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unholyhelbig · 11 months ago

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Would love some Kate Bishop angst

Title: Past Tense

Ship: Female!Reader x Kate Bishop

Wordcount: 4027

Summary: Kate Bishop returns to her hometown unexpectedly following some bad news. She's shocked when she runs into you and struggles to grapple with her past choices.

Warnings: Funerals, hurt/comfort, drinking, work injury/ burns, spelling mistakes and grammar issues (I'm sure)

[A/n: Hello! Just a little disclaimer, this is probably going to be the last thing I can publish for the rest of the month. I've got a massive work project, I move this coming weekend, and it's my birthday at the end of the month so my time is quite limited. But things will pick up again next month]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

Day had barely broken over the horizon, but the world around you was impossible to ignore. There had been snow the night before, something that everyone believed was too cold to be possible. A thin layer of ice had encrusted each car before the soft, powdery type had built up on windshields and culminated under tires.

Large, wet flakes swirled around you and despite the gloves that clung to your skin, they didn’t do much for the numbness in your fingers as you fumbled with the keys to the coffee shop. Moisture had wicked through the fabric, and you hastily took them off before flicking on the house lights.

It was just past 5am and the usual crowd of early risers were soon to arrive. You made quick work of starting all the machines, the cooling cases and the manual grinder. Your baker had been in earlier, filling the displays with various muffins, baked goods, and sweets. A smooth cinnamon scent filled the air and warmed you all over.

“Son of a bitch!” the muffled exclamation formed a smile against your lips.

MJ was bundled up in a sweatshirt, a flannel, and a heavy winter coat over that. Her boots were caked in dry snow. There was a deep red blush against her nose and her cheeks that accompanied her scowl.

“Language, there are children present.”

“We’re the same age!” Peter protested as he pulled himself through the back door. He was dressed in less layers but sported the same winter complexion. He shook the large flakes of snow from his sweater, mumbling “Son of a bitch.”

It was cold enough to warrant you closing the shop. Most of the schools and the businesses in town had called for a snow day, something that didn’t happen often in Connecticut. Frigid temperatures were expected. Below freezing was a way of life and the world didn’t stop craving warm coffee to thaw them out.

This fact was proven when you flipped the open sign and the typical crowd of tired eyes started to line up at the counter. Peter typically had too much energy, so MJ took up the register while her counterpart flitted around and filled the orders. Most were to-go.

You’d known these people for years. They’d come in with a habit that was unmatched by the weather and the any other obstacles thrown at them. Before you opened up ‘The Grindhouse’ you’d gone to high school with them.

Through all the proms, and the homecomings, and the house parties that left you vomiting in the yard amongst their parents’ flowerbeds. Since then, you’d grown up and couldn’t stomach more than a few shots or two glasses of wine, tops.

They’d grown up too, those who had stuck around town. They had families and businesses much like yours. You had homeroom with the accountant that had helped you hedge your money in the correct places, and you made the same bacon, egg, and cheese English muffin for the star football player that blew out his knee senior year.

“Welcome to Grindhouse,” you said distractedly at the sound of the bell above the door, working on clearing the fallen grounds from under the espresso machine. The rag was damp and the floor was already coated in little brown specs that needed to be swept up during a lull.

“What can I get started for you?” MJ asked in her usual cadence.

“Just a plain black coffee, please.”

Your body froze at the sound of the voice, hair falling into the gaze that you refused to lift. There was a strange mix of emotions in the pit of your stomach. That voice, with it’s familiar rasp was one you hadn’t heard for years. Nearly a decade. But it couldn’t be her, could it?

She’d left for New York right after high school. The last you heard, she’d become a doctor. An unrivaled cardiothoracic surgeon that flitted around the world wherever she was needed. There was no reason for her to be back in this small, freezing, end-of-the-earth town.

“That’ll be 2.25, we have cream and sugar on the far wall, but if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.”

It was her. It was most definitely her. There was a crispness to her voice that you’d recognize anywhere. The last you remembered; it was whispered with a quickness that rivaled her hands. Her hands were everywhere. They were warm and calloused and gentle.

There was a sudden bubbling heat against the side of your hand. You hissed through your teeth and pulled back from the espresso machine. There was a large bubbling welt on your skin and a string of curses ready at your lips.

“Jesus, y/n are you alright?” Peter was at your side in a moment with a wet, clean cloth that he had run under cold water. “Do you need the burn kit?”

“No, no. I’ll be alright. Thanks Pete”

He was so attentive and clocked you with a worried stare but you reassured him with the squeeze of his shoulder with your good hand. If you were going to fly under the radar before, it would be impossible now.

You glanced over the counter, pressing the cloth even closer. Your suspicions had been confirmed by the tepid gray stare that met yours. Shock simmered behind Kate Bishops gaze, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

Suddenly, you felt dizzy. She looked a bit older in the face, more experienced. There was life there, a form of living that had lowered her shoulders and sealed her lips. The Kate you knew was a bumbling mess- but med school had effectively changed that.

“y/n,” She regarded you.

“Hi, Katie.”

That lopsided, sloppy grin was still the same. It reached her eyes and brightened them. You cradled your hand and reveled in the silence. Peter and MJ had frozen in place, flicking their eyes from you and then back to her.

“Want me to take a look at that hand?”

“What are you doing back in town?”

The two of you spoke at the same time and dissolved into nervous laughter. You shook your head. “I thought you were a surgeon?”

“I know how to treat a burn, y/n, don’t insult me.”

You often prided yourself on your strong will. If you had a weak one, it would have been impossible to build this coffee shop up from the rubble that it once was. Kate Bishop, Doctor Kate Bishop, had a way of melting your resolve.

Peter shoved the small plastic first aide kit into your hands and shoved you forward. There was no choice to hide your stumble other than a confident stride towards her. She led you to one of the tables that spanned the windows at the storefront. They were lined with frost, a biting cold fighting to get its way in.

Kate had about a half-inch on you and radiated a type of warmth that was unmatched. When she grabbed your sleeve and dragged you to a sitting position right across from her, you were practically putty in her hands.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you.” She spoke without looking at you, unlatching the kit and pulling on the blue latex gloves with practiced ease. She couldn’t see the look of shock on your face. “This place is beautiful. I remember when it was that pizza place.”

“Ah, pizzapocalypse. Who would have thought that a combination shooting range and Italian restaurant would fail?”

Kate chuckled and tenderly pulled your hand closer. Her touch was barely a whisper against your skin, strands of black hair falling into her eyes. She examined the angry red mark. It had already started to blister. The espresso machine was kept at unbelievable levels of heat.

She grabbed one of the wrapped applicators, using her teeth to tear away at the wax paper. Kate squeezed a small dollop of burn cream onto the end. You hated the cloudy clearness of the substance.

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you too, you know?”

“Have you? This might sting a little bit. Do you want a countdown?”

“No, just do it I’m a brave- Fuck!” She’d already started, and you gave her a vicious glare. She shrugged with that infuriatingly perfect grin of hers. “I thought you were in New Zealand for some medical internship.”

“New Hampshire, actually. Not as exciting, I know. It was going well, but Eleanor died.”

There was a tightness to her voice. Typically, you looked away from anything involving wound care. If you were to get a shot, you’d stare at a small spot on the wall that interested you. Drawing blood was more of the same, it was just harder to ignore the needle in your arm.

Kate was working hard at the bandage in her hand and finally pulled it apart. Despite the frustration etched into her features, she applied it with a certain level of care. You didn’t’ say anything. Your hand was throbbing uncomfortably.

“She was old, we knew it was coming and pancreatic cancer, well, it’s a bitch by the end and Susan asked me to fly in for the funeral. How could I say no to that? Flying in for my mothers funeral when I was too busy working to witness her descent?”

“Katie,” You breathed out.

“That should be healed up in a few days. Make sure you change out the bandage.”

You couldn’t’ get a word in edgewise before she started to shove the contents of the case back into their proper places. The chair made a horrible scraping sound that you felt in your teeth. Kate grasped her coffee, colder than it was a few moments ago.

“Thank you for… this. I’m sure it’s delicious.” She had her hand on the door. Her quickness was unmatched. Both in and out of the OR, from what you had read. But she paused, looking at you for a moment. “I’m proud of you, y/n. This place is great. Really.”

