#this has been in my drafts for a few hours and i was gonna mull over it more but i accidentally posted it 😭

[lemonavocado]

i have something to say!!! about the differences between victor and elizabeth in the way they experience/express emotion, and what that means for the themes of gender in the novel

i briefly begun (began??) to talk about this in the tags of this post by the magnificent @frankingsteinery (i wanted to add this on to the original post but this ended up being kinda long) and i would like to clarify and expand upon what was said because i theorized a bunch of stuff unsubstantiated like an idiot 😭 raving under the cut

for context here are the tags that inspired my thoughts:

i left my little analysis in the tags because i was really just spitballing on the spot and when i do that i'm usually wrong 😭 but i'd actually find it fun to substantiate some of what i said w evidence from the text

to expand on my ramblings and robin's own additions in their reblog (with brilliant quotes that i did not even consider to search for because i am quite stupid). when i try to explain exactly how elizabeth and victor have differed in their approach to an early parentification role (elizabeth moreso in being groomed to emulate her mother in role and spirit, forced to remain domestic, unworldly, and unable to even entertain self-actualization, since the moment caroline dies she is the eldest female figure in the immediate family and must assume that role of maturity) (victor moreso in the fact that he literally. made a guy when he was like 20), i find this quote from alphonse quite telling:

"...but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance or immoderate grief? Excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."

victor immediately dismisses this advice as being:

"...totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends, if remorse had not mingeled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations."

he acklowledges what is expected of him from society at large and actively claims himself incapable of it. he is not the reliable figure his family so desperately hoped could be upheld before they came to realize that he is really, irrevocably capricious and mentally unstable.

on the subject of the other quotes added, i think that in them we can see this shift in the family's perception of victor: they begin by expecting him to assume his prescribed role as the family's eldest man (besides alphonse cause he's old and useless) and caregiver, to be a stable and unshakeable foundation on which the family can always rely, but as victor remains on the trauma conga line and spirals into worsening mental health, the happiness of the family is reliant on victor's rapidly fluctuating states of health.

"Come, my dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth..." (side note that after this quote he immediately starts taking about caroline, a bit of a freudian slip on alphonse's part in that he conflates caroline's very existence with a comforting and reliable disposition, and elizabeth is explicitly asked to 'take over' for caroline when she dies)

at the time alphonse writes this, henry (<3) has been purposefully concealing the extent of the "nervous fever" victor has suffered; alphonse is not aware of the trauma his son has undergone and how it has changed him, and so he automatically assumes that victor, upon returning home, now older and more educated, will embrace these expectations.

"'We all... depend on you, and if you are miserable, what must be our feelings?'"

at this point of the novel, however, elizabeth knows how mentally unstable victor is, and is begging him to come back happier than he left. everyone in the family at this point is so conscious and aware of victor's poor health, and thus his explosive and outwardly demonstrative emotions affect the family very deeply. in short their dependency on him shifts from perceiving him as a source of stability to perceiving him as a source of instability.

back to my original comparison!! jesus this is all over the place thank god i'm not an academic.

to reference alphonse's first quote that i referred to. it seems to me that elizabeth, unlike vic, takes alphonse's advice in stride. contrast victor's response to alphonse's quote with this description of elizabeth:

"She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to us all. She looked steadily on life, and assumed it's duities with courage and zeal."

indeed, she demonstrates this; victor often describes her as handling her grief in silence (literal silence, but ykwim):

"...a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute, and she bade me a tearful, silent farewell."

"...I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth."

in fact, the only time she comes close to being as expressive as victor is when she blames herself for the death of william, and in part her extreme reaction stems from the fact that she percives herself as having failed the duty that her mother bestowed upon her - it is unmotherly to allow such a thing to occur under her watchful, feminine eye.

even in childhood they had a very stark difference in temperament, elizabeth's more traditionally and overtly masculine:

"Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition, but, with all my ardor, I was capable of a more intense application..."

and, especially for a female character, she defies the will of her father several times:

"At first I attempted to prevent her, but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay..."

"Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go..."

all this considered, i don't think it's much of a stretch to say that while it should be vic's role, elizabeth is the "man of the house" (a sexist idea in its own right, but im communicating this in terms i think mary shelley might have intended).

tldr i just think this is such a fascinating exploration of family dynamics in frankenstein, and a brilliant portrayal of two opposite sides of the spectrum when it comes to people dealing with the undue parental and familial responsibilities they are made to uphold in youth. the lack of academic attention these themes have attracted is absolutely bonkers to me. anyway elizabeth the girlboss and victor the malewife <3

[egcdeath]

ways to say i love you without saying “i love you”

pairing: steve rogers x reader

summary: you and steve explore love languages

word count: 5.1k

warnings: fluff, a little angst because of miscommunications, reader & steve being idiots, good intentions but terrible delivery, mentions of other characters

author’s note: this fic has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for so long. this fic is like, ancient. this fic was almost destroyed because it was briefly in the library of alexandria. when i reopened the document with this fic, there were mold spores growing on it. (p.s. steve’s love langauge is acts of service, and the reader’s is quality time)

you can find my masterlist and taglist here

Prologue

Steve was a multitasker. You knew this well. Perhaps too well.

That never seemed to bother you before, but if the man who was supposed to be taking a serene nature walk with you checked his goddamn flip phone one more time, you were completely sure that you’d lose it. 

You paused your story about your obnoxious coworkers for a moment, stopping in the middle of the gravelly trail you two were making your way down. 

“Steve, seriously, are you even listening?” you griped, ushering him towards the side of the pavement as a man on a bike flew by. 

He guffawed a bit at this, “of course I am. You just said something about…” he paused, and you gestured with your hands for him to continue. “Okay, sorry,” the blush on his face was becoming more and more apparent.

You involuntarily scoffed, rolling your eyes as you did so, “I’m glad to know that whatever you’re waiting for on there,” you gestured to his pocket, “is more important than spending quality time with your girlfriend, who, must I remind you, took time off to be here with you.”

“Nothing is more important to me than you, I’m just on call. I’m probably going to get called to go on a mission any moment now.”

“Steve!” you huffed, “you literally just got back, like, two hours ago. Can’t someone else go? Tony? Vision? Anyone?”

“I might’ve volunteered myself-“

“You’re unbelievable, Steve. Are you getting tired of me or something? You’ve been avoiding me like the plague ever since I moved in with you. If I upset you, or you’re gonna propose to me or something, can you just tell me?”

“I promise you it’s not personal at all,” he reached for your hand and gently held it. “Everything’s just been crazy. I mean, these Hydra bases have been popping up left and right. Just give me a little grace, okay? I don’t get upset with you when SHIELD starts making you work those ungodly hours.”

You opened your mouth to debate him, but surely enough, the canny and familiar ringtone of Steve’s work phone interrupted you before you could even begin. 

“Okay… Yeah. I’ll be there in thirty.”

You frowned at Steve as he spoke on the phone and shook your head disapprovingly, “unbelievable,” you muttered, storming in the direction of your home. 

——

Steve was no fool, he knew when he messed up, and he was more than willing to take responsibility for such. Now was one of those times. He knew that he should’ve been making more time for you. He was well aware that he shouldn’t have gotten defensive when you pointed this out. 

He just had no idea how to apologize.

You weren’t exactly making it easy for him either, taking much longer hours in an attempt to avoid him. While he could understand your frustrations, it became a little more difficult everyday for him to properly apologize to you in a way he felt was meaningful.

Eventually figuring to use your avoidance as a tool, Steve devised a plot to make an apology for you so considerate, so superb, that you could never be angry with him again. A plot that included a several course meal, all concocted by himself. 

He could imagine the look on your face as you came home from work, shocked, but the good kind of shock. Pleasantly surprised that your sweet boyfriend had put in such a huge amount of effort to say sorry. 

He couldn’t help but imagine the scenario: you would relax into your seat at the table after Steve pulled out the chair for you, hum in content as he poured your favorite wine. Moan happily at the taste of a homemade and rarely prepared salad dressing, before complimenting the melt-in-your-mouth entree he had spent an unknown amount of time laboring over. Finally, you’d gush over the dessert that Steve hadn’t had the chance to cook in years, tell him that he worked far too hard putting everything together, especially for a little argument. Steve would scoff, tell you you’re being too kind, and you would pull him in for a red wine and dark chocolate flavored kiss. 

The thought of you, your genuine and warm smile after a long day at work, and an even longer week worth of unspoken tension between you both, was enough to keep Steve motivated through the hours he spent preparing your meal.

He greeted you at the door like an excited puppy as soon as he heard your keys jingle. Sure, work had kept you a bit longer than he’d expected, and your food was likely a little cool by now, but he was excited to make amends. 

However, you did not seem to share the same enthusiasm as Steve. 

“Welcome home, gorgeous. Come sit,” Steve nudged you into the dining area, and you sluggishly followed, exhausted from a tiring day of training new agents.

“What’s wrong?” he inquired, pulling out a chair that you didn’t even attempt to sit down on. 

“I had a really long day. I kinda just wanna get to bed,” you shrugged before rubbing your creased temple.

Steve internally cringed at the thought of all of his hard work going to waste. For some reason, he’d not envisioned this less pleasant outcome before. “Sweetheart,” he began in a nearly whiny tone, but you weren’t in much of a mood to be persuaded.

“I’m sorry. Weird things were happening at work that I don’t care to get into now, and honestly, I’m not even that hungry,” you reached out and gave Steve’s hand a little squeeze. “But it all looks and smells so good! I Promise I’ll warm some up tomorrow for lunch.”

“I-,” he paused, “please. Maybe you could just take a few bites of everything. It took me a really long time to get everything prepped and ready.”

You frowned at the plea, feeling a bit guilty but almost… satisfied at the same time. Steve struggled to make time for you because of his work, and now he was getting a little taste of his own medicine. 

“I really am sorry. But hey, now we’re even?” you offered with a playful wink, slipping away before you gave your partner a chance to respond. You truly didn’t have the energy for a four course meal that night, let alone another argument. 

——

Wanda was silent for a moment as she sipped from a mug of coffee, watching you with a suspiciously focused look on her face. 

“Wanda?” you prompted, seemingly snapping her out of whatever trance she had found herself in. 

“Oh my God, I know exactly what you guys need,” she just about blurted, reaching across the café table to grab your hand. 

“Were you reading my mind?”

Your friend didn’t respond, but the devious smirk on her face was enough of an answer. 

“What happened to telling me before reading me?”

“You just looked like there was a lot on your mind. And absolutely no way that you’d tell me,” she shrugged nonchalantly.

“Of course I was gonna tell you! Why else would I ask my friend in a cute relationship to meet me for coffee?”

“Because you like me?”

“No, never that. I just needed advice,” the two of you shared a laugh for a moment.

“Well don’t waste your breath. When Vis and I had a rough patch, we just had to learn each other’s love languages. You’d be surprised just how much that synthezoid values those acts of services.”

“And you?”

“I’m a words of affirmation girl myself,” she shrugged. “You should find out yours, and try to figure out Steve’s. I guarantee it’ll be helpful in the long run. I can send you guys a test, if you want?”

“Oh god no, please don’t tell him that I told you about us. Actually, I didn’t even tell you! You were digging around in my brain, and I don’t appreciate that. Just do me a favor, and don’t share this with anyone, okay?” You paused dramatically, then leaned in to speak to your friend in a whisper, “but send me that test when you get the chance.”

Gift Giving

“A little reality-warping birdie told me you’ve been having some relationship problems,” Tony said teasingly once Bruce left the conference room, leaving him and Steve alone. 

Steve paused for a moment, trying to decide whether he should lie or fess up to the allegation. “How did she know?” Steve finally responded, standing up and pushing the chair he was sitting on behind him. 

Tony shrugged dismissively, “I don’t ask these kinds of things. I just hear in passing that the geriatric is having a hard time and tune in.”

Steve shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes to mask his clear embarrassment. 

“Well, is it true?”

“We’ve just been having the occasional… rift. A little more than occasionally.”

Tony nodded, fake pondering the situation, “well, I always know what I do for Pep, at least after I tell her I’m getting rid of the suit. Go buy her something nice. Really nice, like jewelry, or a purse if she’s into that kind of thing. I would say a car, but I know that Social Security check isn’t getting you too far. You know what? Put it on the company card. My treat.”

Steve wanted to scoff, turn his nose up at the offer like it was a terrible idea, but it really wasn’t. Maybe a material surprise was the way to win you back. He made a soft ‘hmph,’ noise as he mulled it over. “That’s definitely not your worst idea. Thanks,” he gave his teammate a soft smile before collecting himself and heading out of the conference room. 

His first stop after work was some local jeweler. Steve threw on a (not very) inconspicuous outfit before entering the building, where he browsed for a good hour, searching for something that he believed you’d like. After looking at more jewelry than he had ever cared to see in his life, he decided on a necklace with a thin golden chain with a decent sized diamond hanging off of it. It was a little pricier, and you’d be able to tell— but he hoped it would help the gift mean more to you. 

——

When you arrived home late that night, Steve was sitting in the living room waiting for you. It was almost daunting, the sight of him sitting alone on the couch mostly in the dark, only the television illuminating his face. He kind of reminded you of a parent waiting to confront their child who just snuck out, or a concerned friend seconds away from staging an intervention with you. 

Walking past the room, you peeked your head through the doorway, and observed the flat, small box in front of him on the coffee table. 

“Hey, Sweetheart,” he greeted, standing up so he could greet you with a hug and grabbing the little box as he did so.

“Is everything okay?” you probed, speaking into Steve’s shoulder.

“Of course. I just wanted you to know how much I love you, and that I’m sorry for not having as much time for you as I should,” he pulled away before holding the box out for you. 

You hesitantly took the box and opened it, letting out a gasp when you viewed the delicate looking gold necklace. 

You were having mixed emotions, because it was clearly beautiful and you were grateful to the gesture. But you knew that this must’ve been expensive, and that it was so unlike Steve to have done something like this. Your frugal, Great Depression era guy wasn’t exactly the most material. 

“I love it,” you gushed, admiring the jewelry. 

“Can I put it on you?” Steve asked, and received a nod in return.

Steve set the box down on the table and lifted up the necklace, bringing it up to your neck and focusing on clasping it in the back.

“Babe, how much was this?” you blurted, not even being able to filter the words before they left your mouth. 

“Hmm? That doesn’t matter,” he dismissed, then stepped away from you to admire your clavicle. 

“It just feels weird letting you spend so much on me.”

“It’s a gift, though. You’re not supposed to think about those things,” he hummed, pressing a chaste peck to your nose. 

“Steve, I got you a Nespresso for Christmas and you wouldn’t stop complaining about how expensive it was. I love it, I really do. It’s beautiful and I’ll always think of you when I wear it. I just think that maybe we should have the same standards for each other,” you stood up from your seat and sidestepped him. “I need a shower.”

Steve watched you walk off, letting your words simmer in his thoughts.

That was the last time he would take relationship advice from Tony. 

Words of Affirmation

This conclusion probably shouldn’t have taken you this long, but you were almost completely sure that this would be the love language to win Steve back over. You felt bad for some of the occurrences between the two of you lately, with sour exchanges and sweet moments that turned bitter on a whim.

In all honesty, you were concerned that Steve doubted your love for him. And if his love language really was words of affirmation, this would certainly convince him otherwise. 

You sat at your desk the night before Steve departed for a two-week mission, trying to write a nice message for him. You tapped your pen on the stock paper in deep thought as you tried to figure out the best thing to say. 

I’m sorry for arguing so much with you lately. You and everything that you do mean the world to me, even when you get on my nerves. I love you more than anything and that will never change. 

The words looked cramped and unkempt on the little note. Your handwriting got messier as you went. You groaned at it, crumpled the paper, and tossed it in your trash bin. Time to start over again.

I’m sorry for arguing with you. I love you a lot. Can you stop picking up your phone when we’re spending time together?

You groaned at the passive aggressive tone of your message. That certainly wasn’t going to get you anywhere. Straight to the bin it goes.

I love you so much so don’t die on your mission or I’ll be pretty upset. Be safe out there xx.

The tone was even more off now. You needed to think of something that would really make Steve remember you while he was gone. For a second, you considered snapping a nude with a polaroid and attaching it to the letter.

I’m sorry that things have been so bad nasty for us lately. I promise that I love you, despite our ups and downs. Nothing will ever change that. I’ll miss you more than you know while you’re gone. Make sure you call me every day, my love. 

A little cheesy, but you signed off with your name regardless, and contentedly looked at your work. The spacing looked correct, the tone wasn’t harsh, and you knew for a fact that Steve would appreciate it.

You stayed up a little later than normal, waiting for Steve to get home and change out of his ‘work clothes’ so that you could slip the note into his utility belt. 

You folded the note to a small little square and set it beside an granola bar in a pocket you’d assumed he frequently used. Content with your work, you laid back in bed until your partner slipped in bed beside you, and sleepily cuddled into you until you were both unconscious. 

—

Around two weeks had passed since Steve had seen you last, and he had decided to stop by the office and finish up paperwork before coming to see you. It had been radio silence on his end, despite the note in his clothing that clearly requested daily contact. Part of you wondered if Steve had seen it at all.

Steve had just finished signing the documents when he finally noticed it, reaching into a sparsely used part of his belt to have a quick snack. His hand landed on a folded piece of paper, and he cringed as he unfolded it, the letter becoming clearer and clearer as he did so. He wondered just how long the message had been waiting for him. 

He read your sweet words with a frown on his face, the guilt from not opening it sooner overriding the sweet feelings that he would otherwise have. He grabbed his phone and considered texting you, but abandoned that thought altogether. 

“FRIDAY, any idea where Y/N is right now?”

“I was told not to share any information about Ms. L/N, Captain Rogers.”

“Whose orders?” Steve pressed.

“Hers,” the bot quipped back. 

Steve groaned aloud. He was really in for it tonight.

Physical Touch

“Have you tried touching her more?” Thor casually queried. The water that Steve had just consumed nearly flew out of his nose, and his cheeks reddened instantly. 

“Pardon?” he asked, looking away from his friend instantly. 

“I understand that you and Y/N have been having troubles lately. Perhaps she does not feel held by you. Maybe she wants you to show her off in public, to hold her hand, hug her,” he suggested. 

Could Steve even be blamed for going there? He was having a chat with a god of fertility. Who wouldn’t think the same? 

“Stark’s gala tonight. Show the world that she’s yours, and I guarantee that she’ll love every moment of it.”

——

You were confused. Really confused.

The night began with some simple touches, hand holding as you entered the building, a casual arm around your waist as you chatted with donors and politicians you hadn’t seen in months, a playful match of footsie under the table while waiting for food. But it came to a head when Steve had decided to rest his hand on your ass and grope you in the midst of a conversation.

Now, in any other situation, you would welcome this affection. But both you and Steve had never been a fan of PDA, and this was a bit too far. 

As subtle as you could manage, you pushed his hand away, offering him a sour look as you did so. 

“Excuse us,” you told some rich old man in an artificially sweet tone before ushering Steve off to his office for a bit more privacy.

“What was that about?” you questioned, sitting down in the padded chair behind Steve’s desk, and running your fingers over your necklace in a bit of a nervous tick. 

“What do you mean?” he retorted, standing across from you at the desk and setting his hands on top of the clear table.

“Why were you groping me in front of people? That’s really... unlike you. And it made me uncomfortable.”

Steve frowned genuinely, looking down at the table in embarrassment. “I’m really sorry. For making you uncomfortable. It sounds ridiculous but I was just trying something new.”

“Apology accepted, but are you sure? You weren’t like, jealous of those guys or something? You know you’re the only hundred year old I have eyes for,” you set your hands atop of his and squeezed.

Steve chuckled at this, the flush of his cheeks only highlighted more by the laughter, “it’s just that, uh, Thor told me I should try showing you off more. Or something like that.”

