#plastic jersey barriers
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Imagine hockey ellie getting a tooth knocked out during one of her games and after the game she pulls off her helmet and gives you the cutest missing tooth little bloody smile
oh yeah, i can see this happening near the end of a heated game. the arena is filled to the brim with electricity from the crowd. from the stands, your eyes try to keep up with the blur of ellie’s jersey number on the ice. williams pasted in bright gold on the back.
it’s a tied score, the timer is running low, and the players from both teams slowly grow more and more aggressive as the numbers count down.
ellie looks up at you in the stands every now and then, and you can tell how badly she wants to win this game. her face is flushed, her eyes focused, and her body bulked with protective padding. but none of that helps calm your racing heart whenever she’s slammed against one of the plastic barriers. you wince every time she’s shoved and tripped, almost as if you’re the one talking the hits on the cold ice despite the fact she brushes it off every time.
you watch as she closes in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. it happens almost in slow motion, ellie swoops down to take the puck and the other girl while she furiously smacks the puck, hoping to get a shot into the goal before ellie takes it. instead, you see the puck flick off the ice and fly off to the side, colliding with ellie’s face.
the cheers of the crowd slowly start to fade out as ellie clutches her face, a trail of blood dripping over the ice. it takes seconds for her to realize what’s happened, and she tosses her stick to the ground, dropping her cloves before she swings at the girl who hit her.
there’s a sound of a whistle, and ellie’s teammates rush to haul her out of the rink. her blood is freezing against the ice as she yells at the girl from the opposing team.
you watch her be dragged onto the team bench, and from where you sit, you can see her smiling, the blood on her face mixing with her salty tears.
you jump out of your seat almost instantly, shoving your way past fans dressed in team colours, a blur of red and gold blinding you before you finally get near the team bench. you smack your hands against the plastic wall, shouting ellie’s name, who holds a bloody cloth up to her mouth.
she almost doesn’t hear you over the buzzer that goes off to resume the game without her. ellie looks pissed, now benched, until the ref finally excuses her for throwing punches and lets her back on the ice.
when she turns, however, you can see the way her face softens, even if her helmet doesn’t let you have the best view of her face, you can see her eyes become fonder when she looks at you. it makes you smile.
ellie says something you can’t hear over the crowd, but she seems proud of herself when she pulls off her helmet. her short hair sticks to her forehead, face flushed red, which makes her freckles stand out against the blush on her cheeks. it’s when ellie brings the cloth away from her mouth that you gasp, your eyes instantly spotting a gap where a tooth used to be.
she’s laughing at your horrified reaction, and you can see the specks of dark red across her face as she tells you with a bloody smile. “it doesn’t even hurt! just promise to kiss it better once we win, okay?”
#you've opened pandoras box with this one#i'm gonna be thinking about this for days#hockey!ellie williams#ellie williams#ellie williams fanfic#ellie williams fic#ellie williams fluff#ellie williams imagine#ellie williams smut#ellie williams x female reader#ellie tlou#ellie the last of us#lesbians#wlw#ellie williams x reader#ellie x reader#ellie williams x you
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LANDLESS GULL (I)
|| COV MASTERLIST || PREVIOUS: PROLOGUE || NEXT: CHAPTER II ||
PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Three years later, you find yourself in a similar situation. But will new revelations put more of the past event into perspective? Or will your anger overcloud your judgment?
WORDCOUNT: 9.7k
WARNINGS: Implied stalking, angst, illegal activities, self destructive tendencies, insinuations of PTSD, sleeplessness, violence, abductions, talks of death, drugs etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
The routine was the only thing that saved you, and it had never once wavered. Not in two out of the three years since the death of your father.
Wake up at five, sit in silence until six, and leave the house by seven.
Though you were in your last year of college, the wallet in the pocket of your sweatpants was still bare of the plastic of a standard driver’s license, so, you take the same long route you did every morning; feet hitting the concrete. The black iron under your grip leaves you shivering as you lock the front gate to your family’s estate, the end of the long walkway a grand, overgrown, sight as you take one last glance.
Hucking your backpack higher over your shoulder the elusive black form of the resident stray cat darts from one of the overgrown and thick bushes to another; the steadily browning leaves a barrier of dying flora.
“Don’t kill the finches, yeah?” You huff quietly, eyes dull and heavy with fatigue as the morning air chills your skin. Even if it was getting colder as the seasons changed, your mind never once went to the prospect of calling a cab.
The thought of someone you didn’t know driving you somewhere…you frown as you think it over, shoes stamping on top of weeds sprouting from the broken sidewalk as the utter stillness of the morning grows long. No. No, It was easier to walk or take the bus. A train, maybe.
But walking lets you think; makes you tired.
So, by eight AM you were always at the Café an hour's journey away, cheeks chilled and body quivering like your bones were made of ice. The winter was worse, so you didn’t have it in you to even consider complaining.
Hector smiles at you when you walk through the old front door, dodging the umbrella holder slightly in the way as your nose sniffles. You pointedly stare at his large mustache instead of into his eyes, sighing lightly.
“Ah, there she is!” He exclaims. The excitable Café owner had told you that his family had come up to Chicago from New Jersey only a decade ago, which would explain the still prominent accent. “Just in time, eh? C’mon then, I got a nice hot one ready just for you like always, Sweetheart.”
“Trying to make me wife number three, Hec?” You slyly remark, walking over the hardwood floors and itching at the skin under your eye. Lids flicking open and closed as a call to sleep seeps into your brain, you take comfort in the familiar atmosphere.
It was dimly lit, the business, relying more on natural light than anything. The scent of coffee and baked goods stuck to your nose, waking you up as you pull the thick cotton canvas of your jacket closer and look around as you shuffle to the counter. Shelves lined with bags and small homemade treats make a quick smile grow.
How does he find the time to bake all of that?
Hector laughs, but you pay little mind. In your coat pocket, your fingers play with a coin, thumbing the engraved face slightly. A slow glaze of memory spreads its fingers over your eyes when you spy a family picture on the counter—the mustached man with his two daughters.
“Hell, if all it takes is fresh coffee cake and two espressos, my odds are lookin’ pretty good if I can say so myself.”
You snap back to the present with a stiff neck, blinking quickly. Clearing your throat, you roll your orbs and remove your hands from your pockets, rubbing them together and creating friction when the lack of heat starts to burn.
“No offense, but I think I’ll stick to my oppressively single ways, Big Guy. You have better luck with the lady down at the bank anyways. What’s her name,” you stare at Hector’s large nose, raising a brow as he moves his body to the side and grabs his utensils. “Cassidy? Crissy? It’s something with a ‘C’.”
The man’s filling up your drinks and pulling a piece of fluffy cake from the display case, rushing about as if he’d never known peace in his relatively normal life.
Hector was in his mid-forties. Balding. Large and stocky—not exactly someone you’d envision running a business like this all on his own and actually enjoying it. His pasty complexion reminded you of a carton of milk left in the sun, but he got on well enough with the locals to a point where everyone on this street knew him personally. Above all, Hector was a people person. Speaking to him was easy, and the constant burning anger in your chest loosened when he was around. Let you breathe.
All things considered, you quite liked the man.
“Clarissa,” Hector enunciates, putting everything on the counter as you pull out your wallet from your back pocket. “And, yeah, she’s the security guard down there. Beautiful damn woman, Kid.”
Your lips quirk as you take the items in crowded hands carefully, slapping two tens and a few crumpled fives to the counter. As you’re turning and walking to your seat, you call over your shoulder.
“Like a woman who can beat you up, then?”
“God, do I.” You share a chuckle together, and, knowing your routine, Hector begins to whistle under his breath and wipe the front counter clean of crumbs.
Always taking the corner seat next to the large front window, you slip into the wall booth and put everything on the table grunting before shucking off your backpack. Besides you, most of the morning customers just came and went as they pleased, picking up what they needed and leaving—realistically you should as well.
Majoring in history and minoring in business left you deep in work and covered to the neck with projects; already sleepless nights didn’t help when the large classrooms of the University of Chicago got too loud to stand, the raised speaking of students like screaming in your ears. You always skipped morning classes, particularly the large ones for your own sanity. Attendance was tanked, but because the work was all posted online your grade hadn’t suffered.
You'd gotten it up since the first year, at least. That was all that mattered.
Taking a sip of your first cup of espresso, you let the caffeinated liquid hit the emptiness of your stomach and sigh. You place it down on the woodgrain, closing your eyes for a minute and tilting your head down. Around the beverage, your hands twitch at the warm material, feeling your own blood pump in your veins and the loose shirt under your jacket sag as warm air comes to create a dichotomy of senses. Hector always kept the Café warm, but it was never enough for you.
Everything always felt cold.
Blinking back to the present, the Tv situated atop the small bookshelf in the corner spews the early run of the news as you gather your laptop from your bag and set it down; eager to get to work.
“...As we experience the anniversary of the death of—” You blink, fingers pausing over the keys as half of your password is typed out. Staring at the blinking black bar, you hear a violent inhalation of air from the front desk.
“Oh, fuck, Dear, I’m sorry. I forgot that it was today. Here let me–”
“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head harshly and tiling your gaze in Hector’s direction. You stare hard at his dirty apron. “No, it’s okay. Leave it on.”
Your voice is stiff, digging into that well in your stomach of barred teeth and barbed wire. Blood instead of water and a bucket made of bone that dips into crimson liquid.
“But…” He trails, and your hands hover above the laptop. You notice a tremor before picking up your drink once more, downing a good portion of the scalding liquid with a gulp. You clear your throat against the burn and lower it.
“If I had an issue with it, Hec, I’d tell you. Trust me, I already know what the date is. Lived it for three years to the day.”
The man grumbles, itching at his round chin. Not too keen. He picks up the remote near the cash register and lowers the volume all the while he sends your hunched form glances with creased brown eyes.
“We remember the countless donations to those less fortunate than himself, the man always seen with a smile on his face greeting visitors, and the tragic end he met as a result of a robbery gone wrong.” Your jaw clenches, hands curling in as you glare at the blinking black bar with hidden hatred. A cruel smirk slashes your lips. Robbery gone wrong, now that was funny. You never knew how anyone believed that. “...Admissions to the Museum of Natural History are at half-price all week.”
The news anchor moves on and your fingers spread to rest atop the smooth keys, lungs tight.
They had been talking about your father, of course. The fabricated story was like a knife to the chest every time someone brought it up. Acquaintances at school, professors. Taking a peek outside, you see groups of random people walk past wondering for an instant if they’d come in and recognize you.
Your dad was incredibly well-known when he was alive.
A robbery, your sneer grows as you log into your laptop, face falling to a blank slate as you clink on a plethora of named files. Pathetic. Of course, the CIA would spew something like that.
“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights. Amber eyes. A hand on the top of your head.
The words pop up as a document loads, bolded and black. You shake off nausea and take down more caffeine, finishing off the first cup with muted disgust. Pushing it farther down the table, you move the second closer.
OPERATION: KINGFISHER
OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI
OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED
STATUS: ACTIVE
MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:
All the rest was blacked out in long streaks of dark highlighter, the image fuzzy. A sharp needle inserts itself into your nerves, every slam of your heart like a gunshot as your sides pinch with disappointment.
No. Your jaw clenches.
How long had you been trying to get access to all of the government documents that were relevant to your case after you figured out the CIA was behind your father's and your abduction? A full year at this point? So many sleepless nights and under-the-table deals. And the information that mattered the most was still a level above the fabricated station you had given yourself to slip past lines upon lines of code like a snake in the grass.
You want information on Private Samson Row. The name you had figured out belonged to the person who had pulled the trigger on your father. You’d sleuthed out the others’ names as well through a straight week of only coffee and red-eyes. But you'd done it.
Captain John Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.
Private Samson Row.
What had given them away to be a government body was the one-word phrase that Price had barked after the shot was only an echo.
“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”
From then it was history.
Blatant irritation stems in your veins at the brick wall that now presents itself mere black lines away from a reason as to why this all had happened, fingers flinging across the pad to fly through the fifty-two-page file. Not a single word was visible.
“Son of a…” You strangle the curse under your breath and go to dig your fingernails into the back of your neck until crescents form. Blazing white pain and a shifting of sinuses.
If it wasn’t obvious, the laptop with you now was rarely used for schoolwork. In fact, you never even planned on going to campus today—no one expected you to, so it was better to feign brokenness instead of icy fury.
“Kate Laswell,” scoffing humorlessly, you shake your head at the only portions of the document filled in, “I keep seeing your name on everything. Christ, with the intel that I’ve read up on involving you, I’m surprised your personal file wasn’t more difficult to crack open. Only took me four days. ” You mutter to no one and nothing numbly.
But it seems an answer is given.
The bell atop the front door swings, a small tinkering of tarnished silver metal and a creak of rusted hinges. Feet that stamp lightly, but press firmly. Bleeding contained purpose.
Your body stills; lungs going immobile.
When you were young, you could memorize the sounds of the staff going down the stairs at the mansion. Tell who was who just by the pace and the weight on the creaking wood; it was a game that you were sure you could still play even years later in that practically abandoned estate. The slightest sound made you snap to attention when you were alone.
Just as this one did. But that wasn’t because of paranoia.
“Ah! Hello, Sir, welcome!” Hector calls, motioning with a hand as the air goes tense. “What can I get you today? We’ve got a little Coffee Cake left if you want, I gotta say, man, it’s my best batch yet.”
It was because you knew him. Those feet.
This can’t be right.
A throat clears. “Sorry, Sir. Not today.”
That voice. Your eyes shutter wider, eyelashes frozen at the screen of your laptop.
British. Smooth. It was a voice that played in your subconscious at a constant—never leaving. A flash of amber eyes. Blood slashed your vision, coating the world in a sheen of red; gore dripping down your face faster than water. A funeral shroud of pure hatred.
Gaz. Kyle Garrick.
With a quivering hand, your finger slowly clicks the Escape key like it was an intimate partner, watching the document disappear on quick feet and with ruffled clothes into the scene of your wallpaper. Staring blankly at the multiple incriminating folders that meet you, your ears twitch to the sound of a slow inhalation; tapping digits over a pant pocket.
You don’t dare look up.
A tall shadow begins approaching, and you briefly seize. Humming emanates in the back of your head like a kind of drunken sloshing of senses.
Run.
Your heart mirrors the steps that Gaz takes. Against the nature of the cortisol and rampaging adrenaline in your blood, a flicker of your lips betrays a chilled amusement. A part of you had always known this would happen. It’s strange to say, but even as your legs start shaking, your expression is measured; held-back brows, loose lips, and a fluidness to your shifting eyes.
But your mind…
What’s he doing here? You panic. Why…why is he here? They couldn’t have possibly known I was reading up on them, could they? No, no, I’ve been careful.
You can’t move. Your mind can’t function. Every nerve is sparking with a need to sprint and flee. But yet again, your body leaves you frozen.
One of the double chairs in front of your table is pulled out, and a figure dressed in a white shirt covered by the second layer of a fitted blue athletic top calls your gaze. The build of an intensive workout schedule is shown unabashedly, sleeves pulled up to dark elbows that shift the tense forearm muscles. Brown and tan Army pants cause your eyebrow to raise incredulously before the limbs disappear under the barrier.
The frozen shackles on your limbs break and your lips move before you can shut yourself up. Maybe it was the familiar atmosphere, or maybe it was the therapist’s words from that month-long fiasco of court-mandated therapy way back in the beginning.
The coin in your pocket burns, and you long to clench it in your fist until you’re dripping blood like a stuck pig.
“Not exactly trying to hide it, are you?” You look back down at your laptop, opening the search browser and pretending to look up something unimportant. “I’ll admit it, Gaz, I like this instead of having a gun shoved halfway into my vertebrae. Not too fond of it, you understand?”
Silence holds out. A head turns away for a moment as his body shifts in uncomfortableness.
“I’ll be needing you to come with me, Ma’am.” The accent punches you in the throat, the stern order that coasts along like a fish in water.
What gave him the right?
