#I'm playing with the dog tags I bought as I write this - half asleep in the middle of playing the MW3 beta while listening to Italian music

[ohworm-writes]

Thinking about Firefighter!Price.

Imagine him coming home after a long, exhausting day of working, keys jingling as he unlocks the door at some ungodly hour of the night, footsteps falling heavy against the floor as he walks inside, exhaustion and fatigue lingering along his form.

He's still dressed in his station wear - a fitted, navy blue t-shirt with Station 141's logo printed onto the front of it, small, right on the right side of his chest, and a pair of trousers in the same color to match, hanging loosely onto him.

He should take a shower, he knows he should. He smells of sweat and sulfur, the scents clinging to his clothes and skin like a second skin, and he know that the two of you'll have to wash the bedding come morning.

But god, the sight of you in bed, dressed in a loose pair of your own shorts and one of his spare shirts, face smushed against one of the pillows as your breathing comes slow, in and out, steady - it's far too enticing to pass up so easily.

So he unbuckles his belt in a daze, stripping off his shirt, undershirt and trouser, tossing the articles haphazardly onto the floor (he tries to toss them towards the hamper, but he knows he misses, given the way his belt buckle clanks loudly against the hardwood floor of the bedroom, but, honestly, he could care less).

And he gets right into bed beside you, fingers grazing lightly over the exposed skin of your thighs, traversing upwards, fingers splayed as his palm travels over the fabric of your shorts, sneaking their way under the loose shirt of his that you wear, hand pressing against your tummy as he pulls you close.

He presses his nose into your shoulder, eyes fluttering closed as he deeply inhales the scent of your body wash, softly shushing you as you start to rouse, the way your body gently begins to shuffle as you let out the softest, sleepiest yawn, listening as he grumbles softly against your skin.

"Didn't mean to wake you, love. Go back to sleep."

His voice is so hoarse, so strained and rough from the events of the day - yelling and barking out commands to the firefighters within the ladder and engine crews that he guides - but, at the same time, it's runs smooth like honey, settling just right in your sleepy, hazy mind.

He hugs you tighter, pressing your back flush against his chest as he curls his body around you in a subtly protective manner, littering tender kisses against your neck, trying to coax you back to sleep as he lets out a soft sigh, infatuated with the way your body molds perfectly into his.

"Mmm... s'fine, John. Wha... what time s'it?"

"None of your business, that's what time. Go back to sleep. I'll be here in the mornin'... promise you that. Okay?"

He doesn't let you ask your questions. If you try to think, he knows you'll wake up, and he already feels guilty about waking you up in the first place, so he doesn't even entertain your sleepy question, giving you a promise - two, technically. That he's here now and that it'll stay that way until the two of you wake up in the dawn.

"Stubborn..."

"Always. We c'n talk in the mornin'. Sleep."

"Mmm... glad you're back home safe. Love you."

"Love you, too."

But by the time he says the words, you've already fallen back asleep, and a deep, rumbling chuckle erupts from within his chest, amused, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your jaw before letting himself fall asleep behind you, his breaths, his heartbeat falling into sync with your own.

#There was a firetruck driving outside my place with it's sirens blaring at like 9 o'clock at night and it inspired me to write this #I'm playing with the dog tags I bought as I write this - half asleep in the middle of playing the MW3 beta while listening to Italian music #I don't even know Italian #Call this multitasking #price x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #firefighter price #firefighter!price

[legojacques]

So I'm not the writing god but how about junior breaking something and making kent mad

“I’m telling you, it’s perfect!” Kit followed Kent from the kitchen, and when he paused to listen to whoever was talking on the other end of his phone, she meowed at him for attention. He flopped down on his couch and bent down to scoop her one-handed onto his lap. Scratching behind her ears, he continued his conversation. “It looks just like the one we broke when we were kids. Mom’s going to love it!”

Kit hadn’t noticed it at first, but now a small, glass figurine that was sitting on top of Kent’s coffee table, surrounded by crumpled newspaper caught her eye. After a moment, she realized it was supposed to be a faceless woman holding a baby. Silently, Kit scoffed; it would be better if it was a small statue of a cat.

