#trying to find references for her body type is like. google please help and google just tells me to kms

[kithj]

clear's tattoos

[kendrixtermina]

Simple Tritype Finding Redux

So remember how a while ago I made that post about how to find your tritype, which was somewhat popular, but also kind of rambly and theoretical? 

Apparently the peeps at the Big Hormone Podcast had an episode which did sort  of the same thing of looking at the “setting” of each individual center, but they expressed it much more concisely & punchy & much more useful

So, for those who don’t have time to listen to 2 hour of pod-cast (which honestly, includes me too, I should be doing something else rn), here’s a summary: 

Heart Center

2 fix

basically more warm compared to other ppl with the same core type 

casually touchy-feely, way more likely to hug, put their arms on you etc. (this can be very obvious in cultures where that’s less usual - ie, easier to spot on a North American man than a French woman)

4 fix

more guarded compared to others of same core type

stresses their tastes & preferences (ie, rant about music they really don’t like)

suspicious of hype & overly popular things - some tedecy to be the contrarian voice in a conversation

3 fix

especially if it’s the 2nd fix this can show as being more positive and/or better at self-motivating and a tendency to follow trends or fads

but it’s just as likely to show as just less obvious emotional coloration, or just adaptiveness/ social perceptiveness, or even ‘icyness’ - so you’ll often arrive at this by principle of exclusion.

2 Methods/ ‘cheats’ you can use here: 

Typing someone else: 

Apparently useful question here is to look at how people introduce themselves, cause the heart fixes represent different parts of identity & it’s all about what someone stresses. For example, the people who will open with something relationship-related (”Hi I’m soandso, I’m a parent”, “I’m a wife”) are probably 2-fixes. If they start out mentioning their job or some kind of accomplishment (”I’m a doctor”, ”I climbed X mountain recently”) they probably have a 3 fix. Whereas a person with 4 fix will not reference anything external but mention their tastes, interests and sentiments. (eg, “Hi, I’m Soandso, I like reading, writing & nerd stuff”, “I live on a farm where I keep peacocks.”)

Typing yourself: 

Think of this as a ‘should’ that you feel. A person with a fix doesn’t run around all day helping people (especially if their core type is something very different), but they might feel that they should be a source of help. Someone with a 4 fix might feel they ‘should’ be suspicious of anything that’s too hyped and popular, while someone with a 3 fix might kick themselves for not mentioning some archievement to their friends when this might have impressed them. 

Head Center

Basically, just look at what they do when they don’t know something. Like, imagine for example that your little sister has a question and you don’t already know the answer. Do you immediately ask someone, google it or point her to a trusted source? Six. Do you first speculate based on your preexisting knowledge & maybe then google it if you’re not confident? Five. Do you list multiple ideas for what the answer might be or where to find the info? Seven. 

6 fix

Checks external sources first, thinks second, may then corroborate the conclusion before accepting it

try not just to get the answer, but a sense of who thinks what. May warn you against other PoVs - this can lead to bringing morals/ politics into it even when it seems out of place. 

Other people need to learn to look at sources and ‘cui bono’ questions at some point, six fix ppl often do this immediately & pay attention to sources from the first. 

At best you get 15 year olds with scarily excellent bullshit detectors, at worst, middle aged ppl whose opinions are entirely copypasted. 

5 fix

Reverse of 6: Always speculates first based on whatever knowledge they already have, and checks sources second, if at all. Internal resources dominate.  (eg if the question is about tigers, they might say ”It’s like this in cats, so it might be similar. It fits with how Tigers live in jungles, too”)

Might just make a theory & throw it out there to see what happens

Might bring up a dark/macabre/disturbing topic without realizing. (6: “Are you defending cocaine addicts?” 7: ””Please don’t talk about murder on the table, we’re eating!”)

Tend to look for a point of distinction or underlying principle

7 fix

List multiple ideas or facts rapidfire 

while the other two sit down to launch into a treatise, the 7 either keeps the engagement level high by focussing on the more exciting parts, or just moves on. 

Cares less about cohesion, hanging on to a point or arriving  at a final conclusion so there can be a ‘kaleidoscopic’, multi-perspective  quality to the answer

Similar to how the 6 might think about the moral implications, the 7 thinks about the entertainment value & novelty . In the example with the little sister, the 7 fix person would say stuff that the child will find exciting. 

Body Center

This where it might be useful to listen to the podcast yourself cause they talked a lot about body language cues that would be much more apparent if you were a core body type or at least a sensor in the mbti. I have no sense of this so I can only relate the parts that I understood

8 fix

gives whatever the core type is a bolder, more unapologetic vibe

tend to “just do stuff” & more confortable doing it without mapping out all the consequences. Think the one person who says which restaurant to go to when no one wants to make a decision or gets bogged down on discussing pros and cons

More likely to get physical. If you’re a withdrawn type & it’s your last fix you might not actually throw down, but you might feel like you want/should if you could get away with it. Or you might just curse like a sailor.

9 fix

generally softer compared to others with same core type. They might be the most assertive & energetic 7w8 or 3w4, but still want to hear the other sides’ point. 

have an accepting, nonjudgy vibe

listens/connects more, much more able to be convinced

1 fix

sharper, precise, discerning vibe - feel satisfaction or repulsion in their body as ‘alignment’ or lack thereof

speaks a bit like a teacher or art critic with the intention to improve things

persistent, especially about complaints. Might bring up the thing that bothers them over & over again; may come off picky

I also warmly recomend the tritype roast podcast. 

I did indeed get roasted, and so can you~

[dramaqueeenamby]

𝙎𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝗈𝖿 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 | seven

Parings: CEO!Chris Hemsworth x Stripper!OC // Words: 7.8K // Type: Series // Taglist: Yes/No (Inbox me to be tagged or removed) Warnings: Sexual harassment, racial themes, discussions pertaining to child death, miscarriage, alcohol/drug use, and suicide attempts. Angst.

A/N: I'm so sorry for the inexcusable delay in updates. This chapter is hella long and perhaps should have been split into two, but I promised ya'll some answers in the last chapter, so here they are!

“What is that haircut?”

“Why are you zooming in?”

Kaya said nothing, continuing to pinch her fingers to gain a closer look, her smile widening by the second. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding. “

Chris rolled his eyes. “All children go through phases.”

“This is beyond a phase, my friend. Don’t even get me started on the outfit.” As she erupted in yet another fit of giggles, he took advantage of the opportunity to snatch the iPad away from her.

“Go to sleep.”

Quieting herself down, she wiped at her eyes. “No. Come on. I’m enjoying this, and like you said, you were a dumb kid. How were you supposed to know these photos would haunt you till’ the end of time?”

“Only if they get out.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, sir.”

Chris closed the app and looked over at her. “What about you?”

Kaya’s brow lifted. “What about me?”

“What about your phases?”

She snorted. “Absolutely not.” He continued to stare her down, prompting her to cave, a surprising move even for her. Kaya’s tenacity was typically much stronger than that. “Fine.”

She grabbed her phone and unlocked it, opening Google Photos and scrolling mindlessly. She knew that any horrifically embarrassing snapshots would be from as far back as her library went. The older the photo, the higher the likelihood she would regret ever caving.

It took roughly two minutes for her to locate a set, her eyes shutting and a small moan leaving her partially closed mouth.

He smirked. “Found it?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You’re going to make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Without a doubt.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “At least you’re honest.” Blowing out a breath, she issued a formal forewarning. “In my defense, I was young and dumb.”

“How is that diff—fine, I will reserve my judgment.”

“Liar.” When he said nothing else, she took another deep breath and gradually pulled her phone away from her breast, twisting her wrist so that he could see the screen. “I give you, thebaddestputa69.”

She watched the corner of his lips lift upward as he fought off a smile in favor of a smirk. “Hotmail or aol?” Her surprise at his knowledge of the fallen email servers must have shown because he commented, “I’m old, not ancient.”

She matched his smirk and leaned over to whisper. “Hotmail. Definitely hotmail.”

“AIM username?”

“Come on, the same as my email. I wasn’t creative enough to have multiple aliases.”

He chuckled, grabbing her phone to examine the photo. “I certainly do not miss the peace sign era.”

“I’m pretty sure I used that same pose in all of my photos back then.”

He gestured to the plastered graphic that read ‘jealousy is a disease, get well soon’. “With the same masterful level of editing, I’m sure.”

“But of course, blingee and picnik were a staple.”

A comfortable silence befell them as he returned her phone, and she quickly swiped up to close the app. Kaya was grateful that he didn’t swipe right or left, something she was expecting him to do, if she was being completely honest with herself.

Kaya yawned and naturally laid her head on his shoulder as she reached over to grab the book she was reading when they somehow got on the topic of rebellious and wild phases of days of past.

“Are we th—”

“Finish that sentence, and I will personally throw you out of this damn plane myself.”

Kaya looked over at him, eyebrows furrowed, and mouth pronounced. “It’s a legitimate question.”

“No, it was a legitimate question. However, it stopped being one when you asked me the fifth time.”

“I’m just trying to keep the conversation going. Damn.”

“No, you’re just trying to pester me.”

“Look, it’s obvious you don’t want to hear me talk anymore, so I’m just going to shut my mouth for the remainder of the flight.” He snorted. “What?”

“We both know that’s not possible.” He finally broke his gaze from his phone as he looked over with that knowing smirk that she despised. “You always have to have the last word.”

“That is not true.”

“Kaya, you’re like a child.”

“Keep it up, and you’ll be the one who’s personally tossed from this jet.”

“See what I mean.”

Groaning, she threw her hands up and shook the book in her right hand. “This is the second book in this series.”

“And?”

“And I started the series when we were still on the taxi.”

He shrugged. “Read slower.”

“Chris!”

He laughed, reaching to place his hand on her thigh as she sighed while banging her head back against the headrest. “Relax.”

“Don’t you think if I could, I would?”

“You were doing great five minutes ago.”

“That was in the past.”

“Next time, we’re taking separate jets.”

She didn’t know why but hearing him refer to future happenings both excited and saddened her, for more reasons than one. She cleared her throat. “This is a work trip, right?” He looked down at her as she placed the book down on the ground and held onto his bicep. “You know, something for your company.”

He studied her for a moment and looked up, closing his eyes as he laid his head back against the headrest. “I have the cover of this month’s GQ Italia.”

“Fancy,” she remarked, still unsatisfied with his answer-non answer. “So, I was right. This is a work thing.”

Chris thought about what she said, what she asked, as well as his response before he replied. “They offered to contract a photographer in LA.”

Brows scrunched, she had to ask, now more confused than she was just a few minutes ago. “So why go to them?”

His silence only irked her, the seconds dragging into minutes, which felt like hours. Frustrated and impatient, she called his name again. “Chris-”

“Jesus,” was all she heard before his lips were on hers, palm of his hand pressed against her cheek. Everything else after that was a sensual blur. His other hand moved to her hip, pulling her onto his lap, never once breaking their kiss. She placed her hands on his shoulders, giving a light squeeze, inching her body closer to his, close enough to feel the heat that always emanated over him.

And then, it was over.

Eyes fluttering and breath staggering, she nearly whined when he ran his thumb over her swollen bottom lip.

“This isn’t work for me.”

----

“This is our room?”

Chris looked up and chuckled, watching Kaya spin around the middle, eyes soaking in their suite. He placed her bag near the closet while crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“It is.”

Kaya nodded and grabbed the bottom of her sweatshirt, tugging it over her head. She extended her arm out and turned around, lifting a brow. “And we have maid service, correct?”

He eyed her. “Of course.”

Kaya smirked and let the garment fall to the floor.

Chris chuckled. “You wanna explain that?”

“What?” She played innocent, fingers toying with the waistband of her joggers as she began to shimmy out of them. “Staying in a fancy hotel where I don’t have t0 clean up after myself?” She walked toward him, moving to grab her suitcase so that she could find her next outfit. “Granted, we have the maid service at home, but—” Both Christopher and Kaya paused at her statement, equally surprised by how easily it flowed, but more so with the statement itself.

Defense immediately kicked in and Kaya cleared her throat. “I mean, ya know, your place.” She refused to make eye contact that exceeded ten seconds, grabbing the handle of her suitcase and dragging it in the direction of what looked like the bathroom.

“Dibs.”

Her feet weren’t moving fast enough for her liking. In fact, they were slow enough that Chris was somehow able to cross the room and grab her by her arm. She looked up, managing to remain calm while inwardly panicking.

God, please don’t let him ask anything.

“Don’t take too long.”

She swallowed. “Why?”

Her grip on the handle tightened when he moved his hand to her face, the back of it brushing against her cheek. Had he been paying close enough attention, he would have noticed the way she shivered at his touch.

“You want dinner, don’t you?”

-----

“This isn’t exactly what I meant.”

