#i mean. the voicemail still rattling in his head years later? the memory of being soulless and dean attacking him when he asked for help?

[quietwingsinthesky]

anyway episodes that sam's psychic powers should have come back during. imagine him arguing with this 'i'm a real psychic' guy and then yanking his gun out his hand with his own powers. fully on accident but it happens.

now see there's some drama for him and dean! that would work! sam tried to hide his hallucinations but couldnt. but theoretically he could hide this. and he should! because his brother literally just went and killed a woman for being a little too on the monster side for his liking. for being so evil that she couldn't possibly change. and so if sam's powers came back now? sam's powers? that he has because he has demon blood? he would be so fucking sick with stress trying to hide that from dean.

because. you know. if dean's already jumping for a reason to 'deal with' sam because he's hallucinating, a thing he can't even control. then what else is sam supposed to assume will happen once dean knows about this?

#to clarify: i don't actually think dean would hurt sam. i think that the amy conflict is poorly written esp surrounding dean's responses #HOWEVER. taking it all at face value. sam would think that dean would kill him. #i mean. the voicemail still rattling in his head years later? the memory of being soulless and dean attacking him when he asked for help? #of course sam would think that. of course he would. #and all he did was use his powers to defend himself. to save someone's life. but they're evil. so he's evil. no matter the good he does. #the world has to be black and white for him to get along with his brother after all. #also bonus for me but i think the activation of his powers should come from him looking at the gun pointed at him #and then looking slightly behind that guy. at hallucifer. who is going 'sam. you know how to take care of this. come on. #this is child's play. squeeze the soul out of him. at least knock the gun away.' goading him. you know? #but its a familiar voice. and sam's looking death down the barrel. and lucifer is ordering him to use his powers. #so he does. so he does. and that makes it worse that lucifer tells him to. and that afterwards. lucifer probably praises him for it. #spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #psychic!sam

[sittinwithyou]

eMotional Reboot #QuordlePrompt 21

On my Wattpad!

The dial tone was quickly replaced by the buzzing of a requested line. Liza huddled her legs underneath her and then hugged them as Charlie tried the line for a second time. The first call had ended with the voicemail being activated after a stale reciting of the phone number she had just dialed. This time, though, it had progressed past four rings and she felt the little hungry gnat of anxiety begin to stir within her gut. The room’s heat still pressed in on her from the various computer components still powered on. Though the Rec Room itself was powered off, the sensors and signal repeaters necessary to track the system still pulled a bit of amperage. That power flow was steadily heating the room. Better that than freezing to death, she thought. As if summoned by her passing mental presence, a strong gust of wind shoved itself against the shuttered window behind her. No doubt, the winter storm that had been predicted was well within its heyday out there. Thinking of the inches of snow that was probably coating the driveway outside, Liz admitted to herself that she was more than thankful for Jove’s insistence that she insulate the computer room’s walls.

A click sounded over the speakers and she pressed in on the ear piece to transfer the call to her personal tech. A rattling sigh washed through her, followed by the faintest whisper of a man’s voice. It was a voice she knew, missed, and loved. It was a voice she hadn’t heard in years. “Who is this?”

Liza’s mouth dropped and her chest filled with the words to respond. Her throat, however, held on to the air instead. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She could feel the pulse in her fingertips.

“Hello?” Her father’s voice was a bit clearer now. She guessed he had been sleeping. She glanced over to Charlie’s monitor and read the time. It stood to reason he’d been asleep. The only time he’d been a late sleeper was when he had to fill in for thirds at the plant. Most of the time he ran the first shift. She should have checked the time before calling. Dammit. “Who’s there,” her father asked. The sound of him sitting up in the sheets of his bed scraped across his microphone. She could imagine him cradling the analog handset between his head and shoulder like always. He never had given into to digital culture and learned how to use a cellphone.

A small dam in her throat gave way and she sighed. Then, “Hey, Jack.”

It took a moment for her father to recognize the voice, but she could hear the moment he did. An intake of air rasped over the line. A couple of coughs later, he wheezed, “Elizabeth? That you?”

Liza sat back and rolled her eyes at the full name. “Yep. I’m sorry to wake you. I-”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. What are you doing up? Are you okay?” More rustling took over the line as he adjusted in his bed again. “What’s wrong?”

The question caught her off guard and a prepared response died in her mouth, the words already rounding her tongue. She swallowed. “I…” She looked around at the oscillating lights on the powered equipment then down to the headset on the floor. The neural probes still had flecks of blood that were slowly pooling to the motion pad. The overhead light cast a bluish tint over everything, so the blood itself looked black. “I just had a nightmare.” She set the words out between them as an offered hand that was asking to be grasped by someone – anyone­ – nearby.

“Oh, yeah?” Liza smiled at the response.

“Yeah.”

“Was it about…” Jack let the silence draw out and she was glad for it. This wasn’t supposed to be something that was rushed. Her face flushed suddenly as tears bum-rushed her eyes. She scrunched her face tight against it, but couldn’t keep all of the sob out that shook her. Her body convulsed once like she was in the grip of a giant dog’s mouth then fell to the side. She caught herself. “Elizabeth?”

“Yeah,” she coughed. She stared into the Rec Room headset. “I mean, well... not her exactly. She wasn’t in it. But the memories… I… we were at the Tortic Fair.” She let the memory of the playthrough run again. She could almost feel the wind against her as she had stood outside the gate in the simulation. The gatekeeper smiled at her. Wait, she thought.  I know that face. “My god, it was the nurse.”

“Who’s nurse? Where?” Having no video phone, Jack was missing out on the physical aspects of his daughter’s reverie.

“Her nurse. I mean, it was a crude representation, but still. Her last nurse.”

A confused silence sat between them in the line until Jack asked, “Are you talking about the hospice nurse?”

“Yeah.” She ran a finger over the nearby gauntlet. “I… do you… should…” Liza let out a soft laugh. “Shit. This isn’t the right time. You need to sleep, and I woke you up and-”

“Elizabeth.”

“-I’m just being silly. Nightmares are just programs that haven’t been vetted yet and-” Her hands started to gather the equipment to her.

“Elizabeth, stop.” Jack’s voice got deep and soft. It was his serious ‘Dad’ voice, but spoken in a way that brought to mind hugs and warm fires in the forest. It was also the voice he had used that afternoon Mom had died. The tears resurged, and this time filled her vision with salty, stinging waves that crested over and fell to the floor. “If you want to talk, I’m awake.” The receiver on his side shifted again and when Jack spoke, the volume had shifted so that it sounded like he was next to her.

Liza dropped the headset and gauntlets and leaned over them with leaky eyes and a heavy head. “Dad,” she whispered. “Where was Cassie on the night of… of the fire?”

#quordle #word prompt #short stories #writers on tumblr #writer #author #loss #parents #mom #dad #scifi #childhood trauma

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Secret Santa

For @thatesqcrush​​​’s Holiday Bingo!

Warnings: MANY. NSFW. Sexual assault (explicit about the immediate aftermath), trauma, angst, insecurity, eventually fluff. 

Today my brain really wanted emotionally fragile traumatized Barba who has a crush on reader but doesn’t know if they’ll ever see him as anything but broken now. Also it’s Christmas. 

Follow-ups: Te Quiero, Just Hold Me

Rafael Barba x Reader

3,000 words

Your ideal boyfriend would feed you chocolate like grapes in one of those ancient Greek paintings.

It was just an offhand remark you’d made at the bar one night in response to Rollins’s tipsy line of questioning about the perfect man. ADA Barba didn’t usually go out to socialize with the SVU squad, but he knew you were going to be there, so he went, too.

And not just any chocolate—no. Real, seventy-percent dark chocolate, single-origin beans. You preferred the fruity undertones of Madagascar cocoa, but were interested in exploring.

That was why Barba was carrying a box of expensive chocolate under his arm that night as he walked toward the 16th Precinct. He only agreed to participate in the SVU’s Secret Santa hoping he might get you, and was thrilled when he did. After a little trading. He knew Sonny would want Rollins, so it was easy to shuffle a few names around without making his own intentions obvious.

He bought a sampler box of fair-trade cocoas from around the world. The tag included a joke about feeding them to you, if you wanted. This year, Barba promised himself, he was going to admit his feelings for you.

Maybe it was foolish. You could have anyone. Why would you choose the cranky old lawyer? But he saw the approving way your eyes caught on him sometimes, when you didn’t think he was looking. The eternal pessimist in him said you just enjoyed his colorful ties, but it was enough to give him hope. The starved optimist whispered promises in his ear that this Christmas, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Maybe this was the year he would fall asleep with a warm body tangled pleasantly around his as snow fell over the city.

That was what he was thinking about when it happened. The theoretical conversation with you distracted him from his surroundings, turning his cheeks pink from more than the early December chill. He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until there was a sharp pain at the back of his head.

The box of chocolates slipped from his hands as he hit the ground, and rolled into the gutter. The flirtatious tag soaked with half-frozen slush until the ink blurred and ran.

***

When Barba didn’t make it to the Secret Santa exchange, you worried. But only a little. Olivia was sure he was just running late. Barba was always getting caught up with something or other, either being dragged into a meeting, or simply letting his social life slide in favor of working late.

When Liv’s call went to voicemail, you really started to worry. At least enough to call his office and find out he left for the night over an hour ago.

That nagging worry was confirmed the more you tried to find him, and turned into terror as it became an investigation. The ADA was missing. Security camera footage from a local bodega showed him being struck over the head with a bat and dragged into a van by three suspects.

One of them was identified as Jeremy Jones, a man whom Barba had tried to convict for a series of brutal rapes against closeted gay men. Ultimately, he was charged with manslaughter for the death of one of his victims. He served only half of a paltry six-year sentence and was released on good behavior that week. Apparently, Jones held a particular grudge against the openly bi prosecutor who tried to convict him of a hate crime. And he had made a few friends in prison.

The manhunt lasted three days, and the entire time you felt sick. Every hour—every minute—you didn’t find him was another minute god knows what was happening to Barba. If he was even still alive.

Only one of Jones’s victims had died, you tried to calm yourself. Of a heart attack. Barba was strong. But Jones wasn’t acting alone this time.

You felt sick.

After three days and a shootout with the NYPD, you found where Jones and his gang were hiding out.

You were the first one to discover the basement door, to kick it open.

You found Barba handcuffed to a bed, naked and beaten. His wrist was a horrible red-purple bruise where the metal dug in. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, though he seemed to be conscious. You radioed in for help and rushed to him, holding his head up, praying he was responsive. He yelped at the touch, recoiling from it. The cuffs rattled on the metal headboard.

“It’s OK. Shh. Rafael. It’s me,” you soothed, sitting at the corner of the bed beside him. “It’s the NYPD. We got them. You’re safe now. OK? They’re gone. The paramedics are already on the way.”

His eyes cleared, focused on you for just a moment. He seemed to recognize you—to understand what was happening. His mouth opened and almost made words, but only a dry rattle came out. His lips were swollen, and cracked with dehydration. Tears started rolling down his face, then. Dark, coppery dried blood covered the inside of his legs, pooled on the mattress, and bright red fresh blood streamed down over it.

He’d been missing for three days. Three whole days.

It was bad. He was in bad shape. You prayed the paramedics would get there soon. For the quick-witted prosecutor to be rendered unable to speak, his hair disheveled and plastered to his head with blood and fluids… For anyone to have done this to him… You tried to stay calm to help him be calm, but you were boiling over with rage and guilt.