Kate had vanished into the whiteness of the blistering day. You watched her navigate the snow with ease. Eleanor had died. How could you live in such a small town and not have heard about the woman’s passing?

The Bishop family was always a private bunch, and with Kate moving right after high school graduation, you hadn’t any reason to go past those wrought iron gates. Kate’s older sister would stop by for a hot drink once every other month or so, but you saw her coming from a mile away and selfishly hid in the back.

Eleanor had died.

There was a softness to her that you remembered fondly, a memory of Kate and you as children in the heat of summer. You’d been stung by a wasp and cried and cried until Eleanor rushed into the yard and scooped you into her arms.

Much like Kate had just done with her soft ministrations, she fixed you right up by applying a mix of warm water and baking soda. An old family remedy, she said. The venom had stopped screaming and the tears eventually stopped for both you and Kate.

Eleanor was a kind, if not private, woman. One that you thought of daily when you clocked the photo of High School Graduation on the dusty bookshelves in your living room. Your own mother hadn’t attended, but Eleanor was right there. She was right there.

“Who’s the girl?” MJ drawled out, leaning heavily on her hands, a goofy look on her face. Peter was next to her, doing the same, both eyebrows raised.

“Kate… She” You picked up the plastic first aide kit. The two of you had a habit of not sitting still and it was better to move to replace the supplies then let them sit out here. Besides, a customer could walk in at any moment. “We were engaged.”

Peter shot up “What?”

“It was a long time ago, it’s not important.”

“You were engaged, I think that’s important. How old are you?”

“First, rude, second; old enough. And really, guys it’s not a big deal. Both of us moved on. Life happened.”

They exchanged a look that, in the past, had never meant anything good. MJ had her arms crossed over her chest and Peter leaned heavily on a broom he had grabbed, hugging it lose to his chest. You rolled your eyes, attempting to ignore them both was impossible in a place this retrospectively small.

“I don’t know, boss. The way she was looking at you… maybe neither of you really moved on.”

“I write your paychecks; you understand that right?” You turned to face them. “Kate and I are done. We have been for a long time. She made that very clear when she gave the ring back and I refuse to push the matter.”

It was collecting dust on your bookshelf next to the photo of your graduation. It was a small emerald, green box that you hadn’t opened since you resituated the diamond ring. It had been stupid to propose, a last-ditch effort to get Kate to stay. She’d said yes. And then she said no.

The baker’s old Subaru wouldn’t start because of the bitter cold. It sounded like an old wife’s tale that made you chuckle to yourself while reading the text that popped across your screen.

Before you had hired him for the long nights, you’d done the baking yourself and it wasn’t a horrible chore. You’d just have to down some caffeine and slam it out; trays filled with mini cakes, with quiches, donuts and cheese tarts. It was like a methodical science project with the bonus of eating the food that didn’t look edible.

It was midnight by the time you’d pulled the first couple trays from the large industrial oven and exhaustion was starting to bay its head. You weighed the option of going home and just spreading out the pastries in the case.

All thoughts of sleep left your mind when a rapid banging filled the store. The front glass doors were being tugged upon. And while you were more than willing to die in this coffee shop, being robbed was not the way you wanted to go. There was less than three hundred dollars in the register.

You grasped at the broom, your hands covered in flower and caked on the bandage that was applied earlier. Another round of bangs as you tried to stay low and reach for the cordless phone. There was a silhouette outlined by the gray white of the snow.

Doctor Kate Bishop.

She’d given up on her breaking and entering and pressed her forehead against the glass, her breath fogging it up. It was hard to tell, but you were sure her eyes were clenched shut. There was a brown paper bag in one hand that looked suspiciously like a large bottle of alcohol.

Your grip was tight on the broom, even as you felt confident, and a little sad, about opening the door. Kate fell forward and a blast of cold enveloped you. She made a small noise at the back of her throat, regaining her posture.

“Were you going to sweep me to death?” Kate asked, “I brought whiskey.”

“Here I thought you weren’t going to come back here with the way you ran out earlier, and now you arrive with gifts?”

It was a low blow, but she had shrugged her shoulders with her goofy grin and snow in her messy hair. “Come drink with me, just for a little bit in our old spot. Don’t make me play the dead mom card.”

Saying no to Kate had always been hard for you. It had been hard when you were children and she dared you to jump from high places, always stopping you by the collar of your shirt before either of you got hurt. And it was especially hard to say no to Kate in your teens when she would kiss hot trails against your throat, marking them with bruises. Not that you were rushing to deny her.

“Really?” You asked, “Aren’t we a little old to be caught sneaking booze in the gym?”

Both of you knew for a fact that the side doors leading into the school would always be open. There were no alarms, or flood lights, because it was a small town and nothing bad ever happens in a small town.

She jutted out her bottom lip into a pout “Y/n, my mom died.”

“Okay, alright. Let me lock up.”

Kate stayed quiet on the three-block walk to the school. It was shrouded in darkness, an inky black despite the swirling gray of the night sky. Your high school had been the largest in the county; two floors filled with classrooms. You’d stuck to the same ones and Kate was the life of the party wherever she went, the bright spot in an otherwise dingy room.

The bottle of alcohol dangled by her side as your footfalls crunched over ice and an ugly brown slush of snow. It felt normal, almost, walking with her. Being with her. Staying in town was a brave choice after being dumped and equivocally left at the alter. You had powered through the looks and the whispered accusations. But some part of you was relieved she’d chosen this interaction to take place in the middle of the night.

When you’d gotten to the double doors of the large gymnasium, Kate’s boot slipped on a particularly nasty spot of ice. Instinctively you grasped her arm and righted her. She thanked you silently before pushing into the warmth of the space. The motion censor lights flicked on and you squinted against them.

“They built a new one, you know? A gym. I think they still use this for craft fairs. Fundraisers. But all the big stuff is off site in this state-of-the-art center.”

Kate blew out a breath, shaking her head. “Remember when Tommy Shepard broke your nose with a basketball?”

“Yeah, I do. I also remember sneezing right after and spraying him in blood. Everyone else was grossed out except for you.”

Kate dropped onto the large eagle in the center of the floor. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, and the bottle was idling between them. You let out a small groan as you joined her. Neither of you had ever been bold enough to inebriate yourselves in the crest. Instead, you’d hide behind the fold-out bleachers that were pushed against the walls, but this would do.

“That stupid EMT wouldn’t let me get on the ambulance with you.” The seal on the bottle cracked viciously, much like your nose, as she unscrewed the cap.

“And I told you I didn’t need to go the hospital. I think I was a liability, though.”

Kate laughed, taking a deep gulp from the bottle. It hit the back of her throat and she hissed in response before thrusting the whiskey your way. You took a smaller sip, let it coat your tongue and burn your stomach.

The mood had stilled, and she took another swallow before setting the bottle between the both of you like a vice or a buffer. You couldn’t decide what.

“Eleanor had very specific instructions in her will. She… shit, she planned her whole funeral out before she died in her morbid meticulousness. She picked white lilies, and a beautiful black casket. She already had a plot of land picked out in her family plot. Music picked out. A fucking guest list.”

You fought the urge to reach out and comfort her. So, you grabbed the bottle instead and gulped down a bigger heaping than before. The amber liquid was dipping down behind the black wrapper.

“The only thing she didn’t do was write her eulogy. No, she left that up to me as one last fuck you because that’s how she operates. She didn’t’ ask Susan to write it, or my dad. She asked me because I’m the one that left home. I’m the one that left her.”

The worst thing you could do was agree with Kate Bishops dead mother. And you didn’t, really. You’d always been happy for Kate. This town was too small for her and the lives that she saved were plentiful. But some selfish part of you understood where Eleanor was coming from.

You were possibly the worst person she could go to with this issue and by the frown on her face, she knew it too. For the longest time, you were there for each other. And if Kate had called out of the blue and asked you to go to New Zealand or New Hampshire, or whatever; you would go.

She’d do the same, you were sure. One call, one letter and she’d be here. But neither of you were brave enough to reach out and heal the wound that festered between you. You pulled your knees up to your chest, rested your chin against them with a quiet breath.

“Maybe you don’t need to write anything. Maybe you can just… say how you feel.”

“Yes, because that has worked out so well for me in the past.”