How does one stay calm when your head is like a pot of boiling water? The bubbles roll in great waves of anger and fear as you try and stay outwardly calm with struggling success. You doubted you were able to look anything besides purely rage-filled, but didn’t dare check by looking into the man’s eyes—or even his face for that matter.
You glared over the screen and dug daggers into his bobbing Adam’s Apple, settling on your answer. Sarcasm.
“And I’ll need you to understand that I’d rather choke on this coffee cake.” Your finger points slightly to the untouched plate with a tremor in its bones. “I don’t want another barrel pointed at my forehead, no offense.”
Gaz’s jaw shifts, clenching before loosening, and in his sensitive ear, the radio sizzles to life with a spark.
“Kyle, I’ve got eyes. Talk to me.” The Brit looks outside through the glass, immediately finding the large figure leaning against the wall of a library across the street.
Gaz’s Captain has his arms crossed, beanie-covered head tilted to seem like he’s watching cars that pass by; a gruff-looking man simply people-watching. Everyone misses the bulge of a pistol stuffed into the small of his back—under a brown leather jacket and a black sweater. Price itches at his brown beard with a frown.
“In position, Sir. Speaking with her now.” The man at the front desk of the Café watches him closely, pretending to clean a spot on the back counter that seems to never go away despite the multiple passes. He wouldn’t be a problem if it came down to that.
“Copy. Keep on schedule.” The Sergeant wasn’t sure why he was here—why out of all the others in his Task Force, Price had decided he needed to be the one to engage with you.
“Roger that.”
This was the last thing he wanted to do.
He didn’t know how to convince you to come with him without replaying the scene from three years ago; it was imperative that he didn’t do that. Though it had been necessary…his thighs shifted over the rickety chair. It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Everyone was paying for it.
Gaz’s brown eyes glance to the table, one hand going to fix the position of his favorite ball cap over his head and press it down.
He felt naked without his gear.
Figures I’d be the only one bloody stripped down to nothing.
“Ma’am,” the Brit starts slowly, watching your ears twitch as you burrow deeper into your large jacket. A flicker of hesitation seeps into his heart. With a frown on his tense lips, he could still see your shoulders bunched up; breathing labored. You were terrified—rightly so. “It would be best to listen to me, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you. This is for your own safety but I need you to come quietly.”
Kyle had put all of his cards to the shock value; the hope that your fear of him would prompt you to come along in a shell-shocked reaction and a hesitance of an imaginary weapon. It worked in a few other missions, he’d even done it a few other times in the army, though it was always a hit or miss.
But staring hard at your thin lips, he noticed anger as well and was forced to face reality. This was never going to work.
Your internal timer ends, and all the primal instincts trapped in your mind let loose a vile scream. The memories are too great; too violent. Even this man’s voice is a brand in your soft tissue.
“Listen to who? An accomplice to murder? And ‘not hurt me’.” You snort, reaching up to grab the top of your laptop and close it with a slam. Hector pauses his fake cleaning as you stare at Gaz’s nose and the barely-there stubble that lives over his upper lip and cheeks. “You’ve done a pretty horrible job of that…The only way you’re getting me to go with you is in a body bag.” Your brow raises. “I’m sure you’re familiar with them, hm? I’d kind of hoped you’d already be in one by now if I’m being honest.”
“Listen,” Kyle prided himself on being patient, but the clock was ticking. Laswell needed you at the designated location and that was where he intended to take you in one piece. The injection needle in his back pocket was looking more and more promising if this continued to be difficult, a mixed concoction that only the CIA could put together to knock a person out for a long while. But why did he feel so hesitant to use it? He’d also been the only one to suggest someone try and speak to you first before forcing you to go along with them.
I guess this is what happens when I try and put in my two damn cents. Stick to procedure next time.
“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in—”
“The position I’m in is entirely you and your little friends’ fault.” You growl, voice breaking and eyes turning to look outside. Snapping when you see his lips part, “Don’t even try to deny it.”
Kyle’s mouth closes with a clench of teeth.
Trapped like an animal you have half a sense to gnaw your own leg off. There was a hunch in your mind as to what was happening—the files you’ve read that weren’t blackout out gave in-depth mission details; play-by-plays. These people worked in teams. Always.
Your eyes dart with frantic knowledge as Gaz sits tense, a subdued annoyance flaring as his hands tap the table and thinks deeply.
You find Captain Price easily and the agony grows. The stocky man shifts in the morning light, the familiar body leading to a slashed remembrance of folded arms and black balaclavas. His stare was like a burning piece of wood shoved directly into your eye sockets.
Alleyway in the back, your feet shuffle, tense. You had to get out of this. Take the corner and run to the busier intersections. Try to keep calm. Breathe.
Easier said than done. Kyle was the same man who had put a gun to your head with the intention of pulling the trigger—your life was nothing more than a bargaining chip. Would he do the same again?
Yes. No one was saying he didn’t have a weapon on him now; the only difference was this time you didn’t know why he was here in the first place. The easiest answer was the documents, but was it that simple? Why send the same people after you?
Not that simple, but it is illegal. The thought of going back to a small room; a rope around your wrists…your hands go to itch at the healed skin, still sensitive despite the years. The Sergeant clocks it with a pulling frown and tight brows.
“Ma’am,” Gaz’s voice snaps your vision back to the table, and you go to take a drink of the remaining cup of espresso to calm your nerves. You send a glance at the heavy backpack beside you and blink. “I didn’t have to come and speak to you, alright? I’m doing this to try to find some standing. This isn’t a ploy, but you have to follow me.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Bloody…no.” Kyle grunts, itching at his neck as his earpiece goes off. He looks sideways.
“Kyle, this isn’t working. Stick ‘er.”
“I can get her to come along,” he mutters harshly, not noticing one of your hands going to place the drink down while the other sneaks to the strap of your bag. “There’s no need to—!”
The force hits him right in the neck, and his head snaps back with a heavy jerk. His chair falls backward from the weight, sending him sprawling in a tangle of limbs and rushing feet over the floor. A heavy crash emanates throughout the building and the wind is knocked from his lungs as brown eyes bug out of the sockets.
“Hector! Call the police!” The front door is slammed open with a violent noise of shaking glass and a bell. Shrieking hinges.
“Bloody fucking hell!” Kyle shouts, shoving the backpack off of him and ignoring the sharp pang in the back of his skull. He recovers quickly. Hot irritation spikes as Price barks into the earpiece; the Sergeant scrambles after you with fast force.
“After her!”
Your feet slam to the concrete as the laptop stays tucked into the crook of your elbow, chest conforming to the press of it as you puff out quick breaths. Inside your ribs, the blood rushes out to your head, creating a pound like a drum.
Shoving aside others on the sidewalk, shouting sounds out from behind you before the dark shadow of an alleyway meets your snapping vision like a blessing from above. Pushing past an older man, you take a sudden turn into the darkness, the morning chill momentarily getting pushed back by the fire under your skin. Wind rushes past your ears.
Faster, you tell yourself, feet flying over stray garbage bags and puddles, don’t let them catch you. They can’t catch you.
Easier said than done. They were trained soldiers. SAS in league with the CIA.
Panting, you clutch your laptop tighter and feel cold sweat drip down your spine before a yell echoes from the entrance behind you.
“Hey!” It was Kyle’s voice, stern, but the sound of another set of feet told you who else was in pursuit. If you were being honest, the Captain scared you far more than the Sergeant did.
Your eyes go unfocused as reality sets in.
“They came back for me,” muttering, you see the brief alleyway end up ahead. “They tracked me down again to finish the job.”
“Bravo 7-1 she’s comin’ to you!” You don’t register the grunted words until you’re already taking the corner on the opposite side of the street, about to disappear into the expanse of a crowded downtown rush.
The wall of muscle sends you sprawling out on your back, the laptop flying from your hands in a wide display of just how fast you’d been running as discomfort ripples up your spine as the ground meets you. The pain that blossoms in your nose is sharp and immediate; a groan exiting into the air as you close your eyes tight to push back the shock and the momentum that had just been immediately halted. Nonsensical words exit you in slurring huffs.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” A Scottish accent hits your pulsing ears, as your shaking hand covers your eyes, teeth bared as a dull ache stems from the back of your head. Rocks poke into your back. “You alright down there? Didnea expect that.”
A hand snaps to the collar of your shirt, hauling you up easily as your bearing has yet to come back to you. The word spins.
“Ow,” your lips release a whine, face turned down as you blink away black dots. Large feet covered by brown combat boots become clear as the running slam of the other two gets closer.
Starling, you snap your head forward and attempt to rush off with barely functioning feet.
“Ah, ah!” The Scot laughs, and a locked fist stays rooted into the textile of your clothes. “Can’t have that, now.”
You look up at a strong man with pale skin—brunette stubble over a sculpted jaw and a scar over the chin. Long lips that curl into a smirk to show off white teeth. If you had to guess, this was John MacTavish. Soap—otherwise called Johnny.
You’ve seen the photos in the files, but you have no rush to look into his bright cerulean gaze anytime soon, but you see wisps of his mohawk sitting on his forehead.
“Get your hands off of me.” You growl, feet straining to stay steady. Your lids blink quickly to gain control as, like a newborn foal, it’s like your body doesn’t know how to control itself. “Bastard.”
Jesus, my head’s yelling at me to sit down. The hell is this guy made out of? Stone?
The Scot only chuckles as Gaz and Price catch up.
“No can do, Little Lady.”
Kyle lets out a deep sigh as he stops, having seen the entire scene play out when you ran head-on into the older man and tries to tell himself to feel bad—he did slightly, but the mirrored pain in the back of his own skull found some sort of redemption.
Girl’s got an arm on her. He rubs at the back of his head.
“I think that makes us even. Wouldn’t you say, Ma’am?” The Sergeant huffs light-heartedly, staring at you without so much as breaking a sweat from the short pursuit. The Captain shakes his head, going to pick up the laptop on the ground as your teeth clench.
“Call Ghost. Get him over here for the Exfil.” Civilians watch, but like they usually do, no one steps in to say anything or to spare more than a glance. “ASAP.”
“Shut up.” You scowl at Gaz’s chest, replying to his comment. Jerking yourself out of Soap’s hold, he lets you stand fully by yourself before he presses large fingers into his earpiece to mutter something out. The Scot still eyes you closely. There was no use trying to run anymore. “It was the least you deserved. Or are we forgetting how we met in the first place—should have dumped coffee over your head too.”
“Now that’s overkill, isn’t it, Love?” He can’t help but snap. Perhaps it was the dull thumping in his skull, or perhaps it was just you. “Manners never a prospect in your home?”
No one tested his patience quite like this and he’s only just re-met you. Your anger was justified, the Sergeant knew deep down, but he’d never expected this. In the brief time, you had insulted him, thrown a bookbag at his head, and then insulted him some more. Maybe the Captain had been right when he suggested all those weeks ago that it would be better to just knock you out right off the bat.
Still could…Kyle twitches his nose, huffing to himself and shaking his head.
You bare your teeth. “Shove that overkill and that stupid nickname up your—”
“Enough. Both of you.” The Captain interjects, growling out as a black van pulls alongside the road. Walking to it, Price shakes his head, fingers pressing into his nose bridge as he enters the passenger seat. “Fuckin’ hell.”
You fall silent and fight back the burning heat in your cheeks as the lack of ability to escape becomes evident to you. What else could you do? Scream? No—they’d just shove you in the car and put a gun to your spine again.
Every option led to you getting into that car. That…that compacted black car with tinted windows and filled with the men you hate the most.
Will Private Row be in there? A pang of horror enters you. Will he…?
Your father’s blood is forever stuck into the fabric of your flesh like a tapestry. Lining the stitching of your pores and the embroidery of your genes.
“Go on, then,” Soap prompts, a hand pressing into your shoulder blades like you were an unruly calf. Your eyes narrow, lips pinching down into a tight frown.
Today was supposed to be easy. Simple. No college, no questions, and certainly no abductions. Your dad was always on your mind—what happened? Why did the Private shoot him when in every report you had read interrogations of that kind took hours upon hours to finish?
If I keep my cool, you reason, feeling all of the eyes on you as you grab the car handle and pull it open with a pop, maybe I can get answers as well. Straight from the source.
Your eyes search the interior and a great weight is lifted. No one else besides the driver and the Captain, who are separated by a wall and a small window in the front, is present. No Private Row.
Thank God.
What would you have done then?
These last three years were a learning period, and when you hop into the vehicle and shuffle to the far right, your hand delves into your jacket pockets; the one connecting with the coin, its metal cold to the touch. Your finger skims it, pressing into the groves until an indent forms in your flesh. But there was one thing you learned in the time you spent destroying yourself to get even a sliver of information on your abductors. They were always playing games.
Games of intellect, of mental fortitude and knowledge. It was a chess piece being moved and hoping yours was in the line of fire so the king could be checked. Your unease is still present, the quivering fingers and the snapping gaze but if you can keep your head on, then maybe—
The car door on your side opens.
“Excuse me, Ma’am. Can’t have you by the door,” Gaz mutters, and your lips release a stifled scoff. But you do as you’re told, watching from the corner of your eyes as the tall body scoots inside, easily situating itself in between you and the door they were apparently afraid you’d throw yourself out of.
They’re going to lock it anyways—what's the point? You could call them paranoid, but that would just be hypocritical. When the last sliver of outside light is cut off as the door closes, you flinch at the loud noise and take a steadying deep breath. Soap sits on your opposite.
You’re completely stuck in the middle.
Kyle watches as Ghost sends a glance back. The Sergeant nods stiffly and the car peels out. Johnny leans back, arms crossed, and watches the world as it passes by while those brown orbs stay locked on you. The subtle shaking of your shoulders; the way your eyes bug and the pupils stay small.
Sweat stays on your eyebrow ridge, and Gaz thinks about how close you’ll become to a snowball if you pull in even farther. The man clears his throat in dismissal and a small sliver of regret. After all, you are a mostly innocent party in this.
He’s about to open his mouth and ask if your head is okay when a deep chuckle sounds off from the front of the car.
“Well, you’ve been busy. Laswell was right.” Your ears perk, mind forcing back thoughts of the walls closing in around you as Price’s gravel voice sounds out. The car smells like gunpowder and leather. “How’d you manage this, then?” You blink at the interior window and say nothing.
You’d seen the bear of a man take the computer; had no doubt he could find a way into it, though you had never thought it would happen that fast.
Your lips thinned.
Kyle and Soap exchange glances, curiosity sparking as Ghost drives them to where Laswell told them to meet with the package.
“That’s none of your business.” The comment exits you in a string of whispers, defensiveness sparking.
“Well, it’s my business when my name’s on it, eh? How long did this take to pile together?” Your mouth stays shut as the Captain’s visage looks back at you from the rearview mirror with narrowed lids.
“Sir?” Gaz asks, confused.
“She’s got files on us—on all of us. Kate too. More than she thought.” The Sergeant looks down at you in surprise, eyes going slightly wider.
“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap questions, hands gesturing out from his cross-body hold as you sink even deeper into yourself. Bitter tears bite at the back of your vision.
“It means someone’s been digging where they weren’t supposed to.” It’s the first time that Ghost has spoken, but it was all that was needed. Your body shivers at the Manchester accent; the numb brutality of it.
But you say nothing, and the ride is silent besides the way all of the hard stares nearly spoke words out loud.
Everything just felt like a blur of sound and color. Separate; removed. If you tried hard enough, you were back in the Café with Hector—eating that coffee cake you never even got a bite out of and chugging down espresso that you were already craving again.
Your finger digs deeper into the coin in your pocket.
The cops would show up. There was no doubt that the past New Jersey resident hadn’t called them when you told him to. But there was also no doubt that the CIA would step in and take jurisdiction. It was what they did when your father was murdered—they’d spun a story as you sat in a room that belonged to a detective and sobbed in an inconsolable state. Reporters and news crews outside.
Nothing we can do, you were told, it was a robbery. Out of our hands, but we’ll try our best to find the culprit.
You already knew the culprit. The man in the corner. His name was Samson Row and he had been nervous. He had a trigger finger.