“So you groped me in front of our guests? That’s silly. And a little unprofessional,” you glanced over at the cork board on his desk sitting next to his desktop, and amongst the neatly arranged scratched out to-do lists and random reminders, you couldn’t help but notice the creased paper of the note you’d left for his mission. Your chest warmed when your eyes fell upon it. 

“When did you find this thing?” you asked, pointing to the note. 

“I meant to say something, but when I found it, FRIDAY said you didn’t want to talk to me. SO I was going to bring it up when I got home, but you were still working. After that, I kinda… you know-”

“Forgot?” you finished with a hearty laugh, “It’s fine. You’re such a dork. C’mere so I can get my own groping in,” you chided, grinning to yourself when Steve wrapped his arms around you in a tight embrace. 

Acts of Service

Steve was quietly folding your laundry in your bedroom when it finally occurred to you, but when it did, it hit like a ton of bricks.

Steve’s love language was acts of service!

Things suddenly began to make sense to you, the way that he initially attempted to apologize by spending hours cooking one meal, how he consistently worked to make your life as comfortable as possible, and his great insistence to do house chores, despite you being more than capable.

Steve set down a stack of folded sweatshirts by your calf, snapping you away from your brief retrospective daze. If that really was the case, and Steve’s love language truly was acts of kindness, you had to come up with some sort of plan to communicate to him just how much you cared about him in a way that he really appreciated.

Luckily for you, you were a quick thinker. Before you even knew it, a week filled with random acts of kindness before he was off on yet another mission was quickly hatched.

——

You were up at the ass-crack of dawn. Really. Steve liked to get up earlier than the sun in order to run, or train, or whatever the hell it was that superheroes did. You were seriously regretting your decision to wake up around the same time as him in order to do some favors for him in the morning. 

By the time Steve was back from his run, his favorite coffee was brewed and cooling, and you were in the laundry room at the dryer, preparing to give Steve a warm towel after his shower.

Despite the three mugs of coffee you’d just downed, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep your eyes open. It didn’t help that your eyelids felt like they weighed fifty pounds each, and the warmth of the dryer next to you was providing you with just enough comfort to drift off.

And drift you did. In fact, half an hour later, you’d missed the frantic calling out for you from your boyfriend as he searched for you around the apartment. 

You finally awoke when he shook your shoulders, his amused voice bringing you back to consciousness. 

“What’s going on here?” Steve grinned, pushing some hair out of your face. 

“Mmm,” you began, “Iwantedtogetawarmtowel,” you slurred sleepily and incoherently.

“Even with super hearing I couldn’t decipher that. Let’s get you a mattress, okay?” Steve hoisted you up like you were nothing, and carried your half asleep body all the way up to your bedroom. 

The next thing you knew, you were buried under your favorite comforter and propped against a mountain of feathery pillows. A gentle forehead kiss and an incomprehensible sentence about calling off of work for you later, you were back in a deep sleep. 

So much for warm towels.

—

You were going to do better this time. That’s what you told yourself as you strolled through the grocery store, the same store that you hadn’t shopped in since moving in with Steve, as he preferred to do the shopping himself.

Equipped with a short paper list and sheer determination to make the trip as short and accurate as possible, you gathered all of the groceries that you believed were necessary— just enough to restock the fridge, and fill some gaps left in the cupboard. 

Your time at the store was indeed brief, as you found yourself in the checkout lane after just twenty minutes (you definitely weren’t going to brag about that to Steve later. Definitely not), and back home with just enough time to unload the groceries, and further prep yourself to go to work. 

You’d honestly forgotten about your trip to the store by the time that you arrived home, up until you found your boyfriend arm deep in your pantry, hellbent on finding… something.

“Can I help you?” you poked with a laugh, coming up beside Steve and peeking over his shoulder.

“I’m just… Did you happen to grab any protein bars while you were at the store?” he asked, pausing his search to look back at you.

“I don’t think so. Why? It’s not like you need any more protein,” you teased, squeezing a bicep to demonstrate your words.

“They’re pretty convenient when I’m out in the field. Don’t worry about it, though. I’ll just swing by the store and grab some before my mission tomorrow. Actually, I should probably go now. Y’know, before I forget,” Steve was already grabbing his car keys from the counter by the time his sentence was finished, leaving you to fight off your disappointment at your minor grocery store failure.

You looked at what you now knew was an insufficiently filled pantry and pinched the bridge of your nose. You had seriously underestimated the ins and outs of shopping for a super soldier. 

Well, third time’s the charm?

—

After this week, you would never complain about waking up early again. You were now up at an absolutely ungodly hour, scrambling eggs, flipping pancakes, and spreading jam on toast for a sleeping, unsuspecting Steve.

You placed the plate on a sturdy wooden tray, poured orange juice and an extra glass of water, and set a nicely folded napkin, along with utensils, next to the items.

You hoped that the scent of bacon wafting up to your bedroom would eventually pull him out of his slumber, and seeing how bacon was the only thing left to finish cooking, you took a little break. 

A round of Candy Crush turned into two, then three, and goddamnit, why can’t you beat this fourth level! You got so wrapped up in your mobile game that you didn’t even notice when the scent from your kitchen became slightly rancid, and when you rushed over to the oven to check on your now extremely burnt bacon, the smoke detector wailed.

You grabbed a kitchen towel and waved your arms like a madwoman near the smoke detector, the shrieking eventually stopping, but not before Steve was halfway down the stairs.

“Y/N, where are you? Is everything okay?” he nearly shouted, racing down the stairs and barreling through the smoky kitchen to find you. When he reached you, he wrapped his arms around your waist and began to pull you out of the kitchen. 

“Steve, relax. Everything is okay. Except those pieces of bacon,” you rubbed your now sweaty palms on your pajama pants before breaking away from him to crack open the kitchen window. 

“Christ, what happened? And why are you up so early?”

“I was trying to make you breakfast in bed,” you admitted, rather embarrassed by the dramatic scene you’d accidentally created. “Sorry,” you muttered.

Steve wrapped his arms around you once more, this time in a reassuring bear hug that left your cheeks pressed to his chest. “Don’t be. I really appreciate this, and everything else you’ve done this week. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“I guess,” you mumbled into his shirt. 

“Besides, everything else looks delicious. And you tried your best for me while trying something new. I think that’s really sweet of you.”

“Really?” you pried, looking up at him.

“Really,” Steve confirmed.

“Well, I think it would be really sweet of you if you went back to bed and got all cozy so I can take care of you.”

Steve chuckled softly, pressed a little kiss to your nose, then nodded, “yes ma’am.”

Quality Time

Steve had been in a bubbly mood since getting back from his mission, and for no particular reason. It wasn’t like you weren’t happy that your partner was happy, but feeling like you were out of the loop was slightly concerning.

Before you could let your thoughts run too wild, you decided to pop the question during one of your evening walks. 

“Okay Steve, what is going on with you?” you asked, veering to the side of the trail when a biker rode past you. 

“Nothing big. Nothing too important. I’m just out of service for the next three months,” Steve said casually, playing it cool. 

“What?!” you paused, your brows raising and eyes widening in surprise as you searched his face for sincerity. “You’re serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“Steve!” you gasped happily, nearly roaring out his name in excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I was going to tell you before wining and dining you, but you beat me to it. So…?”

“…So I’m happy to have you back. I may need you to negotiate some time away from work for me in the next few months, then. I don’t wanna miss this preview of stay-at-home-dad-Steve.”

“Hey, don’t push it.”

“Oh, I’m planning on pushing it.” 

Epilogue

The sun was beating down on you, but the soothing breeze that flowed past your checked blanket every so often provided a pleasant antidote to the summer heat.

You’d truly picked the best day for a picnic.

Despite spending a good amount of time with your partner, the last month and a half had truly felt like a whirlwind. You casually started looking for a forever home, found yourselves making plans for an early retirement, and you had a new, sneaking suspicion that a proposal was on the horizon.

In the midst of it all, Steve had suggested that the two of you take a midday tryst at your local park and throw yourselves a little picnic. Of course you obliged, because when your greek god of a boyfriend suggests going on a spur of the moment date, you agree.

You now watched the nearly cloudless sky with pure, unadulterated feelings of content and joy while Steve set a slice of cheese on a cracker, leaning over your body to feed you. As you opened your mouth, Steve paused abruptly at the soft vibration coming from his pocket. 

Steve resumed as if nothing had changed, popping the cracker into your open mouth and letting his phone continue to ring.

“Don’t you wanna get that?” you questioned.

“It can wait,” Steve stated nonchalantly, slipping his phone out of his pocket and pressing decline with absolutely no hesitation before tossing the device to the edge of your blanket.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been waiting to hear those three words.

-------

a/n: this could’ve been solved in like 20 minutes by sitting down and taking a love language quiz together

[angelaiswriting]

The Contest (4 of 7) | some R6S guys x fem!reader

✏️ Pairing: Tachanka x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: Dominic Brunsmeier can’t keep his goddamn mouth shut when it comes to eating pussy, and that’s how Y/N finds herself being drafted to be the judge of this pussy-eating contest. Alex is on another level. (Straight out of a dream @kind-wolf​ had)

✏️ A/N: enjoy 😈

✏️ Warnings: 18+ only (oral f/r, fingering)

✏️ Word-count: 3,762

✏️ The links to the other parts are in the masterlist linked in my bio.

<< part three: timur <<  |  PART FOUR: ALEXSANDR  |  >> part five: dominic >>

Y/N had feared having to avoid Dominic after leaving Timur’s room because the fact that he had a rival in the head game field had been painted all over her face, even somehow visible in the way she walked. But there hadn’t been anyone outside her door when she reached it and as she hastily punched her code into the door pad, she had found herself heaving a sigh of relief.

The next day, though, avoiding Dominic had become a feat. He was growing restless, and probably the fact that some of his friends were eating her out was exciting him more than he had anticipated or that he could have thought. More than she could have ever thought, as well.

“C’mon,” he was saying, breathing down her neck from behind, his hands on her hips as he pressed himself against her rear. She was typing the last batch of data into the computer of the testing facility, and his constant distraction wasn’t helping her at all — not when she had been lost in her own thoughts for two days now. “We go down to the pool —” and his lips pressed kisses on the faint hickeys Timur had left behind — “and we have a good time. No one has to know.”

She cackled, typing the last numbers in before going over her work in search of mistakes in the transcription. “Are you so worried about this contest that you want to remind me what your cock feels like?” she asked eventually, turning around with a sly smile on her lips.

Her left hand, the one not holding the bluetooth keyboard, moved up to his throat for a moment, gave it a brief squeeze, before it trailed down his chest and stopped on his crotch.

He scoffed, bucking his hips forward and into her hand. “I’m not scared of shit. I know how good my game is. I don’t need to fear a stupid contest, I know I can make you scream with or without my cock, Hase.”

Her smirk made his smile falter for a second. “What, then? Would you like to witness? See your homies eat this —” and she moved one of his hands so that it was cupping her through her shorts — “pussy? Did you play with yourself when I was with Elias and Timur?”

She knew he loved the dirty talk. He got off of it, just as she did, there was no denying that. She’d climb mirrors if he talked dirty to her when she couldn’t have him — and it had happened on a mission, once.

“I did, yeah.” He grabbed her keyboard, put it down on the shelf to her side, and moved in between her legs, pulling her hips close to his. “But I know you have the day off, and me dicking you down won’t interfere with anything. I could take you right here, even with that security camera in the corner blinking at us. Let the security guys know how good you let me fuck you.”

She let his face inch closer to hers as her hands came up to grip his biceps, and when their lips brushed together with his clear intention of kissing her — and certainly slip his tongue into her mouth, something he hadn’t done in a few days now — she pushed him away.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” she warned him. “Don’t break the rules of the contest you fought so ardently for. This will be over in less than a week and when the winner has been announced and has had another go with me —”

“That’s not gonna happen, baby.”

“It is,” she nodded, cupping his cheeks before finally pressing a chaste kiss to his lips in the attempt of satiating him a little. “I said that would happen if I felt like it, and you agreed to it. What are you worrying about? You might even win, Dom. But after that happens, I’ll let you fuck me wherever you want. Even against this wall, for the security guys behind that camera. Friends with benefits, remember?”

He grunted against her lips and he rolled his eyes. But then, after having mulled her words over in his head, he heaved a sigh. “Fine, one more week. I can get myself off just fine until then.”

A smirk stretched on her lips and she had to do her best to hide her chuckle. “That’s my good boy.”

*

She was in the gym that afternoon. She hadn’t expected to have a day off from the contest, and not even to find herself bored to the bone and almost pissed off at the idea that she didn’t have some oral sex to look foward to that day. It was cute that they cared about her, but the night before with Timur and the knowledge that Dominic had the worst hots for her had left her in a mood that required more than the machines in the gym facility could help her with.

And it felt atrocious. To not be able to stop thinking about some men that had always been just friends to her, but that had had — and would soon have — their mouths eating her out. And to have to endure this without saying anything, not after how adamantly she had stressed her own fucking rules…

The cold shower she took in the gym helped her more than training had, though, and she found herself standing there, immobile, under the steady stream of water raining down her face and into her eyes every now and then. The anxiousness and that weird and heavy sensation that had kept her whole body in a grip slowly left her muscles, until all that she was left with was the post-workout exhaustion.  Little by little, the feeling came back to her limbs and she became aware of the pulsing sensation in her knuckles and the heaviness in her legs.

It was uncomfortable — but at the same time, not even in a weird way, just what she had been looking for.

She turned off the water, her skin covered in almost painful goosebumps, and grabbed the towel from the hanger. The sigh that left her lips was almost an involuntary moan when she pressed her face against the soft fabric of the towel and breathed its clean smell in.

Her back to the doorless frame that led back to the locker room, she took her time drying herself off and as she did so, she missed Alexsandr walking in and standing in the way, staring right at her. Hadn’t her mind been somewhere else, she would have picked up on the soft, almost squeaky sound his sneakers made on the tiled floor — or so she would try to convince herself a few hours later, when she’d be back in her room with a vibrator between her legs.

But then she turned around, her hands busy toweling her breasts off, and she saw the man standing there, towering in the door frame with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I am horny,” he stated, matter-of-factly. His hands were intermittently closing into fists and even from the other side of the shower room, she could see how heavily his chest heaved with every breath he took.

There was no stopping that moan that left her lips upon hearing his blunt honesty. Absent-mindedly, one of her hands came back up and her fingers spread wide to cup a boob, the perked nipple peeking through from between index and middle finger.

“I have been trying to get myself off, but I can’t stop thinking about eating you out,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, his feet rooted to the spot he had stopped in. His left hand moved to grab himself from above his sweatpants, almost as though to highlight his point.

Her legs trembled and while he smirked slightly at the sight, she managed to get a grip on herself.

“I know I haven’t warned you one day in advance as you wanted.” His eyes were fixed on her naked form — surely on her vulva, but definitely on her breast, as well. “But I really —” and he took one step forward — “really want to have the taste of you in my mouth.”

The air burned her lungs, both on the way in and on the way out. She stared at him, his words echoing in her mind, and she pictured this man — this mentor of sorts — fisting himself and not managing to come, just to then go and walk around the base to look for her with a badly concealed boner raging in his pants.

Her towel dropped to the floor and Y/N found herself taking a couple of wobbly steps forward, paying attention to how she moved so as not to slip and fall. She had already given herself a bump on the head when she slipped in the shower once, and she wasn’t in the mood to re-live such an accident when she could, in fact, be getting head.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for, then, Alex,” she managed to squeak out.

She was doing her best not to pay it too much attention, but she couldn’t help but feel self-conscious somehow. This man much older than her was standing there fully dressed, and his gaze made her skin burn as it scanned over her body as if to commit every detail to memory. Elias and Timur had seen her naked as well, but she had been prepared for that — she had known they would come and she had made sure to be found as perfect as she could. But Alexsandr took her by surprise and suddenly, part of her brain was second guessing herself.

He moved closer. His movements were slow and measured, and for a moment he did feel like some sort of predator. “You are so beautiful,” he said. There was surprise in his voice and that had blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Did you use to think I wasn’t?”

His hands settled on her hips, his fingertips pressing into her flesh and squeezing twice, almost experimentally. Then, they moved upward, caressed her sides until his thumbs stopped underneath the swell of her breasts.

Although his breath was scorching hot on her skin, there were goosebumps tugging at it.

“I never tried to picture you naked before the contest,” he replied after what felt like an eternity of her heart drumming wildly against her ribcage.

His lips brushed against her right temple and he inhaled her smell, his hands moving up her back and then back down her spine again.

“But I see now I won’t be able to stop thinking about you.”

He pulled back a little, just enough to be able to stare into her eyes again, before his gaze swiped lower, down her breasts. His hands came up, covered her boobs and kneaded their flesh. Her nipples ended up between his thumbs and forefingers, and she fought to breathe when he rolled them between rough fingers.

She only realized he was slowly making her take steps backward when her back touched the freezing cold tiled wall of the room.

“So young and beautiful,” he murmured against her cheek before dropping to his knees with a heavy thud. She didn’t know whether he felt pain at that, but it was also true that she didn’t spend too long thinking about it, not when he grabbed one of her legs and raised it to rest it over his shoulder, never once breaking eye contact.

His forehead leaned forward, then, and as he pressed it against her lower belly, he inhaled again.

“I can faintly smell your arousal,” was what he said, voice low and raspy as he fixed himself inside his sweatpants. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

He hummed with closed lips against her skin, and she swore she could feel the vibrations of the sound he made throughout her whole body.

The temptation of biting back with something along the lines of Then why don’t you? tickled the tip of her tongue, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. She didn’t know what it was about him in this moment, but she knew she’d do anything he told her to — and that she’d let him do anything he wanted if she didn’t manage to remain lucid enough to remember only mouth and fingers were allowed in the game.

His head turned to the side, toward the leg draped over his shoulder, and he somewhat gently bit down before swiping his tongue over his mark. That jolt of pain came unexpectedly and in her attempt to keep her balance, her arms shot out: she grabbed his free shoulder with one hand and his hair with the other. But she didn’t have time to complain, for his nose was already bumping into her clit.

He groaned — at her smell, at how wet she was, at the situation as a whole, she didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

His thumbs parted her inner labia and his tongue came out to trace her entrance. When he groaned again this time, she felt herself clench around nothing as the back of her head thudded against the wall and her gaze fixed itself on a crack in one of the tiles at the other side of the shower room.

He licked her again, and this time his tongue ended up a bit deeper than the first time. Then he repeated the action. Again. And. Again. And each time the movement of his tongue seemed to become more focused, in a way, making her pulse all over as her breath was cut short.

“I love your taste,” he groaned.

One of his thumbs came up to circle her clit, and the middle finger of his other hand slipped into her achingly slowly. When she opened her eyes — to order him what, she had no clue —, she found him already staring up at her, his chin wet and his lips stretched into a proud smirk.

She couldn’t look away, hypnotized as she was by this mountain of a man on his knees for her. There was something in the sight itself that made her clench around his finger, and that was the moment he waited for to add another. She didn’t find it in herself to remind him to eat her out, because she knew, somehow, deep down, that it would be his mouth that would make her orgasm and not his fingers. He knew how to play a game and although he didn’t necessarily play to win, he didn’t exactly play to participate either.

When he started fucking her with a third finger as well, his head moved back between her legs and his lips latched onto her clit. Her heart was in her throat, in the pit of her stomach, her ears. Christ, even in her toes! Her breathing trembled with each exhale and even though his mouth and fingers on and inside her turned her silly, with whimpers and moans falling from her lips she had no control over, she kept her eyes on his and he seemed to bask in it.

