Were they terrible?”

“Oh at first, yes.” You laugh and shake your head. “But they weren’t expecting me to fight them back. They were much more interested in their lessons when I promised them stories of the great van der Linde gang.”

Mary-Beth’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t?”

“I sure did. All about Arthur Callahan and company.”

Mary-Beth watches you carefully. You can tell she knows. You’ve never been able to get over your feelings for Arthur. No matter how long you spend away from the gang.

“What about the man of the house? Was he kind?” she asks.

“Oh very,” you nod. “He’s a gentle soul. He wants to do right by his children, but he knows he can’t care for them by himself. He misses his wife every day. He’s very interesting. Funny, charming. He didn't ask too many questions about where I came from although I’m sure he knew it was nothing but trouble.”

Mary-Beth thinks for a long moment. “Do you think he could fall in love with you?”

The question makes you start in your seat. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“You’re living in his house. Caring for his children. It seems like the perfect ending.” She wears a wistful expression.

“I- I couldn’t, Mary-Beth. You know that.”

She nods. You love Arthur. As much as you wish you didn’t. There is no one else for you.

“Pardon the interruption-” Both of you jump and turn. Hosea has snuck up on you. “Dear, you know we care for you, but I worry about you. All this time and you still can’t let go of something that’s clearly hurting you. I think Miss Gaskill is right. You deserve a happy ending, one that doesn’t involve lawmen hot on your heels.”

You know where Hosea is going with this. The thought makes your heart twinge.

“You understand, don’t you? If you have a chance to make a life for yourself, one that is better than this, you should take it.”

“But Hosea-” you start.

“Don’t ‘but Hosea’ me,” he shakes his head. “It’s time for you to make the hard choice. You’ve lived far too long without doing anything, and it’s time to brace yourself for the pain.”

Tears well in your eyes. Mary-Beth takes your hand. You can tell she’s glaring at Hosea. “She’ll make her own choice in her own time.”

Hosea’s hand squeezes your shoulder. “I hate to see you suffer.” And he’s gone.

The next day, you can’t forget Hosea’s words. You find him in the afternoon, reading a book in the shade. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you sit next to him; he’s waiting for you to speak.

“You’re right.” You hate to say it, as if Hosea needs to be reminded. He doesn’t say anything, so you continue.

“I’ve been holding on to Arthur for too long. All these years I’ve been stuck waiting for something to change. I need to move on and do what’s best for myself.”

Hosea is watching you. “And what does that look like right now?”

You focus on a knot in the wood of the table. “I’m going to tell him how I feel — not right now, but when I’m ready to leave again. I need that closure at least. He needs to know why I’m leaving, and I need to know once and for all that he doesn’t love me. Then I’ll return to Mr. Rochester and ask if I can continue working for him.”

Hosea places his hand over yours. “You’re very brave and very strong.”

You shake your head. “I’m a coward, always have been and always will be.”

A few moments pass. “If I leave, I’m not coming back.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Hosea doesn’t even blink.

“I’m going to miss you.”

“It’s not time for goodbyes yet.”

Knowing that this will be your last time with the gang fills your days with a strange melancholy. Every conversation feels more important. Every night feels more like a dream. It’s not hard for those close to you to realize something is wrong.

“Is everything okay?” Arthur asks. The last person you can bear to see. But he’s still one of your closest friends.

“Everything’s fine Arthur.” You’re still upset with him from a few days before.

“I’m here if you need me,” is all he says.

Dutch, either oblivious or uncaring of your strife, asks for your help on a burglary.

“I’m so glad you’ve come back to us. There’s a small plantation that is in need of your skills.” He claps you on the shoulder and leads you to a map. “Arthur can ride out with you, keep a lookout while you’re inside.”

Your stomach drops. Of course.

“I don’t need a lookout, Dutch. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Nonsense,” he waves his hand, “You’ll leave at sunset.”

Sunset comes far too quickly. You’re brushing down your horse when you hear Arthur approach. “You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you saddle up and start riding before Arthur even has a chance to catch up.

He catches up to you easily, falling in beside you and riding silently for a few minutes. You try to convince yourself that everything would be fine. It was just one job.

Arthur looks on the verge of saying something for several minutes before he actually speaks. “I never, uh, apologized -- for what I said a few days ago. I spoke out of line and I shouldn’t have. You’re doing right by yourself, and if you’re happy, then I can’t say nothing against it.”

His apology floors you. You had known Arthur to own up to his mistakes -- one of the many reasons you loved him -- but you had never seen him lay himself so bare before you. It was more of an apology than you deserved.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you finally manage. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you anyways. I just need to do what is best for myself. I’ll be on my way again soon.”

Arthur looks about ready to ask you something, but thinks the better of it. The question must have eaten away at him though, because he caves eventually. “Why do you spend so much time away from the gang?” He shakes his head as soon as the words leave his mouth. “Stupid question. I just -- you always seem half in half out. Not like Trelawny is either, it’s like there’s something keeping you.”

He was right. He saw right through you but somehow missed the mark. Did he not know that he was the reason you never truly left? That he was the reason you couldn’t bear to stay?

“It’s something I need to get over myself,” you answer. It was cryptic and vague, but you couldn’t tell him now. You weren’t ready yet. After the job, maybe? You could leave first thing tomorrow and ride back to Strawberry.

Arthur pulls up close and reaches for you. “I’m here, you know. If you need me. I can help. Lord knows you’ve been there for me all these years.”

You pull away, unable to even respond. His words are like a douse of ice cold water, like desert sand rubbing you raw.

The plantation is a moderate size, wealthy enough but not so much as to be crawling with guards. You and Arthur ditch the horses at the fence line, creeping up to the big house without any trouble.

One of the windows at the back of the house pushes open, and you tug your boots off and hand them to Arthur. “Hold on to these, I don’t want to be too loud in the house.”

He takes the boots and dutifully lifts you so you can climb through the window.

As unassuming as the property was, the inside speaks of wealth. Gilded, polished, velvet. You’ll make out of this with plenty of cash.

Watches, jewelry, pins, and pens. You fill your satchel and your pockets before you even make it to the stairs. There are some stacks of bills in the downstairs office that you shove into your shirt, but no safe or strongbox. There has to be one somewhere.

At the top of the stairs you’re faced with several closed doors. Low light flickers from beneath one, and you hear snoring from behind another. At the end of the hall, you find a room that looks to be cold and quiet. Picking the lock, you slip inside, lighting a match to see around the room.

It’s dark, a study of some sort with shelves along the walls and a heavy wooden desk. Your match burns down and you move over to the window, sliding the curtains aside and lifting the pane. Once you’re sure no one was about, you let out a long low whistle, easily mistaken for a dove.

But doves weren’t out this time of night.

Arthur hears the signal and rounds the house a moment later with your boots in tow. You wave to him before gesturing back inside. You just need to check this last room.

The strongbox is in the bottom of a wardrobe under some thick winter coats. You shove as many valuables as you can into your pockets and even your trousers. Arthur can take some of it off your hands when you get outside. Even with the window open, it’s very dark in the study, and you fumble blindly through the desk drawers for anything else.

You’re on your way to the door, ready to creep back down the stairs, when your socked foot catches on an end table. You’re able to suppress your cry of pain, but you can’t stop the loud crash as the table topples over and everything on it scatters to the floor.

“Shit,” you hiss, hopping back to the window.

Arthur must have heard the commotion as well because he’s looking up at you with an exasperated expression.

You hear a door down the hall slam followed by the sound of footsteps. Good thing you relocked the door behind you at least, buying you another half second hopefully.

Redrawing the curtains, you climb through the open window, hanging from the sill as your feet dangle uselessly an entire story off the ground.

The door to the study opens.

“Push off and jump,” Arthur hisses. “I’ll catch you.”

“What?” you ask, but do as he says anyways. It’s a half second drop before you land against something broad and grouchy. Definitely Arthur.

You’re both sprawled on the ground, but he drags you to your feet, shoving your boots at you. “We gotta run.”

“No shit,” you take off towards the fields, hoping the sugar cane will give you enough cover. Arthur, surprisingly, lets you tug your boots on once you’re shrouded in the tall plants. Both of you listen for sounds from the house.

“Take these,” you start pulling stolen items from your clothes and pushing them into Arthur’s arms.

“I thought you felt lumpier,” he says as he shoves everything into his satchel. You glare at him.

The two of you steal through the sugar cane at a snail’s pace, wary of anyone that may be looking for the burglar.

“What did they do to deserve Dutch’s attention?” you asked. There was definitely money in the house, but Dutch usually had motivations beyond just that.

“Look around you,” Arthur shakes a stalk. “Who do you think works these fields?”

“Ah,” It dawns on you, “Well paid white folk.” There’s no missing the sarcasm in your voice.

“Exactly,” Arthur grabs your hand and pulls you along. “One of the ‘workers’ gave Dutch the tip, in exchange, we’re splitting the take.”

“Sounds fair,” you try to keep pace with Arthur, but your foot catches on the sugar canes and you tumble forward.

Arthur turns to catch you, only to be flattened for a second time that night. You’re sprawled on top of him, cursing up a storm.

He shifts beneath you, and you realize his hands are pinned between your chests. “A lot less lumpy, now.” His grin is crooked, and his eyes shine. You huff and scramble to your feet. “Sorry,” he says as he dusts himself off.

“Let’s just get to the horses.”

Arthur picks through your findings as you ride back towards camp. “Damn,” he whistles, “I hope you make as good a governess as you do a burglar.”

His words hurt. You still aren’t ready to face that yet, but now may be as good a time as any.

“I’m leaving again,” you say. Your throat already feels tight and you know you won’t make it through this without crying.

“So soon? You’ve hardly been back a week!” Arthur looks almost angry with you.

“This time, I’m leaving for good. I talked with Hosea already; he says I should do what’s going to be best for me.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, but his brows pinch together. You can’t understand what he’s feeling.

“Arthur,” your voice breaks. You can’t speak for several moments as you try to lessen your tears.

“I don’t get it.” He cuts in, “If leaving is going to hurt you like this, then why go at all? You’ve never liked it out there. You always hate leaving — I know you do.”

“Arthur,” you find your voice again, “You’re one of my dearest friends. All these years, you’ve stood by me. I made the foolish mistake of falling in love with you, and I’ve been too much of a coward to let you go. But I can’t lose any more years to loving you. I have to start a new life some time. I’m going back to Mr. Rochester. I’m going to live an honest life and teach two beautiful children, and maybe one day I’ll love someone the same way I love you. I’m sorry for burdening you with this, but I can’t leave until I know I’ve ended things here.”

The silence is suffocating. You feel like you’re drowning and you can only hope the current will wash you ashore.

“You love me?” Arthur looks dumbfounded. “You’ve left all these years because you love me?”

You don’t say anything. You’ve said enough. All that matters now is getting out of camp as fast as possible. You don’t even care about the money you’ve stolen. You’ll be gone by daybreak.

“You’re a fool. A damn fool.” His voice is raw.

It’s the last thing you want from him. Pity, mockery. You know how stupid you are, he doesn’t need to rub it in. Spurring your horse forward, you race back to camp, ignoring Arthur calling after you.

You make it back to camp. It’s late in the evening and only a few people are still awake, one of whom is Dutch, eagerly awaiting your return. He catches your expression and instantly reaches for you. “Is everything alright, dear? Where is Arthur? Is he safe?”

“Arthur is just fine,” you snap. He’s probably not far behind you, which means you only have a few minutes to leave before he gets back.

You begin dumping your spoils on the ground before Dutch, who is desperately trying to determine the source of your anguish.

“I’m leaving,” you tell him firmly. “I’ll pen a letter to Hosea as soon as I can.”

Dutch follows after you as you head to gather your things.

“Come, now,” he says. “You’ve only been back for a few days. At least rest some. You can leave once you’ve slept and eaten.”

