#(personal note. her hair is outrageously gorgeous to me. the time I spent looking at the novel covers is wild) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tomtenadia · 3 years ago

Text

Scary feelings - Rowaelin month day 1

Prompt: I just realised I am desperately in love with you

(I suck at titles)

----

Rowan Whitethorn was not a fan of crowds. Or people in general.

It was a Friday night and his flat was far too crowded for his own tastes, but he and his colleagues would take turns in organising get togethers and eventually his time came around. People might call him a loner and a grump but he just loved peace and quiet.

“Come on grampa, have fun.” Shouted Fenrys across the living room with a bottle of beer in his hands, offering one to hm as well. Rowan sighed heavily and joined the blonde man and plopped on the sofa ignoring the ruckus around him. He had already enough.

He was busy hating the evening when someone sat at his side: the smell of lemon and verbena familiar to his nostrils. He turned and saw Aelin sprawled on the couch and a beer in her hand. Most of the people were teachers working in the same high school. Rowan was the biology teacher and Aelin had recently been hired to be the new PE teacher after the previous one retired. She was friendly with everyone and he was positive that every single male teacher had a crush on her. She was gorgeous. Rowan had no issues admitting that. He had seen her once in shorts after one of her classes. Legs perfectly tanned and going on for days. Hair gold as the sun and the most amazing turquoise eyes he had ever seen, with a ring of gold in them. He had slammed against the wall and his students laughed at him that day. He had been dumbstruck, and in every other occasion they had to interact he had to work very hard to keep his cool. They were colleagues, they had to be professional.

“Good to see that you know how to chill, Whitethorn.” Her voice broke his reverie and when he turned he saw her taking a drink of her beer, her head tilted back and her neck exposed. Rowan stood quickly and moved away. What was happening to him? Why all of a sudden he felt the urge to lean forward and kiss the column of her neck, tracing his tongue along it and nip at the sweet spot at its base?

“You okay, man?” Asked Aedion who had noted him running away like a possessed person “did my cousin made lewd jokes again?”

Rowan leaned against the wall and shook his head “no, she is fine. I just needed to stand a bit. This is too much for me.”

Aedion patted his shoulder and left him alone and slowly his gaze returned to Aelin. She was talking to Fenrys and laughing at something that the young TA had said and something irrational rose in him. Damn, was he jealous?

She must have felt him staring because her head slowly turned and her gaze landed on him and the smile she gave him almost stopped his heart. He tried to smile back and failed and saw her raise an eyebrow at him as if in question at his reaction. Slowly he tried to regain control of his emotions, that was something he was good at, appear like an emotionless bastard. Wasn’t that the reason Lyria dumped him for another man? Because he was incapable of showing love and was just a block of ice who pretended to have feelings? He pushed back from the wall and walked to Lorcan. If Rowan had a reputation of being cold, no one beat Lorcan. He was the math teacher and probably one of the most hated ones at that.

“You look a mess.” Said the dark-haired man.

“You look like you are having fun instead. Very unusual for you.”

“I got my eyes on the small brunette near Galathynius, do you know her?”

“I think she is a friend of Aelin. She is called Elide if I remember the introductions.”

Lorcan took a sip of his beer and kept staring at the woman “well, she is definitely my type.” And with a powerful move Lorcan pushed away from the wall.

“Don’t fuck up.” Said Rowan to the man while he was walking away. Lorcan was not the most stable when it came to relationships.

He was alone on the balcony to enjoy fresh air and peace when a person joined him and leaned against the rail at his side.

Lemon verbena. He inhaled the scent and kept looking straight at Orynth at night.

“You seem off, Whitethorn.”

“I am okay,” he sipped the last of his beer and kept ignoring her, afraid of what he would do if he stared at her.

“Looks like the rumour are true.” She turned and her back was now against the rail, her arms at her chest.

He allowed himself a peek and his chest tightened. She had a green dress with a puffy skirt and she was breathtaking. A deep urge to kiss rose in him.

“What rumours?” He said in a gruff voice.

“That you are a loner and a bit of a cranky old bastard.”

Rowan chuckled “I love my reputation. It keeps people away.”

“Who hurt you? Who made you like this?” She asked, moving a step closer to him.

Rowan stood motionless and stared in the depth of her blue eyes. How could she know? Only a handful of people knew how Lyria had crushed him.

“She doesn’t know what she gave up.” Commented Aelin quietly.

Now confusion was clear on his face.

Aelin leaned forward and finished her beer “It’s just a mask. How do I know? Because I have one too. I am the happy easy going PE teacher who is lovable and chatty.” And her tone changed all of a sudden “my fiancee dumped me a week before our wedding. He found himself a newer version. It broke me and having a mask makes it easier to deal with people.” She confessed and Rowan could not look away from the pain in her face and tried to restrain himself from hugging her.

“Lyria left me for another man. Apparently I am incapable of love.”

Aelin gently took his hand “You just haven’t found the right person yet.” She squeezed it and then walked away leaving him alone once more. His heart raced madly in his chest

Going back to work after the party had been tragic. Rowan had spent the weekend thinking about Aelin and what she had told him. Thinking as well at the pesky feeling that had slowly started to creep up. Because the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he was falling for her. He had been since the beginning when she joined the team of professors. She was incredible, and funny and apparently very caring as well. The previous day he had seen her in the school yard consoling two young teenagers who were distressed and crying in her arms. He had followed the scene from the distance and that’s when it hit him. He was in love with her. Madly. He had tried to deny the feeling for a while and it worked until that damned party. Until that moment on the balcony.

He walked back to his class and sat at his desk trying to ignore the pounding of his chest. Pushing away the realisation that his feeling for Aelin went deeper than he thought.

A deep sigh of relief left him when the next class walked in the room.

Later he was on his way to the break room, a book in his hands and his messenger bag strapped on his shoulder when he crashed into someone.

“What the heck.” Said the outraged female voice.

Rowan looked down and saw Aelin crouched down collecting scattered papers. He kneeled quickly and helped her “I am sorry.”

“Do you always walk and read?”

“Most times,” he smiled “I am usually better at knowing what goes around me.” He passed her the last few papers and stood. Aelin was now in front of him “come, have lunch with me.”

Rowan was taken aback by the offer. He made a step for the teachers room, but Aelin grabbed his hand “come with me, I know a better place.”

Silently he followed her, realising that he would probably follow her no matter what.

Hand in hand they walked around the ground until Aelin stopped in a quiet corner of the yard and sat under an oak tree. It was a nice spring day and the weather was turning warm.

Aelin sat down, back against the trunk and he stood for a moment, unsure of what to do next. Eventually he took a seat at her side and took out his lunch from the bag: a chicken salad that contained more vegetables than chicken.

Aelin looked at the tub and its contents in disgust.

“That’s why you are always grumpy… if my lunch looked that sad, I’d be grumpy to.” And she extracted a plastic tub containing an obscene portion of lasagna “my mum made it for me the other day. I went to hers for lunch and she cooked for an army.”

She stabbed the food with a fork and then turned it to him “try it.”

Rowan looked at her puzzled.

“Come on Whitethorn, I don’t have the plague. Give it a go.”

Rowan caved and took the bite she offered. The food was amazing and found himself smiling in satisfaction.

“Look, I made you smile and it made you all the way more handsome.”

His eyes popped open in surprise at her comment.

Aelin laughed and the sound of her happiness brought him joy. He’d do anything to see her smile. Her face would lit in up in the most stunning way. Gods, he was in far, far deeper than he thought.

“What?” She asked at her expression.

“You are the most stunning woman I ever met.” He said and then realised that he had uttered those words out loud. Shit.

She smiled again and took another bite and Rowan decided it was now or never. He had to tell her and also brace for a crushing rejection. There was no way she was into him. She could have every man, why would she choose him?

He cleared his voice “I am in love with you,” he admitted, looking in her eyes “I think I have been for a while but it dawned on me at that party at my flat. You are stunning, intelligent, fierce, caring and funny and I think and I am totally and utterly in love with you.”

She placed her plastic container on the side and he thought he had just ruined everything.

“Go on,” was all she said “let it all out.”

“I promised myself never again. It was not worth it. But then you arrived and threw that to the winds.” He ran a hand through his hair “I was even jealous of you talking to Fenrys at the party. That’s why I kept to myself. I could finally put a label on my feelings and it scared me. I was never good at dealing with emotions and probably everyone is right, I am a cold heartless bastard.”

“Maybe,” she said brushing his hair “but in front of me I see a man who can be very capable of love if the right person comes along.”

Rowan was again speechless and his eyes closed on instinct at the feeling of her hand brushing his hair.

“Say it again.”

His eyes popped open in a question and Aelin nodded.

“I am desperately in love with you.”

She smiled again and his breath hitched.

“And what are we going to do about that professor Whitethorn?”

“Maybe I can take you out to dinner?”

Aelin leaned forward to kiss his cheek “I’d love that very much.”

And in that instant he realised that for her… for her he could try again.

#rowan whitethorn #rowaelinmonth #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin galathynius #prompt

100 notes · View notes

cliffordchick · 3 years ago

Text

Author’s Note: Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve done this but here goes. I originally wrote this as a writing exercise with different characters in mind but decided it would be the perfect piece to test out my fic writing skills again. Please be kind but also don’t be shy with the criticism or love.

“I never imagined myself in a wedding dress,” you say. You study your reflection for a moment in the floor-length mirror before your eyes drift towards Calum. He’s kneeling on the floor in front of you, pushpins balancing dangerously in between his lips. You can tell he’s trying not to look up at you, his eyes trained on the hem he’s working on. You stifle a sigh and push on. “I always thought if I got married, I’d just show up at the courthouse in jeans and a t-shirt. Oh! Maybe a bikini fresh from a dip in a hotel pool!”

The pushpins scatter, flying in all different directions as Calum lets out a hearty laugh. “You’re something else, you know that?” He drops the hem of the gown and runs his now free hands through his hair.

“You’d be so bored without me,” you pipe.

Bored doesn’t even begin to describe it; he thinks as he steals a glance at you for the first time. He thinks back to the moment he first laid eyes on you, all those years ago. You guys were seven, and you were hanging upside down on the monkey bars, pigtails grazing the wood chip-covered ground in the breeze. He was drawn to you instantly, even when you let out the most menacing, Wicked Witch of the West style laugh.

Calum’s so lost in the memory he doesn’t even have time to process what you’re doing until it’s too late. You’re on your hands and knees, helping him pick up the stray pins. His heart nearly stops when the delicate lace on the bodice catches on the crystal appliqués of the floor-length mirror.

“Would you please just stand there and look pretty,” Calum hisses, shaking his head.

His words may be harsh, but you know there’s nothing but love underneath them. There’s never been anything but love underneath his words. Even that time he told you to “fuck off” when you barged into his dorm room freshman year, moments before he lost his virginity. You shake your head, willing the memory to go back into its box in the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.

You stand, looking down at Calum with a pout forming on her face. The Y/N Pout™ as Calum has come to refer to it as. “Am I not always pretty?”

Calum lets out an exasperated sigh. This is what he gets for asking you to fill in for a bride-to-be who had to cancel her fitting for a “venue emergency.” As if the wedding venue was more important than the wedding dress that cost the same as several month’s worths of rent at his shitty studio apartment.

“You’re gorgeous, Y/N; you don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it,” you say, sticking your tongue out. Truthfully, he’s the only one who has ever called you gorgeous, but you’re not about to tell him that. It’ll just make him blush. And if there’s one thing you can’t resist, it’s a blushing Calum. Instead, you make a big show of getting back onto the pedestal, picking the bottom of the gown up as if you’re an eighteenth-century Princess who has just let the love of her life walk out on her. “How does she expect to dance in this thing?”

Calum reclaims his spot, kneeling in front of you. One hand holding the delicate fabric, the other working a pushpin through it for the seamstress. “She won’t. That’s what the reception dress is for.”

“A reception dress?” you choke out. “But she spent,” you pause, looking at the receipt on the small side table. “$10,000!” You fan yourself and turn around. “Ty, I don’t think I should be wearing this dress.”

Calum grunts in response, pushpins back between his lips. If there’s anyone who should be wearing this dress, it’s you. He quickly shakes the thought away, steadying his hands as he works the pushpin through.

“What kind of monster spends $10,000 on a dress she’s not even going to wear the whole night! I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Don’t you dare,” Calum warns, working the final pushpin through the fabric, securing the hemline. He stands, wiping his hands on his pants before offering you his hand. “Come on queasy, let’s get you out of that dress before you do something stupid.”

“I don’t think anything is stupider than spending $10,000 on a wedding dress,” you say, accepting his hand. You try to ignore the static shock that jolts through your body at the contact. He’s helped you up millions of times, and this should be no different. Before you have time to dwell, you carefully make your way back to the small dressing room.

Calum cleans up as you wrestle with the gown in the dressing room. A thread of profanities falls from your lips before you emerges a moment later in a bright pair of jeans and a polka-dotted sweater. You gently hand the gown to Calum, who gingerly hangs it back up on a rack full of white dresses — none of which sparkle quite like this one.

“I feel human again!” you shout, dancing around the room. “Next time you need a fill-in bride for a fitting, do me a favor and don’t call me.”

It’s Calum’s turn to pout, brown eyes growing three times the size. “But whatever are best friends for if not for trying on ridiculously expensive wedding dresses?”

“Fine,” you say, giving in. “But I expected a proper proposal next time. None of this five am emergency text nonsense.”

Calum grabs your hand and immediately drops to his knees; a playful glint dances across his eyes. You look at him wide-eyed, lips tugging up at the corners. “Y/N Y/L/N, will you be my fake bride from now until eternity?”

You clap your free hand over your mouth. “Oh, Calum,” you say, taking on a British accent for reasons not even she knows. “It would be my honor.”

Calum laughs so hard he loses his balance, sending you both tumbling to the pearly white floor. “What was that accent?” Calum manages to get out between laughs and gasps for air.

“I don’t know!” you shout, eyes brimming with tears from laughter. “It sort of just popped out.”

“Don’t you mean it, popped out?” Calum says, delivering the last part in his own take on a terrible British accent.

You shove him away before quickly pulling him back towards you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck. “I hate you.”

“Hate you too,” he says as his smile spreads across his face revealing a dimple on his cheek.

You stay like that for a moment. A tangled web of limbs, laughing and enjoying each other’s closeness. It’s been a while since you’ve just reveled in each other’s company even though you both live in the same city. Calum’s been busy, working crazy hours to prove himself at Something Blue, the wedding gown boutique that specializes in outrageous, occasionally blue-dyed wedding gowns. And you’ve been holed up in random libraries, working on your dissertation. You do text throughout the day. You send him various gifs of a person jumping off a bridge, and Calum responds with various pictures of glorious diner food items you’d miss if you did it. And you try to FaceTime at least once a week, but it’s not the same as being in each other’s presence. When the two of you are together, it’s almost like you’re two sides of the same person. You complete each other.

Neither of you is ready to pull apart, but your stomach doesn’t get the memo, sending an echoing growl through Something Blue. You move from the crook of Calum’s neck and instead muffle your laughter in his chest. Calum does his best to keep his heartbeat under control.

“Come on. I think I owe you and your Hungry, Hungry Hippo stomach breakfast.”

“Frankie’s breakfast extravaganza?” you ask, pulling away from Calum so you can look up into his eyes. It takes all your might not to reach out and poke the dimple on his cheek.

Calum gasps dramatically, “I’m offended you have to ask!”

Just as quickly as you fell, you’re back on your feet and standing a safe distance away from each other. The loss of contact is immediately felt between both of you but neither wants to admit it, out loud or to yourselves. Calum runs a nervous hand through his hair as his cheek dimple disappears. You tug at your sweater that had ridden up before you turn towards him, smiling again.

“Shall we,” you ask, British accent back in full force.

Calum shakes his head before offering you his arm, “Lead the way, m’lady.”

#5sos #5sos fic #calum hood #calum hood fic #5sos fluff #calum fluff #calum fic #calum x reader #i literally have no mutuals to tag anymore so this is going to be interesting #mine #ch mini blurb #mini blurb #are these even my tags? who knows

43 notes · View notes

djarinslover · 4 years ago

Text

Insecurities

Warnings: Slight suggestive themes, eating disorder mention (brief), angst, fluff

I had a female Reader in mind, but I did try to make this as neutral as possible

Sam-

After getting out of the outrageously fancy shower (thank you, Zemo), you were staring at yourself in the long mirror in your room. Twisting and turning to look at your body. You pinched and grabbed your thighs, face pinching in disappointment as you take note of the extra weight you gained in the past months. You didn't notice Sam sneaking up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, dipping his head into the crook of your neck to press light kisses. You don't even acknowledge him, making him meet your eyes in the mirror. He frowned as he examined your face, noticing the scowl on your lips.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Sam, do you think I'm getting fat?"

"What?!" He lets you go, moving to stand in front of you, blocking your vision from the criticizing gaze in the mirror. "Baby, why would you ask that?"

"Because I'm getting more stretch marks on my thighs and ass, and my pants barely fit anymore."

Sam raises an eyebrow, a teasing smile filling his face. He reaches down to grab your ass through your robe, bringing you closer to him. "Thick thighs save lives, baby. Isn't that what the kids say?"

"Ugh, Samuel." You push away from him with an exasperated groan, heading for the duffle bag thrown on the bed. "I'm asking you a serious question."

He hurries after you, reaching to grab your hand. He spins you around, hand tilting your head up to make you look him in the eye. He's grinning, that lovely little gap in his teeth making you feel warm. His hands run down your arms before he bends slightly, gripping your thighs. He gropes you, making you blush.

"Baby, you are abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous to me. I don't think you're fat at all. Don't roll your eyes at me."

