#ended up on the other side of the house wedges under a lawn chair (???? lawn chair = safety apparently) on top of a vent

[jimlingss]

Sugar and Coffee [18]

Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 18.5 OR Chapter 19

➜ Words: 4.5k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

It’s funny how things come and go in life.   The longer you live and the more things you experience, you realize just how fickle living can be. The events that you anticipate the most come and go while the ones you dread linger. The people you expect to stay with you leave — and the people you expect to leave end up staying.    Similarly, the internship that you had been so worried and excited for was finally finished.    It was sad to say goodbye and to leave the shop behind. You genuinely loved being there, learning and spending your time perfecting your craft. Even bratty Yuna was sad to bid you farewell — the two of you had grown fond of each other over the months, so you sent her a card right when you got home yourself and you heard from Namjoon that she had pinned it on her wall.   Luckily, you knew that this goodbye wouldn’t be a permanent one. It was different to other goodbyes you’ve had in the past.    Namjoon and Sejeong assured both you and Jungkook a million times that it was only temporary — that they’d be happy to hire you back after your schooling is finished if you so happened to choose to work for them again. And it’s a proposition that still interests you greatly. You’re not sure what Jungkook wants to do — but you know you’d love to return and continue making wedding cakes under their mentorship someday.   But for now you had to return on your path.   The end of Summer was quickly approaching, and you find yourself coming back to where it started.   Well. Sort of.   In actuality, you were standing on Jungkook’s parents’ doorstep. Suitcase in hand. Full of hesitance and uncertainty. Fingers kept away from the doorbell. You’re not sure if this is a place that would welcome you again. But Jungkook had insisted. He pressed on, insisting that you should visit his family again, to at least come see him for a few days with the Summer that remained left.   He whined about how much he missed you. And you had to admit, you missed him too.   So here you were, like a complete idio—   “God, okay! I’m throwing out the trash now!”   The door opens.    The boy freezes. He stares at you with rounded eyes as you stare back at him. He’s dressed in a worn t-shirt and gym shorts, flopping hair sticking out in all directions like he just woke up even though it’s well past noon. One hand is on the handle, the other is holding a black garbage bag.   Slowly the corner of your mouth quirks. “Hi.”   A stupidly big grin plasters across Jungkook’s face and spreads into his cheeks as his eyes light up with mirth. Jungkook’s voice softens. “When’d you get here?”   “Just now.”   He drops the garbage and is about to come and hug you, but something shoots out from between his legs to engulf you in a tight embrace instead.   “Y/N!” Eunbi’s summer dress flutters in the breeze and you lift her up as best as you can with a smile.   Lia follows quickly behind, wearing a big smile and she turns over her shoulder. “Y/N’s here!”   “She’s here?” Someone comes stumbling from the kitchen, throwing her kitchen towel aside.   Jungkook’s dad comes out from the backyard, having heard the ruckus. “She’s here.”   “She’s here!” Eunbi repeats in giggles and your arms widen when Lia joins in greeting you with a hug.   Jungkook sighs wistfully, separated from you by his overbearing family members.   Yet, all the worries you had about being welcomed or not instantly vanishes.   They greet you warmly — Jungkook’s dad asking how you’ve been, how exams and classes and the internship was. You’re bombarded with curious questions and enthusiastic answers, only spared when Jungkook’s mom pulls you to the kitchen where she has a whole countertop of food prepared.   She wasn’t sure what you liked to eat, so she made everything she could when she heard you were coming and you can’t find it in your heart to reject her hard efforts. So you consume as much as you can before Eunbi tugs you aside to join her tea party with Lia. You find out their parents have gone for a last-minute trip, so they’ve been staying at their aunt’s and uncle’s, obviously having a blast by the looks of it, especially now with you here.   It’s only when Jungkook turns on a Disney movie and makes them sit down to watch that he’s finally able to sneak you away.   “Sorry about that.”   He shuts the door to his room, sighing at how difficult it was to get a hold of you in his own house.   “It’s okay. I love your family.”   “That makes one of us,” Jungkook mutters and sulks. “You try spending twenty four hours a day seven days a week with them and see how they can drive you nuts.”   “Aww, poor baby. Your family cares about you, how horrible.” Your voice drips of sarcasm and you feign sympathy, reaching over to pat him on the back.    Jungkook scoffs but takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you. He leans down enough to accommodate for the height difference and he props his chin on your shoulder. His nose digs into your hair, breathing in. You’re ticklish from his grip. “Jungkook…”   “I missed you.”   “It’s only been what?” You rest your head on his shoulder, giving into his warmth. “Two weeks?”   “Long enough.”   “School starts in another week. If I didn’t come, you still would’ve seen me.”   “Yeah, but what if I died before then and couldn’t see you ever again?” he whines and it’s hard to resist the small smile tugging at your lips.   But you manage to pull away from him and roll your eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”   The boy grins and takes a seat on his chair by his old computer desk while you plop down onto the edge of his bed. “So….what have you been up to?”   “You act like we haven’t called and texted each other every single day.”   “Yeah, but I don’t know what the trip was like up here.”   “Fair enough,” you hum. “I guess all that really happened is that I sat next to this really handsome man on the bus here who shared my interests and hobbies. And we had a hot, passionate summer fling and we decided to make this a long-term thing, so we’re getting married. Sorry to say, Jeon, but you’ve lost your chance.”   You laugh and his eye twitches.    In an instant, you’re being pinned to his mattress with Jungkook hovering above you. His knee wedges between your legs, hands pressed flat next to your head. The dark strands of his hair grazes against your forehead and you sink deeper into his pillows. But even in such a compromising position, you can’t help but muse how cute he looks feigning anger like this.   “I’m trying to be nice here, but you’re always testing my patience, brat. You really think I won’t kill you one day?”   “You wouldn’t.” You quirk your head to the side, hands grasping at his forearms. Your eyes glimmer with a challenge before they flicker up to the posters lining his wall. “Not with IU watching.”   He grins, a small laugh coming from his nose. “Jieun would understand.”   You snort and he helps you sit up. “Do your parents know…?”   “No. Otherwise, you’d be on the phone with my grandma right now. They’re overbearing enough as it is.”   You nod. “They don’t think it’s weird that I’m here?”   “No.” Jungkook scoffs. “God, they love you. Isn’t it obvious? They think you’re a ‘good influence’ on me. Better than Taehyung and Jimin are, at least. Those two are just idiots no matter where they go, so my parents are always concerned that all of us will get into fender benders.”   He uses air quotes when he says ‘good influence’ and you bat his arm. “I am a good influence on you.”   “Uh-huh.” Jungkook eyes you skeptically. “They should see you when you get mad—”   “I don’t get mad.”   “—and when you start swearing. Or the amount of dirty, dirty things you can say…”   “Jungkook,” your whine tapers off when he suddenly lays a hand on your upper thigh. Jungkook’s half-lidded eyes and heavy gaze flickers down to your lips. He starts to lean in, head angling and your breath catches in your throat in eager anticipation. Your eyes flutter shut.   But you never feel the velvet texture of Jungkook’s lips against yours.    Instead, there’s a loud knock that startles you both to death. Then, the door opens. And the boy, whose lap you were nearly perched on, is already back on his desk chair, whirling around.   “Hey, Y/N.” Jungkook’s dad is smiling wide. “What are you guys up to?”   “We’re just talking,” his son deadpans. “Is there something you need?”   “Nope.” The middle-aged man who uncannily has Jungkook’s eyes leans on the doorframe with arms crossed casually. “Just thought I’d pop by, see what’s going on, let you know your mom thinks you two can bring Lia and Eunbi into town to pick up some groceries….”   “Okay. We can do that later.”   There’s a terrible, awkward silence as Jungkook’s dad hangs around. It makes the younger frown. “Is there something wrong?”   “No.” He shakes his head, slowly starting to turn away before Jungkook dies in modification. But then he stops and looks back with a smile playing at his lips. “You guys should keep the door open though. House policy. Not mine but your mother’s. You know...she doesn’t want any funny business happening.”   “Dad.”   “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” His hands are lifted up in the air and he laughs it off. The older man pushes the door so it’s wide open and then waltzes away.   Jungkook’s sigh is long enough to empty out his lungs and you giggle at their interaction.   The walk to town is lovely. The end of Summer keeps the weather from sweltering or being uncomfortable. It’s warm with a brisk wind kissing against your cheeks.   You consider just how cozy this town is, small houses and big lawns, white picket fences and scalloped shingle rooftops. The grocery store is modest too and several people greet Jungkook when he enters, asking how he’s been and if you're someone special to him.   It’s a place where everyone knows everyone and it’s cute. You never considered Jungkook to be a small town boy, but it’s somehow fitting.   “We need to get apples, cucumbers, scallions….” He flips over the list, trying to discern his mom’s chicken scratch as he pushes the shopping cart. “Uh…..that either says potatoes or tomatoes.”   “Can we get this?!” Eunbi holds up a box bigger than her body. The doll inside is smiling.   Jungkook doesn’t even glance at it. “No.”   “Awww.”   The four of you walk down the cereal aisle and Jungkook stops for a detour. He picks two to compare and concentrates too hard for such a menial task. “I didn’t know cereal was on our list,” you say while peeking over his shoulder.   “I like cereal,” he mumbles.   In spite of taking a full minute on deliberating what brand he wants, Jungkook ends up settling for both. He places them into the cart and continues pushing it down the aisle while humming. You keep a watch on Eunbi in the meanwhile to make sure she doesn’t get lost, but soon Lia comes back with something in hand. “Y/N, can we please make this together?”   The seven year old has a bright, red box of chewy fudge brownie mix. Automatically, you and Jungkook’s faces twist in abhorrent disgust.   “It says we just need...egg, water, and oil!” she reads off of it proudly.   “No, we don’t need a box to make brownies,” you coax with a smile. “We can make it fresher. A few more steps and it’ll taste worlds better than the box.”   “Really?”   “Really.”   “Yay!” Eunbi’s loudly cheering in the middle of the grocery store, arms in the air and hopping up and down. “We get brownies!”   “What’s even in here?” Jungkook takes the box and flips it around. His eyes narrow in on the tiny letters of the ingredient list. “Sugar, enriched bleached wheat flour? What’s carrageenan? Pft, artificial flavour?” He arrogantly tosses it aside. “We don’t need that. We’re professionals.”   You snort. “Uh-huh. A professional who doesn’t even know how to make a moist cake.”   “At least I can temper chocolate,” he bites back without skipping a beat — without blinking or taking a breath. When Jungkook sees your shocked expression, he laughs heartily and throws an arm over your shoulder, nuzzling into you. “I’m kidding. Kidding.”   You scoff, throw his arm off of you. “No, you aren’t.”   “Are you fighting?” Eunbi grabs a hold of your shirt, tugging lightly.   “Only because Jungkook is mean,” you tell with an exaggerated pout.   It’s his turn to be offended. “You just said my cakes weren’t moist!”   You ignore him. “Let’s go, children. We don’t interact with bullies.”   Lia and Eunbi giggle, happy to go along with you and leave Jungkook in the dust, scrambling to roll the shopping cart behind you.   Eventually, the groceries are paid for and the walk back turns out to be equally enjoyable.    Once the four of you arrive back to the house, his parents are out working in the garden, so you and Jungkook put away the groceries together and pull out the necessary ingredients for brownies.   “We can probably make two batches.”   “I wanna do it with Y/N!” Lia immediately exclaims, jumping to your side. She leaves her younger sister frowning and on the verge of tears.   “No, I wanna!”   “How about me?” Jungkook stands in the middle of his own kitchen at a complete loss. It causes laughter to bubble from you.   “Okay, all three of us can do it together and we can verse Jungkook. How about that?”   They nod and Lia tells her cousin that he’s going down, teasing him mercilessly and you indulge them about how you’re better than Jungkook in everything at school — something he adamantly protests about.   Soon, all of you get to work. You teach them how to preheat the oven, grease the pans, and watch as the half cup of butter is melted in a saucepan. Lia and Eunbi help you measure out one cup of sugar and they each crack an egg into the butter.    Three quarter cups of cocoa are shifted into the mixture along with a half cup of flour, a quarter teaspoon of salt and a quarter teaspoon of baking powder. You show the two girls how to fold the ingredients gently together and you catch them a moment before they’re about to spoon the batter into their mouths.   They give stretching smiles and you help them spread it into a pan instead to bake.   It’s put in for half an hour, slightly underdone so it’s sweet and still gooey.   “It smells wonderful in here,” Jungkook’s mom gasps as she enters, taking off her garden gloves and wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Did you make something special?”   “Look auntie!” Eunbi is jumping, hands jittery, on a sugar high. “We made brownies!”   “Did you now?” She peers over the counter, brows raising. “My goodness, they look amazing.”   “We helped make them with Y/N,” Lia announces, mouth smeared in chocolate.   “Did you thank Y/N yet for showing you how to make them?”   Both girls instantly whirl around, thanking you with bashful and shy smiles. In the meanwhile, Jungkook’s mom is unable to resist and reaches over for a brownie. She groans at the taste and smacks her lips together.    “Don’t eat too much or it’ll ruin your appetite,” she says — much like how Jungkook often reminds you — and ironically bites into her brownie again. The woman turns to you. “These are delicious, dear.”   “They weren’t too hard to make.”   “You should show me the recipe, I’d love to bake these again.”   “I’ve made these before!” Jungkook complains in a higher pitched voice, eating his own brownies when no one takes them out of his pan.   But no one pays mind to him. Not his mother or his twirling cousins. “Of course, I can.”   You, on the other hand, do pay attention to Jungkook. You grin at him as he glares. And only later when there’s a moment of privacy will he tickle you as revenge for making his entire family love you more than him. It’s then that he finally gets the chance to kiss you too.   //   Dinner with the Jeon family is as you would expect it to be. Everyone inhales all the food and chit chats with one another. There’s warm banter shared across the dinner table as his parents make him talk about the trip to Tahiti, how the internship was and if he was on his best behaviour.   He gives you discreet, defeated looks to show how he’s so done with them and it’s hard to stifle your giggles.   Afterwards, you help him do the dishes as his cousins turn on a movie to watch and his parents finish off the brownies you made. Not long after that, everybody begins to retreat to their rooms.   “Aw, do we have to go to bed?”   “Yes. Don’t you want to help plant the flowers tomorrow?” Jungkook’s mom smooths out her hair. “Only big girls can help and you can only get big if you sleep and get strong.”   “Okay.” Lia sulks. “But can I at least say goodnight to Y/N?”   “Yes.” The older woman offers a rather maternal smile. “You can.”   Lia runs to you down the hall right as you leave the bathroom with your toothbrush in hand, catching you off guard. She hugs you tight. “Goodnight, Y/N!”   Eunbi is hot on her sister’s heels and you stumble back when she throws herself at you too. “Night, night, Y/N!”   “Goodnight, you two.”   “Can we play tomorrow?”   You ruffle the five year old’s hair. “Course we can.”   She beams and hops back, following her aunt. Her uncle is already inside their room, holding up books. “Who’s ready for story time?”   “Me!” Lia runs off and waves to you.   At the same time, Jungkook leaves his room to see their retreating forms and scoffs. “Wow, are they not going to wish me a goodnight?”   You slap his arm, laughing. “Stop being so jealous all the time. I can’t help that I’m so lovable.”   He scoffs and affectionately pokes your forehead with his index finger. “I can’t even argue with that.” The corner of his mouth curls and you grin.   Jungkook has that look in his eyes — the one you’ve learnt to recognize. He looks like he wants to kiss you, like he’s about to do it too, but the pair of you are interrupted by someone lingering in the hallway.   “Y/N, you’re sleeping in the guest bedroom, right?”   His mom looks at you and you nod quickly. “Yes, I am.”   “Good.” She relaxes and bobs her head. “Jungkook, you go back to your room now. There’s a long day tomorrow.”   He sighs, but doesn’t argue.   Jungkook turns right back around into his room and keeps the door slightly open for a second, enough to give you an incredulous look. It makes you smile and mouth ‘goodnight’ to him before he shuts the door.   His mom brings you to the guest bedroom, helping you set up for the night and asking if you need extra blankets and pillows.   “Are you sure everything’s okay?”   “Yes, it is. Thank you, Mrs. Jeon.”   “If you’re ever cold, feel free to grab anything from the closet.” When you nod, she gets to the door. Jungkook’s mom is about to turn off the light, but lingers. She twists around to share a smile with you. “Thank you for coming, Y/N. I’m glad to see you again.”   “No, thank you.” You’re caught off guard by her words of gratitude. “Honestly, I didn’t want to be such a bother.”   “You aren’t. Trust me.” She laughs, a tinkling sound emitting from her chest. “I’ve always wanted a daughter like you. Jungkook is two more handfuls than I can handle sometimes, especially when he was young.” The older woman shakes his head with a fond expression. “He might not look like it but he’s still very much a child. I worry about him being gone so far for so long out of the entire year. So, I’m glad there’s someone like you looking out for him.”   You’re touched by her sincerity, but you can’t help but feel like she’s gotten it wrong.   You awkwardly shift your weight from one foot to the other. “Mrs. Jeon—”   “You can call me auntie, if you’d like.”   You nod timidly. “Jungkook actually looks out for me a lot more than I do for him. He really helped me through a lot of tough times, so really, I should be the one thanking him….”   She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing. “Then I’m even more grateful that Jungkook’s not hopeless. It’s good that the two of you have one another.”   Part of you wants to tell her that you’re unequivocally in love with her son. But by the twinkle in her eye, you get a sense that she already knows the true nature between you and Jungkook.   You don’t need to say it aloud or make any announcements.   Her smile becomes more tender in the small silence and then she finally bids you a goodnight, flicking off the lights in the room.   You end up laying there for a while. You receive Jungkook’s text telling you this is so dumb and you laugh. The bright lights of your phone eventually burns your eyes too much, so you throw it aside, opting to stare at the ceiling and listen to his house.   You can hear doors closing, footsteps, the flicker of the hallway light turning off and more doors closing. Silence settles in for a good ten minutes, but before you can completely drift off to sleep, your door cracks open.   A familiar boy sneaks into your room with a soft sigh. He shuts the door silently and nimbly avoids all the creaks in the floorboards, knowing where each of them are after growing up and spending his childhood in these four walls.   “You’re not supposed to be here.” You sit up, covers pooling around your waist.   His feet slide and the mattress dips underneath his weight. “And I care because…?”   You scoff. “Rebellious, aren’t you, Jeon?”   “You don’t even know the start of it.” He grins. “I just want to lay with you for a while. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”   “But your parents don’t know that. What happens if they catch you here?” you ask while peeling back the covers anyhow, happily inviting him in.   “Nothing will happen. It’s okay.”   “Yeah, but they might hate me...for tainting their son.”   “Impossible.” Jungkook settles in and pulls the covers up to keep you warm. You cuddle yourself into him and he props his chin on top of your head. “And they don’t care about that. They just don’t want any Jeon grandkids, or at least not until we graduate.”   “Psh. You’re going to have to prove yourself before you implant anything in my uterus, Jeon.”   His nose wrinkles at your euphemism, but then he pokes your side, making you squirm. “Prove myself? Haven’t I already?”   “Just cause I let you kiss me a few times doesn’t mean I have plans to make this long-term,” you tease and this time he’s the one scoffing.    Jungkook rolls on top of you, pinning you underneath him. The soft glow of the lamp posts outside on the suburban street comes through the window and when your eyes adjust to the darkness, you’re able to discern a few of his features — especially that sulking expression of his.   Jungkook’s such a baby sometimes. Or at least he likes to be babied by you. Yoongi, Taehyung, Hoseok, and Jimin would shit themselves if they saw him now. But it makes you happy to be the only one who can see this endearing side of him.   “What more do you want to put me through, hmm?”   You cock your head to the side. “Who knows, you might just get bored of me in a few weeks, Jeon. Better not to jump the gun.”   “I don’t think so. What do you take me for? Someone with that low of an attention span?”   “Well…” You draw out the syllable. “Last I checked, you still don’t know how to make flowers with gum paste.”   His tongue clicks in annoyance and he starts to tickle you again at your weakest parts. You squirm underneath him, giggling as your legs kick to no avail. It makes the bed squeak, the headboard hitting against the wall and Jungkook laughs and quickly lets up. He covers your mouth with his palm. “Shush! You’re going to wake them up.”   You peel off his hand, harshly whispering, “You started it.”   Jungkook’s smile is big enough to make his cheeks hurt. He missed you — your company, warmth, the teasing banter. It’s hard to fathom that his best friend is actually here with him, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.   Jungkook leans down, locking his lips against yours. Your soft mouths slots against each other like it’s the way it always should have been and he relishes in the groan you release.    It’s a gentle kiss, one that merely tests the waters and then he pulls away.   You blink up at him, breath leaving through your parted lips that now taste like his vanilla chapstick. “No funny business, remember?”   “I know.” Jungkook gets off of you, resuming his place by your side. “But I wasn’t planning any ‘funny business’. Where has your mind gone too?”   Your cheeks heat. “I’m just saying.”   He chuckles softly, arm slung across your waist. You’re pulled close as he nestles in. It’s easy to relax and your hand lifts to wrap around his back. The both of you hold each other for a while in the comfortable darkness underneath the cozy covers. You’re lulled in his company.   “Jungkook.”   “Hmm?”   “You can’t fall asleep here.”   “I know,” he mumbles.   But contrary to Jungkook’s words, he does fall asleep with you — sharing the same bed like those nights in Tahiti. Only in the morning, when dawn breaks and the morning light comes through the glass windows are you both naturally shaken awake.    It’s then that Jungkook scratches his bed hair flopping in all directions, eyes swollen as he stumbles back to his own bedroom. And you drift back to sleep with a softened smile on your face.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #jungkook fluff #bts reader insert #jungkook reader insert #btsboulangerie #LET'S GO Y'ALL