“Fair point, but she was your mother, not a fling. Even if you don’t have a script planned out, it’s worth just feeling the moment. No matter how shitty that moment is.”

Kate inhaled and held that breath in her chest for a few seconds before pushing it out. Her eyes searched you in a probing way that made your skin prickle. Blush started to claw its way up your throat. You’d blame that on the alcohol, you always were a light weight and it showed in your complexion.

“Is that what you think you were?” her voice was a low and raspy whisper “a fling?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You never say anything you don’t mean. All you’ve ever done is calculated and well thought out. You’ve always had a plan.” She looked down at the frayed edges of her jeans, playing with the strings to avoid looking at you. “You were my everything.”

Your voice was a quiet murmur. “Katie,”

She reached out, her warm hand wrapped around your wrist in a tender display of affection. Her eyes met yours and it was the longest the two of you had stared at one another without breaking eye contact. Your stomach was a pit of nerves and heat.

“That scared me when we were young. It fucking scared me out of my mind how content I was with you. I was ready to risk everything, to settle down in a small house and wake up every single morning next to you.” She drew in a sharp and shuddering breath “But we were young, and I hadn’t lived life and that scared me even more.”

“I know, Kate, I know. I shouldn’t have proposed, and I certainly shouldn’t have put either of us in that position. You were right to turn me down. You were right to move on and fight for the future that you deserve.”

Kate sniffed, using her free hand to wipe away the few crystalline tears that dripped across her cheeks. You found yourself pulling her close, letting her sob into the crook of your neck as you held her, your arm wrapped around her center to stabilize her.

Things were boiling over and the tension that had been weighing on her shoulders since she’d first shown up in town started to slowly drain. She missed her mother, she missed you, and that wasn’t something you were willing to process on the crest of the school’s gymnasium.

Kate’s fingers were curled into the fabric of your shirt, and eventually, she settled. Her nose was cold against your pulse point and the bottle of whiskey had been long forgotten. As self-centered as it was, you wished you could hold her forever. Feel her touch on yours for something other than a reminisced sadness.

“If you asked again,” Kate mumbled into the collar of your shirt “If you asked me again, I would say yes.”

“I know, Katie. I know.”

#Kate Bishop #Kate Bishop x reader #Kate Bishop x y/n #Kate Bishop x you #Kate bishop x reader #Hawkeye #Hawkeye fanfiction #Marvel #Marvel Fanfiction #hurt/comfort #Ask #I promise Kate Bishop actually has a sister #Susan Bishop

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husbandhoshi · 1 year ago

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Congrats on 3k!! You deserve it sooo much💌

If you have the time (and only if you have the time!) I would like to request a sort of a short bullet point fic. Or more so just your thoughts on the following: moving in with seventeen. Who is the one that labels every box? Who will live out of moving boxes for the next year. And yeah, just overall the vibes of new beginnings and promises😶‍🌫️

Pls only do write something if any of this inspires anything, if not pls don't feel burdened to write anyway!

I love your writing, so once again: congrats on the succes💗

seungcheol thinks it's one huge adventure. yes, he will be the person lifting the stupidly heavy boxes at the store. yes, he will make it a competition to build furniture as fast as possible (and race to take it all apart when you discover the desk legs are all different lengths because someone thought he could figure it out without the manual). even among the graveyard of boxes and bubble wrap and those huge styrofoam slabs he keeps chasing you with, seungcheol is happiest to lay with you on your bare, naked mattress (because he forgot to order sheets). he's planning what pictures of the two of you he wants to put on the walls. this is the first time he's owned a welcome mat and he's not even mad about it. it's all yours, together, and there's no bigger adventure than that.

his walk-in closet. bowls the perfect size for a portion of ramen, plus an egg. the lego taj mahal with two pieces missing that he insists will turn up sometime. these are some of the things jeonghan's not sure he can bring to your new apartment. it's not that he doesn't want to move in with you--he just doesn't know if he can. hell, you kissed him for the first time on the tiny futon in his living room, and he just learned it's too small for your new place. it's not until he watches you, later that day, play jenga with the toiletries on his bathroom counter because there's never been enough space for the two of you, that he realizes maybe it isn't such a bad thing to try something new. he imagines leaning you against a new sink, with that carrara marble you've been talking about, and he might even say he's looking forward to it.

you don't think there's a day you haven't seen joshua on zillow. look at my pinterest board, he'd say, and you wouldn't have it in you to ask how the hell you're affording that couch or if you really need a salt lamp that badly. you've lost count of the times your thursday nights consisted of a: your favorite chinese takeout and b: watching celebrity architectural digest videos. but joshua can't help it--to him, there's really nothing that would make him happier than waking up next to you in a bed you picked together. now if it was a midcentury modern canopy bed? even better. he can't wait to use his fancy little espresso machine to make your morning latte and grab your coat from the rack you got from that shop in LA before he kisses you before you head off to work. but they're all just things (pretty, shiny ones, albeit)--more ways he can show you the love you deserve.

junhui loves a good open house. early on in your relationship, you would dress to the nines before pretending to shop for a mansion you could never afford. junhui would comment on the door handles and the crown molding like he was a property brother, and then you'd finish the night off making out in the mcdonald's drive-thru. things are a little different now that you actually can afford a home. what if you end up not liking it? will you get tired of the wallpaper? will the closet be big enough? but surprisingly, none of this seems to matter when you walk into the house. (what's on your mind? you ask him. n-nothing, he says.) but he's really thinking about feeding you in that kitchen and spending the morning looking out those bay windows. how beautiful you'll look greeting him from that front door. needless to say, he's sold.

you find soonyoung hiding in the kitchen at your housewarming party. just an hour earlier, he was dumping cans of sparkling water in the jungle juice to make it more "adult" (as if it would erase the fact that an entire bottle of everclear had already disappeared into the mix). the hour before that, he was cleaning like a madman despite there not being much to clean yet. he held the duster the wrong way and you think he got more windex on the ceiling than on the windows. darling, what's wrong? you ask. his little, drunken hands wrap around yours so he can bring them to his cheeks. i just realized this is all ours. like, all of it, he wails, teary, and you realize he is far too many drinks down. it's only after you've sent him to bed with a water and a kiss that you really think about what he said. the hardwood floors, the duvet, the misshapen tiger plushie on the couch, him--all ours.

wonwoo is not an easy person to live with. the first three things he unpacked were, in order, his table, his first monitor, then his second monitor. then he ruined your perfectly curated aesthetic with his neon red keyboard and a gaming chair that would make any interior designer cry. the final straw is when wonwoo manages to kill the one and only houseplant you have, the single thing holding your home decor together. but he's trying, he really is. he's bought a silly little throw blanket for your couch (aren't the tassels fun? he says, wiggling the fabric between his hands). his ugly lamp has been replaced by a strange glowing cat light and there's a sticker on his computer tower. he buys a succulent and you have a little naming ceremony in your kitchen. and it lives, against all odds!

jihoon doesn't know the difference between a chaise and a sectional. cherry and mahogany look the same to him. and god forbid you ask him to choose between terrazzo and subway tile because he really thinks both of them look good and, no, he's not just saying that to make your life harder. jihoon isn't good at the hgtv stuff, but he's happy to move all the boxes. it's only when he's unpacking said boxes that he finally gets it. (the vase that came with the first bouquet of flowers he bought you. the record player you got him for your first anniversary, now fingerprinted, well-loved. matching valentine's day teddy bears, worn and baby pink.) you're standing on a stool stacked on top of another stool trying to hang a poster, and this is what home looks like.

seokmin wants to live in the ikea showrooms. you can't blame him--sometimes, when there's nothing better to do, you'll spend your afternoon in a bedroom that's not yours. seokmin will try on the lumpy blazer from the closet, and you'll beckon him to your sprawling king size bed, the one sat next to the painted on windows and floating shelves. honey, come to dinner, you'd say. he'll peek over your shoulder, arms wrapped around your middle, and you open the lid to a big, steaming pot of nothing. micke or lagkapten? you ask, completely unseriously. but he's thinking about it, really thinking about it. in his mind, he's building a home together, silly furniture piece by piece, counting down to the days when you really can agonize over plants and how many drawers you want in a desk.

