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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part seventeen) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±4700 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part seventeen: Unable to sleep, Y/N goes over last night’s events, until she gets an unexpected visitor. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: ‘After My Heart + Can’t Help Falling In Love’ - John Michael Howell. Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Please listen to this song during the scene, it’s so worth it! Author’s note: I’m excited for this one, y’all! Thank you @kittenofdoomage, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish and @winchest09 for helping me. You girls are awesome betas and friends.

Ride With Me Masterlist

The bunkhouse is silent after a festive night. All the lights out, except for the one on Y/N’s bedside table. Sleep might have come limited the past week, but she isn’t ready to close her eyes just yet. The adventurous trail, combined with the unexpected news about her qualification has her riled up with excitement.

Not sure what to do with this new found energy, she has taken out one of her notebooks, which is filled with scrabbles. She won State Championships with a relatively simple floorplan, not wanting to overshoot, but if she wants to leave an impression with the judges at Congress, she needs to step up her game. Combinations between exercises will push up her degree of difficulty, so she decided to change a few lines. Working on her freestyle tonight wasn’t entirely according to plan, but who knows, maybe the tequila and beer will add some creativity.

She has changed into a comfortable tank top and a pair of shorts, the soft fabric a contrast to the sandy denim she’s been clad in the past days. The temperature is comfortably warm, early October in Arizona much more like summer compared to the autumn days she’s used to in Maine.

Strangely, she hasn’t been homesick for Freeport at all. She misses her mom and dad, her brothers, but after her time living on campus, she’s used to being away from family. Her father travels a lot for work, and Jaime, her older brother by three years, moved to the other side of the country straight out of the Police Academy, fighting crime in Los Angeles these days. Middle kid Jackson bought a house in Boston and is busy with his real estate firm, while her oldest brother, Jeff and his wife are expecting their first child. Y/N wouldn’t say they have grown apart, but now that she and her siblings don’t share a house anymore, things have changed. They’ve spread their wings, built a life for themselves.

She checks her phone when a message from Jaime pops up, sending her a selfie in which he shows off his muscles, holding up a fist. ‘Show them what you’re made of! You’re gonna ace that ride!’ he added in the caption. She closes the text, scrolling down the list of messages from family and friends, until she finds one from Jeffrey, which is a little more lengthy. ‘Mom said I had to wait until Dad reached you, so I hope you got the news by now, otherwise I’m in trouble. Congratulations, Sis. You worked so hard for this. I’m really proud of you, and I know Grandpa will be cheering you on from above. You’re already a champion.’ She smiles at the sweet words; she should really give him a call next week.

Redirecting her attention to the notebook in her lap, she picks up her pen, sketches a new line, crosses it and bites on the pen cap, pondering. Marcel, her trainer at the Freeport Equestrian Center, helped her with the first version. She could get in touch with him tomorrow, she’s sure he will be willing to shed a light on what she has so far. Distance will be an issue, though, and with time being of the essence since it’s only fifteen days before they head towards Columbus, Ohio, where Congress is held, she has to take a different approach.

What if she asks Dean to help her with the freestyle, or even to come with her to the show? He has helped her a couple of times during training and she appreciates his approach. His suggestions and tips paid off; his methods really seemed to work for both her and Meadow. The head wrangler knows Y/N and her horse well enough to offer advice in bringing out their best qualities, she just hopes he’s up for it. After some drinks, Dean didn’t stick around long. When she asked Jo where he went, she said Dean offered to do the final feeding round. Y/N thought about following him, but didn’t want to draw attention from the rest of the crew; them both gone would’ve raised suspicion and she doesn’t want to put him in the spot of having to explain himself.

When Y/N noticed his absence, her stomach made an unpleasant flip. The uneasy sensation remained the rest of the evening, not evident, but brewing nonetheless, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol. She wonders if something has changed, maybe. That coming home to the ranch caused Dean to reconsider. Why else would he distance himself?

Doubtful, she takes a breath, her mind going places she’d rather not be. Still missing a steady foundation for them to start building a relationship on, doubt surfaces again. Deep down she’s scared that the cowboy might back out, which would cause heartbreak she’s not sure she can handle. She cares too much already, she’s too far gone. Y/N is passing the station of just being in love with Dean; it’s growing into something even more.

Before her thoughts can spiral further, there’s a soft knock on the door. The kind that is soft enough to not wake her had she been sleeping, but loud enough for her to hear if she wasn’t. She slides out of bed, rises to her bare feet, careful not to bump her head against the top bunk like she has so many times already, and crosses her room. When she opens the door, she finds the man who has been on her mind on the other side, locking his green eyes on her. She’s pleasantly surprised to see him with it being past 11 PM already; she expected him to be in bed long ago after the exhausting past few days. “Hey, what are you doing u--”

He doesn’t let her finish and bridges the few feet between them, cupping her face with both hands and pulling her into a kiss. After the initial shock, which only lasts a fraction of a second, he can feel her lashes brush against his skin as she closes her eyes and melts into him, allowing him to deepen the connection. Her response takes away the restlessness that weighed on his chest like a chunk of concrete, ever since the thought of her leaving arose.

They step into her room far enough for Dean to kick the door shut, preventing possible eavesdroppers from tuning in, his mouth never leaving hers. Instinctively, her arms snake around his torso, tracing the lines of his strong back through the fabric of his shirt. There’s a desperation in his touch that’s new to her, the way he longs for this connection is different. Eventually, he breaks the kiss and she studies him when he rests his forehead against hers. His eyes stay closed for a little longer, holding on to the moment while his hands slip from her face.

He didn’t want to steal a few seconds while surrounded by the crew, he didn’t want to get in line to give her a quick hug or a peck on the cheek. No, he needed to be with her, just the two of them without restrictions.

“What was that for?” she wonders. “Just wanted to congratulate you.” He smiles, trying to mask his concern, and sweetly presses his lips on hers again. “Personally.” And again. “Privately.” And again. She giggles, triggering him to chuckle as well. He moves his head back to take her in. “Congratulations, Yankee,” he says, genuine. “You earned it.” “Thank you,” she smiles, still slightly confused. “Where’d you go earlier?” “Someone had to feed those poor starving animals,” he jokes. “And since Bobby already had a few whiskies, and Garth is an absolute light weight, I took one for the team.”

He was quick to take the final feeding round, not just because he was the last man standing. Doing one last check, giving the horses their hay for the night, making sure the stables are shut properly, locking up the tackroom and the cafeteria and eventually the large barn doors after switching off the lights; it offers him peace of mind. It’s a daily routine, a recurring series of actions, done so 365 days a year. Ensuring everything is exactly the way it’s supposed to be in the place where he lives and works, grounds him when he’s feeling restless. It gives him a moment alone, the horses his only company, allowing him to think things over and collect himself again. Tonight was no different, because even though he was relieved Y/N’s father wasn’t the bearer of bad news, Dean felt disturbed with his initial response. For a good few minutes, he thought he was going to lose her, and the anxiety it surfaced was much more intense than he anticipated.