Sam pushes you onto the bed, leaning down so his face was hovering right over your stomach. His eyes glint in the soft sunlight that's streaming though the windows. His hands run up and down your legs, chin resting on your stomach. "I don't care about your stretch marks. I don't care if your pant size goes up or down. I just care that you see yourself as beautiful as I see you." He unties your robe, leaving you bare to his gleaming gaze. "Besides, the more meat you got down here means the more for me to grab and kiss and love on."

He punctuates his sentence by swooping down to your thigh and sucking a hickey on the inside, leaving you breathless. His eyes meeting yours, a sly grin on his lips. "Can I show you how much I appreciate your body?'

"Please," you breathe out, all insecurities flying out the window.

Bucky-

"Hey, doll?"

You shrink under the covers of the large bed, trying to hide away from your boyfriend. You knew you had important stuff to take care of in Riga, but you couldn't bring yourself to get out of bed.

"Doll, what are you doing in bed? You need to get up."

Bucky goes to pull the blankets back but you hold on tight, groaning from your spot. He chuckles above you. "Let's not act like some sleep goblin, alright? Get up, what's going on with you?"

"Will you still love me even though I'm getting fat?" you mumble.

"Huh?"

You throw the blankets back to reveal your tear stained face, lips cracked and bitten red, eyes swollen. "Do you still love me even though I'm fat?"

Bucky sits next to you, bringing you into a tight hug. "Honey, of course I would love you! What are you talking about?"

"I feel like nothing fits me anymore, like everything is too tight. My arms and stomach look bigger and, and-" you begin heaving, tears filling your eyes again.

Bucky cradles your head, shushing you as you sob into his chest. He lays kisses on the top of your head, holding you as tight as possible. When you calm down, he lifts your head to kiss along your tear streaks. His breath is warm and comforting, keeping you grounded to the reality that he's here and holding you and he loves you.

You take a shuddering breath, clinging onto Bucky's shirt as he continues to rain kisses along your face. He finally pulls back, thumbs rubbing your cheeks. His eyes are so soft and blue, looking into your soul.

"Doll, I don't care what you look like or how much you weigh, or any of that petty shit insecure guys care about. I'm one hundred and fucking six years old. You think I could find anyone else to deal with my crazy ass?"

His question causes you to giggle quietly, shaking your head. "No," he laughs. "No one else would put up with me. You're stuck with me, no matter what changes your body goes through. I'm here for you."

You gaze into his eyes, knowing he's being sincere and true. You lean in, pressing your lips against his in a soft, slow, passionate kiss. You pull away breathless after a while, hands playing with the curls of his hair on the base of his neck. Your lips are still so close that they touch as you speak.

"Thank you, Buck. It means a lot to me."

"You mean a lot to me."

He kisses you again, pushing you against the bed. He begins to get frisky, groping your body as you kiss. Though you're quickly interrupted by Sam pounding on the door.

"Hey, lovebirds! We got shit to do, let's go!"

Bucky kisses your cheek, smiling. "C'mon doll. I'll show you later how much I love you."

Zemo-

Zemo placed plates in front of three of you. It smelled and looked delicious, but you couldn't bring yourself to eat more than a few bites. Sam and Bucky, however, dug into it eagerly. The Baron had been cooking for you all since he was out of prison, shocking you that he even knew how to cook. It made you think about how he probably spent nights in the kitchen with his wife and child, making dinner together with laughter and kisses.

Instead of eating, you sip on the cherry blossom tea Zemo made, listening to Sam and Bucky bicker. They were having another one of their stupid little spats, causing you roll your eyes. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Zemo staring at you intently. You glance over at him, eyebrow raised. He raises his own in questioning, gaze flitting down to your barely touched plate. Your cheeks grow warm as you realize what he's hinting at.

"NO, Bucky, end of story!"

Sam storms off, Bucky hot on his heels to fix whatever just happened. They disappeared into a room, the door slamming behind them. You became acutely aware that it was just you and Helmut Zemo in the room. Alone.

You sip more of your tea, your throat tight. You weren't scared of the Baron, just apprehensive. He was still in a robe from earlier, his hair dripping water onto his shoulders.

"May I ask why you haven't eaten? I assure you, I haven't poisoned your food."

You startle, clearing your throat as you think over your answer. "It seems great, Zemo. I'm just not hungry."

"Bullshit."

His stern reply makes you turn your head to fully look at him. He's frowning, hands resting on the marble counter. His eyes bore into yours, almost venturing to your soul. "In the short time I have been with you, I have not seen you eat a full meal. You drink, yes, but I have yet to see you eat."

You grit your teeth, swallowing a sharp retort. "It's really none of your business, Zemo. I don't remember asking you to mother me."

His frown deepens. "My wife had an eating disorder when we were younger. Freshly twenty, she was struggling with the expectations of being a Baroness. So, she stopped eating. It took me a few years to discover what was going on, but together, I helped her. You deserve happiness and health."

Tears were building behind your eyelids, your breath caught in your throat. "I just . . . I don't like myself, right now. I'm still adjusting with the blip and the deaths of my friends. And I somehow put on weight. Avengers need to be thin and agile, not fat and out of breath."

Zemo steps around the counter to stand a few steps away from you. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I see an absolutely breathtaking person in front of me."

A shaky breath escapes your mouth at his words.

"Eat, Liebling. You need your strength."

As he strolls away, you stare at the plate before taking a bite. Just as you predicated, it was delicious.

Sharon-

"You look amazing," Sharon whispers, hands on your hips.

"Are you sure? I feel like I look huge."

"Honey, are you kidding? I want nothing more than to skip this stupid party and just stay in here with you. I mean, those new sheets do need broken in."

"Sharon!" you snort, pushing your girlfriend away.

She smirks at you, grabbing your hand. "Why do you think you look 'huge'?"

Your smile falls from your face, lip catching between your teeth. "I've just noticed my stomach looking bigger. And more stretch marks appearing everywhere. It's getting hard to feel sexy, honestly."

Sharon grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her. "Stretch marks are sexy as hell. And your stomach, babe, it's perfect. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

You try not to make a face of disbelief, but you can tell by the way Sharon's eyebrows pinch together, you didn't do a good job. She grabs your hips and begins steering you towards the couch. She pushes you roughly, making a gasp leave your lips as you flop down. She straddles your lap, running her fingers through your hair. She grabs a nice chunk of your hair, pulling your head back so you're staring at the ceiling. She starts sucking and kissing on your neck, laving over the stretched skin. She makes her way to your ear, pulling the lobe gently with her teeth.

"You're sexy as hell."

She presses her hips down against yours.

"I want to tell Bird Brain out there and his gang tough shit, they're going to have to find Nagel themselves, because I want to prove to you that you're beautiful."

She sucks a heavy mark onto your collarbone, your hands tightening on her hips. Suddenly, she pulls away. "Alas, I have business."

You stare up at her in disbelief, eyes wide. She grins, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips before hopping up. She pulls you up by your hand, rubbing her thumb soothing along your skin.

"Can I show you off tonight?"

You smile, kissing her. "As if you have to ask."

"Great. Let's go find Nagel and get back soon."

"Deal."

#tfatws #tfatws imagine #sam wilson #bucky barnes #baron helmut zemo #sharon carter #reader insert

36 notes · View notes

sadsilktrader · 4 years ago

Text

Secret Admirer

I apologize for my extreme tardiness for posting to the Geraskier Holiday Exchange. This was written for @gotfanfiction

A modern Geraskier AU in which Jaskier is receiving gifts from an admirer.

...

"I'm telling you Yen, the man doesn't even know I exist. It can't be him," Jaskier paced the living room of his small apartment, small watering can in hand, completely forgotten. His plants looked on forlornly.

"Hm," she replied, he could hear the scritch-scratch of the emery board while she only half-listened to his prattling. "All I'm saying is that he was there at the pub the night you played and he lives in your building and he can hear you when you practice and those have all been the nights you've got gifts from your secret admirer."

"Half the building goes to that pub, it could be anyone! Plus, he doesn't even know I exist. " He flopped dramatically onto the couch, spilling water on himself. "Anyway, I'll let you go do whatever important business you have to do. You'll be here before my show on Saturday with Triss, right?"

"We'll be there. We just have to drop Ciri off at her dad's first. Now promise me you'll at least talk to him next time you see him."

"Maybe." He grumbled.

"What was that?"

"Fine, fine! I promise!"

"You better. I'm tired of listening to you wistfully sigh every time we speak."

"You're the worst."

"I love you too Jaskier, bye."

The phone clicked.

He'd met Yen online, a friend of a friend of a friend. They played DnD together, starting off as catty enemies and somehow developing into the deep friendship they had now. She was a good person, just a little rough around the edges. Well, very rough around the edges.

She'd settled down a lot over the last few years when motherhood had fallen into her lap though. He wasn’t certain about all the details, they were close but she was a private person. She shared custody of her adopted daughter, Ciri, with her ex. He'd never had the pleasure of meeting the man but he'd heard enough about him to form his own opinions. Heart in the right place but not exactly open about his feelings.

Sounded a lot like his own mysterious love. He sighed again, there was no way it was his gorgeous and stoic upstairs neighbor. The man was gorgeous and kind and lovely. He was tall and pale with silky white hair. Not to mention outrageously muscular. Jaskier had seen him in their apartment's gym working out on more than one occasion. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to keep himself from openly ogling him. He'd seen him feeding the feral cat that lived in the parking lot. Helping their elderly neighbors with their groceries. Playing with his daughter on the weekends. The man was too good to be true. Which was why he was absolutely positive he couldn't be the one leaving the gifts at his door.

The mystery man was perfect but he, Julian Alfred Pancratz, college drop out, jobless, barely squeezing by with the money he made by doing odd jobs in the apartment complex and occasionally performing at the neighborhood pub, was an absolute mess. There was no way someone like the man would give him more than a passing glance.

He sat up quickly leaving the forgotten, spilled watering can to the side to search for his notebook and pen. At least all the angst and longing seemed to also be a fantastic inspiration.

...

He chewed his lip, the leather-bound notebook balanced on his knee. He strummed a few chords on his guitar before setting it back carefully down to scribble something down.

The sun was fully set now and his balcony light had flicked on giving the small area an ethereal glow. He loved the process of writing and creating outside where he could feel the world around him. There was something about feeling the gentle breeze against him, the sun and moon shining down on him, and the fluttering hummingbirds that visited his feeder that just felt right.

He stretched and yawned and was contemplating packing up for the night when he heard it. A barely-there, soft knock at his door. Eyes gone wide he all but threw his things down and ran to the door to open it. No one. As always. There was however a small box tied in a ribbon and a note attached.

A voice so sweet deserves something sweet in return. -love, your admirer

He undid the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was an assortment of homemade chocolates. He popped one in his mouth and let it slowly melt over his tongue. Dark chocolate, caramel, sea salt. He couldn't help the sappy smile that plastered itself on his face and would stay there the rest of the night.

It had been a little over a month since the gifts started arriving. Most of the time they were baked goods or sweets of some kind but occasionally it was something different. A clutch of flowers, a silver bracelet with music notes engraved, once there was even a picture of a particularly beautiful sunrise left for him. He treasured them all.

He was a hopeless romantic down to the core of his being. He had never met his admirer but he was sure it would be love at first sight.

…

He was bone tired. He'd spent the day hauling furniture away to the thrift store and painting the walls of one of his elderly neighbors who was soon moving to a rest home. For all the work he was paid thirty dollars and a batch of very good snickerdoodle cookies. He knew it was all the woman could afford to give him and he was grateful for that. Not exactly enough to pay the rent but enough to buy a few groceries at least.

He stood in the deli section, weighing out the pros and cons of value pack meats when he saw him. The man, his white hair hanging loose around his shoulders, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. His breath hitched and his mouth went dry.

Gods how can anyone look that attractive just going to the grocery store.

The man looked up, catching him staring. His eyes the color of amber and honey. He felt like a deer in the headlights caught in his gaze. A few faint scars visible on his face and neck. He couldn't help but wonder if there were more on the rest of the man's body and felt a blush rise to his cheeks.

"It's leaking." The man said.

"What?"

"The honey ham your holding, it's leaking."

He stared at the gorgeous being before him for a moment longer before it clicked.

"Oh fuck," he dropped the squishy package on the ground, ham juices splashing on the both of them.

"Oh, gods I'm so sorry," he wasn't sure his face could get any redder.

"It's okay, really. I've had much worse things spilled on me before. You looked pretty lost in thought."

An employee glared at him with a mop and trash can. He smiled awkwardly, wishing he could just disappear.

"You're the musician, right? I live in the apartment above yours. I can hear you playing from my living room." The way the man said it had him wondering if that was a good thing or not.

"I'm Julian, well Jaskier to my friends and fans." He mustered up the courage he usually reserved for the stage and gave the man his best smile.

"Geralt. I'd shake your hand but," He nodded to his arms full of groceries. "You know when you go into the store thinking you only need one thing?"

"Well, you're in luck," he gestured to his cart, "I just so happen to have the best cart in the store. Not a squeaky wheel in sight."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! The life of a musician leads to a very sparse diet. More than enough room for both of us. Plus we're headed to the same place."

Geralt had an amused smirk on his face that made Jaskier's heart skip a beat. Conversation between them came easy. Geralt was the quieter of the two but his dry wit and cheesy jokes had him laughing harder than he had in ages. Handsome and funny.

They made their way back to the apartment complex walking slower than was necessary, he noticed.

"So you have a daughter? I'm not stalking you or anything, I just noticed her around the complex sometimes."

"Ciri," he replied. "My ex and I share custody, its-" he sighed, running his hand through his hair, "it's a bit of a complicated situation actually. But they’re moving closer soon and that should help.”

The elevator stopped at his floor and he stepped off.

“So, I’ll be seeing you.” he mentally berated himself for not being able to come up with something more clever. The door was closing between them and he suddenly shot his hound out, stopping the door.

“Actually, and please forgive me if this is too forward, maybe I could give you my number and we could grab a coffee sometime? Or do our grocery shopping together again?”

Geralt chuckled before reaching into his pocket, tapping at the screen a few times, and passed it over. He added his number with the name Jaskier followed by a heart and music note emoji. The moment the elevator door closed he was dancing, groceries in hand, for his forwardness paying off for once.

…

It was colder tonight but he still played outside until his fingers were near numbing. His cheeks were flushed red from the cold. After his run-in with the man, he felt like he was walking on clouds. The world was at peace and he was the luckiest man in the world. He’d almost forgotten about his secret admirer completely until the same soft knock came from outside the door. Today was different though. Today he was brave and he had left a note for his admirer to find.

I beg of you to reveal yourself to me. I will be performing at the Royal Oak this Saturday. Please, wear this token so I may recognize you amongst the other patrons. Love, Jaskier

He strained his ears and purposely walked slowly to the door, giving his admirer time to leave the gift and find his note. He swore he heard mumbling of words. He closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening the door.

His note was gone and in place of it a container he opened to reveal a miniature-sized three-layered cake elaborately decorated with chocolate-covered strawberries. It was, as always, delicious to the point of sin.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He didn’t want to string along his admirer, especially if things with Geralt turned out well. But he was getting ahead of himself. They had spoken once and here he was already planning their life together.

…

The next few days passed quickly. His wish of getting more work around the complex had come true but he was, unfortunately, unable to do any more practice for his upcoming performance. Every day he came back to his apartment with every intention of playing only to wake up from an unintentional five-hour nap on his couch.

To make matters worse, he hadn’t received a single text from Geralt, and since his sleep schedule was completely messed up he hadn’t caught a single glimpse of him since their last accidental meeting. He thought of swinging by his place to invite him to his show but decided against it. Maybe he needed some space? Maybe he had come off as too clingy? The doubts and second-guesses were mounting.

He arrived at the pub early to set up and get some practicing in before going on stage. Geralt wouldn’t be there but at least, he hoped, his soon-not-to-be secret admirer would be. Inside the note, he’d left a silver brooch of a songbird in flight. It was small but something he would instantly recognize. The glimmer of it from the stage lights would catch his attention. At least that’s what he was hoping. He felt more nervous about this performance than he had in a long while.

“You okay there Jaskier?” The voice came from behind him and he turned to see Triss, her curls down, beautifully framing her face.

“Oh thank the Gods,” he hugged her tight.

“Where’s your better half?” he asked looking around the growing pub’s crowd.

“Outside on the phone. It’s her ex, they don’t argue often but when they do,” she made a face. “Something about him needing her to watch their daughter.”

“Doesn’t he only see her on weekends? What an asshole.”

“Right?”

He felt more at ease with a friendly face by his side and felt even better when Yennifer joined them. He was smarter than to ask her about the phone call and instead chatted about everything and anything to get his mind off his nerves. Time went by more quickly now and soon it was time for him to play.

The second he stepped on stage his demeanor changed. Gone was any trace of nerves and doubt. The stage was his solace, the place he could bare his soul to the masses, or in this case to the forty-odd people crammed into the pub.

It was halfway through his third song when he remembered to keep an eye out for his admirer. He scanned the crowd hoping for the familiar glint to catch his eye but there was nothing. He chewed his lip.

The third song blended into his fourth and fifth. Still nothing. He took a break to grab a drink. He made small talk with Yennifer who raised a delicate brow at him.

"Alright, spill it. What's got you so distracted?"

He finished his drink and let his smile fall into a grimace.

"I left a note. For my admirer. I asked them to come tonight. I left them something to wear so I would recognize them and-"

"And they did show?" She finished for him.

"Nope. Wait how did you know?"

"First off you're terrible at hiding your emotions, and second I was fucking right and you owe me.”

“What?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess I’m partially to blame, I should have realized it earlier.”

“I- what?” he asked again.

“Jaskier. Darling. Sweetheart. I was right.” she said the words slowly as one would do to a small dog.

“Right about what?”

“Your admirer. It’s your neighbor. You never told me but let me guess. Pale, white hair, roguishly handsome, looks like he could snap you in half like a twig?”

“How do you?” He was feeling a little faint now like he was at the edge of realizing something terrible.