She closed her eyes, letting Kent’s voice blend in with the rest of the background sounds, slowly soothing her to sleep. However, the sudden intrusion of a wet nose and dog breath in her face pulled her back to reality. Junior had his worn, tennis ball in his mouth, but he dropped it on the floor. “Can I snuggle too?” Junior asked excitedly, his tail wagging furiously behind him.

“No,” Kit said plaintively, pushing his panting face away from her, but Junior was already clambering onto Kent.

“Hang on, Katie, Junior’s trying to climb on me too.” Kent paused to rearrange everyone, which meant that Kit was pushed off so that she was only half on Kent’s lap now while Junior got the other half.

Kit glared at Junior, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you think Kent will want to play later?”

“No,” Kit said, still grumpy from being interrupted from her nap.

The doorbell chimed, and Kent had to push both of them off to answer the door. Junior hopped off the couch, picked up the ball in his mouth, and jumped back onto the warm spot that Kent had vacated seconds earlier. Dropping it on the couch, he asked, “Do you want to play?”

“No.”

“Come on, Kit! Please? Play with me?” Junior pleaded. He crouched down on his front paws while his tail continued to wag.

“No.”

“Kit! Please?” he whined.

“Fine,” Kit grumbled because the phrase “giving up” was not in the kid’s dictionary. She swatted dirty ball so that it rolled across the living room. “Go away now.”

Junior took off, racing across the floor noisily. He was back ten seconds later, dropping the slobber-covered in front of Kit. Irritated, she smacked it further this time, but it didn’t deter Junior as he bolted after it again. Kit watched him come back, but it wasn’t until it was too late that she realized that he was running too fast on the hardwood to stop in time.

“Junior, no!”

Junior tried to stop, but he skidded and crashed clumsily into the coffee table with a surprised yip. The delicate figurine that Kent had bought for his mother toppled over the edge to its demise where it broke into fractured pieces. They were both frozen for a panicked moment until Kit finally regained her wits.

“Well, that wasn’t well made at all,” she declared.

“What the fuck!?” Kent exclaimed when he came back into the room. He pulled at his hair as he took in the scene. “Fuck! Mom’s birthday is in three days!” He came around the couch and picked up Junior. “Bad puppy,” he said angrily. Junior flattened his ears and whimpered.

After he checked to make sure Junior didn’t have glass stuck in his paws, Kent took him into the garage. Kit could hear his sad howls from inside the house and she felt bad for the kid until Kent came back and picked her up. “Hey, I didn’t do anything!” she protested, but he didn’t respond, and she ended up in the garage too.

Junior kept up his sad whimpers and howls for a little while longer, but he seemed to wear himself out. Kit watched from the top of the shoe rack as Junior curled up on the scrap of carpet that was by the door. She was miffed that she had gotten dragged into this mess when it wasn’t even her fault.

However, when Junior start to shake and snuffle wetly, she hopped down and made her way over to him. Kit paused, unsure what to do. She put a paw on him. “Kent will get over it. We’ll be back in the house before dinner time,” she reassured, but it only seemed to make the kid cry harder. She curled up around Junior and licked at an ear.

“I–I don’t want to go back,” he sobbed brokenly.

“What? The house?”

“N-no. The shelter!”

Oh. Oh! “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Kent’s not going to take you back to the shelter.”

Junior was silent and Kit thought she’d succeeded in convincing the kid, but then he quietly confessed, “I’ve been taken back before.”

Kit stilled her grooming. “By Kent?” she asked, baffled.

“No, before,” he squeaked. “I– I needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and I didn’t make it in time.”

“So, you peed in the house?”

“On the new carpet!” Junior admitted shamefully. “They took me back the next day and said I wasn’t what they were looking for.”

“Okay, listen,” Kit said forcefully as she sat up. “Kent is not going to take you back to the shelter because you accidentally broke something or pee on the carpet. Trust me. I’ve broken lots of stuff and he’s still kept me around.”

“Really?” Junior asked.

“I’ve pushed his mug off the table because I wanted to see what would happen.”

“What happened?”

“It broke.” She shook her head. “But that’s not the point. You’re part of the family now, and Kent’s not going to get rid of you. You belong here.” Kit could have kept going (it was her best speech yet), but then the door opened and Kent came into the garage.