Y/N keeps watching him as the cowboy is lost in thought. He’s trying to be funny and cute, but that’s not all there is to it; his eyes tell a different story. He kissed her a little too fierce, pulled her in a little too tight. Something is bothering him, and although she doesn’t want to force him to talk, she needs to know what it is before she loses her mind herself. “What’s wrong, Dean?” she asks, softly, moving her hands up his chest. “It’s nothin’,” he assures, shaking his head.

But when the concern remains evident in her expression, he sighs. He doesn’t want her to worry, or think it’s something she’s done. If anything, she’s been absolutely perfect. God, she’s so patient. Even though she needs him, she offers him space. Expressing how he feels might be terrifying, it’s about time he’s fair with the woman who’s willing to wait. “It’s just that, uh - when your dad called, he… he sounded pretty serious,” Dean admits, looking down. “I thought something might have happened with your folks or somethin’, and that you...” He pauses, struggling, but Y/N knows enough. “You thought Dad was going to tell me to come back,” she realizes.

Suddenly his behavior makes so much more sense. His complete change of demeanor when he approached her table in the saloon after receiving the call, him seeming as nervous as she was when she picked up the phone. The sigh of relief when she told him and Jo the great news, his disappearance from the celebration at the saloon. Dean thought he was going to lose her, and apparently it scared him. Y/N is as stunned by the realization, as she is by the confirming nod he gives her.

“Well - I mean - it could’ve been, right?” he says, shrugging his shoulders almost apologetically, like he’s not allowed to be worried about a presumption as such. “I’m twenty-four, Dean. I’m not going anywhere unless I want to,” she reminds him, hoping to offer him some consolation. “Glad to hear it,” he responds, his hands moving to her waist as he restores eye contact. “‘cause I’d hate to see you go.”

Heartfelt, the beautiful girl in his arms smiles. She seems to understand the weight of his words, because she crosses her wrists behind his head and urges him to come closer. Dean’s heart swells in his chest when she brushes her lips against his, tentatively at first. His mind calms, the nerves subsiding. Not only is she staying, she also understands what’s going on in his head, and in a strange and unexpected way, it’s kind of liberating. Not having to pretend and put on a mask, not having to convince anyone that everything is fine. He’s gotten so used to telling people he’s okay, the words to express himself prove to be hard to grasp. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll get the hang of it.

Dean’s mind goes blank when she deepens the kiss, swiping her tongue against his bottom lip. Her arms close around his neck a little tighter, holding him so close he can feel the warmth coming from her skin. She smells amazing, the scent of her shampoo still lingering in her hair, a sweet smell of a flower he can’t name. He presses his fingertips into her flesh, carefully shifting them under the hem of her tank top, even though he knows very well that he shouldn’t. It isn’t going to take long before he will not be able to stop himself.

She feels him trace her sides, rolling up the fabric of her top as he does so. Normally she would be self-conscious about it, but when she parts from him when running out of air, all she sees in his eyes is adoration and want. Both seem to be waiting for each other, unsure if they should take this further. Afterall, considering what they agreed on, this would be a poor execution of taking things slow.

Without breaking away from her gaze, his left hand travels down, following the curves of her hips. He adds pressure, gently pulling her against him. What she feels through the denim of his jeans has her eyes grow wide. A delightful tension starts to tangle up in her stomach, sinking deeper. Somewhat surprised that she apparently has this effect on him, she takes in a shuddering breath, gazing deep into his eyes. God, she wants to go there, but is he willing to as well? “Are you sure?” she checks with him. Dean doesn’t have to think twice and nods. To hell with it, he’s not going to waste another second. “I want you,” he breathes, his voice husky.

It’s all she’s ever wanted to hear him say. It might not be the confirmation of their relationship she’s been hoping to get eventually; it’s better. He wants her. He wants her.

Free from restraints, she crashes her lips to his and Dean doesn’t hesitate to return the kiss with the same need. All the question marks, the doubt, the thoughts along the line of ‘what if it goes wrong?’ and ‘maybe we shouldn’t do this’ go right out the window. It wouldn’t matter if they waited longer, because if that wake up call taught the cowboy anything, it’s that together or not, it would tear him to pieces if she were ever to leave the ranch. If he’s going to spend this time with her, he better make it worth her while, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll stay with him in the end.

Eventually, his mouth leaves hers and begins to descend, his breath tickling her skin as he ghosts down her neck. Willingly, she rolls her head to her shoulder, offering him space to leave marks on her pulse point, then down her collarbone. The hint of delicious pain has her fighting back a moan, which proves to be challenging, especially when his hands roam down to cover her peach-shaped behind. Trying to distract herself and be useful at the same time, she begins to unbutton his plaid shirt, his touch momentarily interrupted until the piece of clothing falls to the floor in a puddle of blue, soon followed by his white undershirt.

Before Dean urges her closer again, he drags the only chair in the room away from the small table by the window, sitting down and pulling her with him. The wood underneath them creaks when she settles in his lap, her bare knees on either side of the cowboy, holding herself up and leaning into his bare chest. The denim of his jeans stretches over his erection, rubbing against her core. The sheer thought of a few layers of fabric being the only barrier between him and her, sends a surge of heat to dampen her panties. Thank God she chose the lace ones earlier after her shower, the ones she can only wear whenever she’s not spending her day in the saddle. She wonders if he can tell how aroused she is already.

Dean can. He can feel the warmth radiating towards him and he can feel himself growing even harder, too. His breath hitches and he stifles a groan when she rolls her hips, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Ho-ly shit. This might not be how he originally imagined their first time, in this tiny room with thin walls, this one chair and a bunk bed, but it feels so good. He has enveloped her in his arms, his hands roam her body, not leaving a square inch unattended. Without tearing the seams, he pulls the strap of her loosely fitted tank top over one shoulder, the material shifting down. His fingers then reposition to cup her breast, all while he presses kisses on top. When he moves his thumb over her stiff nipple, she pulls in an audible gasp. “Sssh…” he hushes. “Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors.”

Y/N can’t help it, though. The friction she feels beneath her, combined with the touch of his mouth and his fingertips, is already beginning to build her up. She begins to pant, her lungs pushing out air in quivers. Dean doesn’t stop, however, and continues to knead her breast without hurting her, smothering the sounds she makes with another breathtaking kiss. His other hand has snaked around her waist again, splayed on the small of her back now, spurring her on to move against him. Good God, if he keeps this up, she might come undone without him even actually touching her down there.

The chair creaks louder when she moves against him, triggering Dean to cringe. The old furniture is either going to break or wake everyone in the bunkhouse, and so he pulls Y/N flush against him and stands up. Without missing a beat or breaking the kiss, she folds her legs around his waist as he walks her to the bed. Laying her down and fitting himself on top turns out to be a little more difficult than he thought it would be, the bunk bed limiting his space, but after some shimmying, he manages.

He hovers over the woman he’s about to be intimate with, mesmerized by the sight of her laying underneath him, her chest heaving, her eyes lustful. She’s the definition of gorgeous without even trying. Dude, how the hell did you manage to hold back this long?

