#🍒.docx

[itgirlwife]

protagonists don’t do laundry

summary: puck and malcolm meet for the first time.

pairing: honeymoon suite | puck/malcolm

words: 1209

notes: serves as an introduction to my self insert (who is just me, really), first person pov (i’m a reliable narrator! i swear!!!)

I am wasting away in this bedroom. And the heat and humidity only add to my misery. Loneliness is the bitter frosting on top but if I admit it is, I’ll start crying. I’ve dreamed up scenarios where I lived on my own comfortably and happily. I got what I wanted, but my chest has had a hole in it since I moved in.

The hole gets bigger with every reminder of how lonely I am. An empty bed. A quiet home. Unanswered texts. Watching movies alone in my living room. The only thing I can point a finger at is myself. I got tired of applying myself to people. My attention dwindled along with my energy. People who were interested in me started to bore me and people I grew interested in intimidated me. For the sake of my anxiety and insecurity, I stopped trying. 

I romanticized my loneliness. When silence got loud, I put on music and pretended I was in an 80s movie. I wore platform boots to go grocery shopping. I ordered food from places I wanted to take potential dates to. All these things are fun until it’s over. 

The white ditsy floral sheets, now damp with sweat, were a product of my romanticization. If my room was pretty, I’d feel pretty. It worked but I fear my room will lose its luster after a while like everything else was. Groaning, I threw the matching comforter off my body and got out of bed. It’s too hot to be standing. I begin to remove the sheets from the bed. It’s like removing makeup. Yellowing pillows, plastic covering the mattress. Pretty on the surface but dull underneath.

Balling up all the sheets and pillowcases, I make a half-assed attempt to throw them in the clothes bin. I miss I but realize the bin is overflowing. Doing laundry isn’t something I can romanticize, so I neglected it. It made me feel common, non-cinematic. Protagonists don’t do laundry but the overflowing bin ruined the “aesthetic” of my bedroom. Groaning again, I accept defeat. Today is a laundry day. Part of me doesn’t mind. I needed an excuse to dress up.

—

To my dismay, almost all of my good clothes were in the dirty clothes bin. All I had were sweats and a t-shirt. Both of which are black. Horrible combination. It’s stupid hot. My walk to the laundromat wasn’t long but it felt like I had spent hours in the sun. By the time I got to the laundromat, my back was damp with sweat and my pants became uncomfortable. I want this to be over quickly, so I shoved the sheets from the laundry bag into the washer in handfuls. Angry, annoyed, handfuls. 

Once the machine is half full, I do the same with the next washing machine, not separating anything, or turning anything inside out. Clothes fall to the tiled floors and it only makes me angrier. I pick them up just as viciously as I shove them into the machine. If I didn’t care, I’d slam the door shut but there are people here, so I care a lot. I add quarters to both machines and finally plop down on the row of plastic chairs behind me.

“You don’t separate your whites from the colors?” It’s a man’s voice. He’s sitting two seats away from me.

“No.”

“Your clothes won’t wash properly if you do that, love.”

Love. I like that for me. “Well. It hasn’t been a problem in the past. I just found out that you aren’t supposed to be filling the washer all the way up.”

He stops slouching and sits up straight, brown strands of hair come down his face with the movement. “What do you mean you just found out?”

I shrug. “I mean, like, I discovered that a month ago. I just put everything on colors.” The first time I did laundry, I was 14. The first time I did laundry almost properly, I was 20. The difference is that I read the instructions on the washer.

“Colors?” His pretty brown eyes look like they’re about to fall out of their sockets. “You’re going to kill me and I don’t even know you.”

“White is a color.” Though I think about Googling it later in case I’m wrong.

“Ok? But there’s a setting for that color. You wash them separately on the whites setting.”

“I don’t believe in segregation.” He laughs and I feel like I’m floating. He almost doesn’t seem real.

“You’ve got a pretty head on your shoulders. A funny brain in there too.” 

