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etherrealoblivion · 4 years

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A Broken System

MASTERLIST

Summary: At her birthday celebration, Y/N is out on the town enjoying herself when she runs into a cute FBI agent who she’d love to take home and do terrible things to. Normally, someone meeting an FBI agent at a bar wouldn’t be that big of a deal. There’s just one, miniscule, microscopic, meager, problem... Y/N is only twenty.

tags: Large Age Difference, power imbalance, choking, Dom/sub, safe sex, vaginal penetration, dirty talk, cliffhanger.

A/N: this just made so much more sense in third person. i tried replacing it with second person, but trust me it did not work. hope you enjoy! gif by @toyboxboy

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Words: 5,930

Spencer Reid never really thought he was attractive.

Probably had something to do with his perpetually messy hair, gangly stature, and his tendency to ramble on and on and on and. . .

Yeah. Like that.

Another factor definitely was the fact that he was in his 30’s and had never really had a stable relationship. Sure, he’d had relationships with a few women. Well, two women. The first being a girl he’d met in college with whom he had a brief fling. Spencer didn’t really count it as a stable relationship due to the fact they barely even kissed. And the other woman, the only woman he’d ever really loved, died tragically several years ago.

Maeve.

Maeve was the real reason Spencer didn’t like going to bars with Morgan or being set up on dates by Penelope. She was the reason that Spencer wasn’t interested in anyone anymore. Who could possibly compare to Maeve?

Damn it. That was the other reason he wasn’t looking to date. He knew how the mind worked and there was no doubt that if any new person came into his life, she’d be unconsciously compared to Maeve. He couldn’t put anyone through that.

So, Spencer Reid stayed single. Which, for him, was relatively easy. Whenever someone started to get a little too close with him, he’d blabber and spout facts until they ran off. Morgan would ask what happened and Reid would just put on a slight frown, mumbling how she had to go.

The charade got more effortless the more they went out. Morgan, almost always going home on the arm of some woman and Spencer content to get a cab back to his own place, have a quick efficient orgasm, and fall asleep.

He had a system. And no one was going to break it.

Y/N hated the summertime.

Well, she didn’t usually. Anywhere else on the planet it would be mildly enjoyable. The beach, ice cream, staying up all night. All that fun crap. In Washington D.C, however, summer was hell.

But! When one was accepted into Georgetown and their parents offered to pay FULL tuition plus housing, how can one say no?

Seriously, she wanted to know.

After two whole years in this armpit of a town, Y/N had finally gotten used to the sweltering heat that plagued the city during the summer. Whatever. She just stayed in the comfortable A.C. all day anyway.

But, the summer before her third year was almost over, and the only thing she could think about now was graduating with a major in Journalism. She didn’t really like most of the courses, but it’s what she needed to do to become a full-time editor.

Living in a rent-free apartment was heaven. No roommates meant no worrying about, well, anything. The only problem was, her parents could hold it over her head every time they called. Which is why she never answered their calls.

Today, however, answering was unavoidable.

Because not only was it the day before her first class, today was her twentieth birthday.

Y/N was in the middle of getting dressed to go out with her friends when her phone vibrated from the kitchen table.

“Hello?”

She tried so hard to suppress the cringe at her mom’s voice.

“Sweetie! How are you? Are you eating?”

“Yes, mom.”

Oh boy. Strong start, mom.

“You look skinny in the pictures on Facebook!”

Yeah, she was definitely going to be late.

Surprisingly, it only took five minutes to push her mom off the phone, insisting that her friends were on their way and she had to keep getting ready.

A sharp rap on the door saved her.

“Come on!! It’s almost ten!” Y/N’s friend, Mina, said, annoyed. “All the old people leave the bars at ten and if we don’t get there soon, the bouncers won’t let us in!”

Y/N didn’t really understand the logic there. Hot girls always got into bars. Especially late at night. How were there not more crimes committed in clubs? Maybe she’d find out in her first class tomorrow.

“Hey!” Mina snapped her out of it, “Come on! Let’s go.”

They arrived outside a dinky little club a few minutes later. It had taken Y/N a while to get accustomed to how close everything was together in this town. Before college, she had been a small-town girl. Promise ring and everything. That, uh. That didn’t last long.

Before they got in line, Mina took a long satin sash out of her purse and secured it across Y/N’s torso.

“What the hell’s this?”

The sash was white with large pink flowy letters that poignantly spelled out: Birthday Bitch.

“It’s a sash.”

Three of Mina’s friends strode up, quickly exchanging hugs and wishing Y/N a happy birthday.

“I see that it’s a sash, but why am I wearing it?”

Mina confidently strode up to the bouncer, Y/N at her side, fake ID at the ready. Technically, it was the right birthdate, the year was just a little off.

“Go through. Happy Birthday,” the guy said, barely sparing the ID a glance, more focused on the huge sash. It made sense. She didn’t look her age. No one would think she was only in college by taking a glance at her.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Look,” Mina pulled her aside just before they entered, “this makes every single guy in there want to buy you a drink. So, go enjoy a free Shirley Temple, on me.”

Y/N scoffed and entered the club, immediately overwhelmed by the booming of the music.

Jesus Christ. How did people not die from this? It felt like her heart was beating out of her chest.

Sure, she’d been in a bar before. But not a real, proper club. She was pretty sure she saw some people wearing neon. Oh my god, there was a DJ.

Suppressing a laugh, she headed to the bar. At least there was a bar. There were so many people gathered around though that she couldn’t get much access to the one bartender on staff.

Luckily, he spotted her sash that seemed to shine under the blacklights.

“Hey, make some room for the birthday girl!”

And the crowd parted like the red sea, every man’s head turned towards her, and she cautiously approached the bartender who gave her a quick wink.

“Scotch. Neat.”

A dark man with a silver nose ring slid onto the stool next to her.

“It’s on me,” he addressed the bartender, staring at her the whole time. “So. Birthday girl. How old are you turning?”

She smiled softly. The sash was working great, but now she had to come up with a way to answer his question without explicitly lying.

“Who wants to know?”

Maybe flirting would be distracting enough.

He smiled, glancing down for a moment, then holding out his hand. Ha. Men.

“I’m Jon.”

Ugh. She hated handshakes. But for this man, she might be able to make an exception.

“Y/N.”

Five minutes later, she wished with all her heart she could take the handshake back. Y/N should have known better than to talk to a guy at a club. They were all sleazebags. But! She did manage to get a couple of drinks out of it.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said after his fifth time mentioning Outback Steakhouse.

But before she could leave the bar discreetly, a hand wrapped around her arm, yanking her back.

“Hey, what’s the matter? I thought we were talking?”

Y/N may have been a small-town girl, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing his shoulders and driving her knee up into his crotch, stomping off toward the exit.

Only when she got outside did she realize how fast her heart was beating. She leaned over, hands on her knees to catch her breath.

A soft hand on her shoulder made her snap around, grab the hand and twist it around the stranger’s back, shoving him up against the alley wall.

“I’m sorry!” the man squawked shrilly. “I’m sorry!” It wasn’t Jon.

“What were you doing?” she demanded, not releasing him yet.

“I saw you lean over. I just wanted to see if you were ok!”

She finally drank in the man’s appearance. He was wearing a soft purple sweater vest over a grey button-down, slacks, and worn black converse on his feet.

Confident that he wasn’t a threat, she released him and took a step back.

The man rubbed his elbow softly, glancing at her chest. Before she could tell him off for staring at her rack, he pointed to the sash.

“Is it your birthday?”

She looked down. Oh, he’d been looking at the sash of course. Then why did she feel … disappointed?

“Oh, yeah. Some guy bought me a drink and got a little, er, touchy.”

Suddenly, the man’s face went dark.

“Who is he? Where is he?”

He started to walk back into the club but she stopped him, reaching out and gently grabbing his arm.

“Hey! It’s fine. I kicked him in the crotch.”

The man’s eyes switched from anger to surprise in a flash. He flustered for a moment, before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking back into the alley.

Y/N now took a closer look at his face. He had deep, wise brown eyes, a small five-o-clock shadow gracing his jaw, and very full lips, the latter of which he was biting profusely. Aw. He was nervous. But why?

Maybe because he was in an alley with a random girl who had just been groped at a club and he didn’t know what to do.

She chuckled, attempting to diffuse the tension.

“Um. I didn’t get your name?”

He smiled brightly, thankful for the change in topic.

“Oh! Of course, sorry. I’m Spencer!”

And Y/N braced herself for the telltale outstretching of the hand.

But none came. He simply stood there, one hand in his pocket and the other waving at her, a dopey smile on his face.

Her face lit up.

“You didn’t try to shake my hand,” she muttered, awed.

The man, Spencer, got an embarrassed look on his face, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I, uh. I’m a bit of a germaphobe. But, really, everyone should be! The amount of germs passed in a handshake is staggering. They really should be abolished altogether.”

“Right! People should just bow their heads or, or, wave!” she said excitedly, gesturing to his hand. “I mean a handshake is like a hug with a part of you that comes in contact with everything! Might as well go up to someone and start making out with them.”

As she spoke, his face lit up in wonder.

“Right? It’s crazy! But the thing is, some people actually do that! I was in that club for fifteen minutes and I swear I saw three couples leave together that definitely didn’t go in together.”

“I know!” she said, starting to pace in the cramped alley. “I mean, who goes home with someone that you just met! They could be a serial killer for all you know!”

She looked at Spencer and was delighted to see a joyful expression on his face. It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t introduced herself.

“I’m Y/N. Sorry for blabbering,” she waved, chuckling slightly.

Spencer smiled even wider.

“Don’t be sorry! Usually, I’m the one who has to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“Blabbering,” he said sheepishly, hands back in his pockets. When he was talking, they had been moving about wildly. It was kind of endearing.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, considering. “Blabbering is underrated. One could argue it’s the best way to learn useless information.”

“Well, I’d agree but no information is really useless.”

Y/N held up a finger.

“‘Information is useless if it is not applied to something important or if you will forget it before you have a chance to apply it.’”

Spencer’s mouth fell open.

“Timothy Harris?”

She nodded. “The 4-Hour Workweek. Outdated, but still applies.”

When she noticed his expression, it nearly knocked her breath away. He was looking at her like no one ever had before. Like he’d just realized the most important thing in the universe.

Before her cowardice could catch up, she took a step forward, closing the distance between them. His face went blank, shocked by the sudden approach. He nearly gasped when she spoke.

“It’s totally ridiculous to go home with someone you just met, right?”

Spencer’s eyes widened.

“Totally.”

“Why were you out tonight in the first place? You don’t exactly seem like the club-going type.”

He smiled softly.

“I, uh, just got a promotion last week. My friend Morgan wanted to take me out to celebrate. It was either this or karaoke.”

She chuckled softly, their faces so close he must have felt her breath.

“I don’t know, I’d have liked to see your rendition of Bad Romance. Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a whole Lady Gaga vibe?”

“You should see my Beyonce.” And he did a little mime of the Single Ladies dance, sending Y/N into a fit of giggles. Without thinking — probably due to the trace amounts of alcohol in her system, not enough to be drunk, but enough to be tipsy — she reached up her arms around his shoulders, clasping them together behind his neck like a teen slow-dancing at prom.

Spencer seemed startled by the sudden physical contact. He froze, hands unmoving at his sides.

Y/N pulled her arms back, stepping away from him, discouraged and embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she said, collecting herself and walking back towards the club door. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Wait!” he called before she could reenter the club. A tiny part of her let out a breath in relief. She turned around to see him with a hand outstretched toward her, frozen with the uncertainty of what to do next.

He recovered quickly, a blush visible on his cheeks in the lamplight of the alley.

“If you’re leaving, would you, um. Could I walk you home?”

She had no idea what possessed her in that moment but just as he spoke, she walked up to Spencer, threaded her fingers through his hair, and pulled him down into a passionate kiss.

To her surprise, he responded immediately, running his arms around her waist and pulling her flush against him, eagerly returning the kiss.

His lips were so warm. He tasted very faintly of alcohol and maybe a breath mint? Y/N let herself fall into the sensation.

Suddenly, her back was pressed up against the wall of the alley, Spencer’s hands lighting a trail of fire down her body. He hesitated, pulling back briefly to make sure she was ok.

A glint in her eye, she yanked him back down, tongues clashing together in a blaze of glory. He hiked her leg up around his hips, pressing them closer together. Y/N could feel the hardness in his pants pressing into her stomach, sending a wave of heat down to her core.

She pulled back. If they went any further, she didn’t know if she’d be able to leave the alley.

Y/N tried to hide the smile on her face but it was no use. She beamed at Spencer, linking her arm through his elbow.

“Lead the way. Wait, that doesn’t make sense, you’re taking me home. I’ll lead the way!”

And so they walked, arm in arm down the busy D.C. streets, silently enjoying each other’s company.

They arrived outside her apartment fifteen minutes later, Y/N clumsily unlocking the door, nervous from the thought of what was about to happen. They hadn’t explicitly said anything in particular. Was he going to come in? Would she invite him?

Spencer, it seemed, was also daunted, standing awkwardly on the threshold of her place, hands buried in his pockets.

An idea sprung into Y/N’s brain.

She approached him, wrapping her hands around his neck again only this time, his hands rested lightly on her waist.

“Still think going home with a stranger is a bad idea?”

Spencer chuckled softly, stroking the exposed skin of her waist from where her top had ridden up.

“I’m still debating it.”

“Oh?”

He slid his hand around the sash, fingers hovering above her chest.

“I never asked, how old did you turn?”

She smiled. For some reason, she felt she could trust this man. The worst that could happen was he calls the cops on her for having a fake ID. She could deal with that. Destroy the evidence, bat her eyes. Easy. Besides, he looked barely of age himself. She quickly wondered what he did for a living? He did say he got a promotion.

It would be easiest to just tell him the truth.

“I don’t know if I should tell you this…”

He chuckled lowly in her ear, moving his lips gently across her neck.

“I can handle it.”

She gasped at the sensation, legs clamping together.

“Officially, it’s my twenty-third. At least, that’s what it says on my ID. One of them.”

Spencer froze, waiting for her to go on.

Y/N quickly backtracked.

“It’s okay! I’m twenty! Not a minor, no worries.”

But Spencer pulled away, an extremely worried look on his face despite her assurance.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re underage.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah? Come on, by one year. What, you never had a fake ID?”

“No!” he said shrilly, running a hand through his hair.

“Spencer, it’s ok! It’s not like I’m gonna get caught. I look much older and when are there cops at a place like that?”

He reached into his pocket and fished out a folded wallet. Snapping it open, Y/N’s jaw dropped at the FBI badge with his picture in the corner.

She floundered for a moment, unable to truly comprehend what was happening.

“You’re . . .”

“Yep,” he said shortly, pocketing the badge.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much my reaction too,” he said, sighing. “I should arrest you.”

Y/N took a step back, incredulous.

“Arrest me?”

“You have a fake ID. You’re clearly drunk.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms.

“Great idea, Spencer. Book me. Take me down to the FBI and tell them exactly what happened to lead to you finding out I’m only twenty. I’m sure they’ll need very specific details.”

A look of realization flitted across Spencer’s face and he buried his head in his hands, groaning.

“How old are you anyway?!” she demanded, upset at him for being upset.

“Thirty-four!” he shouted, throwing his arms up in the air.

Oh shit.

This was bad.

He was fourteen years older than her, in the FBI, and probably was seconds away from arresting her.

“There’s no way you’re thirty-four. I mean, look at you!”

He rolled his eyes, snorting, and beginning to pace the small hallway.

“This is exactly what I get. I meet a girl I really like for the first time in years and she’s decades younger than me. And a criminal!”

“Hey!” she said, shoving his shoulder. “Not decades. I’m not a criminal. And how the hell do you think I feel? I’m out trying to have fun on my birthday, some guy gropes me leading me to run into the perfect man, take him back to my apartment thinking I’m gonna get lucky only to find out he’s a cop who’s gonna arrest me. Best birthday ever.”

Spencer eyed her carefully.

“Get lucky?”

Y/N’s eyes went wide. Shit. She hadn’t meant to reveal that part. Even though it was pretty obvious, something about it not being said added to the excitement.

“Did you really . . . I mean were you…. Um.” Spencer seemed to lose all authoritative tone suddenly, stammering nervously. It was such a 180, it shocked Y/N.

“Was I going to let you fuck me?”

He cringed at the bluntness but nodded sheepishly.

“Yeah, Spencer. I was.” She scoffed. “Honestly, I still would. But I understand if I’m more than you can handle,” she said coyly, trying to keep a straight face. “Just please don’t arrest me, Sir.”

His expression darkened at her words. Something deep and lustful behind it. Feeling bold, she went with it.

“Or is it Agent?” she cocked her head, holding a finger to her lips in thought. “How do I address you properly, sir?”

A small groan left Spencer’s mouth and he stepped forward, brushing a hand over her hair.

“We shouldn’t do this, Y/N…”

Slowly, she backed up into her apartment, pulling him with her.

“We shouldn’t.” She gently led him to her bedroom, sitting down on the edge of the bed, him towering over her. “To be fair, you’re the one with handcuffs.”

He groaned again, wiping a hand down his face.

“This is a bad idea.”

But he crouched down in front of her, pressing his forehead to her exposed knee, breathing deeply.

“Spencer,” it was barely a whisper but he met her eyes instantly. She smiled gently, reaching out to him and coaxing him up from the floor so he was hovering above her, mouths inches apart. “Listen, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she assured him. “But I want this.”

She leaned back, pulling him with her so he was lying atop her, an obvious bulge pressing against her through their clothing.

“I want this, Spencer.”

Y/N hoped that he knew he could leave if he wanted. She didn’t want to pressure him into anything. Despite the age difference, she seemed to be the one more in control.

Spencer lowered his head, sighing.

“Fuck,” he moaned, lightly thrusting against her, a moan escaping her mouth at the contact.