The trail of kisses he presses on her stomach has Y/N arching her back, her eyes closed in delight as he travels down. Gently, he opens her legs a little wider, feather light touches electrifying her skin, sending currents towards her center. His hands leave her then, teasingly letting her wait in suspense. She listens, trying to pick up on any sound of him breathing or moving, her senses operating on full capacity. He’s testing her patience like he has done for the past few days. A chill runs down her spine as seconds tick by, but then Dean palms her heat through the fabric of her shorts. She bites her bottom lip at the unexpected connection, her fists clenching the comforter and a moan escaping her throat. This is happening. This is really happening.

Y/N feels him tracing the waistband of her shorts, before hooking his thumbs underneath the hem. He’s about to drag them down and move in, when they hear a door handle being pushed down. Her eyes shoot open in time to see Dean jerk back and sit up startled, hitting his head hard against the top bunk. The collision of his skull with the solid wood creates a loud bang, followed by a strangled groan. He curses through gritted teeth, trying to make as little noise as possible, while outside the room a door shuts. Horrified, they both stare at the other end of the room, not moving a muscle as shuffling footsteps cross the hall, opening another door and closing it again. A toilet seat is lifted up, the person whistling to himself softly. There can be only one person who needs encouragement to relieve himself: Garth.

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean hisses. Y/N is unable to stop a snort, sniggering silently, even though she tries not to. “You okay?” she checks, trying to sound concerned. Not very convincing, apparently, because Dean shoots her a glare, while rubbing the sore spot on his head. The toilet flushes loudly and obscenely, triggering the woman underneath him to giggle unstoppably. When he shushes her, frantically holding his finger to his lips, it achieves the opposite, causing him to break character as well. Doing their best to keep it down, she clasps her hand over her mouth while Dean presses his lips together, trying to compose himself. “You need to be quiet,” he whispers. “I c-can’t”, she hiccups, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Garth heads back to his room, either sleep walking or he’s deaf, because he doesn’t pick up on any of the action happening on the other side of the hall. His door closes, the springs of his bed creak as he gets back in, and silence returns. “Would you stop?” Dean chuckles, poking Y/N’s side when she fails to control her laughing fit. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she returns, struggling to keep it down. “How’s your head?” “It’s alright,” he claims, ignoring the slight bump when he runs his hand through his hair. “Moment’s gone, ain’t it?”

She wipes the tears from her face, breathing in now that she’s capable again. Comforting, she reaches for his hand. As much as she would like to continue, the circumstances aren’t exactly ideal. Their first time together shouldn’t have to be clumsy and uncomfortable, in a bed that’s too small in a room with paper thin walls. “Rain check?” she proposes. Dean leans in to leave a kiss on her lips. “Rain check. ‘Sides, wouldn’t wanna have to hold back because you can’t keep it down.” She pokes him in his stomach now. “Don’t get cocky.”

Dean scoffs, sliding from the bed without hitting his head this time. Grinning mischievously, he turns around, pulling her to her feet as well. The cowboy takes a second to really look at her again, glad to notice the lack of insecurity in her composure. Her hair is messy, strands escaping the loose bun at the base of her neck, ready for bed in her pajama shorts and a comfortable top. She could have felt self-conscious in this situation, especially since their moment together came to an abrupt and slightly awkward end. But she isn’t, she feels at ease when she’s with him. A small smile forms on the cowboy’s lips.

“You should get some sleep. We’ll skip the afternoon siestas, now that the temperatures are droppin’, so we’ll start an hour and a half later tomorrow. I figured you might wanna train Meadow first thing in the morning?” he suggests, picking up his shirts from the floor. Y/N agrees, glad that she’s being given the space to focus on Congress. “Dean, about that…” He glances back, patiently waiting for the follow up. “I was wondering if you could maybe help me out with my freestyle?” she asks, a little shy. “Yeah, of course,” the head wrangler responds without hesitation. “Great,” she breathes, relieved. “And there’s this other thing.” Dean steps closer, laying his shirt and flannel over his shoulder so that he has his hands free and can lace his fingers with hers. “What is it?” “I was hoping you could coach me,” she says, looking up at him. “Not just at home, but when I have to compete in Columbus, too.”

Humbled, he gazes back, the corners of his mouth curving up. Coaching such a skilled rider as Y/N would be an absolute privilege, and with the trainers he knows she’s had, he’s surprised she’s asking him. Sure, the connection they have personally is there on a much more professional level as well, but they are talking Congress here, the biggest show of the year, and possibly the most important one of her career. Apparently, she has as much faith in his abilities to guide her as he has faith in her talent. “It’ll be my pleasure,” he states. “Really?” Y/N responds, thrilled. “Hell, yeah,” Dean says, excited. “I’ll have to check with management if I can get time off for Congress, but I have plenty of days left. Plus, I think Ellen is kinda rooting for us.” She chuckles, but then does a double take. “Wait, what? Ellen knows we’re together? I - I mean, not together together, I get that we’re not an item--” “-Ellen knows,” he grins, squeezing her hand when he interrupts her nervous train of words. “I think basically everyone knows by now, except Garth and Bobby.”

A little uneasy Y/N glances from their hands up into his eyes. Wait… Is she reading too much into his words? He didn’t correct her when she used the term ‘together’. Why didn’t he? Is he worried he might upset her again? If anything, she doesn’t want to push him to oblige to something he’s not ready for. “Dean, I know we just… I didn’t mean--” She pauzes, collects herself and starts over. “I know you’re not ready for a relationship and that’s fine, we had that conversation already. I’m not trying to rush you.” “You’re not rushin’ me,” he assures, calmly. “I just needed a wake up call in order to pull my head out of my ass.” The woman before him hesitates, “W-what do you mean?”

The wrangler wets his lips, taking a second to choose his words carefully. “When your old man called, for a minute I thought you were about to hop on a plane and that I was never gonna see you again,” he admits. “And - uh, it kinda freaked me out, to be honest.” He huffs, barely able to believe what he’s about to say. “I’m not gonna keep you waitin’ any longer, Yankee. I know I said I want you, earlier, but truth is…”

Y/N watches him glance down at their hands again, running his thumb over her knuckles. Nerves close off her throat, because she has a hunch that he’s about to break it to her; he doesn’t want the commitment.

Tears begin to prick in her eyes, but not from laughter this time. She knew it was going to be difficult to get close to him. Dean keeps to himself, probably because he cared too much in the past and learned his lesson the hard way. The possibility of her leaving spooked him today, and now he’s done. He doesn’t want to risk that kind of heartbreak, he doesn’t want to rely on anyone. Dean Winchester would rather fill his world with a hundred shallow and meaningless flings than with one solid partner, and this is him setting her free, before things get out of -- “I wanna be with you.”

Her racing mind, which was breaking the speed limit, hits a brick wall. Shocked, she pulls her eyes away from their entwined fingers, gazing at him almost dumbfoundedly. Did he just say he wants to be with me? “W-what?” she stammers. “I mean, if you’ll still have me,” Dean adds, a little unsettled by her response. “Look, I know I’m not exactly an open book and that I behave like a dick sometimes when you try to get through to me. I’m stubborn as hell and my communication skills need some work—”

Now it’s Y/N who cuts him off for a change, closing the gap and kissing him passionately. He eases into her, smiling against her lips and leaves a peck on her hair when she embraces him and buries her face under his chin. Relieved, he allows the breath he was holding to leave his lungs. “So, what do you say?” he asks, cocking his head back slightly to be able to look her in the eye again. “Up for a challenge?” “Are we talking about us training together for Congress, or us as a couple?” she checks, regaining her footing again. Dean frowns and chuckles at that. “Both.” She doesn’t need time to think. She knew the answer to this question long before Dean was ready to ask. “Yes,” she beams. “Hell, yes.”