when you got the keys to your new place, mingyu insisted you eat jajangmyeon to commemorate move-in day. unfortunately, he failed to account for the series of delays that led to you having absolutely no furniture to move in on said move-in day. but mingyu is nothing if not a man with a plan, so he runs to the store and buys the cheapest assortment of kitchen tools and ingredients for the world's most unlikely dinner. we really don't have to do this, you laugh, the backs of your legs cold on the kitchen counter. but i want to, he insists, holding out a spoon for you to taste. we have to christen the apartment. you eventually do christen it the right way (involving: lots of tongue, even more laughter), but you might prefer, just a tiny bit, the night you sat on the empty kitchen floor and fed mingyu out of a pan.

minghao has rearranged the living room four times now. every time you walk in, it feels like you've entered someone else's house. it doesn't look right, he says, hands on his hips like his life depended on it. you don't know how to tell him they all look right, every single version. in the first version, all cardboard furniture and plastic wrap, you gave up on deciphering the wifi setup and built a fort instead. the second involved an ottoman in the walkway, which you almost immediately stubbed your toe on (and laughed so hard you cried). in the third, the couch faced away from the adjoining room, and you accidentally spooked minghao so badly he almost broke his knitting needles. but it's all perfect, every iteration, because you're doing it together--a hypothesis he's more willing to believe when you shut him up with a kiss.

don't look now, but seungkwan is buying another doodad at your local sunday swap meet. it's a small painted figurine of a bear in a nightcap, which he simply points to and says that's me. you don't have it in you to mention the fact that you're currently unpacking his seemingly never-ending assortment of doodads and you couldn't possibly know where one more would go. it's only when you're getting ready for bed that you catch the little bear in the glow of the alarm clock light. there's already a turtle with a hat in the medicine cabinet (jeju, last summer). on top of the fridge, a woodcarving that says EAT. (tj maxx, 2 years ago. it still makes you laugh). even though you just moved, all these little seungkwan-isms make home a little more home.

you wouldn't call vernon a planner. his version of housewarming is watching you play the sims. but real life doesn't have nearly as much poolside drama or five story houses--just packing peanuts and 50 page appliance manuals. aren't boxes just drawers? vernon asked you one day. no, but that's how it always starts. two weeks after move-in, vernon cooks you breakfast with a pan procured from a cardboard box. by three weeks, you know the exact box everything is in. (you still haven't been able to find vernon's avril lavigne let go album, though.) it's only when you're eating dinner on top of the box that your dining table is in when you say, vernon, baby, i think we need to actually move in. he takes one look at you, who's wearing mismatched socks and his boxers because your shorts are underneath the tv box, and his smile nearly splits his cheeks. yeah, i think so too.

if you had asked chan what his dream house looked like, he would say it had a wraparound porch, a white picket fence, and a pool. your new apartment has none of those things. the length of your bedroom is a little more than one and a half times the length of his body and he's not even that tall. if he looks out the window he can see right into his neighbor's apartment (three cats and no bitches. almost like he's living next to wonwoo). and his feet stick out of the tub. but he's learning how to live in small spaces. he likes the squeeze of your bathroom, how you have to sit on the counter if you want to both brush your teeth together. he likes the bump of your elbows when you wash the dishes together. most of all, he likes falling asleep with you slotted to his side--even in your tiny bed, he wouldn't mind having you a little closer.

#sorry this took forever it got stupidly long #thank you for asking!!!!#ask #anon #mine #seventeen x you #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #svt fluff #svt imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #svt x you #svt x reader #3k celebration

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auncyen · 26 days ago

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HUH.

and from ifixit:

The exemption also applies to other commercial kitchen equipment—we’ve heard about undocumented error codes in commercial espresso machines, restaurant owners getting locked out of their own commercial ovens, and missing service manuals for insulated cabinets. But we’re especially excited about the ice cream win.

#u.s. law #I really just assumed before this that McDonald's stuff was like. made by them. owned by them entirely or something #apparently not #right to repair #I always heard about this kind of issue affecting like. farmers #did not really realize how much it could affect restaurants too

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mehoymalloy · 1 year ago

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Soft fic prompt, 6, maybe Lis x Tilda? 🥺

Took a bit, but here we are; hope ya like it!

This is for the prompt 'coffee in bed' from this prompt list. Thanks to @mr-jaybird for betaing this!

Lis stood in an exceedingly clean, blindingly white kitchen, stainless steel appliances gleaming in the soft morning sunlight. She shifted back and forth on the balls of her bare feet, trying to fight off the insidious chill sinking into her skin from the tile floor��also white, naturally. She begrudgingly glared at the shiny, silver espresso machine in front of her for a long moment, tracing her gaze over its many buttons, screens, and meters. Then she cast one last tired, wistful look at the classic drip machine off to the side. It was the only black appliance Tilda had in her kitchen—just for Lis.

Tilda had warned Lis last night that her preferred coffee hadn't come in yet—'shipment delays, darling; it's bound to happen eventually when you only order from a very select lab in Canada'—and Lis was fine with that, she really was. She wasn't one of those snobbish types who insisted on buying only the highest quality coffee beans sourced from a small, three-hundred-year-old farm in some lesser-known country of the world's remaining-but-steadily-dwindling coffee belt. All Lis wanted was her ethical, affordable, sustainable coffee. And a lab in Canada (creatively called EAS Coffee Lab) provided just that. But then shipping delays happened, so now here Lis was—awake first, unfortunately—being a good girlfriend and making coffee Tilda's way.

She knew how to do this—she was an engineer, for God's sake, she knew how to work a machine. Simple steps: Fill up the water tank (filtered, of course), pre-heat the water, grab the bag of fancy, specialty-grade beans from the aforementioned three-hundred-year-old farm, weigh out exactly 18 grams, grind extra finely, pop the single wall (not the double wall, even though this was a double shot) basket into the portafilter, tap the filter on the counter, tamp down the grounds, lock it into the machine and...

Why Tilda insisted on using a semi-automatic machine rather than a fully automatic one, Lis would never understand. (That was a lie; even she could admit there was a certain appeal in the ritual of it all, as opposed to dumping the grounds in and pressing a button). She supposed she should be grateful that Tilda hadn't gotten it in her head to buy a fully manual one—Lis didn't think she could handle waking up and pumping a damn lever just for her morning stim.

She should probably also be grateful that Tilda had programmed one of the buttons specifically for when Lis needed to use the machine—no fuss about measuring out the perfect amount of water or reaching the correct temperature or ensuring the OPV never exceeded 8 bars of pressure (Tilda's preference).

As Lis waited for the machine to do its job, she grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, pouring enough into the little metal cup for each of them. She even used the thermostat to ensure she got the right temperature rather than eyeballing it. The process wasn't complex by any means—it just seemed an unnecessary amount of work for a cup of coffee.

But as Lis padded back to the bedroom with two cups in tow to find Tilda bleary-eyed but sporting a surprised smile, Lis guessed it was worth it.

"You made coffee?" Tilda asked as she sat up. Silk sheets slid down her nude frame like water, pooling in her lap and exposing her skin to the warm sunlight slanting through the blinds.

"You think I could get through the day without it?" Lis shot her a wry smirk as she sat down her own cup on the nightstand.

Tilda gave her a lazy smirk as she lifted the sheets for Lis to scoot in. "I suppose not," she murmured, turning away to stifle a yawn into her shoulder.

Lis leaned in to place a quick peck on the opposite shoulder, gingerly passing Tilda her cup once she had turned back to face Lis.

Tilda's eyes glimmered with warmth rivaling the morning sunlight, and a sleep-soft smile played at her lips as she lifted the mug up to her face. Closing her eyes, she took a slow, deep breath, shoulders curling forward to settle around the cradled cup. Steam wafted upward, carrying the scent to Lis' nose as well—she could admit it smelled way better than her usual coffee. Turning to grab her own cup, she took a sip that singed her tongue, shooting Tilda a rueful smile when she saw the other woman raise a brow at her impatience.

Tilda rolled her eyes as she leaned over, briefly pressing her face into the skin of Lis's neck, offering a quick kiss. "Thank you for the coffee, love," she murmured, still not quite awake.

"You're welcome," Lis said softly, careful to blow before she took another sip.

#tilda van der meer #elisabet sobeck #hfw #horizon forbidden west #elisabet x tilda #mehoymalloy

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hislittleraincloud · 1 year ago

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French is my second language. (Basic French pet names within.)