That seemed to be the last straw.

He sat up, ripping his sweater vest off along with his button-down, quickly moving back over her, lips latching to her neck and chest.

Oh thank god. She wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to stand it if he’d left. But from the way he was touching her, hands moving up and down her sides, gently pulling her skirt down, looking up at her every now and then to make sure it was alright, he wasn’t going anywhere.

She just spurred him on, stripping off her top and bra, now only wearing her panties.

Spencer groaned at the sight, a hand reaching up, hovering over her breast. She arched her back up into his hand, letting out a gasp as he started to fondle her.

God, his hands were huge. And nimble. Oh, so nimble.

She reached for his belt, quickly unbuckling it and tossing it across the room, pushing his pants down faster than possible.

He groaned again, a magical sound, reaching a hand down to stroke her through her panties, coaxing a gasp from her beautiful lips.

In a flash, Spencer had pulled down her panties and buried his head between her legs.

Y/N gasped, hand flying to the back of his head, edging him on.

He slipped two fingers into her, his tongue flicking against her clit wildly, making her writhe and moan on the bed, gasping his name.

“Spencer, Spencer.” It took all the resolve she had to pull his head away from her. “I need you to fuck me.”

Spencer looked at her, trying to read her expression.

“Y/N . . . are you sure?”

Rather than answer, she yanked him up, crashing their mouths together, one hand quickly pushing down his boxers, his erection springing free.

Good god.

Wow.

How the hell was she supposed to fit that inside her?

She looked up at him, impressed, only to see a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Well,” she said, kicking off the panties pooled around her ankles, laid bare underneath the stranger on top of her. “This night gets better by the second.”

His size was a little daunting, but the thought of him slowly filling her up, probably not being able to fit all the way in, only added to her desire.

He dipped his head down, stealing a quick yet passionate kiss.

“Do you have . . ?”

“Yeah, in the drawer.”

He reached over, grabbed a condom, and rolled it on. It looked extremely tight on him. Y/N unconsciously licked her lips. Spencer chuckled.

“Maybe next time. I need to be inside you.”

And with that, he flung her legs around his hips, positioning his cock at her entrance, slowly running it up and down, moistening the condom with her juices.

God. The feeling of him being so close and yet so far was almost enough to push her over the edge right there. He had been a god with his tongue and she was desperate for more friction.

Reaching down, she lightly circled her clit, moaning at the instant pleasure.

Before she could enjoy it much, hands gripped her wrists, pinning them above her on the bed, Spencer staring at her with a dark look.

“If you wanna touch yourself, you have to ask permission. Understood?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

Words escaped her so she settled for a small nod.

“Use your words.”

His tone was so commanding the word left her mouth the moment he finished speaking.

“Yes.”

He lightly placed his hand around her neck, not applying any pressure, just hovering.

“Yes, what?”

Fuck. She wondered if it was possible to come just from being talked to.

“Yes, sir.”

And with that, he slid inside her, slowly filling her up with his length, moaning roughly at the sensation.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, watching as Spencer’s face tightened, jawline even sharper, and a dark look in his eye. He carefully applied a bit more pressure to her throat, quickly releasing his hand afterward.

They were both still as she adjusted to the size of him inside her.

“Is this ok?” his voice sounded so different than it had a moment ago. He had shifted back to the geeky guy she’d met in the alley.

She nodded gently at him, running a hand over his cheek in a way that was surely far too personal for a one night stand.

“My safeword is apple.”

He froze for a moment, shocked. Apparently she was kinkier than he’d expected.

Tired of not being fucked by this man, she dug her heels into his back, directing him to move.

He did without hesitation, groaning at the sensation of slowly pulling out and thrusting back in.

The feeling overwhelmed both of them, a litany of curses and moans falling from their mouths. Spencer’s hand moved back to her throat, squeezing much harder now that he knew what to listen for if she wanted to stop.

The sound of her moaning was enough to make him come right there and then. That, with the feeling of her around him and the fact that his hand was around her throat, totally in control.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

Oh my god, where was this coming from? Her nails scraped down his back, leaving a trail of marks.

“You like feeling me fuck you?” he wrapped a hand around her leg, pulling it higher to try to hit the magical spot inside of her. “You like when I wrap my hand around your pretty little neck? Showing you how in control I am of you.”

She nodded ecstatically, legs tightening around him. She was definitely close to coming.

“What were you thinking? Going to a bar when you’re underage. Then leading a stranger to your home, intending to let him fuck you silly. Finding out I’m ages older than you and still practically begging me to bend you over and pound you till you can’t see straight. Is the age difference what gets you off, Y/N?”

At the sound of her name, she let out a raucous moan, no doubt waking up the other tenants of the building.

Spencer smiled, drilling harder and tightening his grip on her throat.

“Oh, you like it when I say your name? You like when I shove my big cock in you and moan your name in your ear?”

She practically screamed as his hand started to circle her clit, the stimulation practically knocking the air out of her.

He was hitting her g-spot with every thrust, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She was so close. She just needed….

“You gonna come for me, Y/N?” he punctuated it with a particularly hard thrust, feeling her begin to clench around him, orgasm washing over her.

Her walls tightening around his cock was enough to send him barreling over the edge, grunting as he thrust in her four more times before feeling his balls tighten up and spill his seed deep inside her.

“Fuck,” he grunted, using his forearms to stay above her, both of them completely out of breath.

Slowly, he pulled out with a sigh, discarding the condom in the trash by her bed.

Y/N was seeing stars. This man had just given her her first penetrative orgasm. And, possibly the best sex she’d ever had.

‘Fuck’, was right.

Spencer flopped down next to her, still naked, trying to catch his breath.

Y/N turned to him, placing a hand on his chest.

It was strange. Even though they’d just had some of the best sex Y/N had ever had, she didn’t even know this man. And yet, somehow, she felt like she did. Did that happen a lot once you had sex with someone?

Her eyes refocused from where they’d been staring off into space to see a concerned Spencer looking at her.

“What?” she asked.

He studied her for another moment before speaking.

“You were biting your lip.”

A blush crept up her cheek.

“Yeah sorry. Helps me think.”

He let out a sharp breath, a sort of soft laugh.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said as he retrieved his underwear, slipping them back on and starting to button up his shirt.

Oh. Was he going to leave? Of course he was! That’s all this was, anyway. A one night stand. You had sex. That was the point.

Then why did it feel like hell?

“You okay?”

Her thoughts had drifted into space again. Spencer had laid back down, now on his side facing her, holding her hand, looking at her intensely. His gaze was practically burning.

“Yeah.”

“I, uh, I don’t normally do . . . that.”

She chuckled. It was rather obvious he wasn’t the hookup type. Despite the dirty things that had come from his mouth.

“Me either.”

He softly stroked her cheek.

“Are you going to stay?” she blurted.

His face fell.

“Oh, no I wasn’t going to impose if you-”

“NO! I mean,” she took a breath. “I want you to . . . I mean, if you want . . . I'd . . . I’d like you to stay. If you want?”

God. She sounded like a teenager asking their crush to prom. This was no stuttering sophomore she could kick in the crotch if he said no. He was a man. Although, he did tend to stutter. Maybe it wasn’t all that different.

He lit up, a wide smile brightening his features and he began to stroke her hand.

“I’d like that too.”

Wondering if it was possible for cheeks to sprain from smiling, she pulled up the covers, cuddling up against him, falling asleep almost immediately.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Ugh. The stupid alarm. She had been right in the middle of a wonderful dream involving Spencer’s hands and her bruised throat.

What time was it anyway?

The red clock radio proudly displayed: 7:00.

Right, it was the first day of classes. Maybe she’d just ditch and stay in with Spencer. He had been so warm she was sure he had a sun where a heart should be. College didn’t matter anyway, right? Ugh.

A shiver ran through her. She reached out for Spencer, only to find the cold other half of the bed.

Sitting up in bed, she stared at the empty spot.

Had he really walked out on her in the middle of the night? No…. No? Fuck. How could she be so stupid. Of course he didn’t want to-

Oh, he’d left a note.

In a fast yet tidy scrawl, Spencer had left the following message on a little notecard.

Good morning! I am truly sorry to walk out like this, but I have a class at 7:30 and I have to stop by my place and get ready. I’ll be back at the bar tonight, 10:30. I’d love to see you there.

-Spencer. X

Her heart melted into an ocean at the sentiment behind each individual letter. The man she’d just had a dirty one night stand with wanted to see her again.

Wait, he’d said a class? He hadn’t told her he was a student! To be fair, neither had she. That’s another thing they had in common apparently. It made sense why he didn’t tell her. A lot of people were ashamed of going back to college later in life. She thought that was ridiculous. Good for him.

Maybe she could look him up in the student registry. Actually, he may not even go to Georgetown. There were plenty of colleges nearby. She couldn’t have looked him up anyway. She didn’t even know his last name.

It was probably a good thing he left, because she, too, had a class at 7:30.

It only took her twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and walk the very short distance to campus.

She arrived in the lecture hall with exactly one minute to spare, finding a seat next to a brightly dressed redhead holding a fuzzy pen.

“Hi! I’m Allie.”

“Y/N,” she said, suppressing the cringe as Allie reached out to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you! What’s your major?”

Oh god. The inevitable college question.

“Journalism. You?”

“English,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Super boring I know, but it lets me take fun classes like this one. Why are you taking this class?”

“Oh, um. It looked fun, I guess. My dad was a lawyer and he kind of piqued my interest in the criminal justice system.”

Allie sighed.

“Thank god. You know half the girls are here just because the Professor is a hottie,” she said with air quotes, rolling her eyes again.

“Really?” Y/N asked, glancing around at the seats noticing the vast majority of the population were women. “Wait, I thought Ms. Merklins was the teacher? Did something change?”

“You didn’t get the email? It just went out the other day, Ms. Merklins had to retire. Something about a club foot. Anyway, the new teacher is supposedly super overqualified. Plus, he’s cute.”

“Huh.”

“Yep. I talked to this one girl in the hall, she actually said she’d sleep with him! Can you imagine?”

Y/N laughed.

“Nooooo. I cannot and I don’t want to. I’m just here to learn, I promise.”

“Same here. Although, if I start getting C’s, all bets are off.”

Y/N laughed and politely chatted with Allie while they waited.

The Professor’s office door swung open and Y/N reached into her bag to get her laptop.

“Hello, class.”

“Hello,” the class echoed.

“Welcome to Criminology. I am Professor Reid and I-.”

Y/N looked up over her screen as he stopped talking, making sudden eye-contact with the Professor.

She froze in her seat, blood running cold.

No way. No fucking way.

Spencer?

TAGLIST

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#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fandom #smut

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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years

Text

When the World is Free Chapter 4: Feels Like I’m Stuck in the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Chapter 3

Read on AO3

It was a frigid November afternoon, and the first thing Claire was conscious of was a dull ache everywhere, particularly her lower back. She’d been cramping since the wee hours of the morning, and both of the men she lived with had insisted she get back to bed after breakfast. She’d put up a bit of a fight, but then she’d fallen right asleep the second her head hit the pillow, and she thought begrudgingly that she’d definitely needed the rest.

The second thing she was aware of was a deep, calming rumbling from behind her, a noise she quickly deduced to be Jamie muttering in Gaelic. God, after months of going without it and thinking she’d never hear it again, it was music to her ears. She felt her lips curl into a smile before her eyes fluttered open. She craned her neck to look at him without having to heave her body into a new position.

“Are you alright?” she muttered.

“Aye. Just wanted to watch ye sleep in peace fer a bit.”

She craned her neck a bit further but then winced, feeling a pinch at the base of her skull. Jamie did not hesitate to get under the covers with her and help her roll over onto her other side, not without much heavy breathing and groaning from Claire. She exhaled heavily when she was finally facing him.

“Ye alright?”

“I’m fine,” Claire said, embarrassed at how winded she was from just turning over in bed. Jamie pecked a kiss to her nose, then lower down to her lips.

“What was it that you were saying?” Claire asked thoughtfully.

Jamie shook his head, his brow wrinkling between his eyes. “Nothin’.” He smiled sheepishly. “There’s no’ much I can say waking wi’out it sounding daft and foolish, Sassenach.” He delicately ran his fingers down the length of her face with all the tender reverence in the world. “I can say things while ye sleep, and yer dreams will ken the truth of them.”

Claire’s heart melted, and she kissed him soundly. She then laced their hands together and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

“D’ye feel refreshed after yer wee catnap?” Jamie said, a hint of teasing to his voice.

“I do…but something tells me it wasn’t so wee,” Claire said.

Jamie chuckled.

“What? What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon.”

“What?” Claire’s entire body stiffened, and she made to sit up, but Jamie put both his hands on her shoulders to stop her. “You let me sleep for five hours?”

“Relax, Sassenach. Ye clearly needed the rest. Growing a Fraser baby is no small feat.”

“Well that’s the truth. I feel like I’m carrying a fucking ball of lead.”

Jamie laughed.

“But really, Jamie. I had so much to get done today. He’s going to be here any day now, and I needed to go to the grocer’s — ”

“Already did that.”

“You got all the cans of soup? Chicken noodle? And the crackers? And the apple juice?”

“Aye, Sassenach. I can read, ye ken. I saw yer wee list on the counter.”

“What about the tea — the tea that John likes, I didn't put that on the list — ”

Jamie grunted in apparent annoyance, but he nodded. “Aye, I got that too. Noticed it was missing when I did a sweep of our supplies, and I kent the wee fusspot would be grumbling if we ran out.”

Claire swatted his arm. “If that makes him a fusspot, then I am, too. I’d be upset if we ran out of my favorite tea. Especially right now.”

“Dinna fash, lass. I stocked up on everything ye could possibly be craving these last few weeks.”

“You don’t understand; when I’m at the grocer’s, I see things I wasn’t thinking of before, and I say well, thank God I saw it because if I went home without it I’d be raging later — ”

“Would ye relax, Sassenach?” he said again, exasperated. “I swear, if ye go through the mountains of shite I got ye and ye find something missing, I’ll go out and get it myself.”

Claire sighed, more of a huff than anything else. “Fine. What about the nappies? I wanted to count them today — ”

“Thirty-six,” Jamie said. “And there are twenty clean towels. Ten blankets. All folded nicely in that drawer wi’ his wee clothes.” Jamie gestured to the top drawer of the dresser, the closest to the cradle and rocking chair in the corner of the bedroom.

“The pram! I was supposed to take home the pram and put it together — ”

“Did that as well.”

Claire gaped at him for a brief moment before releasing a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “This was your master plan all along, wasn’t it? To get me into bed so that you could do all of this for me?”

“Aye, ye could say that,” he said, chuckling.

“What about your job search? I hate that you couldn’t do that today because I was lazing about — ”

“Christ, ye’re right. I’ll have to start calling ye fusspot as well.”

She glowered at him, but he just leaned in to kiss her. “Stop worrying yerself. Isna good fer wee Brian.” His large hands spread over the swell of their child. “He’s moving less today,” he said fretfully.

“Don’t worry. It’s likely because he’ll be coming out soon. That’s what happens.”

“Did Geillis say that?”

“I’ll have you know I already knew that, but yes, the midwife also agrees.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Now who’s being a fusspot?”

Jamie grunted in annoyance. Claire allowed a small silence to pass between them, Jamie rubbing his hands up and down her belly, staring into her eyes.

“Really, Jamie…” Claire began tentatively. “I’m worried that you haven’t found work yet. I know that you need…you like feeling useful. Do you miss the farm? Is that it? Do you want to move somewhere you can work the land? Go back to Lallybroch?”

“Dinna fash yerself about all that,” Jamie said softly. “I feel plenty useful taking care of my wife as she grows my child inside her. You are my purpose, mo nighean donn. You and the bairn.”

Claire had to physically restrain herself from visibly wincing at the word wife.

He did this a lot, referred to her as his wife. She wondered if he did it without thinking, being that handfasting was a very serious commitment to him, or if he did it out of spite to John. She always told herself it was the former, not wanting to believe that Jamie carried the contempt necessary for it to be the latter.

But sometimes she wondered.

“Besides, John makes enough for rent at the moment,” Jamie continued. “As much as I loathe no’ being the one providing for my family, I think such things can wait after I’ve been away from ye so long.”

Claire could not argue that point.

“I willna need employment until John moves on and you and I are married proper,” Jamie reasoned. “I’ll start looking in earnest once John finds somewhere to settle.”

Claire felt a sinking uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

It was the most natural thing in the world to Jamie. It only made sense. John had been looking for somewhere else to live. He couldn’t very well sleep on the couch for the rest of his life. It had already been almost a month.

“Don’t you think it’s…a bit unfair that John has to leave…?” Claire said tentatively. “This is his flat, after all. He’s paid for everything inside it.”

“We’ve talked about this, Sassenach. All three of us, if ye recall. It was John’s idea that he leave. He said it would be unfair to us to have us move all of the things fer the bairn to a new flat. He’s one man, we’re an entire family now. He said that.”

“I know, I know…” Claire said. “It’s just…I don’t feel right. He…John paid for everything in this flat, Jamie. That drawer full of nappies and blankets and towels…that rocking chair, that cradle. All the bottles. All of Brian’s clothing…”

Jamie’s face darkened immediately. “Aye, Claire, go on and keep reminding me that I havena been able to provide fer my child’s basic needs before he’s even born.”

“No! That isn't what I mean, and you know it.” Claire heaved herself into a sitting position, cheeks puffing with exertion. Jamie shot up as well, trying to help her, but she put her hands up to stop him. After taking a moment to adjust to the new position, feeling Brian shift inside, and waiting for her back to stop throbbing, she continued.

“I mean that it…it feels so wrong to just throw him out. It isn’t a slight at you for me to say that he has been providing for this baby. It’s just the truth.” She adjusted the pillows behind her, this time allowing Jamie to help, and then she leaned against them. “I’ve been…he’s been Daddy all these months, Jamie. He watched me go through catalogues of clothing and furniture and told me that he’d get whatever my heart desired for our child.”

