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reidyoulikeabook · 4 years ago

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A is for Ankle Socks

Summary: The first installment in my A-Z of Spencer Reid series. Spencer Reid is very particular about his socks.

Ship: fem ! BAU reader x Spencer Reid

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Discussions of case-typical violence, blood, brief description of a fight, minor injury to reader that requires some stitches.

A/N: hello! this is my first ever series and i’m very nervous about it! it’s going to be a chronological a-z series with Spencer, detailing the progression of your relationship!

Spencer Reid permanently wears odd socks. The only time you can recall him wearing matching ones, in the year you’ve known him, was on days he had to go to court. Then, it was required that he wear the technically mandated uniform of proper leather shoes, and monochrome socks. On those days, Hotch would turn up with a pair of black socks tucked into his briefcase, just in case. Spencer had needed them, twice.

However, today is not a court day. Today is day 8 of a case in back of beyond Oregon that, quite frustratingly, seems to be going absolutely nowhere.

It says quite a lot, really, that in a day spent combing over convicts with domestic violence charges, the sight you look up to see is more viscerally disturbing. Spencer’s perched on the end of a desk, as he so often seems to be, his ankles crossed over each other. Signature black converse on his feet. And he appears...not to be wearing socks?

He notices you looking at him, and flicks his eyes downward self-consciously, “Is something wrong?”

“Are you wearing socks?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, “Uh. No. I meant to go to the laundrette last night but then Hotch called us into that meeting. I wasn’t expecting to be out here this long.”

“Is it comfortable?” You ask, “Wearing those without socks?”

He kicks his feet around just slightly, “Not really. I guess I’d forgotten about it until you mentioned.”

“Sorry,” You say, with an apologetic smile.

“Not your fault,” He says, looking back at the paperwork in his lap, “Hey would you mind coming to take a look at this actually? I think I might have something.”

***

By day 2, you’d learnt that the only sandwich shop in town had a reputation for bad food hygiene that none of you felt like risking. Normally, everyone would roll their eyes at Spencer for his investigation into such things. However, in this case, everyone else seemed to be as thankful as you always were.

It’s your turn to do the lunch run today, so you head to the grocery store that isn’t too far out of town. Putting your car in park, you mentally run through the list that the team had given you: cheap pasta for everyone but Rossi, who was willing to risk running foul of their microwave meal selection, as many coffee supplies as you could manage, some sour gummy worms for Spencer, mineral water for Hotch, and tights for you. It was frankly quite impractical to wear the things. You ran through so many brambles, fell down so many times, that you almost felt you should get pantyhose hazard pay. In fall in Oregon though? You’d splash out the $6 for the sake of preventing frostbite. If only because Hotch would be furious.

You smile at the thought. Wandering through the aisles, you collect everything you need. Spencer only asked for a pack of sour gummy worms, but, with a smile on your face, you decide to get him the strawberry laces he likes too.

It’s only when you scan the cart, last minute, that you realise what you’ve forgotten.

Tights. Shit.

Wheeling the cart around, you weave through the aisles looking for them. The underwear aisle is aisle 20, and it looks like it’s been ransacked. Flicking through the disorganised display, you see them.

A five pack of socks, adorned with farm animals and backgrounds of a completely clashing colour. It’s almost too bright for you, but you know a certain sockless Spencer who will be sure to appreciate them. Out of curiousity, you navigate your way over to the men’s section and have a look through. Mostly, it’s all black and navy. Right at the back though, you spy a similarly garish looking pack, this time with vegetables on.

You put them in the basket, eyes flickering over a pair of matching aubergine patterned boxers, as you make your way over to the tights. You select your usual kind, turning your attention back to the boxers.

Is it weird to get him boxers?

He’d know it was a joke, right?

Is it weird to get him socks?

Well he didn’t have any

Yeah but you don’t need to get him two packs

Yes I do we might be here a while

10 more days?

He could fall. He could spill coffee on his shoes. He could get shot.

How would socks help with him getting shot?

Your internal monologue gives you a moments reprieve, and then.

Kinda weird you got him socks

Nobody else would have got him socks

Yeah well I’m just thoughtful.

The last thought crosses your mind without permission, and you almost bristle at the brazenness of your lie to yourself. However, you decide, examining the real reasons you’re so eager to provide comfort to your favourite co-worker would require mental stamina you didn’t have right now. Mental stamina that would be better put to use on the case at hand. Mental stamina that definitely wasn’t being used to employ the BAU’s favourite defense mechanism: denial.

***

“I got you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Spencer spins around in his chair to face you.

“Yep,” You say, plopping the sweets down onto the desk in front of him and grinning.

“Strawberry laces!” He says, smile lighting up his face, “Thanks ____!”

“That’s not the surprise.”

He quirks his brow, confusion tugging at his features, “Then what’s the surprise?”

You untuck your arms from behind your back, handing him the pairs of socks.

He looks down at them. He’s silent for a moment, and your heart thuds.

Fuck.

Told you it was weird.

It’s definitely weird.

He definitely thinks you’re-

You don’t have time to finish that thought, however, because Spencer scoots his chair back. Standing up, he pulls you into a hug. He gently squeezes you, and when he speaks his voice is low, cracking a little.

“Thank you,” He says quietly, “That was really thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

You lean into him, allowing yourself to be enveloped, “No problem. I know you have some issues with sensory things sometimes and I just thought, you know,” you trail off, “Anyway, I didn’t know which ones you’d prefer and I know you like to mix and match anyway so I just got both.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he squeezes you again, tighter this time, before releasing you. Strangely, he won’t meet your eye as he does.

“I’m gonna go put them on, okay?”

“Okay,” You say, watching a little quizically as he hurriedly heads out of the room.

Derek happens to be heading back to the room, bumping into Spencer on his way out.

“You alright kid?” He asks.

“I'm fine," Spencer says, waving him off. He tries to avoid meeting Derek’s eyes, knowing as well as he does that if the profiler catches the look on his face he’ll be found out.

Derek allows him to shrug past him with a confused glance over his shoulder. He walks into the room, scooping the nearest file off the desk and asking in your general direction, “You know what’s up with him?”

“Nope,” You say, popping the p.

You don’t. And it’d bother you, except you genuinely don’t have time right now to dwell on it. Although, try as you might to focus on narrowing down this list of factories in the area, it niggles at you.

***

You don’t see Spencer again until you’re heading out to the unsubs location. You get called out by Hotch in the minute before he returns, and then it’s all guns blaring. Emily and Dave managed to work some magic with Penelope, and the place he’s holding the hostage has been narrowed down to a factory quite far out of town.

You’re perched in the back, discussing entry tactics with Hotch when your eyes travel down to Spencer’s shoes.

One chicken, and one broccoli sock sit on his left and right feet respectively. It’s hard to see them though, with how far they are down his feet.

Hotch answers his phone then, immediately barking down commands at the local PD who are apparently failing to summon adequate manpower, in Hotch’s opinion at least.

You take the moment to cautiously lean over to Spencer, whispering, “Were they not the right size?”

He smiles at you, “They fit just fine as ankle socks.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to check the sizes, womens ones are pretty much all one size. I completely forget that men have massively different sized feet.”

He laughs, “Are you suggesting I have huge feet?”

You feel yourself flush a little, “I don’t think that’d necessarily be an inaccurate suggestion.”

Amused, he smiles. Hotch turns around to you both, momentarily taking his eyes off the road, “I need you to call Penelope, and tell her to get us all the CCTV she can get in the area. If we’re going to have to go in without enough men to cover the perimeter we’ll need all the tactical advantages we can get.”

“Of course, sir.”

***

Lunging forward, you tackle the unsub to the ground, effectively freeing Spencer from the grasp he’d previously been held in.

“It’s over Peter,” Hotch’s voice comes, even and steady.

“No it’s not.”

Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re being tossed backwards, landing against some barbed wire. Immediately, you’re on your feet again, running after him. Not noticing how the wire has ripped a hole in your tights, and cut into your leg a little.

Grabbing his arms behind him, you use all your strength to subdue him to the floor, handcuffing him. Wiping the sweat off your brow, you breathe out a deep sigh of relief.

Derek has it from there, patting you on the shoulder and giving you a “Good job kiddo.” He leads Peter out.

You rub your chest, feeling the adrenaline start to flood out of your body with all the excitement now over. A stinging senstation in your calf gets your attention, and looking down you see the nasty wound oozing blood. It isn’t much, nothing that two stitches won’t fix.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks, having gotten up from his position on the floor, “You didn’t have to...Derek would have gotten him.”

“Why should he be the only one that gets to tackle people?” You ask, letting out a breathless tinkle of a laugh.

“Statistically, he is the one who does the most tackling out of all of us. Then Hotch, then Emily, then Rossi, then me, then you.”

“I am not the one that tackles the least,” You say indignantly.

He tips his head to the side, “Are you gonna argue with the guy who has an eidetic memory or are we going to get you stitched up?”

“Both, please.”

He laughs at that, linking his arm around your waist. You limp against him a little, out to the paramedics. Mostly it’s for Spencer’s benefit. That’s what you tell yourself, you’re letting him help you so he doesn’t feel emasculated.

When has Spencer Reid ever fallen pray to toxic masculinity?

He might have

When?

Well he could

You just like how he smells

It’s true. The faint waft of his cologne is incredibly comforting. He doesn’t loosen his grip on you for even a second, helping to hoist you so you can sit on the ambulance bed while the medics attend to your leg. You’re feeling a little woozy, so Spencer sits next to you, allowing you to lean on him for support.

“Can you tell me something?” You ask, gritting your teeth, “Distract me?”

It doesn’t really hurt, getting stitched up, you’ve just never found it the most comfortable of processes. All your favourite cases have ended with you not having to get sewn up. You know that much.

“I’ve actually only tackled one more person than you in my entire BAU career,” He says, deciding to return to your former discussion, “I didn’t really go out in the field all that much until a couple years in, it was only because of Hotch that I really went out in the field to take down an unsub for the first time. That was March 12th, 2005. You’ve only been here 9 months and have done almost as much physical stuff as me. One more and we’re even.”

“Well, if you could try not to be the person getting tackled by the unsub next time. Then I might not have to make a tackle.”

His mouth turns up at the corner, “You tackled him for me?”

You feel yourself growing embarassed, “Not for you. For the socks.”

“Oh the socks?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a little unfair to go putting yourself in harms way while wearing a gift someone got for you. 5 dollar socks Spencer, practically designer at that price, I’d hate to see them ruined day one.”

He laughs, his tone playful, “Well you’ll need to bare that in mind.”

“Huh?”

He tilts his head towards Emily, strutting her way across to the ambulance with Spencer’s go-bag in her arms. She hands it to him, smiling at you.

“Should I let Morgan know the team will no longer be in need of his services?”

You snort, “I’d hate to steal his brand.”

She shakes her head, “Drinks when we get back? Hotch said the jet’s ready for whenever you’re done, and Rossi says he’s buying.”

“You got it,” You nod.

She pats you on the shoulder, exaggeratedly eyeing your leg again and rolling her eyes as she walks away, “Idiot.”

You smile, turning back towards Spencer, “Are you coming for drinks? I can drive you home.”

He visibly considers it for a moment, “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“You’re all done here,” The paramedic interrupts, wiping down your leg with an anti-bacterial wipe, “Was a really smooth tear for barbed wire, shouldn’t leave that much of a scar.”

They press a bandage over it and you thank them, getting to your feet with the help of Spencer.

“Wait, why’d you get Emily to bring your go-bag if we’re going home?”

He looks almost bashful. Out of his bag, he pulls a three pack of tights. Just the kind you always wear. Down to your preferred brand, and everything.

“When did you-?”

“I noticed you rip them a lot while we’re on cases. I didn’t know if it was weird but then...the socks?” He gestures at his feet, floundering, “I’m sorry if that’s...I just didn’t-”

“No,” You cut off his ramble, “No, Spencer, that’s really sweet. Thank you, thank you so much. Can I hug you?”

He nods, happily. You wrap him into your arms, pressing your face against his chest. Inhaling the scent of him. Reveling in how safe you feel, how protected, thinking how you’d take three hundred stitches if it meant you got Spencer out of harms way. He was so thoughtful, so kind, so attentive to detail.

Oh fuck.

You can barely look at him. It hits you like a train, the realisation. Co-workers save each other from unsubs. Friends buy each other gifts that have meaning and value. But only somebody who is in love feels like this when they get handed tights. Oh.

It’s a warm feeling. Overwhelming. So much so that you miss Spencer saying he’ll be right back, scooting off to Rossi who’s shouting him over with a question the local PD need answering for their report.

You stumble a little, thankful that you have the blood loss and adrenaline rush to blame if anybody were to notice.

You wait for the wave of denial to hit, to come and lock your feelings back in the treasure chest you’ve managed to shove them down into now. It doesn’t come. Instead, you look at Spencer with a sense of awe that feels newfound, but has actually been here all along. Watching him speak to Rossi, you really notice him: just how much he gestures with his hands, how quickly he relays information, how the huge smile on his face, when he turns around to notice you staring, truly meets his eyes.

***

You can’t tell if it makes you a good profiler, or somewhat of a stalker, that you notice Spencer wears the ankle socks you got him to work everyday for the next 9 days.

Spencer worries he’s being a little too obvious, but he can’t help that whenever he sees the socks he beams at them. They remind him of you. Unbeknownst to everybody but Dave (who somehow notices everything), he spends a good minute or so a day sneaking a peek at the novelty socks under his converse. And then trailing his eyes over to you. Thinking how much he loves the person who got them for him.

----

B is for Blindfolds

Tagslist (this is just people who replied to the post about this series and said they’d like to be tagged! let me know if you’d like to be added/removed to this series masterlist): @reidingmelodies @rem-ariiana

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #reid x reader #imagine spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #imagine criminal minds #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic

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kpopmalereader · 4 years ago

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a sign ; kim namjoon

• summary: namjoon’s first impression of you is negative but he begins to warm up to you after learning more • pairing: kim namjoon x deaf!reader • word count: 3141 • to do

“Excuse me,” Hoseok jogs forward a few steps ahead of the others.

You don’t budge, keeping your steady pace forward. He turns around, arms spread in a perfect “What do I do now?”

Namjoon moves forward, clapping Hoseok on the shoulder. “Excuse me, do you know-”

He trails off when you continue moving. He nods his head. “I guess we’ll find the new building ourselves.”

Namjoon and Yoongi don’t let it get to them. Hoseok, however, immediately begins to mumble. He mutters about ignoring them, the building change, waking up so early, about-

The other two manage to disregard his complaints; all of it is due to him staying up too late to wake up for an 8 am class. Namjoon pulls his phone out to search for the best way to the brand-new building. They attempt to take a shortcut through a building, but a third of the way realizes there is no way out. Which means Namjoon and Yoongi have to listen to more of Hobi’s whining, adding in having to walk back through the building and finding a new route to their class on to his growing mountain of complaints.

“Why did they have to change the rooms around? Why build a new building in the middle of the semester? It makes no sense.” Hoseok leans onto Yoongi as he walks. He whines loudly and drags Yoongi even closer to the ground. “And that boy probably knew the way, and he didn’t tell us! He probably knew we couldn’t go through that way. He didn’t even look at us when we asked!”

Yoongi shoves Hoseok off. Hobi stumbles into a bush and crosses his arms.

“He ignored us!”

“He ignored you.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Maybe because he knew you were going to be a pain. “He probably had headphones in or something.”

“He definitely did not have headphones in!”

Namjoon walks ahead of the bickering pair, paying no real attention to the words shared between them.

As he continues on his way, he notices you. You stand at a crosswalk a decent way in front of them. You look left, right, and left again twice before finally walking across. It doesn’t look like you have any headphones in, but Namjoon isn’t going to mention that or you.

Luckily for Namjoon, on the longer-than-expected walk, the bickering turns into a conversation as Hoseok works past his annoyed sleepiness. Namjoon finally leads them to the new building, and Yoongi opens the door.

Namjoon sees you once more, leaning back in a rolling chair at the front of the room with your phone in your hand. Hoseok gasps as he sees you, eyes squinting in on your frame. You are wearing headphones this time, which Yoongi gladly points out.

“He wasn’t wearing those before!” Hoseok whisper-yells the words and starts to stomp his feet before realizing that might seem a bit immature. He takes two of the steps it would take to get to the front of the classroom before the door opens behind them.

The Professor walks past the three. She notices you at the front but, once again, you don’t pay any attention. “Hello everyone, sorry about the sudden change of room. Please find a seat if you haven’t already.”

Hoseok settles down, thinking over if he would have said or done anything had he gone over. He probably would have chickened out anyway.

Professor Sun walks closer to you, and you finally look up, face breaking out into a smile rivaling stars in the sky. You pull your headphones off and wave excitedly. You stand up, and she holds her hand out, pausing you. Everyone settles down, and Professor Sun joins you upfront. Namjoon watches as your eyes search around the room. He notices you take in every detail before you settling your eyes on the Professor.

“So,” She starts talking, holding her hands in front of her. She begins to sign as she speaks. “As everyone may know, I am a licensed sign language interpreter. And, as you would not know, this is Y/N. I was his interpreter for roughly ten years.”

“He’s deaf.” Yoongi and Namjoon whisper simultaneously. They both look at Hoseok, who has the decency to look embarrassed.

You smile and nod your head as she speaks. Your eyes are vivid, glancing around the room when Professor Sun pauses in speaking.

“I’ve taught a few signs, just basic ones. No one in this class is fluent in sign language, but there will be moments in your lives where you have to wade blindly through a conversation. You won’t always speak the same language, you won’t always have the same opinions or the same nonverbal cues, and you have to figure out a way to get past that.”

“This is an exercise I do with all of my communications courses, though it is the first time Y/N will be helping us here.” Professor Sun gestures to you, and you wave to everyone. “You will be attempting to communicate with a deaf individual. You will have to convey your questions and sentences to him while deciphering his answers and thoughts. Some of you will be great at this immediately, some of you will need to work on it more, but that is why we are here. I’ll be in the back of the room but will only step in if I feel any of you are completely lost.”

She lets you have the floor, making her way to the back of the classroom. You smile at the class. You sign “Hello,” and rock up on your toes. You start to introduce yourself, fumbling slightly, and it’s obvious (at least to Namjoon) that you’re used to signing much faster. You clasp your hands together, looking around the silent classroom. You search the room for anyone wanting to add anything but come up short. You breathe out and tap your hands together.

Yoongi is the first to breach the unknown. He raises his hand, and you latch on, nodding your head quickly. Yoongi signs slowly, even slower than you were signing. “What is your sign name?”

You nod, and Namjoon hopes he isn’t delirious when he notices a small redness peek out from your shirt. You bring your hands to your face, moving both of your pointer fingers up from the middle of your mouth to your cheeks. You’re drawing your smile. You repeat it once more and nod your head.

The silence returns. You point to Professor Sun before it has a chance to become more awkward.

“Her sign name,” You hold a fist above and just to the right of your head. You rotate your wrist and extend your fingers, wiggling them out like sun rays.

Everything you have said is basic. Typical greetings and an answer to one question, but Namjoon feels intoxicated. He’s not sure why. It all feels like a mystery to him, but you’re drawing him in with every second. In a way he can’t fathom. Is he merely trying to understand you better? Or is he being pulled in by your face?

With every other guest the Professor has brought in, Namjoon is the first to ask questions, get to know them, but now he’s nervous. He doesn’t want to ask a stupid question. He wants to understand you, wants you to understand him. He wants you to see that he is trying, appreciate his efforts, and maybe pay more attention to him.

He gets out of his stupor just in time to see you point to Professor Sun. He didn’t catch the question someone asked, too invested in watching you.

“I,” Your hand forms a flat O-Shape, and you push your hands towards the Professor. Gave? “Gave her the sign name.”

Namjoon doesn’t wait for the class to return to silence and raises his hand. You light up and nod quickly, full attention on him. He revels in the attention. “Who gave you the name sign?”

“An old teacher gave me the name. She was my favorite, favorite.” You point at yourself and repeat your sign name. “I smile-”

Namjoon isn’t completely sure of what the sign means, but, given the context, he assumes it means “often.” You roll your eyes at yourself, but that doesn’t wipe the smile from your face.

He raises his hand again, and you nod. He thinks for a second, not knowing the sign for “born.” He spells out the word and looks at you. You demonstrate the movement, repeating it twice. He appreciates it and nods his head, thinking over his question.

“Were you born deaf?”

A slightly confused expression takes over your smile, and you tilt your head left and right. Your nose is scrunched in a way that makes Namjoon’s heart hammer against his chest. You point to your right ear and clap next to it. You make a poof-motion with your hand, effectively showing you can’t hear anything in that ear.

You point to your left and wave your hand in a “somewhat.” “I was born with half hearing in this ear, but now I hear very, very little.”

Namjoon nods along with everything. Yoongi and Hoseok are forgotten next to him, but they watch his immersed expression. The class goes back to the quiet, and Namjoon waits a moment before raising his hand again.

Your sign name rings true. It’s obvious why everyone would associate you with smiling. He doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of the soft smile, the appreciative look at every question and comment, or having your full attention, even if it’s on his not-the-best signing.

“Do you like music?”

You slap your hand over your heart. “I love,” The word has more emphasis than anything else you’ve signed. “Music. Deep sounds, loud and bone-shaking.”

“What’s your favorite band?” He doesn’t wait before asking this time.

Your eyes go wide, and you freeze. You think for a few seconds before signing band after band. Namjoon catches the first few but soon cannot differentiate between the ones you’re rattling off. You go into words Namjoon can’t define about the bands you love, no one besides Professor Sun can understand the extent of what you’re saying. Your smile morphs into a warm and welcoming smile, drawing Namjoon in and making him never want to stop the conversation.

You seem to realize you were signing very quickly and for longer than you expected, and you clasp your hands together, chewing on your bottom lip.

Professor Sun clears her throat and begins to speak, signing to you as she does so. “He will play music louder than anyone I’ve ever met. Even other Deaf people will say he plays it too loud.” You look at her, and as you roll your eyes, she rolls her right back at you. “I’ve only been in a car with him once. When I got in, the volume was at 74. If you get within a 3-meter radius of him, you can hear the music he plays even with his headphones over his ears. When I first met him, he would carry around a tiny speaker and hold it as tightly as he could to feel the vibrations.”

You stand at the front of the room, becoming more and more embarrassed and cheeks growing increasingly redder as Professor Sun speaks. You gesture for everyone to get back to asking questions looking everywhere but at the Professor.

Days pass after your visit with Professor Sun’s class. Though Namjoon has tried, nothing can get his mind off of you. He spent the entirety of his day after the class learning signs and researching everything he could about the Deaf/Hard of Hearing Community. He’s sure Professor Sun noticed his interest in you, as she was the one he emailed with questions about the Community, about signs, and everything he thought wasn’t too weird to ask about you.

She told him it was fascinating he developed such a liking for the language and the Community, as she thought no one cared much for it after her initial talks about it. He didn’t reply to that, but he did solidify her thinking when he asked if you would ever stop by the class again. (Professor Sun told you that a few select students had an interest in talking to you more but didn’t drop any names).

Now, with four days of Namjoon looking up signs and practicing his finger-spelling nonstop without knowing if he would see you again, he spots you outside one of the campus buildings. You’re bundled in a jacket, cold air making your nose glow red. Your face is angled up towards the sky, letting what little warmth from the sun engulf your face in a way that is all too ethereal for Namjoon’s sanity. One of your legs is bouncing restlessly, but you maintain a blissful smile on your face.

Namjoon wants nothing more than to strike up a conversation with you, but your closed eyes and calm presence keep him in his place. Questions form and bounce around in his head. What if he walks up and scares you? What if you don’t want to talk to him? What if he can’t understand you and you don’t understand him, and the conversation he’s been hoping to have is awkward and clunky, and you wish it never happened? What if he gets a sign wrong and insults you or says something embarrassing? What if-?

You open your eyes slowly as a cloud covers the beam of sun you were previously reveling in. You stand and gather your things, checking the time on your phone.

Namjoon’s feet begin to move forward without him telling them to. His heart overwhelms his brain’s worries. He gulps and wipes his clammy hands, pretending not to have been watching you for far too long for comfort.

As he gets closer to you, a deep and woodsy, yet still sweet scent hits your nose. You follow the smell and find yourself making full eye contact with Namjoon. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it as he begins to speak.

“Hi.” He realizes he’s not signing and widens his eyes, bringing his hands up. “Hello.”

“Hello.” You repeat. Your smile is friendly but slightly tense. You’re searching for where you know him from.

“I’m a student with Professor Sun.” He signs slowly, hands stiff.

The pieces come together in your head, and you nod quickly, confusion wiping from the smile. “You asked questions!”

“Yeah! Yeah, I had questions.” He tries to remind himself that he needs to sign, as he doesn’t know how good of a lip reader you are and wants you to get his full sentiment. “I liked your stories. It was interesting.”

“Thank you! Thank you.” Your smile is dazzling. Namjoon wants the image to be burned inside his brain forever. “I liked your questions. Your class was quiet. Nobody asking questions made me nervous, but you helped a lot.”

He nods his head. “I think you made us nervous.”

Your eyes widen comically, and you shake your head. “Me?”

He nods his head again, a laugh bubbling out when you shake your head at an even more significant speed. “Yes.”

“Why?” You sign the question incredulously like it’s the most surprising thing you’ve ever thought.

He doesn’t answer for a second. He knows why he was nervous and didn’t ask questions at first, but you don’t need to know that, and he’s not sure why everyone else was quiet for so long.

“I think you have that effect.” He signs it without hesitating any further.

You look like you don’t understand the sentence for a few seconds, and he repeats it. You realize he was intending to say what he did and slowly sign “Thank you.” You scratch the back of your neck and look at the ground, ears becoming pink. Something about you being flustered and nervous in front of him with that simple and very genuine compliment gives more confidence than he’s ever had before.

“I know why your sign name is a smile, but I think it also needs something else.” You tilt your head to the side, waiting for him to continue. The look makes him nervous, but he realizes it’s too late to turn back now, so he reaches up and signs the word. “Beautiful.”

He can almost in your eyes as you decipher the word. Your face turns from a smile to blushed shock. You cover your face with your hand, though he can see the ever-growing dark blush and small smile reappearing. You giggle softly and dart your eyes away, everything about you knocking the wind out of Namjoon’s chest. The full eye contact you would generally make disappears completely.

“Thank you.”

He bites his lip and leans closer, snatching your attention from the trees and sky and anything else behind him. “Do you have another class today?”

You shake your head slowly, a flurry of hope and optimism for what might come next crashing behind your beautiful eyes. Namjoon smiles at the apparent expectation, and his face warms at your reaction to his interest.

He breathes in, thinking over the questions he’s practiced for four days now. He attempts to unravel the bundle of nerves in his stomach and settles on the least daunting question. “Are you hungry?”

Your eyes light up. If they were to shine any brighter, they would be spotlights. You nod. “Do you like the café?”

“Yeah, I do. Do you go there often?”

You shrug your shoulders. “Not too often. I like it there, though, if it’s okay with you.”

“Definitely,”

Namjoon escorts you to the café, opening the door for you. You walk in with a smile. When you believe you’re out of his eyesight, you widen your eyes and breathe out, attempting to relax your shoulders. The clerk at the desk notices you enter and waves for you.

You smile and walk closer, giving a small wave. “Hi.”

“Hello, do you want your-”

Namjoon doesn’t know what the next sign is, but you nod your head.

“Come here often?” Namjoon asks you. You smile and gesture to Namjoon, waiting for him to order.

“Oh, right.” He orders, trying not to make direct eye-contact with the cashier. You seem to know who is very-much sizing him up. You walk up to a table next to the window, pushing the salt and pepper shakers to the edge of the table. “How often do you come here?”

“Two people here know Sign.” You shrug your shoulders and smile at him. “It’s nice having someone to talk with.”

He nods his head, feeling fondness growing in his chest. You lean forward, cheeks turning red before the words even come out of your mouth.

“Like you. I like talking to you.”

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sterekchub · 4 years ago

Text

Feeder for Hire

Fat!Derek and feeder!Stiles Get Beached: Challenge Week Word Count: ~3000 Prompts: Captive/Captor Relationship, Size Pride, Too Fat for Things Read on A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25550704 “You sure about this guy?”

For the last time, yes, Scott. I’ll text you his address and a photo and if you don’t hear from me -”

“ - by five in the morning, call the cops. I know the deal. You haven’t gone to anyone’s house in years. I thought you said no more?”

Stiles shrugged. “He’s hot as hell, we’ve done some video sessions before, and he pays…really well. A few nights a week with him and I can pay off this semester.”

“Have fun! Text me if anything…comes up.” Scott grinned, although Stiles knew he was still hesitant about how he made his income.

