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3terna15unshin3 · 11 months ago

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desperately need a blurb about matty showing este one of the (many) songs he wrote about her, maybe it’s the first one he writes for her! But he’s all nervous and she’s in shock all like “it’s about me??” And bc of her love for literature she’s like delving into the lyrics and falling in love with him and his mind all over again!!!!! could be cute!

Who Else?

a/n: cj!! suuuuch a cute concept thank u for the request💌 it’s kinda implied in the fic that Then Because She Goes is the first song he writes about Este but because it’s so lofty and the lyrics are so buried and vague, i thought it might be more fun to focus on a different (underrated imo) one :))) i hope u like it !!!!!

this another instalment of este and matty as always, read the full fic here <3

—

The first test pressing of Being Funny finally sits in Este’s excited hands. She always looks forward to spinning Matty’s work and being able to hold it physically before anyone else. Luckily, it came in a sample sleeve of what the final product would look like—unlike most test pressings that come in boring and generic packaging—so Este is able to admire and study its charming design. Matty watches, thrilled to see her reaction.

Her eyes scan over the sleeves with the lyrics printed over them, picking out her favourites and smiling when she reads them. Knowing how truly earnest Matty had decided to be with his lyrics on this project, she can’t help but blush at the overtly romantic phrases and the fact that they could have been written with her in mind.

“So who’s this one about?” Este poses sarcastically, pointing at All I Need To Hear and giggling in the process. She watches Matty lightly roll his eyes and the corners of his mouth pin up into a grin.

“George, actually,” He jokes.

He’s only just lowered the needle onto the black vinyl, so a couple of seconds afterwards, the two of them hear the telltale piano chords of the opening track. Matty steps back to let it play, taking a seat in the chair that sat next to their sofa. Este follows suit and lightly settles onto his lap, lyric sleeve still in hand.

“Shut up,” she replies, continuing to read away. “I actually can’t think about that song too hard or else I’ll, like, fully weep.”

Matty chuckles, pulling her legs to the left so they dangle off the side and so he can see her face. He sets his arm across her thighs to hold her tight and clasps his hands together around her waist.

“I mean every word, you know.” He says quietly.

Este feels her nose get fizzy with emotion as she reads more of the lyrics.

'Cause I don't need music in my ears

I don't need the crowds and the cheers

Oh, just tell me you love me

'Cause that's all that I need to hear

She thought about how punctuated by music Matty’s life had been; how it was the only way he can make sense of the world. How deeply it made him feel and know himself. And how it brought him the most important connection he’s built—his audience and the mark he’s left on them.

Then, her mind wandered to the way he somehow unabashedly declares that her love is set above all of that; through the song. It’s the ultimate exclamation of love and devotion.

He wrote that about you, Este thinks to herself. Her nose goes fizzy again. She blinks away the tears that rise.

Her fingers find their way around the nape of Matty’s neck, and she caresses the skin there gently. “I’m serious, love. I’ll snot on you.” Este warns.

They laugh together for a second, then hear the record switch over to Happiness. Matty studies the way her foot begins tapping to the beat and how her lips move ever so slightly, to mouth the words to herself.

“God, this is the best song ever,” Este gushes as the needle scraping along the vinyl helps remind her of how much she loves it. He shrugs, raising his heel along to the song making her bounce up and down. She laughed at how nonchalant he was attempting to be. “Don’t be humble. It is.”

He looks at the floor and then up at her. “Another one written about you.” He says, kissing her shoulder.

She looks down at him, setting down the record sleeve. “Would you really go blind just to see me?”

Matty nods slightly. The brown in his eyes glows with admiration. “I’d go too far just to have you near, too,” he teases.

There’s a shyness in his voice that Este can hear buried beneath the light sarcasm. It makes her heart flutter while Waughy’s saxophone blares through the speakers with charisma.

“Do you always think about me when writing love songs?”

It’s a question she ponders quite often. She’s not sure why she does; but she struggles to conceptualise being the subject of art she loves so dearly. Though Este can tell it’s second nature to him.

“Course. Who else?” Matty answers, like it’s obvious, because it is.

Este shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe the ones before me.”

“Can’t even remember their names, now that you’ve come along.” He says casually.

As they continue to listen, Este eventually gets up to flip it to the next side. But as she does, the conversation they share reminds her of one of the first times Matty admitted to writing about her, and how precious it was.

Este has a clear memory of Matty being on tour in 2019 and sending her messages about Then Because She Goes, when it was a work in progress. She thinks it was easier for him to hint and imply the lyrics were about her—how their times together felt so indulgent even though the pain of parting ways came along with that—because he didn’t have to do it to her face. He had sent her voice memos of it while he was halfway across the world and Este witnessed the song grow from an idea to a fully fleshed moment of splendour on the record. It was such a special experience.

But, when she managed to learn that there was more (quite a few more, Matty would later reveal) on Notes that had an undertone of Este-ness, his admittance was much more timid.

It was after the release of the album was pushed back a few times, a period of time she would frequently find Matty hunched over his laptop screen with stress. The final touches of mixing and mastering were occurring. Track by track, things were being perfected, and Este grew more and more eager to hear the project as a whole.

Finally, Matty asked her to join him for a front-to-back listen-through of the album. They sat down together and shared his pair of Airpods, the left for him and the right for her, and pressed play on his files.

Because of its sporadic final weeks of creation, there were some songs that sounded different to when Este had first heard them, and even a few she hadn’t heard at all. One that was new to her had been a last minute addition that George composed of a rogue idea sitting in Matty’s notes app. It ended up being a favourite of hers.

“You hadn’t shown me Bagsy Not In Net,” Este pointed out when the album was over and she had spilled enough praise.

“We made it so spontaneously. Towards the end. I guess it just never came up,” he explained, picking at the skin on his fingers. “Do you like it? I really like it.”

She furiously nodded. “That’s why I brought it up. It really stood out to me.”

Matty clicked randomly around on his laptop and refused to meet her eyes as he said, “I’m glad Bagsy stands out. I was nervous you wouldn’t like it.”

Este’s brows furrowed.

“Since when do you care about whether anyone likes your work besides you?” She said playfully.

“Are you kidding?! I always care about you liking my—”

Este giggled, putting her finger over his lips to muffle his sentence and end it abruptly. “Okay, okay. You do care. But I feel like you’re never nervous. Like, with every other song—”

“I was nervous because Bagsy Not In Net is about wanting to die with you.”

Her mouth remained agape as Matty interrupted. It came out of his mouth with impulse and haste as if it had been sitting behind his teeth begging to be heard.

All the while, his eyes stayed glued to his laptop screen. He was afraid of it being too bold of a concept, or that she wouldn’t feel the same way—given the fact that it had barely been three months since they’d gotten back together. It was easy as ever to write about her and send her little messages through a screen that hinted at him doing so; but having Este’s real and living gaze burn into his face while admitting something so raw was not the walk in the park he hoped it would be. His heart began racing, and he didn’t know when it would stop.

“It’s about me? Are you sure?” Este spluttered.

Matty eventually peeled his eyes away and met hers.

“Who else?”

Later, after a long night, the two of them whispered quiet words to one another in bed before turning over and shutting their eyes. Este had another idea, though, and turned her phone back on. She slipped on her headphones, and opened the audio file sitting in her notes.

Este begged Matty to Airdrop a copy of Bagsy Not In Net over to her so that she could listen to it again. Sure, she was addicted to the charming orchestral introduction and how it pulsated alongside the beat as the song progressed. But really she was just desperate to hear the lyrics again.

She closed her eyes as she listened, taking in each word.

This feeling, it's something when you call me

I'm dealing in death and being lonely

Try it, don't like it

And leaving you here is the thing that I fear, so I fight it

Her heart panged at the idea of Matty being afraid of the end. Then Because She Goes was almost an anthem of hope, or of reassurance, that their time apart would at least be temporary. But this—these lyrics—hit Este in such a different way. It was desperate and stark and honest. Matty was begging for her to agree that they were all or nothing. That even death is something they ought to do as a pair. Este couldn’t possibly make sense of how huge the sentiment was, and how beautifully it came together with the instrumental.

The song looped a couple of times before she finally pressed pause. Este shrugged the headphones off of her head and set them back onto her bedside table. The noise of her headphones made Matty open his eyes, realising that she was still awake.

Her back was turned to him, so he peered over her shoulder to see the glowing screen of her phone. He watched Este open the notes app on her phone, and slowly type, “Do you want to leave at the same time?” into a new file. He sleepily smiled.

She didn’t label it, or type anything further. Copying the line heard over and over in her new favourite song was the only objective. She was hoping that making note of it would help her remember it forever, even though she probably would anyway.

#fluff!!! shocked emoji!!!#lmk what u think pls #tbsg #meste blurb #matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy fanfiction #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy x oc #matty healy fic #matty healy fluff #matty healy fanfic #fluff #fanfiction

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gard3nias · 3 months ago

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12| The butterfly, the cricket and the wing-man

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wc: 4.49k

date: 31/08/2024

mdi // masterlist // playlist

—Now playing: Wild at heart by Lana Del Rey ✫

The dancing queens didn't stop dancing: they eventually listened to every ABBA vinyl record the bright curly-headed dancing queen owned on her shelf because her wavy-haired bibliophile dancing queen of a friend couldn’t help herself—but she was helping the bright curly-headed dancing queen without even knowing.

Ultimately, the latter’s father went back to his workshop. Hopped, to be exact.

At the same time, the bus drove past their neighbourhood, heading for its terminal. It was a matter of time before it passed a big grey gate, turning left to its last stop.

Behind the tall metal gate was a stone path leading to a light-brown house in the centre of a big plot. Its owners often aren’t around, at least not as much as their child, their only heir who was now there with her friends. They were shared across the house, apparently according to their genders but, really, they were working. Yeah, while the dancing queens were going at it in the bright curly-headed one’s living room and had recently dismissed a study hangout, the heir and her friends were working, preparing for the upcoming weeks of the campaign.

—Now playing: Friends by BTS ✫

Adrielle and Avyanna moved rooms, from the kitchen to the living room, giving the chef space to prepare dinner. The two senior high school students were working on the cheerleading team they wanted to create for the school’s basketball team. They were as busy as their guy friends completing their tasks a few meters away in the study room on the main floor. Unlike the girls, they were a lot more unserious especially because among them was Jungkook who decided to take on the role of the comedian of the group causing his friends to laugh nonstop.

Their task was to create the flyers so now they were browsing the internet, looking for inspiration and judging the ones they didn’t find fit or appealing. If Adrielle were to be there with them, she would’ve regretted even mentally objecting to Jungkook’s statement about not wanting to participate in what he considered the ‘boring’ part of this operation because indeed he wasn’t fit for it.

Jimin was at the computer, Taehyung had scribbled a little nothing on a piece of paper while Jungkook was slightly bent over between the two, leaning on the back of Jimin’s chair.

—Now playing: Boys with fun by BTS ✫

“Gosh! This has the potential of being an ad for condoms!” he exclaimed, pointing at the screen while Taehyung leaned closer and Jimin scrunched his face. “What the fuck? How so?”

”Like… look at the decorations. They are so disgusting they make you hate babies and therefore having them as well,” he causally explained, causing Jimin’s face to scrunch even more and Taehyung to simply laugh, expressing his confusion differently.