Your eyes harden as they glare at the floor and your jumping feet. For your father, you would get as much information as you could, and then leak it if you had to—if these people let you live. But before that, you wanted to know why. Why had he died? You’d do nothing until that was answered.
Swallowing down saliva, you speak as the car turns off the main road, heading farther and farther away from the parts of town you knew. Your lungs go stiff.
“So where’s Row?” The air shifts as your hoarse voice coldly utters, “What? Is he not part of your little group now? Figured he’d be here to finish off the rest of it, he only did half a job last time.”
Kyle looks to the side, an elbow resting on the window sill. Soap clears his throat awkwardly as his great body shifts.
“Hm,” Price grunts out. But if you were looking for an answer, no one gives you one.
Hatred flairs. What gave these men the right to think they could just push you aside like that? They put a gun to your head! Killed your father!
The rabid sense of justice and entitlement grow until your jaw is clenching, unease mixing with agony. You deserve answers even if it kills you.
Your mouth opens, and your instinctually watering eyes stay stuck to the floor.
“I–”
“Laswell’ll explain,” Gaz’s quiet voice leaves you tense, muscles wound up as if you had forgotten he was there. A barrel flashes over your sight and you want to shift away but know you can’t.
Kate Laswell. So that’s who you’re going to meet.
“...Good,” you lick your lips.
About time.
It’s only ten minutes later that you’re let out of the vehicle, an underground parking garage and its dim lighting making your pupils widen to accommodate the darkness. Gaz gets out first, keeping the door open for you by the frame and you pause before following after, keeping a wary eye on him.
“Head alright?” You frown and stare at the Brit’s nose.
“Hope yours hurts even more.”
“This way.” You follow after the Captain’s voice, leaving the Sergeant behind to gape, blink, and slowly shut the car door. Ghost slips past with a hidden amusement and the group continues on.
This is going to be one hell of a mission.
To you, it was clear that this was a military base.
The entrance needed a keycard, and the vehicles stored underground were armored besides the one that you’d been brought in. The hallways were lined with tile and the staff that walked past were all dressed in clothes ranging from fatigues to full-on issued uniforms. People would try to meet your eyes, but you always looked away before they were able.
“In here.” Price utters, sliding an identification card through a reader before a faint clicking emanates out. The brunette tilts his head firmly as he opens the door.
You blink, but unlike the strange and heated interactions with Gaz, you hesitate to get on the Captain’s bad side. The chilled eyes digging into you as you state at his scarred hands… Your body shivers and you slip past the men into a brightly lit room.
Even without a weapon pointed at you, their eyes still felt like knives. Their words like bullets. Everything reminds you of three years ago, and try as you might, all you want to do is go to bed and forget about this.
Still the adrenaline hadn’t crashed, and when it did you knew you were going to be out of school for a week. Shaking. Sobbing. Rolling on the floor refusing to eat because what if they were right outside the door of your bedroom?
As you expected, the door closes behind you with a lock being set in place. But what you didn’t expect was to not be alone in this medium-sized room holding only a table and…
Your gaze widens on the figure in one of two chairs. Slim, yet fit, her pale skin sits under a simple white blouse and a lanyard over her neck. Hands intertwined and sitting over a stack of physical files in manila folders as a wedding band glints.
Dirty-blonde hair forms strands of bangs with the rest held back like a hostage near the top of her back, wrinkles in her forehead and around her lips. Without thinking clearly, your eyes make contact with hers, and you’re left violently flinching away, blinking rapidly and tilting your head down to force away amber and gold. Your heart seizes, but you recognize that shade of blue you’d just seen.
Gunmetal. So, this was Kate Laswell in the flesh.
A soft sigh meets the air.
“Please, sit.”
Biting your lip wearily, you start forward, hand connecting with the extra seat before you slowly pull it out. Your fingers tap the material before you hesitantly lower yourself into it, eyes going to any possible exit beyond the door behind you.
There was none.
“I’d like to apologize for the stress, but you can imagine that we wanted to cause the least amount of panic possible. To both you and the public.” Your vision sits on her lanyard, watching the picture jump as she moves to sit farther upright. “Kyle was the one to suggest speaking to you first, though I didn’t think it would work.”
You slouch.
“It didn’t.”
Kate blinks at your frame, studying the ragged look and evident sleeplessness. She would almost call it sickly. A frown grows over her serious face.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“Where’s Row?” To hell with subtlety, you decided.
“It’s not as simple as that.” The woman doesn’t miss a beat, shaking her head back and forth slowly. “I’ll need you to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”
“...And why should I do that?” Your brow raises, voice gaining ice. “You’re responsible for my father’s death. You know that? You had oversight for that Operation.” Laswell stares at you, you can feel it. “Hell, you had oversight for a lot of Operations. What was the number… forty-five and counting? But that’s really just a blanket number, isn’t it?”
You can’t help the comments, they fall from you quicker than blood, and the back of your head burns something awful. Lights dance.
“John told me you had government documents on your laptop. A number on all of the members of One-Four-One.” Kate sighs quickly, motioning to you with a hand. “I have to admit, I did expect something like that to happen—so I made sure to let them know that you most likely already knew they were SAS.” A pause. Your hand goes to itch at your nose, peeling back skin as a way to ground yourself. But you’d be lying by saying you weren’t intrigued and a bit in awe. You’d underestimated how much Laswell actually knew about you. Who was to say they hadn’t been keeping an eye on you this whole time? Who are you kidding, of course they did. You curse yourself internally. “But unfortunately, that’s not why we’re here.”
Your fidgeting halts; eyes narrow. The Agent moves back, taking up a file and spreading it open, you watch with rapt attention.
If not the stolen documents, then what?
“Do,” pictures meet light, and your interest peeks, “these individuals seem familiar?”
One was of a man in a nice suit, expensive looking with a well-trimmed beard of blonde hair and a bald head. Tattoos are inked into visibly pale skin. The photo was taken as he was getting out of a large vehicle, armed guards holding a door open though it looked like he himself wasn’t in need of the entourage.
He was built like a boar on steroids.
Your hand grabs the page and brings it closer, face pulling close in concentration as your hands go clammy. You had no recollection of this stranger.
So what is this about?
The next was of a woman with a darker skin tone, perhaps from South Asia, though you couldn’t be certain. She was dressed nicely as well, in silk skirts and a long-sleeved shirt that wraps around her smaller body. The look is finished off with a thin garment over her shoulders.
She’s picking out spices at an outdoor market, the image partially covered by the lip of a jacket as if someone had been trying to be discreet.
But the guns of the armed guards are still seen as they flank the woman.
You look up, placing the photos down and shaking your head. Pulled in eyebrows causing your gaze to stop at Kate’s nose. “No, why?”
“Because they’ve put a price on your head.” Your body freezes and it takes a moment to register what she just told you.
Eyes wide and lips slightly parted; the ache in the back of your skull burns brighter as you find your breath has stopped. Sucking down a gasp, you bring a hand out of your pocket to scratch at your neck, mind running.
“What…what?” Laswell takes the pictures back, continuing nonchalantly as if your heart isn’t about to explode. You feel faint, and the lights buzz in your ears.
A price on my head?
“Crime syndicates with terrorist connections.” She begins, and you can’t help but listen. “Since your father’s death, they’ve been waiting for you to take up the mantle. Your families held tight bonds in the past—the museum your father was running was a cover to smuggle Yaromir Osipov’s weapons,” Kate points to the man, then to the woman, “and Mala Kham’s drugs. They were later sold at an undisclosed location and a portion of the profits was sent back to fund conflicts. Hired assassinations. Symbolic murders...”
The rest is left as an open statement.
“I…” You stutter, panic palpable. The air was getting thicker; harder to breathe. You can’t remember a time when your own clothes had felt so suffocating to wear.
It wasn’t a question to you as to why you’d restrained yourself from looking anything about your father up in the CIA databases. It was a fresh wound and an incredibly bloody one. The man that raised you wasn’t that man—the one that would smuggle drugs and weapons into Chicago and sell them off somewhere else.
The man you remembered was respectable and above all, kind. Indirectly causing the deaths of people? No, that wasn’t him. Your mind broke at even the barest insinuation. It… it refused to even consider it.
Kate Laswell watches blankly, humming under her breath and nodding to herself. As if she’d just confirmed something that she’d been on the fence about.
She continues.
“When three years passed and you never got into contact, your mother either, their product wasn’t getting sold at high rates anymore. Chicago is a vastly important playing field. The best way to get another house in power is to take out any remaining opposition and reinstate someone else.”
“My mother and I,” you murmur with a hysterical look that snaps into your eye. A sharp rigidness enters vertebrae, hands hastily slam the table in a grand display along with a crashing chair behind you as your feet push you upwards. “She’s in Ireland,” your mother was a traveling nurse, going abroad more often than not and away constantly. You hadn’t talked much after the first year of your father's passing. She left you to your grief and took hers with her. “D–do you have her in custody already or…or—She should be with someone! Is she still just—?”
“She’s in a secure location.” Kate interrupts, her hands raising. She’s calm; incredibly so, and you feel that serenity of her voice leaks into you, your shoulders lessen from their raised-hair stance. “And an Agent I trust is with her. She’ll be back in Chicago soon.”
“Jesus…” A hand spreads over your face, digits on the table clenching. While your mother and you didn't talk often, there was no part of you that wanted her dead. Not a single piece.
A sheen of embarrassment floods your blood at the scene you’d just made, but that doesn’t stop the confusion.
“But, wait,” your hand lowers, and you frown at the lanyard, “why would you care?” Kate places the photos back into the folder and closes it. “And why would you murder my father if you felt like this would happen?”
Where’s Samson Row?
“Our intention was never to have a casualty involved with our investigation.” Laswell sends you a glance with her emotionless eyes. “Nonetheless with a witness. It was an unfortunate accident.”
Your face blanks.
Unfortunate accident.
“Then why did your Private,” your mouth spits, hostility immediately pushing past formality, “shoot?”
No hesitation.
“We don’t know.” The laugh that rockets from you is cruel; violent and full of malice.
“What?!” You point at her, leaning forward over the table as your common sense vanishes. “You're the CIA and you can’t even control who you employ?! You murdered an innocent man!”
Kate looks at you with nothing, blinking slowly as you glare at her forehead. Did she not even care? The Agent says your name seriously.
“Your father was many things, but I can assure you, innocent was never one of them.”
“You expect me to just believe you?” You nod sarcastically multiple times, your loud voice no doubt flying under the opening of the door. “Just to, what? Accept that your Private shot him in the head right next to me for nothing? That’s hilarious if you think I’m that dumb.”
“What Samson Row did was against orders. No one here gave him the green light and thus I can’t say why he pulled the trigger. You’re going to have to accept that we don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”
Angry tears are splattering the table, a rampant betrayal. It was getting incredibly hard to not start swearing at this woman, but your father raised you better.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have no doubt about that,” Laswell speaks lowly, “but I’m not lying to you. If your father kept all of this hidden…then there’s no thought as to if he cared about you,” a delicate silence as your jaw clenches, both hands clenched over the table as your head bows down, salty water bouncing off the flesh. “You should remember that.”
Your mouth opens, but you close it just as quickly. What could you say to that?
“You…don’t know…” Whispering can’t hide the enraged tremor of your tone. “Why?” The hopelessness.
Kate gives you a minute, and when your tears come to a slow stop, she opens her mouth.
“I’ll be providing you a protection detail until the cells overseas can be disposed of. You and your mother will be well taken care of in the safety of your own home.” She continues, “If you can do something for me in return in the meantime.”
A harsh laugh exits and bounces off the walls.
“Why am I not surprised?” Laswell ignores you.
“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.” You roll your eyes, smirk growing on bitter pieces of flesh.
“Why don’t you do it yourself?” You ask the Agent with a splay of your hand, foot tapping the ground in a rhythmic beat as you stare hard into the wall above her hair. Swiping at your cheeks until they’re raw. “I know you’re not above breaking into houses.”
“After the event three years ago, my superiors are,” a small noise in the back of her throat as she pushes herself up from the table, “less than pleased with how One-Four-One and I are handling this situation. It would look better on paper if you cooperated.”
“Is Samson dead?” Shoving your hands into your pockets, you lean back on your heels, tilting your head as you look at Kate’s collarbone. You can see her take a breath; lungs inflating like plastic sacks.
“Yes.” It’s like a punch to the gut—you have to stop yourself from staggering backward. Your next words are strained as your hands clench. But the woman just watches, intrigue laced in her studious eyes; half-narrowed with a dipped chin.
“How.”
“Do you have any other questions for me?” It was apparent that your inquiries would get you nowhere, at least the ones that mattered to you.
You nod stiffly, cutting your losses. You’d just look into it yourself. “Who’s going to be at my house?”
“Kyle.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“And why him?” Your voice growls, and you have a sudden need to pace around the room as your ears twitch to Laswell’s sighing and the shifting of her papers.
“Sergeant Garrick is trained in VIP protection. I’m sure you’ve read all about that.” Slyness enters her tone.
Of course you had.
Every file on your laptop was a mix of both professional and personal documents—all unimaginably delicate information if it were to get out into the public. For the Task Force itself, as well as their families. It would mean even more death and slaughter.
A nail in a coffin. Blackmail.
“I know that.” You grunt, taking a hung skin by your fingernail in between your teeth and biting down until you rip out portions of your flesh with a dull burn. “That’s not what I’m asking you—he’s the man who put a gun to my head.”
The insinuation is bare to the world.
“And now he’ll be the one using it to point at others.” The Agent slips past you, and your nose picks up the scent of linen and cigarette smoke.
This is the point that you should stop talking. Cut off loose ends and think of a way out of this. But you’d gotten cruel; cold-hearted with little regard for others feelings. What you wanted was the upper hand. You needed it. Some semblance of control in a situation that was so far out of it that the concept itself should be in space. Control was how you’d survived. You recall a flash of a file with Kate Laswell’s name attached and you’re speaking before the connotation fully registers.
“I wonder if your wife knows what you do. How many families have you ruined?” The woman pauses behind you, a hand on the door. Her legs shift. “Do you tell her? Or do you keep her conscious clean as you spread the blood on your hands over to her?”
Scream at me, you plead, eyes small. Yell. Rage. Please, just do something predictable. Let me win something.
Kate looks over her shoulder at you, but your vision stays anchored ahead; back turned away from the door entirely. Eyes blinking; lungs jumping like frogs to find oxygen as if to suck down flies.
“I should thank you.” The words echo. “You’re giving my department leeway to move on Osipov and Kham now that a US citizen is in direct crossfire…” The woman turns back to the door. “I’ll be expecting Garrick to send updates every two days. Try not to kill him.” She walks out the door on steady feet and it stays unlocked behind her when the metal eventually closes with the semblance of a period in a sentence. The almost inhuman silence left in its wake makes your ears ring with noise in the absence of all else.
Alone, mere seconds later, your hand quickly snaps to your mouth to muffle a wail, eyes kept firmly shut in grief as your knees shake. You only barely stop yourself from hitting the floor as the panic finally registers; halfway folded over the table.
A ways off in the hallway, none the wiser, Gaz leans against the wall—arms crossed and head resting behind him. It’s only at the sight of Laswell that the calm man perks to attention like an eager soldier.
Since he knew his charge already, Kyle had stayed behind while all the others of the Task Force had left with various degrees of goodbyes and well-wishes. Pats on his shoulders as he chuckled and made them swear to not have too much fun without him.
About to open his mouth and ask the fast-paced woman how it went, he’s interrupted by Kate’s blue eyes blazing as she glances at him.
“Good luck, Sergeant.” Her still voice is grim. “You’ll need it.” The female Agent walks on without another word, leaving the Brit wide-eyed and staring after.
“...Brilliant.” He fixes his cap and sighs before the sound of his cracking knuckles echoes through the hall. “Just bloody brilliant.”
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Chase the Memory of it Still
Summary: Clark is deeply, madly, head-over-heels in love with the one person he can't have. What happens when he can have him, if only for a little while? Fake dating friends to lovers superbat hehe
this one's for @fickle-tiction as payment for being a goblin in her dms LOL love ya!! the sequel to this is in progress >:) also it literally doesn't matter but vicki has a jersey shore/boston accent to me. i won't justify it.