“Your neighbor, your admirer, and my ex are all the same person.”

His eyes went wide. It all made sense. All the clues were there but he had just been too dense to put them all together. He’d seen pictures of Yenifer’s daughter but he’d never spent more than a passing glance at Geralt's visiting daughter.

“Oh fuck.” he sat down, suddenly unsure of his legs beneath him.

“He called me right before I came in going on about needing to go out for a few hours and if it was alright with me if he left Ciri alone.” she chuckled. “I told him to not be an asshole and spend time with his daughter.”

Jaskier’s head perked up. Geralt had wanted to come. He hadn’t blown him off.

“I have to go. Fuck, I can’t leave in the middle of a set though.”

Yennifer waved him off, “I’ll sort things off here, you go to him.”

He kissed the top of her head and gave her a quick, tight hug. “You would tell me if this bothered you right? I mean, he’s your ex and all.”

“I think you two would do a very good job at evening each other out, now go!” She smacked him on the shoulder and off he went.

…

He ran home, or at least halfway home before running out of breath and proceeded to briskly walk the rest of the way. He was still trying to decide what to say when he found himself outside the door, sweating profusely and looking an absolute mess. He knocked on the door before he talked himself out of it.

“One minute!” A voice from beyond the door answered followed by the sound of an oven door closing and the chain sliding from the door’s lock.

The door opened. He looked beautiful, even like this, wearing an apron covered in flour cocoa powder. Especially like this maybe.

“I’m friends with Yennifer and she said it was you but I didn’t believe her and I didn’t realize that your daughter Ciri was also her daughter Cirilla which in retrospect should have clued me in but-” he took a deep breath in. Geralt looked nervous and his rambling wasn’t happening. He started over.

“You’re my secret admirer?”

The man blushed. “I am. Is that okay?”

“Very, very okay.” He smiled.

“Would you like to come in? I was just baking. For you.” his blush deepened and Jaskier heart felt like it would burst with affection.

“I’d like that very much.”

#geraskier holiday exchange #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #this is so laaaate #modern au geraskier #secret admirer fic #sometimes I write

81 notes · View notes

onemuseleft · 5 years ago

Note

Okay, okay, but. BUT. can we also get Zhao Yunlan/Shen Wei Blind Date AU?

Okay but: (this got way out of control, sorry)

So Shen Wei doesn’t exactly socialize with his coworkers, per se, but he does attend department meetings and he’s on a couple of committees and there are events meant to foster teamwork and comaraderie. Shen Wei attends exactly as many as he needs to in order to maintain his cover as an awkward but harmless introvert who has few interests outside his research. It’s more than he’d like.

Anyway, there’s Professor Jiang Yue in the History Department. She’s brilliant, well-respected, and knows more about the history of Dragon City than anyone else in Haixing. She’s one of the few people who doesn’t think his research is entirely hypothetical and often likes to pop by and discuss something she’d recently translated that supports his theories that there may have been “mutants” in history. She’s also terrifyingly outgoing, finds Shen Wei’s deliberate stubborness and not-so-deliberate awkwardness endearing, and has decided he needs a wife.

Or a husband. She’s open-minded.

Jiang Yue tries to hook him up with two grad students from her department (he declines for ethical reasons, even though they don’t work for him, which he suspects was a test), a young professor from the Literature department, her sister-in-law and a young woman she met at the market.

This all occurs over a period of about ten days.

In semi-desperation Shen Wei tells her he’s not interested in women, which she takes to mean he is interested in men, but which Shen Wei had meant to mean he wasn’t interested in anyone.

Look, he’s never been good at this sort of conversation, all right? No one’s ever tried to fix him up before.

Once she’s narrowed down the list of applicants to available young men, Jiang Yue appears to get a little more discerning. At the very least she spaces them out a little further.

(”Men are harder to come by,” she tells him much, much later. “You have to be more discerning. Also I had a bitch of a time pinning down your type.”)

She did, in fact, pin down his type, he just didn’t know it at the time.

Jiang Yue’s new husband is a police officer.

“I met someone at a fundraiser last night,” she says. “He’s very handsome, but the downside is that he knows it. Cleans up quite nice, but he mentioned he had a motorcycle so clearly he’s not afraid of a little excitement. And he had lips that I would have attached myself to were I not a happily married woman.”

Shen Wei had ducked his head and smiled and agreed that sounded very nice, but he wasn’t interested.

Kunlun’s face had lingered in his mind’s eye; dark, knowing eyes and pink, plump lips that would press against Shen Wei’s own until he could lose himself in their kiss. He’d made up an excuse to leave early and spent the rest of the night unable to ground himself in the present. He’d given up, eventually, let himself fall into the memories in a way he usually won’t allow. He closes his eyes and remembers the way Kunlun would run his tongue over his lower lip when he was thinking about something, the way his lips would be pink and swollen from Shen Wei’s kisses, the way his mouth moved when he called Shen Wei baobei and Xiao Wei. (The way those lips looked wrapped around Shen Wei’s cock, eyes gazing up at him with a wicked glint in them as he made Shen Wei shudder and come apart beneath him). The way they felt in the dry mountain air, soft and just a little chapped as Kunlun brushed them over Shen Wei’s temple - the last kiss before the Hallows separated them for a hundred lifetimes.

He’s a little more brusque than he really needs to be the next time she mentions a potential date but he can’t bring himself to regret it.

There is a brief cooling-off period in which Shen Wei thinks he has communicated his lack of romantic interests quite clearly and she has decided to respect that and back off.

He hasn’t communicated shit, it turns out she just thinks he’s not quite over an ex and is giving him some room to breathe. She’s right, of course.

“We’re having a little dinner party,” Jiang Yue says one day while they’re allegedly meeting for the efficiency committe, but really everyone is just gossiping about some rumors that the Chancellor is going to make them start submitting online lesson plans. Shen Wei wants to be outraged but he doesn’t even know how that would work. He makes a mental note to ask Li Qian. “We just bought our new house and we’re having some friends over. You should come!”

He’s flattered for half a second and then remembers who he’s dealing with. “Who are you trying to fix me up with?”

It’s the same cop. Apparently he’s friends with her husband even though they don’t work in the same department anymore. “He got promoted a couple years ago, but they still talk and hang out sometimes. He was at the wedding, apparently, but I was so nervous I don’t remember anything but staring into my husband’s eyes.” She smiled a little dreamily, then added, “That and my mother-in-law getting drunk and passing out in the photographer’s lap.”

He does not go to dinner.

She mentions a young man from the bookstore, and spends a few days dropping hints about Professor Chan in the archaeology department (he has a boyfriend, Shen Wei’s met him) before the cop comes up again.

She’s never been this persistent, usually taking his refusals as a challenge to do better next time. Shen Wei is wavering. If he says yes and it’s awful then maybe she’ll stop.

And it will be awful. Shen Wei feels faithless even contemplating it.

“He’s a department chief,” Jiang Yue says in a tempting voice one afternoon toward the end of the semester. “Apparently the youngest ever. He took down a bunch of Triad bosses a few years ago and saved a bunch of people’s lives and now he’s, like, the second most powerful person in the DCPD.”

That jiggles something at the back of Shen Wei’s mind. “What’s his name?” he asks. It’s been several years since he worked with the SID, and he never had any close associates with the main DCPD but something about what she’s saying rings a distant bell.

“His name is Zhao Yunlan,” she says, excited that he’s shown some sort of interest. “I told him about you and he said I could give you his number if you were interested-”

“Absolutely not,” Shen Wei says in a dull roar.

He spends five minutes apologizing and then pretends to have a headache that he can blame his rudeness on.

Jiang Yue lets the whole thing drop after that, not just her attempts to fix him up with Zhao Yunlan, but the match-making in general.

He feels bad about not feeling bad about it.

Everything goes back to normal though, aside from the matchmaking, so he’s reasonable certain she isn’t upset with him.

And then a few months go by and she mentions her husband is coming to pick her up for dinner. It’s getting late and it’s fairly dark out, even with the streetlights, so he offers to walk with her. Jiang Li is waiting for them on the sidewalk and he gives his wife a quick kiss, and holds his hand out to Shen Wei. “Professor! It’s been a long time. How are you?”

Shen Wei’s not great at chit-chat, but he taks Jiang Li’s hand and says something.

He’ll never remember what, because at that moment he happened to look over Jiang Li’s shoulder, and saw Kunlun.

Kunlun.

He can’t move, he can’t think, he can barely breathe. His eyes are locked onto the man leaning against the Jiangs’ car and he can’t tear them away. He’s positive if he looks away, Kunlun will vanish like a soap bubble, or turn into another person entirely

It has to be someone else. A trick of the light, his mind playing games with him. A similarity, a distant descendant whose blood ran true, a coincidence.

He stares until his eyes burn, but Kunlun remains.

He’s as beautiful as Shen Wei remembers.

Kunlun is dressed in modern clothes: heavy black leather boots, tight fitting denim pants that do nothing to disguise his lean calves and muscular thighs. He’s wearing a grey shirt beneath a black leather motorcycle jacket. His hair is short, in the modern fashion, brushed forward so it almost falls over his eyes, and his beard is little more than scruff, a carefully groomed five o’clock shadow.

He’s sucking on a candy, the same kind he gave Shen Wei that first night. The same candy that belonged to the scrap of paper Shen Wei carried in the pendant over his heart.

He’s too far away for Shen Wei to see his eyes.

And then Kunlun looks up at him.

And smiles politely, with no sign of recognition.

And looks back down at his phone.

The Jiangs leave but not before Jiang Yue leans in and whispers “I told you he was gorgeous, didn’t I?” and laughs in a friendly way at his stunned expression.

After they leave, Shen Wei stands there, watching the car vanish from sight, Kunlun, his Kunlun, vanishing with it, gone as soon as he was found again.

His Kunlun, who is, apparently, Zhao Yunlan, the son of a monster. Somehow. Reincarnation, or - the lollipops, the gun, baobei. Shen Wei has long entertained the idea that Kunlun had been familiar with the modern day, possibly a time traveler - the Hallows were near-infinite in their power, when used properly and combined. Perhaps Kunlan had always been Zhao Yunlan. Perhaps he looked at Shen Wei with eyes devoid of recognition because… Because this was the man who would become Kunlun, but wasn’t yet the man Shen Wei loved.

“Fuck,” Shen Wei said, softly but with great feeling, and went to send Jiang Yue an email asking her for that date after all.

#weilan #guardian #shen wei #zhao yunlan #nightwalker writes #my fic #prompt fic #amaronith

114 notes · View notes

heresince93 · 5 years ago

Text

Gillian Anderson Sunday Times Interview Transcript

There is a moment in the second series of Netflix’s Sex Education when Gillian Anderson’s character, Jean, sighs a deep resigned sigh as she is lying in bed one morning and spots the messy pile of small change her latest lover, Jakob, has left on her bedside table.

It’s my favourite moment of this uplifting show about the tangled love lives of British secondary school teens that manages to appeal to both parents and adolescents alike. Anderson plays the outrageously inappropriate sex therapist Jean Milburn, a stylish, confident single mother.

The sight of those coins will resonate with any woman of Anderson’s age and stage of life (she is 51), whatever kind of relationship they are in.These pennies, a symbol of how untidy life gets and the constant imposing presence of someone else even when they aren’t in the room, represent for Jean the gradual realisation that the excitement of a new love soon becomes tempered by the boring bits.

For those of us who have been married a while, the coins are perhaps the equivalent of the dull domesticity of picking up the shirt always dropped on the floor or the wet towels you always end up refolding after your teens have left them near but not on the bathroom radiator. Anderson and I chat about this a lot when we meet to talk about the second series of Sex Education, given that we are both working mothers in our early fifties.

The actress, who is most recognised for her role as Scully in The X-Files, is twice divorced and has three children, Piper, 25, Oscar, 13, Felix, 11, all of whom live with her in London. Her partner of three years is the playwright, screenwriter and creator of The Crown, Peter Morgan, himself a father of five.

In person Anderson is chatty and witty, aloof and friendly at the same time, a peculiarly feline trait that I often encounter in driven, confident women who have reached midlife. Tell me about Jakob and the coins, I say, what is it like starting a new relationship in your forties, compared with your twenties?

“It’s very different,” she says. “I think you are more fully formed, especially if you have taken time out of previous relationships to find yourself.

“Early on after the break-up of my last relationship and before my current one, somebody encouraged me to write a list of needs and wants in a future partner. Needs are non-negotiable. If you go on a date with someone and realise they won’t meet, say, three of those needs, then they are not the person for you. It may last as a relationship, but it won’t make you happy. Wants are easier, not more frivolous per se, but easier to deliver. Doing this made it clear to me going forward who would be good for me in a relationship.

“And there is a new creativity nowadays to what a relationship should look like, too. For instance, my partner and I don’t live together. If we did, that would be the end of us. It works so well as it is, it feels so special when we do come together. And when I am with my kids, I can be completely there for them. It’s exciting. We choose when to be together. There is nothing locking us in, nothing that brings up that fear of ‘Oh gosh, I can’t leave because what will happen to the house, how will we separate?’. I start to miss the person I want to be with, which is a lovely feeling. And it is so huge for me to be able to see a pair of trousers left lying on the floor at my partner’s house and to step over them and not feel it is my job to do something about it!”

I’ve never interviewed a celebrity who, even though she is wearing heels (little pointy white boots) is still shorter than me (I’m barely 5ft 2in), but Anderson is tiny. This is only important to note, I think, because her roles since Dana Scully have been so big and so powerful: Blanche in A Street Car Named Desire and Margo Channing in All About Eve on stage; Lady Mountbatten in the film Viceroy’s House; Stella Gibson in The Fall; and now Jean Milburn.

I wonder if she is perhaps filed under “tricky, unpredictable, charismatic, spiky, intelligent and fearless woman” in the casting director’s directory of suitable roles. After all, her next part is going to be Margaret Thatcher (in The Crown). And when she arrives for our chat in the closed Chinese restaurant of a central London hotel, she apologises for the sticky mess in her hair caused by wearing the Iron Lady’s wig the previous day. Her nails are manicured pale pink like Thatcher’s too.

“She had a condition that meant two fingers of each hand would curl around — Reagan had it too — so it affected her gestures and she would wear lots of rings and bracelets to distract. But she kept her nails long, which is how I have to keep them now,” Anderson says. She is fascinated by Thatcher, concluding, after studying her childhood, that “nobody ever existed like her. She was unique.”

Anderson might be unique herself, and despite giving many interviews (three last year), I see that she has been smart and managed to remain a bit of an enigma. When I listen back to the tape, she is very good at general talk, but not so hot on specifics.

She spent her early years in north London with her American parents before going back to Michigan for high school. She was a teenage punk plagued by panic attacks that have continued to trouble her over the years, particularly during her intense work schedule on The X-Files. She went into therapy at 14, then became world famous at 25, and had her first child at 26 (the same age her parents had her, before going on to have her two siblings 12 years later). She split up with her first husband three years after that.

In 2011 she endured the death of her brother, Aaron, aged 30, from a brain tumour, which she rarely discusses. She is an impressive activist, campaigning for a variety of issues including women’s rights in Afghanistan, Burma, South Africa, Uganda and South America. There are 10 charities she has worked with listed on her website, and in 2017 she co-wrote We: A Manifesto for Women Everywhere, a well-received book of advice for women. She has also designed two small fashion collections for Winser London, which include some gorgeous silky blouses. I found I had three in my wardrobe without knowing they were hers.

She is a Bafta nominee and Golden Globe winner, and Neil Gaiman, who cast her in the TV series of his book American Gods, said: “She is in this strange place where everything exists in the shadow of Scully, yet she is bigger and better than that.”

When I listen to her 2003 Desert Island Discs, though, she tells a darker story. In between Radiohead and Jeff Buckley, she talks of troubled mental health that she has worked ferociously hard to improve. She has been in therapy for more than 30 years.

Anderson tells me she has been teetotal since her early twenties and despite some mild probing on my part is reluctant to elaborate on exactly why. I understand. She has soon-to-be teenage children who don’t need to know about any of the “dangerous things” she has done, as she described them to Sue Lawley.

I’m fascinated by Anderson and can see why she was the perfect person to cast as the quirky, funny therapist Jean in Sex Education, which really hits its stride in the second series. While still a comedy at heart, the subject matter tackled by its fantastic young cast is revelatory. Sex Education is one of the first productions to hire an intimacy director to make the young actors feel comfortable and process what they were doing, often naked in front of multiple cameras, to be happy and authentic about what they did and feel they had input.

Anal sex, drugs, masturbation, STDs and nudity feature graphically in this show, which I would advise all parents and teens to watch, though not at the same time — only Jean would do that. When I interview Anderson I have yet to see the finale, but Jean’s journey is that of many women in the middle of their lives after divorce with teenage children.

“There’s a grief, isn’t there?” Anderson says as we discuss the menopause. “I haven’t quite got to the place where I don’t have my eggs, but your body is going to mourn that, isn’t it? I remember the very last time I breastfed and it was heartbreaking. I wept and wept through it.

“And I know people who describe particularly difficult periods at home without realising they are describing their mothers going through the menopause.

“We’re all at the point where we’re kicking off just as our teenage children are kicking off. I was looking at some home videos of Piper when she was three and wondering where all my patience came from in my twenties. I have forgotten that version of me.”

She says she doesn’t feel quite ready for her two boys to become teenagers, but sometimes Jean slips into their conversations at home.

“I find myself saying something embarrassing at the dinner table and I don’t know if it is me or if Jean has given me the licence to say that. Maybe I have always been that way, though. Some of what she shares is too much information. I wouldn’t share it, even with my eldest in her twenties. But my son came home after having a sex education class and I completely clammed up. I couldn’t bring myself to continue the conversation. I just let it die. I really don’t know why.”