The coil in her stomach was tightening and the more he flicked or sucked her clit, or the more his fingers teased her from the inside, the tighter it seemed to become, until it was hard to keep standing on her left leg. It was trembling, and if it wasn’t for Alex’s hand on her stomach and his shoulders keeping her pressed against the wall, she knew she’d fall.

“Fuck, I’m…”

But her body went stiff, her lungs stopped working, and her eyelids closed shut under the blinding orgasm that washed over her all of a sudden, in a way. Her brain switched off and when it rebooted, it seemed to be working on a slower program than usual.

When she did come back to her senses, though, she had to push Alexsandr’s head away from her core and when she looked down, chest heaving painfully as she fought to breathe somewhat regularly, his chin was glistening with her juices.

He withdrew his fingers, then, and put her trembling leg back down so that he could stand up.

“Open your mouth,” he instructed, and she did so without a second thought. Then, when his fingers were resting heavily on her tongue, she closed it again and sucked them clean. She moaned at her own taste, and although her cheeks were burning and she was dying to look away, to avert her gaze from his, she found herself unable to do so. “You taste divinely,” he hummed. Then, when he pressed closer to her and his lips brushed against her earlobe, he almost made her knees give out. “I would’ve never thought you’d squirt, though.”

She gasped, and he took the chance to take his fingers out of her mouth.

“Now I can go and have my orgasm,” he declared, happy both with the result he had had and with the fact that he had finally done his part in the contest.

But when she exclaimed a pointed No!, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“No, please, one more time.”

He stopped in his tracks, taken aback by her words for a moment before they registered and he picked her up in his arms and her lips crashed against his. The kiss was searing, all tongues and teeth as he blindly walked back into the locker room.

“I want to sit on your face this time,” she whispered against his lips, eyes boring into his as she ground herself against his crotch. “Can I?”

He smirked and had she known her legs would turn to jelly and she’d have trouble walking after, she would’ve asked him to take her back to either of their rooms. “You are the judge,” he pointed out, kneading the flesh of her buttcheeks in his hands as he still had her in his arms. “This contest is for you as well.”

She wasn’t down on her feet for too long: Alexsandr pushed two benches together and although she hadn’t thought it possible, together they were large enough for him to fit. He laid down on his back, his feet firmly planted on the floor, and he stretched one hand out for her to grab so that he could guide her.

The position was uncomfortable, with no padding between the cold and hard surface of the benches and her knees when she straddled the upper part of his chest, but she knew Alex knew how to make up for it. He moved his arms out of the way so that she could lay her shins flat on the surface, and then grabbed a hold of her thighs in his strong hands to guide her down toward his face.

“Sit, zayka,” and she could clearly hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke.

She lowered herself closer, her hands planted on his chest and her fingertips digging into his pectorals, when his breath hitting her still sensitive core made her huff out and squirm.

Nothing would have prepared her for the whine that scratched her throat on the way up when he suckled on her clit and his nose brushed right between her folds. Her arms failed her when he started eating her out again, and she found herself leaning forward on him.

He was still hard in his pants, and the sight of him alone would have been enough to make her moan out loud, unconcerned that someone could walk by the locker room and overhear her literally losing her mind with a man’s face buried tongue-deep inside her pussy.

“Alex.”

He hummed against her, his hands pulling her down flush against his face — and if there was someone other than Dominic that she was sure could breathe out of their ears as the man had joked about, then that was Tachanka.

She caught him groaning something in Russian, something she would have most likely understood hadn’t she been lost in the pleasure that was gripping every fiber of her being. His tongue dived into her and when he spanked one of her buttcheeks, one of her hands slammed down on his thigh, just this shy of slipping underneath the waistband of his sweatpants and wrapping around his erection. She had to bite down on the other to keep herself from being too loud.

It took her a while for her brain to connect with her body and pick up on the slow grinding of her hips on his face. She tried stopping the automatic movement, but another one of his slaps — on her other buttcheek this time — told her she should continue.

“I need…” She was stuttering, head completely empty but for thoughts of him — and the sight of him in front of her. If he won — and there were hella high chances that he would come out of that contest as its winner —, she knew where else she wanted to have him. “Fuck, I—” but her jaw went slack, both hands now gripping at the sides of the bench to keep herself up, and she couldn’t even finish forming her thought in her mind.

He slapped her ass again. Two of his fingers plunged inside her without notice and his lips wrapped around her clit. The air left her lungs, and what would have been a high-pitched moan turned out silent when she came. Hard.

When she came back to her senses, she was lying down against his chest, her head on his thigh and her nose barely brushing against his crotch. There was a darker stain on the fabric where he had come inside his sweatpants, and she moaned at the thought that he had most likely gone commando just to go and look for her.

“Did you—”

He chuckled, and she felt the vibrations throughout her body. “Da,” he replied, almost even proud of it.

She whimpered when he went back to kitten-licking her. Her glutes contracted and her thighs trembled, her pussy still sensitive and pulsing in the aftermath of her orgasm.

“You make the cutest sounds,” he continued after a while, one of his fingers tracing her opening before he licked her again, his tongue flattening against her. “I could spend the rest of my days right in this position.”

Feedback is always welcome if you want to drop old me a line 💛

Original pic used: https://www.pexels.com/photo/white-clouds-and-blue-sky-4870972/

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ASK)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi​ @becs-bunker

[imaginedxlan]

Champagne & Shackles; Beta Part Two (Fred Weasley)

a/n: i’m SORRY i’m terrible at time management, school is kicking me ass. i had no idea so many of you had the same affinity for the brothers of the beta fraternity as i do, this is for all my frat rats out there i love you most. this is an ode to my very favorite date party theme: champagne and shackles. in which you and you’re chad or brad of a date are candcuffed together until you finish a massive bottle of champagne between the two of you.

weeks after the infamous beta darty, you can’t seem to pull your thoughts or presence away from the ginger boy who made your heart skip a beat. That is, until you’re invited to the beta champagne and shackled date party.

y/f/n: your friend’s name

warnings: cussing, alcohol, mentions of sex, modern!fred, and also very typical frat boy lingo stolen straight from the mouths of frat boy i associate myself with

disclaimer: while they’re semi-drunk in this they’re still coherent and stable enough to know what they’re doing. nothing that happens in this is coercive or decided under an incapacitated mind. king freddie would never take advantage of a girl like that.

part one

consumed.

You have been completely consumed with the the thought of a certain red head for weeks now. Since you kissed him goodbye on your front lawn, the image of Fred Weasley has yet to leave your brain. While you’ve been at the same school for almost two years, you’ve seen him more in the few weeks following the beta darty than you have in the 18 months you’ve spent on campus. Lines in coffee shops, the terrace at the union, the corners of the library you’ve inhabited for years. He’s everywhere. Not that you’re complaining.

The grin that plays across his lips every time you catch his eye sends your heart into overdrive. You’ve spent countless nights awake in y/f/n’s bed analysing every text, every snapchat, every story. You replay the day in the beta backyard at least once a day, yearning for the feeling of his touch on your skin. You’ve hardly returned to the brick-faced mansion, however. You’ve of course been invited through Draco and the countless group messages that flood your phone the nights leading up to a beta party, but you want him to invite you. You want him to want you there.

Of course he wants you there. He spends hours in that filthy basement he calls home every weekend searching for you among the dozens of drunk girls, hoping you had decided to turn up this time. But you’re not there.

Y/f/n mentioned date party to you this past weekend. Draco being social chair of the fraternity, he’s been planning the function for weeks. Champagne and Shackles. A fan favorite among every sorority girl throughout the school. Mixing together handcuffs and a massive bottle of champagne would have nearly anyone begging for an invite. You decide not to get your hopes up, constantly reminding yourself that while he is the boy that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world while you were surrounded by hundreds of drunk college boys, he’s still a twenty year old beta boy. It’s hard to stray from the hook up culture that he’s been practically bred into. Nevertheless, there is still a glimmer of hope in you that you’ll be cuffed to him this Saturday night instead of another girl he’s probably found on greek row.

He’s been drafting this text in the notes app of his phone for three days now. He’s changed the wording, the punctuation and the amount of details in his intended invite to you one hundred times now. George and Oliver groan every time he stops their studying or game of Call of Duty to read them the revised text he’s come up with this time.

“My god, Weasley, you’re acting like you’re writing your vows.” Oliver jokes, setting his xbox controller down on the makeshift coffee table in the twins room. “Just send it, you know she’ll say yes.”

But that’s the problem, he doesn’t know that.

“Wood we’ve thrown six times in the past month, she’s come once.” Fred reminds him of the painful fact that it seems like you’re just not that into him. “If I was sure she was gonna say yes I would have done it by now.”

George snatches his twin’s phone from his hands, copying the now final draft of this overly thought out text asking you to his date party. Before Fred can spring up from his bed, George has already got the message pasted into Fred’s text chain with you and hit send, making the color drain from his twin’s face.

“Are you fucking serious, George.” Fred finally reaches his younger brother and tackles him to the ground. “I barely read through it she’s gonna think I’m a fucking weirdo.”

George is able to shake his brother off of him, bursting out laughing with Oliver at Fred’s crazed state. George knew Fred had feelings for you, well practically every who spoke to a drunk him for more that ten minutes knew, but it was still comical to see his twin get so worked up over a girl he hadn’t even slept with yet.

“Fred you’ve been reading the stupid thing for an hour now,” He points out, Oliver nods his head in agreement. “What’s the worst that could happen? Huh? She says no and you ask one of the eight hundred other girls who fawn over you every chance they get. I know you like her Freddie but this isn’t a life or death thing.”

As Fred caught his breath from his outburst, he knew George had a point. He wouldn’t drop dead if you rejected his offer, but it sure help like he would.

hey idk if you’ve heard but our date party is this saturday and i was wondering if you would want to come

Your phone lights up just as you sit down to eat dinner with a couple of your friends. Once you see the name fred weasley next to the notification your heart stops. Taking y/f/n’s hand in yours, you turn the screen so she can read it. Her lips turn up in a grin as she squeezes your hand.

“I told you he would ask you,” She squeals, shaking her shoulders in her little ‘happy dance’ as she likes to put it. “Draco won’t stop talking about how tweaked Weasley’s been over some stupid text. I knew it was about you, I just knew it.”

You laugh at her imitation of her boyfriend, knowing it’s not far off from how he actually sounds. You reread the text probably thirty times, feeling even more giddy over such a simple and honestly not very personal text, but you don’t care. He asked you.

You spend far less time crafting a response than Fred did writing the initial text to you. If what y/f/n said is true and he really mulled over this for days, you may pass out.

i’d love to :)

The love seemed a bit overboard in your opinion, but y/f/n convinced you that it was a perfect response. You didn’t allow yourself to start looking for possible dress options until he really asked you, afraid you might jinx it if you bought a dress prematurely. Now, however, you’re on a time crunch. Someone in the house had to have something you could borrow. That night you try on at least ten dresses, all the girls on your floor flooding your room gushing over the fact that the Fred Weasley is taking you to his date party. He’s someone nearly everyone knows, and if they didn’t they were probably a geed, or lived in sophomore slums.

You finally land on a dark blue, spaghetti strapped sequin dress that clung tight to your curves. While nearly every dress you tried on felt like it might work, this is champagne and shackles after all, you have to dress to impress. Y/f/n won’t stop talking about what Fred will do the minute he sees you in the dress, praying she gets to watch his jaw drop. The two of you stay up late into the night again mushing over the thought of the two of you being swept off your feet by beta boys, the same boys you could hardly think about a month ago without becoming nauseous.

pregames at the house, malfoy and i will come by yours to grab you and y/f/n at 6:30

The text comes in Friday night. You can hardly contain the bubbling feeling in your stomach. As much as you feel like you’re sixteen years old again, you don’t care. You’ve finally joined the ninety percent of girls on greek row in one category, you’re crushing on Fred Weasley.

As the day finally rolls around, Fred is surprisingly back to his calm and collected demeanor. As much as the boys, and to be honest he himself, expected him to be bouncing off the walls over a slew of what if’s regarding the night ahead of him, he was rather calm about it all. He’s one half of the coveted Weasley Twins after all, he has a reputation to uphold.

The same cannot be said for you. As you curl your hair and apply your makeup to perfection, you can’t stop your knee from bouncing under the vanity counter you’re sat in front of. What if he secretly thinks you look bad in your dress? That you look like you tried to hard? As much as y/f/n tried to remind you of the fact that he was the one nervous about asking you, nothing seems to ease your growing anxiety. The hours tick closer to six-thirty and you sit patiently on your bed, completely ready and aimlessly scrolling through your socials to keep your mind off of the fact that in only twenty minutes Fred and Draco would be at your door to take you back to beta. The actual date party would be at one of the satellite houses, the penthouse of a nearby apartment paid for by betas massive budget.

Y/f/n takes your hand and forces you to look at her.

“Y/n,” She begins, now holding both of your hands between hers. “You are the hottest bitch this campus has ever seen. No one, not even Fred Weasley, deserves to be blessed with the absolute vision you are right now, but I guess he’ll have to do.”

You laugh at her attempt to hype you up in ten hopes that the knots in your stomach fade away. They partially do, but part of you is still in shambles over the thought of seeing him. He probably looks like even more of a greek god in a suit. Y/f/n’s phone buzzes with an ever so poetic ‘here’ text from her boyfriend and she gives your hands one more squeeze before dragging you down the staircase of your house. The boys are waiting just beyond the lawn, the same one you kissed Fred on weeks ago. The two of them have their hands in their pockets, looking like they’re deep in conversation, not even noticing that you and y/f/n are standing walking toward them.

He’s wearing a dark gray suit with a white button down with the top three buttons undone. His hair is perfectly messy. You didn’t even think it was possible for him to get any hotter, but here he is.

The boys turn their heads and immediately stop their conversation. The blonde’s face turns up in a smirk as his eyes trail over y/f/n’s body, but Fred is standing perfectly still with his mouth slightly agape as he watches you come closer to him. His cool and collected affect quickly runs out of his body as he watches your dress glitter under the street light.

“Told you.” Y/f/n whispers in your ear before she drops your hand to meet her boyfriend.

Draco greets y/f/n with a kiss and Fred pulls you into a hug. You melt at his touch. Even in the heels you borrowed from y/f/n, he still towers over you, his chin resting on top of your head.

“You look...” Fred trails off, trying to find the words to describe the sight in front of him. Heavenly, goddess like, like he might just skip the date party and get down on one knee. “...incredible.”

You muster up whatever confidence you have in the midst of your imposing anxiety to give him a somewhat composed reply. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Weasley.”

That heart-melting, mind-scrambling smile returns to his lips before the four of you begin walking what to the beta house. Fred keeps his hand on the small of your back the entire walk, desperately trying to keep you close to him.

The ungodly amount of alcohol you consume at the pregame seems to overtake any remaining worries in your body. Fred never leaves your side, as if you’re already cuffed together before you even arrive at the function itself. You talk with George and Oliver again, and meet some of Fred’s other fraternity brothers like Lee Jordan and Theo Nott. They all seem to know who you are before you can even introduce yourself. It would be difficult to not know your face after watching fred gawk over your every instagram post. Any sort of reservations you once held about the beta boys melt away. They may be wildly intimidating to a stranger that passed them on the street, but watching the boys sing along to whatever song is blasting through the speaker while dancing like they’ve just learned to walk shows you that they’re like every other boy you’ve met.

The walk to the penthouse is short, but it seems to take forever to reign everyone in everyone once in a while. Fred is continuously checking up on you, grasping your hand or your waist, making sure you aren’t cold in your dress. The second you make it to the penthouse you’re immediately cuffed to the red haired boy and handed a comically large bottle of champagne and told the rules.

No unshackling until you’ve finished the bottle.

The party is far more cramped than the one in their backyard. You can’t bring yourself to care about the occasionally bumps from someone in the crowd or the growing smell of alcohol around you. You’re completely consumed by the angelic giant dancing with you. Even with the handcuffs, Fred’s fingers are still intertwined with yours as his other hand is holding you close to his body, roaming from your waist to your back and over your ass. Anytime you go to open the bottle you’d been given at the door to continue on feeding the buzzed state you’ve been in since you arrived at the beta house, Fred stops you. He still grabs you drinks from the makeshift bar and pulls you into the ‘shot room’ to send copious amounts of burning liquor down your throat, but the bottle stays off limits.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about you this month, y/n.” Fred hiccups his way through his confession as his lips are pressed close to your ear to make sure you hear every word he says over the loud music. “You do something to me.”

You know whatever you try to say will come out slurred, so you do the next best thing you can think of to tell him that you’re feeling the same way. You wrap your free hand behind his neck to press your lips to his. He immediately pulls you closer into him like he was a dying man grasping onto his only source of oxygen. Again, with your lips tangled in his, you’re suddenly the only two in the room. This moment is one you know will occupy your thoughts until the end of time. Held by the boy you’re completely enamored with as the world seems to stop around you. In every sense of the word, it is perfect.

When you pull away from each other to gasp for air, you move your lips to his ear.

“Why can’t I open the champagne?”

He leans back to look you in the eyes. The colored led lights changing on his face make him somehow even more breathtaking. That same smile appears on his lips before he leans down toward you again.

“I don’t want to finish it,” He yells over the bass of the speaker. “I want you to be stuck with me for as long as possible.”

Without a second thought, you pull your hands together to take the bottle from Fred’s free hand to pop the cork off the top before he can stop you. You bring the freshly opened champagne to your lips and take a swig before offering it over to him. His brows furrow in confusion, wondering if maybe you do want to be unchained from him.

“Freddie, if you think it’s going to take an empty bottle to get rid of me you’re wrong,” You try to shout, even in all the noise he hears you and his chest tightens. “Cuffed or not, I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He doesn’t reply, he simply takes the bottle from your hand and begins to chugs the fizzy drink, spilling over his face slightly. Watching him fumble over the liquid you know isn’t easy to take in large amounts, you can’t help but laugh at the sight in front of you. The words of Kid Cudi’s Pursuit of Happiness flood yours ears and you pull yourself right back against Fred’s body. He pulls the bottle from his mouth and hands it back to you before bringing his hand to your cheek to meet your lips once again. You’re sure you’re perfectly done hair and makeup is a wreck by now but your mind is continuously pulled back to the impossible reality that you’re kissing Fred Weasley. Of all the girls in the party, on this campus that flock to his side any chance they get, you’re the one that Fred Weasley suddenly became nervous around. The one he spent days wracking his brain to craft the perfect image of himself to.

His hand entangles in your more than likely sweaty hair, keeping you held exactly in place against his body as his hips sway against yours. His lips move from yours to your jaw, placing quick and light kisses across the skin. Something that would under any circumstance feel sexually driven feels lighthearted, pulling numerous giggles from your lips. His hand wanders down to your side and in a swift motion begins to tickle you through you dress. You laugh only become louder as you try to keep from doubling over.

“Fred!” You squeal through the stream of giggles. “Freddie stop!”

When you begin to snort, Fred loses it. He can no longer contain his stoic face he had on when he began to tease you. You’re eventually pulled from the party, Freds hand clasping yours as he discards the empty bottle in some corner of the penthouse and brings you to be unchained from him by the pledges standing by the entrance. Even with the cuffs off your wrists, you’re still chained to him as if you’re forced to be. 

Before you can leave the apartment, Fred’s jacket is shrugged from his shoulders and placed around yours. You pull yours arms through the sleeves that are obviously too long for you. “What a gentleman.”

“Can’t have you catching a cold,” He replies, holding you by your waist as you walk back to the beta house. You’ve never seen it so empty or quiet, no one around with the exception of a few boys studying in their lounge. You return to the bedroom you were in only hours ago, it’s a mess from the pregame but you’re able to make out Fred’s bed from his brothers. Massive movie posters and stolen items from various sororities hanging on the walls around his bed, the Good Will Hunting poster above the bed with the blue comforter being a dead giveaway that it belonged to Fred. He told you it was his favorite one night.