Edit: now with a sequel, But You Were Mine
Clark has never really cared much about his paycheck—not in the grand scheme of things, anyway—but fuck he really doesn’t get paid enough.
“Sorry, Mr…Kent, but no press is allowed at the event. You’re more than welcome to wait outside with everyone else.” One of the guards—a bald fella who looks way too excited to turn him away—crosses his arms.
“…in the freezing rain.” Clark attempts to wipe his glasses on a dry part of his outfit. All he does is push the water around on the lenses. His suit’s about three shades darker from the storm. Why didn’t he wear his coat?
“You all seem quite dedicated. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” The guard smiles at him and shifts his weight, looking straight ahead as if all six feet of dripping Kryptonian have just vanished. The doorman reopens the door and shows Clark his people—a swarming mob of reporters hunched behind metal barriers in windbreakers, using plastic bags to keep their livelihoods safe.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Clark clenches his fist until it shakes. Inhale, hold…exhale. He came all the way out to cold, rainy Gotham—wait. Gotham.
He glances past the guards and sifts through the noise of the gala until he finds the one heartbeat he knows better than anything. He smiles.
“Oh, my mistake. I thought he hadn’t shown up. My partner is right there.” Clark points. They both turn to look—would’ve been an excellent time to subdue them if he was feeling more brash—as he waves across the floor at Bruce.
He looks spectacular, honestly. His hair is doing that ‘I woke up this perfect’ messy thing, his shoulders are unfairly crisp under a three piece suit that’s probably worth more than Clark’s rent, and he just…glows. He’s chatting with a young woman who looks more than happy to fawn over him. Clark’s no longer staring but gazing, he feels it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do. Maybe Bruce should stop being so…distracting.
He sees the surprise and hears the murmured ‘Clark?’ under Bruce’s breath. He thankfully doesn’t say anything else as he approaches, just glides over with a glass of champagne.
It’s at this moment that what he’s done, what he’s implied really sinks in, but it’s too late to turn back now.
“Hey, I left my invite at your place and these…upstanding citizens can’t find room in their heart to let me by. That’s what I get for showing up to support my partner, huh?” He hopes his emphasis isn’t too much, but he really, really doesn’t want to stand outside after all of this effort.
Bruce’s expression lands somewhere between pleasure and disbelief, minute and restrained as always. It’s only the uptick of his eyebrow and the slight narrowing of his eyes that gives him away. Bordering on amusement, but not quite.
“That’s unfortunate. What seems to be the problem?” Bruce sips. The guards shift uncomfortably. Clark tries to quell his shit-eating grin.
“I guess they think you’re outta my league.” Clark can’t help but snort a little. Bruce rolls his eyes.
“Mr. Wayne, can we see your invitation please?” Baldy clears his throat and plays official, knowing damn well it won’t make a difference. Bruce hands it over without a second glance.
“You look handsome.” Clark winks at him. He could smell Bruce’s cologne before he even walked over. At this proximity, he’s starting to get a little weak in the knees.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” Bruce reaches past and adjusts Clark’s tie. Nice touch.
“Alright, Mr. Kent, you can enter.” The guards shuffle aside. Just to be an asshole, Clark shakes all the water off his form like a dog, splattering both the guards with the rainwater they tried to keep him in. Their shouts of confusion and disgust are the perfect soundtrack to his entry.
Bruce offers an arm as if he hadn’t seen a thing and leads him over to the coat check, as if he would have a coat to check. He takes Clark’s glasses off his nose, dries them with his kerchief, and puts them back. Clark wrinkles his nose at the gesture—it’s so Bruce to just…do it himself.
“Thank you. I’m so sorry,” Clark sighs. The lenses are terribly smudged. He plans for a headache.
“You owe me. Boyfriend? Really?” Bruce passes him a glass of champagne.
“I know, I know. I tried to get by as press and when I saw you, I panicked. Lex is here and Lois and I have been trying to corner the bastard for weeks—“
“Hold my hand.” Bruce extends a palm. Clark chokes on his drink. If champagne wasn’t trying to migrate into his lungs, he would’ve taken a serious crack at x-raying and double-checking it was really his Bruce.
“Clearly you’ve never done this before,” he murmurs, the very same palm sliding down Clark’s back. “Casual affection is key. We’re being watched.”
Bruce subtly laces their fingers together as they walk through the crowd. Clark tries to appear as put-together and boyfriendy as possible, but when he looks around, every single eye in the place is on him and Bruce. He starts to sweat and doesn't take another breath until they arrive at a little private corner on the far side of the room.
“So, you were saying about Lex?” Bruce leans against the wall, scanning the room over the rim of his glass. His eyes catch back on Clark, warm and intense.
“I, uh…he’s here.” Clark swallows. He’s starting to feel dizzy. This is a lot. He’s used to the grit of Batman or the gentle gruffness of Bruce. Bruce Wayne is a whole different creature.
“Mhm. He’s looking for R&D investments again. I was told it’d be rude for me not to attend.” A wry smile crosses Bruce’s features. He breaks eye contact to scan and it gives Clark the wherewithal to finish his thought.
“Lex is pulling his whole ‘get rid of anyone with superpowers’ shtick again. Really mad at me specifically, as usual. I’d bet you ten bucks he has a Kryptonite ray upstairs. He’s probably in the process of building more…or something worse.”
“You have a plan?”
“I was going to go up there and, yknow—“ he mimes smashing something— “but I can hear about twenty people whispering about us and I don’t want to make you look bad. Not that you look bad, you look great! I just know your reputation is important and I put you in a weird spot and I’m sorry—“
Bruce shushes him. Clark blinks and splutters, because who shushes people, but suddenly Bruce is so close that he can’t think. He can see the tiny scar on Bruce’s lip, the one he lies and says was from a household accident. Clark wants to brush his thumb over it.
He feels entirely normal about Bruce Wayne.
“Stop overthinking. You’ll hurt yourself.” Bruce roughly pats Clark’s cheek. Clark has to actively shift his focus from the calloused warmth of Bruce’s hands to his eyes.
“Okay, ouch.” Clark rolls his eyes. “I’m just…this is your element. I’m not good at this.”
“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to stay.” Bruce tilts Clark’s chin down. Brushes some schmutz off his face.
“I got us into this. It’s alright.” Clark can’t look him in the eye. He’s so painfully aware of all the ways Bruce is touching. A perfectly choreographed performance for the outside eye. An act.
For a moment, he indulges himself, allows his mind to wander to a different world where Bruce might do this for him anyway. Somewhere so gently domestic that their rituals of touch are sacred. He wonders what it might be like to have a Bruce that’d dote on him like this, even while fussing at him.
Of course he has it now, but it’s not the same. Not when the eyes of hungry spectators cling to them from every shadow.
“I’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.” He already has his phone out and is halfway through dialing by the time Clark can grab him. Bruce spins out of the hold and starts walking away, still dialing.
“Bruce.” Clark yanks him back by the bicep. “I can survive mingling for a few hours. It’s no different than using a cover. What do I need to know?” Clark releases him only when it’s clear his stubborn streak is done rearing its head. Bruce works his jaw for a while and then sighs.
“When you’re talking to these people, they’re going to try and get to the center of you. Try not to lie. The truth will always be easier to remember. Just repackage it.” Bruce adjusts the clean lines of Clark’s suit with his fingertips, procedural and routine. Clark wonders briefly how many times he’s done this.
“Makes sense. Anything else?” Clark takes a measured breath.
“We have to sell this. People need to see easy affection before they believe that we’re…doing okay. Now, imagine someone’s watching us—“
“Are they?” Clark tries very hard not to scan the room. He starts to sweat.
“Shh. Someone’s watching us and you notice. They’re definitely gossiping. What do you do?” Bruce raises an eyebrow. The light of the obnoxious chandelier on the ceiling gives him a gentle glow. His eyes crinkle at the corners just slightly, even without a smile, and it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. The surge of emotion in Clark’s chest knocks him off balance.
“Well, staring isn’t—“
Clark kisses him breathless.
Bruce leans into it, one hand cupping the back of Clark’s neck. There’s a perfect sunburst of giddy adrenaline—his hands find Bruce’s hips and pull them closer. Bruce’s heart thunders in his chest yet his hands are steady as they brace against Clark’s back. Clark cups Bruce’s jaw and brushes his fingers through the gentle stubble there, lets it tickle at his fingers.
Clark breaks them apart with a quiet, triumphant chuckle—years worth of watching, waiting, and yearning all cresting towards this one moment. He can hear their comfortable status quo shatter as he does, but it’s worth it. It has to be.
“Wow.” Bruce smooths his hands down Clark’s chest. He can’t tell anymore if the heartbeat thundering in his ears is Bruce’s or his own but he doesn’t care to know—if it’s the former, he’ll combust. Or faint. Somewhere in there.
“How’d I do?” Clark manages to adjust his glasses without snapping them clean in half.
“I might have a few pointers,” Bruce clears his throat and looks away.
“We have plenty of time.” Clark steals another kiss and thanks the universe that Lois isn’t here to talk some sense into him.
……..
“So, you and Mr. Wayne, hm?” A blonde woman with a massive fur shawl wound through her arms sidles up with a glass of champagne. Clark freezes at the snack table.
“Hm?” He hides the multiple horderves in his hand behind his back. He’s very acutely aware that he shouldn’t be unsupervised right now, but Bruce is being flocked by investors with no hope for escape. He sneaks a pleading glance in Bruce’s direction.
They do lock eyes above the crowd, but the horde encircling him has the tenacity of seagulls on the boardwalk. Bruce apologizes with his eyes. Clark resigns himself to perish.
“Phyllis Hough, a pleasure.” She extends her hand to him and he takes it out of practice, kissing the knuckles. Her skin is so dry and clammy that he has to bite back the urge to gag.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He presses his lips into something like a smile.
“Forgive me for intruding, but you’ve been the talk of the party since you arrived. How did you and Bruce meet?” She sidles too close, like they’re sharing a secret about someone else. Her demeanor reminds him too much of the foxes that used to terrorize his chicken coop growing up.
The truth is always easier to remember. Just repackage it.
“Well, he…needed my help. We met through work. We realized we worked well together and after that, everything sort of fell in place.” Clark shrugs.
“That’s just darling. My husband and I met on a mission trip to Ghana.” She points to a deflated puddle of a man who’s leaned up on the bar, looking like he’d rather disappear than be here.
“A mission trip? That’s so…necessary.” Clark smiles and tries not to throw up in his mouth.
“I adore helping the less fortunate. It’s a hobby dear to my heart.” She places a hand on her chest, showing off the obnoxious diamonds on her bony fingers. Diamonds likely stolen from the same places she claims to ‘help’.
“Ah, Mrs. Hough. Looking lovely as always. Do you mind if I steal Clark from you?” Oh thank god.
Bruce gives her a quick spin, using the move to squeeze closer to Clark’s side. He winds an arm around Bruce’s waist. Bruce rests his hand overtop Clark’s and he can’t help but grin like an idiot. He’ll never get over the little zing of his nerves every time they brush hands.
“So soon? We were just getting to know one another.” Mrs. Hough tries to slide back into their space. Bruce stares her down, but not unkindly—just a blank, mannequin-like stare and a smile that almost looks real.
A tense silence blooms between them. Clark’s sure if he listens just a bit harder, he’ll hear Bruce cursing this woman to high-heaven in his head. The silence stretches on.
“Forgive us. We haven’t spent much time together this week. I’ll admit I’m a little clingy. I never like to be far from him.” He cups Bruce’s cheek and gives him a quick, chaste kiss. Bruce chases his lips and lingers longer. Clark actually gets a little lost in it until a feeble cough splits them apart.
“Well, who am I to interrupt love?” She strains the word strangely. “I best take my leave. I’ll see you around, gentlemen.” She waves over her shoulder and traipses back into the crowd. As soon as she leaves, Clark heaves a deep, weathered sigh.
“How do you do this? I’d rather chew off my own fingers than rub elbows with these people.” Clark takes Bruce’s glass from his hand and downs it. The fizz is nice, but it might as well be water. He starts munching on his poached horderves.
“Trust me, it’s not fun for me either.” Bruce grumbles, plucking a cracker with crab dip from Clark’s little stash.
“Why do it then? Why pretend?”
“It’s part of the job. You know that better than anyone.” There’s something so very tired in Bruce’s eyes. Even as he smiles, it’s empty and rueful—the light doesn’t make it to his eyes.
“You don’t have to do that with me.” Clark squeezes his shoulder. Bruce’s gaze drops to the floor and his shoulder sag minutely, the tiniest give in his guard that Clark’s privileged enough to see. For a moment, he’s not Bruce Wayne but Bruce.
He doesn’t lean to catch Bruce’s eye—he knows he hates that—so he just stands there and rubs circles into his shoulder.
“I like who you are under the mask.” Clark offers him another cracker. Bruce takes it and taps it against Clark’s last ones, as if they’re holding glasses, and pops it in his mouth. Clark snickers. Only Bruce could make something so dorky look so charming.
“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Bruce?” A feminine voice cuts through the din with ease. Clark catches the moment that Bruce’s muscles lock up and the eyeroll before he turns around. Just like that, Bruce Wayne returns.
A woman in a long green gown slinks across the floor. Her posture sets her aside from everyone else in the room—her stance is powerful and lithe.
“Vicki. It’s been a while.” Bruce gives her that practiced smile he’s been wearing most of the evening. His posture is so unnecessarily rigid that Clark rubs his back before he can think better of it.
“How’ve you been, Brucie? Hear you’re gettin’ into some interesting trouble. Speaking of trouble—“
“Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette.” She sticks out her hand to shake. Tall, blonde, terrifying eyes—yeah, he could see how she would be Bruce’s type. Definitely an ex.
“Clark Kent, Daily Planet.” He shakes her hand. “I thought press weren’t allowed in.”
“I have my ways. So do you, it seems.” She winks and passes him a flute of champagne. He graciously accepts.
“Ah, well. Perks of being around this guy I suppose.” Clark bumps Bruce’s hip a little. Bruce looks so startled by the motion that Clark can’t help but laugh a little.
“Listen, Clark, I’ve been with Bruce before and—“ she leans in close but doesn’t whisper, like she’s giving the world’s most public secret— “He’s honestly a softie under all the suits and cars.”
“I am not a softie. I can hear you.” Bruce shoves his hands into his pockets. Even though he’s turtling, there’s a levity to it.
“He has a thing for stubborn asses who get into trouble, ‘cause he is one. If that’s anything like you, you’ve got a good thing going here.” She smacks Clark’s chest with the back of her hand. Her honesty is…jarring, but not unfun.
“Oh, do you now?” Clark raises an eyebrow at Bruce over the rim of his glass.
“It’s not a thing. I don’t have a thing.” Bruce grumbles, the faintest hint of pink tinging his cheeks.
“Kinda sounds like you have a thing, Brucie.” Clark grins. Bruce scowls. He might be pushing his luck but it’s the only fun he’s really had all night.
“You two been together long?“ Vicki snatches a fresh glass from a passing waiter like a viper.
“Few months. Feels like longer.” Bruce doesn’t skip a beat. Clark hopes his smile makes Bruce’s tone sound less under duress.
“Wow, that’s pretty serious. Congrats.” She raises her glass in salute. Clark wants to cut in—that absolutely felt sarcastic—but Bruce gives his hand a squeeze.
“Can’t imagine life without him.” Bruce gives him such an earnest look that Clark has to avert his eyes before he gets too hopeful. His stomach twists. Play the part.
“Do you got somethin’ you like most about him?” Vicki locks onto Clark and he jumps a little. She dissects him with her gaze in that way only journalists can. He does his best not to shuffle under her scrutiny.
“Vicki, I hope this isn’t an interview.” Clark gives her his best stern stare.
“If it was, you botched it.” She bumps shoulders with him. “I’m kidding. Off the record. I haven’t seen Bruce glow like this, ever. Just lookin’ for your secret.“
That sends a sweet, traitorous flutter through his ribcage.