You shake him off. “I’m going, Dutch.”

He doesn’t say anything more, just stands by as you pack your things and grab supplies from Pearson’s wagon. You approach him just before you mount up, unsure. “Thank you, Dutch. For being there for me.”

He looks at you, eyes seeing something you couldn’t even find in yourself. “You’ll be back.”

It’s not threatening, not angry or even sad. It’s something he knows.

Well, he’s wrong.

“Goodbye,” you squeeze his hand and turn back to your horse.

The poor beast is tired, but you push as hard as you can towards the heartlands. You’ve got to get as far away as you can before sunrise.

Except the crack of a pistol makes you and your horse start, and you search wildly for the source of the shot.

Three men on horseback appear from the brush. You were so caught up in your frustration you didn’t even see them.

“Stop,” the leader of the three demands.

You reign your horse in, already reaching for your pistol.

A lantern is raised. “Hey, aren’t you Missus Callahan?”

You squint in the low light and recognize the Rhodes Sheriff. “Yessir,” your voice is still shaky. You pray this isn’t your end.

“What are you doing out? Don’t you know there’s outlaws about ma’am?”

You shake your head. “I… I didn’t know.”

“Ma’am, are you feeling alright? You certainly don’t look too well.” It’s the deputy. The sheriff shoots him a harsh look.

“I’m fine, just needed some air is all,” you need to make your lie believable. “Arthur and I, we got into a fight.”

The lawmen have never looked more useless. They’re clearly out of their element trying to console an upset wife.

“Well,” the Sheriff smoothes his mustache, “what do you say we ride back into town. You can have a drink and a few hours to yourself, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

“Oh, no I-” You need to be gone. You can’t go back. “You must have important business. I couldn’t trouble y’all.”

“Nonsense,” the sheriff waves his hand. “It’s too late and too dangerous for a pretty young thing like you to be riding by yourself.”

If you protested any more, you would only rouse suspicion, so you give in and follow the three men back to town.

A long drink of whiskey later and you find yourself slumped asleep in the comfiest chair in the Sheriff’s office.

“Mr. Callahan,” a voice greets, “Just who we’re looking for!”

You blink awake, pushing up the brim of your hat up. Arthur looked terrible. You wondered if he had slept at all.

“Heard you had a bit of a lover’s quarrel last night, found your other half out in Scarlett Meadows near moonset.”

Arthur sees you and staggers forward. You’re surprised when he throws his arms around you, crushing you in close to him. “I thought you’d gone,” his voice was shot.

“I tried,” you tentatively return Arthur’s embrace.

“C’mon,” he tugs you towards the door, “Don’t worry. We’ll get everything sorted out.”

You didn’t trust him.

“Thank you,” Arthur extends a hand to the sheriff. “I appreciate you looking out for her.”

Against your better judgement, you follow Arthur. He leads you to a pasture by the lake, sliding out of the saddle and rolling out his bedroll. “If I sleep, will you still be here when I wake up?”

You eye him, but don’t say anything.

“Look, neither of us has slept in far too long. Get a few hours of rest and I promise we can sort everything out. I’m tired.”

You were tired too, so you rolled out your own bedroll. A few hours of sleep.

“You’re still here?” Arthur looks surprised.

You shrug. “Thought about leaving.” But Arthur had looked so peaceful in his sleep. Your weakness had kept you from abandoning him.

“I’m glad you didn’t. I can’t stop you if you want to go, but I can’t let you leave just yet.” He stretches, watching you as though you were startled prey.

“Don’t make me regret staying.”

Arthur chuckles. “I can’t promise that. But I need to get something off my chest.”

You glance at him, curious. What could Arthur have to say to you?

“Last night, you said you’re always leaving because you love me. That for some reason you can’t stay because of that. But you never told me. Why?”

It hurts. You fight down the pain in your chest and set your jaw. “I cared too much for you -- for everyone -- to ever truly leave. But I couldn’t bear to stay when I spent every day dreaming of something I couldn’t have. That’s why Hosea let me leave. I wanted things to work out for you. I wanted you to be happy with Mary. But the gang is my family.”

Arthur takes a slow breath. “All these years? You’ve been running away from me all these years because…” His brows pinch together as he struggles to find the words.

“I just…” you hold back tears. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. I have to let go sometime. I can have a life out in West Elizabeth. But I’ll miss you, Arthur.”

“You can’t leave.” He says the words and immediately grimaces. “I mean — you can, I just — I want you to do what is best for you… because I love you.”

Everything stops. The words nearly don’t register.

“How long?”

“What?” He looks bewildered.

“How long have you loved me?”

“A while,” he sighs. “Year or so? Since Vegas at least.”

You can’t believe it. “That long? And you never said anything?”

“Neither did you,” he counters.

“You were going to propose!” you hiss.

“She turned me down,” he looks to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” you place a hand on his shoulder. “You have to understand why I couldn’t stay.”

“I do.” Arthur looks up at you with sorrow in his eyes. “I think you can make a life for yourself with this… Manchester?”

“You think I’m going back to Mr. Rochester?” You blink, incredulous.

Arthur rubs his jaw. His eyes shine. “Seemed pretty set on it.”

His foolishness makes your heart hurt. “Arthur, I’d stay here — if you’d have me.”

He pulls you into his arms, crushing you to his chest. “I think we can take some time to figure it out. What do you say?”

“I say we’ve taken enough time, wouldn’t you?”

Dutch smirks when you ride back into camp with Arthur and collapse together in his tent. The whole day is spent whispering to each other, refusing to be apart for more than a few minutes. Arthur shows you pages in his journal when he had written about his feelings for you, and you talk about the many times you fell in love with him again and again.

Night falls, and Arthur pulls you into his arms before you can even think about leaving to sleep somewhere else. “I’ve got a lot of years to make up for. You’d best be ready for me to never let you go again.”

You rest against his chest, finally able to have the closeness you have dreamed of for years. The life you had wanted, together with Arthur.

You wake long before the sun rises, still nestled against Arthur. He’s awake as well, tracing shapes into your skin absentmindedly.

“You alright?” you ask.

“I’m perfect.”

You giggle -- actually giggle -- and press your lips to the exposed skin of Arthur’s chest. His breath hitches. You glance up in surprise.

“Darling,” he turns you to face him, gaze intense, “Can I make love to you?”

Your heart is going to beat out of your chest, and you’re sure you feel like hot coals the way your blood heats up. A shaky nod.

Arthur kisses you with so much heat and passion, gripping you tightly, trying desperately to memorize the feel of you against him. His lips trail over your jaw, down your neck. He rips open the front of your blouse and muffles your squeal of surprise with his palm. “Just let me take care of you,” his voice is low, breathy.

You’re heaving and shaking at his ferocity. It’s overwhelming, but you want this as much as he does. He drags your trousers down, lifting you easily and moving your hips to where he wants them. You’re surprised when he continues his trail of kisses from the crook of your knee up your thigh. “Arthur,” you gasp, “what are you-”

His tongue touches your heat and you gasp. He’s determined, a kind of fire and will that makes men cower before him. Instead, you’re crying and shaking as he drags his tongue over your clit and slips a finger inside of you. His other hand holds you so tightly, you may very well have bruises.

You come over his lips, quicker than ever in your life. And while you’re still dazed and reeling, his hand is on your cheek. You meet his eyes and see that the fire hasn’t subsided. “Can I take you, Darling? Please?”

You lean up to kiss him, one arm wrapped around his neck and the other reaching for his hard cock.

He slams into you to the hilt, muffling your screams with his lips. “Thank you,” he whispers against your skin. “I love you.”

You try to respond in kind, but he’s fucking you hard and fast. The roughness would scare you coming from anyone else, but this is Arthur. He’s holding you so closely, eyes fluttering and lips parted. You cling to him as well, years of pain and longing washing away as your fingers skim across his bare skin.

His cock fills you like nothing ever before. His hands are rough but gentle against your skin. You could stay like this forever.

You come again, vision going white as you drag your nails down Arthur’s back and feel only a little remorse. He follows shortly after, spilling over your stomach before collapsing on top of you, knocking the wind out of you.

“Arthur,” you wheeze. “I love you, but I can’t breathe.”

He rolls to the side, dragging you in close and nuzzling into your hair. “We can wash up in a few minutes. I just need to hold you.”

You press a kiss to his lips, soft and gentle, one of thousands more to come.

#look #this isnt my best work #but i just want it gone #i tried my best #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #smut #lemons #my rdr2 fic #arthur callahan #fake marriage

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squidproquoclarice · 3 years

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For the @rdr-secret-santa exchange this year, I got to write for @tiredcowpoke. The request I wrote was “Molly/Mary-Beth, possibly a post-game au thing related to their writing?” Happy Holidays, Cowpoke, and I hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

December 1919

St. Denis, Lemoyne

It had been a solemn few years for a poetess, for the world looked upon things with a grim eye, and who could blame them? Between the war and the Spanish flu, that was bad enough. Even a bloody flood of molasses of all things taking lives in a strange and even absurd way. She needed a change from Boston, feeling that urge come over her.

Just as she’d needed a change so long ago and left Dublin for Cousin Brian’s horse farm in California. Back in another life, back when she’d then left Cousin Brian’s horse farm after a few months based on the dark good looks and smooth charms of Mister Aiden O’Malley, or so he’d called himself. Back when she’d been such a fool and become an outlaw’s woman--outlaw’s whore--, something within her liked to hiss still. That part was the one that had been raised to love and fear her father, God the Father, and Father O’Connell alike, a paternal trinity that seemed to have no room for any woman once she wasn’t a virgin.

Some parts of Molly O’Shea clung beneath the skin of Margaret McCarthy nonetheless, and she’d long since had to accept that. Though she listened to them less and less as the years rolled on in their relentless pace. Early on had been difficult. She couldn’t go back to Cousin Brian, couldn’t go back to her father by any means, couldn’t bear to face their condemnation of her shame. So she had gone to Boston, after leaving Dutch and his band of grubby fools behind, a place she had never belonged with a man who used and discarded women. For a woman raised to be an ornament to a man, a true lady, it had been a struggle. But she found eventually that her pen was enough to keep her, rather than the need of a man for it. Forged on into a strange new world where she alone was mistress of her fate, and found it to her liking.

Now here she was in St. Denis for the first time in twenty years, and certainly she was older and wiser and a trifle stouter than the lass of twenty-six who’d never genuinely seen these streets, drinking as much as she had for the heartbreak of it all. It pleased her in some ways to truly experience the city for the first time, finding the old, cultured, European feel of it much to her liking, as opposed to the brashness of Boston that had never quite fit her, no matter how many Irish lived there.

No sooner had she arrived, not even fully unpacking her trunks at the opulent Castille House hotel, built seven years before, than an invitation came from the Krewe of Minerva, whom she was given to understand, had something to do with the Carnival season of Mardi Gras here in St. Denis, and the misspelling of “crew” was quite deliberate, but mostly that it consisted of some of the most prominent women in St. Denis, the wives and daughters and sisters of the powerful, and a handful of independent women as well.

The invitation, printed on heavy card stock, gilt decoration and with neat, flowing copperplate script, asked her to attend an evening celebrating St. Denis’ most prominent female literary luminaries. Oh, the glory of it, to be among people who appreciated such little social niceties as a proper invitation. She thought she understood what they were about--another woman writer had arrived in their midst, and they wished to draw her into their circle. Something in her was giddy about it, even at her age, so delighted to be included, welcomed, in such a way. It hadn’t always been the case.

It was no hardship to attend either given that the reception was in the ballroom of the Castille. So here she was, dressed in a flattering green gown that highlighted her eyes, here to meet the best and brightest lights of St. Denis’ women. Hearing snippets of their chatter as she passed, introducing herself or being introduced one by one, recognizing a few of them from their prominence in the papers.