“You don’t have to, but you’re welcome to crash here,” He asks, beginning unbutton his now stained dress shirt, revealing his toned abdomen. It’s a sight you don’t think you’ll ever quite get used to. You stop yourself from nearly drooling and shake yourself back to reality. “You can borrow some clothes, probably be pretty big on you but they’d be better than that dress.”

He already has a tee shirt and boxers held out for you. He’s secretly hoping you’re too tired to walk back to your own house so he can spend a little while longer with you. Taking the clothing from his hands, you begin to slip the straps of your dress down, signalling Fred to immediately turn around to give you some privacy. You mouth a quick oh my god to yourself before continuing the change into the boy’s clothing.

“You can turn around,” You tell him and his eyes meet yours once again. He gives you a quick once over before his lips break out in a smile. “What? What are you so smiley over?”

“I like you in my clothes.”

Immediately your heart begins to hammer in your chest as your cheeks begin to heat up. Exhaustion washes over you, the lack of sleep you got in the past week due to your constant overthinking finally catch up to you. After switching off the lights, he pulls back him dark comforter to let you slip into the warmth of his bed. As soon as your settled you turn on your side to face him. You’re both quiet, wordlessly taking in the sight of each other.

“I like you, y/n. A lot,” He finally breaks the silence. You can’t help but wonder if he’s drunker than he’s let on. He’s not, he knows exactly what he’s saying and means every word. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”

You reach over to trace your finger up his defined cheek bones before resting your palm on the side of his face. His arm is lazily slung over your waist, absentmindedly keeping you close to him. You lean in further, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“I like you, Freddie, more than you know,” You confess. Your heart has never felt more full, you’re sure this whole month has been a dream and every second you’re terrified to wake up without even knowing Fred Weasley like you do now. “Thank you for taking me tonight.”

He softly chuckles, his hand moving up your body to stroke through your hair. Even in the dark you can see his bright smile, you’re new favorite sight. “I should be the one thanking you,” He tells you. “You have no idea how nervous I was that you wouldn’t come.”

You continue to shift closer to him, trying to expel the practically nonexistent space between the two of you. You nestle your face into the crook of his neck, finding his steady pulse quite calming. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Freddie.”

“I like it when you call me Freddie.”

You hum a response, suddenly becoming too tired to even speak. The warmth of his body radiating against yours mixed with the rhythm of his heartbeat lull you further into a deep sleep. His arms return to being wrapped around your waist, drinking in this moment and silently praying in would last forever. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before whispering, “Goodnight, y/n.”

Hours later George, Lee and Oliver stumble into the room, all with slices of pizza from the late night shop down the street and are met with the sight of you and Fred tangled in the sheets, light snores coming from the red haired boy. They wish they could find something about the moment that they would tease him about later, but they come up short. The image laid out in front of them looks like it was taken straight from a movie.

Needless to say your constant thoughts of the beta boy are soon replaced by his presence anywhere and everywhere you go. You aren’t sure of many things in life, but you’re certain that he was made for you and you for him.

tags:

@justmesadgirl @greyspilot @sunflowerdarlingx

[pertinax--loculos]

Weekly Update 19/09

Currently Writing Absent That Night (tagged: WIP: ATN)

wordcount this week: 14,102

total time writing: 8hrs 05min

Last week's goal: Write for a minimum of 60min on Tues/Wed/Thurs/Fri/Sun Didn't quite get this one this week. :( Found myself sorta piking out early on the majority of these days rather than pushing to write for the full allotted time. Goal for this week: Stick to my schedule! (aka get to "Scene 11" by the end of the week)

Summary

I am moving my deadline for completion to October 31st. This is still gonna push me, but I genuinely think it is achievable if I really elevate writing as a priority. Which is definitely something I want to do! But there is basically no way I'm going to make the 16th, so for my own good, new deadline it is. ^_^ (I also do have a much easier and far more rigid deadline, which I'm keeping in the back of my head for now. ;))

Aside from all that, I would really like to push to get to the full amount of time I've allotted while writing at least twice this week. I did find myself getting a little annoyed at my own (perceived!) lack of productivity throughout the week -- which is a little hilarious in hindsight, given that I wrote only 5k less than last week in almost four hours less. 😅 It was a challenge adjusting to working both jobs and just kinda finding the time, but upon reflection I'm overall pretty happy with how the week went!

I did have the idea of being a little more flexible with writing chronologically, because quite a few of my sessions were taken up with a single scene this week; one that I really struggled to get through, I think cuz it wasn't tickling me quite as much as some of the others. So there's potential for keeping those 'less inspired' scenes for days when I have more time, and smashing out the 'easier' scenes when I have shorter writing periods. Certainly something I'll be mulling over.

Somewhat related to that, my brainstorming at work/while walking to work/in those 'downtime' periods is going really well! It's basically what I used to do when I was required to drive a lot for Reasons -- sketch out the whole idea of the scene in my head before I wrote it down. (This is how I wrote (and finished) The Monstrosity, incidentally.) So I'm definitely going to be consciously and intentionally keeping up with that. It also allows me to feel productive on days when I literally don't have an hour to dedicate to Proper Writing Time.

Finally, I am finding myself thinking of editing in the back of my brain. 🤔 Ideas for trimming bits, deleting whole scenes, that sort of thing. I'm undecided on whether this is a good thing or a bad thing at this point. 😅 Mostly I'm doing the same thing I've been doing with UMI; collating all these thoughts into a separate document to reassess once ATN's draft is complete. However, there is one huge and notable exception to this -- the current and immediate 'deletion' of a set of characters I love. 😭 This is because I am hyperaware of the length of this damned story, and the fact that cuts are going to be necessary. That alongside my internal questioning of the function they serve and the fact that they don't actually experience any growth or arcs or anything similar means they have to go. :( *whispers* from the first book

Overall -- and funnily enough -- all throughout this week the entire thing felt rotten, but looking back I'm generally pretty pleased with how it went. ^_^ So another point towards keeping up with these weekly updates I guess! 😂 Good way to more objectively look over what I've achieved and how the week as a whole actually went. :D

As far as reading... still reading: The Insides by Jeremy P. Bushnell Reading has definitely fallen by the wayside this past week, with everything else going on. However, I would like to remedy this the coming week, so probably will try to set aside a chunk of time dedicated to reading. ^_^

[confusednarcissistwrites]

Hotsy Totsy Pt. 3 (T.C.)

ahhh the last bit of prewritten work!! thank GOD. reworking my own writing from a few years ago was killing me slowly (who tf let me write). next update will be all fresh 😎 hope you enjoyyyyy. things heating up quickly!

(sexual references)

“Man, this is… crazy,” Nick said, shaking his head. He held his tongue for a moment, his brow furrowed. He knew Timothée was already grasping desperately for something that appeared to be just out of his reach, so he needed to phrase his words carefully. “Look, Tim… she’s a married woman-”

“You think I don’t know that?” he retorted, a wild, grief-stricken look in his eyes. He fell into the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he shouldn’t be frustrated with his friend; it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know the full story.

Nick looked at him expectantly, sitting down on the edge of his bed; he sensed this was going to be a late night.

“We met at an audition for A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the college.” Timothée stared at his hands and fidgeted a bit. “She was auditioning for Hermia and I for Lysander, as fate would have it. The connection was instant. Every moment after only confirmed what I’d known the moment I’d met her.” A sad smile graced his lips, melancholic memories of hushed conversations had backstage and through rehearsals. You glowed with life and vigor and enthusiasm; he was snared from day one. “Things quickly grew serious, and I planned to ask her to marry me. But then the draft order came.” His eyes were dark and his hands trembled a bit as he remembered the atrocities of war and the nightmares that still plagued him. He carried on, telling Nick about the day he saw your marriage announcement in the paper and how he, to this day, still believed he was in your heart, that if he could become affluent like her family he would be able to steal you away again. By the time he’d finished his sorry, he had slid to the floor, his back slumped against the door jam. “Before I left, she had promised me she was going to wait for me to return. We’d had our life together planned and names picked out for our future children; I had no reason not to believe her. A couple months at camp turned into two years, and I never heard a word from her. I think I knew then, but I refused to believe it. I kept her on my mind until it became a habit, a coping mechanism, still writing to her every moment I could.”

Nick listened intently to every word, learning every piece of his best friend’s life that had somehow been going on behind the scenes that he hadn’t caught on to; it sickened him a bit. How had he not seen the pain Timothée had been suffering this whole time?

Despite the tragic backstory, he wasn’t sure he could go along with his plan. Married is married. He’d been raised in a home with strong religious values and, though times were changing, he felt he shouldn’t act as an accessory to the two lovers finding their way back to each other.

Seeing his apprehension, Timothée spoke up again. “She doesn’t love him,” he stated earnestly. “She did what she had to so she could get the life she wanted, but she doesn’t love him.”

“How can you be sure?” Nick pressed.

Timothée paused, his eyes closing as if in prayer. “I just… know. I can feel it in my bones.”

Nick looked down at the floor, mulling it over in his mind for a few moments. He couldn’t find it in him to tell him no. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

***

Jordan sat on the vanity as you got dressed for the evening. You wore a rosy-pink, silk shift dress that came down to about mid-thigh with fringe along the hem. Your garters were nearly completely exposed, holding up your black fishnet stockings. You sat down in the chair in front of her, slipping on you Mary Janes and fiddling with the buckles.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” she noticed, pulling the cigarette from between her lips and exhaling swirls of smoke as she spoke.

“Just thinkin’” you replied with a shrug, getting up to pick out some jewelry from the many ornate boxes perched on a shelf inside the armoire. Truth was you’d been off ever since your conversation with Nick the night before.

“That’s dangerous,” Jordan chuckled, slipping off of the desk and striding over to peer over your shoulder. She was in a much more revealing outfit for her performance that evening; a gold, glittering, bedazzled leotard with triangle cutouts right at her waist, thigh high stockings, and a black velvet choker resting against her throat that completed her ensemble.

“You figure he’s gonna be here tonight?”

You huffed, wanting to ignore her as you tried to pick out a set of pearls. “I dunno.”

Jordan rolled her eyes. “What's going on in that pretty head of yours, doll? And don’t say it’s nothing because you know I’m gonna keep buggin’ until you give it up, so you might as well just start,” she chided.

“I just-” you began, clearly flustered. “I’m going through some personal things, okay?”

Jordan went a bit wide-eyed at your snappy reply. “Fine, fine,” she submitted.

You looked at yourself in the mirror as you adjusted the layered pearls that laid against your chest. Would he be there tonight? Noticeable circles were under your eyes, and you looked less than yourself. You patted on a bit more powder, adding some body glitter here and there.

“I’m sorry, J,” you sighed, shaking your head a bit. You turned to see her as she headed toward the door. “I’m just a little tense is all tonight. I’ll be fine soon.”

“I know you will, doll,” she smiled reassuringly, slipping out of your dressing room.

As she stepped out, the door to the manager's office at the end of the long, narrow hall cracked open. Lola, a new fan dancer from Chicago, came slinking out looking blatantly disheveled, red lips smeared and mascara lines down her cheeks. Jordan’s brow drew together as she tried to get a better look. She stepped behind a stage prop, her back to it and her neck craned to watch as the girl scurried away. Before the door closed completely, Jordan caught a glimpse of James sitting on his desk shirtless and his trousers hanging loose.

She quickly stood, ready to storm in there and demand an explanation, but that’s when she saw you standing in front of your dressing room looking shell-shocked. Your entire body was tense and your face white as a sheet. She hurried over to you, pulling you back into the dressing room and closing the door to avoid making a big scene. She had no idea what to say, her mouth open as she grasped for words.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered, your eyes wide and quickly welling up with tears. The fear coiled in your stomach tightened around your guts, your subconscious hissing cruel “I told you so”s. You shook your head almost violently, expelling them. Short gasps left your parted lips as your chest refused to let your lungs expand.

“Y/N, you need to breathe, love. Come on, in and out,” Jordan quaked, gripping your hands tightly in her own.

You watched her with your eyes that burned from unshed tears, shakily following her breathing she modeled for you. Your chest heaved, and your mind fought hard to clear itself from all the horrible conclusions the other part of you wanted to jump to.

Eventually, she managed to calm you down, but your hands continued to tremble. Jordan looked over you worriedly, feeling like she didn’t know what to do for the first time in awhile.

“I’m- I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” you shuddered, pulling away to clean yourself up in the mirror.

Jordan sat looking a bit dumbfounded. “What?” she asked, unsure she’d heard you correctly.

“I’m sure it wasn’t what it looked like.” Even you could hear the slightly hysterical edge to your voice.

“Y/N-“

“No,” you interrupted in a clipped tone. “This will never leave this room.”

While a woman confronting her husband wasn’t something that happened then, Jordan had never had any of it. She also never had believed you to be a woman to be pushed around, and normally you weren’t. Your lifestyle wasn’t one of a typical domestic wife, and, being an educated woman, you’d taken your fair share of guff from conservative men. Yet, you’d never been one for confrontation, especially in your current emotional state.

Jordan shook her head in disbelief. “Y/N, he has no excuse for-”

“If you are my friend,” you choked, “you will pretend nothing happened.” Your voice was broken, but unyielding.

Her face softened slightly, and she stepped back, her hand on the doorknob as she shook her head. “You are upset and don’t know what you’re saying. I’ll see you after the show,” she replied, leaving and closing the door gently behind her.

Nausea washed over you and you bolted for the bin, the contents of your stomach evacuating unceremoniously. Your whole body heaved as you were sick repeatedly, the brief glimpse of your disarranged husband playing over and over in your mind. Denial was a hell of a drug, but your body was beginning to reject it. A quick knock at your door informed you that you were expected on stage in ten. You quickly began to clean yourself up, knowing that once you left that room, you were Daisy: the beautiful, the talented, the flawless. Hotsy Totsy would never know you as anything different if you had any say.

***

“I need a drink,” Nick grunted, hoisting himself from the desk chair he’d been sitting for the past hour, writing intensively.

Timothée hung his coat up on the hook and dropped his briefcase carelessly, just glad to be home. “I’ll pull something down,” he replied, heading over to the liquor cabinet.

“No, no, Tim. Don’t be a bluenose. I want to go out. I could go put in word with Cousin...” He raised his brows, knowing how to convince Timothée into doing what he wanted tonight.

He turned to him disdainfully. “Nick, I’m pretty tired. I don’t think I can handle that all tonight..”

“We are going. Go get dressed,” he insisted, grabbing Timothée by the shoulders and turning him to go upstairs to change.

He huffed but complied anyways. Subconsciously, he was eager to see you again, no matter how many nerves and feelings it stirred up inside of him. He changed into more casual wear: slacks, a white button up cuffed up to his elbows, and his favorite suspenders.He peered into the mirror, mussing his hair a bit before hurrying downstairs.

Nick was in similar attire, but with a striped shirt and a bowtie. “You ready, man?” he asked, slapping a newsboy cap on his head.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go before I change my mind,” he chuckled.

***

The high-end club was busy and bustling as always that Friday night. Cigarette smoke plumes hung heavy in the hot air, and every person had the Devil’s brew gripped tightly in their fists. A swing group played on the stage while a small group danced the Charleston below them. Timothée couldn’t help but smile as they came in: it really was soothing to his soul to be in such a carefree setting filled with so much life.

As the band’s song came to a close, an announcer came bouncing out and up to the mic. “Ladies and gents, please put your hands together for the lovely and exotic Ladies of Godiva!”

A flock of feathers came shuffling out onto the stage, three pairs of feminine legs peeking from below the large fans. The band began to play a soft and slow ballad beat. One by one, the women began to reveal themselves from behind their ivory plumes, but only in teasing glimpses that fell in time with the music. Eventually, three, jaw-dropping, dark haired women stood on the stage. Their fans were discarded to the floor to reveal bejewelled, scanty bodysuits and long, stocking-covered legs. They all huddled around the microphone and hummed sweet harmonies along with the saxophones and trumpets. Both Timothée and Nick, and every other man in the joint, were held captive. However, it was Nick who was truly in awe. In fact, he was particularly enamored as he took in the sight of the daring girl he’d met a few days before looking absolutely sinful on stage.

Timothée caught him gaping and planted his elbow between his ribs with a smirk. “Put your tongue back in your mouth, dude,” he snickered, leading him over to the bar.

Meanwhile, you stood backstage listening to Jordan and her girls, feeling guilty for snapping at her earlier. James brushed by you, catching your hand and giving you a wink on his way by, on his way to do god knows what with god knows who. He didn’t even notice when your hand quickly pulled out of his as though it were a hot flame. You wanted everything to be okay, but it was still too fresh in your brain. Before you knew it, Jordan was brushing past you with the other girls, giving you a soft smile. You smiled back, feeling a bit of relief that she wasn’t too upset with you for your outburst.

“Next up, our Lady of the Night: Miss Daisy!”

You quickly slipped into your role, a pout on your lips as you strutted on stage. The feeling of hungry eyes didn’t even phase you anymore. However, your heartbeat quickened slightly as you imagined one certain pair of eyes. You pushed that to the back of your mind and focused on the feelings bubbling in your chest. A thought came to you suddenly, and you turned on your heel to bend down to whisper into the drummer’s ear. He then, in turn, murmured down to the rest of the band while you returned to the mic. “Good evening, how is everyone doing so far? Everyone have a drink?” Your voice was low and sexy, the crowd curled into the palm of your hand as they cheered and whistled for you. “Well, I have a little something special I think you all are gonna like tonight alright?” You looked to the drummer, and he gave you a nod of confirmation that you returned.

Timothée leaned against a wall in a more secluded part of the club, eating up the swagger that poured off of you. His imaginings of what you’d become after all those years had far from given you justice. You were not at all shy; you never had been, but seeing you right where you had told him you wanted to be made him bubble with contagious pride. His eyes widened when you growled out the first note over the nearly silent club. Once everyone recognized the tune, cheers and hollars joined your voice, many girls hopping up and pulling their dates over to dance. All he could see was you.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog snoopin’ round the door..” Your body rocked to the percussive beat, your face scrunched up in emotion. “You told me you was high class, but I can see through that..”

You dug up the rage bubbling in you and growled it into the microphone, feeding off of the audience’s shouts and howls. Your hips snapped to the beat as you danced and sang your heart out.

Timothée watched you with a nearly predatory gaze. Hunger bubbled up in him; he was greedy and desperately wanted to pull you away from all the lustful men in the audience to be his and his alone. He wanted to feel you up against him again like the many escapades you two had had in college.

Your last note rang out over the crowd of cheers and catcalls, your chest heaving from not only the exertion of your performance, but also the emotions rushing around your mind. You stayed in character despite it all, but found your eyes searching the audience.

Suddenly, there he was, his eyes already on yours.

Timothée was deafened by his heartbeat in his ears as his eyes met yours. Somehow, he managed a small smile.

You quickly came to, realizing you were staring on stage. Your eyes flitted away, but you were clearly distracted as you waved and slipped off stage. You easily let Jordan pull you out and down the stairs and into the alley outside to get a little break. Everything felt like a blur.

Nick, who had been mingling around the club, watched as you two bolted outside; he knew this was his opportunity. He looked around for Timothée but couldn’t seem to spot him. He figured he was probably drinking somewhere and headed the direction you had left, weaving between the dancing bodies. He was met with a big man in a bowler hat blocking his path.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going punk?” he questioned, his thick New York accent making him almost unintelligible.

“My name is Nick Carraway. I’m a cousin of Y/N’s, Miss Daisy,” he explained, trying not to cringe at the brute’s horrid smell.

After a moment of contemplation, he stepped aside. “You best keep your hands off the ladies or I’ll bash your little head in, ya hear me?”