“It literally has the look of the aftermath of a baby swallowing a unicorn and having terrible indigestion only to throw up rainbows and shit glittery cupcakes,” he explained even further, pointing at the screen as he did so.

“What the fuck?” Taehyung wholeheartedly laughed, “You have a very creative mind up there, Jungkook”

“Please, Kook. Shut up. We’re supposed to be printing the flyers out by now—” Jimin firmly spoke after failing to derive some sense from all that.

“Woah, woah, woah, woah. Hold on there. I thought they told us to look for templates, not fully take over the creation. Or did we suddenly forget that we’re working with Adrielle, Adrielle Hawthorne? The Adrielle Hawthorne and not some buggy doppelganger?”

“Jungkook, oh my, God. They are just flyers, it’s not that serious—”

“Fuck yes, it is. Y’all forgot who I’m talking about? We’ve worked with her on various school projects, simple school projects, and she can be not just a stick in the fucking ass but a full plank. In fact, this girl sets your whole ass on fire. Fucking fireworks out of your asshole. New Year's night typa shit.” His friends couldn’t help but laugh at his hilarious and dramatic description of their friend.

“Showing her the ideas is going to let you sleep well at night?”

“Hell yeah. Imagine going to bed only to dream about having your ass on fire, fireworks in your asshole that pop with every fucking little detail that gives Adrielle the ick. Ooh, fuck. I’m already getting goosebumps—”

“Oh shut up. Let’s look for the templates then. Can’t have you knocking on my bedroom door at night asking to share the bed because you had nightmares,” they laughed and changed focus to browse the internet further, looking for the right templates but even then, Jungkook couldn’t keep quiet or stay focused. “You know… originally, I had never signed up for this—”

“And originally, I thought speaking was just a right and not a fucking duty so shut the fuck up,” Jimin spoke, keeping his eyes on the screen as he typed away at the computer.

“Jeez! What has you behaving like this? When was the last time you let loose and fucked? Or do you miss making out with your pizza dough? —”

“Oh, my God, Jungkook!” Taehyung was back to laughing loudly while Jimin simply rolled his eyes and did nothing to suppress the smile on his face.

“What? Did I lie? He probably hasn’t fucked a girl in so long so is starting to sound like one, Adrielle to be precise—”

“Hey, man. I’m not like you. I’m not interested in Adrielle,”

“Never said you were—”

“But the way you said it makes it easy to make the connection,”

“There he goes again, interrupting my speech—”

“Your speech?!” Jungkook pointed at Jimin as he looked at Taehyung because his point had just been proven, “You’re barely making any coherent sense so what speech are you talking about!—”

“You know? That party I wanted to host at mine? Jimin you’re so invited. In fact, you’re the first one on my guest list and I’ll underline your name in red as in ‘in great and urgent need of pussy’—” Taehyung’s loud laugh broke through the room as Jimin hit back with: “I’m always invited to your parties regardless—”

“Yeah, but this one is urgent. The last time you were turned on was maybe this morning after watching food porn—” Jungkook had to complete his sentence so he could dodge Jimin’s punch on the shoulder as they both laughed. Taehyung, on the other hand, had stopped laughing loudly and was now squirming as he silently laughed in his chair.

“You know? Don’t ever come to me looking for food. I’ll fucking starve you,” Jimin jokingly warned before sitting back down, “And why do think I need pussy?”

“Because pussy is awesome. Literally, pussy equals a great time, so yeah, you’re in dire need of it ‘cause you sound like an old man who’s working in a factory all his life.” Jimin simply facepalmed himself while taehyung was doing breathing exercises because he’s been laughing for too long and his abs seemed to be permanently and painfully contracted.

“Okay, okay, but, jokes aside, y’all are with me in the party thingy, right?” and his friends agreed, unaware that this party wasn’t just a way for Jungkook to get drunk, high on cigarettes or on sex. Jungkook wanted to hook his friend up with the special girl who’d been clouding his mind and have the two of them enclosed in a space even smaller than their school so they could meet and possibly talk.

“When will it be? Have you decided yet?” Taehyung continued, turning around to face who he’d just spoken to. “During the campaign weeks. I don’t know exactly when but probably this Friday or next. Which one would be better?”

“Do however you wish. You have exactly a month,” Jimin reassured, fingers typing away on the keyboard.

Jungkook didn’t want to rush it. The party wouldn’t be all about drinks, music and one-night stands. He needed it to be good enough to buy votes but also give enough space for Taehyung to shoot his shot. He’d have to help both Adrielle and Taehyung get what they want. Adrielle, the position and Taehyung, a chat with his crush.

“So, I changed my mind and I think I’ll be inviting only students over sixteen. Wouldn’t want to claim responsibility for irresponsible fourteen-year-olds, you know. And second, I have my age limit when it comes to hooking up, so…” he winked, gaining a disgusted look from Jimin who snapped his head back to look at him.

“Don’t lie to yourself because the last thing a drunken Jungkook is going to remember at a party is asking the age of the girl he’s about to fuck—”

“Oh, great heavens. Why do y’all keep painting me as this disgusting predator or something?”

“I never said that you are but I know for sure that if you find interest in someone, be them ten years older than you or not, you wouldn’t know. Would never know,” and Taehyung chuckled, agreeing with Jimin and watching the baffled expression on Jungkook’s face.

“All the parties I go to have people around my age and I’ve never gone above and hooked up with someone younger than me with more than two years. Like… I’m trying to have a good time, not a tutoring session!” he exclaimed, getting a bit frustrated. “I’m not a disgusting type of person—”

“Yeah, I mean… at the end of the day, you always hook up with the same girls, so yeah, I get where you’re coming from,” Taehyung butted in. “The town’s small,” Jungkook simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Man whore!” Taehyung jokingly mocked before taking off and running out of the room with Jungkook sprinting right behind him, screaming: “Just because you don’t blab about your hook-ups as much as I do doesn’t mean you’re any different!”

The screams took the girls by surprise as they turned around to look at the commotion but soon went back to work, paying them no attention.

“Will he ever stop talking about sex? It’s like he’s always in heat, jeez,” Adrielle mumbled to herself and her friend who simply rolled her eyes.

“So… I could lead the team because I’m good at gymnastics and just dancing in general, so that’s covered,” Avyanna said, going back to what they were doing and looking at what Adrielle was writing on her blue ring binder.

“Yeah. That would be perfect. How would you be doing the auditions?”

“Ooh. Oh, my God. I don’t know right now. I’d have to watch a few teenage movies before I can answer that,” she seriously replied but Adrielle chuckled and reassured her that she had three weeks to come up with everything.

“How will you be going about the garden with Nana?”

“I haven’t shown her my plan yet. I will tomorrow and, according to what she says, we proceed,” Avyanna nodded before her serious demeanour vanished for a split second as Jungkook and Taehyung ran all the way back to the living room. Precisely Taehyung jumped across the coffee table and was now at one end of the sofa while Jungkook was on the other.

“When will y’all be serious for once?” Adrielle sighed, looking at her childish friends.

“He’s trying to tickle me to death—”

“And he called me a man whore,” Jungkook replied back, eyes transfixed on the friend he wanted to catch.

“I mean, is he wrong?” Avyanna replied, turning a bit on her left to look at Jungkook whose eyes finally changed focus. “What? Why?”

“You only talk about sex… or parties which implies you’ll be getting laid eventually,” she explained. In the meantime, Taehyung was mentally thanking her for distracting him and giving him space and time to make his final escape.

“And so what?”

“That’s what a manwhore is.”

“I be bagging them girls because of this pretty face and my charming ways, baby. Not my fault. It’s in my nature,” he boasted, smirking at Avyanna as she rolled her eyes and Adrielle mumbled: “Humble much” to herself.

“Why are y’all suddenly behaving like I’m this big bad guy that mocks everyone?—”

“You literally said I jerk off to food porn a few minutes ago!” Jimin exclaimed as he got out of the office.

“What?!”

“You did?!” the girls laughed while Jungkook proudly agreed, claiming the title.

“Okay, that was a good one—”

“Good what? Avyanna!” Jimin exclaimed.

“Get your ass back here!” Jungkook yelled as he saw Taehyung running at the speed of light right behind Jimin. In the meantime, Adrielle was still laughing her ass out at Jungkook’s joke.

“Adrielle, fuck you like… seriously… fuck you so bad—”

“I’m sorry…” she apologised laughing now both at the joke and Jimin’s facial expression.

“Keep your apologies to yourself!” he dramatically pouted and feigned crying as he left the room and went back to the office. Not without screaming, hoping that Taehyung and Jungkook would come back so they could finish the work.

The girls simply went back to what they were doing.

—Now playing: Telepathy by BTS ✫

So… in the end, Taehyung and Jimin do not function when Jungkook is around—honestly, nobody does—so Adrielle had to join in because dinner time was inching closer and closer and the boys were nowhere close to finishing—they hadn’t finished the flyers yet. And this wasn’t good news to Adrielle who was already feeling the competition from the other running teams.

Avyanna had just finished setting up their instagram profile with a nice colour theme and a nicely-made logo which would end up on their final presentation. The only thing missing were the pictures of every member of the team with their specified role in the group.

“So, how would we go about for the pictures and when shall I upload them?” she asked, poking her head into the office to meet the backs of her friends and Jungkook spread out on a chair, typing away on his phone.

“I’m making a list for my party. Don’t say I’m playing around,” he immediately explained, looking at her for a split second before going back to the device. Avyanna just rolled her eyes, not giving a single fuck about what he said or what he was doing at all.

“Oh, Avyanna. Erm, I don’t really know,” Adrielle was still back-facing her friend as she responded, too busy on the computer.

“I’ll never understand how you know how to use Canva so well. Like… what the fuck?” Jimin admired the work on the computer, looking at Adrielle like a kid looking at a magician.

“It’s Adrielle, Jimin. She’s good at everything basically,” Avyanna simply replied, moving closer to the group. Taehyung was sitting next to Adrielle with his chin resting on his hands and eyes transfixed on every little detail his friend worked on.

“Look at you all silent. You could help us with the pics,” she proceeded, now referring to Taehyung. Despite her call for his attention, he didn’t reply, just smiled and went back to looking at the screen.

“Hey! Are you doubting your skills or something because, as far as I’m concerned, you’re fucking amazing, Tae,”

“Yeah, you’re awesome.” Jimin butted in while Jungkook’s attention finally moved away from his phone to know who was receiving all these compliments.

“Yeah, but this is serious shit not just something to do as a hobby,” Taehyung finally spoke, sitting up straight and sighing.

“You’re been cultivating this hobby for years—”

“Woah-ho! Taehyung, in order to convince you Avyanna is using big words, jeez—” Jungkook laughed, getting up from his seat and moving closer to who he’d just spoken to.

“Hey, shut up! Just because I don’t cuss every two words like you do, doesn’t mean I’m using big words. What’s so big about the word ‘cultivating’?” she snapped back and he simply replied by tickling her for a bit before moving his attention to the screen.