Henrietta Wicklow, the journalist and ardent suffragette who’d marched for the vote right alongside her deceased mother Dorothy, “Next year we ladies shall all be voting for president--”

A loud voice from a group of ladies clearly enjoying their champagne, a young woman declaring with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, “Enjoy it now, gals, we’ve only a month until this government foolishness of abolishing liquor begins--”

Philomena Castille, wife of Claude Castille, owner of the very hotel they were now in, “--think that the Mardi Gras ball should reflect the theme of a new dawn for a new decade after the frightful few years we’ve had”, and Mrs. Castille then took charge of her to make further introductions with the brisk efficiency of a talented hostess.

Mary Barrett, wife of one of the men involved in St. Denis’ most prominent bookstore, and apparently also the local literary critic Martin Gillis, hiding behind a man’s name. Something about the woman, small, dark, and neat, with a striking small beauty spot on her right cheek, looked oddly familiar. But Margaret couldn’t quite place her. Perhaps they’d met at some literary event before? “Very pleased to meet you, Miss McCarthy, your book of poems is quite memorable.” From her, it somehow didn’t sound like a platitude.

Now another person approached, and Mrs. Castile said, “Oh, and here’s another of our ladies with a talented pen. We call her by her real name in the bosom of friends here, so here’s Miss Mary-Beth Landry. Though,” she winked one sapphire-blue eye, “you would know her better by her nom de plume, Leslie Dupont. Miss Landry, this is Margaret McCarthy, the poetess. She’s moving down from Boston to grace our city.”

She’d heard of Leslie Dupont, a semi-scandalous writer of semi-scandalous books. She had read several and rather enjoyed them, though some part of her blushed to admit it. But there was the part of her that would always adore romance and adventure. Though she hadn’t touched a great deal of Leslie Dupont’s books, including her most popular novel, “Sunset Over The Red Sage”, because those ones were about outlaws, highwaymen, bandits, and pirates. If there was one thing she had no wish to read in this life, it was a romance involving that sort of man. She’d been hurt enough by her own fantasies of that life without needing to read another woman’s ignorant rose-tinted version of it.

Oh, but she wasn’t so ignorant at all, because as Mary-Beth Landry turned, it had been twenty years, but Margaret still recognized her. Not Landry at all, oh no, but Gaskill. Those tumbledown golden brown curls, the soft blue-grey eyes, the liberal sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose that all still gave her something of an appealing girlishness even though she must have passed forty herself, and the lines beside her eyes and mouth said it as much as the ones Margaret saw in the mirror.

Her first instinct was the desire to turn and run before Mary-Beth could say her name, her old name, and expose Margaret in front of all these people as every bit as much an imposter as her. The second was a flare of anger because even all these years later, she could remember being forced to endure watching Dutch sniffing around her, flirting with her shamelessly, and thinking to herself with raging despairing humiliation, That cheap little tramp, what does she have that I don’t, aside from a few more years of youth? The third was to calm herself, because that was all old history and Dutch Van Der Linde wasn’t worth her concern, and frankly, she had drunk a glass of very fine whiskey eight years ago in pleasure at hearing the government’s Bureau of Investigation had finally caught up with him. Bastard. I hope the Devil himself has you as you deserve.

Mary-Beth’s eyes went wide and startled, and she blurted, “Molly!”

Margaret might have slapped her, but she held herself together. “My, it’s been so long since anybody called me that.”

“You two know each other?” Mrs. Castille said, looking at the two of them with surprise, but at least no suspicion.

“Oh, it was so very long ago,” Mary-Beth said, recovering rapidly. “I’m ashamed to say that I...I broke her cousin’s heart.”

“You’ve broken quite a few hearts, my dear,” Mrs. Castille said cheerfully. Yes, Margaret had heard about Leslie Dupont’s fast ways and string of romances never quite come to fruition. Was there such a thing as a rakess?

Mary-Beth’s gaze stayed on hers, and she gave Margaret a shy, apologetic smile. Surprisingly, she felt her pulse suddenly jump at the gesture, and it didn’t feel like alarm or anger. “I do hope you can forgive me, M--Margaret.”

“Oh, long since forgotten,” Margaret assured her, glad she’d jumped quickly to cover her gaffe, and happy to follow her lead with that story. “The fellow wasn’t worth the bother in the end, now was he? We both said good riddance to him.”

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Mrs. Castille said, gesturing towards the balcony. “The night air is quite fine.”

Given two weeks before she’d been in a miserable Boston winter, the weather here made for a pleasant change, she had to admit. Knowing there was no escaping it, she followed Mary-Beth onto the balcony, some part of her very reluctant to have this conversation, but another part strangely intrigued by what the woman had become. Curse her eternal romantic streak, but of course moving from dreamy guttersnipe and pickpocket to a successful authoress made for quite the tale.

Mary-Beth spoke first, keeping her voice low. “We all wondered what had happened to you. You just--vanished.”

“There was nothing to stay for,” she said, managing to keep the bitterness from her tone. “I was never quite one of you, now was I?” So she had simply not followed them when they cleared out from Shady Belle in an almighty hurry, saying the bank robbery had gone terribly wrong. She’d gone to St. Denis and drunk herself silly for nearly a month, and then she’d sobered enough to tell herself she would take the first train in the station, wherever it was bound, which brought her back to Valentine. Of course she would never stay there. The first train into the Valentine station was bound for Omaha. And she kept doing that until chance brought her to Boston.

“Oh, Molly--”

“Margaret,” she corrected with all the fierce, frosty bite of those Boston winters she’d left behind her. “Molly” was only for her intimate friends, and Mary-Beth Landry née Gaskill was and had been nothing of the sort. She relented somewhat, and asked, “What happened to them, if you know?” She might not have belonged to them, they had made that quite clear, but that didn’t mean she wished them ill, let alone shot to pieces by Pinkertons. She’d read about the big gunslingers of the gang dying in the papers over the years, of course, but all the little people like her, like Mary-Beth, had escaped notice.

“We got lucky. Nobody else died that year after Lenny and Hosea,” Mary-Beth answered. “I left a couple of weeks before the end of it all, Pearson and me together, but I’ve run into enough of them in the years since here and there.”

“Arthur died, though?” Margaret said in confusion. He clearly had been killed. The papers had blared it everywhere in triumph, the Pinkertons bagging one more significant quarry even if Dutch himself slipped through their fingers.

If there had been anyone else in the gang she probably should have let herself like and consider halfway to a friend, it might well have been Arthur. There was an awkward gentlemanliness and kindness towards her and all the women beneath that drawling uncouthness, as if he tried to keep the best of himself well hidden. Fetching her that mirror only because she mentioned wanting one? That was the sort of man Arthur Morgan had been, even if she’d been too much of a snob to see it at the time, far more swayed by Dutch’s smooth manners and darkly seductive charisma, the veneer of the proper gentleman of the sort she prized. She couldn’t say she had mourned Arthur at the time, but she had thought about him now and again since. He seemed like a better man than Dutch had let him be, and that felt like a shame.

Mary-Beth leaned closer, and she gave a knowing cat’s smile. “The reports of his death may have been exaggerated. The Pinkertons left him for dead, but it seems that wasn’t quite the case.”

“No!” Delicious gossip, that, even if she could never tell another soul. “Then--what? Who?”

“Sadie’s the one who got him out alive. They stayed together, ended up married, and they’re up in Canada with their children. We don’t write much, just the occasional Christmas card, but it sounds as though they’re well last I heard.”

Margaret had to shake her head, trying to not laugh. Arthur Morgan had married Sadie Adler? That brash, angry half-feral woman strolling around in her pants and swearing a blue streak and toting a rifle, who had made it clear she’d as soon kill a man if he looked at her wrong? But that was old Molly O’Shea talking, a posh lady looking down her nose at Sadie as a coarse farm wife who prided herself on being unnaturally mannish besides. Well, well. Hidden depths to her, I suppose. Or perhaps she changed herself to something finer when it was all said and done. She had done so herself. It seemed Mary-Beth had, at least in some ways.

“Some of the rest are up there in Canada as well. Charles, Karen, Abigail, and such. Pearson’s out in Rhodes, and the Reverend in New York, last I heard.” Abigail, still chasing the feckless boy-man father of her child when the boy was growing old enough to read. Karen, a loudmouthed, chubby creature who fancied herself a hellraiser, had even punched Margaret in the face once. Though I suppose deserved it, mocking her as I did. Saying Sean MacGuire was a brainless, reckless fool and I knew hundreds more Irishmen just like him. Certainly we both turned too much to the drink for the love of men who could never love us as we needed. Abigail never did that at least, though John wasn’t nearly worthy of her that I saw, but the heart wants what it wants. I made quite a solid proof of that lunacy. “Susan, Miss Grimshaw, she stayed around here for a bit, but she always was restless. She’s out in San Francisco now, moved there a year after the earthquake.” Margaret absorbed that, remembering the older woman and her need to feel relevant by bossing people around. The two of them had quite the mutual disdain, Dutch’s young lover versus his older former flame. Whereas back then she’d rolled her eyes at the jealous old biddy who clearly had it in for Dutch choosing another woman, now she was about the age Susan Grimshaw had been then. She could look on it with some sympathy--how much it had hurt to see Dutch already abandoning her, and Susan’s loyalty and love for Dutch had been there even so many years later. How hard must that have been? How hard must it have been to be an unmarried woman approaching fifty, who most men now didn’t value at all? Margaret had escaped that snare, but Dutch had kept Susan dependent on him all that time. Perhaps that was the softening of years, and wisdom, that she could see such things now.

Mary-Beth continued, “Tilly was actually here until earlier this year. She and her husband Henri headed north to Chicago. Better opportunities there for them there, though. I do miss her dreadfully. We used to try and meet every other Thursday at least, sometimes with the children. I’d spoil them with candy and books and toys, and Tilly would always just smile at it. Five children under twelve, quite the handful, but oh, how wonderful they all are. I wonder if baby Amelie will even remember me. She’s only two and a half now.” She wore a wistful, faded, sad little smile at recounting those memories.

Hearing Mary-Beth talk about all the women that had been with Dutch’s people then, it eased something in her to hear they all seemed to have done well and lived happy lives. She’d long since had to face the idea that her youthful dismissal of all of them as a pack of cheap, coarse unmannered creatures not worthy of her time, as different from her bearing and breeding as chalk and cheese, had been wrong. Learned that the line between being one of those women in the gutter and safely embroidering samplers in a graceful parlor was painfully razor thin. Then Mary-Beth shrugged in a sharp, almost dismissive way, and there was something striving too hard for chipper casualness in her tone when she said, “So now it’s only little old me left here in St. Denis.” “And me now, I suppose.” She said it before she could think better of it, laying claim to something she hadn’t cared about in so long, and hadn’t even felt a part of when she was in the thick of it. And yet.

She’d heard that loneliness in Mary-Beth’s voice, and recognized with a startle that she’d felt that same seemingly indefinable loneliness all too often, for all she hadn’t been around anyone else who ran with Dutch’s gang, let alone thought she’d wanted them there.

There was a part of her she couldn’t ever truly talk about, both from the shame of a foolish romance that would have labeled her as firmly ruined, and from the fear of being known as someone who’d been involved with all that unsavory outlaw business. To be with one person she didn’t have to fearfully conceal that behind an ironbound mask, and recognizing the sheer bloody effort it had been these past twenty years to do it, felt like an agonizing relief that she had never known she wanted. Like taking her corset off at the end of the day, laced stern and tight now against the ever-encroaching flesh of middle age, and breathing.

Mary-Beth looked at her, a gentle smile curving her lips. “And you now.” She hesitated, and then said almost shyly, “I did read ‘Odes to a Far Country’, you know. Though my favorite poem in it is ‘The Butterfly and the Phoenix’.”