It was your fault for not finding him sooner. For not being a better detective. For not worrying the second he was late.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the basement stairs and every muscle in his exhausted body went rigid. His free hand clung to you, nails digging into the skin of your palm.

“It’s just the paramedics.” You covered his hand with your own, squeezing. “They’re going to help you. I’ll be right here. You’re going to be OK, do you understand?”—his eyes were so blank and unfocused you weren’t sure that he did—“We found you, and… and you’re going to be OK now. We’re going to fix this.” Your voice was shaking.

It was a good thing the paramedics came in and took over before you started crying. The way his hand tightly held yours, not wanting to let go, wrenched your heart, and you needed to take a few minutes before you could be a detective again.

***

Barba was in the hospital for a week before being released. You went to see him, but were told he wasn’t taking visitors.

A week before Christmas, he reported to work.

A whole group from the 16th Precinct went down to 1 Hogan Place to welcome him back. He looked at home in his office, where he was supposed to be. His suit was as sharp (and loud) as ever. His hair was made without a strand out of place. You were relieved to see he was himself again. But his eyes were still haunted, and he flinched when Sonny knocked too loudly on the door frame.

He gave a weary smile, thanked everyone for their support, and sent everyone away except Liv.

Including you.

Your heart sank at the blow-off. You knew he’d weaseled half the precinct into trading Secret Santas until he got you. That had to mean you were special to him, the same way he was special to you.

Barba meant… more than you’d like to admit. It started so small you barely noticed it—that you were more inclined to go to events if Barba was also going. That you were always on his side during controversial cases, and even when you disagreed, you were more inclined to hear out his opinion than if he were anyone else. Then Rollins had a few tequila shots and started talking boys, and how the perfect man didn’t exist.

When you thought about the perfect man, only one person came to mind.

And you hadn’t had a chance to talk to him.

You knew he was going through something difficult, but that was why you wanted to be there for him. You wanted so badly to be part of his inner circle, like Liv—one of the people he leaned on instead of sending away.

You tried his office again the next day, by yourself. He avoided you, claiming he was busy with backlogged paperwork. The day after that, he legitimately wasn’t there—at the hospital for a follow-up—but never returned the message you left with Carmen.

On Christmas Eve, you tried again during lunch break. The lights were on in his office, but Carmen said he wasn’t there, sympathy in her eyes. He was there. You both knew it. He just didn’t want to see you. That night, you left him in peace. He would be spending Nochebuena with his mother, and you had plans of your own.

But on Christmas morning, you knew he wouldn’t be working all day. Neither were you.

You sent him a text and said you were coming over. He never responded, but an hour later, you knocked on his apartment door, anyway.

Footsteps slowly approached the door. A shadow fell over the peephole, and you grinned nervously, giving a little wave. The deadbolt slid open, then the door chain, and finally it opened to a tense lawyer, well dressed even on his day off in a cashmere sweater and chinos. Dark circles ringed his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Detective. H-hey. It’s not a good time. I’m… busy.” The flush in his cheeks rose, and he seemed eager to retreat back inside.

“You owe me a Christmas present!” you blurted out. It was juvenile. You knew the moment you opened your mouth it sounded like something a toddler would say, but at least it stopped him from closing the door on you.

He blinked. His chin tipped up just slightly in that haughty way that always preceded a cutting bit of sarcasm. “…Excuse me, I what?”

“It’s Christmas. You were my Secret Santa. So you owe me a gift.”

Realization dawned over him, along with the memory of everything that had happened the night he was meant to give you your present. His face fell.

“I… I’m sorry. I lost it.”

His eyes took on a dull, far away look, and you instantly regretted bringing it up. Of course that would be a painful memory. Fuck.

“It’s OK!” you took a step toward him, and he took one quickly back. Shit, you shouldn’t have done that, you scolded yourself. His face grew hotter, and he seemed humiliated with himself. “I-I mean… for the gift. All I want is to talk to you. For a minute. That would be plenty of a gift, if you could spare it. I just want to know how you’re doing.”

“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” he snapped.

“Well, I haven’t had the chance yet. It feels like you’ve been avoiding me. I just wanted to know if… if we’re OK.”

He paused. He didn’t answer immediately, but his expression softened. “I… I haven’t been…” He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. His jaw kept working, lips reshaping themselves of the cusp of words, as if he were trying to continue, but couldn’t find the right ones. The words that would make sense, and explain everything—that would click together like a jigsaw puzzle and make everything better.

“I just thought that we were… friends. And… I was worried about you… And now I’m worried you’re pushing me away. I know we’re not as close as you and Olivia… but…” Your head hung low. “Did I do something wrong?”

Barba turned away. He wrapped a hand over his face, fingers shielding his eyes from you. “I know you were the one who found me,” he groaned miserably. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. You of all people… Because now you’ll never be able to look at me without part of you always seeing me… like that. Like a victim.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is, and you know it!” he snarled, surprising you with the sudden rise in volume.

He was seething, hurting, and you wanted to reassure him that you would never see him as less because of what was done to him. You laid a hand on his arm to comfort him, and he jerked away.

“Stop that! See? You’re doing it. Treating me like I’m… broken.” His whole body seemed to deflate, to shrink into itself. “It’s too late,” he croaked, a wistful smile cruelly turning the corner of his lip. “I’m never going to be whole in your eyes now.”

“Of course you are,” you said gently.

He gave a sharp, nasal huff. “Not like—ugh, never mind.”

“Not like what?”

His eyes met yours—green and turbulent as the ocean. There was a harrowed desperation in the creases of his forehead, the little wrinkles under his eyes deepening. “Like someone you could… Forget it!” He looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Barba… did you want to… Do you like…?”

You had a hopeful spark, an idea of what he was trying to say, what was bothering him, but you were afraid to say it and be proven wrong. You searched his face, inching closer. He looked horrified, like you were calling him out rather than hoping for it to be true—rifling through the sock drawer of his emotions.

No. You had to be the open one. He had too much to worry about already. You had to take the risk with your feelings.

“What I mean is… Please stop me if I’m out of line, but, Barba… no, Rafael… I like you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I kept hoping you’d say it first, in case I was imagining things and you didn’t feel the same way. Then you disappeared, and…” Your breath caught in a tightening throat. “I thought I’d lost you forever. When we found you alive… Whatever you think changed with how I see you, all I was thinking was how happy I was you were alive. And that I’d get another chance to tell you how much I care about you.” Tears were rolling down your cheeks by the end, drying your eyes on your sleeves to no avail.

He had turned completely toward you at some point during your confession, no longer half-hiding his face. Some of the remaining distance between you had disappeared, too. His hands softly came up to press your upper arms. Even through your puffy winter coat, you could feel how big and strong they were. His haunted green eyes searched you closely, looking for any sign you weren’t serious. That this wasn’t real. That maybe it was just pity. But you could swear there was a hint in them, too, of a stunned, timid sort of hope. 

You swallowed, meeting his deep gaze. “And I really want to kiss you now… if that would be alright.”

“I… I’d like that.”

Though he trembled slightly, his breathing was soft and steady as you leaned toward him. The kiss was gentle and easy, starting with foreheads touching, noses brushing against each other. Then lips, delicately ghosting over each other. His were still healing, tender where they were split. You let him close the final micron of distance, pressing the warm fullness of his lips against yours. His hand caressed the side of your face, and his thumb delicately brushed the hair at your temple.

“Can we go slow?” he breathed as he pulled away, though not far. He kept his hand on your face, the other about your waist. “I know I just said I’m not broken…”

“But you need time. I understand. Trust me.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled in a melancholy smile as he stroked the side of your face longingly.

“I’m comfortable with whatever pace you want to set. Whether it’s holding hands, or… just talking. So long as I can keep spending time with you. I missed you. That’s all I need to be happy—just getting to be around my favorite counselor.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “You know… you’re my favorite detective.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenged, grinning. “What about Liv?”

“She’s a lieutenant.”

“Ack! Got me on a technicality!”

“There’s no such thing as a technicality in law,” Barba smirked, playfully smug.

You snorted. Cheeky bastard.

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Rafael, you can kiss me as many times as you like.”

His mouth melded against yours more confidently this time. More insistent, and yet more vulnerable, a soft groan reverberating in his throat. Just once, his lips parted yours, and his tongue darted out, tasting the opening of your lips before retreating shyly back. You let him lead, and didn’t push for more. You meant it when you said just being near him, part of his world, was enough.

He invited you inside.

If this was to make up for your gift, he owed you more than just a minute of conversation, he said, smiling. For the rest of the day, Barba turned his tidy, tiny Manhattan flat into a cozy winter refuge, complete with hot cocoa (spiked with spiced rum, of course), warm throw blankets, and an endless marathon of holiday movies to watch while snuggling on the couch.

It was the best Christmas you could remember, especially when, before the sun had even begun to set, Barba fell asleep holding you. The worry lines carved into his face smoothed out as he breathed steadily. He looked so peaceful, you didn’t mind being trapped on the couch until he woke up.

Maybe, you thought, those dark circles could start to fade.

#Rafael Barba #Rafael Barba x Reader #thatesqcrush holiday bingo #trauma #angst #hurt/comfort #gender-neutral reader #my writing

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

           Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

  ��        “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 [phone]: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

[parkjmini]

Reminisce | 4

Park Jimin “I found myself falling more in love with you as I grew older.” You and Jimin were childhood best friends until you had to move away. As years passed and you both aged, the separation between your friendship deepen and you never heard from him again. More than a decade passed and you suddenly stumble upon the man who you never stopped thinking about. Word Count: 3,314 Italics = flashback (Y/F/N) = Your Full Name

Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | the end

thank you to everyone who reads my horrible writing )): im really sorry i haven’t been updating, my life has just been so hectic !! pls give me feedback bc im always looking to improve ((: this is NOT the last chapter !!

“Dad!” You yelled as the familiar man stepped out of his car. He looked tired, eyes heavy with dark circles that rimmed the bottom. His face sagged and his posture was bent. However, the sound of your voice instantly lit his sulky face.

“My dear!” He whispered as you quickly jumped onto him for a hug, like a small child would do. He laughed, hoarse and deep. He had grown older and weak, so he stumbled back to maintain his balance.

“Dad, I missed you!” You squealed, giddy and eager to see your parent after several years. 

“Honey, when did you get back?” He set you down and tried to take in your grown face.

You went on to explain how you were to be in town for the next couple of days. “Did you not hear my voicemail?”

He lightly knocked his knuckles against his temples and groaned, “I forgot to check my machine these past couple of days. I’m sorry, my love. Where are you staying?” 

“Dad, have you been well lately? I slept at Jimin’s apartment last night.” Your father looked behind your shoulder to see the cool Jimin leaning against his door frame, observing the daughter-father reunion. 

He smiled lightly, “I’ve been a little tired recently. You are staying for dinner tonight, right?” 

“Yes. I was planning on staying here now that you know I’m back—”

“–No, no, my dear. Your room is no longer here. I don’t have your bed anymore. You should go and stay with Jimin.” Your dad began walking towards your home. Confused, you followed after him.

“The last time I visited was six years ago and you got rid of my bed?” You were slightly offended that he gave away your bed, let alone demolished your entire childhood room.

“You were here six years ago?” Jimin suddenly appeared out of no where. You jumped at the sound of his voice and nodded. “Why didn’t you come say hi? Why didn’t you come and see me?”

Groaning, you were reminded by the painful memories of your shattering friendship. “Because we weren’t really.. friends.. anymore.. at that time.” A sugar coated explanation was all you could give, along with a sympathetic frown.