“Anyway, as I was saying. The work has to be done by someone from our team and you’re the only one who can out of all of us. Adrielle is way too fussy…” no reply from the blondie, “Jimin has trembling hands—”

“Which is a fat fucking lie because it would mean I cut myself every time I cut onions—”

Avyanna cackled and softly pushed Jimin’s head, wanting him to shush as she went on, “Jungkook would just throw pranks and take selfies rather than our pictures…” This time around, Jungkook didn’t snap back like he usually does but just laughed, mentally agreeing with her words, “and I suck—”

“Damn, yeah, you do,” he whispered, gaining an elbow in the side before he dramatically cried like a baby. Avyanna just proceeded with her explanation, rolling her eyes at the overly dramatic rolling-Jungkook on the floor.

“So you, Taehyung, are the only person up for the task. And, anyway, why you being shy all of a sudden? They’re just some lame-ass pictures—”

“Mine aren’t—”

“Shut up Jungkook and get back to suffering. Anyway, Tae, what do you think?” she smiled, looking at the respondent in hopes he’d consider everything she’d just said. Taehyung sighed, “It’s not like I have a choice anyway—”

“Fantastic! We love you,” Avyanna clamoured, squeezing his cheeks like a grandmother does to her nephew. He just smiled, finding everything hilarious.

Never could there be a dead moment whenever he’s with his friends. In fact, he believes that at least 60% of his abs were developed from the crazy amount of times they make him laugh.

Soon, Adrielle’s seriousness and speed brought their fruits and they were done with the flyers, nicely decorated thanks to her magic. She had finished a few minutes after the chef announced dinner was served and around twenty minutes after her parents had returned from work.

To pay for how much delay he’d caused them, Adrielle instructed Jungkook to make sure the right number of flyers would be printed and assigned Avyana as his personal guard as she took Jimin and Taehyung to the living room to show them her ideas for the final presentation. Yeah, this time around, the two boys were functioning just fine, completely serious and actively participating.

On the other hand, Avyanna and Jungkook were cracking some silly dance moves to the sound of the printer.

Finally, around ten minutes later, everyone, teenagers and parents, were sitting around the dining table to have dinner.

—Now playing: Venice Bitch by Lana Del Rey ✫

Them being at Adrielle’s was almost equivalent to being in the comfort of their homes so they easily lost track of time—didn’t mind really.

October was already knocking at the door, asking to be welcomed in along with its cold breeze, warm-coloured dry leaves, half-naked trees, dimly bright days and dark late afternoons. The sky above their heads was a smooth pitch-black surface decorated by a few stars here and there. The wind lacing the air wasn’t harsh enough to make trees start singing as it rushed through their leaves nor too cold for anyone to be shaking but it still called for an extra clothing layer to avoid catching a cold already in September.

They finished having dinner around two hours ago and spent their time hanging out, finally doing something unrelated to school that day.

They had a few drinks but considering it was Sunday, they didn’t go in strong and just had enough to live the moment. That type of activity is reserved for Fridays and Saturdays but Jungkook didn’t know this—or at least he did but just couldn’t bring himself to give even half a fuck.

Since the hands of the clock were inching closer and closer to the top numbers, to signal the end of another day, they had to pack up and leave to give themselves and the owners of the house the chance to rest and be fully energized for the next day.

The five senior-year high school students were all gathered outside by the big metal gate. Three were smoking while two were busy handling school-related issues.

“Honestly… why me?” Jungkook whined like a baby watching Jimin and Adrielle place the boxes of flyers in the trunk of his car.

“Kook, as we already told you, you use your car on a daily basis especially to go to school so it’s easier like this to transport the boxes,” Adrielle spoke slowly like one does to a stubborn child.

Taehyung blew out smoke from his cigarette and side-eyed his friend, chuckling and rolling his eyes because he knew what was coming. Jungkook probably had too much to drink and no one even noticed because if they had, they would’ve snatched the glass away from him immediately. The last thing any one of them wanted to handle was Jungkook being hangover—grumpier than Grumpy himself.

“Yeah, yeah… but… you see this beauty on four wheels?—” Jungkook burps “This artwork? It wasn’t coined to be carrying flyers around,” he kept going, speaking in whispering tones like he was high on drugs and seeing visions. Then he shoved his cigarette back in his mouth.

Jimin and Adrielle didn’t reply to him again. The first one mostly rolled her eyes like she always does and the second simply smiled.

“Are you high or something?” Avyanna was smoking her cigarette off while she giggled, looking at how messily Jungkook was smoking his. He shook his head a bit too much to deny but everyone saw through that and they chuckled.

“I guess I will be driving everyone home tonight,” Jimin chanted, going back to take another box.

“No, no, no. My baby… she belongs to me—” he burps.

“Jungkook, it’s just a stupid car,” Avyanna laughed. She always found him too funny whenever he was like this and the tons of videos of his sitting in her gallery can prove that.

“You know… that adjective you just used…” Jungkook began. “Oh, my God. I don’t think it’s just cigarettes. Did he drink? Who gets drunk on a fucking Sunday night?” Jimin questioned as he dropped the last box of flyers into the vehicle and closed the trunk. In the meantime, seeing how much her friend struggled to speak, Avyanna happily exclaimed: “Ooh, we love ourselves a blabbing Jungkook on a Sunday night!”

“That adjective…” he continued, struggling not to slur his words, “Didn’t just hurt my baby… but it hurt… me. Devasted me. Oh, my God! Avyanna… do you really hate me that much? Look what you’ve done to me,” he whined, throwing himself on the floor to behave like a fallen soldier but, luckily for him, his friends caught him before he could do any damage to himself. They were laughing through the whole process. Avyanna the most, especially while he was trying to speak coherently so he could paint her as a traitor.

“Okay, okay. It’s time for bed. Way past your bedtime,” Taehyung spoke with the cigarette tightly held between his lips as he held onto Jungkook’s shoulders. Jimin held the legs while Avyanna simply snatched the cigarette away from his fingers, causing him to whine and stretch to take it back and eventually fail. The girl wholeheartedly laughed, finding him hilarious and adorable at the same time—these were also the only times she could laugh in his face without him wanting to run after her and have her quickly greet Death by tickling her too much.

“He’s allergic to being serious, so much so he had to get drunk, bruh,” Adrielle chuckled, hand on her waist as she watched her friends try to carry him and place him in the backseat.

“Kook, I swear to you that if tomorrow you try to bust our asses because of your hangover, I’ll freaking rip every hair strand from your head. It will probably ease the headache,” she ultimately spoke, watching her friends succeed in placing the big drunk baby in the back. She knew that this warning was given to the breeze to carry along to wherever it wanted because the Jungkook of right now can’t understand anything and the Jungkook he’ll be tomorrow would rip her tongue out of her mouth if she ever wanted to repeat the sentence or bring her words to action.

“Y’all get ready to take the bus tomorrow no matter what because he surely won’t be in the mood to be doing anyone favours,” Taehyung spoke after taking his cigarette to quickly finish smocking before they left.

“Fuck! That’s true! He won’t pick me up tomorrow,” Avyanna whined and giggled, crumbling Jungkook’s cigarette under the sole of her shoes while she finished smoking hers.

“You better shut the fuck up because out of all of us, you’re the one who takes the bus the least because he always drives you to school, always. And, anyway, his car is staying at mine. I can’t just drop it at his and go home on foot,” Jimin explained, pointing fingers before getting into the driver’s seat. Avyanna only giggled and turned around to lean on the car, “I guess a great day awaits Jungkook tomorrow. Like just imagine him waking up with a raging headache, messing up everything he’s doing exactly because of it only to come out and see that his car isn’t where it usually is,” she chuckled more.

“Ooh and since he’s a hangover, he won’t turn his phone on unless he really needs to so when he can’t find his car, he finally goes to his messages just to see that Jimin sent him a voice message: ‘erm, you were so drunk last night I had to drive everyone home and since it was late and the bus wasn’t available, I had to drive myself home with your car. It’s parked in front of my house you can take it after school’” Taehyung laughed as they pictured everything in their head.

“He’d fucking lose it right then and there. He’d start cussing everyone and everything while he stumped his way to the bus stop,” Avyanna continued.

Their conversation was cut short by the sound of Jimin turning the engine on, so they got the queue they’d leave any moment from then and quickly took a few last draws before discarding the cigarettes by crushing them with their shoes.

“Oh, fuck you all for polluting not just your lungs but also my freaking compound! I wish you the best fucking night ever!” Adrielle exclaimed as they got in the car, laughing and blowing her kisses.

Finally, they drove off, out of her compound and to their homes while Avyanna waved at her friend from the back window.

Adrielle chuckled as she waved back and once they had completely left her compound, she pressed the button to allow her gates to close and trekked back to her home to get herself a good beauty sleep after everything that was today.

⤎ previous page | ❃ | next page ⤏

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mousemilf · 2 months ago

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like 10 or 15 years ago if u went to any small towns "historic downtown" it would be like..... Amys You-nique Designz (bedazzled wineglasses, chevron print baby/kids clothes, curlz mt monogrammed everything) The Curious Mustache Emporium (twee novelty print clothing, museum gift shop vibe, old-timey candy) The Sassy Sasquatch Boutique (rhinestone stuff for women with concealed carry permits, vinyl decals, chalk paint) Elm Antiques (terrifying haphazardly piled dusty antiques and a floor that feels like it will collapse, no regular hours, insane shit for amazing prices if you survive) Be Still (essential oils bath stuff, nearly empty store, will last 6 months)

now everything is called like Bread and Bucket or Clover and Cheesecloth or whatever and their merch looks like aldi's little seasonal homegoods aisle.

#ic

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ac3-76 · 7 months ago

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Ninjago Music Headcannons

their music types and stuff

warnings: none🐩

Cole

He listens to everything

heavy metal, love, country, Indy, alternative

literally any song that he likes is his music type

Because he's not picky, he knows a lot of underground artists

He can play the piano and electric bass

If a song comes on in a movie he knows the name, artist, album, and probably the Year of release

ALWAYS HAS HEADPHONES

He cannot function without music playing

His Spotify wrapped is hectic

Yk in Episode 1 Season 1 of Lab Rats when Adam says he listens to Taylor Swift bc she's soothing

Yea, Cole has the same reason

(Musular himbos🤝liking Taylor Swift)

However he won't listen to her on anything except for YouTube, and it's those lyric versions made by fans that she doesn't get paid for

He doesn't like Billionaires and doesn't wanna give her more money

Nya

She listens to a lot of underground artists

Backseat Vinyl, Club Coward, Tiger Print

She has an alternative/Indy vibe

She can play the electric guitar

She LOVES Lady Gaga

She bought floor tickets to one of Gagas concerts

best decision she ever made

she took Skylor and Pixal with her

She won't sing on the shower but she'll lipsync music

She loves ABBA

All of her Instagram stories and posts have music playing

she just thinks it's awkward if her post/story doesn't have music

Lloyd

He hyperfixates on an artist for a week or two and then doesn't listen to them again

He hates country with a burning passion

he cannot stand when Coles on aux because one minute ur listening to Honky Tonk Bondakadonk(Trace Adkins) and the next ur listening to Dealer(Lana Del Rey)

He listens to music that fit how he's feeling

His go to sad song is Medicine by Daughter

Kai introduced him to Daughter

He listens to old school music while doing graffiti, his favorite old school songs are:

Punk Tactics(Joey Valence & Brae)

One Way or Another(Blondie)

City Lights(Ese 40'z)

P.I.M.P(50 cent)

I'm a Player(Too $hort)