Nick nodded quickly, hurrying past him and out into the alley. Girls in skimpy feathers, jewels, velvet, and silk stood about in little groups, gossiping and sucking on cigarettes or cocktails. It was a lot of the young bachelor to have to take in, but eventually he spotted you. Girls shot him dirty looks and muttered things from “whatcha you lookin’ for? your ma?” and “who is this little peeping Tom!’ to “Hey, sugar. Wanna ride?” and many other crude things that made him blush hotly.

“Cousin Nicky? What are you doing back here?” you said, spotting the tall boy weaving through all the girls and looking incredibly uncomfortable. You heard Jordan laugh softly behind you, clearly amused by how flustered he was.

“Y/N! You were fantastic as always!” he smiled, giving you a small side hug. “You and Jordan were both uh, stunning! Yes, you were stunning.” He flushed, shaking his head as he stumbled over his words helplessly.

Both you and Jordan just laughed and thanked him. However, you could tell there was more to what he had to say.

“Anyways, Y/N. I wanted to ask you something, um, privately,” he stammered.

You gave Jordan a little look and she politely excused herself, brushing by Nick and making him blush again.

“Go ahead,” you ushered, curious as to what was so important.

“Well, I was hoping you’d join me for tea and luncheon tomorrow,” he said.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing a bit. Did he know? “And you needed to ask me this in confidentiality because..?”

“Oh well, I um, have a… male house guest currently. I wouldn’t want to start any sort of rumours or anything.” It was a lame cover up and you both knew it.

“Will this ‘house guest’ be joining us?” you asked, trying not to be too conspicuous.

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to just wait and see,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck.

“Alright, Nicky. What time?”

[olivenight17]

Yuga Aoyama x Aaliyah (oc) “You’re Enough”

Hello, hello! Okay, so this is finally finished! I’m really glad I took the time to write this, it honestly made me so happy and I’m actually proud of how this turned out? Like, that’s a first lol, I hope you all didn’t mind it either. I know no one really cares about oc’s, especially in writing, but I couldn’t help myself this time around. Plus, this was my first chance to write anything romance wise for bnha and I couldn’t not take that opportunity lol. So, just a little warning, this got super angsty at the end, I’m not totally sure how I ended up down that road, but we’re here. I don’t know, I just feel like Yuga has so much love to give but he shuts it off because he’s self deprecating and man I feel that. Though this is my first time writing for Yuga, I hope I didn’t write him too ooc. And let me know what you think. Of my oc’s, of how this went, anything! I really love hearing from you guys. Enjoy everybody!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was an accident.

That’s what Aaliyah swears at least. But despite her claims, Mara chuckled as she tucked her hands into her pockets. “Really, that’s the excuse you’re going to use? It was an accident that you fell in lo-” Aaliyah threw a hand over her mouth before she could say anymore. She rolled her eyes as the brunette shushed her.

“Hey, be quiet seriously! Do you know what will happen if my brothers find out I have a crush? I will absolutely never hear the end of it!” She insisted, trying to ignore the heat overtaking her face.

Her childhood friend merely removed Aaliyah’s hand from her mouth. “Okay, okay, I get it. But in all honesty, this is adorable Ally. Though also unexpected, Yuga usually keeps to himself, how did you two even meet?” Mara asked, raising an amused eyebrow at the girl’s growing flustered state.

“We uh, we met at a bookstore near my house. He seemed nice, I realized I didn’t actually know that much about him so I stuck around a bit. Then we became friends, and I realized how funny he was and he’s really caring and oh my god he is such a dork when it comes to romance books,” The brunette continued to ramble. It was only when Mara cleared her throat that she realized what she did. The red on her cheeks grew and she hid her face in her hands. “This is so embarrassing… Mar-mar, you’re gonna help me right? I can’t do this alone.” She confessed as her hopeful gaze met her friends.

Mara’s face softened into a smile. “Of course, you know I’ve always got your back, Ally. I just don’t know what you expect me to help you with, I’m not an expert with feelings or confessions.” She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly as Aaliyah paused in her embarrassment to let a sly grin make its way onto her face.

“Oh, I forgot, you still haven’t confessed to Sh-”

“Hey now, we’re getting sidetracked. We’re supposed to be helping you,” The navy haired girl interjected. She glanced around to make sure no one heard before letting out a sigh of relief. “Alright, so, you need help with asking him out?” Aaliyah nodded to the question. She paused, racking her brain for ideas. “Personally, I’d probably just ask him out over text or send a note. Anything that’s not face to face, but I know that’s not how you work. What about writing a poem for him? That’s something you’ve always been good at.” She guessed with a shrug.

The brunette was silent for a moment, mulling over the idea in her head. Mara was right, it did sound right up her alley. Plus, they were both romantics, and what’s a more romantic gesture than a poem coming straight from the heart? A silly grin appeared on her face as she already began sprouting some ideas. “I think I’ll give it a try. Thanks Mar-Mar, you’re the best!” She squealed, grabbing her in a tight hug.

Her friend hugged her back with an extra squeeze. “Go get him, tiger. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure the twins never find out about it until you want them to.” She promised as Aaliyah grinned up at her before skipping off to the library to write.

However, there was one miscalculation in this plan.

Aaliyah was not as good with writing romance as she had thought. Especially when it came to poetry.

She slammed her head onto the desk as she crumpled up another paper. None of them were good enough. Either the words were jumbled and choppy, or too wordy. She couldn’t quite get the flow of it no matter how hard she tried. Yawning, she lifted her head up, only for it to plop right back onto the desk. The brunette had been at this for two hours and after countless failures, a nap seemed like the perfect way to take a break. Decisively ignoring the buzzing in her pocket, she drifted away into slumber.

But the person causing the buzzing was not so easily ignored.

After about a half hour with no reply, Yuga began getting worried. Aaliyah was always fast with replying to text messages and if she was doing something else, she told him she would be gone before disappearing. There was no such message and the brunette was supposed to meet him a few hours after school.

So, Yuga began frantically searching for Aaliyah around school whilst calling out her name dramatically, as one does.

The blond hadn’t had any luck and as he was fishing out his phone to simply call her, someone tapped his shoulder. He let out a small squeak as he turned around, quickly covering it with a cough. He was met with the confused face of his classmate, Mara. “Yuga, you’ve been wandering school aimlessly for ten minutes now. Do you need help or something?” She asked, giving him a disbelieving frown when he said he didn’t. But the frown vanished as a realization dawned on her. “Oh, I get it. The last I heard from her, she was in the library. That’s your best bet, good luck,” The navy haired girl sang as she patted his back.

Yuga chuckled nervously as he watched her walk away. “Merci, Mara! But, for what?” There was no reply as the girl disappeared behind a wall. He was beginning to stress over what really caused Aaliyah to not respond to him now.

Pushing the doors open to the library, he spotted Aaliyah almost immediately. The blond relaxed as he saw her figure. This was why she hadn’t texted back, she fell asleep. Making his way over to her, he took his school blazer off and folded it neatly under her head as a makeshift pillow. He chuckled under his breath as the brunette shifted into a more comfortable position. “I’m sure it’s tiring having to sparkle almost as brightly as I do every day…” His eyes slid off her form as he noticed all the balled up papers that surrounded her.

She was writing, and it wasn’t in her notebook? This had to be a special occasion.

Yuga shook his head. This was a dear friend of his, the only person he let see passed his facade. The least he could do was respect her privacy. So, that’s what he did. Taking a seat next to her, he fiddled with his phone until she woke up.

He greeted her with a blinding smile when she did. “Bonjour, ma cherie! Feeling well rested?” He inquired, lighting up inside when the girl shot a sleepy grin back at him.

“You betcha! Sorry if I made you worry, I got preoccupied and then I fell asleep, but then you knew that.” Aaliyah giggled lightly as she rested just a little longer on his blazer. Yuga took that time to grab one of the scrunched papers that were littered around her.

He held it up carefully. “May I?” A fleeting panic overtook her features for a split second but it was gone before the boy could even blink.

Aaliyah reached to grab it from him. “Well, I mean you could but I wouldn’t! It’s still a work in progress and it’s not the best that I’ve written. In fact it’s probably some of the worst,” She continued to ramble. That made Yuga frown and he withdrew the paper from her grasp, standing up when she got off her chair to get it. At this point she began jumping for it. “This isn’t fair Yuga, you’re using my height against me!” Aaliyah pouted which almost made Yuga give the paper back to her. Almost.

“Cherie, I’ll have you know that no matter what stage of the creative process your work is in, it’s gold either way! There’s no need to be so modest, you shine brighter than any other writer I know!” The blond proclaimed, making Aaliyah smile lightly. “Good, that’s the smile I love to see.” He tensed as the words slipped out of his mouth. He hadn’t planned on being quite as bold.

There was silence before Aaliyah latched onto him in a tight hug. “You are so sweet it’s not even fair! Ugh, because you won me over with that nice compliment, you can read the paper. Hopefully it’s not one of my worst drafts. Some of these things literally only have one word on them.”

“It’ll be beautiful nonetheless,” He assured her. Careful not to rip anything, he uncrumpled the paper.

I love you, how does anyone say it?

There are different forms

A soft touch here

A lingering gaze there

It’s a soft blanket being placed on a sleeping figure

Your love is what some consider strange

It’s bolded words and sparkling smiles

A firework show in private

I love the way you say I love you

I just wish it was easier on me

And I want to just scream it from the rooftops

Because I love you, I swear I do

By the time you read this

I hope you love me as much as I do you.

Yuga blinked, lost in a daze as he trailed over the words on repeat. A love confession, but for who? It couldn’t possibly be for him, but he hadn’t seen Aaliyah freak out over anyone else. His gut was twisting and somehow it hurt worse than any time he had used his quirk. These words weren’t for him. They couldn’t be. He wasn’t good enough-

“Yuga?” Aaliyah snapped him out of his daze and he gave her a queasy smile.

Quickly, he shoved the paper back into her hands. “Like I said, the words were beautiful, exactly like I thought! Whoever it’s meant for is a lucky man.” He announced, waving his arms in the air for dramatic effect. But he really needed to leave, it felt like he was going to be sick.

The brunette shifted on the balls of her feet. “Well, I’m glad you think that because you’re that uh, lucky man…” Her words trailed off as she looked at her feet shyly for a minute before trying to look up at him through her eyelashes discreetly.

The grin on his face lost all of it’s emotion but it still stuck on, as if he was frozen in time. Just as she reached out to touch him, the blond caught her by the wrist. “That’s sweet, truly cherie. But there’s no need to lie like that to save my feelings. I can accept that someone else has stolen your heart!” He laughed but the sound was hollow and his words lacked their typical flamboyance.

Aaliyah tilted her head, he was trying to put his facade back up again and push her away, but she didn’t understand why. “I’m not lying, Yuga. Come on, you know I don’t joke about things like this. The only one who has my heart is you,” She confessed. She wiped her palms against her skirt. Library’s were supposed to be cold, why was she suddenly burning up?

“Then, I would suggest you take it back. You can have it, free of charge.” Yuga’s smile was suddenly cold as he picked up his blazer and began walking away. Aaliyah could only stare at him as he left, suddenly feeling as if everything in her just vanished.

She could barely feel her legs move as they ran to catch up with him. There was no way, she couldn’t have messed up so bad he didn’t even want to be friends with her anymore. Before she could even think, she gripped onto his shoulder and turned him back to face her. “Wait, please. Don’t tell me I just messed everything up. Do you hate me now? Why are you pushing me away? You don’t act like this, Yuga. Please don’t push me away. Just explain what I did wrong. I promise I won’t do it again,” She begged. The brunette searched his gaze for any type of emotion.

But all that was there was his usual smile, though there was a flash of sympathy in his violet eyes. “It wasn’t anything you did. I’m giving you a chance to give your heart to someone else, someone better. You don’t want me.” His tone was gentle as if he was soothing a small child. “After all, no one wants the defect.”

Aaliyah went silent at those words and Yuga assumed she understood and began turning away again. But, her grip kept him in place. She mumbled some words that he didn’t hear, repeating them over and over until they were loud enough to be heard. “You are not a defect!” She screamed, letting tears drip down her face. “You are not broken just because you have problems. I have problems, everybody in the world has problems. But none of us are broken. Especially not you, you’re the strongest out of everyone here, because despite the pain and the issues you smile through it all. And I’m not sure how you do it, but you do and I’m proud of you for that.” Slowly, Aaliyah began pulling him into a hug. “But whatever you do, don’t push us, push me away. You do not have to do this alone and whether or not you love me back, I’m going to make sure you never have to. You deserve to say all of those self praising words and mean it.” Squeezing him tightly, she felt relief pour through her when Yuga returned the embrace.

Lips were placed at the top of her head as the blond did his best not to shake. He rubbed her back soothingly and just allowed himself to be in that moment. It was a while before he finally spoke. “I’m so sorry for the hurt I caused, I love you. Though I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve you, I’m thanking every last shining star that I did it, amour.”

A soft giggle came from Aaliyah as she looked up at him, love shining through her green eyes. “You didn’t have to do anything, you were just you. And that’s more than enough.”

[howveryheather]

good time (the 2010s + me)

10 years of Heather... YESSSSSSS.

I mulled over various drafts of what you’re going to read today.  

There was a draft where I summed up everything, literally everything, that happened to me over the last 10 years. The more I read that draft, the more it felt increasingly like a diary entry that did not warrant publishing of any kind. 

I had a draft where I was only going to recap the good things that happened to me. That read like I had the world’s worst blinders on. 

I weebled, I wobbled, I tried to organize my thoughts using bullet points. None of it worked and all of it sounded like noise, even though I was technically going in order of the last 10 years. So, I’m just going to keep it simple and focus on the basics.

I went on two pivotal journeys in the last 10 years. The first is the start of my writing career and the second was repaying my student loans. Note that the latter half of that sentence is written in past tense. In 2019, after nine years in debt, I paid off all my loans in full! 

I want to talk about the loan journey first because it had an expiration date, even though I did used to think I was gonna die with those loans. Rather than sound like a broken record rehashing the story of how I paid everything off again, I want to share two aspects of paying off student debt that nobody talks about online. 

The first one is that once it happens, after your debt is paid in full, you’re not rich. You have a little more money every month, but you can’t go out and change your lifestyle radically. If anything, you have to remain in place a little bit longer and remain on a budget. There’s certainly irony in debt repayment. The debt is gone, but you are not exactly free yet. You have to recoup the losses. 

The other aspect of student loans is how quickly you forget about it once it’s paid off. And I mean all of it — the emotions and experience associated with loan statements and making monthly payments. I spent years lying in bed unable to sleep at night stressed out about my loans. I never think about it now. 

Paying off my debt alone was really difficult, but deep down I think I always knew that this was going to be my journey. My debt was not going to disappear, no matter how much I wished for a genie’s lamp or hoped a dead relative would throw me some bones in a will or I could magically find a spouse to marry who would assume the payments for me. I made a lot of lifestyle sacrifices to get out of debt. I prepared a few years in advance because I knew that what was ahead was going to be miserable. I remained disciplined, I treated my life with a Spartan mentality, and I crawled my way out under the 10-year deadline to freedom. Sometimes that’s what freedom looks like. It’s not a climb or a sprint to a finish line. It’s a crawl.

Onward to writing!

I was still in college at the start of 2010. Back then, I was an extremely green writer with few clips under my belt outside of an internship at the Ventura County Star and a column in The Echo (CLU’s newspaper). As a post graduate, every writing experience I have had has been a combination of good luck, timing, location, and the willingness to push myself and work hard.

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to write in the entertainment space. I always loved reading the pop culture section of the USA Today and soaked up my subscriptions to Entertainment Weekly and Premiere Magazine like a sponge. I was determined to break into entertainment however I could, and I got in on the ground floor of BettyConfidential and HelloGiggles as a contributing writer in 2011.

The early 2010s was a short-lived timeline before most of the major media moguls began buying these sites out. I remember this time as one — and everyone who started during this time will say the exact same thing, trust me — where everyone really was each other’s friend in the media space. Content felt fresh. It was new. It was also really kind. There was a lot of room to share your story and experience and receive incredible, positive feedback from readers. 

BettyConfidential... What a wonderful group! Was there anything better than waking up at 5 AM the morning after the Golden Globes to email over my best-dressed picks? (Sometimes emailed over the night before, I must admit.) I wrote my heart out in that LA Correspondent gig, covering fashion and celebrity news. It gave me so many opportunities to lead the kind of life most people who move to California never get the chance to have. I had the good fortune to go to red carpet events and awards ceremonies and gifting suites and sit in on movie sets and chat with celebrities (often in more candid spaces than is the norm) that I would never have had otherwise. Betty gave me a much-needed glimpse behind the camera of celebrity and the etiquette for how to be a reporter in this space. My experience at HelloGiggles differed from Betty in that it was much more social media driven. That was definitely the site where you earned your following and found your people in the Twitter space. 

Collectively between Betty and HG, my favorite memories were...

1) The first time I went to New York City to cover Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. I went to as many shows as I possibly could in Lincoln Center, took photos with my iPhone, stayed up writing and writing with my photos at the hotel afterwards, and did it all over again the next day for 3-4 days. I also packed very poorly for February 2012 weather. A trench coat and flats in 20 degree weather with snow... but I still looked good!

2) I went to an event celebrating L’Oreal’s 40th anniversary of their “Because I’m Worth It” tagline (an early foreshadowing of my future in writing in advertising). I wrote a nice article about the event, shared the story, and went about my merry way into the rest of my workload. A few weeks later, I received a gift in the mail from their team: a huge gift card to Saks Fifth Avenue! There has never been a Cinderella moment in my life quite like the way I spent this gift card. I went to the Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills and bought a beautiful designer day dress that I wore everywhere (and still have in my closet).

3) The first time I went to, and covered, the Pillsbury Bake-Off for HelloGiggles. (Look at all that foreshadowing!) The Pillsbury Bake-Off is such a delightful experience and not just because there’s a life-size Pillsbury Doughboy walking around either. The events are held in hotels with convention-sized rooms where one can fit 100 ovens. 100 finalists all bake at the same time and compete for a chance to win a million dollars with their recipe. Bake it like you mean it! I even had dinner one table away from Martha Stewart at the Orlando Bake-Off.

I tried not to decline any opportunities. I made everything work, as much as I could. As far as regrets go, the only event I turned down was an opportunity to go backstage and cover the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. The logistics and timing were really off. There was absolutely no way I could have flown to New York in time for it... but I will always wonder what if!

In a post-Betty and HG world, which is where I was in 2014 when both gigs wrapped, I began pivoting toward a new vertical: advertising. My discussions with Advertising Week began in late 2014 and I started writing for the website in 2015. Initially, this was a situation where I filled in the gaps with whatever content I was asked to write. A lot of it had pop culture tie-ins with Mad Men. (Shout out to my brain for already being a fan of the series and intricately understanding the ins and outs of its characters that tied in with advertising’s heyday!) 

The first major series of articles I worked on were sponsored by Adobe, so there was an increased expectation to go above and beyond in the manner I wrote, the amount of research conducted in each article, and understanding the audience. I was ready to meet the challenge and was met with high praise for this hard work. During this time, I also briefly worked in transcription for Flaunt Magazine. I transcribed interviews for one of their writers, which made me feel as though I came a little full circle yet again to entertainment.

In March 2015, I received the opportunity to go to Chicago to the Museum of Broadcast Communications. It was for an event called “A Salute to Advertising’s Greatest Icons” which honored 10 of the greatest brand mascots in advertising. My favorite character, the Pillsbury Doughboy, was one of the honorees. Even more exciting, the creator of the Doughboy Rudy Perz would be in attendance. I immediately asked AW if I could cover the event and they agreed. However, a great tragedy occurred days before the event. Rudy passed away. I was completely crushed. As a lifelong Doughboy fan, I realized I would never get the chance to tell him how much of an impact that character had in my life.

