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forasecondtherewedwon · 4 years

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In Over His Headboard

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E Word Count: 7560

This is a submission for the first day of Thotumn, organized by @spideysmjs!!! Today’s prompt: Dirty Talk.

Summary: MJ learns that Ned's best friend went through a lot of backpacks as a teenager. And a lot of headboards as an adult.

MJ is very observant.

But that’s old news.

The other O-word she lives her life by is ‘organized’. In kindergarten, she rearranged everyone’s cubby during naptime (without permission) to suit her precepts. As an adult, she keeps her books sorted by topic and, within that, by size. The handles of her measuring cups are perfectly aligned. The apartment that houses both the books and the measuring cups is tidy, full of furniture with secret built-in storage spaces, and fewer than five miles from the house in which she grew up. MJ has organized and reorganized her own space so many times that, even though her few good friends think it’s crazy, it explains why one of her passions is helping people move.

Packing boxes is a delight. Laying down rugs so that their straight edges are perfectly parallel to the walls thrills her. Helping someone determine exactly the correct lineup of toiletries in the cabinet under their bathroom sink is a religious experience. She doesn’t express her joy in smiles or shrieks of excitement, but in her diligence. She’ll be tucked quietly in the closet, ordering jeans by shade of blue, while the rest of the volunteer movers crack open a beer in the kitchen, calling it time for a well-earned break.

Lately, everyone in MJ’s life has gotten disappointingly settled: her brother and his wife upsizing in suburbia for the baby on the way, her parents (who are finally coming down hard on not letting her shift their knickknacks around anymore), and Betty. Betty’s engaged—so engaged—and simply made space for her fiancé to move in with her, so MJ didn’t get to assemble a single cardboard box. She still feels slightly betrayed.

When Betty calls and starts in about schedules and plans and photographer, MJ assumes they’re about to go over more wedding details. But no, her friend informs her, the schedule involves the timed renting of a moving truck and the access date for a storage unit, the plans are who’s lending a hand and with what, and the photographer is Ned’s friend and future best man, some guy named Peter. MJ forgets the name (and asks Betty for it again later—day-of, as they’re driving to the guy’s apartment building). It’s a dull speck on the metaphorical diamond Betty has just held up to the light for her to inspect—whatshisname needs people to help him move.

Before the pleasure of putting someone’s possessions in just the right spot can commence, there’s the grunt work. MJ understands and accepts this as a necessary evil. On the day of Ned’s friend’s move-in, she dresses in overalls—multiple pockets for micro-organization on the fly—with a cropped t-shirt underneath because there will, inevitably, be stairs and it’s July. She’s trying not to begin sweating too far in advance, limiting her anticipation to a foot jumping on the immaculate rubber foot mat of the passenger seat of Betty’s car and a series of probing questions.

“Doesn’t this guy have any friends?”

“He has friends,” Betty assures her, being a responsible driver and keeping her eyes on the road, “just not a lot of super close friends.”

“And the close friends he does have weren’t available?”

“Umm…” She concentrates on watching the pedestrian countdown light as they cross an intersection. “I think a bunch of them went with him to the storage unit to load up the truck. I guess they don’t have the whole day off.”

“Oh, unlike me, who has nothing better to do.”

“Don’t get snippy. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t have begged to help if you’d heard me mention what I was doing today.”

MJ plays with the seatbelt strapped across her chest, feeling defensive. It’s her go-to reaction whenever Betty reveals how clearly she sees her.

“I was just trying to figure out why I was asked.”

“Ned’s his friend, I’m Ned’s fiancée, and you’re my friend.”

“The six degrees of Michelle Jones,” she mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing. He lives in Queens?”

“Yeah, Peter’s local. He and Ned went to school together. Crazy, huh?”

“Crazy that you can travel the world and end up with a fiancé and a circle of friends from your hometown,” MJ agrees. Today, Betty’s in jean shorts and a beachy shirt that ties in a knot at the end of its row of iridescent buttons, but MJ mostly sees her on the news, looking as prim and expensive as a collectible doll. She’s a foreign correspondent for CNN, though she’s reining in the foreign part now that she’s living with Ned and about to get married.

“Crazy,” Betty repeats distractedly, making a perfect, tight turn into the belowground carpark next to the building bearing the address MJ wrote down two weeks ago. This is where the magic will happen.

The pile out and her friend beeps her fob to lock the car. She wants to take the elevator that’ll bring them up to the lobby, but MJ insists on trekking back up the ramp they drove down. It stretches her legs, a good warm up. As they emerge from the darkness of the lot and sun slices across their faces, she feels like she’s walking into Disney World. They stand on the sidewalk and right as she’s about to ask Betty when they guys are supposed to make an appearance, a U-Haul pulls up to the curb.

She sees the driver’s side door open and slam shut without seeing the driver, but Ned comes bounding down from the passenger’s side to hold his fiancée’s hands and give her a quick kiss on the forehead (they’re so engaged), then three more guys fold themselves out of the tight back of the cab and hustle around to the rear of the truck. The couple’s display of affection distracted MJ; she can only assume it’s the driver out of sight in the back, passing belongings down to his helpers, who swiftly stack them on the sidewalk near the front doors of the apartment building. There’s an array of boxes, then staggering steps as the guys navigate couches and mattresses out of the truck, racing against the inflexibility of the No Parking and No Idling signs on this street. If a bylaw stooge comes along, they’re screwed. New York’s street signs exist for the city to make money, not for the ease of citizens needing to unload their furniture.

The guy’s—Peter’s—friends are surprisingly quick, so MJ lets the speech she was mentally writing to argue in favour of his right to park the truck in front of the building he’s moving into dissolve in her head. Peter hops down from the back of the truck. From where she and Betty are standing, she can only see his legs and hear the clang of the rear door closing. The trio of extra helpers clamber back into the U-Haul with the intent and discipline of clowns into a clown car and wheel off to return the truck. MJ finally sees the man she’s come to help as he brushes his hands together and steps quickly onto the curb to avoid another car angling into the carpark. He shakes hair off his forehead and squints towards them, sun in his eyes, already smiling.

“Um, hello,” MJ hisses at Betty, quickly turning to her. “Were you going to mention that your fiancé is best friends with Spider-Man? That’s Peter fucking Parker.”

“And I’m Betty fucking Brant,” she counters breezily. She’s looking past MJ, waving at Peter. “I’m on the news more than he is and you don’t freak out when you see me.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Hey!”

MJ spins to look into the eyes of a municipal—no, a national—no, an international hero. She doesn’t say anything fast enough, so he moves past her to hug Betty before coming back to her with eyebrows raised in what looks like a mixture of inquiry, politeness, and gratitude.

“Michelle?”

“But my friends call me—”

“MJ,” he finishes for her, and normally that would be irritating, but Peter Parker is endearingly boyish close-up. He’s shorter than she is. He’s freckled. He does look like somebody she could’ve gone to school with and had a low-key crush on for years and years. The fame can’t touch that, which is why, she figures, his hero-next-door schtick works so well for him. He’s local, like Betty said. Every bit of him sells that and it’s obvious that he’s not trying.

“And yours call you Spider-Man?”

Might as well get that out in the open—that she recognizes him. He laughs easily and glances down.

“Nah, pretty much just ‘Peter’. ‘Petey’ if they either really want to make me suffer or they really like me.”

He gives her a look and it’s brief, but there’s a lot to it. The propositioning tilt of the head, the wolfish curl of the smile, the assessing cut of his eyes to catch her from the corner of his vision. MJ gets a strong sense that ‘really like me’ is a euphemism for ‘enjoy me sexually.’

“We’ll see how I feel once we’ve moved all your shit upstairs, I guess,” she responds flatly.

“That sounds fair.” His voice is bright now, no lurking depravity. “I hope I don’t have enough boxes to make you hate me.”

“Please. Boxes are nothing. I’d be more worried about that dresser turning me against you. What is that thing made of?”

“Solid oak,” he brags, then grimaces. “It sucked just lifting it onto the truck.”

“Can’t you just…” MJ mimes the motion Spider-Man does when he shoots that gunk at people and buildings.

“Lift the furniture up to my building with web fluid?” Peter crosses his arms and looks like he’s really calculating it in his head. “Wouldn’t be graceful. I’d probably smash some windows if I tried to do it from outside, and doing it from inside wouldn’t be that much easier than just carrying it up the stairs. Also, that’d attract a lot of attention and everything I do doesn’t need to make the news, you know?”

“Oh yeah,” she agrees dryly. “I hate it when I’m just grocery shopping and there’s a whole camera crew right in my face.”

He laughs at her sarcasm. Appealing.

“Right?”

And then they have to scurry to catch up because Ned and Betty have already started moving everything into the lobby.

After it’s all inside and not available to be swiped by anyone walking or driving down the street, they decide to take turns carrying stuff up to the fourth floor. (Fourth? MJ could swear she was told second.) One person stays with the remainder of Peter’s stuff while the other three lug boxes and chairs and, eventually, the dreaded oak dresser. She’s too focused on maintaining a brisk pace to really check out his apartment—beyond noting the large windows and protruding edge of the kitchen countertop (that catches her in the stomach while she’s squeezing around a box Ned left too close to the front door). It wouldn’t matter. Layout and organization haven’t been much on her mind since Peter Parker stepped out from behind that truck.

This process isn’t supposed to be a spectacle, but people notice Peter, and Peter, ever the neighbourhood Spider-Man, notices people.

A man exiting through the lobby nods towards Peter’s desk and starts a conversation about materials and quality. MJ almost trips up the stairs with a box in her arms as she hears him say, “Yeah, I’ve got more wood than I know what to do with.” Betty, on her way down, catches her eye and gives her a funny look.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot,” she fires back.

Ned’s above, guiding one end of the couch, and Peter and MJ are heaving the other (mostly Peter) when a different dude narrowly gets past them on a landing, only to turn around and remark on the wonder of them being able to maneuver it. “It’s long,” Peter agrees, “but I’ve fit this thing into some pretty tight places.” Right after, he asks MJ if she needs a break. She’s fine. She only almost dropped her corner of the couch because her hand cramped.

As she’s taking a final box through the door of his apartment, she overhears, “I’ll let him choose the position. What do I know? I’m happy to put it anywhere. The only thing I can be trusted to be in charge of is making sure it’s well-hung.” Stumbling forward, she sees that Peter (who just spoke) and Betty are admiring a large, framed print of him and Ned in cap and gown, clutching diplomas. MJ grabs a bottle of water from the case they carried up here at the beginning—it’s lukewarm, but practically glacial compared to the temperature of her face right now—and asks her friend if she wants to step outside to get a little air before they continue.

Leaning against the wall of the building, MJ chugs some of her water, then hands it off to Betty. While her friend’s drinking, she says, “So, he’s gay, right?”

Betty catches the water that slops down onto her chin.

“What?”

“Peter. He’s gay.”

“I’ve seen him with guys when we’ve all gone to the bar together—”

MJ breathes deeply in relief. She needs him to be gay; the knowledge will quell how she feels when he utters these outrageous, completely explainable sentences, or when he walks ahead of her up the stairs and she’s forced to stare at his ass for four floors, or when she remembers that look he gave her before they started moving everything.

“—but Ned mentioned a serious girlfriend Peter had in high school, so I think he’s bi. Oh my god,” Betty adds in a tone of realization that scares the hell out of MJ. “You want him.”

It takes rapid backtracking and a convincing presentation of the facts (those being every suggestive thing Peter’s said today and leaving out the part about his ass) to wipe the excited look off her friend’s face.

“So, you’ve just been misunderstanding him. And eavesdropping.”

“Can we call it eavesdropping if he has nothing to hide?”

“Fine,” Betty says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not eavesdropping because he has nothing to hide. I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known Ned and, yeah, he might have an entire second identity, but the guy’s an open book. Peter couldn’t be sly if his life depended on it. He’s a goof, MJ. He’d never say that kind of stuff for real.”

Except that they hike back up to the apartment together and Peter’s voice drifts into the kitchen from one of the rooms down the hall, making the women halt and lock eyes.

“Remember how many backpacks May bought you in high school?” Ned chuckles. “This reminds me of that.”

“I do go through a lot of headboards. I’m not trying to break them, but I always put my legs into it too much and I just go so deep.”

“The room,” Betty babbles next to her, gripping her wrist. “I’m sure he’s talking about the depth of the room, coming in through the window too quickly from patrol.”

“It’s easy for you to tell yourself that,” MJ points out. “You’re engaged. You have no reason to think about Peter like that.”

Ned emerges and heads straight for Betty. These two are so gross together that neither of them protests against being hugged, though they’re sweaty from labour. With his arm around her friend’s waist, Ned turns to address MJ.

“Are you hanging around for a while?”

“Yeah, definitely. I can help unpack,” she pledges.

“Great. I know Peter’d like to get curtains put up for privacy today too, because, you know, being Spider-Man and having all these windows don’t really go well together, and you’re the tallest. He’ll probably want your help.”

She’d rather be assigned the task of choosing which kitchen cupboard will hold his plates, his glasses, the cans of premade soup she imagines Spider-Man relies on when he’s always darting around at night, too busy to devote a lot of time to making dinner. But she’s here to help. It’s not her apartment; she’ll go where she can be useful (any maybe do some sneaky rearranging later if he makes dumb organizational choices).

“Babe,” Ned says to Betty, “I’m going on a beer run—and maybe tacos, do you feel like tacos?—do you wanna come with me?”

“Of course, babe, but I don’t want…”

She looks at MJ, who’s trying to be inconspicuous, sorting the boxes labelled ‘KITCHEN’ from those labelled ‘LIVING ROOM’.

“One sec,” Betty tells her fiancé, walking over to MJ. “Will you be alright here if we go out for food?”

“Mhmm.”

Without glancing over, she plucks the X-Acto knife from her overall pocket and slices through packing tape to reveal nested pans, cloaked in mismatched dishtowels to prevent scraping during transport. The combination of careful and slapdash makes her smile to herself.

“It’s rush hour now, so I’m not sure how long we’ll be,” Betty warns.

“That’s fine.”

“I think we all need a little fuel before we settle in to unpack.”

“Yeah.”

“MJ,” her friend says sharply.

“What?”

“Are you ok being alone with Peter for a while?”

“Yes,” MJ says, rolling her eyes. “He’s Ned’s best friend and he’s Spider-Man, not some random creep. I’m not afraid he’s going to jump me. Anyway, I have this.” She waggles the knife.

“I’m more worried about you jumping him.”

She narrows her eyes at Betty.

“Have a little respect for my self-control.”

Her friend just shrugs.

“I’d understand. There’s the allure of him being a superhero and, more importantly, the fact that Ned and I can both vouch for him being a genuinely great guy.”

MJ narrows her eyes even more, this time in suspicion.

“Is this a moving day or a blind date?”

“Oh please.”

“That’s not an answer. Betty,” she presses, but her friend turns and grabs Ned’s hand. The wave as they leave the apartment is mockingly innocent.

Alone, MJ darts a glance down the hall, where she knows Peter is still doing whatever in the bedroom. She’s not going to race in there like some glassy-eyed fangirl. Even if Betty does endorse him so warmly, and he does seem so down-to-earth, and his ass does look like that in his jeans. She lifts his cookware out, one piece at a time, then moves on to the tangled jumble of utensils in the next box, trying to separate a pair of tongs from a warped spatula. She doesn’t hear Peter walk into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says suddenly from behind her.

MJ jumps and holds up the tongs threateningly, but her hand falls as she stares at him. He’s wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his navy t-shirt. There are his abs and the taut skin below his navel.

“If you have a minute, could you give me a hand with this rod? I can’t get it up on my own.”

Her gaze springs up to his face and she stares at him.

“Huh?”

“The… curtain rod?” Peter says. “I can stand on a chair to do the one end, but I can’t do both ends at once. Do you think you could—”

“Yeah, sure.”

His smile is pleasant and relieved and MJ follows him into the bedroom like he hit her with some sort of magic spell, not just artless, unintentional dirty talk. She sets the tongs down on the floor by the wall; whoops.

“Warm in here,” she notes as she sidesteps a clear plastic tote of Peter’s clothes.

“Yeah, I was gonna open the window, but I didn’t know if the humidity would only make it worse.”

MJ watches as he gestures with one hand and props the other on his hip, hiking up his t-shirt to hook his thumb in the waist of his jeans. She encourages him to go ahead and risk it. The space is unbearable without at least the illusion of fresh air. She redoes her drooping ponytail, feeling new sweat slide down the nape of her neck as Peter crouches and jerks the window up from its sticky sill. Her gaze, and possibly her mind, gets lost somewhere in the breadth of his shoulders. His triceps look as hard and as perfectly rounded as the rolling pin that was still in the box when she left the kitchen. Emptying her chest pocket of odds and ends—knife, scissors, permanent marker, Allen key—MJ unbuckles her overalls, letting the straps and the bib hang down. The buttons on the hips keep the pants part up, but she can’t stand to have the whole thing closing her in any longer. She can’t breathe.

They each take an end of the curtain rod and Peter uses his knees to climb onto his nightstand, already positioned against the wall. It’s overkill because he’s not that much shorter and MJ can hook her end into the bracket without even having to get up on her toes. She’s done first and turns to look at Peter, kneeling on the nightstand with his thighs apart. She pictures joining him on that narrow surface, straddling his lap. God. How long have Betty and Ned been gone?

Then again, why fight it?

“Having some trouble getting it in?” she asks.

The rod clunks against the wall as Peter whips his head around to look slightly down at her.

“Your rod,” MJ clarifies. “You want me to take over? I can handle it.” At his continued dumbstruck silence, she goes on. “Or I can just direct you from here. You could try working it back and forth a little until you get the perfect angle. Then I’m sure it’ll ease right in.”

He hardly seems aware when the curtain rod falls into place. After a few extra moments of immobility, he dismounts and swishes the semi-sheer curtain across the window. She can feel his eyes on her, tracing the strip of stomach between the bottom of her crop-top and the folded-over denim of her overalls.

“What’s next?” she asks. “Maybe go into the bathroom and investigate the plumbing? Or, you know what, I didn’t finish unpacking your utensils. Would you rather go back to the kitchen and get your hands on my box?”

“What are you doing?”

It sounds like his chest is tight, like he’s forcing the words out. MJ smiles gently at the real-life superhero into whose apartment she has miraculously been deposited for today and perhaps only today.

“Helping.”

“Did you have to call it handling my rod?”

“Did you have to tell me you couldn’t get it up without me?” she challenges.

Peter’s mouth falls open and he makes a choked sound of protest, but she raises her eyebrows at him, daring him to argue.

“You asked me for a hand with your rod,” MJ presses. “That was you. You started it. And it wasn’t even then, it was hours ago. What is there in this apartment that you haven’t made some sort of phallic reference to?!”

“I… did I? I’ve been doing that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Spidey. Own it or don’t, but don’t pretend you haven’t heard some of the shit you’ve said today.”

“Are you offended?” he asks, avoiding her eyes, but not her body; he takes his time staring at that.

“I might be if you don’t do anything about it,” she huffs. “I’d hate to think that Spider-Man’s all words and no action.”

“I’m off-duty.�� A sly smile.

“We can just talk,” MJ says casually, thinking that she’ll possibly die of heat exhaustion and unresolved sexual tension if they stand around chatting. “Why don’t you tell me how Spider-Man’s managed to crack so many headboards?”

He shoots her the same kind of look he gave her on the sidewalk.

“It wasn’t always Spider-Man.”

She smirks and gives him a look of her own.

“Then why don’t you show me?”

It’s the honesty in his expression that she appreciates as Peter surges towards her, grabbing her face between both hands and kissing her urgently. She grips his waist and scrunches his t-shirt in her hands. At the first little pause they take to snatch a breath, she peels the shirt up and he yanks it off the rest of the way.

“Nice,” she breathes, stroking his torso with her gaze before adding her hands.

He gives her a jerky nod of acknowledgement and goes for her shirt. Tugging it off screws up her ponytail again, but she doesn’t have time to care; Peter’s kissing her, wet and demanding, while he reaches around and fumbles to unhook her bra. When he nudges his hips against her, she feels him. He’s been making sideways insinuations about his dick all day (whether he admits it to her or not), and here’s the real deal at last. MJ presses her tongue slickly into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering at the urge to open her eyes and see what kind of face he’s making to accompany the groan he lets out as she deepens the kiss. As he draws the straps of her unfastened bra down her arms, she regretfully takes her hands off his chest, swiftly unbuttoning her overalls. Left side buttons, then right. Peter hampers her by grabbing her ass and rolling his hips forward as she’s trying to get her pants down. She doesn’t discourage him. It’s thrilling that he’s handsy.

The room’s a mess—not dirty, thankfully, and she assumes he must’ve come on another day to vacuum and clean, but with a short, uneven stack of boxes in one corner, the container of clothing, the box spring and mattress leaning together against the wall, and the headboard, poking out of the closet because he hasn’t put his bedframe together yet. MJ hates disorganization, especially when it fucks with the logistics of what has all the promising tempo and quick chemistry of a fantastic hookup.

“We could just…” He huffs, lifting his mouth off her neck where he’s started licking and sucking. “…tip the mattress onto the floor?”