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part eighteen here

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moveslikebucky · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Frottage, Vaginal Fingering, (kind of), Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Let Nanny Ashteroth have Nice Things 2k20, the inherent tenderness and eroticism of removing your hereditary enemy's boots, Apologies to the desk, and also to the chair, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale doesn't have an effort, forgot to put that back at the beginning but HEY WHAT CAN U DO Summary:

“What? Got somethin’ on my face?”

“No, it’s just, well…” Aziraphale sets his glass down on the table and fidgets with his signet ring, “I wonder if you might allow me to assist you.”

“What?”

“With your boots, my dear,” Aziraphale is doing his level best to look anywhere but at Crowley’s face. “I daresay you seem very exhausted, and I could quite easily help you with them. If you’d like.”

--- What starts as a simple favor turns into so much more. --- Hello friends! I’m back with another one, this one has been sitting in my WIPs since April and I’m so glad to finally put the finished thing out into the world!

There’s a long preview below, the whole fic can be read on AO3 at the link! ---

Crowley’s feet are absolutely killing her.

Five hours spent with Warlock at the park, five hours the day before, and five hours the day before that. Being on holidays meant that Warlock needed distraction. As his nanny, she was required to provide that. Aziraphale had noticed her struggling and offered to come with them for today. They’d spent some time in Hyde Park and had gone for gelato. The novelty of having Brother Francis along when he usually didn’t join them had been a great source of entertainment for little Warlock, and his mom had been all too happy to take over when they returned. After all, a sleepy and exhausted Warlock wouldn’t be able to cause trouble. Crowley had heard about the terrible twos, nobody had ever warned her about the sinister sixes. Maybe if they had, she’d have rethought this whole damn thing.

Aziraphale had invited her back to his quarters in the gardens for a bit of wine and a change of scenery. He always seemed to know exactly when Crowley needed a break, and she was beginning to think she’d bitten off more than she could chew with this whole blasted plan. The past year in employment with the Dowling’s had been quite stressful.

As she steps over the threshold into the little garden house, she feels herself slip back from the prim, proper, and straight-laced Nanny Ashtoreth to her usual lanking and loping self. More of a change in posture than anything else really. She unbuttons her coat and deposits it on one of the hooks near the door along with her hat. Aziraphale, now finished being Brother Francis for the day, does a short wave of his hand. His face alters back to his corporation’s usual style; no more blotchy red complexion, fluffy sideburns, or buckteeth.

“Ah, much better,” Aziraphale sighs in a voice sounding much more like his own. Crowley watches as Aziraphale waves a hand and the floppy hat and smock dissolve into the ether, in their place his usual blue shirt and trousers (and accursed bow tie). Aziraphale cracks his neck and relaxes his shoulders. Crowley stares, as she always does. Yellow eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

Crowley crosses Aziraphale’s sitting room, past a large ornate desk, and over to a silk brocade chair, intending to rid herself of these uncomfortable shoes. They’re beautiful, with their high stiletto heels and stark black leather; with lovely red snake detailing on the sides climbing up her calves almost to her knees. All of that is great but they’re uncomfortable as all fuck.

She winces as she sits down, leaning back as far as she can in the chair and heaving a deep sigh. Aziraphale brings out a bottle of red with two glasses. He pops the cork and pours them each a glass, passing her one. He settles himself in the chair opposite her with a little bit of a wiggle.

“Are you quite alright, my dear? They’ve been working you dreadfully hard this week.”

“Blasted school holidays,” Crowley sighs, sinking lower into her chair, “Mrs. Dowling can’t be bothered to deal with the little satan-spawn so it falls to me.” Crowley takes a long swig of the wine, ignoring decorum entirely. Aziraphale is looking at her over his glass with a certain fondness. It’s been easier, this past year, to be a little more open with this...well...this whatever-it-is that’s hanging over their heads. Close quarters and all that. Even if Ashtoreth’s room is in the residence while Francis has the small cabin out here, there’s nothing to keep her from sneaking out at night for a glass of wine and good company.

Despite the ability to drop the persona, Crowley finds it a bit freeing to be presenting as a woman right now. It’s a bit softer than she’s used to, but for now, soft suits her. Even as the ruthless Nanny Ashtoreth, a certain degree of softness is required. It’s easier for her, in this form, to take care of the young antichrist. She could do like Aziraphale, wave a hand and be back in her other form, skin-tight trousers, black jacket and all — but she doesn’t much feel like it.

She sits up and groans, feeling for all the world like something is trying to pull her into the ground so she can become one with it, when she notices Aziraphale still staring.

“What? Got somethin’ on my face?”

“No, it’s just, well…” Aziraphale sets his glass down on the table and fidgets with his signet ring, “I wonder if you might allow me to assist you.”

“What?”

It’s an odd request, one that she’s taken aback by. They don’t touch, for very deliberate reasons, and this almost feels like a request to touch her. Crowley swallows hard, thinking if there are some implications here she might have missed. “Hrm...yea...suppose...could be nice, not having to do it.”

“Ah, wonderful, thank you for trusting me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a smile. Crowley is in no way prepared for him to cross over and kneel at her feet; the wrongness of the situation is not lost on her.

Aziraphale gently lifts her right foot, balancing the heel on his knee. He looks up at her and she nods. Crowley hopes to Satan that Aziraphale can’t tell the blush spreading across her cheeks. The whole thing feels off, an angel kneeling to help a demon.

“Aziraphale…”

“None of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb tracing along the edge of her boot where it sits just below her knee. His hands are calloused from centuries of taking care of other men’s stories. His thumb catches on her stockings, like little sparks lighting up something deep inside of her that should have been snuffed out six thousand years ago.

Aziraphale unties the laces of her right boot, as gently as he can. Crowley has never given much thought to things like this, to being taken care of in this way. But as Aziraphale kneels in front of her, book-binders hands working the laces out slowly, caressing her calf through the leather, she thinks she might get used to it, given half the chance.

He pulls the laces through the first eyelets, then the second, then the third, all the way down. Crowley relaxes, feeling the vice grip of the boot on her leg loosen. Aziraphale slides it off of her foot slowly and carefully before moving to the other. She’s on an edge she can’t quite describe, having his hands on her like this. He gently, ever so gently, lifts her other foot to balance and starts on the second one.

“Aziraphale?”

“Shh...my dear,” Aziraphale says and there is a crack to his voice that Crowley can’t place. “You’ve done so much for me over the years, just let me do something for you.”

“You don’t need to repay me, you know,” Crowley says, looking towards the ceiling, focusing her eyes on the rough-hewn beams and the minute cracks in the plaster as Aziraphale works the laces out of the second boot. She can’t look at him like this; like he’s serving her. It’s all wrong, it should always be the other way around. Aziraphale is the altar on which she should be throwing herself; he shouldn’t be in front of her in supplication.