In the 24 hours I spent in Chicago, I got to tour the museum space, meet and spend time in the studio of JoBe Cerny (the voice behind the Doughboy’s giggle!), and attend the event and its dinner. Each menu course was inspired by the 10 brand mascots. It was so much fun! I promptly wrote up the article and gave it to my bosses. 

This article sparked the beginning of how I have carved a name out for myself in advertising. Brand mascots. We started discussing how to create content about characters, which I jumped at the chance to write. Before long, I had written so many character-based articles that the content spilled over the website. It required its own platform, PopIcon, which officially launched in 2016.

The greatest joy of my writing career so far has undoubtedly been PopIcon. There is so much to cover that I have gone through stages in writing. The initial stages of introducing the character to the world, the stage of updating everyone on the character’s current events (these critters are more active than you think!), and the historical narrative behind the mascot. There is only so much information a PR person can provide you before you can’t work with a one-sheet condensed timeline anymore. You have to get out there and behave like a journalist, finding creatives to talk to and share their stories. My favorite thing is when someone tells me that they have nothing to say. Then, they launch into a narrative of what life behind the scenes was like animating Lefty from Hamburger Helper or recruiting a voiceover actor for an ad campaign. That’s a lot to say! There is no absolutely story that is too small. Every bit of it is history and it has a place to be shared.

I struggle to pick my favorite PopIcon piece. At any given point, every article I have written has been my favorite. They are all jewels in a crown to me, which is a unique way to view your writing. Really, it’s how I hope every writer views their body of work as it grows and progresses.

However, if you must read anything... try these pieces on for size!

Leo Burnett’s Oral History, As Told By 8 Former Creatives (Part One & Two)

Putting The “Kool” Back In Kool-Aid

How Seth Werner Turned A Cluster Of Grapes Into The California Raisins

Monsters! A Brief History Of The Monster Cereals Icons

Ken Stewart, Creator Of The Coca-Cola Polar Bears, Reflects On Their 25th Anniversary

AW has been responsible for sending me back to New York City. In 2017, I went to New York to attend my first #AWNewYork event. My articles ran in their print publication, I hosted a panel, and I appeared on NASDAQ’s Closing Bell ceremonies live on CNBC and HLN. In 2018, I did the same rounds plus an Icons Gala which I worked on at the same time I was paying off my student loans. The Icons Gala was a massive success and I am so proud of it because it was really tough work. And in 2019, I came back for another #AWNewYork event and celebrated with all my mascot buddies once again. 

Outside of PopIcon, I have my hand stuck in a series of freelance honey pots. I always like to keep the wheel rotating, as a means of avoiding stagnation and growing my work. It never ceases to amaze me where the wheel naturally rotates next. I wrote for Brit + Co when I lived in Orange County in 2016. I had a few pieces run on The Drum. I wrote for Ed2010 for two years, which felt like a return to my roots because Ed was the reason I got in with BettyConfidential. I still write with Business Insider, Coin, and Fairygodboss, all outlets I’ve been with for a few years now (minus Coin which started in 2019). Weirdly enough, I was fact checked in an obituary this year in The New York Times.

“Dabble in something new” was my fortune I received from a fortune cookie in the spring of 2019. Good timing. What could I do next that felt new? Where could I start to grow?

I have had my eye on weddings for awhile now, in more ways than one. You can’t help but notice when everyone you know is getting married. You really can’t help it when you’ve been a bridesmaid three times. When I think of the last frontiers of verticals where pure joy exists, it all goes back to basic life rituals. Marriage is one seeped in love, history, and etiquette. I started writing with the aptly-named wedding app Joy a few months ago. Finally, I was able to break into modern wedding editorial.

That has been the last ten years of my writing career, in a nutshell. Upon writing this out, I realized just how lucky and fortunate I am that everything looks so neatly tied together. The gaps have been few and far in between. Regardless of what was going on in my personal life or when things were difficult, doors kept opening for me. And I did everything I could to walk in when it happened.

Doesn’t it look like the land of Oz over here sometimes? It has been 10 years. If you juggled this much writing on top of a full-time job, nonstop for a decade while aging from a twentysomething into your thirties, you would probably run into some issues keeping your self-sustained sausage factory running. It’s not a realistic story if the heroine isn’t facing growing pains.

I am not a perfect writer. I’m never going to act like the Heather cup of tea is for everyone to drink up because it’s not. 

I have had countless nights where I have been up late writing, researching, or editing drafts. My interviews with creatives sometimes last for a few hours. I have procrastinated my workload until the last possible minute, leaving me frantically pinned against a wall pushing all the puzzle pieces around until they fit in the eleventh, in the twelfth, hour. 

I’ve had my brain switch completely off into a “duhhhhhhhh” setting. In this setting, I shut myself in and watch reruns of TV shows I have already seen before. I have to mentally peace out from the world. This is because operating at eleven every single day takes a lot out of you. 

I have been rejected by a few outlets. Totally happens. I have also been told I am overqualified on more than one occasion. 

In 2019, I finally seized the opportunity to buy my domain, which was not previously available, and create a space for my work. 

I’ve learned a lot about one other person in the last decade: myself.

I know exactly who I am. I’ve hit reset on my life multiple times over the last 10 years, switching jobs, cities, and freelance work. I can reinvent some of me, but I can never leave myself behind. Nor would I ever want to do that. I love myself. She is still a work in progress, but it is progress I will do anything for, even if it means crawling alone for years on end. I do it for her.

Everything is up to timing. In time, everything will be as it is supposed to. That time will be the right time. 

If you are ever unsure of what to do next, look to the past for guidance. Everything I loved as a child is coming full circle into my life as an adult. 

I think the greatest thing I can do, now and in the next decade, is to continually work at making the younger version of me happy with her adult self. If the 10-year-old version of you could see you now, what would she think? Would she be proud of the person you grew up to become? Certainly I think the younger version of me is probably a little upset I don’t read as many books as I did in my Scholastic book club days (I’m working on it!). But, I do think she would be pleased with the woman I am in 2019. The things I have already accomplished and feathers in my hat. My personality and work ethic. The dreams ahead of me and the goals I still have left to achieve. 

While I have no idea where I will go in the next 10 years, I am excited to see everything that comes my way in 2020 and beyond. I will keep writing. I will keep working. And I will continue to keep not telling anyone what I’m doing until it happens. I have found life is a lot more fun when you whip out a good, unconventional “surprise!” on everyone that nobody saw coming.

Keep your pen at the ready. It’s gonna be a good time.

[shootwinterfest]

fumbling through the grey

Secret Santa Gift by @fulmentus!

—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Shaw blinks once, twice. Thinks about slamming the window shut again because are you serious? “Root,” she says, voice low, “what the hell are you doing?”

(She should be used to this, Root dropping by when she least expects. But Shaw figured that she’d be out doing whatever the Machine told her to do.

Since the whole Samaritan thing is going down soon.)

Root shrugs, and Shaw can’t exactly see her in the lack of light, her silhouette only highlighted by the streetlights that glow several floors below them. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

“I’m in need of your doctor abilities.”

And Shaw definitely wants to shut the window and pretend this never happened.

“So you thought the best way to ask was to stand on my fire escape at,” Shaw pulls her phone from her back pocket, checks the time, “two in the morning?”

Shaw should sleeping, honestly, warm underneath her blankets while plotting the best way to steal Bear (and hoping that the Machine doesn’t send her out on another early morning number), and not doing whatever this is. Standing here, letting the cold draft in while Root stands on her fire escape, expecting entry.

She mulls over sending Root on her way, but thinks better of it. Shaw sighs, shakes her head, and steps away from the window.

“Fine. Get in.”

And she doesn’t need to see Root to know that she’s smirking in that infuriating way of hers. Shaw moves to the bathroom where she keeps her supplies, calculates the fastest way to deal with Root’s injuries so she can get to sleep.

She listens to the sounds of Root scrambling off the metal escape and fumbling her way through the window. It’s a miracle she doesn’t trip over herself with all of those gangly limbs.

When she returns, Root hasn’t moved far from the window sill, her eyes catching on the relatively empty place Shaw calls her living space (not a home, not a home at all). Shaw takes a moment to look her over, bundled in a coat, her face flushed from the cold.

“You gonna show me or not?”

And Shaw regrets the way she phrased it the second Root’s eyes train on her, a more pronounced smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She shrugs off her coat. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and opens her hefty first aid kit. She removes the supplies she needs and settles into the familiar role of patching someone up.

(The last time she did this, there’d been a hole in Root’s shoulder and a glazed expression on her face after she saved Cyrus Wells.)

Root, oddly, says nothing when Shaw begins cleaning the blood around the gash on her arm, stays quiet and still and lets Shaw work in peace. Only supplies knife when Shaw asks what did it.

“What did the Machine have you doing?” Shaw asks after a moment, unnerved by Root’s silence and not knowing why she’s encouraging this. But the ire from having been disturbed so late has faded, and maybe she’s a little bit curious.

Root tilts her head to the side, Shaw catches a brief glance of the pink scar behind her ear before it disappears behind a curtain of hair, and makes a face, clearly listening to the Machine.

“Preparing.” Shaw arches a brow. “There’s a war coming, Shaw. We need to be ready.”

Shaw knows that. Has heard it countless times since their encounter with Control, but no one has told her anything about it. Just another AI looming in the near future. But Shaw and Reese aren’t doing much about it.

Just Root.

“You ever gonna let us in on whatever plans you have?” Shaw asks as she finishes the neat row of stitches, pulling the thread taut.

“When She tells me it’s time,” Root replies, pulling that whole mysterious bullshit.

“Whatever.” She places a bandage over the stitches, folding the edges across Root’s skin, and Shaw can feel Root’s attention on her then, eyes burning into the the top of her head. She pulls back. “All set.”

Root grins, rises to her feet. “Thanks, Doc.” She slides her arms through her coat.

“You heading out?”

Shaw wonders where she sleeps — or if she ever sleeps. Root always flits in and out of the library, providing cryptic clues and answers whenever she sweeps by. Bizarre how the Machine makes her the interface and doesn’t give her a place to stay.

“Are you inviting me to stay?” Root steps into Shaw’s space, and Shaw tilts her chin up to meet her gaze, blinks slowly.

“No.”

To her credit, Root doesn’t appear put out.

“But try the door next time.”

“Next time?”

Shaw regrets letting Root through her window.

—

Except she lets Root through the door the next time, and the next time.

Casual encounters that start with an ill-timed come-on and end with Shaw scowling at Root’s lack of self-care. Not only that, but Root has a habit of appearing at her doorstep in the late hours of the night, looking like she was swept in a whirlwind.

And there’s a sort of disconnect there, Shaw notices after she patches up Root for the third time in a month. A disconnect from her body.

It’s different, noting that about her. Because Shaw has always been firmly planted within herself, aware of how her body moves, where it’s positioned in relation to her adversaries. A connection she’s honed since her residency and carried with her through the Marines and the ISA.

But Root doesn’t share that, doesn’t seem to want to spend time on such trivial things like making sure she doesn’t bleed to death.

(Weird how the Machine chose someone with such a blatant disregard for her health to be its eyes and ears.)

Shaw doesn’t comment, just stitches up Root’s newest injury, and watches her disappear out the door and into the night.

—

Once Samaritan comes online, letting Root through her door happens fairly less often.

With all of them in hiding, keeping their heads down, it’s too risky for any of them to be seen together. Being in hiding also comes with the worst job ever, and Shaw has to resist stabbing someone with a stiletto at every turn.

(Working in environment filled with entitled people and others who think she cares about which color lipstick matches them best leaves much to be desired.)

(Shaw is going to take a hammer to the Machine for putting her here.)

But the numbers eventually return, and Shaw no longer has to sit idle behind her make-up counter and pretend to be a normal aspect of society. She gets to out there, shooting people, and fucking with Reese.

And with the numbers, Root follows. Flitting in and out of their new subway base like a coming breeze. They barely have time to say more than a few sentences to each other before Root leaves on another mission. Not that Shaw is particularly bothered.

But there’s this persistent nagging in the back of her mind whenever Root leaves on a mission for the Machine. This urge to know if Root’s taking care of herself properly — she never did even when Samaritan wasn’t a threat.

Shaw keeps that strange feeling tucked in the back of her mind and focuses on the numbers that come her way. Works alongside Reese to ensure the safety of the civilians, and makes sure to keep Bear company.

Because that’s the mission. And Shaw knows how to handle the mission better than anything else.

—

“We really have to stop meeting like this.”

That’s what Root goes with after she’s been shot twice, combatted that blonde bitch without backup, and disappeared for a day without a word. That’s what Root goes with as she leans heavily against Shaw’s doorframe at half-past midnight, clutching her arm, and smiling dazedly.

Shaw would never admit the tinge of relief she felt when she saw Root in once piece, but she buries that beneath the familiar sting of annoyance.

She tugs Root inside and into the bathroom, flicking on the light as she steps through the door.

“Moving fast, are we?” Root murmurs, teetering in place, unbalanced, when Shaw releases her to rummage through the cabinets.

She shakes her head, placing the kit of her supplies on the sink with a clatter. “You’re an idiot,” she remarks when she looks at Root again, noting the shadows under her eyes and the stark white bandage peeking from underneath her shirt.

“I’ve actually been known to be a genius.” Root grins, but it fades when she winces, having jostled her arm as she settles on top of the sink.

Shaw tugs at the hem of Root’s shirt. “Off.”

Root tries to put on a show, but the effect is lost when she attempts to get her injured arm out of the sleeve, only to grimace in pain at every try.

After several moments of struggle, Shaw stepping in to assist her, the shirt is finally off and Shaw can examine the poor stitching job of whichever intern patched Root up after the shootout in the hotel.

“You should’ve had backup,” Shaw mutters, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

Root sighs. “We’ve been over this, Shaw.” She shakes her head, messy waves of brown hair cascading over her uninjured shoulder. “It would have blown your cover.”

(Covers. That’s all Root’s been focused on since Samaritan came online. Their covers and running around for the Machine.

Covers, covers, covers. Damn them if the Machine is going to be sending out her assets alone.)

“Bitch could’ve killed you,” Shaw says instead, swallowing down the flood of angry words. “What then?”

“She didn’t,” Root reminds her, like that means anything. Like she isn’t sitting in Shaw’s apartment bleeding from yet another bullet wound.

“You’re not bulletproof.”

“Clearly.”

“Next time, you’re getting back up.” Shaw neatly ties off the end of the stitches. “Don’t care what the Machine thinks.”

Root peers through her lashes, lips quirking into a tiny smile. “Is that concern I hear, Sameen?”

Shaw purposefully focuses on returning all of her supplies to their proper places, slamming the cabinet doors shut a little too loudly.

When she turns back around, Root is still staring at her, eyes sharp and intense, but there’s something about it that’s different than the flirtation Shaw is accustomed to. And it’s not the first time she’s noticed.

Lately, the way Root looks at her has changed. Less of the intention to unnerve and more… more of something much heavier. Something Shaw is certain she knows the name of but adamantly refuses to label.

(She doesn’t do feelings. Not at the intensity of everyone else.

They are shallow echoes in her chest — like when her father died, when Cole died — quiet murmurs in the back of her mind. Ones that have compelled her to become a doctor, become a Marine, accept the ISA’s request.

The feeling of doing the right thing because she has the choice to.)

She doesn’t do what Root is doing. Doesn’t look at her with potent emotion searing through every tick of her expression. She knows Root regards her in some special light (not unlike how she views the Machine).

Knows that this is different.

(For both of them.)

“You can take the couch.”

Root’s brows rise, and she cants her head to the side. “Are you asking me to stay?” It’s less flirtation and more confusion, and yeah, Shaw is asking her to stay.

And maybe because it has to do with the way Root seemed so drained of life the previous day, so tired and weary. Maybe it’s the way that Root seems generally unmoored, lost.

“I’m saying the couch is open.” Shaw points to the wound she just patched up. “Shouldn’t be doing anything extensive with that.”

Root blinks, opens her mouth to say something, but the Machine must pitch in because she shuts her mouth with an audible click and nods. Shaw helps her into a more comfortable shirt, presses a pillow and blanket into her grasp. Ushers her to the couch.

As Shaw turns away, ready to catch some sleep of her own, Root calls her name.

Shaw pivots on her heel, hitches a brow.

“Thank you.”

It’s said so genuinely, so unlike how Root typically is, and Shaw does nothing but nod and flick off the lamp, retreating to her bedroom to sleep off the energy that’s been buzzing through her since she knew Root was still relatively intact.

—

“The Machine, she isn’t talking to you, is she?”

It’s after another long number, another number that required Shaw saving Reese’s ass, again, and Shaw is decompressing in her living room with the lights off, only the faint illumination of the streetlights outside allowing her to see Root, who sits across from her on the couch, cheek pressed into her palm.

(She forgets to be annoyed at the fact that Root stole her extra key and let herself in.)

Shaw takes a drink from her beer, sets it down on the table. The glass briefly reflects the dull orange light spilling across the apartment floor, and Shaw turns her attention back to Root, who hasn’t said a word.

“That’s why you’ve been all Eeyore lately?”

And with Root half-shrouded in shadow, it’s hard to read her face, but Shaw likes to think she knows her well enough to recognize when Root is hiding something.

“I get murmurs,” Root finally answers, voice barely above a whisper. “She can’t talk with Samaritan online.”

Shaw can hear the sadness bleeding through her tone, doesn’t know what to say to that. How do you comfort someone who’s lost their connection to an artificial super intelligence they view as a god?

(Not that Shaw has ever been one to comfort someone.)

“Root,” she starts, weirdly uncertain of why she’s even bothering to speak, “sorry she can’t talk to you right now.”

Shaw resists the urge to roll her eyes at herself, takes up her beer again to avoid having to say anything else. But she must have said something right because the space beside her dips with additional weight, and Root’s warmth is mixing with her own.

Shaw stiffens when Root rests her head on her shoulder, but she doesn’t shove her off. Kind of enjoys the way Root’s hair is soft against her neck.

They don’t speak after that, and Shaw doesn’t remove Root from her shoulder until she starts to feel it go numb.

(She does offer the couch to her again, so at least there’s that.)

—

Afterwards, Root crashing into her apartment becomes a near regular thing whenever she’s in town, which isn’t very often since she’s constantly being shipped off all over the world.

But she always appears at Shaw’s doorstep when she returns, a smirk on her lips and a glint in her eyes.

They fuck in the comfort of the darkness, carve out a space in each other as the night paints them in greys and silvers. Burn impressions of of themselves into skin and bone, brand each other with fire on their lips.

And Shaw’s never had someone match her heat with equal fervor.

(Maybe it’s the desperation of the war, or maybe it’s because Root knows how to read into everything Shaw wants in a sexual partner.

But it’s better than any sex Shaw has experienced.)

She lets Root stay.

—

It’s almost a year later when Shaw is able to open the door to Root again.

Open the door in reality, and not welcome Root into the vulnerable crevices of herself in some fucked up simulation that blurs her reality and leaves her head spinning for hours until she can catch her breath, remember how to think clearly.

(Thinking clearly, now that’s a thought.

Everything around her is tainted, and Shaw finds herself trying to remember what was real and what wasn’t more than she does anything else.)

But Root helps.

When the sun dips and the sky darkens and every nerve ending in Shaw’s body is on fire — it’s not real, that didn’t happen — Root is there. Gentle fingers wrapped around Shaw’s wrist, tugging her hand away from the side of her neck.

Away from the skin Shaw’s rubbed raw ever since she’s returned from Samaritan hell.

Contrasted against the shadows and the pale moonlight, Root tries to pull Shaw away from the lingering imprint the simulations left in Shaw’s mind. Tells Shaw about the numbers she and Reese worked when Shaw was gone.