She’s taken aback by the idea of fucking Spider-Man on a mattress in the middle of his mess of a bedroom. With the curtain as the only thing to show they made any progress in this room before giving in to their libidos. But she’s in her underwear, overalls ringing her ankles, and the man beneath the famous mask looks hot as hell when he’s been kissed hard and riled into an expectant erection. How else are they going to pass the time before their friends return? Fanning out magazines on his coffee table?

“Let’s do that,” she agrees.

They work as a team to control its fall. The room’s carpeted, so the mattress doesn’t make much of a sound beyond a soft thump when it hits the floor. MJ frowns at it thoughtfully. “You don’t have sheets.”

“Fuck sheets,” Peter says, half declaration, half laugh, and walks across the mattress to get to her.

She smiles against his mouth because it’s funny that he’s momentarily taller, standing on the mattress while her feet are still on the floor. Good thing he’s already taken his shoes off. MJ pulls away and drops to unlace her own sneakers, very, very aware of the rasp of Peter unzipping his jeans right above her head. She steps out of her shoes and overalls, then frees her hair of the elastic, flinging it spontaneously across the room, tousling her hair in her hands to fight the tingling of her scalp as she straightens up.

Oh. He’s already stripped his boxers off.

If her mouth actually does fall open as dramatically as it feels like it just has, it’s fine. MJ forgives herself. You’re supposed to be embarrassed after meeting a celebrity, wincing over every rambling sentence you blurted at them and every awkward twitch in your high-strung body language. Only you will ever recall your spastic behaviour. The celebrity forgot you the moment you exited their line of sight. Wait, will Peter mark her down as a horny fan and forget her? She hasn’t known him long enough to separate the man from the heroic icon, but she hopes neither side of his identity involves treating a partner like that. But no. Doesn’t matter. She can overanalyze later. Peter takes her hands and guides her onto the mattress where they make out standing up for a few minutes—him hot and rigid against her stomach, her not quite naked—before things get so heated that they collapse with roaming hands (Peter) and trembling knees (MJ).

For such a wholesome figure, Spider-Man curses wildly as he slides her underwear off, nose skimming down her skin from between her breasts to below her bellybutton while he works.

“You… you look…” he pants, propping himself up on his hands just to admire her. She has to confess, to herself alone, that it’s flattering, that it’s already making her want more of this: reckless afternoon sex in her friend’s fiancé’s best man’s new apartment. “God, I’m so glad you—”

“Called your bluff?” she suggests wryly.

“And everything before that. I’m so glad you were standing on the sidewalk when I got out of that truck.”

Well. That’s a little earnest. Then again, the man is hovering over her in the nude, so they’re in the heat-of-the-moment realm, during which time, comments of disconcerting earnestness do not count, or can be retracted later with no fault to either party.

To counteract it, MJ teases, “Are you saying you’re glad I came?”

“I’m glad you didn’t immediately leave when I said that thing about my wood,” he confides, kissing swiftly back up to her chest and using nothing but his tongue to toy with her breasts. She gasps at the sudden pull of his teeth, then laughs.

“So you were saying that shit on purpose.”

“Don’t be mad that I was too intimidated by your hotness to flirt with you to your face.”

His tone is playfully giddy and she likes this guy, she really does. She gets a good grip on his soft brown curls and tows him up for more kissing. Her knees bump his bare hips as she forms a cradle for him to drop into. Hint, hint.

Luckily, Spider-Man knows his cue.

He rocks between her legs and her chest rises and falls like breathing is a massive exertion. His angle is almost just right, so MJ shuffles and shifts and he’s endlessly patient as she rubs against him from below, testing. Well, not endlessly patient. The instant she moans in satisfaction, he’s got a hand wrapped desperately around her hip as he grinds down with tenacity. Right. This isn’t just any hookup, any guy. This is the guy who makes a career out of not backing down. Heat flows through her at the sudden thought of being handled with the intensity of one of Spider-Man’s mission.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says as she feels the head of him slip lower, skipping across her entrance. “Condom.”

Intense, and kind of a lustful dumbass.

“Right,” he agrees, flushed when he raises his face from where he’s been breathing in the scent of her hair. “I have one, uh, in my wallet.”

And then he doesn’t break away from her for a good ten seconds, like he’s hoping she’ll let him slide in bare. Horny motherfucker. MJ wants to screw Spider-Man, not birth his crime-fighting offspring. She tucks her chin and gives him a look that promises, as much as it would pain her, this thing is shutting down here and now if he doesn’t wrap it up. With a resigned exhalation (and a little smile implying he knows what he was trying to get away with), Peter pushes off of her and goes to dig around in the pocket of his jeans. She rolls onto her stomach to study the ropy musculature of his thighs. When he extracts the condom with a triumphant burst of sound, she flips onto her back again and watches him trip over the jeans he just dropped. There’s a charming contrast between this unexpected klutziness and her assumption that he could pull anybody with a pulse using those trusting brown eyes and his Avengers status.

He crouches beside MJ and doesn’t take his eyes off her, flapping the condom between his fingers.

“Should I put this on or do you wanna put it on me?”

She presents her palm.

“Give me that. You can’t even be trusted to install a curtain rod.”

“Oh, I’m extremely ready to install a rod,” he says eagerly, watching her tear the condom open and reach for his waiting cock.

“You know, you’re a real dork for a guy with those commitments and that ass.”

“Thank you?”

Before his uncertainty can swell to self-congratulations, MJ rolls the condom roughly down his dick, making him heave and shake, hips bucking into her perfunctory hold. Smirking, she closes her fist and pumps him quickly, eyes on the blank bliss on his face, his slack jaw. After a brisk minute of this, he begs her to slow down, then, still kneeling at her side, cups between her legs and starts fondling her at an even more vigorous pace than she was using on him. Her breaths come in hiccups and she can’t point out how unfair this is. Just as she’s arching for more, thinking she’s about to come faster than she ever has in her life, Peter stops cold.

“Are you ready to—”

MJ glares and knocks him back onto his ass, then scrambles onto his lap, continuing to push him down until his shoulders touch the mattress. His expression is cheerily confused.

“I was this close,” she says, pinching her fingers together until they nearly touch. When her complaint brings an impish smile to Peter’s face, she pinches those fingers around his nipple, so he hisses and curls into himself. Shaking her head at him, she takes hold of his erection and eases down onto his lap. His ecstatic chant of, “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” is moderately distracting, but MJ persists. It’s just who she is: stoic.

“God,” he groans beneath her as she begins swaying forward and back, “this is almost as good as catching the midnight opening of a new Star Wars.”

She covers his mouth with her hand and he laughs behind it.

“I was just trying to lean into your perception of me. I’m kidding.”

“Are you though?”

But she frees him for the noises he makes. Some of these grunts and whimpers scale her spine like a ladder, raising goosebumps as they go, until the whole sensation comes shivering back down and she finds herself riding him harder.

“Firm mattress,” she huffs.

“’S new. The last one was awful on my back and—ughhhhhhhohfuuuck—with the hazards of my line of work, I figured I gotta start taking care of myself.”

“If you won’t, I will,” MJ mumbles, curving forward to lick his chest, charting it all under her tongue, as she continues to shove back against him.

“Fuck,” he says, short and sharp. He seizes her hips and rolls her beneath him. “You should know, you taking control is a big turn on for me.”

“Clearly.”

She’s not sure how much sarcasm comes across in her gasp because his manhandling has knocked the wind out of her. Actually, she’s happy to let him steer things; being on top was starting to remind her legs of every step she’s walked up and down in this apartment building today, carrying Peter’s shit. He kneads some of the tightness away when he grasps her thigh and digs in with a roll of his fingers. Her moan is as much in relief as arousal. Then he starts thrusting so fast and deep that he has to pull her back towards him every so often so she isn’t forced off the mattress. The hum leaving her mouth is somewhere between breathing and moaning, one note that drags on and on, jumping and breaking when he catches her mouth in sloppy, ravenous kisses.

He’s still doing his damnedest to make out with her when her lips part with a genuine shriek. The tickle of Peter’s tongue against the roof of her mouth somehow adds to the sensation, like a high vibration over the low thrum of him drilling in and out of her. MJ comes seconds into the beginning of her scream; Peter comes with a crack. The sheer force of her orgasm—Spider-Man is clearly not without finesse, he simply does not choose to employ it in favour of fucking like he’s a sportscar running a red on a highspeed chase—has her too stunned to figure out why the sound accompanying his was wrong.

“What was that?” she asks hazily as Peter slumps over her body, breathing hard and still gently thrusting. He’s sweaty, but so is she. With something like pride, she realizes he’ll have to go to sleep tonight with his mattress soaked in her scent.

“Leg slipped,” he says.

MJ does vaguely recall that. In the midst of her climax, he’d moved. It wasn’t enough to distract her, so she’d focused on the feeling, as well as the resolution to not let him get her that close to the edge a second time without going over it.

“And hit what?”

“Uhhh…”

He doesn’t appear to know either, with his bleary, punch-drunk expression that’s unfortunately pretty adorable. No, no, no. A hand with moving, a hasty fuck, and she’s out. The whole day’s been extremely worth her while. She tells herself she doesn’t need more.

But Peter rolls off and she misses his weight and warmth, his shape and soft eyes. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress with his knees folded high when he goes, “Shit,” under his breath.

Because he also happens to be handling condom-removing at the time, MJ sits up fast, in a panic.

“Did it break?”

His posture inflates with a deep breath, then sags.

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s any way to salvage it.”

Salvage it? That’s a weird fucking thing to say in the situation, like it could possibly matter whether or not they were able to repair the condom after he’s already come inside her. Still, MJ’s skeptic nature makes her grab Peter’s shoulder and wrench it back, only to see the tied-off condom dangling between his fingers. It looks intact. She grips his chin and turns him to look at her.

“What do you mean it’s broken? It’s not in tatters. It’s not leaking.”

“What?” He squints at her, then follows her gaze to the condom. “Oh, not the condom. My headboard.”

Sure enough, she looks up and there’s his headboard, still protruding from the closet, but now in two pieces. The closest is on a slow, sad slide to the floor. He must’ve kicked it. MJ laughs breathlessly.

“Oh, thank god.” Abruptly, she’s pissed. “I thought you were talking about the condom! You don’t scare a woman like that!”

“You thought the condom broke?”

“You had it in your hands and said ‘shit’ in this horrible way and I thought…” She sighs.

“We could’ve made it work,” Peter argues, making her nostrils flare as she puts her underwear back on. “Our baby would be super cute.”

“Our baby?! We met hours ago.”

“I’ve developed stronger bonds in less time,” he says with a shrug, leisurely getting up and sliding his boxers up his legs. Nice ass. No. “You’d be surprised how soon after meeting me some of the villains in this city get themselves so worked up that they wanna kill me.”

She yanks her t-shirt over her head with silent ire. Then has to take it off again because she forgot to put her bra on first.

“Quit looking like that. Nothing happened to you.” Peter’s mouth turns down as he glances over to the wreckage of his headboard. “I have to replace that. Again.”

MJ’s seriously about to snap at this idiot for his insane priorities when he straights up stiffly as he’s stepping into the legs of his jeans.

“They’re back.”

“Who? Betty.”

“And Ned,” he says, now moving faster, doing the fly, throwing his own t-shirt on.

“Inside out,” she says. Not to be helpful, just so that Peter doesn’t give away exactly what they’ve been doing with their time since their friends left.

She goes to swat him when he comes towards her, but then his fingers are buttoning one side of her overalls while she does the other. MJ’s just clicked the straps back into place when the front door opens and closes. Sourness fading, she gives Peter a grateful nod for his help.

“Wait,” she hisses. “Where’s the condom?”

On the instruction of some bizarre reflex, he grabs it from the floor and whips it clear across the room, sending it sailing out the window. Her jaw drops in horror.

“I can’t believe you just—"

“Guys?” Betty calls. “The Mexican place up the street was closed, so we just hit the liquor store for now. How’s the bedroom coming?”

MJ and Peter race to the door; she pulls it closed so fast that it smacks him in the ass, but then he gives her this stupid look like he liked it. And here’s Betty.

“You’re sweaty,” she notes. “Been working hard? You guys get the curtain up?”

“Yep,” MJ says honestly. “No problem.”

Her friend beams in satisfaction, but her expression shifts to conspiratorial as she links her arm through MJ’s and starts to guide her towards the kitchen, likely wanting to know if Peter said anything else colourful during her absence. Except that moron decides to pipe up from right behind them.

“And when we finished with the curtain, we moved on to the bed.”

“You did what?” Ned demands from the kitchen, then comes hurtling around the corner.

“No,” Peter gasps. He flings himself back to the bedroom door and blocks it, holding both hands out to keep his best friend back.

“MJ?” Betty questions with a growing grin.

She glances between the three of them for a moment and realizes there’s no way Peter’s keeping this secret. Time to go on the defensive.

“You brought me here,” MJ argues. “I can’t be blamed for my weakness for organizing—”

“Oh,” Betty shoots back. “For organizing and not for—”

“—apartments. All I—”

“—Peter, who you were so clearly attracted to from the instant you saw him?”

“—wanted to do was—”

“Me?” Peter says, taking a hopeful stab in answer to MJ’s explanation.

She glares at him.

“You flirted shamelessly with me all day—”

“You didn’t even realize I was flirting.”

“—so how am I supposed to help it if— Oh,” MJ says, catching the end of that comment, “and is that supposed to negate the effect it had?”

“I loved the effect it had. I have nothing to say against it.”

“How did you two go from shy teenagers sneaking glances at each other to an old married couple within the last half-hour?” Ned asks, jubilant.

“You’d have to ask my new neighbours,” Peter says calmly. “I think the scream they overheard is probably enough of an explanation.”

“That scream was on you,” MJ protests.

“And the noise complaint I’ll probably get is on you!”

“Sounds like you two should exchange numbers,” Betty suggests brightly. “In case you need to follow up for that noise complaint.” They both look at her. Then, MJ withdraws her phone from the back pocket of her overalls and pushes it into Peter’s hand.

“Fine,” she says.

He agrees with a shrug, eyes on the screen as he taps out his information.

“Come on, you crazy kids,” Ned coos, “let’s grab a beer while they’re still hot from the walk back.”

Betty giggles at this and twines her fingers through her fiancé’s.

In the kitchen, she pulls MJ aside right as MJ’s contemplating squeezing past Peter a second time on the pretext of getting ice. (The first time, she pressed her ass to his groin and felt him rub against her in response.) She didn’t even need the ice; she dumped it straight into the sink.

“So, how was that?” Betty asks, searching MJ’s face keenly for approval and recognition of a job well done.

“Perfect,” MJ has to grant her. “He did something incredibly irritating right before you guys got back, so I’m sure he found my annoyance entirely organic.”

“Method number sixty-three for getting a guy’s number still works like a charm. Though you know you could’ve just asked me for it.”

“Yeah, but messing with him was more fun.”

Her friend smiles against the lip of her bottle.

“Do you feel bad?”

“Nah. He’s been messing with me all day.”

“Hey, MJ,” Peter calls to her from where he and Ned have started emptying another box marked ‘KITCHEN’. “You wanna help me screw something to the wall later?” Smiling broadly, he waves a magnetic wall-mounted knife holder.

“Like that,” MJ stresses to Betty, then tosses her bottle cap so it bounces off Peter Parker’s stupid, smug, handsome face.

#thotumn #peter parker is a thot #my writing #spideychelle #peter parker #michelle jones

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rosaetae · 5 years

Text

among the evergreen

☇ “The day you will see two of me is the same day you won't need me unless you say you do”

➣ pairing: reader x jungkook

➣ genre: christmas themed, modernfantasy!au, e2l!au, fluff

➣ word count: 12.6k

➣ disclaimer: this is literally an exaggerated satire of Hallmark Christmas movies filled with eggnog crack for the holiday spirit. please do not take this seriously. happy holidays!

➣ summary: the odd christmas wedding with the odd christmas runaway with the odd christmas adventure with the odd christmas stranger

"You can't be serious right now, ___."

"Hyunjung, I've never been more serious in my entire life." Grabbing a chunk of clothes from your closet that ranged from sweaters to leggings, you shove it into your duffel bag. "This version my parents made of me?— I'm not her. They seriously think they're going to discipline me by selling me off to a man I don't know?"

"Oh, don't be dramatic. They're not selling you off, they just arranged a marriage for you."

You open your mouth, gaping at her. "Even worst! Where's my consent? Where's my sense of individualism?! I'm an adult and yet, they're giving me away to a random person they arranged a marriage with just last year!"

"And may I remind you that you're getting married to that random person in two weeks, ___. Perfect for a Christmas wedding," Hyunjung optimistically exclaims over the FaceTime call, removing her towel that was wrapped around her head and combing her hair with her fingers. "I don't think you should be leaving."

You cringe at her romanticizing an arranged marriage that takes away your sense of freedom.

"No, Hyunjung," you point your lotion bottle in your hand at her. "The version that my parents fabricated of me— she. She's the one getting married in two weeks. I, however, am taking a trip to Europe."

"Europe?" She repeats, nearly gaping at the sound of that. "That's why you need me to drop you off at the airport? Europe? Are you joking me?"

You nearly snort, folding one of your t-shirts messily and tossing it into the duffel. "You thought I was joking when I took that trip to Greece by myself. Does it look like I'm joking?"

"Insane. You're absolutely insane."

"I hope you say that in a good way," you throw a wink at her.

"You cannot be serious."

"And why not? I'm my own adult! I can go to another country myself. Plus, you remember Hana, right? She offered a place for me to stay in London."

Hyunjung raises her eyebrows. "And you're sure Hana is going to let you into her humble abode and take you in?"

"98% sure," you pause for a moment, continuing on to your last minute packing of shoving whatever you could into a duffel. "The 2% is only if I actually get there before she leaves for Amsterdam."

"Wait, what?"

"I should be getting there before Tuesday night, hopefully. If not, then I'm stuck to tend to a motel for a couple of nights until she comes back from finishing that research project in Amsterdam," you snort. "Which will be unlikely. I scheduled a plane for Italy that leaves tonight. From there, I have to take a bus to Belgium to take a ferry to London, so essentially I should be there before Monday."

"Why not take a straight plane to London?" Hyunjung inquires, evidently confused to your excessive and over-the-top plan.

"Where's the fun in that?" You chuckle, grabbing your backpack. "Do you wanna hear my plan that I originally called you for?"

Hyunjung makes a motion with her hand, urging you to proceed into such plan that you always make up to escape your drowning parents.

"A couple nights ago, I bought a plane ticket to Italy. I went to a travel advisor today and paid for a bus and a ferry with cash. This way, my parents will simply think I'm in Italy and while they'll most likely hold this whole huge crazy man hunt for me in Milan, I'll be in London, living my own life, single as a bird. Maybe drinking tea with the queen, perhaps."

The thin look Hyunjung plasters on her face is as if she was talking to someone who told her that she was having twins— maybe even triplets.

"Okay," she begins slowly, squeezing lotion into her hands. "Where do I lie in all of this?"

"What?" Narrowing your eyes at her mischievously, you smirk. "You think you have a role in my plan to be set free?"

"I have a role in any devious plan you make up in your head to get the hell away from your, and I quote, "insane, restricting puppeteers of parents"," she scoffs, making you laugh. "Now what is it? Do you want me to lie to them that you're in Italy?"

"See, you're already ahead of the game!"

She rolls her eyes.

"I just need you to lie that I did go to Italy only for a few weeks and if they press you, just tell them that that's all I told you. Easy."

"Yeah, until your parents try to blackmail me."

"They've never blackmailed you."

"Yeah," she exclaims before biting her lip. "But they could!"

"They won't do that," you roll your eyes at them. Sure your parents are strict, but they find blackmail a bit too extra. "Look, are you going to pick me up soon or not? I have a flight to catch."

"Yeah, yeah," she sighs. "I'll leave in five."

The parents that you call yours were indescribably suffocating.

Over-exaggerating, but you do try to peer at it from their perspective, but all you see is publicity and reputation in a string of lies and facades— all of which is clearly evident because you were grown up to keep such a good reputation.

Daughter of a CEO of an oil company and a broadway star, your life was bound to be molded into the flawless model of what a family should be. From the fake smiles on the news to having to be present at elite parties that nearly make you want to rip your brain out, doing one wrong thing would be an instant detrimental effect to your family.

And being tired of having to keep an ideal picture during the day, you sneak out during the night under fake names and fake personas— you are not the daughter of two important people, you are yourself.

Not getting caught was your specialty. It progressed well over time, knowing how well you can harbor in the dark for so long without being exposed, but that week-long trip to Greece was what probably ruined your streak when your mother found out you were not on that school trip upstate, but you were oceans away, relaxing in the nice beaches of Corfu.

Maybe then your mother has gone insane trying to maintain a good reputation for you, but an arranged marriage? Something they've never told you about since two weeks ago? Hell, you were going to drop everything and go off grid just for the arranged marriage to not happen.

And that's exactly what you're going to do.

The current position you're, unfortunately, in is not ideal to your original plan you have set out for yourself.