Jimin was taken aback and didn’t move from the doorway of your house. He was absolutely clueless. “What are you talking about?” 

“Nevermind. You don’t remember because it didn’t hurt you as much as it had hurt me.” You answered passive aggressively and tried to find your father in the big house.

“(Y/N), wait.” Jimin caught on to your wrist before you fled off. “Talk to me.”

“Jimin.. we can talk and talk, but you’d never understand how much I was hurting when I grew up without you.” Knowing that you were hurt would only hurt Jimin. Knowing that your pain was because of him made it even worse. Jimin never wanted to be the reason behind your painful sorrows. He merely wanted to be your happiness.

“I wanted to be there for you.” Jimin began to defend himself.

“But you weren’t, that was the thing.” You didn’t know where the sudden fuel of anger and sadness came from. Maybe he wasn’t allow to feel upset that you didn’t bother to see him when you came to visit in the past. 

“Why don’t you go see Jimin?” Your dad asked as you laid underneath your soft, cotton covers. 

You viciously shook your head, so hard that he was afraid your head would fall off. “I don’t want to see him.” 

“Why not, honey?” Your dad tried to be as comforting as your mother. The bed shifted due to his weight and his warm hand rested on your shoulder.

“Because we aren’t friends anymore.” 

“His graduation is today.” 

Cuddling closer against your window sill, you buried your head deeper into the mattress. “I don’t care.” Your dad hated those words and he decided that there was no point in pushing you anymore. He lacked persistence, contrasting your mom, who didn’t take no for an answer.

“Can you believe it? We’re graduating in a few hours.” A young girl’s voice traveled through your open window, into your room.

“Yeah. It’s crazy.” Jimin’s voice made you still in your blankets. The fact that he lived in the same neighborhood made it harder to ignore his existence. He was obviously walking past your house to get to his own.

“I’m going to miss you.” She said sadly. Jimin exhaled and there was a silence. You thought they had left and escaped into his house, so you peeked out your blinds. There he stood at the corner of your driveway, with a girl in front of him.

“Me too.” He had hesitated before saying it. You ducked quickly before either one of them saw. The obnoxious rattling noise of the blinds caught her attention.

“Did you hear that?” The girl asked. “I think it came from this house, that window.”

“This house? No. I know who lives here and no one lives in that room.” You heart was pounding so loud, you heard it in your ears.

“How do you know?”

“They’re a family friend of mine and I’ve been in that house.” 

“For what?”

“Are you done asking me all these useless questions?” Their footsteps picked up again.

“Jimin, you’re hiding something. I can tell.” Her voice faded and Jimin’s response was no longer audible. 

“Jimin, I don’t want to talk about this right now.” You trailed and looked behind you to see if your dad was still in sight.

Jimin shook his head, unable to let go of the topic, “we’ll talk later tonight, when we go back to my place. I mean, you still need a place to stay and I’m more than happy to offer my place.” 

You sat across from your father at your old dinner table. The once small square table use to have three filled chairs. Now, it seemed too big for only two people, let alone one. Your dad’s cooking tasted exactly the same and reminded you immensely of your childhood.  

Your house was practically empty since you and your mom moved out. It was also more dark and disheartening. Your dad completely let go after the divorce, but not enough where he was living in the streets. He also never remarried or had many friends.

You cleared your throat as you both ate in uncomfortable silence. “Why did you clear out my room?”

“I thought that you wouldn’t really need your childhood room anymore. It was too childish for a young woman like you are now.” He sipped his soup nonchalantly.

“I am barely a young woman right now. I’ll always be your little girl, Dad.” You sighed and he smiled lightly. 

“I know, my dear. However, you’re getting older now. You have a boyfriend and..”

“Boyfriend? Dad, I don’t have a boyfriend. Where did you get an impression that I had a boyfriend.” You were taken back at how your father thought you were with someone. You never mentioned anything about your dating life.

Your father stared back at you and raised his brow. His head tilted in confusion and he blinked back at you, not understanding what you meant. “Honey, what are you saying? I thought Jimin was your boyfriend.” 

“What?!” You stood up quickly. Shaking your head, you ignored any way your dad was trying to calm you down.

“I mean who else would have given you that mark on your neck–”

“Dad!” You had totally forgotten about the small mark Jimin left on your neck from this morning. You didn’t even remember which side it was on and proceeded to cover your entire neck. “We’re only friends, you know that!”

“Well, you staying over at his place and then showing up together. He practically chased you down. Now, you have this purple mark—”

“Dad! Seriously, it’s not what you think!” Your face turning a humiliating shade of red. Your father laughed and continued with his meal.

“Then I suppose you fell and hit your neck on something to get that bruise?” He was being sarcastic. That was the thing with your father — always witty and sarcastic. 

You sighed and remained silent. Anything else you would’ve said to defend yourself would have been used against you. You were already upset from the earlier conversation with Jimin, and now your own dad thinks you two are together. You didn’t want to go back to Jimin’s place so soon. He would’ve wanted to talk about the loss time, but talking about a time without him made you incredibly heartbroken. 

You texted Pilot Kim underneath the table. He responded almost immediately. You were going to take his offer for drinks to get your mind off of Jimin.

“Dad, I’m going out with someone.” You helped him put away the dishes after dinner. He peered over at you, an eyebrow raised. “No, not with Jimin. I’m going out with a coworker of mine. She wants someone to explore the city with and who else knows it best besides me?” You lied.

“Alright honey. You two girls be safe. I’m heading to bed anyways. I’ve got the early shift tomorrow morning.” He smiled and hugged you close. “I’m always thinking of you, dear.”

“I’m thinking of you too, Dad.” You returned a small smile before heading out to meet Pilot Kim.

He pulled up in a sleek black rental car. The headlights were blinding white as he pulled up to your sidewalk. You entered the car and the new car smell hit you unexpectedly. “Hello Pilot—”

“—Taehyung. (Y/N), just call me Taehyung.” He cut you off and ended his sentence with a grin. He wasn’t in uniform, so you felt strange seeing him in casual clothing. He looked ravishing. His patterned button up wasn’t buttoned all the way, his dress pants fit his long legs well. He was expensive.

“This is a uh– a fancy car.” You gulped. You were trying to make small talk, anything to fill the empty air.

He smirked and leaned back coolly. “Only the best for you.”

You turned to face him, confused. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “So how was your day?” Taehyung changed the subject rather quickly.

You sighed, remembering all the events of the long day. “It was good. I haven’t seen my dad for a long time, so having dinner with him was really nice. What about yours?”

“Ah… I stayed indoors practically day, besides going out to eat. I had breakfast with Jen, lunch with Gabriella, and dinner with Kimberly.”

“And now you’re getting drinks with me.” You laugh uncomfortably. You really meant for it to be a joke, but you couldn’t help the way it flew out of your mouth.

Taehyung was very popular among the female crew members and pilots. He was a young, probably a year or two older than you, and handsome. Taehyung had a smaller frame, but his height made up for it. He was a fresh face that everyone wanted their hands on. Also, he was single.

You two have never really spoken much, considering you switch coworkers almost every flight. However, you’ve crossed paths enough to have minimal conversation. The talk surrounding him helped with building his character. He was funny, or so people said. He had great morals and a real down to earth guy.

Even though Taehyung was everyone’s dream, you didn’t understand the hype. He was undeniably gorgeous, a work of art, but there was something missing. He didn’t have his own ambitions. Taehyung wasn’t passionate about anything really. He reminded you of a lost boy who has yet to find himself.

“(Y/N), you were the first person all day that I invited out first. The others offered to take me out and I just went along with it.” Taehyung explained.

You shook you head. “You don’t need to explain. We’re not dating or anything. You don’t have to tell me excuses.” The car came to a stop and the neon lights of the club caught your attention.

It was a small bar and it wasn’t a busy night. Taehyung and you sat at a table. You were never big on drinking, so you had no clue what to get. You merely followed along to what your colleague got.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” Taehyung raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t. I don’t enjoy the taste of alcohol.” Your eyes couldn’t stop scanning the room, you didn’t want to make eye contact with him. Playing with your fingers, you two sat in stiff silence.

“Then why did you agree to meet with me?” He was asking difficult questions now.

You shrugged and sipped your bitter drink, “maybe because I wanted a friend.”

Taehyung sighed and leaned forward. There was a live band playing quiet jazz music. The beat was soft, something to sway to. “When will you realize you mean more than a friend to me?”

“Excuse me?” You weren’t sure if you’d heard him correctly. Right on cue, your phone buzzed with a text message from Jimin. He was wondering where you were at such a late hour. It didn’t occur to you to warn him that you didn’t need a ride back to his place.

Taehyung placed his hand on top of yours. Your head was ducked down at the device on your lap. “I like you, (Y/N). I want to spend more time with you.”

“I think you’re super cool.” Your eyebrows wrinkled together. Your table partner was scribbling compliments all over your notebook.

“You guys are so cute! Why don’t you just date each other already?” A girl across from you stated.

At your new school, people were nice. It was nothing like how it was back before you moved. You made a lot of new friends who loved your big hair and didn’t take advantage of your big heart. You were a little more outgoing than before. Eleven was a big transition in a child’s life. You were slowly becoming a preteen.

“We should. I mean I do like you, (Y/N).” The boy smiled boldly. Your friends squealed next to you and started slapping your shoulder to edge you to respond.

You were still very sensitive from Jimin abandoning you. A huge part of you didn’t want to let go of your childhood best friend. Your mind was telling you to lie to your table mate that you felt the same. Your heart, however, told you to stay true to who you felt for.

“I like you too.. but not in that way. We’re great friends. I’d like for us to stay that way.” You smiled halfheartedly.

Everyone paused at your reaction. You rejected him. It was a good thing he was an amazing sport about. “No problem. I still think you’re cool. I’ll have to like you from afar then.”

You chuckled, but it wasn’t funny. It was sad, honestly. You couldn’t ever like another guy because of Jimin. Jimin ruined every chance of a relationship for you. No one was ever going to be like him or live up to his standards. It needed to be him or no one. That was how you felt. And you felt that way for almost your whole life.

“Pilot Kim.” You addressed him formally again. You needed to be firm with him. Drawing your hand back, you stared him in the eye. “I feel it’s best if we were friends. If we were to be with each other, it would be inappropriate. You are my senior and I respect you. I think we shouldn’t cross that boundary. You’re a fine young man and you’ll find someone else.”

“Let me guess, you have a boyfriend already.” He sipped his drink and fell back into his seat. “He also just texted you, right? He was the guy you were with today, the voice I overheard on the phone.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s only a friend. My— our — job makes it difficult for us to date, you know that.” You sounded more nervous than you intended.

Taehyung nodded and asked for the bill. “Maybe you should text him back.”

You replied to Jimin with a quick, vague message. He demanded for you to come back to his apartment. You rolled your eyes at the messages he was sending and muted your phone for the rest of the night.

As you were getting out of Taehyung’s car, his hand gently grabbed onto your forearm. You shifted around and he had a disappointed, but hopeful smile. “I know you said that you want to stay friends. I’m perfectly fine with that. I’m sorry if I made you feel uneasy or—”

“—Pilot Kim, it’s okay.” You patted his hand and he nodded, letting you go. Entering the elevator, you punched in the floor of Jimin’s apartment. Anticipation bubbled up your stomach. You’ve been mainly avoiding Jimin your entire night.