#good omens #link #my fic #ineffable husbands #nanny ashtoreth #aziraphale #crowley #NSFT

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zipstick · 4 years

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Pass the happy!💕🌺 When you receive this, list 5 things that make you happy and send this to 10 of the last people in your notifications.

There were 10 things, so I’m gonna list all of them because screw you

10: Drawing. I’ve been doing a lot of drawing lately after discovering that I do, in fact, have the ability to draw people. And as well as people I’m quite good at drawing animals. More specifically, cats and dragons. Why it’s these two I’m not sure, but I suspect it may have something to do with the fact that the only accurate depictions of dragons are the giant scaly winged fire-breathing cats of the How To Train Your Dragon universe.

9: Chocolate, especially mint chocolate. In February I bought some mint chocolates in a sweet shop in Huddersfield, and they’re so nice. My parents got me a dark chocolate egg with some mint chocolates which was very nice. And for my birthday they gave me a bigger bag of nice mint chocolates from the same chocolate place as the egg. Also last year on a trip to Germany with the school I attend I went to the Lindt Shokoladen Museum in Cologne and got free samples of, and bought about €20-25 worth of some of the nicest chocolate I’ve ever had. If you’re ever in Cologne for some reason go there.

8: Studio Ghibli Movies. I’ve loved them since watching Spirited Away when I was young (Maybe 6 or 7) and for a few years my favourite was one called The Cat Returns which has kind of a nonsensical plot but I still really like it. And then they came to Netflix, and oh boy, there could not be a more opportune time for me to be shut in my house. I have watched Ponyo, The Cat Returns, Whisper Of The Heart, Princess Mononoke, My Neighbour Totoro, Kiki’s Delivery Service (twice) and Howl’s Moving Castle, which I watched three times within the course of a week (dear god help me) and there’s still like eight which I am yet to watch.

7: Harry Potter. I have been reading the series and watching the movies and drawing the fan art for nearly 3 years now and I really like these books. My favourite character is Sirius and I am in Hufflepuff and my Patronus is a badger and I can remember all the details of my wand without checking (spruce, 14 1/2 inches, unicorn hair core, quite bendy) and now I have written a chapter in a fanfic based on the Cursed Child. (which I haven’t even come read or watched and was basing the characterisation entirely on how my friend who is the main author of that fic wrote them). I own a Hufflepuff Quidditch T-shirt, a Hufflepuff hat, 2 Hufflepuff pin badges, a Hufflepuff scarf, a Hufflepuff mug, a Golden Snitch bracelet, and a replica of Newt Scamander’s wand. I have been to the Warner Bros Harry Potter Studio Tour and the Platform 9 3/4 shop at King’s Cross. I own a copy of Quidditch Through The Ages, The Tales of Beedle The Bard, and Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them.

6: Doctor Who. I have been watching Doctor Who my whole life. I own 2 sonic screwdriver toys (the ninth and tenth doctors’ and the thirteenth doctor’s) and a miniature Tardis that makes The Noiseᵀᴹ. I have watched every episode since the revival in 2005 and quite a few of the old ones from the 60s and 80s, most of which were the fourth doctor. In bluetooth settings my phone is called The Oncoming Storm in reference to what the Daleks call the Doctor. My phone’s hotspot it titled: Reference Doctor Who For Pass and the password is yet another doctor who reference. I love jelly babies and I will drop a doctor who reference into the conversation at every opportunity. I have taken a photo in front of the Tardis at Earl’s Court Road in London. I have an 11th Doctor notebook and a notebook which is the Tardis. My phone case is also the Tardis.

5: Animals. Reptiles and especially snakes in particular, though I adore cats and rabbits and birds and other such cute animals as well. I’ve loved all things reptiles for months now, since I believe early November. It began when I found this video by Snake Discovery on YouTube. Great channel, highly recommended. After I watched that I looked through their videos and discovered I believe this video of baby Western Hognose snakes hatching. I instantly fell in love. I stopped watching their videos for a while before re-discovering their channel in November, when I fell in love with reptiles all over again. It has now become my biggest life goal to own a hognose snake (as well as wanting to own about 23 other species of reptiles and amphibians at some point in my life, some to a higher degree than others).

4: Watching TV with my parents. Whenever a new series of Doctor Who is airing, get together in front of the telly to watch it. Recently, my dad dug up a few Beatles DVDs and I spent an evening watching Eight Days A Week: The Touring Years with him.

3: Merlin. More specifically, the fandom. I love looking at gifsets or fan art or fic recs on here. I’ve been watching the show for almost a year now and have technically been in the fandom for longer since I started watching videos of clips from the show on this YouTube channel. I’ve been trapped on Tumblr ever since. Send help. If I have counted correctly, I am on my 4th rewatch of the show. I am in the process of writing a Magic Reveal AU fanfic. I have also tried and failed several times to draw Merlin. I am following every Merlin blog I have found and am subbed to r/merlinbbc and r/bbcmerlinmemes on reddit. I have a sideblog dedicated to All Things Merlinᵀᴹ. Also Colin and Bradley are very wholesome and I love them both.

2: The Beatles. I’ve only been listening to the Beatles’ music for a few months, but I think it’s safe to say that they are my favourite musicians ever. In fact, I’m listening to them right now. There are so many songs that I just really vibe with like I’m Looking Through you or All My Loving or She Loves you or I’m Happy Just To Dance With you or Eight Days A Week, or my personal favourite: Here Comes The Sun, and these are just a few. There’s so many I can’t even name them all. On top of that, interviews with them or little clips of them together are always so much fun to watch because they always have little jokes to make the interviewer laugh and you can tell from the way that they interact in videos that they were such good friends. Also they’re cute so there’s that too. Anyway that’s enough gushing about the Beatles. Moving on.

1: My favourite thing is just to talk to my friends, because I’m lucky enough to have a relatively large group of friends, especially for being the socially awkward teenager that I am. And all of my friends are so nice and they’re always making me laugh or telling me some interesting fact or sharing their interests with me and they’re just overall fun to be around. Once quarantine is over I’m really looking forward to seeing them in person again.

#lovelylenny #ask #ask response #ask game #my ramblings #mine

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mimeparadox · 6 years

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My Big Damn Irina Derevko Post

(Note: Spoilers for Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater and The Americans ahead. And for Alias, obviously.)

I’ve never understood why Irina Derevko is so beloved.

No, scratch that. I do understand why she’s beloved. What I don’t understand is the belief that the character on-screen actually had anything but the most superficial likeness to the character than exists in the better-than-the-actual-show fandom headcanons. Like, season 2 is overwhelmingly considered the best season of the series, and Irina is often credited as one of the main reasons, and…I can’t see it? [*1]

Similarly, I don’t understand the hate for Irina’s final story. Yes, the missiles and mass murder specifically were stupid, and the final fight with Sydney is seriously lacking in “oomph”, but these are execution problems, and most of the complaints appear to be about the concept—as in, fans believe Irina wouldn’t put her ambitions above Sydney, especially after season 4. To which I say…really?