[thebumblebeetumbletree]

I'm Sorry and

I Love You

July 4th, 1985

"I'm sorry," Billy whispered, his words muffled as blood leaked around the words. Max kneeled beside him, either oblivious or uncaring of the blood and monster goo that slowly seeped into her shorts. Billy opened his mouth to say something– anything, but the words wouldn't come. None that mattered anyways. 

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Sorry…'  the words wouldn't escape, and wasn't that ironic? He finally wanted to apologize– to make up for everything he'd done and said, and yet…and yet it was meaningless. What was the point of saying anything? His vision was going blurry around the edges, like he'd looked too long at the sun, and Max was a halo of orange at the center.

It reminded him of a cool night in December. Another time where the look of concern was replaced with one of contempt. Instead of a bat ready and waiting to meet its mark, her hands were filled with blood. 

His blood. 

Billy was dying. 

He wished he could've said something to Max. To Steve. 

He wished he could've said I'm sorry and I love you. He didn't know which one deserved the apology and the admission.

I love you, Steve. I'm sorry, Max.

Both…probably. 

I love you, Max. I'm sorry, Steve.

Definitely.

July 4th, 1986

They'd spent the afternoon napping. Steve hadn't planned for it to happen, nor had he suggested the idea. But the summer heat, and noon-high sun had swamped them with exhaustion. Billy had been up since the first rays of sunshine, his night terrors a constant shadow in the dark bags under his eyes. 

Steve had woken up to a slight pressure against his forehead, dry lips receding enough to say a quiet, "go back to sleep, Stevie." 

He hadn't. 

Instead, Steve stumbled to his feet and coaxed Billy into taking a walk down the road. The morning mist hadn't yet dispersed by the time they hit Mrs. Rodney's house and had to turn back, her little schnauzer already up and waiting for the poor mail boy to toss the morning's newspaper. 

They'd made it back to the house before the sun had fully reached its peak, the morning not yet hot, but the promise of humidity could be felt in the air. Billy already had his hair up, the stray strands curling even more where they laid against his tanned skin. 

"M'gonna clean the pool," Billy had said, before proceeding to do just that. Steve had felt compelled to say something- he'd seen Billy doing that yesterday, and the day before that. He knew you didn't have to do it every day, but then he remembered. Billy needed those simple tasks, something for his brain to focus on instead of the scars that shined like lightning bolts across his arms and danced up his chest. 

He needed normalcy, a routine. 

Steve could give him that. He didn't want a repeat of the nights where Billy tossed and turned, his anxiety ridden brain too amped up for a restful sleep. He didn't want the days after Billy's recovery in the hospital, the confusion and fear. The shock of being alive. 

He especially didn't want the apologies. Neither had Max, she'd practically lost her mind the fifth time Billy had said I'm sorry and I love you. Steve had to hold her back from accusing him of being a monster in disguise. Again. 

When Billy turned to him and said it. Well, Steve had just about keeled over. He hadn't expected the apology for something that'd happened months ago, and he definitely hadn't been prepared for Billy's heartfelt, I love you. 

He'd had to step back from the situation and take some time. Robin had called him a pussy. Steve hadn't disagreed. 

In the end, Steve had realized a few things about himself. And came to the conclusion that Billy did it for him. A lot. 

And so, when it was going on two hours of Billy cleaning the spotless pool, Steve had enough. With a glass of lemonade in each hand, Steve coecred Billy into taking a break. They started off side by side, shoulder to hip on one of the many lawn chairs Steve's parents owned. It hadn't lasted long.

They found themselves tangled together as their ice melted and mellowed out the tartness of the lemonade. The skin of their chests stuck together by a thin layer of heat sweat. 

That had been three hours ago. Now Steve lay on his back with Billy between his thighs. His hand rubbing soothing strokes up and down Billy's spine. Billy's own hands were wedged underneath Steve's knees, keeping them slightly off the cushion. 

"Hey, Billy?" Steve gave a gentle nudge with his knee. He waited a moment for a reply, but none came. He gave another bump, and this time Billy released a small noise. Somewhere between a purr and a growl. Steve wanted to kiss him. 

The sound of fireworks could be heard in the distance, a soft poppoppop. Steve hoped the faire wouldn't wake him, but he didn't have to worry, Billy was out. His body limp, allowing Steve to just look. 

He could see the freckles that only the summer days could bring out. His back muscles rippling with every deep breath he took. His lashes fanned out, casting a dark shadow across his cheekbones. And through it all, interspersed between hard earned muscles and wheat-blonde hair, Steve could see scars. The scars. Upside down scars. And they were beautiful. 

Steve ran a single finger up the largest one. The one that had nearly taken this away. Billy shivered as Steve's fingertip hit a particularly sensitive spot.

It was the fourth of July. A year since Starcourt Mall. Steve still couldn't believe how far they'd come and how close they'd been to never having this. They didn't celebrate the fourth, not like others, not anymore. Instead, they spent the day like any other. And Steve loved it. He loved Billy. 

Steve let out a sigh, a warm feeling settling low in his belly. "Hey Billy," he whispered, scraping his nails through the hairs at the nape of his neck. Billy gave a short hum, his eyes still closed and his body lax. "Happy fourth of July." He waited a second before leaning back and saying to the sky, "I love you."

Billy's grip tightened and Steve felt him press a sticky kiss to his thigh, "love you too, pretty boy."

It was probably the best fourth of July Steve could remember. 

#my fics #harringrove #harringrove fic rec #steve harrington #billy hargrove #billy lives #soft steve #sleepy billy #anxious billy #stranger things #short prompt #introspective...kinda #fourth of july #stranger things season 3 #fix it fic #soft harringrove #fireworks #love #hurt/comfort #these boys tho #stranger things fandom #stranger things fanfiction #reblog if you want #reblog with tags #its been a year guys

[skip-to-my-lup]

Take My Hand

Danbrey Week Day 1: Pumpkin Patch or Haunted House

"I really don't think this is a good idea, Aubrey," Dani says as she stares up at the decrepit house in front of their small group.  

"It'll be fine," Aubrey says, waving a hand in front of herself, dismissively. "It's probably just an abomination that's pretending to be a ghost or something."

"If it's an abomination then shouldn't Ned and Duck be here to help instead of us? No offense, Jake." 

"None taken" He shrugs. "Mama said we just needed to get in, get info, and get out so that y'all could go in later and fight whatever is in there. So, as long as we don't stick around too long we'll be fine. 

"You don't know that," Dani says, annoyed.

"Hey, hey. Don't worry!" Aubrey slings an arm around Dani. "I'm here. I'll protect you and make sure you're safe!" 

Dani turns to her and laughs, smiling softly at her. "You're going to protect us with your big big muscles?" 

"Well I don't have a lot of those, but I do have a lot of magic!" Aubrey snaps a finger and a flash of flames flies from her fingertips into the air. "And, if all else fails, we can always run away." 