Zane

He's the only one in the group who's knowledge of music rivals Coles

When he had to sleep he would listen to Idea #22(Gibran Alcocer) on repeat to fall asleep

He can play most instruments but his favorite to play are the drums

He's really good at singing

HE SINGS IN THE SHOWER

the ninjas find it kinda annoying but also nice because he's a good singer

He's a really good DJ

Once the ninjas went clubbing in Ninjago City and Zane ending up DJing for 7 minutes

(he's honestly the life of the party, him and Kai love to party and go clubbing)

(Him and Kai would also be invited to Tara Yummy parties)

(They would go and the fans would lose their minds)

He listens to music that fits the vibe

Jay

Listens to Ayesha Erotica

His favorite genre is rap

He listens to Coolio and Eminiem while he invents

World tours in the shower

He hates ABBA

He knows the lyrics of songs even if he's never heard it before

"It's just easy to tell where the lyrics are going based off of the instrumental part🤷‍♂️"

He's really good a karaoke

He watches Glee

His favorite Glee characters are Santana and Blaine

Kai

Listens to Broadway Musicals

His favorite are Hadestown, Heathers, Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, and West Side Story

He has Say No To This(Hamilton) memorized

He loves listening to sad music even if he's happy

His favorite sad artist is Daughter

He introduced Lloyd to Daughter when they went to their art studio together

(Lloyd's good at art and Kai's also good at art so they bought an art studio and go there together to work sometimes(most of the time they go there seperatly bc of how busy they both are))

He listens to music while he paints or draws

Prefers wired ear buds over bluetooth

It's because the Bluetooth audio is "funky and echo-y"

He can play the electric guitar and the electric bass

Listens to classical music and old school 90s or 80s rap

His favorite pianist in Tony Ann

His favorite old pianists in Motzart

He knows all the lyrics to C.P.R by CupcakKe

no one know why because none of the ninjas listen to it excessively

He just knows all the lyrics to it

They all use Spotify(they got the family premium plan(pretend the family plan includes 7))

#Ninjago #ninjago kai #ninjago cole #ninjago zane #master wu #ninjago nya #ninjago headcanons #music headcanons #ninjago jay #ninjago lloyd

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whatsnewalycat · 2 years ago

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Designated Person | Chapter 3

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 3: Puzzle Pieces

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.2k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, nannying, infant / toddler, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, flashbacks, awkward conversations, first date, first kiss, platonic (???) cuddling, confrontation, argument

Notes: Yeeehaw hi, friends. I don't know that I've mentioned this previously, but "reader" is like mid-to-late 20's for the purposes of this story, so there's a bit of an age gap there. And there was a power imbalance with their relationship to begin with and stuff so I'm just putting that out there. This chapter gives big "Bike Scene" by Taking Back Sunday vibes if you're into that lol. That's all I have for now! Thank you for reading.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Finally, it’s quiet.

You’re not sure if it’s a full moon or what the fuck is going on, but today has been particularly hellish in the Howard household.

The youngest two children, Ashton and Jaxson, are four and three, respectively. Which can be great when they play together, or when you find activities for the three of you to do while the oldest is at school. But then there are days like this, when neither of them want to do the same thing and both of them want your undivided attention. You can barely finish appeasing one before the other starts crying.

To add to the chaos, when the eldest Howard child, Emmaleigh, came home from school, she promptly stomped up the stairs to her bedroom, then slammed and locked the door. As Jaxson tugged on your shirt and screeched for you to continue reading names of different species of whales pictured in his animal encyclopedia, you tried to coax her out of the room to tell you what was wrong, but she wouldn’t budge.

On days like this, by the time Marla gets home, you’re essentially a bundle of nerves with knotted muscles.

You take another peek into the family room, where Ashton and Jaxson are settled into the cushy microfiber sectional watching Finding Nemo. They both seem content and neither of them notice your presence, so you tiptoe up the stairs to the main level, into the kitchen.

With a heavy sigh, peel the electric blue post-it note off the dull, cream colored vinyl countertop. The message, written in Marla’s neat, rounded hand, reads: OK to DoorDash dinner.

“Thank fucking god,” you mutter under your breath, then pad over the dark hardwood floor to a laptop sitting open on the dining room table. As you place an order for food from a local burger joint, you mentally give thanks to Marla again. Not only will dinner from Emmaleigh’s favorite restaurant lift her spirits, but it takes a load off your mind.

You’ve nannied for about a half a dozen families, and Marla is the most easygoing mom you’ve dealt with by far. Generally speaking, you’ve found your families with two or more children are less rigid than families with one child. You think that Marla is especially lax because she’s a single mother and, as the founder and CEO of an adult toy company, a bona fide hashtag girl boss. She knows that her children can be a handful and isn’t immune to giving in to their demands for junk food and screen time.

Your last job, with the Morales’s, was much more structured. Angie had very specific instructions, typed up the night before and automatically emailed to you at 6am each morning. Of course, you could have pinpointed her as type A during your interview, when she pulled your resume out of a color-coded accordion file of potential candidates, followed by a pre-printed list of questions she used to jot down your responses.

Her shiny red fingernails were long and pointed to sharp tips that clacked against the tabletop of a local coffee shop. Round, brown eyes with little flecks of gold looked up from her questionnaire to you as the interview came to a close.

“The hours are 7 AM to 6 PM, Monday through Friday. My husband gets home at 4, but I would need you to stick around and make dinner while he helps with Sarah.”

“Oh, ok,” you nodded, frowning in confusion at the overlap.

She leaned forward slightly, as if letting you in on a secret, and explained, “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. I love the man but he’s useless in the kitchen.”

You chuckled at this, grinning, “I get that a lot, actually. I just don’t usually get an extra set of hands to help me with the kids.”

“He’ll stay out of your way, don’t worry,” she winked, then took another cursory glance at the questionnaire before telling you, “Well, you’re definitely the most qualified person I’ve interviewed. I think you’d be a great fit for us. What do you think?“

“Is- is that a job offer?” you stammered. After your last family’s mom was laid off a month prior, you were abruptly out of work. This was the break you desperately needed.

Her cherry red lips curved into a disarming smile and she nodded, “But, if you need time to think about it-”

“No,” you interjected, almost a little too forcefully, then softened and added, “I’d love to.”

Before noon on your first day working for the Morales’s, you had grown attached to Sarah. The six-month old baby had a chocolate soft serve swirl of hair right at the top of her head like a crown, and it wiggled like jell-o every time her big bobble head would sway and jostle. Her deep brown eyes were round and expressive. Whenever you had one-sided conversations with her, she'd coo and babble in response, raising or furrowing her eyebrows, like she was contributing even though she couldn’t understand a lick of what you said.

After laying her down for a nap, as you tiptoed down the hallway away from her bedroom, a picture frame hanging on the wall caught your eye. You stopped to examine the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Morales from their wedding day.

Angelica’s pearly, knee-length dress hugged her hourglass shape. A white tulle shawl hung over her shoulders and draped down her arms, rhinestones scattered across the fabric. Her jet black hair was loosely pinned back, save for a few strands of long, wavy bangs left to frame her heart-shaped face. Her makeup was done up as fiercely as it was that morning and during your interview. Razor-point black winged eyeliner painted on behind her long, black lashes. Perfectly arched eyebrows. Her alluring lips were shiny and red, just like her fingernails.

Who you assumed to be Mr. Morales wore a fitted black suit, but no tie. He had bronzed skin and broad shoulders that pulled his posture straight. The man’s brown hair showed the beginnings of curls, his sparse facial hair trimmed close to the skin, save for a pronounced mustache. He had a strong nose and chin. His dark brown eyes and dimpled smile made your stomach flutter.

The happy couple stood next to each other on the steps of what looked like either a church or a courthouse. Mr. Morales had one arm tucked behind his bride, whose hands were clasped around a small bouquet of white lilies. Both leaned their heads towards the other while they faced the camera and flashed the kind of practiced smile reserved for professional photographers.

Blood rose to your cheeks when you realized you were staring at the groom and attraction was pooling between your thighs. You glanced around self-consciously, then down at the floor as you made your way to the living room.

For the remainder of the afternoon, time worked like a garrote, twisting around your neck, tighter with each minute that drew you closer to 4:00.

When he came home, you were participating in tummy time with Sarah. She babbled and blew spit bubbles at you, careening her wobbly baby head around to focus on your smiling face. The heavy door to the garage opened and slammed shut. Your heart skipped a beat when he ascended the stairs and looked around, doling out a polite smile and wave to you.

“Hi there,” you greeted, then asked Sarah in baby talk, “Is that your daddy? Do you wanna go see him?”

She cooed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you chuckled, then rolled to your knees and propped her on your hip as you stood.

“How was she?” he asked, tilting his head with a smile to Sarah. The dulcet baritone of his voice reverberated through your chest. You swallowed hard as you realized that he’s so much more handsome in person.

“She was great! Woke up from a nap about an hour ago, then she ate 8 oz from her bottle. Did a little tummy time, as, um, as you can see,” you handed her off to him. As you did this, his hand slid over yours accidentally. It was rough and warm and made your stomach flip. Your heart was thudding like you had just run a marathon.

He nodded at Sarah, copying her wide dimpled smile, then met your eyes, “Ang said you might need my help while you cook?”

When he made eye contact with you, all the air left your lungs and your brain short-circuited. He blinked in anticipation of your response, causing you to snap out of your daze, stuttering, “Y-yeah, sorry, um- yeah,” you winced in embarrassment, “She wanted me to make dinner when you got home, said you could help with Sarah while I do that.”

When you looked back up again he was smirking at you. That did not help the state of your composure. Your face was like a heat lamp and you averted your gaze, “I can get started on that now.”

While retreating into the kitchen, you pulled out your phone and found the recipe Mrs. Morales sent to you. He followed you into the kitchen, sans baby, heavy work boots clunking against the fake honey oak linoleum flooring. You tried to act as normal as possible when you turned to the fridge and he was already there, bending over to get a beer out of the crisper and asking, “You want one?”

As desperately as you wanted to say yes, abso-fucking-lutey yes, it was your first day with this family, so you declined.

“Do you drink?” he questioned further, still hanging over the open drawer in the fridge when he peered up at you.

You nodded, “Yeah, but…”

He fished out a second beer, then pushed the crisper closed with his foot and stepped away from the fridge, chuckling, “I think you need it.”

Teeth clenching your tongue flat, you fought the urge to tell him to shut up. You approached the open fridge and retrieved the necessary ingredients before nudging it closed with your hip, “I don’t know. I don’t want your wife to get mad at me. Um, drinking on the job and all.”

While you told him this, he twisted the cap off of one bottle and put it on the counter next to him, then the second, which he placed on the stovetop for you. As he stepped back and leaned against the counter to face you again, he said, “I won’t tell on you, don’t worry.”

Your heart was in your throat attempting to strangle you. You turned around and flashed a joking eye roll at him as you accepted the bottle, “Sure.”

He winked, grabbing his beer as he pushed off the counter towards the living room, calling back, “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Um, yeah, same,” you laughed nervously.

Frankie slams the passenger side car door shut and you put the car into drive, “How’d the meeting go?”

His seatbelt locks in place with a click. He stretches out in the seat that’s now constantly set to his preference: slid as far back as it can go, reclined to a wide, obtuse angle. His knees settle far apart and he looks out the window, pressing his fingers to his lips as he shakes his head.