“Oh!” She felt herself blushing, pleased but surprised. “That’s unusual. Nobody ever likes that one best.” One of her earliest published poems, and she looked back on it now as a somewhat mawkish, clumsy rumination from a woman facing an uncertain future, writing about metamorphosis, slumber, and fire from the ashes. The symbolism in it felt treacly and heavy-handed to her now. “It’s...very untidy.”

“Well, I like it.” Mary-Beth spread her hands and shrugged. “It’s honest. It’s a very messy thing to remake yourself, isn’t it?”

She thought she understood now, with a flash of insight. Mary-Beth had always seemed dreamy, even a bit dull at her insistence on painting everything in a romantic light, as if she simply couldn’t see the awful reality they lived in. How much of that was true then and how much was an act, Margaret couldn’t say, given she wouldn’t give herself much credit for being terribly perceptive in those days. But she had the suspicion Leslie Dupont now saw things clearer, and still chose to write those silly romances only because they brought some joy to the world. Perhaps she wrote about outlaws and pirates only to purge her own demons in some way.

She felt that flicker in her chest again, confessing, “I liked ‘Ribbons of Scarlet’ best.” That one was about a French noblewoman bound for the guillotine, and her love for the humble gardener who’d been her childhood friend. Who then, of course, helped break her out of the Bastille itself, and they fled together, escaped to freedom in America.

“Nobody ever likes that one best,” Mary-Beth said, imitating Margaret’s Dublin accent dreadfully, turning it into some God-forsaken stage Irish and a poor one at that, and Margaret found herself smiling helplessly at it. “People prefer their French Revolution stories with tragic and doomed endings, I’ve found.”

She sighed, looking out into the electric lamp-lit city at night, like a thousand fireflies glowing, fighting back the darkness. “I think we’ve had rather enough of tragic and doomed endings.”

They’d been young enough then, and foolish, and unable to see things clearly, let alone each other. She’d been twenty-six, and Mary-Beth, what, twenty-one perhaps? Now here they were, two middle-aged women brought together again in St. Denis by fate and literature both, and looking at the other woman, Margaret thought she felt something about Mary-Beth that just fit in some peculiar, easy way. “I think we have,” Mary-Beth answered softly. “I only wrote one. My first book. And I only implied it that way, and then, well, I undid it in the sequel anyhow when I thought better of it.” She turned to look at Margaret. “But here we are talking away and you’ve just gotten here to the gathering, and I’m keeping you all to myself.”

“I don’t mind, not at all,” she blurted, before she could help herself, and found herself blushing hotly again, and was surprised to see an answering blush in Mary-Beth’s cheeks. At their age, no less, blushing like two schoolgirls in braids! “But I probably should make the rounds, of course. See and be seen.”

“Of course.” Mary-Beth smiled at her. “Do you have plans for Christmas? I certainly don’t, not aside from the usual round of parties, but you know what I mean. Real plans for Christmas Day, not social ones. If not, you’d be welcome to come to my home, if you’d like.” She reached out to touch Margaret’s arm gently, and oh, how glad she was the fashion was no longer for elbow-length gloves along with an evening gown, because the touch of those fingers on her bare arm sent a frisson of longing through her like she hadn’t felt in years. She’d taken some to her bed discreetly when the mood struck, pleasant enough interludes, but there had never been anything of her heart in it. This, oh, this? This had destroyed her once and it could destroy her again, but how she suddenly wanted, something that wasn’t the overwhelming possession she had craved from Dutch, but something finer, brighter, something like kindred souls finding each other after so long.

She didn’t have a mean bone in her body then, and I very much doubt she does now. She’s not Dutch. Telling herself that, feeling her heart hesitantly peek open only a crack, it was enough for now. She looked up into Mary-Beth’s eyes, and smiled back. “I’d like that very much.”

A/N: Since it was a “Molly lives!” AU already, I decided to just go full “The gang members who died in Chapters 5 and 6 actually live!” AU, since neither Molly nor Susan are tough to spare their sad Beaver Hollow fates, Karen’s is ambiguous, and I’ve definitely explored the idea that there was a clear chance for Arthur if Sadie came back for him. Especially the chance for Molly to reflect a bit on Susan and Karen with greater age and wisdom and see the similarities felt too good to pass up.

#molly o'shea #mary beth gaskill #rdr2 #rdr secret santa 2020 #mollybeth #tiredcowpoke #getting to write two 40something bi literary women for the holidays was lovely #writing #holiday exchange

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thedenofravenpuff · 4 years

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What I want for Steven Universe Future

Is Gregg finally snapping at the Crystal Gems.

Rant incoming with slight spoilers

Since first episode of the first series they treated him like a loser they didn’t want anything to do with, an attitude easily spread to a lot of fans that declared him to be a deadbeat dad absent from Steven’s life, rather living from a van than share a home.

But the Crystal Gems were the ones not wanting him around, least of all in the house build for Steven. Gregg lived out of a van while providing the money to pay for Steven’s food and necessities. You don’t see the Gems work for that money and I highly doubt they are on welfare. They made it clear they didn’t want him all up in their grill by being around Steven while the boy lived with them.

I’m sure Gregg never got Steven a GP for reasons such as him being part alien and the Gems insisting humans wouldn’t know how to treat him. But what do they know about human bodies since their own is made of light?

Steven was never put into a school, does he even have a birth certificate? How did he get a driver’s license, is he registered ANYWHERE? If he legally an alien too purely by lack of proper documentation? We never saw him around kids his own age until Connie. He hang out with teens older than him a few episodes.

I’m pretty sure as soon Steven was old enough to survive the basic care the Gems are able to offer, they took him in and expected Gregg to get lost. He was put under the care of aliens that showed throughout the show that they do not understand human needs nor emotions.

They had to make an episode later on where Gregg spelled it out that he took care of Steven as a baby before the Gems took over, because they had NO IDEA how to take care of a young mammal that doesn’t just reshape if his body accidentally get destroyed. He needed food, a system of digestion even Amethyst only barely got a basic understanding of other than merely imitating it because of its gross out factor on Pearl. So focused on his Gem part yet still shown as dismissive the first many episodes of the first series.

All while SO many times they kept shrugging Gregg off because of their resentment towards him for Rose mixed with that idea they have of humans being a lower lifeform after watching them evolve from cavemen to modern man, through the past thousand years.

Sure they have a much healthier relationship now but it was STEVEN, as a KID, who had to teach the adults in his life, the Crystal Gems, how to, well, adults.

No wonder Steven is now crippled with PTSD and a never satisfied need to be needed. Feeling useless if he’s not FIXING something, because that was the only way he bonded with the Gems over the years.

Latest episode, Growing Pains, was the most real cartoon series episode I’ve ever seen. Pointing out what stress during your formative years can do to your body and mental health. No matter how big a hero you are, there are ALWAYS long lasting consequences for trauma. The body may heal, but the mind not as easily.

The Gems never had any means to help Steven through something like that. They were never born, they come out of the earth fully formed and expected to take on their duties right away, they don’t have a childhood. Why they first learn such valuable things such as mental well being so long after their own creation. They are adult toddlers due to this lack in freedom of natural development. Yet expected to be the adults teaching Steven the way of life.

They failed Steven. They failed GREGG. The man they so many times dismissed and ignored, the man they wanted out of their own lives as much as out of Steven’s life. The most important human connection for Steven. Yes he shrugged and kept saying “I guess you know best,” when they shrugged him off and denied him the chance to help. But what was he supposed to do when facing ancient alien beings insisting they did indeed know better than some mammal from a backwater rock floating in space? While dealing with his own guilt and loss about Rose.

And now he’s left to pick up the pieces the Gems failed to even realize was falling apart.

Gregg is Steven’s DAD, he should have been allowed more into Steven’s life. Yes he couldn’t have solved everything, but Steven needed a steady rock in an ocean of aliens that didn’t understood the importance of emotional connection between members of a species they saw as so fleeting, due to their limited lifespan. And they own inability to handle issues such as loss. Or even respecting other lifeforms.

I want Gregg for once losing it. For once not just letting them push him aside or push around blame. For once ACTUALLY speaking up and give them a much needed speech. As much as I love every member of the Crystal Gems, they are still flawed by an ingrained arrogance. They barely gave him a chance to be Steven’s dad because they didn’t saw that as important because of their own lack of parental figures due to how Gems come into being.

Steven needs help, but at this point regular therapy are most likely not the safest path. With his powers so closely connected to his emotions and mental well being, and growing pains of teenagehood, he’s even more danger to those around him than to himself. People gotten so used to weird stuff around him they easily shrug it off as “just weird stuff around Steven.”

Connie’s mom was at first introduced as the pushy soccer mom, constantly hovering over Connie and rejecting everything out of the ordinary that she rejected what a cluster monster actual was and made up her own reality to dismiss its weirdness.

Now she’s the most supportive human Steven ever run into for being in that middleground of accepting the oddities that is aliens and hybrids. And still able to call things out as they are, pointing out the side of Steven’s humanity that is SUFFERING from the kind of life he had.

No human won’t be at risk around Steven if attempting to help him. And no Gem that could survive facing his powers going amok, can possibly help him with that hurting part of his humanity. Because they don’t understand. Gems are still LEARNING. Humans are physically too fragile.

All consequences for the life he was made to live.

That said I still love everything about the show, I just needed to went a bit about how often Gregg was given the short end of the stick. We have seen how Steven fail trying to connect to other humans, those of normal lives. Take Connie away and he only got Gregg to truly understand hum as a human AND a Gem. He needs to be recognized as human too, not just a weirdo. But a kid still suffering from childhood traumas too often dismissed. Dismissed by those who didn’t understood and himself downplaying it because that was what he was taught.

Looking forward to see where the show moves on from here.I just needed to get some thoughts out of my head with a bit of ranting.

Thanks for reading.

#PuffBlog #SU #SUF #Steven Universe #Steven Universe Future #Rant #Growing Pains #Gregg #Gregg Universe #PTSD #Spoilers #Puffy Rambles

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kessielrg · 4 years

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[Kingdom Hearts] When you give a bunny kid a cake…

Summary: After living for so long with a pack of toddlers, you grow used to their sweet doe eyes when they're about to get in trouble. Ventus has not grown such an immunity toward Oswald's sextuplet bunny kids and as such they recruit him into sneaking the ultimate treat; Ortensia's triple chocolate silk cake. [lowkey requested by @chibi-mushroom and the idea was just too adorable not to ignore]

Rating: K

Word Count: 2,714 words

If you like this story, please reblog!

---

When Ortensia invited them over for a small fall party, Ventus didn't quite think he'd spend most of the time trapped in his girlfriend's bedroom. Not that they were doing anything exciting to begin with. Playing mancala had been Sabrina's idea, but now she looked like she was ready to go to sleep. She laid against her stomach with her head cradled in her arms, the mancala board at the foot of her bed, and Ven volunteering to sit on the floor. Sabrina's eyes drooped lower whenever Ven took his turn.

“You're allowed to go to sleep.” he told her at some point. “It's just me, Terra, and Aqua.”

“And Vanitas.” she spat back. “There's no way I'm going to sleep with that creeper in arm's distance.”

And so, indirectly, Ventus now had the reason why she had him trapped in her room. She needed someone to keep her awake. Someone that wasn't going to be too loud or annoying just by sharing a room with her. Someone, in other words, that she trusted.

He did not feel lucky knowing he was that someone.

“What did you do last night?” he then asked her. “You look so… dead inside.”

Sabrina opened her mouth to retort -a possible 'that's because I feel dead inside' if he knew her well- but was cut off with six little voices calling, “Sabreenie! Sabreenie!” from the other side of the door. Without skipping a beat, Sabrina shouted back;

“Buzz off!”