Over the years Anderson has tried to schedule her roles to fit in with her children, but like many of us who have devoted much of our time to careers, she still lives with nagging doubts about doing the right thing.

How did you deal with a small child while filming back-to-back episodes of The X-Files for 16 hours a day, I ask, especially when you decided to go it alone as a mum. “I missed her, really so much. Those moments when you see a small child in the street when you are apart from yours and the conversation just drops, it’s hard. She was on a plane a lot when she was six and we moved production to the West Coast. I justified that, I mean it was selfish on my part. I just could not imagine being away from her for long periods of time.

“I became obsessed with schedules, and I still am because of that time. I would plan and colour-code everything, make a series of propositions about schedules so I could see her, and the show would either reject or accept them.

“With the boys the longest I have been away from them was during the two X-Files movies, but again I would be travelling constantly to see them.”

I ask her if she regrets working so hard. “Not yet,” she says. “I have a feeling that will come. I definitely feel like on a level I do regret Piper flying back [to her dad, when she was six] as an unaccompanied minor.” We sit in silence for a bit, mulling over the thought.

“But there’s another version of my life where I could have worked less, had a smaller life and been more present as a parent. I could have chosen that, that could happen. But sometimes it feels like why would you, if you keep getting work as an actor, doing things you dreamt of doing and being offered incredible roles at this age, while paying the bills, and you still get to see them a huge percentage of the time and they witness a mother enjoying her work?”

She has talked to her daughter about it, but says Piper is not yet at the place where the lightbulb goes on and she realises Mum was still up at 6am the days she faced 16 hours of work to be with her, or those days we all have when we are still on the edge of the sports pitch, despite the demands of a job.

But Anderson is an all-or-nothing personality. She tells me she is either on a healthy eating plan, meditating and working out or hiding like a hermit at home eating chocolate. She has been plagued by frozen shoulders all her life, leading to months of pain-filled insomnia and cortisone injections.

“My default position is sedentary,” she tells me when I ask about her meditating and yoga right now. “I like being in bed in my PJs. When I’m working, like right now, I seem to exist mostly on chocolate. Then I go through a stage when I feel dreadful and I review it all and start a food plan, torture myself counting shots of milk and all that.

“In the cycle of all or nothing, I am in the nothing phase right now. It has gone on for quite some time, but I think I am better to be around. I was having lunch with my daughter and we were just, you know, eating, not asking for stuff without oils or sugar, and she said, ‘It’s so much better when you are not in that place.’ ”

I’ve enjoyed my hour with Anderson; she is likeable and thoughtful. I sort of hope we’ll meet again one day. It’s unlikely she’ll read the interview; she has said before that she rarely does. So what do I think as I walk away from her? I’m impressed by her curious nature and, obviously, her sense of style, a blueprint for us all at this stage of life, but mostly I’m inspired by her strong sense of self. It has obviously taken quite a bit of work for her to get there, but from what I can see, it has been worth it.

@GillianA

Sex Education series 2 is available on Netflix from Friday

Hair: James Rowe at Bryant Artists. Make-up: Mary Greenwell at Premier Hair and Make-up. Nails: Saffron Goddard at Saint Luke using Sisley Hand Care

#gillian anderson #sunday times #interview

278 notes · View notes

randomoranges · 5 years ago

Text

i lost a friendly wager last night. we agreed to soft. then i was told historical period costumes and or baking. (because i historical period costumes are not in my drawing range.) i offered words and they were accepted. this idea sprouted.

a whole brand new au world for a friendly wager i lost.

liberties were taken.

i can chat your ear off with this dumb new au.

@allbeendonebefore here are your winnings.

O Come, All Ye Faithful [In Excelsis Deo]

Edward takes out the last tray of gingerbread people from the oven and places the tray to cool. He removes his oven mitts and apron, before loading the last items into the dishwasher and then starts it. He is about to call out to his partner, to ask him where the decorating kit with the brushes are (because that’s his partner’s job – even if they always end up decorating together – because Edward likes to spend time with him,) when said partner lets out a string of curses. Amused, Edward peers into the eating area to find Étienne re-stringing the sewing machine for what must be the nineteenth time this past hour.

Edward spares one of his gingerbread folk and plates it, before making his way to where Étienne is working, figuring he could use a break before he chucks the sewing machine and work-in-progress out their living room window.

“Careful, dear,” He starts, putting the plate down, “The sewing machine hears you when you curse at it. I find that gentle encouragement works best.”

Étienne grumbles something under his breath, which sounds a lot like “waste of time” and “it should know better,” before he sits up and leans away from the table. Edward takes the hint and cozies himself up on Étienne’s lap. He brushes back a long strand of curly brown hair away from Étienne’s face and tucks it behind his ear. Étienne sighs and leans into Edward’s chest, defeated.

“Remind me again why this was a good idea,” He mumbles and Edward chuckles softly, rubbing his beau’s back.

This is a historically accurate late nineteenth century dress, with all the intricate patterns, jewels, beads, and details that come with it (with some modern alterations, because Edward needs to be able to actually get out of the dress) that Étienne decided to make from scratch. He researched the design, stayed up late more nights than Edward is probably aware of, spent every waking moment on the garment, he even took out his grandmother’s old sewing machine for it, and all because Edward has a show at the end of the month and Edward deserves the absolute best, even if it kills him. Or so Étienne says and believes.

Étienne is a stubborn, mule-headed idiot and Edward absolutely loves him.

The fool.

Edward still remembers the day they met. (Étienne always tells the story better.)

It happened a really long time ago – it feels like it happened centuries ago, but back then, Edward’s main source of income comes from the drag shows he participates in. He enjoys the performative aspect of it, likes the fact that he can explore different facets of himself and likes how free it makes him feel. He has worked hard creating his persona, has worked hard on his performance, and even though he isn’t the Greatest Drag Queen to ever grace the planet, he is quite good, if he says so himself and he has a small following, which he thinks is endearing – when he lets himself admit to it.

The story goes that on a dreary November evening, Étienne happened to be sitting in the small cabaret where Edward was performing that very same night. Étienne had gone there with his friends, since he did not usually frequent such places, and it actually turned out to be his very first experience assisting a drag performance.

Then, the moment Edward (well, at the time Étienne didn’t know his name was Edward – all he knew was that this performer was Klondike Kate) stepped out on stage, in his beautiful flowing dress with the poofy sleeves, perfectly made up hair (was it real, was it a wig? It was hard to tell), outrageous, gorgeous hat, and elaborate makeup, Étienne’s heart stopped beating for a second. When the lights dimmed down low and the first few notes of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” played, Étienne’s breath stilled. And then, when Edward started singing, in that perfect voice of his, swaying gently to the music, Étienne forgot to breathe all together.

When Étienne tells the story, he adds that after Klondike Kate’s number, he rushed out of the cabaret to find the nearest anything that would sell flowers to buy a bouquet. There was a dep across the street and Étienne swears a car almost hit him as he ran to the store. Edward is never sure if that part is true or exaggerated, but he doesn’t interrupt and lets the story go. Étienne recounts how the only flowers the dépanneur had were a sad looking bouquet with three roses that had seen better days and a few other yellow flowers he couldn’t name, but how it had to do and so he got it, using the last twenty-dollar bill he had in his pocket.

(There is a part to this story that no one knows – not even Étienne – and that’s that Edward still has those flowers. He pressed them between the pages of an old book and he lovingly preserved them, all these years later.)

The story ends with Étienne somehow or other making his way backstage after the show and finding the door to Klondike Kate’s dressing room. He says he didn’t have to bribe anyone, that his charms and good looks granted him passage alone and that as long as anyone acts confident and as though they know what they’re doing, it’s fine. Edward always has more questions at that part, but it’s such a good tale that he keeps his mouth shut and listens. (He’s heard the story so many times by now, but it’s his favourite.)

Quite frankly, Edward was actually quite startled when he opened his dressing room door to find such a strapping young man standing in front of it with a partial besotted look upon him, but what had really gotten him was that this stranger had been able to just – waltz in without getting caught.

Edward had blinked, curious, and Étienne had fumbled something about having just attended the show and how great he thought Klondike Kate had been and what a voice he (she?) had and well – he wanted to congratulate him (her?) in person and – yeah this was kind of weird, and he was not usually such a mess, but he is impulsive and so please accept these flowers as a token of congratulations.

Before Edward even had a chance to say anything, Étienne had bolted out (in Étienne’s words, walked out quickly and obviously, smoothly), leaving one very perplexed Edward behind, flowers in hand.

Edward thought for sure that this was the end of his strange suitor? Fan? Admirer? Crazy stalker??, but he still put the flowers in a vase, still brought them home, and still carefully dried all of them out – for some reason. (He didn’t always get flowers and not even his last boyfriend had bothered, so, really, the gesture was nice.)

He more or less forgot about the stranger and continued living his life, preparing for his shows, but Étienne became a returning customer. He went to every show, cheered the loudest (not that Edward could tell), but he made sure to sit at the far back, away from the lights and from where Klondike Kate could see him. The plan was to keep a safe distance and admire from afar, but sometimes, the universe has strange plans.

And so, towards the end of January, after a show, Étienne walked up to the bus stop and he was quietly smoking a cigarette, replaying his favourite parts of the show in his mind, when Edward (whose car was in the shop and who couldn’t be bothered to hail a cab when he literally had a five minute commute from here and knew the bus would be here in four minutes max) showed up in his line of sight.

“It’s you!” Edward said and Étienne’s eyes had widened as he tried to find something intelligent to say. “You’re the flower guy!” Edward added.

“Étienne – actually, my name is Étienne,” He tried, offering a shy, timid smile and Edward was surprised, if endeared and he laughed over the ridiculousness of the whole affair.

“And I’m Edward, actually, my name is Edward,” He added with a smile of his own, extending his hand.

Étienne wraps up the story at that point, usually. He says they became friends after that, before he finally found the courage to ask Edward out after a show, one day and that the rest is history. It’s mostly true. Mostly, because there’s the part where they both missed their bus stop because they were too busy talking. Mostly, because they walked all the way back to Edward’s place (Étienne didn’t want to let him go alone). Mostly, because Edward really wanted to invite him back inside afterwards for anything – even if it was just talking. Mostly, because at the time Étienne was seeing someone (even though it was complicated and mostly on its way out, but it wouldn’t be right). Mostly, because by the time Étienne was single again, Edward was seeing someone. Mostly, because even though they became fast friends and spent whatever time they had together, Étienne asked him to dinner the night Edward’s boyfriend dumped him and for the longest time, Edward thought he was using Étienne as a rebound. (And if that’s the case, then Étienne is at least a twelve year old rebound.)

They’ve grown, since then. They own the place they live in (somehow) and they do grownup things like pay bills, talk about their mortgage, and clean out the filters of the wall unit three times a year. Étienne has a real job now. He’s not a student anymore. (Not like when they met.) Edward also has a real job now, but he still does drag every so often. He likes it. He likes being Klondike Kate. He likes mentoring the new queens. (He calls them his little princesses. They love it. Étienne thinks it’s the cutest thing ever. Étienne still goes to every show. He brings Edward a bouquet after every show. It’s a much nicer bouquet than that first one. In fact, he’s only ever missed a grand total of six shows and he hates himself for it. Edward tells him every time to chill, he had valid reasons. Étienne doesn’t want to hear a word of it. It’s infuriatingly endearing. And annoying as hell.)

He likes the friends he’s made, the community he’s found and the sense of belonging he gets from performing. Klondike Kate can say things Edward can’t blurt out whenever and wherever. Klondike Kate can wear nice dresses, heels, makeup, and pretty gloves. Klondike Kate gets attention he never wants as Edward. Klondike Kate let’s Étienne dote on her as much as he wants. (Edward does as well, but sometimes he wants to dote on Étienne and Étienne is a stubborn old goat he loves very much.) It’s a strange dichotomy and he loves it. He loves sitting in front of his vanity and applying his makeup. He loves watching his transformation from Edward to Klondike Kate. (He loves sitting at his vanity and having Étienne gently remove the makeup from his face, transforming him back, at the end of every show. It’s a ritual. He wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.)

The cabaret he’s been performing at for the past ten years is putting on a special show for the holiday season – something authentic and historical and the owner politely asked Edward if he would like to perform. It’s a part special, part retrospective, part throw off for the end of the decade and part whatever the queens want it to be. Edward says yes almost immediately and he then thinks of what he can do – what he can wear. He has his usual dresses and costumes – his usual numbers. His favourites and easy go-tos. But then he thinks of the meaning behind Klondike Kate – what she means to him, why he picked her name, and he figures he can really put on a show.

It’s when Étienne comes up with the crazy idea to make him a period accurate dress.

Edward laughs at his idea – because he thinks Étienne is joking.

Étienne already has his sketchbook out and is looking at images on his tablet, jotting things down, saving reference photos, looking at past photos of Edward’s costumes as well. Watching Étienne work is a dizzying affair. He’s in five places at the same time. Edward knows not to kill off such creative energy, so he tells him not to get in too deep and lets him be.

It was a mistake, obviously.

It’s a good thing Edward wasn’t there to see him work at the library.

It’s how nine days before the show Étienne is still fighting with the sewing machine (because Edward is the one who’s good with the sewing machine – Étienne learnt it for fun a few years back – after he brought home his grandmother’s old sewing machine) and he’s cursing about beads and jewels (because Klondike Kate deserves the greatest, poofiest dress ever). It’s not that Edward does not try to make this easier for his beau – he tries, oh he tries to get Étienne to reconsider – they could take one of Edward’s old costumes and make alterations to it, but Étienne is and always has been stubborn.

So Étienne has hand sewn the jewels and the beads, has measured once and twice (and thrice) has cursed and pricked his fingers, has sat down with the old sewing machine and with time, the dress has slowly taken shape. Slowly.

“You said something about wanting to make me the greatest dress ever known, dear,” He reminds Étienne, who nods sagely and picks at the sleeve he has apparently been having trouble with.

“Yes, that’s right and you’ll look absolutely stunning in it.” He says with all the sincerity of the world.

Edward’s cheeks pink ever so and Étienne grins. He’s ridiculous and Edward loves him so.

“Think you’ll be done before the actual show?” He teases to regain his footing. Étienne pushes up his glasses and studies his work – the dark mauve of the fabric, the sleeves, the bodice with the lace and the jewels and the beads. He’s pensive and serious, but Edward spots a hint of a smile and knows that Étienne is messing with him now.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’ll be done by this summer, you see, there’s a handsome fellow sitting on my lap and I simply cannot do anymore work,” He adds, mock serious and Edward playfully hits his arm.

“Need I remind you that you’ve been complaining about this all day. I came to see you in your time of need to bring you comfort and joy in the form of my company and a cookie, but if this is the thanks I get...” He tries to get off, but Étienne is quicker and wraps his arms around him tightly, trapping him in place.

“And I am ever so grateful for such an offering. With it, I’ll be able to complete this dress from hell by the end of the evening – hopefully.”

Edward pecks his nose in thanks but remains seated on Étienne’s lap for a moment longer. He likes it here – it’s nice and comfortable.

“Think you can model this one for me, after?” Étienne asks, looking up at him.

Edward nuzzles their noses together and smiles, “Of course – when have I not?”

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #Edward Murphy #étienne maisonneuve #au

3 notes · View notes

mypralaya · 6 years ago

Text

“Gender Roles”

(Note: This ficlet deals with transgender experience and identity, and from the POV of a trans man. It also concerns gender identity and expression in Chinese and Indian culture. The writer, me, is a cis woman who is white and American. I have every intention of respect, but if I get something wrong, please tell me!) “So you're telling me,” said Lee, “That drag queens are STRAIGHT in China?” “Well, they're not exactly drag queens, any more than girls who play Peter Pan are...drag kings, if that exists?” said Haven. After Lee assured her that they indeed very much did, she continued, “And while I am sure not all are straight, any more so than in every other profession, the majority of them seem to be. They have wives, families, all of that. It's simply a job and is not considered an unmanly act in this context, from what I understand. Of course, that may change now that women are allowed to perform female roles, and are starting to do so. Once it becomes the norm for it to be a female job, perhaps it will become seen as feminine.” “So it's not feminine to get dressed up on stage as a woman, so long as that's considered a man's job,” summarized Lee, “Wild.”