There was still a chance he was asleep. You prayed that he was in bed, so you didn’t have to speak or explain yourself. Opening the door, it was revealed an angry Jimin leaning against his dining table. The lights were a fluorescent yellow and the apartment was quiet, except from Jimin’s heavy breathing.

“Don’t.” You said as you took off your shoes and shut the door.

Jimin crossed his arms and got off his table. “My room. Now.” 

You groaned and followed him to his neat, dark bedroom. As you closed the door, Jimin was pressed closely against you. You scanned his face for any clue of it being a mistake. Any sign of embarrassment. 

He tilted his head and it was the scene from earlier all over again. His sweet, soft lips roughly pressed up against yours. His hands held onto your face and lifted your head off his door. Before you had the chance to kiss him back, he pulled away aggressively, leaving you in complete shock.

“You reek of alcohol.” He rolled his eyes and stood before you again, bold and towering. “Where were you and why weren’t you answering my messages?” 

“Who are you? My boyfriend?” Crossing your arms, you traced steps around the heated man. 

“Answer my questions.” 

“Fine. You want to know so badly, here it goes. I went out to get drinks with my coworker to avoid coming back to you.” You exploded at him, unsure where the sudden burst of rage came from. 

He exhaled sharply and said in a low voice, “now was that so hard to say?” 

“Don’t tempt me, Park Jimin.” You spat back, your words laced with venom.

“Why were you avoiding me?” He soften up. Lending out his hands, they touched your gracefully. Automatically, you unwind in his grip.

“Because I didn’t want to talk about the past. I didn’t want you to interrogate me about why I didn’t visit you when I came back. I don’t want to relive the pain of losing my best friend.. no, more… you were more than my best friend.” You were crying now. Tears spilling onto the floor. Jimin encapsulating you in his arms.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” You pushed him away the instant you heard that nickname.

“You don’t get to call me that.” You sniffed.

 “Why not?” He looked down at you with confusion.

“Because you’re not my boyfriend, Jimin! What don’t you understand?” You screamed and cried harder.

Jimin was back, holding you with such care. “What if I want to be?” 

“You don’t want that..” Your voice trailed, afraid of his next answer.

“Like you know what I want, babygirl.” Peering up, he had a delicate smile on his handsome face. “I want to be with you.” 

You sucked in your breath. Standing there, you contemplated whether you were drunk and imagining all of this. It was all too good to be true. 

#park jimin #jimin ff #jimin fanfic #jimin #jimin bts #bts jimin #bts scenarios #jimin scenarios #jimin scenario #reminisce #mine #bts fanfic #kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop scenario #kpop ff #kpop fanfiction #kpop imagines #kpop imagine #jimin imagines #jimin imagine #bts imagines #bts imagine #beyond the scene #bulletproof boy scouts #bangtan #bangtan boys #bangtan scenarios #bangtan imagines #fanfic

[kithalstead]

Blush, and the Sea

The first-person Lyla called was Mai, sitting in the to-capacity, fluorescently-lit waiting room of Maple Ridge Memorial Hospital between a mother with a screaming toddler and a middle-aged man who was trying to convince his partner that he had Alice in Wonderland syndrome; the partner did not seem convinced. Lyla had been staring at her shoes, trying to memorize the way the laces looped together. She didn’t understand how a knot actually worked, even though she was an actual adult with car insurance and an apartment. The phone call was an accident, honestly. She hadn’t done it on purpose; the contact was just one up from her mother’s, and before she knew it, she could hear the dialing coming through the speaker.

Mai didn’t answer, because Lyla hung up the phone, and then turned it off, before she could. She tucked the phone away in her bag, and waited. Her mother, Louisa, was still in surgery after sustaining serious injuries in a hit and run. She’d been on her way to the bank with that day’s deposit from Blush Boutique, the store Louisa owned and ran by herself, when a car had blown through a stop sign. The surgeons had promised Lyla that they’d do everything in their power to save her mother, but Lyla suspected it wasn’t up to them.

Sitting in the waiting room, alone, sandwiched between Alice in Wonderland and the Nightmare Rugrat, staring at her shoes whose laces didn’t make logical sense, she prayed for the first time in fifteen years.

 Her father had been tall, that’s what she remembered most about him even now. Travis used to lift her up onto his shoulders, and she could see forever.

“If you look close enough, dumplin’, you’ll see the Pacific and the Atlantic oceans from here,” he used to tell her. She’d strain her eyes, trying to see the rippling waves of each ocean. She had borrowed every book on the ocean from her primary school’s library and fallen in love, especially with the life underneath the waves.

He used to take her to the aquarium for her birthday, since they lived in the middle of Montana. It was the closest he could get her to the sea for a day trip. The day that she’d decided to become a marine biologist, she was six years old. He’d woken her up before the sun had risen with kisses peppered all over her face and whispered to her that it was time. She’d sprung out of bed and dressed in her nicest clothes, although she’d put on her shoes on the wrong feet at first. They ate breakfast at a 24-hour diner on the way, where she could eat anything she wanted. She got chocolate chip waffles with strawberries and whipped cream on top, and hot chocolate with whipped cream as well. He got black coffee, and a stack of pancakes.

Then, he loaded her back up into his truck and drove them to the aquarium. She wasn’t sure how the tradition started, but he’d always taken her to the aquarium on her birthday. It wasn’t crowded at open, so they went early and spent the day there. At some point, he’d lift her up onto his shoulders so she could see over the crowds. His shoulders were the best place, the safest, and she always felt like she was flying without ever being afraid of falling. Her daddy was there, and he’d never let anything happen to her.

“Daddy,” she said towards the end of the day. They were alone in one of the tunnels, glass domed over them so they were surrounded with fish. “I’m going to swim in every ocean! And! I’m going to discover Atlantis.”

“Yes, you will, dumplin’. You will be the Jane Goodall of the sea.”

Lyla didn’t know who or what Jane Goodall was, but she liked the way her daddy said it.

“Yeah,” she whispered to herself. She looked into the crystalline water, and found an octopus staring intently at her. She stared back. “I’ll be of the sea.”

 Lyla couldn’t tell you how she got home, even though it was an hour and a half drive from campus to her hometown. All she remembered was the silence at the end of the voicemail before the person on the other end had hung up, that deafening silence that rattled incessantly like the loose exhaust pipe on her pick-up. All she remembered was stumbling through the front doors of the hospital and asking for the intensive care unit.

Then she was at her mother’s side, holding her hand while she slept.

Louisa Webb was a pretty woman in her early forties, rail thin with glossy dark hair that she took meticulous care of. She was a hurricane of a woman, determination driving her towards whatever she wanted and then beyond. She had opened Blush Boutique in the dying town Lyla had grown up in, a place where it was certainly destined to fail, and had managed to make it thrive. She had created the most popular clothing store in town, and she had done it with little to no help. Lyla had always admired her mother, even if she hadn’t always liked her.

A blur of doctors passed through, telling Lyla that her mother was strong and healthy and should wake up any time. Nurses checked her mother's vitals, and made sure Lyla was comfortable, but no number of cushions or adjusted thermostats were going to make her comfortable. She wanted to see her mother’s eyes again, the sometimes cold and calculating deep brown irises that watched Lyla carefully as if she were a stranger that needed observation.

She fell asleep at some point, slumped over awkwardly with her head resting at her mother’s shoulder. She had learned to sleep anywhere years before when sleeping anywhere didn’t ache so much. She dreamt uneasily, the ache of loss revived in her chest while she stood in a room ten times too big for her. She looked up at the furniture made for giants, her parents towering over her. She tried to see their faces from where she stood, but they were too tall, and she was too small. She climbed the rungs on the bed’s frame until she could see where their faces should’ve been, but instead there was only a flat expanse of flesh. No eyes. No noses. No freckles or beauty marks. No smiles.

She jerked awake to the feeling of a hand stroking her hair. She panicked for a moment, feeling six years old again at her father’s bedside. Now, Louisa’s eyes looked at Lyla with a kindness and love that Lyla wasn’t sure she’d seen in years. The death of Travis had destroyed them both, but just for a second, Lyla saw the unaffected, unadulterated love her mother once held for her.

“Hey baby,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mom,” Lyla breathed, and leaned into her mother to wrap her in a hug. It was awkward, the edge of the bed digging unforgivingly into her stomach the entire time, but it felt nice to hold her mother, to know she was safe. Her mother shuffled over in the bed, and pat it before Lyla could move too far away. Lyla smiled and climbed into the bed with her. She didn’t fit the way she had when she was a child. She was taller now, and she had hips that got in the way more often than not. An older relative on her mom’s side once told her that she had “child-bearing hips” and had winked. It had made her uncomfortable.

She let Louisa lean into her, the weight of her mother resting against her.

“I should call the doctor,” Lyla said, looking at her mother’s sleek brunette hair crash around her slender, freckled shoulders in never-ending waves.

“Wait,” Louisa said in a whisper. “Let’s just wait.”

Lyla waited.

 Lyla used to have a dad. He died when she was six years old, and he died in this same ICU. She remembered sitting beside him while he slept in the hospital bed, reading the best she could to him because the nurses said that would help him wake up. He had saved someone, she remembered that, too. The nurse, the pretty one with big green eyes and square glasses, had told her that her daddy was very brave for what he’d done. He was a hero.

It seemed silly that the nurse was telling her this like she didn’t already know.

Of course, her daddy was a hero.

She’d hear later exactly what it was that he’d done, even though she had been just a few feet from him in the car. She’d been playing with the squid and manatee plushies her father had gotten her. He had protected a young girl, no older than 15 or so, from getting taken. The girl came to visit him in the hospital once, Lyla staring at this girl the entire time from the other side of the bed. Louisa had excused herself, unable to look at this girl, but Lyla couldn't take her eyes off of her. The girl, she never introduced herself, was extraordinarily pretty. Even glassed over with tears, her eyes held multitudes of greens and browns, and even though her cheeks were splotchy and her dirty blonde hair was pulled up into a messy bun away from her face, Lyla was enamored with her. She didn't understand why this girl was visiting then; she'd never seen the girl, and she was sure her daddy didn't have friends that were this pretty, but she was glad that she visited.

No one really ever told her what happened to leave her father in the hospital, though. She'd had to piece together the story when she was older, because her father used to be a soldier; he was tall, and muscular. He was the kind of guy that most people didn't fuck with, and yet he'd been bested. He'd laid in that bed in the hospital for weeks, looking so small.

Here's what Lyla was able to figure out: Travis was running a couple of errands after dinner, and Lyla had been driving her mother crazy that day so he'd taken his small daughter along with him. She'd played in the car with the radio playing while he ran inside the store for a few minutes. It had gotten dark quickly, fall and winter draining the sun earlier and earlier those days. When Travis had left the store, he'd seen a girl with dirty blonde hair being dragged into an alley by a figure in a dark hoodie and a bandana tied around their face, and had sprung into action. His purchases had fallen to the ground, and rolled underneath the car. Travis had grabbed the girl and pulled her back from the figure and told her to run. She had, but Travis hadn't. He had tried to capture the figure, who had friends in the shadows waiting for the figure to bring back the girl. Travis was overtaken by a group of shadowy figures who had no names, and were never identified. They'd smashed his head against the exposed brick in the alley, and escaped as he fell to the ground.