Jake makes an overly exaggerated face. "Can you two stop flirting for, like, two minutes?" 

Aubrey immediately pulls away from Dani, face flushed. "I-I don't know what you're talking about." 

"We're just friends, Jake," Dani says, looking anywhere, but at Aubrey.

Jake rolls his eyes.  "Whatever. C'mon, we're not going to find out anything out here." 

He then turns to the decaying house and starts leading their trio towards the front door. 

Aubrey has to admit, something feels a bit off. Usually, Mama gave them instructions in person, but Jake had been the one to tell her this time around. He then told her that he'd called Duck and Ned and they were both busy so the three of them had to go instead. Which was fine... 

Except that now she has to pretend like she is a professional to impress Dani. 

As a pretending professional, she should probably be leading them, but Jake knows more than either she or Dani do about this situation, so that wouldn't make sense.  But, maybe the next time she has a chance she could show off. 

Yeah! 

Aubrey picks up the pace so that she can be close behind Jake. 

It is somewhat dangerous getting to the front of the house. The ground is torn up and chunks of concrete are overgrown with grass. The steps up to the front porch aren't much better. One of the steps is caved in and another looks like it might crumble at any moment. 

Jake goes to the door and tries to open it, but finds it locked. He curses under his breath and then turns to Aubrey and Dani. "Do either of you know how to pick locks?" 

"I do!" Aubrey says, rushing forward. She reaches into the black fanny pack she'd brought along and digs out a few of her make-shift lock picking devices. She squats down in front of the door and makes quick work of the lock and, before she knows it, the door is swinging in. 

Jake lets out a low whistle. 

"That was fast," Dani says, impressed. Though there is a tinge of concern in her eyes. "How'd you learn to do it so fast?" 

Oh right. Picking locks isn't a common skill. Especially for law-abiding citizens.

"Would you believe me if I said it was for magic tricks?"

"I wouldn't," Jake says. "I was around Hollis long enough to recognize the difference."

Aubrey laughs awkwardly. Neither of them really needs to know about some of the lengths she had to go following the night she left her house. 

"Anyways, haunted house anyone?" She said as she pushed the door open. 

There is no light inside, but what light shines in from the windows reveals the hallmarks of an abandoned house. Unknown debris, litters the entryway. Broken furniture is upended in what was once the living room. And, to top it all off, graffiti covers every available space on the wall.

"You know what? I'm good," Dani says.

Jake groans "C'mon, Dani! It'll be fine." 

He walks into the house, dragging Dani behind him. Aubrey brings up the rear, the floorboards creaking loudly as they venture inside. 

"It was going to be, but you've jinxed us Jake!" Aubrey admonishes. She reaches over and knocks on the wood exposed on a nearby wall. "Gosh. How many times do I have to tell you to not do that kind of stuff?" 

Aubrey is about to take a step, but there is an answering knock further inside the house. All three of them freeze in place. 

"You know what?" Aubrey says, voice much higher than usual. "I think Dani has a point." 

"I told you!"

The girls turn around just as the door slams shut behind them. 

"Shit. Jake, we have to find another way out—" Aubrey cuts herself off as she finds one Mr. Coolice missing from their party. "Jake?"

Dani immediately glues herself to Aubrey's side, threading her hand tightly in her own. So tightly Aubrey's pretty sure that she is going to lose feeling. "Don't you dare let go of me, Aubrey Little." 

"Y-yes, ma'am." 

"M-m-maybe there's a back door?" Dani says as bravely as she can. 

"Good. Good idea."

Neither girl moves an inch. The house hadn't looked that spooky to Aubrey before, but the fact that Jake is now missing colors everything at least two shades creepier. The once merely broken chairs have become destroyed. The worn wood looks as though it would crumble at any moment. And, no matter where she looks, every shadow looks as though there is something waiting to eat the two of them alive.

But, at the same time, Dani is shaking something awful, obviously frightened out of her wits. And who knows what kind of dangers lurk in this house. They have to get out as fast as they can so they can come back with help. And, if Dani doesn't have the strength, then Aubrey would have to.

After an embarrassing amount of time, Aubrey take a few steps into the house. The floorboards creak, but thankfully nothing jumps out at them. Maybe they're safe so long as they stick together? 

She hopes so. 

Dani follows easily enough, but her shaking doesn’t cease. Aubrey's heart seizes knowing how scared her…friend must be. She hates it. So, for better or worse, she shifts Dani's hold to her other hand and brings that arm around her shoulders, sheltering her from whatever dangers might be lurking. 

As they walk further into the house, noises come from above. Dani presses herself further into Dani's side. Floorboards creak and moans echo above, each one more frightening than the next. Aubrey's steps are cautious and she looks in every corner of the room before bringing herself and Dani past the living room.  

As they move further she notices two doors beside each other, both are missing, revealing one set of stairs that go up and one that goes down. The stairs going up (like hell she'd be leaving the first floor) and going down (again, hell to the fucking no) look rotten. 

They need to find an exit on the first floor. Most of the windows are boarded up, though. She could try to burn the wood off, but the liklihood of the hosgoing up in flames is very high. The few windows that aren't don't budge when Aubrey tries them.

Across from the stairs is the kitchen. There are no appliances left, but there is a door on the other side of the room. Relief floods over Aubrey at the sight. They walk carefully forward and, once they are within arm's reach, Aubrey reaches for the door and pulls.

It opens.

"Oh thank god," Aubrey says aloud. 

Dani lets out a sigh of relief.

Aubrey expects a backyard to be on the other side of the door as she pushes it out. But, instead, a cramped pantry and another door greets her. There are empty cans of who knows what strewn about and a couple of lawn chairs. From the lingering scents she'd almost bet that a few teens come out here to smoke pot sometimes. 

Which has to mean it’s safe here, right?

The moment she steps into the small room, though, a cacophony of sounds erupt.

"BEGONE!" A voice, very suspiciously like that of one Ned "Prankster" Chicane bellows both from the small room as well as from a room above. 

Dani lets out a shriek and buries her face in Aubrey's chest. Aubrey, on the other hand, begins to look around with a critical eye. It’s hard to see without any windows to let light in, so she pulls out her phone and shines its flashlight around. There has to be something…

As her light passes over the doorway back into the small kitchen, she finds a small walkie-talkie wedged between the pantry's shelving unit. She wrenches it out of the wall and finds some sort of wire attached to the door handle and the push-to-talk button. It is lax now, but she is pretty sure that when the door had been shut it had been taught enough to allow the party on the other end to hear when they'd approached the door.

"What?" Dani asks, her hold going lax as curiosity takes hold of her.

The walkie-talkie comes to life again.

"RUN! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!" 

And, yup, that is definitely Ned "about-to-be-dead" Chicane.

Aubrey pushes the button.

"I think you and Jake had better run before we find you," Aubrey says in the lowest tone her voice can comfortably carry. 

She takes a lot more satisfaction in how quickly two sets of feet scramble down the stairs than she probably should.

But, who cares, they deserve it. 

#danbreyweek2019 #danbrey #tazdani #aubrey little #taz fanfic #taz #thezonecast #the adventure zone amnesty #taz amnesty

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

A View To A Winchester (Part 5)

Series Page

Summary: Julie’s starting a new life after divorce in a home with a very nice view.

A Dean X OFC story. No idea how long it will be, but I’ve got time on my hands. I got this idea staring out the view of my home office window and thinking how nice it would be to have Dean Winchester to ogle. I’m thinking it will go the fluffy route, with some angst, and maybe some smut down the line. Not sure yet.