Muscles growing tired, you've become exhausted, a tad bit dehydrated, and you had an odd craving for something with chocolate. And to tie it all off, your bus driver had just announced they are scheduled to depart a little later than usual as you sat at the window seat, pondering about the extra time you could've used to get a bottle of water and maybe some fudge brownies from the store, but sacrificing this seat is not apart of your plan.

So you sit there, watching strangers trickle in slowly to find seats on the bus, and thankfully none of them took the chance to sit in the empty seat next to you. As you finally grow a comfort in your seat, ignoring your growing dehydration and aching muscles, you may have spoke too soon when you felt the bus almost shake by how the one stranger slipped into the seat next to you with heavy momentum.

Glimpsing at the panting stranger, you shift your crossed legs to point towards the window. You don't see his face well enough, but you didn't show much care when you lay back into your seat. "Woah there, cowboy, we depart in twenty. You didn't have to rush and crash into this seat beside me."

"What?" He says, breathlessly. You can tell from the corner of your eye, he's giving you a questionable look. "It's supposed to depart at 10:30."

Snorting, you fix your posture. "Yeah, well, delays happen, big guy. It's going to be 11 now. Nice entrance."

As you peek at him, he don't miss the eyebrow he raises at you. Settling in nicely beside you, he holds out his hand in a polite manner. "Jungkook."

You glance at his hand and back at him, going back to leaning your head against the head support. "Hi."

"Ah," he takes his hand back after he notices you not taking it. "So you're going to make me ask you for your name?"

You arch an eyebrow at him. "I'm not making you do anything?"

"I introduced myself. It's a common courtesy to at least share a name back, but seeing that you didn't tell me your name, you're in turn ruining that common courtesy by having me ask you for your name."

"Or I'd rather keep my name to myself than reveal it to an utter stranger," you smile. "Nice try, but you haven't earned my trust enough to know my name."

He has a fixed gaze on you. "Did you want my life story in exchange?"

"That depends. How badly do you want to know my name?"

"Well," he lets out a dramatic sigh. "When I was little, my mom and dad got divorced and my mom married another man—"

"Hmm, see, " you cut him off. "I can't even trust that's a real story. Guess we're better off as strangers."

He chuckles as you close your eyes.

And that's how you shut him up from then, when the began to depart, and in the midst of just entering the freeway when you make the mistake of grabbing a small bag of pretzels from your backpack and sitting back to eat them in hopeful silence.

"Why are you heading to Brussels?" The stranger asks mid-crunch of your pretzel.

Your eyes widen slightly by the sudden question, before you're shrugging at him in response. "None of your business."

It would be easy to tell him that you're only there to catch a ferry, but along with that will follow up more questions— talking to him was draining enough.

He lets out a light scoff. "A simple question."

"That's none of your business."

Jungkook cocks his head to the side as you're chewing on your pretzels. "Are you always this hard to crack?"

"Are you always this annoying?"

"Not really, but it's definitely getting a rise out of you."

"So I sit next to a dipshit named Jungkook who probably has daddy issues," you throw at him, referring to his previous said fact about him to exchange for your name. "Long hours ahead of us."

"And I, for one, intend to make the most out of it by trying to get to know you."

You snort, pulling out your earphones from your pocket, closing your eyes for the last time until the next stop. "Good luck."

Fortunately for you, when they flutter open, the bus had made a stop in the middle of a venue with greens and whites that catches your eye as you peer out the window. Making it quick, the bus driver announces for a 20 minute break parked in the Swiss Alps, instructing where the bathroom is and demonstrating a shop just in sight.

"Finally," you breathe in relief, feeling your dehydration grow with each second.

You ignore Jungkook and the fact that he was blocking you just slightly to take your break when you squeeze your way between him and the seat, making room for yourself between the people packing in the bus aisle to leave the bus as well.

The air was crisp and your breath was evident every time you exhaled, taking you aback by the wonders of the place around you. The skies were grey, but the massive trees and the sparkling fresh snow of the woods is what makes you wide-eyed.

And you think about how there are so many wonders in the world that your parents have not made you seen. Sure, you've visited Switzerland, but only for pure business. Never once were you told that you could explore and initiate that wanderlust that always grew inside of you when you're away from home.

Taking your boots and trudging through the snow, you follow the flock of people from the bus who are noticeably going inside one of the small wooden buildings or heading to where the restroom signs were.

Grabbing a water bottle along with a bag of chocolate-covered almonds, you're about to buy something with the cash you exchanged with Swiss Franc, when you tiredly see that the line was taking awhile. Letting out a yawn, you divert your attention out the window, only to see something interesting just nearby.

It was a cottage that looked completely different from the similar buildings like the store you're in. Squinting, your curiosity gets the best of you as you're trying to get a better look of it, noticing that there evident trails of moss on the roof, creating a rustic aura, as well as interesting charms being hung on the patio.

You wonder what's inside, completely enchanted by its appearance and its—

"What are you buying?" The voice of your familiar, annoying seat partner appears by your side, causing you to jump out of your thoughts and to scowl at his arrival.

"You don't ever know how to leave someone alone, huh?" You sarcastically grin to which he responds with a smirk, shaking his head.

"Just you."

You give him a look before you're buying it. "Give me some space, Jungkook."

"I don't know if you're allowed to say my name when I don't know yours, gingercake."

You give him a fake smile before you were finally next in line and Jungkook seemingly follows you to the register. When you notice he's beside you empty-handed, you give him a pointed look. "You're not buying anything?"

"No," he replies. "I don't need anything."

"So, you're just here to annoy me then."

"Essentially," he laughs before he nods his head to a certain direction. "You noticed the cottage out there, too?"

"Quite creepy that you're watching me, don't you think?"

He shrugs. "Think of it what you will. But you didn't answer my question."

"I don't answer to strangers."

"But we're not," he says. "We're bus buddies."

"No," you cringe at the term he made for both of you as you grab the receipt and your snacks. "No, we're not."

Before he would say anything more, you make a hurried walk for the door, back turned to him.

"Oh, come on," he persists as he tries to walk beside you. "Is your name embarrassing, or something?"

"My name is none of your business."

"You're being so stubborn over a little thing. Are you like a wanted criminal? Is that why?"

You gasp dramatically as if he was correct. "Yes! Right on the nose!"

"Come on," he continues, knowing very well your sarcasm was not a pretty trait on you. "I'm not a snitch either way."

"No, but you do know how to get on my nerves."

"That hurts," he chuckles. "Come on, it's just a name—?"

You turn over to him in brooding irritation. "That you don't deserve to know, end of discussion. Jungkook, please, I am of little importance to you and you to me. Not knowing my name won't hurt you in the long run. So please, can I spend the rest of this bus ride without you bombarding me asking me what my name is?"

Jungkook looks at you before he puts his hands up in defeat. "Fine. But for the record, I have never met anyone so protective over something so little like their name."

"And I've never met someone so pushy, but here we are—" As you turn around, you notice that the bus was gone and your eyes widened.

"No, no, no," you mutter before you're sprinting towards the road and just there, the bus was moving further down the winding road, growing tinier within the second.

"Great! How absolutely peachy! We missed our bus!" You groan, removing your beanie from your head, exasperated. You turn over at Jungkook who just so happens to finally catch up to you, noticing the reason for your distress.

"It's fine, don't panic."

You turn over to face towards the standing dumbass with a baffled look. "We're in the middle of the fucking Swiss Alps, idiot! There is no service here. How the hell are we going to get to Brussels now?"

"Look, just calm down. Let's go inside and see if the cashier can help."

However, going into the store didn't help when the lady at the store didn't have any type of phone to help you contact anyone, nor was she interested in helping you both so she pointed you towards the cottage you happened to stare at earlier.

At first, you didn't oppose the idea, very curious as to what this cottage has to offer. And when you step onto the patio and a notice a wooden sign that says open, Jungkook is the first to turn the knob and take a step.

Remarkably, you're not walking in with fear, but you're walking in with a curious mind— and when you happen to step inside, you're not quite disappointed.

It was breathtaking— something you've never seen before. There were rows and rows of jars filled with herbs of sorts and odd colorful gems and crystals were displayed with the occasional plants that hung from the ceiling. A bucolic, yet eerie feeling was blossoming in your chest that you don't notice that you've walked farther in than Jungkook.

"Hello?" Jungkook calls aloud. You peer behind yourself, noticing his wandering eyes as you turn your head back front, focusing on the table with a crystal ball.

"Hello, is anyone here?" Jungkook tries again as you wonder where every single ancient thing came from before the sound of foot steps makes you pause, moving backwards to stand behind Jungkook.

"Visitors?" A voice of whom you'd assume belonged to a female spoke aloud in the unreal way possible.

As she makes an appearance coming out of one of the corridors, you notice that out gracefully comes a woman of red hair and piercing green eyes, lips decorated in berry and cheeks of a deep plum. Her clothing was almost a gypsy, but she wore a coat of fur over the gold jewelry she wore on her neck and hips.

"And what is this?" She brings a finger to her lips in utter astonishment and peculiarity, eyes narrowing to focus on you and Jungkook. "A wreath's bond?"

A what bond? You think.

Jungkook and you take a moment to glance at each other, exchanging odd looks before looking back at the woman who was shuffling towards the circular table with the crystal ball sitting in the center of it.

"Ah, you two don't know," she observes, laughing hysterically and taking a seat. You're confused, but there was an odd feeling in your stomach that seemed to give some sort of trust to her. "Come, you two. Sit. I have a feeling about you both."

"Actually," Jungkook begins, grabbing your wrist and preventing you from moving towards her. "We were told that you would know how to get to the nearest bus station."

Her head snaps up, and lets out a scoff. "By who?"

"Lady in the gift shop," you answer. "They had no phone, but she told us to come here."

"That damn grinch. Always tells visitors to come here when they need a phone or directions."

"Well, do you?" You ask politely.

"This is the Alps, honey-pie. There is no such thing as service here."

"Great, she sees you as food," Jungkook whispers quietly down to you. "She's going to eat us."

The joke that comes from Jungkook makes you nudge him with your elbow, releasing yourself from his grasp that you didn't realize was still there.

"Is there a bus stop nearby?" You try.

"Not nearby, but I can lead you to a village just an hour travel by walking... well, it's more of a ski resort, but surely there's people there willing to help."

"Where is it?"

She's silent before she's patting on the table, motioning you both to sit.

Jungkook and you hesitate, but you're the first to move, walking towards the lady who could easily kill you, but emanates curiosity that even you couldn't resist. Jungkook follows after you, sitting in the chair across from yours.

"Let me see your hands," she says, palms outwards, awaiting your hands. However, you were reluctant, looking up at Jungkook who was shaking his head discreetly. "Oh, I promise I won't bite. I'm Evanora, the friendly witch of the east."

"A witch?"

"That could explain the crystal ball," Jungkook nods, staring directly at the iridescent ball sitting on the table.

"What did you think I was?" She inquires, a berry-lipped smile on her face. "And the crystal ball is just for decoration. Now, hands. Give."

You, with a slight bit of reluctance, gives your hand to her, Jungkook following after you as the witch throws a smile, to which she closes her eyes and slightly squeezes.

You meet Jungkook's smile he was trying to prevent by the odd circumstance you both were in, you shrugging in uncertainty before Evanora opens her eyes.

She nods, pointing outside her window. "If you go down the trail, you will see cabins."

"Wait, that's it?" Pressing her, you were immediately concerned as to what she saw.

"What I saw," she pats your hand in an eerie manner. "Shouldn't be said."

You open your mouth, curious as to what on earth she could possibly have seen that's making her bite back a smile. Eyes peering over to Jungkook, you shake your head. "It doesn't matter anyways," you scrunch your eyebrows at her words. "Trail? What trail?"

"Packed up by snow. But if you follow the opening of those trees, you will find the village." She gives a smile before it immediately fades.

"What?" Jungkook presses, noticing her mood change.

"I must warn you, there are winter elves ahead."

"Elves," you blink.

"Like Santa's elves?"

"Winter elves," she nods. "Do not interact with them. They tend to distract you from your purpose. And they like to steal anything shiny."

"You can't be serious," you arch an eyebrow.

"You've met a witch. Is it really that hard to believe?" Evanora says as she stands. "Go, embark on your journey, but I will tell you this—"

Jungkook stands quite abruptly, seemingly ready to leave the cabin of Evanora's while you stand up slowly, awaiting for Evanora to finish. "Lose one another, you will lose the purpose."

"We won't lose each other," you promise.

"I have a feeling that you may," she quietly says, but it was audible for you to hear. "And when you must, your wreath's bond will find you both again."

Scrunching your eyebrows together at the phrase, you're about to open your mouth to ask for explanation.

Immediately, the witch puts her finger up to silence you before she smirks. "The day you will see two of me is the same day you won't need me unless you say you do."

The two of you searched for the opening of the immense and jaw-dropping trees before you, noticing the snow, as Evanora said, being packed up on a trail, however that didn't stop the two of you from walking down the trail.

When you first begin walking, Jungkook is quiet, knowing that you're in your thoughts. And he was right. The so-called witch made you more concerned, especially after she held your hands and said she couldn't say what she saw. You think of the bad things that she must've seen, ranging from a terrible accident or a betrayal or anything that would bring you in harms way.

"Come on, you actually believe she's an actual witch?" Jungkook asks all of a sudden. He must have noticed your brain turning in the silence. "She didn't give us the best directions. She told us to find a ski resort where someone can help us."

"The day you will see two of me is the same day you won't need me unless you say you do," you say aloud, slowly. "What does she mean?"

"Just a whole lot of mumbo jumbo to me," he postulates. "She was probably just saying shit out of her ass." When he sees that you've paused, Jungkook raises an eyebrow at you. "You're not telling me you actually believe in that nonsense?"

"I'm superstitious. I believe in ghosts, aliens, mermaids. A witch doesn't sound like nonsense."

Embarrassed wasn't the word you'd say you felt when Jungkook looks at you, flabbergasted after you decree that you believe in the supernatural. Maybe a tad bit awkward, but seeing that he lets out a chuckle, you purse your lips. "You've read Harry Potter, haven't you?"

"No. No, I haven't actually. I just believe in a little bit of magic, that's all."

"I still think the winter elves is a load of bullshit," he states. "Come on. Elves?"

"Yeah," you nod, semi-lying. "Yeah, I know."

From then on, it felt exhausting.

The continuous trudging in the snow with heavy boots felt overtiring, but determination was your factor that kept you persisting. You couldn't afford to miss a day— not when you didn't think of pulling out enough cash from the bank, so paying for a couple of nights at a motel in London will surely give your location away to your parents who are probably on a manhunt for you.

Just then, Jungkook, who was in front of you, stops.

It makes you bump into him, looking up from the white snow to give him a questioning look. Seeing that he points at something in front of him, you glance at the direction, noticing evident small houses that were seemingly built by branches scattered amongst the area.

"Is this it? Are these the winter elves we have to worry about? Oh man, I sure hope they don't eat my toes!" Jungkook howls, hands on his stomach as he pokes at one of the houses on a tree stump. "Oh no, I wonder if they're magical. Are they gonna freeze us to death?"

You stand up straight, rolling your eyes at him. "Pipe the fuck down, asshole," you scold him, punching his shoulder.

"Oh, come on, did you really believe there would be winter elves? Elves? Please, these are houses made out of branches that a hiker probably made—"

His words were muted out when your ears catching something similar to a musical pipe.

"Shh," you bring a finger to his mouth. "Do you hear that?"

Jungkook's words are mute with your finger pressed against his lips while your ears try to pick up what sounded more clearly like a faint flute folk song.

Scrunching his eyebrows, he brings a hand to your wrist, removing your hand from his lips and stares at you intently. Gazing up to him, you stand still when he comes near to you, bringing his previously muted lips to your ear.

"That's the wind," he whispers, causing you to exasperatingly sigh, lifting your hands to push him away as he cackles loudly that he was clenching his stomach once more.

Annoyed wasn't a term you'd settle with how you were feeling at the moment, but as you stand there, with arms crossed over your body, you wait for him to shut up. "For gods sake, come on."

Grabbing his arm, you continue to walk along the veiled trail, his laughter fading away after a long time, and once it did, your breath nearly stops when ahead you see a spread of lights.

"Is that it? The ski resort she was talking about?" Jungkook asks, panting as you shrug, continuing to walk as you saw people in layers walk around. You admire the colors they were wearing, some were neutrals, but some wore festive colors of red and green, gold and white.

"Come on, old man," you tell him as he was trailing further from you.

"Slow down a little bit, would you?" He calls for you as you throw a grin at him, turning back around to keep walking on the cobblestone sidewalk, mesmerized by the village.

After a few steps of being mesmerized of the things around you, you turn around, noticing that you weren't the only thing mesmerized by the things around you, but when you see Jungkook being swept away off his feet into what seems to be a pub by a strand of golden hair, you're once again, annoyed.

Pursing your lips, you let out a sigh and turn around, beginning to walk down the street, easily letting your contempt ease off your chest as you try to look for someone to help by yourself. You didn't even care if you were going to have to leave this ski resort by yourself, that was your whole purpose.

You walk further down, watching in awe as the people decorate their exteriors, putting up tinsel, lights and garlands, those carrying a fresh tree into their homes, and those carrying stacks of presents, curious at how festive the place was being.

Stopping in front of a store, you stare from the outside, admiring the exterior before your eyes narrow, attempting to peek inside the store.

First, you see a spectrum of colors of what your eyes focused to be wrapping paper of different designs and patterns galore. You think it's a gift store, but then, you observe that there are people in rows, wrapping boxes in a quick and swift motion. At first, you're marveling at how fast they're wrapping, tying it all off with a bow on top and tossing it in a pile of other finished presents before you're thinking they resemble something so familiar that—

You're distracted.

Realizing this, you tear your eyes away from the store, continuing to walk, searching for someone who was not tending to decorating or not busy in this ski resort to help you, only when you reach a revelation.

This was no ski resort— at least one without a ski left. And as if Evanora's raspy voice was echoing in your ear, you realize the mistake that you and Jungkook made; you separated.

It is with no hesitation that you're walking with a brisk pace, others on the street looking up at the foreigner walking towards the pub in such a hurry.

You pull on the door, a bell indicating that customer walked in, eyes searching for the person you were warned not to split from, implicitly ignoring that others were looking at you with a strange curiosity.

Walking inside and letting the door shut behind you, your eyes graze upon the small pub before they stop to the familiar raven-haired boy talking to the blonde in which her pernicious coquetry was evident even from afar.

You're about to grab Jungkook from his arm in attempt to drag him away, but you stop when you see that the blonde seductively takes a finger to his neck, tracing a line down his throat to hook her finger along the silver chain that was tucked under his shirt.

Nearly vomiting whatever was in your stomach at the sight in front of you, you crinkle your nose in utter remorse when Jungkook looks at her up and down, a smirk on his face.

The sight merely makes you leave the pub, until you turn around adamantly, only to remember what Evanora was saying— they tend to distract you from your purpose.

Groaning distinctly, you whip towards the idiot and the seducing winter elf, clearing your throat at the two who were sharing a laugh together.

"Oh, hey," Jungkook looks up at you briefly before looking back at the blonde. "There you are. Where were you?"

"Can I grab you for a second?" You say oddly sweetly, feigning the blonde a friendly smile lifted by your cheeks in which she returns one politely before going back to drinking from her cup. Without even hearing Jungkook try to object, you grab his arm hastily and take him outside.

Jungkook stumbles over his feet for a moment before the crisp winter air hits both of your faces on impact. "Woah there, gingercake. What's going on?" Even with a tug, it doesn't loosen your grip from his arm as you try to drag him away from the pub as fast as possible.

"We're leaving," you utter, but hearing that, Jungkook immediately stops, your turn to be the one stumbling.

Turning around with a huff, you give him a scowl, letting your hand that was digging into his arm go. He opens his mouth, his narrow eyes questioning your motive. "Why?"

"Jungkook, just listen to me."

He crosses his arms across his chest, a smug painting his features. "What if I don't want to?"

You half-heartedly scoff at him, shrugging. "Fine, then stay. I couldn't care less."

He opens his mouth to say something, but even when he could even process words to elicit, you're already turning around again, eyes focusing on the horizon that's being set as your only goal and focus. As you walk ahead with persistence, you curse in your head for even being kind enough to get him out a situation that could easily have him stripped.

"Hey, woah," Jungkook jogs up to reach in front of you. Stopping to raise an eyebrow at him, you observe him as he gives you an uncertain look. "Is that jealousy in your voice?"

"How rich," you scoff. "Jungkook, I am anything but jealous right now, and you're really testing me." Moving around him, you continuing to walk before he stops you again, looking around to find a gap between stores, pulling you to the side from the strangers who were walking past you both.

"You are!" He exclaims once he successfully pulls you away.

"Jungkook," you exasperate, before lowering your voice. "This is not the ski resort. This is the village Evanora warned us about."

"What?"

"You were flirting with a winter elf, idiot," you whisper loudly. "This is not a ski resort, it's a village of winter elves."