Kaya looked up from her pizza, pausing mid chew. “What? Pizza in Italy? This is goals.”

He intended to take her to a fine restaurant, one where only the elite could afford to dine. Instead, she requested pizza delivered to their room. Kaya never ceased to surprise him. “And why are you eating pizza with a fork?”

She shrugged, adjusting the thin strap of her shirt. “Because pizza is messy, and my life's already messy enough. I avoid when I can.”

Chris didn’t say anything, simply watching her eat. She caught his gaze and looked away. If she could, she’d go back in time and stop herself from ever saying what she did. It’d ruined everything. He’d been acting different around her since, and she hated that. She also hated that she hated it.

Since when did she give a flying fuck about what people thought of her? Let alone him.

It was out of character for her, and she didn’t like it.

She didn’t like it at all.

Similarly, Chris also found it difficult to focus on anything other than the encounter from earlier, but not for the reasons Kaya thought.

Not even close.

“So, what’s the agenda for this trip?”

He chuckled and brought the champagne to his lips. “And ruin the surprise?”

Her eyes narrowed as she replaced the fork with her fingers so that she could eat the crust piece by piece. “What surprise?”

“What kind of question is that? Who gives away a surprise?”

“Are you capable of ever just answering my questions with a straight answer?”

He pretended to think. “I could.”

“But?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“You and fun? Never realized they were synonymous.”

“I’d like to think we have fun.”

“We have sex. Really, really, great sex.”

“You don’t consider that fun?”

“Fun isn’t a strong enough word to describe it.” He lifted a brow, and she scoffed, tossing a red pepper packet in his direction. “Stop it. I am trying to have a mature conversation here.”

“Not quite sure how possible that is when both parties are inebriated.”

“Bullshit. You know damn well neither one of us is drunk. You haven’t seen me drunk. Hell, I haven’t seen me drunk in a while.”

The way her tone changed toward the end of her sentence garnered his interest. “Why not?”

She looked at him, her smile faltering as she nervously cleared her throat. “I—uh—I get really bad migraines, and Excedrin is the only thing that works for me.” Telling him the truth, well, a fraction of the truth, felt strange yet relieving, probably because she’d spent so much of her life hiding and lying that the truth was unfamiliar territory. “Needless to say, meds and alcohol? Never really a good combo.”

“You’re drinking now.”

“I haven’t taken any medicine yet.”

“Maybe you won’t have to.”

She smiled sadly. “I will.” A beat. “It’s all I have.” Kaya snatched another piece of her crust and swallowed fully before explaining. “That’s why my sleep schedule, if you can even call it that, is so fucked up.”

He thought about it. “Excedrin has caffeine.”

“An insane amount.”

“It helps your migraines—”

“And keeps me up in return.” When he grew quiet, she offered. “Trust me. The insomnia is much better than the pain.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grimaced, eyes darting in either direction. “Why?”

He sighed and ran his hands all over his face. “That’s why you get so upset when I wake you up.”

“I wouldn’t say upset.”

“You threatened to slit my throat in my sleep.”

“Okay, maybe I was a little upset,” she confessed, and they shared a laugh before his tone grew serious again.

“I’ll be mindful of that.” Head tilted to the side, a sign she was still confused, he continued. “So that you can sleep.”

She smiled teasingly, abandoning the last bit of her food, and pushing her plate to the side. “Is that consideration I hear?”

“It is.”

The way he was looking at her, the lack of typical sarcasm in his tone, it was both welcoming and conflicting. Crawling across the floor, she moved his plate to the side and climbed into his lap.

Hands on his shoulders, she lowered her voice and whispered into his ear. “Well, I’m up right now.”

He made a sound and brought his hands to her hips. “You are.” Her eyes shut when his lips moved to her shoulder. “You should get some sleep.”

Immediately, she coiled back and glared. “Are you serious right now?” He laughed, which only upset her further as he stood up, her legs locking around his waist. “It’s been at least 8 hours.”

“You keeping a timer or something?”

“Look.” She waited for him to place her on the bed before she grabbed the bottom of his shirt and tugging so that he laid back on the mattress. She quickly climbed on top of him. “If there’s one thing I know about us, we are ideal intimate partners. Our sexual chemistry is astronomical.”

His eyes drank her in. “Is that it?”

“Is what it?”

His voice lowered. “Is that all you think we have?”

At that moment, Kaya realized a couple of things. This was wrong. She was suddenly very much uncomfortable. And this was a mistake. This was why she didn’t tell the truth. It meant putting yourself at risk for being vulnerable.

She was never good with that.

Clearing her throat, she climbed off him and flashed a crafty smile. “I’m gonna go shower.” She couldn’t handle seeing his face, so she turned around, purposely pretending she had to look around the room to search for her luggage.

“You should know I hate sleeping with blankets.” Kaya needed to redirect the conversation to another topic. This was becoming all too much for her.

He sat up and rolled his shoulders. “So, strip the bed? Got it.”

“Absolutely not. I could freeze.”

“You just said—”

Kaya stood by the door that led to the living room area and smiled sadly. “I’m a hot ass mess, Chris.” A beat. “The sooner you accept that, the better.”

-------

We need to talk when you get a chance. Please?

No matter how many times she looked at the phone, a new incoming gray message never appeared. She waited and waited, even scrolling up only for it to bounce back with no change.

She missed Nia. She missed their banter. She missed making tik toks with her. And she especially missed the advice giving, of which she could desperately use right about now.

Something was happening between them. With her and Chris. Of which she didn’t know, nor did she understand. It drove her mad because it was a new experience, one where she didn’t feel as though she always had to walk on eggshells.

Being with Chris….

“God.” She ran her hand over her face. What the hell was she doing? She wasn’t with Chris. Not like that, anyway. This was a business transaction. They were both using each other for selfish purposes.

Maybe it was the sex. Nia always warned her that behind every sexual encounter, there was at least some trace of feelings.

Kaya always thought that was bullshit.

Now….now she wasn’t so sure.

“You alright?”

She looked up from her chair and saw Chris walk in. She chewed the inside of her cheek as he sat down in the chair opposite of her. Kaya took in his wardrobe, so casual and laid back. She’d never seen him in denim before, but he looked good.

She didn’t even know the photographer, but she was a fan. A billionaire in Levi’s? Iconic.

“How does it feel to dress like us common folk?”

“Poor.” He winked as she glared. “We should be done soon.”

“Don’t rush on my part. The snacks here are delicious, and who knows, I could play dress up.” She wiggled her brows and straightened when there was a knock on the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the photographer spoke up and offered Kaya a friendly smile. “You’re Kaya, yes? I’m Elena.”

Kaya was surprised by the fact that this woman was both speaking to her and actually knew who she was, so her response was delayed. “Yes. It’s nice to meet you.” She offered her hand and noticed the woman was staring at her. Welp. It was nice while it lasted. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized but continued to stare. “It’s just...has anyone ever told you that you have amazing bone structure?”

Kaya sputtered. “Not unless they wanted something from me.”

Elena smiled. “Well, I suppose this is no different.”

“I don’t understand,” Kaya asked, looking over at Chris. He was surprisingly quiet.

“How about we get some shots of the both of you?”

She immediately protested. “Oh no. I—I’m just here for moral support.”

“You did say you wanted to play dress up,” he reminded. She glared. Of course he would choose to speak up now.

She turned her narrowed eyes on him and harshly whispered. “Not while being photographed.”

He placed his hand over hers. “Relax.”

Kaya remembered that they weren’t alone and therefore, had to keep up the act. Even if it was starting to feel less and less like acting.

“I’m used to people watching, not photographing.” He lifted a brow. Laughing, she slapped his chest and took a deep breath. She looked over at Elena. “Will I at least get to see them before you pick which ones to use? If any.”

“Of course.”

Kaya caved. “Fine.” He kissed the top of her head and mouthed a thank you. “You owe me.”

“Sure, I do,” he dismissed, slapping her on her ass as Elena grabbed her to drag her away.

“Time to make magic.”

-----

It was a bad idea, one of many that had occurred, Kaya realized.

When she joked about wanting to play dress—up, she didn’t think that it would actually happen. She didn’t think that she’d become involved in his shoot. Kaya especially didn’t expect to have as much….fun as she did.

And she hated that, too. The fact that she managed to smile and laugh more in one setting than she had in, hell, longer than she could remember. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.

She really, really didn’t like the way Chris looked at her every time she walked onto set in a new look, and there were a couple of them. The way he focused on her, eyes taking in every bit of her form, all the way down from her shoes up to her hair. Like he didn’t want to look away. Like he couldn’t look away. She despised the way he held her when they were photographed together, often being the reason for her smile or laughter with his comments that he whispered into her ear, sneaking in a kiss against her temple or holding her against him.

It was all so domestic and sweet, and it made no sense.

He was starting to make no sense.

And she especially didn’t understand why she was putting off leaving the bathroom, having sat on the toilet for at least 15 minutes.

As if on cue, two loud knocks on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

“I’m coming, damnit.”

“That’s what you said last time. Come on, Kaya.” She was both surprised and annoyed that it was Chris. She expected it to be members of the glam team that he’d hired to help her prepare for the GQ function he was invited to, and of course, she was forced to accompany him. Turns out he wasn’t just chosen for the cover. He was man of the year. “We’re going to be late.”

“Maybe you should just leave me behind,” she muttered.

“Maybe I can just kick this damn door down,” he countered.

“Then you’ll have to pay for the damages.”

“Then I’ll buy the damn hotel,” he shot back testily. “I’m not going to ask you again, Kaya.”

She scowled and rolled her neck. Kaya knew he was being serious. The bastard could buy his way out of anything.

If only….

Blowing out a deep breath, she swallowed and stood, holding up her dress. It was undoubtedly beautiful, gold, a slit in the middle of her chest and on her left leg exposing more skin than she would have thought appropriate. Her curls were styled in a fancy updo, and her makeup was equally as bold as her dress, finalized with a red lip. She knew that she looked good, and that’s what scared her.

Chris had been looking at her like that all day, and she couldn’t keep handling it.

If she could even consider it handling. Managing was perhaps a better term. Poorly managing was the perfect term.

Kaya ripped open the door and plastered on a fake smile. “Happy?”

And there it was, his eyes widened and softened as he gave her a onceover. “And don’t tell me I look beautiful, cause’ I already know it.”

Kaya figured if she said it for him, she wouldn’t have to deal with the weird and uncomfortable knotting in her stomach that she experienced every time he complimented her.

And it worked, he said nothing, only helping to hold up her dress as they walked to the SUV that would escort them. In the car, she was also pleasantly surprised that he didn’t attempt to make small talk with her during the drive. She was certain, however, that it was because he took at least three different work calls during that time.

She made drafted Tik Toks in the meantime.

When they finally arrived, Kaya nearly ran out of the car right then and there.

“Is that a red carpet?” Her mouth dropped. “What the hell? You said nothing about having to walk a damn carpet that is red.”

He chuckled. Kaya realized his hand was on the exposed portion of her thigh. “Stay close to me, and I’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine.”

Kaya was used to having eyes on her, but that didn’t mean she liked it, especially when it didn’t involve money being thrown her way. “I don’t have to say anything, do I?”

He squeezed her thigh. “You’ll most likely receive compliments.”

“I can handle that,” she spoke more to herself than him. “Just long as no one asks if I prefer cats over dogs or whatever shit they ask.”

He laughed quietly and looked at her. “You ready?”

No. “Yes.”

Chris climbed out the car first so that he could help her out of the vehicle, and as soon as she stepped out, she cursed to herself. There were so many damn people. People taking photographs. People being photographed. People helping both the people the photographed and the photographers. And then there was her. She felt so out of place.

If he wasn’t already holding her hand, she would have grabbed for his.

Kaya used her left hand to hold up her dress, while making sure that she stayed close to Chris who led the way, smiling for the camera while sparing her glances every so often to assess her level of comfort.

Kaya played along, evoking a smile as she posed with him for a few photos. That’s when it started again. Like the photoshoot from a few hours ago, she found herself feeling less forced and more comfortable. Like, it was natural.

Like it was real.

Kaya was eventually allowed to stand to the side as he gave a few interviews, some in English, most in Italian. She’d meant to ask him earlier when the hell he learned to speak so many languages. This was the third she’d learned of. She had a feeling at least one or two journalists asked about her, because he would look in her direction and shoot a wink or something of the sort.

Her smile was a natural reaction.

The process was less daunting than she anticipated, not that she’d ever admit that to him. It was once they moved inside that Kaya realized they’d yet to reach the hard part. That hardest part was “socializing” with the guests, many of which were white, spicy white at best. She spotted some minorities but found that they were just as distant as the rest.

The vim of the event was welcoming, however, which confused Kaya to some extent. She simplified it down to the event was nice, the people were trash, and Chris was both an ass and a gentleman for forcing her to come.