Haven had not been sure she should come to Pride. She was not exactly clear on the unspoken social rules regarding a heterosexual woman's presence there, even as a supporter. There was Pride in Mumbai, of course, but what applied there might not apply here. Which was part of why she wanted to see New York's version, to see the differences and commonalities between the cultures, but not if it would be considering threatening, intruding, or voyeuristic for her to do so. She'd asked around though and no one she had spoken had thought there would be an issue, so long as she was respectful. Which...it was Haven, no one expected her to be anything but. Indeed, if anything, it was one of the people who “belonged” there that had been rude to her, not vice versa. A young man named had Lee come up and made quick conversation with her, and then, apologetically but curiously, asked if she was a hijra. That is, one of India's third-gender, a group most analogous in Western terms to transgender women, but their own distinct category. It was not the first time someone had thought this of Haven. With her grandiose height that put her head and shoulders above most other females in Mumbai, and a clothing style that concealed the extremes of her outrageously feminine figure, it had happened a few times, often much more negatively than this. But only in India. Never anywhere else. She'd never even met someone in America who knew what a hijra was, and was instantly intrigued by why Lee did. She was also not offended---hijra were some of the most beautiful and glamorous people there were! Lee, it turned out, was a transgender man. He was also a trans-national adoptee, given up by his Chinese parents to American ones for not being a son. It had taken him until he was fourteen to realize they were wrong, he was a son all along, but it was not until he was twenty-three that he started truly expressing that through his dress, his hair-cut, the binder that flattened his chest smoothly beneath his striped tank top, and his chosen name. He'd picked the name Lee simply BECAUSE it was so generic and stereotypical for a boy of a Chinese heritage that he felt it sold the idea easily that he was born with it. In the course of researching for answers on his own gender identity as a teen, he had explained to Haven, he'd run across articles on hijira and other such culture-specific gender categories. But he hadn't heard of nandan, a practice of necessity in the all-male Peking Opera, which she'd brought up when they started discussing the topic. This was because nandan, or dan for short, was not actually a gender category, or even a part of LGBT culture at all, as she'd just explained. It was simply men playing women's roles in the Peking opera, offered by her as an example of how such things were seen differently depending on time and place. Lee was intrigued, and had wanted to know more. Even if it wasn’t regarded that way in Chinese culture, anything that could be classed as cross-gender intrigued him, and the fact it came from his birth heritage was first thing about it that had ever made him interested in it. He’d never wanted to reconnect with a culture he never had, but this was something he did feel connected to. Haven told him about nandan, and about their all-female counterparts, the nuxiaosheng of Shaoxing opera, in which it was reversed and women played both male and female roles, no men. “It’s not common anymore, of course, and hasn’t been for decades,” she explained, “You see, during the time of the Cultural Revolution, traditional Chinese theatre was deemed as bourgeoisie and thus wiped out. It’s come back since, but it’s never regained its popularity. And as I said, it’s not required anymore than casts only consist of one gender, because it is no longer considered improper for both sexes to be on-stage together as in the Ming and Qing dynasties. Still, I did meet a dan once---we were very good friends, in fact. He actually, well...he considered himself to be courting me. At least that was what he claimed. In truth, I don’t think he was in love with me at all. Certainly not as a man loves a woman. I think he was simply in love with me as a muse---which is really much more flattering, so much so I feel rather vain for claiming it. But he told me himself!” Lee nodded, thoughtful, “So...was he gay?” “Well...” Haven pondered, “He presented himself to me as a suitor, so I would assume he did not wish to be thought of as attracted to men. But...well, I cannot speak to what his truth is; only he knows. I...I never really thought about it, since I was not reciprocal either way, so it did not matter. But I suppose, without realizing it, I did think that he must lack desire, either for women specifically or altogether. Otherwise I don’t think I would ever have entertained the “courtship” at all, let alone been alone with him, chatting in his dressing room where he sometimes had his shirt removed as he showed me his new ways of moving his arms most gracefully in a manner he swore was meant to imitate me. Despite the fact I have never handled a fan so elaborately in all my life.” Lee laughed, then said, “That is super common for drag queens though. I know you said they’re NOT, but I mean the part about getting inspired by real women. I’ve seen about a dozen Dolly Partons and Diana Rosses.” “I am in good company then.” “Yeah---the big difference there is, they go for really flamboyant women? Like Lady Gaga and Madonna. And you’re uh...you’re not.” Haven laughed a little, “I doubt I could have been his muse if I were. You see, there are different dan roles for different types of female characters. He played a dan role called the Guimen Dan, also known as Qingyi, verdant-sleeve, or Zheng-dan, straight role---straight meaning here like the “straight man” in comedy. They’re meant to represent mature women, sometimes married, not flamboyant at all like the vivacious young Hua Dan or the warrior girl Daoma Dan roles. I’m very much not either of those.” Indeed, she was not. Lee admittedly had thought that she would be more flamboyant, before he had talked to her. Her elaborately embroidered gorgeous clothing and abundance of jewelry and hair he’d thought just HAD to be a wig because LOOK at it how could all that be real? But she was...very subdued. Not the kind of big loud bombastic personality associated with a drag act at all. But probably in line with what that type of nandan she’d described was looking to imitate. The kind of woman that, perhaps, in another time and life, he’d have been expected to be, as though just being expected to be a woman period wasn’t bad enough. He’d spent a lot of time hating that ideal, hating every girly-girl in his class when he was a child all through elementary school, scowling and sneering at them simply because they embodied what had been forced on him, and he had hated them for that. It was mis-aimed, and he knew that now. But something about someone like Haven, a woman so clearly and comfortably aligned with the expectations of her sex, still sent a subtle shiver up his spine, that old childish repulsion pushing back against what had been pushed on him. He felt ashamed for that. It wasn’t the fault of women like Haven that he’d been expected to be one---and indeed, he hadn’t even been expected to be halfway like her by his parents. They’d been PROUD that their “little girl” was a “tomboy” and they’d never held young Lee back from anything “she” had wanted to do just because it was “for boys” or any of the usual cliches. They had, in fact, encouraged him with all the “girl power“ media they could get. Which, as it happened, included more than one cross-gender tale of a girl going undercover as a boy. But he’d never empathized with stories like Mulan, of girls pretending to be men. He related far more to the notion of men performing as women, because that’s what he had felt like for his whole life til very recently---he just hadn’t signed up for the role willingly. Instead, saw himself in movies and books where a man had to pretend to be a woman—-especially with the inevitable humiliation and reluctance with which the man faced it, since this was always framed as a debasing comedy at the man’s expanse, which was how it felt for Lee too. But it surely didn’t feel that way for nandan, did it, if they did so by choice like their more flamboyant drag queen counterparts in the West? Perhaps, he wondered, for some of them, they were not men dressing up like women. Perhaps they were women who had to dress like men in the rest of their lives, and only when in costume were they their real selves. Maybe that was why this Haven woman had never felt discomfort at being alone with her shirtless “suitor” when by her own admission she should have balked at such impropriety. Maybe she sensed subconsciously that “he” was really a sister under the skin. She’d said she’d never know his truth, but maybe she did. Maybe she’d recognized her dan for who “he” truly was without realizing it, the way Lee had always yearned to be recognized as a boy by other boys, even before he knew he was one. Or maybe Lee was projecting like hell, he did that a lot. Speaking of that... “I’m sorry I asked if you were a hijra,” he said, “Seriously that was...that was not cool. And I should know that, of all people.” “Oh, it’s quite alright,” she said, “I take it as a compliment.” “Okay, but---I just don’t want you to think it’s like, okay. You never ever ask someone their gender or if they’re trans, it’s...it’s a big no-no, I don’t know why I did it.” Because when he’d seen this tall, brightly-colored creature with her raven Rapunzel hair and flowing fuchsia clothes and shoulders wider than his own, all his years of proper LGBT-etiquette were forgotten because he was fourteen again and looking at pictures of “Indian eunochs” again and realizing, for the first time, there are people like me! And he’d called out to that, literally. A false flag, it turned out. She was not only no eunoch, no hijra, she was as stereotypically and traditionally heterosexual and cisgender and gender-normative and all of that as they came. And as apologetically as he’d asked about her identity, she had asked if it was alright that she was here. “Well, there’s a lot of debate about that,” he said,“But uh...I’m glad you were.” It was then that he received a text from his friends saying they were here and ready to meet up by the leather booth with the weird animal masks. He dashed off with a goodbye and as Haven watched him disappear into the crowd at a hearty job in the New York heat, she thought she saw, just for a moment against the myriad made-up faces of the colorful crowd, there like a coyly smiling ghost whose gaze was directed right at her in the perfect imitation of her own, the familiar white and red mask-like feminine visage of a painted Chinese opera dan.

#fic #writing

5 notes · View notes

tomtenadia · 3 years ago

Text

My Thursday crush

Rowaelin month - Day 4 - Library or librarians

It was a nice spring day in Orynth and Rowan was slowly walking to work. Headphones on and a book in his hands. He had developed the skill of reading and walking to the point of perfection.

His friends made fun of him but he always replied that if it was socially acceptable for people to walk with their faces in their phones and not paying attention, then a book was surely better. And he never bumped into anyone.

He stopped at the coffee shop around the corner from his job and got his usual order, placed the thermos in the backpack and walked the last stretch.

The library was still closed and it was his job to open it. He had volunteered for the morning shifts since he was a morning person and was happy to open up.

Once he was inside he went through the motions of opening up for day and getting the library ready. Rowan switched on the public computers and then did a walkthrough to make sure everything was looking good. He found a few books abandoned in places where they did not belong and groaned. He loved his job, he loved books.

He had a degree in library studies and once graduated he applied and got a job at Orynth main public library. The place was huge and he had grown up visit the building a lot. He had started using it thanks to his mum who had passed her love for books to him. That love never left him and growing up he realised he wanted a job where he could spend his day with books. But people? People annoyed him. The way they would just abandon books after using them, or the way they sometimes they would not respect the peace of a library. He was not a people person.

He grunted again and placed the books back where they belonged. Then he growled savagely when he noticed one abandoned on a chair, upside down, spine broken and a dog ear on one page as bookmark. Some people deserved to have their library card cut to pieces.

At 9am on the dot he opened up and welcomed his morning regulars “Good morning mrs MacLeod.”

“Oh, good morning, Rowan darling. Is my book here?”

He smiled at the woman and went to the shelf where they kept the returns that had been booked by someone else and grabbed her book.

“Yes,” he passed it to her “it was returned yesterday and we set it aside for you.”

The woman gave him a huge smile and he finished the loan procedure “I hope you will like it. It’s a nice story.”

“I am sure I will, darling. You always recommend me good books.”

He helped her to the door and went back to work, preparing the loan requests they had got online. A wide smile spread on his face at the name he saw on the list. He was not a fan of people but there was one person whose presence he had started to enjoy deeply. She was another regular and a bookworm like him. She had told him that she had to get some of her books from the library to avoid going broke on payday. He had laughed at the joke because it was the same for him.

She was a teacher and on Thursdays she was off and would always visit the library to return a book and get a new one. They would talk about what they were reading and he discovered they had the same tastes and he had been reading a lot of her recommendations. She was just obsessed with books as he was. Rowan had started to admit to himself that he was crushing on her. She had stolen his heart when one day she came to the desk and complained, outraged, that the book she wanted to borrow had a coffee stain on a page. They had raged for ten minutes together at the animals and his heart skipped a beat. It did help as well that the woman was stunning. Her hair was a deep gorgeous blonde and she had the most incredible blue eyes with an unusual ring of gold. Yes, he was definitely a fool in love and Thursdays were his favourite day of the week. Since she started visiting he had never had another Thursday off.

***

Aelin had a bad morning already. She had gone to the gym and found it closed for some obscure reason. Then an idiot on his phone bumped into her and made her spill her coffee. She had shouted a large list of expletives at the savage and left. It was Thursday and she could not let anything ruin her favourite day of the week. She was on her way to the library to collect the book she had reserved. But if she was to be honest to herself, she was looking forward to see Rowan. The librarian had become one of his favourite people, although they only meet once a week, her time spent with him talking about books was always precious.

It did help that the man was hot. As in so unbelievably handsome that he was so out of her league. In the months they had interacted she had developed a crush on him and not just for his unique features. He had short silver hair and the deepest pine green eyes and the days he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows she had spotted a wonderful tattoo in the old language. He had an incredible nice build and tanned skin. He was hotness incarnated. A heart attack on two legs.

Knowing her luck with men, he was happily married, although on a closer inspection she had not spotted a wedding ring. Well, probably a super hot fiancee. She definitely stood no chance with him.

But she had liked him as well because he was smart and loved books just as fiercely she did. He was always ready to suggest some new titles and all his recommendations had been spot on. She had enjoyed every single book. A part of her wished she’d have the courage to ask him out and talk about books perhaps in front of a coffee. Aelin was actually curious to discover what else he liked.

Twenty minutes later she finally reached the public library. She loved that building and her parents had nudged her towards becoming a bookworm. They would read to her and once she was able to read alone, they would gladly buy all the books she wanted. Her childhood home also had a proper library and she would spend hours in there travelling with her imagination.

She stared at the building and finally walked in. She climbed the marble stairs and reached the adult lending library section. On the lower floor they had an area all dedicated to kids.

She opened the glass doors and her eyes went straight to the desk scanning the area for a head of silver hair. Sadness hit her when she did not see him around. It really was going to be the day from hell. She walked to the fiction section and as she turned the corner around a stack of shelves she crashed into someone. What was with her and crashing into people today?

She was about to apologise when she looked up and noticed who she had bumped into. It was Rowan. Gods, even his name was perfect. That day he was wearing a blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, jeans and a pair of rimless glasses. She had so many improper thoughts.

“Aelin, sorry I didn’t see you…” his voice thick with his accent from Wendlyn.

“Hi,” she managed, trying to bring her feelings under control “I thought you were off. I came in and you were not around.” Oh she sounded like a lovestruck teenager.

“I was placing some books back on the shelves.” He indicated the pile in his arms.

Aelin spotted one of the titles “that is a great story. I read it about five times already.” Pointing to a specific title.

Rowan had a look at the book and read the blurb “I’ll set it aside.”

“You look good with glasses.” She blurted out and then blushed. She was flirting like a moron.

He gave her a smile that reached his eyes and her heart skipped a beat. Gods, the things she’d do to him…

“I have the book you reserved, by the way,” and he started walking back to the counter and she followed.

Aelin gave him her card and he processed the loan for her “you know the drill, right?”

“I am going home and spill coffee all over it.” Had it been someone else she knew he would have been horrified but that had become their inside joke. He knew she would never do anything of the sort.

***

Rowan processed her loan and took that moment to think about a good way to ask her out for coffee although he was afraid he was going to get a crushing rejection. She was probably taken already. A woman like her was definitely not single. Plus, she was definitely out of his league. He was about to ask her but froze and decided to leave it.

“I’ll just go and have a look around.” She told him, and he knew she was trying to put some distance between them. How could he even hope she would fall for him? He was the most boring man on earth. That was what Lyria had said when she dumped him. He sighed heavily and went back to his job but his gaze followed Aelin through the bookshelves. In his head he had different conversations he wanted to try. He usually was quite good and in the past he had picked up his share of women in pubs. But with Aelin it was different. He did not want to pass as a pig. All he wanted to tell her was that he found her attractive and fascinating and take her out for a coffee. Then he had an idea.

He walked to a shelf and picked a book that he knew she’d love. He was planning on recommending it to her another time but that was now his tool for his plan.

He scribbled down a note on a post it and placed it in the book, then walked to her “I was meaning to recommend you this one. Loads of angst but it’s a great story, and the female main character is just as badass as you like it. I already checked it out for you.”

The smile she gave him left him breathless “Thank you, Rowan. That’s why you are my favourite librarian.”

Eventually she had to leave and he wished it was Thursday already.

***

It was later in the afternoon when she got home after all her errands. She took her two books from her messenger bag and flipped through the one Rowan had given her until she spotted something bright green through the pages. She reached the post it note and read it.

I think you are perfect and a very fascinating woman. I will eagerly wait for next Thursday. Hopefully you will let me take you out for a coffee. Rowan.

She squealed in delight and texted Lysandra straight away to tell her about the message Rowan had left her. Rowan, the hottest librarian in the whole of Orynth wanted to go out for coffee with her. She could not believe it was happening, and she had to wait until next Thursday. She was off on Saturday but she had no idea if Rowan worked. She could try, she was so impatient to see him again that waiting was not an option.

***

Rowan got home later that night, got changed and crashed on the sofa and noticed the book abandoned there. It was one of the many Aelin had recommended to him. It was a great story, she definitely had great taste. He grabbed the book and thought about Aelin and the message he had left her. He had been so stupid. It was not high school, they were both adults and leaving messages like a lovestruck teenager was beyond pathetic. He should have talked to her like human beings did. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the sofa. He had probably blown every chance with her. Who would ever go out with a guy who couldn’t even ask a girl out?

The following Thursday

Rowan had opened the library as usual but on that day a sense of unease was making him nervous. He still could not think about the stupid move about putting a message in a book for Aelin. He was positive she was going to ignore him the next time, or stop visiting altogether.

The morning had been busy with new applicants, his usual customers and an avalanche of requests to set books aside. Panic caught him when he saw one from Aelin. Which meant she was coming in and he was not ready. What could he say to her? Sorry I am bad at talking to people so I write secret messages like a teenager? He was embarrassed and he was not ready when he spotted her golden mane of hair appear at the main entrance. He tried to hide but she had spotted him and was now walking towards him with a huge grin. His heart started racing. Was just an impression or she was more gorgeous than usual?

Rowan saw her come to the desk and diligently wait for her turn while he finished serving the three people in front of her.

“Hi stranger,” she said to him once it was her turn.

Rowan felt a savage blush rise on his face “Hi you. I assume you are here for your book.”

Aelin nodded and passed him her library card “and for a coffee date.”

Rowan froze halfway to the computer. He cleared his voice “so you saw my message.”

“And I loved the idea. It reminded me of one of the books I read recently where one of the guard is in love with the princess, they are both bookworms and leave each other messages in books because they need to keep their relationship a secret.”

Rowan smiled “You got me. I took the idea from that book.”

The smile she gave him had the power to almost knock the breath out of his lungs.

“I don’t have school on Saturday. Fancy going out for a coffee?”

Rowan nodded “do you know the coffee shop around the corner from here?”

Aelin nodded in assent “I love that place.”

“I am off this Saturday, so if you want we can go then. It would be lovely to know more about my favourite customer.”

She took a step closer to him, only the counter separating them “favourite customer, eh?”

“Well, the one who gets outraged at people mistreating books. The one who understands my pain.”

Aelin cackled and her hand brushed his when she grabbed the card he was returning to her.

“I have only one condition.” He added softly.

“Hm?”

“You let me pay. You can scoff as many pastries as you want. It’s my treat.”

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek “it’s a date.”

When she pulled back she noticed his beautiful green eyes set on her. Maybe she had been too forward?

He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something down “my number.”

Aelin grabbed the piece of paper happily and winked at him “Now I have to go. I have loads to do.”

Rowan was sad at the idea “Of course. I will see you Saturday, then?”

“Saturday.” Her heart raced and then walked out of the library thinking that she could not wait two more days before seeing him again.

Rowan followed her with his gaze, happy that she had appreciated and understood the message idea. His hand touched the spot on the cheek that she had kissed and he was positive he was grinning like a lunatic.

They had a coffee date. He could not believe his luck.