Your nostrils flare at this annoying lack of response, but you try again, “I already ate, do you need me to stop anywhere for you?”

He doesn’t move when he mumbles, “I’m fine, thanks.”

You roll your eyes and turn the radio up in an attempt to dampen your irritation with his brooding.

After arriving at home, both of you trudge inside to your separate bedrooms. You strip off your day clothes and replace them with a baggy, tie-dyed t-shirt and a pair of black cotton shorts. Your skin still feels too tight, muscles too tense for comfort.

Fuck, you want a beer. Or a lay. Or both. Some kind of release.

Your phone buzzes from your nightstand, so you grab it and find a new message notification from Tinder.

> RORY: > You free tomorrow night?

With a grimace, you toss your phone onto your bed, then exit your bedroom to find Frankie rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. He has also made a wardrobe change into lounge wear, retiring his hat for the evening, sporting a pair of gray sweatpants and an old, weathered Metallica t-shirt.

“Did you change out of your crabby pants, too, or are those on under your sweats?” you tease.

He scoffs and glances over at you, “I’m not crabby.”

“Sure you’re not,” you tiptoe past him into the living room, where you collapse onto the couch and turn the TV on.

Flipping through Netflix for a while gives you little inspiration. The chair in the dining room groans as Frankie sits down to eat whatever he was able to find. You holler to him, “Whadda you wanna do tonight?”

“Besides get hammered?” his response from the dining room table is muffled by the food in his mouth.

“Obviously,” you snort.

“Mmm,” he hums, pauses for a beat, then sighs, “Fuck, I don’t know.”

You scrunch your nose up and try to brainstorm ideas. Immediately your mind plummets into the gutter, reminding you how fucking hard he made you cum on Monday. The memory electrifies your skin and sends your heart racing in your chest.

It was so fucking reckless.

Reckless and perverse and so fucking hot you wanted to tear your own skin off afterwards.

Whatever the opposite of that is.

“Do you wanna do a puzzle?” you call back to him.

At first he snickers, “A puzzle?” But then another moment passes and he asks, “What kind of puzzle?”

“I have a few. Let’s see,” you squint up at the shelf on your wall that’s lined with boxes of board games and puzzles, “Freddie Mercury, pandas, space, or gnomes.”

You hear him chewing as he soaks in these options, then he says, “Freddie Mercury.”

While he finishes eating, you clear off your coffee table and pull the box down from the shelf.

“A thousand pieces? Goddamn,” he sits down on the floor across the table from you, dusting his hands off before sifting through the box of puzzle pieces.

“We don’t have to finish it tonight,” you tell him as you scoop some into your hand and pick through them, “Try to find the edge pieces.”

The two of you isolate all the jigsawed pieces with at least one flat side and spread them, shiny, printed side up across the table. As you click a few together, Frankie’s cell phone rings.

When he pulls his phone out of his pocket, your eyes flick to the screen and see Angie’s contact photo. It’s a selfie they took together while on vacation in Australia, their smiling faces shiny with sweat and rosy from booze. Your stomach knots.

“Hey,” Frankie answers.

His dark eyes scan the room and meet yours. You immediately drop your gaze to the puzzle pieces and hum to yourself as you blatantly eavesdrop.

“Yeah, does that still work for you?”

There’s an indistinguishable soprano response from his wife.

“Let me check,” he says to Angie, then holds the phone to his shoulder and mumbles to you, “Hey do you think you could give me a ride tomorrow morning at 10?”

You nod without looking up at him.

“Yeah that works,” he tells her, shortly followed by, “Ok. Yep. Love you, bye.”

A stake plunges through your heart.

He puts the phone back in his pocket and resumes his thorough examination of the puzzle pieces, eventually mumbling, “Thank you, by the way. For giving me a ride.”

“Sure,” you glance up and flash him a quick smile. When you turn your attention back to the puzzle, you ask, “Are you excited to see Sarah?”

“Yeah,” his voice is lifted and warm, and you can tell he’s smiling, “Fuck, I miss her so much.”

What you want to say is I do too, because it’s the truth. That attachment you had to her never really went away. But it seems pointless.

“Are you guys doing anything or just sticking around the house?” you ask.

“We’re gonna go to the zoo, then Ang is gonna throw something together for dinner,” he clicks two puzzle pieces together and hums thoughtfully to himself.

“Is she still super into penguins?”

He chuckles, “Yeah. Last time me and Ang took her, she started screaming every time we tried to leave the exhibit.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Every goddamn time. I always had to bribe her with ice cream.”

“She’s so stubborn,” he grins and sits up on his knees to lean over the puzzle and get a closer look, “Just like her mom.”

A weight pulls at your stomach. You feel obligated to ask, so you do, “How are things with you and her mom?”

He’s quiet as he contemplates this, staring at the shiny pieces, thrumming his fingers against the table. With a sigh, he answers, “I don’t know.”

You try to keep your breaths metered, as to not give away the thudding in your chest. Adrenaline-spiked blood whooshes in your ears.

Frankie continues, “Things were better when I got arrested, but, you know…”

Your eyebrow raises on its own accord, but you don’t comment. If things were better, why was he doing blow and driving drunk? Nope, none of your fucking business.

Not my chair, not my problem.

“I’m kind of nervous about it, actually,” he admits quietly, “Spending time with her and all that. I really want things to work.”

“Why?” your mouth asks before your brain can tell you to shut the fuck up.

“She’s my wife. And- and the mother of my child,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “I love her.”

The sharpness in his tone drives the stake in your heart down further. Your eyes flick to his and see that he’s studying your face, stare hardened to steel. Those three words eat away at you. What he said was: I love her. But you know what he wanted to say was: I love her.

You nod in response, dropping your gaze back to the puzzle. Your body moves autonomously, clicking a few puzzle pieces together, scanning for matching patterns, while your mind plays it over and over.

I love her.

Static buzzes in your chest. Your throat feels tight, so you clear it, then tell him, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to pick you up afterwards.”

“Why not?”

“I have a date,” you inform him, glancing up to gauge his reaction.

“Oh,” he murmurs, then frowns, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Silence settles over the two of you. It’s just the scrape and click of puzzle pieces across the tabletop and hums of contemplation. You notice the way he seems to get buried in his thoughts, pressing his fingers to his lips, gnashing his jaw back and forth. A sick satisfaction roils inside you.

You decide to call it a night when the edge of the puzzle is put together. When you sink into your bed, you open Tinder and send a response to Rory.

< ME: < Definitely. What’re you thinking?

The message is opened immediately, and he responds.

> RORY: > Wanna get dinner?

< ME: < Yes please :)

> RORY: > Pick you up at 6?

< ME: < It's a date

The BBQ place Rory takes you to is busy and loud, its high ceilings making plenty of space for every noise to ricochet off the wood paneled walls down into your eardrums. You’re seated across from him, resting your chin in your palms, elbows pressing into the wobbly table top as you listen to him talk about his job as a personal trainer. When you shift in your seat, your legs stick to the black vinyl upholstery, and you wince at the sensation.

Your eyes trail his rigid biceps that pull his t-shirt sleeves taught. A faded black tribal tattoo peaks out from beneath the white fabric. From the shirtless pictures on his Tinder, you happen to know he has a whole collection of douchey tattoos lining his sun-tanned, muscular body, but you might be willing to overlook that.

You mark his tattoos down in the “things you don’t like” column in your brain.

Rory is conventionally attractive in a very masculine way, his face all hard angles with a dimpled, squared off jaw. Straight, white teeth are almost always visible behind the peak of his thin, bow-shaped lips.

He seems like the kind of person that has a standing appointment with a hairdresser that knows exactly how to trim his hair into a close, neat cut without him giving instructions. You’re willing to bet he takes a shower at exactly 6 AM every day, then applies just enough product to make his golden brown hair stand at attention. He probably food preps and has like six hard boiled eggs or something equally rich in protein for breakfast each morning.

Every part of him seems disciplined and routine. Stable. You mark that down in the “things you like” column.

When he asks you what you do for a living, you tell him, and he asks how you got into the nannying business.

“Growing up, I took care of my younger siblings all the time. I’d babysit for the neighbors and stuff, too. It just naturally evolved after I graduated high school,” you tell him, meeting his stunning hazel eyes with an easy smile.

“Do you have a big family?” he crosses his arms on the table and leans in. The off-kilter base of the table responds, shifting towards him.

You nod, “I have an older brother and three little sisters. My brother, Ben, is two years older than me. My sister, Marlene, is four years younger. Then there’s Leah, who was born two years later. And Rachel is the baby, who came a year after Leah.”

“Five kids,” he marvels, “Wow. No wonder you had to help out so much.”

You smile politely at this, although you know your role as their caregiver had more to do with your parents’ active social calendar than the sheer number of children.

“Do you want kids?” Rory inquires, his brow furrowing in a way that tells you the answer is important to him.

“Oh, definitely,” you respond, take a sip of your water, then continue, “I don’t know about five, that seems like overkill, but more than one for sure.”

This seems to please him. His lips curl into a smile.

“What about you? Do you have any siblings? Want any kids?” you stab the ice in your glass of water with the straw, then return your eyes to his.

“Two brothers. I’m the middle child,” he rubs his hands together and smirks, “And, yes, kids are no doubt a priority for me.”

You smile and nod in acknowledgment. Mark it down in the “things you like” column.

His eyes linger on yours and you feel blood rush to your cheeks. The waitress appears with two trays of food, placing them on the table. As you eat, you find out that Rory was born and raised close to where you were, in another coastal town off the Gulf of Mexico. He was transferred to Kissimmee about two years ago as part of a job promotion.

“What brought you here?” he questions, then picks up the ribs on his tray and tears a chunk of meat off the bone.

You shake your head, “Moved here with my ex-boyfriend. He was from the area originally. I needed to get the fuck out of my hometown, so he suggested moving here.”

You kick yourself for mentioning your self-exile from Ruskin, and hope to god he doesn’t ask why you needed to leave. First dates are no place to recount the ruthless campaign ran against you until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What happened with him?”

A sigh of relief expands your lungs. You answer, “Fell in love with his high school sweetheart.”

“Wow, that blows,” he frowns, “Been there. Cheated on. It feels terrible.”

“That it does,” you mutter, pushing kernels of corn around the white plastic bowl on your tray, “He told me about it when it happened, at least. And they’re really happy together. Got married and had kids and all that.”

“No offense, but he’s still an idiot,” he declares with conviction, “I mean, who would do that to someone as gorgeous as you? Besides, cheaters are all scum.”

The compliment warms your insides. You smile demurely and bat your eyelashes at him outwardly, while inwardly you make a mental note to never mention your past with Frankie to him.

After you finish eating, Rory pays the check and drives you back to your house. The living room is illuminated through the window facing the street. When he puts the car in park, he glances up at it and frowns, “Do you live with someone?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously, “I have a roommate. They must’ve come home while we were out.”

“Can I walk you to your door?” His voice is low and sultry.

You bite your bottom lip and nod.

He tells you to stay put as he comes around the car to open your door for you. As you walk side-by-side up the cracked sidewalk that leads your house, his hand finds the small of your back. There’s a nervous energy pulsing through your veins, thickening with each step.

When you reach the foot of your porch steps, he turns to you, meeting your gaze and holding it, “I had a really good time tonight.”