When I was ten years old, I was forced to learn French, Italian, and German (mostly French, because we were going to live in France, but just travel to Italy and Germany...at the same time, I picked up some Romanian as well, since I loved vampires/the real Dracula at the time). I retained spoken French and Italian, but my spoken German and Romanian suck, and I'm much better at Spanish (which is my father's first language...I was just never formally taught it, and had to pick it up on my own after we came back from France since it's what my grandmother spoke). I am literate in several other languages, but my strengths are French, Spanish, and Italian (including "Italian" from the Renaissance Era...which is another thing that bugs the crap out of me re: the show, because modern Italian on an espresso machine owner's manual does not equal the Florentine dialect that Machiavelli wrote in, so that was a piece of dialogue hit me weird...probably a Me Problem).

The languages are much different than English, especially French. It's not just about how much Netflix Wednesday hates being compared to her parents. It's about the language itself that's kind of important if you want to insist that your Wednesday use French (or other non-English language) pet names for Enid.

In my other post about this, I made one small error in judgment: AB Sheriff Galpin is a little cultured since he was married to a Frenchwoman, so he would know some French. However, I still don't think Wednesday would pull any French terms of endearment on him, for that very reason...she wouldn't to be compared to Francoise and she wouldn't want to trigger Donovan like that. IF Donovan were to relax his trauma around Francoise, he would definitely be calling Wednesday "ma crevette"...i.e. "my little munchkin" (literally means shrimp 💀...he might just do so in some way yet, I'm thinkin' about it).

But before I get into the French, y'all need to be strongly reminded of just how much Wednesday despises the way her parents relate to each other romantically: She hates it SO MUCH that her hatred for it caused birds to die. Birds that look like they're supposed to be mourning doves.

The backs of their tails look like mourning dove tails:

Though their undersides don't, but I'm going to chalk it up to lazy CGI and lazy detailing, like the extremely, extremely lazy prop masters/set dressers who made the damnably inaccurate articles on Sheriff Galpin's cork board. All the articles and information in them were terribly inaccurate to what we were told on screen.

Regardless, birds DIED. That's how strong her hatred for how they behave romantically is.

But if you must insist on having Wednesday behave like her parents, at least get the language correct.

French is a heavily gendered language. I'm not even going to get into the current war over gender neutral French for the nbs, because that's not what this is about. Wenclair is a lesbian couple, and we are definitely dealing with females 99.9% of the time here w/the ship.

Thus Netflix Wednesday, being proficient in at least Spanish and Italian, would know how to use the next romance language properly, and would know proper pet names for males vs. females. She's cultured like that, and anything less would make her look stupid...and none of us want to make her look stupid.

Now to get to what's been bugging the Hell out of me:

It wouldn't be "mon loup". It would be "ma louloute" (though a literal translation of "my wolf" feminine would be "ma louve", which is kind of cute and looks like "love", but when the French want to get cute, they get cute). "Mon loup" is to refer to a male, so if Wednesday was dating Xavier or Tyler, it'd be "mon loup".

When I was growing up in France, one big pet name was "mon chou" (literally "my cabbage", even though it refers to a chou à la crème, i.e. a cream puff). My mother used to call me "mon petit chou", even though at the time I was still *living within my young AFAB body (corrected for clarity, I'm AFAB of course, this was long before my transition); she wasn't and isn't ever accurate with her French, because the feminine of "mon petit chou" is "ma chouchoute/choupinette". (I could see a Wenclair Wends getting creative and creating her own word, "lupinette" based on this.)

Other gendered* appropriate terms of endearment Wednesday would use if so compelled:

"ma biche"/"ma bichette" (my doe/my little doe) (Enid: WHAT did you call me??? 🤣)

"ma tigresse" (my tigress 🐯)

"ma poule" (my hen) or "ma poulette" (my little chick 🐣)

"ma princesse"

"ma douce" (my sweet) (Enid: DID YOU JUST CALL ME A DOUCHE? 💀)

"ma puce" (this is another I heard often, it literally means "flea", but in French it's affectionate)

"ma petite femme" (my little wife)

"ma reine" (my queen)

Finally, it's not "mon chéri", it's "ma chérie". That's the most basic one there is.

There are a ton of others out there, but these are the classics that I remember, and classic is what I assume all canon Ortega Wednesday is. Traditional, allergic to technology, sticks to old fashioned behavior like Donovan (I mean, did you bother to read that one page of her novel from Episode 7? Her writing vocabulary is off the charts and typical of someone raised/trained classically... that's the real reason her publishers probably rejected her).

*I say gendered appropriate (not "gender appropriate") because I'm talking about the language and there are French terms of endearment that do not have a feminine form, like "mon cœur" and "mon amour". These terms you can use for women/girlfriends that are 'masculine' gendered (yes, I realize there are a lot of animal ones, but that's French for ya):

"mon petit monstre" (my little monster)

"mon petit oiseau" (my little bird...oh hello, Sandor, where'd you come from 💩)

"mon poussin" (my chick 🐣)

"mon chaton" (my kitten 🐾)

"mon trésor" (my treasure)

"mon doudou" (my cuddlebug, basically)

"mon coco" (literally coconut, but it's like saying "my dear")

"mon ange" (my angel)

"mon lutin" (my elf...which might by apropos for Enid 🫠)

This is not at all meant to be an exhaustive list; there are several other pet names and probably new ones since language is constantly evolving. It might help to poke around online and/or join forums dedicated to those who speak your target language.

I realize it can be confusing. Non-English romance languages can be, if you don't know anything about them. As a writer, I'm very appreciative of my experiences in France and Italy*, and I think the newer writers need to think outside of the Anglocentric box when writing for a character like Netflix Wednesday. (I need to take my own advice, because I programmed one of my deleted scenes in English audio without thinking of the non-English speakers who read my fic. That's a whole other issue tho 🧠💥.)

Huh. That wasn't as bloody as I could've made it. I must be getting soft in my old age.

Anyway. We all want Wednesday to sound like someone who knows what she's doing. We should do better with our conversational dialogue than the actual writers. We don't want our Wednesday to be embarrassed or embarrassing, again...

youtube

*And all the other countries I visited as a kid and adult...I know she's there right now, but I was in Buda in 2014 and while it's one of my favorite cities, Hungarian is the worst language ever 😭 EVER.

#writing problems #writing wednesday #writing fiction #writing #enid sinclair #wednesday #wednesday addams #wenclair #wyler #wavier #wenovan #black bubblegum #writing reference #jenna ortega #emma myers #hunter doohan #percy hynes white #jamie mcshane #and all the rest of the cast

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smimon · 9 months ago

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There are two coffe machines at work that I use interchangeably depending on needs.

The nearest one makes nice, tasty bean juice, perfect for a smooth start in the morning.

The one upstairs was manually set on the highest power setting, six out of six dots, the coffee here is basically an equivalent of three espressos, the smell alone is enough to make you jump out of your chair and run for half an hour. It's smart to use it twice a week at most.

So I just had a cup of the Extreme Powerup Fluid and I expect to not fall asleep today at least until I'm back from work, done with errands, and done writing the fic as well

#my coffee from hell #food

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rockingrobin69 · 2 years ago

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In celebration of joy

This is actually a snip from a wip (700 words) and also a ‘hey I’m alive’ and most of all, it’s a (humble!!) present for my pride and joy @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm who is out there being the best in us etc. etc. Joy, I love you, I love you, I love you. And so does this special lil guy.

The coffee machine went on a strike on a Tuesday, roughly around nine. A big notice all over the screen, CHANGE FILTER that didn’t relent no matter what Draco attempted. He changed the damn filter, three times. Changed the water. Emptied and reloaded the bean tray. Nothing worked: the notice remained, and the smell of coffee pervaded the kitchenette, made his eyes water.

The manual was in Italian, which, according to his CV, shouldn’t be a problem. Apparently there was a world of difference between chatting up pretty boys in the Piazza and fine mechanics. Apparently, Draco was equally rubbish at both. And the coffee machine, blast it to high hell, kept at its pouty, childish rebellion.