He’d introduced her to a few people, most of which spoke poor English. That, she could acknowledge, was nice. Not the strained English, but his obvious concern for her wellbeing. He was going out of his way to make her feel as comfortable as he could.

It was also irritating because it resurfaced those damn knots.

They were seated at a table, and he was texting someone when she leaned over and tugged on his sleeve. Kaya also took a moment to appreciate how nice he looked. The man was something sinful in a suit. “I think I know him.”

He looked up, immediately locking his phone. “Who?”

She gestured with her chin. “The guy over there talking to the girl with the green dress. But don’t look at them.”

His eyes lifted to the ceiling. Right before he proceeded to look right in that direction.

She laughed despite her irritation. “What did I literally just fucking say?”

“I’ll never understand why people want to do something without actually doing it. I don’t have the time.” She shook her head. He was so impatient. “And how do you know him?”

She lifted a brow. He asked with a newfound sense of urgency. If she didn’t know any better, she would have guessed it came from a place of jealousy.

Kaya studied the stranger across the room again when her eyes widened. “I know. He’s that actor from that porn movie we watched.”

“We don’t watch porn, Kaya. We make it.”

“Stop it.” She leaned closer, hating that her smile contrasted the frustration she felt with how vulgar he was speaking in such a public setting. “And you know the movie where they…..ya know, basically the whole time, and he kept asking in that godawful delivery, are you lost, baby girl?”

Her equally terrible impression caused him to laugh quietly. “I think that is him.”

“I told you.” She spoke a little louder than she would have liked due to her excitement at being correct. “He looks better on screen.”

Chris glanced over at him once more and scoffed. “He’s scrawny.”

“Sir, not everyone is like you and built like a fucking tanker.”

“Not my problem.”

Kaya rolled her eyes and gathered her dress. “I’ll be back. I have to use the restroom.” She stood and leaned over, arms around him from behind as she whispered. “Try not to be too much of a dick while I’m gone, okay?”

He turned to look at her. “And where’s the fun in that?”

Turns out finding the bathroom was a harder task than she’d anticipated. She’d asked one of the servers while maneuvering through the crowd, but it also turned out that Kaya wasn’t the best with directions. She did find it, though.

Eventually.

Kaya was navigating her way back to Chris when she was stopped by a man in a suit along the way.

He was of average height, average build, and average attraction. She was immediately annoyed.

“Hi,” Kaya greeted with a tight smile.

“Hello,” he smiled. Add in average dental health. “You are very beautiful.”

Kaya realized he didn’t have an accent, either. American, most likely. “Uhh, thank you.” When she moved to walk past him, he blocked her. “Sir, I really should—”

“How much?”

Her eyes darted to either side. “I’m sorry?”

“Money is no issue, as I’m sure you can see, and I’d like you for a week.” He stepped closer, bringing his hand to trail it down her arm. “Longer even, perhaps.”

“Sir, I have no idea what you are talking about, and please do not touch me.” It wasn’t so much of a request as much as it was a demand. “Now, I really should—”

“You’re not American.” Kaya continued to be confused as hell when his eyes lit up with excitement. “That explains why you look so exotic.” Confusion easily morphed into rage as she finally caught on to what he was referring to. “I bet you feel di—”

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed, pulling away from him. “I am not a fucking prostitute—”

“Call it what you want, girl,” he dismissed. “I don’t judge. I can pay you well.”

“Go fuck yourself, you sick son of a bitch,” she cursed, turning away when he grabbed her arm. “Let me go.”

“You think that you’re special?” He’d taken on another tone, one that conveyed his anger at being rejected. “The fuckin’ stall I just pissed in is worth more than you, bitch.”

Kaya refused to allow him to see her cry, but she’d be lying if she tried to say that his words didn’t sting, especially his next verbal attack.

“You can slap on that expensive dress and let Hemsworth make you feel special, but I know, you know, and everyone else in this fucking place knows that you’re nothing but a cheap, illegal whore—” Panic arose when he moved his hand to the exposed skin of her thigh, squeezing tightly. His hand started to inch upward when Kaya acted on instinct. He cursed aloud while Kaya gasped as she realized that she’d silenced him with her fist dead square in the middle of his face. “You fucking bitch!”

Shock and fear took over as Kaya gathered the bottom of her dress and ran, as much as the gown and her heels would allow, that is. Certain he was going to chase her for retribution, she consistently looked back, unaware that she needed to be just as aware of what was in front as what was behind.

She shrieked and immediately went to pull herself away from the strong body she’d collided with.

“Kaya.” Refocusing her attention, she looked up and realized it was Chris. “Where the hell—” He stopped amid his statement when he took in her appearance and realized that she was crying. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Kaya looked down, speaking more to herself than him. Not that it mattered. He was judging based on what he saw instead of what she said. He’d learned by now that her words rarely matched the truth. “Let’s just go—”

“Kaya,” he repeated, softer. Chris brought his hands to her face, forcing her to meet his gaze as he asked again, slowly. “What happened?” A strike of anger flashed in his blue eyes. “Did someone touch you?”

“No,” she answered, quickly. Too quickly.

The anger escalated exponentially. “Who? Tell me.”

Kaya could have slapped herself. She wasn’t helping the situation. She was making it worse. “It doesn’t matter, I hit him, and now he’s probably going to sue you—”

“Where is he?” Chris was looking behind her, eyes flaming. He was livid. “Show me. Now.”

“No.” Speaking was becoming an increasing challenge, especially against the backdrop of overwhelming emotions. Everything she’d been feeling, preventing herself from feeling, and afraid to acknowledge was gradually bubbling to the surface. “Just—just let me go back to the hotel. I’m messing everything up for you.”

He calmed for a second, realizing what was happening. Chris was unfamiliar with this side of her. Unfamiliar with seeing her so vulnerable. “What?”

Kaya suddenly realized that her eyes were burning again. She was fighting back tears. “I’ll give you back the money for the day, it’s—it’s fine, you’re better off without me here—”

Her offer to pay him incensed Chris. This wasn’t about the money. It stopped being about the money a long time ago, even if he hadn’t realized that until today. “I don’t want the fucking money, Kaya.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why? It’s the truth.”

“Please,” she plead. Control over her emotions was a battle she’d all but lost at that point. Her words, she was certain, would be next.

He raised his voice. Chris sensed, saw that she was uncomfortable, but he also realized that this was what she needed. A push. “Why?”

“Because this all about the fucking money, okay?” She matched his volume, accepting that her tears were going to fall no matter how much she willed them not to. She’d lost the war. “It has to be about the money, because if it isn’t then that means you care, and—you can’t, alright?”

He studied her, wondering if she realized this conversation was difficult for him too. He brought his hand to the side of her face. “Why is it so impossible for you to accept that I fucking care about you?”

She looked up, glistening eyes and wavering voice. “Because then I have to admit that I care about you too, and I can’t do that.” She spoke to herself, as if vocalizing it would cement a decision that was already out of her hands. “I won’t do it.”

“Why?” He pressed. Chris brought his other hand to the other side of her face, cupping it and moving closer. He gave zero fucks about where they were and who could have possibly overheard. “Why are you fighting this so hard?”

She pulled herself away from him, back colliding against the wall as she blurted, “because all I do is hurt the people I care about alright?” In that moment, Kaya realized she was so far gone that the point of return was no longer an option. Her mouth trembled as she struggled to form her next sentence, listing off names with her fingers as props. “Mami, Papi, Nia. Hell, my own brother is dead because of me.” A beat. “I’ll only hurt you, and I care about you too much to do that.”

“Kaya—"

A newfound heaviness started to weigh upon her chest, another blockade to her speech. “I’m standing here in a dress I can’t afford, a building I can’t even fucking pronounce, and with a man I don’t deserve.”

His voice lowered. “Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I don’t deserve you?” Kaya looked at him, her eyes softening before she squinted, her face scrunching up in obvious pain.

He took note of this. As invested as Chris was in finally getting Kaya to open up about how she really felt, her wellbeing would always be his primary concern.

“Kaya.” He placed his hands on her waist, steadying her. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” She blinked several times, blinding lights obscuring her vision. “I—can’t—" Kaya felt the firmness of his chest, inhaled the scent of his cologne, and heard her name on his lips before everything faded to black.

-----

She awoke on her side, body clutched against a pillow, and a thin sheet covering half her body. Never one to take her time returning to her senses, she forced herself to sit up, eyes still scrunched from the sleep.

Looking down she realized she was dressed in only one of Chris’s dress shirts, her dress discarded.

Memory returned as Kaya replayed the events that transpired prior to her slumber. The photoshoot. The party. The asshole.

Chris.

“I don’t care. Tell them to send it in the mail or something.”

She recognized his voice traveling from the living room area, prompting her to swing her legs over the bed, her toes submerging into the soft carpet. She’d never been in such a fine hotel where the carpeting probably cost more than six months’ worth of rent on her one-bedroom apartment.

“Evans, I don’t give a flying fuck about any of that right now. You can handle it. I don’t care.”

Kaya contemplated remaining where she was, eavesdropping without being detected. She quickly decided against it. She’d done enough.

Her feet carried her out of the room, and she stood in the doorway where she saw he was standing against the massive window that provided a breathtaking overview of the city.

Again, she considered leaving him be, but he either had exceptional peripheral vision or caught her reflection in the window because he spun around. Kaya’s eyebrows furrowed when she realized he was still dressed in his suit, with the expectation of the jacket and dress shirt which were both discarded, leaving the white undershirt.

Uncomfortable with the way he was looking at her, more concern than that, she settled onto the sofa, pulling a decorative pillow to her chest as she crossed her legs.

“I have to go,” he spoke briefly before pulling the phone from his ear and hanging up.

Kaya swallowed. He’d yet to speak, so she took the opportunity to do so. “Still don’t believe me when I said I’m a hot mess?”

“What happened tonight, Kaya?”

“Which part?” She knew that playing coy wasn’t the best route, but she was forever stubborn and would fight until she had nothing left. “Where I ruined your evening, assaulted a millionaire, told you one of my deepest secrets, or fainted in your arms? There’s a lot.”

“All of it.”

She looked away and licked her lips. Kaya felt cornered, absolutely trapped. Emotionally. She’d always assumed being physically stuck would feel far more suffocating and frightening. She was wrong.

Kaya considered her options, though far and few in between. She could deflect. She was a master at that. She could redirect blame onto him. Call him out on even making her go on the trip, for not telling her ahead of time what to expect, maybe throw in a few insults. And lastly, the most frightening of them all, she could be honest.

That was the scariest of them all.

“I lied to you.” The words spilled out before she realized it, but Kaya accepted the fact that she was tired. There was only so much she could carry, and she’d reached her limits. “My—my parents aren’t dead. They still live in the same house in Parlier that I grew up in with Denes. He’s—he was my brother.” It felt strange talking about, verbalizing what she’d quietly struggled with for so many years. And yet, there was a peace that accompanied the release. “He was such a beautiful little boy, but….different. He didn’t talk much, life skills were….hard for him, and he had these fixations on certain things. He didn’t like change.”

“Kaya, you don’t—”

“When I was eleven, and he was eight, my parents found out they were pregnant. They’d been trying for so long….they were so happy.” She roughly wiped at her face to do away with the silent tears that fell. The crying, however, was inevitable. “One day, they had a checkup appointment, and the babysitter fell through, so they asked me to watch Denes.” She nodded slowly, reverting to the same rush of emotions she felt that day. “I was so….mad, because my friend had just gotten Guitar Hero, and I was supposed to walk down to her house so we could play it.” To that day, Kaya felt a strong surge of rage whenever she ran across a throwback picture or read an article referring to that game. It was a trigger.

“My parents promised that I could go when they returned, but I just couldn’t wait.” Her nose turned up with disgust, disgust directed 100% inward. “I just had to go play that stupid fucking game.”

“Denes loved birds. They were one of his fixations. They think—they think he saw one outside our living room window or something and walked outside to see if he could catch it because, of course, I forgot to lock the front door.” She stared off into space before closing her eyes. “I had just walked into my friend’s house when I heard someone scream like I’ve never heard a scream before.” Kaya tugged the pillow closer to her chest and lowered her head. “I ran back so fast because I thought—I thought I could help him. I thought I could save him.” Her voice cracked. “—But there was so much blood, and he was so hurt—he died in the middle of the street, bleeding, terrified, and it was all my fault.”

Chris closed his eyes and shook his head. “Kaya—”

“They never found the driver,” she added quietly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “The shock of it all……it was too much for my mom, and she miscarried.” Kaya laughed, but there wasn’t a trace of humor. “I spiraled after Denes passed. Everything bad and terrible I could get myself into, I did. I—I skipped class, I partied, I drank, I tried drugs.” She scoffed. “I lost my virginity when I was thirteen to some guy whose name I still don’t know because I was so drunk.” She leaned back into the sofa, staring at the intricate pattern of the rug. “I just—at the time, I thought if I did enough, I could make my parents hate me, because it’s what I deserved. But for everything I tried, they kept giving me chance after chance.”