You face him, and his hand slides to your waist. A tingle spreads across your chest and heats your cheeks, “So did I.”

His eyes flick to your lips. He leans in. You mirror the movement, eyelids fluttering closed as his lips meet yours. He tastes like peppermint and smells like conifer trees. The kiss is mechanical and his hand is stiff at your waist. It doesn’t awaken anything hungry within you, but it’s nice.

When you pull away, you look up at him through your eyelashes, “Goodnight, Rory.”

“Goodnight,” he smiles wide, big white teeth taking up half his face.

When you open the front door and step inside, Frankie is mid-movement, sitting down on the couch.

“Hey,” you call as you lean against the closed door and pull off your wedge sandals.

“Hi,” he responds, sitting up straight.

It amazes you how much the one syllable says. The slightly panicked upward inflection, the tensing of his shoulders, how out-of-breath he seems. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, hands clasped together, knuckles white.

You drop your purse on the ground, “You getting anywhere on the puzzle?”

He hums and nods, “I’ve assembled quite a few mustaches.”

You tiptoe across the carpet and kneel down opposite him, scanning the clumps of puzzle that he’s managed to complete. It entrances you immediately, your fingers and brain working in tandem, making the world fade into the background. Some time passes before you feel Frankie staring at you. You look up at him and meet his eyes, “What?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head and smirks.

You blink at him and raise your eyebrows, “Bullshit.”

His smirk breaks out into a smile that tugs at your heart, the way his eyes crinkle into crescents and his cheeks dimple. He drops his gaze to the table and taps his lips, then shrugs, “You just look really nice. That dress was a good choice.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, returning your attention to the puzzle, ignoring the flutter in your chest.

“How was your date?” he asks, trying to seem disinterested, even though his shoulders hunch up to his ears and his jaw clenches.

“So good. I think for our next date, we’ll get married,” you tease, glancing up to flash him an amused smile.

“Hilarious,” he rolls his eyes. His knee starts bouncing and he inquires, “Have you been seeing him for a while or is this a… recent development?”

“It was literally our first date,” you raise an eyebrow at him, then shrug, “He was nice, though. We have a lot in common. I’ll probably see him again.”

He shifts in his seat, but says nothing, so you don’t say anything, either. You find a few more puzzle pieces that correspond and click them together.

“How was the zoo?” you inquire, looking up to search his face, noting his far-away eyes and pouting lips.

“Good,” he answers with strained positivity, “We’re gonna do something next Saturday. Not sure what yet.”

“That’s good,” you tell him. Your voice is dripping with an overly ripe kind of sweetness that seems disingenuous and repulsive. By the way he blinks up at you with a droopy, blank expression, you’re certain he senses it, too. Blood rises to your face and you bite down on your tongue, pulsing your teeth against the soft muscle, savoring the sharp pain the motion causes.

You take a deep breath in, exhaling through slack lips that make a buzzing pbpbpbp sound, then ask, “What do you wanna do for dinner tomorrow?”

He frowns, “Whatever you want, I don’t care.”

“Good talk,” you mutter under your breath, then rise to your feet, “Do you need to use the bathroom before I take a shower?”

Frankie shakes his head without looking up from the puzzle. His fingers press against the pillowy flesh of his lips. You feel an urge to scream at him, to push his buttons somehow, anything just to get him to react, but you drop it.

Once you’ve showered and changed into comfier clothing, you return to the living room and find Frankie laying on his side, curled up on the couch, a pillow wedged between his cheek and his hands. Jungle Boogie by Kool & The Gang is playing behind the opening credits of Pulp Fiction on the TV. You approach with caution, “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” he answers and goes to sit up.

“You can stay there, it’s fine,” you tell him. He relaxes back into his previous position as you grab a blanket and pillow from a wicker basket next to the TV, “Want a blankie?”

“Fuck yeah.”

His enthusiastic response brings a smile to your face. You grab another blanket and drape it over his body before settling into the opposite end of the couch and stretching out. He seems stiff when you pile your legs on his over the middle cushion, so you pull your knees up a little further, closer to your body.

“I wanna ask you a question but I want you to know it’s ok to say no,” he says in a somber voice. Your heart immediately starts sprinting.

“What?” you furrow your brow and look over to meet his eyes, but he’s staring at the TV with a blank expression.

“Will you cuddle with me?”

Your stomach flips upside down. You search his face in question, unsure what to say. No, probably. The two of you literally just had a conversation about keeping your relationship platonic less than a week ago. What the fuck?

He finally glances at you and sees the confusion. His forehead creases and his foot starts bouncing under your calf.

He elaborates, “I’m freaking out right now and I think it would help. No funny business, though, I swear to god. I just…”

As he trails off, his eyebrows part and face softens. He shakes his head like he can’t explain it further. His eyes are shiny in the light of the TV and he looks like he’s tearing up. You’ve never seen him cry. But the panic can do weird things. You’re well acquainted with the panic, unfortunately.

You swallow hard and nod, “Y-yeah, that’s fine.”

There’s a momentary ruckus while the two of you scoot and reconfigure. Your back settles against his chest and one of his arms tucks under your cheek. The other wraps around your belly, drawing you close, “You comfy?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

“Are you sure this is ok?” he asks. His voice is low and shaky. It vibrates against your skin and sinks down into the marrow of your bones. If you’re still enough, and keep your breaths shallow enough, you can feel his bass drum heart pounding in his chest at a bpm familiar to you.

“Yeah, it’s fine, Frankie,” you assure him, enveloping his hand at your belly with your own. He takes a deep breath and the exhale tickles your ear.

On the TV, Jules Winnfield and Vincent Vega are chatting about hash, but you can barely pay attention.

Frankie’s warmth is a sedative. It always has been. Much to your disdain, you hope the feeling is mutual. And you think it could be, because his thudding heart seems to slow. His body relaxes against yours.

And it’s so unfair how he can make you feel like this. How, one second he makes you so nervous you could puke, or so frustrated you want to scream in his face, then the next he’s holding you and it’s like your soul is finally resting here with his.

You think about your date with Rory. He was a gentleman and seems like he’s stable and nice enough. The kiss was fine, good even, but not electric. And that’s fine, because in your experience, first kisses are almost always lackluster.

Your first kiss with Frankie was like lightning, though.

Months passed working for the Morales family and you came to be more comfortable with Frankie being around while you cooked dinner. Your conversations were mostly functional, about Sarah or things around their house. But you found him charming and your crush only grew more intense.

Sometimes you would watch Sarah on Saturday nights so he and Angie could go out on a date. One of these Saturdays, they came home at 1 AM, and Angie was hammered.

She stumbled up the stairs and plopped down on the couch next to you. Her black hair was mussed and she was all giggly. She said something in Spanish to Frankie, and turned to you, “Do you wan’ chicken strips?”

“You- you don’t have to feed me, that’s ok, Mrs. Morales-” you stammered, going to stand up and get ready to leave.

“Oh hun, call me Angie, I’m begging you,” she grabbed your arm, “And stay, please! Chicken strips! Come on, hang out with me.”

“Um…” You glanced around to gauge Frankie’s reaction, but he was in the kitchen preheating the oven, so you nodded, “Sure, ok.”

“Yay!” Angie clapped, then sprawled out on the couch and propped her heels up on your leg, “Do me a favor, hun, take these off for me?”

You chuckled and examined the shiny silver clasp of her stilettos, working to undo the strap across her foot as she asked, “So what’s your deal, are you single, do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, what?”

“Ang, come on,” Frankie chided from the kitchen as he pulled a few beers from the fridge.

“What? I’m just asking!” she scoffed at him, then tilted her head at you with a hazy drunk smile, waiting for you to answer.

You managed to unclasp her shoes, despite her wiggling, and they thudded to the floor one by one.

Frankie walked past, handing an open beer bottle to you, then another to her, before sitting down on the loveseat. He kept glancing over at you and Angie, then up at the TV, which was playing King of the Hill.

“I’m single, yeah,” you sighed and took a sip of beer, “Unfortunately.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with that, girlie. Enjoy it while you still can.” Angie said, then set her full beer bottle on the ground and groaned, “Oh my god I have to get out of this fucking dress. I’ll be back, don’t go anywhere.”

She marched off into their bedroom, swaying gently as she walked. This was all very amusing to you because you had never seen her be anything but intimidatingly perfect.

You pulled out your phone and scrolled for a bit, sipping at your beer while waiting for her. Every once in a while, you found yourself looking over at Frankie, who was picking at the label on his beer bottle with his eyes glued to the TV.

A shrill beep from the oven indicated it was preheated. He rose to his feet and walked down the hallway to their bedroom. You heard the click of the door closing, then he returned to the living room and asked, “She’s passed out, do you really want chicken strips?”

“No, not really,” you chuckled, tucking your hair behind your ear and dropping your gaze to your beer bottle.

“And you don’t have to stay or anything like that, no pressure,” he advised.

You glanced up at him and got caught in his dark, warm eyes for a moment before you shook your head, “No, I’ll stay and finish this, if that’s ok.”

“Of course, make yourself at home,” he assured you with an easy smile, then sat down in the middle of the couch, just a foot away from you.

And you fucking knew what you were doing by staying. That’s the worst part. Attraction hung thick in the air between your bodies. It dampened your skin and condensed inside you.

Every so often in the weeks preceding, you caught him staring at you, and vice versa. More and more, the eye contact lingered just a bit longer than appropriate. Just long enough to make you wonder. It seized your heart and pumped all the blood in your body between your legs and up your neck.

The prospect of his affection was on your mind all the fucking time. Every time he’d laugh at one of your jokes, or brush up against you in passing, or find a reason to touch you intentionally, you wanted it to last forever.

But you didn’t initiate anything. You were content admiring him from afar, wondering if his lingering looks meant he wanted you, too. He was at least fifteen years older than you, married, and your fucking employer. There was no way in hell you would risk your livelihood by making a move on him, no matter how tempted you were.

If he pursued you, though… that would be different. And you desperately wanted him to.

“I’m sorry about Ang,” he said, leaning back against the couch, “She drank a lot tonight.”

You chuckled and shook your head, “Totally fine. We all have to let loose every once and a while.”

He hummed in agreement, and your eyes flicked to his, and they were so intent on your face that your heart started racing.

“And how do you like to let loose?” he rumbled, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

Your lips parted. You managed to quirk a brow and breathe, “Are you sure you wanna know?”

Frankie sat forward, taking your beer and setting it on the ground. You could smell his whiskey-soaked mouth. The woody scent of his cologne. His hand rested on your knee. A shiver jolted across your skin and you swallowed hard.

“I think I might know,” he murmured, sliding his hand down further, setting his thumb into motion against your tender inner thigh, leaning closer.

“This is a bad idea,” you warned him in a whisper, but brought yourself closer to his beckoning lips, insides coiling tight, begging for you to just fucking do it.

“Terrible idea,” he agreed, brushing his nose against yours, bringing his hand to your chin, holding it as he took the plunge and pressed his lips against yours.

The kiss was a slow peck that lingered with heat, and when he peeled his lips from yours, murmuring, “Sorry-” you grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him back in, all hot-blooded and eager, savoring the softness of his pillowy lips, the harsh liquor burn on his breath. You couldn’t help but whimper as his tongue rolled wet against yours. He renewed it with hungry urgency, cupping your cheeks, pulling you closer, both of you completely lost and breathless.