She didn't remember this, but she was the one who found him. She'd been playing for a while, and Travis had said he'd be right back, before the end of the CD he'd put on for her. When the music stopped playing, she had gotten worried. Unbuckling herself from her booster seat, she set aside her manatee and octopus, and gotten out of the car. Because her parents had insisted on child safety locks, even though she knew better than to get out of the car while it was moving, she'd had to crawl into the front seat. She wasn't supposed to get out of the car without her daddy or mommy, either, but he'd been gone a long time, and he'd promised only a couple of minutes. Staring up at the store's front doors, doors she'd never gone through along, she plucked up her nerve and strode up to the automatic doors. An employee at the counter greeted her, asking her if she was lost.

"My daddy hasn't come back yet," she'd said. "And I want to go home."

The employee had taken her by the hand and they'd walked the aisles, looking for Travis.

"What's your daddy's name?" the employee had asked, and she answered. Travis and Louisa had made sure that she knew their names in case anything happened to them. "Can you tell me what he looks like?"

"He's really tall!" she had answered. "Really tall! And he's got a beard, it's kind of scratchy."

"Oh," the employee had said, and taken her by the hand to walk her outside to do a quick look in the area. He was a nice man, quiet as he listened to her. They checked the sidewalk, and then the car, and finally, they checked the alley. She recognized her daddy immediately and had walked towards him without the employee, and knelt beside him. She had shaken his arm, telling him that she'd found him, and it was time to go home, it wasn't playtime. He didn't respond. She didn't notice the blood on the cement, or the bruise swelling around his eye, or the crack in his lip. She just knelt by her father, trying to shake him awake, unaware of the employee running to get to a phone, or the far-away sirens that were rushing towards them. She stayed by his side, confused and scared, tears dripping down her chubby cheeks while her daddy laid still on the pavement.

 Lyla had sat at her father's bedside in the hospital every day, and every night. Louisa told her that they had to stay in case he woke up. They didn't want to leave him to wake up alone, did they? The way she said it meant that she was right, and Lyla's whines to go home were wrong. But she really wanted to go home. She didn't understand. Her daddy was just sleeping, that's what everyone had told her, that he was hurt and the best way for him to heal was to sleep, and it was weird to watch someone sleep. There was only so much to do at the hospital, and she'd gotten yelled at for doing half of it. What she wanted was to go home, to stop sitting next to her father who did nothing but sleep, and to go to school. She missed her friends, and she missed learning, and she missed doing something. She really missed being able to do stuff.

Her daddy was asleep all the time, and she couldn't look at him any longer. He used to be a giant, tall and broad, like he could touch the sky. He looked so weak, fragile, small laying in that bed, impossibly small. There was something about him, something she couldn't lay her finger on, that just wasn't right anymore. It was like the hospital had replaced her daddy with a copy, a version of himself that just wasn't right.

She wanted to go back to school. Maybe learning something new would replace the image of her father looking so defenseless out of her head. It never really left, but she tried every day.

 Mai had been a TA in one of Lyla's classes and, after the class was over, her girlfriend. They'd been unbelievably, and almost grossly, in love with one another. Lyla spent more time with Mai than she did alone. They were drawn to each other, unable to keep their hands off of one another, to the point where studying in the library almost always ended in at least one of them getting off in the stacks.

"You know," Mai muttered one afternoon in Lyla's ear, "I love you so much."

Lyla leaned away and brushed Mai's sleek dark hair away from her face, and smiled. The late afternoon sunshine streamed into the bed, blanketing their bare bodies in warmth. Lyla dragged her fingers over Mai's skin, touching every perfect inch and lovingly stroking every imperfection.

"Is this the part where you tell me that you're leaving? Because I already know that," Lyla replied quietly. They spoke in whispered voices, afraid that the world would hear them and break this moment apart.

"I just want you to know that. It's a fact, and you like facts."

Lyla kissed her gently, afraid that she would shatter this last precious thing she had.

"Well, if that's the case, then, it's also a fact that you are the love of my life, Mai Chen, and nothing will change that. Not even the ocean."

The moment had ended, though, shattered by reality. Mai was leaving, she'd gotten a job in Japan at a research center. She was leaving at the end of the month, and Lyla couldn't go with her. She had to finish her degree, and she couldn't leave her mother. It was that simple, and that hard.

"I love you," Mai whispered the night that they packed up Mai's apartment. "I love you so much."

Lyla held Mai's face in her hands.

"Don't be sad, Mai. You're going to Japan! You're going to the sea, and you're going to get paid to learn. You are going, and you will not be sad that I am not with you."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"The sea," Lyla said softly. "You'll be of the sea, Mai."

Lyla had driven her to the airport in the morning, and they'd sat in the car for a while, breathing in each other's breaths. Mai wouldn't let her come in, insisted that she leave as soon as Mai was in the airport.

"I won't let you pine after me, waiting for my flight to take off. Go home and go out, have fun with our friends, okay? I love you."

Lyla held Mai's face in her hands, stroking her thumb along the soft skin of her cheek. She didn't want to let go. She didn't want to see Mai step out of this truck, and disappear into the airport. They weren't sure when they would see each other, so they had agreed to break up. It was easier this way, even if it hurt the most.

"You know," Mai said then, muttering into Lyla's ear, "you're the best thing that that school ever gave to me. And out of everything I'm leaving behind, I am going to think about you the most. I'm going to miss you the most."

 Lyla tried not to think about Mai every day, and she tried not to think about Travis every day, but when she wasn't learning anything new, the thoughts of what she'd lost, the reminders of what had left her behind crept back in. Sitting in Blush's office, going over mindless paperwork, the thoughts crawled in and made itself at home inside of her.

 Louisa was weak after the hospital had released her, unable to take any more than a couple steps at a time. She kept her store, Blush Boutique, open with Lyla’s help, but she couldn’t even walk across it without leaning on her daughter. She went to physical therapy a few times a week, but it was clear that she wasn’t getting any stronger. Her hair greyed, losing its glossy sheen, and her eyes muted, the sparkle of confidence fading. Lyla stayed with her, making sure she was taking her medication and eating, but nothing was helping. She was watching her mother waste away in real time, and it was breaking her heart.

The day it came apparent that Lyla would have to move back into her childhood home, she’d called each office she needed to in order to leave school. It had been humiliating. There were a thousand offices for each part of being a student, and you had to verify and reverify with each one. Everyone was unerringly kind about it, wishing her mother a speedy recovery, and Lyla the best of luck, but all of their kindness just made her feel like shit. She was in her senior year, less than a year from graduating, and she was one of those people who had to drop out with less than a year to go. She used to mock those people.

“Lyla, Blush is my life,” Louisa had said the afternoon that she was released. Lyla was wheeling her out of the hospital towards the car. This is how Louisa started serious conversations, with her back turned. “I can’t lose it. I can’t let that dream be ripped from me, too, because of an accident. Please, Lyla, you’ve got to help me. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it won’t be for long. Just until I get on my feet. Will you take care of the store?”

Lyla thought of the lab that she was missing that day, the third in a row. She’d emailed her professors to explain the situation, but there was only so much they could do before her absences stacked too high. She thought of all the information she was missing, and how long it would take to make up all of that work. She thought of the first grade when her father had died, and she’d missed a month of school straight because her mom wouldn’t take her. She thought of standing in front of her teacher, asking how she could make up her work and not be held back.

She had worked it out with Miss Mayhew that she would skip recess and after school activities to catch up. She doubted her professors would let her skip recess to make up missed lectures and lab assignments.

“I have to get back to school soon, Mom.”

“Lyla, please. You can always go back to school. I can’t re-open Blush.”

Lyla put the brakes on the wheelchair, and looked down at where Louisa had wrapped her hand around her daughter’s on the handles, eyes widening to get that prime amount of pout.

“I’ve worked so hard for this.”

Lyla didn’t point out the hours of hard work that she had put in at school, the internship hours combined with homework and holding down a job on campus as well. She didn’t mention the papers she stayed up all night researching and perfecting. She didn’t mention the extracurriculars she’d been taking on since freshman year; the tutoring center hours she put in as a volunteer, the clubs she was a part of, or the leadership positions she’d taken over the past four years. She didn’t mention them, because her mother wouldn’t hear them anyway.

“Okay, but only until you’re back on your feet.”

 Louisa never got back on her feet, not entirely. At some point while Lyla was keeping the boutique open, her mother started to neglect physical therapy. She didn’t take her medicine, and she didn’t return for her follow-up appointments with Doctor Potter or any of the specialists. She refused to even listen to Lyla when she brought up going back to get a checkup. She could stand, and walk across the room, but it exhausted her. Lyla could see it in the way her shoulders hunched forward as she braced herself on the plush backs of couches and chairs, in the shake of her knees, and the heaviness of her breathing. Lyla didn’t point out that physical therapy would’ve helped her relearn how to walk on her new coltish legs, but she wanted to.

So, while Louisa was sitting at home, not taking care of herself, Lyla drove every morning to Blush Boutique. She researched inventory and how to get a better deal on retail, and the hottest trends of the season, and how to draw customers to your store. She created a Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for Blush Boutique, and held sales to entice customers to stop in when they might have overlooked the store. She took out advertisements in the local Pennysaver, newspaper, radio, and at the old-fashioned movie theater downtown. She even hired a second employee for the dayshift in order to get paperwork done in the afternoon.

She grew Blush, her mother’s store. She put in the hours. She did the research. She learned about management, and tax forms, and how to run a business, from Google searches and YouTube videos. She taught herself how to run a store while Louisa sat home and pitied herself in her wheelchair that she didn’t even need. But every time Lyla tried to bring up going back to school, Louisa would turn mean.

“I’ve supported you through everything,” her mother sneered once, “even after what you did to your father, and you can’t even keep my life’s work going for a few months.”

It stung to hear her father thrown back at her like this.

Once a year she would visit her father's grave, kneeling before the sturdy headstone. She would bow her head and press a kiss to the cold stone.

"I love you, Daddy. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I should've been there."

She watched her mother struggle every day without asking for help. Lyla could go back to school, finish her studies, and then get a job somewhere outside of Montana. She would love the California coast, or the Gulf of Mexico. Sometimes, she even thought about finding a job out of the country.

Lyla thought of Mai in those times, sitting with a cup of tea, green with a hint of honey stirred in, at the research center in Japan, looking out over the sea. Mai sent letters to Lyla every couple of months, filled with information about her job and the things she studied. She sometimes sent small Japanese trinkets, or pictures of her with sea creatures. Lyla wasn't jealous of Mai, and she didn't wish her to lose her job, but she wished that that was her, that she would wake up the next morning and go to work at some place on a coast. Without fail, though, she would wake up in her childhood home, get ready for work, and drive to her mother's landlocked boutique. Instead, she was now sitting under a mountain of debt for a degree that she didn’t even have, and the sea was drifting farther and farther away from her.

#writing #daily writing #class assignment #advanced creative writing workshop #workshop story #My professor isn't super into ~genre fiction so after I workshopped this I told her its the backstory to a fantasy novel I'm writing #the whisper cloak

[laurabelle2930]

Summer House ~ Chapter 2: Memories

Hi everyone! I’m just stunned and truly blown away by the sweet words of encouragement for this story! It’s very different from my normal style so the kind outpouring of support means the world to me! Thank you and, without further ado here’s chapter 2!

Read it here or on AO3

Chapter Two: Memories

The rain along her dingy windows was enough to muddle anyone’s thoughts but, usually the rain helped focus her...tonight however the rain wasn’t providing its usual soothing balm. The alarm on her phone buzzed, her eyes flickered over the display before her fingers landed over the answer icon. Moments later her beige colored walls were painted with the bright hues of Sara’s cheery if not slightly drunken voice. “Oh Lissy let me tell you about my day!”