“It is not. His.” Jamie growled.

“I know! Jesus H. Christ, Jamie! I know! Every single day I was reminded that your son would be raised by another man, and every single time it killed me from the inside out. But that’s just it! For eight months this baby was John’s. You were dead, Jamie. To us…to him,” she put her hands on her stomach, clutching the baby, “you were dead. John lived for eight months as a father. He was prepared for an entire lifetime with a son. Do you understand…? It’s…it’s going to break his heart to take that away from him.”

“What about breaking my heart? What about all the months I spent away from ye, missing all the time ye were carrying my bairn?”

“Could you stop being so selfish for just a minute?” Claire spat. “You really don’t understand! Jamie, when you came home after all that time, you gained so much. You got me back, you got a child you didn’t know you had. You have an entire life to look forward to now. But when you came back, John lost everything. And of course, he mourned you. His heart was just as broken as mine, I know it. And of course he’s beyond overjoyed that you’re alive. But just…imagine being in his shoes, for even a moment! Everything he thought he had for eight months is just gone now.”

Jamie sighed in frustration. “There’s something you don’t seem to understand, Claire.” He looked at her pointedly. “Ye’re a woman.”

She huffed indignantly and crossed her arms over her chest. “How dare you imply that he can’t feel any sort of loss because we’re not romantically or sexually involved.”

“Well…”

“Don’t you dare even say it,” Claire snapped. “I’ve explained that to you enough times. What I’m saying now is that he doesn’t need to be in love with me to be heartbroken over losing me. And the baby. There are other kinds of love, Jamie. Surely you know that.”

It was her turn to stare him down, brows raised, and he melted under her gaze, understanding exactly what she left unsaid.

Surely you know that, Mister I’m-going-to-kiss-my-best-friend-on-the-mouth-out-of-friendly-affection.

“You know, John told me once…” Claire continued softly. “He was…he was certain that he’d never have children because of...who he is. But he’d always wanted them. He thought maybe he’d be lucky to marry a woman who wouldn’t mind an…arrangement between them, but he couldn’t do it behind her back. So he’d resigned himself to the life of a childless bachelor.

“He said he couldn’t believe how lucky he’d gotten to have…married somebody who knows what he is and accepts it. And who was to give him the child he’d always wanted. He was…he was in tears, Jamie. He loves this baby so much.” Claire sniffled, briefly overcome herself. “I can’t…I can’t send him away. I can’t.”

Jamie’s jaw hardened. “What’re ye saying, Claire?”

“I don’t know…I don’t know what the answer is.” She sniffled again and wiped her eyes with her hands, cursing her hormones as she did so. “He can’t just keep sleeping on the couch and paying rent for two — soon to be three — freeloaders. But I can’t in good conscience just…make him leave…”

She was weeping in earnest now, and despite his obvious rage, Jamie enveloped her in his arms as best he could given the size of her.

“It’s alright, mo ghraidh. Everything’ll be alright.”

“I’m sorry…” she blubbered. “I didn’t mean to completely derail the entire conversation by crying like a baby…”

“Dinna fash about that, lass.” Jamie caressed her hair, kissing the top of her head. “Get it out now, it’s alright.”

“Everything is just a bloody mess…”

“Everything is fine, mo nighean donn. I’m here.”

As he rocked her gently, Claire wanted to believe him.

Yes, everything was alright now that he was there. Of course. Jamie’s return from the dead was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

But she could not shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Then Jamie’s fingers gently grasped the hair at the nape of Claire’s neck, an innocent gesture of pure comfort and affection, and she felt all of her nerve endings light afire.

She craned her neck up to kiss him, teary face, snotty nose and all. She collided with his mouth harder than she meant to, and he groaned in shock. He pulled back to look at her, bewildered, but she just sniffled and kissed him again.

“I feel like I'm going mad,” she gasped between kisses. “But I need you. Now.”

Jamie was powerless to deny her, growing hard beneath her immediately. She undid his belt with an expert quickness, and he lowered his trousers just enough to spring himself free as she pulled her nightgown over her head. She hoisted her leg over to straddle him, feeling completely un-sexy as she did so, but Jamie’s groan of satisfaction suggested that perhaps that was relative. She reached down to unbutton his shirt so she could roam her hands over the planes of his hard, beautiful chest, and he moved her hips back and forth, so that her slick heat was grinding against his hardness pressed against his stomach.

She quickly lost patience with this of course, and it wasn’t long before Jamie was grabbing himself to line up with her, and she lowered herself onto him with a shuddering groan of relief.

Of all the ways they had tried to make love around her enormous middle, this was by far Jamie’s favorite, and Claire could tell. Sometimes he entered from behind her, laying down, lifting her leg for access; that was perhaps his second favorite, since he could easily fondle her belly or her breasts from behind. They’d also tried propping her up with pillows as he slammed into her standing up. It got the job done, but was nowhere near as enjoyable for either of them. He’d also taken her on her hands and knees, which Jamie enjoyed since he could squeeze her arse to his heart’s desire, but Claire quickly grew tired holding herself up like that, and they would switch before either of them finished.

But this; this was heaven.

Claire could see it in Jamie’s eyes; he absolutely loved watching her ride him to oblivion, absolutely loved reaching up to squeeze her breasts, even stretching up to take them in his mouth, or to kiss her belly. And she loved it, too. No matter how much she felt like a beached whale, when she sat astride Jamie, filled by him as she was, she felt like a goddess in control of the greatest destiny.

Jamie’s grip on her hips became bruising, and she rode him with increasing fervor, her voice reaching new heights in pitch and volume.

“You are mine, Claire.”

Her head was tossed back, her eyes squeezed shut. She almost didn’t hear him over her haze of pleasure. She forced her eyes open and picked her head back up, looking down to see his eyes burning into her, so much so that she almost felt fire in her own eyes.

“You are mine, mo nighean donn,” he said again, squeezing her arse roughly, causing her to whimper. “Mine, now and forever.”

She returned his burning gaze, struggling to keep her eyes open through the intensity of what she was feeling.

He was not just saying it. He was waiting for an answer.

And why was she hesitating? She was his. Completely and totally, she belonged to him, body and soul.

She belonged to no one else.

“I’m yours, Jamie,” she gasped out, leaning forward as much as she could to brace herself on his shoulders. “Yours.”

He growled hungrily, and he began lifting his hips to meet her every thrust.

“Mine,” he said again, his eyes wide, his face strained with need.

“Yours, Jamie,” Claire squeaked. “All yours.”

She came around him perhaps harder than she ever had in her life, crying out hoarsely, digging her nails into Jamie’s shoulders.

“Yes, Jamie, I’m yours, I’m yours…”

No one else’s.

Perhaps if she said it enough, she’d actually start to believe it.

——

Claire’s eyes fluttered open again, and she moaned sleepily. She reached behind her and felt nothing, so she sat up groggily. It was much darker than it had been when she was last awake.

“Jamie…?”

“Coming.”

His voice came from outside the bedroom, and she sighed in relief. She still was not convinced that she wouldn’t wake up one day to find him gone, that he’d never actually returned.

He reentered the bedroom then, wearing nothing but his pajama trousers, and Claire envied his ability to be warm enough to traipse around shirtless in November.

“You let me sleep again?” Claire said.

“Aye,” Jamie said, eyes full of mirth as he flipped the lights on. “I thought I’d up and killed ye wi’ our lovemaking, Sassenach. Ye passed out on me while ye were still screaming to the heavens.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” Claire rubbed her eyes roughly. “Well that’s never happened before.”

“Aye, canna say it didna scare me shiteless,” Jamie smirked, sitting on the bed in front of her. “But neither can I say it wasna extremely pleasing to my masculine pride.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Claire said. “Well, no more than usual.”

“Aye, go on, keep blaming those wee hormones.”

“It’s true! They heighten everything, including sexual release.”

Jamie hmphed with amusement, and then Claire noticed the wooden box in his hands.

“What’s this?”

“Wee gift. Fer the bairn. Been in my family fer generations. I phoned Jenny as soon as I was able after I found out about the bairn. I was waiting fer the right moment to give them to ye.”

Claire’s gaze softened, her lips unconsciously curling into a smile.

“After I explained the circumstances, Jen was a wee bit more understanding. But she’s still cross wi’ ye, most of all now because ye didna tell her about the bairn. But dinna fash. Once she has a wee nephew to hold she’ll forget all about that.”

Claire laughed sadly. “I hope so.”

Jamie undid the latch on the box and opened it, revealing two rows of glistening silver.

“What are these…?” She reached in and picked one up.

“Apostle spoons,” Jamie said, his eyes warm. “One fer each of the twelve apostles. Christening gift.”

Claire felt tears leaking out the corners of her eyes. “They’re…they’re beautiful, Jamie.”

He leaned in and kissed her sweetly. “I’m glad ye like them.”

“Of course I do.”

“Good. Because I was thinking we’d have one fer each spoon.”

Claire scoffed in surprise. “You’re mad.”

His eyes danced with mirth. “Perhaps.”

“You would certainly not want twelve children if it was you carrying them.” Claire shifted in her spot, wincing with another strong cramp. “You’re lucky if I ever want another again.”

“Aye, aye,” Jamie obliged. “Fair’s fair. It’s yer body he’s wreaking havoc on.” He shut the box and crossed the room to sit it on the dresser, right above the drawer where the rest of baby Brian’s things lived.

“Havoc indeed,” Claire groaned. “Speaking of, if I don’t get out of bed, I’m going to develop sores. How long have I been out this time?”

“Only two hours.”

“Oh! John will be home soon,” Claire said fretfully, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I need to start supper…”

“Already done, Sassenach.”

Claire froze, looking up at Jamie in awe.

“Dinna ken why ye look so surprised,” he said. “I havena let ye cook since I’ve been home.”

It was Claire’s turn to hmph. “Well, it isn’t because I’m incapable. You’re just stubborn.”

“Ye were exhausted, mo ghraidh. Is it such a crime to feed my wife while she rests?”

“I suppose not. Either way, I do not want to be in bed anymore. Though perhaps I should get dressed.” She smiled sheepishly.

“Och, ye’re no fun,” Jamie teased. “I was looking forward to ye parading around naked.”

“Please.” Claire rolled her eyes. “As much as I’d love to eat dinner completely naked, I think I’d freeze to death before I got to the table.”

With that, Jamie rushed to help her dress, insisting on sitting her back on the bed and putting her stockings on for her. As he pulled the stockings up her legs, he left a trail of kisses above them, higher and higher.

“Jamie…” Claire whimpered. “Dinner…”

“It’ll bide,” he whispered against her thigh. “Let me spoil ye while I can. Remember what ye said about needing time after the bairn is born.”

Claire could not argue with that, so she let him spoil her with his mouth until she was gripping his hair with both hands and screaming his name.

By the time Claire regained her senses and they made their way to the kitchen so Claire could sit at the table while Jamie continued cooking, the front door was opening.

“That smells heavenly,” John’s voice floated in from the living room, and then there he was entering the kitchen. “Good evening, Claire, Jamie.” He nodded curtly.

“Hello, John,” Claire said. She waited for Jamie to greet him in return, but he just grunted, not looking up from the stove. “How was your day?”

“Fine, fine. Nothing to report.” He sat down across from Claire. “And how about you? You look quite well rested.”

Claire scoffed. “Well I only just got out of bed. I slept the day away, I’m afraid.”

“I fail to see how that’s a bad thing,” John laughed. “You’ll need all the rest you can get. Brian will be here any day.” He reached across the table to squeeze her hand, and Claire, nearly forgetting they were not alone, squeezed it back.

Claire heard Jamie clear his throat, and she and John quickly pulled away from each other like a pair of schoolchildren caught holding hands on the playground.

“Ehm…Jamie gave me the most beautiful gift today,” Claire said. “Well, it’s for Brian, but he isn’t exactly ready to receive anything himself.”

John laughed softly. “What is it?”

“Silver apostle spoons. They’re really something. I’ll have to show you after dinner.”

Jamie grunted again, still keeping his back turned to them, and Claire very briefly flared with rage. It would appear that Jamie did not want Claire sharing that moment with John, and to her, it seemed grossly unfair. John had been bestowing gifts upon her and the baby for months. Claire swallowed that feeling and took a deep breath.

“He also checked on everything while I was sleeping, the nappies and towels and blankets and such,” Claire went on. “I wanted to take inventory myself, but I was exhausted.”

“Good. I’m glad everything is in order.” John smiled. “Did he also pick up the things you need to eat after the labor?”

“Yes, he saw my list and got right to it while I slept.”

“Good, good.”

Jamie wordlessly put down two plates, one in front of Claire, the other in front of John. Claire noticed that Jamie withheld the string beans from her plate, giving her more potatoes instead.

“Thank you for remembering my green aversion, love,” Claire said lightly.

“How could he forget?” John teased. “You only remind us every day.”

Claire rolled her eyes, cutting into her roast beef. “Oh, it’s very tender Jamie. Cuts like butter.”

“Yes, fine job, my friend,” John echoed.

Jamie just grunted, sitting himself between them with his own plate. This was usual behavior for Jamie. He would act completely normal while John was at work, and it almost felt like it used to be between him and Claire. But the second John was either brought up or he walked in the door, Jamie was reduced to communicating like a caveman. It was beginning to wear on Claire’s nerves. She knew it was not sheer pettiness; she did not forget the darkness that Jamie spoke of within him. She could see the small ways this war had changed him, moments where he seemed far away even though he was right there, whimpers in his sleep, small jumps of fright at seemingly nothing at all. She knew he was struggling to communicate what pained him, and she knew he was taking it out on those he loved, including herself, including John. Nonetheless, it was becoming more and more difficult to cope with.

They ate in complete silence for a long while, the only noise the clinking of silverware on ceramic.

“So…” John broke the silence after a long while. “I, ehm, looked at a flat today during my lunch break.”

Claire swore that her chair was pulled out from underneath her. Thankfully, neither men seemed to notice how she swayed.

“Aye?” Jamie spoke for the first time since John had arrived home. “How was it?”

“It was quite nice. Roomy enough, but not too much so for only one person.”

Claire swore she felt her heart crack.

“That’s good,” Jamie said, putting a piece of meat in his mouth.

“Yes, I’m only sorry it took so long to find,” John said sheepishly. “I hate to have imposed on you both for so long.”

“It’s no bother, John, you know that — ”

“Dinna fash, John. What’s done is done. I’m glad ye have somewhere to move forward to.”

Claire felt hot tears building up behind her eyes. Had Jamie not heard a single word she’d said all afternoon? How could he be so callous about this?

“I’ve…also been in talks with that lawyer I spoke of earlier,” John said quietly.

Divorce lawyer.

“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Claire said softly, but firmly. “I just…want to eat.”

“Then when?”

Jamie’s voice startled her.

“What…?” She looked up from her plate, gently setting her fork down.

“Then when, Claire?” Jamie said, more roughly, slamming his fork down. “When will ye want to talk about it?”

“Please, Jamie…” Claire said. “Don’t do this…”

“I mean it, Claire! What are ye playing at?”

“Perhaps I should…”

“No! You stay right here!” Jamie barked, freezing John in his spot.

“Jamie!”

“D’ye want to stay married to him forever, Claire? Is that it? D’ye no’ want to spend the rest of yer life wi’ me? Wi’ the father of yer child?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I want to spend the rest of my life with you!”

“Then what, woman? What is wrong wi’ ye, every time we speak of this?”

“Just…just until the baby is born,” Claire pleaded. “Please, John, don’t do anything until the baby is born.”

“I — ”

“Why?” Jamie roared. “Tell me why!”

“I want him to be here!” Claire shouted, her angry tears spilling over. “He’s been planning to be here for it!”

“It is not his child!” Jamie stood up.

“A point you have made several times; I do understand!” Claire spat back, standing up as well.

“I really think I should — ”

“Stay!” Jamie and Claire both barked at him, and John froze again, standing in front of his chair like the other two.

“No, Claire, I dinna think ye do understand,” Jamie continued as if there hadn’t been any interruption. “There’s something ye’re no’ saying to me, and I want to hear it. Now.”

“I can’t!”

“Can’t what, Claire?”

“I just…I can’t!” She looked desperately at John, tears streaming down her face.

“Can’t divorce him?” Jamie challenged.

“Yes! No!”

“Are ye in love wi’ him, Claire? Ye’re in love wi’ a man who buggers other men?”

“Stop!” Claire shrieked. “Just stop it!”

“Ye didna answer me!”

“I can’t take this baby away from him! I can’t do it! I can’t, I can’t!” She was fully sobbing now, feeling weak in the knees. Her back was screaming, her womb was contracting with a never-ending onslaught of cramping, but she could hardly feel it over the breaking of her heart.

“Claire…” John’s voice cut in above her anguish, and she felt a trembling hand on her back. “Perhaps you should sit…”

“D’ye intend to remain his wife just so he can play Daddy to a bairn that isna is?” Jamie said cruelly.

“Jamie, that’s enough,” John cut in.

“Dinna tell me when I’ve said enough.” He was not shouting. His voice was low and gravelly, dangerously so.

“We…we made promises to each other…” Claire sputtered.

“What about the promises, the vows ye made to me? Did that mean nothing?”

“It means everything to me, damnit!” she howled, and John grabbed her upper arm, clearly afraid she was going to fall over. “But we had to create this life for ourselves without you, and I can’t just abandon it because you’re back. I can’t, Jamie. I can’t do it.”

“Ye canna be wife to us both, Claire,” Jamie’s voice rose in volume again. “So who will it be? The man ye vowed yerself to out of love, or the man ye made a legal arrangement with out of convenience?”

“It was a hell of a lot more than convenience!” Claire spat.

“Oh, was it now?” Jamie’s eyes became wild. “Oh, that’s right! I forgot! Ye fucked him, didn’t ye? That’s a ways beyond convenience, is it no’?”