But most of all he could not wait for Saturday.

He went to the stacks, looked for a specific book and checked it out under his name, then scribbled a message on a post it and placed it in the book and set it aside.

Ready for Aelin.

She was his Thursday crush.

#rowan whitethorn #rowaelinmonth #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fanfiction #day 4 #fluff #aelin galathynius

79 notes · View notes

creativitytoexplore · 4 years ago

Photo

The Trophy Wife by Rhema Sayers https://ift.tt/302i037 When Jessica's overbearing husband has a heart attack after a skiing accident, she and her sister-in law suspect foul play; by Rhema Sayers.

Hank Tavison, age forty-six, tanned, buff, ruggedly handsome, with his young, gorgeous, fifth wife at his side, leaned back in the ski lift chair, letting the cold wind blow through his thick dark hair. "What a great day!" he enthused as Jessica shifted uncomfortably in the seat next to him. She kept her gaze locked on the back of the seat ahead and her gloved hands clenched on the safety bar. "You're going to love this." Hank continued. "There's nothing like a brilliant, sunny day on the slopes with the wind in your face. You'll feel like you're flying!" "Are you sure I ought to start on this slope? I've never skied before. It looks awfully steep." "Don't worry. You'll catch on quick." "I'm a little scared, Hank." He glanced at her irritably. "Don't get whiny. You'll spoil the whole day." And he turned his attention back to the slopes. Jessica turned her face away to hide the anger and the tears. Her muscles relaxed slightly as she spotted the terminus coming up. Hank pulled up the safety bar as the seat slid into the station. Jessica stood, propelled forward by the motion of the lift and a small push from Hank's hand. She barely managed to keep her skis under her. The seat veered off to the left, starting its run back down. That's when she noticed that the back of Hank's parka was caught on the foot rest and Hank himself was hanging limply underneath the seat. He and the parka and the seat were moving together inexorably toward the drop off. Jessica began to scream, losing her precarious balance and falling sideways into a group of people, causing a domino effect. By the time they'd sorted themselves out and gotten Jessica back on her feet, the lift attendants had stopped the motion of the seats. Hank dangled twenty feet above the snow, swaying gently. A sound of fabric ripping prefaced the graceful descent of his body, which bounced twice and then rolled several yards until a tree intervened in its downward progress. Jessica started to scream again.

The medical examiner ruled it death by natural causes, declining to do an autopsy, when he learned that Hank had been on both simvastatin and an ACE inhibitor for cholesterol and hypertension. The death certificate listed myocardial infarction as the cause of death and the ME returned to the seven autopsies he was unable to avoid from the three-car accident on the interstate.

Jessica flew home with Hank in cargo. It should have been cheaper that way, she thought, but no. The charges for transporting a dead body were outrageous. The airline officials had carefully explained it all to her, but she was too exhausted to listen. She stared out the window at the clouds below. After Hank died, Jessica had been surprised at how well she'd borne up under the stress. In fact, she'd been quite proud of herself. She was stronger than Hank had realized. Recently she had become aware of Hank's developing interest in the new agent at work, a young and particularly attractive woman named Mandi. Hank had often shown personal interest in new agents, at least if they were female and good looking. Jessica had been a new agent once herself - before she married Hank. She had a good idea where this 'interest' would have led. Now she was a widow. She sighed. She'd miss Hank. Frown lines appeared on her forehead as she remembered his overbearing, demanding, pompous personality. Well - maybe she wouldn't miss him that much. Widow actually had a nice sound to it. She leaned back into the first-class seat, sipping a glass of Merlot, and smiled.

When she arrived in Tucson, the airline official was very gracious, hovering over her. He took over arrangements for the coffin. Jessica found a porter and led the way to Hank's - no, her - BMW. Climbing in behind the steering wheel, she adjusted the seat, then noticed the smell of Hank's shaving lotion. She rolled the windows down. Her sister-in-law, Deborah, was sitting on her front porch when she pulled into the driveway. Jessica's fingers tightened on the steering wheel and her foot slipped off the brake. She nearly plowed into Deborah's Mercedes. Deborah always made her nervous. The woman found fault with everything Jessica said or did. As Jessica skidded to a stop two inches from the Mercedes' bumper, Deborah rose from her seat and walked down the flagstone path. "Thank you for not hitting my car, Jessica," she said in greeting. Flustered, Jessica could only mutter, "Hello," as she climbed out of the car. Not looking at Deborah, she opened the trunk and pulled out her suitcases. Picking up the bags, Jessica turned to find Deborah, hands on hips, blocking her way. "Excuse me, Deb. I need to get in the house." Deborah didn't move. "I want an autopsy." she said, her face stony. Jessica felt her jaw drop. "What? Why? The coroner in Nevada didn't see any reason for one." Deborah's eyes narrowed. "Because I don't believe he had a cardiac arrest. I think someone murdered him." Her gaze speared Jessica. Jessica dropped her suitcases and stepped back. "Me? You think I killed Hank? For God's sake, Deborah! He just dropped dead! He was fine and then he was dead." She stared at Deborah and then the stress and tension and exhaustion of the past two days caught up with her. She swayed on her feet and burst into tears. Deborah's reaction was astounding, as the dreaded sister-in-law put an arm around her, grabbed one of the bags and helped her up to the porch. Unlocking the front door with Jessica's key, she parked Jessica on the couch and went to get the other bag. As she gazed around her living room, at the stark white walls that Hank had liked, one part of Jessica's mind made a mental note to call an interior decorator next week. Sitting down next to her, Deborah said, "Look, Jessica. I'm not accusing you of anything. But I just cannot believe that Hank died that way. Something happened. Something caused his death. Something - someone - killed him." "I was sitting right next to him, Deborah. He wasn't shot or anything. He just died. And there wasn't anything anyone could do. They tried CPR when they got to him, but it didn't work." She regarded the rustic coffee table and ranch-style couches with distaste. The furniture would have to go, too. The thought cheered her up. She controlled her sobs. Sniffling, she looked at Deborah. "Okay. I kind of wanted an autopsy anyway. I asked about it in Colorado, but they said it wasn't necessary and I'd have to pay for it." Deborah cocked her head. "Why did you want an autopsy?" she asked. "Because it was so weird. I mean, like, he just dropped dead. Yeah, he was on meds for cholesterol and high blood pressure, but... It just doesn't make sense." She paused. "So when they wanted to embalm him before they sent him home, I said no." "Good girl!" Deborah looked at her with a glimmer of respect. "I have a friend in the county coroner's office. They can do the autopsy tomorrow. You just have to okay it." Jessica nodded. "Let's do it."

The autopsy showed significant coronary artery disease, but no evidence of a myocardial infarction. The pathologist noted that Hank appeared to otherwise be in good health. Toxicology samples were taken and blood tests sent, but those would take a few days. Meanwhile Jessica had to deal with the details of the funeral and the reception afterward.

The day of the funeral was overcast, drizzling off and on. Appropriate weather for a funeral, thought Jessica as she entered the crowded church. Hank had been rich, powerful, a mover in this town. She looked at faces - some she knew, many were unfamiliar - and wondered if anyone here had actually liked Hank. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she hadn't really liked him, although she had loved him - at least at first. Sitting next to Deborah in the front row in her little black dress and pearls, Jessica found herself nodding off as she tried to listen to the droning of the minister at the pulpit. Deborah poked her with an elbow a couple of times as her head drooped. Would the man never stop talking? She hadn't slept well since Hank's death and wondered whether she really was missing him. Somewhere behind her a loud snore overrode the minister's words, resulting in chuckles and titters. The preacher apparently took that as a sign because he finally drew to a close. After a couple of hymns the congregation rose and filed out. Jessica and Deborah stood in line, speaking with Hank's friends and business associates. Jessica looked at the ranks of people still waiting to talk to her and shuddered. The rain had stopped for the moment. An elderly gentleman was holding her hand and expressing his condolences, when Jessica noticed a tall, good looking man in his thirties, standing at the bottom of the church steps, looking at her. He wore an Armani suit and had loosened his tie. His dark hair was a bit too long and unruly and his grey eyes were sharp as they met her gaze. He nodded once and then turned and walked away. The reception was torture. She forgot the names of several people, including Hank's partner's wife. She knew she should remember most of these people, but her mind refused to cooperate. Deborah stayed with her, greeting important clients and close friends by name each time, so that Jessica could keep up. She wondered why she had disliked Deborah. The woman was a life saver. But this was the first time she had ever spent time with Deborah without Hank around. They were getting to know one another. Jessica kept a smile frozen in place and shook dozens of hands, although all she could think about was getting home and curling up with a book and a glass of Chardonnay and some aspirin. Her head hurt. And so did her feet. Eventually the crowd had eaten its way through the mountains of hors d'oeuvres and drunk the gallons of wine and alcohol she had provided, and began to dissipate. Trying to avoid any guests still grazing on the buffet, she had taken a glass of wine out to the patio, where she was slumped in a chair, watching the skies weep, when someone sat next to her. She looked up to meet those same grey eyes she had seen earlier. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. She had no idea who he was. "Hi." She pasted the smile back on her face. His face was craggy, carved from stone, but handsome in an odd sort of way. He had a scar extending up from the middle of his right eyebrow, which raised the brow and gave him a perpetually questioning look. He didn't smile back. "Your husband owed me $100,000." he said without preamble and then just stared at her. Jessica sat up straighter. "What? What for?" "For services rendered." was the reply. "Are you joking? What services? Do you have a bill?" Jessica managed to keep her voice even. "This is not a joke. In my line of work, we don't use any paperwork, or computers either. And you don't want to know what services." His voice was low and pleasant. For a long moment Jessica sat with her mouth open, staring at this... this man. If she was reading him right, he was implying that Hank had been involved in something illegal. "I don't understand what you're talking about." He stared back at her. "Maybe you don't. But that doesn't make any difference. You still owe me 100K." "Fine. You can present my lawyer with an itemized bill and the estate will pay you in due time." He glowered. "Look, lady..." "My name is Mrs. Tavison, Mr... What is your name anyway?" "You can call me Max. Look, Jessica," he continued in a softer voice. "It doesn't work that way. Hank told me to take care of a couple of problems. I took care of them. Then he has a heart attack and I haven't been paid yet." "And I am supposed to fork over the money just because you say so? I don't know you. And I don't know what kind of problems you take care of. So, either come up with an itemized bill, or get lost." The rain was coming down harder now and gusts of wind blew under the eaves, drenching them both. Jessica hurriedly rose and turned to go inside, but her heel caught between the flagstones and she fell sideways, crying out. Strong arms grabbed her and lifted her up. For the first time he smiled and she couldn't help noticing that it was a very nice smile, especially the way his eyes were twinkling, too. He scooped her and the errant shoe up and carried her into the building. Grinning down at her, he said, "I don't know if you did it on purpose or not, but that was fun." "Did it on purpose?" she snarled. "Put me down!" and then nearly fell again as she tried to stand, forgetting that she had on only one shoe. He steadied her. She tried to push him away, but he was just too damn big and she wobbled in the attempt. He held on to her arm as she angrily kicked off the other shoe. He was continuing to smile down at her. "Have you had lunch yet?" he asked. She gaped up at him for a moment. Then, grabbing her shoes, she stormed out of the room. A chuckle floated after her.

There was a lot to do following the funeral, legal matters to attend to, debts to be paid, the business to run. The will had left everything to her. She was surprised but pleased. Knowing she was an equal made it easier, when she went into her first meeting with Hank's partner, David Colson. He stood from behind his desk as she entered, leaning forward to shake her hand. Waving her to a chair, he asked, "How are you holding up, Jessica?" She smiled, crossing her legs, trying to appear poised. "I'm doing fine, Thank you, David. I wanted to discuss the business with you." "Well, yes..." David remained standing for a moment, looking at her, then resumed his seat. The door opened and James Halliday came in. He was the company accountant. He took a seat next to David's desk so that both men were behind the desk, facing her. David leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I asked Jim to join us because I have a proposal for you, Jessica." He lifted a file off his desk and handed it across to her. She opened the file and glanced at it. They wanted to buy her out. She looked at the total amount and gently tossed the file back on his desk. "That's very nice of you, but the answer is no. I'm not interested in being bought out. Don't forget that I worked here for a couple of years before I married Hank. I know this business well and I have some ideas I'd like to propose to you." The two men sat quite still for a moment. David's face darkened and he leaned forward abruptly. "Look. If it's not enough money, we can negotiate that." "I don't want the money. I want the business." The two men laughed.

Two weeks after the funeral, the Medical Examiner's report came out and the police appeared at her doorstep. The toxicology reports had shown that Hank had died of cyanide poisoning. The theory was that he had ingested a capsule containing the poison at breakfast and that a sufficient amount of cyanide had been released as he was about to get off the ski lift to kill him instantly. Jessica was stunned. She was the prime suspect. The older of the two detectives leaned forward. "Can you go over exactly what happened that morning from the time you got out of bed, Mrs. Tavison?" He was overweight and balding, dressed in an off-the-rack suit that looked like it had been slept in. There were grease stains on his tie, and a weariness in his eyes that unnerved her. She had no trouble remembering that breakfast, despite the later events of that morning. Hank had forbidden her request for scrambled eggs and toast, saying that it was too fattening. Instead he ordered unbuttered toast and black coffee for her, while he ate bacon and eggs, English muffins, and fruit. She had nibbled at the toast. Several people had stopped by their table, friends of Hank's they had traveled with. She had visited the ladies' room. The waiter, she remembered, had been young and good looking and had given her a sympathetic look. She answered all their questions and wondered if she needed a lawyer. Later that day she found a note stuck in the front door. "You still owe me 100K. But I really would like to buy you lunch."

She began going over the books with Hank's accountant, James Halliday. Halliday assumed that she was incapable of understanding what he was showing her. He was wrong. She took the accounts to a reputable firm and found out that Colson and Halliday had been cooking the books for years, skimming off hundreds of thousands of dollars each year. When she called Halliday into her office, she enjoyed the look on his face when she fired him. As for David, she carefully explained his alternatives: prison or selling out to her at a reasonable (to her) amount. He took the money and ran.

Jessica usually worked late, leaving the office at 8 or 9pm. As she locked up on a Tuesday evening, a voice behind her said, "It's a lovely evening." She screamed and bounced off the door. A tall man stood, outlined against the streetlamp, his features in shadow. "Sorry, Jessica," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you." She recognized the voice of the hard-faced man with the twinkling gray eyes from the funeral. "Jesus, Max. You scared the shit out of me." She glared at him. "I don't have your 100K. So go away." She saw his teeth flash in a smile. "Well, can I have a consolation prize then?" He reached out, took her hand, and kissed the back of it. "May I take you to dinner?" Jessica snatched her hand back, although the kiss had been very nice. "You are way too pushy." He frowned. "What did I do wrong?" Her eyebrows rose. "Well. You scared me." He nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I thought you heard me coming up the walk." Then he grinned. "So how about that dinner?" The light shown in his face now and his eyes were twinkling again. Jessica sighed. "Look, Max. I'm really tired. It's been a long day and I..." "I'll bet you're hungry, too." he interrupted. "I know a quiet place where the food is good and the service is fast. I won't pester you with talk. Come on." And he turned toward a dark convertible parked illegally in front of the building. She found herself following him. She really was hungry. The restaurant was indeed quiet and they had salads in front of them in fifteen minutes. Jessica waited for him to say something, but Max concentrated on his food, occasionally looking at her with that dazzling smile. Finally she had to ask. "Are you a hit man?" He had just drunk some water and much of it sprayed across the table as he choked. Laughing and wiping up the water from the table, he regarded her. "I guess it could look that way, couldn't it?" "Yes." "I'm a private investigator, Jess. But the investigations I undertake can be... umm..." "Shady?" "Yeah. I guess you could say that. I tend to walk on the edge." "So what did Hank hire you to investigate?" "Not what. Who." "Okay. Who? The big man grinned at her and there was a bit of wolf in that grin. "Well, you - for one." "Me?" Jessica squeaked. People turned to look. "What he said was, 'Every other one of my wives cheated on me. Jessica doesn't seem to be doing that. So I must be missing something.' He was paranoid about cheating wives. I had done the investigations on his last two wives. They were definitely cheating on him." "You were spying on me?" Now he found a sudden interest in his steak. "Well, you know. It's just a job." "It's a disgusting job!" Now he looked up with narrowed eyes. "No. It's not. Surveillance doesn't turn me into a Peeping Tom. Yes. I followed you - for three weeks. Most boring surveillance I can remember. You went shopping. You met friends for lunch. You met a friend at her work. You went to the movies. You even went to church. You never set one foot out of line and that's what I reported." He stared at her for a moment longer, then took a sip of wine. "But that's not what Hank owes me for." Jessica looked at him expectantly. Max leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Hank knew about the embezzlement at the office." He grinned at her. "You figured it out pretty quick. I was impressed." He took a sip of wine. "The reason Halliday was embezzling was because of his gambling debts." His eyes met hers. "You probably don't know, but Jim Halliday has disappeared." She jerked upright. "What? Did they kill him?" Max shook his head. "I don't know. He may have gone into hiding." Jessica looked down at the fish on her plate. "So what were you doing for Hank?" Max leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. "A few years ago, before you met him, Hank got himself involved in buying and selling used cars. He mentioned once that the profits were great. Then he found out that the cars were stolen. He tried backing out, but the guys who ran the operation didn't want to let him. They started blackmailing him about four years ago. He finally got tired of it and hired me to get them off his back." Jessica stared at him. "So what happened?" Max raised his eyebrows. "I got rid of them." "What? Just like that? You got rid of the bad guys? What are you? Some kind of superhero?" Max frowned. "No. But I'm very good at my work. Which includes getting rid of bad guys." He finished his wine and glanced at her half-eaten fish. "You want some dessert?" She shook her head. "No. Thank you. I just want to go home." She was quiet in the car, except for saying, "I guess I don't have to give you directions." He smiled slightly. "No." He walked her up onto the porch and waited until she had the door open, then stepped through and moved quickly through the house with a gun in his hand, checking every room. Jessica stood with her mouth open for a full minute before she stomped after him. She yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" as she ran up the steps to the second floor. He was clearing her bedroom. At least, that's what she thought he was doing. He ignored her until he had examined every room and closet. "Nice house," he said, grinning as he put his gun away in a shoulder holster. They were in her second-floor office. "Are you going to tell me why you just looked into every corner of my home, acting like a secret agent on TV?" The grin ran away from his face. Eyes dark, he looked at her. "I'm worried that you may be vulnerable to the same people who were blackmailing Hank." "I thought you said you took care of them." "I... ummm... encouraged the bosses to go elsewhere." He planted his hip on the edge of her desk. "But I can't be sure that they didn't arrange to have Hank murdered. Or that they might come after you. You have the money now, after all." Jessica stood very still, considering him. "How do I know you're telling the truth?" He looked down at the rug for a moment, then raised his eyes to hers. "I don't know that you can. What I did for Hank," he waved his hand vaguely. "I can't exactly document that." He stood and walked to her. "Look, Jess. Just make sure all your windows and doors are locked. Keep them that way during the day, too. And take my card." He handed her a business card. "Put the number in your phone. Call me... any time, day, or night... if you're at all worried. If you hear something strange. Or see something odd. Call me. Before you dial 911. I'll be here in minutes." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Stay safe," he said as he walked out. Jessica remained standing, looking at his card for several minutes. Then she put her finger on the spot he had kissed before she went downstairs and locked the doors.