“Hey buddy, hey princess” Kent said as he pulled Junior and Kit into his lap. “Sorry I yelled. I was a little mad.” He kissed the top of Junior’s fluffy head, and Junior gave him a big lick in return, all previous transgressions forgotten. “Let’s go back in,” he said.

Later, just as Kit was falling asleep, she heard the jingle of Junior’s tags coming up behind her. She braced herself to be rudely awoken again, but instead, he flopped down beside her. “I’ve always wanted a family,” he whispered reverently before laying his head down so that she was tucked under her chin. “A family,” he muttered again before Kit drifted off.

—

Find more Kit and Junior adventures here!

#kent parson #parsepositive #kit purrson #junior parson #the adventures of kit and junior continue! #yes kent's sister's name is katie #they all have k names #even junior because he technically kent parson junior #thank you writing god! #mine #lego writing #ficlet #anonymous

[olilas]

I Watched My Ex Fall In Love With Someone Else On Facebook.

Keeping tabs on him via social media became a form of self-inflicted torture that I just couldn't quit.

- A text by Kristen King.

We broke up in the parking lot of an Uno Pizzeria in Boston.

He wanted to settle down. He wanted kids and a good job and a yard for a dog to run in. I wanted New York. And London. And maybe Thailand for a year or two. I wanted to write and to live in a shitty apartment and to be in love in a tumultuous way. I was barely 21; I didn't want it to be easy yet.

We ordered two individual deep-dish pizzas to go and sat in his car eating them in silence. We told ourselves it would be nice not to tip, or to listen to the bad '90s songs they played inside the restaurant, but maybe it was just nice to not talk for a while.

"Something isn't right," I said.

"Did they give you the wrong sauce?" He looked at me with a face of genuine concern that reminded me why I loved him.

"No. Not the pizza. Us," I said.

A spot of red sauce crept down his chin. Without permission, I wiped it away with my thumb.

Through tears, we sat in the car making promises we couldn't keep, our cold pizza unattended at our feet.

Maybe in a couple years, we promised each other.

I held onto that longer than I should have.

It was my justification three months later as I clicked through his Facebook profile late at night. I just want to see how he is, I told myself. I wonder if he's found that job yet, I reasoned. I wonder if his parents are still in good health.

I always had a good reason for going back.

Their first photograph together was taken at a party.

At least I can assume it was a party from the red Solo cup she held and his tipsy half-smile — the same one I used to tease him about. His fingers were wrapped around her waist and as I stared at my computer screen I tried not to think about how I used to feel when he put his hands the same place on me.

Maybe they're just friends. Did he know her while we were dating? I wonder if they spent the night together.

I'm not allowed to care, I reminded myself. But I did. I slammed my laptop shut. I was done torturing myself for one night. But when I fell asleep, I dreamed of him.

It was winter. Dirty snow lined the parking lot of the 7-Eleven where we bought papers to roll joints. As we leaned against the car I could feel the cold spreading through my body from the soles of my feet.

He exhaled purposefully onto me, his cloud of hot breath drifting toward me.

Like any dreamscape, it wasn't quite right. The plotline didn't make sense. Why were we standing outside rather than walking in? Why were we driving my mother's car instead of his? Why wasn't he wearing a jacket?

Why were we still together?

I took my hands out of my gloves and put them under his shirt, finding my way to his chest. He winced and then smiled at me.

"I'm just here to warm your extremities, aren't I?" he said.

"Maybe," I said, grinning.

I woke up cold, searching for him in my bed.

That brief moment after waking was always the worst. That moment when I felt like the dream was reality — like maybe we never broke up at all. That moment when I willed myself back to sleep, wishing nothing more than to return to my hand on his chest. That moment where I remembered so easily what it felt like to love and to be loved that it seemed impossible it wasn't true anymore.

I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and started scrolling through his Twitter. I needed to be with him, in whatever capacity I could. As I read the words on my screen I could hear his voice so clearly. I imagined him laughing at his own joke before posting it and smiled at the thought. I could hear his voice so easily that for a moment my bed didn't feel quite so empty.