“So, then I attempted suicide, twice, and I couldn’t even do that right.” She groaned and wiped at her eyes again. The cuffs of the shirt were nearly soaked. “I realized that God or the universe or whomever clearly wanted me to suffer and to live with my guilt, but in the midst of trying to punish myself, I failed to realize that all I’d done was cause my parents more pain.”

“Day of my high school graduation, I woke up at the crack of dawn to pack up my bags, told my parents that I was going out with some friends, but I’d be home by 7—and I haven’t seen or spoken with them since.”

She clapped and lifted her hands. “And there you have it. You’ve now seen me naked; you’ve seen me cry, and now you know that I’m a murderer—”

“You’re not a murderer, Kaya,” he was finally able to complete his sentence, still very much in shock over what she’d disclosed. “And what happened to your brother wasn’t your fault.”

Chris watched her demeanor soften, shifting from her previous facetious tone to a more somber tone. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth. You were a child.”

She shrugged sadly. “So was he.”

“That still doesn’t make it your fault.”

She turned away from where he sat across from her. She hadn’t even realized he’d moved from his initial position by the window. Untangling her legs, she moved the pillow to the side and stood in front of him. “Why are you so nice to me? You should be running for the hills.”

Chris brought his hands to her waist and pulled her in between his spread legs. “Why do you keep asking questions you already know the answers to?”

“Even after everything I’ve done?” She whispered, emotion betraying her for the umpteenth time that day. “You—you still—you still feel….like that about me?”

“You’re stubborn, impulsive, argumentative, flippant, and undoubtedly one of the most complicated women I’ve ever met.” He slowly stood up, never once breaking eye contact as he cupped her face, fingers brushing away the dampness of her flushed cheeks. “And yet, seeing you smile is the highlight of my day.”

She chuckled and nervously cleared her throat. “So, was today subpar? Like, medium light? Half-light? It all went downhill after 12pm.”

He shook his head and kissed her forehead. “You are, in fact, a hot mess.”

Her fingers grasped at his sleeves. “I really am sorry about ruining your evening.”

“You didn’t ruin my evening, Kaya.” He brought his hand to her hair, pushing back the tendrils that had fallen from her updo. “Thank you for opening to me. I know that wasn’t easy.”

“It’s a lot easier opening up my legs,” she muttered, watching as he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry—you’re right. It’s—it’s not easy, and I don’t like talking about….feelings.” Her eyes lifted as she chewed on her bottom lip. “But, I do have feelings for you.” She shut her eyes and licked her top lip. “And there’s something else I need to tell you.”

His gaze softened. “Anything.”

It was so simple, the opportunity was available, the setting was perfect. She’d already told him the hardest part, now all she had to do was tell him the rest. The problem though, was that what she’d shared hadn’t changed much. It only helped him to understand her better. It would potentially improve their relationship.

This would destroy it.

She cleared her throat again. “If you tell anyone I’m capable of crying, I will smother you in your sleep.”

He chuckled and kissed her temple. “It’s late. I’m going to shower.” He studied her. “Try not to get into any more trouble, yeah?”

She smiled softly. “I make no promises.”

He gave her side a gentle squeeze before yawning as he walked back into the bedroom. Finally alone, she fell back onto the sofa and hugged the pillow against her body. Kaya felt both disgust and frustration. If there was a perfect moment to tell him, that was it, and now it was gone.

She was running out of time

-------

TAGS: @islandvamp @toni9 @destinyg237 @tashawar @valkryienymph @letsshamelessqueen-m @missyperle @kpizzletrash @brittyevans @mani-lifes @amorestevens @periodtcevans @hello-therree @shegoesbyarose @lettytheletdown @yanniebunnie @iwrite4poc @nycoledon @fangurlingismyforte @babe-im-bi @amirra88 @cocoamoonmalfoy @goldenrosexx @liquorlaughslove @ljstraightnochaser @jurneesjourney @bestyums-ever84 @notacamelthatsmywife @champagnesugamama @cest-la69vie @yanniebunny5151 @goldenrosexx​

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[wiypt-writes]

Stark Spangled Banner

Ch 5: You Make It Easy

Summary: Steve finally takes Katie out on a date.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X OFC Katie Stark

Warnings: Language! And a whole heap of fluffy fluff fluff.

A/N: Once again, a huge thank you to @angrybirdcr​ for her lovely little edit.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Katie Stark and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Chapter 4

Stark Spangled Banner Masterlist // Main Masterlist

The elation Steve had felt about actually getting a date with Katie soon evaporated the next morning when he realised he hadn’t the first CLUE about where to take her, what to do or what to wear. He wasn’t naïve, he knew dating had changed since his day but the fact he had no reference point to even start from, having never been on a date before, wasn’t helpful either.  So he sought some advice

“A nice shirt and jeans.” Peggy smiled at him, the old woman elated he had finally done it. “Nothing too flash, and pick a restaurant. It doesn’t have to be fancy, women are more impressed by a man who’s paying them attention instead of simply paying for the meal.”

“Okay, right.”

“You know her, Steve.” Peggy looked at him. “What type of food does she like?”

“Italian, Chinese, but we do that all the time.” He shrugged, before he stopped, suddenly remembering something she had said to Evans a couple of weeks back in exercise, “You know, come to think of it she has mentioned a new place in town. La Placa I think it’s called.” “See, there you go.”  Peggy patted him on his arm before she smiled at the look on the young man’s face “Just be yourself Steve, that’s who she wants. No one else.”

“Thanks Peg.”

“And make sure you kiss her goodnight…” She grinned, a twinkle in her eyes. “Us ladies do like a bit of passion every now and then you know.” He rolled his eyes at her cheekiness, running his hand through his hair which was in desperate need of a cut. He stayed with Peggy whilst he googled the restaurant number, made his reservation and then text Katie to tell her where he had booked.

Can’t wait xxx

He grinned to himself, and then pushed his phone away and turned back to find Peggy watching him, a sly grin on her face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy before.” she remarked, somewhat wistfully

.He smiled “Been a long time since I felt this good.”

“It suits you.” On his way home he swung into the barbers and stepped in. As he sat in the chair the man asked him what he wanted doing, and he was about to say trim when Katie’s voice stirred in his mind.

“Trying to imagine what you’d look like with shorter hair and a beard…” “Shorn back and sides please,” he said as the man asked him what he wanted, “and take it a little shorter on top.”

******

Katie woke suddenly on top of the comforter on her bed, fully clothed. She’d fallen asleep!  She sat up, thinking back to the last thing she remembered before her nap, piecing her train of thought together. Ah, yes, Steve had messaged her to tell her he’d booked a table somewhere which had prompted her to start looking for an outfit. She’d realised she had no idea what to wear so had been debating calling Pepper to ask for advice, but had decided it wasn’t a good idea because she didn’t want Tony to know she was dating yet, let alone who.

But there was someone she could call. Desperate times called for desperate measures, right?

Biting her lip she sighed and picked up her phone, scanning through to the person she was looking for and the cavalry arrived an hour and a half later in the shape of a red-haired deadly assassin.

“There has to be something in here that’s first date suitable…” Natasha mumbled, as she continued to search through the various items in Katie’s closet. Half Katie’s clothes adorned the floor of her walk-in-wardrobe and bedroom as they had discarded everything she’d tried so far. “It would help if I knew where you were going.” she sipped her beer thoughtfully.

“La Placa.” Katie told her after a pause, “Tapas place, but if you turn up I swear to God…”

“I got better things to do with my spare time.” “No you don’t. And I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

“If you don’t trust me why did you ask for my help?“ Natasha drawled, still rifling through the clothing racks. “Because Pepper is a four hour drive away…”

“Well that’s just rude.” Natasha mumbled and Katie grinned, shaking her head as Nat placed her beer down on the top of a set of drawers and moved to a rail “Ok, try this.”

She pulled out a knee length navy blue Balenciaga dress with a fitted top half, scalloped neck line and three-quarter length lace detailed sleeves. As Katie shrugged it on, Natasha hunted in the shoe rack, pulling out a pair of mid-height nude Kurt Geiger courts with a stiletto heel and matching bag.

“Not bad.” She mumbled as Katie stepped into the heels and gave her a twirl.

“Better than the grey one?” “Definitely.” Natasha nodded approvingly “I think we have a winner!”

Katie gave her a double Hi-Five and Nat picked up her beer as Katie stripped out of the dress and pulled on her T-shirt and shorts, before she glanced around the large bedroom, sighing at the mess.

“Better tidy this up in case things go well.” Nat smirked, before she pondered “Huh, actually, do you reckon Captain America puts out on the first date? Mind you, knowing Roger’s he’s probably a virgin…”

“I’m pretty sure people had casual sex back in the 40s too you know.” Katie rolled her eyes. “He was on the USO tours surrounded by dancing girls, there’s no way he didn’t do the old horizontal tango.”

“Yeah but…its Rogers.” Nat pressed giving a snort “Imagine if you are the one to pop his cherry.”

Katie groaned, shaking her head. “Shut up Widow.”

She smirked “Okay, so how long have we got?”

Katie glanced at her phone “An hour and twenty. And what do you mean we?” “You asked for my help, right?” Natasha shrugged, “Thought I could do your make-up and hair too…” Katie looked at her for a moment and smiled “Thanks.” She shrugged then drained her beer before turning Katie round and pushing her towards the en-suite “Go shower then we’ll start the transformation.”

An hour later Katie was ready. Her hair was curled in soft waves, and her makeup was done, a bit heavier than normal, but still subtle enough to avoid looking like it had been applied with a trowel.

“Perfect.” Nat gave her an appraising look. “Right, I trust you can get dressed without me?” “I think I’ll manage.” Katie said, standing up as she made her way out of the walk-in wardrobe and followed her into the hall where she picked up her jacket.

“Oh and if you need me to bail you, just give me an SOS call…” Nat made a phone sign with her finger and pinkie by her ear. “I think I’ll be ok.” Katie smiled, “but thank you, for all of this.”

“Have fun…” Nat grinned and then added with a smirk “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t”

“That doesn’t exactly leave a lot…” Katie quipped

“That’s my point.” Natasha intoned as she walked into the hall and pressed the button for the elevator.

“Nat, you won’t tell anyone will you?” Katie asked, “I mean, it isn’t that I don’t trust you, just…” Nat paused turning back to the brunette to find her chewing her lip with nerves. She shook her head “I won’t tell a soul. I know how much you two like each other, you’ve been dancing around it for months, so… just enjoy ok? Have a good time. You both deserve it.” “Thanks Nat” Katie smiled. The two girls shared a quick hug and then Nat left

***** Steve had to admit, he liked his new hair. It was much more like the style people sported now, but in a way it also reminded him of how Bucky had worn his back in the Howlies. He picked a light blue shirt, his dark navy jeans and then pondered before settling on a pair of brown boots that matched his jacket and belt. He was ready with plenty of time and found himself pacing as he thought about how the night could go. There was no doubt it was going to be way different to how he had imagined his first date to be. Back in his day it was movies, dinner and a dance. Now there were no dance halls, and they watched movies all the time. But, as Peggy had advised, for once he was going to “go with the flow” and just see where the night took them both.

Finally, after an agonising fifteen minutes during which he had pretty much paced non-stop and drained a good measure of scotch, even though it did nothing bar give him a comforting burn in his throat on the way down, he headed to the cab that was waiting and they set off to pick up his date.

Jesus Christ she looked amazing. Her hair was cascading in waves over her shoulders, the smoky brown eyeshadow she was wearing made the green in her eyes even more noticeable. And her dress…navy blue, knee length with a detailed neckline and sleeves that finished halfway down her forearms. The top half clung to her body where it flared out slightly from her hips and her heels accentuated her shapely calves to perfection. As Steve looked at her he found himself imagining various crude scenarios where said delectable dress ended up on the floor, but that wasn’t gentlemanly. Nor appropriate.

Katie felt her breath catch when she saw Steve. His light blue shirt was tight enough to accentuate his ridiculously well-built top half, and a brown belt with a gold buckle adorned his toned waist. And he’d had a haircut. Gone were his longer locks and side parting, and in its place was a short back and sides with slightly longer strands on the top, tousled into an exceptionally modern style. He looked incredible.

Steve broke the silence between the two, clearing his throat gently.

“You look beautiful.” He leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek.

“Thank you, you look pretty good yourself, you do something to your hair?” Katie teased.

“Thought it was time for a change.” he shrugged it off casually as his cheeks warmed. “Still getting used to it.” “It looks great.” she assured him.