“But we need you Sabreenie!” three voices told her.

“And Ven-Ven too!” a single voice reminded them.

“Yes! And Ven-Ven too!” two others chorused in agreement.

Sabrina let out a low groan as she buried her head further into her arms.

Even though he knew she didn't want to hear it, Ven told her, “Can't you humor them for now? They are your siblings.”

“Not by blood.” she grumbled as she started to get off her bed anyway. Ven fought the urge to fondly smile at her while she sat straight up, and rubbed the sleep from her eyes using the palm of her hand. It looked enough like a scene from a movie that Ven wondered if she did it for show.

His opinion on this was squashed easily when she did rise to her feet. If it wasn't obvious Sabrina was exhausted, it became quickly apparent as she made her way to the door. She had a light, unintentional sway to her gait, which almost led to her bumping into the mannequin she used to test outfits before she wore them. It was actually kinda weird that she had it out- she usually hid it in her closet when guests were coming over.

Regardless, she made it to her door with otherwise ease. Sabrina opened the door and was greeted to six bunny children. They had stacked themselves by their shoulders- but even with the added height, the bunny kid on top was just barely tall enough to see above Sabrina's shoulders.

“You have three minutes.” Sabrina said to the bunny kid on top.

“Mama made a cake!” they happily told her.

Sabrina cocked an eyebrow at them. “And…?”

“Mama told Junior, Roy, Ray, Ruth, Herb, and Elias that cake has to wait until dinner.” came the sullen reply. All six of the bunny kids hung their head in misery.

“And I assume you want it now?”

The bunny children eagerly nodded in unison. Their little tower swayed for a moment from the small weight change, but the six were able to readjust quickly.

“Why didn't you guys get Vanitas?” Sabrina then wondered, casting them a suspicious glance.

“Van-Van is napping now.” one of the bunny kids told her. The others gave a solemn nod in agreement.

“But why Ventus too?”

“Sabreenie always hides Ven-Ven.” the bunny kid on top told her.

“We want to play now!” the others happily chorused.

“In other words,” their adoptive older sister mused as she leaned against her door frame, “You need a scapegoat.”

“Why would they need a scapegoat?” Ven curiously wondered, appearing by Sabrina's side. His girlfriend looked back at him with a disinterested raise of her eyebrow.

“When you give a bunny kid a cake,” she informed him, “Nothing after will go down in your favor.”

Now it was Ventus's turn to give her a funny look. He looked back at the bunny kids and saw their pitiful little faces. It was absolutely heartbreaking seeing their long faces; Ven could already hear a few random bars from Sarah McLachlan's Angel playing in the distance. 'In the arms of a bunny child...'

“Aw, come on Sabi,” he tried to gently tease, “Look at them. Look at those sad little faces...”

There wasn't even a moment of hesitation before she spat, “Those are the same faces they make before half the house gets set on fire.”

The bunny children let out a unified sound of surprise, then gave her a rather prude raspberry. Even with her being a good 13 years older than them, Sabrina retaliated with a raspberry of her own.

“You know,” Ven gently said to her, “You're not much different.” To the bunny kids proper, he said, “I'll help you.”

Unified squeal of joy came from the bunny kids as they hopped off each other and into Sabrina's room. Once everyone was in her room, Sabrina grimaced as she shut the door. The bunny kids might have been small, but with all six it still seemed like there wasn't enough room for everyone. Sabrina sat back down on her bed as Ven and the bunny kids started with their game plan.

“Our plan is simple,” he told the kids with a sense of mirth, “Ortensia usually leaves the cake in the fridge before we actually eat it. To avoid a crumb trail -literally- we should take it to the laundry room. All we really need to do is get some plates and forks from the…”

“This isn't going to work.”

Ventus and the bunny children looked over at Sabrina with the same look of bewilderment. It was Ven who soon gave her a rather cheeky grin before asking, “Jealous because our plan doesn't involve you?”

“Hardly.” Sabrina snorted. “While it is rather smart to eat it in the laundry room, Ortensia will hear you all clatter around the kitchen like a batch of chickens with their heads cut off.”

Ven's face immediately fell. “Oh.”

“This is where a divide and conquer plan would come in handy.” Sabrina went on, moving herself so the other seven could get a better look at her. She even pulled out the mancala board to better illustrate her plans. “Half of the six will go distract Terra and Aqua by directing them outside, the other half will keep Ortensia upstairs. Maybe Oswald too, but he's either-or in this kind of situation.”

“But who's getting the cake?” Ven asked, looking up at her with a curious tilt of his head.

“You are.” she claimed. “Alone.”

“Why just me?”

“Because I am making this plan foolproof, and I don't want to get between Ortensia while she's in guest kisser mode.”

Ventus recoiled a little and didn't look at her directly when he mumbled, “I wouldn't say Aqua, Terra, and I are guests...”

“You're not,” Sabrina affirmed with a huff, “But try telling Tense that.”

Ven let out a contemplative hum before looking down at the bunny kids. They looked back up at him with wide, adoring eyes that practically read 'isn't our big sister the best?' When he turned to Sabrina again, Ventus admittedly (and rather embarrassingly) zoned out slightly as she went over the plan to her siblings. There was a sense of concentration etched into her furrowed eyebrows as she went on. If she wasn't so interested in fashion and aesthetics, Sabrina would have made a good strategist.

“Roy, Ray, and Junior, take Ortensia upstairs and be loud about it. Junior might want to cause an 'accident' in the bathroom to be sure. Pops can jump in on that if it's real bad, so he's out of your hair too. Ruth, Elias, and Herb, your job is probably the easiest because Aqua and Terra love the stuffing out of you. Take them outside and show them your jack-o-lanterns. They should still be standing perky after a month. If not, make up a sob story of how much hard work you put into them and now they're rotting. Get some waterworks going and Terra will be eating out of the palm of your hand. All in all, you can only hold Mom's attention for about ten minutes before she figures something is up. Ven should have gotten the cake by then, so let's make that our time limit. Everyone good? Good. Break.”

“Break!” the bunny children immediately repeated with a clap of their hands. The six of them immediately left Sabrina's room to do as they were instructed. Ven remained where he was for a moment. Sabrina looked at him, a soft smirk appeared on her face.

“You didn't hear a word of that, did you?” she asked him.

“Of course I did!” he told her as he stood up. “I just gotta wait for the Six to clear everyone from the kitchen, then I've got less than 10 minutes to take the cake from the fridge and to the laundry room.”

A small snicker came from his girlfriend as she shook her head. “Good guess.” she gently teased. “Now go steal that cake before Ortensia finds out.”

. . .

Sabrina could deny it all she wanted, but the bunny kids got their sense of stealth from her. Or maybe the plan she made really was foolproof. Ventus waited out in the living room while the bunny kids tried to distract their respective roadblocks. Terra and Aqua had been easy targets; at least one of the bunny kids hopping into Terra's arms, and the other two tugging at Aqua's skirt to get her attention. Ortensia was harder to budge. It took two bunny kids to finally make her crack- running down the stairs (how they got up undetected to begin with was beyond Ven) in hysteria.

Just to be sure though, Ventus did wait an extra minute or so before going into the kitchen. He tried to walk as casually as possible, but the sudden anticipation of getting caught made him want to walk on tiptoes. He did find it rather hilarious that Sabrina as indirectly trying to help hide the noise he could have made in the kitchen- not that Cheyenne Kimball's One Original Thing was the best soundtrack to this moment.

Ventus carefully peeled the door to the refrigerator open and nearly let out a sigh of relief to see that cake was placed on one of the higher shelves. It had to be a higher shelf because of the Six, even if they attempted a bunny stack, but it must have been too high for Oswald and Ortensia too. Terra or Aqua must have placed it up there. For Ven, it was an easily reach and careful extraction. He set the cake down on the counter with care.

Ortensia had really outdone herself with the cake's presentation. Looking to be about three tiers, the cake was covered entirely with chocolate frosting with hand piped rosettes around the top edge. In the center was a neatly twirled covering of whipped cream, hand cut chocolate strips decorated the top of it. For a moment, Ven almost felt bad that he was an accessory to a soon to be cake murder by six ravenous 4 year olds.

Almost.

“Cake is for after dinner, Ventus.”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, Ven quickly tried to find the source of the voice before noticing Vanitas coming down the staircase. His twin had an undeniable smirked etched on his face. Seeing it made Ven's blood run cold.

“What are you doing in the kitchen?” he questioned. It sounded so accusatory, as if Ventus himself wasn't trying to do something that would have warranted the wrath of some very angry adults.

“Woke up from my nap and the wabbits weren't there.” came the reply, simple as day. “Came downstairs to harass Terra, I guess, and here I run into you…” Vanitas looked his older twin up and down with a smirk on his face before asking, “What'cha gonna do with that cake, Ven?”

“Eat it.” came the automatic answer. Ventus immediately flinched upon hearing himself. This answer only seemed to amuse Vanitas as he got closer.

“All alone?” he snorted. “I doubt that very seriously.” That was when a certain thought crossed his mind that almost made him laugh hard enough to tears. “This is a cover up operation! Hate to break it to you Ven-Ven, but giving Sabreenie a whole cake isn't gonna help with her seasonal depression.”

Ventus's face immediately scrunched into distaste. “She doesn't have...” he tried to argue, but was soon distracted when one of the bunny kids came down the staircase. The tiny four year old gave the cake a look, drooled a little, and in realizing that Vanitas was there, got right back into action.

“Hey there, squeaky.” Vanitas greeted when the little rabbit jumped high enough to be noticed. “What's eating you?”

But the bunny kid was speaking so quickly, it was hard to follow exactly what they were trying to tell Vanitas. Knowing that the message wasn't easily going through, the bunny kid changed tactics, leading Vanitas into the living room. Ven could only watch in a small awe as Vanitas willingly followed the bunny kid. Apparently Terra wasn't the only pushover when it came to them…

Ven shook his head. The mission was almost a success, and with the unexpected roadblock gone, he had to finish the deed. Carefully picking up the cake again, Ventus made his way around to the laundry room. It was no hassle in setting the cake down on top of the dryer. Letting out a small sound of relief, Ven wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow. He left the laundry room as quietly as he entered it. The mission was accomplished- now all he needed to do was tell the bunny kids and possibly get them a spoon or two.

Going into the living room did lead to a small shock. Somehow, the bunny kid that had gone to distract Vanitas had gotten the teenager to go back to sleep. It took everything it had in Ventus not to let out an unflattering snort. When the bunny kid noticed him, Ven was given a doe eyed look of question. At his nod, the bunny kid let out a happy, “Thank you!” before bounding off to get the others. It was rather adorable, honestly, and Ven felt good about himself as he went into the kitchen to get spoons for the seven of them.

He didn't expect for all six of the bunny children to beat him back into the laundry room by the bunny kids. Someone really needed to come up with a reason why these kids were so fast. It didn't seem right.

“Ven-Ven helped us...” the oldest of the bunny children decided.

“So he gets first slice!” the others finished off with a solemn nod.

Ven chuckled a little. He took his spoon and made a rather generous scoop of cake. Normally, doing such a thing would have physically hurt him. But at the moment, knowing that the cake wasn't going to survive much longer, he chose to ignore it.

“I think this is all I need.” he decided out loud. He gave them all a smile before adding, “Thank you.”

“Is it for Sabreenie?” one of the bunny children curiously wondered. But Ven looked at them for a moment before giving a sly wink. The bunny kids went into a flurry of giggles as Ven started to leave. A smile was also pressed into the corners of Ventus's lips. Sabrina had been a major factor in their cake heist, so of course she deserved a piece of it too. Sure, cake might not help much with seasonal depression, but at least it could show that he still cared about her. And that, for now, was enough.