Tells her of the wedding they crashed — well, I crashed, Root amends with a crooked smile, fingers running through the strands of hair at Shaw’s temple, I wasn’t technically invited. Tells her about Bear.

Bear, who sits at the end of the bed, watching them with pricked ears and a wagging tail.

And Shaw is able to resettle herself for the time being, with Root’s voice in her ear, and Bear’s presence anchoring her to the present.

—

It takes time. Takes an annoyingly long amount of time for Shaw to stop questioning every little thing that’s off (it never goes away, that clawing doubt in the back of her mind, that scraping at her throat that this isn’t real), but she gets there.

Gets to a point where she’s more or less like to her old self.

(No one could have survived what you went through, Root assures her, confident in Shaw — always confident in Shaw — vehement in the face of Shaw’s doubt. You are so strong, Sameen.)

She gets back to the numbers, to messing with Reese, to fucking with Fusco. She gets back to her early morning jogs, gets back to walking Bear around the park.

Gets back to disentangling herself from Root to make breakfast.

She still stumbles at times, jerks awake from the phantom burning in the side of her neck. But Root is there every time, helping her fumble through the faint grey light of pre-dawn. There to reassure Shaw that this is reality.

That she escaped Samaritan.

It takes time. But Shaw is nothing if not resilient. Strong, deeply connected to herself. Samaritan may have tried to break that, may have taken parts of Shaw that she won’t get back, but they didn’t succeed.

Shaw didn’t break.

And with Root with her at every step of the way, knowing when to back off, knowing when to be near, knowing that Shaw opened that door to her months ago and let her slip right in, Shaw rebuilds.

[queencatherynerhys]

Almost Lover - TRR AU Part 5

A/N: Seriously, I had no clue about how to go about this chapter. I absolutely had no idea where it was gonna end up. I kept writing drafts after drafts, simply not satisfied. The only thing I knew for sure was it was gonna be about Catheryne’s time during the two months she was home. I am so overwhelmed about the overwhelming support I’ve gotten for this series. I am going to have 2 more chapters after this one and possibly an epilogue. I want to give a shout-out to all who has helped me with coming up with material for this series. Thanks @captainkingliam @alicars and @cocomaxley.

Song Inspiration: Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy (this is one of my favorite angst songs... it’s so heartbreaking and haunting)

Summary: Catheryne is finally home. She meets an old friend. Will she finally be able to be free from Liam’s grasp on her?

Tag List: @captainkingliam @decisso @devineinterventions2 @madaraism @theroyalweisme @drakewalkerwhipped @laniquelove @drakesfiance @hhiggs @hellospunkiebrewster @alicars @mrswalkerreynolds @mfackenthal @simplyaiden-blog @hopefulmoonobject @blackcatkita @cocomaxley @boneandfur @lizeboredom @crayziimaginations @zilch3

Previous Parts:

Ruin the Friendship – Part 1

Delicate – Part 2

Tell Me You Love Me – Part 3

Maybe This Time – Part 4

 After a long 13-hour train ride, she arrives at her homestead around 12:30am. The street is quiet and dim, only lit by a couple of lampposts. She sends a thankful note to her parents for leaving her their home. She never has to worry about not having a place to stay for she will always have this for herself. She couldn’t bear to sell it when her parents died. I didn’t want to lose their memories. And I didn’t want to move away from…him. She smiles somberly at the thought of her once best friend and glances at the house next door, her second home. I’ll make sure to say hello to his parents tomorrow.

She heads inside her family home. It smells musky, she feels as if she’s breathing in layers of dust. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day spent cleaning. I should get some rest. But she’s not quite tired yet. So, she heads down to the beach.

She missed this unobstructed view of the sky. She missed the sea salt smell of the air. She missed the sounds of the waves hitting sand. She missed the moonlight shining upon her. She missed the gently breeze that ruffles her hair. She loves the New York skyline, but she is in love with the view of her paradise. It’s only been a year and a half, but it feels like forever. She inhales a deep breath, recalling all the memories she shared with him in this very spot. All the long talks, laughter and cries they shared.

After a long moment, she exhales finally releasing all the emotions she’s bottled up over the 6 years she’s been in love with him. She closes her eyes, saying a silent goodbye in her mind. I love you, Liam. I’ll always love you. But it’s time to turn the page. It’s time for me to let go of you. I must focus on myself now, and what’s best for me. I am tired of hoping  and waiting for your love. Loving you has cost me more pain than I could imagine. Though, I’ll never regret it. You’ll always be my friend. Goodbye, Liam, my almost lover, my hopeless dream. She opens her eyes letting a tear stream down her face. She feels lighter as if a weight was lifted off her shoulders. She still feels pain in her chest, yet she feels sure and optimistic of the future, a future without him. She doesn’t know what that looks like because he has always been a constant presence in her life.

She heads back inside to get some much-needed rest before a long day tomorrow. The sun rises and fills her face with warmth. She wakes up to get ready for the day and head out to the city to get some cleaning supplies and food. She heads out in the garage, grinning widely at the sight of her trusty old car. She remembers Liam scolding her for getting this baby blue beat-up car. “Ryne, you realize you have enough money to actually buy a brand-new car, right?” It’s true her parents had left her a significant amount of money, being a doctor and dentist had its perks. But they also taught her how to value the simple things in life, not over indulging and being humble and grateful for what she had.

She opens the garage entrance and steps out into the warm, humid air of her hometown. Mm, fresh air. “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Catheryne Knightely,” an old man’s voice cried out. She opens her eyes to see Mr. Rhys standing across the way, tending to a plant. He hasn’t changed much. His hair once black hair has a little grey to it now and his wrinkles becoming more define, but over all he still looks great for his age. It must be where Liam gets it. “Hello, Mr. Rhys. How have you been?” she greets him politely. They exchange small talk before he inquires, “So, what’re you doing back home?” She thought for a moment on how to best answer his question. She didn’t want to recall the events that lead to her return, so she kept it simple. “I just needed some fresh air, you know, New York can get very busy, so I thought I’d go back home to rejuvenate.” He looks at her for a moment with narrow eyes, if he suspects the hidden truth he didn’t show it and just simply says, “well, it’s good to have you home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rhys, I’ll see you around,” she starts to walk away before remembering something. “Um, Mr. Rhys, can I ask you a favor?” he looks over his shoulder and replies, “Anything, dear.” She hesitates before asking, “Is it alright if you don’t tell Liam that I’m here? It’s just… he’s really busy up there I don’t want him distracted.” He glances at her a bit of confusion in his eyes, but he agrees and tells her, “Sure thing, dear, I’ll make sure to let my wife know as well.”

She heads off for the local Wal-Mart for some cleaning supplies, then heads to the farmer’s market for some food to cook for the next few weeks. She is wandering stall by stall, when she hears a deep, somewhat rough voice say, “Look what the cat dragged in.” She whirls around coming face to face with an old friend.

Drake Walker, handsome as ever with his shaggy brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. He dons his trademark look, a thin white shirt underneath an open button-down denim top paired with dirt-stained jeans and boots. He looks like he’s gain some muscle since the last time she saw him. He is tanner now, too. “Hello, Knightely, long time no see,” he smirks at her. She smiles back and retorts, “well, you look clean.”

He laughs at the statement. “So, how long are you in town for?” He genuinely asks. “I don’t know, a while, I guess.” She doesn’t specify because she really doesn’t know. I don’t know if I’ll even go back to New York in general. “Well then, what are you doing tonight?” he inquires, his voice tinged with curiosity. “I don’t know, Drake, I’m just spending all day cleaning and stuff.”

“Hmm, how about I come by and help you?” Her eyes widened slightly at the offer and says, “Oh, no, I…I can’t ask you to do that Drake.” “It wasn’t really a question, just phrased like one, Knightely,” he bluntly stated. She learned long ago not to argue with that man. He’s as stubborn as a brick wall. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Let me grab a couple more things then you can follow me back to the house.”

They arrive, and he helps her carry her groceries inside. She sees him look around, then she realized he’s never been inside her actual house. He’s been inside the Rhys’ home where she lived during high school. “It’s cozy,” he observes. “It will be once I get it cleaned and dusted. I never moved any of the stuff since my parents passed away,” she somberly explained.

They put away the food before getting to work on cleaning the old place. “Where do you want me, Knightely?” he looks at her. “I guess we can start with the living room. We need to move the furniture outside and sweep the floor and dust the everything and all,” they tackle the room slowly, helping each other carry the big furniture outside to air out and dust the cushions. After two long, hard hours of non-stop cleaning, the living room finally looks the way it used to be. It was like it was restored to its original glory with the dark hard wood floors shining making a beautiful contrast with the light beige painting of the wall and the furniture put back in place, the only thing missing was the warmth from the ghost of the family that used to fill the room.

She slumps down on the couch, catching her breath. Drake sits beside her, making sure to put a relative amount of space in between them. “So, you never told me if you were doing anything tonight?” he asked her. “Why do you want to know?” she quipped. “Look, Knightely, I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner at the ranch?” he says so quickly, pretty much combining the words together. “Drake, that’s not a good idea and you know it,” she shakes her head as she replies to his offer. “It’s not like that Knightely, what I’m offering is a friendly dinner, I swear, just a good old-fashioned steak dinner and an old bottle of whiskey. We don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to, so what’d ya say?” he explains. “You’re not gonna take a no for an answer, are you?” she smirks at him. “You know me so well, Knightely.”

He gets up to leave to get ready for their dinner in a couple of hours. She is too exhausted to mull over the offer, so she decides to take a shower and get some rest before she heads to Walker Farms. His family owned and ran a large farm. The way there is memory to her from the many times her and Liam biked there to hang out. She arrives to a picnic table set up outside their farmhouse. “Hey, the steak is almost done grilling, you’re welcome to start on the whiskey though,” he acknowledges her arrival.

She takes her place on one side of the picnic table. She wasn’t feeling up to drinking yet, so she sits there admiring the vast land of crops that is spread out There is a full moon tonight and it shines brightly around the stars that surrounds it. Her gazing is hindered when a plate of delicious steak is put in front of her. “Thanks,” she says graciously. “Hope you like it,” Drake says mindlessly. They eat in silence, enjoying the sound of the chirping of the crickets in the distant. This is why I like Drake, he doesn’t mind the silence like I do. Liam always had something to talk about, a problem, an opinion he wanted from me. I mean there were moments of silence, but they were rare.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there quietly and Drake only breaks the silence to offer her a glass of whiskey which she accepts. She nurses her first glass while he is already in his third cup. “Might wanna slow down there, champ?” He grumbles a response as he sets down his glass on the wooden table. He leans forward and crosses his arms on the table in front of him and asks, “So, what’re you really doing back home? And don’t give me the bullshit answer, Knightely, we’ve known each other a long time,” his serious tone surprises her. “I thought this was a friendly dinner and that we didn’t have to talk,” she reminds him of his offer. “Oh, well, I lied. I guess some things are still the same, stop ignoring my question,” he clearly says.

She pauses, gathering her thoughts, thankful that she only has one glass of whiskey in her system. Drake knows of her feelings for him, he has known a long time. One of the many things that made him a great person is that he just listens to her, he allowed her to voice out her frustrations without judgment. “He knows, Drake,” she says, willing her voice to maintain a neutral tone. “He knows and he…he didn’t…he doesn’t love me back, so I left, it was time,” she stares at the night sky, preventing her tears from escaping her eyes as she explains. Aren’t you done with the crying, Catheryne? You’ve been crying the last 2 weeks. Move on already.

Drake doesn’t say anything for a long time. “He’s a stupid man for letting you go, you know that right,” he looks at her. She is surprised to see nothing but earnestness in his eyes. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, it’s in the past, nothing’s going to change,” saying it in a way to tell him to drop the subject. “So, what’s new with Drake Walker? Broken any hearts lately?” she changes the subject.

“Well, my dad gave me the ranch when I graduated so I’ve been busy learning the business and handling it on my own, leaving no time for my old habits. I’m a new man now, Knightely, more responsible, I think,” he says with a grin. She laughs loudly at his remark, “Alright, Drake, I’ll believe it when I see it. And that’s nice for your dad to finally trust you with something, especially something of this magnitude. How’s Savannah doing?”

They spend the next two hours catching up with how life has been for them, laughing and reminiscing. Weird. I feel so at ease when I’m around him. Like I could stay here for hours just talking to him. I wish Liam treated me this way. Why couldn’t he just love me back? Am I that repulsive? Am I not good enough? She shakes her head vigorously, stopping herself from delving back into the self-doubt, self-loathing phase that Liam causes her to go to. It’s time to let go, Catheryne. It’s time to let go of what could have been. I mean come on there’s a great guy sitting in front of you. Who knows, maybe he can mend your broken heart?

“Drake, thank you for this wonderful night, and forcing me to come out here, I had fun, really,” she honestly tells him. “You’re quite welcome, Knightely, you deserve it,” he replies. “Anyway, I should get going, it’s late and I still have a lot of work to do at the house in the next few weeks,” she begins to stand up and helps him clear the table. “Goodnight, Knightely, I’ll see you tomorrow,” waving to her as she walks back to her car. “Goodnight, Drake, see you tomorrow.”

The next few weeks pass by quickly with her and Drake cleaning up the rest of the house, providing her with some nice distraction. When he leaves in the afternoon, she ends up Face-Timing with Hana talking about their days, catching up with about what’s happening with her job at the event planning place she works at. She tries to inform her about Liam’s well-being, but she refuses to acknowledge him. She is making good progress with freeing herself and moving on, she doesn’t want to interrupt that. Hana pries her for details about Drake, as well, but she doesn’t say too much. They have been hanging out every day. He even offered her a job at the farm, which she accepted. Maxwell also entertains her sometimes, showing off new dance moves he’s learning from the videos he’s watching.

One Friday night, her and Drake were sitting on her couch watching a show when she hears a knock on the door. She looks utterly confused on who it could be on the other side of that wood panel, she doesn’t know anyone else in this neighborhood besides the Rhys’. She hesitantly gets up to answer it and was clearly surprised upon seeing who it was.

“Surrrrprrrissseee, little blossom,” Maxwell chirps before gathering her into the biggest bear hug, crushing her ribs. “Maxwell, can’t…breathe…” he puts her down and looks down at the floor before apologizing, “I’m sorry, little blossom, I just…I missed you so much!” She lets them into the foyer before giving Hana an endearing embrace, “This is such a lovely surprise, you guys, what made you decide to come down?” Hana and Maxwell look at each other before she answers her question, “We really wanted to see how you were doing and how you’ve been dealing with everything. And besides it’s also a nice vacation for us. We haven’t had one in a while, so we decided to fly down here getting the nearest hotel from you, so we can be close and hang out every day!”

“Nonsense, Hana, you guys are staying here. I have 2 other extra bedrooms not being used and you can stay in one of them. I’m not asking either,” she firmly demanded. “Awesome! We’re gonna party every night!” Maxwell says, jumping with excitement. His bubble of joy is popped with the sound of clearing throat. She totally forgot that Drake was still there. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she leads them into the living room where he stands in the middle of the space, “Hana, Maxwell, this is Drake. Drake, this is Hana and her boyfriend, Maxwell, they’re my friends from college.” He shakes Hana’s hands politely and extends one toward Maxwell’s, “No, dude, bring it here,” the utter shock on Drake’s face when Maxwell hugs him is priceless! He steps away quickly, shifting his foot awkwardly before saying, “Knightely, I’m gonna head out, looks like you have some catching up to do.” He sends them a lazy wave over his shoulder as he walks out the front door.

Hana and Maxwell stayed with her for two weeks. Their arrival sparked the beginning of her new chapter. They spend every night staying up late watching ridiculous movies or playing games like Truth or Dare. She finds Drake actually enjoying their company, even him and Maxwell are getting along quite nicely although he’ll never admit it. The warmness that was missing from her first day was finally there. This is her family. Her new family. She dreaded the day for them to finally go back to New York. Her and Drake gave them a ride to the airport. “I’m gonna miss you Hana. You’ve been more than a friend. You’ve been my sister. Thank you for offering to take care of my stuff up there. I find myself owing you more than I care to admit,” she tears up as she hugs her tightly. “Oh, honey, you don’t owe me anything,” Hana assures her, rubbing her back for comfort. She lets go and turns to her long-lost brother, “Oh, Maxwell, what am I gonna do without your random dance moments and rap battles? Whenever I feel sad, I’ll make sure to remember all the times you made me laugh,” she hugs her adopted sibling. “I’ll miss you little blossom, but don’t worry I’ll Face Time you every day!” he promises. She waves them off as they go through security. “You have nice friends, Knightely.” I know, I know. I’m gonna miss them so much.

The next month and a half flies by. She finds most of her days with Drake. He picks her up to go to work in the farm, then drops her off and hangs out at her house all night. They make dinners together and usually get wasted out on the porch or on the couch. 

One night after he left for home, she stays out on her porch thinking about her and Drake and their friendship. She knows that Drake has feelings for her. She is somewhat worried about what their relationship could lead into or be leading into. I don’t want to lead him on. I don’t think I’m ready for anything more than friends. Or what we are right now. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve the pain I’ve had for 6 years. She is so tired and confused that she gives up trying to sort out her knotted feelings

After a month of casual dinners and hang-outs, she offers him to accompany her down by the beach after they coming back from dinner at the farm, surprising herself at the request, “Drake, would you like to go with me to the beach?” He agrees, bewilderment in his face, “Sure.” Bringing him down there had more meaning than what lies in the surface. This place is private, meant for just her and…him. She’s never had anyone else, never shared her paradise with anyone but him. This was their place. Is it really ok to bring him here? I think you’re thinking too much into this. It’s just a place. It’s not like he’s going to know. He’s far away, living his own life and forgetting about me. What the hell, right? It’s time.

She takes his arm and leads him down by the shore. Once again, she’s grateful for his silent presence. They stand there, letting the water hit their feet, completely surrounded in comfortable silence, even the waves are calm tonight. He turns to her and blurts out, “I like you, Catheryne, I don’t mean just as friends. I have had feelings for you since high school, but Liam was always there, but now he isn’t, and I think that we have something really great going here.”

She is completely taken aback by his confession and before she could come up with a reply, he crosses the gap between them and crashes his lips against hers. He kisses her with fiery passion and what takes her by surprise is that she kisses him back, wrapping her hands around his neck and through his hair. They break apart after a long moment, both catching their breath from the passionate encounter.

What just happened? What did I just do? Drake…just kissed me and I kissed him back? Why did I do that? I don’t even know what I want yet. Am I ready for a relationship? A real relationship? It’d be nice not pining for someone I can’t have for once, but am I really over him? I like Drake, I do, he’s been by my side and treats me like a man should treat a woman. I definitely feel something when he’s around? Is that love? Or am I just using him to forget about him? Oh, Liam, even from far away you still somehow manage to cause me pain. Why can’t I stop thinking about you? “So, what do you say about giving us a try, Catheryne?” Drake asks with a hopeful voice, pulling her away momentarily from her piercing thoughts. She gives it some pondering. She looks at his eyes, meeting his coffee brown ones with her own.

“Drake, I…I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

[stilesxeveryone]

Have You Ever Been Attracted to a Guy You Hate? - Part Two

~It has been forever since I wrote the first part to this! The draft of part two has just been sitting in my folder, half finished, for ages and I finally got some inspiration! You can read it all on ao3 here, where you can also find my ao3 account! Don’t forget, my inbox is always open!~

"What restaurants does Stiles like to eat at?"

"Jackson?"

"Yes, McCall, it's me. Now shut up and listen. I know he loves curly fries but I can't exactly get that for a first date." Jackson huffed, folding an arm underneath his head.

"Why not?"

He glared up at his ceiling, 'Is McCall really an idiot?'

"Because it's cheap fast food, hardly first date material. What would it say about me if I got him that?"