He beat her to her jacket as she reached up to take it off the peg and held it out so she could shrug her arms into it. Once they were in the elevator, he reached out and took her hand and she laced her fingers into his. He glanced down at her, his eyes meeting hers and she flashed him a smile.

Yeah, he’d lucked out, big time.

******

The restaurant was busy but not packed. They were seated at the back in a little booth in the corner. Steve had never had tapas before, but Peggy had explained it to him before.

“So the idea is we pick, what, three or four dishes?” he asked, looking at Katie

“Yeah, they’re like small portions and you share.” Katie nodded. “Although you eat like a horse so we should probably order more.”

He grinned and looked back at his menu.

“You choose.” he placed the card back down eventually, beaten by the list of items. “I literally have no idea…”

“Alright.” Katie grinned. “But you have to try everything…”

“Deal.”

The waiter returned with their drinks and took their food orders. Katie ordered a large enough selection along with a side order of olives and different breads with dipping oils before flashing the waiter a smile and he scuttled off.

“I think this is normally the part where we ask each other questions,” Steve said as the waiter disappeared. “You know, get to know each other a bit more.”

“Yeah… think that ship already sailed though.”

“True,” Steve nodded bashfully, there wasn’t many things that they didn’t know about each other, although as he watched Katie was biting her lip, almost as if she wanted to say something, but at the same time didn’t.

“What is it?” he asked, reaching out for his drink.

“Something Nat said before…” Katie flushed, caught out. There was no way she was asking that question.

“Why does this worry me slightly?” He paused, beer raised halfway to his lips.

Katie looked at him and shook her head, the flush continuing to rise up her neck “Yeah, I’m not, it’s not first date conversation.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Now I’m extremely worried, and a little intrigued.”

“You really want to know?” Katie cocking her head to one side and when he nodded she shrugged. “Alright, you asked for this…” she straightened up in the seat as he did the same, bracing himself. “Are you a virgin?”

Steve groaned and screwed his eyes shut. “No, I’m not.” He sighed shaking his head before he looked back at her. "After I first got the serum there was suddenly all this attention on me and I didn’t really know any better…” “There was no one before?” she frowned slightly, almost as if she was surprised.

He shook his head again. “Girls weren’t exactly interested in me before hand, Bucky was the one who had the looks and the swag. He had a different girl every weekend. I guess when they finally did start looking at me that way I just, I dunno…” He stopped and took a breath. “God, this makes me sound like a right jerk. There weren’t that many”

Three to be exact. And none of them had been anything to write home about. He got the distinct impression they hadn’t particularly enjoyed themselves either, not past the fact they could boast about having bedded Captain America. Plus, he was infatuated by Peggy at that point as well and found he craved the tenderness that was supposed to be associated with the act, not merely the physical bliss. As corny as it sounded, he genuinely wanted someone to be with him intimately that wanted him, not Captain America.

As he watched, he noticed Katie was watching him intently and he swallowed a little as she simply shrugged. .

“We all have a past Steve.”

“I haven’t been with anyone since I came out of the ice.” He added softly, feeling the need to explain that he wasn’t that type of man.

“I haven’t since Grant.” she eyed him. “One night stands are overrated.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged, locking eyes with her. “That’s all I ever had.”

Katie studied him for a moment. She had no idea why, but to learn he hadn’t had a girl that way before he became some kind of war time celebrity, and knowing that the ones he had been with were probably chasing nothing but the kudos of being able to say they fucked Captain America, made her kind of sad. No wonder he was always so self-doubting.

She smiled and reached across the table, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Well, personally, I think all those girls that picked Bucky over you were dumbasses. I’ve seen the photos of you before all this happened…” she raised her free hand and held out her index finger, and gestured up and down his torso. “You were sweet”

He chuckled and took a drink of his beer. “You know I heard that a lot…you’re really sweet and all but…“

“Like I said…”she leaned back in her chair slightly, “Dumbasses” Steve was aware that her ankle was brushing against his slightly and he felt the warm flush in his cheek at her forwardness, but soon found it disappeared and was replaced instead with simply enjoying the fact she wanted to be so close to him.

As tactful as ever, Katie swiftly moved the conversation on and it took a natural turn to Tony’s renovation of the tower and then New York in general, how much Brooklyn in particular had changed since Steve had left it behind to go to war.

It was through this conversation Steve discovered that in all the time Katie had spent in New York she had never been to Coney Island.

“Maybe I could take you one day, down to the fair.” He suggested.

“I’d love that.” She smiled and his chest swelled even more.

Their food arrived and they continued to talk. And, considering they had started the date off thinking there wasn’t much more to find out about each other, both of them were surprised to see exactly how much trivial stuff there was to learn about the other. For instance, Steve knew that Katie enjoyed baseball but what he didn’t know was that whilst Tony was a Yankees fan, she actually supported the LA Dodgers, having grown up in Malibu. Suddenly her teasing about the fact they had moved made perfect sense. And in turn, Katie knew that the Dodgers relocating was a bug bear of his but, since he would rather go into the ice all over again than support the Yankees, he had started watching out for the Mets results, but apparently it just wasn’t the same and as such he hadn’t been to an actual game since he came out of the ice. Both of them found out the other preferred dogs to cats, cats making Katie sneeze and their ability to hiss and scratch you with no damned warning whatsoever made Steve not trust them as far as he could throw them. 

“I can just read the headlines now!” Katie chuckled after Steve had added that if he wanted to he could probably throw a cat quite far. “Captain America killed my Cat.” Steve let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he picked up his beer. “Don’t cats always land on their feet?” “I dunno, depends how hard you’re intending on throwing it.” “I’m not intending on throwing any cat anywhere.” Steve shook his head “As much as I don’t like them I couldn’t deliberately harm one.” “Tony did. Well not deliberately, and he didn’t so much harm it as kill it…” “Oh you gotta tell me this story!” Steve grinned, leaning forward, topping up Katie’s wine glass from the bottle that was in the ice bucket in the middle of the table.

Katie grinned, “When we were kids, the first place we lived in was down this huge, posh road  with like 3 other houses on and we had this really eccentric neighbour, Mrs Livesy her name was. She had like 18 cats or something ridiculous and one morning, Tony was reversing the car out of the garage and he flattened 2 of them.”

Steve nearly spat his beer back into his glass. “He ran them over?” “Yeah…” Katie said, and by now she was full on laughing “But the best bit is, she comes round asking Dad if he’s seen the cats, dad’s got no idea what’s gone on right as Tony’s moved the cats and bribed me to keep quiet with the biggest ice cream you could imagine, so dad is all like ‘I’ve got no idea Mrs Livesy I’ll be sure to keep my eyes open…” Katie took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes “So then Tony comes back, Dad mentions that Mrs Livesy was looking for 2 of her cats and Tony’s like ‘huh, well you know what they say, curiosity killed the cat’ and me, being the little shit I was at the age of 4 pipes up ‘no that was you this morning, remember?’”

Steve laughed, and watched as she carried on giggling. “He never forgave me for that, Dad made him go round and apologise. And he had to attend a memorial for Mr Whiskers and Bagpuss…”

Eventually after desert and a few more drinks it was time to leave, Katie tried to split the meal bill with Steve but one stern look stopped that in its tracks. This was a date, he was paying. Thankfully she didn’t argue too much. Steve then asked her if she wanted to go for a drink, she gleefully accepted so he took her hand, gently leading her across the road, holding the bar door open for her. They both sat at the bar, Katie turning her seat so she was directly facing him, the pair of them leaning closer to one another as they talked. And the conversation just continued to flow, as did the odd but subtle display of affection, moving their chairs closer together, her hand on his shoulder. Steve was surprised to find how easy the whole thing was. He had no nerves, no awkward moments. The chemistry fizzled and there wasn’t a single moment he was stuck for anything to say. It was for that reason he was disappointed when the bar tender called time and reluctantly stood up as Katie drained the final bit of gin from her glass.

As Steve held out her jacket, his hands gently brushed her shoulders as she shrugged it on, sending a tingle down her spine and the hitch in her breathing didn’t go unnoticed. She turned to face him, all green eyes and pink lips, blinking as her eyes locked onto his and before he could stop them, his hands connected at the base of her spine as she moved closer to him, not moving her gaze from his, hand resting on his chest.

“I’d really like to kiss you again…” Steve said, shyly.

“You know you don’t have to ask.” she replied. Smiling softly he leaned down and connected his lips with hers, the kiss growing slightly deeper until Steve remembered they were in the middle of a public bar. He pulled away gently, resting his forehead against hers briefly, blushing like an absolute moron as a small smile tugged on the corners of his mouth.

“You know, for someone who said they’d never taken a woman on a date before Rogers, you’ve done amazingly well.” she blinked up at him, grinning.

“That’s because you make it easy to be around you.” He shrugged, honestly. He took her hand, curled his fingers round hers and made their way out into the street to hail a cab.

All too soon they pulled up outside her apartment block and both of them found themselves wishing the night would never end. Steve told the driver to wait whilst he hopped out and walked her into the lobby, their hands still twined together. There was a part of him that wanted to follow her in, and a part of her that almost invited him to, but they both wanted to do this right, take their time.

“I think now is the part where I’m supposed to ask you if you had a good time.” Steve turned to face her as they stopped by the elevator door.

“I did.”

“And if you’d go out with me again?” “I already said I would, Coney Island remember?” she replied cheekily, leaning closer to him.

“I meant before that.”  He rolled his eyes.

“I’d love too.” She muttered, and then his lips were on hers again and they were kissing, exactly where they had left off in the bar, only this time they were alone. Steve’s hand snaked into her soft hair, angling her head slightly and she parted her lips, their tongues tangling easily as once more the fireworks erupted deep in Steve’s belly.

“Always leave ‘em wanting more Stevie…” Bucky said, nudging him on the arm, winking as they crossed the fairground towards the girls “That’s the trick…”

Steve couldn’t stop himself from smiling he pulled back. Their night was at an end, it was a perfect place to leave it.

“I really did had a great time tonight, thank you.” Katie whispered as he pressed his forehead to hers, giving her lips another quick peck before he stepped back a little and she reached into her bag for her key card, pressing it to the pad by the elevator.

“Me too.” He smiled as the elevator doors opened. She stepped inside, turning to face him and flashed him another grin.

“Night Stevie.”

“Night, Sweetheart.” He replied as the doors shut. With that, he turned round and grinning to himself he walked back to the cab. Date 1 down, and it had been a roaring success.

**** Chapter 6

**Original Posting**

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

Not dead yet!: Marking my 2-year anniversaries

On Sunday I marked my two-year “cancerversary” of my diagnosis and on Tuesday a member of the support group I co-founded (for young women who are stage 4) died. Like me, she had triple-negative breast cancer. Like me, she was diagnosed stage 4 two years ago. Like me, she had exhausted several types of treatment (because triple-negative is a beast) and was looking for the one that would work. She asked me about Saci (Sassy!) and proposed trying it to her doctor less than a week before she died. Nine days before she passed she joined our Sunday cancer yoga group from bed at the hospital to join our meditation exercises. Like me, she remained confident and positive and absolutely refused to give up hope. (Like me, she also wore her hair purple sometimes.)

There were many things that are unlike about us too. She had two teenage children who now don’t have their mother. She was twelve years older than me and had had Hodgkin’s before she had breast cancer--even worse luck than mine, to triumph over one cancer only to get this diagnosis. Unlike me, she wasn’t strong enough for Saci, the only targeted triple-negative line of treatment, because her body had reacted badly to immunotherapy. She was in the hospital for two weeks with somewhat mysterious symptoms all of which added up to her body shutting down. On Saturday she went home with her family in hospice care. 2 days later she was gone.

It’s not usual for things to go so fast. Typically, doctors, patients, and family members all have some advance warning and patients spend a solid amount of time in hospice care. I am sure that people will ask me why it went that way for her. I’m asking myself why too, since it is so shocking and so entirely unfair. The fact that it can happen that way at all is frightening to me as a fellow patient since it’s the scenario of nightmares. That really could someday be me. No one ever wants to think that--and I cannot live my life focused on it either--but it has to be acknowledged as a possibility.

[More below the cut about memories from 2 years ago today and hopes for the future. Also, an invitation to contribute to some writing if you want.]