Stiles nodded, making sure he grabbed his keys, doubled checked he had his phone, the contract, and his preference lists in his pocket before leaving their dorm. Derek – although that could very well be a fake name – had met Stiles through a gainer website three years back, admitting he had followed Stiles’ page for awhile before messaging him. It had been a few months of exchanging back and forth conversations before Derek had asked about paid video sessions, and then in-person feedings. Scott was right, Stiles very rarely offered to do in session feedings, but Derek was a special case. Not only did he live only a few towns over, unlike most of the guys he dealt with, Derek was polite, almost embarrassed of his wants, tipped extremely well, and meshed well with Stiles. He had a snarky, quick wit and, from what Stiles had seen through a few pictures and fuzzy video screens, was exactly Stiles’ type.

Tall, dark, handsome, a wide bubble butt, thighs that rubbed together with each step, and a slightly furry pot-belly that was quickly becoming more of a blubbery gut as he passed three-hundred and fifty pounds, and kept going. Stiles has asked once if he had a goal weight. Derek admitted he didn’t know. He had already gained seventy-five pounds since he had first messaged Stiles.

Stiles had read through Derek’s profile a hundred times. He had requested short scenes, getting Derek through a stuffing, teasing and humiliating and forcing him to finish if needed. It was a little colder and more forceful than what Stiles usually liked to do with partners, but he wasn’t going to judge Derek for his interests.

1) Teasing and humiliation only. No praise. 2) Hitting/spanking/pain, okay. 3) I will provide the food. I expect to be forced to finish it all, by any means. 4) Funnel and tube feeding okay. 5) Tying down okay, rope or cloths only. 6) No blindfold. 7) You are not to let me come or touch myself until I’ve finished eating. 8) I will pay half up front, half when you leave. 9) Safe word: Triskelion

In return, Stiles provided a similar list, including his safe word, Scott. His were more focused on what he wouldn’t do, regardless of his clients’ request. It was a short list, mostly consisting of bodily fluids like spitting on clients, inflation, and serious pain. He had a feeling most would be a moot point with Derek, but he hadn’t felt the need to adjust his standard contract.

*******

Their second session went similarly to their first, minus the awkward introductions. Once again, Derek had set out the same spread of food on his table. Pan of alfredo pasta, chicken, blender full of gainer power and ice cream, and peanut butter brownies.

“You must really love pasta.”

“Highest calories.”

“Do you like it?”

Derek only shrugged.

“Do you cook? I don’t have an oven or anything in the dorm, but if you don’t mind me using your kitchen, I could come earlier and help – ”

“ – I order delivery.”

“That’s a crime, man. You have a brand-new kitchen! Stainless steel!”

“More work.”

“Is that why you don’t talk much? Too much work?”

That earned him something that was close to a smile. “You talk enough for both of us.”

“Guess it is hard to talk with all that food in your mouth, Big Guy.”

“Does it look like I’m eating?”

“You better fix that, then. I’m surprised a pig like you could hold back around all this food.”

That did it. Derek’s eyes darkened in arousal and he immediately sank into his chair and pulled the chicken closer towards him. Dutifully, Stiles pulled up a chair next to him, poking him in the stomach periodically and making remarks.

“Slowing down already? You only finished the chicken; I know you aren’t done yet.”

“You didn’t get that figure from moderation.”

“Jeans a little tight? Hold up that flabby gut for me and I’ll unbutton them. Wouldn’t want that to stop you from stuffing your face with even more…”

It was more natural with Derek. Stiles often had to revert to a script with other clients, repeating a few phrases he knew they wanted to hear. He did have to bite back his urge to praise Derek for his sizeable appetite, tell him how good he looked blissfully stuffed, panting and belching even as he reached for more. It was a shame Derek didn’t want to be worshipped or hand fed, treated softly like Stiles would have loved to do.

“Can’t – urp – too full.”

Stiles held up the half empty pitcher. “Drink it.”

Derek groaned and rest both hands on the side of his overstuffed stomach. “’m gonna pop.”

Stiles desperately wanted to slide his hands under Derek’s shirt and ease some of that fullness for him. It took a lot of self-control and mental reminders of Derek’s request to instead push down on the curve of his gut, eliciting a huge belch. As soon as he opened his mouth, Stiles tipped the contents of the pitcher slowly down’s Derek throat.

“See? Plenty of room.”

“No – urp- no more. URP.”

“Too bad.” Stiles told him, making sure Derek swallowed another mouthful before pulling the pitcher back slightly. “Should have thought about that before you finished all that food like a greedy hog.”

“ ‘S not my fault,” Derek panted, dutifully gulping down a few more mouthfuls.

“No?” Stiles knelt down besides Derek, slipping a hand under Derek’s paunch to palm his throbbing erection. “You haven’t been getting hard, thinking about how much you’ve been eating? How fat this is going to make you?”

“I – fuuuck. How much – urp- left?”

“Only a little bit. Why don’t you finish it off?”

Derek took the pitcher from Stiles, breathing heavily, clearly pushing himself to finish the little remaining.

“Getting too big for this,” Stiles told him, pinching his fleshly lower belly with one hand as he took his time jerking Derek off with his other. “Going to need both hands just to hold up all this blubber. Can you even get yourself off anymore? Or is your belly in the way?”

Derek came with a breathless moan, cut short by him cursing and stifling another belch. Stiles wished he could see Derek’s face in its entirety, but from his angle on the ground, the mountainous sphere blocked his view.

Grinning, Stiles got to his feet. “Knew you could finish it.”

He gave Derek a few minutes for his breathing to slow, then gestured at his swollen midsection. “Want help with that? I give amazing belly rubs, dude.”

“Don’t – urp- call me dude.”

“Is that a no?”

“Yes. Go home. I’ll send you the other half of your payment.”

Stiles nodded unhappily. “Fine. Text me if you’d like to schedule another session. Goodnight, Derek.”

He left, leaving Derek slumped uncomfortably in his chair, jean unbuttoned, come splattered on his lower belly.

*******

“Derek, sorry, hi! I’m here. Only…thirty minutes late. Shit, I’m sorry. The jeep was having problems starting and then it started raining….”

“I started eating without you.” Derek shrugged. “What was wrong with the jeep now?”

“Same thing. It’s an old car. It was pay for textbooks or pay for a new engine.” Derek looked guilty, like he was responsible for Stiles’ financial hardships, even though he was the main contributor to Stiles’ bank account, so Stiles added, “I’ll have it fixed next semester, probably.”

“If – if you ever need a ride or anything, you can borrow the Camaro.”

Stiles gaped at him. Derek was very protective of the car sitting in his driveway. Stiles had never seen a spot on it. He wasn’t even allowed to park the jeep anywhere near it because Derek was so afraid of it being damaged.

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’ll have to get a, ah, roomier one, eventually.”

“Too much of a spare tire?” Stiles laughed, pressing himself against said belly so he could, just barely, reach behind Derek to grab handfuls of his ass. “Too much junk in the trunk?”

“Both. And if you’re done with the bad metaphors…. you’re soaking wet. Take off your clothes before you catch something,” Derek said gruffly. “You can borrow some of mine.”

Derek had a clear wet splotch on his shirt from where Stiles had leaned into him. Now that he was inside and less frantic about being late, Stiles realized he was shivering and dripping on Derek’s floor.

“Or we could both get out of these clothes and go upstairs.”

“That – yeah. Or that.”

It wasn’t what they usually did. Derek had rarely seen Stiles undressed, and normally Derek was too full to do much of anything in the bedroom. Stiles was happy to do all of the work, relishing the feeling of Derek’s belly resting against his back or riding Derek, watching his breasts and belly wobble. He frequently had to remind himself that Derek was a client, who requested teasing, not admiration and compliments, no matter how badly Stiles wanted to give them.

The contrast between them was even more apparent when they were together in the bedroom. Stiles threw his wet clothes by the doorway and eagerly got Derek out of his own. Pressed up against Derek, he had the chance to really appreciate how massive the other man was. Stiles’ leaned against him to press their lips together and Derek’s waistline spread out to either side of him.

“It’s official. Can’t wrap my arms around you anymore.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Nope. You’re that fat.”

Derek pushed him down on the bed. “Not to fat to fuck you.”

“Yet,” breathed Stiles, grabbing Derek’s side rolls as he was pinned to the bed by Derek’s lard. Derek had himself propped up with both arms. His doughy belly still hung low enough to press against Stiles, but it kept his weight from being completely crushing. “Keep gorging yourself and you will be.”

“Think so?”

“It’d be a good look for you. Stuffed, too fat to get out of bed, laying there like a beached whale and letting me do all the work.”

“Mhmn. You’d be up to that?”

“I’d be my favorite job,” Stiles told him honestly. “How long do you think, Der? Ten years? Five? I’ve seen all the ice cream in your fridge and the fast food wrappers the trash. Immobility isn’t that far away.”

“’S your fault.” He moved one hand to smack his gut, watching it quiver. “Getting harder to jerk off with all this in the way.”

“Awww, no wonder you need me. Your belly weighs more than me. Gonna be too much effort to try and find your dick buried in all that flab.”

“Fuck,” Derek moaned, rutting against Stiles. Beads of sweat were forming on Derek’s forehead from the exertion of holding himself up. Stiles swatted at his arm and tried to wiggle out from under him. The heavier man got the hint and collapsed on the bed next to Stiles, trying to catch his breath.

“Still up to pounding me into the mattress?”

“Give me…a minute.”

“Take all the time you need. Want me to bring the rest of your dinner up first?”

“…yes.”

******* Derek was dressed in a suit when he answered the door for Stiles. It was clearly an expensive piece, tailored to a man a few pounds smaller. The pants were stretched thin over Derek’s thighs and the jacket button was equally as stretched.

“Hey, Derek! That suit is a good look.”

“Work ran late,” Derek told him gruffly. “I didn’t have time to order the food. I’ll pay you for the extra time.”

Stiles waved a hand. “No worries. Rough day at work?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Derek looked unsure. Stiles took a step forward and unbuttoned his jacket, helping Derek shrug if off, then started on his shirt buttons. After a few seconds, Derek burst out, “I hate being the asshole boss! I know – I know what they say about me behind my back. But they don’t understand! A missed deadline means we all look bad and with talks of layoffs and restructuring, we can’t afford any mistakes.”

“They’ll warm up to you. You’re secretly as soft as you look.”

“You don’t know me, Stiles,” Derek said tiredly.

“I know enough. You’re a good guy. Why don’t you relax? Take a bath, change, and I’ll order food. Sounds like you need chocolate. If you like chocolate.”

“What?”

“Chocolate. For bad days? Like chocolate cake? Or ice cream?"

“It’s been awhile since I had either. I was going to order the usual.”

Stiles shook his head. “Trust me, if you’re upset, you’re going to feel awful if you stuff yourself. I had something else in mind, if it’s okay.”

Derek looked hesitant.

“I was thinking, you eat your weight in desserts while I eat you out?”

“Let’s- yeah. We can do that.”

“Then get that fat ass in the shower,” Stiles laughed, “and I’ll bring the food upstairs when it arrives.”

******* Stiles had been hesitant since he walked in the door. Derek had been less talkative than usual, admitting only he stopped for fast food on his way home from work, before he had started on their nightly feast.

“Eating without me?”

“Ran into my ex,” Derek admitted through a mouthful of food. “Said a few…choice words about my weight.”

“So you went into McDonalds to spite her?”

“She’s a bitch.”

Stiles laughed uncomfortably. Derek was acting nonchalant, but still seemed upset. “Guess so. Look on her face must have been priceless.”

“Can’t have anyone thinking I got to be this size on accident.”

“The way you eat? I doubt anyone thinks that. How much did you order at McDonalds?”

“Twenty-piece nugget, double cheeseburger, milkshakes, two large fries.”

“Jeeze. Still think you can finish all this?” He saw Derek struggling more than usual to take bite after bite. Derek took a bite and then gagged; hand clamped over his mouth like he was going to be sick. “Are you okay?”

Derek took a few seconds, hand still clamped over his mouth, before swallowing and nodding weakly. “I’m fine. Must’ve swallowed too fast.”

“Maybe you should take a break for a little?”

“No,” Derek told him firmly, stabbing his fork back into the chicken, “I’m fine.”

Stiles could tell he wasn’t. His stomach was stretched out further than Stiles has ever seen, stretch marks an angry red. Derek had to be in pain. His arm was wavering, breath coming in shallow pants, each burp looking like it would result in a total upheaval of his entire meal. Stiles wasn’t sure he could sit and watch Derek force himself bite by bite to finish the sizeable amount of food left.

“Scott,” Stiles gasped out, “Derek, Scott.”

Derek immediately froze. “Fuck, are you – is it a panic attack? What…urp- can I do?”

“No. No. I’m fine. It’s – I can’t watch you do this.”

“You haven’t had a problem with it before.”

“Usually you’re enjoying.”

“I can – urp – keep going.”

“You almost threw up. Tell me you didn’t, Derek.”

“Jus’ need a few minutes….”

“No.” Stiles slid the food a few inches away. Derek reached forward, belly grumbling audibly as he groaned in pain, and fell back into his chair, glaring at Stiles.

“Then you can go. I’ll pay you for the full session.”

“Dude, no way I’m leaving you like this.”

“Mmpppfh. S’fine.”

“No, it isn’t. Think you can make it upstairs?”

Derek made it, but it was a laborious task. Stiles helped him slowly to his feet and kept a steading hand on the small of Derek’s back as he waddled up the stairs, taking one step by a time in agonizingly slow steps, trying not to jostle his overstuffed middle weighing him down. He finally made it and sunk with a groan of relief on the bed.

Stiles bent down and pulled off Derek’s shoes and socks. “Stand up, Big Guy. You’ll be more comfortable with less clothes.”

“Ngggh.”

“Come on,” Stiles laughed, pinching his inner thigh, “only a few seconds and you can lay back down.”

Derek reluctantly got to his feet so Stiles could pull his jeans down around his ankles while Derek tugged off his shirt. As soon as it was done, he fell back on the bed.

“’M too full to do anything.”

“No sex tonight,” Stiles promised. “This might be better.”

He rubbed circles over the top of Derek’s gut, which was so taut with food it had lost its usual softness. Occasionally, he would stop to trace over the multitude of stretchmarks, or press a little bit harder, massaging away the soreness. Eventually, Derek’s heavy, labored breathing, belches and groans fell away to snoring and snuffling.

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steppedoffaflight · 4 years ago

Text

Summer’s a Knife - Chapter 9

Catch up on Chapter 8 here

You grin, your heart light. “So, why are you calling me today, Van McCann?” You tease. “Are you looking to get off, or pressure me to run away with you again?”

Van chuckles. “You said your hometown was in Michigan?”

“It is,” You confirm.

“Is Detroit somewhere close to it?”

You sit very still. “Um. Really close, actually.” Your brain knows where this is headed but you can’t get your hopes up. Especially after how harshly you’d scolded yourself for your impulsive Phoenix trip. “Why?”

“We have a show there on Wednesday. So I’m calling about the latter.”

You’re going home.

Word count: ~12.3k

Chapter Nine June 2019

The rush of realizing you’re in love with someone felt so foreign yet so achingly familiar all at once. It completely consumed you. You watched the rest of the show in complete euphoria, eager for that moment when Van would finally be off stage.

And when he finally burst through the door, high on post-show adrenaline and dripping with sweat you leap up from your seat, so happy to see him. If he thinks your excitement is out of place he doesn’t mention it, glowing with the satisfaction of putting on a great show.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” He pants, grabbing for one of the provided towels and vigorously rubbing at his hair.

“Don’t you shower here?”

“Didn’t bring my stuff. Figured you wouldn’t wanna sit here and wait for traffic to die down anyway.”

He’s gathering his things up quickly, stuffing them into the backpack he’d brought with him. He grins over his shoulder. “Think you can stand the smell?”

It’s easy to hide your smile as you hunch over your bag, gathering your own things. “Might be hard, but I’ll try.”

The other boys flit in and out of the room, running around like chickens with their heads cut off, eager to return to the hotel. It’s not long before you find yourself crammed in an SUV with four extremely foul-smelling men as the driver attempts to navigate the short drive to the hotel, eventually pulling up to the back entrance so the boys can avoid the small crowd of fans milling around in front.

It’s a relief to return to your hotel room after a long day, to finally be alone with Van.

He seems surprised that you ask to shower with him. It is completely out of character for you, but you’re too happy tonight to care.

The shower is all business, but afterwards you’re laid out on the bed, hair dripping all over the sheets as Van fucks you, hard. Sex is the only time you get the opportunity to kiss him, and you don’t let it go to waste. Even as his thrusts jar your body and creak the bedframe, you try your hardest to keep your lips connected. Maybe you go overboard, but Van’s noises suggest it’s a good thing.

You’re so pent up that when you come you practically scream, muffling your noises with one of the hotel pillows. The sexual tension in the room is so suffocating that coming feels like it amplifies it rather than releases it. Rather than tense up with oversensitivity your body relaxes, pliant for Van as he continues to break a sweat, grunting with each movement. Instead of dissolving into his usual sloppy thrusts he stays painstakingly consistent, beads of sweat forming on his hairline. When he comes he doesn’t moan so much as gulp for air.

Even when he’s finished he keeps fucking you, gritting his teeth against his own tenderness. You don’t understand what he’s going for until you feel his calloused fingertips return between your legs, stimulating your clit roughly. This orgasm comes easier, floods over you with more intensity, and leaves you helplessly whimpering, scratching up his back in the process.

He’s barely gotten the condom off before he’s climbing off of the bed and stuffing his legs into a pair of boxers. “Smoke with me.”

You scramble after him, tossing a shirt over your head and slinging on the pair of pajama shorts you’d packed before stumbling out onto the balcony.

He’s slumped over in one of the chairs, cigarette already lit.

Your cheeks burn against the cool night air, and you know your hair’s a mess. Van looks as wrecked as you. Without a shirt on you can see the scarlet flush on his chest.

You shift around in your seat as the nicotine relaxes you, trying to get comfortable. No matter how you sit, the throbbing between your legs is prominent.

“You sore?” Van asks.

When you widen your eyes, confused at how he’d know that, he laughs. He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, imitating your position. “You look like you’re trying to hold yourself up,” He explains.

“Oh. Yeah. It’ll fade, though.”

“Sorry if it was too much.”

You shake your head vigorously as you suck in a hit. “Don’t be.”

“So much adrenaline from the show,” He runs his fingers through his hair. “And looking at you in the shower afterwards, I was just like… Holy shit.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s telling you this.

You shake your head at his compliment to hide the way your cheeks burn hotter and your heartbeat skips.

“I felt the same,” You tell him. If he’s worried he fucked you too hard he must not have seen the way you were sneaking glances at him any chance you had. “Sorry I tore your back up.”

Van laughs. “You can do whatever you want to me, woman.”

“Oh my god. Shut up,” You giggle.

Van throws his hands up. “I’m being honest!”

He’s finished his cigarette, dropping the butt on the ground. “I gotta have another. You?”

For once, you take him up on it.

The next day consists of a terrible emotional hangover. Nothing brings you down from cloud nine faster than time away with the person you love coming to an end. Even worse, tour was kicking off with a bang, and Van didn’t know when he could expect to be back in town again. He was jetting off tomorrow to the next city, and from there the band would finally have a bus and be traveling by road.

Knowing your time was limited should make you appreciate it more, but it has an opposite effect. You’re in a bitter mood the entire drive home. Van notices but keeps pretending not to, a fact that irks you more. You brush it off as dread at returning to work, just to throw him off your scent. As much as your new feelings demanded to be declared to the world, you knew nothing would scare Van away faster than you ruining this casual arrangement.

He drives himself home so that you can drive the Range Rover back to your place. You help him get his bags inside, your chest aching at this time coming to an end.

“Alright,” Van sighs when he’s sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, clapping his hands together. “I’ll see you when I’m back, yeah?”

You try not to flinch at the uncertainty in that sentence and try your best to seem cheerful. You know you fall flat. “Of course, duh.”

Before you know it Van’s wrapped you up in a warm hug, holding you tight.

“Keep your head up, alright?” He says quietly into your hair, rocking you back and forth. “Don’t let work get you down.”

You nod into his chest, and he lets you go. He presses the car keys into your palm.

“And take a nap when you get home,” He tells you, his eyes still locked with yours. You wish you could kiss him goodbye so bad it makes your throat ache. “You’ll feel so much better.”

“I will,” You croak. He gives you a nod, and with that you turn away, your feet feeling like lead as you force yourself down the porch steps and into the car. He gives you a wave as you head for the gates, and you return it with a grimace and one of your own.

And when you get home, you keep your promise to Van. You don’t even bother to unload the car before marching inside, diving into your bed, and bawling your eyes out into your pillow until your heart feels empty and you fall asleep.

It takes every ounce of strength you have in every bone in your body to drag yourself into work the next morning. And the morning after that. And then the weekend arrives, two days of pure emptiness.

You hated being alone but you also couldn’t think of anything more unpleasant than being around other people right now. You spend the weekend consuming vodka at an alarming rate and scrubbing any surface you can spot in your house before falling into bed at night physically exhausted.

By Monday, you’ve decided you’re angry. First it’s at Mary. She knows how you are with relationships. You two have always joked that you dated to marry. As soon as you realize you can’t envision a future with someone your desire for them fizzles out, inevitably souring your connection. Why did she force something between you and Van knowing that it would be temporary? She’s out of line meddling in your love life, and now there’s a price to pay. When she asks about Arizona you practically one-word her, seething about what she’s done.

And then it’s yourself. What Mary did was unforgivable, but you’re the one who went along with it. You’re just as much to blame. You had your fun in San Diego, but of course that wasn’t enough. You kept going back for more. How stupid of you! You knew there was no way things could work out with Van, so you’re an absolute idiot for sleeping with him again, and again, and again. You were playing with fire this entire time. Like, really, taking time off work for a six hour road trip to hang around your ‘friend’? It was so childish. You needed to save your vacation hours for the holidays to spend time with your family.

And Van. He had to be some sort of sociopath, texting you months after your first meeting to take you out to dinner. Why would he take someone out if he wasn’t planning to date them? It had clearly been a ploy to get in your pants, and you’d been so gullible. Now he was off having the time of his life and you were the one suffering in silence.

But as mad as you want to be at Van, you miss him so much it hurts. Having no sure future to look forward to means every day without him is agony. And while you might get angry, it never sticks. How could he have predicted you’d be stupid enough to fall in love? Surely he couldn’t have known you’d do this to yourself. He was too sweet to do something so malicious.

You flip flop between these moods. In the back of your mind you know you’re not being the slightest bit rational, but the hurricane ripping through your heart is not to be reasoned with.

You find a pack of Van’s cigarettes at the bottom of your purse on Wednesday. You’d thrown them in your bag at the venue in Phoenix so he didn’t forget them, but apparently you’d forgotten about them too. For the first time in years you smoke alone. It calms the ache in your heart while you do it, recalling all the conversations you two have shared during your smoke breaks. In that small moment of clarity you know that no matter how much you’re hurting, every moment you spend with Van is worth it all. And when you’re done with the first cigarette you light another, just like he does.

By Saturday you’ve leveled out, embarrassed about your week-long tantrum. You start texting Mary again, spinning a lie about getting over a nasty cold. Everything in your house is spotless, so you’ve started on those untouched books. They help keep you distracted, even if you picture every romantic lead as Van in your mind.

You’re curled up in one of the chairs on your porch, smoking a cigarette and reading when your phone buzzes with a call in your pocket.

Seeing Van’s name on the caller ID pumps pure joy through your veins. Swiping to accept feels like you’re swiping away the awful heartache that’s been plaguing you all week.

“Where are you?” You ask excitedly as your greeting. You enjoy living vicariously though Van’s travels, even if it stings that you can’t be there with him.

“The lovely city of Chicago,” Van replies. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Where are you?”

“On the porch.” You fold the corner of your book, setting it aside and taking a hit of your cigarette.

“Are you having a smoke?”

“I am.”

“Me too,” Van says. “We’re in sync.”

You grin, your heart light. “So, why are you calling me today, Van McCann?” You tease. “Are you looking to get off, or pressure me to run away with you again?”

Van chuckles. “You said your hometown was in Michigan?”

“It is,” You confirm.

“Is Detroit somewhere close to it?”

“We have a show there on Wednesday. So I’m calling about the latter.”

You make a noise into the phone. It’s overjoyed and exasperated all at once. “Ugh, Van! Why do you always put me on the spot like this? I hate you!”

Van’s laughing. “Let’s save the argument, then. See you Wednesday.”

“No, no, no,” You chant, but you’re already grinning. He’s already won. “I can’t fucking roadtrip to Michigan!”

“You’re not gonna. You’re gonna fly. I’ll get you a ticket.”

Of course you’re going. The one loophole in your vacation time was that you’d promised yourself you’d use it for family time, and if Van’s offering to pay for the flight there’s no way you could turn down the chance to surprise everyone at home. It’s a win-win, family time and Van time. Your heart is already bursting with excitement.

You don’t know what to say. Van’s right, you might as well save the argument.

“You don’t have to do that, Van,” You still insist out of guilt.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m being selfish, actually. I’m glad you’ll get to see your parents, but promise you’ll save some time for me.”

“I promise.” It’s the easiest promise you’ve ever made. “Where are you playing?”

“Saint Andrew’s Hall. Seen anyone there?”

“I have!” You exclaim, thinking back to your teenaged days. “But always with my ex-boyfriend,” You confess.

“Christ. So I’ve got competition, then.”

“Guess so,” You taunt.

“I’ll have to make it extra memorable, then.” He doesn’t lose an ounce of smugness through the phone.

“Can’t wait,” You gush.

“Me either.” There’s a happy silence as you two have sealed your plans. Then: “What have you been watching lately?”

“I’m burned out of everything,” You sigh. “I’ve been reading, actually.”

“Reading what?”

“Um.” You pluck the book up from the seat next to you, reading out the title. “It’s some mushy romance thing I bought forever ago, I dunno.”

“What’s it about?”

You hesitate. “Um… I mean… romance?”

“I get that,” Van laughs. “I mean, I’m going mental with nothing to do. Tell me about the book. What happens in it?”

“Oh, um.” His interest shocks you. “Well…”

Without fail, summers had always been a dreadful time for your workload. It was when most of your coworkers wanted to take advantage of their company-provided vacation days, days that you preferred to save for the fall and winter holidays when you could fly home. That meant that their projects had to be distributed among the handful of employees that were in the office reliably, and you knew that your boss directed more of the burden to you than your coworkers. Not as punishment, but simply because she felt she could trust you with the more important work.

The boss in question, Denise, had been who you’d worked under since you’d been hired at the company fresh out of college. She’d even been who you’d conducted your interviews with, save the final one where she’d been joined by a few other directors. And although coworkers had come and gone over the last couple of years, you two had remained a staple in your department, leading to a pretty solid professional relationship between you. That’s how every summer Denise managed to treat each extra project like praise until you’d accepted too many and were drowning in paperwork and emails.

But for the first time ever you were reaping the rewards of your hard work. There had been no raises (considering you were still pretty young and inexperienced), no promotions, only good comments on your performance reviews (which meant very little, really). Instead, your rewards came in the form of emails approving your time-off requests, even on the ridiculously short notice that Van was forcing on you. There was hardly any uncertainty hanging in the air; you’d send the request first thing in the morning, and usually by the time you got back from lunch you’d have the approval sitting in your inbox. And because now you were one of the employees sporadically missing from the office during these summer months, the requests to take on more work were dwindling.

You made Van wait until you’d gotten your approval email before he booked the your flight, and he’d been texting you most of Monday morning pestering you about it. Once you let him know you’ve gotten the green light, there’s only a short half hour of silence from him before he’s sending over screenshots with ticket information and departure times. He’s booked you a flight bright and early, departing at 7 am tomorrow morning. Considering his eagerness, you’re surprised he doesn’t have you taking a red-eye after work.

What surprises you even more is that on Tuesday afternoon, stumbling off of your five hour flight into the familiar airport of your hometown, Van is standing at the gate waiting for you.

As soon as he catches your eye he grins, rushing towards you while you blink at him in shock.

“What are you doing here?” Are your first words to him. He pries the handle of your rolling carry-on suitcase from your fingers, wrapping his own palm around it as he tucks you under his arm, giving you a squeeze as he starts to direct you towards the doors that lead outside.

“Picking you up!” He responds, as chipper as ever.

“I thought I was gonna take an Uber!” That had been the plan, according to the numerous texts you two had exchanged over the weekend.

“I ended up having some free time,” He shrugs. He’s in the same dark jacket he’d been wearing the night you met him, unbuttoned to expose his usual dark button up. You notice this one isn’t black, though.

“A navy button up?” You gasp in faux dramatics, giving the fabric a playful tug. Van’s arm has fallen from your back, you two walking side by side.

He grins as he peeks down at his shirt. “Look at that. All dressed up for you.”

“You are,” You agree. “How are you even in this jacket?” You hadn’t stepped outdoors yet, but you knew without a doubt it was sweltering outside.

“It’s cold in here.”

His words make you realize the crisp, air-conditioned breeze blowing over your arms, and you shiver, clutching the hoodie you’d taken off on the plane tighter to your chest.

You still can’t wrap your head around the experience of Van pacing around the airport, waiting for you. “How did you even get here?” You ask as he directs you towards a set of doors. You can see the waves of summer heat radiating off of all the cars parked on the pavement through the glass.