“That is enough!” John shouted, raising his voice more than Claire thought he was capable of. She gritted her teeth in pain, from her back, her head, or her womb; it was anyone’s guess.

Claire watched in horror as Jamie picked up his plate, raised it above his shoulder, and then slammed it back down on the table, shattering it thoroughly, marking the table, and sending food flying all over.

“Dinna fucking tell me — !”

And then Claire screamed.

She was overcome with cramping more intense than anything she’d felt thus far, and she clutched her belly desperately.

Then she felt it, sure as anything. Hot liquid trailing down her legs.

“Claire?” John gasped out, grasping her with both hands now. “Claire, what’s happened? Are you alright?”

She heaved breaths through puffed cheeks, terror seizing her chest.

“Sassenach…?” Jamie’s voice was thin and cracking, like a sheet of ice on a pond about to swallow an unsuspecting skater.

“My waters have broken.”

#outlander #outlander au #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #jamie fraser #john grey #lord john grey #john x jamie #john x claire #john x jamie x claire #jjc #throuple #ot3

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dameronology · 4 years

Text

london calling {poe x reader} - 1

a modern coffee shop au

in this chapter: you could have sworn that london was trying to eat you alive. you didn’t ask the universe for a reason to stay in the city but it gave you one anyway - in the form of poe dameron, your new manager.

warnings: swearing

this was based off of a dream i had & then @cherieboba mentioned an AU...and now we have this. enjoy!

- val xx

‘Will you watch where you’re fucking going?!’

You hated Tuesdays. Tuesdays were truly and completely awful in every sense of the word. They were slightly better than Mondays but still...undeniably dreadful. This one had been no exception. You’d woken up late (and hungover, but that wasn’t relevant) and you were convinced that the Department of Transport had personally paid every single commuter to make your life a living hell that morning. Whatever patience you’d had upon waking up - and trust me, it wasn’t much - had worn completely thin by the time you’d been released from the hellish grips of the London Underground.

Your main concern was getting to work on time. The start of your shift coincided perfectly with the morning rush - also known as two straight hours of grumpy, uncaffeinated commuters. It was your job as a barista to provide them with coffee and to do-so in a timely manner. Anything less than thirty seconds would often result in a middle-aged, greying businessman coming for your ass. This morning, you were prepared to bite back.

‘How nice of you to show up.’

‘I know, I know!’ You pushed past your co-worker, tugging your apron around your waist as you did. ‘I overslept,’

Finn rolled his eyes at you, shaking his head. ‘Then you owe me five pounds.’

‘Why?’ You grumbled, pulling an order receipt from his hand.

‘The bet, remember?’ He replied. ‘You have officially been late twenty times so far this year.’

You let out a groan, mind going back to New Year’s Eve. The pair of you had made a deal that whoever was the first to be late twenty times owed the other a fiver - and it looked like you would be paying for his lunch today. It was unusual for you to be late so many times in a row but in the absence of a manager or acting boss, you’d let yourself slip a tiny bit. You knew that had to end today, however, because your new manager was due to start.

‘I’ll give it to you when I get paid.’ You said. ‘My rent is already late and that five pounds could be detrimental-’

‘- I’m just taking the piss.’ Finn chuckled. ‘Get these orders done and we’re even.’

He slid you the pile of receipts and you immediately slipped into autopilot. You’d been a barista for the better part of five years by that point; your hands could be at work whilst your mind was elsewhere. That was certainly the case today - your mind was raking through your financial woes and the fact that your rent was due four days ago - as you worked. After fifteen minutes of here’s a small skinny latte for Brian! and a large Americano to go for Roger!, you’d completely ridded the shop of the queue.

‘Busy morning, huh?’

You peered up from the coffee machine, eyes falling on the man in front of you. He was holding a half-empty cup of coffee, a smile on his face and warm brown eyes examining the mess of coffee and milk around your work station. He had a tangle of messy curls and...well, hot fucking damn. What else were you supposed to say?

‘Uh, yeah.’ You smiled. ‘Highlight of my day, I suppose.’

He grinned at you. ‘Do you enjoy working here?’

‘Yeah.’ You nodded. ‘I mean - it gets stressful but a job’s a job, right?’

‘Right.’ He replied, eyes falling to where your name tag rested on your apron. ‘I’ll see you around.’

Trying to hide the blush on your face, you picked up the empty milk cartons and carried them through to the kitchen at the back of the shop. Finn was already in there on his phone, swiping through Tinder. Your best friend’s love life was often a subject that came up on shift - as far you were concerned, he deserved the world. It was finding the world that was the hard part.

‘Hot customer alert.’ You greeted him. ‘And I mean hot.’

‘What kind of cute are we talking?’ Finn looked up from his phone. ‘Like...Leo Dicaprio in Titanic cute kind of hot or Leo Dicaprio in the Revenant, large and hairy kind of hot?’

‘Kind of in the middle.’ You replied, dumping the cartons in the bin. ‘He said he would see me around, so I guess he’s a new regular?’

‘Actually,’ somebody else’s voice came from the doorway. ‘I meant see you around as in I’m the new manager.’

You had never wanted the ground to swallow you more. Seriously - if the jaws of death could have opened right there and then, you’d be willing to jump into them with the tip of your hat and a so long, folks! This was definitely the worst Tuesday of your life. That was truly saying something, because you’d spent all of last Tuesday scraping dried milk off of a table. And, the Tuesday before that, you’d got stuck in the doors of the tube on the Jubilee Line and then -

-Not relevant. The presence of other shitty days didn’t erase the fact that you had just called your manager hot and compared him to Leonardo Dicaprio. Right to his face.

‘Hey, Finn?’ You glanced up at your co-worker. ‘I think it’s time I quit-’

‘- no, I take it as a compliment!’ He chortled. ‘I’m Poe, Poe Dameron. You’re the assistant manager, right?’

‘Yeah.’ You nodded, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. ‘Unless you fire me.’

‘No, I like a colleague who bigs me up.’ Poe grinned at you. It only made the blush worse. ‘It’s a nice store. I’m excited to work here.’

‘And I assume you know how to make coffee?’ You quirked an eyebrow at him.

‘I could do it in my sleep.’

You handed him an apron. ‘Brilliant.’

It seemed as though whoever was above had answered your prayers, because another queue quickly began to form and you had to get back to work. Poe and Finn chatted amongst themselves, bonding over the fact that they were both Americans working in London. You, meanwhile, focused on pumping out oddly specific coffee orders.

‘A hot-but-not-too-hot black Americano for Holdo!’ You called.

Mrs Holdo - or, Holdo as she insisted on being called - was one of your regulars. She was a high powered business woman who stopped by the coffee every morning. It was usually one of the highlights of working the morning shift. You were convinced she was on steroids of some point because she was the literal definition of a power bitch. The fact she dyed her hair lavender made her even more iconic.

‘Morning!’ You beamed at her, sliding her drink across the counter. ‘How are things at the law firm?’

‘Stressful, as always.’ She grabbed the cup. ‘New manager, I see?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ You glanced over your shoulder at him. ‘That’s Poe.’

‘You talkin’ shit?’ He grinned at you, giving you a wink.

Once the queue had died down again, you made yourself a coffee. A few people were fluttering about the shop; it was the usual, really. There was a businessman on his laptop at one table and an artist at the next. One of the perks of working in such a central area was all the people you got to meet. It certainly made the job more interesting - and you had a feeling that your new manager was only going to add to that.

‘So - tell me about yourself.’ Poe leant against the counter next to you, nudging you with his elbow. ‘Other than the fact you think I’m hot and that you probably love Leonardo Dicaprio.’

You let out a groan. ‘You’re killing me, man.’

‘If that’s the case, I hope you get someone to cover your shifts before you die.’

‘Isn’t that your job?’ You shot back. ‘Being the manager and all.’

‘You are my assistant manager-’

‘- no I am the assistant manager.’ You cut him off. ‘And I’ve been here five years so I know all that you could possibly need about running this place.’

‘Mm?’ Poe raised his eyebrows. ‘Care to share?’

‘Finn can’t be on shift with Hux - he’s an irritating part timer, really up himself - because they will kill each other.’ You paused to take a sip of your coffee. ‘And Kaydel is super sweet but she’s always late, so it’s best to put her on afternoon shifts.’

‘Like you were late this morning?’

You groaned again. ‘It was just one of those mornings - it was one thing after the other. I swear it won’t happen again.

Poe gave you a soft smile, the sarcasm fading from his face. ‘I’m just kidding. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

With that, he took the coffee from your hand and took a sip. ‘Jesus Christ, what is in this?’

‘Four shots of vanilla syrup.’ You snatched your drink back from him. ‘Let me guess - you’re the kind of guy that exclusively drinks espressos and judges people for adding sugar?’

He simply raised his eyebrows, holding his hands up in defense.

Nine hours later, your shift was finally over; you were closing with Poe, who was currently sweeping the floor and singing I Want To Break Free. Your feet were aching but thanks to the free coffee, you were slightly buzzed. You’d decided that you liked your new manager - there were some pitfalls, however. Watching him flirt with every woman that came in was bordering on painful by the time lunchtime came around.

‘Rey’s here!’ Finn popped up from behind the coffee machine. He was supposed to be cleaning it, but it looked as though he was counting coffee beans instead. ‘Do I look okay?’

‘No different than usual, Finny.’ You replied.

Rey was your room-mate and best friend (Finn would argue differently). She worked in a primary school a few streets away from the coffee shop. She usually came in after you’d shut to get a free drink - she also drove to work, which meant you didn’t have to take public transport home. After a nine hour shift and with an impending caffeine crash, being shoved into a small tube carriage was your idea of hell. With that said, Rey’s driving wasn’t much better.

Fiddling with your keys, you unlocked the door to let Rey in. She looked tired - presumably from chasing after little children all day. You could see a bottle of wine sticking out from the top of her bag. That was this evening’s plans solved.

‘Hey!’ She greeted you brightly. ‘Hey, Finn!’

‘Rey, hey!’ Your co-worker waved at her. ‘I mean hey, rey!’

‘I’m just gonna clock out.’ You said, glancing over your shoulder at Poe. ‘If that’s cool with you?’

‘God knows, god knows I want to break - oh yeah, that’s fine!’ He suddenly pulled his headphones out.

‘This is Rey, by the way. She’s an honorary team member here.’ You explained. ‘And this is Poe, our new manager.’

‘She thinks I’m cute.’ Poe grinned.

You turned to face Rey. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Right. Of course.’ She gave you a wink. ‘I went home at lunch to feed Chewy. He’s eaten another pair of your shoes.’

Chewie was your six-month-old border terrier puppy. He reeked havoc pretty much everywhere he went - usually leaving a trail of fur behind him - but you loved him dearly. He’d earned his name after eating through eleven pairs of shoes in his first week at your apartment.

‘Of course he has.’ You grumbled. ‘See you tomorrow!’

‘See you!’ Finn waved at you, before giving Rey a sweet smile.

‘See you in the morning!’ Poe called. ‘And be on time!’

tags: @thespareoom @softly-sad @interwebseriesfan24 @yougottakeeponkeepinon @princessxkenobi @blue-space-porgs @cherieboba @highlycommendable

#poe dameron x reader #poe x reader #poe x you #poe dameron x you #poe dameron imagine #poe imagine #star wars x reader #star wars fan fiction #star wars preferences

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clarketomylexa · 5 years

Text

The Holiday

Dumped and depressed, Clarke is searching for any way to get out of LA before the holidays—that includes swapping homes with similarly unlucky in love Anya who’s sister has a bad habit of turning up on her doorstep unannounced and finding herself in Clarke's bed come morning. When 'no strings attached' quickly becomes complicated, on both sides of the Atlantic Clarke and Anya are left coming to terms with the reality that they are leaving in two weeks.

read on ao3

thank you so much to @dontcha-wanheda for giving me the inspiration and creating this amazing poster!

She’s an idiot.

He’s and idiot.

They’re both idiots for letting themselves be caught up in this game—one she now knows is nothing but pure fraud—and the knowledge that she has curls under her rib cage like malevolent fingers until she can’t breathe.

She presses a hand into her chest, knuckles curling into the neckline of her pyjamas until it inflates beneath her palm and she’s sure she isn’t suffocating, before extracting herself from the throes of eight-hundred thread count and Egyptian cotton.

The house is eerily quiet. Clarke knows Finn is downstairs somewhere—hopefully on the couch where she left him last night, or even better gone entirely. What he did makes her want to vomit and she doesn’t have the energy to deal with him any more than she did last night when she slammed the bedroom door and told him to stay out.

She can still smell the other girl’s perfume.

She hooks her phone into the speaker on the nightstand and blasts her playlist as loud as it will go until she can feel the vibrations of the music drown out the vibrations of her heartbeat in her ears and gets to work.

His tee’s are the first to go. She sweeps them with a wayward arm off the cubby in the walk-in she has saved for him and they fall limply to the floor but it isn’t enough. She finds his dress-shirts next and rips at the notch in the side until the fabric gives and the whole shirt rips apart in her hand with a grating noise she can’t hear. She snatches the rest of them off their hangers and flings open the door to the balcony, hurling the armful over the railing and sending them flying.

She had plans for today—for their anniversary—but she watches the shirts sink into the shallow end of the pool and can feel the dinner reservations going with them, throat closing around her attempts to swallow and breathe.

A furious bang on the locked bedroom door pries her attention from the drowning clothing and she crosses the room to open it on a whim before disappearing back into the walk-in, completely out of control of her own body. Her head feels fuzzy but her movements are sharp and she doesn’t understand what she is doing until she finds herself going through his selection of watches that sit inside his sock drawer.

“I told you to leave.”

“Clarke, what did I do?”

Finn’s voice grates in her ear as she spins on her bare heel—his good Rolex in hand, rubbing finger prints into the face in the way she knows makes him irritated. He is standing in the entrance to the walk-in in boxers and his grey sleep tee, entirely too relaxed with his shoulder resting on the door frame and his shaggy hair in his face and all she sees is red.

She drops the watch and sees his face crumble as the face shatters.

“For fucks sake, Clarke you can’t just kick me out and not tell me why!”

He snatches the next watch before it can meet its match on the tiles and her hand flies out to slap him across the face.

He stumbles backwards and she freezes, hand stinging.

“Not tell you why?” She whispers, nausea creeping up her throat. “Bellamy told me, Finn. It wasn’t ‘just a kiss’ you’ve been sleeping with that girl for months.” Finn scoffs but she doesn’t wait for him to argue, she flings a polished black Salvatore Ferragamo loafer at him and watches him duck to avoid it. “She’s nineteen , Finn!”

“You’re not even going to let me deny it?”

“I have proof!” She shoves him and brushes angrily past. “Not that I would listen to a word you said if you did because you’re a compulsive fucking liar and I should have known the day I met you that this would happen.”

She wants to cry but she doesn’t.

Tears burn behind her eyes and she staunchly refuses to let them fall because that would mean that Finn would win—every moment she spends crying over him is one she is sure he tallies up like a victory and she wants to scream until she can’t anymore. She finds his trainers by the bed, slings a t-shirt from the floor over her arm and piles the script from his latest film on top, ignoring the way he follows her, close enough for her to smell his cologne.

“Come on, Clarke. This isn’t my fault and you know it.”

“So what?” She whirls and shoves his belongings into his chest. “You just slipped and fell into bed with her?” He looks like he wants to nod. “Four times?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t work so much.” He squares up.

Clarke feels her breath grow shallow in her lungs.

“For fucks sake. You don’t want me Finn!” His brow dips into the barest resemblance of innocence and she hates it. “You want the idea of me! The me that moved here five years ago with nothing, and now that I have the job, and the house and the money, you’re intimidated. You don’t want a girlfriend, Finn,” she informs him curtly. “You want a puppet.”

Fury boils in her stomach and she takes a few shallow breaths before deciding she doesn’t want to look at him anymore. He doesn’t look guilty or chastised, instead he’s achingly calm—smug even and if anything everything that she says eggs him on. If she sees it for another second she is going to lash out and do something she regrets.

Her father always said she was a spitfire.

She storms out of the bedroom and grunts when he follows, feet falling heavily on the stairs and down into the atrium of the Spanish Style Villa.

She remembers buying the house—surveying the property hanging off Finn’s arm as she imagined making it her own. Her money, her things, her name on the papers because even though Finn tried to coax her into buying a house together she decided she wasn’t ready.

Now, she thanks god for the small mercy.

“Or maybe, just maybe, it isn’t all about what I’ve done for once!” Finn accuses.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Clarke, you live a fairy-tale world. You came to LA and made it big and now you sit here with your big job, and your big house making big money and not once do you stop to think about the real world.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” She turns away and coaches herself into breathing—once, twice, three times. Pain pricks in her palms as she unwinds her fingers from where they have dug grooves into her palm. “All I have ever done is work for what I have—”

“You draw pictures for a living!”

“Fuck you, Finn!” She yells until her throat begs her not to. “Maybe wanting more out of a relationship than a quickie in the supply closet means that I’m ‘living in a fairy-tale world’. But if that makes me better than you, then I’m okay with it.” She shoulders past him and opens the front door. “Now get out!”

He refuses, jaw flexing in a way that makes fear creep up her spine.

“I’ll call 911,” she threatens in a high, thin voice.

“Jesus Christ, Clarke I didn’t cheat on you!”

It’s everything she can do not to let tears fall. The lump in her throat tightens and morphs into something she can’t swallow around and it takes her a minute to finally get the words out, scrutinising him with a watery gaze. “Why would Bellamy lie?”

Finn shrugs. He avoids her eyes and smooths his hand over the back of his neck—a nervous tick she has come to know means he is trying to come up with a lie. Clarke has seen it numerous times now, on curiously late nights in the office and odd stains on his shirt collars, and she hates the fact that she only now is understanding what it means.

Maybe she is naive.