You tried to sit up, to get closer, to crawl inside him if you could, but knocked over the bottle of beer with a sharp clink. Both of you jumped apart at the disruption.

“Shit,” he hissed and stood up, striding to the kitchen. You stood up, too, trying to catch your breath and regain your composure. The spell was broken. The weight of what just happened crashed down on you all at once.

You snatched your purse up off the floor just as he came back into the room with a wad of paper towels.

“I’m sorry-” you faltered.

He shook his head, “No, no, don’t worry, it’s fine.”

“No it’s not fine, you’re-” your eyes darted to the closed bedroom door where his wife was sleeping and whispered, “You’re married. And- and- I work for you, I’m an idiot. I just have a stupid crush. An- and I won’t do it again.”

“Hey, no, don’t-” his voice was pleading and soft. He reached out to you but you shook your head and dropped your eyes to the ground, crossing your arms.

“I have to go, but I’ll see you on Monday, ok?” you pushed past him to leave.

The whole drive home, the whole next day, you were so fucking mad at yourself. You had never done something like that with your employer. It was unprofessional and wrong.

Yet…

The kiss consumed you. It’s all you could think about. You wanted it to happen again. You wanted it to go further. It set you on fire and the flames felt fucking exquisite.

And now, as Frankie is holding you, nuzzling against your shoulder, and you feel whole and calm and safe like you can’t with anyone else, you wonder for the millionth time if you’ll ever find this with someone who loves you back.

You drag the silver tines of your fork across the barest section of your ceramic plate just to watch Frankie squirm at the ear-piercing squeak. Family dinner again. A stalemate for who goes first again.

“I’m gonna keep doing this until you start,” you advise, then make the noise happen again, “I can do this all night.”

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, sending his cap onto the floor behind him, “It’s just gonna start a fight.”

“I don’t give a shit,” you blink and prop your chin up on the heel of your palm, “Not saying anything will also start a fight, so…”

Frankie just swings his head back to neutral and stares at you, his arms crossed, elbows resting on the table.

You scrape your fork against the plate and smirk at him.

“Jesus fucking Christ fine,” he groans, running his hands down his face before crossing his arms again. His eyes meet yours and he opens his mouth to speak, letting it gape for a moment, then admits, “While we’re living together, I think maybe…”

He snaps his mouth shut into a straight line and drops his eyes to your picked over plate. You rub the tines back and forth against the ceramic rapidly, “Just say it, come on, Franklin.”

He glares at you, half joking, and scoffs, “You know that’s not my name,” then he reaches across the table, trying to snatch the utensil from you hand, “And I’m gonna take that goddamn fork away-”

“The fuck you are,” you laugh as you pull it away from his reach, then try to coax him to complete his thought, “While we’re living together, you think maybe…?”

“I think maybe we shouldn’t have other people over,” he tells you quietly, sitting back in his seat with a sigh, meeting your eyes for a moment before dropping them to the table.

“What do you mean by other people?” you search his face.

“Dates, you know, like,” the muscles in his face tense as he clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth together.

You drop your fork on the plate and cross your arms, “Like the guy I went out with last night? Like you don’t want me to date other people while you’re living here? Really?”

“Like I don’t want to hear you getting fucking railed-”

“This is my fucking house, Francisco, and we are not dating,” you bite off, “Just because you’re jealous doesn’t mean I have to be abstinent-”

“I’m not asking you to take a fucking vow of celibacy, I’m just saying I don’t want to see or hear that shit when I’m here,” he argues.

“Because you’re jealous,” you state.

“Sure,” he shakes his head, “Whatever.”

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” you spit.

“What?! How?” he barks, throwing his hands up at his sides.

“Do you know how many times I had to see you and Angie kissing and holding hands and making fucking goo-goo eyes at each other?” you grind out, shaking your head in disbelief, “But I can’t have people I’m dating in my own house? Ok, Frankie.”

“That is not the sa-”

“Bullshit,” you lean into the word as you hurl it at him, then scoff and tell him, “When I went to Australia with you guys, I heard you fucking her every single night. Did you know that?”

His eyes flick to yours. He’s scowling like a sullen child.

“Then you would wait until she fell asleep and- and you would come to me,” you feel the pain from this buried memory surfacing in your chest, burning behind your eyes, “And you smelled like her, and I was-” a sob bubbles up your throat. Tears roll hot down your cheeks, and you meet his eyes so he can understand, “I was so fucking in love with you, Frankie.”

His face softens and his shoulders sag.

“So I really don’t want to hear how uncomfortable my love life makes you while you’re living here,” you sniffle, then wipe your eyes with your hands. He searches your face, but doesn’t say anything. You bite down on your tongue and hold it for a moment, then ask, “Did you ever think about how it was for me? Seeing you two together?”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He shakes his head.

“I didn’t think so,” you mutter, looking down at your half-eaten plate and pushing it away with a sigh, “I won’t have sex with anyone when you’re here. But I’m not going to ban people I’m dating from my own house just for your sake.”

He nods, “Ok.”

Both of you stew in this silence, soaking in the words that were exchanged. It’s not uncomfortable, just heavy with the weight of the conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Frankie looks up at you.

You search his somber face, “Tell you what?”

“That it hurt to see me with her,” he presses his elbows into the table, clasping his hands in front of his mouth, “I mean, obviously, I should have known, but…”

“I didn’t wanna lose you,” you shrug loosely, gather all of your guts in a bundle and tell him, “If I told you, it would come down to choosing between me or her. And… you’ll choose her every time.”

He sits with this information, staring down the hallway to his bedroom, but so much further. His chest expands with a deep breath, and he exhales, “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

You fight the urge to comfort him and tell him it’s ok. Instead, you nod in acknowledgment.

“I was really shitty to you for a really long time. And- and you’re right. I’m a fucking hypocrite,” he furrows his brow and rolls his head on his shoulders to look at you, “Why did you even agree to this?”

“To be fair, this is not what I thought was going to happen when I bailed you out,” you chuckle, then release a heavy sigh, “But, I mean… I probably still would have done it if I knew. I care about you. And I want you to get better.”

The corners of his lips curl upward just a little, eyebrows lowering as he murmurs, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you smile warmly and wait a moment before stretching the smile out wider, “Ralph is gonna be so proud of us.”

Frankie laughs, his dark eyes folding into crescents, and nods, “He’s gonna put a gold star on my worksheet tomorrow.”

You push your chair back and stand up, yawning as you stretch your arms towards the ceiling.

He gets to his feet, too, grabbing his hat off the floor and putting it back on before piling dishes from the table into a stack, “You going to bed, or you wanna puzzle it up?”

“I’m down to puzzle,” you grin, “As long as we don’t fall asleep on the couch again, my neck is fucking killing me.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he snorts, taking wide strides to the sink, “I’m gonna do the dishes, but I’ll be there in a minute.”

With a nod, you tiptoe into the living room and kneel before the coffee table, examining all the fragmented parts of the puzzle still left to put together. Slowly but surely, it’s starting to resemble a bigger picture.

You’ve always found puzzles to be comforting.

Something about the heap of jigsawed pieces when you open the box. All of them broken and indistinguishable in their own right. How you put them together, bit by bit. Proceeding even when it seems impossible. How, eventually, they all come together to make something beautiful.

[ Next Chapter ]

#designated person #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales x you #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #triple frontier fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal

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java-dragon · 1 year ago

Text

Covers Bookbinding for beginners by a beginner- The Home Stretch

*drinks half a gallon of coffee*

COVERS!

You've gotten your typeset done for the fic, you've battled the demon that is your printer, folded pages, stitched pages, glued pages, glued end pages, and end bands. Made the cover, covered the cover in potentially homemade book cloth.

Now it's time to design a cover.

It's time to make this thing into a fully functioning book and slide it on your shelf and have a nice bout of "Laying on the Floor while Questioning the Human Condition (TM)".

There are a few options.

It depends on what you want.

I can only take you so far with Cricut/vinyl applications. But I researched enough to maybe, MAYBE give you the run down on at least how to get your cover from Canva to the software to cut out your vinyl. I'll start there since this is what I know the least.

Open up your version of Canva.

Make a document, I've seen some fanbinders make all this in the cricut software but I can only smile and nod along. But for me- this is the best I've figured:

go to the search bar and type in book cover (or use the drop down menu) click on a random template.

Fiddle and fart your way into a design you like. Text and Font Options are available in drop down menus and find some designs that are "Easy to Weed" which I understand as "Getting rid of all the stuff that's not going on the cover".

For Example:

Do you like it? It took me 40 seconds, I'm very proud of it. But this isn't to impress you really I just need to show you how to save your file so you can make the leap from one software application to the next.

Hit "Share", Hit "Download", File Type- Hit the down arrow, Hit "PNG" I missed this for the first few times--- BUT!

Click the "Transparent Background"

If you're doing more than one colour Vinyl you're going to duplicate the page that is located right next to the lock icon above the document. Hit that. Delete the stuff that you want to be different colours. Otherwise it will just cut everything out as one colour and I've seen some vinyl covers that get damn fancy.

You can also build a title cover just measure the spine and height of your spine and rotate your text to horizontal if you please.

Now for how I do mine. I use Printable Iron On Vinyl. Keynote there is a difference, there is stuff for light fabrics, and stuff for dark. Choose for what your primary book cloth will be but the paper itself will be white.

Make your design.

I have 3 different covers for Celestial Navigation by Sabrecmc just because of how LARGE the fic itself is. I had to split the text block up for ease of handling.

I saved as a PNG, and loaded up my fancy printable vinyl into my printer and went through the software for printing, I had to do some fiddling but for my purposes I had to get the whole cover in the right size on the page- it took some fiddling yours might be simpler it might be more complex. But once I got it printed I trimmed off the white and was left with a peel-able rather velvety feeling thing.

Remove the backing. Get the iron on and go low and slow with the provided barrier material to prevent melting and damage to the print you've just done.

I made spines as well and made an 11 x 8.5 (Or brochure template)

And lined up my spines accordingly as to not waste materials. There will be grids that pop up automatically to let you know if things line up.

Print them out on the "highest quality" out put for your photo software.

It peels like a sticker. It may take a bit to get it going.

Line it up as nicely as you can on the cover (double check on the still exposed board).

There is a protective sheet that comes with it USE IT. Set your iron to a low heat and move it around frequently.

If you're in a relatively humid area (I live in a coastal town so the humidity is pretty high all year). Have a heavy book to squish your covers down with to try and get out any bends that may happen post ironing (also why we want low and slow).

Leave to cool.

Now you have a text block and a cover.

For all intents and purposes for my demonstration I'm leaving the spine off and am redoing everything with this fic from the ground up. There are aspects and mistakes that I have made that have irked my brain. So I will be leaving the spines off for this round. This is the learning curve and since a lot have things have clicked into place since beginning this series that have given me the "AH HA! CLARITY!" moment. I have completely reworked EVERYTHING in my text block of Celestial Navigation. Plus I've a perfectionist issue that is a lot milder than what it was.

But these two text blocks will work as my "Ground Zero" and will be the books I compare all potential future binds too.