#kingdom hearts #kingdom hearts fanfiction #ventus #kh ventus #kh oc #kingdom hearts oc #kh fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #kh fan fic #fan fic #vanitas #kh vanitas #bunny children #oneshot

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enthusiasticsobrietyabuse · 3 years

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Bob Meehan - Times Advocate: Sunday, August 26, 1984

The story of a con man who helps kids kick drugs

Robert Meehan describes himself as a hippie, a rebel, a former heroin addict and a con man. There is no one better qualified, in his mind, to help teenagers get off drugs.

Meehan is the director of a Valley Center drug-rehabilitation program for young drug abusers called SLIC - Sober Live-In Center - Ranch. The former director of a major Houston-based drug rehabilitation program, Meehan has won high praise from clients and their parents, who have included comedians Carol Burnett and Tim Conway.

Despite that praise, however, Meehan's methods have attracted considerable controversy. He left the Houston Palmer Drug program in 1980, after television reports questioned the accuracy of the program's vaunted success rate and Meehan's possible conflict of interest in receiving a lucrative hospital consulting fee.

Meehan's problems did not end when he left Houston, however.

The county has declared SLIC Ranch to be in violation of zoning ordinances, and the state has threatened to close it down unless Meehan gets proper license to run a drug-treatment program. The county has also questioned SLIC's ties to a burgeoning self-help drug program called Freeway that has a satellite programs throughout San Diego County.

SLIC, which charges $4,000 a month and caters mainly to children of affluent parents, has also prompted concerns among drug-counseling professionals. Some worry that the cost of the program is excessive and that it relies heavily on non-professional counselors to provide treatment. They also express concern that Meehan could exert undue influence over his impressionable young charges.

Meehan established SLIC Ranch in 1981 as a privately-funded live-in center for young drug abusers requiring daily counseling to overcome their habits. Between 10 and 16 young people live in a rambling ranch-style house, supervised by Meehan and recovered drug-abusers who have gone through the SLIC program themselves.

While two professional psychologists are associated with the program, the emphasis is on former drug addicts and recovered alcoholics whose counseling approach is: "I've been there before." Meehan himself is a former heroin addict and recovered alcoholic.

Meehan, who wears his hair shoulder-length and sports tight designer jeans and a gold chain necklace, both dresses and acts hip - partly, he says, to gain the trust of his young clients.

"They say, 'Wow, look at this crazy old hippie,'" said Meehan, who does not care to modernize his image.

"I'm still a rebel. I'm still a hippie. I don't know how to change. I love the cause. I feel like I've got as righteous a cause as the Vietnam War."

Meehan said he can understand how parents bringing their kids to SLIC might be leery of him, given his appearance.

"I don't know if I'd trust me," he said, laughing. "But beneath this hair is a red neck. I'm a Republican. Voted for Reagan."

But when he talks about drugs, Meehan speaks in a voice that teenagers can understand.

"It's the Cheech-and-Chong generation," Meehan is fond of saying to his clients. "They're committing suicide on the installment plan."

Meehan often harps on the comedy team of Cheech and Chong, whose trademark is overindulgence in marijuana. In sharp contrast to some health professionals, Meehan regards marijuana as one of the most dangerous drugs used by teenagers.

"Marijuana is the most insidious chemical in society today," because it affects the mind, Meehan said. "I'd rather the kids were shooting heroin."

Meehan's message and his style often prompt adulation from the young people in his care.

"He has the answer to everything," said 16-year-old girl from La Jolla who said she was having trouble getting along with her mother, who had recently remarried. "He has love. It's like one big family. We work together and play together, and it's fun. And Bob's our big daddy."

Meehan, 41, the son of an Irish policeman, grew up in Baltimore. He said he started taking drugs at age 12.

He became an alcoholic and a heroin addict, spending four years in state and federal prisons for drug convictions. While in a Texas jail, Meehan was befriended by an Episcopalian priest. Upon his release he became the janitor for the Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church in Houston.

The priest urged Meehan to stay off drugs by counseling some of the local kids with drug problems of their own. Meehan said that at the time he was "a crazy kid with a 'hellatious' ego and visions of grandeur" and too flattered to turn down the offer.

The informal, self-help group began in 1972 with six members. It grew to become the Palmer Drug Abuse Program, which, according to Meehan, has had 30,000 participants. Meehan described it as "the most powerful drug program in the world."

It was closely modeled after the Alcoholics Anonymous program, with recovered abusers helping their peers.

Palmer garnered national publicity in the late 1970s, when actress Carol Burnett sent her daughter, Carrie Hamilton, there for treatment. Burnett was so impressed with her daughter's improvement that she and her husband accompanied Meehan on the "Phil Donahue Show" and other television shows to tout the program's success.

But Meehan's claims that his program had a cure rate of 75 percent to 80 percent attracted some sharp scrutiny.

In January 1980, CBS' "60 Minutes" TV program broadcast a piece on Palmer. According to a transcript of the broadcast, Meehan conceded under repeated questioning by Dan Rather that he did not have documentation to support his alleged success rate.

Rather also questioned Meehan's $50,000 annual consulting fee from a Houston hospital to which Palmer routinely sent young drug addicts for costly medical treatment. Meehan said during the interview that he saw no conflict of interest.

Meehan was also asked about his power to "persuade" some of the program's vulnerable young clients.

"I have that power," Meehan said. "I certainly do. I've been a con all my life. Just now I'm using it in a good way, see."

Following the "60 Minutes" piece, Meehan was asked to leave Palmer. In retrospect, Meehan now says, he could have prevented his firing by paying more attention to program details.

"I wasn't doing a damn thing wrong," he said. "I didn't mind the store. I was naive."

Meehan came to San Diego to work for Contemporary Health Inc., which was consulting with Center City Hospital, now Harborview Hospital, to establish a drug-abuse program. But his work for the hospital was short-lived.

"My methods are very unorthodox," Meehan said. "I was always fighting the staff."

While working for the hospital, however, Meehan helped establish a self-help counseling program called Freeway. It was modeled directly after Palmer and named after a rock music group formed at Palmer to entertain the kids in the program.

Freeway was started in 1982 by Jac Coupe, a former Palmer counselor, and by other Palmer employees who has left Texas after Meehan's departure. It now has centers in Coronado, Point Loma, Solana Beach and the newest one in Fallbrook.

The program, whose services are free, is funded in each community by local civic groups and churches. It is open to people 13 to 25 seeking help for drug and alcohol problems.

Participants are encouraged to attend weekly group-counseling sessions and to follow a 12-step program to achieve sobriety. Those who are severely addicted are referred for hospital treatment. In some cases, however, Freeway counselors conclude that a young person needs more intensive counseling - at SLIC Ranch.

Those who go to SLIC for a typical one-month stay range in age from 13 to 24, with the average age about 16. Most are psychologically - not physically - addicted to drugs. They have come to get free of dependence on marijuana, alcohol, speed and LSD.

Pat, a 19-year-old Rancho Santa Fe youth, realized he needed help when he mugged a woman to get money for his $600-a-week cocaine habit. John, a 21-year-old alcoholic from Clairemont, had tried a variety of alcohol treatment programs with no success.

SLIC participants live in a spacious ranch house, set among the oaks and hills of Valley Center, with a garden and pond-shaped swimming pool. They share bedrooms dormitory-style, with three or four to a room.

The participants are required to prepare their own meals to their own tastes, and there are no planned menus. Cereal and hot dogs are staples.

The rules prohibit drugs, alcohol, sex and violence. However, smoking, which is allowed, is prevalent.

"We don't care about cigarettes, diets and vitamin intake," Meehan said.

Participants spend most of their days in counseling. During their free time they are allowed to lounge by the pool and play rock music, much to the dismay of the neighbors. Occasional field trips are taken to Disneyland and other amusement centers.

SLIC residents are supervised by a staff of six, most former SLIC residents themselves. At least one staff person is on duty 24 hours a day.

One of the supervisors, Jackie Moors, 26 got off drugs a year ago after going through the SLIC program. Moors, who started doing drugs at age 10 and progressed until she was shooting up crystal methamphetamine, credits SLIC with turning her life around.

"The next stop would have been either jail or death" without SLIC, she said. The program worked, she said, because "people really cared about me." Her young son stays with her at the ranch.

Meehan said one goal of the center is to show residents "how to have more fun sober" than on drugs or alcohol.

Every weekday SLIC residents are transported by van to a rented house in Escondido, where they spend six hours in therapy and discussion.

The sessions are directed by Meehan and by Peter Sterman, a psychological assistant, who cannot practice without supervision of a licensed psychologist. His supervisor is Dr. Carl E. Morgan of San Diego.

In the evenings and on weekends, the residents are often taken to meetings of Freeway or Alcoholics Anonymous.

Last month the state notified Meehan that the center was operating without a license and threatened to close it down unless the center meets state standards required for a so-called residential-care license.

SLIC has been operating without a license because Meehan has successfully dodged the requirements, according to Tom Hersant, director of the San Diego office of the state's Community Care Licensing Division.

He told state officials that the ranch was operating not as a residential-care center providing therapy to live-in clients, but as a "boarding house," with the boarders receiving their counseling off the ranch in an Escondido house.

Meehan told the Times-Advocate that he attempted to avoid licensing to keep costs down.

Last month state investigators who has been suspicious of the arrangement finally confront SLIC officials.

"They told us, 'All right, already. We do provide therapy,'" Hersant said. "Suddenly now they're 'fessing up that they offer therapy."

State officials informed Meehan that a license would be needed.

To obtain a license the center would have to meet fire safety standards, provide a medical checkup for new clients to insure they are getting the appropriate treatment, and keep records evaluating the clients' progress. SLIC would no longer be allowed, as it does now, to mix clients younger than 18 with those older than 18.

Please see Ranch, page B2

Meehan has insisted that the licensing requirements are minor. He said he would comply, though he feels that the regulations would bring too much formality to the relaxed way he runs the program.

Not only must the ranch be licensed, but the counseling program run at the Escondido house must obtain a separate license to offer drug counseling. Once a facility is licensed, the state inspects it once a year to insure that standards are met.

Hersant said SLIC has agreed to apply for the two licenses. The licensing approval usually takes 90 days. If no licenses are obtained, he said, the state will move to shut SLIC down.

Meehan said he plans to meet the state requirements, but he dislikes the paperwork.

"I will comply to whatever extent I have to, to help young people," he said. "At the same time, I just want to do my thing."

Meehan said his problems with the state occurred because of negative publicity generated by the ranch's landlord, Clayton Blehm, an Escondido accountant. Blehm was sentenced in June to one year in jail for zoning violations at the Valley Center property that included adding illegal structures around the ranch. He is out on bail awaiting an appeal.

Blehm has also been cited by county zoning officials for allowing SLIC to move in without getting a major use permit - required to run a treatment center in a rural-residential area. The zoning investigations were prompted by complaints from neighbors, some of whom said that a drug treatment center did not belong in their quiet neighborhood and that they were repeatedly disturbed by loud music.

Last year SLIC and Freeway were the subject of an "informal investigation" by the county Division of Drug Programs. The investigation was prompted partly by complaints from a San Diego city schools official concerned that Freeway encouraged some young persons to stay away from school for one to three months to avoid their drug-using friends.

The report concluded that the complaint was the result of lack of communication between the school district and Freeway and that the two should work out an understanding.

The county investigation was also prompted by concerns about SLIC's relationship with Freeway.

"On the surface," the report said, "one might question the referral relationship, since both program directors hold a personal acquaintance that foes back to the Palmer Drug Abuse Program in Houston. However, DDP has no documentation information to suggest there is any impropriety or conflict of interest in the referral process."

Meehan said he has no break-down on where SLIC clients come from, but that many are referred by Freeway. He said SLIC and Freeway have no financial arrangements, because that would be unethical.

"There can't be," he said. "There's absolutely no financial arrangement either way."