Section Word Count:  3,000

Section Warnings: fluff, angst, some R-rated language, Dean flirting/arousing/eating/breathing - the man needs his own warning label

~~~~~

Julie had done some reconnaissance before heading out her front door. She stared at Wes and Samuel’s backyard for some minutes prior. There was no sign of them. Samuel’s SUV wasn’t in the driveway. She figured she had a few minutes to take the walk around and past their corner house in safety. They wouldn’t assault her with questions about where she was off to, taking a stroll she never took in her neighborhood. And they wouldn’t ask what she had in that box she was holding so carefully.

This can’t end well, can it? Her thoughts of Dean were confused and irrational. She was going by pure feeling. And that hadn’t always proved the best course of action.

He’s too fucking gorgeous and too much of a flirt. Guys like that will usually sleep with anyone that tug at the bait. Her father had been that way. Handsome. Could have had his pick of any woman he wanted. And even though he’d one hell of a wife in her mother, he insisted on rutting with anything that came sniffing. Mom had finally had enough twenty years ago and divorced him. She would have taken him for everything she could, if he’d anything worth taking.

And, here she was, having just gone through an eerily similar situation with her now ex-husband… walking up the incline to Dean Winchester’s front door.

Maybe it’s genetic? I could blame this very bad idea on that. Tonight, that’s what I’ll do. She glanced around the side of the house she never saw up close. The cream-colored siding could use a power washing, but the front lawn was neat and tidy. Just like his backyard. There was no landscaping to speak of and the concrete driveway had seen better days. 

His Impala, seated on her throne yards away from the door, demanded the spotlight. The slick black paint shone more than usual. Julie wondered if he’d taken her through a car wash that day. Or maybe he’d washed her himself. Then, she thought about Dean wet and soapy, rubbing his body all over that car, hosing her down. Hose me down, Jesus. Her brain short circuited for a second.

I could turn around and head back. It’s not too late. I could just leave it on the step and text him when I get back home. The sky was turning a dusty pink with purple ribbons. 

No doorbell. The berry red front door teased and tested the outreached fingers of one hand as she balanced the dessert in the other.

She pulled her hand back. Eyes closed. Head tilted. There was a split second where she’d decided to leave. An immediate flash in her thoughts of Dean’s smiling face, those green eyes, those lips, overpowered her senses. She opened her eyes to the sound of her betraying knuckles as they rapped on the door.

You are not desperate. You are going after something you want.

She waited. Some time went by. An awkward amount of time.

Maybe it wasn’t loud enough. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s sleeping. Maybe this really was a bad idea. Oh God, what if he has a woman over?

She turned and darted down the small landing and got halfway across the walkway when she heard him. “Julie?”

She pressed her lids together in embarrassment, took a quick breath, and prepared to face the music that was Dean Winchester.

Damn. He was even more tempting than the last time she’d seen him. Surprise overtook his exquisite features. A blank expression gazed at her, open and waiting. His lips parted. Grey sweatpants and a cadet blue Henley draped over his frame. But fabric still hugged taut muscles and beautiful curves. She tried to regain her focus and stared at the ground by his... Shit, and he’s barefoot. Even his feet are fucking perfect. His toes wiggled on the concrete. Just take me now, Dean. She sighed and, realizing no part of him would be unattractive or neutral territory, returned his inspection.

“Is everything okay?” He looked past her onto the street and did a quick survey of the area around him. She nodded. His brow furrowed and then his gaze landed on the box in her hands.

“I made a cake.” Her arms outstretched. It was the only motion she could think to make at the time. “Thought you might want a piece.”

“Oh.” A small smile danced over his mouth in a wave.

She retracted the box back to her chest. “I should have called first. Sorry.”

“No. It’s more than fine. I just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t deserve such special treatment.”

Have you looked at yourself? “Kind of selfishness on my part.”

He gave her that quizzical look again.

“Want to see how much you enjoy my dessert, up close and personal.” She quipped.

He licked his lips on instinct. “You’re giving me lots of opportunities to not behave myself with this mouth o’ mine.”

Jesus. “Is that a preemptive apology, or a promise?” She couldn’t help it. He brought out the flirt in her, full on. Her reaction was like a runaway train with no conductor at the controls.

His laugh was deep, sexy. “Come on in. I won’t apologize for the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.” He nudged the front door open with a bare foot and stuffed his hands into hidden pockets. A step back cleared the threshold.

She walked towards him. When she got closer to his figure, she had to look up to meet his gaze. Almost a foot taller, his presence made her feel small and vulnerable. The grin didn’t help to calm the sensations. He uses Irish Spring soap. She wiggled her nose at the clean, fresh out of the shower scent his skin exuded.

The house wasn’t much on the inside in terms of construction. But it possessed a style somewhere between mountain man and perpetual bachelor. All Dean. Dark paneled wood confirmed a 70s architectural build that had never been updated. The open living room and kitchen area felt smaller than it was because of the dim lighting. She squinted through her glasses. A floor lamp was on and near a muted, flat screen television atop a console table. Something was blowing up on the screen, flashing and illuminating the lived-in space. She stepped in farther. Her flats skimmed off a small area rug to tap onto wood laminate. Stale beer and spicy alcohol permeated the stagnant air in the room. She wondered again how much he drank on a regular basis. The front door click froze her in place.

He appeared at her side. “Let me.” His eager open hands waited. The box dropped into them. “Whoa. Heavy. What’d you make?” He strolled over to the breakfast bar along the edge of the kitchen. The broad shoulders got her all swoony. Bowlegs weren’t as obvious in the baggy sweatpants. The curvy ass, however, was quite prominent. He waited for an answer with an expectant look after placing the dessert on the counter.

“Oh. Just a white cake with chocolate frosting. Um, have you ever had a Tastykake Chocolate Junior?”

“More than likely.” He shrugged. “Convenience store grub was sustenance for many, many years.”

She filed that bit of information away for future dissection. “It’s a pretty spot on flavor recreation. They were my favorite growing up.”

“Should I slice it up then? See if it jogs my memory?”

She smiled. “That’s why I’m here.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to the living room. “Move whatever you need to.”

Even the couch is covered in plaid. An open bag of chips occupied a spot where she guessed he’d been sitting. A couple beer bottles were on the coffee table. Again.

She debated on whether to sit on the armchair or the tiny lumberjack couch. There were some books and papers on the chair. She plopped on the empty side of the two-seater. The chips were placed on the table after a careful bag fold over. 

Her body shifted, ancy and excited. Should she do the relaxed, one leg folded under the other? How far of a tilt in his general direction? Had she dressed up too much? She tugged at the low-neck paisley peasant top she’d thrown on with her dark jeans. A finger wiped at the corner of her mouth, reminding her of the shiny gloss applied before she left the house. A faint cherry flavor hit the tip of her tongue.

Her gaze wandered back to him while she continued her inner debate on the best position. He’d gotten out plates and rested a rather long knife on the counter. His fingers lifted the box lid. “Oh, man,” he mumbled to himself. He reached in and pulled out the cake, his focus never leaving the treat. Her eyes widened when he grabbed the knife and flipped it in his hands like a skilled warrior. The blade slid into the cake without hesitation. He repeated the action three more times and then served the slices. His brow lifted and he looked over to Julie. “A cake like this deserves milk, but I’m fresh out. Water do? Beer?”

“Um, water’s good.” She was still getting over the display he’d put on.

He nodded, grabbing two bottles from the fridge and wedging them between his arm and side. He strolled over with a plate in each hand and offered one to Julie. The waters dropped on the table.

“Wow. You don’t play around.” She laughed at the enormous pieces he’d doled out.

“I do not… at least when it comes to dessert.” He settled into the seat beside her, thighs splayed out, encroaching into her territory. He pointed at Julie with the tines of his fork. “And, if you can’t finish yours, I will.” He leaned back and brought the plate to perch at his midsection.

She scooted back, deciding a cross legged approach would have to do to avoid brushing against him. The cake plate rested on her lap. Her gaze traced his body from his very close knee all the way back to his face. “You don’t even know if you’ll like it yet.”

He scoffed. “Please.” His grin turned playful. Yes, I could definitely stare at this man for an indefinite amount of time. “Ready?” He inquired with a side glance.

Her cheeks rose along with the wide smile she returned him. “Ready.”

He cleared his throat in deference to the upcoming act. Julie pursed her lips together. His fork sank into the dessert. “I’ve got to get a decent amount of both cake and frosting for this to be a fair sample to judge.” He nodded and tilted the forkful in inspection. His jaw dropped like a nutcracker. He shoveled the mound of cake into his mouth and chewed. Eyes shut as the chews continued. There were no audible cues expressing enjoyment this time, compared to the meal they shared on the patio. The silence was gut wrenching, but Dean’s physical actions were making Julie’s mouth water. She wanted to dive on top of him and latch lips onto that pout. The man was legit dampening her panties. She squirmed in her cross-legged position.

His eyes bolted open and he swallowed. Dean cocked his head at her. “That… is… amazing.”

She stifled a giggle rising in her throat. “Yeah? Not just saying that cause I’m right here?”

His brow dipped down, looking a bit pained in his expression. “I’m a straight shooter.”

I bet.

He attacked the cake again. Julie tried it for herself to see if he was right. She nodded at her handiwork when the smooth chocolate frosting melted in her mouth. It hadn’t gotten grainy from over whipping.

“Thanks.” Dean came up for air after a single piece remained on his plate.

“Welcome.”

“So, is this your interrogation tactic? Getting me into a sugary-stupor so I answer all your burning questions?” He grinned at her.

She stopped in mid-chew and swallowed.

“Cause it’s a pretty good play.” His eyelids looked heavy as he finished the last piece. He tossed the plate onto the table and grabbed one of the beer bottles. He went with the one leg folded under the other position this time and shifted at her, full tilt.

She cleared her throat, feeling the heat of his gaze. A long swig of beer and smack of his lips warmed her cheeks. “I was just being neighborly.” She lifted a shoulder.

“Hm.” White light from the television danced over his face. His stare seemed chiseled out of marble in the strobing spotlight. “Coming over unannounced. And, considering you didn’t want me in your house… why’d you think I’d invite you in?” His jaw clenched after the question.

Shit. “I had cake.” It was half statement, half question.

“Secret weapon aside,” he mumbled, “chocolate frosting wouldn’t protect you from… well, you don’t know anything about me.” His eyes drew her in further, danger and searing intensity illuminated with each flash. 

“I’d like to know you,” she whispered back without thinking, inwardly cursing at the admission.

He gave her a small smile. “Might not like what you find. I’m much better if you take me in small doses.” His hand lifted. A flat palm, dangling the bottleneck between two fingers, slid in the air. “Deal with what’s on the surface. Digging deeper is usually a disappointment.” He drank again, then thumbed the bottle opening.

She sighed. “Well, I guess we just do the good neighbor thing and keep things civil, distant.”

He nodded. “Would be for the best.”

She dropped the plate onto the table. “Should I go then?”

He shook his head. “I like your company. Almost as sweet as that cake.”

“That’s all surface stuff.” She tested.

“Is it now?” He leaned in a little closer. His arm draped over the seat back. “Just proving my point.” A grin.

Julie held his gaze and inhaled. “Spill with some surface stuff, then. To appease my curiosity.”

“Okay.” The word dripped out of his mouth, slow, like honey. “I’m 43.” He waited.

Julie smiled. “Are you expecting me to tell you how old I am?”

“I’m not stupid enough to guess.”

Her hand wiggled a finger in the air. “Point for you.” But she chose not to answer.

The triumphant, pleased with himself smile returned. “Moved here a couple years back. Used to work with my brother. Now, I take care of business solo.”

She nodded. “I won’t ask what kind of business.”

“Thanks. That wouldn’t be a simple explanation.” Another sip of beer. “Uh,” he cleared his throat in thought, “I listen to classic rock… nothing else is real music, anyway.” He caught the rise of her eyebrow. “In my opinion, of course. Been all over the country. Driven through almost every state, even Alaska. I hate flying. Oh, and I love my Baby.”

“Your baby?” Her heart stopped.

“My car.” He clarified. A hint of nostalgia passed over his face. “Been to hell and back in her. She belonged to my Dad.”

“She’s a beauty. You take good care of her.” Julie didn’t push for more, marveling at the little chips in his exterior.

“Family’s important to you?” Dean asked.

It made her pause. “The ones that matter are. The ones that don’t give up on you, even when it would be easier to. Those people are important to me. Those are the ones I’m loyal to.”

The smile he produced held an air of… it took her a few seconds to identify it. Respect. 

“Thing is,” Dean whispered, “I think you’re a decent woman. And I consider myself a good judge of character.” His eyes peeked down to her chest for a brief instant. “And, if I do what I want to right now… well, that might make the whole neighbor thing awkward. I can be an ass,” he licked his lips, “after.”

“After what?” Nervous energy caused her fingers to fiddle with her eyeglasses.

His knees brushed against her thigh. Warm fingers skimmed up her forearm. Her breath hitched. His hand traveled up over her shoulder and swept the ends of her brown hair to rest on her back. A thumb dipped into the hollow past her clavicle. He skirted under the collar of her shirt, not asking permission. Not needing to. The thick pads of his fingers massaged the skin. His eyes never left her face. “After.” He repeated.  

Charges of electricity pulsed and awakened the cells in her body. Thighs squeezed together while her mouth opened, struggling to make heads or tails of what would be the best course of action. “Being an ass would mean no more dessert.”

He smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “It would.” His fingers retreated from her skin. “Shouldn’t risk it, then.”

They sat in silence for a minute, the moment gone and the space now awkward. Once she felt her heart rate return to a normal beat, she clapped her hands softly on her knees. “Well, I’m going to go. Keep the cake.” She rose. “Figure out how much you want to keep.” She stared down at the confused look on his face. “And bring me the rest tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“When you come by to mow my lawn.”

He smiled. “Still want me to?”

“Of course.”

“Okay then.” Even though she hurried, expecting to beat him to the door, he managed to get there first again. “Still wanna get to know me?”

She nodded. “I’ve got lots of time.”

He sighed. “I might not be that patient.”

“I didn’t say it’d be easy. For either of us.” She let herself out and stepped into the dusk.

“Julie.” He called out. She turned to take in that perfect figure in the doorway. “Let me walk you back.”

“I’m just around the corner.”

“Just let me.” He raised a finger, dashing away for a few seconds, and returned wearing slippers. A quick lock of the door and he slid down the walk to join her.

She shook her head in protest. “You really don’t have to.”

“Too late.” He slowed his pace and strolled with her in the night. The neighborhood only had a few streetlights scattered throughout. They were flickering in that fickle in between before true night enveloped the area. Their short walk was in the shadows of trees and Wes and Samuel’s house.

“Who’s going to walk you back?” she quipped.

“I’ll be fine.” She couldn’t see his face well but sensed a smirk. His slippers shuffled on the asphalt.

When they rounded the corner and her house was in sight, she raised a hand. “There. You can watch me from here.”

“Uh-uh. To the door.” He trudged up the hill.

“You’re quite chivalrous for an apparent ass.”

He chuckled. “I do try sometimes.”

The rest of the walk was in silence, side by side, until Julie took the lead up the narrow concrete path. She bounced up the two steps to the square slab that was her tiny porchway and turned back. It was quick enough to catch that he’d been admiring her ass as he stood on the path by the bottom step.

She was thankful he couldn’t see the blush she felt creeping up on her cheeks. “Well, good deed done.”

His hands plunged into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded. And waited.

She sighed and pulled out the key to unlock her door. “Are you worried I’m going to get attacked by a monster hiding in the bushes?”

He grinned. “Something like that.”

The door acquiesced and Julie stepped inside. “Satisfied.”

“I will be when you lock the door behind you.”

She shook her head and whispered through the narrowing gap. “Night, Dean.”

“Good Night, Julie.”

Part 6

Series Page

#dean winchester fanfiction #spn fanfic series #supernatural fanfiction #spnfanficpond #dean x ofc #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester angst #spn fanfiction

[tatooedlaura-blog]

Friday

the series read as follows:

Superman … Monday … Cheezy Pouffs … Bacon … Stumbling … Trail Mix ...  Punch

___________________

Scully was truly glad it was a cloudy morning. The sun, at this moment in her life, would have killed her … instantaneous eyeball burning and brain bursting … dead in the hammock …

How the hell did they get to the hammock?

And her tongue still felt numb.

Screw it, she was going back to sleep.

&&&&&&&&&

Then the neighbor fired up his lawn mower.

Mr. Delphine was a lovely man 99.9% of the time but right now, she was going to mulch him to death with his own machinery.

At least after a minute, he moved to his front yard, reducing Scully’s unqualified hatred to functional levels, “Mulder?”

“I’m going to kill whoever the hell that is.”

Before more conversation could occur, the mower was back and being the good boy he was, Mulder shifted hands to cover her ears, holding them mercifully closed until the mower disappeared again, “true love means holding your woman’s ears closed to deafening sounds while your own head throbs like the Rockettes are dancing on your brain.”

Not wanting to deal with noise again, she pushed him towards the side of the hammock, “go inside before he comes back and I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

They stumbled into the house, managing the back door with difficulty, clumsy fingers smacking screen several times before making it to the kitchen, the quiet pushing down stuffily on their ears. Feeling the need to whisper, “I think your tongue is blue.”

Nodding, then groaning, “will be until at least Sunday. Can you get some water?”

“Sshh, why are you yelling?”

Scully ignored him, remembering where the bathroom was after a moment but still taking out a chair in the process of getting there. Mulder stumbled in before she could flush and peed standing beside her while she washed her hands, both too whatever to care. Immediately shutting the lid, he sat down, pulling her onto his lap, burying his face in her neck, “I feel terrible.”

As they both tipped off the toilet and onto the floor, “it only gets worse, believe me.”

Maggie found them a few minutes later, leaned on the wall, wedged between toilet and sink, “everything all right in here?”

“That stuff should be banned, Mom. Every watch list in the world should contain Ruth’s punch.”

Not approaching, knowing it might be best just to shut the door and leave them be, “I should have cut you off earlier or watered it down a little.”

Mulder squinted up at Maggie, “how are you not dying like we are?”

“Decades of practice. I’ve been drinking that punch for the last 30 years. I know precisely how much I can drink and how long to stretch it out for. You, my innocent darlings, need time and aspirin.” Throwing it out there and seeing if it stuck, “would you like me to make you some breakfast? Maybe some toast to go with your aspirin?”

Mulder turned green but Scully nodded, “yes, please. You wouldn’t happen to have tacos hidden somewhere in the fridge, would you?”

“No, but I do have bacon, pancake mix and ham.”

“Ham slabs?”

“Half inch thick if you’d like.”

Mulder pushed Scully from his lap, depositing her on her side on the rug while he hovered over the now open toilet, waiting to lose his stomach contents in front of two pairs of sympathetic blue eyes. When it didn’t happen, however and the feeling passed, Mulder glanced up at them, “ham slabs?”

&&&&&&&&&

Maggie made them breakfast, burning the bacon to extra carcinogenic and slapping more butter on the pancakes than Heart Healthy Diet approved. Letting them eat in peace, she sat down across the table, beginning her grocery list. As Maggie turned the sheet of paper over, Scully’s curiosity got the better of her, “is that your shopping list? Are you packing in for the apocalypse?”

Chuckling, “remember I have most of the kids for the next ten days so they’re going to want to eat.”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot that was next week.”

Mulder, his head not quite so angry with him, managed to work up a semblance of inquiry, “what?”

“Charlie and Dave and the girls are going on a 10-day cruise to the Mediterranean for their anniversaries and asked if I would be able to watch the kids while they were gone. I’m getting them Sunday afternoon.”

Raising an eyebrow at Maggie, “either you are very brave or they drugged you into compliance.”

Maggie slid the list across to Scully, “see if I missed anything and yes, Fox, I am very brave indeed. Where do you think Dana gets it from?”

Doing her best to focus on her mother’s handwriting, she gave up in a minute, “I can’t focus, Mom, I’m sorry. Just make sure to have an industrial jar of peanut butter and boxes of pasta and they’ll be just fine.” Fingers crossed under the table, “do you need any help shopping? I can go if you’d like.”

As she moved to stand, Maggie patted her shoulder gently, “it’s Friday, honey. I think Mr. Skinner would like to have you come in to work today.”

“Damn it.”

Mulder managed to do the hard math and figured out, through squinting and judicious use of his fingers, “we have about an hour until we have to leave. We’ll be late because of showers and changing but not late enough for him to scream at us for more than five minutes.”

“Sold.” Looking up at her mom, “can we go take a nap while you’re gone?”

She waved towards the stairs, “make sure to take another aspirin and drink a glass of water with it.”

&&&&&&&&&&

They made it as far as the living room couch, Mulder on his back, one foot still on the floor, while Scully scooted in beside him on her side, her four inches of real estate enough to have her in dreamland not 30 seconds later.

Maggie took a few pictures before she left, for posterity sake and the fact that she adored them both.

22 minutes later, he had to pee. He fought it valiantly but in the end, he had to extricate himself and find a toilet. While occupied, he heard a cell phone ring and he was not pleased. Grumbling while he washed his hands and headed back to Scully, cursing quietly the whole way, he saw her already off the phone, “if that was Skinner, just tell him we quit. We can live on tuna and city water and have the dental school at GW clean out teeth for free.”

Scully found her voice, thickly coated in fear and shock, “It wasn’t Skinner. It’s Mom. She was in an accident and I need to go to DC General.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.” Hurrying over, “is she okay? What happened?” Already heading towards the stairs to get his shoes on, “let’s go.”

Standing still another moment, she managed to get her legs moving, jamming her bare feet into sneakers as Mulder dug around for the keys he’d set somewhere the previous night. As she locked the door behind them, Scully continued her narrative, “they found my number in her phone. She was in a car accident and she’s not awake but they said she was stable.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s been maybe 15 minutes since it happened.”

Rolling his eyes and opening the car door for her, “that’s 12 minutes more than you’d need to figure out what was wrong and fix it.”

Even through her mounting panic, she slipped a half-second smile, “I’m not magic, Mulder, and neither are they.”

“Yes, you are and they should be.”

Not pulling away from the curb yet, Scully looked at him, his eyes closed, his skin pale, “do you want me to drive?”

Really wanting to be the guy who took care of his girl in time of need, he nodded, his head dizzy still from the liquor, “I think I might still be a little drunk.”

Having sobered up when she heard the word ‘accident’, she got back out, switching spots with him, “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

&&&&&&&&&&&

Her hands began shaking of their own volition the closer they got to the emergency room and taking one as they walked into the building, Mulder found it freezing, skin rough, fingers small, bones protruding. Her voice, however, was steady as she asked where Maggie was and then followed the nurse to the curtained off area. He vaguely listened to the scientific jargon, registering a few words at a time, namely: broken ankles (plural, holy shit!), broken wrist (singular, workable), dislocated shoulder on same arm (been there, done that, doable), glass cuts to face and neck (need to get her a better car with that tempered glass crap), bruised ribs (totally need a few days rest but that’s it), and slight concussion from knocking the door frame (if it’s anything like a gun hilt to the temple, she’ll need several Tylenol ever four hours) …

Then, gloriously, he heard Maggie’s voice drift to his ears, “honey, I’m okay but I think the car is dead.”

Scully pulled him along as she maneuvered her way towards her mother, “don’t worry about it. We’ll get you a new car.

Mulder, overjoyed that Maggie was talking clearly, piped up from behind his partner, “what happened?”

Between wincing as the nurse cleaned her cuts and the doctor injected her with something to put her out so he could re-locate her shoulder, she managed to tell them of the red light runner that hit her just in front of the driver’s door, crushing the metal and capturing her ankles between pedal and pedal and pedal and engine block housing, the door folding in on her hand, bending it back and snapping bones and her head going through the side window. Mulder wanted to throw up a little and Scully looked positively livid, Mulder firmly believing she would kill the other driver if she ever got her freezing little fingers around his throat.

Once Maggie, mid-word, drifted out of consciousness due to drug induction, the doctor politely dismissed them while they re-socketed her arm. Mulder left immediately, taking Scully with him by the elbow. Now in the hall and behind the pulled curtain, Scully turned to him, dropping her forehead to his chest, deep breath rattling a contained sob the likes of which made him want to cry himself. Sliding arms around back, he moved her to the side, out of traffic and rested his cheek atop her head, “she’s going to be fine. She was talking and she’s going to be fine. You saw her. She’s fine.”

Pressing firmly into his shirt, her voice cracked an octave, absorbed mostly by cotton and flesh, “for 15 minutes in my head, she wasn’t and I can’t … I …”

The sentence stopped there and he didn’t push, knowing exactly how she felt, his fear different but the sentiment the same.

&&&&&&&&&&&

It took almost two hours for them to finish Maggie’s arm, get better x-rays, cast her feet up, then settle her in a room. By then, Scully had returned to her natural resting state of smart, sassy and emotionally-controlled. Mulder had returned to sober.

Safely enclosed in the room, door closed to hospital sounds, Mulder moved a chair over beside the bed, “why don’t you sit down and I’ll go see if I can find something to snack on? I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

Scully moved to the end of the bed instead, giving her mother a thoroughly medical stare, sizing up injuries, competency of repair and aftercare, “Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember that time that you broke just one leg?”

Without difficulty, he recalled the boot wrapped around his appendage for six weeks, “yeah, I recall something about it.”

“Imagine that on a 60-year-old woman but triple the difficulty and surrounded by five kids under the age of 10”

Dawning hit him like a freight train, “I totally forgot about the kids. Did you call Charlie?”

Mind already churning out a plan, “yeah. He’s on his way but they can’t cancel the trip, I mean, they can but Mom would kill them.”

“I can see the hamster wheel spinning. What are you thinking?”

Moving to his side, she stared at her sleeping mother, “I’m thinking I need to move it to take care of her and since I’ll be there, the kids can stay, too.”

“We may need more of Ruth’s punch for that.”

#Mr. Delphine was a lovely man 99.9% of the time but right now #she was going to mulch him to death with his own machinery #msr #x-files fanfic #xf fanfic #Maggie Scully #Life part 2 series #my writing

[jbankai89]

Snarry Fic: I’m Due For A Miracle

My good friend and braintwin @kuriquinn​ suggested I try posting my actual fics on Tumblr, rather than just linking them, so I'm giving it a try. For those of you following my work on AO3 or AFF, these will be reposts until I'm caught up and everything is posted. :)

Title: I'm Due For A Miracle

Author: JBankai89

Status: Complete

Chapters: 1/1

Rating: Soft R

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape

Achievements: Written for Snarry-A-Thon 2016

Warnings: None

Summary: “These are dangerous times, Mr Potter. If you love something, you can lose it just as easily.”

Word Count: 2429

Other Links: AO3, AFF, LJ

I'm Due For A Miracle

Long, deft fingers traced the contours of his face. Every touch committed to memory. His lover leaned forward with an impassioned groan. His straight, black locks tumbled over his shoulders and tickled his back,“Harry...” Damp skin on skin, every touch a burning delight, dark  eyes staring intensely into his own, drawing out the moment, he never wanted it to end—

~

Harry woke in an empty bed with tears in his eyes.

It wasn't the first time, and he doubted that it would be the last. Hiccoughing and roughly wiping away the dampness, he reached for his glasses. Relief washed over him at the fact that Ron and Hermione had moved out of Grimmauld Place some years earlier. He no longer had to explain himself every time he woke from one of his fevered dreams, for which he was deeply grateful.

Shaking off the remnants of his dream, Harry stood and stepped over to the full-length mirror. His eyes were puffy, his jaw was dotted with morning stubble, and the circles under his eyes had taken on a bruising quality. He was deathly pale, and Harry knew that not much colour would return as he regained his calm. He'd been out of the world too long, hidden away from the press, his friends, and his pseudo-family. Ventures outside were done under cover of darkness, and only then to replenish necessities like food and toilet paper.

No one had seen Harry Potter for years, not even his best friends.

Harry's mind jumped back to the dream. His stomach rolled, and he pressed his burning forehead against the glass of the mirror. Why can't I let him go? The list of the dead was burned into Harry's brain, each funeral he'd attended following that fateful Spring was as harrowing as the last. He took them, placed them in their own little memorial in his mind and heart, and left it at that.

But not with Severus.

Potions Master, ex-Death Eater, War Hero, Grade-A Bastard. Harry smiled weakly as memory overlapped memory.

~

“Why are you here, Potter?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“How delightful, I'm touched. Go away.” The Potions Master slammed the door in Harry's face.

~

“You are aware, of course, that you're breaking about fifty school rules in being here.”

Harry readjusted his position on Severus's lap, and the older man broke his intense stare to arch his head back and hiss with delight. “Gonna give me detention, Professor?”

~

“Take...it....take...it...”

~

Harry's breath hitched, and tears sprung to his eyes again. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” He sunk to his knees, his breathing shallow. Harry made no move to try to compose himself. “Why did you have to die?” His own voice sounded strange in his ears, and he again cursed the memory of Voldemort, the man who'd taken the one good thing away from him.

~

“I love you, you know.”

“I heard you the first fifteen times, Potter. Why are you repeating yourself?” Harry shifted closer to the warm, naked form next to him in the bed. He rested his head against Severus's chest, and he coiled an arm protectively around Harry's shoulders.

“Because I wasn't sure you believed me.”

“These are dangerous times, Mr Potter. If you love something, you can lose it just as easily.”

~

Harry stared down at his breakfast, uncertain when he'd made it to the main level of the derelict house, or when he'd been lucid enough to cook. The evidence sat before him on a cracked plate, eggs and toast, slightly charred along the edges. The house was silent.

~

“Are you ever going to call me Harry?”

“Is what name I call you by really that important?”

“Well since you just had your cock in my arse I think a little familiarity wouldn't be too much to ask.” He grinned, and shifted to wedge himself more securely into the embrace of his lover.

“As eloquent as ever, I see...Harry.”

~

Children ran and played out in the square beyond Grimmauld Place's property line. Their shrieking giggles of delight did not permeate the windows, but the evidence was on their faces. Harry watched them, and tried to siphon off some of of their joy. He could see the overgrown hedges of his front lawn move abnormally, and he could make out the shape of someone under a disillusionment charm. He quickly stepped out of sight of the window and closed the curtains seconds before the flash of the camera went off.

~

“I put a silencing charm on the door, Severus. Would you stop being such a paranoid bastard and come to bed?”

“I did not survive this long only to be murdered by Molly Weasley for ravishing her surrogate son,” Severus snapped as he flicked his wand here and there around the door and walls, testing the strength of Harry's charm.

“She wouldn't murder you,” Harry scoffed, but he couldn't completely wipe the grin from his face. “She might chop off certain choice body parts, but I don't think she'd go as far as actually murdering you.”

“You're such a comfort.”

“I do what I can.”

Severus finally set his wand down on the bedside table, and smirked at his young lover. He braced his knees on either side of Harry's hips, and pressed his palms into the duvet on either side of his head. Severus enveloped him in a commanding kiss.

~

A sharp tapping on the sitting room window jarred Harry from his memories. Grumbling in annoyance, he peeled himself off the threadbare sofa and padded to the window. An ancient barn own sat on his sill, eyeing him in an almost accusing way for making it wait so long. Harry unlatched the window.

“Get out of here,” Harry said, waving his hand halfheartedly to shoo the bird away, “everyone knows that I don't accept owl post anymore. Piss off.”

How the bird got through his warding spells was a question for another day. The owl was having none of Harry's dismissing and it lurched forward and snapped at his fingers. Harry hissed in pain when it carved a fairly deep gash across his pointer finger with its beak. Grumbling, Harry stepped back and wrapped the bloody finger in the cloth of his T-shirt. The owl took the opportunity to flutter inside and stick out its leg expectantly. Tied there was a minute scroll of tattered parchment.