Felicity glanced at the battered clock near the edge of her desk that subsequently was edged along the wall right beneath the flimsy, plastic window sill. “Sara don’t you have an article to finish?” she lectured when the flashing red lights suddenly changed to 2:38 am.

“Yeah, yeah but, seriously you’ll never believe who I ran into tonight!” she nearly squawked like a crow as it tries to steal a stale crumb of bread.

Felicity’s forehead fell over her bent knuckles, “Who the freaking Queen of England?” she mused while Sara prattled away.

“No, but she’s about to be the new Queen of Starling City!”

Felicity’s head inched upwards slowly, “And how is my former boyfriend and his soon to be wife?” she spat with exhaustion instead of venom.

“Well she’s sporting a rock the size of the Eiffel Tower and he’s sporting a brand new rolex so I’d say they’re both doing rather well,” Sara confided before her voice dropped an octave, “but that’s not why I’m calling my amazing friend. I’m calling because while I was eavesdropping I overheard them tell a reporter that they’re going to announce their engagement at the Summer house in five days!” Felicity’s face immediately paled when Sara added, “Isn’t that amazing! That will be the perfect way to wrap up your story!”  

Felicity groaned, “Yeah perfect,” before her forehead fell over her knuckles once more.

“Ummm Lissy you don’t sound thrilled,” she noted with slurred words.

“It’s just complicated that’s all,” Felicity grumbled knowingly.

“Why? Are you still worried about Tommy finding out about you and Oliver?” came her next brilliant if not drunken remark.

Felicity balked at her stab of painful clarity, “Sara it’s way too late to have that conversation right now.

Sara of course simply prattled on, “Yeah, yeah it’s always either too early or late for you LIssy.”

Felicity giggled at the absurdity of the statement, “Sarbear there’s nothing to tell I was his tutor in highschool, he tried to kiss me on a dare I’m sure and, because I didn’t let him he told Tommy I did! He broke us up and, guess what karma works because he lost everything anyways,” she finally lamented once her own fogged mind had begun to clear.

“Yeah I’m not talking about that,” Sara commented. “I’m referring to the night you spent together about three years ago….”

Felicity gulped, “How drunk was I when I mentioned that?”

She heard Sara grin through the phone, “Oh you were a goner but, honestly are you afraid of that night becoming public knowledge or what?”

Felicity grumbled, “Of course I am you ninny. We had sex, I admitted I was in love with him and, by the next morning he was already back together with Laurel! I’m sorry but for most people that would be a hard event to recover from!”

Sara’s drunken silence could only mean one thing….she’d already begun to veer down another path. She heard the loud, thrashing sounds of screaming words and jumbled breaths as Sara’s own labored breathing danced along her eardrums. Felicity waited patiently knowing she’d eventually deliver another slurred line of pointless dialogue. Felicity didn’t have to wait long…

“Well then what is it? You can’t possibly be worried about the voicemail he left the night he disappeared can you? I mean it was pointless,” she breathed unevenly into the phone.   

Felicity didn’t even bother to groan before moaning loudly, “Again as we now know Tommy was sleeping with Laurel so I don’t think some drunken message would mean much at this point.”

“Okay so then why aren’t you happy?” she finally asked. “Why aren’t you beaming from ear to ear with joy? I mean if you’re not worried about the lost night coming to light then what’s got you feeling so down?”  

Felicity felt her brow furrow over her knuckles, “Because…” she felt herself pause. If she told Sara about Moira’s suspicions she knew Sara would be downtown by 8am with flyers about government corruption.

“Umm Lissy? You still there” Sara uttered when her pause grew into seemingly endless minutes.

Felicity coughed, “Yeah sorry I was just saying I’m not happy because the idea of Tommy with Laurel still makes me feel a bit nauseated,” she lied hoping that her bloodhound of a best friend would let the subject die.

“Well that makes sense,” Sara agreed as the music around her grew louder. “Well you’re killing my buzz so I’ll see you sometime in the next week?” she asked as the beat began to make Felicity’s body buzz.

“Yeah I’ll cover with Maude,” she agreed before the line went dead. She chuckled at Sara’s lack of phone etiquette as she slowly lifted her weary head. The clock now read 3am, the rain outside was still hammering along the dingy glass, and her blank screen still seemed to taunt her endlessly. She huffed loudly, “Why can’t I just write the stupid fluff piece and move on with my life?”

Her small apartment building creaked, the shadows along her wall grew as she glanced around the small but still comfortable space. She wept with exhaustion, “Why did he have to mean something to me?” Her walls creaked but in the end no answer ever came. She dragged her fingers along her aching temples and closed her blurred eyes. Her glasses felt crooked over her slim features as she let out a deep sigh…”Why can’t I let it go….”

10 years prior....

The class ended and, the bell chimed like a death rattle as the zombie like student body moved out from behind their small prisons and towards the cool air of the crowded hallway. Felicity usually was the odd student who didn’t clamor for the hallways, she instead yearned for the bell to simply remain silent while, her endless need for knowledge grew. A fellow student tapped her shoulder lifelessly. She shifted in her seat and glanced over her glasses at the red eyed soul. He grinned absurdly as he pressed the crumpled up paper into her waiting palm. He winked and, and giggled, “Have fun bookworm…”

Felicity eyed him cautiously then asked slowly as if she were speaking to a young child, “Are you currently on any illegal medications or were you just born strange?”

Curtis wiped his running nose with the back of his hand as he attempted to slide away from his desk. “Take your pick bookworm,” he muttered once he managed to maneuver his stomach away from the sharp edge of the desk.

She rolled her crystal, baby blues and groaned while Oliver Queen’s little lap dog wandered off in anticipation of his next assignment. She glanced at the crumpled note before throwing it aside and leaving the now empty classroom.

She’d barely managed to step through the door’s threshold before a strong pair of arms had her caged between the wall and his chiseled chest.

Once the shock wore off and she realized who had her trapped, she managed to roll her usually soft eyes into a stern glare. At first she thought quietly she was dreaming. Yes she was dreaming that’s why her boyfriend’s brother had her trapped along the back of some dingy wall with his elbows by her ears. That’s why he was flashing her those stupid fuck me grins while she stood braced against the wall with a look of sarcasm and anger. Oliver was taller than her adorable dark haired boyfriend. He stood at 6’1 or 6’2 while Tommy was exactly 6’0. His towering height intimated her as he kept her caged between his two very well chiseled arms.

“Did you get my note?” he asserted quietly once the halls had all but emptied out.

Felicity’s glare grew, “Yes your lapdog delivered it,” she sneered as the space around them grew tense.

“And?” he asked liked she’d actually read the mentioned note.  

She glared then asserted carefully while also dodging his question entirely, “You do realize that pulling someone into a corner and then trapping them is not acceptable behavior right?”

Oliver’s blue eyes would make a lesbian feel faint, “I told you I need a tutor and, well Tommy and Laurel being around would complicate matters,” he tried to explain with fumbled words.

“You need a what?” she asserted with confusion dripping off  her clearly affected tone.

He smiled at her honestly, “Didn’t read it did you?”

She slowly shook her head, “No…”

His eyes danced as he confessed, “As I told you in the note I’m failing Calculus and, I need a tutor…”

“So let me get this straight…” she balked while he leveled her with a shockingly sincere stare. “You the amazing Oliver Queen is asking for my help?” He inched closer and slowly began to place his hand over the sides of her face. Felicity let him knowing he had an angle.

His cocky grin made her stomach burn, the twinkle in his endless blue eyes made her ire rise as he slowly trailed his fingers down the sides of her face. “Come on Felicity do it for Tommy....” he begged with his index finger resting along her jawbone. “The only way I’m going to college is with a scholarship and if I don’t get at least a C in Calculus then coach is going to kick me off the team.”

Felicity again balked, “You honestly think you could survive in college?”

His head fell almost on top of her forehead, his lips were close enough so they gently brushed the bridge of her nose when he spoke, “Are you going to help me or not?”

She shielded her chest by folding her arms. She felt small and exposed within the cage of his over muscled body. He smelled of cedar and linen while Tommy always smelled of vanilla and oddly enough lilac, his blue eyes made her body tingle while Tommy’s alway made her feel warm. She croaked nervously as his fingers trembled along her heated skin, “Aren’t you ashamed to be seen in public with someone like me?” she asked in order to defuse the odd tension between them.

His forehead finally slightly touched hers, “Maybe but, who says anyone has to know.”

She inched further into the corner of the wall, “You aren’t suggesting the summer house are you?” she growled with the meekness of a caged mouse.

He chuckled deeply, “Well yeah. It’s private and, best of all I won’t have to dodge cheating rumors so…”

She repeated, “So…”

“Are you going to help me?” he begged as their foreheads touched.

She groaned in discomfort, “And it’s only until you can get a C right?”

He nodded along her skin as she shivered, “I can chose the days and times?” she demanded instead of asking.

“Yes Felicity you can chose the dates and times,” he agreed comfortably.

She huffed, “Fine but one last question.”

He chuckled lightly, “And that would be?”

“Why do you have me pressed against a wall with your forehead resting over mine?” she seethed in irritation.

His lips brushed the tip of her nose in friendship, “Because we’re actually friends outside of this hell hole even though you won’t admit it…” he breathed as his arms fell slowly back down to his sides.

“No we were before you got a girlfriend and I formed boobs. After that our friendship ended and this weird relationship was formed…” she corrected as she slipped along the wall and back towards the line of lockers.

He reached for her elbow and pulled her back by a few steps. She let him still her movements as she swiftly turned her head. His soft lips and kind eyes made her heart pound awkwardly, “So can we start today?” he asked quietly.

Felicity lowered her eyes and tilted her head, “You’re driving…” she offered as a response before she gently tugged her elbow away from his touch.

“I’ll see you at three Felicity,” he agreed right as the bell for the end of period rang.

She let out a quick, “Fine,” then darted down the still empty hall. She left him standing there with a baffled grin and surprisingly a shaken heart.

Present Day....

The memory passed as the news alert on her phone buzzed. She glanced at the flickering screen and swallowed an internal snarl.

-Tommy Queen to announce engagement to Laurel Lance where their storybook romance began…

Felicity snorted, “Yeah storybook my ass. She was screwing him while dating his brother…” She glared at the rest of the rubbish story before flicking her phone towards the edge of the desk. She again let her mind wander back to ten years prior when another relationship was beginning to bloom…

Ten years prior…

The male ego was always something that fascinated her; even now as she sat in the passenger seat of Oliver’s brand new Porsche she wondered what made the male ego tick? She squirmed a bit in the seat while her mind continued to burn through endless scenarios. Her driver asked dryly, “Penny for your thoughts madam?”

Despite her usual feelings Felicity found the comment charming and, even a bit disarming. “I was just wondering what makes the male ego work,” she replied quickly before her brain could send out a signal flare telling her to shut the hell up.

He coughed uncomfortably, “Well you don’t pull any punches do you?”

Felicity shrugged and shifted her eyes to the passing flora along the side of the mostly dirt road. “Well it baffles me. I mean Tommy has a BMW and you have this hot little number. He’s dating a nerd and you’re dating the future Prom Queen so it makes me wonder....”

“What’s he getting out of the deal?” Oliver guessed without hesitation.

She glanced at him sheepishly, “Well yeah,” she admitted just as quietly. “He’s one of you and, I’m some poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks who what got lucky when some handsome boy looked her way?”