When word arrived at the office that Jim Halliday's body was found in a shallow grave in the desert, Jessica left without explanation. She went home, closed all the curtains, and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a long time before she fell asleep. A light was turned on in the dark bedroom and she sat up abruptly. Max stood next to the bed. He sat down at the foot. She noticed he had put a blanket over her while she slept. "How long have you been here? And how did you get in?" "About five hours. And Hank gave me a key." Her emotions warred between exasperation and gratitude. "Why did you come?" "I figured you'd be upset. I thought you might want someone to talk to." "You are the most impertinent man I've ever met." He smiled, and the twinkle returned to his eyes. "Did Hank ever really see you? The smart, independent, tough spirit?" She shook her head, although she wasn't sure if it was in answer to his question or in exasperation. "All Hank wanted was another in a series of dumb blondes. He would have replaced me in a couple of years." "No one could replace you, Jess." She looked up, eyes wide, when she heard the warmth in his voice. He quickly looked down at the floor. "Hank was an idiot." He reached over and took her hand. "Are you okay? I mean, after hearing about Halliday." Her gaze fell to his hand, gently holding hers. The fingers were long and strong, and sun bleached hairs glowed red in the lamp light. "I feel like... I don't know. Like I'm responsible for his death. I went after him and when I found out what he was doing, I threw him out. And he couldn't pay those monsters any longer, so they killed him." She gripped his hand tightly. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Max reached out and pulled her into his arms and held her while she cried. "It wasn't your fault at all. You're not responsible. He made his own decisions, and he knew what the consequences could be." Getting her tears under control, she disentangled herself from him. "Well. Thank you, Max. I appreciate your being here. But now I'd like you to go," she lied. He was out the door before she remembered that he still had a key.

Weeks passed. Jessica had to fire one of her employees. He had no clue that he was a sexual predator. He just didn't get it. He thought his behavior was normal and no amount of counseling was going to change that. Her female employees did not think his behavior was normal and were delighted when he went out the door for the last time. It occurred to Jessica that she was accumulating enemies. Max had disappeared. She thought she caught a glimpse of him in a crowd downtown once but couldn't be sure. She realized that she missed him, which irritated her. Flying to Los Angeles on business, she spotted a man who looked like him going into an airport bathroom, but she couldn't wait around to see if he came out. Then one night, as she was locking up to go home, he was there beside her. This time, she didn't flinch. At least, not as much. "Get back inside," he whispered. She didn't argue, just unlocked the door, and re-entered the building. He crowded through behind her, closing the door, and locking it. The lights were off, but the streetlamps outside made it possible to see. "What?" she asked. "Two men in a dark sedan half a block down. They got out of the car when you turned the lights out." He peeked through a window. "I don't know where they are now." "Were you downtown when I had to go file papers at City Hall? And were you in LA when I flew out there?" He turned to look at her, then shook his head as he turned back to the window. "I must be losing my touch." "You're following me again? Why?" "Somebody has to keep an eye on you." She opened her mouth to speak but screamed as a flaming object broke one of the front windows. Fire exploded across the waiting area. She cut off the scream and yanked her arm away from Max as he pulled her toward the door. Opening a closet door, she pulled out two fire extinguishers and handed one to Max. The flames succumbed to the foam rapidly. Stepping over to the receptionist's desk, she reached down and pressed a button on the underside of the desk. Sirens began to wail and floodlights went on outside, sweeping the parking lot and lawn. "The fire department has been notified. They're only four blocks away." She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the street. "I doubt those thugs will stick around." As if to tell her they were still there, full automatic gunfire tore out the rest of the front windows. Max knocked Jessica to the floor. "Are you okay?" they asked almost simultaneously. The shooting stopped, as did the sirens. Everything was quiet, although they could hear more sirens in the distance. Max lay half on top of her. He didn't move. Finally, she squirmed out from under him. He chuckled. "Damn. I was enjoying that."

Max disappeared before the police arrived. The firemen looked around and told her she had done a good job, putting out the flames. The police looked at the bullet holes in the walls and the Molotov cocktail and asked a lot of questions. Then the same two detectives who had interviewed her about Hank's murder appeared and the questioning turned into an interrogation.

The next day, she stayed home, sitting at her computer. It took a while, but she was able to trace Max through the files of the Arizona Department of Public Safety. His name was Gerald Maxwell Avery and he was a PI, registered with the state. He had an address on Broadway in Tucson. His office was in a small two-story building, among other unusual businesses, such as a tailor, an import business, and a massage parlor. A pizza restaurant capped the end of the line and wafted delicious smells into the air. His name was on the door, but the door was locked. Frustrated, she stood, glaring at the offending door. Max reached around from behind her and inserted a key in the lock. She jumped, emitting a little squeal. "Stop doing that!" she snarled. "Doing what?" he asked, as he opened the door. "Sneaking up on me." He just smiled as he ushered her inside. "Okay. You found me. Now what?" She walked behind his desk and sat down, leaving him standing. "Now you tell me what you've found out about the people who bombed my office." "It's the same mob I dealt with for Hank." She nodded. "Well, that takes care of one problem." She responded to his raised eyebrow. "I do not owe you any money. Obviously you did not 'take care' of these people as you claimed." She smiled sweetly up at him. "Therefore, you did not earn any money." He considered her for a moment. "Okay. I can see that point of view. I'll forget about the bill." Continuing to stare at her, he asked, "How much did you tell the police last night?" She was looking around the sparsely furnished room. "Everything. Except about you." She threw him a smile. "I couldn't figure out how to explain you." He was leaning against the closed door as she wandered around the receptionist's office. "That's good," he said. She turned to look at him. His head was down and he was staring at the floor. "What's the matter?" she asked. He raised his gaze to meet hers. "The matter is that you're so much smarter and nosier than Hank ever was. I can't even scare you off." He shook his head. "Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone, Jessica?" The last came out as a shout. She scuttled back behind the desk. "I don't understand." "You were going to keep on probing and digging until you found the answers. You just can't give up." He turned and slammed his fist against the wall. "Damn you!" She stood very still. "Are you saying that the answers would have implicated you, Max?" He turned back to look at her, his eyes dark. "Did you kill Hank? Did you kill Jim Halliday?" He sighed. "Hank wanted to go public with the scheme, go to the police, tell everything. I was at the ski resort that morning. I waited until you went to the restroom before I leaned over the table beside Hank. Slipping the time delayed cyanide capsule in his eggs was easy. He swallowed it on the next bite." "After you fired him, Halliday didn't have any reason to keep quiet. He was on his way to the cops when I got to him." He dropped his gaze as he pulled a gun from his pocket. "I'm so sorry, Jess. I think I was starting to fall for you." He raised the gun, but Jessica ducked behind the desk. He sighed again but didn't say anything. She heard his footsteps. "Now!" she yelled. The door burst open and a SWAT team exploded into the room. Max hesitated only a second before laying the gun on the desk and getting down on the floor, his hands behind him. A commotion at the door resolved when Deborah pushed her way through the cops. The SWAT team was trying to stop the unstoppable. She grabbed Jessica and they hung on to each other tightly. Jessica looked down at Max as cops swarmed over him. He twisted his neck so that he could see her. He smiled and his eyes twinkled. "You know," he said. "I'm sort of glad it ended this way." She knelt beside him. "Damn you. Why couldn't you have been real?" Then she stood and walked out, ripping off the wire she had been wearing under her jacket and wiping the tears from her eyes.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

0 notes

shineesbackbitches · 8 years ago

Photo

In what kind of God-forsaken universe did your ex-boyfriend’s newly minted girlfriend invite you to their housewarming party?

It wasn’t just insulting, it was-- it was-- absolute fuckery!

Who the hell?!

To say the least, you were spitting mad, stomping around in your work shoes with such aggression that the heel of one had snapped.

Thus, you found yourself pouting at the local cobbler’s shop. He was a friend of yours: Ilhoon, a fashionista to the core with a shamelessly dorky exterior.

Fiddling with the heel of your shoe as he allowed the glue to set, he nodded along as you explained the sheer outrage of your current situation.

“So?” He said finally. “Don’t go.”

“How can I not go?” You fretted. “I know they sent me this damned invitation just to see me chicken out and bury my head in the sand. How can I let them be right?”

“Why do you care? They aren’t a significant part of your life anymore-- they’re assholes.”

“They’re assholes who’re gloating about how happy they are and I don’t really care that they’re together anymore-- I don’t-- I’m totally over him, I would never want to be in a relationship with him again. I may not be in love, but that doesn’t mean I’m not angry!” Crossing your arms over your chest, you lean back with a huff.

Way back when, you’d been very much in love with your ex-boyfriend, Shin. He was good-looking, smooth, intelligent, and-- as a result-- a very successful businessman. In other words, he was everything your mother had ever wanted you to date. But you’d come home one evening to find him in bed with a pair of long, milky, unfamiliar legs slung around his hips and the smell of sex and sweat in the air.

You had promptly slammed the door and turned on your heel, walking out of Shin’s life.

The next morning, however, you had returned to your apartment after he’d left, put his shit into a trash bag, and tossed it out onto the street. Following that, you hadn’t heard from Shin, though you had spent many nights crying into the soft cashmere of Ilhoon’s designer sweaters, his comforting hugs your only solace for the duration of your post-breakup angst.

Well, maybe not entirely.

You’d partaken in a lot of vodka too.

“Don’t you think going is just going to make you feel worse in the long run?” Ilhoon pointed out worriedly.

“No. I want them to see how well I’m doing. That I’m really enjoying life and I’m better off, you know?”

“Well, you’re at least gonna have a bangin’ pair of shoes,” He grinned.

Ding!

Your phone chirped from inside your purse, prompting you to pull it out and unlock it. It was from an unknown number.

‘Hey, Y/N, this is Shin’s girlfriend. He said you blocked him on facebook so he couldn’t message you-- which is a little weird-- don’t you work together? I got your number from your LinkedIn to make sure you got our invite since I didn’t get your RSVP. Anyway, hope to see you at the party this Friday!’

Oh.

Shin hadn’t even told the poor girl about your history with him? You were just the girl from work? This was too good. You were going to destroy this boy. But there was the problem of the girlfriend… She seemed sweet. At the very least, you didn’t think she knew you’d been dating Shin when he’d taken her home. No one at the office had.

“It would look bad for you to be dating me when we work together,” Shin would say. He’d tried to excuse hiding your relationship; you’d chosen not to be suspicious.

Thus, you were left with a problem: you needed to make it clear you were not happy with Shin, but you also needed to protect his girlfriend from getting her feelings hurt-- you certainly had no intention of making a scene and embarrassing her.

“You’re gonna have to buy them a housewarming gift, you know…” Ilhoon handed you your repaired high heel.

Taking the proffered shoe, you grumbled, “What’s the point? He doesn’t want reminders of me in his home with her. He’ll just throw it out.”

“Why don’t you just bring something they’ll have to throw out anyway then? Like flowers?”

Something about his suggestion struck you.

You shot to your feet, hopping around as you slid on your sensible black pump. Grinning, you waved, already heading for the door, “Ilhoon, you’re a genius!”

His head cocked to the side and he blinked owlishly, watching you stride purposefully out of his shop and down the block of local businesses. “... What did I say?”

A cursory glance up and down the row of storefronts saw your gaze alighting on a little flower shop with a fully glass storefront, the panes painted sky blue, doors wide open. Baskets of flowers hung from the overhang of the porch and pre-prepared bouquets sat in metal buckets filled with water. ‘Miss Lee’s’ read the sign over the door. It was cute and the open doors immediately drew you in.

The interior walls were unpainted red brick, and iron wrought rods of industrial lighting were strategically placed around the room to the advantage of the flowers and the natural light streaming in from the front windows. Strings of colorful blown glass bubbles floated from fishing wire fastened to the beams of the high ceilings. The shelves were filled with all sorts of succulents and quirky vases. All different shades of carnations, roses, orchids, and lilies bloomed from buckets scattered around the room. Snapdragons, daisies, tulips, and sunflowers winked brightly at you, making the room seem to smile with their happy, summery hues. The shop was gorgeous.

Nevertheless, you were here on a mission. Marching right up to the counter, where an employee had his back turned as he worked on an arrangement, you pulled a twenty from your pocket, smacked it down on the lacquered wood, and asked determinedly, “How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?”

Startled, the employee turned around, glancing down at the twenty then up at your face. “Um…”

Well, shit. You hadn’t thought this through at all, and now you were faced with, well, the human personification of beauty.

His eyes were sweet and almond-shaped, with lashes so thick and long you might have mistook him for a girl. Except for the muscles rippling beneath the tight shirt that strained over his chest.

Hooo boy.

You did your best not to stare-- really.

But when your request finally computed with him, he threw back his head with such a full-bodied laugh, how could you not?

His thin upper lip pulled back to reveal slightly large teeth, lending him a somewhat squirrely appearance. It certainly didn’t detract from his features. If anything, you were quite charmed by it.

“I’m sorry,” his laughter began to splutter out, “but what?”

Heat crept up your neck to leave a heavy flush on your cheeks. “... I need you to make me a bouquet for someone. My ex invited me to his housewarming party with his new girlfriend and she texted me to ask why I haven’t rsvp-ed and I’ve just realized that she isn’t a fake bitch, she really has no clue that the asshole cheated on me or that we ever even dated but now I feel obligated to go and I need to bring a gift because that’s polite but I know he’s gonna toss it so I shouldn’t spend a lot of money on it or anything but I still want to kill him and make a scene but that would be so rude and Yun Jae-- the new girlfriend-- doesn’t deserve that kind of humiliation and it isn’t my business--” Your mouth snapped shut as you realized that you’d just been rambling to this total stranger.

His brows inched towards his hairline; a thoughtful hum passed his lips, “So you need a… a hate bouquet?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Relief flooded your expression. Finally! Someone understood you.

He began writing on a small legal pad next to the register, taking your twenty from the counter and putting it in the register. “All right. And when do you need it by?”

“Friday evening.”

“Perfect,” he flashed you a gleaming smile, pushing the pad of paper towards you. “Could you leave your name, number, and preferred pick-up time here?”

“Of course!” You chirped, scribbling out the requested info.

“Great. So why don’t you drop by tomorrow and I’ll show you my design for the floral arrangement?”

Minhyuk had been a little surprised when he’d turned around and saw a fierce little thing like you. He’d never gotten a request for a hate bouquet before. Chuckling to himself as you nodded and promised to come back tomorrow, he glanced down at his notes for your request. What an odd way to express displeasure… With flowers. He got the feeling that you were the type of person who had trouble being impolite even at your own expense. And this would be at your expense-- he frowned to himself, thinking of the flowers he was likely to put into the arrangement. It would definitely be more than twenty dollars.

But he recalled the bright, righteous anger in your eyes and the rosy hue your cheeks had taken on and found himself drawn in. What a curious person. His eyes fell to the name you’d left for him.

Y/N…

How pretty.

The next day came more quickly than he’d anticipated, but either way he was prepared with a design for you.

He was not prepared, however, for you to walk into his shop in your office clothes looking like, well, like… Well, beautiful and soft.

Your feminine figure was sheathed in a peachy pink dress that cinched at the waist with a thin, tan belt and fell to your knees, hair falling around your face in loose, romantic curls. But his eyes weren’t fixed on your gorgeous sloping hips or your dainty feet encased in nude stilettos. They had caught on the pleasant shade of pink dusting your cheeks and the gloss coating your plump lips. And when you’d ended the conversation you’d been having over the phone, putting the device into your purse and finally looking up, Minhyuk was struck by the way your eyes caught the natural light streaming in from his front windows.

“Hi! I’m back!” Your mouth perked up in a smile that made your whole face glow.

And Minhyuk was smitten.

“Hello, Y/N,” he grinned in return, feeling his cheeks warm a bit, “I have the design for your arrangement ready. Wanna take a look?”

Eager, you stepped forward and leaned over the counter to look at the collection of sketched scattered over the surface of the counter.

From the stack, Minhyuk pulled a stunning design featuring many warm bright shades of pink and orange.

“Wow,” you breathed, eyes wide as you glanced back up at him, “He doesn’t deserve something this pretty.”

“No,” Minkyuk’s gaze connected pointedly with yours, “He really didn’t.”