“Do you want to dance?” Bruce abruptly turns on his heel and shoves his hand into Clark’s personal space.
“Do…you want to dance?” Clark furrows his brow. Bruce looks like he might explode.
“Come on.” Bruce pulls Clark onto the dance floor.
“Bye, Vicki!” Clark calls over his shoulder, but Bruce is spinning him into the gentle embrace of violin song faster than he can resist. They glide far, far away from that corner of the room, losing her verdant silhouette in the crowd.
“Be honest. Did you just run from your ex?” Clark laughs, trying to keep in time with Bruce’s steps. He’s always had two left feet, but Lois had forced him to go to ballroom dancing classes with her enough times for him to pick up some semblance of rhythm.
“No.” Bruce leads just a little too fast for the music at hand. Clark drags his feet in an effort to slow them down.
“I don’t buy it. You would’ve been happier to see Harley than Vicki.” Clark almost dips Bruce on autopilot. He course-corrects pretty quickly and pulls a tight-lipped Bruce close instead. Nearly cheek-to-cheek, Clark takes the lead as easy as breathing.
Clark isn’t sure when he started humming, but he lets the music take them both. Bruce allows him to maintain the lead, surprisingly, and he guides them languidly around the dance floor. He even twirls Bruce, shocked he gets away with it, but he’s too wrapped up in whatever this is to question anything.
When Clark pulls back a bit to tease, Bruce is staring at him with those wide, pretty eyes.
“What?” Clark can hear the gears in Bruce’s head turning, even when there’s nothing to say. A remarkable talent.
“I…didn’t know you could dance.” Bruce shifts his hand from Clark’s shoulder to his back.
“I’m full of surprises.” Clark grins. Their form slowly morphs from proper ballroom to a casual, dance-in-the-kitchen kind of waltz--Clark links his fingers with Bruce’s and leads them by the hands, they somehow find a way to get closer to one another, and they end up in a slow, gentle sway.
“We should dance more.” Clark spins Bruce again and they end up back-to-chest, arms crossed over Bruce’s torso.
“You can’t be serious.” Bruce’s ears are adorably rosy. Clark chooses to remain alive and not comment on it.
“It’s good for you, Bruce! Lord knows you could use the smiles.” Clark spins them again, back to proper form. Bruce’s whole face scrunches and he stops in his tracks. A tinnitus-like sound ringing gently from Bruce’s ear and into their personal space makes Clark wince a little.
Of course he’s wearing comms.
“Diana’s got Lex cornered upstairs.” Bruce leans in and murmurs low in Clark’s ear. He fights tooth and nail against a full body shiver.
“Diana’s here? You called for backup?” Clark adjusts his glasses.
“If anything we’re her backup.” Bruce scoffs. “We need people to see us disappear so we have an alibi. Act natural.”
Clark walks away. Bruce yanks him back by the bicep and leans in close.
“Flirt with me. No, no—Clark, like you mean it.” Bruce compensates for the awkwardness by messing with Clark’s tie, but it starts to look like a tic more than anything else. Clark caresses Bruce’s cheek but it looks more like he’s wiping something off his face.
“I’m trying!” He huffs. “This isn’t exactly my skillset.”
“You had all of…that a minute ago—“ Bruce gestures at him— “where’d it go?”
Clark tries to summon ‘that’, whatever that means. The best he can do is scowl uncertainly and lead them back into an awkward sway.
“You could at least pretend like you like me,” Bruce huffs, uncharacteristically petulant. Clark almost gives himself away then and there.
“I’m not good at this.” He swallows and averts his eyes.
“Come on, American Pie. You’ve gotta be working with more than those doe eyes.” Bruce’s devilish smirk genuinely tears the breath from Clark’s lungs. He takes a ridiculous inhale to buy him time until—yep, there it is, the smirk disappears.
“Nope. This pie is fresh outta doe…eyes…that was going to be a dough joke but I think I should let it die.” Clark lets his forehead collide with Bruce’s shoulder as they sway, relishing in the comforting pat on the back that he gets.
“That would be merciful.” Bruce laughs.
“Did you just laugh?” Clark perks up.
“No.” Bruce’s jaw tightens. He can’t kill the sparkle in his eye though, no matter how hard he tries. It’s there and it's stunning, like the cosmos in its depths.
“You actually think I’m funny. You laughed at my joke!” Clark doesn’t realize that he’s dipped Bruce until they’re nose to nose, sharing the space of a breath. He quickly pulls him back up.
Enough dancing. Clearly he can’t handle that.
“I think you are…moderately amusing.” Bruce rolls his eyes. Clark squints.
“I think you are super…man.” Clark drags out the pause. Bruce all-but-scoffs.
“Seriously?” He shoves Clark’s chest. There’s a fondness to the gesture that makes his heart ache.
“You wanna laugh. I see it in your eyes, you do this squint—“ Clark pokes Bruce’s nose, mostly because he can’t do anything about it.
“I don’t want to laugh. I want to punch you.” Bruce gives his best scowl. Clark’s finger on his nose cuts most of the threatening aura.
“You’re smiling though. You are!” Clark scritches beneath Bruce’s chin as a fond gesture, something Lois often does to him.
Bruce squeaks.
“You are beyond immature,” Bruce huffs, jerking away from the touch. Clark’s brain struggles to reconcile what he just heard with what he’s seeing, as a suddenly perfectly-stoic Bruce adjusts his suit jacket.
Clark reaches out to do it again and Bruce latches onto both of his arms to push him away. Clark pushes back with no strain, as if the grown man clinging to his wrists weighs no more than bracelets, and repeats the gentle tickle.
Bruce smashes his chin down to his chest as a couple of scratchy snickers force their way free.
“No way.” Clark beams.
“Don’t you dare. Do not. Clark—Clark.” Bruce starts to back away. Clark snakes an arm around his waist and holds him tight.
“What? I’m flirting.” Clark presses his fingers into the curve of Bruce’s waist and it earns him a headbutt—thankfully avoiding the glasses. He finds a spot beneath Bruce’s ribs that gets a snort.
“You’re so cute. I wish you’d smile more.” Clark worms his fingers beneath the curve of Bruce’s jaw, chasing that squeak that opened up such beautiful horizons.
“I am not cute, you dick.” Bruce tries to bite at Clark’s fingers.
“Mmm, I disagree.”
“I’m going to bury you in the shallowest of graves.” Bruce grits out, curling into Clark’s shoulder. A strangled squeal flies out upon contact with his ears and Clark stays there, fascinated by the degree of squirming happening in his immovable arms.
“I’m sure you will.” He persists until finally, finally, a choked giggle emerges. It’s quiet enough to float beneath the ambient noise of the gala, but it rings loud and clear in Clark’s ear.
“Are you coming? Otherwise, I’m taking him to Arkham myself. He’s…irritating.” Diana’s voice is a tinny pinprick in Bruce’s ear, but Clark still picks up on her message. He stills his fingers.
“On our way,” Bruce murmurs. As soon as the connection is severed, Clark steals one more squeeze at his side before they vanish to the service corridors to meet Diana.
…
“Boys. You’re late.” Diana looks up from where she’s been braiding the Lasso of Hestia. On the other end, Lex Luthor hums an irritating tune.
“Busy day,” Batman grouses, flexing his fingers. He makes his way over to the contraption in the corner and starts picking at the wires.
“Whatcha got over there?”
“A highly concentrated laser stocked with a rainbow of Kryptonite strands. We were right on time.” Batman dislodges something with a mighty crack. In his hands, a glass capsule full of suspended Kryptonite crystals glitters in the light. The lenses on the cowl flick blue as he analyzes them further.
“Well, Lex, you’ve just made me ten dollars richer.” Superman puts his hands on his hips. He can feel the faint, crawling fatigue starting to burrow into him from the proximity of the Kryptonite, but he resists it. He yanks a handful of wires free from the machine, crushes the focus, and kicks the motherboard hard enough to disintegrate it.
“I hope your investors don’t hear about this,” he tuts, crossing his arms. “I’d hate for Wayne Enterprises to leave you in the dust for the…what, sixth year in a row?”
“We’ll see who’s laughing soon, Man of Steel. Your supposed altruism is nothing but your own selfish desire, fueled by greed—“
Superman knocks him out before he can finish.
…
“What the hell do you gel your hair with? Cement?” Bruce ruffles Clark’s hair again with a scowl. It doesn’t move.
”Mrs. Duvet’s Quick-Dry Iron Hold gel. Otherwise it gets super obvious when I’ve been out flying.” Clark carefully starts pulling strands to the front, mimicking Bruce’s helmet hair.
“Of course you do.” Bruce continues carefully messing with his hair. Clark shivers at the fingers on his scalp.
“I can just wet it and shake it out real quick?” Clark grabs for the sink handle and starts sizing up how to fit his head into the basin.
“I’d rather not leave a soaking wet bathroom for the custodians.” Bruce runs his hands beneath the tap, then holds them towards Clark. “May I?”
He nods numbly. Bruce runs his hands through Clark’s hair and he utterly melts into it. Oh, it’s a crime this won’t last.
“Looking like, uh, we had sex is a lot harder than I thought it would be.” Clark starts fiddling with his tie. He can feel his face heating up at the idea of it.
“There is an art to it. Here, let me.” Bruce takes the ends of the tie and gives it a quick full Windsor with practiced hands. Then he loosens it just right.
“Honestly, Bruce, no one will notice if I sneak out. I’m just some reporter they’ve never heard of.” Clark’s eyes dart to Bruce’s lips for a moment.
“These people have nothing but time and wealth—they’re always looking for gossip. We disappear and you don’t come back? In two days, someone will find you and hunt you down for the exclusive on our ‘tumultuous relationship’.” Bruce fiddles with Clark’s shirt collar. Undoes a button.
“So I’ll tell them we went our separate ways. Big deal.” Clark clears his throat.
“Vicki and I broke up eight years ago. To this day, she still gets harassed by paparazzi on her way to work. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but what are you going to do when people with cameras and time start realizing how much you disappear from the Daily Planet?” Bruce makes an exasperated hand gesture that seems to lack a target.
“Fair enough.” Perry and Lois can only protect him so much. Bruce, regrettably, has a point.
“We’re playing a part. After this, you won’t have to worry. I’ll give a statement that we quietly split and in a week or two, you’ll be left alone. Let’s focus on getting out of here.” Bruce returns to fiddling with Clark’s hair.
Clark takes Bruce’s hands in his own. His breathing stutters a bit.
“Can I kiss you, Bruce?” Never has a question felt so heavy, so precarious.
“Is there someone in here?” Bruce’s voice drops low, eyes darting to the stalls.
“No! No, I just thought it’d be easier to…y’know…rather than faking it.” He can’t bring himself to look Bruce in the eye. He loses track of whose heartbeat is thundering in his ears. He feels like he’s back in high school and fumbling his way through practicing in the mirror.
“What?” No going back now.
“It would just be for a minute or two. It might be more effective than pretending. We could kiss a little. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Clark shrugs. Yeah. Logic is good. This is strictly a business arrangement. Friends kiss sometimes. They’ve been through hell and high water together, this should be easy.
Bruce stares at him for a long while, long enough to make him sweat, to make him sick. Years of friendship and trust suddenly hang in the balance and he’s not ready for that. He’s not ready to lose that. What the fuck has he done?
“I—“
“Are you…reasoning your way through making out with me?” Bruce puts his hands on his hips, expression utterly unreadable.
“Maybe?” Clark swallows.
Silence envelops the bathroom. Clark starts running through ways to retcon the worst mistake of his life—passing it off as a joke? Yeah, that might work. He starts to fumble his way through the syllables of an apology, when—
Bruce laughs. Hand on the wall, shoulders shaking, laughs. He tips his head back as the last snickers float and echo. He looks at Clark down the length of his nose, still beaming. It’s the rarest thing he’ll ever see and he commits every detail to memory.
“I don’t think anyone’s asked so nicely before. Is this how they do it in Kansas?” Bruce unravels Clark’s tie in seconds. He wraps both ends around his knuckles idly, hanging his wrists off of Clark’s shoulders.
Clark grabs both sides of Bruce’s head and kisses him deeply to shut him up. Bruce tilts his head and pulls Clark roughly forward, slamming them both into the wall. He lets out a beautiful little noise as his hands slide beneath Clark’s jacket and absolutely ruin the clean press of his shirt. Clark has half a mind to hoist Bruce onto one of the sinks, but he resists.
He’s beautiful. It’s the only clear thought that runs through Clark’s head as he starts unbuttoning the buttons of Bruce’s shirt. He tilts Bruce’s jaw up and presses tender, lingering kisses down the column of his throat. Bruce pulls at Clark’s hair, forcing his head up, and catches his lips with a growl.
“That’s how we do it in Kansas.” Clark breathes, hovering in Bruce’s personal space. His glasses are fogged and smudged but he can still see the tantalizing tilt of Bruce’s lips.
“Again, I have a few pointers—“
This time Clark does pick him up. Bruce’s eyes go wide.
“Nevermind.” Bruce pulls him back in with a forearm around the neck. Clark surges forward and mouths beneath Bruce’s jaw. He can feel Bruce’s heartbeat nearby and he hunts for it, spurred on by the storm of his own want. When he finds it, he sucks slow and steady against his warm, soft skin until he’s sure it’ll bruise. Bruce lets out a keening whine that stutters into a gasp, gripping Clark’s shoulders. His thighs clench around Clark’s waist.
Clark’s better judgment grabs him and he breaks them apart. Bruce doesn’t move away and that lights his brain up like a Christmas tree. He hovers there for far too long, fighting tooth and nail against the urge to chase the adrenaline. Bruce looks utterly sinful in his grip, flushed in a way Clark hasn’t ever seen.
The concept of self-control comes to him in a whisper like it’s foreign. He remembers himself.
“Are we…good?” Clark vaguely realizes he’s still holding Bruce and sets him down. He’s buzzing from head-to-toe, like he’s just taken a full day’s nap in the sunlight. He’s not entirely certain he can feel his face. He touches his own lips reverently.
“What? Oh. Yeah, c’mon.” Bruce grabs him and leads them through the venue.
When Bruce pulls him through the party and towards the front doors, he doesn’t even process the prying eyes and whispers. All that matters is Bruce’s hand gripping his own.
Clark’s determined to catch this shooting star in his hand, even if it doesn’t last. Even if it burns him down the line.
#my fics#dc#superbat#bruce wayne#ticklish!bruce wayne#clark kent#diana is here im not tagging her#SORRY I FORGOT TO ADD#ask to tag
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Clothing repair is not a moral imperative and you shouldn't feel bad for not doing it
One of the most frustrating things about the whole 'just repair your clothes!' thing is that so many clothes just aren't easily repairable, and yet so many of the takes I've come across act like anyone not repairing their stuff are either lazy or stupid and Contributing To Climate Change.
My favourite pair of jeans was three years old when they ripped along where the back pocket was attached. I darned it. The first time I wore them again they ripped along the edge of the darn line.
I patched and redarned them. They ripped along the other pocket. Patch and redarn. They ripped where I'd sewed the patch on, even though I'd tried to weave in every stitch from more than an inch away
Every time I tried to repair them the denim basically disintegrated, because it was incredibly cheap and thin, so the repairs were stronger and just ripped free
One of my favourite dresses got mangled in a washing machine incident because it was a jersey knit stretch fabric and I have no idea how one goes about patching something that needs to stretch in every direction
I wanted to lightly modify the pocket situation on a denim jacket but couldn't, because I physically couldn't get a needle through the four layers of denim I needed to
One of my favourite t-shirts failed at the underarm seam and I couldn't fix it because they'd cut off and overlocked the majority of the seam allowance, and that had frayed when the seam failed
Another pair of trousers came entirely unseamed up one leg the first time I wore them because the (almost certainly overworked and underpaid) person who sewed it had failed to catch the thread in the hem, so the whole thing just unraveled. I did manage to resew that seam, but it took four weeks and three tries, and it's a bit wonky to this day
I have a favourite hoodie that's hanging up, unwearable, with almost an entire sleeve missing, because it got eaten by mice but I'm too attached to it to bin it, but I have no idea how to even START fixing damage like that.