As a note that I said in the beginning of this endeavor:

THIS IS FOR PERSONAL USE ONLY. FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK DO NOT SELL WORK THAT DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU!!!! YOU HAVE ASKED PERMISSION (I dearly hope) TO DO THIS DO NOT BREAK TRUST WITH THE AUTHOR.

IF You want to offer a copy to the author- GO FOR IT. Close friend that is showing interest in the fic?? Sure ok.

But if you sell it for monetary gain? I hope you stub your toe, and just before it finally heals you stub your toe again and may all your breakfast cereal turn to slugs.

DO NOT BE A DICK. I am writing this whole 'How To' Series as an experiment of Good Faith that you, the potential binder, will do right by the community and not compound an issue that has been cropping up. Etsy sellers, and this horrible Facebook community that will steal other's typesets, and begin selling them.

Like I said- this is a breech in Fair Use.

Now with that lecture, again, out of the way lets settle the rest of this series.

You will need:

Glue

Book Press

glue brush

Wax Paper.

Your Cover.

Your Text block.

Get your textblock and cover lined up with some wax paper in the middle of the decorative pages (if you're doing them other wise the page you glue down to the cover and the rest of the text block.

Fiddle, fart and dry fit until you are satisfied.

Lay down a layer of glue on the page NOT THE COVER ITSELF.

DON'T BE ME. I FUCKED UP HARDCORE AND DID THE COVER WITH THE GLUE. HOOOOO NELLY LET ME TELL YOU HOW BADLY THAT FUCKED SHIT UP.

HOW BAD WAS IT? BAD. VERY BAD. DON'T BE LIKE ME THAT FIRST ROUND, BE LIKE ME ON THE SECOND ROUND AND PUT GLUE ON THE END PAGE.

Line up the textblock for a final time and then apply the paper to the cover open the textblock and smooth what you just glued down. Flip over and repeat.

Then add weight to the text block put it back in your press, or if you're like me and have a reprint in the press just throw books atop the block.

Allow glue to cure over night.

Shiver, shudder, and lay on the floor. Your fic is now a book that you can put on your shelf.

Welcome to the wild wild world of bookbinding.

I've been your host trying their best to explain all the things.

I will likely continue this series with "OK SO I LEARNED SOME SHIT ALL THAT SHIT I WROTE BEFORE FEEL FREE TO LISTEN BUT I'VE GOT BETTER SOLUTIONS NOW" time stuff.

#bookbinding #ficbinding #diy #bookbinding for beginners by a beginner #oh my god I'm done for now #I've done it #I wrote out all of the things #and i likely have to go back and FIX some shit cause.... whooooooooooo I learned a LOOOOOOOOOT #mistakes are great learning tools don't get me wrong but hoooooo I learned a lot

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caltropspress · 6 months ago

Text

DISPATCHES FROM 2ND ST. STUDIOS: Fatboi Sharif & DRIVEBY in session

I went to DRIVEBY’s apartment in Jersey City because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of documenting musical exxxprrrimentation, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I knew witnessing Fatboi Sharif in the studio would be morbidly rewarding—I felt it in my critik’s skull-and-crossbones (memento mori, pirate flag, poison pictogram). It was New Year’s Day in the year of our Lord Have Mercy 2024, and I had to pull myself away from a tree documentary that had, sadly, begun to disappoint. I had opened a stocking-stuffed box of Goobers and was reluctant when Sharif sent the invitational text. I had settled in for the night. But it was my idea to watch the man work his black magikal esoterika hammer-don’t-hurt-them-witches recording session, so I’d be a real punk to rebuff the offer. I got into the Toyota and headed down Route 3 toward Jersey City. I was on the 1&9 in no time—the truest highway to hell, if one ever existed. Ate de Jong could never scout such a location. AC/DC roadside appliance wasteland. Potholes pave the way, but in a De Nah Soul manner. I finished eating the Goobers in the car, by the palmful, and lost one to an erratic lane merge. I motherfucked and shitted at the thought of a chocolate stain on my upholstered driver’s seat, or worse, the seat of my pants. My dad delivered Blimpie’s for thirty-plus years in Jersey City, long before it became Brooklyn-of-the-West, so I know parking spots there are at a never-dream-of-’em premium. I parked several blocks away from DRIVEBY’s studio and cloven-hoofed it while huffing brick air. Texted from outside, but Sharif was already ushering me through a wrought-iron gate (suitable for guttings and impalements) and into the basement apartment: DRIVEBY’s 2nd St. Studios. That gate was like an entrance into a secret garden—overblown and overflowin’ with a riot of root rot, weeds, and (of course) crumbling-but-still-grumbling gargoyles, most with the medieval motif of mooning jutting out from the church buttresses. DRIVEBY’s had a William Shatner’s TekWorld comic next to his speaker. Dusty keyboards lined the floor. Sega Genesis cartridges, a Sharp boombox, and the requisite vinyl collection on bowing crates completed the scene. The space stored antiquated and dead media—ghost machines humming and haunting.

⤧

Sharif told me he’d be recording some tracks for his upcoming album with Blockhead, something for Bigg Jus, and several features. When I arrived, he was in the middle of recording one of the Blockhead tracks. The mic and the iso shield were directly inside the door of the apartment, and I sat on the couch to the left of that. Sharif would be spitting at me, beyond me, as he did his thing—an intimate setting, to say the very least. Beans of Antipop Consortium sat on this same cushion months earlier, I thought. They recorded “Sex With the Leopard Print Lady” here. While I pondered the legacy of stylist berzerkers of past and present, Key & Peele played on the television in front of me. I wanted to make myself scarce, invisible as possible, Brundlefly-on-the-wall, non-participatory, so I watched the “Laron Can’t Laugh” sketch on mute and registered how Laron’s noiseless convulsions and eventual shriek expertly pantomimed Sharif’s vocals. These layers of silence allowed me to hear some of what Sharif was spewing forth and commit it to memory. He spoke of avenging the death of Candyman. The words loom like Tony Todd—tall as a ponderosa pine in a Cabrini-Green courtyard. Caroline crossed eyelids…90 degree pressure… Closing in on 400 degreez, but we’re talking below zero. The winter of our disconnected selves. Sharif tells DRIVEBY he wants his voice to sound “fucked up.” He’s snorting, super sinusy. He wants to cultivate a specific sound—it coats the inner concavities of his skull. He just needs to externalize it into a self-portrait in a convex DAW interface. “The soul establishes itself,” John Ashbery writes. Sharif is shoeless, I should add. He’s black socked as he cuts the song’s first of three adlib tracks. The first is completely muddled, barely audible—a grumbly grumble grumb. The second is a helium-huffed high pitch mania. The third, a yell—“the banshee,” as DRIVEBY calls it. Sharif slackens the headphone wires and walks across the room. He does “the banshee” from as great a distance as possible. You’ve no doubt heard the banshee adlib track before (B.A.T. for short, as in, the hematophagic vampire bat). If you’ve heard a Fatboi Sharif recording, you’ve likely heard a hotly desperate and deranged voice coming from the depths of a hellmouth—sinners swallowed and still writhing, quasi-alive, anticipating rigor mortis. DRIVEBY captures the natural reverb. Sharif asks him to put distortion and echo on the last word of the verse.

⤧

Fatboi Sharif was reading lyrics off his phone, but by then he was Loosifa loose—engaging me, inviting me to dialogue, reveling in the job. His feet are light and nimble, like McCarthy’s Judge. He says that he will never die. And, you bet, he dances in light and in shadow. He’s a craftsman and possesses an engineer’s ear, an ant-infested and severed one he probably plucked from a manicured lawn in Scotch Plains, NJ, Jeffrey Beaumont style. For the second verse of the song, he makes an alteration and decides to end the verse earlier than he had written it, stopping at the phrase “role model” because he likes the “swing of it.” Okay, Nuke Hellington. I see you, Benny Badman. A natural performer, the recording session reflects both technical know-how and impassioned delivery. He doesn’t quite lose himself as he does on the stage (or the audience floor where he so often ends up), but he’s unequivocally locked in, as he kids say. Locked in a room with padded walls, more apropos. On the next, he requires a seemingly endless run of retakes. I begin to wonder if my presence is a burden, a distraction. But the session keeps its devil-may-care air intact. Still, Sharif has a sonic vision he yearns to achieve. He won’t settle for less. He eventually gets the take he desires and tells DRIVEBY he’s gonna do three adlibs. These two men work in harmony to develop their songs of disharmony. They’ve been boys, and so that keeps the chemistry alchemical for the duration. Open and honest, DRIVEBY tells Sharif that three tracks of adlibs is “too many.” FUCK THAT! Sharif shouts at him. Sharif wants the adlibs to sound beneath everything—six-feet deep, or “buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways” (unexpressed emotions, that is), as Freud or a Freud-fraud once wrote. Sharif wants echoes. He wants to sound like he’s a signal coming in and out of the radio as you drive through the night. These are the requests he makes, delicately selected from his mental doom board as DRIVEBY adjusts the mix, adds effects. “Do you do a lot of vocal mixing on the spot?” I ask. Sharif shakes his head, points to DRIVEBY slumped over his computer monitor, clicking and dragging, random access memory maybe lagging: “He’s on his Bob Power shit.” Listening to the playback, Sharif tells me he wants to be like Joker in the children’s hospital scene. What kinda clown carries a fuckin’ gun?! I’m waiting for the next Sharif release, crossing my fingers into an arthritic mass of flesh and bone in hopes of his cover of “If You’re Happy and You Know It” appearing on the tracklist.

⤧

DRIVEBY puts Joker on the TV. It’s the bus scene; he can’t stop laughing. He hands a fellow passenger his card: Forgive my Laughter: I have a Condition. Sharif still sleeps to beats. He’s told this story numerous times to various media outlets, and so it’s beginning to take on the tone of lore. But it’s not. Even wilder, he’s not listening on headphones as he sleeps; he blasts the beats on speakers. Sharif prefers to record late, well into the wee hours of morning. DRIVEBY’s couch often becomes Sharif’s bed. “He’ll have the same beat on for five hours,” DRIVEBY explains. He’ll be in his bedroom, unable to sleep. Sharif grins and tells me, “That’s when I’m in the mindfuck.” Sharif reapproaches the mic. Another Blockhead track. “He told me he made this one especially for me,” Sharif says. The beat sounds like a Gregorian chant in a cavern. Beware of the Shroom Monster. Sharif has managed to amass an intimidating number of releases over the past several years while not indulging us to excess. He’s conservative with his run-times. Clocks ain’t shit to him. Many of his projects are EP-length, but categorizing them in any terms would seem to discredit his ingenuity. As the session unofficially ends and we settle into more casual conversation, Sharif implores DRIVEBY to play selections from their unreleased album, currently on ice like a corpse. I listen and hear of an exorcism of Antoinette, of Elvira and death resurrections, of Basquiat painting in Transylvania, crossroads, and plosive sonic samples from The Pagemaster—a film I have absolutely no recollection of but DRIVEBY speaks almost as highly of as his Fantastic Damage instrumental CD-R. OneShotOnce shows up, presumably for a session, but not before he and Sharif pillage DRIVEBY’s fridge. They feast on cold chicken while I gather myself to leave.

Images: Astronomical table detail from the Almanach Purpetuum of Abraham Zacuto (c. 1500)

#underground hip hop #backwoodz studioz #zines #fatboi sharif #driveby #recording

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