He didn’t even like coffee. Did have an espresso every once in a while, half in punishment, half-reward. Drowned it in sugar until no flavour was discernible, went on a glucose-fuelled paperwork rampage, terrorising the office till the inevitable crash. But he liked making coffees for some of the others—liked being trusted with a task he could perform. The coffee machine was tricky, needed a gentle touch: the frothing settings, the roast, all had to be perfectly calibrated. Usually he had it. And now, change filter, and no coffee in sight.

He's going to have to go back to Harry empty-handed.

Going to have to look him in the eye and say, hey, so, remember when you hired me, all that long month ago, and I promised I’d do my very best? Right. Yes, failed at the most basic of tasks today, what else could you expect. Also, please don’t fire me.

Draco rubbed his eyes a little harsher than recommended. Bore the angry flashes behind his eyelids, tried to breathe. Why must everything be a panic, why couldn’t he just. Be normal about this. Be a man, not a muppet, for a change.

Opened his eyes, grit his teeth till the world un-blurried itself. Took a deep breath. Went back to the manual, skimmed till he found the right place, and tried again.

In the end he ran down to the Costa across the street. Took him exactly forty minutes and twenty-three seconds to get back at Harry’s office door, red-faced and soaking wet, but with the flat white he’s promised. Tried not to look too smug about it as he sauntered through, gently laid the cup (still hot, he thought, he hoped) next to Harry’s computer screen.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry, not even looking up from the folder open on his desk. “Mm, that smells nice.”

Draco allowed himself a little smile. “No problem, Mr. Potter.”

As he knew, that zapped Harry’s attention back to him. He flushed so easily, and so sweetly too, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose for an excuse to use his hands. Calling Harry Mr. Potter always had the same effect—sometimes, when Draco was feeling rather cheeky, he even threw in a Sir, just to watch him flail.

“Erm. Yes. Thank you, Draco. Are—why are you wet?”

“Hmm?” looked down, remembered. “Oh. It’s raining again.”

Harry turned his head to the window, stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said, chewing on a poor lower lip. “Yes, it is indeed.”

Winding Harry up sure was one of the biggest perks of the job, but Draco actually had work to do. “Anything else, Mr. Potter?” (couldn’t help himself, he just couldn’t). “If you wouldn’t mind, the paperwork for Mr. Dougherty’s case requires further attention.”

More of the fidgeting. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Certainly, er, important that you get to it.” Draco nodded, and was already at the door when he heard, “Wait, why does the cup say Costa?”

Rushed out of Harry’s office without closing the door behind him. The prat never did anyway. Went back to the kitchenette, opened the manual, and a pocket dictionary from the shop right next door to blasted Costa. (The Dougherty dossier was compiled and completed two days ago. Not his fault he was good at his job). Stared the machine down until it bowed before him, spilled its mechanical guts.

He’ll get it, eventually. He thought. He hoped.

#drarry wip #office draco for the win #rockingrobin69 #everything is for joy always but this one is also.

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coffeemachineswarehouse · 2 years ago

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kuchizukeonna · 8 months ago

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Dear Lee Sun Kyun-ssi,

It's been almost 4 months since you died by suicide. The world is spinning as though nothing had happened. I woke up in the morning with the sound of birds chirping, the cold chilling air, sunlight found it's way through my dusty windows. The manual coffee brewing machine sat in the corner of the kitchen, and when I filtered it, the espresso tasted the same. I thought of the things you could no longer do, Lee Sun Kyun-ssi, and I felt anger, sadness, denial altogether.

Why? I guess the answer is lost forever. Why the only way you don't live in pain, is for you to stop living. It hurts thinking you drove to desolated park in Seoul, with no one to stop you from harming yourself - you took the final decision. Like you, I wanted to end my life. When I was 23, I almost jumped off of a building from unbearable mental pain. I just wanted the pain to stop. I am thankful that I'm here now, but it broke my soul how you didn't get the help you needed. And how the people around you, your blackmailers, the Incheon Police, the media, and malicious K-Netz tore you down piece by piece. Until you lost everything, you ended up on a silver table. I wish you were alive. I feel like justice had died in this corrupt world. I hate how they could ruin your life and got away with it.

Dear Lee Sun Kyun-ssi, it's okay. It's alright. I understand, it was suffocating. I hope where you are now, is where you are at peace. A place where there is no suffering, fear, or grief. You don't know how much you're loved. Like the song 'Saturn', you showed us "how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist". I will find you in the morning rain, in the stars that shine bright at night, I will find you when the sky turns dark grey as it weeps with millions of shattered hearts.

When my chest feels heavy from missing you, I will put earphones on so I could hear your breathing, your laughter, your soothing voice. Goodbye Ahjussi. Thank you for being born. I love you.

#lee sun kyun #parasite #parasite movie #bong joon ho #my mister #south korea #mental health #grief #korean actor

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tussive · 3 months ago

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Found the tagged post! I was tagged by @ungratefulbeyotchhotline

Do you make your bed? So what I like to do is make my bed and then put an extra sheet and comforter on top, and then I just sleep on it that way. So it's sort of made. But over time as it comes unmade, I don't fix it so not really lol.

What's your favorite number? I don't really have one tbh.

What is your job? I'm a shift lead at Burger King.

If you could go back to school, would you? I'd like to, but I fear I may be too dumb now lol. But realistically it's not financially feasible.

Can you parallel park? Hell naw.

A job you had that would surprise people? I worked for a bank for around a year, I guess? Mostly I've just had retail jobs.

Do you think aliens are real? I don't actively believe or disbelieve most things. I'm open to the potential.

Can you drive a manual car? Hell naw. What's with all these driving questions? I fucking suck at driving lol.

What's your guilty pleasure? I don't believe in them. If you like something you like it, fuck it.

Tattoos? I have none but I have a few planned i'd like to get.

Favorite color? Mauve.

Favorite type of music? I mean, the last few years I've definitely listened to rap more than anything. But I also like folk/black metal/screamo/noise/drone. I'm more into artists that create a cool vibe or atmosphere than are necessarily technically good at their craft.

Do you like puzzles? I'm a dummy I can't do puzzles.

Any phobias? Open spaces. If I'm in a field or something and look at the sky, sometimes i get so overwhelmed I vomit lol.

Favorite childhood sport? I never played any sports when I was a kid. I did wrestling for like a week.

Do you talk to yourself? Not out loud, because I don't want to bother other people. But in my head I'm constantly holding full conversations with myself.

What movies do you adore? Oh man. Crestone, Begotten, Louisiana - The Other Side, The Florida Project, Cycling Chronicles: Landscapes That the Boy Saw, Grandma's Boy.

Coffee or Tea? I like them both. Probably tea more, I'm especially fond of white tea. (Funny story, that's how I came up with the rap clique name that never really materialized when I was planning on starting to rap, Delicate Boyz. My ex's family was making fun of me (jokingly) about how white tea is delicate. I told my friend and she said "What's wrong with being a delicate boy?" We're not friends anymore. :() But I drink more coffee. I actually got super into coffee for a bit. It's a fun hobby, but I really wanted an espresso machine and they're mad fucking expensive.

First thing you wanted to be when you grew up? A vet.

Gonna tag.................gosh these are so hard. I never know what people like these things and what people don't and I don't wanna tag anyone it would bother. Ahhh, no one lol. If you'd like to answer these questions just pretend I tagged you.

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kmgquote · 3 months ago

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Breville BES810BSS Espresso Machine, medium, Brushed Stainless Steel

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glitteratti · 3 months ago

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and also our espresso machine is like well over a decade old and the timer on it BROKE so i have to manually time every single shot i pull and count it out in my head and the front panel is falling off so the button for the middle espresso shot is misaligned and you have to push it in a really specific way to get it to pull. and because i’m mentally timing i can’t pull multiple shots at once ANYWAY. gnashing and biting

#.txt #BUY A NEW ESPRESSO MACHINE!!!!!!!!

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lillaydee · 6 days ago

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Tingled Part 17

Francisco 'Catfish' Morales / Reader

Joel Miller (No Outbreak) / Reader

Starting fresh in the big city, you were still questioning your worth after the way you were treated by your ex and his daughter, desperately trying to leave thoughts of them behind. But something about the new man you ran into made that almost impossible.