“Dave drove,” He explains, pressing his palm into the metal push bar to swing the door open for you. A scorching burst of heat instantly greets your body, and it’s so humid it’s hard to breathe as you step out. “He lemme borrow his car.”

You’re quiet for the rest of the walk to the car, trying to process everything through your jet-lag. You’d boarded the plane at seven, been in the air for almost six hours after the delays, and yet when you glance at your phone it’s minutes away from 4 pm here, hours evaporated with the time difference. Van leads the way, dutifully rolling your suitcase to the parking spot where he had parked Dave’s car before popping your carry-on into the trunk and helping you into the passenger seat. The interior of the car has you sweating in the short time it takes Van to round the vehicle to the driver’s side, and you realize he’s been waiting inside for you longer than you’d thought.

There’s not much catching up necessary during the drive, considering you and Van had been texting consistently. You tell him about the toddler that threw a tantrum on the plane, and a woman in the row in front of you that spilled her drink all over the person sitting next to her during turbulence.

Although evening was descending upon Michigan, in typical June fashion the sun was refusing to go down, and therefore the heat simmered just as violently as it did during the early afternoon. That’s why when Van maneuvers the car to the parking lot behind the hotel, you’re shocked to see all of the boys lounging about in the heat, the only slight shade provided by the towering tour bus that was parked back here as well.

As Van pulls Dave’s car into a parking spot, everyone perks up.

“Look who it is!” Bondy calls from where he’s shading his eyes from the sun as he smokes.

You think he’s talking about Van, but Bob stops kicking the soccer ball against the building and gives you a polite wave. Benji gives you a nod in greeting, pacing around with his phone pressed to his ear. You return the wave and the nod, lagging behind Van as he makes his way towards the side of the bus.

“How are you?” Bondy asks, reaching one of his arms out for his usual half hug. He always treats you like you’re one of his own friends, and your heart swells in gratitude.

“I’m good,” You tell him. “Excited to be home.”

“That’s what Van said. We’re in your territory, huh?”

Van was distracted for a moment by Benji, but before you can respond he claps Bondy on the shoulder. “Bondy’s just been to L.A. pride,” He announces before promptly turning back to Benji, pleading to speak on the phone. His sudden interruption leaves Bondy clearly confused.

“Were you also at pride?” He asks, head tilted.

“No,” You laugh. “I think he’s saying that because I’m bi.”

Bondy laughs, the confusion clearing. “Right. Well, cheers.”

You shake your head in amusement, watching Van stalk Benji over the blacktop. Benji is dedicated to keeping the phone for himself, walking backwards away from him, but Van is undeterred.

“Who’s he trying to talk to?”

“Benji’s mum. She adores Van.”

That doesn’t come as any surprise to you.

“He’s already in a better mood.” Bondy speaks so quietly it sounds like he’s musing to himself.

You turn to look at him instead of watching Van’s antics. “I couldn’t imagine Van in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” Bondy snickers. “Because he’s always in a good one around you.”

You blink at him, unable to think of a response. As you open your mouth to change the topic, Van flounces back towards you two.

“Let’s get your bags,” He chirps. “I’ll show you the room.”

You’re still contemplating what Bondy’s said as Van unlocks the car, helping you take your things up to the hotel room. It’s the same as any other, but it doesn’t have a balcony like the one in Phoenix.

“Where have you been smoking?” You ask, grinning when Van rolls his eyes in frustration.

“Outside. I’ve already gotten locked out of the side door on accident.”

“Aw. That sucks.”

“It does, actually,” Van scoffs at your giggle.

You get your phone plugged in, checking any notifications that have come in since you landed.

Van plops down on the bed. “What are your plans?”

“Um…” You’re distracted while you respond to your mom’s multiple messages. “I’m going to spend today at home, and then my parents can drop me off back here for the night, and tomorrow I’m all yours.”

Van seems pleased with that arrangement. “How are you getting over there?”

You shrug. “I can Uber.”

“I can drive you, if you want.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever works.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek to suppress a smile.

“Turn where?”

“There!” You try to gesture to the intersection Van has clearly passed through.

“Fuck,” Van sighs, immediately having to reroute.

It’s always trippy being back home. As Van struggles to navigate you gaze out the window, looking wistfully at the homes, businesses, and parks that have shaped your childhood.

“This is my old elementary school,” You tell Van when he pulls into the parking lot as part of redirecting.

“Yeah?” He squints at the playground in the distance. It seems like it snaps him out of his frustration as he absorbs that information.

“Could you imagine living in the same area you grew up in?” You ponder aloud as you think about it. “Like, most people at least move a city over, you know what I mean? But imagine being in the exact same place. Like, if I sent my kids to that exact school.”

You watch the school become a blur as Van drives away from it.

“That’s what Llandudno is like, actually. We’ve got, like, one of everything nearby. So if you stay there, then yeah, you’re going to that same school and shopping at that same shop all your life. Which is fucking weird, like you said. You have kids and they live an exact repeat of your life.”

You go silent as you’re lost in thoughts about creating a family of your own, interjecting only to direct Van.

When he’s pulled up to your house you feel your heart start pounding.

“Did you want to come in and say hi?” You ask him as you gather your things.

Van is quiet for a moment. You hope he’s considering it. “Oh, that’s alright,” He says. “This is your time with them.”

Your heart sinks, but you press on with the rest of your pitch that you’d been mentally rehearsing. “Are you sure? They’re gonna ask about you anyway. You can stay for dinner if you’re hungry.”

Van’s expression is unreadable, but then he shakes his head. “I’m okay. Go catch up with them!”

“Okay,” You try to shrug it off. “See you later.”

“Text me when you’re ready!” Van says cheerfully as you exit the car and close the door. You give him a small wave as a final goodbye before turning to head up to your house.

Your family has already been alerted of your arrival, standing in the doorway excitedly. They wave eagerly to Van, who you catch out of your peripheral vision waving back as he pulls away.

You have less than a minute to try and swallow down the lump in your throat before you make it to the porch. The embarrassment over his rejection burns at your cheeks and makes it hard to breathe. You were stupid to even ask. Why would he want to meet your family? That’s not something you do with casual friends.

It’s easy to push it out of your mind once you’re in the front door, surrounded by people who loved you and were overjoyed to see you.

“Y/N, my God,” Your mom immediately pulls you into a hug. “Who was that who just dropped you off?”

“That’s Van.” When your mom releases you you’re immediately pulled into a hug from your dad. “He’s the friend in the band.”

“He’s good looking!” Your mom exclaims, eliciting a laugh from you. Your older brother had cleared his schedule to see you, and you hug him as well. It’s weird how much closer you’ve become to him as you two have aged. You were always at each other’s throats as children.

“He’s the lead singer,” You explain when you’re finally not in the middle of a hug. “So he’s the one everyone goes crazy for, yeah.”

“You should have invited him inside!” Your dad chimes in.

The lump in your throat is back with a vengeance, and you have to swallow it down quickly to speak. “I did. He’s got something to do with the band,” You lie.

“Probably made him nervous with mom and dad standing there,” Your brother laughs.

You laugh weakly. “Yeah… So, dinner?”

The food’s not quite ready yet, so you spend the first part of your time with everyone helping to prepare it. It’s always chaotic trying to cook with your mom watching you like a hawk making sure you’re doing everything exactly right, but with your dad and brother also crowded into the kitchen so as not to miss a second of catching up you feel suffocated almost immediately upon arriving.

For once, you notice you’ve got things to talk about. You’ve usually got very little to say no matter how many questions your family asks; There’s only so many ways to tell them that work is going good, you’re still single, and disperse an entertaining story about a night out here or there before the conversation runs dry. But tonight you find yourself suddenly remembering so many moments you’ve had with Van that you excitedly relay to everyone. Your mom asks what’s good on Netflix, and you find yourself talking about the show you and Van have watched. Your brother asks about a photo you’d posted on Instagram of a desert landscape and you tell them about road tripping to Arizona and hanging out backstage.

When dinner is done and everyone has migrated to the living room, your brother’s shoes resting at the door suddenly remind you of Sam Fender’s. You introduce your family to his music and describe how funny he was when you met him at the party.

“His album is coming out in the fall,” You gush to everyone when they seem impressed with his voice playing through your phone speakers.

“Jesus, sis, you sound like you’re living it up,” Your brother laughs. “Going to celebrity birthday parties? Backstage at shows? Who are you?”

“I thought the same thing!” Your mom agrees, gesturing wildly with her hands. “What have you done with my daughter?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” You sigh, exasperated. “You guys act like I was the most boring person in the world!”

“Oh stop,” Your mom scoffs. “We’re only kidding, honey. We don’t think you’re boring. I just think you seem really happy! I’m glad to hear you’re having a lot of fun!”

“You are absolutely the most boring person in the world,” Your brother assures you solemnly. “But at this rate I would encourage you to keep doing whatever drugs you’re on.”

Your mom’s face goes serious. “Are you on drugs, Y/N?”

You give your mom an expression that you hope conveys how crazy she sounds. “No, I’m not on drugs! He’s making a joke!”

“You do smell like cigarettes,” Your dad interjects. “Don’t tell me you’re smoking.”

“That’s from Van.” It’s only a half lie, really.

“Is Van an addict?” Your mom sounds alarmed.

You roll your eyes. “He is about the farthest thing from an addict, mom.”

“Okay, okay,” She throws her hands up in surrender. “I only worry with the whole rockstar thing. I don’t want you dating some junkie.”

You cringe at the word rockstar. “He’s not a rockstar, ew, he’s in a band,” You correct her. “And we’re not dating. Not even close.”

Your mom doesn’t look like she believes it. “Right. Well, if he makes you this happy and he’s as nice a boy as you say he is, maybe you should think about it.”

“We like being friends,” You insist, and it’s the truth. If being friends with Van was the closest you could get to him, you’ll take it in a heartbeat.

By the time Van arrives to pick you up, you’re all talked out. Time had slipped by unnoticed, and it’s past midnight by the time everyone is dispersing with goodbye hugs and promises to be together for the holidays.

You slump into the front passenger seat, exhausted from your long day.

“How was it?”

“It was nice. Dinner was good. Lots and lots and lots of catching up.”

“Yeah? Did they say anything about me?”

You grin. “Of course they did. My mom said you were good-looking, for starters.”

“She couldn’t see me properly,” Van grins. “She didn’t know what she was saying.”

You filter through your mind for anything else you can tell him. You choose to keep talk of how he should’ve joined you and how you two should date to yourself. “She also asked if you were an addict.”

“Christ. What’d you say?”

“I said no. But then I told them about all the weed and your cocaine benders and the molly and actually, I think they’re right.”

There’s a terse moment of silence in the car. You watch Van grip the steering wheel tighter. “You’re taking the piss.”

“Uh, yeah!” You scoff, watching him relax. “Holy fuck, you really think I’d tell them all of that? What the fuck?”

“I dunno what you talk about with your family!” He argues, accidentally turning a corner too fast.

“Not your personal business,” You mumble, crossing your arms. It started out as a joke, but his apparent lack of faith in your ability to keep his secrets actually made you angry. “Nice to know you trust me.”

“I do trust you!” Van insists. “I wouldn’t tell you things in the first place if I didn’t trust you, so stop. Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Mad. Don’t be mad at me.”

The atmosphere in the car relaxes, but you’re still tense. Between your flight, the long conversations, Van’s refusal to have dinner with you and now his lack of trust in you, your muscles were aching from the stress and you were ready for bed. You stay quiet the rest of the way to the hotel.

Van sighs as he puts the car in park. “C’mon,” he urges you quietly.

“I’m not mad,” You tell him, your voice strained. “It’s not a big deal. It’s whatever. I had a really long flight, and a really long day. I’m just really overwhelmed.” You can feel the tears prickling behind your eyes.

Van turns the car off, the space cloaked in silence. You’re both quiet while all of the lights fade until you’re in darkness.

Van looks at you. “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes water. “I said I’m not mad. It was a stupid joke to make.”

“It was pretty fucking good, actually,” Van snorts. “You got me. But I should’ve known better, you’re right.”

His attempts to calm the situation only make everything worse. Of course he’s being sweet after a disagreement. As if you couldn’t love him any more than you already thought you did. And you’re full blown crying now, probably having the opposite effect on him.

“Sorry,” You sniffle pathetically.

“Don’t be. I get it. Jet lag really fucks you up.”

You nod into your hands, wiping your tears away.

“I’m gonna smoke before we head up,” Van starts the car in order to crack the window.

“Crack mine,” You tell him, and he does before he shuts the car off.

It’s only after the first hit of your borrowed cigarette that you break out into a watery laugh.

“My mom and dad said I smell like cigarettes,” You explain to Van, who’s looking at you curiously. “They asked me if I smoked and I lied and said no.”

Van thinks that’s hilarious judging by his fit of laughter. “Your parents don’t know you smoke?”

“Fuck, no! All my life they warned me about cigarettes. They weren’t a big fan of the few times they caught me with weed, but the thought of me smoking sends them through the roof. They’d fucking kill me.”

“So how’d you explain the smell?”

“I blamed it on you,” You admit sheepishly. “And that’s not a lie. I’m sorry.” You try to give Van your best puppy dog face in hopes he’ll take pity on you.

Thankfully, he finds the situation funny. “You’re spineless,” He teases. “I’m kidding. That’s fine. I’ll be your scapegoat.”

You’re getting to the point where waking up in hotel rooms doesn’t confuse your brain. What does confuse you is the position you wake up in, much different from how you’d fallen asleep on Van’s chest last night. He’d offered the cuddle as a consolation for your jet-lagged tears, and you’d never been so happy to accept a consolation prize in your life. But somehow you two must have untangled in your sleep, because now you’re on your side facing away from him.

The whole room is still dark and you can hear Van snoring. For once you’ve woken up before him.

As you stretch out to grab your phone off of the nightstand your body brushes Van’s, who you’re suddenly aware is right next to you. Without meaning to you stop breathing, nervous to wake him up. You retract your arm slowly, momentarily forgetting about your phone.

You crane your neck carefully, trying to see exactly how you two were laying. He was on his stomach, the curve of his ass and legs the only thing you can make out beneath the comforter. You flip over to face him as carefully as you can.

His head is resting against the edge of your pillow, and whatever isn’t supported by the pillow is resting in the crook of his bent arm. His mouth is ajar but he’s breathing out of his nose, evident by the snoring that’s intensified by the way the fabric of the pillow is blocking one of his nostrils.

You’ve been as physically close to him as two human bodies can get, but the opportunity to gaze at him can not be wasted. You’re studying the features of his face carefully, your eyes tracing over the contours of his lips when suddenly his phone alarm goes off, startling you.

It doesn’t disturb Van, who only shifts slightly before dozing back off. The phone is too far away for you to do anything about it. You sigh.

“Van?” You’re hesitant when you speak.

“Hmph?”

“Your alarm is going off.”

At that Van starts to shuffle underneath the blankets. One of his arms unfolds so that he can wipe the hair out of his face before he uses his other elbow to support his weight, grasping for his phone.

In his stretch to grab his phone he causes the blankets to slip down, leaving you both mostly uncovered. Instantly your skin protests at the cold hotel room air, and you grasp for the edge of the comforter to haul it back up. It’s slipped just below Van’s thighs, exposing the boxers he’d slept in. As you grip the fabric Van’s finished shutting the alarm off, putting his phone back on the bedside table and flopping onto his back. His readjustment means that you clearly see the way he’s tenting in his boxers.

You tug the blankets up quickly, eyes wide. Van looks like he’s already in the process of drifting back off, eyes closed where he’s laying, oblivious to what you’ve seen. You rest your head back down on the pillow.

“Are you falling back asleep?” You ask after he’s been still for a bit.

“No,” He croaks, but you’re not convinced. He only further proves your point when he gets back on his stomach, curling up into the position he had been in minutes before.

One moment you’re admiring the way his t-shirt stretches across his back, the next your hand has moved of its own accord, your fingers gently scratching him through the fabric. You truly hadn’t meant to do it. But he’s in a white shirt instead of his usual black, and his skin is visible against the cotton, and you’ve been yearning to touch him any chance you get. The fact he was hard only made you crave it more, knowing that he wanted you to touch him as bad as you wanted to touch him.

At the first graze of your fingertips against his shirt you freeze, realizing what you’re doing. You pull your hand away.

Van makes a noise of distaste against the pillow. It sounds like he says something, but you can’t make his words out.

“What?”

“Tease,” He huffs.

You frown. “How?”

“Because,” He mumbles sleepily, shifting against the pillow so that he’s looking at you. “Scratch my back.”

“We gotta get up.”

“After you scratch my back.”

You reach out and run your nails over his shirt as if you’d done it a million times. He smiles, closing his eyes in bliss as you humor him, loosely guiding your hand up and down his spine and over his shoulders.

“Ready to get up yet?” You ask in amusement when Van relaxes into the mattress even more.

“No,” He groans. “I’m so fucking tired.”

Without thinking about it your fingers slide under the hem of Van’s shirt, so that now you’re scratching his skin. You can feel his muscles twitching beneath your fingertips.

“You’re never tired,” You point out.

“I am when I’ve been jet-lagged for a week straight. Fuck.”

Even while he’s huffing about waking up he’s preening under your touch, clearly enjoying himself.

“I’ll get coffee going,” You tell him before slipping your hand out of his shirt, earning yourself a dirty look.

When you head for the coffee machine is when Van realizes you’re not coming back, finally yawning and forcing himself to sit up.

“I gotta get in the shower.”

He’s rubbing his eyes as he finally emerges from bed, stumbling to grab his toiletries from his luggage. You chance a peek at him when he stands up straight, but he’s strategically carrying a pouch with stuff for his morning shave so that his hard on’s concealed.

You busy yourself preparing both of your coffees, filling two disposable cups. He finally makes it into the bathroom, flicking the lights on and getting the water running before shutting the door, the knob clicking as he locks it. You’d been hoping he’d invite you to shower with him, but apparently he was serious about being exhausted.

You start to go through your own things, getting yourself ready. Jet lag had caused you both to sleep well into the afternoon, and it wouldn’t be long before the ride to the venue was here. As long as you try to avoid it, eventually you need to use the bathroom sink, tapping nervously at the locked door.

“Are you knocking?” Van’s voice echoes from the shower.

“Yeah!” You yell against the heavy wooden door. “I need to use the sink!”

There’s the wet slap of footsteps before the knob rattles and the door opens.

Van’s already disappeared behind the curtain by the time you’re in the bathroom. You focus on getting ready through the steam that’s forming on the glass. In perfect timing, once you’re about to complain that it’s too hard to see the spray cuts off, Van stepping out.

He’s dripping water all over the floor, his skin pink from the heat. He doesn’t have a towel immediately in reach, causing him to meander around looking for one, leaving the room for a moment. The steam escapes through the door, helping to clear the mirror.

When he comes back in he’s got one towel wrapped around his waist, another slung over his shoulders, and a hairbrush in hand. When he turns to brush his hair you can tell that he’s soft now.

You suppress a smile at what that implies.

The whole route to the venue you’re engrossed in the familiar sights. The landmarks, the major streets, a restaurant here or there that you’d eaten at after concerts at the very venue you were headed to.

Saint Andrew’s hasn’t changed much, although you can tell there’s been some renovations. The walkthrough with the band feels like deja vu, your body familiar with the layout of the building even though you haven’t been there since high school. Bondy asks where a restroom is, and before one of the staff can answer you point him towards the door without thinking about it. Only once you’re actually backstage, where your brain doesn’t have any material to push memories to the forefront of your mind, do you feel more normal.

You’re good about staying away from the public areas until soundcheck, which you don’t intend to miss. Watching everyone perform as friends rather than professionals in such a laid-back atmosphere has become one of your favorite perks of being a guest. You’re comfortable enough to stray from the wings this time around, instead choosing to venture on stage with the boys. You sit down in the corner, your legs dangling off of the edge, as out of the way and as far from the amps as you can get.

“Eh, didn’t sound right to me,” Bondy jokes after they’ve checked Sidetrack. “Felt a bit flat.”

“Aw, fuck you,” Van tells him, his footsteps vibrating the stage as he makes it back to his microphone. “Focus on yourself. Pretty sure I heard you play the chorus wrong.”

“That was you, actually.”

They do this all rehearsal, all of them poking at each other with no real malice. But you can tell the boys are having an extra dose of fun today with you around.

“Did that sound right to you, Y/N?” Bondy asks. “Maybe it’s just me, I dunno.”

“Yeah, let’s ask Y/N, our true impartial listener,” Van says into the microphone. It reverberates around the empty hall.

“Stop asking me!” You whine, looking over at them. “Everyone sounds great. Grow up.”

Everyone seems to find your irritation funnier than picking on Van.

“What about the drums?” Bondy continues. “I think Bob missed a beat there.”

You shake your head, not justifying him with a reply. Everyone snickers.

They go through their next song in fits and starts as adjustments are made, and your mind drifts away as they talk quietly amongst themselves. You gaze at the polished wooden floor the audience will be standing on later tonight, and your eyes travel up to the high, detailed ceilings of the room. It’s impossible not to remember all the times you’ve been under this ceiling, standing atop this exact floor, watching a band perform on this very stage with your then-boyfriend. You were always here with him because these had been his favorite bands, his group of friends that you two met up with. Looking around the room now feels like being somewhere haunted, like if you close your eyes you can see your life exactly the way it used to be. The way it was when you thought you were content where you were, when you felt your whole future was laid out in front of you and you didn’t have a problem following that path. When you didn’t know what else was out there for you.

You’re startled out of your thoughts by Van plopping down next to you, chugging a waterbottle. You realize they’ve finished soundcheck, everyone starting to quietly disperse.

“You okay?” He asks, gazing out into the space with you.

“Yeah,” You say, distracted.

“We’re only teasing, you know that, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” You brush his concern off. “I know that.”

“You seem upset.”

You shake your head. “I’m not upset. It feels weird being here.”

“Wanna smoke?”

You nod, hopping up to go follow him outside.

Once you’re out of the back door, greeted by a stifling wave of heat and humidity, Van meanders away from the venue. You follow along, looking at what’s changed on the block since the last time you’ve been. The building directly next to the hall is clearly abandoned now, and there’s a lone tree growing in a patch of grass in the narrow strip between that building and the store next to it. Van gravitates toward it, and you’re happy to be in the shade.

“What used to be here?” Van asks, nodding towards the abandoned lot. It’s evident that concert goers seem to know about this little space, considering there’s graffiti etched into the bricks. People’s names, random dates, mysterious phone numbers. There’s some actual tags spraypainted in various spots on the wall, but you’re more interested in the smaller messages.

“A bar. It was cool. Right after the concert everyone would go directly here. I wonder why they closed down. No doubt they made a ton of money.”

“You went?”

“Eh, occasionally. They’d be so packed right after a show you could weasel your way past the person checking IDs sometimes.” Your brain provides you with more memories of your past from the seemingly endless supply it has today.

“Why’d you break up with your last ex?” You blurt out. It’s so nosey and off topic you immediately want to kick yourself, but Van is unfazed, finishing his hit of his cigarette.

“I thought you hated talking about exes,” He points out.

“I do. Guess I’m just feeling really… reflective today.”

Once you were outside Van had slipped on the pair of sunglasses he’s kept dangling from the collar of his button up, so his expression is unreadable. His lenses just reflect you smoking back at yourself, so you look away.

“We were a bad match,” He says. “Always at each other’s throats. I didn’t see as much of a problem with it as the boys did. She did not like them and they did not fucking like her. They had to talk some real sense into me. But I’m glad they did.”

“Why were you with her? If she didn’t get along with anyone?”

“You know, this is gonna sound like such bullshit, but I really think I just forgot what love felt like. When you’re younger, and going to school and what have you, you know who you’re into, you know? Does that makes sense? If you’re in a class with thirty people, it’s easy to pick out who you’ve got a thing for.”

You nod, following along.

“So I met my first love in school. The thing is, though, nothing feels like your first love. Right? So when that’s said and done, you’re trying to find that feeling again, but it’s never the same, whatever. So for a while I would date girls and we would either be intensely in love or have no spark whatsoever. But then you’re an adult, and you’re working, and I’m not in one place very long. If I meet someone I like they’re not someone I see regularly because I’m always doing band stuff. So before you know it you’ve been single forever. Then it’s kinda… alright, our connection isn’t crazy, but it works. I started settling, I guess.”

You nod enthusiastically, his dating history resonating with your own.

“Anyway, when I met her, we had a lot of passion. So to me, I’m like, fuck, okay, I’m in love again. And when we got along, things were-” He gestures smoothly with his hand. “But we never got along. I swear we actually fucking hated each other most of the time. But at least I was feeling something for someone, so I figured we could work things out. Um, but we didn’t. And the fighting was unbearable. Interrupting rehearsals, nights out. We were always leaving early and always screaming in front of people. Bondy and Bob and Benji just got sick of it. Told me to cut it out. So, eventually I did.”

“That was pretty deep,” You remark, and Van laughs. “When’d you break up?”

“Right before Christmas,” Van tells you. “She absolutely freaked. But I got home and my mum and dad were so fucking relieved she wasn’t with me. That’s when I knew everyone had been right.”

“She met your parents?”

“They actually came to see us at a show while she was with me. She was starting shit with me all day, holy shit. They met her that one time and then avoided anything having to do with her like the plague.”

“That sounds genuinely awful.”

Van shrugs. “It is what it is. Learned a valuable lesson. Got some good songs out of it.”

You suppose relationships gone bad do probably hurt less when you make your living off of them.

“Let’s hear yours.”

“My last ex?” You ask, and Van nods.

“Eh. He was cheating on me.”

Van winces. “That’s shit.”

You shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal, honestly. I know that sounds crazy. I didn’t have any real spark with him, I didn’t really care. What I hated the most was how he thought he was so fucking clever and I knew the entire time.”

Van snorts. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Ugh,” You roll your eyes, “It was so easy! He was so stupid! First, when we became official his profile was still up on Tinder. Mine was still up too, okay, whatever-” You hold your hands up in joking guilt, “-But I would catch him actually on the app. And he had previews turned on for his notifications! I would literally catch girls texting him!”

Van chuckles along at your animated storytelling.

“And that’s it, really. I let it go on for a little bit because I was lonely at the time, but then it wasn’t funny anymore and it was over.”

“And when was this?”

“Psh. Long, long time ago. A year ago, at least. Year and a half, maybe.”

Both of your cigarettes are long burnt out. You add them to the collection of the other butts lying in the dirt around the tree.

“Have you ever cheated?” You decide to ask Van. Maybe if he has, you can convince yourself not to be in love with him. You’d have a sensible reason why it’d never work.

“Christ. I have, don’t judge me.”

At his words you perk up, eager to find a flaw.

“I was fifteen,” Van groans when he sees how intently you’re watching him. “It was nothing. I was technically dating a girl in my maths class but I kissed another girl under the bleachers after football practice.”

You laugh so hard your stomach hurts because of course, of course that’s Van McCann’s story of cheating. He tries to keep a straight face, looking rather remorseful, but eventually he cracks too, laughing along.

When you’re here with Van, sweating to death and laughing about innocent heartbreak, you forget all about the ghosts that follow you around this place. It occurs to you then that what’s most important is now. It’s nice to know about Van’s crazy ex, but it’s even nicer that he’s here with you instead of arguing with her. And it’s nice to remember times when you were younger, when things were simpler, but you realize that during your friendship with Van you’re probably happier than you ever were in the past. And it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t help but hope that maybe he feels the same way.

“So, do you actually ever use the bus?” You call to Van in the bathroom. He’s got the door open, fresh out of his post-show shower. You’re kicked back on the bed, texting about the show with Mary.

“Uh, we do,” Van laughs like it was a stupid question. “We’re practically on it twenty-four seven. We’d usually be on it tonight heading to the next place.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I asked to stay the extra night because I was meeting up with you.”

At this your eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? We can’t get driving to the next place when you need to be at the airport in the morning. I said I had a friend coming in and could we stay an extra night because she has to fly. And they said that was fine with the schedule.”

You immediately shoot a text to Mary relaying your conversation. Just found out Van asked to adjust the schedule for me???

Mary’s reply pings back immediately: EXPLAIN?!?!

You’re typing a summary of what Van’s just said when you hear him speak from the bathroom. You don’t catch what he said.

“I can’t hear you!” You call to him.

“I said,” Van appears in the doorway, shirtless with a pair of sweats slung low on his hips. “Have you ever seen a tour bus?”

“No. Aren’t they like an RV?”

“A what?”

“An RV?”

“What the fuck is an RV?”

You look up at him in exasperation. “You know-” You gesture with your hands, “Giant things, you drive them, you take them camping. They have a kitchen and a bed and stuff? Like a house on wheels?”

Van cocks his head. “A motorhome?”

“Yes! A motorhome, sure.”

“Right. No, they’re nothing like that.”

“Okay, then I have no clue what they’re like.”

Van speaks again while he’s tugging on his t-shirt, successfully muffling his words. Yet when he pops his head through the collar, he’s looking at you for a response.

“I did not hear a word you just said,” You tell him with raised eyebrows.

Van rolls his eyes. “I said, do you wanna see ours?”