“Oh,” you fidget, breaking eye contact out of sheer embarrassment.

The moment having passed, Minhyuk is back to business, relaying the meanings of all the flowers he’d included in the bouquet. “Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations meaning ‘you have disappointed me,’ and orange lilies for hatred to top it all off.”

You were amazed, “Minhyuk, really, this so striking,”

“And full of loathing!” He added cheerfully.

Shaking your head with bemusement, you snorted, “I can’t believe you took my completely asinine idea and made it something so beautiful. So how much more do I owe you for this? It looks pretty expensive.”

Subtly sliding his calculations for the cost under the other drawings (the math had come out to roughly $65 but why should you have to pay extra for inspiring him?), he responded, “Actually, it balanced to exactly $20.”

Skeptical, you folded your arms over your chest, “Did it?”

“Absolutely,” He nodded, seeming very certain.

“Okay…” You weren’t quite as certain.

“You know,” Minhyuk paused, “I do have a question, actually.”

Your head tilted to the side, encouraging him to go ahead.

“Don’t you think you’d drive your point home a lot better to this douchebag if you brought a date?”

You flinched a little. “I mean, yes. But I’m not dating anyone right now, so I don’t have anyone to bring.”

Somehow this response pleased him much more than it should have. Gathering his wits, Minhyuk leaned toward you with his cute little chipmunk smile, “And what if I offered to escort you?”

Flushing, you responded promptly, “I’d say yes and we’d have the weirdest first date I’ve ever heard of.”

And so that Friday, instead of picking up your hate bouquet at the shop, Minhyuk made a special delivery, closing up his store early to pick you up instead.

And yes, your ex-boyfriend-- whatever the hell his name had been-- Shu? Shannon? Cher?--had positively withered when you’d arrived on Minhyuk’s very, very muscular arm, flowers in hand.

Click to see our masterlist!

#AW YISS Imagines #aw yiss!#Minhyuk #BtoB #Imagine Asking Minhyuk to Make You a Hate Bouquet #a minty bias #Florist AU

19 notes · View notes

ask-fairytail-bts · 8 years ago

Text

You made me so tame me (Jikook fic)

This was actually the first BTS fic I ever made and I posted this on AO3 and decided to put it here as well. It will have multiple chapters and you are welcomed to ask me my AO3 account! WARNING: IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH SEXUAL CONTENT DONT READ THIS!!! Name: You made me (so tame me) Rating: M for suggestive themes, cursing, future sexual scenes etc Pairings: Jikook, Namjin, Taegi, and Baekhyunxchanyeol Summary: Jimin was that one cute college junior in big sweaters and glasses who never really called attention to himself and spent his time studying. However, he had a dark past on his shoulders he rather never go back to, a past that he doesn't realize will always follow him. What he doesn't understand is how he suddenly became the target of the infamous bad boy, college sophomore, Jeon Jungkook who does nothing but continuously harass him after a heated night. And why does he suddenly look so familiar? Chapter 1: Eyes on You "Jiminnie! Come on!" a voice whined incessantly next to Jimin. It was a surprise to Jimin how the voice could sound so childish when it was gruff and deep as he heavily sighed passing a hand tiredly through his soft orange locks as he directed his attention to the brown haired male who was sporting a pout on his lips next to him. "Kim Taehyung! For the last time, I will not go partying with you", Jimin huffed returning his gaze to the large textbook in front of him, rolling his eyes when Taehyung groaned in frustration as he slumped his chin on the brown library table still looking at his best friend with pleading eyes. "Minnie, you don't understand! This is like the party everyone is going to! You can't rot away your youth in books, man. By the time we graduate you'll probably be offered the job as the librarian since you already look and act the part", he whined. "Tae, I wouldn't be denying you as much if we didn't have a Sociology exam coming up", the carrot top inquired continuing to flip the page as he scribbled down a few notes now and then. If anything Taehyung seemed outraged as he slammed his hands on the table. The carrot head only mustered a sigh. He knew what was coming. "Jimin!" he exclaimed before he was scolded by the librarian who glared at him as she shushed him guiding her bony finger to her lips. Taehyung smiled sheepishly in apology before looking back at Jimin with the same offended expression. "The fucking sociology exam isn't until next week. Seriously, I'll personally come study with you if you agree to this one party", he hissed trying desperately not to raise his voice. Jimin seemed quite shocked at Taehyung's proposition. Was he that desperate that he go to this party? He couldn't believe Taehyung actually offered to study for once. And to hell with it. Jimin would die to see Tae struggling with the boredom that came with studying. How he would enjoy guiding him through the plethora of notes he would surely be taking as punishment. With a slight smile, Jimin finally nodded. "Okay. You win, Tae". The brown head fist pumped the air as he shuffled back into his seat. Jimin wondered when the male had even stood up in the first place, but he assumed it must of been the moment he slammed his hands on the table. He usually stood up, if he was sitting, when he really wanted to make a point. Said male gave Jimin a one up as he reached to pull at the sleeve of his large sweater. "You're not gonna wear this I'm hoping", he inquired to the offending clothing article. "What's wrong with my sweater? It's comfortable", the orange haired male pouted. "Nothing. You're adorable, but come on. If you're going to a party you want to go with the "Im too fucking hot for you" not the "I'll kill you with my cuteness" look. Seriously, were you this cute in high school? Look you even have cute sweater paws", Taehyung cooed and was so distracted with Jimin's sleeve he didn't notice the male tense and gulp heavily. "Uh, no. High school was a time of change, but anyways let me use the rest of my time before the party to study", he stated plainly with a slight nervous tilt in his voice. Jimin hated remembering high school because behind his current sweet and cuddly self was a dark past he not only regretted, but never wanted to go back to. If Tae heard about it, he was sure that he'd never be able to believe it. He would make sure to take his secret to the grave or as long as he could hide it. Jimin wasn't stupid. He knew for a fact that secrets are always the first to come to light even before lies do. And that was just terrifying. ~~xXXx~~ Loud, crowded, and smelly was the only way Jimin could describe the atmosphere at a party that was supposed to be in, Taehyung's words, "lit". They had arrived maybe three hours before and the aforementioned male was already plastered and laughing his ass off with a senior he knew was named Seokjin who was being held by the waist by, the junior and Seokjin's boyfriend, Namjoon. Jimin sighed in boredom as he slumped back on the couch in the middle of the room, having squished his way through the crowd and a few offending hands on his ass, a plastic red cup now at his lips as he downed the contents with ease. He felt ashamed that he didn't even wince as the bitter liquor passed his lips, but he was thankful that he was able to do that without having to pretend that he didn't fancy alcohol as much as he used to. He glanced down at his clothes and tutted in disapproval. He was wearing a pair of black skinnies and had a black muscle shirt on, but he was smart enough to sneak one of his sweaters when Tae wasn't looking and slipped it on. It's not that he didn't like how he looked it just gave way to bad memories. He examined himself after putting on the sweater and saw it looked like he was dressed like he was normally accustomed to in exception of the tight fabric that were his pants. He eyed the dark place around to see the drunk college students stumble past him. He chuckled lightly because the freshmen were always the most reckless ones. They always thought they were tough and could handle alcohol as they boldly drunk shots only to get hammered after three and end up passed out on the floor like a lot of them were at the moment. Jimin decided after seeing the fifth girl, since he arrived, trip on her heel, that it was about time for him to leave. This had been a waste of time and all he'd gotten was drink after drink in his system, more than he should have gotten. He stood up and his head suddenly spinned. He had about downed four cups of liquor and three shots of tequila and he hadn't necessarily drunk them slowly so he wasn't surprised that he was drunk. Not only that, but he hadn't really drank since he got to college. He began to walk towards Taehyung, who had a shorter mint haired male wrapped around him, surely another lay, wobbling slightly, when he felt a hand at his wrist as he was pulled into someone. Jimin fell forward as his hands fell on a rather firm chest and arms wrapped around his waist. He felt his breathe hitch to see the one who'd pulled him was none other than the Jeon Jungkook, your resident troublemaker with a colorful reputation on campus accompanied by taut muscles and gorgeous looks. But if there's one thing Jimin hated more than these boring college parties, it was anything that screamed trouble and Jungkook was probably at the top of his avoid list because he couldn't hate someone he didn't know. However, he felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment because he came to the recollection that Jungkook had purposefully brought him against him which could only mean he was interested, right? Jimin had always found the male attractive and pretty much oggled him when he could, but never once did they come into contact and much less as intimate as they were now. Jimin was far too buzzed to even think being in contact with Jungkook was a bad idea. "U-Uh, hi" Jimin mumbled with a slight giggle as he tried pushing back from the younger male, but was kept in place by the muscular arms on his waist. Jimin felt quite intimidated when his gaze met the younger's. He almost felt breatheless by how handsome the male was with his black sweptback hair and his dark and sexy bedroom eyes and that fucking smug and playful and sexy smirk on his face. "Park Jimin, right?" Jungkook muttered hotly in his ear as he guided Jimin to the back of the crowded room caging him between the wall and his arms. The carrot top flinched at the tone as he felt like a cornered prey. What most shocked him is that THE Jungkook knew him. But how? "Yeah, h-how do you...uh know m-my name?" he stuttered a shiver running down his spine when he felt the younger's hand sliding teasingly up and down his side under his sweater and shirt and dangerously reaching down to the side of his ass. He really cursed himself. If he hadn't downed those drinks before thinking he could handle them, he swears he wouldn't have released such a shameless sound. But it was too late because when Jungkook boldly reached to squeeze his ass, Jimin moaned. He fucking moaned. "Don't you worry your cute little self about that, hmm? How about we have a few more drinks and get to know each other, hyung?" the black haired male chuckled as he pressed another red cup to Jimin's lips. He used his free hand to part Jimin's lips and was met with no restraint as the orange haired male let the bitter contents slip down his throat. He shouldn't have, he really shouldn't, but the hand on his ass promised good things. "Don't be shy, hyung. Drink it all", he heard the whisper and he swore he'd heard a "you've done it before", but at this point he didn't care about what he heard because his body was feeling the warmth pool in his stomach from the alcohol and he was a giggling mess. He clung onto Jungkook for balance who only chuckled as he held him firmly. He didn't even realize he'd wrapped his arms around Jungkook's neck before pressing his lips to his. Something at the back of Jimin's mind was telling him he should stop that there was something off. This wasn't the Jimin he had become when he entered college. But there he was pressed against one of the hottest and most infamous guys on campus with the male's tongue in his mouth and the guy's hands still holding onto his plump ass (Jimin acknowledged he had a heavenly ass or at least Taehyung was always reminding him when he would grope him randomly). He moaned softly into the kiss at first, but as it got more heated, Jungkook's teeth pulling at his bottom lip, his moans became sinful as he felt Jungkook's hardening cock press against his thigh. "Jungkookie", Jimin huffed breathlessly as he detached from the male's lips. He giggled as he tried to formulate the words he wanted to say. It wasn't helpful that they were mostly slurred or the fact that jungkook would try catching his lips against his every time he tried uttering a coherent word. "Let's dance", he finally managed to say and although he barely muttered the words he still managed to make it sound sultry. "Gonna show me what this ass can do?" Jungkook muttered intrigued as Jimin licked his lips and nodded. Jungkook grinned as he pulled Jimin in between the bodies of dancing college students as Jimin turned away from him so his ass was splendidly snug against his crotch. "Come on, baby", the male urged him as he thrusted once on the elder's ass. This was Jimin's cue as he began to sway his hips painfully and sensually slow at first before he bent down slightly as he moved a bit quicker. Jungkook groaned as the plump globes teased him, the friction sending sparks of pleasure to his cock. He gripped his hips tightly as Jimin flushed straight against him as Jungkook moved to press their lips together once more tongues meeting fiercely. Jimin grinded against Jungkook like a pro and Jungkook didn't know how much more he could take with how hard he was at this point. "Want to fuck you so bad", Jungkook hissed into the elder's ear. Jimin looked at him with a seductive look on his face as he bit down slightly on his plump bottom lip before speaking. "Then why don't you?" As those words escaped the elder's lips, Jungkook snapped. ~~xXXx~~ "Ah! J-Jungkook...mmmm" Jimin moaned as he was pounded into the mattress. As soon as he had uttered that challenge to Jungkook at the party, the younger had basically dragged him to his dorm room and thrown him on the bed. He didn't even let Jimin remove his sweater, which by the way was too hot against his sweaty skin. At least he remembered to put on a condom. Jungkook mouthed at his neck before biting down adding another colorful bruise to his skin. Jimin desperately pulled at Jungkook's hair his mouth opened as more shameless moans spilled his lips, his eyes shut tight from the excruciating ecstasy he was feeling as Jungkook hit his prostate repeatedly. "J-Jungkook! Ah! Please... faster", he pleaded. He was surprised he could even talk from how well Jungkook was fucking him into oblivion. Jungkook finally took mercy as he removed Jimin's sweater and muscle shirt before littering the fair skin with bite marks and hickies. "You take my cock so well, baby. You feel amazing", Jungkook groaned feeling himself on the edge. He was so blissfully close and Jimin didn't look like he could last any longer either. The younger suddenly stopped his thrusts as a desperate whine escaped the elder's lips. "Jungkook, why'd you s-stop?" Jimin whined thrusting his hips for some needed friction only to be stopped by Jungkook's hands firmly pushing down his hips. "You should see yourself, hyung. So fucked out and pretty just for me. Just for a brat like me", he muttered, emphasizing the last sentence before he kissed Jimin's swollen red lips and slipped his cock out using the head to tease the rim of Jimin's entrance. "J-Jungkook, please", Jimin mumbled, his cock weeping with the need of release. Jungkook chuckled as he pressed his thumb at the slit. Unknowingly to Jimin, Jungkook had been yearning for the moment to have Park Jimin like this, so utterly pliant under him. To Jimin he was a complete stranger, but Jungkook knew Jimin well. He knew him very well and he wasn't going to let him know that. At least not yet. The carrot top whimpered pathetically trying to move his hips. "Please what, hyung?" Jimin just continued to whimper and struggle against his hold. "I want to come, please", he muttered in another desperate attempt. "I need you to beg, hyung. Spread those pretty little legs open for me and ask me to fuck you", Jungkook chuckled darkly. Jimin swore he felt his cock twitch at Jungkook's demanding tone, and as degrading as it sounded, Jimin desired release more than anything. He looked up shyly at Jungkook who felt his breathe hitch at how Jimin could look so fucking innocent and at the same time so erotic as he held his legs open. "Jungkookie, p-please fuck me. Fuck me hard until I come". Jungkook didn't need to be told twice as he slipped right back into Jimin and thrusted relentlessly against him. He admired Jimin's body. Enjoyed the sight of him writhing under him in pure pleasure, legs spread wide and his sinful lips begging him to fuck him. Jimin had a feeling Jungkook's words from before meant so much more, but the moment he was going to ask, his mind had gone blank once Jungkook began to fuck into him once more at a faster pace than before. He felt so full like he hadn't felt in so long. The younger was big and stretched him open just right reaching what fingers could never possibly satisfy. He came after a few more thrusts, Jungkook's name spilling from his lips. The younger was close again, and groaned as Jimin's walls clenched against his cock as he rode out his orgasm. Jungkook was done right after, his seed filling the condom as he slumped on his side once he got out of Jimin. He tied the condom once it was slipped off and lazily dropped it in the trashcan next to his bed. The orange haired male had soon drifted into slumber after he smiled goofily at the younger and snuggled into his side. Jungkook couldn't help, but grin slipping his arm around the smaller male. "I finally had you. It's only a matter of time before you're completely mine", he muttered highly pleased with himself. ~~xXXx~~ Jimin loved being woken up by the soft warm rays of sunshine on his face, but at the moment he groaned in annoyance as they were disturbing his sleep. It didn't help that once he was conscious enough, his head began pounding immensely. He shifted on the bed and blinked slightly when he felt he couldn't move an inch. And why was there an arm around him. He suddenly felt very awake as he turned his face to meet Jungkook's. Oh shit. Everything hit him like a ton of bricks. He wasn't in his room, he was naked, and Jungkook was holding him, very naked as well. He wanted to scream. And if the pain in his rear was any more of an indication of what he was already assuming then he and jungkook had fucked. "How?!" Jimin whispered outraged. He groaned in embarrassment as he struggled out of the younger's grasp. Jimin was thankful that he was a heavy sleeper as he gathered his clothing and got dressed. His ass hurt like a bitch and he was limping as he stumbled his way out of the room and towards his own. He was going to knock when the door was opened. "Jimin!" Taehyung exclaimed angrily as he pulled the shorter male inside. Jimin winced as he felt his butt hit the bedside. "What the hell?! Where were you and- oh my god are those hickies!" the brown haired male exclaimed in a mixture of awe and shock. "Minnie, did you...get laid last night?" Taehyung muttered as if the idea were blasphemous or uncalled for. Jimin gulped heavily nervously pulling at the hem of his sweater. "Uh, maybe...uh well, Tae. I...yeah. I did", he finally mustered the courage to admit what was painfully obvious. Taehyung's mouth hung open in shock. "Did innocent Minnie finally lose the V card?" he fake cried as Jimin frowned. "Tae, no! This wasn't my first time, dumbass" Jimin huffed offended that Taehyung would assume he'd be a virgin. But then again he wasn't the person he used to be or so he thought until last night, apparently. "What?! No way! Since when were you not a virgin? Okay, never mind that's a question for another time. The real question is who you fucked with last night", Taehyung grinned. If anything, Jimin averted his gaze avoiding from looking at Taehyung at all cost as he kicked his lips nervously. "Uh, Jeon Jungkook". "No fucking way!" Taehyung screeched. Jimin really hated today, and he didn't know his day wasn't even close to done. Not when Jeon Jungkook had found his target and had set his plan to motion. (IM A SINNER!!! FORGIVE ME FOR I HAVE SINNED!)

37 notes · View notes