Olivers fingers flexed over the leather bound steering wheel. Felicity watched nervously while he carefully weighed his words. His jaw tensed each time he let out a small sigh. She knotted her fingers until they were blue while she watched his entire form tense, “Do you want honesty?” he finally asked with a timid edge to his muted tone.

She carefully considered her options. Oliver wasn’t her enemy but, he also wasn’t a friend. Sure they’d been close as children what with her father being the head of his father’s IT department. They’d been playing together since they could all crawl but when the boys met Laurel all those years of shared friendship flew out the window. He became distant and almost cold once he’d won the girl with the hollow eyes and the striking profile. She’d soon moved on and eventually began growing closer to the heartbroken Tommy. Now as they shared the cab of this incredibly fast if not cramped car she silently pondered did he regret ruining the friendship they’d once shared. “I’ll take honesty,” she ventured carefully, “but only if you answer one personal question first.”

Oliver tapped his fingers along the rim of the steering wheel as the main drive finally came into view. Her bag fell over her feet when he took the curve too sharply, she grabbed at the center consul to steady her seated form while he muttered, “Sorry and sure whatcha got?”

She leaned back into her seat then breathed deeply, “Well was it Laurel?”

He shot her a confused look with those dreamy blue eyes, “Ummm Lissy I realize that as children I could read your mind but, umm those days are long gone so…”

She giggled despite herself, “Is Laurel the reason that we sorta hate eachother?” she explained with flushing skin.

Oliver made the slight left and then curved again to the right, Felicity glanced out the windshield and, smiled brightly when a small group hummingbirds moved easily through the many trees along the property line. “She’s demanding, harsh and, at times impossible but, she’s also the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he started to explain as the peak of the home’s chimney came into view.

Felicity nodded in resignation, “It’s okay Oliver you don’t have to explain…”

He let the car slow as his hand slipped off the steering wheel. Felicity nearly jumped when his fingers brushed over her knuckles. His words came out fast, confused and even a bit jumbled, “She’s beautiful Felicity but that’s all she is if that makes sense. She’s not funny, she hates my jokes, can’t stand my sister and, well…”

Felicity blushed, “She’s impossible but, because she’s beautiful you don’t care,” she finished for him as the car came to stop.

Oliver shifted in his seat then placed both his hands over her joined hands. “Look I know what I am okay? I know that she’s the best I can do and I’ve accepted that.”

Felicity’s blush grew even redder, even his skin seemed redder when he used his words to push them away from what would be an honest conversation. “Look how about we call this what it is okay? I can’t tell you what Tommy see’s in you and it would be dishonest of me to try. I needed help and you were kind enough to offer it when I sorta cornered you in the hallway deal?”

Felicity mulled over his suggestion then glanced at the hummingbird family one more time. The way their colorful wings fluttered through the sky made her yearn for simplicity. “Agreed but, Oliver?”

His thumb skirted over her knuckles, “Yeah Lissy?”

“Only my friends call my Lissy, my students call me Felicity got it?”

He smiled ruefully then slowly withdrew his hands, “Okay Felicity…” he verbally agreed before shifting back into his seat.

Felicity smiled when the engine revved. They might not be the best of friends but, at least now she knew they were she stood.

Present Day…

The memory ended when the sky roared angrily with loud claps of endless thunder. Felicity’s eyes flew upwards towards the top of the windows edge, the lightning split the sky, the rain cascaded downwards over the flickering streetlamps below. The way the rain fell sharply over the aging glass pushed Felicity back through her frazzled mind towards another memory that still to this day made her think she deserved more…

Ten Years Prior…

The first month of tutoring went quickly. The first session was filled with tight smiles and on his part a lot of confused grunts. She suggested they approach this like a football game using terms he was used to using in his everyday life. Oliver agreed quickly and, noted with gruff edges that she seemed to understand how his mind worked. She’d given him a sly wink and called it woman’s intuition.

The second month was much like the first. They met after school near the football field parking lot. She climbed in once she’d done a double take of the land around her. She searched for any prying eyes or any prying eyes with a digital lens attached to them. Once she was sure the shadows around her were simply trees she would open the door and climb in. The car was always cool but, not frigid like one would expect given Oliver’s outward demeanor. They exchanged the normal greetings; she would say hey how was your day? He would always reply fine and how was yours? They stuck to three main topics once the formal greetings were over. The first topic was always are you grasping the material? He would always grumble a bit before admitting he in fact was. She then moved towards the next topic which was almost identical to the first. She then would reach into her bag and pull out a small stapled packet, he would eye the papers while she quickly went over the lesson plan for the afternoon. Their last topic was always the veiled one, sometimes he would talk about Thea and, sometimes she would talk about her own family. The conversation would last mere seconds but it always made something in her spine tingle.

Usually they studied in the actual study but, today for some odd reason Oliver had opted for the family room that was lined with about ten large windows. She’d insisted they have a proper table so he’d dragged the coffee table closer to the couch. She was on one end with her feet tapping over the ornate rug below their feet. He was on the other with his palms covering his bobbing knees. Felicity tapped the tip of her pencil along the first line of drawn out equations. “Now per our lesson last week what does this symbol stand for?” she began to instruct per their usual routine.

Oliver grumbled but answered easily, “It’s the unknown variable and the equation is meant to annoy me since we covered that in our first lesson.”

Felicity winked at him slyly, “Just making sure you’re paying attention…”

“Or you’re just wondering if the dumb jock might be more than it seemed,” he joked with ease.

Felicity twirled the pencil between her thumb and index finger slowly, she cocked her head and jabbed her chin toward the packet beneath his history book, “Not to extend this little arrangement of ours but I do have one small question…”

Oliver seemed to follow her twinkling blue eyes to the packet of notes beneath his world history book. He shrugged noncommittally, “The packets work…” he grumbled.

She shook her head slowly, the edge of the eraser was placed along her jaw when she muttered lowly, “Why are you still surprising me?”

“Why are you still so easily surprised?” he volleyed quietly before she tapped her finger over the three equations near the bottom of the page.

Clearing her throat and avoiding a true moment of emotional intimacy she almost rasped, “So ummm well what do these three equations mean?”

His furrowed brows made her spine straighten, his focused eyes made her stomach knot and her jaw clench. His fingers grazed over her soft pencil strokes, his tongue darted over his pursed lips, his arms were like coiled snakes that were ready to snap once their prey was in sight. She grazed her fingers over his knuckles and whispered gently, “Just remember what I told you the equations are meant to help you not hinder you.”

“Yeah easy for you to say,” he mumbled tightly when the answer continued to evade him.

She leaned back into the frame of the aging black leather couch and rubbed her fingers over her upper arms. He continued to trace along her scribbles until his forehead finally fell to his knuckles in frustration. She remained silent knowing he’d eventually give her a reason to smile ruefully.

Oliver finally after minutes of tortured silence threw the book with the packet towards the back wall with the force of an angered football player. She of course covered her curved lips with the back of her hand when the absurd thought flashed through her mind. Oliver’s slanted, angered eyes flew to her smiling eyes in annoyed amusement. “I just busted the drywall of some antique wall and you’re actually laughing at me?”

Felicity chuckled at his comment dryly, “Oh you breaking the drywall wasn’t funny.”

“Then what the hell was?” he grunted angrily.

She debated for a moment. Toying with him while enjoyable also seemed a bit too close to flirting so she caved and murmured in the kindest tone possible, “I was just thinking that you threw the book like an angry football player.”

It was then that the weather outside began to shift… His twinkling eyes burned with humor while her’s shimmered with a moment of pure enjoyment. The shutters along the aging windows rattled like leaves as they fell off the trees in the dead of autumn. The thunder boomed all around the aging house, Felicity felt the tremor of the house’s walls rattling through her still ageless bones. Oliver’s soft voice seemed to float through the air as the lightning split the sky around them. “Do you wanna head back early?”

She glanced over his shoulder and surveyed the curtains of falling rain, “This place has a storm celler doesn’t it?” she decided to ask when the thunder rattled the foundation of the house once more.

Oliver’s shoulders slumped inwardly as his chin dipped to his chest, “Yeah I think it’s actually in the other section,” he replied a bit too somberly.

Felicity’s eyes shot to his defeated form, the rain changed to hail as the wind swept through the trees with violent intentions in mind. “Oliver is that the section that’s not connected to the main house?” she queried nervously.

All he needed to do was peer upward for her to know the answer was yes. Felicity muttered a bit too timidly, “Well that’s hail and, if I’m right then we might need to seek shelter in a windowless room…”

Oliver groaned, “The coat closet is big enough for two…”

Her eyes darted directly to the floor, her fingers seemed to knot around her arms, “Yeah if we’re connected from head to freaking toe,” she managed to squeak between the rumbles of thunder.

He agreed tightly, “I’m not thrilled either but, it’s either that or some interesting cuts if the glass all around us shatters.”

She shook with annoyance and, for once it wasn’t with him. She shot him a nervous glance just as he dared to shoot her one of his own. It was blue on blue, the both of them simply stared at eachother endlessly until their chest’s began to rise in sync. She babbled first when the glass began to splinter, “I’ll keep my back against your chest so our lips don’t you know accidently touch…”

He must have heard the glass cracking behind him because he suddenly rose while urging her backward with his outward arms, “Deal…” he managed to croak before the limb from a nearby tree came crashing through the already cracked glass.

She was unprepared to be bull rushed like one would be on a football field; so when he came forward with his outstretched arms she sort of panicked and, accidentally jumped upward landing snuggly against his broad chest. His rough fingers brushed over the skin of her waist where her shirt had ridden up as he slowly enveloped her tingling body. She slowly raked her fingers over the nape of his neck as his hands began to glide over her curved hips. The skin around her belly button felt aroused she realized with shame as she slowly slid down his chiseled abdomen. She gulped roughly as her fingers drifted to his broad shoulders, “Ummm closet?”

Oliver swallowed roughly, “Hmmm yeah ummm right behind you…”

Felicity nodded while her fingers slipped down to his elbows. He kept his palms over her waist as he began to gently guide them backward. Felicity glanced at their feet, “One, two, three…” she began to mutter beneath her breath as the storm raged around them.

“Felicity?”

Her body stilled, her throat clogged and her skin flushed when a small retched, Yeah?” passed through her shaking lips.

His head tilted, his eyes blazed and his touch burned along her excited skin when he breathed, “If we go any further the doorknob will be lodged in your spine…”

“Ohhh,” she seemed to gurgle while he lifted his palms from her waist and reached for the brass knob. His chest brushed over hers once more, the soft flannel rubbed over her white cotton tee gracefully like a ballet dancer as his chin rubbed over her forehead. Felicity stammered, “You’re making me nervous…” when she finally heard the door click.

“Same here,” he agreed almost too quickly.

His chin brushed her forehead once more when he tilted his head downward, her heart thumped loudly within her rattled chest, her spine tingled and her palms were drenched as his lips brushed over her aching temple, “I think this storm is messing with our heads…” he rasped as his bottom lip edged softly over her skin.

Felicity felt him pushing them backwards into the darkened room when she muttered roughly, “Yeah that’s completely possible…”

She felt the coldness of the darkened space enveloping them as he shielded her with his hardened form. She again traced her fingers along his upper arms until they were once more along his shoulders. He placed his palms along her waist and managed to kick the door shut with the back of his left heel. She stammered, “So the back to chest thing is out…”

He chuckled, “Yeah well I’d rather see your face if it’s all the same to you.”