Jungkook half-heartedly laughs, shaking his head. When he sees that your face was anything but amused, his face morphs into confusion. "No, there's no such thing as—"

Rolling your eyes, you shut him up by moving closer to him, eyes not tearing away from his when you bring your finger to his neck, which ultimately makes him freeze at your sudden movements. As you're tracing down his throat, you don't think of anything more as you yank down the collar of his shirt, only to reveal what you originally suspected.

"Where's your necklace, Jungkook?" You ponder, your eyes never leaving his. Jungkook hesitates before he removes his eyes from yours and looks down, your hand not leaving its current state and exposing his bare, pale chest.

He inhales sharply before you finally let your hand go, waiting for his eyes to meet yours again. You take a step back, crossing your arms with slight arrogance as you offer an amused smile.

"She was trying to seduce you, Jungkook," you state. "So she could steal. She obviously did a good job when she made you forget your purpose and stole your necklace."

"For fuck's sake," Jungkook curses, running a hand through his hair. You were close to tell him 'I told you so', but you refrain when he takes your wrist and drags you out of the opening. "Let's go."

The scenery was beautiful, with the green hues that contrasted with the white that was almost so bright it blinded you, but with the little bit of sun that peeked from the clouds, you couldn't help but get distracted with everything around you.

It almost makes you feel like you don't have a crazy dad or an insane mother that expect you to be home in perfect condition just to sell you off to someone you don't know.

You must have been mindlessly walking and trudging in the snow with your boots nearly weighing you down because just when you bump into something, you're about to curse at yourself for being stupid to walk into a tree. That is, until you realize it wasn't a tree, it was Jungkook's form, who had idiotically taken a halt that caused you to bump into him.

"Jungkook—"

"Look," he cuts you off. Peering over his shoulder, your reaction had shifted from annoyance to awe when you notice that the evergreens weren't the only wonder.

Walking down to the ski resort was just over a hill, trudging over inches of snow and having to make sure not to fall face forward. Jungkook eventually sees a bit of struggle coming from you— to which, in your defense, he has an advantage due to his elongated legs— and reaches out to your for support. However, your adamancy slaps his hand away, continuing to walk over the hill to see more of the lights that contrasted the nearing night sky.

"Hey, question," he inquires aloud once the snow had reached scarce and just ahead were the many wooden buildings with warm lights.

Nodding, you spare him a glance, breathing almost heavy as you both continue to walk. "Shoot."

"Don't you think you could've stopped her when she was stealing my necklace?"

Jungkook reaches to your side as you both reach the icy street where people were bundled in clothes. What reassured you were the group of people walking down the street across from you, carrying their snowboarding gear inside a building, their laughter echoing down the streets.

Without pondering, you shrug. "I wasn't the one flirting with her."

"I'm going to ignore your raging jealousy here and ask you one more time—"

"Jungkook, I wasn't the idiot who easily got distracted and forgot what Evanora said," you cut him off. "She said that, lose each other you lose your purpose— and while you were being whisked away by some winter elf, I was trying to find someone to help us. It's not jealousy, it's called not being stupid."

"Great," he exhales deeply. You don't miss the stress that elicited along with it, you cocking your head to the side in sudden curiosity.

"Why? Was it important?"

He waves you off. "It was just a family necklace, that's all."

"A family necklace," you repeat, before scrunching your eyebrows. "Sounds pretty important to me."

"Doesn't matter anymore," he shakes his head as you both continue to walk down the village. "It's gone now."

Feeling a tad bit sympathetic, you reach up to him, matching his pace. "This," you say as you pull out your hand from your pocket. "This was handed to me by my mother which was given by her mother and by her mother and by her mother."

He peers down at your frozen hands, eyeing the ring. "What does the leaf mean?"

You don't tell him that the leaf meant growth.

In your mother's line of successful women, the ring was always passed down so long as there would be potential demonstrated. Your grandmother, being a former model, and your mother, having to be a broadway musical star, you were seen to have potential to be an heiress of the company your father runs— but it's too bad you distasted such high expectations. Hell, you were even willing to have the elves steal this rather Jungkook's necklace when all you're doing is creating a ruination in your line of successful women.

"It's alright," Jungkook says, shaking his head after noticing your reluctance. "You won't tell me your name, I can't expect you to tell me the meaning of your family ring."

At first, you're taken aback at how easy that was for him to say that, especially after trying to have you choke out your name. You stare, flabbergasted but almost grateful he didn't try to push this time.

"The necklace was given to me by my uncle from my mother's side," Jungkook explains nonchalantly as you both unconsciously walk towards the line of cabins that most likely held travelers. "Said he'd give it to his son if it weren't for the fact that his wife can only reproduce daughters."

Snorting, you quirk a smile at him. "How many daughters does he have?"

"Five," he chuckles. "All of who are very, very annoying."

"Why's that?"

"Annoying in a way that they're disgustingly successful," he says. "Runs in the blood except for mine."

To that, you let out a snigger. "I can definitely relate to that."

"What's this?" He laughs. "We're actually having a decent conversation?"

Rolling your eyes, you give him a nudge, shaking your head.

And oddly enough, for once the silence when both of your laughter dies isn't awkward— it's not tension nor is it uncomfortable. It's almost pleasant.

Jungkook, silently, looks at you in a peculiar fond way that makes you slow down your pace a bit. Your insides twist and turn in your stomach at the way he just stares at you without so much of a word— as if he's either judging you or he's admiring you, in which you're hoping deep down it's the former.

You're exhaling a shuddering breath when you desperately decide to ruin the moment, taking one of your hands out of your pocket at pointing at one of the cabins. "Over there," you declare, cheeks beginning to redden. "Let's try over there."

And you do not miss a second to speed up your pace, careful on the slippery street not to slip, hearing Jungkook walking behind you.

When you finally reach to a random cabin with a car parked outside, you're silently hoping that they would answer the door to two strangers.

And with each second passed and your hopes were falling, you hear the door unlatch, your ears perking at the sound when the door opens. A man, wearing a red plaid flannel and a black beanie opens it with a confused look.

"Hello?" He asks and your eyes light up.

"Hi!" You cheerily state, relieved that someone was even willing to open the door. "Sorry to be such a bother, but we're stranded and we were hoping if you knew where the nearest bus station is?"

The stranger nods with a warm smile. "It's down the hill, actually. Quite a trip on foot."

"Is it?" Jungkook asks. "Are there any taxis or maybe Ubers that you know of that's available here?"

The stranger shakes his head. "Nope, but I'd be gladly to drop you guys off there."

"Wait, really?" You ask in surprise, looking at Jungkook with excited eyes. "That'd be really great!"

"Of course," he gleams. "I'm assuming you both need to get to your families for Christmas."

Jungkook and you exchange glances. "Something like that."

"I'll let my wife know and grab the keys."

"Thank you!" You call out, the door being left a crack open as you turn over with Jungkook with excitement. You're nearly about to squeal when Jungkook gives this uncertain look that throws your whole excitement out the window. "Alright, what's in your panties that got you in a twist?"

"You really trust this guy?"

Your expression falls, shrugging. "He's got a car— unless you want to walk another who-knows miles on foot by yourself?"

"We can't trust everyone we meet, you know."

Ironic he said that. Your expressions falls as you narrow your eyes. "Says the one who trusted a winter elf."

Sure, pettiness could be drawn from tHe opens his mouth to make a riposte, but the stranger comes back with his keys and a coat over his shoulders.

"I'm Seokjin, by the way," he introduces himself as he unlocks the car, both you and Jungkook sitting the backseat. He turns the engine on, immediately turning on the heater that felt like cold air at first.

When he backs up out of the snow without the problem of getting stuck, you feel your body at ease as you finally realize that your plan was setting back on track.

Seokjin speaks up, apparently disliking the silence that you both elicited. "How did you guys get stranded?"

"Our bus left without us," you tell him. "It was his fault."

Jungkook gapes at your accusation. "Oh, nice, we're pointing fingers now?"

Couldn't help but laugh in return, you counterfeit a smile. "Can't deny it."

"You know, for a person to look so nice," Jungkook tilts his head to the side. "You're an absolute pain."

"Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee," you send a wink his way, immediately frowning afterwards. "Piss off, Jungkook."

"Love to, gingercake, but looks like we're stuck with each other for—"

And just then, Jungkook's voice trails off by the sonorous jolly laugh that comes from the man in the front seat. You turn your attention to him, wondering why on earth he would be laughing. "Sorry. You both remind me of my wife and I."

"What?" Jungkook and you say in unison.

"We used to banter like that a lot."

To that, you snort. "Banter is an understatement. Can't help it when he's a walking idiot."

"And she's a headache in human form," Jungkook pipes in, to which you glare in return.

"Well, my wife used to call me dick for brains," he adds, a jolly chuckle following after as he reminisces his memory lane. "But, I guess I must have warmed up to her if she somehow let dick for brains marry her."

"Yeah, well, she's much more stubborn and colder than that. I don't even know her name."

"You don't?" His eyes peer in the rearview mirror to give us a glance.

"We just met. And besides," you reason, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. "It's not important."

It really wasn't. Your name isn't really your identity when all you think about when you hear it is high expectations. If you let your name be known, everyone is bound to find out who you are and eventually— with word getting around— your mother will find out where you are running away to.

Sure, you could make up a fake name, but you'd be creating bridges even after this trip you know you're going to have to burn them.

He chuckles. "I remember my wife being that stubborn. She really wanted me to give up on her."

"I'm guessing you didn't," you observe.

"She was worth all the constant banters, I'll tell you that," he shakes his head. "Once, she didn't want to admit she was sorry for keeping us a secret from her friends and family. It took her three months of guilt to finally say sorry."

"Three months?" Jungkook ponders. Seokjin nods behind the wheel.

"It took her time to tell her friends and family about us, but she eventually apologized."

"She must have been scared to want to hide it from them."

The idiot next to you snorts. "Or embarrassed."

"Scared," he answers. "Which is why I forgave her the day I found out about it."

"And you let her feel guilty for three months?"

"I knew she was sorry from the beginning. I just didn't think that the most adamant person in the world would even think of apologizing to me," he chuckles. "But hey, eventually she did."

To that, Jungkook lets out a chuckle before he's making a trip around the roundabout, making a stop in front of a wide building.

"Here's your stop," he says, putting the car in park. "You two have a nice Christmas, alright?"

You smile at him. "You and your wife as well. Thank you again for helping us."

He shoots you a smile just before you close the car door. "Anytime."

When you hurry inside the bus station, you totally forget about the time until you see it on the massive clock built in the station, and you sincerely hope that the next bus ride to Brussels would be in the next 2 hours. Luckily, as you and Jungkook stood in line for awhile, you both get a ticket for the next bus to your destination which comes in the next twenty minutes.

And as you're trying to forage for remaining cash, you realize that you were short. Jungkook must have noticed this when he coolly steps up and gives his cash, paying for his and your ticket. You look at him, surprised, when they give two tickets to him.

"You didn't need to do that," you utter to him as he gives your ticket.

He shoots you a winning smile, a wink following after. "All you have to say is thank you."

The entire trip of having to hike down the woods was more exhausting than the plane ride to Milan that you couldn't help yourself when you fall asleep on the bus ride. Jungkook must have knocked out too when you wake up in the middle of a bus stop, head on his shoulder.

You think of the possible reason as to why he would be going to Brussels. After all, this whole trip was of him trying to ask questions of you, not the other way around. And it's not like you weren't interested— it wasn't your priority to get to know someone you won't end up knowing in the next week anyways.

Because like everything in the world, not everything is permanent.

You let your head fall onto his shoulder once more, basking in the comfort that will only last for so long.

Getting off the bus at your desired location, you both realize that it reached dusk, the sun had made its set and the night has become dark. It made a stop just nearby a grand area of colorful lights that intrigued you from afar.

You turn around to face Jungkook who stretches as he hops off the bus. Shooting tired smile your way, you decide to give one back.

"Do you want to go see what's over there?" You ask him, nodding your head towards the place that caught your attention.

His eyes flicker from what you were indicating to yours, a mischievous look painting over his former tired one before he angles his arm, in which you gladly take as you both make way to the bright, shining lights before you.

It doesn't take you long to realize that it's some sort of Christmas Market, as advertised by some of the posters that you saw on the way to the big area.

There were chatters and squeals and Christmas songs galore and despite the weather being cold and brisk, you felt warm.

Saying that there were colorful lights would be an understatement, when really, the Christmas Market looked like an utter theme park within itself. The tall, elongated buildings were decorated from head to toe and even the gazebos that gave shelter to those selling— it was all breathtaking.

It must have taken Jungkook's breath away too when you catch him eye goggling at the many fascinating attractions around him.

"So," you begin, ready to take your first bite from your waffle that Jungkook bought for you after he saw you eyeing it from afar. "Why did you want to come to Brussels?"

The questions surprises him, but his answer was responded with ease. "To start anew."

"Does it have to do with the whole success-running-in-family's-blood-besides-yours thing?"

"You could see it that way," he chuckles. "Or simply because life as it is now for me isn't exciting."

You give him a look, lowering your waffle. "You sound discontent."

"And you sound like you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Chuckling, you shrug. "Well, I'll just say that my trip isn't so much of a nice vacation."

"Hm, you sound tired of the life you have."

"Sounds like you know exactly what I'm talking about."

And with that, both of your words are left in the air as you both are walking down, side by side, down the streets of the brightly lit Christmas market, being thousands of miles away from home.

In your own thoughts, you think about the what if's. What if you didn't hear your parents talk about an arranged marriage for you? What if you actually were forced into it like everything you've ever done in your life? What if you're walking down the aisle to meet a man you haven't even said one word to? What if you end up not loving him?

This wasn't any type of romantic story where two strangers eventually fall in love through force, this is was an ending to your own story. Realistically, there's a chance that the person you're going to marry isn't the prince charming or the knight in shining armor that anyone would expect.

And there goes your life.

Gone and wasted, and not being able to give it a second chance.

However, you weren't letting that happen now— not at this moment in time.

"Do you think that such high expectations can be overbearing?" You ponder out loud, glancing at Jungkook who was a bit startled by your sudden question.

"A lot of the times," he responds. "Why? What type of high expectations are you being held to?"

"Doing something that I don't want to do," you state honestly. "That's why I came all the way here."

"Avoiding it?"

"You could see it that way."

"Can't avoid it forever," Jungkook says. Can't avoid it forever.

You don't think you've ever seen a light show— or at least not one against a building that brings people's jaws to the ground, so when you're watching it, you're absolutely mesmerized.

The lights were dancing and moving in a fluid motion, you were marveling each second of it.

There's a feeling in your chest. So bright and so merry, you finally understand why almost everyone loves Christmas. With your family either being busy during the holidays, you never realized that this is what you're supposed to feel like. Light and finally content.

Gleaming up at Jungkook, you only smile wider when you realize you caught his eyes. "What is it?"

There was this ghost of a smile on his face that he hides. "Nothing."

You give him a nudge, smugly grinning at him. "It's a simple question."

When he hears you repeat his statement in target to him, he gives this smirk— and for once you're not looking away in irritation or giving him some snarky comment back because when his eyes flicker to your lips and back to your eyes, you knew what was bound to happen.

And you were inevitably going to let it.

Jungkook, with gentle hands, brings you to him, pressing his warm lips onto yours and it is as if you felt your entire body just melt. You move softly against his lips, savoring every bit, but your lips were not helping themselves when they curl into a smile.

He is warm. Like a mug filled with hot chocolate, he is a fireplace on a Christmas eve, and admittedly, you've never been this warm in the cold.

When he lets go, he's looking at you with eyes shaped as crescents. "You trust me enough to kiss you but not know your name?"

To that, you let out a joyous laugh, reaching up on your tip-toes to kiss his cheek. "I'll have you know that revealing your name is dangerous."

Jungkook scoffs, dropping his hands from your cheeks. "How dangerous could yours be?"

You bit back a smile at his subtle frustration, grabbing his falling hands and holding them in yours. "Very."

And all throughout the night, it was filled with cheer and excitement as Jungkook and you strolled around in the everlasting lights. Free samples and attractions at its finest, you both spent your time together forgetting you two had lives you're running away from.

And until your legs couldn't hold you up much longer, you had to go find a nearby motel for the night, forgetting that you had to leave early in the morning for a ferry.

Jungkook and you fought for paying for the room, but Jungkook, being charming in a revolting way, inevitably wins and chooses a room where you both end up with a fireplace and a king bed together.

Just before your eyes were closing, time spent with him was filled with giggles and laughter in the air. He tells you about this one story of how, one Christmas, he thought he saw Santa Clause, but it just his dad's friend dressed in a suit trying to climb chimney for his sake. The story makes you laugh, and though almost unbelievable, it makes you flutter your eyes close, reaching a deep sleep that you desperately needed.

That morning, you feel like a child on Christmas morning— even when Christmas isn't for the next week. You felt excitement twist in turn as curiosity has gotten the best of you that all you wanted to do was run downstairs and open the presents that Santa brought.

However, the feeling was fleeting— because even children soon realize that Santa isn't real. And that breaking feeling was because of reality that waves over you as your eyes fixate on the sun that peeked through the window.

Waking up to Jungkook next to you, lightly snoring, makes you feel all sorts of butterflies— something you haven't felt in such a long while. You feel almost giddy, knowing that there's someone there and it just happened to be him, but of course, you knew it wasn't going to last long.

Not wanting to leave without goodbye, you bring your hand to his arm, giving him a little shake as you wake him up. A smile creeping on your face as he groggily awakes, squinting at your active presence.

"Hey," you say quietly. "I have to go."

Go was what made him sit up in bed quickly. "What?" He asks, voice raspy.

"I have a ferry to catch," you say as he rubs his eyes. "I wasn't going to stay in Belgium."

"You weren't?" He frowns. "Where are you heading?"

"London," you reply and you watch as his tired face falls, sitting up straight. "It was nice. You know, meeting you and all."

He smirks at you. "The feeling's mutual."

To that, you smile. "Well," you shrug, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. It was the least you could do. "Merry Christmas, Jungkook."

"Wait!" He pulls your arm back when you pull away. Raising an eyebrow at him, he looks at you with hopeful eyes. "Not even a name?"

You think you'd owe him a name, but you shake your head. "Maybe the next time I see you," you bit back a smile. "But, no worries, I won't forget yours."

When you get to Hana's place in London, you're glad that you made it just in time before she left for Amsterdam. You were also glad that your duffel bag and backpack that were stranded in the bus that left without you was brought to Hana's after you filed a claim for your missing belongings at the bus station.

Hana welcomed you with an embrace, bombarding you with questions that you didn't have time to answer because she had to leave that night, but she made sure she had enough time to catch up with you. You don't tell her about the colossal, mad adventure you had with Jungkook and how he lingers in your thoughts, but instead you tell her about the good things you expect to happen in your time in London.

And before she left to the airport, she gives you a hug, wishing you all the best luck for the holiday season in exploring a city you haven't been to. While you had the house to yourself for less than 24 hours, you realized that all good things come to end.

Especially when you answer the door and your mother is on the other side, hands on her hips.

You completely froze seeing upon her arrival. "Mom, what are you... what are you doing here?"

Without a word, she barges in, sitting on the orange sofa that Hana owns, crossing a leg over her other as she looks at you with darting eyes. "You think I don't remember Hana moving to London? I knew after you took that trip to Greece that you would make a spontaneous trip to London knowing that Hana lives here, but I didn't expect it this soon— oh." Your mother points at you. "—You are something else."

Being yelled at by your own mother felt like a chore, so you calmly close the front door she walked through, walking over to her. "Mom, I don't want to get married."

Her eyebrows furrow together. "___."

"Look, I'm an adult. Most moms want you to focus on finishing college and being able to make a living for yourself, but no, my mom wants me to focus on being presentable— not to mention that she wants to give me away so quickly! And it's not even with a person I love."

"___—"

You shake your head, cutting her off. "You are not making me go back there and marry someone I don't know."

"Sweetheart," she begins before she stands up, searching for your eyes. "You ran all the way here just because you didn't want to get married?"

"I ran all the way here to live, Mom. I wanted to live and experience life without having to worry about what the media has to think about me. Or having to put on a fake smile knowing that I'm a CEO's daughter and the heiress and that if I mess up, that's on me."

Your mother frowns, but you can only shrug in response. "For once, I just wanted to live. Is that so bad?"

Finally, you give her her turn. You hear her sigh, almost disappointingly, but if a little disappointment is what will give you what you need, then you can live with it. "Darling, I think then this is a good time to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

She lets out another sigh. "You're not really getting married."

You blink. "What?"

"You must have overheard your father and I when he were talking with Mr. Jeon, but we didn't want to tell you when we first arranged it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not actually getting married," she enunciates. "You're having a wedding to look like you're married, but you don't have to go through with it."

You open your mouth in confusion, but immediately close it when your mother continues.

"In order for your father to establish this business proposal with Arua&Co., the CEO's grandfather needs the approval. By doing that, he needs a traditional reason as to have two major companies combine rather than a very good proposal, and that solution is a wedding."

"But, how—"

"Our loophole is that he specifically said he wanted a wedding, not a marriage— not to have both of our kids actually marry each other. So, if you're dressing up and looking as if you're getting married, you don't have to go through saying 'I do' if you don't want to."