'Twelve cool visible repair designs!' cool cool so that four colour embroidery over a one inch hole is going to cost approximately as much as just replacing the item cheaply and take how many hours to complete? And how many hours to develop the skills to make it look good?
I don't own a sewing machine. I don't particularly want to own a sewing machine, because they're expensive and take up space and require an entire skillset to use effectively. I have to repair or modify everything by hand. I don't have time for that, generally.
There's so much out there that's treated like a moral choice (clothing repair! Food delivery!Plastic straws!) without any examination of the barriers preventing people from doing the (please note the quote marks) '''right thing'''.
The people who most need to be able to repair their clothing are also the people most likely to only be able to afford the cheapest and therefore least repairable clothes. And also least likely to have the time and/or equipment to do so.
#i have no idea how to tag this#squid speaks#uhhhhh#Why Social Justice Needs Nuance#i hate primark it's evil#but where else am i going to get an emergency pair of jeans for a tenner?
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Chapter Six
I have Deja-vu when I return to the Tullamore stadium where I spent countless Sunday afternoons as a teenager, forced to sit at pitch side as Kelly roared her support for the players with a ferocity that always kind of pissed me off. She wasn’t into sports, not really, she just pretended that she was because she had this fantasy of one of the players spotting her by the barriers and coming over to ask for her number. Of course, none ever did, but eventually, when she was sixteen she talked her way into one of their after parties at the club house and kissed six of them one after the other with the same efficiency as a local politician handing out fliers at a shopping centre. She didn’t get any phone numbers either, just a crusty cold sore that hung around on her lip for two weeks.
Today, for the first time there is no Kelly by my side, and I realise upon entry that it’s been almost four years since I’ve set foot in this place. I don’t know why I thought it’d look different, but everything is the same, from the sun bleached plastic seats to the mud, grass, and leather smell in the air. I’ve changed but all these old places, they stay exactly the same. Claire links her arm with mine and we head down the steps towards our seats near the front. She’s wearing a Tullamore jersey. Most people on our side are too, painting one whole side of the stadium in blue and white. I’m just wearing a grey jumper. I had a matching jersey years ago, in fact I even went to the trouble of digging it out of the bottom drawer of the chest in my childhood bedroom earlier, but it’s girls size 13-14. It won’t even go over my chest anymore.
“Are you excited?” I say to Claire, who I expect to be beaming, but isn’t.
“Yeah I suppose.” She says.
“It’s a bit mad to be here together, isn’t it? Like, how many of these matches would you say you go to?”
“Oh God, like, probably all of them, I’m always stuck in these seats watching him.”
“You’re very supportive.”
“I’m a saint.”
My smile falters a bit, she doesn’t seem excited in the least. When I imagined her coming to these games I always had a picture in my mind of her cheering him on with voracious enthusiasm, hanging over the railings, chanting his name, but by the rather stoic expression on her face today I’m starting to doubt my own assumptions. “Not pushed about the match, no?”
She sighs. “No, it’s fine, I just… this has been a touchy subject between us lately.”
“Football?”
“It’s how much he wants to play it.”
I frown. “But he’s made it onto the senior team, surely it’s normal that it’ll take up a lot of his time.”
“Yeah it’s just like, he’s in fourth year in UCD now, I wish he’d just study or something, focus on his degree.”
“Oh.”
“There’s no future in football, like, he’ll never get paid for it and I just don’t want him to throw away his science degree because he’s too caught up with an amateur sport. There’s good money in pharmaceuticals if he works hard enough, and then we could start saving for a mortgage or a wedding, or I don’t know, kids or something.”
I nod, though it’s incredibly weird to hear her talk about such things now, at twenty one years old, when they seem lightyears away for me. A mortgage? I don’t even know how that works, never mind how I’d go about saving for one, but Claire has always been eager to settle.
“Is he struggling to balance both things?”
“Well, he isn’t really trying to. He’s just not doing his college work.”
“At all?”
She shakes her head. Her mouth becomes a thin line as she stares out over the pitch where the players have begun to filter out, shaking the hands of the other team, and I spot Shane for the first time, dressed in a blue jersey with stripes across his shoulders. He is powerful looking, even amongst all of the others. Two men in Helly Hansen fleeces and caps walk straight through my line of vision and settle into the seats directly in front of us, blocking out the view momentarily. By the time I regain my view of the pitch the players have all settled into their starting positions.
“I assume you’ve talked about this with him.” I say to Claire.
“Yeah of course, but I might as well be speaking to a brick wall. You know how he is with talking about things. At all. Ever.”
I hesitate. “He can be a bit withholding, for sure.”
“Never go out with an Irish man.” She declares. “They’ll only wreck your head.” I want to tell her that men from other countries haven’t been much more straightforward in my experience, but then the whistle blows and the match begins.
It’s true what they say in the newspapers about Shane Healy. He’s like a bolt of lightning on that pitch. He’s big, he’s quick and he’s aggressive, and yet there is something about his style of play that I didn’t expect to see. He’s like a child out there. The way that he practically skips along with the ball, lobbing it up into his hands and kicking it up the pitch makes it seem like he’s mocking the players around him, the ones who can’t catch him, can’t stop him.
I watch him possess the ball once again, drop it onto his right foot and neatly slot it through the goalposts for a perfect point. The crowd erupts into euphoric cheers, including me and Claire, who both laugh ourselves onto our feet and start yelling out for him. I’m not close enough to see him smiling, but I know he is, jogging around in a wide circle, clenching his fists in celebration.
The two men in front of us are muttering about something when we sit back down, and the only reason I tune in is because I hear them say his name. “Healy. Number fifteen. ” I nudge Claire and mutter “They’re talking about your boyfriend there.”
“What are they saying?”
We try to listen in, but the stadium is too loud to catch anything but the odd word. “I can’t hear.” I admit. “Are they Australian? Hardly.” The idea of a person coming all the way from the continent of Oceania to find themselves in a shabby Tullamore stadium, of all places, would be markedly strange.
“Oh, foreign men?” Claire drawls. “Maybe I should give one of them my number.” She slams her sunglasses onto her face, shielding her eyes from the sharp October sun, and we both put our focus back onto the pitch.
Beginning // Prev // Next
#lucky girl part 3#funnily enough this was one of my favourite chapters#it feels like a real bottle episode or something idk#even though it isn't#but i liked that it took place in just two distinct places and very little happened and yet so much was moving in the background#people who have finished the story already might notice things on a reread that they didn't the first time
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In loving memory of Tom Waits (he’s not dead yet, just gettin’ real old) on his birthday -today, I’d like to reminisce about that time I was in a roll over the day after christmas. It does fray at the edges and reconnect where I’m going just trust me. Anyway. It was 2011, I’d failed out of one college and wasn’t able to foot the bill of the other i’d attended for the semester while I attempted to put my life in some semblance of .. anything really. To be fair, I was only about 20 and I don’t think anyone should have their life plotted out by then anyway because you always need a little wiggle room.
Where was I? Oh yeah.
I was hurtling along the interstate going sixty miles per hour in the passenger seat of a red ford owned (and operated, I’m far too gay to drive) by my high school friend. We’ll call her Leaves because I did, even though her mother hated it. “I named her Olivia for a reason!” she’d say. Then tell me I’m going to hell in the same breath. Wonderful woman, Wendy. I’m still surprised she never banned me from her house, even after I chopped her daughter’s beautiful hair into a shitty pixie cut when we were sixteen. Leaves must have had worse, even more Godless friends. Or maybe she figured if she tried to stop Leaves from seeing me her daughter might choose me over her and she wasn’t nearly brave enough for that.
I’m in the passenger seat going sixty and I’ve decided that Leaves doesn’t want to hear me read “Metamorphosis” by Jeffrey Lang. If you’re a Star Trek fan- no, if you’re a Data fan, I can only recommend it. If you’re driving at three in the morning from somewhere in New Hampshire to the middle of Massachusetts and your car is in the vicinity of Salem (the one in New Hampshire, not the fun witchy one) I’ve found it to be the last thing you want to be reading aloud when you’re struck with the realization that maybe, just maybe, you might be boring the woman driving because she’d never seen an episode of Star Trek in her life but she loved seeing how passionate you were-are- were.
The truck cab is warm while I’m holding my ipod touch- my parents got it for me for Christmas last year even though at the time I didn’t think I deserved it, and I’m playing Tom Waits’ “You are Innocent When You Dream” and ripping my throat imitating the deep gravel of his voice, I sound like a muppet fucked a plastic rock tumbler, but Leaves is laughing.
And that’s all I care about.
Then it’s three am on a lonely strip of interstate while I’m singing along to Tom Waits to my best friend and the truck hits a jersey barrier on the passenger’s side going sixty miles an hour and-
Time slows down.
There are sparks above my head-
We are upside down and-
Leaves is like a ragdoll in the driver’s seat but-
The pavement is so blue it’s like a dark horizon-
my ipod touch hits my chin as I brace my arms-
I call her name, my voice ragged already-
And then we’re hung suspended on our sides. Leaves is screaming. I’m not. I have to manually roll down my window, somehow the only one to survive the crash intact, unbuckle myself, climb out, grab Leaves (still screaming) and haul her out with me. We jump to the ground (the truck is on it’s side) and I pull my phone out of my pocket and call 911. We’re scraped and bruised but otherwise fine.
I look at Leaves.
She looks at me.
“Did you really just fall asleep to me singing Tom fuckin Waits?”
“Yeah”
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Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is celebrated annually on January 31. Art can touch our souls and make a lasting impact. Whether it’s a piece of music or a painting, it can broaden our horizons and inspire us in many ways.
History of Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
It was undoubtedly a creative and artistic person who created this day that shines a spotlight on the importance and power of art. We often don’t realize the impact art can have on our hearts. It can inspire, motivate, guide, and touch us in more ways than we can imagine.
Art has been around for a very long time. Several archaeologists found the first artifacts of human art, which date back to the Stone Age. Since then, art has developed over the years and is appreciated for a variety of reasons. Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is celebrated by various art organizations and strives towards appreciating all forms of art.
Many associate art with paintings only but it comes in many forms and it almost always inspires or touches your heart. Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is the perfect day to take a closer look at a piece of art to understand what the artist is trying to communicate. With an open mind, you can allow it to inspire you and change your perspective on many things. Art satisfies our basic need for harmony and balance, and it brings people together. Art also acts as an important form of communication that bridges the language barrier. Art can really go a long way in making a social impact on our lives.
On this day, it is a nudge to let your heart be inspired by paintings, books, music, movies, drama, e.t.c., whichever form of art draws your interest.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day timeline
1504 Statue of David
Michelangelo completes the sculpture of David.
17th Century Sir Isaac Newton’s Color Wheel
Newton invents the color wheel, which allows artists to observe the most effective color complementation.
1889 Vincent van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
Van Gogh paints his famous Starry Night while at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole.
1912-1948 Art in Olympics
Art is part of the Olympics and medals are awarded for painting, sculpting, music, architecture, and literature.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day FAQs
What are the genres of art?
The genres of art keep evolving. Some of the traditional categories of art include literature, visual art, graphic art, plastic arts, and the decorative arts.
What can be called art?
Art is an object or experience created through an expression of skill or imagination. Over the years, there have been many different things that have been encompassed under the umbrella of art.
What is the highest form of art?
While art comprises many genres, literature is often regarded as the highest form of art.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day Activities
Attend a live theatre performance
Share your art with others
Read a book
Theatre actors put in a lot of effort to perfect their acts. Everything from their voices, to acting, to building confidence. A live theatre performance has no retakes and actors have to get it right the first time around. Attend a live performance to appreciate the hard work and talent.
Have you been secretly painting, or writing a song, or even a short story? Well, it’s time to put it out there. Share your art with your family or friends. It may inspire others to dive into the world of art as well.
Books are a great way to expand your knowledge on varying subjects, even if it is fiction. A fictional novel set in a different country can open up your mind to new cultures. Let your imagination run free when you pick up a good book to read.
5 Fascinating Facts About Art
The Mona Lisa
A museum for spoons
Tallest statue
Oxford dictionary’s definitions
Leonardo Da Vinci was ambidextrous
The Mona Lisa painting became immensely popular only after it was stolen.
Lambert Castle in New Jersey is home to a massive collection of spoons.
The tallest statue in the world, the Statue of Unity in India, measures 597 feet in length.
The Oxford dictionary has 12 definitions of the word art.
Da Vinci could write with one hand and draw with the other.
Why We Love Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
It helps you to express yourself
Art offers different perspectives
Art encompasses many genres
Art is an excellent way to express oneself. Many times, we can’t express ourselves in our daily lives and tend to bottle up those feelings. Art can help you release pent-up emotions via paintings, books, music, e.t.c. It allows one to truly be themselves.
Through art and the perspective of the artist, we are exposed to many different viewpoints. Appreciating art encourages our brain to think differently, to understand why a piece of art was created, and to learn the story behind it. Art can help you put many things into perspective and help overcome unresolved issues.
Art is not just paintings, it goes well beyond that. Art encompasses a multitude of genres such as writing, singing, dancing, cooking, films, and more. With a plethora of options available, it’s easy to find inspiration.
Source
#Two Brothers Totem Pole by Jaalen and Gwaai Edenshaw#Meet Jeri by James Stewart#Spring by Alan Chung#Digital Orca by Douglas Coupland#217.5 Arc x 13 by Bernar Venet#Inukshuk by Alvin Kanak#Thunderbird sculpture by Jody Broomfield#Building on the Past#Looking to the Future by Ken Anderson#Greetings From Bend by Katie Daisy and Karen Eland#“Spirit Horse” by Smoker Marchand#Prospector and his dog by Chuck Buchanan#“How the Animals Got Their Names” by Smoker Marchand#InspireYourHeartWithTheArtsDay#Inspire Your Heart with Art Day#31 January#USA#Canada#summer 2023#travel#original photography#vacation#tourist attraction#landmark#cityscape
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Sungka
summary: You and Tim play sungka before your match.
a/n: I love playing sungka and sports festivals. That is the whole point of this fic. I’m using the rules me and my friends used as kids.
warning: Filipino reader because I am home and very self-indulgent.
You lean against the concrete barrier, tapping the tip of your shoe against the floor, watching the volleyball hit the string of triangle flags made of recycled chip bags. The plastic reflects the sunlight into your eyes. You hiss and turn away and miss the shot. You hear the roar of the crowd. You blink the burning light of your eyes only to see Tim walking towards you, awkwardly fidgetting his hands because the Palaro jerseys this year didn't come with pockets. They skimped out and woe is Tim who is suffering for it.
You rub the light from your eyes and wave at him.
He huffs unsympathetically as he leans against the barrier, hooking the front of his shoe on the concrete vegetation decorating the barrier. Tim rests his cheek on the heel of his palm as he watches the ball fly back and forth. "Is Cassie winning?"
"I think. The sun keeps shining in my eyes."
"How rude," Tim scoffs.
You roll your eyes. "We should go." You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, the shells in the pocket clacking.
"You sure you wanna miss this?"
You shrug. "Sure, you wanna lose to Jaime?"
Tim smiles at you lopsidedly. "As long as I don't lose to Bart."
"Not a miracle worker, squirt. That's on you."
"So supportive," he scoffs.
You nudge your shoulder against his. "I'm helping you strategize, aren't I? And for free." Tim’s shoulder is warm from the contact.
Tim side-eyes you. "You're not even broke," he says, knocking a bony shoulder against yours. It makes you smile and Tim has to turn away when his lips start to mimic the shape of yours.
"Library?" he suggests, looking at the leaves of the mango tree as if they're the most interesting thing in existence.
"Can't scrabble up there, Cantine?"You say, poking his shoulder.
Tim pushes your hand against your face. You pull it away and raise your hands in surrender. He tilts to the side. "Too noisy."
You hum in agreement. Tim sticks his tongue out and you tap your chin.
"Fire escape," you say. "It'll be safe to strategize there."