You do, but you hesitate. “Are we going to be bugging anyone?”

“Nah. Everyone’s in rooms tonight.”

“Then yeah, I do wanna see.”

Van stuffs his feet into a pair of slippers. “Then c’mon, get some shoes on.”

You hadn’t realized he’d meant right this second, but you get up from the bed, tucking your phone in your pocket and slipping on the flip-flops you’d brought for the shower. He pockets one of the room keys as you follow him out of the suite and down to the parking lot.

There’s nobody around considering the late hour of the night.

“Do you have a key?” You ask curiously when Van approaches the bus empty handed.

“No. You use a code.” He hits a combination of numbers on a small keypad, and with a beep he’s able to slide the door aside, letting you head up the stairs before him.

It looks like a regular coach bus when you look around, like the ones schools rent for long field trips. There’s two pairs of leather seats that face each other, and a small table dividing them.

Van appears behind you, stepping around so that he can lead the tour.

You couldn’t see it from where you were standing, but once you follow Van you see a narrow countertop nestled on one side. There’s a minifridge, a coffee pot, and a microwave nearby in the small space, and a small restaurant-booth seat where you presume people eat.

“Here’s the little kitchen,” Van says, gesturing to the countertop and booth.

Although it’s clear that the space is lived in, given the various foods lined up on the surfaces, there’s no trash or mess to be seen. “It’s really clean.”

Van snorts. “We’re slobs. It’s all thanks to the team.”

“They clean up after you?”

“They take care of the trash. Throw out the old food, get us some new stuff, that kind of thing.”

Van clicks open a door, showing you the inside of a new room. “Bathroom,” He explains, and you peek your head in, surprised to see a sink. You didn’t really consider there was running water in these things.

You’re almost at the end of the bus, and you haven’t seen any bunks. “So, do you, like, recline those seats to sleep? Like a plane?”

Van glances over his shoulder at you. “No. The bunks are upstairs.”

“How do you-” You start to ask, but before you can finish your sentence Van has started climbing up to the second level using a staircase in the corner.

You struggle to keep up with him, amazed as you climb up the steps to a whole new area. Lined against the walls are the actual bunks.

This area hasn’t been cleaned, considering each mattress is piled with rumpled bedding and various belongings. Some bunks were clearly being used as storage instead of a place to sleep, suitcases resting on them instead of blankets.

Van leads you to one of the top beds on the left side. It’s been messily made.

Van pats the colorful quilt resting on top of his sheets. “Here’s mine.”

“It’s made,” You remark, also reaching out to feel his blanket. “This quilt is really nice.”

“I try to at least throw it together in the morning.” He shrugs. “And my mum made me this, actually.”

“What?” You lean in closer to try and examine his quilt. Van messes with something before a light in the bunk comes on, illuminating the small space. “This looks amazing! Like it’s from a store.”

“Yeah. She’s handy with a sewing machine. She made it for me when I was leaving for New York. Now it’s my official touring blanket.”

His story makes your heart swell. You’re quiet as you continue to admire Mary’s work.

“Wanna hop in?” Van interrupts your thoughts.

It takes some maneuvering, but you managed to wriggle your body onto Van’s mattress. It’s about the same size as a twin bed, but the walls on three sides of you mean there’s no luxury of sprawling out.

“How do you fit in here?” You ask him. When you stretch out all the way, your toes bump the opposite end of the bed. You can’t imagine Van fits in here comfortably considering how tall he is.

“Eh, bend your knees a little. I’m used to it.”

You were already short on space, but things start to feel a bit claustrophobic when Van hops into bed with you. You’re stuffed between him and the wall.

“This is a squeeze,” You point out. Van’s pressed so close to you that when he exhales you can smell the toothpaste on his breath.

“You’re telling me.” You can feel his voice rumble through his chest.

There’s a moment of quiet when a thought suddenly pops into your head. “Oh my God, have you ever had sex in here?”

Van exhales a quiet laugh, and you feel his fingertips fussing with the hem of your shirt. “What, hoping to be the first?”

It’s hard to keep your train of thought straight when you feel his fingertips brush over your hipbone. “I’m only asking!” You manage to say.

“Ha. Yes I’ve had sex on a bunk,” He admits. “But, like, a long time ago. This might surprise you, but it’s not the most comfortable experience.”

In retaliation for his sarcasm you slip your own fingers underneath his shirt, pinching his side.

“Oi!” Van cries out in surprise. The space is so small that it sounds like he just shouted at full volume. You cringe.

“Don’t be so fucking loud,” You complain, pinching him again for good measure. “Right in my ear!”

“Well don’t pinch me!” Van scoffs.

“Fine, I won’t,” You hiss before tickling him.

“Cut it out,” Van pleads, twitching helplessly under your fingers. Before you know it he’s pushed your shirt up, tickling you roughly in retaliation.

One second you’re both squirming around, commanding each other to stop, and the next second Van’s lips are on yours. You freeze in surprise.

When he catches you by surprise he kisses you harder, his body shifting so that he’s hovering over you. When your brain catches up you relent on your attack, your arms wrapping around his shoulders instead.

“What are you doing?” You ask when he pulls back.

He grins. “Getting you to stop.”

He’s got a satisfied smirk like he’s won. If only he knew that losing felt like winning first prize to you.

“Well you better keep going,” You taunt him, teasingly tickling at the back of his neck. “Or else.”

You feel his smile as he kisses you again, pressing your lips open with his own so he can deepen it.

When it’s your turn to smile through the kiss he slowly pulls away, eyebrows raised. “What?”

You don’t answer him for a second, happily taking in the features of his face. You move one of your hands away from his shoulder to cup his jaw, running your thumb along the prominent line of it. His morning shave means his skin is silky smooth, no scratch of stubble against your skin. He’s still waiting for a response.

“I missed you,” You tell him. It’s the closest words to ‘I love you’ that you two exchange. “I missed you, like, a lot.”

Van grins, his body shifting so his face is inches away from yours. The feeling of his stomach rubbing against yours, even through your layers of clothes, sends a spark up your spine.

“Miss me?” He chuckles quietly. “I’m right here.”

“Now,” You argue, running your fingers through his hair. It’s still wet from the shower, making your knuckles damp.

Van laughs, kissing you again. This one is lacking heat, just a sweet, quick press of his mouth to yours. “Aw. I missed you too.”

“I’m right here,” You mock him, playfully poking one of the darker freckles on his cheek.

“Oh, I’m aware,” Van teases, leaning forward for another kiss. “And if you don’t mind, I’m prepared to take full advantage of that fact.”

You hate to crack the mood, but at his line you let out a laugh that’s too loud considering your proximity. “Oh, that was smooth, that was smooth,” You praise him, ruffling his hair.

Van looks proud of himself, lowering his chin to your chest and beaming up at you.

“But yeah,” You tell him, sliding your hands over his back, “It’d be a shame if you didn’t.”

With your approval Van starts to heave himself out of the bunk, a tangle of limbs too long to be confined into this space.

“Are we going back to the room?” You ask as Van helps you down.

“No. Somewhere where there’s more space.”

His fingertips are cold as he loosely tangles them with yours, gently tugging you away from the bunks, in the opposite direction of the staircase. It’s not quite hand-holding, but it’s close enough to stun you, gazing down at your entwined hands as Van leads you the short distance to a door. He releases you so that he can swing it open, and by now you’re used to being ushered in first.

He’s led you to a tiny room that only contains a couch, a television in the wall, and a PlayStation surrounded in a tangle of wires on the floor.

“Of course,” Van sighs under his breath as you two take in the couch. It’s covered in clutter, mostly dirty clothes and the PlayStation remotes. Within the blink of an eye he’s crossed the room, starting to toss whatever clothes have been abandoned here onto the floor. You help too, taking care of the remotes, beer bottles, and cigarette boxes. The end result is a clean couch and a messy floor.

“Yeah,” You say to nobody in particular as you relax into the couch, which is long enough to stretch out on. “There’s a lot more space.”

Van tugs his t-shirt off, tossing it onto the floor with the mess. You follow suit.

Only once your shirt is off do you notice the lighting. The small lamp in the bunk had been cozy, but this room is shrouded in the sort of lighting public bathrooms had; it was fluorescent yet dim, casting a yellow glow, and doing everything in its power to illuminate any flaws. Immediately after looking down at your exposed body you wish you could pull your shirt back on.

“I hate these lights,” You declare to Van.

“Hold on,” Van grunts, wriggling around as he searches for something. “We’ve got something better.”

After some commotion the wall the couch is pressed against is suddenly illuminated with a soft glow. It looks as if there’s lighting installed into the back of the couch, but when Van crosses the room and flicks the lightswitch off you realize that the boys have a string of fairy lights resting against the edge of the seats. The atmosphere of the room is suddenly much more welcoming.

You hadn’t realized your shoulders were tense until you feel them sag in relief. At the sight of Van approaching the couch again, however, you tense up again.

“Condom?” You check, terrified of an Arizona repeat.

“Right, right,” Van clicks his tongue, heading for the door again. “I’ll be right back.”

With nobody else on the bus, you can clearly hear the shuffle of Van looking around. Thankfully he returns with a foil packet in hand, locking the door behind him.

When he sits down on the couch, he holds the packet close to the string of fairy lights, squinting at it.

“What?” You ask as Van struggles to read the text on it. You notice it’s an orange color, not the blue of Van’s usual trojans.

“It’s ribbed. Will that work?”

“Sure,” You nod. Truthfully, you’ve never tried them, but you will tonight if it means getting the show on the road. “Whose is that?”

“Bondy’s.” Van sets the condom aside on the floor, proceeding to strip away his sweatpants. “I’ll have to remember I owe him one.”

He says this so casually, as if they borrow condoms from each other regularly. You shake your head at how odd men are as you finish stripping your clothes away.

Once the clothes are off and you two gravitate into the same position you were in on the bunk, the mood starts to come back. It hadn’t gone far, considering Van was still hard. He busies himself with your foreplay, his fingertips gingerly searching for a good spot against your clit.

“There,” You say quickly, when he’s gotten it right. But he’s already moved, the sensation lost.

“Where?” Van tries to move back into his previous place. He’s almost got it right, but it’s slightly off. “Here?”

You reach down between your legs, Van’s fingers going pliant as he allows you to readjust him. “There.”

He adds pressure, moving in his usual wide circle. Your nerves light up with it, your hips twitching up instinctually. He knows he’s gotten it right by your reaction.

In reward you reach down to work on him. The back of your hand brushes his dick. It’s swollen and radiating heat, and a smear of precome brushes over your skin. Van practically jumps out of his skin. You don’t want to bring him any closer to the edge than he already is, so you decide to slide your hand lower instead, gently cupping his balls.

“Shit,” Van hisses, flinching.

You freeze. “Do you hate it?”

“No, no,” He breathes, and you feel him relax.

“How do you like it?”

Van shakes his head. “Never had it. Go easy on ‘em.”

You don’t have the mental space to process what he’s said, too consumed by the way he’s touching you. With his request you keep your touch gentle. You’re both hypnotized, the foreplay going on for longer than usual, and you’re almost tempted to call off the sex and come only from his fingers. You can tell he’s becoming more familiar with your body, his hand keeping the right rhythm as he kisses the spot on your neck that always makes you moan. But he’s not the only one that’s been studying, and instead of your usual breathy moan you let his name slip just to rile him up more.

That seems to snap him out of his daze, and with a playful nip to that spot on your neck he pulls away, stretching down to grab for the condom. You let your hand fall away from his balls, rubbing his inner thigh instead while he slides his foreskin back and gets the condom over himself.

“Any special requests?” He asks as his way of checking in, and you feel the gentle pressure of him nestling into position.

“Yeah,” You reply as you shuffle to make sure your hips are at the right angle. “You better not pretend I’m the girlfriend you fucked in the bunk once.”

Van gives a loud scoff, his eyebrows furrowing. He looks down at you like you’ve just grown a second head.

“Are you kidding?” He asks, cocking his head. “Have you looked at yourself? Why would I fucking want to?”

It had mostly been a joke, but there was always a small part of you that wondered if Van used your arrangement to relive past experiences. It always hurt to consider, especially since he was the clear winner out of everyone you’d ever physically been with. At his sincerity you gulp, giving a small nod.

He shakes his head at you in exasperation. “Christ, Y/N. You know, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

You eye him wearily. “Okay, that sounds like an insult, but to be fair, I’ve never met anyone like you, either!”

Van chuckles as he starts his first slow thrust inside of you, effectively shutting you up. “Deffo not an insult.”

Something about his response makes you unexpectedly emotional. You chalk it up to a heady mix of love hormones and the relaxation that sweeps over you at your anxieties being assuaged. It was in the way he responded enthusiastically, rather than brushing you off. As you two get started it still takes you a minute to shake off the memory of his face peering down at you like you were absolutely insane for even insinuating such a thing. Even then, his words linger.

You know, I’ve never met anyone like you.

#summer's a knife #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #van mccann #van mccann fic #van mccann fanfiction #vanfic #catb fic #please enjoy me waxing poetic about saint andrew's hall

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thanialis · 5 years ago

Text

Imagine (Ethan x MC)

| Ethan x Willow | PG 13 | 1,400+ words |

| Inspiration: Imagine by Ariana Grande | After chapter 8, they have a redo |

thank u, next

Stayin’ up all night, order me pad thai

Then we gon’ sleep ‘til noon

Me with no makeup, you in the bathtub

Bubbles and bubbly, ooh

This is a pleasure, feel like we never

Act this regular

“Trash!” Willow threw a crumpled napkin to Ethan’s tv. She angrily took a bite from her egg roll.

“Hey, I would appreciate if you didn’t trash my apartment.” Ethan side-eyed her while he walked over his coffee table to place the napkin back on the table.

“Ethan, you have very long legs, you could’ve just used your feet,” her voice muffled with rice and chicken stuffed in her mouth.

“Please, keep your mouth closed when you eat,” he groaned, picking up his glass of scotch. “I can’t believe you watch this show, you know all of this is bull, right?”

“Let a girl dream, giraffe,” Willow nudged him with her foot, a teasing smile plastered on her face.

“Giraffe? What the hell?” a chuckle escaped his lips, grabbing his chopsticks and his box of chow mein.

“Yes, giraffe. Everyone calls you a giraffe. Obviously we say it in safe proximity from you,” she giggled, “Not gonna lie, that softball uniform only made your neck stick out even more than before.”

“People were staring at my neck?” he cocked an eyebrow while he chewed his food, keeping his eyes trained on the tv.

“Yes, but I was distracted by something else... those pants were awfully tight on you.” She felt a rush of heat take over her cheeks, avoiding his eyes while picking at her food.

“They were... uncomfortable,” he replied with a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

“Those pants made it look packing,” she shrugged, “Not that I should be surprised, I have seen it.”

“Willy,” he whispered.

“Shhhh! McSteamy is talking,” she shushed as her eyes glued to the tv, “How is someone able to look that good?” Willow said in awe at the actor.

“McSteamy? Was McDreamy not good enough?” he asked.

“Well, this McDreamy is trash, I prefer my McSteamy if I’m being honest.”

“And who’s that?”

“You,” she simply stated with a smile on her face.

Imagine a world like that

We go like up 'til I'm 'sleep on your chest

Love how my face fits so good in your neck

Why can't you imagine a world like that?

“I think the mom dies and the baby is saved by Dr. Karev,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter on herself.

“Who’s Dr. Karev again,” Ethan asked tiredly, he stifled a yawn and tried his best to pay attention to the dramatic tv show.

“Him, he’s the cowboy doctor,” her finger pointed to the young actor. She lowered her hand and gently placed it on his chest where her head laid.

Take out boxes where left on the coffee table, leaving a whole mess which was driving him crazy, but Willow was laying on top of him and he didn’t dare to move from where they were. He had his arms wrapped around her tiny waist, holding her tightly, wishing, hoping, praying for nothing to interrupt them.

And it seemed like someone was listening. No spam of text messages, no worried roommates, no nosy co-workers, no having to pretend that there was nothing between the two. Finally, they were allowed to have a night to themselves.

His attention was now focused on the small, fragile woman laying on top of him. Her brown highlighted was spread all over him, some strands of hair tickling his nose while he could also pick up the coconut-scented hair.

“God, Denny, and Alex deserve so much more than Izzie. She gets on my nerves,” she grumbles, her head turning to look at Ethan who seemed lost in some sort of daze. “You okay?”

“Hmm?” he snapped out of his head, “Yeah, just thinking about every single medical error this show is committing,” he said, his eyes flashing towards the tv.

Her child-like hand cupped his cheek to bring his attention back to her. She scanned his ocean eyes, seeing them soften at hers. There were times where she knew it was best not to think about it, but couldn’t of how their kids eyes would be. Her light brown eyes were dominant, but she remembered how her brothers had blue eyes like her mother which is rare to see in a family of Latinos from Central America.

Ethan’s hands captured her face as he stared at her eyes while his index fingers barely brushed her cheeks. Slowly he pulled her into a soft kiss.

Knew you were perfect after the first kiss

Took a deep breath like, "Ooh"

It started out more slow and gradually grew more intense as emotions began to pour in.

Passion, desperation, longing.

It had only been a day since they last kiss when Willow was returning to her apartment, but they spent the last couple of months doing their best to find a way around the awkward tension they had around each other. All of the built up tension was finally being released as they laid in each others arms.

“God, I was so wrong about everything,” he mumbled, catching his breath. Willow giggled in response, nuzzling her nose with his.

“Well, finally you’re able to open your eyes. It took you about almost four months, but at least you’ve realized how much of an idiot you are.” Ethan released a low chuckle, shaking his head, pressing a kiss on her nose.

“You’re lucky I’m capable to see past at as I am very deeply...” he paused himself.

Her body froze from what he almost let slip out, “Very deeply...?” she raised an eyebrow.

They looked at each other intensely, knowing well enough he wasn’t going to say the next three words. Instead they decided to return their focus to the show, ignoring what could’ve happened.

It was too soon, way too soon. They spent last year ignoring what they had to only resurface at the end when they... Either way, they crossed a line that no two employees should do, especially if one was their boss and mentor.

The things that people would say about them. Ethan couldn’t give a single damn of what others think of him, but it was more of Willow he was afraid for. She was already on thin ice with the board due to the hearing last year, finding out she was with her attending would be even worse.

If it meant protecting her and her waiting future of success then he would do anything to make sure she saw it. Even if it meant cutting himself from her life.

Right now, he was being selfish and caving in. They couldn’t deny to each other of how much they cared for one another, and the chemistry between them was only growing. Maybe he was meant for her and she was meant for him. Just maybe.

The concept of soulmates was something Ethan could not wrap around, but thinking he might have found someone to complete him wasn’t though not much of science did back this up.

A couple of more episodes played before the usual ‘are you still there?’ finally popped up. Ethan carefully nudged the young doctor who had the control in her hand, but when she didn’t click continue watching, he knew she had fallen asleep.

Carefully, he removed her from on top of him as he quietly picked up the trash and moved it into the garbage can. He turned to the tv on, and cautiously picked up Willow from the couch and moved her on his bed.

Willow stirred a bit in his arms when he placed her down.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” he soothed her, planting a kiss on her temple.

“Mmm,” she nodded before shaking her head in discomfort. “Can I borrow something to wear?”

Ethan gave her a pair of sweats and a white tee and let her change while he went to his bathroom.

He stared at himself for a very long time, wondering what was the next move.

I cannot break her, not this time.

Finally parting from the mirror, he joined Willow who was now deep asleep under the silk bedsheets. Ethan wasn’t quite tired yet, deciding to just watch her sleep peacefully, running his hand gently on her arm up and down to soothe her. In the darkness, he was able to catch a lazy smile on her lips.

He could get used to this, her sleeping in his house, sharing kisses, embraces. That was further in the future though, but for now he could only

Imagine

| It’s a bit of a messy chapter, but things will get better... I hope. I really do hope y’all enjoyed. Okay, I love y’all ❤️ |

| Tags | | PLEASE NOTIFY ME IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED OR DROPPED FROM MY ETHAN X MC TAGS |

#ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey fic #Ethan jonah ramsey #open heart choices #open heart #choices #iaminlovewithafictionalcharacter #playchoices #pixelberry

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jemelle · 4 years ago

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these are ties that bind (4/8)

you can also find this story on ao3!

fandom: criminal minds

rating: t

(chapter) word count: 2,469

masterlist

summary: emily and hotch must pretend to be in a long-term relationship in order to foster carrie. shenanigans and serious conversations alike ensue.

a/n: this was supposed to be pure fluff, but emily and hotch have a way of getting in their own way. (also, if you want to be on a taglist for this story/my writing please let me know!)

four.

Before long, the Hotchner-Prentiss household had settled into a routine. Hotch got up early, getting ready before anyone else was even awake, while Emily and Carrie both preferred to sleep in as late as possible, rolling out of bed just in time to get ready for the day ahead. On the days he slept at their house, Jack woke only as the smell of breakfast drifted into his room. They ate breakfast together and Emily, no matter how tired she was, always made sure to see Carrie off to the bus.

Hotch and Emily took turns driving to work. On their drives, Emily discovered that Hotch had a soft spot for classic rock, and he in turn was privy to her truly awful taste in both acoustic pop and the punk bands of her youth. If anyone asked them why they had arrived together, they played it off as simply carpooling, and the ban on inter-office profiling stopped any outward questioning.

One thing the rest of the team did notice was that their working relationship was better than ever. Hotch looked to Emily when he needed an extra opinion on something in her wheelhouse and Emily, noticing this, worked on turning her combativeness into constructive suggestions. “Worked” being the operative word. There were still days where neither could see eye to eye, days when Hotch told Prentiss to “remember her place,” when Emily started sentences with “respectfully, sir” and didn’t mean either word. The drive back those days was silent.

Regardless of how the day went, they ate dinner together every night. Emily wasn’t a great cook, but she could make simple dishes and Hotch taught her how to saute vegetables and prepare meats other than chicken. Carrie, who had joined various activities at school, would come home just in time to set the kitchen table.

The structured routine irritated Emily at first. Her parents had mostly given her free rein until the “incident,” and the only time they ever got together as a family was for formal functions. Slowly, though, she found she appreciated the way it allowed them to connect. They avoided talking about work, but Carrie told them about school and they all talked about sports and books and movies and the news. It was mundane conversation, and although Emily knew they would have to confront Carrie’s trauma eventually, she supposed this was progress for all of them.

On weekdays, Hotch and Emily finished their paperwork in separate rooms. He had picked up quickly that if they worked side by side, Emily couldn’t help but feel as though he was assessing her. Now they only interacted when Emily asked Hotch questions from the other room.

When Emily was done, she headed upstairs. Hotch, as she had previously noted, spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom, so she liked to get there first. After getting ready for bed, Emily usually laid in bed with a book, waiting for Hotch.

The shared bed had been awkward, initially, with Emily building a dividing line of pillows down the middle, but now they stuck to their respective sides without the barrier. She wouldn’t have hesitated to throw Hotch out if she detected any hints of inappropriate behavior, but he was (as always) the perfect gentleman. Now, although she’d never admit it, Emily enjoyed the saccharine ritual of reading quietly together before one of them called it a night.

On one of those nights, Emily was busy making a list. One of the strangest things about living in suburbia was her inability to walk to the nearest store. When she lived in her apartment, both the workers at the corner store and the nearest Chinese takeout knew her well. Now, though, all shopping trips had to be planned well in advance. She understood now why housewives went crazy; there was no room for spontaneity in their lives.

Hotch peered over her shoulder, and Emily resisted the urge to pull the piece of paper to her chest. She watched his face as he scanned the simple list she had compiled: toothpaste, deodorant, Advil. Being responsible for others still wasn’t her strong suit, but she could at least handle a trip to the drugstore.

“You forgot tampons,” he said, tapping the paper. “We’re almost out.”

To say Emily was surprised by Hotch’s reaction would be a gross understatement. In her experience, it was a rare man who was comfortable acknowledging the existence of periods, let alone saying the word “tampons.” The more she learned about Hotch, the more his brusque work self felt like an elaborate facade (not that she could judge).

“Thanks.” She noted it down, an idle thought escaping her mouth. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

He froze. Emily had spent enough time with Spencer to know that people only made that expression when their minds were going a mile a minute.

“Just… leftover from my marriage to Haley, I guess.” His voice shook a little.

Emily nodded, nonplussed, before returning the piece of paper to the nightstand and picking up her book. She didn’t feel comfortable probing the source of his obvious discomfort, but if she curled up closer to Hotch as she read, noticing the way his breathing steadied as she neared, well, the rest of the team would never know.

Toddlers are not at the most coordinated stage of their lives, as Emily quickly learned. Jack could walk and run well enough, but seemed to not possess the balance necessary to kick a ball or throw with any accuracy. To his credit, neither of those facts seemed to dampen his enthusiasm.

Saturday morning found them all at the local park. It was early, so the park was mostly deserted. Scattered parents watched kids swing on monkey bars and play in the sandbox, but Jack had a different mission in mind. He made a beeline directly for the soccer field, tugging Carrie behind him. Hotch and Emily followed, leaving Jack’s stroller on the sidelines.

As a result of spending much of her childhood in Europe, Emily’s soccer skills were passable, although in no way comparable to JJ’s. Hotch was no better, though, and they spent a great deal of time chasing after the runaway ball.

Judging from their matching grins, Carrie and Jack were both having a blast. As an only child, Emily had often wished for siblings, and she felt an echo of that longing as she watched Carrie pass to Jack, careful not to give the ball too much spin. Carrie still hadn’t opened up about her family, and Emily wondered again what her relationship with her brother had been like. There was something about her interactions with Jack that suggested the need for atonement.

Emily shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. It wouldn’t do to mar their outing by bringing up Carrie’s past. She headed over to the sidelines of the field, noticing another woman watching their little game.

“Yours, I assume?” the woman asked, gesturing towards Hotch, who was now doing a very exaggerated slow dive towards Jack.

Emily nodded, slightly uneasy. Working at the FBI did no favors when it came to seeing danger around every corner. Still, idle curiosity could be just that.

“Is your family here?” Emily kept her tone friendly.

The woman pointed to the playground, where two girls were chasing each other around. The younger one, who looked to be a little older than Jack, got tagged and shrieked, before reversing direction and taking off.

“The older one is Evelyn and the younger one is Julia,” she said, pride evident in her voice.

As if on cue, the girls turned as another woman called their names. They ran to her, giggling as she picked them up one at a time and swung them around.

“And that’s Amy… my partner.” The woman looked at Emily, gauging her reaction. Emily had been the one giving that look far too many times, wondering if what followed would be disgust or understanding. She made sure to telegraph her acceptance with a kind smile.

“Oh, and I’m Edith.” The woman visibly relaxed, and Emily mirrored her, certain now that she harbored no ill will. Edith turned to her, obviously expecting a reciprocation of introductions.

Emily obliged, pointing out Carrie, Jack, and Hotch in turn (although this time she remembered to call him Aaron). She and Edith chatted about their families until Jack came to ask Emily to rejoin the game. As Emily let Jack lead her away, the two women exchanged numbers and promised to schedule a playdate, an almost surreal parody of suburbia.

Upon reflection, Emily was surprised by how little jealousy she felt. Here were two women, happily living a life her younger self didn’t even dare to dream of, and yet Emily couldn’t picture herself in their place. Loath as she was to admit it, she had always been in search of a perfect someone. That hope had kept her from settling down, every girlfriend just not quite the right one.

In a way, Hotch was the perfect choice. He had given her the chance to have a family without having to worry about happily-ever-afters. Or rather, she supposed, watching Jack nap in the back of the car as Carrie played with her phone, he had given her the possibility of a different kind of happy ending.

When they got home, Hotch slipped off to take a shower while Emily shepherded Carrie and Jack into the living room.

“Emily, can we watch a movie?” Carrie asked, having settled herself on the couch. Jack was sitting at her feet, happily entertaining himself with a dinosaur.

“Sure, sweetheart.” Emily didn’t miss the way Carrie smiled at the nickname. “Your pick.”

Carrie scrolled through various options before settling on some new action movie and turning to Emily for approval. It didn’t look too violent, and Emily figured Jack wasn’t paying attention anyway, so she okayed the pick and they began watching.

It was in fact a fairly tame movie, and Emily was right in her assessment of Jack’s lack of interest, but (of course) Hotch walked in just as the violence started.

He took one look at the screen before scooping up a now very sleepy Jack and carrying him out of the room. When Hotch returned, jaw set and face stony, he didn’t mince his words: “What were you thinking? Jack shouldn’t be watching this.”

Emily crossed her arms, getting up to face Hotch. “Jack’s two, Aaron. He won’t remember any of this. He wasn’t even paying attention.”

“It’s my call. What do you know about childhood development?” Plenty, Emily wanted to retort, mostly in the vein of “how to be an absent parent who still manages to ruin your child’s life.” She opted for a simpler response.

“Don’t pretend you’re some kind of expert on it either.” She was willing to bet Hotch had done all the required reading leading up to Jack’s birth, but reality was always more complicated.