"So you're not really giving my life to someone I don't know."

"That's sick," she full-heartedly scoffs. "I may expect a lot from you, ___, but this is just the one thing we really need you to do. After that day, you're still single as you want to be."

"Really?"

"Yes, and..." Her voice trails off as you cock your head to the side. "I wanted to tell you this, but because you ran away so soon..." She pauses before she looks at you with a motherly gaze, one that you haven't seen in a long time. "I know that your father and I have a lot of expectations from you, but I know you're an adult. And you need to live your life." You felt your stomach clench. "If you want your freedom, I'll give it to you."

Your jaw nearly falls but she puts her finger up quickly. "With certain restrictions!"

"That's fine— anything!" Nearly squealing, your eyes widen with happiness. "You really mean that?"

"Yes, I'm tired of having to be dreaded by you— my own flesh and blood," your mother laughs. "So, you don't have to come to any of the events we go on. But you will go to the ones we need you to be there for. And you can leave without being monitored, just— shoot me a text from now on. I'm going to get a heart attack the next time you decide to go halfway across the country without letting me know," she says begrudgingly that you couldn't help but give her hug.

A hug that was genuine. A hug that you haven't given her in a long time.

"Really?" You ask, voice muffled in the hug.

"Really. Merry Christmas, honey," she promises, basking into the hug. "Now, can we go home? After you shower? You smell the bus."

To that, you lightly chuckle, nodding. "Right, but— can I do one more thing?" You ask, pulling away to give her a sheepish look. "Can we go to Switzerland real fast?"

It was a long story of how he managed to be back here, but long story short, Jungkook is one day in Brussels having beer, and now his two best friends are helping him put on a suit.

"I told you running away from your problems is never a good idea," Namjoon says as tends to the cuffs of Jungkook's scarlet velvet suit. Namjoon, the always practical one, was not helping his dread at all on this day.

Jungkook, groaning, looks at himself in the mirror, never thinking that this is how he would be spending his Christmas eve. "I don't want to be here."

"Well, you are and you're going to marry the girl, whether you like it or not," Hoseok asserts, flipping carelessly through his magazine of interior design.

"Thanks," Jungkook says with a hint of sarcasm.

Namjoon chuckles. "You're gonna wanna say I do anyways. I just met her and she's actually really cool."

"It's just... weird. I've never met her in my life and now I'll be spending the rest of it with her," Jungkook states and immediately he thinks of you— the stubborn girl he doesn't know the name and now he's probably never going to find her and actually know her name. Not when he's going to be all over the media platforms after this wedding and you to find out that he's actually an heir to Arua&Co. and married to some girl who probably isn't as adamant, or pretty, or curious as you.

Namjoon shrugs. "Yeah, well. You'll form a bond somehow."

Jungkook looks up from his suit after hearing a bond. Mind immediately tracing back to what the witch— if she even is one— Evanora said: a wreath's bond.

It doesn't take long before Jungkook raises an eyebrow, recalling the moment of when he sat down at the table across from the stranger and next to the witch, stating some sort of phrase— a riddle.

"The day you will see two of me is the same day you won't need me unless you say you do— it's today," Jungkook speaks.

"Aw, shit. Great," Namjoon announces, letting go of Jungkook's cuff and tending to his own collar. "Jungkook's been in Europe too long he's saying some whack ass shit."

Hoseok chuckles, continuing to flip through his magazine. "I'm telling you, bro, Switzerland is fucking crazy."

"No, you guys. Two of me— she meant the rings— the wedding rings. You do— she meant saying I do. It's a wedding day. She must be here."

"What," the man who finally looks up at his magazine cocks his head to the side. "Now you solve random riddles? What did they feed you in Brussels?"

Jungkook, without so little of a hesitation, gets out of the groom's room of the venue, running down the hallway to the grand venue of the warehouse of where the lights are all around, there are mistletoe hung, and all sorts of greens bringing color to the room. But what he was searching for was the most vibrant of it all— only to realize that he sees anyone but you.

And to himself, he scoffs, thinking of how foolish he could have been to actually believe a witch who possibly could not have been one in the first place.

The dress you wear is lace, from your sleeves to your shoulders. Usually, you'd complain about wearing sleeves on a wedding dress— hell, you'd complain about every little thing that isn't much an inconvenience just to piss your parents off for having a bratty daughter. From the wedding dress, to wedding makeup, to the bouquet, to the food— everything will seem just wrong to you— but having that certainty and approval to say no doesn't make you peep one dreadful word.

Admittedly, you liked the idea of having this wedding. It was like a trial run— and you didn't have to oblige to any commitment.

Your mother walks in on you as you had just put on a dress, hair curled, and light makeup— your mother looks at you so lovingly.

"You picked this dress out, huh?" You ask her and she scoffs.

"Only the best for my daughter," she smirks as she walks over to give you a hug. She wore a deep green dress paired with a fur shawl. "You look beautiful. Even if you're not actually getting married today."

To that, you laugh, shaking your head. "If I have to be a runaway bride, might as well look good doing it."

"That's the spirit," your mother smiles, taking one more look at you. "Are you alright?"

"Just preparing how to dramatically say I don't," you joke, earning a mood lightener in the air. "Is the wedding starting?"

Your mother nods. "Your father is waiting for you outside. Whenever you're ready."

It feels odd, truthfully. About to go marry someone you haven't even properly been introduced to yet, but you try not to think about it— because after all, you don't have to go through with it.

As your arm is interlocked with your father's and you were holding red roses and ferns, you couldn't help but think that this was some sort of fairytale, only for one that you were going to run away from anyways. You think of this just as your father would— solely just business.

As you hear the wedding song play in the audible warehouse, you take a deep breath, your father, giving you a reassuring smile before he starts to take his steps.

Do brides normally feel queasy? No, what were you thinking— you're not actually a bride, and you're not actually going to be married.

Your reassurance in your head makes you feel calm until you're stopping at a spot from across the aisle, where everyone had stood from their seats, countless pairs of eyes staring at you, and only you. Time had froze, but that's not what's making you freeze altogether.

Because standing on the other aisle is Jungkook, the boy from the bus, the boy who went to Brussels who wanted to start anew, the boy who was so curious as to what your name was, the boy—

He was the boy he made you warm in the coldest of nights.

"You alright?" Your father whispers to you, snapping you out of your trance you realized you were in.

"Yes," you answer, eyes not tearing away from Jungkook's.

The person in the velvet suit, waiting for you is just as much in a shock as you are, eyes almost wide, and a look that almost seems like he's relieved to see you. As if he had found oxygen again.

From finally standing in front of him, to staring at him with surprised looks on your faces while the ceremony was taking place, to the very end, you had so many questions and had so many things to say, but couldn't. Instead, you stare at him, thinking what you could possibly say to him to be in this crazy coincidence.

"Do you, Jeon Jungkook, take ___ as your loving wife?"

"I do," he says, his eyebrows scrunching as that was his first time hearing your name. You almost want to snort out loud at how peculiar it is to first hear someone you've been dying to know's name at an alter— standing in front of you. And just immediately, it shakes you because just before, you were thinking of the many ways of how to say you don't, you're actually thinking of saying I do.

"Do you, ___, take Jeon Jungkook as your loving husband?"

The question, that you were so prepared to either say I don't or to runaway dramatically, was left in the air, as you pause. In that moment, you couldn't help but look at the crowd, expecting an answer that was almost obvious— but when looking at your mother for reassurance, she gives you this look and a shrug.

Only if you want to.

Eyes meeting back to Jungkook's chocolate ones, you take a deep breath.

"I do."

"Then Jungkook, you may now kiss the bride."

And there's this big grin you couldn't hide when you notice his little smug look before he's leaning in, recreating the night of when the lights were shining so bright and when just a single kiss could warm you up.

"___," he breathes your name out as if it were fresh air once he releases you from the kiss. "Not as dangerous as I thought."

You scoff, a smile growing. "Just you wait."

He gives you one more look before he kisses you once more, lifting you up from the ground. This time you kiss him harder, confused, yet grateful that this is how you two would meet again— right under your noses.

When he sets you down gently as a feather, he gives you one more look before you slowly both turn over to the crowd who were muted by the moment you had with Jungkook. There was clapping and there was screaming— and you don't even realize that Hyunjung crashes into you with the biggest hug.

"I'm sorry! I tried my best to divert your mom when she asked me if you were in London!" She says, nearly taking your life away as she squeezes you.

"It's fine, Hyunjung— just let me go," you beg, attempting to push her away. As she finally lets go, she gives you look from your eyes to the bottom of your dress.

"I didn't think you'd go through with it," she says, eyes almost tearing up. Rolling your eyes at her, you notice that your mother is walking up beside the nearly crying Hyunjung, an eyebrow raised.

"Neither did I," your mother intervenes. "Is it because he's good looking that you decided to say yes?"

Turning your head to look over at Jungkook who was being hugged and patted down by his groomsmen, you look back to your mother, a big smile painting your features.

"No, actually," you begin. "We know each other."

Your mother is surprised by your answer. "You do?"

"Yes," you smile, looking over at Jungkook. You don't tell her that he was the person who you were stuck with the whole day— the person who made you believe that you could actually live.

"I guess it all works out in the end, doesn't it?" Hearing your mother say that to Hyunjung, you smile to yourself before you're approaching Jungkook who had been waiting for you, and probably has been for awhile.

"I knew you'd be here."

"Really now?" You challenge.

"The day you see two of me is the day same day you say you do," he fluidly states causing you to open your moth amusedly. "A wedding day."

"So, you believe in witches now?"

"Not witches. But maybe just a little bit of magic," he laughs, before he grabs at your waist smoothly, guiding you down the aisle in which you both walk down it, the many people clapping for the newlyweds.

Once he reaches the end where the photographer was snapping pictures, he lets one hand rest at your waist and the other to cup your cheek. He's close, so tremendously close, that his lips only graze yours.

"___," he breathes out with a smirk. "I'm never going to stop saying your name."

And when he kisses you, you feel warm all over again.

758 notes · View notes

captainchrisfics · 5 years

Text

Why Not?

About: Loosely inspired by Taylor Swift’s “Wildest Dreams,” in which Chris Evans and the first-person pov narrator try to escape L.A. in search of some ocean air, planning to spend the night snuggling up on a secluded beach somewhere. At a crossroads in their lives, when there are so many choices regarding their careers and their future as a family, tensions rise as the couple suspects they may want different things after all.

Word Count: 5,855

Requested By: Anon! Thanks for giving me a chance to write this. I hope you don’t mind I changed the point of contention a bit from the original work, but I had this conflict somewhere in me instead and found that the song was a perfect foundation for it. Totally not an excuse to use one of these hot new beach gifs. x

“Let’s get out of this city,” Chris shouted suddenly, fast footsteps pounding down the hallway. Soon he was standing between me and the television with a hand on his hip as he dropped a packed duffle bag onto the coffee table with a clatter.

Chris looked tired, worn in a way only a day of stressful work with the press made him. His hair was messy, like his anxious fingers had been raking through it and tugging at the long strands with nothing else to let out the nervous energy. I knew he’d had a rough day by the way he stormed into our L.A. apartment late and locked himself in our bedroom since he didn’t want to talk about it, but this crisis was surprising even me.

“Oh?” I asked with a playful smile, liking this spontaneous outburst of his. Usually Chris was rather disciplined, strict with his schedule because he had to be. Thousands if not millions of other people’s dollars usually rode on it. But he did have the occasional break in routine, more often than not when the flashing bulbs of Tinseltown became a little too blinding.

“I want to drive out of here, out of the crowds you know? I mean,” Chris shook his head in exasperation before throwing his hands into the air. “It’s not normal, this place- God, this place isn’t normal. The grass is all AstroTurf and the water tastes weird. There aren’t even any stars in the sky!” He gestured wildly to the ceiling as he looked up. As if he was disappointed not to see the Milky Way swirling above our living room, his shoulders sagged as his arms fell back down and he looked at me dejectedly.

“That’s because they’re all in Malibu, babe,” I joked, earning a sarcastic laugh from my husband as he rolled his tired eyes. “Where do you want to go anyway?” I asked more seriously, genuinely entertaining the idea. I sat up from my lounging position on the couch to give him my full attention.

Chris smirked like the devil, sure he had me hooked. “The ocean,” he said and, before I could make a snide comment about how he’s able to see it from our backyard, he continued. “A beach without anybody else.”

I leaned back onto the couch, stretching my legs until my toes pressed against the other side’s arm. “Please, leave me and my DiCaprio movie at peace then.” I pointed to the screen behind him, where Rose was just about to ask Jack to draw her like one of his French girls.

Chris peeked over his shoulder before turning back to me, his upper lip curled underneath his beard’s mustache as he smiled. “Don’t be a smartass. You know you don’t count. Now come on,” he insisted, walking around the table in only a few of his long strides and extending his hand to me. I looked between his palm and his gaze, biting my lip before flicking the tv off and taking his in mine. Chris not only hoisted me off the couch but pulled me into his chest while peppering the top of my head with kisses.

“I’m not ready, though,” I said, wriggling out of his grip and holding my arms out as if he hadn’t seen me yet. I’d done rounds of auditions that day and I hadn’t bothered to change out of my nice dress, one with a floating fabric I saved for readings since my agent called it “age-appropriate,” let alone take off any of my makeup or unpin my hair. It was so exhausting, trying to keep up with Hollywood’s standard of idealized young women as I aged out of many roles, that I just collapsed on the couch when I came home. It seemed the longer I sat in the waiting rooms, the younger, prettier the girls who joined me on the couches were. The more roles I was rejected for.

My protest didn’t dampen Chris’s grin, I don’t think anything could’ve rained on his parade. “I packed your things. The tent is still in your trunk. Dodger’s got tons of sitters I can text on the way. And you don’t have a good enough reason as to why we can’t drive until this godforsaken place is nothing more than a twinkle in the rear-view mirror,” he said without his eye-pinching smile ever wavering once. Chris must’ve recognized the hesitation in my eyes as he gave it a last-ditch effort with, “We won’t be able to just pick up and leave for the weekend forever.”

I squeezed his hand a little harder, a meager but earnest smile creeping onto my face. “Guess you’re right,” I admitted, trying to feign absent-mindedness. I pressed a quick kiss to his lips, leaving behind a ghost of the cherry red color I wore on mine. Then I crept around him toward the front door. I grabbed the keys to my convertible, which housed our camping supplies from our last we-can’t-survive-in-this-city-for-another-second trip. Now that I thought about it, they were becoming more often than not. “Race you!” I shouted as I tried to push that thought and its implications out of my mind. Instead, I took off running out the door as Chris’s shouts about foul play and heavy footsteps trailed behind me.

The drive, however, offered too much time to think. Over the quiet hum of the engine and Chris’s low voice whispering along to the oldies on the radio as I drove, the wind whistling filling my ears as I sped down the curving roads carved into the side of the coast, I was left with little more than my own thoughts and Chris’s fingers tapping along to Elton John’s beat on my thigh. I realized this was the third weekend in a row Chris and I needed some sort of escape. Even before this last month, we jetted off to the Cape even though it was freezing or hopped in the car to drive until the lung-coating smog turned to salty ocean air or climbed mountains so high we could barely see the skyscrapers below. I was suffocating. I never thought I was trying to escape something until I realized how fast I was going, as if I desperately wanted nothing more than to put that city behind me.

Once we arrived at our usual spot, there were only a few hours of sunlight to prepare for the night. It was a small cove a bit of a hike from the beach’s parking, but it was private. The perfect place to set up camp without being bothered. Chris started propping up the tent while I got cracking on the portable grill and some hotdogs that would be inevitably undercooked for dinner. Neither of us minded too much, having become accustomed to worse food on our travels.

While we sat together in the tent, picking apart granola bars and waiting for the sun to start setting, I found myself playing with my wedding ring. Turning it around my finger, mulling over my thoughts. For better or for worse, we’d promised we’d be there for each other for as long as we could, but that was a hell of a lot different than asking him to give up this life he’d worked so hard to build. With a stiff resoluteness, I decided I couldn’t ask Chris to leave. I’d pick him and his happiness over and over and over again.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing a hand on my knee tentatively, like he was casting a line and praying I’d take the bait so he could reel me back into reality. “Look, the sky’s turning already. Why don’t we take a walk?” Chris prompted as he stood, tugging me along with him. I glanced out the tent’s entrance to see the sun was barely even grazing the water’s edge and the sky was still daylight blue, but I guess he thought a change in scenery might ease the creases in between my furrowed brow and at the corners of my frowning mouth.

We didn’t get far, only to where the last of the waves spluttered into foamy white bubbles along the sand as the water dragged away. It was cold between my toes and the whipping wind didn’t help, but Chris pulled me into his side to block some of the breeze. He was always hot, with skin like a radiator that was warm to the touch. I fit against his shirtless chest so perfectly since Chris was so much taller, curling up to his side like a cat hiding under the heater. He tugged the elastic out of my hair with a goofy smile, claiming he liked watching it whip around in the wind, but I managed to subdue the strands by tucking them behind my ears.

“Nothing lasts forever, you know. The way you’re feeling, it’ll pass,” I said quietly, partly hoping he wouldn’t hear me over the crashing waves and seagull squaks. I wasn’t sure if it was more for Chris’s sake or mine, but it felt like a rationalization even as the words left me lips. Of course Chris would get over these weekend-long sprints away, he just wanted a small break from the hectic celebrity life. I couldn’t blame him for craving an escape from all the paparazzi cameras, wanting for once to be able to leave the house in pajamas without worrying about getting recognized and looking your worst. It was all for work he loved, though. Ultimately that would overcome his frustration and, when it didn’t, we’d be here.

But I knew, deep down, I needed to hear those words out loud just as badly, even if they were coming from me. My yearning to leave the L.A. lifestyle behind, to find something that fulfilled me in the same way acting used to before it became little more than an age-shame game. To ask Chris to pack a few suitcases a lot bigger than his duffel bag and join me. It would pass, it had to.

Unaware of the tornado my thought-spirals were sucking me into, Chris’s arm fell from my shoulder as his hand reached for mine. “I want us to,” he said with a firm purpose. “Last forever, I mean.” He played with my fingers, running the tips of his over the length of mine before finally intertwining them.

I paused, too busy with my mind to adjust to Chris’s calm declaration of familiar love. “What a relief,” I laughed through the unease in my shaky breath, wagging my diamond-clad ring finger in his face.

We hadn’t been married for long. The ink was barely dry on our license, even calling each other husband and wife still felt a little funny on the tongue, but it meant our promises were still fresh. We’d known each other forever though, having lived in the same complex when we first moved to the city fresh out of high school, and we dated for years before he put this ring on my finger. If I had any insecurities when it came to our relationship, he would’ve known about them a long time ago, but Chris still looked past my hand, right into my eyes and through to my soul with nothing more than one eyebrow hanging slightly lower than the other.

“Are you having any, uh, doubts?” My eyes snapped to Chris, the worry lacing his voice as fresh as the preemptive hurt. He avoided my stare, instead watching the seashell he kicked back into the ocean. “About us?” Chris added like an afterthought, as if I could’ve thought he meant anything else with the dejected way he tore his hand from mine to shove it deep into his pocket.

“Why would you say that?” I spit out the words like poison. I didn’t realize I stomped my foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum until I felt the water’s splash. It was the very last thing to cross my mind, even amidst thinking about our drastically different wants right now, so it must be on his.

“Only because you said it like that,” Chris defended indignantly, crossing strong arms over his chest. He shot me one hard look, steely eyes looking ablaze with the setting sky’s reflection, before reverting his gaze back to the ground. “And you’ve been... I don’t know. You’ve been distant,” he concluded, rushing the words out of his mouth while he still had the courage to confront me. Chris shrugged, trying to pass himself off as blasé about it, but I could tell by the way he clenched his jaw tight that he was trying to bottle it up.

“Baby, the only thing I want is for us to be happy,” I asserted, choosing my words carefully. It was the truth, evident enough in my voice to quell any of his suspicions. More than I wanted to get away from L.A. and all of its pressures, I wanted to be with Chris. “Old and grey,” I continued with a wistful smile, “holding hands in creaky rocking chairs on a wrap-around porch somewhere in Massachusetts wouldn’t hurt either.”

It was quiet while Chris thought it over. Too quiet, in fact. I imagined it’s what it felt like to be on the other side of the moon, the dark one where there wasn’t any sound and anyone who could hear you if there was any was hundreds of thousands of miles away. So I stretched to reach a hand to his shoulder, only for Chris to shrug me off as he sucked a breath in between his gritted teeth.

Chris started walking along the foamy wet line drawn by crashing waves as they pulled out to meet the rest of the sea. I stood there, watching him walk away, feeling utterly useless. As I debated whether or not to follow the indents his feet left in the sand, Chris peeked over his shoulder. Seeing me still planted where he left me, he jerked his head forward, encouraging me to chase after him. We walked silently, the only sounds being rolling water, the squishiness of our feet hitting wet sand, and seagulls chirping overhead. After a moment, I couldn’t stand it.