Meehan urges all SLIC residents to attend Freeway counseling sessions after they leave the ranch. That is critical to staying sober, according to Meehan.

"If we can't hook a kid into Freeway," he said, "his chances are less than 60 percent of making it."

Some who go through the SLIC program are advised to live with "Freeway families" for several months, rather than with their own families. Meehan defended the practice for some clients, contending they would fall back into bad habits at home.

Asked whether continued reliance on Freeway would hurt a client's chances of becoming independent, Meehan said, "It's a very safe group of friends to have. I don't know if it's an unhealthy dependency."

According to Meehan, 90 percent of those who have gone through the SLIC program in the past 18 months have remained sober or off drugs after they left. He said that figure comes from undocumented reports from Freeway officials. "I hate statistics," he said.

Despite its concerns, the County Division of Drug programs concluded that there was "no documentable evidence" to prevent the county from recommending SLIC and Freeway as treatment centers.

At the time of the investigation, Meehan was serving the first year of a three-year term on the county's Advisory Committee on Drug Abuse. The 11-member volunteer committee helps county officials select drug-treatment programs to receive county money.

Freeway centers, which are privately funded, are generally located in affluent regions of the county.

"They're in the ones that can pay for it," Meehan said. "They have raised the money."

Parents in those communities can also afford to send their children to SLIC. The $4,000-a-month cost of attending SLIC has raised eyebrows among professional drug counselors.

By comparison, the county-funded McAllister Institute of Training and Education in El Cajon charges about $720 a month to treat women with drug problems.

Jessica Lewis, program director for Community Resources and Self-Help Inc., which has a county contract to treat drug abusers in San Diego, said the program has never referred anyone to SLIC. Lewis said her program's clients cannot afford Meehan's program.

"His target audience is kids from families that are financially successful," she said. "He's earning big bucks. More power to him. He has a mindset of big business and the heartset of helping people. I don't question his sincerity."

During his "60 Minutes" interview four years ago, Meehan said he was worth more than the $100,000 he was then making. He would not say in a recent interview how much he makes running SLIC.

Meehan, who lives in Rancho Bernardo, said that despite the $4,000-a-month per-person SLIC Ranch fee, he is not getting rich.

"Where that profit is, I haven't seen it yet," he said. "I make enough to pay my bills and save $100 a month."

Some health professionals were reluctant to speak candidly about Meehan's program. One noted that Meehan, because he sits on the county advisory committee, wields influence over the finances of many local treatment programs.

Nevertheless, some drug-treatment experts expressed reluctance to refer clients to SLIC because of its reliance on non-professional counselors. After sitting on a panel discussion with Meehan, Greg Baer, head nurse of the substance-abuse unit at Southwood Psychiatric Hospital in Chula Vista, he said he would not recommend Meehan's program for anyone.

"I just question his ability to be therapeutic," said Baer, whose program also treats adolescents for as much as $10,200 a month. "The people we deal with need a therapeutic approach from people who are knowledgeable... you need to have knowledge of what you're doing and not just go with a gut feeling."

Baer criticized SLIC's exclusion of the families of young drug abusers from its treatment program.

"If Johnny is going to return home, you have to discuss how this is going to be done... Otherwise you are doomed for failure," he said.

Some professional counselors said they worry about Meehan's influence over young people. Lewis said it is important for an organization such as SLIC, which treats emotionally-dependent people, to be accountable to a licensing or watchdog agency. Otherwise, she said, clients can be exploited.

"It's a pain in the neck," she said, "but I'm prepared to answer to those (licensing) people. There are enough people looking over our shoulder to make sure our clients are safe."

John Adam, a licensed psychologist in Coronado who has monitored SLIC Ranch and Freeway for more than a year, said he is concerned about the unorthodox nature of the counseling. Adam said the adulation that SLIC participants feel toward Meehan resembles hero worship.

"Any time you depend on the charisma of a leader, you fear that results will fade with time or distance from the guru," he said.

Meehan said he knows that he has tremendous influence on this young charges, but he tries to use that to good purposes.

"I'd like to think I'd become one of their local heroes instead of Cheech and Chong," he said.

But he acknowledged that his relationship with the clients could lead to problems.

"Yeah, it scares me," he said. "You get into a real guru (situation). This is where cults can begin."

"I have an advantage, though, because they're here only 30 days. I cut them loose emotionally when they leave here."

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illfoandillfie · 5 years

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Curtains - Part 4

SERIES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Roger x Reader

Summery: You turn Roger down

Warnings: Smut (18+), angst, an argument with some very mean words, rough sex, choking, badly handled Feelings

Words: 4,192 (longest chapter so far)

A/N: penultimate chapter is a bit of a downer lmao

Taglist (though notifications don’t seem to be working so hopefully ya’ll see this): @laedymoon @dtfrogertaylor @ezmina98 @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks

@bohemiansweede @rogershoe @lnnuend0 @funitrog

You’d managed to avoid Roger for a solid three weeks. It hadn’t been easy considering you went to the same uni and lived next door to each other and you still hadn’t hung your curtains, but you’d been managing alright. There’d been a lot of ducking into bathrooms or around corners when you saw him on campus. A lot of studying on your couch rather than in your room to avoid him knocking at your door again. A lot of leaving early and sneaking home when you knew he’d be playing at the pub or else crashing on friend’s couches when possible. Anything to avoid Roger and the questions he was sure to have about your cancelled date.

The night he’d asked you out had been a sleepless one despite what you’d told him, your brain keeping you up with misgivings about dating Roger. Sex with him was one thing but an actual date was a whole different ballgame, one you weren’t sure you wanted to play. You needed more time to think, weigh up what you wanted. Did you enjoy being around Roger? Or did you just like that he could get you off? Most of your conversations had happened just before you slept together, while you were too horny to think straight, or just after, while you were coming down from the high. Which made it hard to know if you actually liked him, or it was just the endorphins talking. He seemed sweet enough, if a little full of himself, from what you knew about him, but really he was a giant question mark. He might be a complete arsehole. Or a control freak. He might be a serial womanizer. Or a serial killer. So you’d called it off, the day after he’d asked you out. A purposeful accidental meeting on his way out of the house. It had taken hours of sitting by your front door, changing your mind over and over again as you waited for him to step outside and head towards his van. A small wave to get his attention and then, when he’d smiled and greeted you, an apologetic look and some bullshit about a family situation meaning you weren’t going to be able to see him on Saturday. The lack of sleep might actually have helped you sell your story. He’d looked disappointed but not half as disappointed as he was a minute later when he tried to reschedule, and you said you’d have to get back to him with a day that worked. Since then you’d done everything in your power to not see him. Ostensibly so you could think things through, give yourself some time to work out what you actually wanted, though the reality of it was closer to making excuses and hiding. Sometimes literally hiding. He’d come over a few times, sending you scurrying for cover in your bathroom. You’d found notes each time, once or twice accompanied by a flower, saying he really wanted to talk with you. You stopped reading them after the third one, though you didn’t throw them out. Just left them in a pile on your coffee table, waiting for you to get curious enough to take a peek. And now it had all gone to shit because you’d forgotten to account for his dumb friends.

“Y/N, can you just tell me what’s going on?” Freddie asked you, having cornered you on campus before you could think to escape his notice. You hadn’t even considered Freddie or anyone besides Roger wanting to talk to you about it. “Sorry Freddie but it’s really none of your business. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got t-” “Rog has been really bummed out since you cancelled on him. Moping around, playing the worst fucking music. Constantly, for two and a half weeks now. Just rubbish record after rubbish record. I think that entitles me to an explanation of what the hell happened between you.” “It just didn’t feel right,” you shrugged. “But fucking in the pub bathroom did?” “That’s different,” you said, annoyed that he was inserting himself in your business, judging your actions, “The sex was just sex, I never signed up to get involved. Besides, Roger isn’t the sort of guy I date.” “Bullshit,” “What? You think because I'm shy and find it hard to approach men that I can’t have a casual fling? That I’m so desperate for attention I’ll say yes to anyone?” “Darling you don’t have a monopoly on being shy,” He paused for a moment, eyeing you up, “Everything you just said is rubbish.” “Excuse me?” You crossed your arms over your chest, waiting indignantly for Freddie to continue. “It’s got nothing to do with things not feeling right or whatever else you’ve told yourself. It’s because you’re scared. I know you were scared to approach him when you moved in and you were scared to make a move on him at the pub. I saw you, hoping he’d notice you. And we all saw you after the show the other week, laughing at his jokes and all those little smiles when you thought no one was looking. You turned him down because you got scared.” “Fuck off Freddie. We hung out one time, you don’t know me and frankly neither does Roger.” “Isn’t that the point of going on a date though? To get to know each other?” “Maybe I don’t want him to know me. He only thinks he’s interested because I’ve been sleeping with him. As soon as it stops being fun or he finds someone new, he’ll ditch me.” “You need to give Roger more credit than that.” “No, what I need to do is get to class,” you pushed past him. Freddie's voice followed you as your stormed off, “Fine, Y/N, but can you at least talk to Roger about it?” You threw him the V over your shoulder as you walked away.

Still stewing over everything Freddie had said, you didn’t pay any attention to where you were walking. Wanker, you thought to yourself, what’s it to him anyway. Not my problem Roger’s in a shitty mood and has crap taste in music. Says a handful of sentences to me while we hung out in the van one time and he thinks he knows a single thing about me. Thinks he can butt into my business. It’s got nothing to do with him if I never see Roger again! You spent the next few minutes cursing Freddie and coming up with a list of things you wished you’d said to him, only stopping when you realised you were standing outside your front door, yelling a single, loud, “SHIT” into the air. That summed it up really. Shit. Everything was shit. Missing a class you really should have been at was shit, being cornered and read like a fucking book by Freddie was shit, not seeing Roger was shit. You decided to call the day what it was – a total fucking lost cause – and have a nap. Your bag thumped against the floor where you dropped it by the door, your shoes making equally loud bangs as you kicked them across the room. The small pile of notes still sat on the coffee table, taunting you, but you ignored it heading stright to your room. You shimmied out of your jeans and climbed into bed, pulling the covers over your head to block out the sun streaming in through the curtain-less door. God I've really got to fix that.

Just as you got settled you heard a tapping against the glass. You screwed your eyes shut, having a feeling you knew who causing the racket, and willed him to go away. He didn’t. Instead he tapped louder, his voice muffled by the glass as he called your name. “Y/N, I know you’re in there! I heard you swearing!” You buried your head under your pillow, trying to block him out. The constant tapping alone was getting on your nerves, never mind his voice. “I can fucking see you moving around! Can you please just talk to me?” “Go away Roger!” “Not until you talk to me!” “For fucks sake,” you hissed under your breath before throwing the covers back, “Fine!” You strode towards the door, yanking it open, “Fine, let's talk then.” “Drop the attitude Y/N. You’re the one who blew me off and then fucking disappeared for weeks, I just want to know why.” “Take the hint Roger, I don’t want to date you.” “Jesus, yeah I got that. Why are you being such a cunt about it though?” You stared at him for a few seconds, stung though you knew he was right. “Well? Are you going to say something, or just stand there?” You decided on neither, moving to shut the door in his face but he was too quick, wincing as it his his shoulder. “No, you owe me an explanation Y/N,” he said pushing the door wide enough to get inside, “What did I do? Something happened between me leaving and the next day when you cancelled and I want to know what the fuck it was,” “I came to my senses that’s what happened,” you stood your ground even as he invaded your personal space and a voice screamed in the back of your head to just stop and be honest. Roger shook his head, “You think you’re being so fucking clever, don’t you? Well you’re not. You’re just being a bitch.” “You don’t know me, Roger. You think cos we fucked a few times you know a single goddamn thing about me but you don’t.” “I had it right the first time.” “What?” “The first time I fucked you. Left as soon as I’d finished with you, that was the right idea. All that hanging around after shit was a waste of time.” “Yeah well, if you ask me none of it was worth it. Should have realised after the first time you weren’t a good enough fuck anyway. “That's bullshit and we both know it. Do you have any idea how fucking pathetic you looked, how desperate, waiting for me to notice you? One fucking word was all it took to have you spread your legs for me, and in a room full of strangers no less. Literally begged to suck me off last time, like a proper slut. You’re the easiest pussy I ever got, Y/N. And It was stupid of me to think you were worth more than the time it took me to cum.” “That’s how you feel is it?” “Yeah, it is,” “Really?” “Yes.” His voice was dripping with contempt as he glared at you.