I nod. Not because I agree with him, but because my brain is too busy turning to liquid to speak. A dryer beeps and I’m back at the laundromat. He excuses himself and tends to his clothes. 

I feel sick and excited. My heart’s on speed. These feelings scare me, but I’ve been wanting to feel them for a long time. There’s something nostalgic about this person I’ve never met. I’ve seen him in a movie or I met him in a daydream. Raoul Duke from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Neo in the latest Matrix movie. Almost Famous. Dazed and Confused. I describe him with movies because no one like him exists. He embodies cinema. Fiction and nostalgia.

Within a minute, he’s standing in front of me with his bag of clothes. 

“Do you have a pen?” 

I shake my head no. The hamster on the wheel in my head stopped running a long time ago.

“That’s a shame,” he pulls a pen out from his back pocket and takes my arm with a ring-clad hand, “you’ll never know when a handsome stranger is gonna give you their number.” He begins to write his digits on my arm. Light enough so he isn’t poking me but hard enough so it appears on my skin. I don’t even notice when he drops my arm. I’m elsewhere. I’m in a movie.

“What’s your name?” He asks. This isn’t a movie. It’s real life.

“Puck.” He raises an eyebrow and smiles again. I want lightning to strike me. 

“Cute. My name’s on your arm so you can’t spell it incorrectly. Malcolm.” Cute. Cute. Cute. My head plays it over and over like it’s casting a spell. I look down at my arm. His name is written in all caps with an “x” next to it.

Malcolm throws the bag over his shoulder, an indicator that our interaction is ending. The hole in my chest closes but stays open an inch, knowing that he’s leaving.

“You’re going to call me, yeah? Hopefully, the next time I see you, I’m taking you on a date.”

I nod again. He smiles.

“Good. Take care, Puck.”

He leaves. I’m still sitting here like an idiot. It didn’t seem real. I look at my arm again. It’s real. The laundromat didn’t exist in those few minutes, so my wet clothes have been sitting in the washer for who knows how long.

Putting them in the basket, I noticed a pink top, pink pants, and pink socks. Everything is pink, or stained with pink dye. The colors bled and stained my clothes. I was given a warning after all.

[itgirlwife]

chapstick.

summary: malcolm comes home after being mugged.

pairing: puck/malcolm (oc) / honeymoon suite

words: 1138

notes: mentions of fighting, blood, some cursing, first person narration, hints of a potential wedding/proposal (!)

The buzzer had rang a good three times now. I dismissed it the first two times since I assumed Malcolm had his keys but then I remembered: it’s Malcolm. He’d forget his own head if it weren’t attached to his body. I didn’t bother asking who it was when I approached the intercom. I was too annoyed and too tired to care. I could’ve let a burglar in. At least they were polite enough to ring the buzzer.

I stood by the door and waited for footsteps. I hear them faintly through the door. They come up the stairs and stop once they reach the top. Keys jingle and I see a shadow at the foot of the door. I turn around and go back to bed. A burglar with a key to my house? Couldn’t be. The lock comes undone and the door opens. Not a burglar but my boyfriend.

“You have to start asking who’s at the door,” Malcolm says. “I could’ve been anybody.”

“Like a burglar?” I ask turning around. “What kind of burglar would- what happened to your face?”

It was still his face but not the same face that kissed me goodbye hours ago. His cheek had kissed concrete; it was covered in dirt and the lines of the sidewalk were stamped on his face. The lips that kissed me earlier were dry, red, and plump with swelling. His nose didn’t appear to be broken but blood had come down his left nostril and into his goatee. He looked like hell. It looked good on him.

“I got mugged,” he said casually, plopping down on the living room sofa.

“Oh. Did you win?” I sounded calmer than he did. I went into the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper for his nose.

“There’s no winning in a mugging, Puck.” I can hear him lighting a cigarette.

“Yeah,” I called from the bathroom, “but it was a fight and I’d want you to win.”