Today, January 28th, is the 2-year anniversary of my stage 4 diagnosis. In a way, it feels more significant than my initial cancer news. I had four days being horrified, but thinking that I would get through this as a phase in my life. It would be terrible--I’d have a double mastectomy, scorched-earth chemo, radiation, anything to get rid of the cancer--but then it would be done. On the Monday following my first set of CT scans I learned that that was not true. My lungs were full of tumors. (Later, after lots of waiting, MRIs and biopsies, I'd find that my lymph nodes, spine, and liver were affected too. I still have tumors in all those locations, but no new ones.) I wrote a description of getting that news in an email to a friend over the summer, after I had read Anne Boyer’s "The Undying”:

“The worst part about the lung tumors for me was that my dad had gotten a very early flight and I learned the news while he was in the air. My mom told me we could not text or tell him on the phone, that he would need to be with us both. So I drove to Newark straight from the doctor's office. It was in the teens outside and windy as we slogged to the baggage area where we were to meet. I saw my dad in his warmest and ugliest puffy orange down jacket, looking small in it, forlorn and horribly vulnerable. I fell into his arms, thinking at least that airports were such horrible places, so impersonal and banal, that no one would look twice. 'It's in my lungs,' I said into his shoulder so that I would not have to see his face. I was crying into the jacket that somehow smelled of winter cold even though he had been inside for hours. 'Please, Daddy. Fix it, please.' I spoke like a child because, on some very deep level, I think I really did still believe that my father could fix anything. I was embarrassed, though, and so I tried to stem my tears as he put his big hand on the back of my head and said, 'Oh sweetie, we'll get through this. We will.' I knew that really he could do nothing--and that this was his nightmare of powerlessness--and so I sniffed and blinked and I did not let myself cry again until June.”

Two years later this moment seems as if it just happened. The impact of my diagnosis on everyone dear to me, and especially my parents, is one of the worst things about it for me. We all know that there’s only so much “better” I can get, with the current science, and we’re all playing for time while the research moves forward towards something better, something that would make this a treatable chronic condition. I go back and forth, emotionally, on how likely I think that is and how good my position is for the future. Right now, comparing myself to the group member who died, I feel relatively fortunate, even as chemo exhausts me, I lose every scrap of hair that was ever on my body, and I spend half of my days being almost unable to eat from nausea and loss of taste. I feel glad that I was able to get Saci, that my body has so far stood up to the ceaseless trials I have put it through, with four treatments and surgery (and full-time work and living alone etc. etc.). I feel strong, not scared, even as I feel the emotional toll of terrible loneliness from covid isolation, winter, and carrying a sick body through my days alone.

I do not love the “fight” metaphor because so much of having an illness is completely out of your control and I never want to take myself (or anyone else) to task for “losing.” And so instead I will praise my body for enduring. I will praise myself for my enduring also, in both an emotional and physical way. I checked back in on how I was feeling as this anniversary approached last year and was pleased to see how much better I feel about it now, partly as a function of being in a treatment that is (likely) keeping me stable rather than in the midst of choosing another new one. Here is what I wrote back to my group of friends in November 2019, the run up to the one-year mark:

“I’m feeling like I can’t plan and don’t want to celebrate, like I can’t perform “fine” for the people in my life to spare them from the pain I’m causing by not doing better and feeling horrible about it. Perhaps it would help if I let them know that they didn’t need to perform “fine” for me? I understand the desire to protect me from the obligation to take care of them and appreciate it. But sometimes it can feel like I’m the only one experiencing anger or grief or pain, though I know I’m not. Feeling so isolated in my emotional response provides no catharsis for it. Compassion and sympathy function on the notion of “fellow feeling.” If you’re just out here, feeling by yourself, you can’t expect any comfort. As always, I think of the moment in the Iliad when Priam and Achilles cry together over dead Hector. Grief (and you can grieve for many things aside from a death) is something explicitly to be shared.” So I guess I’ve shared it here. I can do that. And I can do another thing, which is to tell you I love you. People don’t really say it enough and reserve it too entirely for romantic contexts. It’s weird--it’s not like we are wartime rationing love! And every time anyone says it to me it helps. It’s an affirmation that I am integral in some way to people’s lives which, in a society that so greatly valorizes marriage/partnership and children, is something I can be in doubt about.”

There are some things I like here, though, and that I would now like to reiterate and invite you, my far-flung friends, to do for my 2-year milestone. Never has the notion of “fellow feeling” in times of grief and depression hit harder or been more important than during covid. In a way, the nation (or even world) was forced into much the same position, emotionally and practically, that my cancer put me in. People are isolated, unable to perform “fine” and wondering if other people feel the same way, or even if any of us can take care of each other at all. I am here to tell you that you can. Maybe not immediately but--sooner than you think--you can. Emotional reserves may be low but reaching out to support someone else can actually replenish them. You do not have to feel alone, or to feel, alone.

And for me, for this milestone and for the cancer-related depression that I certainly do have, I’d like to invite you to help me, so that I can do the same for you. I invite you to write something about how this milestone feels for you (either about me or not), how it relates to all the other insane things going on in the world or with you (not about me at all), how you felt on the original day when I shared my stage 4 diagnosis (definitely about me)--really anything that is on your mind or in your heart.

“Oh great,” you may think, “the English PhD has asked us to do homework!”. But no! It's up to you what you do. Write in whatever form you want, however long, even anonymously. And if you do I will write you back! Not with grades or comments, but with something to connect to what you shared. It is a way to create fellow-feeling; to open up, connect, heal. With me, yes, but also as the group of extraordinary people who have gone with me so far on this hard road. It’s a very different proposition to support someone through time-limited treatment with a good outcome than it is to sign on for whatever comes next. You are all, truly, pretty extraordinary.

Anyone who wants to send a note or reflection can email me or drop a file or post in this Google drive folder. Like I said, feel free to share whatever and do it anonymously if you’d rather. You can also askbox me here (better than DMS) or submit a post to this blog. (I'm taking a chance with open DMs for now...we'll see if that needs to change.)

I am grateful for all of you every day, but especially today.

Love, Bex

p.s. The title of this post refers to the cinematic classic "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," a film my high school self and friends loved. They, along with other wonderful folks. gave me a "cancerversary" cake with "Not dead yet, motherfucker!" on it this Sunday. p.p.s. The average life expectancy for people who get this diagnosis is 18 months to 3 years. Hitting 5 years would be extraordinary. Starting Year 3 is a huge deal and I have every intention of being extraordinary. (Never been average at anything in my life...I either succeed spectacularly or fail epically!)

[jess-rewatches-prodigalson]

Ouroboros (S2, E8)

The hiatus almost killed me. So glad we have new content <3

As usual, my time-stamped thoughts for this episode are below. As always I reference Malcolm’s mental health. A lot. So if that’s going to be a trigger for you, don’t keep reading.

SPOILERS AHEAD:

0:04 - That scarf is so extra.

0:26 - OH LOOK THE FIRST SUNSHINE SIGHTING OF SEASON TWO!!! It only took 8 episodes. *insert eyeroll*

0:40 - Ugh. This montage makes me hate Hoxley. He embodies the type of human I abhor: self-important, egotistic, obsessed with appearance.

1:19 - “No I didn’t.” LMAO. Mr. David is so done with Martin’s bullshit.

1:36 - That makeshift shiv in the dude’s arm.....that’s Daryl’s shiv from a few episodes ago right? Am I going crazy?

 2:25 - Sooooo Birdie hasn’t left New York? She’s moved into the Milton’s “Murrayville Building”. Huh. Wait. Was Birdie in the house when Malcolm and Ainsley fought? Do you think she heard?!? Birdie might become a problem for the Whitly’s later this season....I hope?

2:43 - Jessica doesn’t know about the contents of the fight. Interesting. How long has it been since the end of 2x7? 

2:58 - “I’ll be there at 8.” hahaha OMG. I swear Malcolm was a terror during his ‘rebellious teenager’ phase.

3:38 - Yep. This fog horn reinforces the fact that I believe Hoxley is a dick. 

3:40 - Awww.... the way Malcolm jumps/flinches at the fog horn is both hilarious and adorable.

3:58 - “And who the hell are you?” YES GIL. YES. Don’t let him talk like that to Malcolm <3

4:04 - Duuuuude. Gil looks pissed and scared. He does not like Europol snooping around his crimes. ALSO I’m like 95% sure that Gil knows (or at least has a hunch) that Malcolm is somehow involved with Endicott’s murder. I’m pretty sure Gil is scared that this dude is going to try and arrest Malcolm. 

4:07 - OMG. JT is adorable. “You’re that guy. The mind sleuth.” Personal headcanon: JT read Hoxley’s book to try and understand Malcolm better. 

4:22 - DANI IS MY QUEEN. SHE IS MY ICON. I LOVE HER SO FREAKING MUCH. “No.” This girl is fierce. <3

4:23 - <3 <3 Malcolm’s heart eyes, head tilt, and visible pride is so so so precious. THIS is why he’s attracted to Dani. She’s not afraid to assert herself. 

4:31 - “And then took in his son.” ....Okay, so this infuriated me. Nothing Hoxley is saying is untrue. BUT something about the way he’s saying it just gets under my skin. 

4:45 - I think Hoxley is pissing me off so much because he’s psychoanalyzing Malcolm in front three of the people Malcolm trusts and loves most in the world (3 out of a very very short list of people). He’s trying to humiliate Malcolm and I hate it. I hate that Dani, JT, and Gil haven’t told Hoxley to shut up. I hate that Hoxley is trying to drive stakes of doubt into the three people whose opinion Malcolm treasures. 

5:25 - “Aim a little lower, Whitly.” and and and.....then Hoxley looks to the team as though he wants them to laugh. I’m furious. 

5:32 - THANK YOU GIL. STEER THE CONVERSATION AWAY FROM MALCOLM

6:04 - Malcolm is so obvious. There’s no way that the team doesn’t know that he was involved with Endicott’s murder. If they didn’t before this episode - they HAVE to know now. Right? They’re detectives. Malcolm is a terrible liar. 

7:00 - Oh. So now Ainsley cares about the crime. Now it’s “how much trouble are we in”. And let’s be real. Ainsley doesn’t even seem very worried or scared. She’s concerned that the crime will get out - she’s not sorry she committed the crime. She’s not sorry that her big brother tried to take the fall for her. 

7:15 - “We said no more secrets.” ...when. When did you two say that? Was there a ‘fight part 2 - the tentative truce’ that we didn’t get to see?

7:33 - A mention of Sophie Sanders. Finally. I still hope she comes out of the woodwork and takes the fall for this. I want more closure on her. Did the team ever find out that Malcolm found her? How did the Eddie murder finally get resolved (I’m not satisfied with the “not every case gets solved” line)?

7:42 - Yo. I don’t care about the time constraint of a 45 minute episode. I don’t care that it was required to move the plot along. The fact that Ainsley starts typing frantically into the computer at about 7:42, stops typing at 7:47ish and has found at least 4 different articles relating to murdered random people (who apparently helped hide Endicott’s body?) is SO UNREALISTIC. I just can’t. I can’t suspend my disbelief on this one. The article headlines say nothing about ‘couriers’. It’s stuff like ‘Local fisherman found dead’. HOW THE HELL WOULD AINSLEY KNOW THEY WERE HELPING MALCOLM IN LESS THAN 10 SECONDS OF GOOGLING?!? Nope. I can’t justify this one. Fedak - you dropped the ball.

8:40 - Poor Malcolm looks terrified. :( 

9:04 - My first impression of Natalie was that she’s a beautiful young lady who seems really sweet and a little socially awkward. Kudos to the actress.

9:41 - Another mention of Sophie. God - I hope she becomes a twist in this season’s storyline. I’m not content with how her story arc ended. 

10:21 - “I didn’t have anything to do with Endicott’s death and neither did Jessica.” Yep. Gil definitely knows (or at least suspects) that Ainsley and Malcolm are somehow involved with Endicott’s murder. It’s killing me that we’re not getting the big “team and/or Gil find out and/or confront Malcolm about it” moment. 

10:31 - OMG. Alan Cumming’s eyebrow wag here. hahahahaha

10:35 - Look at how pissed off Gil is as soon as Hoxley suggests that he and Jessica have a romantic history. 1) Gil still has it bad for Jessica (and is hurt that she rejected him again 2) Gil’s a pretty private dude and probably doesn’t like his personal business being speculated upon by a total stranger with ill intent 3) Gil is also getting protective of the Whitly’s. Not just Jessica but Malcolm (and maybe Ainsley) too. 

10:58 - Europol agents aren’t allowed to make arrests?!? THEN WTF IS THE POINT OF HOXLEY’S CHARACTER?!? TO DRIVE DOUBT INTO THE MINDS OF THE TEAM WITH REGARDS TO MALCOLM?!? FOR REAL. WHY?! TO FORCE GIL TO ARREST MALCOLM AND AINSLEY?!?!

11:08 - “To watch you put the cuffs on Mr.Endicott’s killer. Deal?” “Deal.” oooooooohhhhhh no. I do not like the foreshadowing here. If Gil has to arrest Ainsley and/or Malcolm.....idek. Part of me wants to watch it for the emotional whump (of all parties - including Jessica). Part of me wants to ugly cry at the thought of it though.