Scott mulled it over for a moment. "It would suggest that you know what he likes and you care about him?" He sighed, "Look, Stiles doesn't care that you're rich. He doesn't care that you can take him to the most expensive and fancy restaurant in or out of town. He cares about curly fries and having a good time."

"Alright, no need for a speech... Okay, I'll take him out for curly fries..."

Jackson was silent for so long that Scott was about to say goodbye and hang up when a soft word drifted through the phone,

"Thanks."

Then there was the resounding click of the call ending.

~

Jackson's hand sifted through his hair nervously, a strange gesture for the usually arrogant teen. He inhaled sharply, raised his head up and stared the door down. Finally, he knocked on the door. 

He heard a quiet groan come from upstairs and almost bolted right then and there.

‘Does he not want to see me? Did he change his mind and decide he doesn’t want to go out with the former reptilian murderer? Does he hate me because of everything I’ve done in the past? Does he-‘

His thoughts were cut off as the door swung open to reveal a pale, sweaty, sickly Stiles.

“Stiles?” he asked, concern coursing through his veins.

“Fuck, Jackson, I’m sorry, I forgot to call and cancel.” Stiles leaned heavily against the doorway and Jackson was worried he might collapse.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” he asked. He took a quick step forward, hand coming up to rest on the teen’s cheek.

“Yeah, I’ve been throwing up for the last, like, two hours. It’s really gross. Again, I’m sorry you came over here for nothing.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be for nothing?” The nervous kid from the other night shone through as he looked up at Stiles.

“What are you suggesting? A movie on my laptop and cuddles?” Stiles quirked an eyebrow.

“Actually, yeah, that sounds like a good idea.”

Jackson smiled and Stiles responded with a surprisingly bright grin for someone who looked like death. The pale boy reached out and grabbed Jackson’s hand, tugging him into the housing and closing the door behind him.

As they walked up the stairs Jackson asked, “Are you gonna throw up again? Because, if you do, I might have to say no to the cuddling.”

Stiles gasped with an exaggeratedly offended face. “I thought our love was worth more to you than my vomit!”

Jackson would’ve shoved him if they weren’t still on the stairs.

“Shut up, your vomit is fucking gross. You said so yourself!”

Stiles pouted but Jackson pulled him into his bedroom and onto the bed. He shoved his face into Stiles’ neck, successfully wiping the pout from his face.

Stiles spoke up after a few moments of silence and snuggling, “What were you planning for the date?”

“Secret,” Jackson mumbled into his neck.

“What? No, come on, you gotta tell me,” Stiles whined.

Jackson chuckled and Stiles lied to himself that he shivered because he was sick.

“I was gonna take you out for curly fries and milkshakes,” the now-werewolf admitted.

“Curly fries and a milkshake for a first date? Marry me now, dude.”

Jackson laughed again and they laid there for a while in content silence before, finally, Stiles grabbed his laptop.

They watched Captain America movies until Stiles fell asleep. It was the best date Jackson had ever had, even if Stiles did drool on his favourite shirt.

[sanguinarysanguinity]

@beanarie​ tagged me to ramble about my wips. I have thirty-odd of the things, so here are the few that’ve been the loudest lately. No excerpts inline because this ran long, but I’m happy to provide for those who want them.

Actively Working On

1. Langstroth on Bees, ACD Holmes/Watson; aka the Last Bow thing, aka that one fucking ACD retirement fic, aka the reason y’all think I’m really into bees. (I wasn’t into bees when I started this behemoth, but it’s true I’ve kind of fallen for them in the interim.) This is also the story that @sanspatronymic​ used as a seed for their Apart series.

I began this thing nearly four years and 30K words ago; I’m probably a little past the narrative midpoint now. Back then, I hadn’t written any slash, sex, or even much of anything with an actual plot, so I kept having to take breaks from Langstroth while my skills caught up with the story’s needs. I think maybe I’ve finally got all the requisite skills now? Now the big challenge is to get this thing done before my thoughts about Last Bow evolve beyond the groundwork I’ve laid.

Frustratingly, having the skillset hasn’t sped up the work much: right now things are slow-going because I never had the middle mapped out in much detail and I’m having to feel my way. I have no shortage of potential material that I could use, but there’s the very large question of what properly belongs here -- what accomplishes real narrative work, as opposed to just being a cool thing I thought of one day -- and how best to structure it all. Plus, what exactly do I need to include here to set up the planned resolution later? And can that be set up organically, or do I need to shift the planned resolution somewhat? I’m not stuck, per se, but the mulling-to-producing ratio hasn’t been terribly satisfying lately. :-/

That said, I think I finally broke the logjam on this chapter, hooray. There are still another several thousand words to go (and then another two chapters after that), but I think the path to at least the end of the chapter is relatively clear now. (Maybe. I hope.)

...and then I’m going to have to start doing some research into Vernon Kell and the pre-WWI spy paranoia, and hope like hell that I don’t get derailed into that other Last Bow story that I want to write.

(And then I’ll have to do some research into Apis cerana, which has been harder to accomplish than I’d like. But that’s a problem for some other time.)

2. Untitled Harry Rigby smut, Whitehead Holmes, Holmes/Watson. Pining sex with a bit of plot. I wrote the first chapter some while ago -- and was quite happy with it! -- but before I got around to finishing the story, I stole its planned resolution to use in Six Marmalades, which left me at a loss for how to finish this one off. (It’s fairly common for me to strip one WIP for parts to finish another; sometimes it seems like my WIPs are in a melee-to-the-death with each other.) For a while I considered just posting the first chapter of this as a one-shot and calling it quits, but @phoenixfalls​ took a look at it and said that if I did, the outcry for a resolution would be loud and obnoxious. So.

As things stand, I have a second chapter drafted, with the idea of resolving everything in the third, but.... Eh, I switched pov in the second chapter, and that might have been a mistake? Also, this is a lot more smut than I initially signed on for, and I don’t know that I even have three variations-on-a-theme sex scenes in me? Also, I’ve been second-guessing everything from characterization to whether anyone even wants Whitehead smut. Basically, smut isn’t my wheelhouse, so the self-doubts are running rampant, ugh.

(But did I mention I really love the first chapter? I really love the first chapter. )

3. ?????????, for the @poetry-fiction-challenge. I dunno, I might have to do an arts-and-crafts hour to see if I can get any ideas flowing, because so far I’ve got zilch.

4. Maybe-Secret Project, aka the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Idea, which is being kept secret for now, because reasons. But gosh I’m having fun, and who knows if it’ll be any good, but at least some people will really love it when I’m done. :-D

Projects Clamoring to be Worked On

5. THE BEST BEE FIC ON MARS, Elementary x Bee-Man comics, nominally Holmes/Watson but pretty damn gen. The first four chapters (2800 words) were  published to AO3 several years ago, and I have another four chapters (5200 words) in the can. It’ll probably require only another few thousand words to finish it. Really, this thing should have been done AGES ago, especially since the whole point of it was to be an impulsive, doesn’t-matter, don’t-think-just-publish romp. But you know that thing I do, where I take a cracktastic premise and write it in utter earnest? And then all of a sudden BOOM there are real stakes at the heart of the story? Yep. Suddenly I had a surprise addiction storyline that came out of nowhere, which gave me an attack of cold feet. I should probably just ask someone to cheerlead, to reassure me that it’s okay to follow the story where it’s going and gently steer me away from any Unfortunate Choices, and then I should just sit down and push through to the end. But I’m gonna need to clear out some space in my schedule first, so... probably not today.

6. Persistence of Memory continuation, Elementary x Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century, gen. Remember how I said I kept having to put Langstroth on pause while my skills caught up? This one is on pause while my skills catch up. :-/ I’m gonna have to invent or steal a case-fic for the story’s superstructure, but I don’t have much skill with those yet. I’ve only got two case-fics under my belt, Holocene Park and Desperate Men and Fools, and both of those were straightforward reworkings of existing cases, whereas whatever I do for the core of Memory is going to require a lot more customizing. Also, it’d be super-nice to have Langstroth off my plate by the time I start work in earnest on this again, seeing that this is going to be a project of similar magnitude? Realistically, I’ll probably finish most of the things in this post, plus try my hand at an original case-fic or two, before I pull this one off the back-burner again.

[sofeyhh]

Six Blind Dates

Protagonist: Min Yoongi Main Pairing: Yoonmin Ships: Yoonseok, Namjin, Namgi, Taegi, Yoonjin, Yoonkook Genre: Comedy, fluff, mild smut, semi angst

Summary: Min Yoongi has been a hermit during his first year in college; mostly keeping to himself, burying his head in his studies and holing up in the school’s radio station. Now that he’s entering his second year, his brother has been riling him up to get experimental, since it is college. So he joins a dating website, for men, and waits for his 6 blind dates.

Part 4 / ?

The ear-splitting sound of his alarm pierced in his ears like a thousand nails. It rudely tore him away from the comfy deep sleep he was in, making Yoongi groan into his pillow. He peers out of his puffy sleepy eyes to check the time.

6:05 am

“What the fuck!” Yoongi yells into his pillow. He lets out a deflated whimper as he frustratedly kicks around.

6:05 am is most definitely not a humane time to wake someone up. It was something only office workers and housewives did. So why the hell was he summoned at this goddamned hour?

Another screeching alarm goes off, this time a reminder on his phone. He lazily lifts up the screen to read. It said ‘Hike Date with Jung Hoseok. Be there at 7’ in white bubbly letters. Ah fuck, he thought.

His date had sent him a pinned location of a hiking trail along with the caption ‘7am! Don’t forget to set your alarm and to bring lots of water! Tomorrow’s gonna be fun!!’ Yoongi grimaces at the reminder of having to walk up a hill under the hot sun for at least an hour. His warm duvet cover pulled him back to dreamland, back to visions of swimming in a pile of money.

Swimming in a non-existent pile of dirty green paper sounded so much better than sweating under a hot ball of fire. And so he drifts back to sleep, mumbling an apology to his date. No one can come in between him and his sleep. No one. Yoongi could feel his body getting enveloped by the dollar bills, tugging him in like quicksand when suddenly his phone starts blaring in his ears.

“For fucking fuck’s sake of fucking fuck gods!” Yoongi bellowed as he tried killing his phone with his pillow. The repetitive hits did nothing to silence the damn device of course.

Tears were threatening to spill as he whines to himself. The gods above must love fucking him over. It was Sunday, and Sundays were meant for him to wake up at 5 pm, not bloody 6:07 am. He grudgingly picks up his phone, biting his tongue from wishing the person on the other line an early death.“Syubbbbbbbb!”

Of course. Of fucking course. If it there was one thing in the universe that was flipping him off, it would have to be his brother. It just had to. Yoongi puts on the loudspeaker and lets his phone fall from his hands, wondering how his brother managed to swallow Jim Carrey’s soul at 6:07 am. Oh right, it was currently 7:07 pm back in Korea.

“Are you ready for your date?!”

“Hyung,” Yoongi croaked. “How long have you known me?” He rubs his face, trying to get the sleepy haze out of his eyes.

“Uh...since you were born…?”

He rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face, muffling his voice while he chatted with his brother. “What’s the one thing you should know about me?”

It was a very easy question, and he had high hopes for his goldfish-brained brother to remember. Mind you, it has even been written down on his school profile by teachers and students alike.

“...you love your sleep?” his brother squeaks.

“Ah!” Yoongi exclaimed as he raises his arms. “Hallelujah hyung! You got the right answer for once.”

The silence over the phone could only mean his brother was busy rolling his eyes at Yoongi’s exaggeration. His brother’s next words made him want to physically row back to Korea and personally strangle him.

“Ok, but have you gotten ready for your date though?”Ok but have you gotten ready for your date though?”

---

Yoongi was already sweating just by walking from his car to the hiking area and it wasn’t even sunny out. He squinted and looked around while fidgeting in his clothes; also known as the sportiest outfit he could find in his closet. Namjoon had said that his upcoming date had a million-watt smile, not that he knew what that meant. A smile was just a smile, wasn’t it?

“Ahhhhh!”

The monstrous scream came before Yoongi was attacked by a bear - or at least he thought it was- almost getting down tackled down to the ground. It came out of nowhere, leaving him dazed while being stared at onlookers. Yoongi squirms out of the tight embrace, looking distressed by the sudden human contact.

“You’re Yoongi aren’t you?!”

In that second, he knew exactly what Namjoon meant. The boy’s smile could give the damn Sun a run for its money. It took a second for Yoongi to get his bearings as he calmly detaches himself from the walking ball of sunshine.

“I’m guessing you’re Jung Hoseok?” Yoongi asked with a timid smile.

“Eugh you sound like my Math teacher in High School,” his date cringes at his full name. “Hobi, if you will.”

Hobi, what a peculiar nickname, Yoongi thought. Then again, he had his brother calling him Syub and Yoongi still don't know where it came from. In all seriousness, the name Hobi weirdly suits his date’s personality. It had a tinge of adorableness, or back in Korea they’d called it aegyo, and an all around fun name.

With energetic motivations from Hobi, Yoongi managed to go through the hike without even once grumbling about the heat or the bugs colliding with his face every few seconds. There was something about the boy that Yoongi found comfort in. He always had a smile on and was so open about everything, even talking about his sexuality like it was no big deal despite the homophobia still going around.

“I guess it’s because my family’s pretty chill about everything so being gay wasn’t a big issue,” Hobi explained while walking backwards. “It was over dinner and I casually talked about liking dicks while eating Grandmama’s famous chilli. My parents were like ‘Yeah? Have you found anyone you like? Don’t forget to use protection Hoseokie. Even guys need to’.”

Yoongi blushes at his date’s brazen words. The topic of dicks at Grandmama’s famous chilli can never go hand in hand during his family dinners. He’d get an ass-kicking from his father just for saying the word ‘dick’. But he still had to give it to his parents for being accepting of their son’s sexuality. Not many Korean parents are particularly fond of their sons talking about wanting to ride dicks.

“What about you? You told your parents you’re gay yet?”

They reached the midpoint of the hiking trail where a crowd of people were busy gawking over a 3-story high waterfall. The narrow bridge was jam packed with sweaty hikers that Yoongi subconsciously retreated backwards. Him getting sweaty wasn’t something he fancies but being slathered by gross sweaty shoulders of other humans? Yeah, he would cut off his leg to avoid that at all cost.

Hobi chuckles when he sees Yoongi’s appalled expression. “C’mon,” he says, taking Yoongi’s hands as he leads them to a small path away from the bridge. Though, it could barely be considered a path.

“Trust me,” Hobi nods his head as he gestures for Yoongi to follow the steep path upwards into the dense forest. “It gets you a better view of the waterfall.”

With a reluctant heart, Yoongi treks up the dirt path, pulling onto tree trunks to support his non-existent arm muscles. Now was the time that he regrets not committing into the gym schedule he had drafted back in his first year. So much for wanting to get a six-pack.

“So?” Hobi huffs as they closer to the top. “Does your parents know?”

“Well, first of all, I’m not gay. Or, not officially one. I may consider myself a bisexual but I’m still experimenting. This is only my second date with a guy.”

Finally, after getting slapped in the face by multiple branches, Yoongi reaches the top. He collapses on a boulder and groans until he could feel the nerves coming back to his toes. His numerical age may be 21 but ever since he hit puberty, he’s been possessed by a hundred-year-old man.

“You’re adorable, baby,” Hobi chuckled as he slapped Yoongi’s ass.

His entire body tenses as the heat prickled up his neck. It took a while for Yoongi to register the ass slapping and the pet name calling. By the time he recovers from that sinful act, Hobi had already moved on as if nothing happened. He was sat at the edge of the cliff admiring the waterfall.

What the fuck, Yoongi thought. This guy is mental. He couldn’t come up with words to describe his date’s bold personality but he knew for sure it was so different from Namjoon’s. At the back of his head, he could hear his brother commenting on how this guy would be a good fuck. And surprisingly, he was a little turned on by the idea. He coughs away his dirty thoughts and takes a seat by Hobi.

“So what’s Korea like?” Hobi wondered out loud. “I was born there but my parents migrated when I was two so I’m pretty much clueless.”

Yoongi leans back, resting his head on the boulder as he mulled over Hobi’s question. “Korea’s....something else,” Yoongi sighed fondly. “Indescribable really.”

Hobi leans back and watches Yoongi with a smile. He could see the love for his native country in Yoongi’s eyes. America may be the country where dreams come true, but every foreign student he knows would always prefer their homeland over manufactured burgers and fries.

“I was born in Daegu, a rural city in the north. It’s surrounded by beautiful rocky mountains and can get really cold in the winter. But then we moved to Seoul after my dad got promoted to manage an office branch in the city. And it may be in the same country but Seoul’s vibe is a contrast to Daegu. Polar opposites even, like me and you,” Yoongi chuckled.

“Hey now, you know what they say, opposites attract. Like magnets,” Hobi piped up with a wink.

They spent the rest of the hour slopped in front of the giant boulder and admiring the waterfall. It was decided that they wouldn’t hike up the last half of trail after Yoongi groaned and whined, begging Hobi to have mercy on his old ass. The pair managed to forge a bond with blessings from the 3-story waterfall and the giant boulder. Yoongi came to find that they had a few things in common, but that didn’t change the fact that their personalities were on opposite ends of the scale.

On that Sunday, at 8:10am, Yoongi had one of the best laughs after a long time. His gruffy chortles boomed through the forest; even catching the attention of the people on the bridge. He realised that Hobi mirrored his brother perfectly. He was a jokester, he was crazy and he was loud. The thickness of his skin was no joke because this boy went all out to make a show for Yoongi without a hint of embarrassment.

“Be prepared Yoongs,” he said with a straight face as he pointed at Yoongi.

His phone was plugged into his portable speaker, blasting out a poppy girl song Yoongi was unfamiliar with. With passion, Hobi sticks out his ass, twirling it to the beat with a smirk on his face. Yoongi watched with his mouth hanging open as his date danced to the song with such precision. He hit every move at the right time without breaking a sweat, looking majestic as fuck. The song ended and Yoongi gave him the loudest applause followed by a standing ovation.

“You were bootylicious, for sure,” Yoongi teased, his gummy smile on full display as Hobi bowed dramatically.

The poppy music gave way to a trap beat as Hobi regained his composure. This time, Yoongi wailed a loud yes as he flails his arms around. He’d be lying if he said that this song wasn’t on the top of his playlist. As soon as the song started, Hobi switched from being a sassy ass-jiggling dancer to a sexy rapper. He rapped out the lyrics with full force, not holding back even once. It was a mind blowing switch that got Yoongi staring in awe.

“Yah...I didn’t know you can dance and rap! Fucking hell that was amazing!” he exclaimed.

Hobi chuckles as plops down. His breaths were irregular as he sucks in the much-needed oxygen. Yoongi’s eyes catch the trickle of sweat as it falls from his temple down to the corner of his lips. Without him realising, he lingers onto the sight of his date’s lips longer than necessary.

“Curious?”

Yoongi was startled out of his trance and comes to face with a smirking boy. He was rudely biting his lips as if knowing that it would make Yoongi’s lips dart out involuntarily. With red cheeks, he nods to answer. He had been pondering on how it would taste to kiss a boy ever since his date with Namjoon. Would it be rougher than a girl’s or just as soft? His heart started to race as Hobi leans in - this was it, he was about to find out.

It was electric. It was hot. It was heart-fluttering. And it felt soft and firm at the same time. Blood rushes up to his ears as the kiss picks up; it went from light hesitant kisses to a needier make-out. Yoongi feels Hobi’s hand brushing past his shoulders, up to his neck, tugging him closer. He lets out a small whimper, melting under his touch. His hand comes up to clutch at Hobi’s collar, pulling him above him as he feels the warmth of the ground on his back.

There was a possibility he might be a bottom.

If you want to follow this fic, just use the tag sofieyoonmin fic. It’d be easier to find it :)