He grudgingly took the scroll from the owl, it took off at once, and Harry latched the door again before heading off to find some bandages.

~

“I never pegged you for the romantic type,” Harry mused, easing back on the checkered blanket. He was thoroughly enjoying the sensation of the sea air filling his lungs, and the calming rush of surf breaking ten feet away.

“I'm not, generally. Somehow my self-imposed rules break whenever you're involved.” Severus plucked a grape from the bunch and brushed the fruit along Harry's lower lip.

“Yeah, I usually have that effect.” He grinned and plucked the fruit from Severus's fingers with his teeth.

~

Finger wadded in a knobbly bandage—Harry was never much good at healing spells—he picked up the tiny scroll and eyed it dubiously. He hadn't received mail in over three years, at first from turning away owls, then later he learned how to shield the house from them. He turned it over in his fingers, almost afraid to see who would go to such lengths to contact him. No one living cared that much. He'd killed Voldemort. His work was done. Why couldn't the world just leave him alone with his memories?

~

“That was...different.”

“Hmm.” Severus rolled over following his noncommittal grunt, and coiled an arm around Harry's waist, his palm resting flat against his chest.

“I'm not sure I liked it...”

“I didn't hear you complaining.” The low purr sent a wave of pleasure through him, and he snuggled back into the embrace.

“No, I mean...I don't like how much it felt like...”

“Like what, Harry?”

“Goodbye.”

~

Harry unrolled the minute scroll, and stared at it before he could wrap his mind around what he was seeing. Instead of handwriting, the short letter had been composed by a typewriter of some sort, the print was so exact he couldn't imagine a normal human writing that way. He looked down at the words. He read them again. Harry slowed his mind and eyes, and read the words a third time.

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted

To sever for years

Ministry of Magic Atrium. Tomorrow, 5pm.

Harry fell heavily into the nearest chair, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the parchment in his hand. He trembled, and for a moment he struggled to hold fast to the letter. Was this someone's idea of a sick joke? He stared at the parchment again, his fingers brushing over the indented words, and he felt his rage bubbling up. He stood and strode over the the fire grate. “Incendio.” the spell shot from his wand tip and a fire crackled to life in the hearth. Harry hesitated for a second longer, the parchment still clutched tightly in his hand, then he crumpled it up and tossed it into the flames.

Except the sender was apparently not content to be ignored. Harry watched as the wadded parchment landed in the centre of the flames, but did not catch. It quivered, then rolled out of the fire, across the stone floor, stopping at Harry's feet. The parchment uncrumpled itself and lay smooth and flat upon the ground. The message upon the parchment had changed.

Mr Potter

Harry shivered. He could practically hear the tone through the paper.

~*~

Harry was glad he hadn't eaten anything that day. His stomach was knotted so tightly with panic that it was unlikely he'd be able to keep anything down. He stood before the his fire grate, shaking as he awaited for the allotted time to come. Harry knew this could be someone's idea of a joke, a ruse to lure him back into a world he wanted desperately to escape from. In the back of his mind, was the slim glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe it was all true. No one knew about him and Severus, especially while he was still at school. That pointed towards the likelihood that against all odds his lover had somehow survived.

Whatever happened, it would be big.

Harry pinched the glittering powder between trembling fingers, and cast it into the flames. “M-Minstry of Magic Atrium.” In a stomach-churning swirl of green flame, he was gone.

The atrium was crowded. Harry felt a wave of panic wash over him; it was more people than he'd seen in a very long time. He fought down the urge to race back to Grimmauld Place. He stepped out of the fireplace and looked around. He felt incredibly stupid, wondering why in the seven hells he actually believed the note. Now that Harry was out in the open, people were jostling and backtracking to get a good look at him, or trying to stop him for a word of thanks, or attempt to shake his hand. He brushed them all off, while his eyes searched the crowd.

~

“D'you think we'll ever...y'know, be able to be open about...well, us?” Severus moved his hand from Harry's chest to run through his hair, then resettled it upon Harry's waist. Harry's back was pressed into Severus's chest, and in his sleepy afterglow frame of mind, he waited with bated breath for the answer.

“It's difficult to say,” the non-answer irritated Harry, and Severus seemed to sense it as he pressed on. As he spoke, one of his hands casually slipped between the young man's legs. Harry's breath hitched, and he pressed his head backward into the crook of Severus's neck. “Perhaps if by some miracle we come out of this war in one piece, we will be able to. I don't want to make a promise to you that I cannot keep.”

~

The tittering crowd stood back, but watched Harry's every move with hawklike intensity. The attention succeeded only in worsening his anxiety, despite his attempts to ignore it. Across the resplendent hall, Harry's eyes found his. He strode with purpose across the atrium, struggling to keep himself from running. Severus smiled minutely, and watched him with an intensity Harry had deeply missed in the years he'd spent alone.

Severus waited for him patiently, dressed in his trademark billowing robes. The only change in his appearance was the presence of a black cane, which he seemed to be bracing a good portion of his weight on. Harry stopped just short of him, only vaguely aware of the gathered spectators to their reunion, as well as the occasional camera flash.

“You're not dead.”

“Decidedly no.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Harry struggled to keep his tone businesslike, but despite his best efforts his voice cracked, and he took a deep breath to steady himself. He wasn't keen to burst into tears before an audience.

“I was in no condition to, unfortunately. Given that no one was aware of our...liaisons, so to speak, there was no way to convey to you that I was not dead.” He paused, and observed Harry with a small smile, so faint that he doubted that their audience would catch it. “I am sorry, Harry.”

Harry took another small step forward, ignoring the apology. “As far as being open about us...This is one helluva big step.”

“I believe having your friends and surrogate family find out at a safe distance might be best.” His eyes glittered with amusement, and Harry cracked a grin.

Harry closed the distance between them. The shocked gasps of the crowd, the flashes of the cameras—it was nonsensical white noise. Nothing else mattered but the man that stood before him. Severus enveloped him in those voluminous robes, Harry reached up to wrap his arms around his neck. After three years apart, their lips met.

Harry reluctantly broke the kiss, and placed his hand in Severus's free one. “Let's go home,” he murmured, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The crowd parted for them. Harry smirked when he recognized a few of the gobsmacked spectators, but he paid them no mind. He had eyes only for the man that walked next to him.

That night, Harry and Severus re-acquainted themselves with one another. In the realm between satisfaction and sleep, Harry realized that sometimes, miracles are worth the waiting.

-Fin

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#slash fanfiction #harry potter slash #snarry fic #snarry #snarry fic rec

[ralphmorgan-blog1]

Nobody Would Have Been Surprised If I Had Died

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It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four-hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s checkbook to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world  

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…”

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Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

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This man chapter 1

I rifle through the piles and piles of paraphernalia that’s sprawled all over my bedroom floor. I’m going to be late. On a Friday, after being on time all week, I’m going to be late.

‘Kate!’ I yell frantically. Where the hell are they? I run out onto the landing and throw myself over the banister. ‘Kate!’

I hear the familiar sound of a wooden spoon bashing the edges of a ceramic bowl as Kate appears at the bottom of the stairs. She looks up at me with a tired expression. It’s an expression I’ve become use to recently.

‘Keys! Have you seen my car keys?’ I puff at her.

‘They’re on the coffee table where you left them last night.’ She rolls her eyes, taking herself and her cake mixture back to her workshop.

I dart across the landing in a complete fluster and find my car keys under a pile of weekly glossies. ‘Hiding again,’ I mutter to myself, grabbing my tan belt, heels and laptop. I make my way downstairs, finding Kate in her workshop spooning cake mixture into various tins.

‘You need to tidy that room, Selena. It’s a f**king mess.’ she complains.

Yes, my personal organisation skills are pretty shocking, especially since I’m an interior designer, who spends all day coordinating and organising. I scoop my phone up from the chunky table and dunk my finger in Kate’s cake mixture. ‘I can’t be brilliant at everything.’

‘Get out!’ She bats my hand away with her spoon. ‘Why do you need your car, anyway?’ she asks, leaning down to smooth the mixture over, her tongue resting on her bottom lip in concentration.

‘I have a first consultation in The Surrey Hills – some country mansion.’ I feed my belt through the belt loops of my navy pencil dress, slip my feet into my tan heels and present myself to the wall mirror.

‘I thought you stuck to the city?’ she asks from behind me.

I ruffle my long, dark hair for a few seconds, flicking it from one side to another but give up, piling it up with a few grips instead. My dark brown eyes look tired and lack their usual sparkle. A result, no doubt, of burning the candle at both ends. I only moved in with Kate a month ago after splitting with Matt. We’re behaving like a couple of university students. My liver is screaming for a rest.

‘I do. The country sector is Patrick’s domain. I don’t know how I got landed with this.’ I sweep the wand of my gloss across my lips and smack them together. ‘One is not partial to old English and all things proper.’ I give Kate a kiss on the cheek. ‘It’s going to be painful, I know it. Luv ya!’

‘Ditto, see you later.’ Kate laughs, without lifting her face from her work station. ‘Don’t forget your P’s and Q’s!’

Despite my lateness, I drive my little Mini with my usual care and consideration to my office on Bruton Street. I’m reminded why I tube it every day when I spend ten minutes driving around looking for a parking space.

I burst into the office and glance at the clock. Eight forty. Okay, I’m ten minutes late, not as bad as I thought. I pass Tom and Victoria’s empty desks on the way to my own, spying Patrick in his office as I land in my chair. Unpacking my laptop, I notice a package has been left for me.

‘Morning, flower.’ Patrick’s low boom greets me as he perches on the edge of my desk, followed by the customary creak under his weight. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Morning, it’s the new fabric range from Miller’s. You Like?’ I stroke some of the luxurious material.

‘Wonderful,’ he feigns interest. ‘Don’t let Irene clap her eyes on it. I’ve just liquidated most of my assets to fund the new soft furnishings at home.’

‘Oh,’ I give him a sympathetic face. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Victoria has the day off and Tom’s having a nightmare with Mr & Mrs Baines. It’s just you, me and Sal today, flower.’ He takes his comb out of his inside pocket and runs it through his silver mop.

‘I’ve got a midday appointment at The Manor,’ I remind him. He can’t have forgotten. Country pads are supposed to be his realm. ‘Why am I going, Patrick?’ I have to ask. I’ve never worked on a country property before, and I’m not sure I have the insight for old fashioned and traditional.

I’ve worked for Rococo Union for four years, and it was made clear that I was employed to expand the business into the modern sector. With luxury apartments flying up all over London, Patrick and Tom, with their speciality of traditional design, were missing out. When it took off and the work load got too much for me, he employed Victoria.

‘That would be because they asked for you, flower.’ He pushes himself to his feet, my desk creaking in protest again. Patrick ignores it, but I wince. He has to lose some weight or stop sitting on my desk. It won’t take the strain for much longer.

So, they asked for me? Why ever would they do that? My portfolio holds nothing that will reflect traditional design – nothing at all. I can’t help but think that this is a complete waste of my time. Patrick or Tom should be going.

‘Oh, Lusso launch,’ Patrick tucks his comb away. ‘The developer is really pushing the boat out with this party in the penthouse. You’ve done an amazing job, Selena.’ Patrick’s eyebrows nod with his head.

I blush. ‘Thank you.’ I’m dead proud of myself and my work at Lusso, my greatest achievement in my short career.

Based on St Katharine Docks and with prices ranging from three million for a basic apartment to ten million for the penthouse, we’re in the super rich realm. The design specification is as the name suggests: Italian luxury. I sourced all materials, furniture and art from Italy and enjoyed a week there organising the shipping schedule. Next Friday is the launch party, but I know they’ve already sold the penthouse and six other apartments, so it’s more of a showing off party.

‘I’ve cleared my diary so I can do the final checks once the cleaners are out.’ I flick the pages of my diary to next Friday and scribble across the page again.

‘Good girl, I’ve told Victoria to be there at five. It’s her first launch so you need to give her a heads up. I’ll be there at seven with Tom.’

‘Sure.’

Patrick returns to his office, and I open my email, sifting through to delete or respond where necessary.

At eleven o’clock, I pack my laptop up and poke my head around Patrick’s office door. He’s engrossed with something on his computer.

‘I’m off now.’ I say, but he just waves his hand in the air in acknowledgment. I walk through the office to see Sally fighting with the photocopier. ‘See you later, Sal.’

‘Bye, Selena.’ she replies, but she’s too busy removing the paper jam to acknowledge me with her face. The girl’s a calamity.

I walk out into the May sunshine and head for my car. Friday mid-morning traffic is a nightmare, but once I’m out of the city, the drive onwards is pretty straightforward. The roof is down, Adele is keeping me company and it’s Friday. A little drive in the countryside is a lovely way to finish my working week.

My sat-nav instructs me to pull off of the main road and onto a little lane, where I find myself in front of the biggest pair of gates I’ve ever seen. A gold plaque on a pillar states “The Manor”.

Bloody hell! I take my sunglasses off, looking past the gates and down the gravel road that seems to go for miles. There’s no sign of a house, just a tree lined road that I can’t see the end of. I get out of my car and walk up to the gates, giving them a little jiggle, but they don’t budge. I stand for a few moments, wondering what to do.

‘You need to press the intercom.’ I nearly jump out of my skin when the low rumble of a voice comes from nowhere, stabbing at the silent country air.

I look around me, but I’m definitely on my own. ‘Hello?’

‘Over here.’

I do a full three sixty turn and see the intercom further down the lane. I drove straight past it. I run over, pressing the button to announce myself. ‘Selena O’Shea, Rococo Union.’

‘I know.’

He does? How? I look around and spot a camera installed on the gate, then the shift of metal breaks the countryside peace around me. The gates start opening. ‘Give me a chance.’ I mutter as I run back to my car. I jump in my Mini and creep forward as the gates swing open, all the time wondering how I’ll remove the glass of port and cigar that are, quite clearly, wedged up that miserable sod’s arse. I’m looking less forward to this appointment by the minute. Posh country folk and their posh country mansions are not in my area of expertise.

Once the gates are fully opened, I drive through and continue on the tree lined, gravel driveway that seems to go on forever. With mature Elm trees lying on either side of the lane at regular and even intervals, you would think they had been strategically placed to conceal what lies beyond. After a mile or so of sheltered driving, I pull into a perfectly round courtyard. I take my sunglasses off and gape at the huge house that looms centrally and demands attention. It’s superb, but I’m even more apprehensive now. My enthusiasm for this appointment is dampening further by the minute.

The black doors – adorned with highly polished gold furniture – are flanked by four giant bay windows, with pillars in carved stone guarding them. Giant limestone blocks make up the structure of the mansion, with lush bay trees lining the face. The fountain in the centre of the courtyard, spraying out jets of illuminated water, tops the sight off. It’s all very imposing.

I stop, cut the engine and fumble with the door release to get out of my car. Standing and holding on to the top of my car door, I look up at the magnificent building and immediately think that this has to be a mistake. The place is in amazing condition.

The lawns are greener than green, the house looks like it receives daily scrub downs and even the gravel looks like it receives a daily hoover. If the exterior is anything to go by, then I can’t imagine the inside needing any work. I look up at the dozens of sash bay windows, seeing plush curtains hanging at them all. I’m tempted to call Patrick to check I’ve got the right address, but it did say The Manor on the gates. And that miserable sod on the other end of the intercom was obviously expecting me.