Doubt creeps into her mind, seizing in her chest until she can feel the anxiety setting her on edge.

“He’s Bellamy,” is Finn’s eventual answer and Clarke’s heart drops into her stomach. Her last shred of hope sinks and burns. “He’s been in love with you since he met you.”

“You’re so full of shit Finn—”

“Or maybe you just don’t know how to be what I need!”

There it is.

His key chain is a leaden weight, biting the center of her palm as she twists the house key off and drops it into his hand. The anger boiling in the pit of her stomach engulfs her entire chest in flames until she is sure every inch of her is burning with the need to do something other than stand passively by.

She blinks—blank faced—and twists her house key off the ring, handing it back to him with all the ceremony of asking for salt over the dinner table and opens the door wider. “I’ll send you your things.”

He talks a step towards her and she stares at him—lips pursed and chest quivering—until his mouth twists as if something inside it has curdled and he scowls.

“Fuck you, Clarke—”

She slams the door before he can finish.

From: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

To: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

Hi.

I’m interested in renting your house over Christmas this year—is it still available?

Please be in touch.

Clarke Griffin,

Artist, Gallery 1002,

Downton Los Angeles

From: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

To: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

I understand it’s ridiculously late to be asking but if it is you could be a real lifesaver.

Clarke Griffin,

Artist, Gallery 1002,

Downton Los Angeles

From: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

To: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

The cottage is definitely free but only really available for home exchange. When would you be looking to come?

From: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

To: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

Is tomorrow too soon?

Clarke Griffin,

Artist, Gallery 1002,

Downton Los Angeles

From: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

To: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

Sooner than I expected.

From: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

To: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience but I’d really like to get out of the country. If you’re not interested I understand.

Clarke Griffin,

Artist, Gallery 1002,

Downton Los Angeles

From: Anya Woods <[email protected]>

To: Clarke Griffin <[email protected]>

Tomorrow it is.

“And you’re sure you’re doing this?”

Raven eyes her with worry from her perch, cross legged in the middle of Clarke’s California king. There is an open suitcase in front of her which, so far, has collected two pairs of jeans and a thermal turtleneck. Clarke stands in front of the walk-in perusing her rack of sweaters. She is still in her silk pyjamas, hair fastened into a haphazard top knot with an elastic.

Once the deed was done, she had felt decidedly less frantic about the whole ordeal. There was something solid in having a seat booked on the eight o’clock flight that smoothed down the edges of the world that had come unstuck the moment Bellamy told her about Finn. When she saw the description on the listing it was almost too good—to ironic—to be true. ‘Fairy-tale English cottage’ . She had almost scrolled past it in search of something bigger before spite made her send an inquiry. Now, she is sure that if she can just spend the next two weeks hauled up in a one cart town with a bottle of wine, she will just about make it out of this still breathing.

Decisively, she takes the sweaters, hangers and all, and lays them on the comforter.

“I’m packing a suitcase, aren’t I?” She meets Raven’s intent stare.

The Latina purses her lips as Clarke begins to take the sweaters off their hangers and fold them methodically: side, side, bottom flip.

The movement calms the rattling headache she has had for the better half of the morning despite taking two Advil’s. She can only hope it will lessen with distance.

“You can be…impulsive,” Raven says evenly, avoiding the way Clarke shoots her a look. She picks up a navy cable-knit and begins the process.

Tucking a stack into the suitcase, Clarke stands back and smooths her fingers over the fly away hairs at her hairline. “I can’t be here right now,” she explains tightly. “Not where I could run into him.”

She doesn’t want to have to confront the image of Finn with his new toy. The thought of them together seizes in her chest and makes her want to vomit and she forces herself to swallow the nausea that burbles, uninvited in her stomach as she perches on the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.

“Oh, hon.”

The mattress dips with Raven’s weight as she abandons her folding and scoots closer to slide an arm around Clarke’s shoulder and it doesn’t take much force for her to pull the blonde into her chest. “This isn’t your fault, Clarke,” she coos, resting her chin atop the blondes head.

Chest stinging, Clarke shoves a fist into her front teeth to stifle the sob that escapes her chest, unbidden.

She feels like a stranger to herself and it scares her. The thing is, she has absolutely no idea where it went so wrong.

Finn had always been on the sickly side of charming. He would play flirt with Raven and Octavia to no end and got on a little too well with her friends but Clarke had chalked it up to him wanting to make a good impression and now she’s utterly shocked at her naivety.

“I found a ring.”

When she’s ready, Raven let’s her pull away and sit up.

“What?”

Taking a shuddering breath, Clarke pulls the elastic from her top knot and rakes her hands through her now free hair, fisting her fingers at her hairline.

“I found a ring in the pocket of his jacket last month,” she sniffs. “I’ve been waiting for him to, you know…” she makes a vague gesture. “Do it.”

Raven nods, tucking a lock of lank hair behind her ear as she tries to get her words out without swallowing them. They scream in her throat like they want to be let out but when she tries she can’t and it only burns worse. “Now I can’t help wondering if it was for her.”

“He’s an asshole,” Raven decides, but her voice lacks the usual feistiness and it sounds strange and stilted with such a sympathetic.

Her world tilts and she falls back into the mattress.

“This is so messed up.”

Jeans and oversized tee knotted at her waist, Octavia appears in the bedroom doorway with the beige duffle coat Clarke keeps in the downstairs closet with the other cold weather gear for when she visits her parents in D.C. and Clarke springs up, pressing her knuckles under her eyes to blot at the tears.

“Bellamy called,” Octavia says quietly. She crosses the room and hands the coat to Clarke, catching her knuckles between her fingers and giving them a squeeze. “He can take you to LAX. Save you the cab fare.”

Taking a shuddering breath, nods. “Tell him thank you,” she whispers, holding the coat against her thigh to roll it as tightly as possible and tuck it into her suitcase. She has five more hours until she can forget this mess.

That’s manageable, she decides.

She points to the rain boots in the bottom of the walk-in.

“Can you hand me those?”

England is cold.

Unlike the tepid heat of LA in the winter, the chill that Clarke is faced with as she stands on the cobblestone path of the cottage—fuzzy headed from the ten hour flight—crawls into her lungs beneath her thermal, turtleneck and Burberry pea coat and threatens to choke her. She tucks her nose into the lip of the tartan scarf she has wound around her neck, breathing until she warmth sinks into her chest and makes breathing bearable. Her fingers fumble with her suitcase as the wheels threaten to run away on the uneven ground.

The cottage looks identical to its picture.

It stares at her out of four shuttered windows from under a slate, gable roof. Two chimneys book end it at each end and a wilting wreath hands from a nail in the front door from a velvet bow.

She finds the key under the mat where Anya emailed that she would leave it and consults the instructions which tell her to ‘jiggle it twice, the lock sticks’ in thin, slanted handwriting and does as she is told, feeling the door give and she steps inside. She closes the door quickly, shivering gratefully at the warmth.

Inside is as quaint as outside. A rickety kitchen table and chairs stands in the room to her right where the mental countertop hugs the wall and a tin kettle sits in the cradle of the gas stovetop. Ahead, the rungs of the staircase are adorned with garlands and crude paper snowflakes hang from it with string—they look childish and it makes her wonder—and the living room sits at the end of the hall, the sum of a few overstuffed armchairs, a coffee table and a shag rug in front of the fireplace.

Clarke appraises herself in the age-speckled mirror inside of the doorway, setting down her suitcase to pull her beanie off and brush out her hat-flattened hair with frostbitten fingers.

She looks tired. The aftermath of the Xanax she took for the flight has etched bags under her eyes and her cheeks are chapped a shocking red colour that she tries, unsuccessfully, to rub away with the heel of her hand.

When it doesn’t make a difference she sighs and gets to work.

The house is warm but still not comfortable so she decides to fix that first, dragging the wicker basket of kindling—chopped wood and sticks from outside it looks like—out from behind the fading armchair. Her father taught her how to stack wood in the grate on a camping trip when she was seven so she tries to replicate it and strikes a match from the box she finds in the top kitchen drawer but when the spark doesn’t light after the third time she gives up.

There’s an oil heater in the closet under the stairs that she plugs in next to the armchair that will have to do.

Upstairs she finds two bedrooms and an adjoining bathroom which is so small that, when she sits on the seat of the toilet and reaches her arms out they brush the exposed brick on the other side of the room. She eyes the tub-shower warily and decides that she isn’t in the least bit excited to see how that turns out.

There’s a dog nestled in the knitted quilt on the bed in the master bedroom who pops his head up as she enters and stares at her without blinking. She shoos him off, taking a look at the tag around his neck which reads ‘Fish’ in neat engraved letters, before putting her suitcase on the quilt to unpack—her clothes get wedged in the minimal closet space, her shoes are chucked in the bottom of the stand-alone wardrobe and she slots her toothbrush into the ceramic cup by the sink which is decorated with smudged fingerprints in red and yellow finger paint—all of which takes fifteen minutes before she is left at a loss once again.

She still can’t feel the heat from the oil heater and her toes are numbing. Rummaging in the depths of her half-unpacked suitcase where it peeks out from beneath the bed she finds a pair of socks and tucks the cuff of her jeans into the tops to keep the heat in.

Now what?

The answer, she finds after a half hour of roaming the cottage, is overwhelmingly nothing.

Fish rests his chin on the sagging toes of her socks as she sits in front of her failed fire, knotting her fingers under her chin to ward away the doubt that creeps up her spine.

Perhaps the one place on earth where there is absolutely nothing to take her mind of her cheating ex-boyfriend was the wrong choice for her to make in this situation. She can’t help but think that if she were hiking through the Peruvian mountains or laying on the beach in Barbados it would be easier to breathe through the sickly weight on her chest but she doesn’t have the luxury now. She feels the numbness that coaxed her through booking the ticket and the ten hours flight fading fast, replaced with the jarring realisation of what she had done and she doesn’t like it. It makes her feel frantic and paranoid and absolutely, unavoidably dumped like she is seven-years-old again and her Dad has taken her to the beach to teach her to swim in the waves, but instead, she has tripped and let the water drag her across the sand and this is the moment she breaks to the surface to breathe.

She doesn’t like it.

It feels rough and confronting, scraping the inside of her chest raw and the image of Finn with his arm slung around the shoulders of the girl Clarke had greeted almost every day for two years makes her feel queasy.

She needs a drink.

Clarke thought that the minutes she spent watching her mother go over the life insurance papers with the lawyer were the longest of her life—sitting sour-faced and ramrod straight in the chair the receptionist had dragged in for her, avoiding her mother’s eyes. She didn’t understand it. At age fifteen she pretended she did but honestly, the things the tight-lipped man was saying were too overwhelming for her to listen to entirely when the dress she wore to his funeral was still in the bottom of her laundry hamper.

She now knows that they had nothing on what she has come to call ‘English village in the ass crack of nowhere’ minutes which so far have been spent avoiding the curious glance of the check-out lady as she surveyed Clarke’s items—-a bottle of red wine, two jars of pitted olives, gingerbread cookies, packaged Christmas chocolates and cheese chips that look entirely too fancy for a pity party for one—and belting out a decidedly tipsy rendition of ‘Mr. Brightside’ on the old CD player Anya keeps in the den, wine glass in hand, and screening phone calls with an LA area code like the plague.

All the while Fish has followed her with a wide berth like he doesn’t quite trust her in his masters house.

She has discerned that flying halfway across the world to get away from her problems is quite possibly the most cowardly move she could have made, but she has also decided that there is no changing it. Hibernation suddenly sounds like the smartest idea in the world.

At nine p.m. she finds herself in bed, tapered sweatpants tucked into the tops of her polka-dot bed socks, thermal turtleneck on under her pilling chunky-knit cardigan and the opened bottle of wine sitting on the nightstand. The glass—mostly empty now—rests in her palm as she frowns in annoyance at the characters in the soap opera that is playing off the TV resting on the dresser.

Raven texts her in the middle of a surprise stranger revealing that he is, in fact, the shop girls baby daddy and Clarke grunts through a sip, patting the folds of the quilt for her phone.

[Text from: Raven 11:37 PM 15/12] I let Anya in and I couriered Finn his things.

[Text from: Raven 11:37 PM 15/12] She’s kind of a hard ass.

Clarke smirks and swipes her lock screen to open it.

[Text to: Raven 11:38 PM 15/12] Intimidated?

[Text from: Raven 11:39 PM 15/12] Shut up.

Chuckling, she returns to the soap as the shop girl slaps her ex across the face—Clarke nods in tight-lipped sympathy for her—before reaching up to mute the TV at the sound of knocking coming from downstairs. She swings her legs out of bed and pauses, socked-feet hovering over the wood.

It happens again a minute later—a persistent banging on what sounds like the front door, although she isn’t entirely ruling out that Fish had perhaps gotten himself into trouble, so she traipses out to the landing to investigate.

“Who is it?” She hollers uncertainty, fists wound in the cuffs of her sleeves as she rounds the bend in the staircase.

“It’s me.”

Frowning, Clarke wraps her cardigan tightly around herself and fists her hands into the sagging pockets as she descends the rest of the way down the stairs. She can see the dark silhouette of a person through the four dust-clogged panes in the door, each thump of their fist causing the wood to shudder on its hinges.

“Anya,” they grouch. “If you don’t open the door, I’m going to have to take a leak on your—”

The panic that lurches up her throat is enough to have Clarke pulling the door in, fingers fumbling for the porch-light switch on the panel by the coat rack.

“Oh.”

In the light, the silhouette turns into a woman, Clarke’s height in a cable-knit sweater, dark green duffle coat with the toggles undone, jeans, and rain boots, cheeks chapped and red beneath the tartan scarf around her neck which her dark hair is caught in like she left wherever she has been in a rush.

Clarke shivers, pulling her cardigan snugger as the cold creeps into the cottage uninvited through the open front door, but the threat of hypothermia is almost worth the look of quiet horror on her visitors face as she raises a hand to tuck her hair behind her ears, as if checking she can see clearly.

“You’re not Anya,” she says dumbly.

“No,” Clarke quirks a smile, gesturing to the front step. “But by all means.”

The woman looks down and Clarke counts the twelve different shades of white she goes when she understands, watching her ruefully sink her hands into her pockets. “There’s a chance I got a tad too slap happy with the gin,” she admits.

“I couldn’t tell.”

Suitably chagrined, the woman peers at her toes for a beat, as if wishing the front step would swallow her whole and Clarke leans against the open edge of the door waiting.

“Yes.” She looks up and Clarke is struck immediately by the colour of her eyes—they water from the sheer sting of the cold and in the porch light the soft green punches the air out of her chest. She tells herself it’s the chill.

“Nevertheless,” the brunette entreats, nodding her head inside, “may I?”

It’s Clarke’s turn to flush vehemently as she flings the door wider and steps aside to let the woman in. “Oh. ‘Course.”

She checks herself over in the mirror inside the door again, tucking curls of hair behind her ears. It isn’t much of an improvement on what it was when she got here—her hair is lank and her eyes are dark—but her cheeks are rosy now from the warmth of the quilt and the wine and if she tucks her sweat pants from her socks she almost looks human. She can deal with almost human.

The toilet flushes, then the faucet squeaks and the woman appears from the squat bathroom wedged beneath the stairs, unwinding her scarf from her neck bashfully so her hair falls free.

“So, uh—”

“Clarke,” Clarke offers.

“Clarke,” the woman nods. “Lexa,” she points to herself. She peers at Clarke curiously, like she is trying to place her and when she can’t, she sags apologetically. “Am I in the right house?”

“That depends,” Clarke smirks, reading the shallow confusion rooting itself inside of Lexa.

“On what?”

“Anya didn’t tell you?”

Lexa freezes, tentative smile stretching into a grimace as she tries to reconcile what she wants to say with what is coming out of her mouth. “She could of,” she admits, “but, as previously mentioned, I’ve been down at,” she hitches a thumb towards the door to jog her memory, “the pub.”

She sways on her feet, listing sideways as if to affirm her point and Clarke lunges forwards to place a steady hand on her elbow. She can feel the heat emanating from beneath the fabric under her hand.

When she looks up Lexa is decidedly too close.

“Anya’s in LA,” she says quickly and the brunette pulls back, affronted.

“LA?”

“She listed her house on a home exchange website. I got here this morning.”

“Oh.” It seems to be news to Lexa. “May I sit down?”

“Of course,” Clarke springs away, letting Lexa shimmy past and ease herself down into the cushions with a grunt. Fish takes the moment to decide the couch is free reign now and hops up next to her, pushing his nose into her lap like they are familiar.

“I’m sorry about this,” she looks up at Clarke after a moment. “I don’t usual burst into people’s homes unannounced on a Friday night.”

Her bashfulness is unusually charming—Clarke thinks it’s the accent but she can’t be sure, her sheer vicinity to the perfect stranger has her flustered in a thousand different ways she hasn’t felt before. “Even if you didn’t I couldn’t fault you on it,” she laughs.

Lexa smiles in appreciation for her attempt at salvaging the conversation.

“My sister usually lets me stay the night if I drink so I don’t have to drive.” She admits.

“Your Anya’s sister?” Clarke tries not to let her surprise show. From the little that she has talked to Anya over the phone to work out the details of their exchange, Lexa seems like the polar opposite. She’s hard where Lexa is apologetically soft.

“Guilty as charged.”

She nods thoughtfully for a moment, watching Fish drag his wet nose along the strip of skin visible between the waistband of Lexa’s jeans and the hem of her sweater before chastising herself.

Was twenty-four hours too soon for a rebound?

The angel on her shoulder says it is but if Raven were here she would tell her otherwise. Her own head feels fuzzy from the red wine—which she should have known would lead to consequences after Harpers baby shower last month—and she peers around the cottage. Short of asking Lexa to play a round of Scrabble with her she isn’t quite sure how to entertain her.

“Do you want a drink?”

It’s the first thing she can think of.

“A water or...wine?”