Six months after we broke up, there was another photo: him and the girl with the red Solo cup at a baseball game. My stomach twisted as I realized she was destined to become a recurring character in his life. I scrolled through the photos of them together, each holding a drink. I wondered if she liked sports, or if she was more interested in the overpriced beers and hot dogs like I was. I wondered if she enjoyed remarking on the tightness of the player's pants, or discussing the blood alcohol content of the people around her. I wondered if they were having fun.

Seeing them together, with their easy smiles and full cups, it still didn't register that he had moved on.

Maybe in a couple of years — that promise came back to me too easily. I didn't want him now, but I didn't think that meant I couldn't have him ever.

I couldn't digest that he could fall in love with someone else while I still loved him. At that point, I didn't understand love could be one-sided like that. I couldn't imagine he told her the things he told me, or looked at her the same way.

In my deluded state, I actually felt sorry for her. This poor girl's boyfriend is in love with his ex, I thought. It's funny how easy it is to believe the unbelievable when it hurts less.

I pictured him lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing the girl lying next to him was me. It was easier to imagine he was sleeplessly staring at walls, searching for me in his bed, than to believe the truth: He wasn't thinking of me at all.

The internet told me a lot about her. It told me she was beautiful and smart. It told me she was social and her smile made her seem kind. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't.

She took pictures with children and smiled wholeheartedly in photos. She laughed in a way that seemed authentic. She looked like the kind of girl who didn't take long to get ready.

I looked at her profile and then went back to my own, attempting to step outside of myself and act as an unbiased judge between the two of us. I looked at our profiles and saw all the things we had in common, and all the things we did not. My face was more angular and sharper than hers, my hair a little less blonde. My smile didn't come as easily, except in the photos in which I was with him. She volunteered more than I did, but I seemed to get outdoors more. She looked like she came from money, and I looked like I was living on hand-me-downs and budgeted grocery lists. We had our differences but we also had our overarching similarities: We both loved our family, our friends, and the same guy.

Months passed and I watched them tag each other in photos and their relationship status change. I cringed as they exchanged banter on Twitter and speculated what their jokes were about. I noticed when she became friends with his sisters and took a photo with his mother. I saw him wearing the watch I bought him as he stood next to her on a vacation they took together. I saw them driving in the car we kissed in — the car we broke up in.

I saw their relationship go the places ours had gone and to places it had not.

I wondered if they fought. I wondered if the things he did that annoyed me bothered her in the same way. I wondered if she wanted the big yard and the good job, too.

I could have stopped looking at any time, but it was addicting. I wanted to know what happened next. I wanted to see if it worked out. Or maybe I wanted to see if it didn't.

Despite my self-inflicted torture, I didn't reach out to him.

I still wanted New York. And London. And maybe Thailand for a year or two. Nothing had changed. But I liked seeing photos of that toothy grin. I liked when he made a goofy face or wasn't ready for a picture. He reminded me what it felt like to love someone, and I liked that part of myself.

We were both spiraling off in vastly different directions, but I still felt an inexplicable pull toward him. It was nice having him be so accessible, even if he wasn't.

I didn't fancy myself a stalker, though maybe that's what I was — leering through the virtual windowpane of someone else's happy life. I guess I just thought if I could see him on that 13-inch computer screen, then maybe he was still with me in a way, maybe I wasn't alone, maybe I was loved. Maybe he was looking, too.

As time passed, I visited him less often. And when I did concede, the twist of the knife was not as sharp. Instead, it felt like the prodding of a dull familiar wound, one that leaves its mark, but the pain is felt more from memory than from anything else.

Eventually, I went an hour without thinking of him, then a few hours, then a day, then a week, then a month.

When I visit his profile now, the sting isn't as sharp. I am proud of him when he finds success in his career, and I am sad for him when someone he knows dies. I am happy for him for being in love.

I am glad for the girl with the red Solo cup for finding such a good man.

Maybe he's different now. Maybe he doesn't snort when he laughs, or fold his pizza into a sandwich before eating it. Maybe I don't know him at all. But still, visiting him reminds me that I am capable of love, and that I am worthy of love. It reminds me that when you truly care for another person, it never really goes away.