11:39 - “How do you know so much about yachts?” ....THANK YOU JT. DANI HAS A STRANGE AMOUNT OF NAVAL KNOWLEDGE IN THIS EPISODE AND WE ALL KNOW “I watch a lot of Below Deck” IS UTTER HORSE CRAP. Ugh. I want to know more about Dani and JT’s personal lives. So. Badly. 

11:44 - <3 <3 <3 The look Malcolm and JT exchange when Dani claims that she watches a lot of Below Deck is absolutely precious. It’s like they’re best friends and/or brothers. They both knew Dani was lying. <3

11:54 - “At least he’s the real deal.” Ouch. I honestly can’t tell if JT is just teasing Malcolm here or if JT genuinely believes this. ....Is this JT’s way to letting Malcolm know that he has suspicions about his involvement with Endicott’s death?

12:06 - “Says the guy who bought his book.” HA. Dani is on fire this episode. The snark queen. Look at how pleased Malcolm is that Dani is defending him. <3 Warms my cold dead heart.

12:09 - annnnndd now JT is definitely teasing Malcolm. “What our boy Bright needs is a moniker.” hahaha watching Dani and JT come up with stupid profiler monikers was so cute. I love it when the team gangs up to (lovingly) tease Malcolm.

12:30 - “No. Nothing yet.” Again - Malcolm is a terrible liar. The team must know that he’s involved with this thing. They’re detectives. 

12:59 - Martin’s physical reaction to Malcolm saying, “No. That woman does not deserve to die.” Is HILARIOUS. Martin is so freaking desperate for Malcolm to become a serial killer that he doesn’t even care the Ainsley has already murdered someone. 

13:19 - “He has a perfect track record.”.....what? So does that mean he’s solved every case he’s ever worked on? Taken credit for solving every case he’s ever work on? Hand picked the cases he works on so he knows he can solve them? Probably a combination of the above. Sometime about Hoxley reminds me of Gilderoy Lockhart from Harry Potter. You feel me?

13:23 - The fact that Tom Payne (a Brit) is being told that Hoxley has “perfect teeth. For a Brit” by a Welsh man is hilarious.

13:34 - Does this fish packing joint have no security?!? Like Malcolm didn’t have to pick a lock or anything. He just walked right in (and he’s not being quiet).

13:51 - “I can think ruthless. I don’t know if I can be ruthless.” THIS. THIS is Malcolm in a nutshell. Think about Nicky Covington. Malcolm wanted to act ruthless but he couldn’t. He ended up saving Nicky because he couldn’t go through with his ruthless plan. That’s the difference between Malcolm and (quite frankly) the rest of his family. Jessica, Martin, and Ainsley can all be ruthless. All of them. Jessica on a lesser degree but Martin and Ainsley are confidently ruthless. Often.

13:57 - Ok. For real though. HOW HAS NO ONE OVERHEARD THESE PHONE CALLS BETWEEN MARTIN AND MALCOLM. THE PHONES HAVE TO BE TAPPED RIGHT?!? IN A SECURE MENTAL INSTITUTION FOR MURDERERS?!? and I stg that Mr. David knows things. That man is not a moron and he’s pieced stuff together (not from this scene obviously, but still).

14:13. - “Why don’t I break out.” The fact that Malcolm hasn’t mentioned that Martin wants to escape to anyone (since 2x4) is really stressing me out. I know Martin’s going to break out - the promos have made that very obvious but I’m still anxious about it. Mostly I’m worried for the health and safety of Malcolm (and Gil, Jessica, Dani, JT, Edrisa...).

14:17 - “We all go on the run together.” Martin is delusional. He thinks that the whole family will go on the run with him?!?!?  He might be able to convince Ainsley. He might be able to blackmail or threaten Malcolm. BUT Jessica? She’s not going willingly. Hell - she might kill him herself if Martin escapes and tries to come near her (which.....I would actually kind of like to see).

14:48 - The fact that Malcolm apologizes to a corps is so precious. Really reinforces the fact that Malcolm is not a killer. 

15:00 - Oh look. Another scene for Malcolm’s nightmares. “The time I cut off a dead guy’s thumb to protect my sister”

15:24 - annnndd Malcolm is really close to having a panic attack. Look at that face. :( Someone give this guy a hug. Please.

15:34 - Where the HELL is Edrisa!?!?!?

15:42 - Malcolm, you utter moron. What possessed your stupid ass to show up at a crime scene with a soaking wet arm and draw attention to your arm by shaking it?!?! WHEN THE BODY WAS JUST DRAGGED OUT OF A VAT OF WATER. AND YOU TAMPERED WITH THE BODY?!!? YOU DUMBASS. 

15:52 - This is Gil - terrified. He’s scared because 1) he knows Malcolm is lying , 2) he’s concerned for Malcolm’s mental health and 3) he’s starting to think that either a) Malcolm killed this guy, b) Malcolm knows who killed this guy and is obstructing justice, or c) Hoxley is going to pin this on Malcolm and Gil won’t be able to save him.

16:14 - “I’m never buying frozen fish again.” hahaha Dani is killing it this episode. <3

16:23 - Check out how Gil is staring at Malcolm. Gil totally thinks Malcolm has the thumb.

16:50 - “Older model” Shit. Seriously? Are finger print scanners on phones old?!? My phone isn’t that old......I got it 6 years ago? 

17:16 - MALCOLM IS A TERRIBLE LIAR. Honestly, the pure terror on his face throughout most of this episode screams “I KNOW SOMETHING ABOUT THE MURDER.” If the team hasn’t pieced this together yet they’re not worthy of being detectives.

17:29 - I’m not going to lie. I had to fast forward through the Martin/Capshaw scenes for the rewatch. I find them so upsetting to watch. I just can’t do it more than once. Their whole dynamic is gross, creepy, and just ugh. 

20:00 - Jessica and Hoxley talking about Endicott’s death is so satisfying. 

20:35 - “Jessica Whitly. Played for a fool. Yet. Again.” Ok Hoxley. You are not allowed to disrespect my girl Jessica like that. 

21:10 - The biggest problem with Jessica and Gil’s “mock interrogations” by Hoxley is that neither of them mention Ainsley or Malcolm. It’s super suspicious. They mention other people by name. People who should be connected to Ainsley and/or Malcolm given the context of the sentence. Hoxley is a moron for not nailing Ainsley and Malcolm for the crime during this episode. It’s so so so obvious.

21:19 - hahahahahahahaha Jessica grabbing the martini out of Hoxley’s hands. hahahahaha I stan.

21:35 - annnnnd Jessica is a terrible liar as well. Seriously - why doesn’t she just say “ENDICOTT WAS KILLED OVER HERE!!”. Another parallel between her and Malcolm though. Malcolm + Jessica can’t lie well. Ainsley + Martin are expert liars.

22:54 - Again. Ainsley is intrigued at the fact that Malcolm has a thumb in his freezer. Much like Martin would be if he knew. Jessica on the other hand shares Malcolm’s fear and disgust about the situation.

23:00- “We”?!!?!? AINSLEY YOU HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING. MALCOLM HAS BEEN COVERING FOR YOUR ASS. YOU JUST HAVEN’T TURNED YOURSELF IN AFTER YOU REMEMBERED. THAT’S YOUR ONLY CONTRIBUTION TO THE “KEEPING ENDICOTT’S MURDER A SECRET” SITUATION. 

23:07 - “Do you even see what you are doing to him.” This line both terrified and delighted me. On one hand - I’m grateful that Jessica can see how much emotional pain Malcolm is in because of this situation. One the other hand - Ainsley looks pissed that Jessica is blaming her for Malcolm’s general brokenness. If Ainsley goes full serial killer - Malcolm is going to be on her list. “The brother that overshadowed her.” “The favourite child” “The reason she had to be a perfect daughter” “The reason she was ignored”

23:32 - “Got it.” Damn. Ainsley is bitter. She wants to control this situation. She doesn’t like taking orders from Malcolm. 

25:00 - MR.DAVID IS RIGHT THERE. IF HE DOESN’T BLOW THE WHISTLE ON THIS I’M GOING TO BE SO DISAPPOINTED. 

25:12 -”The Brain Fart” hahahahaha OMG. 

25:53 - “You’re being rude Hoxley.” ......Martin being the nice guy? I’m genuinely disgusted.

26:26 - “Your son Malcolm.” THIS. THIS is why Ainsley is so pissed off. Everyone has always thought Malcolm would turn out like Martin. Ever since they were kids. She’s pissed off that no one considers her to be a threat. They’re all concerned for and scared of Malcolm. Not her. She’s invisible. Why do you think she became a TV reporter? To force people to see her. 

26:50 - I’ve never wanted to Martin to kill anyone more than I have in this moment. I do find Martin’s protective love for Malcolm interesting though. 

27:37 - How long was that phone in water before Malcolm grabbed it?!? Anyone ever drop a phone in water? I don’t care how much rice you have. It’s toast 90% of the time. 

27:44 - Malcolm explaining murder to Sunshine is so cute. 

28:22 - And my heart rate has skyrocketed. 

29:10 - “To protect your sister.” Huh. I find it interesting that Hoxley has considered that Malcolm may have killed Endicott to protect Ainsley. It suggests that he thinks Endicott was a threat to Ainsley alive. Makes me wonder about what happened to Ainsley before Malcolm got back to the house in 1x20.

29:16 - “You all had something to gain.” Did they though? Martin had something to gain - keeping his cushy Claremont cell. Ainsley had something to gain - “A news story.” Jessica had something to gain - “safety”. But Malcolm? He didn’t personally have anything to gain. He wanted his Mom and sister safe but he never thought about himself. 

30:11 - “Perhaps the murder weapon is still among your mother’s silver.” I find it interesting Hoxley has pieced that together. I also find it highly unbelievable but that’s just me. 

30:15 - Hoxely, rich people don’t carve their own Christmas roasts. The Whitly’s have staff for that. 

30:24 - “You’re still just a scared little boy. Hungry for daddy’s love.” Ouch. It’s true but it still hurts. This is not helping Malcolm’s mental state. At all. Istg if we don’t get a Malcolm mental health crisis soon I’m going to have my own mental health crisis. Seriously. I want to see this boy lose it. I’m a monster. I know. I want ugly crying. I want panic attacks. I want him to go catatonic. I want someone to comfort him. 

32:35 - Nat’s a good liar. Very convincing. Too bad Malcolm’s a good profiler. 

33:53 - Check out Spider Monkey Malcolm. <3 

34:14 - Earlier this episode when Malcolm said he can think ruthless but not be ruthless? This is the proof. He could’ve sat back and let Natalie kill Hoxley. In some ways - it would be good for Malcolm. But Malcolm’s not ruthless. He values human life. He’s an A+ dude. For better or for worse he tries to help people.

34:26 - Really Hoxley? Do you plan on stabbing Malcolm?!? (FYI - this scene is very reminiscent of Lockhart pulling his wand on Harry and Ron in the Chamber of Secrets #justsaying).

34:45 - “I’m going to be killed by a millennial. What a twist.” hahahhahahahahhaa

35:22 - “I’m British.” hahaha I love this scene so much.

37:14 - FINALLY THE PAPA!GIL CONTENT WE”VE BEEN WAITING FOR. (it’s weak but I’ll take it)

37:39 - AHHHH the fact that Gil and Malcolm are both non-verbally communicating that Natalie didn’t kill Endicott is killing me. Does Malcolm think that Gil hates him? Does Gil really think Malcolm killed Endicott? Or just that Malcolm covered it up? I NEED TO KNOW.

37:46 - Concerned!Gil and a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. <3 <3 <3 My icy heart has melted. 

37:54 - annnnnd Hoxley ruins the moment.

39:39 - I’m not content with this ending. It’s all too convenient. Hoxley still thinks Ainsley and Malcolm did it. Mark my words. This isn’t over.

39:53 - Ainsley is so smug here. I want to slap her. She’s elated that she’s getting away with murder. She doesn’t care about how it’s hurting her family. 

40:00 - Did they really do the interview inside Jessica’s house?!?! Gross. 

40:17- I might be the only one but I love that polo on Malcolm. Something about it is adorable. 

40:22 - ......is Ainsley really trying to take credit for “putting this Endicott mess behind us”?!?! Because - she didn’t. OMG. She absolutely didn’t. Even if she did - she’s the reason they’re in the mess to being with!!!!!!! I can’t. I just....can’t. 

40:45 - The episode ends right here for me. I know Capshaw and Martin kiss. It makes me want to hurl and I refuse to watch it again. I also know that Capshaw takes the scissors away from Martin. I think their whole dynamic is upsetting and creepy. I’m like 95% sure that Capshaw is a serial killer on the DL. Or at least some sort of psychopath. Martin and Capshaw are both manipulating each other and it’s too stressful to watch. 

I didn’t love this episode. It was a bit all over the place. If you stuck around this long - thank you. I’ll see you guys next week. <3

[zukofenty]

always be my maybe

➜ Summary: The one where Zuko and Katara could never quite get their timing right. Especially when the universe throws a lost condom, thousands of miles, and a baby in their way. 