Sure, I can buy that Irina loves Sydney, and Jack, and Nadia, in her own, destructive way; what I can’t believe is she cares for them more than she does her agenda, whatever that is at any given moment . Like, I don’t believe anything she does in season 2 actually works, if the idea is that she’s somehow doing it for a greater good. Maybe if she were operating from a position of weakness, but that’s not the case—she remains the strongest piece in the game throughout the season. [*2] Why, exactly, is all this convolution and emotional manipulation of the people she allegedly loves needed, if her goal is a sympathetic one? Furthermore, the series glosses over, if not outright ignores, the various details which indicate that Irina was not on the level—first and foremost: why go to the C.I.A., i.e. the United States, in the first place, unless she wants something only they can provide? She’s not American! Her work as the Man was global!

(Speaking of agendas, I know that it’s taken as gospel by at least part of the fandom that everything Irina did in season two was in order to be able to find Nadia again. Fair enough: even if it’s not quite canon—I don’t think they ever explicitly say this was actually the case—there’s enough actual in-show evidence (a rare thing, in some respects) to make it plausible [*3]. That, said, I’m not sure “trying to find my daughter” justifies much of anything she does—not enough to make her more sympathetic than, say, Sloane.)

I also don’t think Irina’s presence does a whole lot for the series’ larger narrative, as evidenced by the fact that, for all her importance, she doesn’t actually change a whole lot. It feels like she should, but between the SD-6 take-down being way emptier than it should have been, and the fact that neither Sydney nor Jack end the season any different than they started it, she ends up feeling largely inconsequential. [*4] It is also equally hard, if not impossible, to say how the events of the season have changed Irina, given how opaque everything about her is designed to be. Later, Irina ends up being largely incidental to Nadia’s discovery, and Nadia’s story is arguably better with Irina as the unsolvable dead mystery, in part because it helps differentiate her from the possibly evil possibly repentant figure that already exists in SpySkipper’s life.

And that’s one of my other issues with Irina as a character: while there is in theory a lot to distinguish her from the rest of the cast—her upbringing alone!—the way the show uses her de-emphasizes those differences and emphasizes the similarities to such a degree that she often ends up feeling redundant. The “whose side is she on” beat, in particular, had arguably already become overused when it came time to play it with her, and by the time SD-6 was done and she explicitly joined Sloane, there were too many similarities between the two to make the dynamic between them compelling, particularly since the show made it verboten for either of them to speak about their motivations. Furthermore, if one believes that Irina did it all for her family, then what is there to distinguish her from Jack, who’s already ready to torture as many people as necessary for that very thing?

To be clear, there were ways Irina could have realized her potential to be Alias’ version of Metal Gear Solid’s The Man The Boss or The Americans’ Elizabeth Jennings—or rather, a version of those characters that actually works as well as they do. That’s certainly what her fans seem to want. Unfortunately, those ways rely on Alias being…not like itself.

I am not the first person to note the similarities between Irina (a.k.a. Laura Bristow) and Elizabeth Jennings (a.k.a. Nadezhda): they’re hard not to notice, given that they’re both KGB spies and assassins embedded in the United States and operating under cover during the Cold War, and forced to select between loyalty to their country and the family they’d made (although it’s worth noting that Elizabeth’s husband, unlike Jack, is in on the scheme and also a KGB spy/assassin) [*5]. The Boss, meanwhile, parallels season 2 Irina: at the beginning of Snake Eater, where she appears, she betrays the C.I.A. without explanation and defects to Russia, and she spends most of the story running rings around everyone, including her protégé Snake (the game’s protagonist, who’s been assigned to kill her and stop her sponsor, a Russian colonel named Volgin) until her actual motives are revealed. She also exists in a universe which combines semi-realistic espionage with frequent batshittery, including psychics, hornets as a weapon of choice, impossibly old snipers with the power of photosynthesis, and a ridiculous amount of reversals and double-crosses.

That said, despite the similarities, there is one chief difference between either work and Alias, which is crucial to making their stories work: neither is naive about the world they’re presenting, both understand, in a way Alias does, that one can’t be a spy and keep one’s hands clean. Being a spy, for the Boss, meant betraying her old friends and everyone she ever loved, allowing herself to become an international pariah, and ultimately dying, because that’s what the mission required. Elizabeth Jennings killed innocent people, ruined friends’ lives, blackmailed countless people, manipulated her daughter into following her footsteps, and ran herself ragged for years, all because she believed in the cause. It’s not a great life, being a spy.

MSG 3 images obtained from Metal Gear Solid 3: The Movie, a re-edit of the game’s cutscenes by KefkaProduction. It can be seen here.

(Sydney, meanwhile, often just has to lie a lot.) [*6]

The thing about this sort of work is that it breaks down one’s ability to claim the moral high ground. Once you’re doing terrible things on the regular, it’s easy to see enemy spies are just other people who are also doing terrible things for their mission—potential comrades who just happen to be on the other side. Snake, The Boss’ protégé in Snake Eater, develops a relationship with Ocelot, a Sark-like soldier working for the Russians. Elizabeth and Philip Jennings develop a friendship with Stan Beeman, an F.B.I. counter-intelligence agent living right next door, which turns out to be every bit as genuine as it is an effort to cultivate a source.

Alias, however, spends much of the series unable and unwilling to strip Sydney of her moral high ground, once she obtains it by working for the C.I.A. What should have been the beginning of her moral journey—after all, how different is SD-6 from the C.I.A., if the people working for the former can’t tell they aren’t working for the latter, and their missions largely work out the same way?—is instead treated as the end. As terrible as U.S. intelligence proves to be, it never actually makes Sydney question her loyalties, or even her feelings about it all. This, in turn, utterly undermines Irina’s potential as a storytelling element. What good is a temptress if there’s no potential for the person being tempted to change?

(Similarly, if we’re not allowed to know what Irina Derevko wants—a key element of character-building, as many people will tell you—how are we meant to know how she herself is being changed?)

Given what we got, it’s no surprise that Irina’s season 4 return is so uninspired, consisting largely of fan service moments, and very little in terms of character progression, or sense that the Sydney’s relationship has moved forward in any way that feels natural—what else was there to do? [*6] It’s inoffensive to the point of being really annoying.

While Irina’s season 5 appearances are in a way a step backwards, Irina was always more interesting the closer she got to villainy. Her appearance in “Maternal Instinct” is a hoot, and allows her and Sydney to play roles only they could play. Their final battle, while not really satisfying—in part because it’s the fourth ladyfight in as many finales, and none had come even close to matching the original—feels necessary for Sydney’s story, which had finally begun progressing again after seasons of stalling: there is catharsis to “I am through being disappointed in you” that feels utterly necessary. Could it have been better? Sure, but then, so could 80% of everything having to do with Irina.

Footnote footnote revolution!

[*1] I remain convinced that season 2 is actually the worst season, is the one that irrevocably ruined Alias, and that Irina actually had a fair amount to do with that. But that’s a different TED Talk, and I’m willing to fight about it, if anyone wants.

[*2] Well, it depends: the status of Irina’s organization following her “defection” is…unclear. If we accept the idea that the organization is in shambles, as the season suggests, then there’s really no reason why, exactly, the C.I.A. actually needs her cooperation, given that they…uh… didn’t need it in order to actually grievously ruin it in the first place. And yet, here we are.