There was a beat as Roger seemed to realise what he’d said, eyes widening in horror and then your hands were at his fly, nails catching against the denim as you almost tore the button off in your haste. “Y/N wh-” “Shut up and fuck me,” He still looked a little shocked as you made to pull his shirt off. “Jesus, do I have to do everything,” That reignited his frustration and he managed to do what you couldn’t, tearing a few of the buttons from your shirt, sending them scattering across the floor, as he pulled it open to reveal your breasts. You got a hand into his pants, tugging at him as he pushed you towards your bed, door left standing open behind him. There was no time to think, no time to talk. One minute you’d been cursing at each other and the next you were lying on your back with Roger roughly pulling you towards the edge of the mattress. He let go of you long enough to get his pants down, moving your underwear to the side as he lined himself up. Your back arched when he entered you and you gasped as he paused. “Fucking move, arsehole,” “Still a pathetic slut,” he growled back bringing a hand to your throat as he leaned over and rammed into you. He’d been rough with you before but not like this. Careless. Inconsiderate. Brutal. Roger found a harsh rhythm and stuck to it, tightening his grip on your throat whenever you opened your mouth to hurl another insult his way. You grasped his wrist, nails digging into his skin which only seemed to inspire a rougher treatment. He didn’t bother to rub your clit, made no attempt to hold off his own orgasm and let you catch up. Left it up to you to get there or not. The familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach was only beginning to build when he grunted in your ear, hips stuttering. He left you feeling empty and unsatisfied, tucking himself away as you sat up and stared. There was a moment of quiet, both of you breathing heavily, watching the other. “That’s exactly why I cancelled,” you said softly. You could feel your chest tightening, eyes prickling, but you were determined not to break down in front of Roger. His shoulders slumped as he looked at you, absentmindedly raking his fingers through his hair, “Y/N, I’m, fuck, that wasn’t-“ “Get out,” Your voice was steady. “That’s not how I wanted it to go. I didn’t mea-" “Just get the fuck out of here Roger.” He gave you a final apologetic look before flinging himself out of the door and disappearing around the corner. You held yourself together just long enough for him to leave and then you sunk to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest, tears falling onto them and rolling down your legs as your body shook with sobs. You hoped he could hear, door still standing open. You hoped the whole fucking street could hear.

Over the next few days the fight was all you could think about. He, thankfully, hadn’t left any bruises or marks on your throat, but there was a dull pain where he’d thrust into you so roughly, like he’d bruised your insides. A constant reminder of what happened, not that you needed one. You heard Roger’s taunts almost in a loop, each word drilling into your skull. A cunt. Easy. Pathetic. Every time you closed your eyes you saw him, glaring at you, spitting out how little he thought of you. But the hurt settled into a bitter vindication. So much for Freddie’s faith in Roger, you’d been right after all. Maybe you didn’t go about it the cleanest way but you’d done the right thing. You saw hide nor hair of Roger, not even so much as a glimpse of him on campus, though Freddie and Brian both tried to trap you. From what you could gather, they knew you and Roger had fought but knew nothing of the specifics. Every time you passed them they tried to stop you, but you ignored them, walked away as they yelled after you that Roger was sorry. “He’s really fucking torn up about whatever he said to you,” Brian said softly, catching your arm as you walked home, “I keep catching him mumbling to himself about it. He swears he didn’t mean it, whatever he said.” “Sounded like he meant it,” you wrenched your arm free and doubled your pace until you reached the safety of your living room. Eventually they stopped, giving up on trying to convince you, and you thought it was done.

Until the day you got home from an evening class to find Roger sitting cross legged in front of your door. You stopped in your tracks, “What are you doing here?” Roger jumped to his feet, dusting his hands off on the back of his jeans, “I Just want to talk,” he held up his hands like someone in a movie, trying to prove they didn’t have any weapons. “I don’t want to talk.” The people in the movies usually had a knife or something hidden up their sleeve. “Please, Y/N? I’m really sorry about what happened last time. I understand if you never want to see me again and if that’s the case then I’ll leave you alone after today. But I’d like to have a better goodbye than that.” Crossing your arms over your chest, you considered him. Part of you wanted to tell him where to stick his apology. But he did look genuinely upset and sorry and you felt guilty, knowing the part you’d played, “Fine. Can you move so I can open my bloody door?” “Actually,” he glanced next door, “I was hoping we could go for a drive. The other three are home and I don’t want them to overhear.” “Worried they’ll take my side?” “No. It’s just none of their business. So, do you mind?” On one hand, a bit of privacy would probably be good and being elsewhere might stop another scene from erupting. On the other, though, it was harder to tell Roger to fuck off if he was your ride home. “We wouldn’t go far, just away from here.” He looked over at his place again. “Yeah, okay,” You said quietly. Roger gave you a small smile, and held his hand out in an after you gesture, letting you lead the way to his van.

The drive was almost silent. Music had started playing as the engine came to life but Roger turned it off before you could hear more than a few notes of the melancholy tune. “Not your usual sound,” you said, awkwardly trying to make small talk. “Spose not.” You didn’t know what to say. Neither, it seemed, did Roger. Luckily, he didn’t go much further than a few blocks, pulling into the carpark of the local park. Usually the place would be crawling with children, screaming at each other and their parents. But now that the sun had set it was virtually deserted. A few people taking their dogs for late walks passed by as he backed the van into a spot. “Let’s sit in the back, more space,” Roger said climbing through and opening the back doors. “No instruments tonight?” “Nah, not tonight.” Another small smile as he helped you through. You settled in the doorway, legs pulled in close to your body, taking up as little space as you could manage. Roger sat opposite, chewing on his lip as he turned his head to stare out over the dark park. “I am very sorry about what I said the other day,” he looked at you and then back towards the pond, “I had an idea of what I wanted to happen except it didn’t go that way. I got pissed off and just wanted to hurt you.” “Mission accomplished.” “I know. Haven’t stopped thinking about it since. The second I left and h-heard you crying, I wanted to turn the clock back and undo it all. It was so cruel. Everything I said, did, was just needlessly cruel and I cannot apologise enough. I didn’t mean any of it. “I know you didn’t mean it. Don’t get me wrong, it sucked but I pushed you on purpose,” You let your eyes wander over Roger’s face, watching his reaction, “I wanted to hear you say something like that. And then I instigated the sex because doing it confirmed what you’d said. It was just a way to prove I was right to not go out with you. Make myself feel better about being so horrid to you.” He sighed, bring a hand up to rub the back of his neck “Like I said, not how I wanted it to go.” You both stopped, waiting for the other to say something, though when it became clear Roger wasn’t going to continue, you stepped up. “Guess I was looking for a fight. Freddie caught me off guard earlier, standing up for you, so I was already pissed off. I would have had a crack at just about anyone who came past but seeing you just made it worse,” you let yourself relax a bit, one leg slipping down to dangle out of the van, “We can talk now though. Promise I won’t bite your head off.” “I just want to understand why you changed your mind. That’s all. Not to try and convince you to change it back or anything, I just want to know if something I did upset you or…” “It wasn’t anything you did, Rog.” He nodded, looking a little relieved, “Can I ask what it was then?” “Yeah, umm” you sighed, trying to find the right words, “When you asked me out and I said yes, I was still on this high from the whole night. Hanging out with you and your mates was fun and fucking you in the pub was fun. And then you kissed me, which I wasn’t expecting. You’d never kissed me before. So going out with you seemed like a good idea. But then as soon as I was alone again, I freaked out about it. Freddie was right. He called me out for being scared and he was right.” “Scared of what?” “Everything? I don’t know. Scared you’d only asked me cos you’d been drinking or so I’d keep sleeping with you. Scared of getting hurt when you realised you didn’t really like me. Scared that one date would lead to two would lead to a serious fucking relationship. I panicked and decided it was easier to cut everything off thank risk anything. I handled this whole thing appallingly didn’t I?” “Yeah, little bit.” “Sorry.” You both fell into silence again. Roger’s brow was furrowed as he looked at his own fingers. You stared out at the pond, the stars reflected in the water blurring the longer you went without blinking.

It started to rain softly, the drops tapping against the roof of the van. You barely noticed the drops splashing onto your ankle or the chill wind that accompanied the shower, too caught up in your own head, trying to work out how to fix the situation you’d tangled yourself and Roger in. “Shit, you’re shivering,” Roger said, breaking through the mess of thoughts swirling round your head, “I think I have a blanket back here somewhere.” You watched, rubbing your arms to try and fend off the cold you’d only just noticed. “Here,” Roger said at last, throwing a fuzzy blanket over your shoulders, “Wrap yourself up in that,” “Aren’t you cold too?” you glanced at the t-shirt he wore. “Nah, I’ll be right,” “We could share,” “I don’t want to overstep,” “You wouldn’t be. Plus the extra body heat might help me warm up faster,” “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” “Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” Roger scooted closer, pausing before he came closer again, testing the waters. When he reached you he pulled the blanket around his own shoulders, one arm falling behind you so he was pressed in close. “Definitely warmer,” you said, leaning your head against his chest, ready to spring back up if he said anything. It felt nice to be so close to him again, without the anger of the last time. “I did mean it, when I asked you out. It was a genuine request not some ploy to keep sleeping with you or whatever. Just so we’re clear.” You nodded, leaning into him. Without thinking you began tracing your fingers over his wrist, following some marks you couldn’t see properly. There was a pang of guilt as you realised your nails had left them there. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said softly, reading your mind, “probably deserved it. Did I hurt you?” “A bit yeah." He shifted your hair, trying to see any signs of how he’d squeezed your throat. “Not there.” “Oh, Y/N,” he held you tighter, wrapping his second arm around you, pulling you against him, “I’m so sorry,” “It’s okay Rog. Only hurt for a couple of days. And if anyone should apologise more it’s me. I was a cunt and you didn’t deserve how I treated you.” “It’s okay. I get why. But why don’t we make an agreement to stop going in circles apologising to each other and put it behind us, if we can.” “Go back to before?” You asked slowly, sitting up to look at Roger, trying to get a feel for what he was hoping for, “Hooking up casually?” “If that’s what you want, I can do casual. We don’t have to though; I’d be happy to just be friends, or whatever. As long as we’re not fighting anymore.” “Friends would be good. But maybe you should try asking me out again? If you’re still interested?” “Really? I don’t want you to feel obligated to say yes out of guilt or because you want to make it up to me.” “Ask me,” This time when he spoke there was no hesitation, “Do you want to go out with me sometime?” “I’d really like that.” Roger tilted your head towards him. He paused, looking into your eyes. And then, when he was satisfied with whatever he saw there, he kissed you. Softly, one arm around your waist, the other resting on your cheek.

#my writing #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor smut #roger taylor imagine #I really love writing this series #but im highkey worried this chapter is too out of place #or that it'll feel like it doesn't make sense or came out of nowhere #I hope it doesn't #anyway theres one more chapter to come #and i know exactly what's going to happen #and how it's going to end #and im very much looking forward to writing it #and now to press post #.....#here we go! posting!#just gotta move the mouse over to post and click on it #stop stalling and post it #if it flops i'll delete and rewrite it

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