She laughed uneasily as his lips brushed over her skin, “You do realize I’ll have to start liking you now right?”

His thumbs brushed over her waist in circular motions, “Somehow I think we’ll both survive,” he mused gently before the darkness not only stole their words but, also their claimed hearts.  

Present Day…

She let the memory wash over slowly like the an all day, drenching rain. Her fingers tapped along the aging keyboard slowly. Her mind was muddled but her heart was clear. Slowly and, with great apprehension she began to tap out the first few lines of her article…

Tagging: @emmaamelia95 @pleasantfanandstudent @coal000 @memcjo @lesanchea @mrsbubblelee @olicitylovemaking @miriam1779 @love2luvyyou @almondblossomme @diggo26 @rivaroma @vaelisamaza @befitandchase @pimsiepim @andjustforthismoment @anonymiss118 @thelockpickingvictorian @yet-i-remain-quiet @lexi9515 @kathrynelizabeth89 @marniforolicity @marytagus @myhauntedblacksoul @myuntetheredsoul @blondiegrl00 @independent-fics @felicity-said--yes @relativelyobsessedfangirl @i-m-a-fan-world @mel-loves-all @danski15 @green-arrows-of-karamel @malafle @emilyp05 @oliverfel4 @alemap74 @vicky-vale @charlinert @hope-for-olicity @missafairy @arrows-4ever @jaspertown @sweetzcupcake @captainolicitysbedroom @nalla-madness @smoakingarrow19 @bwangangelic @ccdimples88 @lalawo1 @ireland1733 @quiveringbunny @scu11y22 @detbensonsvu1 @tdgal1 @cinfos @xxliveyourlife @onceuponarrow @supersillyanddorky06 @wherethereismoak @olicityinmyheart @all-things-olicity @bitchwithwifi 

#arrow #arrow fic #olicity #olicity fic #au #highschool #soulmates #past loves #mystery #time lost #oliver and felicity

[sethraziel]

The Thing I Saw the Day my Friend Died

This happened years ago, but it is still something that sticks with me. This all happened like a sequence. You never know if things are suppose to happen for a reason or if some unknown outside force influences it. But first, a backstory.

My friend, let's call her Jenny, was a cheery, happy go lucky young woman. She rode one of them crotch rocket bikes and loved riding it. Always up for new and exciting things, she took a job as a security guard for a casino I worked at. She was always that ray of sunshine that would bring you up if you were having a bad day. Even when she was feeling down, she always made it a point to make sure you were feeling better.

After a year she was promoted to a gaming officer. She was really happy as this was an entry point to get into the upstairs offices. She would tell me often that if she got in she would try to get me in with her. I worked on the floor, paying out jackpots and getting change for gamers. Not long after her promotion she started acting funny. Not so much that people noticed it right away, but enough that I noticed it. She would come to work tired or come late, but never said why. I noticed her attitude change as well. She was more jumpy and cautious than normal. One time during a conversation we were having on the floor she stopped and just, as I first thought, stared at me. I realized after a little bit that she wasn't staring at me, but behind me. I turned but saw nothing. She seemed to snap out of it after a bit and brushed it off as losing her track of thought. I never questioned it at the time.

One day she came in two hours late. Her superior wasn't too happy. He had actually sought me out on the floor to see if I could get a hold of her. When she did come in she looked worse for wear. She was unkempt, baggy red eyes, and jittery. When questioned by her superior, she put it as a late night out. When she came to the floor, she pulled me aside and asked to meet up after work. We met at Denny's and she proceeded to tell me what was going on.

She, as she put it, was having “weird shit” happen to her. It started subtlety at first. A chill here, a noise there. Nothing she couldn't explain away. But as time progressed, things got weirder. The chills got colder, the noises got louder and more frequent, things were never where she left them. Then it started happening at work. Her desk was always rearranged from how she left it. She thought that someone was messing with her, even voicing her concern, but nobody ever came forward. When she was walking the floor she would feel a tap on her shoulder or a tug on her shirt, with nobody around. When she would walk to her office, which was located near the uniform room in a less trafficked area of the building, she always heard footsteps in line with hers, as if someone was walking right behind her. She was afraid to use the restrooms as well if no one was with her. It was there one day, she said, she got scared real bad. Answering the call of nature, she had just begun when, she said, there was a single, light knock on the stall door. She had announced herself in the stall when someone knocked again, this time two of them, louder than the first. She had said she was using it and to use another when the door began to rattle, as if someone was jiggling the handle. Then it stopped. She said she was about to get up when, to her horror, the sliding lock began to slowly move, unlocking itself. Jenny said she flung the door open. No one was there. When she got out of the stall no one was in there. She was about to walk out when, turning toward the stalls, she said she saw a dark mass, humanoid looking, peeking out behind the furthest stall.

She said she has seen it often since. The day she was really late she said she was awoken from her sleep. It was night, her room was dark, and she couldn't speak nor move. She tried too, she told me, but couldn't. And she had a dreaded feeling like she wasn't alone. The only thing she could move was her eyes, she recalled, and she happened to look up with them, seeing this humanoid mass looking right down at her, a faint glow where eyes would be. She said she closed her eyes and was able to scream, finally gaining control of her body. She jumped out of bed and tried to turn on the light near her bed, but it wouldn't work. The mass then started to come toward her, blocking her bedroom door. She said she ran into the closet and shut it. The light in the closet worked. She said she was afraid of opening the door. She heard it moving around the room. She fell asleep in there, not waking till late in the morning, got quickly dressed and came in, hence her appearance. The last week of her life she stayed with me. Despite the odd occurrence at work, nothing ever happened at my place. She was peaceful. She was sleeping and eating again, and on her days off she reported nothing happening.

The day she died was one of the strangest and scariest days of my life. It started with me going in like normal. I came in at 8 and Jenny came in an hour later. Things were pretty normal and at 12 we went to lunch. During lunch she told me she was going to go back to her place. The last week was pretty good and she hoped that whatever it was had finally left her alone. After that we went back to our posts. About half hour after lunch my supervisor calls me in the office and says one of the swing shift people called out and asked if I could pull a double. If I agreed I could take the next day off or come in and get the overtime. So I agreed. At around the same time Jenny was asked to stay a few hours more as one of her coworkers had suddenly gotten ill in the stomach and had to go. So she agreed. After that I got the strangest feeling like I was being watched. Couldn't explain it. I felt someone was staring at me in empty parts of the floor. Jenny told me she started to feel like a weight was being lifted off her, but she also felt like I was in trouble somehow. She said something in the back of her head said that someone was mad at me, like they hated me. But she didn't know who nor could she explain why it was that specific feeling. My second shift started and her extra hours started like this. Some of my coworkers reported feeling uneasy around me while Jenny's said that she was becoming like her old self again.

When Jenny was getting ready to end her shift at 11 in the evening that night I took my final break to say goodbye, as I was getting out an hour after her. She said she felt free in what seemed like forever. She wanted to enjoy her ride home. She said she would text me when she made it. We hugged and I saw her off for what would be the last time. Needing to get back on the floor, I had the call of nature beckoning me. But I decided I could hold it. Or so I thought. As I was making my rounds, that urge came at me strong, literally forcing me to make a mad rush to the employee restroom. I ran in and got the nearest urinal. Relieved, I washed my hands and started to leave when a light, soft knock came from the direction of the stalls. There, peeking out from the farthest stall, was a black mass, humanoid looking with a soft glow where the eyes should be. I blinked and it was gone. I stood frozen there, literally trying to rationalize if I saw something or not. I looked at the time on my phone. Twenty minutes had passed since Jenny left. I looked up and there it was again, only this time I got this really bad feeling that something was wrong and I bolted out of there. That image was burned into my memory and has been ever since. I called Jenny but it went to voicemail. I finished the rest of my shift with that dreaded feeling. After work I went home and tried calling again. Voicemail. I left her a message to get back to me asap. That feeling stayed with me till I fell asleep.

My sister broke the news to me that morning. Her boyfriend was a EMT that responded to an accident call. He, Jenny and I as well as my sister had all gone to high school together. Being the one that took the call, he was shocked to find her off the road, about 40 feet to be exact, dead with a broken neck. She had hit the safeguard, this metal piece that curved with the road. He thought it weird that she would have landed 40 feet away seeing that the speed limit at the turn was only 20, and that later it was determined that she hit it going 10 miles an hour. No alcohol nor drugs were found in her system so they thought that she probably fell asleep and when she hit she landed neck first and slid to a halt. Though I was later told by my sisters boyfriend that when he got there he didn't see anything that looked like she slid. The ground, he remembered, was undisturbed.

This has haunted me for a while now. A few weeks ago I dreamed Jenny was talking to me. I couldn't hear her and she had this blank, almost emotionless expression. She then points behind me and there it is, the thing I saw the day my friend died. I am by no means an artist or a painter. Hell I can hardly draw. But after that dream, I had to try to depict what I saw in the restroom all those years ago. This is the closest I've gotten to it. One more thing I forgot to mention. When a time of death was given, it was around 11:20pm, about the same time I saw that fucking thing.

Update: It's been years since I've been in that casino. I recently went back to my home town where it's located and caught up with old friends who still work there. Apparently that thing is following another friend of mine like it did Jenny. My friend suffered a nervous breakdown during his shift. The girl I spoke to said he was always acting weirder than normal, culminating in his screaming and ranting about the "shadow" that won't leave him alone. Only a close few people know about what Jenny went through and what I experienced and the girl I spoke to was one of them. She mentioned that other things have been happening. My brother, who started working security there a few years ago, mentioned something creepy he once witnessed.

The security team usually have a driver who drives around the property to make sure the parking areas and back part of the casino is safe. Behind the casino are these dumpster areas that the food and beverage and custodial teams use. Well, my brother tells me that one night he went on break. There is a patio area outside that employees use to sit outside or to smoke. There is a wall around it but on the other side is the dumpsters. He goes to the patio with one of the food and beverage girls to smoke. During this time they hears faint crying. At the same time, over his radio, he hears the truck driver calling in a female he spots crying in the corner of the dumpsters. He says the driver describes her as short, long dark hair, blue sweater and jeans with no shoes on. She's crouched in the corner, back to him, sobbing as he said "loud". My brother of course being on the opposite side of the wall, can barely hear crying. Well, he then says the driver calls it in to surveillance. There are two cameras that point in that direction, one seeing that particular corner very well. After he calls it in surveillance gets back to him asking what he's talking about. This is how he put it:

Sur: What are you calling in again?

Dri: A female in the corner of the dumpsters crying. She is not responding to my calls.

Sur: Okay. We see you. We don't see a girl.

Dri: What do you mean? She is right in front of me.

Sur: No sir. All we see is you. No one else.

Dri: Are you serious? You really don't see the girl right here?

Sur: No sir. If you are joking then it's a bad one not to mention a waste of our time.

That's about the time my brother says the crying stopped, followed by a shriek from the driver and him burning rubber out of there. My brother went on to say that the driver was visibly shaken and trembling. When pressed by his supervisor about what happened, he related that after surveillance said she wasn't there she stopped crying and stood up, her head falling back like it had no neck bones, and then started to walk towards him but backwards with her head dangling side to side. He shrieked and got out of there. What was disturbing as well to my brother was that later, the driver said that when her head fell back, it had no face. I must say some creepy shit is going on there. I wonder though. The way he described the girl. I wonder if it was Jenny. Even though she didn't die at the casino I wonder if that thing is keeping her trapped there.

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