Tim taps his foot against the rusty fire escape. He's pretty sure it hasn't been up to code since before you were born. You share a look before he shoves you.
You scowl at him and slap him lightly with your bag, muttering a word you shouldn't say this close to the school chapel. Tim is about to say something when you slap him again. He rubs his shoulder, scrunching his nose.
He follows you gingerly, listening to the metal screech under his weight. You pat the spot in front of you causing a collection of minute tremors. Somehow the fire escape doesn't fall apart or give you tetanus. "Relax Tim, it's perfectly safe."
"Burned houses or no?" you ask, taking the board out of the bag. The glossy wood rich, dark, and inlayed with flowers as you run your hand over the pits carved into its surface.
"Last time I checked, official matches didn't have the burned houses rule," he says, plopping in front of you. You flinch this time feeling the rickety structure move. "Relax (Y/n), it's perfectly safe."
You shove the pouch of shells into his hand as violently as you can. Tim responds with a genuine 'oof'.
"Anyway, I think cher Thelma would let you."
Tim raises a brow at you.
"No, yes, maybe. C'mon, burned houses makes it so much more fun," you insist with a hitch of your shoulders. Tim has to agree. He prefers playing with extra constraints. It somehow lets you be more creative or— as Cassie helpfully points out— be pettier. Tim isn't petty. He definitely isn't, especially when it's a competitive game.
Still for as not petty as Tim is, he needs to prepare. "We play by tournament rules. Also, don't let her hear you call her cher, she'll use your face as a new shoe rack," he says, something like mischief glinting in his eyes.
You shiver. "I just don't see why you're so serious about this. It's not graded and you can't even go overseas for sungka tournaments."
"Why would I want to go overseas for tournaments?"
"Free plane rides?"
He stops filling a pit. "Athletes pay for their own rides unless they're sponsored."
You stop counting the shells in your pit and gape at him. You try to twist the thought around and comprehend it. "Seriously?"
"Mmhmm."
"Ew."
“How do you not know this?" He snorts, eyes immediately looking down and covering his mouth. He flickers his eyes up for a brief second gauging your response.
"First of, only you would know that kind of thing." Tim doesn't correct you. "Second, our landline got cut during the last storm so it'll be about a week before I can be a weirdo like you look up stuff about athletes." You pout at him and hold up your hand, folding a finger from each reason.
"Fair enough."
You two finish setting up the board and start the game. Tim takes the pit (house) closest to your home base while you pick one of the middle houses. You start plunking one shell into each house counterclockwise until your drop your last shell into another house and pick those shells up.
"You know I can beat Bart, right?" Tim asks, scooping up another set of shells.
"Sure," you hum, scooping up your own shells.
He squints at you. "I'm helping, aren't I?" you huff, sliding your leg between the safety bars swinging it.
Tim wonders if your fidgetting is what's gonna kill the both of you. He starts fidgeting with the shells in his hands. "Helping is a stretch," he says, dropping a shell onto a pile of shells. It bounces a bit then settles. You both let out a loud breath.
"Just don’t drop my shells I don’t wanna climb down to get them out of the gutter."
"Don’t want to or can’t."
Said gutter radiates ominously. The gunk inside it looks like it's already housing some kind of alien ecosystem. You both shudder when a bug you can't name skitters about.
You raise your head to look at him. "Is that you volunteering to let me dangle you?"
"Why are we dangling Tim and can I help?" Kon asks, adjusting the strap of his guitar case.
You beam up at him. "Definitely."
"No."
"Yes," Cassie says, handing each of you soda in a plastic bag.
"Your face is gonna stay like that if you keep doing that," you say, taking a 10 out of your wallet and handing it to Cassie.
"I don't have change."
"I thought you said this would be a secret location," Tim says, picking another house.
"I said there would be less traffic," you answer, handing Kon your 10 and swiping the two fives in his palm.
Cassie turns to him. "Pay up, Little Timmy."
You and Kon snicker. Tim has never ever hated Dickens more.
Tim looks at you. You sigh. He left his wallet. You hand Cassie your other five.
"Thank you. Aren’t you two gonna have a wager?"
"Bragging rights?" you try.
Kon snorts derisively, "The loser has to tell cher Mavic that her kid is an asshole?"
"I said wager not death sentence," Cassie laughs.
Tim seriously contemplates but then changes his mind when you scowl at him, hunching your shoulders menacingly. "Loser buys ice cream."
You perk up. "Fancy."
"For everyone," Kon adds.
Cassie high-fives him.
You look at Tim to dispute but he's already analyzing his next move. Your wallet already hurts.
You pick houses with seemingly no rhyme or reason. Tim's brow ticks up. "Are you even taking this seriously?"
You look at him without raising your head. "Shush, you'll see."
Cassie slurps her soda. "Tim, you should probably take the house next to yours so (Y/n) can't get it," she says in between very obnoxious slurps. She is definitely doing it on purpose.
"Stop helping him," you hiss as Tim snatches the shells Cassie suggested.
Kon side-eyes Cassie, specifically her jersey. "Shouldn't you be helping, Bart?"
"After he ate my ice cream? He's getting burned."
"Can we please stop making burn jokes while me and Tim are on the world's worst fire escape?"
"No," Kon drawls, punctuating it with a strum of his dad's guitar.
Tim looks over to Cassie as you take a house. "What flavor?"
"It was one of those fancy ones from the stalls downstairs. The one with caramel."
"Cornetto?"
"Cornetto doesn't cost 50. The other one."
"Ah. Magnum," you hum, scooping another set of shells.
Tim squints at your pattern then looks up at you with a sudden jolt. "Wait, you're mimicking Bart, aren't you?"
"You are playing against him. Do you want me to switch to Jaime or Cissie?"
Tim's face scrunches in confusion. "How do you even know how he plays?"
"We were in the same section last year and because he has a brain he asked me to practice with him," you say, "cus you know, I'm an actual Sungka god." Laughter trails your words and Tim's heart skips a beat at the sound. "Now, shush and pick a house."
He sighs and pretends that Cassie and Kon don't notice the faint flush coloring his skin.
Tim throws his hands up and you mourn your wallet while Kon and Cassie debate on which fancy ice cream they're gonna buy.
"What are you guys so happy about?" Bart asks in a tempo so fast you barely hear anything.
"(Y/n)'s gonna buy us ice cream."
"I hate you people... wait, is it time?"
"Uh no."
You and Tim sigh in relief.
"We just finished. Cher Sally was looking for Tim," Bart explains. "Oh and I won."
Your jaw drops while Tim writes his last will. Cher Sally is gonna kill him.
"How is it done?" You stammer out.
"The basketball game got cut short, so they moved it up," Bart shrugs.
Of fucking course.
#tim drake x reader#tim drake imagine#filipino reader#I am still on vacation but have not been able to play sungka#Help
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The Ace of Relief: Tennis Elbow and the Magic of Cold Compress in Freehold, NJ
Tennis elbow is a common yet painful condition that affects not just tennis players, as the name might suggest, but anyone who overuses their forearm muscles. Whether you're a sports enthusiast or someone grappling with the rigors of daily life, the sting of tennis elbow can be a game-changer in your comfort and mobility. With an array of treatments available, one method has been making a cool impression on the recovery process – the cold compress.
Understanding Tennis Elbow: The What and Why
Tennis elbow, or lateral epicondylitis, is a condition that leads to pain around the outside of the elbow. It is typically the result of overusing or straining the muscles in the arm and forearm, causing a series of small tears in the tendons that attach to the lateral epicondyle, a bony bump on the outside of the elbow. This repetitive stress can be attributed to actions such as gripping, lifting, or racket sports – including, of course, tennis.
But why does it hurt? When the body undergoes these micro-tears, it triggers an inflammatory response that activates pain receptors. This inflammation can be persistent, which is why finding relief is essential.
The Cool Science Behind Cold Compresses
Cold therapy, or cryotherapy, works by constricting blood vessels, which in turn decreases blood flow to the affected area. This leads to a reduction in inflammation and swelling, which are typically the culprits behind pain. This numbing effect not only provides immediate relief but can also slow down the progression of the injury.
When it comes to tennis elbow, applying cold compresses can be a soothing remedy for the inflamed tendons, thereby reducing pain and improving function. The application of cold to the injury also prevents the build-up of excess fluid in the tissue, which can exacerbate inflammation over time.
Freehold, NJ – Serving Up Relief with Cold Compresses
Freehold, New Jersey, is serving up more than just historical charm and the freedom scene – it's a locale dedicated to alleviating the strains of tennis elbow. By incorporating a cold compress into your treatment regimen, you're leveraging a therapy technique that's not just accessible but effective too.
For the avid player, the art of the cold compress doesn't stop at professional tournaments or advanced training facilities. It becomes a practical and necessary tool in the kit to maintain health and well-being. With the right approach to cold therapy, Freehold's tennis aficionados can not only continue to enjoy the game but also improve their recovery times and overall joint health.
Craft Your Own Compress: A DIY Recipe
No need for high-tech devices or complex contraptions – a homemade cold compress can provide just the same relief. Here's how to create one:
Materials Needed:
A clean kitchen towel or cloth
A resealable plastic bag or a small pouch
Ice, either in cubes or in gel form
Steps to Create:
Fill the plastic bag with the ice of your choice, ensuring it isn't too large to handle or that it fits the area of your elbow comfortably.
Wrap the bag of ice in the cloth. The cloth acts as a barrier to protect your skin from direct exposure to the cold.
Apply the compress to the affected area for 15-20 minutes, giving your skin a break if you feel it becoming too cold.
Repeat as needed, every few hours, but always waiting at least 1 hour between sessions to avoid skin damage.
The Community of Freehold and Beyond: Advocates of the Cold Compress
Cold compresses have become a hit among the Freehold community for their versatility and efficacy. From high school tennis stars to the seasoned veterans of the local courts, the consensus is in – the cool touch of a compress is a welcome relief. This community-driven approach to injury management exemplifies a shared dedication to health and a sustainable path to recovery.
Seeking Professional Help: The Collaborative Approach
While DIY methods can be incredibly beneficial, it's also important to seek the counsel of a healthcare professional, especially for persistent or severe cases of tennis elbow. Physical therapists and physicians in Freehold are champions of integrated treatment plans that may involve cold compresses alongside other modalities such as rest, stretching exercises, and sometimes even specialized braces.
Convenience Above All: Local Accessibility to Cold Compresses
Accessibility in healthcare can make all the difference, and with tennis elbow cold compress scotch plains, that's no exception. Freehold and its neighboring towns like Scotch Plains and Woodbridge have made it easier than ever to obtain or create your cold compress, making it a convenient and efficient recovery solution.
The Future is Cold and Bright: Cold Compresses and Beyond
The simplicity and effectiveness of tennis elbow cold compress freehold are sure to keep them in the line-up of viable treatments for tennis elbow and a host of other injuries. In the future, we can expect to see innovative adaptations and the incorporation of technology to enhance the cold therapy experience, making it an even more integral part of our healing journey.
In Conclusion – A Winning Strategy
In the game of tennis and the grand slam of life, the relief provided by a cold compress can be the difference between a successful serve and a forced withdrawal. For the players, the health-conscious, and the active community of Freehold, NJ, the power of the cold compress is an asset not to be overlooked. By understanding its benefits and adopting it into your routine, you can make the pain of tennis elbow a distant memory – one cool press at a time.
Allow the brisk touch of cold therapy to be your serving ace in the healing set – your body will thank you as you return to the courts, ready for more sets and matches, pain-free. With patience, persistence, and the right tools, the path to recovery can be as smooth as the glide of a well-struck backhand across the court.
#health and wellness#acupuncturist for knee pain in freehold#acupuncturist in scotch plains#baseball elbow injuries woodbridge#tennis elbow cold compress freehold#tennis elbow cold compress woodbridge#treatment for lower back pain freehold
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Emergency Window Repair: A Guide for Swift Restoration in New Jersey
Disasters strike unexpectedly, and when they do, the integrity of our homes can be put to the test. Windows, the vulnerable sentinels standing between us and the elements, are often on the frontline. In this guide, we'll navigate the tumultuous terrain of emergency window situations, shedding light on what to do when disaster strikes, especially in the Garden State. Let's ensure your haven remains secure, even in the face of unforeseen challenges.
Assessing the Damage: The First Steps
1. Stay Calm and Safe:
In the aftermath of a disaster, it's crucial to remain calm. Prioritize your safety and the safety of those around you. If there's any risk of broken glass or structural instability, keep a safe distance until the situation is fully assessed.
2. Evaluate the Extent of Damage:
Survey the damage to your windows. Is it a minor crack, shattered glass, or a compromised frame? Understanding the extent of the damage will guide your next steps.
Temporary Fixes While Awaiting Professional Assistance
3. Tape for Temporary Support:
If there are cracks or shattered glass, carefully use tape to create a temporary support structure. This helps prevent further splintering and keeps the area secure until professional help arrives.
4. Weather Barriers:
In cases of severe damage, especially during inclement weather, use plastic sheeting or tarps to create a makeshift barrier against the elements. This helps safeguard your home from rain, wind, or debris.
5. Utilize Plywood for Security:
For more extensive damage or when awaiting replacement windows, consider boarding up the affected area with plywood. This not only provides additional security but also deters intruders.
Seeking Professional Assistance: The Key to Swift Recovery
6. Contact Emergency Window Repair Services in New Jersey:
Swift action is imperative. Contact reputable emergency window repair services in New Jersey. Ensure they specialize in rapid response, particularly during urgent situations.
7. Document the Damage:
Before any temporary fixes or repairs commence, document the damage. Take photographs and note the specifics. This documentation may be invaluable when dealing with insurance claims.
Long-Term Solutions: Replacement Windows in New Jersey
8. Consider Upgrading:
In the aftermath of a disaster, it might be an opportune time to consider upgrading to more resilient and energy-efficient windows. Consult professionals specializing in replacement windows in New Jersey for insights on modern, durable options.
9. Schedule a Comprehensive Inspection:
Once the immediate crisis is addressed, schedule a comprehensive inspection of all windows. Identifying potential vulnerabilities can prevent future emergencies and ensure the overall safety of your home.
Conclusion: Restoring Calm Amidst Chaos
Emergencies can be unsettling, but a strategic and calm response can make all the difference. When disaster strikes and your windows bear the brunt, remember to prioritize safety, utilize temporary fixes, and swiftly seek professional help. In New Jersey, where resilience is ingrained in the spirit, emergency window repair services stand ready to restore security and peace to your home. Explore the possibility of upgrading to resilient replacement windows for a future fortified against unexpected challenges. Your home is more than a shelter; it's a sanctuary, and with the right actions, it can withstand the storm.
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MinE now: part 1
The Rules: Time doesn't exist, everything crosses over
1.
Stale plastic air engages in a battle royale against Axe body spray, patchouli, and Dark Roast for the title of strongest odor in tight quarters. From what he can hear, Axe body sprays airpods are going to cause hearing loss before he’s 25, it’s a good song though. His coffee wobbles. A bell precedes the sound of a grandfathers loosening belt after Thanksgiving dinner, “Pshhhh.” Sliding doors open and the bus breathes out occupants then inhales a new breath of shuffling humans before rolling forward to its next respiration.
“I miss driving.” The earthy aroma of arabica beans understands regret. Two creams, no sugar, the only way to drink it. Coffee should not taste like a milkshake, nor should it foam. It should be hot. It should hurt just a little. It’s to prepare for the day with pain. You drink coffee with the hope that the burns are the worst thing you’ll have to feel all day. The bus breathes again. The reek of Axe body spray leaves, only to be replaced by antique Menthols. Most of the faces here are bathed in the dim glow of social media. Only 3 of them are looking up at the world around them. All 3 of them are staring at him. No. Not him. His mustache. Massive and peppered with age, well cared for, full and bushy. He knows it looks ridiculous, but the caterpillar is the right choice. It’s a disguise.
There are 3 people staring intently at his face right now, and if asked “What did he look like?” the only answer they would be able to conjure would be, “He had a mustache.” It’s also a disguise that can be undone quickly. By the time the authorities might have a BOLO on “A guy with a mustache”; He's walked into a convenience store, pocketed a disposable, and dry shaved away the only description they have. He am invisible because of his most visible feature.