“I just...” I released a defeated sigh, sputtering like a deflating balloon as I tried to find the words to explain myself. “I want you to remember this, though. You know how work’s been. Chris, I want you to remember me like this... not the way Hollywood makes me feel,” I divulged, hands wringing in the fabric of my billowing dress just searching for something to hold onto.

“Darling,” he said, admonished. Chris turned to face me, placing one firm hand on each of my shoulders as he dipped to be at my eye-level, imploring me to believe him. “That’s what this is about? You do know I’ll still love you even when you’re not. I mean, I can’t wait to grow old with you. Comparing our crow’s feet and arguing over whose hair is grayer.”

I met his eyes, their sincerity coupled with my desperate need to believe him, made me feel enveloped in his love. I cracked a smile, feeling awfully silly for even questioning it in the first place, as I joked, “Oh, I can already guarantee it’ll be mine with all the stress you and your antics put me through.”

Chris smiled too, although his was crooked and haphazard in a lazy sort of way, lips upturning with tired relief. “Just wait until it’s me and three or four mini Evans’s running around. We’ll be in for it then,” he said, eyebrows raising as he begged me to believe him, a smug smirk playing on his rosy lips.

Chris turned back to the ocean, tugging me to his chest with a new comfort. I thought I could last for a little longer in L.A. if it meant I still got to be held like this, his mountainy musk nearly drowning out the salty smell of the water. “Three or four?” I asked incredulously, wrapping my arms around his waist. Of course I thought about having kids with him before, but never that many. Although now that he said it...

He bumped my hip with his. “Mhm...” Chris hummed as he laid his chin on top of my head. He didn’t take his eyes off the horizon, where the sun was sinking below the water and turning the sky a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors as warm as the feeling in my chest, as he said, “A conservative guess, if you ask me. In rapid succession, too.” Chris laughed hard, but I had a feeling he was only partly joking. Suddenly, he sobered up. “I’m looking forward to starting a family with you, darling.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t be the only one I’m calling baby for much longer. Enjoy it while you can,” I teased with wriggling eyebrows, leaning impossible deeper into his shoulder and slipping a hand in the back pocket of Chris’s jeans.

“You know what I’m really going to enjoy right now?” Chris asked, a rascal’s grin growing from ear to ear. Before I could even ask, one of his arms hooked around my knees while the other supported my back as he lifted me close to his chest. Carrying me bridal-style despite my squirming and shrieking giggles, he darted further into the cold water until he decided to drop me. Even submerged, I could hear Chris cackling. When I broke the water’s surface, I pushed down on his doubled-over shoulders suddenly with all the force I could muster, sending Chris tumbling head-first into the sea.

He stood up quickly, shaking his head like a wet dog before pushing his hair back and wading toward me. “So that’s how we’re playing this, huh?” he said in a low voice, looking at me in a way that made me feel all too much like he was a lion stalking its prey. Looking around for a way out, I realized I was the exposed gazelle. When Chris lunged, he missed, but I was drenched by his splash anyway.

Soon we left the water, not wanting to be caught with anything lurking under the surface at dusk. Somehow, even in the dim moonlight, Chris’s wet torso managed to twinkle and I was tempted to make my very own constellations out of the water dripping down the curve of his back. I hung back, watching as he pushed the long dark strands of hair matted from the ocean out of his face, the silhouette of his flexing bicep and the rippling muscles of his back driving me mad.

By the time I reached the tent, Chris had already traded his soaked shorts for checkered pajama bottoms. I turned to face the wall, as to avoid Chris’s wandering eyes and the inevitable, burning blush they’d ignite in my cheeks. I don’t know why, the clingy fabric of my wet dress left little to the imagination and my body wasn’t anything he’d have to dream up in the first place, but I tried to maintain an inkling of modesty as I kneeled so my head wouldn’t hit the ceiling, slowly peeling the dress away until I was left in nothing more than my underwear.

It was dark, with just the faint glow of a lantern filling the tent with an orange hue and exaggerated shadows. I saw Chris’s hand reaching for me, spindly shadow fingers projected onto the wall in front of me before he made contact, his warm palm pressing into the curve of my hip as he held me.

Chris’s chest melded with my back as he moved closer, our hearts pounding hard enough we could feel each other’s being somehow in sync. Our bent legs rested between one another, bringing us as near to each other as we could be. He gathered my hair in one hand, moving it all out of his way as he rested his scratchy beard on my shoulder’s bare skin, nuzzling into the crook of my neck. He placed gentle kisses along the exposed skin, trailing up my collarbone. I reached around, tangling my hand into the long hair at the nape of his neck as I urged him to continue. My neck craned, trying to give him more surface area to suck on while I released breathy, fluttering gasps that elicited a deep moan from the very bottom of his throat.

Chris reached my ear, nibbling on the sensitive skin. Instinctively, my head moved toward his until our noses were brushing. Every breath was borrowed. “It’s not good for you to stay in wet clothes, you know,” he growled instead of kissing me as I anticipated. Instead, he went back to marking me neck, always such a tease. His hand on my hip reached across my stomach, dragging his fingernails across my cold skin until he held me, pressing my impossibly closer toward his torso. His fingers didn’t make themselves at home, choosing instead to travel up the other side of my torso’s curve until he reached my chest. Over my wet bra, Chris kneaded my breast, already tender from the cold. His warmth was a welcome contrast.

“Wouldn’t want you catching a cold, darling.” Chris’s lips left my neck suddenly, leaving me feeling a rush of the night’s frigid air in the wake of his absence. My hand fell to his chest, the back of it landing just over his heart as my fingers curled with anticipation. I felt him pressing against the back of my thigh, hard through the thin fabric of his pants. It continued to fall until I found the hem of his pants. My fingers hooked below the flannel, beginning to tug it down the subtle curve of Chris’s hip. Then his teeth grazed my shoulder as he gripped my bra’s strap, tugging until it slipped. My breath hitched in my throat as his hand traveled up my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and I froze.

He started to unclasp my bra as my lips, trembling like there was an earthquake, spit out a word I wasn’t even anticipating. “Stop,” I whispered earnestly before I even registered that I’d thought the word. My hand dropped to my bare thigh, tightening into a fist with frustration at myself.

If Chris wasn’t so attentive, he may have mistaken it for a lustful sigh. But in a second, with no questions asked, he untangled himself from my body and sat back on his heels so there was a foot or so of space between us. It wasn’t much, but considering the size of our small tent, it was all the room I could have to breathe.

I sighed, snapping my bra strap back into place with my thumb. “I just-“ I tried to say, only for my voice to betray me and break. “Damnit, I’m really sorry.” I buried my face in my hands, too afraid of the hurt Chris’s eyes would inevitably hold.

“No, no, darling,” his measured voice reassured me, just barely above a whisper. His hands wrapped loosely around my wrists, tugging me out of my hiding spot. Despite my trepidation, Chris’s whole being only held concern. Between his low shoulders and soft eyes, all he had was repentance. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. I’m sorry I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling-“

“Don’t you start saying sorry then either, Evans,” I responded with a sudden insistent flare. “It wasn’t anything you did. God, it never is.” I reached for Chris’s hands, where they sat wringing in his lap, and enveloped them in my own. “I-I don’t know... I’ve just got too much on my mind to enjoy this... To enjoy how great you make me feel, baby,” I disclosed, looking at him longingly through my eyelashes. In all honesty, I did want to make the most of our alone-time together. To make Chris feel that bliss he came here craving, to allow him to return the favor, but I couldn’t pull myself out of my own head enough.

“You don’t have to explain yourself. No worries there, Evans,” he responded with a giddy grin, still not used to calling me by his last name. He tucked some of my hair behind my ear so I couldn’t hide my blush. It was infectious, coupled with his kind words, I couldn’t stop from breaking out into a smile myself. “Why don’t we go look for some shooting stars then? I think NASA tweeted something about Jupiter and Saturn lining up with the moon this week.” Chris stood as tall as he could, though it wasn’t much more than a painful-looking crouch. He extended a hand to me, a peace offering I accepted with open arms. Or, rather, by taking his hand and allowing him to lead me back toward the sand.

“Oh, babe,” I giggled, a mischievous smirk of my own making its home on my lips. I stumbled a little, having difficulty finding my footing in the sand when I could hardly see in front of my face. “You know I love it when you talk nerdy to me.” Chris laughed while shook his head at the sky as he searched it, deciding this spot was nice until he thought the view would be better another couple side-steps to the left.

Finally he dropped, making a quiet thud against the sand as he dragged me down with him by our joined hands. Chris intertwined our fingers before nodding with satisfaction and laying down. He stretched his other arm, resting his head on his bicep as he jutted his chin out to the spot next to him.

As I snuggled into the soft sand, Chris pointed up to the sky with a lazily extended finger. “You see the Big Dipper?” he asked, a childlike amazement evident in his voice. I said I did, although I was too busy being overwhelmed by all the other dazzling lights twinkling in the sky as well. Feeling awfully small and insignificant in an inexplicably liberating sort of way. I curled up close to Chris, trying to catch every bit of his body heat I could.

“It’s actually called Ursa Major, Latin for the Great Bear,” he continued. Instead of staring at the sky, I turned to Chris. I watched his blue eyes light up, although I wasn’t sure if it was the moon’s bright reflection or a burning passion inside of him. “The Greeks had a story for it, tons of them actually. But I like the version where this nymph named Callisto swore a vow of celibacy to Artemis, although Zeus had a bit of a thing for her,” Chris turned to me with wagging eyebrows.

“They end up having this son…” he trailed off, turning back to the sky as his face tightened with concentration. “Sorry, I can’t remember his name now. Anyway, Zeus’s wife, Hera, gets super pissed and turns the poor nymph into a bear. She spends years like that until, one day, her son happens to find her.” Chris squeezed my hand, his eyes flickering between watching me in their corners to staring at the constellation again. “It’s not the happiest family reunion though. He’s a hunter now so, without knowing the bear he’s afraid might attack him is really his mom, he goes to kill her.”

Chris pulled our laced-together hands to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to my knuckles as he tried to prolong my suspense. “Zeus takes pity on them, but if you ask me, he was trying to make up for being the dick that got them in this situation. Ease a guilty conscience, if gods even have those,” he paused to scoff. “He ends up carrying Callisto and her son to the heavens and turns them both into constellations so they couldn’t be hurt anymore,” Chris finished, his voice growing quieter until he reached the end, barely above a whisper.

“Is the moral supposed to be that kids ruin everything?” I said sorely, offering a bitter laugh to try to pass it off as a joke, but Chris could tell my heart wasn’t in it. In fact, I’d been thinking the opposite all night. A lot longer than that, actually, now that I think about it. Too nervous to see the confirmation I suspected may be in his eyes, I kept mine glued to the sky. Feeling an awful lot of the vulnerability I imagined Callisto may have, if only in a fraction.

“Nope,” he said, popping the word on his lips. “I just think it’s comforting to know that we won’t be able to fuck up that badly. I mean, as far as I know, neither of us are deities so, unless you’ve got some secret jealous ex with that potion from Brave, we’ll be alright parents. Sure, we’ve got crazy lives, but I don’t think we’ll suddenly wake up tomorrow with all the answers, so I don’t see why we’re still waiting.” His voice was as level and laid-back as if he was talking about the weather, not actually starting a family someday soon.

My neck nearly snapped with its velocity when I turned to Chris, flabbergasted in every sense of the word. Of course I knew he wanted kids, I don’t think there’s a person that’s ever watched a minute of a Chris Evans interview who didn’t. But we were always too busy working. Too focused on each other. Too far from a good school district. Too not-living-the-lives-we-want-to-lately.

“That is what you’ve been thinking about, right? Kids?” Chris asked, his whole face contorting with confusion, screwing up as he thought he did. “I figured, you’ve been worrying about getting older a lot lately. Plus, it seems like you’re tired of the whole L.A. lifestyle, lord knows I am, and like you’re ready to do something else career-wise. So I thought… I don’t know. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame you if-” he rambled, trying to put words to his thoughts in an attempt to make me understand them as well.

“Chris,” I said. It came out more sternly than I intended. “What do you want?”

He flipped over to his side so we were facing each other completely now. “Well, of course, I want you to be happy-”

“No, Chris. What do you want?” I repeated, unrelenting. Our eyes bore into each other, playing the world’s worst staring game with a poignant intensity. Chris’s eyes narrowed, his thick lashes nearly brushing his cheeks, until he lost.

“Honestly?” he said, liberating a heavy sigh from his lungs. I turned on my side to face him completely, curling up against his ribs which nearly rattled with every one of his stalling, shaky breaths. “I want kids,” Chris admitted in a breath. “If you aren’t ready yet, if I misunderstood whatever you’ve been going through lately, I’m really sorry, but I’m ready to settle down a little more. Move out of the city, find a nice home in some suburb with a yard for Dodge and a few empty bedrooms to fill.” Chris spoke with longing for a life we weren’t quite living, not dissimilar to the one that’d been plaguing my thoughts ever since I figured out the words for it. Although he was hesitant at first, once he started rolling, Chris couldn’t help confessing this residential life he’d planned down to the picket fence.

“Do you- Chris, don’t fuck with me like this. Do you really mean that?” I asked, utterly unable to hide my desperation. More than anything, I wanted that picket fenced front yard and a dozen little feet pitter-pattering down the hall. All I needed was for Chris to want it, too.

“Absolutely,” he said with confidence and a slow nod to boot. “I mean, we’re both tired of L.A. anyway, right? We aren’t getting any younger. I figure, why not, you know? I’d rather raise our kids where they can see the stars and walk down the street without getting papped. What do you think?” Chris inquired, chewing on his bottom lip anxiously. He’d gone out on a limb, hoping I’d be there to catch him when he fell.

I couldn’t stop the tears brimming in my eyes at just the thought of packing school lunches. Shutting the fridge, littered with finger-paintings of our family and tacky magnets we’d collect on every vacation, before handing a bag to each little kid. Kissing the tops of their heads as they rushed out the door, ready to board the big yellow school bus waiting out front.

“If that’s not what you want, that’s okay,” Chris rushed. His eyebrows dipped, heavy with concern that tugged down on the corners of his lips as well. “Really, it’s okay. No pressure. Please don’t cry about it.” Chris reached an arm around me, pulling me close to his chest to comfort me until my quiet cries erupted into laughter. “Wait, wh-what?” he stuttered.

“You meatball,” I teased, trying to catch my breath. “God, you don’t know how badly I’ve been wanting to hear you say that. Would it be wild if I told you I think that’s exactly what I want, too?” I laughed again, relishing in every bit of the relief.

“Not at all, darling,” Chris reassured me quickly. “I think it sounds like a dream, waking up with one arm around you and our baby snuggled in the other.” His eyes turned glossy, like he was remembering something that hadn’t even happened yet.

“In that case,” I said with a smirk that grew into a devilish grin. I placed my palm on Chris’s chest and pushed him back, flat against the sand, as I rolled over to straddle his waist. His eyebrows shot up in surprise as an incredulous laugh left his rosy lips. I flipped my hair to one side, biting my bottom lip with an excited suspense, as I looked down at Chris, balancing myself with a hand on his stomach. I swear I could feel his diaphragm halt as he forgot to breathe. “Why don’t we get started?”

Chris’s hands found their place on either side of my hips. His eyes watched his finger as it slipped under my underwear’s waistband, tracing the horizontal line dangerously low on my skin. As his gaze rose slowly, trying to soak up every last drop of this moment. “Are you proposing we make a baby right here, right now?” Chris asked when his eyes met mine, a soft smile carving crow’s feet next to his blue eyes.

“Well, in your very own words,” I purred, laying my chest to his so our faces were only inches from each other. I ran my fingers through his dark hair, trying to engrave the way he was looking at me now into my memory, as if I was the moon and the stars and the whole, entire sky. His grip tightened on my hips with anticipation as I leaned in to press a longing kiss to his lips, only a tease of what was to come. “Why not?”

Tags: @patzammit , @thegetawaywriter , @coffeebooksandfandom , @captainsteveevans , @intrepidandabitcrazy , @super100012 , @spilledinkindumpster , @torntaltos , @amiquette

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plague-of-insomnia · 4 years

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How do you make writing goals for yourself? I can't get anything done in time!!!!

Hi, anon! Tysm for sending this writing ask 💕!

Before I answer your question I’m going to take a quick diversion, but I promise it’s relevant, so bear with me.

Many writers focus on word count for goals— and events like Nanowrimo are focused on them.

But the advice I always give people who are either new(ish) to creative writing or are struggling with motivation/procrastination is IGNORE WORDCOUNT.

Throw it out of your mind. Ignore it. Pretend it doesn’t exist.

I have a few reasons for this:

Focusing on wordcount can cause anxiety and guilt. You become fixated on meeting an arbitrary word goal, instead of focusing on just writing. And if you don’t meet your goal, you feel like a failure. I have seen many writers quit bc of this cycle of anxiety and guilt.

Depending on how much you draft, your word count will change dramatically when you revise/edit. For example, the original chapter 8 of Where Demons Hide was ~4000 words, and the second draft I’m finishing up now is almost double that. I expect that the final draft that I post will have yet another shift in wordcount, possibly shrinking a little as I tighten things up. So if you stress yourself out during the first draft, when you go to revise you may realize all that stress was for nothing anyway.

Wordcount is only important if you have an assignment or submission that requires a set number of words, and even then, I would say look at #2, because wordcount should really only play into things in the last draft and be more of a general guideline you look toward as you’re drafting rather than something you use as a roadmap. Do you think the average reader has any context of the number of words in a scene? No. All they care about is flow. Some scenes may flow great with 3000 words, while others only need 300 or they feel dragged out. So I’ll reiterate: word count doesn’t matter.

So now that you’ve tossed word count in your mental wastebasket, we can get to your question about goals.

I always set my goals in two stages: immediate and overall. And I always set these goals in terms of scenes or chapters.

So my immediate goal might be “finish the scene with Sieglinde and Sebastian” while my overall goal is “finish the revision of chapter 8 of WDH.” Immediate goals are one that I will attempt to finish in a single writing session and are comparable to a wordcount goal.

If you have a particularly big scene, it’s fine to break it down into even smaller pieces, so you could say, “write the fight with the boss” as a sub-goal rather than “write the final confrontation scene.” Breaking things up like this can be especially helpful if you have a scene with different aspects, like a dialog moment and an action moment, or a long sex scene that has a foreplay and main sex component, etc.

The important thing is to break your goals into meaningful pieces that you can realistically achieve in one writing session. Everyone works at different speeds, some scenes/aspects take longer to write than others, and it can take a little time for you to find exactly what breakdowns work for you. (And that’s OK!)

You can even set your immediate goals out of the order in which those scenes happen if you feel you need to, or skip a scene you’re struggling with. It’s better to end up with 90% of your goals achieved and then tackling that last one then getting stuck when you’re only 10% in and grinding to a total halt.

I almost always have several goals at once, which I rank in terms of what I want to accomplish first. However, I give myself the flexibility to work on another goal if I’m stuck/not feeling a particular project on that day. This system allows me to “triage” and tackle the most important things first, and helps keep me organized.

Don’t forget to forgive yourself if you don’t meet your goal. Maybe you had a headache and couldn’t think as well as normal. Maybe the scene was more complicated than you’d expected, or you didn’t have quite enough research done for it. Maybe the dog next door was barking and you couldn’t concentrate.

It’s OK! Instead of focusing on the negative: “I didn’t finish the scene,” focus on the positive: “I got a good chunk of the dialog hammered out.”

Remember that this is a draft. Even if it’s a revision you’re doing, it doesn’t have to be perfect. The important thing is laying down a foundation that you can tweak later.

Even the worst paragraph can be fixed or expanded upon later, but you can’t work from nothing. So any progress is progress.

Part of the reason I break my goals into bite-sized chunks within a larger piece is because it gives you a sense of progress.

For example, if you’re working on a long chapter, if you tackle it scene by scene it won’t feel as daunting as it may have otherwise. Plus, you can see your progress building as you finish scene after scene! Before you know it, you’ll have met your overall goal.

But now maybe you’re wondering how do you even figure out what a “writing session is”?

This depends on a lot of things and it’s not something I can set for you. Some people only have a limited amount of time to write, while others have more flexible schedules.

My suggestion is to set yourself an alotment of time to write on a regular basis. Maybe this means writing an hour before bed. Maybe it means writing during your lunch break. Or maybe you can only write on the weekends.

But the important thing is to set your schedule during a realistic time—if you know you’ll be too tired to write before bed then find another time—and stick to it as much as you can.

It doesn’t have to be every single day, if your health/schedule doesn’t allow for that. But it has to be regular or you will struggle to meet even the smallest of goals. So even if it’s only one day a week, you need to only skip a day if you really absolutely have to, and get in that habit, create that self discipline.

For example, ideally I write every week day for maybe ~5 hours total. I usually take the weekends off bc having down time is important.

I can’t do keep that schedule all the time because of my health, and it’s frustrating, but that’s part of it. As long as you put your butt in your chair and work when you can, that’s what matters. Decide what you’re going to tackle for that session and go for it. Don’t edit. Don’t check your word count and limit your distractions.