“Either way,” he said, and Emily thought for a brief moment she had won before his next words came crashing down. “I’m his parent and you’re not.”

Emily could hear the blood rushing in her ears, but what could she say to that? It was easy to forget that she and Jack were technically bound by nothing, but Hotch was right, though she hadn’t expected him to use it against her. She opened her mouth to retort, not sure of her next words but with a sinking feeling that they were likely to tank their whole arrangement, when Hotch spoke again.

“Carrie, are you alright?”

At his words, Emily spun around, anger temporarily forgotten. Carrie had slid off the sofa and was sitting on the floor with her legs pulled against her chest, hands over her ears. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Please… please don’t fight.”

Emily and Hotch were both by her side in an instant. Wordlessly, they split the job of comforting Carrie, with Emily rubbing soothing circles on Carrie’s back while Hotch helped her get back on the couch. Carrie was apologizing now, tears threatening to spill out at any moment.

“It’s okay. No one’s mad at you.” Emily murmured. Internally, she could feel her anger returning: how could Hotch have allowed Carrie to feel she was at fault? Rationally, she knew that Hotch hadn’t blamed Carrie at all, but anger was a better option than helplessness.

They sat together, Hotch and Emily glued to Carrie until her breathing began to even out. “I didn’t mean to cause this,” she said again, sniffling slightly.

Hotch took one of Carrie’s hands in his, guiding it away from her face. “I know, and I wasn’t upset with you, not even for a moment.” Carrie gave a shaky nod but Emily could tell she didn’t really believe him.

“Let’s just watch another movie, okay?” Emily suggested, flipping the channels until she reached something fluffy. Carrie curled up into her side, seeming much smaller than her fifteen years.

Hotch was hovering awkwardly, and Emily found herself watching him instead of the movie. Her anger still simmered, compounded with the fear that Hotch was right, but she could see fear in his eyes as well. He was scared that he had messed up, Emily thought. She remembered the forgiveness he had extended her and knew she would have to do the same, provided he apologized. And if he didn’t, well, there would be hell to pay.

Thankfully, Hotch was the kind of person to know when he was in the wrong. His apology came that night as they laid in bed. Emily was preparing to turn off the light when Hotch rolled to face her and started speaking.

“Emily, I’m sorry. I acted condescendingly and I was wrong to imply that you don’t care about Jack. You’ve been really great with him and I’m thankful every day that I don’t have to go this alone.” Although the apology sounded pre-planned, his tone was sincere, and Emily supposed that was what counted.

“I just need you to believe that we’re both trying our best,” she replied, voice insistent. “We’ll both end up making mistakes, but if we can’t communicate we’ll never be able to fix anything.” She had enough first-hand experience in that to last her a lifetime.

Hotch was silent for a moment before he spoke again.

“I can’t promise to be perfect,” he said, words measured. “I’m so used to being the leader that it’s hard for me to let others make the key decisions, and sometimes I scare myself with how strongly I react, but I always respect you and I’ll do my best to make sure that we can work together instead of pulling each other apart.”

It had to be enough.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #queerminal minds #*mine #*fic #these are ties that bind

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angelofthequeers · 5 years ago

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Hold Me By Both Hands: Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don’t own ML.

Chapter 6 | Chapter 8 | AO3 link

“But I don’t understand!” Adrien protests. “I already practiced my piano enough yesterday after school!”

“Your father has decided that you would benefit from extra practice,” Nathalie says in her usual monotone. “He’s displeased with your progress.”

“This isn’t fair!” Adrien clenches his fists. “He never had a problem with my playing until two weeks ago!”

Nathalie says nothing, leaving Adrien to come to the realisation of what exactly is going on.

“Ever since I gave the brooch back to him,” he says. “He’s still punishing me for that?”

“The agreement was that you could return to school,” Nathalie says. “But your father feels that your priorities are…not aligned with his.”

“But I was going to see Nino today! Nathalie, please, I haven’t seen my friends in weeks!”

“You see them at school.”

“That’s not the same and you know it!”

But arguing with Nathalie is like arguing with a brick wall, and Adrien’s pretty sure that he’d used up his quota of “get his own way” when he’d convinced Gabriel and Nathalie to let him go to school in the first place. So, rather than spend the next hour wasting his breath, he stomps off to his room and unlocks his phone to bring up his recording of the song that Gabriel’s been having him practice.

“Ah, nothing like a nice night with my only love!” Plagg sighs when Adrien sets the phone on his piano. “Camembert!”

“I don’t think so,” Adrien says. “You were right about sneaking out the other night. I’ll be damned if I miss out on seeing my friends just because Father’s still mad at me. Plagg, claws out!”

Once he’s transformed, Chat Noir double checks that his recording is playing perfectly before cracking his window open and leaping out. But there’s a fatal flaw in his plan: where is he meant to go? Nino’s expecting Adrien, not Chat Noir, and he’ll know that Adrien’s been trapped when Adrien doesn’t show up. And although he loves his classmates, is he really close enough to impose on any of them as his superhero alter ego?

He’s so lost in thought as he bounds through Paris, with the cool morning air streaming through his messy hair, that he doesn’t realise where he’s ended up until a familiar smell of warm cookies reaches his nostrils. Oh. When did he arrive at the Dupain-Cheng bakery? Maybe Marinette won’t mind comforting a stray cat. He could certainly do with more cookies after the one she’d given him in class the other day.

The smell of cookies is coming from the top of the building and invokes an automatic reaction: cat smells Dupain-Cheng cookies, cat must acquire Dupain-Cheng cookies, no matter the cost. The source of the smell happens to be one Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who’s sitting cross-legged in a chair on her rooftop balcony in a soft red cardigan, a white shirt, and a pair of pale pink pyjama pants. The cookies that have drawn Chat Noir in like a hooked fish are on a small glass table, piled haphazardly on a plate to be selected at random intervals by Marinette while she writes something in her semi-circle diary. His classmate looks so peaceful like this, not at all the flustered mess that she turns into whenever he’s around as Adrien, that Chat Noir can’t help but stare from the brick wall rising up behind Marinette’s balcony, where he’s perched.

“I can talk to him with the mask!” she mumbles. “Should I just pretend I’ve got the damn thing on every time I see him?”

Oh. Does Marinette like someone? Chat Noir probably shouldn’t be listening in like this. Not only does she think she’s alone, but she also doesn’t know that her friend is behind the mask of the stray cat currently eavesdropping like an awkward child. At least, he’s pretty sure she’s his friend. Sometimes, he wonders if she’d truly forgiven him after the gum incident, what with how weird she acts around him.

“Games! He likes video games!” Marinette scribbles something down, then groans. “Stupid, stupid! I already know this! Him and those damn green –” Having thrown her head back in exasperation while grabbing a cookie, she catches sight of Chat Noir when her eyes are on their way back down to the diary. For a moment, neither of them say anything, too busy playing a silent game of chicken to see who’ll freak out first. Chat Noir decides to take the initiative.

“Hey, princess,” he says, pasting on his signature Chat Noir smirk. “Sounds like you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“Were you spying on me?” Marinette slams her diary shut with wide eyes. Chat Noir hastens to shake his head.

“No, no! I just smelled the delicious smell of Dupain-Cheng cookies with my kitty nose and like a helpless stray, I was compelled to investigate. I didn’t hear anything before whatever you were saying about a mask.”

“Nothing important. Just forget what you heard.” Marinette tilts her head and nods at her cookies. “You said you were sniffing out some cookies?”

“Oh, you are an angel!” Chat Noir leaps down to Marinette’s balcony and lets himself fall into her other balcony seat, shooting Marinette finger guns as he does so. She looks thoroughly unimpressed, so he hastens to grab a cookie and bite into it. He can’t help the moan that escapes him when the warm, gooey chocolate chips melt across his tongue, and Marinette looks away with pink cheeks. “Cat got your tongue, Marinette?”

“Uh – it’s nothing.” Marinette shakes her head, making her dark pigtails swing around her face. “You just…reminded me of someone.”

“That someone wouldn’t happen to be this mystery boy, would he?” Chat Noir says. Marinette’s cheeks flush darker. Ah. Bingo. And Chat Noir’s pretty sure he’s got an idea of who this boy is.

“No!” she says too quickly.

“Aww, you can talk to me, Mari!” Chat Noir wiggles his eyebrows. “Would this mystery boy perhaps be associated with the colour green?”

Now Marinette’s cheeks are fire-truck red. “N-No! No way! Shut up! I’ll push you off this balcony!”

Chat Noir leans in to commence the kill. “If you’re really crushing on Max, I can totally work something out for my favourite civilian –”

“Max?” Marinette blinks, then stares for a moment, then bursts into laughter so raucous that she slides down her seat with tears streaming down her face as she clutches her belly. Okay. Not exactly the reaction that Chat Noir had been anticipating.

“I take it I’m wrong?” he finally says. He doesn’t get an answer until Marinette’s pulled herself back up in her seat and wiped her damp cheeks, hiccupping as her laughter dies down.

“Max? What gave you that idea?” she says.

“You mentioned that this mystery boy likes video games. And he wears green.”

“And that’s why you don’t eavesdrop!” Marinette waggles her finger. “Naughty kitty! Me and Max? He’s a cool friend but that’s all! And haven’t you seen the way he looks at Kim?”

“He, uh…what?” Huh. Maybe Chat Noir should pay a little more attention to his classmates.

“No, the mystery boy is not Max,” Marinette says, her shoulders still shaking with the last of her laughter. “He’s none of your business. Why are you even here? There’s no akuma around, is there?”

“No, nothing like that,” Chat Noir says. “Can’t a stray cat just visit his favourite civilian?”

Marinette raises an eyebrow, so he caves.

“Oh, fine. Things got…tense at home, so I bounced for a bit. I smelled Dupain-Cheng cookies when I was jumping around like the cool cat I am.”

“Aww, kitty.” Marinette’s grey eyes crinkle. “You know you can come here anytime, right?”

“Such a noble and kind princess, taking pity on a mangy alley cat,” Chat Noir pretends to sniffle. Marinette just rolls her eyes and throws a cookie at him, and she only nails him in the face because he hadn’t been expecting it. Yep. That’s it. Totally not because his cat-like reflexes had failed him.

“I’m serious, though,” Marinette says. “I know you don’t know me very well, but I’m always open to lend an ear. And a cookie. Maybe a macaron next time.”

“Careful, princess,” Chat Noir grins. “If you feed the animals, they’ll keep coming back.”

“I think it’s a bit too late for that,” Marinette says dryly, pointing at the cookie crumbs on his face.

“And I’m serious, though.” Chat Noir shuffles in his seat so that he can cross his legs and actually sit like a dysfunctional human being for once. “I appreciate the offer. You seem like a cool girl, Marinette. And I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.” He actually knows her, not that he can just up and say that unless he wants to give her a major identity clue.

“Who’ve you been talking to behind my back?” Marinette says with a mock-glare.

“Oh, this person and that person,” Chat Noir says airily. “No one you should worry your pretty little head about.”

“Patronise me again and I will throw you off the balcony,” Marinette says, jabbing her pen at him. Chat Noir just grins.

“Ah, but cats always land on their feet,” he says.

“We could test that for science,” Marinette says innocently. Chat Noir snorts and holds his hands up.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Whatever you say, my princess.”

“My princess?” Marinette raises an eyebrow. “Careful. Your lady will think you’re cheating on her.”

“I would never!” Chat Noir slumps dramatically and clasps his chest. “Ladybug’s the only one for me!”

“Dork,” Marinette giggles. Her laughter is like aural sunshine, only outmatched by the beautiful laugh that belongs to Ladybug, and although Chat Noir’s probably overstayed his welcome, being able to forget his suffocating life for just a little while with a dear friend is probably the best gift that Marinette’s ever given him. Minus the cookies, of course.

“Well, I hate to deprive you of my dashing good looks, but this cat should be getting home before he’s found out and loses a life,” Chat Noir sighs, jumping to his feet and stretching.

“What a shame,” Marinette deadpans. “Whatever will I do without you?”

“I know.” Chat Noir nods solemnly. “Your life is ever so grey without me. But fear not, princess, I shall return for more cookies!”

“Take your time,” Marinette says. She opens her diary and then raises an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

“Rude,” Chat Noir sniffs. “See if I come back now.”

“Oh, you will. I fed you, remember?”

“Very true. Very true.” Chat Noir shoots her finger guns for the second time that morning and then hauls himself onto her balcony railing. “Goodbye for now, princess!” He leaps away before Marinette can let loose with another scathing remark, and although every jump and step brings him closer to his gilded cage, it doesn’t seem as cold and lonely after his talk with Marinette. It’s nice to know that he’s got a friend when in the mask because, as much as he loves Ladybug, he doesn’t exactly have a reliable way of calling her up. Although Marinette is just as sassy as his lady so really, he couldn’t have made a better friend as Chat Noir. If only she could talk to Adrien that way.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it,” Adrien’s saying to Nino as Marinette and Alya take their seats behind the boys. “My father tightened my schedule and he didn’t even have the decency to tell me himself. He made Nathalie tell me.”

“Dude, that’s rough,” Nino grimaces. “Why’s he being so uncool?”

“He’s still mad about when I stole the book and the brooch. He says my “priorities are not aligned with his”.”

“What?” Marinette bursts out. Adrien and Nino jump, and she flushes and looks down when Adrien looks right at her. “S-Sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear. I just…that’s rubbish!”

“I know, right?” Adrien says. “I pointed out that you guys protested, but Nathalie said that was just to let me go back to school. I don’t get my father sometimes…he says I’m precious to him, then he goes and locks me up again!”

How does Adrien know that Gabriel had said that to Ladybug and Chat Noir about him? Huh. Gabriel must have had a heartfelt chat with him after being the Collector, which just makes this even more bullshit.

“And I can’t even get angry or I’ll probably get turned into Bubbler again,” Nino grumbles.

“I’d turn into Lady Wifi if it’d let me kick your dad’s butt,” Alya says.

“I don’t know what my akuma name would be,” Marinette says. “Probably something like Princess Justice. What?” she adds when Alya raises an eyebrow. “Akuma names aren’t my forte. I’m a fashion designer, not a supervillain.”

“You don’t need to get angry for me,” Adrien says, smiling around at the three of them. Butterflies erupt in Marinette’s stomach when that smile passes over her. “Really. I appreciate you three just letting me vent.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for!” Marinette babbles, pointedly ignoring Alya’s smirk from next to her. Adrien’s smile just widens like a solar flare, melting Marinette from the inside out.

“Thanks, Marinette,” he says. He opens his mouth to say something else, but Ms Bustier calls for their attention at that moment, so he’s forced to turn back to the front and end the conversation there.

But try as she might, Marinette just can’t seem to pay attention. This is so unfair! Why shouldn’t Adrien get to hang out with his friends just because he made a mistake? One that he’d fixed? Gabriel has the book and the (fake) brooch, so there’s no need to take it out on Adrien anymore! Again, Marinette wonders if being the Collector had spooked him, but that’s still no excuse! Alya’s father hadn’t locked her up just because he’d been akumatised into Animan that one time, and Alya’s doing just fine!

Actually, she’s got a nasty habit of running into danger for the Ladyblog and she’d been kidnapped by Prime Queen after Ladybug and Chat Noir had saved Chloé, but that’s beside the point!

The next morning, Marinette ensures that she wakes up early enough to put her plan into action. The bakery’s already open, of course, but Marinette’s always allowed to grab whatever she wants from the freshly-baked pastries, so long as she doesn’t go overboard and take a whole batch or something. Perks of being a baker’s daughter. Ha. Take that, Chloé.

“What are you doing?” Tikki says as Marinette sets an empty pastry box down on the counter.

“Adrien was so upset yesterday because of his father cracking down on his schedule!” Marinette says. She grabs a warm croissant with the utmost of care so that her klutz curse doesn’t come into play, then places it into the box. “I want to do something nice for him!”

“That’s so sweet of you, Marinette!” Tikki says. “Oooh, what about those new pistachio macarons?”

“Right!” Marinette snatches up a couple of green macarons and adds them to the box. “They’re such a gorgeous green!” Just like his eyes…

Once she’s packed the box full of goodies, Marinette shuts it and picks it up with such care that it might as well be a priceless treasure, and then she’s off to school to deliver her gift, early for once in her life.

“Oooh! Marinette, you are a gem!” Alya says when Marinette finds her in the courtyard. She makes grabby hands. “Gimme!”

“Hey!” Marinette holds the pastry box out of reach. “No touchy! They’re not for you!”

“Hmph,” Alya huffs. “I see how it is. You’ll give fresh pastries to Adrien but not to me.”

“Your father’s not being a complete tool,” Marinette says. Alya grimaces.

“Okay, point. But girl, if he doesn’t marry you after this, I’m gonna marry you myself just to rub it in his face that I’ll get yummy treats every day.”

“I may be bi, but I do have standards,” Marinette drawls.

“Excuse me? You wish you could do better than moi.” Alya gestures to herself.

“Hey, girls!” says a voice from behind Marinette and Alya. Marinette shrieks and jumps away from Adrien, her heart ready to yeet itself out through her throat, while Alya just rolls her eyes and kisses Nino hello. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, Marinette!”

“You didn’t! You just…surprised me!” Marinette takes a deep breath and thrusts the box at Adrien before she can chicken out. “Here! Freshly baked this morning!”

“Aww, seriously?” Nino whines as a wide-eyed Adrien takes the box and opens it to inhale the delicious scent of warm pastries. “Why don’t I get freshly baked stuff?”

“Because we’re going to talk over there,” Alya says, grabbing Nino’s hand and dragging him off. Marinette’s not sure whether to kill Alya or thank her on bent knee for leaving her alone with Adrien.

“You were so upset yesterday because of your dad!” Marinette says. “So, I thought you might appreciate some sweet treats!”

“Marinette, you are an angel,” Adrien says, and Marinette only just manages to fight back the silly giggle that tries to escape her, both that Adrien called her an angel and because Chat Noir had said the exact same thing on the weekend. Is the way to a boy’s heart really through his stomach?

“I’m glad you like it!” she says. “It’s so not cool of your father to punish you for a mistake that you fixed.”

“I know but…what can I do? I can’t exactly go up to him and tell him that he can’t control my life anymore,” Adrien says.

“Why not?” Marinette says.

“Because I never see him for more than five minutes a month,” Adrien says, and Marinette can’t help the snort that escapes her at that.

“I feel so bad for laughing,” she says as her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

“Don’t,” Adrien says with a cheeky smile. “I wouldn’t have made that joke if I wasn’t okay with you laughing at it.”

“But it’s so sad! That’s why I feel bad for laughing!”

“Well, if I didn’t joke about it, I’d just cry all the time,” Adrien says. “Humour’s how I cope. If I had an alter ego, I’d channel all the jokes I can’t make as me into him.”

“Ugh, like Chat Noir,” Marinette says. “His damn puns, I swear –”

“Hey! Chat Noir’s not that bad!”

“He is! He came to visit me on the weekend because he smelled cookies and I nearly threw him off the balcony! His puns are awful!”

“Don’t you mean –”

“Don’t you dare say it –”

“– clawful?”

“That’s it.” Marinette grabs for the pastry box. “I’m confiscating these until you learn to behave.”

“Nuh uh,” Adrien says and holds the box high above Marinette’s head. “I’m taller than you, so I win.”

“You’re an arse, is what you are,” Marinette mumbles. But Adrien swiftly earns her forgiveness when he offers her one of the pistachio macarons and they bite into their green treats together.

“Honestly, I’m really grateful for this, Marinette,” Adrien says. “Not just because it was a really nice thing to do, but because I’ve always been afraid that…we weren’t really friends?”

“What?” Marinette’s heart sinks into her stomach. No wonder Adrien’s never seemed to show any interest in her, if he hasn’t even considered them friends! “What gave you that idea?”

“Just the way you’ve always been weird around me. I guess I was scared that you never really liked me or forgave me for the gum thing, and you were just putting up with me. But this conversation was really cool. You’re really cool.”

Oh. Oh. Maybe Tikki had been on to something after all when it comes to not being able to talk to Adrien. “Trust me, I’ve always liked you,” she says. “As a friend! Yeah! We’re friends!”

“Oh, thank god.” Adrien’s shoulders slump. “I didn’t know what to do about it. Confrontation’s never been my strong suit.”

“Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that at all,” Marinette says. “I was weird because…I’m weird! Not because I don’t like you! Because I don’t! Dislike you, that is! I do like you!” She groans and facepalms. “I’m a disaster, is what I am.”

“Well, so long as I get amazing treats out of it, you can be as much of a disaster as you want,” Adrien says. Then he winks.

Dear lord. This boy is not making it easy to interact with him normally. What the hell did she do to deserve this?

#miraculous ladybug #ml fic #aotq fic #aotq: hold me #marinette dupain-cheng #adrien agreste #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #adrinette #adrienette #marichat #djwifi #marinette you're hopeless #and adrien you're oblivious

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survivorparr · 5 years ago

Text

the sun and her moon, part 6/8 (all you wanna do)

aka, In Which we Journey North

Ex Wives/No Way | DLUH | Heart of Stone | Haus of Holbein| Get Down

.....

Aragon rubbed her hand vigorously up and down her right bicep to dull the sharp pain.

“What the heck, Kitty??”

“Punch buggy, no punch backs!”

Aragon let out a sharp gust of air as she flicked her eyes towards the ceiling of the van, then retrained them on the green hillside whizzing by outside the window.

Behind her, Anna and Parr were deeply engaged in an argument about whether John Dowland or Hans Gerle had been the better lutenist. The air was filled with a faint, sweet melody coming from Jane, humming in the driver’s seat.

And folded in upon herself in the back seat, eyes aimed at the window but certainly not paying attention to the scenery, was Anne. The events of last night danced in her mind’s eye:

“Are you alright, Cath?”

“Yes - no - I don’t know. Yes, I’m fine”.

“‘I don’t know’ isn’t yes. Tell me what you’re thinking”.

She had taken one of Cathy’s small, warm hands in hers. There was no sound except the pounding of her own heart. Then:

“I just... think I need a minute to think”.

“God Cath, I’m so sorry, I just assumed - in the bar - I thought there’d been a moment and I -“

Cath squeezed her hand hard. “There was. There was a moment. And... I want there to be more moments, a lot more. It’s just... I’ve never... been with a woman before”. Her eyes shone and she seemed to be wrestling with her own mind in order to get the words out. Anne suddenly felt the absence of Cath’s hand in hers as she retreated onto her bed.

“I’m so sorry, Anne. It’s just that you mean the world to me, and if I can’t manage to come to terms with... feeling this way about you, and something goes poorly, I just don’t know what I’d-”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, okay? Promise. Go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning”.

“Actually... could you stay a minute?”

Anne’s chest had tightened, but then she’d seen how small Catherine looked, how vulnerable. She’d crawled onto the bed and molded Cath into her empty spaces, running her fingers through her thick curls.

Thick curls that were now covering the back of a head sitting as far away from her as possible. Not a word was spoken between them all through breakfast, or all through the long drive to Leeds. Anne supposed perhaps Cathy was just nervous to be returning close to home for the first time since they’d come back, but she’d been chattering nervously to the other queens all morning (she and Anna were now debating the merits of the hurdy-gurdy as an instrument, for Christ’s sake). Anne turned up the volume of her headphones to drown it all out, hoping this would have some effect on the heaviness in her heart.

The whirring of the greenery and buildings outside came to a sudden slow, and then finally, a stop. Anne pulled out an earbud to get an idea of what was going on.

“...completely sure? It’s really no trouble, Parr, we can drive you out to York”.

“That’s alright, Jane, the train will be fine. If you lot come with me, I’ll just chicken out and turn us back around”.

“If you’re definitely sure, then. Good luck with your grandmother!”

Anne’s eyes widened. Grandmother... She suddenly remembered how last week, in the middle of French Film Friday, Cath had paused Amelie to ask whether Anne thought anyone else from past times might’ve been brought back to life. “We’d better hope not, otherwise, we might get run off the stage by a country band made up of Prince Albert’s five daughters,” she’d joked.

Stupid. She mentally slapped herself on the wrist. Some kind of friend you are.

Thoughts bubbled up in Anne’s mind more quickly than she could process them - I’ll go with her, I’ll apologize, I’ll—

By the time she was on her feet, Catherine’s blue sweater had disappeared into the crowd outside the train station.

...

Cath tightly gripped the crumpled sheet of lined yellow paper as she walked. She glanced again at the words printed in her own flowery scrawl: 456 Ravensworth St, York. They had not changed since the last time she’d looked (which had been about 54 seconds ago). She knew she had about a minute and a half to compose herself. God, why was she so nervous to meet a woman she’d never even known?

She supposed that was what made it so strange, though. Most girls didn’t get to come back from the dead and meet their long-lost grandmothers who had also supposedly come back from the dead. She felt her ribcage rise as she drew in cold air through her lips. Ravensworth Street. There was no turning back now.

She surveyed the houses on the right side of the street, attempting to estimate which one would be 456. Her eyes fell upon beautiful brick buildings, perfectly trimmed hedges, and-

“Anne???”

Cath rubbed her eyes with her fists, but when she stopped, Anne was still perched on the stone wall of a lawn about four houses down.

Without thinking, Cath broke out into a jog. She stopped in front of the tall iron gate.

“What the hell are you doing here? I said I was fine on my own”.

“I know you are. You’ve always been fine without anyone”.

The words stung, and Cath shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“How did you even beat me here?”

Anne shrugged nonchalantly. “Trains are slow, Cleves drives fast”.

Cath’s jaw dropped a little. Jane never let Cleves drive - the queens had decided she was a hazard to public safety.

“Look, you say the word and I’ll go back to the hotel, I promise. I just thought... I came here because... I know that this is a big deal for you, and I know you don’t need me, but I wanted you to know that you don’t have to do this alone if you don’t want to”.

Anne looked at Cath’s face for any hint of what she might be thinking, but found she could not read the intense gaze, furrowed brow, or parted lips.

“You know what, I’m sorry. Clearly this is personal for you, and I’ll go”.

Anne gathered her bulky messenger bag under her arm and pulled herself up off the wall.

“Wait. Anne”.

She waited for Cath to say more, but Cath simply held out a slender hand. A wave of relief washed over Anne. She took Cath’s hand, and pulled open the gate with her other.

...

“A frog? Truly, Grandmother?”

“I swear it on my life! Oh, the whole castle could hear Uncle Richard hollering. Then, he ran about the halls in just his nightclothes! Lady Anne and I were absolutely beside ourselves”.

“That’s absolutely brilliant, Lady Fitzhugh! I might have to try it out myself on a certain Spanish queen”. Anne waggled her eyebrows mischievously at Cath, who exaggerated an eye roll and then chuckled and smiled brightly.

“Please, dear, Elizabeth is just fine. Any friend of my granddaughter’s is a friend of mine”.

Anne grinned, and she realized she felt lighter than she had in a while. Her own grandmothers had been distant, much too busy conniving and calculating to pay her much mind.

“We appear to be out of tea cakes”.

“Appearances aren’t everything, darling. In the kitchen, cooling on the bottom rack of the oven”.

Cath rose from her seat and disappeared from the room in search of the pastries.

Anne struggled ungracefully with the too-large bite of ham sandwich in her mouth. When she had finally swallowed it, she turned to Lady Fitzhugh.

“Thank you again for allowing me to stay for lunch. I know you were only expecting one guest, and we didn’t mean to put you out. Or rather I didn’t mean to, Cathy had nothing to do with it, honest. Anyways, I really appreciate it”.

“Oh hush, it was no trouble at all. Do you know how often an old bag of bones like myself receives visitors? You’ve been nothing but a pleasure, dear. Besides, anyone who loves Catherine the way you do is welcome in my home any time”.

“Oh, I don’t - err - I mean, she’s not, uh, we’re not-”

“I know exactly what you are. You are her sun, and she is your moon. The Catherine that I watched over and protected from the beyond was wise and kind, but so tentative and full of doubt. But now, with you, she has an ease I’ve never seen in her. She seems... strong, and sure. Now, I can’t speak to who you might have been, but I can see the way you look at her. Like all your life, you’ve been running at breakneck speed, and you’ve finally found a place you can rest”.

For once, Anne had no words.

“I know my granddaughter. You may make her more spontaneous, but she still overthinks everything. She always comes around in the end, though. Until she does, you just keep standing by her, and she’ll stand by you. None of the rest of it matters in the end, you’ll see”.

Lady Fitzhugh smiled reassuringly. Anne suddenly felt warm, her clothing too bulky. Pulling at her sweater, she whispered, “Thank you”.

“Found them! Grandmother, do you have the recipe for these?”

“I do! Remind me and I’ll write it out for you before you leave”.

“Thank you! What were you two talking about then?”

“Nothing, dear”. Lady Fitzhugh winked at Anne. “Just the moon”.

...

“Alright, so we’ve seen the river where you and your sister used to skip rocks, the tree where you broke your arm climbing with your brother, and the tower where you studied French. Next up on the Cath’s Classics tour is...? Where are we, then?”

A ribbon of crystal blue water lazily burbled beneath the warped wood under their feet. Sunlight fell golden on dappled leaves that hid the two of them from the outside world.