Lexa looks at her hopefully. “Would it be terribly English of me to ask for a cup of tea?”

Clarke blanches at the thought. “If you tell me how to take it.”

“You don’t know how to make tea?”

“I’m more of a Starbucks girl,” Clarke admits bashfully as Lexa eases herself off the couch.

Fish yips at her feet as they migrate to the kitchen, Clarke leaning against the rickety kitchen table as Lexa—despite her sore head—goes about finding mugs from the cupboard. She navigates the kitchen with ease, filling the kettle and flicking it on, taking the battered tin off the top shelf of the pantry and placing a dark tea bag in the bottom of her mug and shrugging her coat off onto the back of a chair, leaving her in her sweater that hangs off her frame. She rolls it up at the sleeves as she waits.

“So, LA?” She muses, glancing back as the kettle burbles.

Clarke nods. “Yeah.”

“Arguably more glamorous than Surrey.”

“Who’s to say,” Clarke smiles diplomatically.

Lexa grins, leaning forwards like she is about to bestow Clark with.a secret. “I’m sure no one would blame you if you did.”

Clarke grins at her and Lexa stands straighter for it.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking but how do you like it so far? England I mean,” she hastens to clarify—for what reason Clarke doesn’t know.

Clarke leans back into the table and takes stock.

So far she has walked a mile in the snow because of a grumpy cab driver who refused to do a U-turn at the end of a narrow country lane, cleared the local grocery store out of red wine and watched enough soaps to narrate the life stories of the people living on a street that seems to attract pathetic drama like month to a flame. It wasn’t what she had in mind when she turned up at the airport but then again, she doesn’t know what she thought she would find. She was being stupid and impulsive and it’s come back to bite her now, alone in a village with less cell service than an underground bunker.

“Well,” she prepares to condense all of it into an easy reply. “I’ve been here for,” she checks a watch that isn’t there, “six hours and I already want to leave, so good.” She gives Lexa a sardonic thumbs up and the brunette grimaces in sympathy. She looks down at Fish and then back up, fingers playing with a loose thread of her cable-knit.

“I could show you around the town tomorrow,” she offers. “It’s nothing flashy but the pub sells alcohol and the food is hot if you want a way to pass the time.”

“Oh…” Clarke ducks her head, flattered and strangely unsure how she feels.

“Unless you’re already spoken for,” Lexa backtracks, suddenly busying herself with fetching the milk from the fridge. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“You didn’t,” Clarke assures her quickly. “You haven’t. Actually,” she sinks her fingers into her hair and wonders why she is going to tell her sob story to the perfect stranger who threatened to drop her pants on her porch in the middle of the night. “I had a bad breakup. He was an asshole, it was messy,” she shrugs. “I came here to un complicate things but it hasn’t quite worked out how I thought. Frankly I’m not sure what I thought, I must have been out of my mind but here we are.” She tries for a lopsided smile, noticing the way Lexa is looking at her—softly, with a slight smile on her lips so that Clarke can’t tell what she is thinking but knows it’s something sweet—and quickly leaning down to let Fish nuzzle into her palm.

He’s starting to warm up to her, she thinks. It didn’t take much to win him over but a bowlful of foot and a belly rub.

“Well if you ever want something uncomplicated,” Lexa reminds her.

Clarke isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be an innuendo. She almost asks but then the kettle whistles and Lexa goes to pull it off its cradle. Clarke listens to the whisper of boiling water against the ceramic and the clink of the spoon against the mug as Lexa mixes in the milk and raises it to her lips to blow across the surface of the drink.

After a moment she sets the mug down on the counter and pins Clarke with a beseeching smile . “Would it be awful if I stayed?” She asks, lips curling into a wince as if she hates to ask. Clarke finds herself fixating on the freckle that she has spotted on her top lip. “I could take the sofa. You won’t know I’m here.”

“Oh, no,” Clarke shakes her head, dragging her mind out of the gutter. “Sure, no that’s fine,” she hitches a thumb behind her. “Let me just go get you a blanket and then it’s all yours.”

She climbs up the stairs, rummaging in the hall closet under towels for a comforter and a sheet, pausing to steal herself on the landing.

When she returns, Lexa is in the living room. Her coat has migrated from the back of the chair in the kitchen to the coat rack, her rain boots sit just inside the door and she nurses her cup of tea in her hands as she pursues the bookshelf arching over the doorway into the hall. She thanks Clarke warmly when she hands over the bedding.

“Look, I’m sorry again for barging in unannounced. I know how awkward this must be for you.”

“It’s nothing, really,” Clarke waves it off. “Anya’s your sister it’s more your house than mine.”

“Still, there aren’t a lot of people who would let just anyone camp on their sofa for the night.”

“You’re not just anyone,” Clarke hums, swallowing the way her heart beats a rhythmic tattoo in her chest. They’re so close she’s sure Lexa can hear.

“No,” Lexa whispers, “I’m not.”

When they kiss Clarke can’t say that she isn’t at all expecting it.

It’s soft and languid, barely enough to match the intensity of the feel that gnaws at the pit of Clarke’s stomach but when she tilts her head sideways to deepen it, their noses brush and Lexa pulls back to breathe, blinking in what Clarke is sure would be shock if she was completely coherent.

“Oh.” She says calmly.

“Oh.” Clarke parrots.

The heat grows in her stomach, morphing and building magma until it’s a sharp, kneeing ache and Clarke reaches out to slid her fingers over Lexa’s collarbones, focusing on the neat ribbing intently. Her mind slows to the pace of thick honey, as she swallows and blinks, looking up at Lexa who has her lips parted and hands fisted at her side. “Would you—ah—” she waits for the words to form on her tongue. “Would you mind doing that again?”

The second time it’s heavier.

Clarke curls her fingers into the shoulder of Lexa’s sweater, swallowing the moan that she lets out when she swipes her tongue along her bottom lip on a whim. Fumbling, Lexa’s fingers find Clarke’s waist under the folds of her cardigan, shoving the fabric aside and then the tee beneath that and Clarke shivers, unfiltered in the noise that she makes, when her fingers skate across her ribs, frigid and cold, raising goose bumps in their wake.

She leans her forehead on Lexa’s, breathing shallow breaths that send hot puffs of air cascading across the sharp cut of her cheekbones.

She is pretty—okay she’s absolutely beautiful and Clarke is suddenly flawed by it but she summons the dregs of liquid courage that have lain dormant in her stomach since she laid eyes on the brunette and wills it to fill the cavity of her chest as brings her fingers up to cradle Lexa’s jaw, peering at her intently.

“Huh,” she whispers.

“What?”

“I should tell you,” she warns quietly, “I don’t usually kiss the first person who shows up to my door on a Friday night.” But even as she says it she takes Lexa’s hands in her own, bringing them up to the collar of her cardigan and urging if off in clear permission.

“Neither do I.”

Lexa shakes her head, fingers playing with the hem of Clarke’s tee. Clarke lifts her arms and allows it to be pulled of and discarded leaving her in her bra, skin prickling—despite the living room being a virtual hot-house from the heater she left on all day and the proximity to Lexa feels like she’s made of raw heat—her fingers coming down to fumble with the button on Lexa’s jeans.

“I’m open to making an exception though,” she sighs between kisses—teeth clacking, noses bumping in their haste.

“Yeah?”

Clarke nods. “Yeah.”

Lexa glances towards the staircase, stamping her jeans down her legs as she goes to work at her own sweater. Clarke helps so that they’re a mess of limbs and awkward, desperate pulling.

“Upstairs?” Lexa whispers when they hold the top between both of their hands, breathing stilted breaths and marvelling at each other.

“Yeah.”

The angel on her shoulder hollers warnings of certain doom but Clarke doesn’t have it in herself to listen.

#clexmas18 #12daysofclexa #day 7: free day #clexa au #clarke griffin #lexa #a very gay christmas #british lexa

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hottytoddynews · 7 years

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Delta Streets Academy in Greenwood graduated its first senior class in May. The five seniors are all heading off to college, one of them to Mississippi State University on a full scholarship. The private school for young men, which is a member of the Mississippi Association of Independent Schools, was founded in 2012 by T. Mac Howard, a white guy who was a young twenty-something at the time and who caught a vision for what it meant to heed God’s call to do justice, to love mercy, and to sacrifice for others in the way Jesus sacrificed for him.

Mo Leverett, the founder of Desire Street Ministries in New Orleans, came to speak at T.Mac’s Reformed University Fellowship group during his freshman year at MSU. His stories of the poverty and the desperation of the people in the infamous urban housing project touched T. Mac in a profound way, and he asked Mo is he could do a summer internship there. The summer of 2005 opened T. Mac’s eyes to a world he had never experienced. Reading about squalor and dysfunction and lack of hope is one thing, but seeing it first hand, interacting with those who live it, is something altogether different. It broke his heart.

T.Mac and Meagan Howard are the parents of a three-year-old and almost 2-year-old twin boys!

After T. Mac graduated in 2008, he took a job at Greenwood High School teaching math and coaching baseball and football. He chose the Mississippi Delta because there weren’t a lot of established ministries trying to address the overwhelming problems that had morphed in the last few decades. He originally planned to teach and coach and use those as a way to build relationships and to share the gospel.

“The original idea was to do Bible studies in my house and disciple guys like that.” What he discovered was that teaching is exhausting in a classroom of 28 kids, all at different levels, where there are no consequences for misbehavior, tardiness, or skipping school, and where chaos is just the order of the day.”

At the end of the first year, he had not held one Bible study or shared the gospel with one kid. He was still committed, but he knew he had to come up with Plan B. He toyed with the idea of accepting a position with Fellowship of Christian Athletes as an area director in Northeast Mississippi, but he says, “God got hold of me and said, ‘If you leave now and try to come back they’re just going to expect you to leave again because that’s what so many white people do—they come in, lead a Bible study in the neighborhood, and then you never hear from them again.”

He taught at GHS for one more year, but in his mind, he was prepping to start the ministry before the next fall rolled around.

The following summer T.Mac offered a Christian day camp, complete with arts and crafts and sports instruction. He gathered his own interns who were mostly Reformed University Fellowship participants from MSU and Ole Miss. T. Mac had built a friendship with the pastor of Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church who offered his fellowship hall for an after-school tutoring program that started in fall 2011. It was a slow beginning, but it grew month to month.

Swayze Waters (far left) and T.Mac Howard (far right) teamed up to coach these aspiring young athletes at Delta Streets Academy.

When Delta Streets Academy opened in 2012, there were six young men enrolled. T.Mac says he can’t praise their parents enough for trusting their sons to “a white dude” who had never run a school. Each year has seen growth, and this past school year 58 boys in grades 7–12 completed the second semester.

At the present time, there are nine full-time staff and four part-time faculty members. First Baptist Church offers space rent free, and that is a great blessing. Cannon Motors has given the school the old Delta Chevrolet building in downtown, but the renovation price tag of $1.3 million has made renovation a distant dream for the time being. T.Mac wears many hats, from driving the bus to teaching to running the payroll, but one of his most important jobs is fundraiser in chief. “That’s the thing that keeps me up at night, but God has taught me a lot these past six years about his sufficiency.”

The first graduating class of Delta Streets Academy 2017.

“We’re not a great school yet,” he says. “But we are a good school right now. The sooner I can hand off some of my jobs, the better off we’ll be.” He adds, “The only thing I’m really good at is talking to people. But the day we have a $900,000 budget and 120 kids in school is the day we have the potential to be a great school.”

T.Mac believes they will get there. He wants to see his students competing with the strongest private schools in the state, signing Division 1 scholarships and being taught by a world-class faculty. He calls it a total “God thing” that it has come as far as it has in five years.

In the beginning, the great challenge for the boys who enroll at Delta Streets is the radical difference in the culture between the public and the private school. The structure and the discipline hit them hard at first because they have never had rules and consequences. Some push the boundaries, and some decide it’s not for them, but the ones who persevere flourish and will go on to bright futures and better lives than they have known.

Although T.Mac says the students themselves are pretty color-blind, he would very much like to attract minority staff. The racial reconciliation aspect of Delta Streets is just a beautiful byproduct of the Christian foundation. “It’s just in the culture at Delta Streets.”

Certificates of excellence presented to three young students.

When the Delta Streets students play other schools in the MAIS, the opposition is usually a private academy whose founding was all about preserving segregation. T.Mac could not be happier with the way his well-mannered students conduct themselves on the field or on the basketball court. He watches the walls come down.

Discipleship is a huge part of DSA. “We have an open enrollment,” he says. “Anybody can come here for $75 a month, but you have to choose to follow. I totally get that this is not for everybody, but our students are learning life skills that they would not be getting in the public school. They’re getting structure, discipline, work ethic, rules, and a sense of their worth and value as children of the God who loves them and desires the best for them.”

Changing Lives in Marks

About 70 miles north of Greenwood is the little town of Marks where the local economy was once dependent on the health and wealth of the large Delta farms. The radical transformation in farming operations hit Quitman County hard. Compounding that shrinking demand for an unskilled labor force was the effect of NAFTA, which closed small manufacturing plants taking those few jobs as well.

The railroad runs through the center of the once busy downtown. Many empty storefronts line the main street, and several beautiful old churches are in close proximity. Well-kept homes and lawns in the neighborhood hint that once upon a time this was a thriving Delta town.

Jaby Denton is a fourth generation Marks stakeholder. His family has forever owned a large farming operation in Quitman County. His entire life was lived right there until he moved his family to Oxford. When his children were in high school, he wanted them to have opportunities that were simply no longer there for them in Marks. He became a daily commuter between farm and home.

Although his children moved on to college, Jaby didn’t move back to Marks right away. Oxford was booming. He began attending a men’s weekly inspirational breakfast group at a local restaurant. Guest speakers each week discussed a myriad of topics. Jaby happened to attend one morning when T. Mac Howard was there to tell the story of Delta Streets Academy.

Either T. Mac or God spoke to Jaby in a big way. He wanted to spark the same kind of revival in Marks. And so he moved back to the farm and began to assess and plan. He found that in assessing the needs, they were even more overwhelming than he had imagined at first. Among one of the first things he discovered almost by accident was that a huge number of ninth and tenth graders in the local high school were not able to read.

Jaby Denton, a fourth-generation Marks resident shares his vision for a community park and sports fields with Marilyn Tinnin.

Meanwhile, Jason Stoker of Starkville, Executive Director of Reclaimed Project, spent an anniversary weekend in Greenwood. He was there to eat well, take a cooking class for fun at Viking Cooking School, and have some real downtime with Shannon, his wife. But they drove around enough to get an unvarnished picture in his mind of what poverty in the Delta looked like. It reminded him of what he saw on his visits to Africa.

He was thoroughly convinced that Reclaimed’s next ministry outreach needed to be in the Mississippi Delta—but where? Jason called Jill Freeze knowing she and Hugh had been great supporters of Reclaimed and he knew they had also been interested in some ministries in the Delta. Jill indirectly put him in touch with Jaby, who, in Jason’s words “has been the game changer.”

Local leadership and local “buy in” is, next to Jesus Christ, the most important factor in getting an effort off the ground and maintaining the momentum. Jaby has an “umbrella” vision for revitalizing Marks, and he has been able to do things that no outsider could possibly have done.

However, Reclaimed ministry’s piece of the pie is key. Reclaimed’s heart is for the children with a holistic and long-view approach. The strategy for “reclaiming” the Delta is not far removed from the strategy for “reclaiming” anybody anywhere. What are the short-term needs that will undergird the long term goals?

Will Overstreet, Pastor of First Baptist Church of Marks, points out the view of Marks Main Street from one of the loft apartments presently under renovation in a vintage downtown landmark.

The same ills that have affected public education across other parts of Mississippi have hit this Delta town especially hard. Finding and keeping teachers has been next to impossible. Aside from the run down facilities and the lack of family stability, teachers who might come to Marks had no options for places to live.

One of the first things Reclaimed did was to purchase a building in downtown Marks with the plan to repurpose it as a place for single teachers to live. It’s a very cool loft, apartment-style community of six private apartments sharing a common area, a kitchen, and a laundry room. Keeping its restoration true to the 1930 period of its origin means huge windows, high ceilings, old brick, and an aesthetic that would be enticing to most any 20 something! Rent-free and a commitment for two years seem like a generous contract.

The renovation of the building has been a real showcase for how the body of Christ works. The pro bono contributions in materials and time from contractors, electricians, and construction specialists have saved thousands and thousands of dollars. Ridgecrest Baptist Church in Ridgeland has a special group of volunteers who man their own construction ministry. They are all professionals whose day jobs involve building, but they usually take at least one trip a year giving their services for free to a cause that builds the body of Christ.

Tim Blocker, stewardship minister, with a lot of support from builders Ty Gardner and Jon Ramsay, has led a team of about 30 devoted volunteers who have spent many a Saturday in the last few months renovating the building that will house the teachers.

Reclaimed is about $40,000 shy of being able to finish the building debt-free. The plan is to have it complete and ready for move-in before the 2017 fall session begins.

Jason speaks highly of the leadership at the public school. There is a dedicated team who shares the vision for discipling and equipping students. There is an esprit de corps between Reclaimed and the school administration that is filled with hope for the immediate future.

Reclaimed is also about job creation. One thing that differentiates the Greenwood ministry from the Marks ministry is the presence of jobs. Not many jobs exist in Marks. Reclaimed wanted to do something about that, so taking their blueprint from their ministry in Lesotho and Botswana, they began looking for skills among the ladies of Marks.

Bethany Kuenzli, Director of Reclaimed Marketplace, came up with some patterns for aprons and pillows that the Marks ladies could sew. Many of them had worked in upholstery and garment factories and knew more than rudimentary things about sewing. The concept is much like the micro businesses that have helped support locals in third world countries. A volunteer from Jackson’s Fondren Church planned to teach a class for several Marks ladies on how to do more elaborate things – like bedding. It would be a gold mine for the ministry if a few moms decorating daughters’ dorm rooms let the Reclaimed ladies do their custom sewing.