[*3] To a degree, anyway. The Nadia story gets us as far as explaining why Irina would need The Telling, but doesn’t tell us why she’d need The Circumference, even if we ignore its eventual canon purpose.

[*4] No, their season 3 belief that Irina can be worked with doesn’t count, as it is spun out of whole cloth, and can’t be directly tied into anything that occurred the previous season.

[*5] The Americans also features an enviable wig game, which should feel very comforting to Alias fans.

[*6] I’m being mostly glib here, but also accurate: while they were a million reasons why Sydney could justifiably consider her double agent status to be hellish, having to lie to everyone was consistently treated as the absolute worst part of it all. Fair enough, in a series ultimately about identity, except Alias never really made the attempt to explore that element, either. The closest it got was Julia Thorne, and that was aborted before it could really get anywhere interesting.

[*7] Although to be fair, that’s partly because, again, the series isn’t really concerned with having Sydney evolve as a person since season 1.

#alias #alias (tv series)#irina derevko #sydney bristow #metal gear solid #metal gear solid 3: snake eater #the boss #the americans #elizabeth jennings

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thegraphitesword-blog · 7 years

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Pride Prompt Month 13/30: Graveyard Shift

Fandom: One Sugar or Two

Relationship: Trans! James and Olivia

Notes: So this one is a little off topic and nontraditional but I had trouble figure out what to do for this with out being repetitive. But, I just wanted write something and I guess I ran out of ideas or whatever. I have the rest of the month planned out soooooo ._.

More Notes: So, James graduates with a fine arts degree and is offered a position as assistant teacher at Nayak University. Like I had mentioned before, James is very, very mentally dysfunctional and struggles with severe and destructive insomnia, psychosis, anxiety and depression. Save my poor baby! (all of them are my babies but literally all of the male characters have something tragically wrong). Also, Olivia is a sweetheart (thank the @basementtreasure for that)

Prompt: Graveyard Shift

James’s Pov

I graduated about a year and a half ago, and it never occurred to me, I’d be in the same classroom at 3 in the morning. I appreciated Mr. Klein taking me in as his assistant teacher and that he trusted me with his Freshman Art Fundamentals class, while he was on vacation, but being hunched over a desk reading the art analysis papers was.....not what I had in mind.

It didn’t help that I hadn’t really slept all week and was way too focused on not making a mess of class, to take breaks and eat. Don’t mistake my intentions, I loved the students. Hungry for the understanding of advanced art and talented in more way than I could imagine. Sure, it was a drag that a group of them in my 10:30 class refused to call me by my name; ever since Justin and Samantha found out that James Alexander was actually Jamie, they took their trans-phobia to a whole new level.

But, that was just a small fraction of my/Klein’s students. I smiled grading Miss. Parker’s analysis on Magritte's various works focusing on the painting “the son of man”. She was one of my favorites, though I treated everyone with the same respect. Still, she was the first one to protest the idea of the other classmates ignorance, and the first to ask if things were okay.

I’d be lying if I said, I hadn’t been caught watching the shadows or completely stopping during a lecture.

I glance at the monstrous stack of paper I still had to finish for my last class of the day, wishing I had some tea or something warm, but when I was offered the position, I regrettably developed a habit of drinking caffeine constantly. Kit and Olivia were more than concerned and Alex on more than one occasion stole my energy supplements and drinks. I wouldn’t have minded if my body hadn’t gone through withdraws the days following and I couldn’t handle the pressure of teaching and the symptoms at the same time.

My students thought it was funny to see their 25 year old teacher’s collection of 5-hour energy bottles, all painted and filled with sand and the numerous Monster can, cut and pulled into thin aluminum decorations around the room. Of course, I knew the dangers. How it negated my medication and amplified the shadows, but it became a nervous habit onto itself.

I pull out my phone and scroll through the various emails the students had sent me that day. Two were from Amanda alone.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sorry to bother you sir,

I was going to follow up with the question, I asked in class.

She goes on with a discussion of the day’s homework assignment and questions she had regarding the value of textures and brush strokes.

I answer her numerous questions and read the extension.

Mr. Alexander,

I hate to say this, but a few students and I have been concerned. Not, that I know what’s best for your situation, but you seemed extremely distracted and anxious today. i know this a normal thing, but it was much more than normal. All of us hope you are okay.

Amanda

I dropped my phone, groaning.

“Christ alive.”

It was hard to admit that I can’t always keep things together, but it stung my students were messaging me, about my health. I pull out another bottle of 5-hour energy. This will be my....fourth one today?

Who knows.

Pulling off the plastic, i shook the fluid absently. there were so many read flags to having another, but anxiety is a hell of a thing. I took sips of the caffeine shot, flipping through more paper, for about a half an hour, before things took a turn.

The major draw back to consuming large amounts of caffeine on an empty stomach is....it doesn’t sit well or stay long. I rest my pen against Jeremy’s paper, leaning my head back, trying to ignore the dizziness and nausea.

“I hate being me.”

I keep my eyes closed trying to sort out the discomfort. Regrets filter through my frazzled, exhausted mind. I’m tempted to call it a night and save the rest for tomorrow morning, but the thought of being irresponsible pushed me to pick up my pen. My head is reeling as I try and focus on the black and white pages.

“Focus. Come one...”

Panic sets in as the noises I usually tune out grow in sheer volume. Something is breathing over my shoulder and I can feel nails dragging up my lower back.

It had been a while, since I had been overwhelmed by my hallucinations, the snakes of black slithering around my ankles, the hissing over my shoulder and so on. Not that I was surprised. With how I treated my self, it was a shock it took this long.

I grip the sides of my head, trying to recenter my thoughts. It works, for the most part, til something grabs my throat and I fall back. i hear the chair leg crack and I scramble back, not daring to look at whatever had escaped the shadows. Hyperventilating was the only thing I could I count at the moment.

Stress...StressStressSTRESS. I could feel it filling my body to the overflowing point. I cover my mouth coughing, as little air squeezes into my lungs. I choked on the air, like my brother used to in asthma attacks, vision blurred and spotted. My stomach contacted and acid fought its way up my throat, squeezing out of the gaps in my fingers. I didn’t have time to even move, before the coughing became entangle with retching.

The moment stopped as soon as it started, my body seemingly content with the expulsion of the awful drinks I lived off of all week. I sucked in large breathes, trying to take the reigns of the hyperventilating, and as my composure resurfaced, the shadows slunk back into the corner of the room.

“I....really....hate my life.”

I waited a little while longer, hoping things would settle and I could go back to grading papers. The only thing that deterred me...was the disgusting mess down the front of my sweater. I hadn’t planned on going back to the apartment, especially since, at this stage of my mental destruction, driving was dangerous.

I carefully pull of my favorite navy sweater....only to realize that the thin button up I was wearing almost less suitable. Not only was it a pale peach, but it screamed, “Hey this one’s a girl.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose was all I could do to restrain my frustration. It completely slipped my mind that Olivia let me borrow the shirt for an interview with a group on campus that.....were less than accepting of the LGBTQ+ community.

I paced the room, thinking, “It was 4:26. first was 7:30, it took 20 minutes to get to the apartment, about 15 to get back and above all at least 3 hours to finished the papers.”