I put my dogs away, go to my computer, with a beverage, and write. I do take breaks. In fact, I’ll sometimes even set a time goal for myself (“I’ll write for two hours or until I finish my scene”). Timed goals can work really well for some people, though I’m not a big fan of them myself for a lot of reasons. I use them less as a goal and more as a way to make sure I don’t overwork myself.

I didn’t mention it, but you can also set goals for what I call “writing adjacent” things, like research, coming up with titles, etc. I sometimes do this, and those work themselves into my goal sheet along with my scene and chapter goals.

I really hope that helped you a bit, anon, and wasn’t too rambling! If you have other questions about this or anything else, feel free to send another ask. Good luck and happy writing 💕!

#my writing advice #my writing process #setting writing goals #writing #writblr #poi answers #long post #anon

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angelosanger · 4 years

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get to know: angelo suarez.

Angelo spends the first five years of his life wanting nothing. He gets every thing his heart desires almost immediately, when he finds himself hurt someone is there in seconds to kiss him and remind him he’s special.

That all changes when his parents bring his little brother home. Suddenly, there’s someone else competing for the attention. In the early days of the baby being around, Angelo finds his parents drop everything to run to his brother’s side. He can’t begin to count the amount of times he’s been in the middle of a sentence, only for his parents to run off when the newborn starts crying. Suddenly, there’s less time to play with Angelo, and he’s lucky if someone even shows up at night to make sure he goes to bed on time. It’s not his parents fault, truly. He knows now that anyone has difficulty adjusting to the schedule of a newborn, and they never meant to push him out. But knowing something now is not the same as knowing it then. Naturally, Angelo is jealous.

He expresses his jealousy one day when his dad asks him to share his new toy he got on his birthday with his brother. Angelo remember vividly watching his baby brother grab at his truck all while his parents smiled adoringly at the baby. It’s selfish, he’s aware of that now, but in the moment seeing Ricky reach for something else of his makes him seethe. Angelo rips the truck out of his brothers hands and shouts that he doesn’t want to share it. Ricky cries and his parents chastise Angelo on how that isn’t nice. He’s not surprised they’re taking his side, but it only sets him off more. He gets so mad that he throws the toy to the ground, and then, to make matters worse he picks it up and slams down again and again until it’s nothing but brightly colored smashed pieces.

His outburst is unacceptable. Angelo finds himself sitting in a corner for hours. He’d never been in trouble before and his parents didn’t know how to be effective about his discipline. No one told him what exactly about what he did was wrong, and for a few months that becomes their pattern. Angelo getting upset and finding himself in trouble, his parents failing to communicate to him what exactly the issue is. Soon enough, Angelo begins to realize he’s only ever in trouble when he’s unhappy. So...maybe that’s it.

He spends the bulk of his life biting his tongue and ignoring the flinch of his fingers whenever something inconvenient happens to him. Angelo even lets other kids get away with doing things that genuinely upset him. In the face of being left out by his peers he forces a smile. When he gets hurt in playtime because someone pushes him, he forgives blindly. It’s all in the name of avoiding the corner and silence again.

Even as a child he has trouble with being alone with his thoughts. Everything he feels is wrong. That’s the impression he gets from his parents, and he spends the bulk of his life thinking he’s wrong because everyone else in his family seems so perfect and happy. There’s never a frown or a bad word, and Angelo begins to wonder why he can’t be as happy as the false image his parents put out. Surely, something must be wrong with him.

His first real dangerous fit happens when he’s fourteen. He doesn’t really remember what it is, figures now it was something stupid. But he loses it. On his school record there’s a report of him yelling at another student before punching him right in the face. The fight escalates too quickly and it ends with Angelo throwing a chair at the other kid. He misses, thank God, but still….he threw a chair at someone. It’s safe to say he was suspended.

His permanent record is littered with incident after incident. Until, eventually, he gets kicked out of school.

Angelo’s outbursts aren’t entirely unreasonable. He doesn’t just get mad that a store sold out of orange juice and flips out (ok, but he is VERY annoyed let’s not pretend). Usually, someone starts with him. His anger is always a response to someone hurting him, and in turn, he makes a scene. His wake up call comes in the form of a grocery store altercation. He accidentally knocks into someone. They both drop all their things from the impact, but Angelo swallows down his annoyance and offers to help clean it up. The stranger responds with attitude and snarky comments, even going as far as to call Angelo an idiot. It sets him off almost immediately.

Don’t call him dumb, please God. He’s been called stupid almost his entire life by his classmates and even jokingly by some people he’d considered friends. He hates it and it’s the easiest way to find yourself in a fight with Angelo. A fight you’ll most likely lose.

Differences in opinion do not exist when it comes to certain topics. Ok, most topics. Angelo is stubborn and righteous, he digs his feet in and refuses to accept anything other than admittance that you’re wrong.

He’s genuinely not opposed to knocking everything in this bitch down when he’s mad. He’s that one Madea video where she knocks the whole table over.

He starts going to therapy because when he gets his powers he um is a little more dangerous than he’s used to. It’s unexpected. He’s just you know, being him, yelling at some poor stranger about something and he gets so mad that fire shoots from his hands. Luckily, no one got hurt. But everyone around him suddenly looks at him with more fear than he’s ever seen before in his life. Mortified and incredibly sorry, he realizes then that he’s got to do something to get a better hold of this.

Angelo is almost always listening to music. He’s always got an AirPod in, music playing quietly in the background even if he’s in a conversation. He learns that music is a good way to keep him distracted and calm.

He spends years staying away from people and trying his best to isolate himself from everyone but his core friend group. He was so afraid that he’ll hurt someone by accident, and he decides it’s not worth the risk. So, he shuts most people out without so much as an explanation.

Very strong opinions about pizza. I know that’s canon in the film but i’m using my last noodle to say his favorite kind of pizza is buffalo chicken, followed closely by pepperoni. And you know what, he’s right and he should say it.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

friends that mayhaps he had to cut off while he was trying get better/not hurt anyone with his powers.

maybe some people he’s flipped out on

exes/crushes whatever

y’all know me pls.

#🤬 i beat it like a dead horse; i beat it like a drum. (about.)

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dendrite-blues · 5 years

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The Pace Gremlin

My writing pace is something of a personal gremlin.

Most days it doesn't bother me. I'm proud of the work I do. I put deep thought into every line.

When I hand it off I have zero anxiety about the feedback, because no one could ever pick it apart as thoroughly as I have.

I beta for opinions, not quality. To have someone else check my character's logic (they have a tendency to make snap decisions without explaining themselves adequately) and to find my infamous typos. By the time others read it, my prose is already at my current personal best. If it wasn't, I would still be writing it.

But when something brings me down emotionally, the pace gremlin is always right behind. Vulnerability has a pheromone that insecurity can't resist. It smells your self doubt and comes running.

I'm sure everyone has their own personal wounds. I'm sure lots of people struggle with the "I'm not creative" demon, the "I never finish anything" demon, the "someone else already did it better" demon. All valid. But not what I struggle with in writing. (Art is different but that's another post.)

The trouble with the pace gremlin is, everybody has a magic trick to "fix" slowness. I've read them all. Good advice, if speed is beneficial to you. I'm sure some people feel very good about a fat word count, and for them such advice is probably a life saver. A few common points in these advice posts:

1) Stop procrastinating. Make a schedule and stick to it. Write everyday.

I'm sure this works if you happen to have fully developed ideas on a schedule. I don't. I need time to gather my thoughts. I burnout, I get stuck, I mope because I'm a bit melodramatic about being stuck. But if you do have endless ideas and energy that never end up on the page, it's solid advice.

2) Stop editing while you write. Force yourself to write without stopping. Time yourself. Don't ever stop to research. Don't ever stop, period, until you've reached your word count.

Because a word count is the end all be all, right? Never mind prose, diction, attempts at originality and style.

People love to blog about this point because there are so many apps to cure it. It makes for good top ten lists, which always get more hits than actual content.

Advise blogs will tell you to turn your monitor off so you can't see what you wrote. They will tell you to put a coin under your backspace so you can't even press it. They will recommend you apps that track your output, apps that mimic typewriters, apps that block your internet usage, apps that punish you for failing. (shudder)

I don't see how any of this promotes quality writing, personally. I don't agree that all writing is good writing. I think of you input half baked crap you get out half baked crap. Who cares if you cover it in buttercream, it's still got raw eggs in it.

I don't buy that it's a bad thing to stop and rearrange the structure of a sentence, to find the exact right word, to question if there's a better way to reveal this plot point. I don't think word counts should be the goal.

3) Let go of perfectionism, "all first drafts are shitty."

Again, I understand that this is important advice for people who are paralyzed by self doubt. The compulsion to rewrite continuously and never progess is strong for some. But there's a difference between finessing and fixating. This advise shouldn't be taken as gospel.

Perfectionism is not an addiction, and it's not something I can quit. It is ingrained in how I evaluate myself. In preschool I arranged my Legos by color. I was literally born this way. Its not going away now.

If I make crap, I feel like a crappy writer. Which makes me hate the crap I made, which discourages me from writing more. Rushing to write crap is the fastest way to sabotage myself, I have learned. (Painfully.)

If someone is genuinely struggling with perfectionism, this is THE WORST advise you could possibly give them. Perfectionists need to feel confident in what they do. They need to produce good results. No, the first draft is never going to be perfect. But it can be good. It can even be great. And the feeling of writing something great can fuel my motivation for weeks.

Which is not to say that it's okay to indulge in endless editing loops. There's a limit. But it's also not okay for me to "write crap and fix it in revision."

I can't polish an paragraph if the paragraph is incoherent, if it has no unique qualities, if its just a meandering line of words I regurgitated to meet a quota. When I come back to edit I will just delete it and rewrite... In which case I'm actually spending more time than if I just wrote it slowly to begin with.

Which brings me to my real point:

There's nothing wrong with slow.

When people talk about slow, all of these other accusations are automatically made. Because it must be that there is something wrong, we are capable of zooming if only we weren't stunted by some hidden inefficiency that prevents us from joining the fast fiction master race.

Nonsense. I'm not slow because I edit too much, or because I don't know what my story is about, or because I lack discipline. I am capable, if given something to copy, of typing 60 words per minute. But I can't think at 60 words per minute.

(In fact, according to my sprinting stats, I think at about 10 words per minute...14 if I'm rushing. Please, hold your applause. Haha)

I'm a slow writer...because I'm a slow thinker. I don't "waste" time spinning my wheels on stuff that doesn't matter. I don't need an app to trick me into being productive. I just need time to think.

When I don't give that to myself... When the pace gremlin catches me unable to defend my insecurities...I make crap. I feel crappy. I convince myself I am the problem and I would already be published if only I let myself write "crappy drafts." If I wasn't held back by my toxic "perfectionism."

Enough. I'll always be slow. Its not a condition, it's the way my brain works. As far as I know, there's no cure for being a tortoise.

And that's fine. In my right mind I am proud of my pace. I take pride in considering every word in every line. I care about craft.

I find drafting sentences at a snail's pace satisfying. It's deliberate. It has gravitas. It's laced with complexities I hope others will detect and appreciate. And when I place my pages in stranger's hands, I know I have raised them with the ability to defend themselves. I have no fear.

I know I will still feel bad about it at some point. That's the nature of creative life. But now I have a post to remind myself why slow is okay. And I guess if anyone else had the same problems, then this post is here for you too. Don't get discouraged. Do it your way and make stories with meaning.

#writing #writing advice #advice meta #in defense of slow #slow writers #critical

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light-up-shawn · 6 years

Text

flourish. - peter parker

genre: i really dunno man

warnings: none

words: 2,483

pairing(s) : peter p x reader eventually

parts: one , two

A/N: Hey! So I have this written and four written which means I’ll probably post tomorrow too! I’m sorry if this story is moving along slowly, I just don’t think Peter and the reader should be full on making out in the first few chapters but they’ll definitely interact more as the story moves along. I don’t know what else to say for now so as always, leave questions, suggestions, predictions, and feedback in my ask. Thank you for reading, my loves. Enjoy! 💗

It was 7 am on September 8th. It was the first day of school and you barely caught an ounce of sleep. Excitement overcame you at least a month before you had even started school. Ever since you woke up an hour ago, you couldn't help but imagine everything that could happen today. You could make a lot of friends, you could accidentally expose your powers, you could meet Rihanna. The possibilities were endless.

You took a bite out of the pancakes your aunt made and hummed in satisfaction.

"These are so good, oh my god." You said.

Your aunt smiled at you.

"You excited for your first day?" she asked. Your aunt's hair was all messy and she was dressed in these luxurious-looking silk pajamas. She slept very classily.

"Yeah. I walked past midtown once when MJ and I were going to this deli. It looks like a really nice school. I'm excited to be attending." you answered and remembered that day. MJ was bored and her parents were mad at each other so she needed some air. The two of you were walking around for at least two hours. You liked that you an MJ could just spontaneously hang out with each other. Nothing was ever forced. Anything that came to your mind, the two of you just talked about it.

"Ugh, you grow up so fast. It seems like just yesterday you first got here." your aunt gushed.

"It's been like two months." You replied.

"You've grown up so much since then!"

you giggled.

"The bus gets here in 5 minutes. You need to get to the bus stop now." your mom said coming down the hallway, putting an earring in her ear.

It took a month but your mom was able to find a job. Before you were born, your mom apparently went through schooling for being a teacher. She talked about it every once in a while but not enough for it to be a significant memory so it kind of took you by surprise when she came home with a huge smile on her face because she got a job as a first-grade teacher.

You took one last bite of you heaven sent pancakes, gathered your stuff and left.

"have a good day" 's were heard as you were leaving.

You ran to the bus stop two blocks away from your apartment building and just barely caught the bus. You stuck your metro card in the slot and then walked into the seating area. As you expected the bus was full of both students and adults on their way to school and work. Neither parties looking forward to the day ahead of them

After about five stops, you made it to Midtown and got off the bus. You looked around as you walked and took in everything. The school wasn't small, unlike your last one. It seemed to have three floors instead of two and the website said it held about 2,000 students. So many of them were walking into the school frantically or laughing with friends.

"Ow!" a pitchy voice said.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I should've been paying attention." you apologized to the brown haired boy you somehow walked into.

"Hey don't worry about it. It happens to me all the time." The boy smiled.

"Uh I'm Y/N." you introduced yourself.

"I'm Peter. Nice to meet you."

Peter. You knew that name. It was that friend that MJ talked about to when you two first met.

"Peter...Parker?" you asked.

He quirked an eyebrow at you.

"Yeah...how did you know that?"

"I'm friends with your friend, MJ. She talks about you and Ned sometimes." you explained.

"Does she?" He said, smiling.

You were aware you weren't supposed to tell Peter that and it would probably come back to bite you but the words couldn't be taken back now.

"Mhmm. I'd better get going though, Peter. You wouldn't happen to know where the main office is, would you?"

"Yeah, I'll uh, I'll show you." he offered.

You nodded and followed behind him into the building.

"So Peter, you're on the decathlon team?" you asked in attempt to make small talk. You recalled MJ brought up the decathalon team once.

"Well, I've been thinking about joining. Uh, this one girl I know is on the team. and she seems to have a lot of fun. Ned says he'd join too if I do it so there's a chance I will be doing that." she answered.

"That's cool. The team sounds fun. Not entirely my thing but I'd join for the experience."

"Midtown has a wide selection of things to join. Something would definitely match your interest, you just gotta look." he said.

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

You two turned a corner and there was an open door with a big desk and a secretary sitting behind it.

"Here you are."Peter pointed his hands towards the room in front of you.

"Thank you."

"It was no problem. I'll catch you around."

You nodded as he walked away.

"Can I help you?" the lady behind the desk asked.

"Yeah, I'm Y/N L/N. I was told this is where i could pick up my schedule." you smiled at her.

"The transfer from Buffalo? Yeah, we have your schedule. Just give me a second to print it out."

After five minutes, you were given your schedule and meant to go find classroom 234.

"Y/N!" a voice called down the hallway. You could only assume it was someone you were familiar with. And you were only familiar with one person. It was obviously MJ.

She approached you and held her hand out.

"Let me see your schedule."

You handed her the piece of paper and she skimmed it.

Today MJ was wearing her signature ponytail that never seemed to be neat, a plain white shirt with a pair of Adidas joggers and Old Skool Vans. She had a way of making a look that she probably randomly threw on, look good.

"Okay cool, We have lunch, chem, and English together." she informed.

"That's great. I won't be lonely all day." you said.

"Yeah, I'm stuck with you for three periods."

"I see it as you have the amazing opportunity to spend time with me for 135 minutes every day. It's everyone's dream, truly." You joked.

"Everyone is interchangeable with no one, right?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, we have like 10 minutes to spare. Come with me to my locker and I'll walk you to your class?" Mj asked even though it was more of a statement.

You nodded and followed behind her as she walked off. Midtown had a lot of doors and even more lockers it seems.

We approached her locker only to see the brown-haired boy from before along with a black haired boy.

"Hi, losers." MJ greeted.

"Hi, Michelle and friend." The boy you have yet to meet spoke.

That's the second time someone had referred to you as "and friend" and it would probably happen a lot more.

"Didn't I tell you, dummies, to call me MJ?"

Peter snorted at her insult.

"You love us." He said.

"No way."

"Then why have you been talking about us all summer?"

MJ inhaled and exhaled. You assumed she would snap your neck or something. Lucky for you, she had some sense of self-control.

"So you and Y/N have met, I presume."

You smiled innocently.

"Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting your friend who apparently can't keep a secret." He teased.

"You'd be surprised." you mumbled.

"ANYWAY! Hello, my name is Ned. It seems like I'm the only one who has no idea who you are." the other boy said. The other boy looked as though he was probably South Asain.

"Hi, Ned!"

"How do you guys know her?" Ned asked.

"I spent a chunk of my summer walking around with her." Mj admitted.

"I just met her like ten minutes ago and showed her to the office." Peter said.

"Sigh. I'm always last. First puberty now this." Ned joked.

The three of you laughed and then the bell rang.

"Oh god, I have Luis first period. I heard he's super strict. I have to go." Before you could protest (and you had every right to because you would be late to your first class) she was off, messy ponytail bouncing with every step she took.

"Would any of you happen to know where 234 is?" You asked.

Peter spoke up. "234 is on my way, I'll show you."

Peter and Ned did this really cool looking handshake and went their separate ways.

"You seem to be showing me around a lot." You said.

"Maybe it'll count for something and I could like graduate early." Peter said.

"Really? In that case, I will gladly show any lost freshman around."

Peter chuckled.

"As if you know where you're going yourself."

"Hey, I'm a fast learner."

The two of you approached the staircase and he held open the door for you.

"Thank you."

he smiled.

"I would, y'know, make small talk and stuff. It's kind of my brand, but I don't think the conversation would last that long seeing as you have exactly 2 minutes and 11 seconds to get to your first period that is across the hall."

"I can make it."

"Goodluck, Y/N." he said as you picked up a light jog, determined to get to class on time.

and you did just that.

You walked out of breath to the middle of the classroom. You always tried to go for the middle seats. If you were having an off day and you sat in the front, the teacher would publically embarrass you. In the back, you wouldn't even pay attention. The middle was perfect. It held many opportunities.

As the class came to a close though, you learned that this teacher didn't care where you sat, you would still get publically embarrassed.

It kind of went the same way for most teachers. Some were more lenient, you had to admit, but most were hellbent on the discipline of your fellow classmates. Even though some were rude, to say the least, you were still polite.

And by doing so, you were able to get to through the first four periods without a teacher hating you.

Your reflection of the people you were forced to spend forty-five minutes with every day for 10 months was interrupted when MJ texted you to head to the cafeteria.

So you made your way to the ground floor for lunch in the shockingly big eatery.

You stood in the doorframe of the room searching for your friend and her friends while MJ waved at you to get your attention. Eventually, it worked and you walked over to the table the three teens were sitting at.

"Hi everyone!"

"Y/N! Please tell me your teachers are just as bad as mine." MJ said.

"Uh, two of them were pretty rude. Not to me, luckily. And the others were fine i guess. They weren't good but weren't bad either. I really don't think this year will be all that bad. If I stay on their good side, like you said, I'll be fine."

"Wait. MJ advised you to kiss up to the teachers?"Ned chuckled.

"I advised her to stay on their good side. There's a difference, Leeds."

"Whatever you say, Michelle."

She rolled her eyes and began to doodle in her book.

"So how were your teachers? I assume you had a better experience than me and MJ." you asked Ned and Peter.

"Yeah, I like mine. None of them were annoyingly strict so that's good, I guess."

"I sat in the back so none of my teachers noticed anyway."

"Not like it would matter. The first week of school is just teachers going over the syllabus and trying to convince us of buying them tissues and hand sanitizer." MJ said.

"Why do you have to be such a downer? We have two classes with each other!"

"Just because you say that in a positive tone doesn't mean I'll enjoy it."

You wiped an imaginary tear from your eye.

"Ouch, MJ. That shit hurted."

Peter and Ned chuckled.

"So, Y/N, what brings you to Queens?"

"I think my mom was just getting bored of Buffalo. It wasn't ever really somewhere she wanted to be so we packed up our shit and left."

"Where are you staying?"