While I’m pondering my next move, the doors open, revealing the biggest black man I’ve ever seen. He saunters out to the top of the steps. I physically flinch at the sight of him, stepping back slightly. He has a black suit on – specially made for sure because that’s no regular size – a black shirt and a black tie. His shaven head looks like it’s been buffed to a shine, and wraparound sunglasses conceal his face. If I could build a mental image of who I would have expected to walk out of them doors, he, most definitely, would not be it. The man is a mountain, and I know I’m stood here gawking at him. I’m suddenly slightly concerned that I’ve turned up at some mafia control centre, and I search my brain trying to remember if I transferred my rape alarm to my new handbag.

‘Miss O’Shea?’ he drawls.

I wilt under his massive presence, putting my hand up in a nervous wave gesture. ‘Hi.’ I whisper, my voice laced with all of the apprehension I truly feel.

‘This way.’ he rumbles deeply, giving a sharp nod of his head and turning to walk back into the mansion.

I deliberate on cutting and running, but the daring and dangerous side of me is curious of what lays beyond those doors. He’s no butler. I grab my bag, shut my car door and check for my rape alarm as I walk towards the house, only to find I’ve left it in my other bag. I carry on anyway. Pure curiosity has me walking up the steps and crossing the threshold into a huge entrance hall. I gaze around the vast area, and I’m immediately impressed by the grand, centrally position, curved staircase that leads up to the first floor.

My fears are confirmed. This place is immaculate.

The décor is opulent, lush and very intimidating. Deep blues, taupe’s with hints of gold and original woodwork, along with the rich mahogany parquet floor, makes the place striking and massively extrSelenagant. It’s exactly how I would have expected it to be and nowhere near my design style. But then again, looking around, why any interior designer would be here is becoming more and more confusing. Patrick said they requested me personally, so I would be inclined to think that they want to modernise the place, but that would’ve been before I got a glimpse of the exterior and now the interior too. The décor suits the period building. It’s in perfect condition. Why the hell am I here?

Big guy heads off to the right, leaving me to scuttle off after him. My tan heels clink on the parquet floor as he leads me past the central staircase, towards the back of the Mansion.

I hear the hum of conversation and glance to my right, noticing many people sat at various tables eating, drinking and chatting. Waiters are serving food and drinks, and the distinct voices of The Rat Pack are purring in the background. I frown, but then I click. It’s a hotel – a posh country hotel. My shoulders sag slightly in relief at concluding this, but it still doesn’t explain why I’m here. I’m lead past some toilets and then a bar. A few men are sat on bar stools cracking jokes and teasing a young woman, who has, apparently, returned from the lSelenatory with toilet roll stuck to her heel. She playfully slaps the main instigator on the shoulder, scolding him while laughing along with them.

This is all beginning to make sense to me. I want to say something to the mountain of a man leading me, God only knows where, but he hasn’t looked back once to check I’m following. Although, the clink of my heels tells him I am. He doesn’t say much, and I suspect he wouldn’t answer me if I did speak.

We continue past two more closed doors. Judging by the clanking of pots, I assume one to be the kitchen. Then he leads me into a summer room – a massive, light, stunningly lavish space that’s sectioned off into individual seating areas by the positioning of sofa’s, big arm chairs and tables. Floor to ceiling bi-fold doors span the complete face of the room, leading to a yorkstone patio and a vast lawn area. It’s really quite awe inspiring. I inwardly gasp when I spot a glass building housing a swimming pool. It’s incredible. I shudder to think how much the nightly rate is. It has to be five stars – probably more.

Once we’ve passed through the summer room, I’m lead down a corridor until big guy stops outside a wooden panelled door. ‘Mr Ward’s office.’ he rumbles, knocking the door, surprisingly gently given his mammoth size.

‘The Manager?’ I ask.

‘The Owner,’ he replies, opening the door and striding through. ‘Come in.’

I hesitate on the threshold, watching as the big guy strides into the room ahead of me. I eventually force my feet into action, moving into the room, while gazing around at the equally luxurious surroundings of Mr Ward’s office.

Chapter 2

‘Justin, Miss O’Shea, Rococo Union.’ Big guy announces.

‘Perfect. Thanks, John.’

I’m dragged from my awed like state, straight into high alert. My back straightens.

I can’t see him, he’s obscured by the big guy’s massive frame, but that raspy, smooth voice has me frozen on the spot, and it certainly doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a cigar smoking, overweight, wax jacket wearing Lord of the Manor.

Big guy, or John as I now know him, moves to the side, giving me my first glimpse of Mr Justin Ward.

Oh good God. My heart crashes against my breast bone and my nervous breathing rockets to damn right dangerous levels. I suddenly feel light headed, and my mouth is ignoring my brains instructions to at least say something. I just stand there staring at this man, while he stares back at me. His husky voice halted me in my tracks, but the sight of him…well, that’s just turned me into a non-responsive, quivering wreck.

He rises from his chair, my gaze traveling up with him until he’s stood at full height. He’s very tall. His white shirt is casually rolled at the sleeves, but he still wears a black tie, loosely knotted and hanging down the front of a broad chest.

He makes his way around his massive desk and slowly walks towards me. It’s then that I take in the full impact of him. I gulp. This man is so perfect, I’m almost in pain. His dirty blonde hair looks like he’s half attempted to get it into some semblance of a style but given up. His eyes are sludgy green, but bright and way too intense, and the stubble covering his square jaw does nothing to conceal the handsome features beneath it. He’s lightly tanned and just…Oh God, he’s devastating. Lord of the Manor?

‘Miss O’Shea.’ His hand comes toward me, but I can’t persuade my arm to raise and clasp his outstretched offering. He’s beautiful.

When I don’t offer my hand, he reaches forward and clasps both of my shoulders, then slowly leans in to kiss me, his lips brushing lightly over my burning cheek. I tense all over. I can hear my pulse throbbing in my ears, and even though it’s completely inappropriate for a business meeting, I do nothing to stop him. I’m all over the place.

‘It’s a pleasure,’ he whispers in my ear, which only serves to make me moan slightly. He must feel my tenseness – it’s not difficult, I’m rigid – because his grip eases up and he lowers his face to my level, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, one side of his mouth lifting into a semblance of a smile. I notice a single frown line across his forehead.

I snap myself out of my ridiculous inertness, suddenly aware that I’ve still not said anything. Has he noticed my reaction to him? What about big guy? I glance over, seeing the big guy stood motionless, glasses still in place, but I know his eyes are on me. I mentally shake myself and step back, away from Ward and his potent grasp. His hands fall to his side.

‘Hi,’ I cough to clear my throat. ‘Selena. My name is Selena.’ I offer him my hand, but he’s unhurried in accepting it, like he’s unsure whether it’s safe to, but he does…eventually.

His hand is clammy and slightly shaky as he squeezes mine firmly. Sparks fizz and a curious look flits across his stunning face. We both retract our hands in shock.

‘Selena.’ He’s trying my name on his lips, and it takes all of my strength not to moan again. He should stop talking – immediately.

‘Yes, Selena.’ I confirm. He’s the one who seems to be off in his own little nirvana now, while I’m becoming increasingly aware of my rising temperature.

He suddenly seems to come to his senses, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets as he shakes his head slightly, retreating backwards. ‘Thanks, John.’ he nods to the big guy, who smiles slightly, softening his hard features, then leaves.

I’m alone with this man, who has rendered me speechless, motionless and pretty much useless.

He nods towards two brown leather couches, positioned opposite each other in the bay window, with a large coffee table sitting between them. ‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’ He drags his gaze from mine, walking towards a cabinet with various bottles of liquor lined up on top. He surely doesn’t mean alcohol? It’s midday. Even by my standards it’s too early. I watch as he hovers at the cabinet for a few moments before turning to face me again, looking at me expectantly.

‘No, thank you.’ I shake my head as I speak, just in case the words don’t come out.

‘Water?’ he asks, that smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, don’t look at me. ‘Please.’ I smile a nervous smile. My mouth is parched.

He collects two bottles of water from the integrated fridge and turns back towards me. It’s then that I persuade my shaky legs to carry me across the room to the sofa.

‘Selena?’ His voice rolls across me, causing me to falter en-route.

I turn to face him. It’s probably a bad idea. ‘Yes?’

He holds up a highball. ‘Glass?’

‘Yes, please.’ I smile. He must think I’m so unprofessional. I settle myself on the leather couch, retrieve my folder and phone from my bag and place them on the table in front of me. I notice my hands shaking.

Christ, woman. Get a grip! I feign making notes as he strolls back over, placing my water and a glass on the table. He sits down on the sofa opposite and crosses one leg over the other, his ankle resting on his thigh. He stretches back. He’s really making himself comfortable, and the silence that falls between us is screaming as I write anything and everything to avoid looking up at him. I know I’ve got to look at the man and say something at some point, but all standard enquiry questions have run, screaming and shouting, from my brain.

‘So, where do we start?’ he asks, forcing me look up and acknowledge his question. He smiles. I swoon.

He’s watching me over the rim of his bottle as he raises it to those lovely lips. I break the eye contact, reaching forward to pour some water into my glass. I’m struggling to reign in my nerves, and I can still feel his eyes on me. This is truly awkward. I’ve never been so affected by a man.

‘I guess you should tell me why I’m here.’ I speak! I look back up at him as I take my glass from the table.

‘Oh?’ he says quietly. There’s that frown line again. Even with that, he’s still beautiful.

‘You requested me by name?’ I press.

‘Yes.’ he replies simply. He smiles again. I have to look away.

I take a sip of my water to moisten my dry mouth, and clear my throat before returning my gaze to his potent stare. ‘So, can I ask why?’

‘You can.’ He uncrosses his leg, leaning forward to place his bottle on the table, resting his forearms on his knees, but he says no more. Is he not going to elaborate on that?

‘Okay,’ I struggle to maintain eye contact. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve heard great things about you.’

I feel my face burning up. ‘Thank you. So, why am I here?’

‘Well, to design.’ He laughs, and I feel stupid but slightly irritated as well. Is he making fun of me?

‘Design what exactly?’ I ask. ‘From what I’ve seen, everything is pretty perfect.’ He surely doesn’t want to modernise this lovely place. It may not be my forte, but I know class when I see it.

‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘Do you have your portfolio with you?’

‘Of course,’ I reply, reaching into my bag. Why he wants to look at it is beyond me. It won’t reflect anything like this place.

I place it on the table in front of him and expect him to drag it over to his side, but to my horror, he stands in one fluid movement and walks around to me, lowering his lovely lean body onto the sofa next to me. Oh, Jesus. He smells divine – all fresh water and minty. I hold my breath.

Leaning forward, he opens the folder. ‘You’re very young to be such an accomplished designer.’ he muses, slowly turning the pages of my portfolio.

He’s right, I am. It’s only thanks to Patrick for giving me free reign on the expansion of his business. In four years, I’ve fallen out of college, picked up a job in an established design company – that had the financial stability but lacked the new freshness in modern ideas – and made a name for myself on the back of it. I’ve been lucky, and I appreciate Patrick’s faith in my capabilities. That, coupled with my contract at Lusso, is the only reason I’m where I am at the age of twenty six.

I look down at his lovely hand, his wrist adorned in a beautiful gold and graphite Rolex. ‘How old are you?’ I blurt. Oh, good God. My brain is like scrambled egg, and I know I’ve just blushed a sharp shade of red. I should just keep my mouth shut. Where the hell did that come from?

He looks at me intently, his green eyes burning into mine. ‘Twenty one.’ he answers, completely pokerfaced.

I scoff mildly, and his eyebrows jump up questioningly. ‘Sorry.’ I mutter, turning back to the table. I’m feeling flustered. I hear him exhale heavily as his lovely hand reaches back down to my portfolio to start turning the pages again, his left hand resting on the edge of the table.

I notice no ring. He’s not married? How can that be?

‘This, I like a lot.’ He points to the photographs of Lusso.

‘I’m not sure my works on Lusso would fit in here.’ I say quietly. It’s way too modern – luxurious, yes, but too modern.

He looks up at me. ‘You’re right, I’m just saying…I really like it.’

‘Thank you.’ I feel my colour deepen as he studies me thoughtfully before returning to my portfolio.

I make a grab for my water, resisting the temptation to chuck it down my front to cool me off, but very nearly do when his trouser clad thigh brushes against my bare knee. I shift quickly to break the contact, glancing out the corner of my eye to see a small smirk breaking at the edge of his mouth. He’s doing this on purpose. It’s too much.

‘Do you have a toilet?’ I ask as I place my glass back on the table and stand. I need to go and compose myself. I’m a ruffled mess.

He rises from the couch swiftly, moving back to let me pass. ‘Through the summer room and on your left.’ he says with a smile. He knows he’s affecting me. The way he’s smiling at me, knowingly, I bet he has this sort of reaction from women all of the time.

‘Thank you.’ I edge out of the small gape between the table and the sofa, my task hampered as he makes no attempt to give me more space. I have to virtually brush past him, and that has me holding my breath until I’m clear of his body.

I walk towards the door. His eyes are on me; I can feel them burning a hole through my dress. I roll my neck to try and rid myself of the goose bumps jumping onto my nape.

Stumbling out of his office, I head down the corridor before wandering through the summer room and staggering into the ridiculously posh lSelenatories. I brace myself over the sink and look in the mirror. ‘Jesus, Selena. Pull it together!’ I scorn my reflection.

‘Met the Lord, have we?’

I swing around and find a very attractive business lady, faffing with her hair at the other end of the room. I have no idea what to say, but she’s just confirmed what I already suspected – he does have this affect on all women. When my brain fails to deliver on anything suitable to say, I just smile.

She returns my smile, amused and knowing of the reason for my flustered state, before disappearing from the toilets. If I wasn’t feeling so hot and nervous, I might be embarrassed at my obvious condition. But I am hot, and I’m very nervous, so I brush off my humiliation, take some steady breaths and wash my clammy hands with the Noble Isle hand wash. I should have brought my bag. I could do with some Vaseline on my lips. My mouth is still dry and my lips are suffering as a consequence.

Okay, I need to get back out there, get the specification and be gone. My heart is pleading for some let up. I’m completely ashamed of myself. I re-pin my hair and exit the toilets, making my way back to Mr Ward’s office. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to work for this man; I’m just way too affected by him.

I knock before I enter, finding him sat on the couch looking over my portfolio. He looks up and smiles, and I know now, I really have to leave. I can’t possibly work with this man. Every molecule of intelligence and brain power I possess has been zapped from my body by his presence. And worse of all, he knows it.

I give myself a mental pep talk, making my way over to the table, ignoring the fact that he’s following my every move. He leans back on the sofa in a gesture for me to squeeze past, but I don’t. I take a seat on the opposite sofa, perching on the edge.

He flicks me a questioning look. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I answer shortly. He knows. ‘Would you like to show me where your intended project is so we can start discussing requirements?’ I force the confidence into my voice. I’m just following protocol now. I’ve absolutely no intention of taking this contract on, but I can’t just walk out – as tempting as it is.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by my change of approach. ‘Sure.’ He gets up from the sofa, striding over to his desk to collect his mobile. I gather my things, stuff them into my bag and follow his gesture to lead the way.

He quickly overtakes me, opening the door and performing an exaggerated gentlemanly bow as he holds it open. I smile politely – even though I know he’s playing with me – and exit into the corridor, heading towards the summer room. I stiffen on a gasp when he places a hand at the small of my back to guide me.

What’s he playing at? I’m trying my hardest to ignore it, but you would have to be dead not to notice the affect this man’s having on me. And I know he knows it. My skin’s burning all over – almost certainly warming his palm through my dress – I can’t get my breathing under control and walking is taking every bit of coordination and effort I possess. I’m pathetic, and it’s bloody obvious he’s enjoying the reactions he’s drawing from me. I must be quite amusing.

Annoyed with myself, I walk a little quicker to break the contact of his hand from my back, stopping when I reach the point of two possible routes.

He reaches me, pointing out across the lawns to the tennis courts. ‘Do you play?’