“I’m bleeding to death and you’re worried about me winning a fight?”

I come back with the toilet paper in one hand and a first aid kit in the other. “Yes. I’m not asking you to be Batman but when the time comes, you will have to defend my honor.” I point to the ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. “Put it out. I can’t be with a man that can’t fight.”

He takes a long drag before crushing the cigarette into the heart-shaped ashtray. I take the seat next to him on the couch and hand him the toilet paper.

Malcolm leans back into the sofa. “I can be your Batman. Just without the car. Or the money.” He takes the toilet paper and wipes his nose clean but temporarily. Blood still trickled out of his nostril. He twists a piece of toilet paper and sticks it up his nose. I open up the first aid kit. What is gauze used for anyway? There’s tons of gauze along with bandaids, painkillers, and Neosporin. I look at Malcolm’s face then down at the first aid kit in my lap.

“You’d look good in the suit though,” I said. “Did you win? And do you need gauze? There’s plenty of gauze in here.”

Malcolm chuckles, “Some nurse you are. Yeah, I did win. The guy thought I did so good he took my wallet. He said I should be expecting 100 grand in my account by tomorrow.”

I gasp, playing along with his sarcasm. “We’re gonna be rich?”

“Filthy stinking rich. I’m taking you to Disneyland.”

“We could buy Disney with that kind of money.” Then I remember something and I gasp again, bringing my hands to my mouth in excitement. “Are you gonna purpose?” Malcolm’s brown eyes seep into mine as his face twists in confusion. The way I look at him when he says something stupid. Eyebrows furrowed, lips turned into a frown.

“What the fuck makes you think I’m going to purpose to you?”

“I read this story about a guy who came home all bloody and bruised. And the wife was like “Oh my God! What happened?” And he was like, “I got mugged. They took everything.” And the wife goes to call the police and he stops her. Then, he pulled out a ring and was all like, “They took everything but this.” And the wife started crying and boom! She was married.”

“That’s so corny it could kill me.”

I hold my hand out expectantly, wiggling my ring finger. “So… are we married or what? I want a beach wedding.”

He takes my hand and kisses it gently. His thumb lightly brushes across my knuckles soothingly. “I’m not marrying you, baby. Not yet at least.” I put on my best puppy eyes and pouty lip.

“Then when?”

“Soon.”

He leans over to press a kiss on my lips. His lips are dry and rough against mine but I don’t mind. I’ve been fighting the urge to kiss him since he walked in. There’s a metallic hint of blood and the familiar taste of tobacco on his lips. When he pulls away, my lips tingle. He must’ve had a drink. The alcohol burns my lips like peppermint.

“Did the mugger take your chapstick too?” I chuckle. “You need it.”

He laughs a little, digging into his pockets. His hand stops moving when he finds it and pulls it out: a tube of cherry chapstick. He pats his thigh.

“C’mere.”

My heart runs a thousand miles. I get up and sit on his thigh. He pulls me close until my head is level with his. His nose touches mine. I want to kiss him all over again. He hands me the chapstick. “I was too busy being robbed to put it on. Do me the honors?”

I remove the cap, smiling.

“Happily.”

He closes his eyes and puckers his swollen lips like a schoolboy awaiting his first kiss. Goofy, yet adorable. I carefully apply the chapstick to his lips, looking out for any bruises or cuts that I missed earlier. Once I’m finished, I peck him on his now cherry-flavored soft lips. When I pull back his eyes are still closed, smiling. I playfully slap his chest before resting my head on it. I feel a light kiss at the top of my head before his chin rests on my scalp. I’m sitting in the center of his universe.

“What are you gonna do about your credit cards?” I ask. I almost forgot he got mugged.

He shrugs. “I can cancel them. Or I can wait around for that 100 grand.”

“I do want to go to Disney.”

He takes my hand. His thumb makes a circle around my ring finger. “Maybe I’ll propose to you then. We’ll have a Disney wedding.”

[itgirlwife]

ignore lol