He can also make things awkward when he's bored, it’s just fun for him. He raises his cup a little too high and drinks a little too deep, still under the watchful gaze of the trio of complete strangers. When he pulls the cup down, he can feel that capillary action has filled the fibers on his face with sweet Columbian nectar. He can’t help but smile, watching them through aviators as they watch him. His lower lip reaches upward to meet the center of his philtrum but is rebuffed by a bushy barrier. *Slurp* the coffee flees from the fibers. The young lady in the pantsuit turns away in disgust. The kid in the Cavs jersey gives the world a teenage smirk and lights up his face with a Samsung. The third, a panhandler, bedraggled and odorous, smiles a jack-o-lantern smile, points at him and shouts, “That’s why they call it the Flavor Saver buddy!” He gets a handshake and a portrait of President Lincoln before disembarking.
Another two blocks in business casual footwear. It gives him too much time to think. "I miss my car." he misses a lot of things. The beach and the wind. Watching the sun set over the volcano is something that cannot be explained, only experienced. The smell of the sea, while equally as pungent as the odors found on the streets of Cleveland, were far more pleasant. He missed driving flat out in his Ferrari, tearing through the streets of Oahu. Red as a fresh picked cherry, lines so sharp they could cut the air, she was beautiful. The Admiral even let him bring her stateside to show her off once. He set streets on fire throughout this nation. He was one with that car and she was one with me. They were unstoppable.
The night he lost her he had to face a few harsh realities. Realities like, you should never race a couple of good ole boys in a racist Dodge charger. And. According to that tree, they were not unstoppable. He, literally, set the street on fire. But, the most painful reality he had to face was, It was the Admirals car, he was just the driver. When you wrap your boss's favorite vehicular showpiece around a tree in a dry creek bed in Kentucky, things get a little tense around the office. A tirade delivered close enough to his face that he could count the cavities, a flurry of paperwork, and a 15 hour flight away from the scene of the demotion landed him in the last place I wanted to be. Here...
A relic of the past rises before him. 3 crumbling stories of brick and glass. Midcentury state government architecture at its most mediocre. The former shell of Jefferson High School contains the current offices of the Central Cleveland division of the Foundation for Law and Government, FLAG. The name is cumbersome but they really wanted that anagram. The familiar blast of chilled, recycled, government issue air hits him once again. The scent of 50 years of cafeteria meals and dodgeball games knocks the last of the coffee from his nose. Shoes click on the tile floors, echoing against the banks of lockers, never removed when the building was converted. It’s like being back in high school with fewer guns and none of the hope for the future.
He used to be a Lieutenant in the US Navy. He used to drive for an Admiral. But now, if he wants to keep my pension, he does whatever this is. It’s been a mad hodgepodge of tasks since day one. Filing, sorting, marking, collating, stake outs, coffee runs, serving papers, prisoner escorts, and 3 days as a line cook. Whatever goody two shoes grunt work this poorly named organization requires, he's been doing for three years. It’s a meh job in a meh place. It’s not that Cleveland is a bad place, it’s just not the Island. He found and lost love on the Island. He had a full life there. In Cleveland, he has a bus pass. It doesn’t even compare to the life he had. At least the chili’s good. It’s the best 4-way he's had since his buddy Tripper introduced him to his hot roommates.
(Part 2)
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Reflecting on the learnings from the “Silver Lining Playbook” movie and its influence as an occupational therapy student
"Silver Linings Playbook" is a movie directed by David O. Russell in 2012, that tells the story of people who are dealing with their mental health issues and how they found healing/ coping strategies/ recovery during their journey. In this blog, I will be discussing what the movie talks about, occupational barriers that were faced by the character, what the student therapist learned from the movie, and how it influenced the student as an OT student.
Pat is the main character in the movie, and he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. His features observed during the move include poor frustration tolerance, anger issues, psychomotor activation, and mood swings. Pat married Nikki, and symptoms that triggered him include hearing someone playing their wedding music and the thought of his wife cheating. He's trying very hard to get better and be happy again after a difficult period, as he was physically active and has friends. He meets a woman named Tiffany, who has her own difficulties as she was grieving the death of her husband, which has left her with deep emotional pain and a sense of loss. She also struggles with impulsive behavior. The movie is about how they help each other and find hope and happiness, even when things are not going well.
At the beginning of the movie, the client was non-compliant with health management, specifically medication. He pretended to swallow them but actually spit them out once he moved away from professional help. Pat wasn’t working as he lost his job and struggled to find one due to his mental health challenges. Pat neglected self-care, such as grooming as he was unkempt and untidy at the beginning of the movie. He was always wearing the same clothes and was disoriented as he was wearing a jersey even when it was hot, and even when jogging. Pat was wearing the black plastic bag on top of the jersey even when it was hot and jogging. His rest and sleep patterns were disrupted; sometimes he would go out at night, visit friends like Tiffany, and even jog in the dark. One night, he woke his parents at 3 a.m. and searched for his wedding video. In terms of leisure activity, the was an occupational imbalance as he was only participating in jogging not in other activities. Throughout the movie, these challenges are evident, showing his struggles with daily life due to his mental health issues.
I have learned a lot from watching how Pat goes through his struggles in the movie. What's important in the movie is that it shows how having hope is important when you're dealing with mental health issues. According to the picture above, hope is a big idea, meaning believing that things can get better, even when life is really hard (Lesoned, 2020). Pat in the movie never gives up on hope, even when things are tough for him because of his mental health. In the movie, Pat believes can be together with his wife by writing letters to her, expressing his love and regret. He was hoping that, by being sincere, she might consider getting back together with him. He also finds hope and support in his new friend Tiffany.
The OT student also learns that finding activities that the client is interested in can make a big difference to the client. In addition, having supportive friends and family plays a huge role in the client's life and in the recovery process. For instance, in the movie, Pat starts to be friends with Tiffany, and they start dancing in the local competition, and this makes a big difference in Pat's life. He was unable to control his symptoms of bipolar disorder at the beginning of the movie. however, as they won the dancing competition which helped him to channel his hyperactivity, and improve the occupational barrier that he was experiencing. Also, I learned the importance of teaching the client coping strategies to prevent relapse before discharging the client, as Pat at home was behaving in an inappropriate manner.
Silver Linings Playbook" is not just a great movie, but it tells a story that teaches us important things about hope, constructive use of leisure time, and a support system. As an OT student, this movie reminded me of the most important ideas in my field, like teaching the client coping strategies to prevent relapse. After watching this movie, I feel even more committed to my studies and helping people who are dealing with mental health challenges. It has made me understand better how occupational therapy can make people's lives better when they're facing these difficulties.
Referencing
lesoned. (2020, June 12). Motivational Quotes About Life Being so Hard to get you Through a Difficult Time. Lesoned. https://lesoned.com/life-is-hard-quotes/
2. Watch Silver Linings Playbook (2012). (n.d.). Ww1.Goojara.to. https://ww1.goojara.to/mmwJl8
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YOU WLL NOT EXPECTED THIS ONE FROM ME
but here i am, your writing convinced me to this: 22 for the gesture + 19 for the dialogue for auston and mitch, the toronto boyfriends, goodbye and thank you for your service ily
MILOU! Welcome to the dark side hahaha ily2
Mitch Marner x Auston Matthews - "Let yourself cry, I'm here now."
Prompts: While someone demeans your lover, standing up for them. Either in word, or by physically placing yourself right in front of them as a protective barrier. + “Let yourself cry, I’m here now. You’re safe.”
Warnings: Homophobia and gay slurs. And angst
Tag list: @donttelltheelff, @zackcollins, @calermakar08
“I’ll be right back,” Auston said, kissing Mitch’s cheek softly. “I’m just going to use the washroom, then we can leave.”
Mitch hummed. “Okay.”
He smiled and watched his boyfriend walk off towards the back of the bar. He stood from the table and stretched his arms over his head. Behind the bar, the battle of Alberta game played on several screens. It pained Mitch to see that. To have that reminder that they didn’t make it, that their season was over.
He looked away and took out his phone to mindlessly scroll through social media until Auston returned.
“You shouldn’t even be in the NHL,” someone said loudly to Mitch’s right.
He stiffened, but kept his expression neutral. He ignored them, opening his Instagram app.
“You suck,” the man sneered and he stepped closer. “The only reason you’re on the Maple Leafs is because they were so desperate, they’d even take someone like you.”
Mitch’s throat burned with unshed tears. He cleared it, but it only made it worse.
“Hey, fag, can you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as a terrible player?”
And there it was. The f-word that had followed Mitch around ever since he and Auston came out publicly as a couple. Mitch gripped his phone so tight, the plastic case dug into his palms.
He tore his gaze from his screen and dared to meet the eyes of the man. He didn’t say anything, he just stared him down.
The man was bigger than him. He wore an Oilers jersey and matching hat and held a beer can in his hand. “What?” he taunted. “Nothing to say, fag? You know, you should be ashamed of yourself. It’s bad enough that you’re one of them, but to flaunt it in everyone’s face? It’s disgusting.”
Mitch’s vision blurred with tears.
“Hey!”
Mitch nearly sobbed at the sound of his boyfriend’s voice.
Auston quickly stepped in front of Mitch, gripping his arm to thrust him behind him. “Leave him alone.”
The man snickered. “Or what?”
Auston straightened his shoulders. “I’m a hockey player. I know how to fight.”
Mitch made a soft noise and gripped the back of Auston’s shirt. “Let’s just go,” he whispered. “Please.”
Auston turned to face him, and his expression softened. He wrapped an arm around Mitch’s waist and steered him towards the exit. The man shouted something at them, but Mitch couldn’t hear him. His ears felt like they’d been stuffed with cotton balls. He just needed to get outside.
He practically threw the door open and stepped out into the mild spring air. Taking in a deep breath, he gripped Auston’s hand tightly.
Auston brought Mitch to the side of the building for a bit of privacy. “Are you okay?” Auston asked softly. He leaned down to be at eye level. “Baby, look at me.”
Mitch met Auston’s eyes and his jaw trembled. “I’m fine,” he croaked unconvincingly.
Auston sighed and wrapped his arms around Mitch’s frame. “Let yourself cry, I’m here now,” he cooed, reaching a hand up to run it through Mitch’s hair. “You’re safe.”
Mitch leaned against Auston and buried his face into the crook of his neck. Clenching his eyes shut, he let out a shuddered breath.
“I’m okay,” Mitch said, voice muffled. “Really, just… overwhelmed.”
Auston hummed and gently combed his fingers through Mitch’s hair with one hand while rubbing his back with the other. “It’s okay. I got you. That man is wrong, about everything. You’re incredible in every way, you hear me?”
Mitch nodded slightly. He sniffled and hugged Auston tightly. “I just… wish that didn’t happen.”
“Me, too,” Auston said with a slow sigh. “But I’m here now. We have each other, and the opinion of some jackass in a bar does not matter. What matters is how we feel about each other.”
“And what do you feel?” Mitch asked. He knew the answer, but he still wanted to hear him say it.
“You know how I feel,” Auston said lightly. He kissed the side of Mitch’s head. “I love you.”
Mitch smiled. With Auston, he could get through anything. “I love you, too.”
#this is a lil longer so I added a read more#also dont mind me just trying out different formats for these trying to figure out which I like lmao#but eeeee milou thank you for the request!!#1634#mitch marner x auston matthews#toronto maple leafs fanfiction#nhl fanfiction#hockey rpf#nhl rpf#toronto maple leafs rpf#toronto maple leafs imagine#hockey imagine#nhl imagine
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Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is celebrated annually on January 31. Art can touch our souls and make a lasting impact. Whether it’s a piece of music or a painting, it can broaden our horizons and inspire us in many ways.
History of Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
It was undoubtedly a creative and artistic person who created this day that shines a spotlight on the importance and power of art. We often don’t realize the impact art can have on our hearts. It can inspire, motivate, guide, and touch us in more ways than we can imagine.
Art has been around for a very long time. Several archaeologists found the first artifacts of human art, which date back to the Stone Age. Since then, art has developed over the years and is appreciated for a variety of reasons. Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is celebrated by various art organizations and strives towards appreciating all forms of art.
Many associate art with paintings only but it comes in many forms and it almost always inspires or touches your heart. Inspire Your Heart with Art Day is the perfect day to take a closer look at a piece of art to understand what the artist is trying to communicate. With an open mind, you can allow it to inspire you and change your perspective on many things. Art satisfies our basic need for harmony and balance, and it brings people together. Art also acts as an important form of communication that bridges the language barrier. Art can really go a long way in making a social impact on our lives.
On this day, it is a nudge to let your heart be inspired by paintings, books, music, movies, drama, e.t.c., whichever form of art draws your interest.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day timeline
1504 Statue of David
Michelangelo completes the sculpture of David.
17th Century Sir Isaac Newton’s Color Wheel
Newton invents the color wheel, which allows artists to observe the most effective color complementation.
1889 Vincent van Gogh’s “Starry Night”
Van Gogh paints his famous Starry Night while at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole.
1912-1948 Art in Olympics
Art is part of the Olympics and medals are awarded for painting, sculpting, music, architecture, and literature.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day FAQs
What are the genres of art?
The genres of art keep evolving. Some of the traditional categories of art include literature, visual art, graphic art, plastic arts, and the decorative arts.
What can be called art?
Art is an object or experience created through an expression of skill or imagination. Over the years, there have been many different things that have been encompassed under the umbrella of art.
What is the highest form of art?
While art comprises many genres, literature is often regarded as the highest form of art.
Inspire Your Heart with Art Day Activities
Attend a live theatre performance
Share your art with others
Read a book
Theatre actors put in a lot of effort to perfect their acts. Everything from their voices, to acting, to building confidence. A live theatre performance has no retakes and actors have to get it right the first time around. Attend a live performance to appreciate the hard work and talent.
Have you been secretly painting, or writing a song, or even a short story? Well, it’s time to put it out there. Share your art with your family or friends. It may inspire others to dive into the world of art as well.
Books are a great way to expand your knowledge on varying subjects, even if it is fiction. A fictional novel set in a different country can open up your mind to new cultures. Let your imagination run free when you pick up a good book to read.
5 Fascinating Facts About Art
The Mona Lisa
A museum for spoons
Tallest statue
Oxford dictionary’s definitions
Leonardo Da Vinci was ambidextrous
The Mona Lisa painting became immensely popular only after it was stolen.
Lambert Castle in New Jersey is home to a massive collection of spoons.
The tallest statue in the world, the Statue of Unity in India, measures 597 feet in length.
The Oxford dictionary has 12 definitions of the word art.
Da Vinci could write with one hand and draw with the other.
Why We Love Inspire Your Heart with Art Day
It helps you to express yourself
Art offers different perspectives
Art encompasses many genres
Art is an excellent way to express oneself. Many times, we can’t express ourselves in our daily lives and tend to bottle up those feelings. Art can help you release pent-up emotions via paintings, books, music, e.t.c. It allows one to truly be themselves.
Through art and the perspective of the artist, we are exposed to many different viewpoints. Appreciating art encourages our brain to think differently, to understand why a piece of art was created, and to learn the story behind it. Art can help you put many things into perspective and help overcome unresolved issues.
Art is not just paintings, it goes well beyond that. Art encompasses a multitude of genres such as writing, singing, dancing, cooking, films, and more. With a plethora of options available, it’s easy to find inspiration.
Source
#Satos Horse by Jim Johnson#summer 2022#vacation#travel#original photography#Bellagio - Las Vegas Luxury Resort & Casino#Nevada#Bliss Dance by Marco Cochrane#Montrose#Bad Decision by Vic Payne#USA#Camel (Albino) Contemplating Needle by John Baldessa#31 January#General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo by Jim Callahan#Chicos and Capulin by David Montgomery#InspireYourHeartWithTheArtsDay#Inspire Your Heart with Art Day#Garden Plot by Nick Cave#Y_OURS by Joel Swanson#Waiting on an Answer by George Lundeen
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