“This is where I used to sit and write. It was my favorite spot - the only place that was just mine”.

Cath‘s legs felt heavy as they dangled from the edge of the bridge. Anne looked around and then lowered herself awkwardly down next to where Cath sat.

“Until now”.

“Mmm. Until now”.

The two of them sat there in silence. Catherine looked at their images reflected in the water, edges blurred, bending and blending together.

“Why did you come today, Anne?”

“I told you. I thought you might’ve been nervous, and-”

“I mean, why do you keep coming back for me? I’m always messing up, pulling away, doing the stupidest things. All the queens know it, I can tell. It’s like I’m broken or something, and I just... don’t know how to be happy. You’re not like that. You’re... magnetic, and people like you, and you’re... good, just way too good for me. So why did you come?”

Cath was finally able to bring herself to look at Anne’s face. When she did, she was confused by the deep frown and hurt eyes she found. She thought she’d said nice things...

“Is that what you think, Cath? That you’re too broken for me? I’m the broken one. God, I’m so scared of being abandoned that I cling too much, or I self-sabotage when someone gets close. I am constantly trying too damn hard to be the thing that everybody wants while simultaneously keeping them all at arm’s length. Except for when I’m with you”. She reached out her hand and swept her thumb across Cath’s cheekbone. “Being with you feels like getting home and putting on sweatpants after a two show day”.

Cath furrowed her brow in confusion.

“Err - what I mean is, when I’m with you, I don’t have to try so hard. It just feels comfortable. I think you might be the only one who knows who I am. Look, I know that these feelings are confusing for you, and that they go against everything you’ve ever believed. But you can have all the time in the world to figure it all out, because I’m not going anywhere”.

The space between their bodies diminished, and Anne kissed Cath’s forehead gently.

“All I want to do is be with you”.

.....

A/N: I LOVE YOU ALL I’m sorry this update took SO long, this summer has been a certified Mess. But here she ism and she’s long to make up for it - I hope you enjoyed! One part and an epilogue left - almost time to wrap this motha up!

Tags (copied from the last update in case you still wanted!): @mimymomo @supernova-nightmare@allthequeensdeservedmore@demidoubter @alexs-galaxies @sweet-sappphic @sarahzarahh @musical93 @six-aimie @imborrrrrrrr

#the sun and her moon #nic's fics #six the musical

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metalbatandzenko · 5 years ago

Note

All of them. All the questions.

oof

1. Do You Sleep With Your Closet Doors Open Or Closed?

I have sliding doors on my closet so it’s one open one closed.

2. Do You Have Freckles?

Nope!

3. Can You Whistle?

Nope (:

4. Last Song You Listened To.

I...don’t remember lmao, I think it was 6 Inch by Beyonce

5. What Is Your Favorite Color?

I don’t know if I have one tbh.

6. Relationship Status.

Currently juggling seven reply guys bc rona has everyone acting out of line, but single.

7. What Is The Temperature Right Now?

46º

8. Did You Wake Up Cranky?

Yes sdkjfhdlkf

9. How Many Followers?

215.

10. Zodiac Sign.

Aries/Aries/Cancer.

11. What Is Your Eye Color?

Brown.

12. Take A Vitamin Daily?

No.

13. Do You Sing In The Shower?

Yes, usually it’s Mitski or songs from musicals because you know. Former theater kid.

14. What Books Are You Reading?

The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch.

15. Grab The Book Nearest To You, Turn To Page 64, Give Me Line 14.

“As in earlier days” from the poem The Walk by Thomas Hardy

16. Favorite Anime?

OPM is the only anime I watch. Being Japanese American and fem aligned means having. Not great associations with anime tbh.

17. Last Person You Cried In Front Of?

I honestly can’t remember the last time I cried in front of someone

WAIT YES I DO

It was November 23rd and my little cousin and I watched Over the Garden Wall. Both of us cried at the end.

18. Do You Collect Anything?

I have a knife collection and an old rock collection from when I was younger. I also unintentionally have a major makeup collection. My lipstick collection is borderline embarrassing. In my defense it started in 7th grade.

19. What Did You Have For Lunch?

I uh. I didn’t have lunch skfjhdsljfh

20. Do You Dance In The Car?

I do!

21. Favorite Animal?

Dude I fucking love crows.

22. Do You Watch The Olympics?

Some of them! My mom was really athletic growing up (as in one of those kids that plays a sport every season in high school), so she watches a lot of them. We tend to watch figure skating (which I know little about but have strong opinions on), gymnastics, synchronized swimming, track, and judo.

23. What Time Do You Usually Go To Bed?

Usually I’m in bed by 11 but I don’t go to sleep until 2am. Recently I’ve been getting to sleep at 7am.

24. Are You Wearing Makeup Right Now?

It is currently three in the morning so no akslkjsahd

25. Do You Prefer To Swim In A Pool Or The Ocean?

Ocean. I grew up in Northern California near the coast, and now I’m in a landlocked state. And you can kind of feel it, you know? The air doesn’t smell like salt and redwoods, the mountains aren’t there to hold up the sky so you just feel it pressing down on your chest. I miss the ocean.

26. Favorite Tumblr Blog?

I don’t know if I have a favorite. erikkillmongerdontpullout is funny and insightful, and I love dostoevskydocs’ poetry compilations.

27. Bottled Water Or Tap Water?

I grew up somewhere with access to really good tap water, so I’ll go with that.

28. What Makes You Happy?

Writing, spending time with friends, the feeling of dappled sunlight through the tree canopy.

29. Post A Gif Of What You’re Currently Feeling Right Now.

30. Do You Study Better With Or Without Music?

With :)

31. Dogs Or Cats?

Dogs but I love cats too!

32. If You Were A Crayon What Color Would You Be?

Moss green!

33. PlayStation Or Xbox.

Xbox.

34. Would You Swim In The Lake Or Ocean?

Ocean. I don’t trust lakes.

35. Do You Believe In Magic?

I believe in the supernatural, I don’t know if magic’s the right word. It’s more like a belief that there’s something more to the world than what we’re able to perceive.

36. What Color Shirt Are You Wearing?

Charcoal grey.

37. Can You Curl Your Tongue?

Yes! I can also make my tongue into a clover.

38. Do You Save Money Or Spend It?

A bit of both. I can be pretty frugal when I’m by myself but I inherited the need to pay for everything for my friends from my mom, so if my friends are around, I will try to muscle my way into paying for everything. This is usually unsuccessful bc my friends are in the same boat.

39. Is There Anything Pink Within 10 Feet Of You?

Yes. I’ve got a pink water bottle on my bedstand.

40. Do You Have Any Obsessions Right Now?

I mean. OPM lkjshdflkjdh I’ve been hyperfixating on it, but I also am pretty obsessed with OTGW (I have been for years).

41. Have You Ever Caught A Butterfly?

No but I’ve had a few land on me.

42. Are You Easily Influenced By Other People?

Depends on the person. Overall, I’d say no, but my friends have significant sway over me.

43. Do You Have Strange Dreams?

Yes.

44. Do You Like Going On Airplanes?

I actually do. But only for short flights. Anything longer than 4 hours makes my body really hurt.

45. Name One Movie That Made You Cry.

Moana.

46. Peanuts Or Sunflower Seeds?

Sunflower seeds!

47. If I Handed You A Concert Ticket Right Now, Who Would You Want The Performer To Be?

Orville Peck or Carseat Headrest.

48. Are You A Picky Eater?

Nope!

49. Are You A Heavy Sleeper?

Yeah.

50. Do You Fear Thunder/Lightning?

No, I actually love them. I sleep best when it’s thundering.

51. Do You Like To Read/Write?

Yes to both. I’m a Creative Writing major so dkljfhljkdf

52. Do You Like Your Music Loud?

Yeah! Though not as loud as some people, my ears are sensitive.

53. Would You Rather Carve Pumpkins Or Wrap Presents?

Wrap presents. I’m not a big fan of the smell of pumpkin, and wrapping presents is a tradition for my mom, brother and I. We’d put on some music, drink some hot chocolate, and wrap as many as possible. Then my brother and I would smuggle some wrapping paper to our rooms and wrap our mom’s gift.

54. Put Your Music On Shuffle, What Is The First Song That Came Up?

Somebody that I Used to Know-Gotye (listen the song still slaps)

55. What Season Are You In Right Now? (Weather)

Winter/Spring transition. It hailed for 15 minutes straight yesterday.

56. What Are You Craving Right Now?

A popeyes 5 piece spicy chicken meal with fries and ranch. Can you tell I’ve thought about this?

57. Post A Screenshot Of Your Tumblr Feed.

I don’t wanna.

58. What Is Your Gender?

Nonbinary, but vaguely girl adjacent.

59. Coffee Or Tea?

I think coffee. I drink more tea, but I also drink exclusively green tea and chai (like the traditional chai made with milk not the chai teabags) and I really am not a black/white/earl grey tea person.

60. Do You Have Any Homework Right Now? If So, What Is It About?

OOF Yeah I do

I’ve got a thousand word readers response to “The Other Boat” by E. M. Foster, a one thousand word journal about WWI, a reflective journal check in and a powerpoint I have to make for Sense and Sensibility for Brit Lit and I also am tutoring a few of my classmates

In my biological anthropology class I’ve got a Unit Exam and a few lectures to watch

For my internship/Teachers Assistant position I’ve got 17 10 page rough drafts to read and give in depth comments on as well as a portfolio I have to assemble for next year’s TA bc I’m transferring, phone meetings with the 17 students who wrote those rough drafts, and I’ve gotta compile some resources for my professor

I need to finish my memoir for my independent study and I have to present. my nonfiction memoir. to my classmates. on Zoom. I’m one of two people doing a nonfiction memoir for their independent study the rest are doing fiction, poetry or a literary analysis paper so like. My classmates are gonna be talking about their fiction piece and then I’m gonna be giving a 15 minute reading and Q&A about a piece that focuses on my trauma and being hate crimed so that’s fun.

I also gotta get some stuff done for my school’s lit magazine.

61. What Is Your Sexuality?

A known bisexual™

62. Do You Make Your Bed In The Morning?

I try to but I forget.

63. Favorite Pokémon?

Togepi, Blissey and Togekiss.

64. Favorite Social Media?

I hate to say it but it’s tumblr.

65. What’s Your Opinion On Instagram Stories?

If it’s longer than six stories, I’m not watching it. Unless I know they’re gonna be fun or we’re really close then I will.

66. Do You Get Homesick?

A bit. I’m still really homesick for my hometown tbh because that’s where all my family except for my parents are. I’m really close with my extended family, so being isolated from them feels like there’s an emptiness at my side.

67. Are You A Virgin?

No.

68. What Shampoo And Conditioner Are You Using Right Now?

Redken Frizz Dismiss. I got those big fucking bottles you can get at Ulta where it’s like a gallon of shampoo so I haven’t had to buy any in over a year.

69. If You Were Far From Home And Needed To Sleep For The Night, Would You Choose To Rent A Crappy Motel Room For $60 Or Sleep In Your Car For Free?

I’ve slept in my car before and I will do so again most likely. Also $60 is too much to spend for a motel room.

70. Are Both Of Your Blood Parents Still In Your Life?

Yes. Though I’m much closer to my mom than my dad.

71. Whats The Next Movie You Want To See In Theaters?

Idk shit about movies tbh.

72. Do You Miss Your Ex?

One of them yes, the others no. But the one I miss I also acknowledge is someone who had their place in my life at the time and helped me through some rough shit, but no longer has a place in my life. I appreciate the hell out of him though, and we’re on good terms.

73. What Is Your Favorite Quote Right Now?

I’ve got two!

“I don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth” –Ophelia, Hamlet

and

"Suffering feels religious if you do it right." –Chelsea Hodson

74. What Eye Color Do You Find Sexiest?

Brown. Especially the almost black-brown eyes.

75. Did You Like Swinging As A Child? Do You Still Get Excited When You See A Swing Set?

Yes to both.

76. What Was The Last Thing You Ate?

Chocolate covered pretzels ljhflfsd

77. What Games Do You Have On Your Phone?

Toon Blast and 2048.

78. Would You Give A Homeless Person CPR If They Were Dying? Why Or Why Not?

Holy shit I hate this question. Yes, of course I would. I don’t know why mentioning that the person is homeless is relevant. Homeless people are not somehow less worthy of CPR?? What the fuck.

79. Been On The Computer For 5 Hours Straight?

...yes

80. Stalked Someone On A Social Network?

I’ve briefly skimmed over someone’s page after meeting them but I don’t lurk.

81. Do You Like Meeting New People?

Depends on my mood.

82. Do You Wear Rings? If You Do, Take A Picture Of Them.

I hate my hands so this was pushing it.

83. Do You Sleep With Your Bedroom Door Open Or Closed?

Closed.

84. What Are Three Things You Did Today?

Corrected papers, walked my dog, did some writing.

85. What Do You Wear To Bed?

T-shirt and shorts.

86. List All Of Your Different Beauty Products You Have Right Now.

Dude I can’t do that I have too many, I’ve been buying makeup for 7 years and I used to work next to a sephora

My makeup routine pre-rona was:

Sephora brand moisturizer

Milk Hydrogrip primer

Fenty Pro Filtr Hydrating Foundation

Maybelline Age Rewind Concealer

Anastasia Brow Definer

Glossier Cloud Paint

Fenty Sunstalkr Bronzer

Fenty Liquid Flyliner

Fenty Flypencil

Fenty Full Frontal Mascara

Fenty Glossbomb

It’s...an expensive routine.

87. Are You A Day Or Night Person?

Night to early morning.

88. List All Of Your Video Games On Your Phone, Console Etc.

I answered this one and I don’t want to reanswer it tbh ldkjfhds

89. Tell Me About A Dream That You Had And When It Happened.

I genuinely can’t remember any of my dreams right now. I remember a snippet of one where I was in a cave and I looked at the wall and I could see water running down it, reflecting in the torchlight but that’s literally it.

90. Favorite Soda Drink?

I’m a big pomegranate person, so Italian soda’s my go to.

91. What Sounds Are Your Favorite?

The sizzle of meat hitting a hot wok, rain, hail, thunder, the crunch of dry leaves. I also love the sound of Simone de Rochefort’s laugh. It’s so good.

92. Do You Wear Jeans Or Sweats More?

Jeans.

93. How Do You Look Right Now?

Shitty.

94. Name Something That Relaxes You.

Skyrim ldskjfhd

95. What Tattoo Do You Want?

I really want to get my family’s mon on my ribcage and my mom’s Japanese name somewhere. I don’t know how my pain tolerance is but if I can handle it, I’d want to get at least a partial sleeve.

96. Favorite YouTuber?

Polygon and Watcher.

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 5 years ago

Text

Price to be Paid - Chapter 10

The Rise of Mrs. Sadie Adler

Words: 4,156

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

AO3 Link

It had taken you and Arthur longer than you had hoped to arrive at camp, but you had to admit everything he said was true. The location was easily defendable on the lake, and the water was blue and sparkling in the evening sun. It was beautiful.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan! Ms. Moore! How did you two get on with those loans?” Dutch wandered over as you hitched your horse in the new area. Eclipse nibbled at the grass and made content noises as you took her heavy saddle off in the heat.

“Well enough, I suppose. Last one didn’t have the money but we got everything else. Here, for the camp,” Arthur handed the older man the cash. “Damn, Dutch. This humidity is awful.”

He laughed but agreed, and motioned you over to Grimshaw. In a softer tone Dutch asked Arthur how things went with you.

“Fine. She’s good on a horse and held her own. Soft spirit, but nearly took a man’s head of by swinging a gun at him. I’d say we start taking her out more and givin’ her responsibilities. She can hunt and fight just fine.” Dutch was happy to hear this and clapped Arthur’s shoulder.

“Mr. Morgan! Your tent, per usual, is near the ammunition and over on the right there. Next to Herr Strauss. Don’t make that face, I know how you feel about the man but space is limited. Miss Moore, you’re by that tree and the lake. We moved your stuff over but don’t know how you like it, so that bit is up to you.” You smiled back at Grimshaw, “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll go get all set up then.”

The three nodded and began a new conversation without you, so with your saddle in hand you walked to your new tent.

Lenny, Mary-Beth, and Abigail all called out hellos from across the camp at your return and you filled with happiness inside.

Grimshaw was right about your tent. Situated maybe twenty feet from the water, a cool breeze filtered through the open flaps and felt heavenly. Your few possessions were on your bed and you took your time decorating your new home to your liking before you had to get dinner.

Watching the water reminded you of the times your mother would take you down to Flat Iron Lake as a child. She taught you to swim and would take you for ice cream as a treat after an afternoon in the glowing sun.

She had been crossing your mind more and more lately and you didn’t know why. Cassandra Milton. The only woman to love that bastard father of yours.

The small heart shaped locket she had given you was in the pile on your bed and it opened to her photo. Smiling, you clasped the chain around your neck and tucked it behind your clean white shirt before leaving the tent. It always made you feel close to her when you squeezed it tightly in your hand.

Boxes were scattered around the uncompleted camp acting as chairs and you couldn’t complain as you took a seat and watched the sun finally slip down below the waterline for the day.

The stew Pearson made had some of what you had helped Charles hunt and to you it tasted divine. Of course, it wasn’t canned corn or poorly shot rabbit, so anything at this point was better than what you had eaten recently. Or maybe it was just your recent burst of happiness that flavored the meal to your liking.

Charles joined you after finishing up with Pearson to get his cooking area established.

“How did you and Arthur get on, YN?” He looked tired and ready to relax as he passed you a bottle of beer, and you clinked yours with his lightly.

“Good, feeling better about being here. More established. I really do want to help out, need to go hunting again anytime soon?”

Charles laughed and took a long drink. “No. Too soon from last time, but I’ll let you know. We don’t want to over hunt and have the animals go to waste. Have you seen the town nearby? Rhodes? I’m not familiar with it.”

You hadn’t. Most of your life was spent in Blackwater with few trips outside, although you had heard of many of the cities out east.

“No. Saw the sign on the way in. We ran into some Laymone Raiders last night though, hope they ain’t too common around here.” Out of habit you scanned the wooded area, but nothing was lurking. All your demons were tucked away quietly for the time being.

“Should be perfectly safe here, like I thought. Good land, clean water right there. I have no worries about this place. Feels good to not worry about folks here for a little while.”

You sighed heavily, tearing the label off your beer bottle. “Well Charles, I guess worryin’ is the price you have to pay when you have folks around that you care for.”

He raised his bottle again to yours, and you watched the lake move peacefully back and forth in a calming rhythm that would soon help you fall asleep at night.

Not a week into being at Clemens Point and Sadie Adler broke.

You were helping Abigail feed the chickens, carrying the bags back and forth to spread the food around their area. The morning had been soft so far with a fog rolling in from the lake. Warm rays of the sun were ready to burn it away as it had every morning previously, the heat already creeping across your shoulders and down your back.

“Say whatever you damn well please but I tell you, if I don’t get outta here soon, I’m gonna kill somebody.”

Abigail froze and you watched Arthur approach the widow as she pointed a sharp knife in Pearson’s direction. You can’t imagine the past five months have been easy on Sadie Adler, but she had hardly started living her life again. Coming to some meals, dressing, and putting in minimal help was all she was good for at Horseshoe Overlook. Of course, none of you blamed her. After the trip to Clemens Point her view seemed to change to be more future oriented and finally emerging out of her shell.

Pearson slammed the pot he was holding down on his wooden table and turned to face Mrs. Adler. “If you don’t stop hissing at me, I’m gonna kill you!” He was brandishing a knife sharpener to counter her weapon but it was doing little good.

“You come near me, sailor...and I will slice you up!”

“You put that knife down or you’re going to be missing a hand, lady.”

Arthur stood back a ways letting the two get things out of their system, but finally stepped in as the two got closer and closer. “What is wrong with you two?”

Sadie slammed the tip of the knife into the table with enough force to make it stand on its own, and replied, “I ain’t chopping vegetables for a living.” She stood with her hands on her hips and her shoulders moved with each breath she took.

“Oh, I’m sorry, madam,” Arthur sauntered over. “Are there not sufficient feathers in your pillow?”

Abigail clucked beside you at Arthur. She obviously sided with Sadie and watched the two go back and forth.

“Look, I ain’t lazy Mr. Morgan. I’ll work but not this. My husband and I, we shared the work. All of it. I was out in the fields, I can hunt, carry a knife or use a gun. But I tell you,” you and Abigail scooted closer to eavesdrop as Sadie’s voice lowered. The two of you didn’t even look like you were trying to do chores at this point. “You keep me here, I’ll skin this fat old coot and serve him for dinner!”

“Watch your damn mouth, you crazy goddamn fishwife!”

With a scream, Sadie threw herself at Pearson. Arthur was standing between the two but she struggled to get away and lay her hands on the camp cook. Pearson walked backwards with his hands up but had no fear of her catching him. Arthur threw Sadie back and put his hands between them.

“Enough! Both of you. Well, come with me then. You wanna head out there? Run with the men? So be it. But we do more than just hunting we’re hunted. And them things hunting us they got guns of their own.”

Sadie replied with a simple but resounding remark. “I ain’t afraid of dying.”

Her eyes showed this was absolutely true. Just because she was happy to be living didn’t mean a change in that plan would upset her by any means.

“Mrs. Marston! Ms. Moore! You two look...well, you look guilty of something. What in the hell are you doing with that chicken feed? It’s everywhere!”

You and Abigail had wandered over to the commotion and not even checked the feed in many minutes. The chickens were well outside their area, but well fed if nothing else on their new path through camp.

“Sorry, Arthur. We wanted to see what all the yelling was about,” Abigail spoke up. “You going into town? I need a few things, can you all grab it for me?”

“You don’t wanna come?”

She shrugged back. “Nah, I’ve got too much around here to do. But YN will go! She won’t say it but she’s antsier than anything to get out of camp for awhile.” She lightly shoved you in Arthur’s direction and took off back towards her tent with the two empty feed bags. When no one else was looking she winked over her shoulder at you.

Arthur checked with Pearson if he needed anything from town but all he had was a letter to be sent and a short grocery list. Both were tucked away into Arthur’s satchel and he directed you two over to the wagon to head out of camp, giving a hand up as the jump was too high in your long skirts. As Sadie was the reason you were leaving camp you let her sit in the front with Arthur, and you took the back with your knees tucked up under your chin. The autumn breeze was heavenly and you closed your eyes as the wagon rolled out.

Sadie and Arthur threw witty quips back and forth, testing the limits of their new bond. She was a smart woman who, now that she actually spoke, was someone you could learn a lot from. The few years Sadie had on you showed instantly. Swearing and shooting were not unfamiliar to her from her old life.

“Dear Aunt Cathy.”

The words pulled you out of your head and back to the preset. You had been admiring some clouds on the horizon, but turned and put your arms over the wood separating you and your companions at Sadie’s voice.

“That what I think it is?” you asked. Arthur looked in your direction and rolled his eyes, knowing he had lost. “Leave that poor fool alone then.”

“No,” you giggled. “Continue on, Mrs. Adler.”

Sadie cleared her throat and made a face that resembled Pearson. “I haven’t heard from you in some time, so I prayed to the Lord above that your health has not deteriorated further…blah, blah, blah, that’s boring. Oh! Listen to this. Since we last corresponded I have traveled widely, making no small name for myself. Before you ask, I am still yet to take a wife but I can assure you it’s not for the lack of suitors!”

The three of you laughed so hard Arthur careened the wagon off the path and narrowly avoided hitting a rock. Wiping tears from her eyes, Sadie flipped the letter over.

“What’s this? Return to Tacitus Kilgore.” Arthur went on to explain how Dutch wanted all of the gang’s mail to be sent to one fake name so they would never lose anything even if they traveled from town to town.

Thinking back on your home of Blackwater, you remembered dust. It was stuck between every brick in the road and then some. Rhodes was an entirely new level.

Before the wagon was even parked the dust permeated you. It was in your hair and on your skin and you hadn’t even moved yet. The beating sun only made it worse, and the lack of rain was obvious from the low levels of water in the buckets situated around town. Arthur parked near the entrance of the town and in the shade of the general store.

“So, what’s the plan, I shoot the shopkeeper while you -”

“No!” Arthur lunged at Sadie and swatted the gun out of her hands. It swung wildly for a moment and you dove down below the sight level in the back of the wagon. “You insane?”

“I thought we was outlaws!”

“Outlaws, not idiots. We rob fools that rob other people. These people, they’re just tryin’ get by.”

Sadie marched off to the grocer clearly disappointed she wasn’t going to be shooting anyone on their adventure. Arthur held his arms up and helped you down, his strong hands grabbing your waist and setting you gently on the ground.

“Jesus, that woman is something else.” he chuckled and guided you to the main street and off to the post office.

A train was arriving full of visitors who ogled the small town through their clean glass windows. All they saw was a main road with shops, trees, and lots and lots of dust. You could have complained about that damn dust all day long, but you had to keep your mouth shut otherwise half of it would end up in your stomach.

Arthur held the peeling green door to the station open for you to pass first. He wanted to go up to the teller alone so you wouldn't be seen, so you mosied around and admired the paintings up on the walls. Most were amateur and just of green landscapes, but one of the ocean caught your attention and your fingers traced the crashing waves on the small canvas. Seeing the ocean in person had always been a dream of yours. The lake was wonderful, sure, but to see the ocean? In person? You had always imagined how the blue water would stretch as far as you could see, and even further in every direction.

As soon as the letter was posted, Arthur walked over to join you. “You ready?” You nodded and followed him back outside, admiring the small garden of grass that surrounded a bell with a plaque laid down. You wondered what it commemorated but didn’t have time to stop, so you mentally added it to the list of things you wanted to see again.

No one was by the wagon so you continued down through the street. A butchers shop, a gunsmith, a saloon, and a few various other shops and buildings made up the whole area.

“Makes you feel like civilization ain’t out here yet. Blackwater was hell, but at least they knew how to pave a road.” The disdain in your voice was obvious and Arthur turned mockingly towards you.

“Why, Ms. Moore! You are a true city slicker. Talking about civilization and roads, makes it sound like you was born in an ivory tower with servants and butlers.”

A laugh burst from your chest at his sarcasm. “An ivory tower! That’s what you think of me. All I wish for was a little but less dust…” as you spoke you shook out your green skirt and a wave of that wretched stuff came off.

“Oh. I thought that was blue.” You didn’t answer him but stared daggers instead, making sure he got the message.

“Nah, I know you ain’t some uppity princess. Just takes awhile to learn how to fit in anywhere like we do, I guess. It’s been, what, five? Six months now? You’re doing just fine, Ms. Moore. I’ve been running with these fools for nearly twenty years, so I figure I can teach you a few things. Just takes time is all.” He smiled down at you, and your heart warmed in your chest.

He may be an outlaw, but something about Arthur Morgan had captured your attention over the past few months. There were rough edges to him, but that wasn’t it. More often than not his blue eyes were crinkling into some sort of a smile,whether sarcastic or serious, and he had a deep, rumbling laugh that was infectious to those in camp. You had seen him turn on a dime into someone ruthless and wild and be completely different if he needed to, but it was never aimed at anyone he cared about. And he was always writing in that journal of his which you would have given just about anything to peek into. The writer had attracted the reader, how poetic.

Someone was barking orders by the wagon and Arthur was suddenly on edge. The two of you neared, and saw Sadie berating the poor delivery boy as he loaded the crates into the back.

“Jesus, kid! My grandma has more strength than you! Lift up them crates.”

A new woman stood before you. Now in a bright yellow top, dark brown pants, suspenders, and a leather gun belt topped with a wide brim hat, Sadie had come into her own. The few minutes you left her alone had allowed her to blossom. And she looked damn fine.

Arthur whistled and walked around as Sadie showed off her new threads. “Damn, Sadie! Who woulda thought.”

“Here, YN. I grabbed you a few things as well.” She handed you a package and you stowed it on the wagon. The heat was enough now that you twisted your long hair up into a bun and used your hand to fan yourself.

“Any chance there’s a new hat in there, Mrs. Adler? I’m dying in this heat.”

Sadie nodded and motioned back towards the wagon. Arthur was impatiently already seated in the front and you climbed in the back again, eagerly ripping into your present.

The first item was blue, your blue. The shade that you wore all the time and loved, and it turned out to be a beautiful long skirt. Luckily the material was light so you could wear it often in the heat. Next Sadie had gotten you a few practical shirts, a bandanna, and at the bottom was your hat. It was more fashion oriented than hers with a rounded dome versus her flat one, but you could have cared less. It was a blessed relief to not have the sun on your face and Sadie flashed a full smile as you put it on and modeled for her.

Mrs. Adler drove the wagon home. It wasn’t as rushed as when Arthur drove for she constantly got distracted by things on the side of the road. She pointed out interesting people and funny buildings to you while Arthur lounged in his seat with his feet up.

They chatted easily, and it was the first time Mrs. Adler had really opened up. She actually joked about what happened in Colter with the O’Driscolls, and Arthur apologized and offered to find her a new harmonica to replace one she had lost years ago. It was clear you both had the same idea of what you wanted in this gang; to be equal. There was certainly differences between you and how you approached it, but it didn’t mean that people should take either of you any less seriously.