WARNINGS: Joel Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (The Last of Us), Hurt Joel (The Last of Us), Joel is Bad at Feelings (The Last of Us), Joel is a Fucking Idiot, Sweet Francisco "Catfish" Morales, Soft Francisco "Catfish" Morales, Hurt Francisco "Catfish" Morales, Francisco "Catfish" Morales Has PTSD, Fluff and Angst, Past Drug Addiction, Healing, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - No Cordyceps Outbreak (The Last of Us)

SERIES MASTERLIST

Part 16

Well, technically, you didn’t lie. You did go home Saturday.

Okay, it was to get more clothes, but the point was, you did go back home. Full stop.

I mean, you couldn’t repeat the same five sets of clothes two weeks in a row, right? You had to get another set. Duh!

It’s not that you didn’t want to go home. You did, of course you did.

But Frankie’s place was so much nearer to work. You get to sleep an extra hour and still have time for a leisurely breakfast before going to work. And you didn’t have to press up against strangers on the train. Or rush in the mornings.

Also, Frankie’s place had Frankie. Your place didn’t.

He woke you up with his face between your legs that Monday morning. Made you breakfast (okay, it was Eggos, but it’s the thought that counted, okay?) and walked you to the café to get you your coffee before walking you to work. He picked you up later that evening, and you walked into his kitchen to the newer model of your espresso machine on the counter, your favourite beans and milk in his fridge. He sheepishly told you that it was a bribe so you could stay longer in the mornings.

Wednesday came and his furniture was finally delivered. You and the girls spent that night ‘helping’ him put them together by having a few drinks in the kitchen, while the men did the actual work. You spent Thursday night helping him unpack his duffels – finally extracted from the spare room, strewn on the floor among several boxes of old books, old family pictures and vinyl, still secured in their boxes ever since he moved in. You placed your suitcase next to the chest drawer, but he opened them, and unpacked the contents into the other closet and chest drawer. The set that was left vacated after his clothes had been unpacked. The one on the opposite side of his, the one mirroring his side. He placed the book you brought and lotion on the nightstand on your side of the bed. You had a side in his room. Your toothbrush sat beside his in its holder, your facial stuff on the counter, your shampoo and bodywash next to his in the shower. The left stool under the countertop, the second chair on his dining table, the left side of the sofa were yours too. You had a side everywhere at his place.

After he was done placing your panties in the drawer separator compartment thing, he went to the spare room and came back out with a Ziploc bag, your missing underwear in it, casually unzipping it, and tossing the material in the laundry basket.

“I guess I don’t need these anymore,” he said unashamedly, as you stared at him with your hands on your mouth. “What? I thought you were going home that Saturday, so I preserved it, just in case I needed… inspiration for manual relief before you came back. But you stayed, so…”

You smacked him on his chest, calling him a pervert, hating the fact that you couldn’t get the amused smile out of your face as you did. He smirked at you, coming in for a hug, but you were determined to be mad at him for doing such a debauched, depraved, unthinkable perversion, you tried to worm your way out, only to surrender the moment he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

On Friday, as you laid in bed with him, cursing the fact that the weekdays had gone by so fast, he pointed at the closets and told you he could just put up a wall there so you could have a walk-in closet. He knew you liked them. You looked at him and saw the sad puppy-dog look he had on his face, upset that you had to go home the next day. Another bribe, to make you stay longer.

“You want to come home with me and spend the weekend at my place?”

“Yes please,” he said, before kissing you breathless.

**********

That weekend, you and Frankie took your mother and Henry out for brunch. He had stayed over the whole week, as predicted. He stayed over the weekend too. Frankie somehow managed to coax you into bringing an empty suitcase home, leave your clothes here, please? Then you’d always have something to change into. And if, God forbid, someone accidentally threw a cup of coffee at you, you could just run over, shower and change. Wasn’t that a brilliant idea? You had planned to sleep over at his place Sunday, since you had an early morning meeting on Monday. Good thing you had clothes at his place, wasn’t it? Maybe take a few more clothes with you when you go, he had suggested, for variety? You had just worn those clothes you left behind this past week, surely you should bring something new?

Come Sunday, Frankie hauled the formerly empty suitcase you had brought home into his truck, freshly filled with more clothes. He, in turn, brought an empty backpack home, leaving the freshly laundered T-shirt and flannel he had worn the day before, along with a pair of sleep pants and boxers in your closet. The spare toothbrush you had given him sat in a glass container with yours on your bathroom counter, his travel sized toiletries in the bathroom drawer.

That Sunday night, as you were drifting off to sleep in his arms, you were somehow conscious enough to properly hear the Spanish phrases he had whispered to you, the ones he only said to you every single night since you first spent the night when he thought you had fallen asleep.

Buenos noches mi amor. Te amo mucho.

You only spoke bad high-school Spanish. But even you understood that. You turned, startling him, a slight panicked look in his eyes that you heard him, and told him you loved him too.

You were almost an hour late for work the next day despite being a fifteen walking minutes away from work, and you didn’t even care. You made up for it by staying back an hour, Frankie keeping you company, accepting the part he played in the whole matter. Somehow, it became really important for you to stay the week as well.

By Friday, he had an extra set of keys and security fob to the building made for you.

This thing with the empty suitcase went on for weeks. Go home Saturday with an empty suitcase, come back to the city Sunday with a full one. Until the day came that you realized all that was left in your closet was a couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans, some PJs, a few changes of underwear and a travel version of your toiletries, as well as the same of Frankie’s.

But if your mother asked, you were still living at home, just staying at Frankie’s on weekdays. You hadn’t moved in with him or anything. That was just silly. You would never move in with someone so soon. After Joel, you needed to be careful, you’d like to think you had learnt your lesson after all.

Frankie started furnishing his place over those few weeks. The guys helped him put up a wall for your-er-his walk-in closet. You helped him pick out his furniture, made sure his kitchen was equipped for cooking his favourite dishes. He even turned his now cleared and unpacked spare bedroom into an office for you to work from, or if you had to have zoom meetings with people from different time zones, a daybed conveniently placed next to the desk he got for the office, so that he could keep you company when you had to work late.

The men took turns hosting each other, spending as much time as they could outside of work together. In the few weeks you stayed there, you noticed that the men never all worked for the same job at once. At least one of them would normally stay behind, and since Frankie was so fresh out of getting his year chip, it was usually him. He would make sure the ladies were alright, constantly checking in on them when their men were off working, making sure their clients were safe and secure. The other three did the same when Frankie was on duty.

You saw the dynamics the four men and the ladies had with each other. When Santi and Yovanna moved in, everyone lent a hand, and now, yourself included. Needed something built? Lifted? Cleaned? Just order the pizza and beer, we’ll be there. There was a closeness, a willingness to just help each other out that went without saying with these guys. They dropped everything to help each other. No questions asked. And even before you and Frankie were a couple, when you were injured, they didn’t hesitate. They just helped. They were there.

And the ladies, well, let’s just say you had sisters now. They were so excited for you and Frankie, adding you to the group chat as soon as no one heard from the two of you all weekend after that first date. When you went back to work the Monday after, they started called you Mrs Fish, which finally prompted you to ask them what that was all about. Apparently, it’s short for Catfish. But they didn’t know why. The guys never gave them a straight answer, said it was something about him being able to hold his breath for a long time underwater? Or cats? Maybe his scruff? They didn’t know. And frankly, you didn’t care.

You didn’t. Really.

At about the one-month mark of dating you finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. You asked him. Why Catfish?

Well, he said, a smirk on his face, I like cats, and I can hold my breath a long time. You didn’t buy it. This was a name his army brothers gave him. It’s a callsign. They referred to each other with these names, Catfish, Ironhead, Pope, Redfly, and well… Benny. It can’t possibly be because of his love of cats or the ability to hold his breath.

He’ll show you, he said. Okay, you sat up on the bed, excited to see the origin of this name. He got up, faced you on the bed, bent down, and pulled your legs over the edge, ripping your sleep shorts off.

Wait, what are you…

Oh. Oh…

Okay, okay, good name… good name… uhuh, uhuh, just like that… oh my God such a good… fuck, right there… yes… yes… yes… oh, what a great name.

**********

Two months into dating, your mother asked if you could have lunch with her. Just the two of you. Oh, shit, you thought. This was it. You were going to get chewed on for the fact that you hadn’t exactly lived at home in two months. She’s going to tell you that you were moving too fast.