I actually laugh, but it’s a comfortable laugh. ‘No, I don’t.’ I can run, but that’s about it. Give me a bat, racket or a ball, then you’re asking for trouble. The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin at my reaction, bolstering the green of his eyes and lengthening his generous lashes. I smile, shaking my head in wonder at this glorious man. ‘You?’ I ask.

He continues through to the entrance hall, me following. ‘I don’t mind the odd game, but I’m more of an extreme sports kinda guy.’ He stops, and I halt with him.

He looks ridiculously fit and toned. ‘What sort of extreme sports?’

‘Snow-boarding, mainly, but I’ve tried my hand at white water rafting, bungee jumping and skydiving. I’m a bit of an adrenalin junky. I like to feel the blood pumping.’ He watches me as he speaks, making me feel scrutinised. You would have to anesthetise me before you got me doing any of his blood pumping pastimes. I’ll stick to a run every so often.

‘Extreme.’ I say, studying this magnificent man of an age I don’t know.

‘Very extreme,’ he confirms quietly. My breath catches again and I close my eyes, mentally yelling at myself for being such a loser. ‘Shall we continue?’ he asks. I can hear humour in his voice.

I open my eyes to be met by his penetrating, green stare. ‘Yes, please.’

I wish he would stop looking at me like that. He half smiles again and walks into the bar, greeting the men I saw earlier by clapping them on the shoulders. The woman is no longer here. The two men are very attractive, young – probably late twenties – and perched on bar stools, drinking bottles of beer.

‘Guys, this is Selena. Selena, this is Sam Kelt and Drew Davies.’

‘Good afternoon.’ Drew drawls. He’s a bit miserable. His appearance – he’s handsome in a rugged kind of way – and character, tell me he’s smart, confident and a business type. His black hair is perfectly styled, his suit pristine, his eyes shrewd.

‘Hi.’ I smile politely.

‘Welcome to the pleasure dome,’ Sam laughs, raising his bottle. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

I notice Ward shake his head lightly on an eye roll. Sam grins. He’s the polar opposite of Drew – all casual and laid back, in old jeans, a Superdry T-shirt and converse. He has a cheeky face, complimented by one dimple on his left cheek. His blue eyes twinkle, adding to his cheekiness, and his mousey brown, shoulder length hair is all over the place.

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ I answer.

He nods at Ward. ‘Justin?’

‘No, I’m good, I‘m just giving Selena a tour of the extension. She’ll be working on the interiors.’ he says, smiling at me.

I quietly scoff to myself. Not if I have anything to do with it. Anyway, he’s jumping the gun a bit, isn’t he? We’ve not discussed rates, briefs or anything, for that matter.

‘About time, there are never any rooms Selenailable.’ Drew grumbles into his bottle. Why have I never heard of this place?

‘How was the boarding in Cortina, my man?’ Sam asks.

Ward perches on another stool. ‘Amazing. The Italian way of skiing follows pretty closely to their laid back lifestyle,’ He smiles broadly, the first proper full beam smile since I’ve laid eyes on him – all straight, white and lush. This man is a God. ‘I got up late, found a great mountain, ran the slopes until my legs buckled, had a siesta, ate late and started all over again the next day.’ He’s addressing us all but staring at me. His passion for the slopes is demonstrated in his wide smile.

I can’t help but return his beam. ‘You’re good?’ I ask, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind. I imagine he’s good at everything.

‘Very,’ he confirms quietly. I nod my approval, and for a few seconds, our eyes are locked. I’m the first to break it. ‘Shall we?’ he asks, pushing himself up from the stool and gesturing towards the exit.

‘Yes.’ I smile. I’m supposedly here to work, after all. All I’ve achieved so far is a hot flush and an establishment of extreme sports. I feel like I’m in a trance.

From the moment I pulled up to those gates, I knew it wasn’t going to be an average day to day meeting, and I was right. In the four years I’ve been visiting people in their homes, work places and new builds, I’ve never come across a Justin Ward. I probably never will do again. It’s undoubtedly a good job.

I turn to the two guys at the bar, smiling my goodbye, prompting them to raise their bottles before they continue with their conversation. I walk towards the door that leads back to the entrance hall, feeling him close behind me. He’s too close; I can smell him. I close my eyes, sending a small prayer to God to get me through this quickly, with at least a bit of dignity intact. He’s just way too intense and it’s throwing my senses in a million different directions.

‘So, now for the main feature,’ He begins to climb the wide staircase. I follow him, gazing around the colossal void that leads to a huge gallery landing. ‘These are the private rooms.’ he says, pointing to various doors that lead off of the landing.

I follow, admiring his lovely backside, thinking he possibly has the sexiest walk I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing. When I drag my eyes from his tidy rear, I see that there are at least twenty doors, evenly spaced and leading into rooms beyond. He leads me until we reach another grand staircase that stretches to another floor. At the foot of the stairs, there’s a beautiful stained glass window and an archway leading to another wing.

‘This is the extension,’ He guides me through to a new section of the mansion. ‘This is where I need your help.’ he adds, halting at the mouth of a corridor that leads to a further ten rooms.

‘This is all new?’ I ask.

‘Yes, they’re all shells at the moment, but I’m sure you’ll remedy that. Let me show you.’

I’m way past shocked when he takes my hand, tugging me down the corridor to the very last door. Inappropriate! His hand is still clammy, and I’m sure mine is trembling in his grip. The arched brow on a slight grin he flashes me, tells me I’m right. There’s some sort of super charged current flowing through us – it’s making me shudder.

He opens the door, directing me into a freshly plastered room. It’s vast, and the new windows are sympathetic to the existing property. Whoever built this did an excellent job.

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

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Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

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Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2mPdYcD via Viral News HQ

#IFTTT #Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

Woman Reveals How Everyone Turned A Blind Eye To What Her Stepfather Was Doing

In the wake of the horrific mass shooting that left 26 people dead in Sutherland Springs, Texas recently, writer Katherine Fugate decided to share her own story.

“It starts somewhere. It starts in the home. I know what a mass shooter can look like.

First time I saw him, I was 13. The sun wasn’t even up yet and I was wearing my track uniform. I poured myself a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, turned and there he was, sitting at the round pale-blue Formica table reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee.

He was a large man. Wavy hair and beard intertwined with strands of black and white. Blue-blue eyes. A department store Santa. He smiled at me. Introduced himself. I was late for practice. So I told him to wash his dishes before he left.

My mother met him the night before. The bowling alley was the place-to-be in our small town, with a crowded bar, nightly bowling leagues, giant trophies and a video game arcade. Normally we went with her, gorging on pizza and Dr. Pepper, but my youngest sister was sick. So my mom went alone, met him and brought him home.

She’d been looking for a man for a while. She was a mother with three little girls. She did not have a job. That was a lot to take on for anyone. Her second marriage had ended a year earlier. He started sleeping in her bedroom every night after they met. A few weeks later, I woke up to find them both gone. It was Christmas Eve morning. She’d left a note. They had gone to Vegas, a four hour drive. Watch your two younger sisters, please. They’d be back that night.

I wasn’t mad. I was hopeful. She was lonely, she was drinking more and the laundry was piling up in the garage. He lifted her up, easily, and swung her around the room, happily, and he bought all three of us brand new bicycles. I wanted it to work out for her this time. We all did.

I woke up before dawn on Christmas morning and they still hadn’t come home. The Christmas tree was decorated and the red and green lights were blinking expectantly, but the cookies and milk were untouched. I ate the cookies, drank the milk, and then stole her money from the cigar box.

I rode my new banana seat bike that he bought me in the dark to the 7-Eleven on Grand Avenue, where I bought presents on behalf of Santa. I bought records for my two sisters. The 45’s of I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family and I Don’t Like Spiders and Snakes by Jim Stafford. The three of us had a band called “Wonder.” I played the drums on the back of a set of silver pots, while they played the tambourine and maracas. Our mother was best and only audience. At the store, I bought as much candy, soapy bubbles and plastic toys as I could afford. Then, I bought one more thing. A gift for my mother. The .45 record of You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I wanted her to know I would stay.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Remembering will have to do…”

I wanted her to know I would remember her.

I rode my bike home as the sun rose. I wrapped the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I quickly made pancakes, which my mother had always done for us on Christmas morning. My sisters woke up shortly after and opened their gifts. If they were disappointed in the small bounty, they didn’t say. We got out the silver pots, played the records and sang the songs. It was a happy Christmas morning. The only thing missing was our audience.

My mother called hours later. They were driving back from Vegas. Would I find a restaurant open for Christmas dinner? Scouring the Yellow Pages, I made a reservation at a Chinese restaurant in the next town, and it was there my mother showed us her diamond ring and told us they were getting married. From that day forward, he lived with us. The changes happened rather fast.

I never liked meat. Even as a very small child, my mother told me I would spit out beef. For dinner, my mother made meatloaf, his favorite. She gave me the side dishes: mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese. He insisted I eat the meatloaf. I wouldn’t. My mother defended me. But he was the man of the house now. I could not leave the kitchen table until I ate the meatloaf. My mother shook me awake the next morning. I had fallen asleep. She had a black eye. I never saw him hit her. But I didn’t have to eat the meatloaf.

He bought her a red Lotus, an expensive sports car with a stick shift. Then, they took another trip to Vegas and left us alone. I stole my mother’s car keys and drove my sisters to school in the brand new Lotus. I taught myself how to drive her stick shift, but not very well, because I hit a tree in the school parking lot. Students stared. Teachers stared. The car was towed.

I was 14 and didn’t have a driver’s license. They called my mother in Vegas. She returned with a black eye, a split lip and a badly bruised arm hanging limply by her side. He walked right past me into the house without saying a word. She looked right at me and said, quietly, “I took it for you.”

It was my fault I wrecked the car. It was my fault he beat her.

My mother started drinking more. He started drinking more. The fights happened more. A passion play and we were the audience. Parenting became an afterthought. When the food in the house ran out, my sisters and I would take a taxi and my mother’s check book to the grocery store. We’d load up the shopping cart and not with very good choices. In front of the cashier, I’d carefully fill out the dollar amount on the check, and then forge my mother’s signature. It was a small town.

Everybody knew why. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Life became a routine. When the fighting started downstairs, my younger sisters left their bedrooms and showed up in mine. The record player went on. The record collection grew. I learned which chair to wedge under the doorknob to keep my bedroom door shut. I learned which concealer worked best to hide her bruises the next morning. Sometimes, the ambulance would come. Sometimes, she’d wear dark sunglasses, a loose sweatshirt and a big floppy hat when she walked the dogs.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

There were moments of hope. Because nobody is angry and violent all day, every day. They just have to be angry and violent one day. My mother would wake us up in the middle of the night, and tell us to pack a suitcase. We’d hole up in a hotel. We were underworld spies, prisoners from a jailbreak. We’d order food, watch Charlie’s Angels, hope to never to be found. But we were never really lost, because a day or two later, he’d knock on the hotel door, carrying flowers. And it was over. Because who doesn’t want to go to Disneyland? Who doesn’t want to be the first house on the block to have a swimming pool?

My mother hated guns, so there were no guns in our house. I slept with a butcher knife under my pillow. I used it once. I was 16. The fighting downstairs stopped, abruptly, in the middle of my mother’s scream. I called 911 and then I crept downstairs. He was hunched over her body. She was on the floor in a pool of her own blood. I put the knife to the back of his neck to stop him from killing my mother. The ambulance came and took her away. The police came and took him away. We snuck into a next door neighbor’s backyard and slept on their lawn furniture. We woke up with blankets. Of course, they knew.

Everybody knew. But nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

Weeks later, I was called out of my high school English class. My mother was at the school and wanted to talk to me. It was Halloween. I was a vampire, my long black cape flapping in the wind. She, newly released from the hospital, looked like a mummy, with her hollow eyes, her head shaved and her 32 stitches wrapped in white bandages. School was in session, so we were alone. She’d paid his bail. He was sorry. He was waiting at the house. Would I give him another chance, please?

My mother came to my school, begging me not to break up with her.

“When all the others turn their backs and walk away

You can count on me to stay…”

I broke my own heart when I did not come home from school that day. My mother could “take it” for me, but I couldn’t “take it” anymore. My middle sister, 13, ran away. Our father, remarried with two new small children, put her into a boarding school. My youngest sister, who had a different father from my mother’s second marriage, was only 6, so she cried herself to sleep at night. Our family was torn apart. So they moved to a new house on the outskirts of our small town on a secluded dirt road.

Last time I saw him, I was 16. When I pulled up to the new house to get my things, he stepped outside to meet me. The beard was gone. He’d lost weight. He was calm. He held a shotgun in his hand. It was pointed down, non-threatening. There was finality in the moment. I was leaving home for good. There was finality in the presence of a weapon. If I was willing to use a knife, he was willing to use a gun.

My sister was still in that house. My mother was still in that house.

Everybody knew.

Neighbors, coaches, grocery store cashiers, elementary, junior and high school teachers, school principals, classmates. Her parents knew, my father knew.

Everybody knew. Nobody said a thing.

What we allow will continue. What continues will escalate.

I never saw my stepfather again. There is no big turning point moment here, where I confronted him about the abuse. Where I asked him, point blank, why did you beat my mother? Where I told him, point blank, the pain he caused my sisters and me could be forgiven, but it could never be undone. My mother left him a few years later. She died a few years after that.

My stepfather did not murder my mother. My stepfather did not murder me.

But had my stepfather picked up a gun and killed us all, nobody would have been surprised. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But nobody got involved. Because we somehow believe that we are safe from a guy who “only” beats his wife. We’re not a member of that family, so it doesn’t really affect us.

Had my stepfather picked up a semi-automatic weapon and killed scores of strangers in a public place, nobody would have been surprised by that either. He was a violent guy, they’d tell the news cameras. Everybody knew that.

But now everybody’s involved. Because innocent people have been killed in a church, in a nightclub, at a concert or a cafe, and in an elementary school.

Domestic violence no longer lives inside that one house on the block. Domestic violence lives in the public now.

According to Everytown for Gun Safety, the majority of all mass shooters in the United States killed an intimate partner or family member during the massacre or had a history of domestic violence.

Somebody out there, right now, knows the next big mass shooter. Somebody out there is getting blamed, screamed at, beaten up.

Somebody out there wants to believe that he’s sorry, that he’s changed and that love means giving him a second chance. Even if that second chance means giving him another bullet because he missed the first time.

Somebody out there, right now, needs our help.

Once, you could feel sorry for the three little girls from the violent home forging a check at the grocery store. Once, you could smile softly, avert your eyes and do nothing. Not anymore.

The facts show that domestic violence is a very clear warning sign that people outside of the family might also be hurt in the future.

Violent men don’t just drop out of the sky with guns and start shooting up people in public places. There are warning signs.

Abused women and children are the canary in the coal mine.

It starts somewhere. It starts in the home.

Nobody would have been surprised if I had died.

“And when one of us is gone

And one of us is left to carry on

Then remembering will have to do

Our memories alone will get us through

Think about the days of me and you

Of you and me against the world

I love you, Mommy

I love you, baby…””

Source: Medium.com

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