My options were limited and I really didn’t want a repeat of my anxiety attack. My eyes rested on my phone.

“God, I hate my life.”

Olivia was my speed dial 1, Alex was 2, and Kit was 3. Kit would come, but he had a performance last night and he probably went to sleep a few hours ago. Alex doesn’t wake up before 8, so I don’t like he would even wake up if I called him. I hit the lavender bundle icon and wait.

It wring 4 times and I hang up, only to be startled by it sounding, the second I set my phone down.

“Good Morning.”

“James, what’s wrong it’s not even 5.”

“I am in need of assistance.”

I hear movement and I can tell, she already has her shoes on.

“Do you need anything?”

“A sweater and a shirt. Preferably not a button up.”

“Be there soon.”

It’s humiliating to have my girlfriend do this, but sometimes one has to set aside pride. Instead of pacing the room, I clean up my shameful mess and grade more paper til Olivia rushes in the room.

“James! Are you okay?”

She hugs me and I instinctively stiffen, even with her, i hate physical contact.

“Sorry, what happend?”

“I presume caffeine overload, fueling an anxiety attack, resulting in a short burst of expulsion.”

She picks up the empty bottle of 5-hour energy, disgusted.

“How many?”

She’s got me there. I fiddle with my pen whispering 4.

“Jesus, you do realize that you’re only suppose to have 2 a day and with your circumstance none!”

“Yes, I do. Yet, at the same time they have become a nervous reflex.”

Olivia squeezes my hand, “James. You need to take care of yourself.”

Ever since my mother died, I resented those words. She always told me to take care and nice to my body. She sometimes stayed up with me and make me tea or read stories to chase away the nightmares. She was the only one who cared when I lived at home. My brothers tortured me and my father suppressed every aspect of my life.

I yank my hand away, pulling another essay from the pile.

“If my body wanted to be taken care of, it would not be so inefficient at surviving.”

“Alright, that’s it. I am cutting you off. NO caffeine outside of tea. I will not stand for you being so stubborn and idiotic.”

She doesn't give me the chance to respond, shoving a plastic bag of clothes in my hands and rummaging through my bag. Sadly, I had tomorrows dose of caffeinated drinks; 3 5-hour energy, 2 20oz Monsters and a green tea SoBe. She placed the in front, I don’t look her in the eyes.

“I would prefer you do not lecture me on my caffeine addiction,”

“It won’t be an addiction for long, trust me.”

I pull out the clothes, holding my burgundy sweater, the one with white stitching and a white hem. One of my favorite, second to navy one and the shirt was my Jack’s Mannequin tee.

“I also brought you a new binder. The light grey one.”

Olivia was the best. Unbuttoning my shirt. I was wearing and stretched out. Olivia ran a finger over few of the scars on my stomach. One was from my surgery after I developed stomach ulcers. The others where caused by psychotic breakdowns, when I was younger.

Olivia brushes my hair, but it doesn’t really register through my emptiness.

“Do you mind turning around?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She backs up and spins around, hiding her face. I shimmy out of my black binder, momentarily observing my chest. Most things about myself, were annoying and undesirable, my 34Cs were definitely one of them. I remember the days and nights, I spent trying to build muscle and get them to “dissolve”, but my geneticsc weren’t favorable.

I slip on the gray full torso binder and then the tee.”

“You can turn around, Olivia.”

She hugs me, this time I was ready and I melted into her arms, exhausted, humiliated and defeated.

“I love you, Navy Knight.”

She kissed my forehead and collected my banned drinks. I watched her pack.....and then pull up a chair.

“You thought you could get rid of me?”

“Not particularly.”

She laughed, grabbing a pen, “Hand me some paper.”

“Olivia, this is my class. You are not even a visual arts student.”

“I know. I was planning on writing down your lecture for today, since you will definitely are behind.”

A blush spreads over my face, she always has me pegged.

“You spoil me.”

“James, I give you the basic human necessities you so cruely deny yourself.”

I chuckle, “Maybe...”

“Alright, I look forward to seeing you in class Monday. Remember Professor Klien will be returning on Sunday. I appreciate you all giving me the ability to develop my teaching skills.”

I dismiss the class and a few students give me their thanks and best wishes. I ressure them that I will still be the assistant teacher to Prof. Klien. It was encouraging that majority of students gave me praise and thanks for the last week and a half. They all left and I collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Jesus.”

I barely survived my first experience teaching, but it was eye opening. I loved it...but I needed to make some changes if it is going to be something I want to do as a profession. I pack my paper and bag, mentally preparing for making the reports to Mr. Klein and my plans for Monday as I start my normal job.

“You seem happy.”

I probably jumped a foot in the air, at Olivia’s voice. She was in the doorway, hair tied back and smiling.

“It is a relief to be finish caring the sole responsibility of a freshman class.”

She saunter closer, in her angelic manor, “Well I have one request, Professor.”

“Yes?”

She presses a kiss on my cheek, “You owe me about a week worth of cuddling. I will either take them in bursts or you can join me for a cuddle-a-thon and movies.”

“Olivia, I have reports to write and file, and assignments to sort for Mr. Klein and-”

She cuts me off, kissing my lips this time. I shudder torn about my responsibilities as a teacher and boyfriend. There are so many things I have to do, things I have made promises to up hold. I couldn’t just abandon them. That would be selfish. I feared nothing more in life than being selfish. At the same time.....I hadn’t seen Olivia since she came to the classroom at 5am. And that was five days ago. I knew so many things, both obvious and hidden. I knew that my friends cared and were worried, I knew that I was tearing myself apart under the false pretense of it being my suicidal body. I knew that Olivia missed me more than I could even understand and no matter what I tell myself, I wanted to relax and do something other than stress over my life. I tried to convince myself I needed to work...

Instead, I kiss her back, unsure and tentative. She invites more and ran a finger across my cheek. We never were very comfortable with feats of affection privately or publicly, me especially. I break away, covering my face.

“I take that as a yes?”

She laughs, the both of us walking hand in hand through the campus to her car.

I forgot how pleasent it was to actually lay down. Weither it was a bed or couch or whatever, letting the tension go, was fulfilling. Olivia suggested a combo of sci-fi and action (together our collection of movies, was almost ridiculous). Despite my displeasure, Olivia refused to let me leave the comfort of the couch, tangling me in blanket to the point I couldn’t break free. Dinner for the night, something Kit brought over, popcorn and Valerian root tea ( special blend I drank since I was diagnosised with insomnia, when I was about 10).

To be honest, i don’t remember the movies, though I had seen them dozens of times, nor did I remember what we did that night. All I could register was, the warmth of tea, blanket, and Olivia; quick kisses, and the reassuring feeling of her hands petting my hair. It was inevitable she would fall asleep first, but listening to her soft breathing, was the best sleep aid I could have asked for. Even if I had things to do and promises to keep, I made a promise to her.

And after almost a week, I let go of the world and drifted off, with the thought of Olivia’s love in my head.

#One Sugar or Two #james #olivia #love them #also someone save my baby #pride prompt month #original work #basementtreasure #to my moirail who wanted to see some JXO

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