Frankie drove you over, picked up your mother and dropped the two of you at an Italian place. She was very quiet, even Frankie noticed. He had gone to Anna’s, trying hard to get information from her, but that woman was as silent as a grave when it came to your mother.

After ordering, you decided the tension was too palpable. She was too quiet. For the first time in a long time, since you decided to cut the flowers off her favourite dress for your art homework, you were terrified of mommy. Shit, was mid-30s too old to be beaten with a broomstick? It was, right? She wouldn’t, right?

“Look, mom, I know I haven’t been…”

“Henry and I are getting married.”

Your mouth turned into an O, your eyes wide, your expression frozen.

It turned out, the reason your mother hadn’t noticed you had practically moved out was that Henry had practically moved in. While you and Frankie were busy smuggling your clothes out, Henry was busy smuggling his in.

You were frozen for quite a while.

“Sweetie, I know what you’re thinking. Are we moving too fast? Maybe. But we are not getting any younger, and we have been alone for so long. He’s really good to me, sweetie, and he makes me so happy. Before him, I never thought I would ever feel this way about anyone. I gave up on love when your dad left, sweetie. I didn’t trust anyone. Busied myself with work, you, Sarah, the garden, I just didn’t want to risk it. But with Henry… it just felt right. I feel like I’ve known him forever. We just clicked. We gel. We just got along as if we’ve been together forever. It feels like… like… like…”

“You were made for each other.”

Both of you had tears in your eyes, happy tears. She nodded.

“You and Frankie?”

You nodded. You got up and sat next to her, hugging her with all your might.

Your mother had met her love and was getting married.

And at warp speed, it turned out. In two weeks, Henry’s children were coming to town for a visit. They wanted to do it then. Might as well. You didn’t know what to say, but you knew you were not against it. Henry had proven to be a great guy, and you had never seen your mother smile so much.

**********

And just like that, two weeks later, you were walking your mother down the makeshift isle in the garden behind Henry’s restaurant, where her future husband was waiting, eyes wet from seeing his new bride looking so beautiful in a simple cream-coloured knee length satin and lace dress, his children by his side. Anna officiated the union. As you stood next to your mother holding her simple bouquet of flowers, you couldn’t stop crying. She deserved this. She devoted her life to her husband, only for him to dump her for a younger model. She took job upon job to make sure you were fed, cleaned, educated and clothed. Her social life consisted of you, work, and the block parties at your old neighbourhood. She was always there for you, but never hovered. She was the calm presence in your life that you knew would do anything to make you happy. All these years, you had dreamt of the day for her to be this happy to come, and now, it’s here. The joy you felt in your heart for her was indescribable. She looked so calm, so at peace, so happy, your heart warmed up at the sight of it all.

When the time came for the groom to kiss his new bride, you were practically weeping, angrily wiping the tears away to not steal attention from the bride. A warm hand wrapped around your waist, a handkerchief gently wiped the tears off your face, and a pair of very familiar lips grazed your temple with a loving kiss.

You were so thankful for Frankie. He had been extremely helpful during the wedding preparations, taking your mother dress shopping, patiently waiting as you, the girls and Anna made him stand in as the groom for ‘full effect’ and showed him dress after dress for his ‘manpinion’. He even went to the jewellers with her to get her old wedding band turned into something else, while picking up new ones for her and Henry.

As you danced with your boyfriend of a little over two months, you felt the life you and your mother led back in the old town fade away. You were here, in his arms, him looking all dapper in his suit. You loved each other, you had each other, and that was all that mattered. You had been absent from yourself in your past life, even more so after Joel did what he did. You went through life not really feeling, numbed to everything that was going on around you, around everything that was done to you, your heart feeling so empty and cold. But ever since you met Frankie, you started feeling something slowly spreading through your body. Like the first pulse of sensation after you had sat on a part of your body for too long. A tingling, of sorts.

You were not numb anymore.

And now, that initial small tingle had grown, spreading to other parts of your body, like pleasant tiny little pinpricks under your skin, giving you goosebumps, moving your blood along, slowly rewarming your heart. You were happy. In love. Loved. You couldn’t possibly imagine how you could be any happier.

**********

That was until a week later. You were at Frankie’s, well, yours too now, since Henry had taken over the lease at the house you had formerly lived in. He had gone to the lobby to get the lunch you had ordered, and the delivery was a bit late. You put his freshly laundered clothes away and sat on the bed to fold the tinier pieces of clothing. When it came to his socks, you realized that you had never folded them before – you sort of roll them into each other when it came to your own. But Frankie was a particular and meticulous man. His army training made him so, so the last thing you wanted to do was mess up his ‘system’. You went to his chest drawer and picked a pair of socks he had already folded himself for reference. As you pulled a pair out of its ridiculously neat row, a couple more pairs got pulled out with them, and a box hidden underneath caught your eyes.

A robin blue ring box.

Your mind was racing. As was your heart. You went back to that time two weeks ago when your mother asked if you wanted her old wedding ring for yourself – she didn’t know what to do with it. You had tried it on then, but it was a bit tight on your right hand. It fit your left ring finger perfectly, but what would be the point of you keeping it? You were not going to wear the wedding ring your runaway dad gave to your mother. So you suggested she had it melted and made into something else.

She went to the jewellery store the next day. With Frankie. And came back with a matching pair of wedding bands for her and Henry. Rings that came in robin blue boxes.

You couldn’t move. You just stood there, the three pairs of socks still in your hand. You didn’t know what to do. You were afraid to touch it. You couldn’t just put the socks back in and pretend you didn’t see it. It was right there, just staring at you in its robin blue gloriousness.

A pair of very familiar hands wrapped around your body, a pair of whiskered lips kissing your neck.

“You found my secret.”

“Frankie, baby? What…”

He took the box out of the drawer, guiding you by the waist to sit on the bed with him, placing the laundry basket on the floor, pushing the unfolded boxers and socks away from you, taking your hands and placing the box in them.

“I had planned to do this at a more romantic, really cheesy setting, actually. Next week, on your birthday, to be exact. I bought this two weeks ago, and two weeks of walking around with this hidden in my sock drawer turned out to be the most difficult mission of my life. So, I hope you don’t mind that I do this here in our bedroom instead, with my boxers and socks at our feet, because if I’m being honest, not knowing your answer is killing me.”

You were still not speaking. You heart was hammering in your ribcage, begging to be let out. His beautiful face was obscured by tears that had already started falling onto your cheeks. He wiped them away with his thumbs, keeping your face in his hands.

“Emma, baby, mi amor, I was intrigued by you the first time I ever met you, you know, that time when you screamed at me and called me Joel?” he smiled when you huffed a small laugh, his own eyes getting wetter. “The second time I met you, despite having coffee all over me, I was so happy. Cause I had been going to that café every day hoping to see you. By the time we had dinner at that café? I was already crushing hard on you. And by the time I woke up the next morning? I knew I was in love with you. I feel like I’ve been waiting for you my whole life, and now that I found you, I don’t want to let go. I’m so in love with you, I don’t want to go back to my life before you. It felt like I wasn’t really living until I met you. Baby, maybe I’m moving at warp speed here, but I know. I know you are it for me. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Heal with you. Grow with you. Have babies with you. Grow old with you.”

Your tears were full on flooding your face by now. His were not cooperating either.

“I want all of that, I want everything with you. But only if you want them with me, too. Baby, if you think this is too soon, I’ll wait and try again later. If you don’t want marriage at all, ever, we’ll resize it and it can be your birthday present, just wear this ring on your other fingers and we’ll carry on as we have been. I just want to be with you. I will take whatever you give me. But baby, if you are willing, if you want me, will you please, please, please, do me the honour of marrying me?”

You were trying. Really, you were trying to answer. But there was a huge lump of emotion in your throat, obstructing your vocal cords. You nodded. Enthusiastically so. A teary, elated smile on your face.

He kissed you, snot and all. He wiped your face with his shirt, placing his forehead on yours.

“Is that a yes, baby?”

You swallowed hard, trying to stop crying long enough to speak. He waited patiently, his forehead still on yours, as you finally managed to squeak out an answer.

“Yes.”

This time, when he kissed you, your whole body tingled.

Epilogue

#francisco morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #triple frontier fanfic

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