When the instructor began her first class in Marks, she quickly discovered these ladies were already master seamstresses. They just needed the materials to put their skills to work. Mississippi Magazine was planning their Mercantile Shopping Event in early May. This was an opportunity to attract business. Premier Fabrics donated yards and yards of fabric. The Marks ladies worked their magic to create comforters, curtains, pillows, and dust ruffles. Hopefully, this will be an ongoing job-producing cottage industry to help the Reclaimed Project and the Marks revival.

Jason Stoker is definitely the kind of guy who can rally others to the vision. During spring break he took about 50 families from First Baptist Church in Starkville to Marks to do a four-day camp. (Let that sink in—a spring break vacation with no snow skiing, no beach, no place exotic, but going to Marks, MS to serve strangers)

The smiles on the faces of local children tell the story of happy times at the spring day camp conducted by the Reclaimed Project from Starkville.

The Starkville families took their children, and most of them stayed in the homes of the very grateful Marks families who wanted to be involved in the Reclaimed efforts. They wanted to bring black and white together, but they welcomed the know-how of Reclaimed.

First Baptist offered their facility for daytime activity, and First United Methodist took on feeding the volunteers every night. It was a week of bonding and learning and wrapping many heartstrings around the mission.

The locals and the children of the volunteers played side by side. They had a total blast, and they were completely color-blind. That in itself inspires hope.

Jason also learned that as the small town ages and the job market disintegrates, the young who go off to college, understandably do not return. The underclass continues to grow. They are children created in the image of an eternal God, and they need hope and a future.

Reclaimed longs to help create that.

The Heart of a Change Agent

Ole Miss alumnus Daniel Myrick, like T. Mac Howard, grew up in Brandon and attended Northwest Rankin. Jason Stoker had been his middle-school pastor at Pinelake Church. He had participated in mission trips through Pinelake and knew his calling was to be a coach and a teacher.

He signed on to teach in Marks his first year out of college. Expecting it to be hard, he found it to be even harder. There were some long days and some emotional lows. Teaching in Marks was about so much more than the classroom instruction.

As the assistant basketball coach, his team lost the first 14 games of the season. “That’s 14 post-game talks you have to have with the players, and after a while, you run out of things to say,” he says. Daniel persevered believing that his team wasn’t losing due to lack of talent. He continued to pour into the team, and they responded by working hard and trying harder. “Eventually we did win one, and then we won another. We kept winning, went to a district tournament, played the number one seed and won the district championship for the first time in twelve years.”

A very committed Daniel sees that win as symbolic of something more—something about hope and a future that is brighter than the one staring his players in the face today. He is coming back to Marks this fall and will be living in one of the Reclaimed apartments.

“If I can make a difference in just a few lives, those kids will change this community,” he says.

After all, wasn’t Jesus Christ all about relationships?

One of his brightest stars is a student named Daisia. She has a sister who is attending college at USM, and Daisia’s dream is to get there, too. Daniel has no doubt she can and will. These are her words and part of a letter she wrote in answer to Daniel’s question, “What would you want me to tell others about Marks?”

Dear Those Who I Believe Will Make a Change,

Where I’m from, I’m pretty sure everyone is familiar with the struggle. Whether it’s no lights or all you have is cold water, everyone is familiar with it. Everyone who ever had a chance to make it out of this place I call the “Waiting Place” never comes back. It’s like escaping from a living hell.

The reason I like calling it the “Waiting Place” is because some just sit around thinking, not getting up doing nothing. But how can one take action when there is nothing around to take action about? … It’s like once you’re in the Waiting Place, you can’t get out because you don’t know which path to take.

But people like you are the only chance for my people to finally escape the Waiting Place. Every day and every night I pray for someone who actually believes in us to come and make a change…It would be such a blessing if you all took time out of your personal schedule to devote some of your time to help my people of Quitman County.

What Is the Future?

God, bless the T. Mac Howards and the Jason Stokers, the Daniel Myricks and the Jaby Dentons of the world. I asked them all if tackling the layers of issues in the Delta is a little like eating an elephant. That old cliché answers that it IS possible to eat an elephant one bite at a time.

Jason has a much better analogy. He compares tackling the problems in the Delta to peeling an onion. With every layer removed, the onion gets smaller.

No doubt, in the Delta, there are layers and layers of issues that have multiplied over several generations. What matters most at this intersection of time is that God’s people pay attention. In the kingdom of Light and Dark, there exists a great opportunity for impact at the moment.

The epistle of James is pretty clear. “If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.” James 2:15-17.

Lord, make us your vessels!

By Marilyn Tinnin, a former Miss University at Ole Miss. This story was originally published in Mississippi Christian Living Magazine

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suchthingbutnever · 7 years

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Weird Time Travel Sends 21st Century Hipster Jon To The Wall (a.k.a., what I did at 3 A.M. last month)

So, this was an idea I had in the middle of the fucking night and I literally sat up and wrote five pages before I went back to sleep. It's Hipster!Jon navigating Westeros , maybe with Robb somehwere in there. Ahem.

It was absolutely fucking freezing when he woke up.

For a couple moments Jon remained where he was, refusing to open his eyes. He had one hell of a headache pounding away viciously at his temples, echoing the base of the pretentious minimalist techno they had played at the second flat party.

“Fuuuck,” he said with a croaky voice, laughing a little bit at himself. How was it so effin’ cold?

The heating had been broken for maybe a month now, and Jon had been too busy and, admittedly, also too lazy, to have someone come fix it. It was always easier to pile on layers and retreat into the cavern he called his bed, Netflix at the ready for another five episodes of Breaking Bad.

It wasn’t like any of his flat-mates were keen on the job, either. Leah had even said something along the lines of the seven degrees Celsius in their kitchen being romantic. She was crazy, that one.

“It’s fucking freezing,” he said to himself out loud, and sweet mother Mary’s G-string, his joints felt stiff. London wasn’t supposed to get this cold – foggy, yes, wet and uncomfortable as fuck, yes. He was born and bred in Yorkshire, for that he had been more than prepared.

But not this unforgiving, semi-arctic cold.

He opened his eyes, and blinked a few times. Then he closed them again, squeezing them shut and counting until nine and three-quarters.

Then he sat up abruptly, taking in the… the, room? Was it a room? Or a dingy cupboard? It seemed like he hadn’t made it home yesterday after all. Damn Haz and his fucking penchant for cocktails. Jon was usually more than good at holding his alcohol – hmm, so maybe he had overestimated himself. Too much booze could really mess with a lad.

“Oh fuckity fuck, it’s cold.”

He was sitting on a narrow single bed, with a really shitty mattress, and the blankets that had covered him appeared to be fur. Real animal fur, maybe like, from a bear? Or something else brown and shiny. They smelled really musky, which, ew.

Now that was just absolutely disgusting. Jon knew for sure that most of the people he ran with were at least flexible vegetarians.

He stared at the rest of the room in disbelief – housing in London was godawful, alright, but this was just way below acceptable. Jon wouldn’t rent the room even if they gave it to him for free, with a flat-screen TV on top.

Well, he’d say no after thinking about it really hard, at least. Living space was damned expensive, you could hardly blame him.

However he got here, wherever this godforsaken place was (probably way in the outskirts, so he’d have to get a bus to get to the tube), he needed to hightail it back to his own flat, because his thesis was still sitting in his laptop, waiting to be written, re-written and deleted. He really shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, fucking Haz and his uncontrollable dance-drive after three pints.

Jon started patting around for his clothes, especially his jeans. He really needed to find his phone and call Haz and maybe Ian, so he could find out where the fuck they had ended up. Also, Robb had texted him last night, at three in the morning, and Jon had almost flipped and texted him right back.

“Are you mad, ey? When was it ever a good idea to text your straight-boy crush back drunk off yer arse?” Ian, in his violet leotard and his scary going-out-tonight heels had stolen his phone away, laughing when Jon tripped over a beer bottle trying to get it back. Of course, now he was really thankful that his friends had prevented him from destroying the weird, tentative thing he had with pretty straight-boy Robb, as they all started calling him.

“PSBR”, for short.

Jon let out a frustrated growl, because his clothes from last night – a dark blue shirt, his favorite black jeans that made his arse “a subject of worship”, quote Ian, and whatever the hell he had bothered to put on underneath, all of it was gone. Instead, he was wearing a really scratchy linen top that looked way beyond the usual levels of organic.

And it was still really, really awfully cold.

He padded towards the rustic wooden door, complete with iron hinges, noting how rough the stone beneath his feet was. Pushing it open with difficulty, he found himself in yet another way-too-dark room, this one larger and stuffed with scrolls and old-looking leather-bound books, the type Leah used for her expensive medieval fantasy Cosplay. A fire was burning in one corner, a real fucking fire built from logs of wood and twigs that made cracking noises.

“I see you are feeling well again, my boy?”

“Holy fuckin’ Jesus Christ!” Jon jumped so high he might have crashed against the narrow ceiling of the strange place. Behind him stood a man, an old man so crinkled and wizened he was a whole head smaller than Jon. He was wearing a fur robe, long and jet-black, while around his neck hung a weird chain, each link a subtle, different colour. It actually looked really cool. Nice one, Grandpa.

“Hi, sir. I’m… uh, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you. I’m just looking for my phone. And my trousers, to be honest.” Jon put on his best polite face, cringing and dying a thousand deaths inside.

The old man remained silent, his wrinkly face quite blank. Then Jon got a closer look at his eyes, and realized they were an unfocussed, milky blue. The man was not only old, but blind as well.

“Hey, uhm. Sir? I’ll be on my way in a second, no worries, I just really need to find my phone. It’s an iPhone 6 with a grey case… oh, never mind.” Jon felt like smacking himself against the head. The man couldn’t see jack-shit, and here he stood describing his phone-case. With an uncomfortable jolt, he realized that he needed to find his keys and wallet as well. This was just getting better and better.

“Jon, why won’t you lie down again? I shall have Chett prepare some milk of the poppy, it seems that you need it.”

He froze at that. First off, why did this strange man know his name? Second, why was he using such a gentle tone with Jon, as if he was speaking to an emotionally unstable child? And third – “What the fuck is poppy milk?!”

Jon immediately felt bad for the outburst. The old man was probably just as confused as he was, yelling really helped no one. His mum had not driven him to expensive therapy sessions twice a week for nothing.

God, his mum. He really needed to call her back. She had left a voice message yesterday morning, all “How is my favorite gay son? When will you come back to Leeeeeds and visit me with your gay partner? Surely we won’t need to wait til gay Christmas?”

Her enthusiastic approval was well-meant, yeah, he got that.

Jon shook his head, toes slowly going blue from the icy floor. He needed to tail it, ASAP. He turned towards gothic grandpa, and found that he had tottered closer, reaching out as if to touch Jon’s forehead.

“Milk of the poppy is the most commonly used anesthetic in the Known World, with pain easing properties. It shall give you swift dreams, and ease your fever.” What a strange accent the old man had – and weird grammar, too. But then again, he seemed positively ancient.

“You want to give me opium?” Jon shook his head no, laughing. “And I’m definitely not running a fever, I really just need my stuff…”

A door to their left opened, and a gust of wind blew in, so terribly cold that Jon thought his ears and nose might fall off from the sudden, blazing pain. It was fucking snowing outside – and it had barely been below ten degrees these past few days. Global warming really was a bitch.

“Jon! You have woken, at last!”

A large teenager with a round face and a ridiculously furry black coat stepped in. He beamed a happy smile, in his hands a tray covered but smelling strongly of hot grease. It sort of turned his stomach, but Jon was really more focused on remembering where all these people knew him from.

Was it the drugs? He had only popped the usual E last night, courtesy of Haz and his dodgy contacts that sold them A-class weed every other month. Had someone slipped him something? Was it the super horny blonde guy with the silver eye-shadow who had mouthed at his neck? Was it… was it…

Instead of attempting to appear normal, Jon decided to try the direct route: “I’m sorry, where do I know you from?”

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Brothers on way with their duty stopped and stared as Jon stood bare-footed in the court yard and gaped at the Wall, a mighty presence towering above them, as it did every day.

Sam had set down Maester Aemon’s meal and hurried out after him, only to see him fall down the stairs leading towards the Rookery in an undignified half-slide. Jon, who was the most collected and capable of all the recruits, who wielded a sword better than anyone Sam knew.

“What. The. Fuck.” Jon bellowed, hands reaching up to wipe at his eyes, “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

Sam approached him gently, laying a hand on his shoulder: “Jon? Jon, come inside, will you? Maester Aemon…”

“I should’ve never tried shrooms, alright?! It was summer and everyone was doing them, and they are like, plants, natural plants! I’m literally so fucked right now.” Jon had turned to him, his eyes wild and desperate. “I’m seeing things.”

“Jon, what is it you speak of? Please come inside, you’ll freeze. Maester Aemon will give you sweetsleep, to calm you…” Sam hesitated briefly before steering Jon towards the stout timber maester’s quarters with added force. A quick glance around told him that more of the black brothers had gathered, some grinning and japing at the utterly disgraced, confused bastard of Winterfell.

Sam shot them dark looks.

“Where do I know you from? Like, really, was it last night? Did we have sex? You can just tell me, it’s fine – wait, are you even sixteen?” Jon was now looking at him once again, face drawn and pale, teeth chattering with the cold. “I mean you usually aren’t my type, but I literally remember nada, so…”

Sam quickly shut the doors, leading Jon towards the fire, gathering woolen blankets and heavy furs to pile on top of him. He made to stir the fire, adding a few logs. It wouldn’t do if Jon became seriously ill. If he was not already.

“I am Sam, … Samwell of House Tarly, Jon, you must know me. I… you’re my friend.” He gestured helplessly, reading the bewilderment in Jon’s gaze. “You took a hard fall while training at arms last morn, you were out of sorts, but Maester Aemon said you merely needed to rest, exhaustion, he said. Do you truly recall nothing?”

“We were to take our vows,” he added in a small voice, and for a moment dread filled his guts. Jon had been his first true friend, not only at Castle Black, but in all his life. Well, at Horn Hill he’d had his mother and sisters. He missed them desperately still, the small affections, the way his sisters would crowd around him for stories. Though not having to face Father, still soaked in deer’s blood before his mind’s eye, was a true blessing.

“What vows?” Jon asked, eyes squinted and gazing into the fire. He had, at least, ceased to shiver so violently. “Sam, it’s Sam, right? Can you please tell me where the hell I am,” he gulped down a shuddering breath, “and how I can get back to Brixton?”

Sam looked Jon straight in the eye, searching for a glint of recognition. Yet the man sitting before him was so utterly, completely at odds with the person Jon had been only yesterday. His voice had changed, ever so slightly, and the words he used were strange and foreign. Mayhaps Sam was going quite mad as well, but kneeling close to the fire, gazing steadily at his best friend, he seemed queerly… off.

“We are at Castle Black, Jon. Where is it that you want to go?”

“Home?” Jon laughed manically, gripping the furs covering his shoulder and pushing them away. “I’ve no recollection whatsoever of how I got here, yeah? I am fucking trippin’, to tell you the truth. Someone must’ve drugged me, whatever. I just need my phone.”

Sam was quite speechless at that. A “phone”? His “phone”? What did he mean? What was he missing? Then Sam perked up, and he scrambled to his feet, grabbing the furs to pile on top of Jon, once again.

He needed to find Ghost.

#asoiaf #fanfiction #jon snow #hipster #time travel #idea in the middle of the night #samwell tarly #maester aemon #cold as fuck #snippet #i just needed to post this #robb stark #pretty straight boy #gay

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theliterateape · 5 years

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Hope Idiotic | Part III

By David Himmel

Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

A MONTH LATER AT WORK, JUST BEFORE LUNCH, CHUCK BURST FROM HIS OFFICE into the area where Lou and I sat. He ran his hands through his short hair, clawing his scalp.

“Fucking Jesus!” he said.

Lou and I swiveled our chairs toward him and leaned back ready for the meltdown.

“Department meeting!” Chuck said. “Now! Cuba Café! Neal, you drive!”

“I can’t. I have to get gas.”

“Good. Get it on the way back.”

In the car, Chuck kept ripping at his head and cursing under his breath.

“You want to tell us what’s going on?” Lou asked.

“I need a beer first.”

Our department was going to be dissolved. “A restructuring,” is what the Palm Gaming executives called it. Although the three of us loathed the corporate humping we had to do to earn a buck, we had a pretty sweet seat up. While our department was independent and served much like a communication agency to the four Strip properties, the restructuring would require each property to manage its own internal communications. We were being split up. Worst of all, our positions would fall under the umbrella of the Human Resources Department.

Beyond the occasional legitimate sexual harassment problems or veiled threats of retaliatory violence from a disgruntled former employee, HR served little necessary purpose. It existed mostly as an employee party planner. Companywide emails from HR regularly looked like they were written in crayon. Lots of big, colorful fonts and clipart and seasonal-appropriate .gifs of Cupid, leprechauns, jack-o-lanterns and Santa Claus. I once brought in a flyer I received from Stephen’s daycare about an upcoming event. The flyer for young parents with babies looked just like an email HR sent to 70,000 adults employed at a casino regarding changes to the Employee Dining Room’s soda fountain. (There would be two Diet Coke dispensers — part of a new health initiative.)

A lot of the information we dispersed was at the behest of HR, but knowing that we weren’t technically HR employees was important to us. The days of freelancing on the Palm dime, joking around and extended drinking lunches were numbered.

“Melvin Wilson is going to be my direct supervisor,” Chuck said. Melvin Wilson was the company’s diversity golden boy: A mid-forties black man with an ex-wife and five children under the age of seven. He was a reformed juvenile delinquent, having served a stint at age 15 for selling crack to an undercover cop. After prison, he found Jesus, and from there, a job in human resources. If HR had a cheerleading team for the company, Melvin would be its captain. “And they’re making me the senior manager of communications at Tigris. So I’ll have a more hands-on boss to micromanage me while I’m managing a smaller department. The upgraded title is bullshit.”