As the wagon rolled on, you laid your head on crossed arms and watched the scenery go by. Wild flowers were sprinkled across the fields clouds dotted the bright blue sky. It couldn’t have been a more beautiful country day if it tried.

A man rode up right next to you and hollered, startling all three of you. “Hey there! What are you folks up to?” He eyed the groceries in the back of the wagon, and gave you a one over that made your insides curl. Arthur sat at attention and you were suddenly aware that your guns were all back at camp.

Sadie called back, “Just heading home. Day in town leaves folks real tired.” She casually moved her inside hand to her hip where her new holster sat.

“You’re in Lemoyne Raider country. You need to pay a toll to pass through here.” The horses kept pace with the wagon and your heart started to beat faster.

Arthur called back lazily, ‘’No. I don’t think so. We ain’t pulling over for nobody.”

Sadie reached across to address the main Lemoyne Raider with the business end of her gun. “Hey! How’s about this?” And fired right into his belly.

Arthur reached back and shoved you down as he fired his pistol at the other rider, narrowly missing him as he leaned forward and galloped his horse. The wagon plowed forward across railroad tracks and Sadie grabbed the reins again, yelling at the horses to keep moving as fast as they could.

More riders approached from all sides. “Give me a gun!” Panic laced your voice, and Arthur began to protest but Sadie had no hesitation as she tossed you her rifle. The wagon was gaining speed again and rocking more but you steadied yourself against the boxes and took aim.

“There must be at least four back here!”

After one round, you knew where to aim. The gun felt heavy in your hands but it was a fight or flight response, and damn did you want to fight. Three riders fell as you shot them down, trying not to think too much about it, and you missed as the fourth finally raised his shotgun at you. His shot landed close, but struck the wall of the wagon.

You laughed maniacally and Sadie whooped in encouragement. Arthur had eliminated the riders ahead and swung himself into the back of the wagon to assist you.

“Where’d they all go?” He whipped around confused after hearing you yell.

“Only a few left. Got the other ones with Sadie’s rifle.” He looked over at you impressed, pride showing on his features. Then aimed and the last two riders were dead before they even hit the ground.

After a good few minutes of riding on, Sadie felt safe enough to pull the wagon over to the side of the road.

You put your hands on your knees to catch your breath while Sadie checked the supplies to see if anything had fallen off.

“Told you I could shoot a gun, Arthur.” He stood above you, eyes scanning the horizon to make sure you weren’t followed.

He chuckled lightly. “I don’t remember asking you to prove it, Ms. Moore. You alright there?”

“‘Course. Just the heat and all that excitement. This new hat is wonderful Sadie!” She waved back as you hollered over to her at the wagon.

“You’ve, uh, you’ve got something…” you reached up to Arthur’s face as you noticed the dirt on his cheek, gently wiping it away with the pad of your thumb. He didn’t flinch at the contact this time and it almost seemed like he leaned into your touch. You smiled up at him and let your hand fall back.

“You two ready or what?” Sadie was already at the reins, ready to leave. You pulled yourself up to the back of the wagon as Arthur climbed to the bench and directed the way back to Clemens Point.

“That’s a lot of mess to make near camp. Hope it don’t bring anyone sniffing around.” Arthur shifted in his seat, and the lake finally came into view.

You could see Charles on guard duty and decided to keep him company, so the pair let you jump off and you waved as they rode the rest of the way into camp.

“Don’t go ribbing Pearson about that letter, Sadie.”

“How dare you? I wouldn't dream of it. ‘I have traveled widely making no small name of myself…’” Arthur and Sadie rolled out of view as you approached Charles.

A wide smile and a handful of candies met you. You took the one happily, throwing the mint flavored snack into your mouth.

“Rhodes is just as awful as we feared, Charles. No hope of salvation anywhere!” He stared at your dramatics while you fanned yourself with the new hat from Sadie.

“How is Mrs. Adler?” He asked kindly.

“Better. I think. She seems to be moving in a new direction that’s good for her. Nearly killed us all, but saved our skins as well. I think she’s a complicated woman.”

Charles laughed at this. “Aren’t you all? Complicated, that is?”

You leaned back against a tree and answered, “Only in you don’t speak the language, Charles. Only if you don’t bother to try.”

#the price to be paid #price to be paid #chapter 10 #this was so much fun #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fanfic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #reader fanfic #fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur x reader #arthur morgan x reader #sadie adler #Charles Smith

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maybegrammy · 6 years ago

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G.C.F

Summary: Birthdays can be lonely.

Pairing: Female OC x Jungkook (kinda?)

Word Count: 1173

Warnings: mentions of loneliness, homesickness

Despite being independent, the move from your home country to Korea was extremely difficult. For the first month, it just felt like you were on vacation with a few small jobs here and there. After that first month, you realized what it meant to be truly independent. With no parents to provide you with food or any siblings to look after in the foreign country, you really felt like an adult.

And it sucked.

Having to pay for rent and utilities and still have enough to feed yourself became a lot more difficult when you had to do it all on your own. The moments you barely scraped by on rent suddenly made you appreciate everything your parents used to do for you, like not charge you rent.

As the months went on you began to get used to living on your own. You were also getting a hang on the culture of your new home. That was also something that made moving away difficult; getting used to the new social niceties. Of course every once in a while you would mess up but thankfully most strangers you came across were very understanding.

Despite these hard times there was someone that made it all worthwhile. Wanting something to wake you up for work, you decided coffee was your best bet. The line was long by the time you got the cafe and as you stood there you wondered if getting the warm drink was worth it. It took 10 minutes for you to reach the register and another 10 to get your drink.

After grabbing your coffee, you realized you were late for work and started walking quickly to the bus stop. However, the universe seemed bored enough to mess with you on that fine morning and you ran into someone, spilling your coffee all over yourself.

And that’s how you met Jungkook.

After your chance encounter, you learned that Jungkook was a film major who was also running late. Despite your impending tardiness Jungkook tried to buy you another coffee as an apology. Not wanting to be late, you gave him a suggestion.

“If you really want to buy me that coffee, go the cafe down the block around 8.”

With that you went your separate ways, your thoughts lingering on the handsome guy who would buy you coffee later.

Later that night, you both sat down at the cafe and talked until they closed. Since then, you and Jungkook grew to be good friends. He introduced you to his friends and even helped you with your Korean and in return you taught him some of your native language. As the friendship grew, so did other feelings that made your heart beat a little faster anytime he texted or called or even looked at you.

Months went by and your fondness grew but so did your loneliness. Even though having friends in your new home was great, you still missed your family. Calling and physically being together isn’t the same and some nights that distinction becomes too much.

It became especially hard during a certain time of year. You never tried to make a big deal about your birthday, satisfied with a simple ‘happy birthday’ but always grateful of any presents that came your way. Still, this year you realized you wanted more. You wanted your family.

You had lived in Korea for almost a year by the time your birthday came around. While you tried your best not to let your negative feelings get the best of you, Jungkook could tell you were upset about something. Him and the rest of the boys tried to make the day happier for you with presents and even a cake that Jimin was very proud to have made. You smiled and laughed and had a great time when they were around but they had to leave eventually, some going to work and others going to class.

Once they left, it was just you and Jungkook for a moment. “I have to go to class too but I’ll stop by later with your present.” With a small hug, he was gone.

Alone again, you decided to lay on the couch and maybe take a nap before Jungkook comes back.

***

You opened your eyes slightly dazed before recognizing the sound of knocking at your door. Jungkook stood on the other side bouncing on his feet lightly with a smile on his face. As you let him in, you didn’t notice the fond look he gave your sleepy state as he inhaled shakily.

You sat on your couch expecting him to follow only to stare confused as he stood by your T.V. He played with the ring on his finger as he began to talk, “I know that being away from your family is hard and being in a different country is even harder. So I...uh I wanted to give you something to make everything less...hard.”

By the end of his speech you were still confused but very touched that he put so much thought into his gift. He then pulled out a flash drive and walked over to the laptop in front of you to plug it in.

You laughed quietly,” Why were you standing over there if you have to show me the gift here?”

Jungkook didn’t answer, cheeks turning pink he thought to himself how he was scared that he might chicken out if he had to explain his gift so close to you.

Soft pop music played through your computer as you focused your attention on the video suddenly playing. The words ‘G.C.F. Presents’ filled the screen and you smiled at Jungkook, finding it cute how he added it even in a birthday present. Music plays alongside videos of you and the boys. Moments at your apartment and theirs’, even eating at various restaurants around town. However, most videos were of you and Jungkook alone: eating, hanging out, getting coffee, studying.

An overwhelming feeling of warmth and happiness filled your chest and tears gathered in your eyes. The video ended soon with an unexpected scene. You could see Jungkook filming out in the streets and the light shake of the camera told you he was jogging. You figured it was a moment he forgot to cut out but your breath caught and you felt your heart race when he crashed into someone.

Immediately recognizing the moment, the tears that were once welled finally overflowed and spilled down your cheeks. The last thing caught on the video were the words ,” Let me buy you a ne…”

Jungkook had softly faded out the scene before ending it with a simple ‘Happy Birthday’ on the screen. Turning to him, you noticed Jungkook’s bouncing leg and flushed face. He looked up for a moment and that moment was all you needed to jump on him. You threw your arms around his neck softly crying as you whispered ‘thank you’. He hugged you back fiercely with his face in your neck.

“Happy Birthday.”

***

Notes: yay i posted something! i hope you guys like it and im possibly thinking of doing a part two? what do you think? feel free to tell me anything you did or did not like! thanks again :)

#bts imagine #bts imagines #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #bts scenario #jungkook scenario

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seokpapi-blog · 7 years ago

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CHARCOAL (M) | kth

“The thing with Taehyung is that he use his hands a lot while drawing and get his fingers stained with charcoal, a lot. But when I come back home later, I love to see the same black prints all over my body.”

+Pairing: Taehyung x femlale MC ft Seokjin +Genre: College!AU, Artist!kth +Warnings: sexual assault victim +Note: GUYS! This is an adaptation of the book “Easy” by Tammara Webber. I decided to start like this because im not sure of my writing skill yet, so enjoy!

01 02 03 04

Y/N Son: ”I’ve attached an outline of my research paper. If you have a chance, could you make sure it’s not too broad, or too focused? I’m not sure how many economies outside the US to include. Also, the J-curve is a little confusing. I get that we can see it after the fact, but isn’t economics based on prediction, like the weather? I mean, who cares if we can only see what happened after the fact - if the weather guy can’t predict what’s going to happen tomorrow, he’s probably going to get fired, right?

I did the worksheets, too. Sorry I’m sending you so much at once, and on a Monday. I should have sent it earlier, but I went out with some friends Saturday and didn’t get it done.”

KIM T: “No problem. I’m either working, studying or in class practically every waking hour. I hardly notice what day it is. I hope you enjoyed your night out. I know I initially said I didn’t need details of your breakup (if that was rude, I didn’t mean it that way); it must have been bad to make you ditch class for two weeks. I can tell skipping is atypical for you.

I’ve attached a WSJ article that explains the J-curve better than the text. You’re exactly right, without the ability to predict, economics isn’t economics, it’s history. And while history has its place in the predictable probabilities of both economics and meteorology (clever analogy, btw), it’s hardly useful if you need to know whether or not to invest in foreign currency or bring your umbrella to school.”

I stared at the email, trying and failing to compare my tuto, Kim to Taehyung. They seemed as opposite as night and day, but I only knew half of each of them. I didn’t know much about Taehyung beyond his striking looks and his ability to beat the shit out of someone. During art history, I’d found myself wondering what would have happened in that interaction with Junmin, if Taehyung had been with me. I wondered if Junmin would have dared to look at me like that. To say what he’d said: Lookin’ good. The thought of Junmin’s cold eyes examining me made my stomach turn.

Feeling shallow for caring, I speculated again what Kim T might look like, and how much impact that might have on what I thought of him. His compliments made me stare at my laptop and smile. He’d said my ex was a moron, and now he seemed to be interested in our breakup. In me. That, or I was reading too much into it.

Y/N Son: “Hey KimT (It seems like Im cxchanging emails with some secret agent) We were together almost three years. I never saw it coming. I followed him here to school, instead of trying for a performing arts school. My orchestra teacher nearly had a stroke when I told him.

He pleaded with me to audition at Oberlin or Julliard, but I didn’t. I can’t blame anyone but myself. I trusted my future to my boyfriend, like an idiot. Now I’m stuck somewhere I’m not supposed to be. I don’t know if I just believed that much in him, or that little in myself. Either way, pretty fucking stupid, huh? So there’s my weepy little story.Thank you for the article.”

Kim T: “Not stupid. Overly trusting, maybe, but that reflects on his lack of trustworthiness, not on your intelligence. As for being somewhere you’re not supposed to be – maybe you’re here for a reason, or there is no reason. As a scientist, I lean toward the latter. Either way, you’re off the hook. You made a decision; now you make the best of it. That’s all you can do, right? On that note, I’m off to study for a statistical mechanics quiz. Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to prove scientifically that your ex isn’t worthy of you, and you’re exactly where you should be.”

When Elee came through the door, I was half-asleep and surrounded by conjugated Spanish verbs printed on colored index cards. I scooped most of them up just before she bounced onto the edge of my bed.

“So? Did you call him or text him? Did you use the stuff we went over? What did he say?”

I sighed. “Neither.”

She lay back on the bed, flinging her arms wide dramatically as I snatched up cards before she creased them. “You chickened out.”

I stared at the cards in my hand. Yo habré, tú habrás, él habrá, nosotros habremos… “Yeah, maybe.”

“Hmm. You know, this is better. Don’t call. Make him chase you.” She laughed at my creased brow.

I thought about Seokjin. About what kind of guy he was. He’d chased me in the beginning, but he didn’t have to try very hard to catch me. I was swept off my feet by him, swept along in his dreams and plans, because he’d made me part of them. Until a few weeks ago.

“Aw, shit, y/n. I know what you’re doing. Don’t think about him. I’m gonna make some cocoa. Get back to—” she sat up, picking up a card I’d not grabbed hastily enough, “—ugh, Spanish verbs.”

Wednesday, I got to the classroom before the 8:00 class let out. As soon as most of the students had filed out the door, I slipped in and took my seat, determined not to pay attention to Taehyung when he came in. To that end, I flipped through my index cards, though I was more than ready to ace the quiz in Spanish.

When Jungkook slid into his seat on my left, I didn’t pause in my review. I refused to be distracted from not paying attention to Taehyung’s seat, and whether or not he was in it.

“Hey, Y/N.” That wasn’t Jungkook’s voice.

The seats were bolted to the floor, with right-handed desktops. Taehyung leaned slightly over the side of Jungkook’s, pushing into the very margin of my space. My breath caught, and I focused on letting it out, appearing unaffected. “Oh, hi.”

He bit his lower lip once, briefly. “I guess you didn’t notice the note on your coffee cup.”

I glanced at my phone, sitting on the edge of my textbook. “I noticed.” I watched his reaction.

He smiled, his light eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, and I tried not to swoon visibly. “Mmm I see, so how ’bout you give me yours?”

I arched a brow at him. “Why? Do you need help in economics?”

He bit his lip in earnest that time, stifling a laugh. “Hardly. What makes you think that?”

I frowned. Could I be attracted to a guy who cared so little about doing well in class? “I guess it’s not my business.”

He leaned his chin into the palm of his hand. The tips of his fingers were tinged with gray, probably from drawing with that pencil sitting over his ear. “I appreciate your concern, but I want your number for reasons completely unrelated to economics.”

I picked up my phone and found his number, and sent him a text that said: Hi.

“Dude, you’re in my seat.” Jungkook’s tone was matter-of-fact, but unperturbed.

Taehyung’s phone vibrated in his hand, and he smiled as my text popped up, giving him my number. “Thanks.” He unfolded himself from the chair and addressed Jungkook. “Sorry, man.”

“No prob.” Jungkook was one of the most easygoing people I’d ever met. His attitude said slacker, but I’d gotten a look at the midterm crammed into his notebook—he’d made a high B, and for all his talk about skipping class and sleeping in, he’d yet to miss one. After Taehyung sauntered back to his seat, Jungkook leaned over the edge of his desktop, closer than Taehyung had. “So what was that about?” His eyebrows rocked up and down and I tried not to grin.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I replied, fluttering my lashes in my best Southern belle impersonation.

“Careful, little lady,” he drawled. “That fella seems a bit dangerous.” He shook a too-long curl out of his eyes, smiling. “Not that there’s anything wrong with a bit of danger.”

I congratulated myself for taking a singular peek over my shoulder, halfway through the fifty-minute class. Taehyung wasn’t looking at me, so I couldn’t help staring. Pencil in hand, he was sketching intently, first shading and then carefully smearing with his thumb. His hair fell around his face as he concentrated on his work, the lecture and the classroom disregarded as though he was alone in his room. I imagined him sitting on his bed, knees up, pad balanced on his thighs. I wondered what he was sketching. Or who.

He glanced up and caught my gaze. Held it.

His mouth pulled into that ghost of a smile and he stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, returning my stare. Glancing at the pad, he tapped the end of his pencil against it and sprawled back in his seat, lashes fanning down as he examined his work.

Dr. Park finished the chart he was free-handing onto the whiteboard, and the lecture resumed. Taehyung tucked the pencil over his ear and picked up a pen. Before shifting his attention to our professor, he smiled at me again, and a jolt of excitement shot through me.

At the end of class, a different girl than last week intercepted him on his way out the door, and I bolted without a backward look. My adrenaline kicked in, my body sensing my need to escape and giving wings to it.

I texted Elee that I’d be getting crap coffee in the cafeteria before my afternoon class instead of going by the Coffe. She texted back: GENIUS. I’ll meet you there. Sisters in solidarity and all that shit.

From the end of my bed, my laptop dinged an email alert, and an answering flutter came from my stomach. It was probably nothing—a notice about flu shots from the health center, or another note from one of my old high school friends, who were all “so devastated” that Seokjin and I were over (which they all figured out when he changed his Facebook relationship status—twenty minutes after he’d broken up with me).

I’d disabled my account immediately, and had yet to reinstate it. The thought of seeing his glib status updates and having photos of him pop up in my feed was demoralizing. Even if I hid him, we knew too many of the same people. There’d be no hiding his activities completely. I began getting sympathetic and condescending emails and texts the next day, so I was justifiably apprehensive whenever I checked my inbox.

Cringing, I pulled it up… and smiled.

Kim T: “Are you going to make it to the session tomorrow (Thursday)? In case you won’t, I’ve attached the worksheet I’m planning to go over. It’s new, separate stuff, and you needn’t be completely caught up to get it. (Speaking of, you should be all caught up within a week or so.)

PS – I’ve been thinking about that proof I spoke of last time – that you’re where you’re supposed to be. And it occurred to me, can you prove you’d be better off somewhere else? If you’d have left the state, your relationship would have ended still. Maybe you’d have even blamed yourself, not knowing that it was doomed because of him, either way. Instead, you’re here. You got dumped, skipped class, and met the best econ tutor at the university! Who knows, maybe I’ll make you fall in love with economics. (What’s your major, btw?)”

Y/N Son: “I’m a music education major. I hate that saying: "Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach." As a tutor, I know that’s BS. Still. I wanted to do. I imagined joining a symphony orchestra, or a progressive jazz band… And instead, I’m going to teach.

I won’t be at your session – I have lessons with my middle school boys tomorrow. (I think I’d be more impressive to them if I could fart the scales instead of plucking them on the bass.)

Sorry to inform you, but I plan to make it through this class and be done with econ. No reflection on your genius tutoring skills, I swear. Thank you for the worksheet. You’re too kind.”

Kim T: “If you want to do, then do. What’s stopping you?

So I’m kind, huh? Never heard that before. People usually think I’m a pretentious a-hole. I must admit, I tend to encourage that estimation. So please promise to keep your opinion to yourself. Reputations can be ruined so easily, you know. ;)

PS – Do the worksheet. Before Friday. I’m giving you a very serious look through this screen. DO THE WORKSHEET. If you have problems with any of the material, let me know.”

Y/N Son: “What’s stopping me? Well, I’ve blown the chance to go to a serious music school. And I’m stuck in a state that doesn’t always foster the arts (something I’ll probably spend my entire teaching career fighting). It seems impossible to go out now and “do.” I guess I should rethink that.

Your secret geniality is safe. My lips are sealed.

PS – I’m DOING the worksheet, but I’m giving you a very petulant look through my screen. Slave driver.”

I was grinning when I clicked send. Maybe I was playing an entirely different game of chase, and Taehyung and his infuriatingly enigmatic smile could take a flying leap. Elee and Mina could keep their make-him-chase-you advice and use it themselves, because I, apparently, sucked at it in real life. Through email, though… My happy expression slid away as I realized the stark truth—I was flirting with someone online. I had no idea what he looked like, or what type of person he was.

That wasn’t exactly true. I knew exactly what type of person he was, even though I’d never laid eyes on him. He was kind. And intelligent. And straightforward.

Of course, he hadn’t beaten a would-be rapist to a bloody pulp for me. Or made my insides melt when he put his hands on my waist. He probably didn’t have tattoos on his arms or deep brown eyes and a liquefying stare.

At 10:00 pm, my phone trilled a text alert.

Taehyung: Hi :)

Me: Hi :)

Taehyung: What’s up?

Me: Nothing. Homework.

Taehyung: I wanted to talk to you after class, but you disappeared.

Me: I have another class right after. One of those profs who stops talking, stares at you and waits until you get to your seat if you’re late.

Taehyung: I would probably just walk to my seat even slower. ;)

Taehyung: You should come by the Coffe Friday. It’s usually dead. Americano, on the house?

Me: Free coffee? I can’t pass that up. I’ll try to stop by. When do you work?

Taehyung: All afternoon. Til 5.

Me: K

Taehyung: See you Friday, Y/N.

Taehyung was fifteen minutes late to class on Friday, and we had a pop quiz first thing—which he missed. My first thought was how irresponsible it was to miss a quiz… and then I remembered that I missed the midterm. I couldn’t exactly point any fingers.

He slipped through the back door as Dr. Park walked up the center aisle, collecting quizzes. He took the stacks from the left row and then turned to the right, where Taehyung sat. “I need to see you after class,” he said, his voice low.

Inclining his head once, Taehyung pulled his text from his backpack and replied in the same subdued tone. “Yes, sir.”

I didn’t look back at him during the remainder of class, and when it was over, he packed up his backpack and walked down the outside aisle to the front. While waiting for Dr. Park to finish his conversation with another student, Taehyung’s eyes lifted and found me. His smile was as unreadable as always, scarcely there at all. But his gaze was focused, pegging me like a dart to a board.

Turning his attention to our professor, he broke the stare. I released the breath I’d not realized I was holding and escaped the classroom, undecided on whether or not to follow through with stopping by the Coffe that afternoon.

I considered the quiz I’d just aced, thanks to Kim’s insistence that I complete the worksheet he sent two nights ago. Doing that worksheet had been all sorts of help—on a quiz he must have known about. I didn’t think he’d crossed a line and told me something he shouldn’t have, but his toe was definitely on the line. For me. Swept along and invisible among thousands of other students on this enormous campus, I was struck by the fact that for some reason, he’d gone out of his way to help me. For some reason, I mattered to him.

Elee: Jongkyung and I are leaving soon. You gonna be ok this weekend? You’re going to the coffe this afternoon, RIGHT? If he asks you out, GO FOR IT HOE. Clear the palate! Don’t forget you’ll have the room to yourself all weekend.

Me: You kids have fun. I’ll be fine! I’ll keep you posted.

Elee: You’d better! I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. Or evening, depending on the level of hangover Sunday morning. lmao. TEXT ME LATER.

I’d forgotten Elee’s road trip with Jongkyung was this weekend. His brother was in a band, and they were playing at a festival tomorrow near Busan, so they had reservations at a bed and breakfast for the weekend. Elee told Mina and me about it last month while we waited to look at Mercury and Venus through a telescope during an evening astronomy lab.

The coffee smell invaded my senses before the Coffe came into view. Rounding the corner, my eyes went to the counter, where two employees stood talking. When I didn’t see Taehyung, I wondered if he’d switched shifts and forgot to text me.

There were only a handful of customers—one of whom was Dr. Park, reading the paper in the corner. I had nothing against my professor, but I didn’t exactly want him witnessing my attempts to flirt with the guy who skipped the quiz and got called out for it just this morning. I stood just behind a display of coffee mugs and travel cups.

Just as he had Monday, Taehyung pushed through the door to the back as my eyes brushed over it. My fingers and toes tingled at the sight of him. Underneath the green apron, he wore an orange long-sleeved tshirt, not the university-branded sweatshirt he’d worn this morning in class. His shirtsleeves were pushed past his elbows again, leaving the tattoos visible. I moved to the counter, my eyes skimming from his forearms to his face. He hadn’t seen me yet.

One of the girls at the register straightened. “Can I help you?” Her voice held a bite of annoyance, as though she was snapping her fingers to get my attention.

“I’ve got it, Eun ” Taehyung said, and she shrugged and returned to her conversation with her coworker, but they both eyed me with even more hostility than a moment before. “Hey, y/n.”

“Hi.”

He glanced toward the corner where Dr. Park sat. “What can I get for you?”

His tone wasn’t the tone of a guy who’d specifically asked me to come by. Maybe he was behaving circumspectly for his coworkers’ benefit.

“Um, a grande Americano, I guess.”

He grabbed the cup from the stack and made the drink. I tried to hand him my card, but he shook his head once. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”

His coworkers exchanged a look I pretended not to see.

I thanked him and retreated to the opposite side of the shop from Dr. Park, setting up my laptop to work on my econ project.

After an hour, I’d bookmarked a dozen sources on current international economic happenings, my coffee was gone, and Taehyung hadn’t come over once. I was expected at the high school for my weekly Friday afternoon bass lessons in half an hour. Shutting down my laptop, I turned to unplug the power cord from the wall.

“Ms. Son.” At Dr. Park’s unexpected greeting, I jumped, knocking over my thankfully-empty cup. “Oh! So sorry to have startled you!”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m a little jumpy—from, uh, the coffee.” And from thinking for one split second that you were Taehyung.

“I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Kim tells me you’re almost caught up, and making headway on the project. I’m glad to hear it.” He lowered his voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “My colleagues and I don’t actually want to fail anyone, you know. Our goal is to frighten—I mean encourage—the less, er, serious students to produce. Not that I believe you’re one of those.”

I returned his smile. “I understand.”

He straightened and cleared his throat. “Good, good. Well, on that note—have a productive weekend.” He chuckled at his joke and I managed to avoid rolling my eyes.

“Thank you, Dr. Park.”

He walked to the counter and spoke to Taehyung as I wound the power cord and stowed the laptop in my backpack. The conversation between them was earnest, and I was concerned when Dr. Park seemed to gesture toward me at least once. I wondered if our professor believed that Taehyung was one of those less serious students he could intimidate into becoming more dedicated. If so, I didn’t want to be used as some sort of example.

As I walked out, I looked over my shoulder, but Taehyung didn’t shift his gaze my way at all, and his expression was tense. His coworker, wiping down a counter a few feet away, smirked at me.

When I left the high school two hours later, I switched on my phone, endeavoring to look forward to a weekend alone while it powered up. Clearly, the trip to Coffe was a bust. Taehyung had been, if possible, even more puzzling and cagey than he was before.

While working on the project, I’d emailed Kim to thank him for sending the worksheet Wednesday, and for insisting that I do it. I hadn’t heard from him since Wednesday, but maybe he would email this afternoon or tonight. Maybe he’d be free this weekend, and we could finally meet.

I had one text from Elee that she and Jongkyung had arrived in Busan—along with lots of insinuation about what I could do with a room to myself, and Mom had texted to ask about my Ch’usok days plans. Seokjin and I had alternated spending the day at his house or mine the past three years. Somehow, this translated into confusion about whether or not I was coming home this year. When I texted her back that yes, breaking up with a guy generally means no more shared holidays, I expected an apology to follow. I should have known better.

Mom: Don’t be snippy. Your dad and I planned and paid for a trip to Jeju that weekend, because we thought you could stay at the Kim’s. I guess we’ll have to cancel.

Me: Go ahead and go. I’ll go home with Elee or something.

Mom: Ok. If you’re sure.

Me: I’m sure.

I tossed my phone in an empty cup-holder and drove back to campus, prepared to watch reality TV and work on economics all weekend.

When I got to my room, I saw that Taehyung had texted while I was driving back.

Taehyung: Sorry I didn’t say goodbye Me: It was awkward with Dr. Park there I guess. Taehyung: Yeah. Taehyung: So, I’d like to sketch you. Me: Oh? Taehyung: Yeah Me: Okay. Not, like, sans clothes or anything right? Taehyung: Haha no. Unless you’re up for that. Taehyung: Jk. Is tonight ok? Or tomorrow night? Me: Tonight is good. Taehyung: Cool. I can be there in a couple of hours. Me: Ok. Taehyung: What’s your room number? Me: 362. I’ll need to let you into the building. Taehyung: I can probably get in. I’ll text you if I can’t.