"My mom and I live with my aunt. The two of them are actually NYC natives."

Peter looked like he wanted to say something but he held back.

"I feel like if all four of us are going to sit with each other for 10 months then we should at least be not awkward. Let's play 21 questions." Ned suggested.

You and MJ looked at each other and smiled. 21 questions was one of your very first memories together.

"I'll go first. Who do you idolize?" you asked.

"Tony Stark." Peter said immediately.

"Beyonce but you already knew that."

"Hm, this is hard but I have to go with Elon Musk." Ned answered causing you all to break out in giggles.

"Okay, okay, uhh how do you guys like your eggs?" Peter asked.

We all looked at him weirdly. He could've done better.

"Scrambled."

"Hard Boiled."

"Poached."

"That was a horrible question, Petey. Anyway, Do you guys have any phobias you'd like to break?" MJ asked.

"I'd like to break my phobia of blood. Any time I see an excessive amount of it, I pass out." Ned admitted.

"I have a weird fear of heart disease and I don't really know where it came from."

"I don't like spiders."

Ned and Peter looked at each other then looked away. Probably some sort of inside joke.

"Okay, what superpowers would you guys have if you could choose?"

Both you and Peter tensed. Both Ned and MJ noticed to because they gave you guys weird stares.

"Um, I'd have mind manipulation or invisability or literally anything Scarlet Witch could do."

"I would have Thor's powers. He's cool."

"Uh, black widow."

After another exchange of suspicious glances from Ned and MJ, you all continued the game. Questions came up about future jobs, smash or pass, favorite foods, songs, etc. The game served its purpose you actually did learn more about your lunch buddies and it was refreshing to make new friends.

The bell rang and the four of you got up.

"Bye guys!" you said as MJ dragged you along to your next class.

You two found a seat next to each other and MJ whispered to you.

"Hey, why did you and Peter act so weird when Ned asked that question about the superheroes?"

"I wasn't acting weird. That was my thinking face. I don't know about Peter, though, hmm."

"Whatever, Y/N. Whatever you're hiding, I'll find it out. I always do."

taglist : @chims-kookies

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darling-cas · 7 years

Text

Whatever It Takes: Chapter 1

ACOTAR Figure Skating AU

Summary: Nesta firmly believes that if you want something, you have to work your ass off for it. And she wants a National title attached to her name. But when her coach decides that a change in discipline is what Nesta needs, she’s far from impressed. Now, instead of training as a ladies single skater, she has to switch gears and skate as a pairs skater. And her partner? Someone she can’t stand. Non other then cocky, flirtatious, former Men’s skater Cassian. Edited by: @ilikebigbooks-and-icannotlie

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

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Nesta pulled her laces tight, tying a bow at the top. She stood up, bending slightly at the ankles to make sure her skates were nice and snug. When she was satisfied, she sat back on the bench, leaning against the wall.

She normally wasn’t one to be tired at early morning practice. She’d trained her body over the years to follow a strict schedule. She went to bed at ten every night and woke up at four in morning, giving her exactly six hours of sleep. When she was up, she went about the same routine Monday through Saturday. Early morning practice, off-ice practice, gym workout or ballet class, another on-ice practice, then home for bed. She had followed that schedule for most of her skating career.

Yet, she couldn’t help but feel the exhaustion set in on her shoulders that particular morning, making her eyes droop and her limbs feel heavy.

To say practice had been hell lately would be an understatement. Nesta pushed herself harder than she ever had before. After Nationals, she took about a week off before she put herself back on her intense schedule once more.

If you want something, they have to work your ass off for it. And Nesta wanted a National title attached to her name.

Practices were intense, brutal. Just the way Nesta liked them. But that didn’t make them any less frustrating.

She decided very early on that if she was going to beat Aelin Galathynius next year - along with every other skater in her category - she was going to have to add a triple-triple combination to her routine. Of course, skaters didn’t necessarily need triple-triple combos to beat out the competition. If they didn’t land the jump, it would do them more harm than good. But Aelin Galathynius had nailed her triple-lutz triple-toe. Therefore, Nesta had to one up her.

So she added a triple-flip triple-loop to her routine.

A dangerous combination. Triple loops were hard to get right. They were normally always marked as under-rotated. Which was what made Nesta pick that jump.

If she landed it, she had no doubt she would take that National title.

The only problem was that, though she had been training and working on the jump for months, she still had yet to get it right, which caused her to leave practice more and more irritated every day.

But Nesta didn’t believe in ifs. There was no if she would land it. Only when she would land it. Because she would land that jump. She didn’t care how much she had to push and crawl to get there.

Running a tired hand over her face, Nesta pushed herself up off of the bench once more.

She was Nesta Archeron. She was a fighter, a winner. She had to push through the exhaustion and work just as hard as she did every day.

Pulling her slick ponytail tight, Nesta took in a deep breath. A look of pure determination clouded her features as she picked her water bottle up and marched through the door.

The crisp air of the old stadium welcomed her the moment she left the dressing room. There were only a few skaters on the ice at that hour of the morning. Not like they had many skaters at the Velaris Starlight Figure Skating Club. They were definitely one of the smaller clubs in the country. Which made getting ice time easier.

Nesta took off her skate guards. As she did so, her narrowed eyes spotted Mor starting her warm-ups. The two shared a quick nod, but nothing more. Practices weren’t for socializing - not for Nesta. Still, she couldn’t help but notice that the ice felt almost too big. As if one missing body made a huge difference. It was still an odd sight, not seeing Elain on the ice.

There were a few other skaters on the ice. However, Nesta no more than glanced at them as she stepped onto the slick glossy surface.

It was like someone had flicked on her autopilot. The moment her blades touched the ice, Nesta was locked in her own little bubble. Her blades carried her as if they had a mind of their own. She went through her warm-up routine without so much as a second thought. She did all the moves she knew like the back of her hand, warming and loosening up her body, getting herself ready for another intense, body-breaking practice.

Twenty minutes later, Nesta glided across the ice. She pulled her leg up over her head, stretching out her thigh muscles, before moving onto the next leg. She did a few more stretches before she made her way to the boards. She kicked her leg up, resting her head against her knee. And damn her, because as she was reaching for her toes, she couldn’t do anything to stop a yawn from escaping her mouth.

Nesta wanted to rip out her own hair for letting the exhaustion get to her like that. Even more so when she heard a pair of blades glide to a stop next to her. Followed by a dark, fluid, male voice.

“I should make you do laps and some push-ups in the middle of the ice for that yawn.”

Nesta switched legs without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

“But you won’t,” she stated, resting her head against her knee as she counted out her stretch.

“You sound certain of that, Ms. Archeron.”

A ten count passed by where no one said anything. Then, Nesta lowered her leg and turned around, coming face to face with her coach.

“That’s because I am certain of that,” she said simply, stretching her arm across her chest.

Coach Carver raised a dark eyebrow. That cool expression was forever present on his handsome face. With his mop of stylish dark hair and eyes so brown they appeared black, his skin looked paler than it actually was, which caused him to look even scarier to any passerbys. Even his smiles were wicked, almost humorous. He walked and skated with this ancient aura around him, as if he was older than he seemed. As if he belonged in another world.

And maybe he did. He was one of the best skaters to come out of Valeris after all, along with Coach Suriel. Both had Olympic titles to their names.

Which was why Nesta picked him for her coach. He was brutal, unforgiving. He did everything, no matter the measure, to make sure his skaters were the best they could be. No excuse was good enough for him. He pushed. Stretching the muscles until they grew several inches. Bending bones until they suited his needs.

That was how he got his nickname after all - the Bone Carver.

Coach Carver raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

“Watch your tongue, Ms. Archeron.” That deadly smile appeared on his face, as if he knew her deepest secrets. “It may get you in trouble some day. If it hasn’t already, that is.”

Nesta couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Coach Carver was also way too dramatic for his own damn good.

“Can we get on with this?” Her face was hard. “I have a jump to land, and we’re already twenty minutes into practice.”

“I wanted to talk to you first, actually.”

Nesta waited, forever impatient, as Coach Carver clasped his hands behind his back. He didn’t speak for a few short moments. He simply stared at her as if he was trying to see into her mind, which only raised Nesta’s temper.

“Can we make it quick, then?” She tried not to snap, but she didn’t succeed. She had a routine to perfect, and even her own damn Coach was doing nothing but wasting her time.

Coach Carver stared at her for a heartbeat longer before he finally spoke.

“When I tell you this, Ms. Archeron, I think it’s best you keep in mind that I’m your coach. I know what’s best and have never lead any of my skaters wrong before.” Those dark pools bore into Nesta’s very soul as Coach Carver slowly spoke. “And before you decide to open that smart-ass mouth of yours, you should also keep in mind that, unlike you, I have an Olympic title to my name. So I would think twice before you talk back to me.”

Harsh words, they both knew it. But they worked, just like Coach Carver knew they would. Nesta found herself clenching her jaw, nodding slowly.

She couldn’t stop a chill from running down her spine. A chill that had nothing to do with the bitter stadium air. Nesta knew that whatever Coach Carver was about to say was going to be damn serious.

“You’re a good skater Nesta Archeron. There’s no doubting that,” he said. “But even the best skaters need to be pushed out of their comfort zones to become the best of the best.”

Nesta narrowed her steely eyes. “I’m already pushing for a triple-flip triple-loop. How much more out of my comfort zone could I get?”

Coach Carver shot her a warning glare, causing Nesta’s mouth to snap shut. Even she knew when not to cross her coach.

But she couldn’t help but notice that there was also a challenging look in his eyes. And was that amusement?

“I think you need a change in discipline.”

No beating around the bush then.

Nesta blinked. She stared back at her coach with a blank expression, the words not fully registering in her head.

“You want me to change my skating discipline.” Her words were slow, as if she were trying to understand them. “What? Ladies’ skating to Men’s skating?”

There was definitely amusement shining in Coach Carver’s eyes as his lips pulled up in the corner.

“Not exactly. Despite how interesting that would be,” he said, putting his gloved hands in his coat pockets. “You’re going to skate Pairs.”

A beat passed where no one spoke. Nesta could heard the sounds of blades and yelling behind her, but it all blew past her.

Then, she smiled. A laugh bubbled out of her lips.

“Yeah, right,” Nesta shook her head. “Even you aren’t crazy enough to switch a skater’s discipline just 2 months before the first competition of the season.”

“Regionals hardly counts as a competition for you,” Coach Carver waved her off. “And I am very serious Ms. Archeron. You are going to be skating Pairs from now on.”

The smile slipped off Nesta’s face. A shiver ran through her as she narrowed her eyes.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” It took everything in her not to yell. “This is completely stupid and ridiculous! What good is switching disciplines going to do me at this point?”

Coach Carver actually had the nerve to sigh. As if he was tired of her already today.

“Do you have a National title to your name?” Coach Carver stated bluntly. When Nesta didn’t say anything, he continued. “You’ve been skating competitively for eight years now and the closest you’ve come to that title is third place two years ago. So clearly, Ladies isn’t doing you any good.”

“And you think Pairs will?”

Venom laced Nesta’s every word, but Coach Carver simply nodded.

“I do.”

“I’ve never even skated Pairs before,” she felt the need to point out.

“It’s not as hard as you would think, especially not for you, who has been skating for eighteen years. Plus, your partner is also a very skilled skater. Someone else with lots of years-”

Nesta held up her hand. By the look on Coach Carver’s face, she could tell he wasn’t too impressed. But she didn’t care. Not one bit.

“You said partner.” Her brows pinched together as she spoke. “You already got me a partner?”

“Of course.” Coach almost sounded offend. But then he looked over Nesta’s shoulder, beckoning someone forward. “And here he is now.”

Before Nesta even had a chance to think about who she had seen on the ice that morning, a pair of blades glided to a stop next to her and Coach Carver.

“Nesta Archeron -” the amusement shining purely on Coach Carver’s face now was unbearable - “Meet your new skating partner.”

If Nesta was irritated before, she was definitely raging now.

Of all the people her coach could have chosen, Cassian stood next to her. His shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back messily. Those piercing hazel eyes locked on her. His rough features caught the bright rink light, and there was an ever-present smirk on his lips. Just the sight had Nesta’s blood boiling. Her jaw locked as her fists clenched.

“No.”

Her voice was dangerously low, cutting off whatever Cassian was about to say, his mouth snapping shut.

“No,” she repeated, turning to Coach Carver with fire in her eyes. “This is fucking ridiculous. First you want me to change my discipline. Now, you want me to work with him? You’ve actually lost your mind.”

Coach Carver’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tongue, Nesta Archeron.”

“I’m not skating Pairs. And even if I was, I’m definitely not skating with him.” Nesta’s voice was cold as she pushed her blades backward. “Either I skate Ladies or I don’t skate at all.”

“Then I guess this is goodbye.”

A part of Nesta knew she should stop and think about her next move carefully. But she was too blinded by rage to think straight. The cold look Coach Carver was giving her, along with the raised eyebrow from Cassian, only fueled her fire.

“I guess it is,” she snapped.

Then, Nesta did something she had never done in her whole skating career.

She skated off of the ice in the middle of practice.

——————–

When Nesta stomped into their small house hours later, she was still fuming with rage.

It didn’t help that everyone was conveniently home that night. Something that was very rare for the Archeron household.

That fact did little to calm the fire burning deep within Nesta.

“Did you know about this?”

Feyre blinked as she looked up from the book she was reading at the breakfast bar. The fact she was home at all surprised Nesta, though she didn’t show it. Feyre was usually always out with her skating partner slash boyfriend Rhys, and his inner circle of friends. Friends that included Cassian. Which was exactly why Nesta made a beeline for her youngest sister.

“About what?” Feyre’s stormy eyes narrowed at Nesta.

“About Coach Carver completely losing his mind and wanting me to skate Pairs with Cassian fucking Guerrero.”

Elain, who was standing across from Feyre cutting up vegetables, paused. Her knife froze mid-cut as she looked up at Nesta.

“What?”

“I didn’t know any of this,” Feyre shook her head, surprise coating her own features. “And if Rhys did, he didn’t tell me.”

“Coach Carver can’t be serious though, right?” Elain asked. “Changing someone’s discipline this close to the start of-”

“He’s fucking serious all right.” Nesta’s words came out harsher than she meant them to as she cut off Elain, but she couldn’t help it.

“Maybe this isn’t a bad thing,” Feyre shrugged. “Coach Carver must know what he’s doing, or else he wouldn’t have brought up the discipline change in the first place.”

Nesta’s gaze turned hard as it flicked to Feyre, her words fueling the fire. Even though what Feyre said was true.

“Coach Carver shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place,” Nesta snapped. “Just because Pairs ended up working out splendidly for you doesn’t mean it’s that way for everyone else.”

Feyre’s gaze clashed with Nesta’s. Two pairs of the same stormy eyes meeting, neither one backing down. Just like it always was. Because Nesta and Feyre, they were two sides of the same coin. Too similar to get along and too different to understand one another.

It was so quiet, so intense in the room, Nesta didn’t even notice the footsteps coming from the hallway until they stopped.

“Ah Nesta. I didn’t realize you were home.”

As if the day couldn’t get any fucking worse.

Feyre’s heated gaze dropped back to her book. Elain went back to cutting the last of the vegetables. The tension in the room was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Nesta felt like she was choking on it as she turned around, coming face to face with her father.

Dressed in a pair of simple black pants and a grey shirt, stumbling into the kitchen with a beer bottle gripped in his hand, Nesta couldn’t tell if he was coming or going. But then again, that was always the case with their father. Ever since their mother passed away, and he took on drinking as a coping mechanism. Ever since he decided to give up. Ever since he decided that using the last of their money on gin was more important than using it on food.

Years later, and he was still the same. Refusing to actually do anything for his family. Leaving day and night, hardly ever being home.

Just looking at him now had Nesta’s seeing red.

“I could say the same about you,” Nesta’s cold voice bit into the air.

Not able to take her father’s gaze or the tension in the room any longer, Nesta simply stomped off down the hallway and into her small bedroom. The slamming of the door echoed off of the walls around her.

She took a moment to take an easy steady breath, but it did little to calm the blood rushing in her ears. The fire of rage burning deep within.

All she wanted was to practice and work hard. By herself. All she wanted was to land that damn jump perfectly so she could up her chances at winning Nationals. That’s all she was asking for. And honestly, it didn’t feel like she was asking much.

Deep down, a part of her did know she was being foolish. She knew she shouldn’t have skated off of the ice. She knew Coach Carver really did know what he was doing. If he believed switching her discipline was the best way for her to score a National title, then Nesta should have just smiled and gone along with it.

But that was the part of herself that Nesta never listened to.

She was Nesta Archeron. She did things her way or no way. She had worked hard to get where she was. She didn’t rely on anyone. The only person she looked out for on the ice was herself; no one else - save for Elain - really mattered to her.

There was no way Nesta Archeron could skate Pairs. Not when the whole concept was about a person opening themselves up. When every ounce of faith and trust was put in the hands of a partner. And especially not when said partner was Cassian.

A frustrated sigh made its way out of Nesta’s lips. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail, running a hand through it as she fell back onto her bed.

They never did get along, her and Cassian. He was always teasing her, testing her patience, and pushing her buttons. Ever since they first met, Nesta wanted to knock him off of his high horse and punch him in his smug face. It was bad enough that she had to see him almost every day at the rink. For Coach Carver to actually pair them up-

“Nesta?” A light knock sounded on the door, followed by Elain’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“Yes.” Nesta sighed once more, the exhaustion from that morning, and the whole day, settling down on her like a ton of bricks.

Elain carefully pushed open the door before closing it softly behind her.

“Who’s cooking dinner?” Nesta raised an eyebrow as Elain sat on the bed across from her.

“I left Feyre in charge. I don’t think she can screw up soup that badly.”

Nesta almost laughed at that. Everyone knew Feyre couldn’t cook to save her life. Somehow, she’d find a way to even burn water.

“I’m assuming he didn’t come home last night?” Nesta nodded her head in the general direction of the kitchen, bitterness in her tone.

Elain let out her own sigh, her finger tracing random patterns on the bed. “He walked in around noon today, falling all over the place. I managed to get him on the couch. He passed out then, only waking up a few minutes before you got home.”

A snort left Nesta’s lips. “Of course.”

She didn’t think she’d ever forgive her father for what he did - for what he was doing. For throwing away all of their money to numb his pain. The pain they all felt, but only he got the luxury to run away from. He was supposed to be the one taking care of them, but if he wouldn’t do that, then she’d take care of herself.

So she threw herself into her skating, dedicating her life to the sport her mother loved dearly. Meanwhile, Feyre worked three jobs to feed their father’s addiction.

Her irritation grew more and more over the years, watching her sister surrender paycheck after paycheck to that vile leech.

And yes, they were finally okay with money. Being professional skaters eased that worry. But still, just thinking about all of it caused anger to flare up deep inside of her.

A beat of silence drifted past them. A silence Nesta couldn’t take. The more silence she sat through, the more irritated she became.

“Do you know what you’re doing about skating yet?” She asked Elain. “You coming back?”

A shrug of her shoulders before Elain sighed, finally looking up.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “I still have another week or so before I have to let everyone on the executive board know if I’ll be sitting another season out or not.”

“Do you have a reason to take another season off?” Nesta questioned, raising an eyebrow.

It wasn’t unusual for skaters to have off-seasons. A lot of skaters took a season off every once in a while to give their bodies a rest, or spend more time training. But Elain was still a baby in the industry. For her to take two seasons off in a row… Nesta couldn’t understand why.

But Elain didn’t answer her question. She remained silent for a long while. The silence only told Nesta that whatever Elain was thinking, it was something serious.

Before Nesta had a chance to question her more, however, Elain spoke up.

“Did you want to talk about earlier? The discipline change?”

The question caught Nesta a bit off guard, before her blood started to boil once more.

No, she didn’t. Not with Elain. She couldn’t pass that stress to her. Even since they were little, it was always the two of them together while Feyre was more or less off on her own. Over the years, Nesta had become more and more protective of Elain, always wanting to cause her as little stress and pain as possible. That moment was no exception. Especially after seeing how much she had on her plate already with her own skating career, Nesta wasn’t about to add anymore weight on her younger sister’s shoulders.

So she didn’t even bother to answer the question.

With a sigh, Nesta fell back against her pillows, her mind running a mile a minute. The silence around her and Elain was almost deafening, but neither one of them said anything.

After some time, Feyre’s voice drifted down the hall, letting them know that dinner was ready. Elain slowly stood up, casting one look at Nesta before leaving the room.

But Nesta didn’t move. While her mind was racing, her limbs felt heavy. Exhaustion set into her bones. She didn’t have the energy to stand up. Not after the day she had just had.

No, tomorrow she would take action. Tomorrow, she would figure out how she was going to convince Coach Carver what a horrible idea all of this was.

Because she was Nesta Archeron. She was strong and independent. She didn’t need anyone in life to help her get anywhere. Least of all Cassian Guerrero to help her get a National title.

With blood rushing in her ears and a fire in her heart, Nesta slowly fell asleep with a look of complete determination on her face. The last thing she could remember was picturing herself punching Cassian square in his smug face, before blackness took over.

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