“It comes with more pay, right?” I asked.

“Fifteen hundred a year,” said Chuck. Lou and I laughed.

“So what does this mean for us?”

“Nothing is official yet, but you’ll probably stay with me at Tigris. I’m worried about you, Lou.”

“Are they going to fire me?” Lou asked.

“No. You’ll be sent to one of the other properties. And the whispers are that Lancelot’s Kingdom is gunning for you.”

Lancelot’s was Palm’s unloved, ugly stepchild of a property. Built to look like a medieval castle and themed as such throughout, it had become a glorified motel with rooms-by-the-hour since falling into disarray when Vegas outgrew its family-friendly identity. It was where hospitality careers went to die and where visitors checked in with hopes of hitting the jackpot but checked out emotionally empty and financially broke, having realized how hard exploitive capitalist dreams can crash.

“When does all of this take effect?” Lou warily asked.

“Probably by the middle of June.”

“Well then, I wouldn’t worry too much about me.”

“Why?”

Lou took a big bite out of his Cuban sandwich, which had just been delivered to the table. “I’m moving to Chicago at the beginning of June.”

“What the fuck for?” I asked.

“To make something of myself. Become a real writer in a real city,” he said with his mouth full.

“Are you saying I’m not a real writer because I live in Las Vegas?”

“No! Of course not. I was trying to be funny.”

“Because you’d be right.”

“What are you talking about? You’re a real writer. You just published your second book.”

“I write corporate masturbatory dreck and hump editors’ legs for twenty-five cents a word. My book is being outsold 500-to-1 by The Twinkie Cookbook. I’m not a real writer. I’m a hack with a dusty PhD who changes his son’s shitty diapers in his spare time. The only time I see my wife’s tits is when she’s feeding my son. Chuck, you can’t let him do this. He can’t leave us here.”

Chuck was a clawing at his scalp even harder. A few more ounces of pressure and he would have separated it from his skull. But there was nothing he could have done.

Lou’s mind was made up. He was in love and he was going to leave us behind for the big city and the girl. His commitment to the grand gesture surprised even him.

My book is being outsold 500-to-1 by The Twinkie Cookbook. I’m not a real writer.

He had sworn off the idea of love after his last serious relationship four years before. It’s not that he didn’t believe love existed, but that love was a hassle. Back then, he’d just bought his house and had settled in nicely to the bachelor life. Without a girlfriend, he was free of relationship trappings like constant accountability and awareness of someone else’s moods and feelings. Without a girlfriend, he was able to come and go as he pleased, do what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He liked being on his own — alone but never lonely. Girls came and went without much emotional effort from either party, which Lou found idyllic. He never felt anxious or hurt as a result of another person. When he was younger, he wanted to have a wife and kids, but after experiencing the spoils of bachelorhood, he had decided that he would have been perfectly happy never being married or having a family of his own, but rather always be free and available for the excitement of first kisses and the wonderful strangeness of sleeping with strangers. He figured that his friends would have kids, and he could be their cool Uncle Louie.

But then Michelle happened. In only a few months, her affection for him, and his for her, made him feel that real, workable love could exist. They had already been friends for eight years. That meant she knew who he was. She knew his idiosyncrasies, and she didn’t seem to mind them one bit. She may have even loved him more because of them.

And now, as for the move, Michelle was the perfect catalyst. Lou’s return to Chicago had been in his plans since first arriving in Las Vegas ten years earlier. Since he had a job straight out of college, he decided that as soon as his career had outgrown Vegas, he’d make his way home again. The decade was staring him in the face, his career was in the best shape it had ever been in, and Michelle would be at his side. He had what he referred to as trajectory.

“What about your house?” Chuck asked.

“Glad you brought that up. I’d like to sell it and use the money to buy a place in Chicago. Until it sells, how about you live in it and pay me rent? You’re moving out of your place now anyway, so what the hell? You won’t find a better place for the money.”

“And when it sells?”

“I’ll give you thirty days to get out.”

“I’ll talk to Lexi about it.”

“Lexi?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re moving in together. Moving into your place, Lou, while we look for our own doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Everything discussed at this lunch sounds like a bad idea,” I said.

We ordered another round of beers before driving back to the office in silence.

✶

AS LOU’S EXODUS APPROACHED, THERE WAS A SHARED ANXIETY BETWEEN THE THREE OF US and especially between Chuck and him. It was more than painfully apparent that their more youthful, troublemaking days were behind them and that their time together was limited. Therefore, every moment together had to be savored. So, on a typically bright spring Sunday morning in Las Vegas, Chuck and Lexi came bursting into Lou’s home while he made breakfast in nothing but white boxer shorts.

“Let’s go!” Chuck yelled.

“Good Christ! What’re you doing?” Lou demanded.

“We’re going to the Grand Canyon today. The three of us. Get dressed.”

“Nice boxers, Lou,” Lexi teased.

“You’re lucky I’m wearing anything at all.”

“I rented a Jeep. It’s goddamn gorgeous out. Come on. We’ll get breakfast in Boulder City.”

It was a day well spent. They walked out onto the new Skywalk and laughed at the magnitude of how disappointing it was. They threw big rocks down and took bets with each other on how many seconds it would be before they heard a thud. They reveled in the idea that they were making changes to the earth through destruction. Lexi took a photograph of Chuck and Lou standing at the edge of a ridge with nothing below it but the absolute bottom. They went off-road through the Joshua-tree forest, and Lou made his case against the band U2 — pompous and riding its own coattails. They stopped at a quiet desert bar for a few beers and a couple games of tabletop shuffleboard. Lexi asked Lou if he thought he’d miss Las Vegas. “I’ll certainly miss being able to have days like this,” he admitted.

✶

A WEEK LATER, CHUCK AND LOU WERE DRIVING THROUGH THE DESERT AGAIN, this time one-hundred-twenty miles north to the small mining town of Beatty, Nevada. This was a routine getaway location for the guys. It was on the edge of Death Valley, so there would usually be a couple of geology students from some university there studying its soil and plant life and temperatures. At night they drank at the Sourdough Saloon, situated on the main road just before the only stoplight in town.

The Sourdough Saloon had a large horseshoe-shaped bar where an Amazonian bartender served cold beers at two-fifty each, whiskey and tequila for four bucks, and generic frozen pizza from the supermarket for five dollars a pie. Old rifles and taxidermied heads of big-horn sheep adorned the walls. The jukebox was loaded with Dion and The Belmonts, and Johnny Cash.

This trip, like all the others, was a raucous spectacle. Lou drove them to Beatty in record time. When they walked into the bar, the bartender was in a shouting match with an equally large, though slightly less masculine, patron. From what the boys could tell, things were about to get out of hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” Chuck asked Lou.

Lou noticed a short, older man at the other side of the bar watching them. He must have sensed their confusion, because when he and Lou made eye contact, the man nodded slightly and began to walk around to them. He didn’t look like the average local. Instead of worn work jeans and a tattered undershirt with a trucker hat, this man wore khaki chinos, a blue button-down and a faded blue baseball cap. When he reached them, the bartender had a handful of the enemy patron’s hair and was shaking his skull the way a dog shakes a dead rat in its mouth. Lou whispered to Chuck, “I think this guy is going to fill us in.”

The old man smiled with one corner of his mouth as he reached into his pocket, then brought his hand to his neck and spoke in a slow, humming robotic voice. “iT’S oK. THeY’Re BroTHeR aND SiSTeR.”

Lou at first didn’t see the stoma in the man’s neck because he was too far away. And by the time he was close enough, Lou’s focus was on the battle at the bar. The man had to speak through a mechanized voice box. Chuck laughed. Lou thanked the man and offered him the barstool next to them. “Buy you a beer?” Lou offered.

“BuDWeiSeR. ThaNK YoU,” the man buzzed.

The fight ended shortly after that. Chuck and Lou drank heavily. When the old man was drunk enough and had left the bar, nerdy geology students replaced him. Chuck told the bartender he wanted her to show him her tits. She threatened to kick his ass. Lou offered to kick her ass instead. Then he apologized, bought her a shot and she backed down. They dropped twenty-eight bucks in the jukebox and played Dion’s “Runaround Sue” on repeat for an hour. With the little cash either of them had left — a couple of ones and a five — they scribbled messages on them and stapled them to the ceiling amidst other paper currency. They read:

Help! I’m lost. If found, please call Chuck Keller at 702-353-8068; This dollar bill was once touched by a real live Jew; Figure it out. – CK and LB, May 2007.

At one point, Lou escaped to the bathroom to vomit. When he returned, Chuck was gone. “Did you see my friend?” Lou slurred at the bartender.

“The little bastard was asking to see my tits again. I threw him out. Next time I’ll kill him.” Lou laughed. “Fuck you!” she yelled. “Get the fuck out of here!”

Chuck didn’t make it far after being tossed out on his ear. He ended up passed out in a heap in the street, using the sidewalk curb as a pillow. “Let’s go, asshole,” Lou said, as he kicked him. “We have to get off the street.”

They had enough sense to secure a hotel room before going to the bar, and once they found Lou’s car, which was in the Sourdough’s rear parking lot, Lou drove them to the hotel. He tried to anyway. All the booze rendered his short-term memory and global cognitive ability completely useless. He knew what the hotel looked like — a series of white, aluminum-sided trailers. He knew it was only two blocks from the Sourdough. But instead of driving there, Lou blew through the stoplight and drove away from town, north on U.S. 95 with Chuck comatose in the passenger seat. Where the fuck am I? he wondered.

After an hour of weaving the lane and the shoulder, he saw a small red light ahead and thought, Great, a whorehouse. I’ll pull in, and we’ll just sleep there. He and Chuck had been to brothels before. Not as customers, but as curious journalism students on a road trip to Lake Tahoe. He knew these places had what were called trucker rooms, which could be rented by the hour — much like the girl — for the long-haul truckers in need of sleep who passed by on America’s loneliest road.

But no one answered the door of the small house when Lou knocked. So he went back to the car and drove toward what he hoped was back to Beatty. An hour later, he was in town but still couldn’t find the hotel. He thought, Fuck it, I’m parking it right here and going to sleep.

He woke up to Chuck slapping him in the face. The late-spring desert sun was pouring through the car windows, cooking them both.

“Hey! Wake up, you fucking asshole. Why are we sleeping in the car? And in a gravel parking lot?”

“Because I couldn’t find the damn hotel last night. Drove more than an hour on the highway. Was just going to rent a trucker room for us at a whorehouse, but no one answered.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t find the hotel?”

“I mean I have no idea where it is.”

Chuck pointed straight ahead through the windshield and laughed. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Lou had given up looking for their hotel in the hotel’s parking lot. The white, aluminum-sided trailers were about ten yards away from the car. It was morning, and they had to head home, but, since they spent the money, they figured they should get some use out of the room. They stormed the place like savages, ripping the bedding apart to get between the sheets catch some proper sleep for a few hours before showering and heading back to Las Vegas.

Dehydrated and hung over, the drive back felt much longer than the ride there the night before. Plus, they had reached the end of what was going to be their last adventure together for a while. Lou was leaving in a week.

“When did you know you loved her?” asked Chuck.

“Maybe when she first kissed me.”

✶

IT WAS THE DAY BEFORE NEW YEAR’S EVE 2006 — her birthday. Like always, Michelle was back in Vegas to celebrate the holidays and her birthday with her parents. After a birthday dinner at a steakhouse inside the high-end neighborhood casino resort with her parents, she invited Lou to join them at one of the casino bars. Her parents were both smashed and giving away twenty dollar bill after twenty dollar bill to the bartop poker machines. Michelle was drunk, too, but sober enough to refuse to get into the car and go home with her mom and dad in the sloppy shape they were in. Lou offered to give her a lift. On the way home, they made a stop at her favorite taqueria.

“You know, you really missed your window with me,” she said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your window to be with me. All of those times we were each other’s stand-in dates to things, you never once tried to kiss me. And now it’s too late. You missed your window.”

“I didn’t know there was an open window.”

“That’s exactly your problem, Mr. Bergman. You. Don’t. Know.” She flipped her blond hair as she turned her head to look away from him out her window. This was how she flirted — by giving him a hard time.

When Lou pulled into the drive-thru, Michelle unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face him, her back against the passenger door. “When you finish ordering, I’m going to kiss you,” she said.

Lou looked at her and laughed.

“Welcome to Los Tacos. Order when you’re ready,” the voice crackled from the intercom.

“I’ll have three regular tacos, two chicken soft tacos and…” he turned to Michelle who was still perched against the door. “What do you want again?”

“Two tacos and an order of nachos. And a Diet Coke.”

He turned back to the intercom. “Two tacos and an order of nachos.”

“And a Diet Coke!” Michelle said.

“I know. Relax. And a Diet Coke. Please.”

“That’ll be seven-fifteen. Second window.”

Before Lou could even depress the clutch, Michelle pounced. She swung her right leg around so that she was straddling him. It was a tight squeeze, and their faces were close.

“You’re kidding me,” he said.

She looked deeply into his eyes for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and slow and hard. It was deep and shallow. It was passionate. It was incredible. And when it was over, it left Lou dazed.

Michelle looked at him and said, “Okay. Now that that’s done, we can go back to being friends.” She swung her leg back around, plopped down in the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt. The car in line behind them honked. Lou looked at her.

“You can do that again if you want.”

“Nope. That’s it. Just showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”

He pulled up to the window, paid and drove her home. As they divided the tacos in her parents’ driveway, Lou asked her, “You’re still going to be my date for my New Year’s party tomorrow, right?”

“Of course. We’re friends. And friends don’t stand each other up. Besides, my parents are going, too. I’m not going to stay home alone.”

“All right. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Then I guess you will. Goodnight, Mr. Bergman. Thanks for the birthday tacos.”

“Thanks for the birthday kiss.”

She smiled at him and headed into the house.

By the morning, he was over the kiss. It was no big deal. He kissed girls all the time. But when she showed up at the party wearing a perfectly fitting little black dress, he felt butterflies in his gut. And at midnight, they kissed again. And when the party was over, they drank the last of the champagne on his bed. And she spent the night with him. And as they lay together, Michelle Kaminski took Lou Bergman’s head in her hands and said, “This face… I’ll never look at it the same again. What have we started?”

✶

“WHAT DOES IT FEEL LIKE?” Chuck asked. “To fall in love?”

“Just like you remember. Except better.”

They drove a few silent miles. Then Chuck said, “I met a girl.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her name is Gina Acerbi. She’s that pretty Italian girl who works up in sales and catering. Tiny little thing; great tits. She was in my diversity training class. I don’t know what to do.”

“What is there to do? Nothing wrong with knowing a cute girl.”

“There is if I’m fucking her.”

“Jesus Christ, Chuck. You and Lexi are moving in together in a week.”

“I didn’t plan on it. Jesus, man. Like Michelle, she just came out of nowhere.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I want to feel what you feel. I want to know what it’s like to love someone so much — and know that they love you just the same — that you’re willing to throw away your entire life just to be a part of theirs. I want that. I want that passion of making out in a fast-food drive-thru. I want those goddamn butterflies. You know what I get now? I get to move in with a girl — who I care about, and yeah, I love her — but a girl who reads the Bible in bed. You can imagine what my sex life has been like with her.”

Chuck had a point. He’d always been a sexual animal, often a crazed beast with an enduring tumescence. And whenever he and Lexi had a mini-breakup, he made sure to do as much migratory humping as possible.

“The Bible is sexy. In parts. Violent, too. That ought to turn you on,” Lou said.

“The Bible doesn’t give me butterflies.”

“And Gina does?”

“And Gina does.”

Part I Part II

#Novel #Novel Excerpt #Fiction #Chicago Fiction #Las Vegas #Las Vegas Fiction #David Himmel Author #David Himmel Fiction #Hope Idiotic

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hottytoddynews · 7 years

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T.Mac and Meagan Howard are the parents of a three-year-old and almost 2-year-old twin boys!

He taught at GHS for one more year, but in his mind, he was prepping to start the ministry before the next fall rolled around.

Swayze Waters (far left) and T.Mac Howard (far right) teamed up to coach these aspiring young athletes at Delta Streets Academy.

The first graduating class of Delta Streets Academy 2017.

Certificates of excellence presented to three young students.

Changing Lives in Marks

Jaby Denton, a fourth-generation Marks resident shares his vision for a community park and sports fields with Marilyn Tinnin.

Will Overstreet, Pastor of First Baptist Church of Marks, points out the view of Marks Main Street from one of the loft apartments presently under renovation in a vintage downtown landmark.

Reclaimed is about $40,000 shy of being able to finish the building debt-free. The plan is to have it complete and ready for move-in before the 2017 fall session begins.

The smiles on the faces of local children tell the story of happy times at the spring day camp conducted by the Reclaimed Project from Starkville.

The locals and the children of the volunteers played side by side. They had a total blast, and they were completely color-blind. That in itself inspires hope.

Reclaimed longs to help create that.

The Heart of a Change Agent

“If I can make a difference in just a few lives, those kids will change this community,” he says.

After all, wasn’t Jesus Christ all about relationships?

Dear Those Who I Believe Will Make a Change,

What Is the Future?

Jason has a much better analogy. He compares tackling the problems in the Delta to peeling an onion. With every layer removed, the onion gets smaller.

Lord, make us your vessels!

By Marilyn Tinnin, a former Miss University at Ole Miss. This story was originally published in Mississippi Christian Living Magazine

Follow HottyToddy.com on Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat @hottytoddynews. Like its Facebook page: If You Love Oxford and Ole Miss…

The post Salt & Light: A Revival In The Delta appeared first on HottyToddy.com.

#hottytoddy #olemiss #oxfordms #oxford ms #mississippi #university of mississippi #the grove

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