47 notes · View notes

ikonxmx · 8 years ago

Text

No Happy Endings | Wonho [M]

Warnings: Strong language and implications of sex.

word count: 3,718

“Hey, what ya’ reading today?” The librarian asks with a smile.

Part 1: The Thing About Keeping Schedules

All love novels are the same. Boy meets girl or boy knows girl, one of them has a crush on the other or they both have a crush on each other and are too chicken shit to admit it. Some bullshit struggle goes on in their life and they ultimately come to the conclusion that they love one another. Problem is, shit like that doesn’t happen in real life, and it gives hopeless romantics like you a false sense of security. “Everything will work out for the best. It’ll all turn out okay in the end.” BULLSHIT.

Truth is, happy ending only exist in novels and tv for a fucking reason. And anyone who’s ever known or experienced “love” can tell you it’s all fake. They won’t though. They’ll laugh in your face and let you go on believing that everything will be okay when it won’t. Happy endings don’t exist in the real world. You’ll find that out the hard way, though. Prince Charming isn’t real. And neither is love.

As a student, the library is your safe haven, somewhere you can go and be completely to yourself… well as to yourself as you can be with 300 other people walking around. It stays quiet, though. The librarian makes sure of that. She’s actually quite young if you had to guess you’d say early to mid-thirties. Late twenties if you wanted to stretch. She’s nice. One of the only people besides your next door neighbor to hold a conversation with you. Sure it was usually just a “Hey, what ya’ reading today,” followed by a short answer and some awkward eye contact, but it was a lot more than what most people were giving you these days.

Your mom blames it on what she likes to call your O.T.W, “Own Little World.” There, human interaction comes to you as naturally as it does the characters in your books. When it comes to real life, however, you’re stuck. There are no quotation marks to show you where dialogue begins and ends, and absolutely no way to know what’s going on in someone’s head. Real life talking to people sucks. And that’s just one of the many reasons you have filed in your “Why I Don’t Interact Like A Normal Human Being” folder.

You don’t mind for the most part. Sure you felt lonely every now and then but it’s only been so long since you moved out of your parent's house so you chalk it up to homesickness. And like mentioned before, you have a neighbor. She refuses to let you be too anti-social and drops by to check on you twice a week. It’d be weird to call her a friend, but she’s the closest thing you have to one right now so that’s exactly what you’ll call her.

Back to the library. You come every day at the same time. You’re a creature of habit, so you do pretty much everything at the same time every day. Generally. You don’t freak out if you’re 5 minutes behind schedule, but you like to keep everything in the same hour if you can. Up at 7 o’clock, showering at 7:15, breakfast at 7:30, newspaper and comic reading until 8, then you’d head to the library, making it there at around 8:45. On Monday’s and Wednesday’s, you have a 9:30 psych class so you’d study up until then and head to your 11:15 kinesiology course after psych was done. You’d get lunch when kinesiology was through and head directly to your 3:30 English course. By 5 o’clock you were back in the library finishing work for Tuesday and Thursday’s business technology and international relations classes. You’d read a few chapter of a book once you were through and head home at around 10. You more or less did the same thing on those days too.

Anyone looking from the outside would say your schedule is a mess. Your classes don’t really coincide with your major and you have a shit ton of coursework to complete on a regular basis. This was better for you, though. Staying busy kept you focused so you never really worried about little things like… your nonexistent social life! More than that, you took classes that piqued your interest. English is mandatory but psych and kinesiology were both things you’d gotten into because of books.

In “Seeing Past Pasts” the female protagonist was a psychologist studying a schizophrenic 6-year-old boy and his depressed 12-year-old sister. She ends up falling in love with their biological father although he doesn’t have custody of the two kids. The story was sweet and endearing. It made you more curious about psychology than anything else, though.

“Heal to Make Whole” was all about a physical therapist and her hidden relationship with a star athlete who tears his ACL during a game and has to be treated by her. They hate each other by the end of the physical therapy but somehow end up working things out to live happily ever after. It got you thinking, you should know how to take better care of your body. It’s the only one you’ve got and it won’t stay be in great shape unless you keep it in great shape. You’re generally active, though. A 45-minute walk from your apartment to the library every day made sure of that. Walks to and from classes could be counted as well since some of them were pretty far apart. Other than that you were pretty much clueless.

They’re pretty useless classes for an international business major. You enjoy them, though, and that’s all that matters.

“Hey, what ya’ reading today?” The librarian asks with a smile.

“Careful.” You answer and hold up the recently released book. It’s a story about an introverted college student and the guy who tries to break her from her shell.

“Forever the romantic.” The librarian teases.

You laugh and make your way toward your usual table at the back of the library. It’s 6 o'clock at night so it’s not very crowded. In fact, the place is kind of empty. Of course, you don’t mind. Less noise makes for a better reading environment.

You finish your classwork relatively quickly and move on to your book. It’s not as dramatic as most other love novels you read which you can appreciate. The simplistic approach was very risky. Some people love the drama involved in romance novels. You, however, are completely content with reading about the being domestic as fuck for the majority of the book.

You close your book and look down at your phone to see it reads 11 p.m. You look around and see that you’re the only person left and lights had begun to turn off. You sheepishly walk toward the exit. The librarian sees you and perks up.

“Finally finished?” She questions.

“Yeah,” You chuckled. “Sorry for keeping you here so late.”

“It’s no problem. Not like I had anything planned. The only thing waiting for me at home is Chinese takeout.” She smiles.

You laugh and wave your goodbyes.

Walking home late at night is dangerous. A 45-minute walk at 11 at night… now that’s deadly. Maybe you’re a bit of a daredevil? Anyway, you don’t think twice as you set off on foot instead of grabbing a cab. The walk is you time, and you time is necessary. School is stressful! This is the time you use to breathe and enjoy the simple things… like trees and shit.

You've never walked this late before, though. In fact, you'd have been home for about an hour on a regular basis. A two-hour difference can't add that much more danger. For some reason your exceptionally terrified, though. Every leaf crunch and snapping twig sound you’d usually find relaxing send an unpleasant shiver down your spine. Maybe it's because after you do it, you hear another set of feet doing the same. It started about three blocks back, and they've continued through every turn you've made… Maybe it's a coincidence and you're just headed the same way. But you're a reader, and as a result, your imagination runs wild. In your head, this person is following you. For what you're not sure, but you're positive it's nothing good.

You quicken your pace and make a small detour. The feet behind you seem to quicken too. So you make a mad dash. You're not sure where you're going at this point but you don't look back.

The door to some apartment complex opens and a girl rushes out. You don't think twice as you run into the open door only to crash into a hardened chest.

“Are you okay?” The stranger asks as he put his arms on your shoulders to steady you.

You nod slightly embarrassed and try to catch your breath.

“Are you sure? You seem a little out of breath.” He notes.

You look up at the stranger finally… the shirtless stranger. He's got blonde hair, and his kind worried eyes are looking directly at you.

“I was just…” you start but your mouth goes dry. He's gorgeous. You're not sure you've ever seen a more perfect human being.

“Just… what?”

You shake your head slightly trying to pull yourself together… What were you doing? Why are you in this stranger's arms instead of walking home? That's right, the stalker!

“Ahh.” You say snapping your fingers. The stranger looks at you confused and so you explain. “I heard footsteps. I thought someone was following me, so I ran.”

He nods and lets go of one of your shoulders to look from the glass walls into the street.

“I don't see anyone… you should be safe. I'll call you a cab just to be sure, though.” He says and pats your shoulders again.

You nod, still dazed by his attractiveness. It's not fair for one person to be so good looking.

“Shit” Hoseok cursed as he came back into his living room to see the girl he'd just finished sleeping with and one of his favorite t-shirts gone. He doesn't think twice as he rushes at the door after her. She couldn't have gone that far. It took him five minutes to pee and put back on his jeans. She was obviously quicker, though. He took the stairs, sure the elevator would take too long and ran toward the street entrance of the apartment building. He watches as she runs down the last flight of stairs and out of the door, and he quick on her trails. However, he wasn't paying attention and ran straight into a woman. He gripped her shoulders to steady her as she almost fell.

“Are you okay?” He asked quickly looking out if the glass complex and watching the woman disappear from view before turning his attention back to the one in front of him. The woman nodded slightly and kept her head down. That's when Hoseok noticed her breathing. It's what he sounds like after running for 30 minutes straight on a treadmill. “Are you sure? You seem a little out of breath.” He notes.

She finally looks into his eyes, her lips parting slightly in what seems like awe. Hoseok is touched but still worried. Had she hit her head against his chest that hard? He has a pretty solid chest. Maybe he should check for a concussion? He searches her eyes worriedly.

“I was just…” She started but stopped suddenly, and instead opted to stare at Hoseok more.

“Just… what?”

she shakes her head slightly but still stays silent as if she's lost her train of thought.

“Ahh.” She says snapping her fingers as if she's just had a Eureka moment. Hoseok looks at her expectantly, waiting for an explanation.“I heard footsteps. I thought someone was following me, so I ran.”

He nods and lets go of one of her shoulders to check the streets.

“I don't see anyone… you should be safe. I'll call you a cab just to be sure, though.” He says and pats her shoulders again.

He takes her hand and leads her outside. Flagging down a taxi is relatively easy. After making sure she's situated inside he heads over to the driver and hands him a few bills from his back pocket.

“Make sure she's safe.” He tells the driver and looks back at you to smile.

The smile you return is a bit awkward and you're dropping your head to break eye contact seconds later. Hoseok chuckles and backs away from the cab waving it goodbye.

He checks the street again for any sign of the girl he’d been with before heading back in. She's be long gone by now. What could she really do with a shirt anyway? He lets it go and shivers. He shouldn't have gone outside without a shirt on.

“Wake up.” A voice calls to Hoseok in his sleep. He grumbles a bit and turns away from the voice. 5 days have passed since the incident and he's still mourning the loss of his favorite shirt.

“Up,” the same voice calls again, this time right next to his ear. Hoseok scrunched his face and swats at the nuisance.

“Hey dumbass! Wake the fuck up.” A voice Hoseok recognizes as Kihyun calls. Seconds later he's being doused in very cold water.

Hoseok sputters awake and makes eye contact with a very amused Kihyun. Although he's still half asleep and his eyes haven't adjusted very well, Hoseok can see the smugness written all over Kihyun’s face.

“What the hell was that for?!” He questions angrily.

“You're in big trouble.” Minhyuk answers from beside him.

“Big trouble, how?”

“A dating scandal?! A freaking dating scandal?! Out of everything you could've done to get yourself into some shit… this takes the cake.” Hyungwon says as he paces the floor.

“I already said it's not true!” Hoseok defends himself.

“Then why the hell were you shirtless and hugging the girl? Why were you holding her hand, hmmm?” Hyungwon asks.

“Well, that's…” Hoseok says and scratches his head. If he told them he'd ran into the girl after chasing one of his conquests, they'd only give him more shit. Only one way out of this. “Hey, don't speak informally to me! I'm still your hyung!”

“He was sleeping with someone.” Changkyun sighs and shakes his head.

“No!” Hoseok yells. The boys look at him in disbelief. He sighs, “Okay, so I was.” They all groan and throw their hands up in defeat. “But no one knows that! They all think I'm dating this girl! We’ll just have her clear up the misunderstanding.”

“That'll only have people asking why you were really outside,” Kihyun says as he rubs his temples.

“A dating scandal is bad but having people find out you sleep with anything that walks is much worse,” Hyunwoo says.

“Hey!” Hoseok pouts. He doesn't sleep with anything that moves. Just the things with nice legs.

“You've got to date the girl,” Kihyun suggests.

“What? No! I don't want to date her!” Hoseok protests.

“Too bad! You should've thought about that before allowing pictures of you holding her hand to get taken.” Hyungwon yells.

“I don't even know her name! Or how to get in contact with her!” Hoseok says. He's a bit relieved that he doesn't know. He's not ready for a relationship. Let alone a public one.

“You'd better find out how.” Hyunwoo says glaring at the younger boy.

Hoseok drops his head. Once Hyunwoo gives a command it's pretty much law. Everyone should follow it. He sighs and searches the internet hoping someone has found anything on the woman.

To his luck, they've found a lot. Candid pictures of her have flooded the internet, “Wonho’s Secret Girlfriend” making up a majority of the titles.

He goes to the comments in hopes of seeing anything about your personal life. The top comment, like by more than 3,000 people reads:

“Wow! I didn't know she was dating an idol! She's a student at my university PLMU! We share a Psych class. She's nice but extremely quiet, and from what I've heard she spends most of her time in the library.”

Bingo.

“You're looking for?” The librarian asks Hoseok as she gives him a once over.

He nervously grips the bouquet of flowers in his hand tighter and swallows before reciting the name he'd found on the Internet.

“Who are you to her?”

“Ummm…” Hoseok starts, not really sure how to answer. “Her boyfriend?” He says but it comes out as more of a question.

The librarian’s eyes turn into slits as she glares at him disbelievingly. “Shouldn't her boyfriend know her class schedule?”

“She never told me… just that she's usually here.” Hoseok chuckles and gives his best smile trying to win over the woman

“I don't believe you.” She says bluntly making Hoseok’s smile drop. “And without a student ID, you'll have to wait outside the library.”

He silently curses the librarian before exiting. Knowing your schedule would've been a big help. He barely found your name, though, so he's thankful for what he can get. Hoseok stands for the majority of his waiting but after an hour he realizes you probably won't be back anytime soon and cops a squat.

Your international relations class ticked by. And people seemed to be staring at you for the majority of it. You'd seen the article so you knew why they were staring, but at the same time, it baffled you. Was the concept of a rumor foreign to them? The pictures were taken completely out of context and had you known he was an idol, you would've never spoken to him. Sure, forbidden love sounds interesting when you're reading about it, but to you, being in a secret relationship sounded as appealing as watching a 90-year-old man peel oranges with his bare hands for 6 hours.

Not to say that just talking to him would've instantly lead to a relationship… but you had thought about what dating the kind stranger would be like. Once the article had been released you'd berated yourself for entertaining the thought.

Your teacher finally dismisses the class. You're the first one from the door. Next stop: the library. A peaceful place where you could emerge yourself in a good book and avoid the gazes of curious onlookers. But as you come to the entrance you see it a bit crowded. Girls are gathered around trying to get a glimpse at whatever. Curiosity gets the better of you and you decide to take a peek as well. What you see makes your eyes turn into saucers. The stranger from Thursday night, or as you’d recently found out, Wonho of Monsta X.

He's smiling and happily interacting with his fans. The two of you make eye contact and his smile turns brighter. You find yourself smiling back. He rushes through the crowd of girls and comes to your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and ushers you into the library.

“How was class? You paid attention well right?” He asks loud enough for the people around you to hear. He quiets down once he's out of earshot.

“What ya’ reading today?” The librarian questions as you come into view. She looks at the arm draped around your shoulder and scowls at Wonho. He tauntingly sticks out his tongue.

“Something tells me I won't be reading today.” You sigh.

“Hold my hand as you speak, keep direct eye contact, and smile. Even when you're saying something mean. Just keep smiling” Hoseok whispers as he pulls out your chair and sits in the one opposite of you.

You don't say anything as he takes your hand in his and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles. “What the hell are you doing?” You ask with a forced smile.

“Play along.” He smiles back. “I confirmed our relationship this morning.”

“We aren't in a relationship.” You hiss the fake smile still plastered on your face.

“We are now. I can't have people knowing the real reason I was out.”

“And you couldn't have thought of literally any excuse? Seeing off a friend. Asking for help from maintenance. Hell, you could've said you were checking your mail.”

He goes quiet. The mail excuse was good and decently believable. Why couldn't he have thought of that? Why couldn't his members have thought of that?

“What's done is done know.” He says leaning toward you. “Dating me isn't so bad, right?”

He's cute but you refuse to acknowledge it at this point. You're furious. Why do you have to be dragged into his lie?

“6 months. That's all I need. Then we’ll break up and when people ask what happened I can say going public affected your private life negatively.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, please? I'll make it worth your while.” He says with a sly eyebrow wiggle.

“There is absolutely nothing you can say that will make me keep up with this charade for 6 months.”

Wonho’s smile brightens. “I'll pay you $10,000”

“Except for that.” You say smiling once again. “Wonho, right?”

He chuckles, “It’d be a bit weird for my girlfriend to call me by my stage name right? Hoseok. Shin Hoseok.”

You nod, “My name is-”

"I know your name." He smiles, "I'm gonna need to know your class schedule, though."

Part. 1 FIN

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. I think I’ll have a lot of fun writing this series so I hope you’ll support it. Feedback is always appreciated so please stop into the inbox and let me know how you’re feeling about it so far.

-AJ

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mrstevenbushus · 8 years ago

Text

Kitchen Process: The Holy Shit Edition

Yeah. That’s all I have to say about the 22 hours of counter-installation I did this past weekend. Holy. Shit.

Looking back on it, it’s funny to think that I was under the impression I was “really close” to being doing a week ago. (Ha.) I mean, I thought I had one cut straight cut left to do, trim the sink hole, join everything together, and that would be it. I was sure I’d have it done Saturday, with Sunday left for clean up.

That face says it all.

The awesome part about Saturday was that my mom came up to the farm to help out with odds and ends (and help me move pieces of counter around as needed) and it was SIXTY DEGREES OUT. In February. In MICHIGAN. (This is literally unheard of… as in it has never been this warm on that particular day in February in all of recorded history.)

That was such a blessing because not only was it just plain awesome to be outside, it also meant I could work on the counter right out on the porch instead of hauling all of the pieces in and out of the garage.

The chickens also thought this was an awesome arrangement.

So the first challenge of the weekend was joining two sections of board together to make one fifteen foot long section. The sink hole is roughly in the middle of that section, and I debated for a long time about either putting the seam behind the sink (where it would be less noticeable) or just down somewhere near the end of the counter where it would run the full width of the counter.

I decided on putting it behind the sink… and I’m still debating on whether or not that was the right call, but it is what it is.

So, first step, glue these together…

Except I decided not to use the exact right tool for this job–a biscuit joiner–even though I’d already purchased one and was sitting in its box in the back of my car.

I don’t… I mean… guys. I’ve been doing this shit for over a decade. I know how this goes, and it is always, always harder and more frustrating if 1.) you don’t have the right tools, 2.) you don’t have good quality tools that can handle the job, and 3.) you don’t take the time to learn how to use those tools. I know this, like, intrinsically, deep down in the depths of my soul, and yet sometimes I still fall into the trap of not wanting to pay the money for the tool, or not wanting to take the time to figure out how to use it correctly, and guess what? That shit goes horribly wrong every time.

Here’s the conversation that happened between me and my mom to illustrate how this went down.

11:10 AM

Me: Mom, what time is it too early for happy hour to start on the farm again?

Mom: Well, the farm has special rules but we should probably wait until afternoon?

11:58AM – After the first failed glue-up attempt

Mom: Is it afternoon yet?

Me: Holy shit, close enough.

I did eventually manage to get the board glued up (and held in place with some clamps and pocket screws while the glue dried) and, in the meantime, my mom and I rode around on the golf cart and staked some of the cages around the fruit trees that had blown over recently….

And then I got to work cutting out the template for the sink hole.

I’d already had enough success with a cobbled-together jig for the stove hole that I wasn’t super nervous about this, I just really wanted to do it right. (I actually started a template a week ago and it broke in half while I was cutting it, so this was my second attempt.)

I know some people cut out the paper template (or glue the template directly to the board with a photomount spray) but I usually have a roll of graphite paper on hand, and I find that it’s the best way to transfer a template pattern without ruining the original. (You can get it for under $10 on Amazon… so worth it.)

With the original template transferred on to the board I then had to add 3-1/8″ to accommodate my my router guard (which was easier on the straight lines than on the radius corners.) I used to make sarcastic comments back in elementary school math classes about “never actually using this in real life.” Ha. I hope all my old math teachers get some satisfaction out of this…

I used a scrap piece of plywood for the template and cut the two straight “sides” with the circular saw, and using a jigsaw for the curves. My very favorite part of this process was when I was debating how to cut the straight line that would end up behind the sink… the easiest thing would have been to continue cutting with the jigsaw, but I know from years of experience that won’t give me an actual straight line, so I said out loud to myself “I really should just make a plunge cut with the circular saw to do this right…” (Even though that’s not at all what I really wanted to do because I hate making plunge cuts with the circular saw.)

And my mom standing four feet behind me– doing something else entirely– was like, “WELL JUST DO IT THEN.”

I’m still laughing just typing that. It was exactly the thing I needed to hear, so I picked up the saw and got to it…

And ended up with a really good template.

The next step, of course, was clamping this to the 15′ piece of counter and then using the router to cut it out, but there were a lot of challenges that came into play with this step as well.

The first was placement of the template. I spent a lot of time like this…

Because unlike most sinks that will be dropped in or mounted below a sink hole after it’s cut, my gazillion pound cast iron sink is already in place on a base in the cabinet. And also, nothing in my 160 year old house is square, so measuring from the only wall that was a viable measuring-point (and, of course, not square) left me with more questions than confidence in where the template should be placed.

At some point I gave up measuring, re-measuring, drinking more, and measuring again, and just said, “fuck it, I’m cutting this hole.”

Like the stove top, I did multiple passes with the router (this time, four passes) and the cut turned out beautifully.

Of course, now I had a 15′ piece of butcher block with a bigass hole in it that was tenuously held together by some un-cured wood glue and a couple of undersized screws on a 5″ section of board.

In other words, moving this without breaking it was going to be a bitch.

I braced the shit out of both the joint and the board, and then my boyfriend came over and the three of us attempted to move the piece of counter in the kitchen.

And of course the glued seam cracked right before we got it in place. I was 50% livid and 50% resigned because I knew this was going to happen the moment I put that seam on the smallest section of wood behind the sink. But the real reason I was disappointed was because my sink hole was about 1/4″ off.

The cracked seam wasn’t so much of an issue as was the fact that I was potentially going to have to lift that 15′ piece of counter up again and move it outside to trim the hole to the right size AND join this board to shorter board that makes the “L” of the counter. I was sure that picking that piece up again would cause the screws that were in it (and unable to be removed in its current position) to crack and split the wood beyond repair.

I’d just like to take this time to point out that if I’d used the biscuit joiner that I currently owned and was sitting in its box in my car and had also just glued/clamped that section in my house and let it cure 24 hours, it would have been fine. All of my frustration at that point in time was due to 1.) not using the proper tool, and 2.) rushing the project and not taking the time to do things right.

Those are rookie mistakes, and there’s no excuse for them. I know better. But, you know, I’m still human… a particularly impatient one when I don’t have a working kitchen sink (which is weird because we all know I’m not in some huge rush to do my dishes, but still) and I did a lot of mental gymnastics on Saturday to convince myself that I didn’t have any other option but to make those less-than-stellar choices.

Listen, a lot of this stemmed from the fact that I am really bad at asking for help, and this was a particularly awkward situation where I really needed someone on-hand for 8-10 hours, but actually only really needed them for maybe 15 minutes of real work at random times throughout the day. Also I’m really easily distracted so when I’m doing a lot of measuring and holding numbers in my head– or just mentally planning out the next steps of a project– I can’t entertain or chat (or sometimes even talk civilly) to other people when I’m working. So basically I needed to ask someone to spend their whole day on the farm not talking to me except for the half a dozen random times I needed help lifting or moving a piece of counter? That’s awesome.

And it’s exactly what I asked my boyfriend to do the weekend prior (and he was super gracious about it) and then asked my mom to do Saturday (and she was also awesome about it), but come Saturday evening when I had an off-center sink hole, a cracked seam, and no help lined up for Sunday? I’m not going to claim that was one of my most shining moments as a human.

But…

I obsessed about it for the rest of the night, slept on it, woke up bright and early Sunday, and had nearly convinced myself to leave the off-center sink hole as is (I even posted about it to Facebook and very much appreciated all of the comments voting yea or nay on trying to fix it) and then I did a thing I almost never do mid-project and called my dad. This is how the conversation went:

Me: I don’t know if I should try to fix it or just leave it as is…

Dad: Fix it.

Me: …

Dad: I feel like you just want someone to give you permission not to fix it, but you need to do it.

Me: Okay, fair. But what if I fuck it up?

Dad: Honey… it’s already fucked up.

Ha. Dads. If I’d decided to call literally any other person in my life– any person– they would have told me to leave it, but I called my dad and I think it’s because subconsciously I wanted someone to call me on my shit and tell me to fix it. I mean, in the moment I was like 45 seconds away from an emotional breakdown, but after I talked to him I was like, well, yeah, that’s exactly what I needed to hear, and now how the fuck am I going to fix this by myself?

I had two choices: 1.) Use the router to make the sink hole bigger on one side, or 2.) Use the circular saw to trim a 1/4″ off the end of the counter and shift the whole thing over.

I decided the second option was going to be easier and less risky, but it was also going to create some complications for the 45-degree cuts I’d already made for the L shaped part of the counter. Also, I had to just mentally get over the fact that I didn’t want to cut in the kitchen and create a shit-ton of sawdust inside the house, because no way I was going to be able to move that 15′ counter out of the house by myself.

So I did what any reasonable person would do at a time like this, and taped my shopvac hose to my counters and basically cut the boards in place on top of my cabinets…

(I managed to get some plywood under them so I wasn’t cutting directly on top of the cabs.)

Which– holy shit– actually worked!

Then I had a little more confidence to tackle the issue with the 45’s I’d just created, and I’m telling you, I basically winged it. I was able to move the 6′ piece of counter in and out of the house, and I had to trim 3 sides of it to make it work. And, even then, the 45’s I’d cut (and recut) with the circular saw weren’t fitting tightly. But at this point I was actually super confident in my ability to cut and use the router “in place” without damaging anything, so I trimmed 1/16 of an inch off the angles to square everything up.

Earlier in the day my dad bragged about his router with the attached dust collection system and asked why mine didn’t have one (and the answer is because I stole this router from him ten years ago, obviously, so it’s way older than his) but his fancy newer model has nothing on my shopvac/painters tape dust collection system…

This is what happened…

Holy shit, you guys, do you see that fit?

There was maybe 1/16″ gap between those boards, where there’d been 1/4″ or more before. I know in my last post I said I didn’t love using the router to trim up those straight cuts, but I very much changed my mind.

Okay, so there was only really one big challenge left at this point. I needed to attach the 15′ piece of counter (with a cracked seam) to this shorter piece to make the L, and in my mind that had to be done from underneath, either with pocket screws or some temporary boards screwed in to brace the clamps with. But that would also mean somehow lifting up both sections of board and then attaching them and then putting them back in place 1.) by myself, and 2.) without breaking anything.

And then I realized I was being an idiot.

Well, not as big of an idiot as I’d been about other things in this process, but I was stuck on this idea that I had to attach the boards from underneath. Just like earlier in the day I was stuck on the idea that I had to move the counters out of the house to cut them.

Those are actually not real obstacles.

This time, I’m happy to say, I learned my lesson. I broke out my newest tool–the biscuit joiner– and made some practice cuts.

Then I made the actual cuts in my two counter pieces, glued them together, and…

I screwed two boards right into the fucking top of those things to clamp it together.

Yeah, you might be horrified by that (I kind of was) but I realized that the only thing keeping me from getting the counters finished was four tiny screw holes that could easily be filled with some wood filler. So I screwed those bitches in and then, using another tip from my dad, and just emptied some of the sawdust out of the sander I’d been using on the counters…

And mixed it in with with the wood glue that was compressed out of the seam, to make my own wood filler.

Which worked fucking beautifully. I also used it on the screw holes once I removed those blocks for clamping and on the seam behind the sink.

I also drilled the holes for the faucet…

(That’s a new 1-3/8″ forstner bit I bought specifically for this job, and it worked beautifully.)

And caulked along the sink…

And then, then, late Sunday night, after a 14 hour day working by myself on these counters, I finally put the first coat of oil on them and…

HOLY. SHIT.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

Remember what it used to look like?

I’ve been continuing to oil the counters every night this week, and it’s just now starting to look like a functional kitchen again…

Still pretty far from being done, but it’s looking just a little different than it did on the day I bought this place five years ago.

I’m really happy about all the decisions I’ve made so far, from removing the pantry and wall oven, to painting everything white, extending the bar area another foot, and adding that little bookshelf. And definitely– even though they were a pain in the ass to install– those beautiful walnut counters.

It certainly wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s definitely the most difficult thing I’ve done in a while. And the challenge of it reminded me of things I might have been taking for granted, like how to do things correctly (don’t rush and always use the right tools), and what great advice both of my parents give when I’m least expecting it (and definitely don’t think I’m asking for it), and, frankly, that there’s always a way to solve the problem. Sometimes you have to be willing to modify, adjust expectations, cover your kitchen in sawdust, and drill right into the top of that beautiful fucking counter, but, by god, you can do the damn thing.

If nothing else, this counter will always be a beautiful reminder of that.

And now, I need to go sleep for a week and let all of my muscles heal. Because, holy shit.

Article reference Kitchen Process: The Holy Shit Edition

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