“I will literally french braid my pubic hairs and never open my pussy to anyone ever again if this condom doesn’t kill me. Please don’t let it kill me.”

➜ Genre: Modern!AU, Celebrity Chef!Katara, Doctor!Zuko, Love, Rosie!AU 

AO3 @zutaraweek

“Go a couple rounds, leave Zuko’s dick up in a casket!” Toph screams into the microphone, undeterred by the various guests who stare up at her, mouth open and half-chewed, dry-as-fuck chicken spilling out. It wasn’t her fault, really! As soon as Zuko handed the mic off to her, he basically gave her free reign to spit a Megan Thee Stallion verse in his honor. “Sing with me, bitches! Look up the lyrics on Genius.com, Cheryl!” 

 “Sit down !” Katara squeezes out from clenched teeth, ripping the device out from the girl’s grip. 

 “I didn’t even get to the chorus, you fucking whore .” A bridesmaid nervously plucks the mic from their table and avoids eye contact with both of them. “What’s going on with you, bitch?” Toph asks quietly. She could tell Katara’s been doing her fake smile for the last twenty minutes. The girl was practically going to break her face open with how hard she was grinding her teeth. 

 “Just thinking.” Katara wants to smack herself in the face, pinch a nipple and bring herself to reality. Everything felt too real, and Toph could sense it. She’s the type to somehow sense when Katara shifts in her seat a certain way to covertly satisfy a cooch itch, and then buys her Monistat the same day. 

 She hates that she could never hide any emotion from her. Toph could always figure out the puzzle pieces that were Katara. One of the few to know the real her, besides Zuko. 

 Sometimes Katara thinks the younger girl knows her better than him. At least now. Especially now. 

 “About?” Toph takes an experimental sip from the wine glass, and gags. The juice tasted like Gatorade and cum. “Why the fuck would anyone want a dry wedding? Weddings are the only time you get to see your alcoholic uncle vomit all over the bride’s shoes, and then your closeted aunt has to wipe up the puke and her reputation from the floor while thinking of her secret girlfriend at home watching Tiger King .” 

 “That example was extremely specific and extremely unnecessary.” Katara brushes a crunchy curl, doused in hairspray, from her eyes. 

 “Sorry, I got distracted. I had dick on the brain, or whatever Rihanna said,” Toph mumbles, risking a bite of the chicken.

 Katara turns to see him at the couple’s table in the center of the extravagant wedding, and sighs. “And for your information, I was just thinking when will he penetrate my esophagus? You know, just girly things.” 

 Toph has the gall to slap the girl on the cheek. 

 Katara holds her stinging face, eyes narrowed in an unspoken threat for fucking up the parts of her face she didn’t set with powder (she was going for a dewy look, sue her). “Not fair! You were the one who called my throat the baby chute earlier today!”

 “Ok, throat goat. One, he’s getting married. Two, you’re sick.” 

 “My therapist will most likely cosign that,” Katara sighs. Toph holds Katara’s hand and leans her head on her shoulder as they watch Zuko mingle with guests. 

  This is the happiest day of his life. 

 Her best friend of twenty odd years was getting married. He looked so handsome, so happy. A suit that looked like it would cost someone’s rent and a half casually hugging his muscular frame. A blinding smile on his face, cheeks flushed from champagne and excitement. 

 When he turns her way, his smile grows impossibly wider. Toph clinks on a champagne glass with a fork, breaking it a la Princess Diaries , and Katara could feel the stares of nearly everyone in the room, ready for her speech. 

  It should be the happiest day of my life, too. 

  Right?

 Katara thinks she wants to cry. 

 //

 Now, how come none of those Judy Blume, coming-of-age books have a chapter on how to write a Best Woman speech for your best friend getting married to another woman, even when you were struggling with the fact that you might have been in love with him for the past two decades? 

 Bitch, what the fuck do you even start that Google Doc with? 

 Does she start at 4 years old? When Katara thinks Zuko is an annoying piece of shit?  

 But, you know, he’s her piece of shit. 

 Guys have hepatitis, or cooties, or whatever Sokka said, she couldn’t exactly remember. All she remembered was Zuko sucked. He stole her crayons and made fun of her Hello Kitty backpack on the first day of school. He was the stupid one, not Hello Kitty . Never Hello Kitty . She’d shoved his face into the playground’s wood chips, threatened to cut off his peepee for breathing down her neck with his retainer breath, and even stuck his head in between two slices of white bread and lovingly referring to him as an ‘idiot sandwich’ (Sokka let her watch too many Gordon Ramsey hosted shows while their dad was working late). 

 Zuko and Katara were practically inseparable ever since. 

 Or 10, when you were asking for trouble if you fucked with Zuko.  

 He was a tiny kid, glasses too big for his head. Hair shaggy, clothes too oversized for him (just the way he liked it). His dad had tried beating it into him that it showed weakness by not making waves, not being loud and proud. But, he was quiet by nature. For him, it was just easier. 

 Not stirring the pot, being the observer, looking in from the outside. He was just Zuko , he liked Wonder Woman comics and figuring out what other words besides BOOBIES he could spell with his calculator instead of actually doing his math homework, because he was bad at math. Bad at everything, really. Everything but band class. Even if he did hate that stupid fucking tsungi horn. 

 His mom would hide his report cards from his dad, especially the ones noting how shy he was (Mrs. Kim had used the exact words ‘very antisocial, very easy to bully’). Even when Ursa would ask him to try, try to make friends outside of Katara, he was always a stubborn little thing. Something you got from your father , she would say, the smile slipping off her face just the slightest.

 It was just more fun being by himself, the only exception he made was Katara. He spent his recess scribbling down a plot for a Love Amongst the Dragons Fanfiction and listening to Katara’s iPod he’d steal from her, just because he could , after she snuck it out from her backpack for the 10 minute break they had. It was the iPod she spent the last two Christmases saving up with Sokka for. Zuko insisted he could master Ludacris’s rap in Usher’s “Yeah!” and practiced the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she had custody of the device.

 Some days, Katara would sit beside him in her signature puffy blue jacket, struggling to fold herself to fit on the blacktop beside Zuko. The patented jacket her grandmother forced her to wear every single day obstructing her abilities. He snickers, but keeps quiet, content with plotting out a story that he would hopefully get to type out on the school library’s computers if his mom picked him up late again. She usually did, much to the dismay of the ladies at the front office. They typically hissed at him (which made him cry, to which they would have to offer him a cherry Otter pop so they wouldn’t face a lawsuit) and called his mom words he couldn’t repeat without getting in trouble (“Whore”). 

 Katara would babble on about her day, sometimes thinking of ways for his characters to die a painful death, or cooking up Fanfic plots for Beyoncé and Britney Spears to find love among the chaos of a zombie infestation. She always insisted she brought the creative range to their friendship. Some days though, Katara forgets all about him and plays handball with all the most popular girls in school. 

 Zuko’s jealous. 

 (Sometimes.) 

  She’s my best friend! He wants to scream in their faces. At the end of the day, he thinks he’s going to lose her. The day she realized she was too good, too cool for the likes of him. 

 “Chan, stop it!” Zuko squeaked, his notebook snatched from underneath his nose. The boy was always picking a fight. Your dad buys you a Motorola flip phone and suddenly you think you’re the shit. 

 The boy sneers at Zuko, flipping through the pages. “What do we have here? Are you drawing Shrek with boobies? You’re gonna jack off to that later, freak?” 

 Before Zuko could get a word in and defend his honor, Chan’s entire body was shoved to the ground, a dainty foot cased in a light up, white Skechers sneaker pressing into his face. Zuko couldn’t help his glee as Katara could barely be peeled off and stopped from repeatedly slamming Chan’s face into the hopscotch chalk court. “It’s all ogre now, bitch!” 

 She made sure to pin her detention slip to her Bratz backpack with pride. Zuko buys two treats that day from the student store before he walks her home. 

 “You’re my best friend, forever and ever,” Katara declares, head held up high. Zuko saw through it, though. He knows she’s scared of what Hakoda has to say, what Gran Gran has to say. So, he holds her hand tight, trying to relay his gratitude in the touch. 

 He licks at his Spongebob popsicle. The eyes had melted off and looked more like someone’s worst nightmare than an icy treat. Katara had wanted his cherry Otter pop, and he happily handed it over. “Pinky promise?” He holds out his finger. 

 Katara hooks her finger around his, dwarfing his tiny digit. Her outstretched smile stained orange. “I’ll break yours if you ever forget.” 

 At 15, Katara came to the realization that men have the emotional intelligence of a Souplantation crouton (may Souplantation rest in peace). 

 Growing up, with their dad and grandma always at work at their store, Katara was always in charge of cooking. No matter how many times she’d try to get Sokka to do it, he always insisted he was far too busy with taking out the trash, killing bugs, hating women. So, she was stuck with it, and honest-to-Rihanna, really liked it. Not that she’d ever let Sokka ever get the satisfaction of knowing it. It was her time to be alone, gave her the space to pop in a Cheetah Girls CD and pretend she won Masterchef with the struggle meal straight out of a Spam can she had to pound on a few times to get it to squeeze out from its gelatinous casing, or a whitewashed recipe she tried replicating whenever she catches a Rachael Ray rerun. 

 Though, Katara’s favorite time was chopping up the green onions under Ursa’s careful eyes, a hand always just there in realign the knife just in case she’d carelessly cut the green onions too big to garnish. Then, Ursa would then take out scissors because nobody had time for that. When his dad wasn’t home, Zuko’s mom opened up their doors across the street to the siblings, rambling about the next big painting she was planning as they scarfed down a home cooked meal. 

 Zuko was similar to his mom in that regard. They were the type of people who managed to make everyday moments larger-than-life, made it infectious, too. When it’s nighttime and he’s snuck into and snug in Katara’s room, he’d tell her dreams too big for anyone’s comprehension. Sometimes he dreamed he had tits that would leak chunky chicken noodle soup. Sometimes he’d ramble until her eyes are flitting shut and he’s left talking to himself and measuring his hand with hers, securing the leg she instantly throws over his waist. He’d like to think he was her only exception in the Souplantation crouton narrative. 

 Her bed is starting to smell like him, too. His favorite Costco brand shampoo and conditioner that he leaves in her bathroom, permeating her nostrils when she pulled him close. She even let him put up a Drake poster right next to her plethora of Rihanna ones, but only after he let her draw a penis on both his and Drake’s face. What he didn’t account for was her using a permanent marker, or the fact he couldn’t scrub it away from his cheeks for the next two days. 

 It was easy like this, just the two of them. 

 He’s there for all the birthdays and Halloweens and Christmases that left her not quite feeling whole. When things were hard, when things fucking sucked, when she wanted nothing more but to die. He was there, (stupidly) holding out his hand and willing to be the eye to her hurricane.

 At 15, Zuko decides Katara feels home.  

 At 18, Zuko had already been Katara’s many firsts. 

He was her first buffet partner, and brought back his Justin Bieber haircut just to pretend he was 12 so they could qualify for children's rates and a complimentary Oreo cheesecake because they were always celebrating his “birthday.” 

 Her first clubbing partner the second she turned 18, rubbing her back when any Beyoncé song with a Jay-Z feature came on because the second he cheated on Beyoncé, he cheated on everyone in the Beyhive. The first one to have to hold her as she hurled on his shoes, the first one to have to take her to get her stomach pumped. 

 The first person she tried to roll a joint with. 

  “I don’t need to learn that.” 

  Katara purses her lips. “And why not?” 

  He gestures to his face. “I’m too pretty. Only ugly bitches know how to do that . ” 

  Sokka thinks he needs to intervene when he hears Zuko’s tsungi horn case being chucked across the room . 

 The first person she (almost) fucked. 

 His family life was, for lack of a better word, fucked up. Katara had been witness to the drinking, the drugs, the crying. The nights where she sometimes didn’t know if the person standing in front of her was Zuko. She just wanted one night away from it all, just one night out on the town. 

  “That was kind of terrible,” Katara admits easily, wincing because she was sure he spilled Papa John’s garlic dipping sauce in his shitty Corolla’s air filter last Tuesday. He tried positioning his arm naturally underneath her head while their half naked bodies were pressed together, but he ended up smacking off her glasses. He even had the audacity to contently sigh as though he accomplished something, rather than just tangle her hair and give her a tension headache. 

  She felt lied to! Cheated! Bamboozled! Hoodwinked! All the Shrek and Y/N stories on FF.net could not prepare her for the fact that there weren’t any tongues fighting for dominance, or any mouths that tasted like cinnamon or musk or shit like that. It was just retainer to retainer and smelled distinctly of her awkward friend (cheese). It was sweaty and a lot of weird humping and felt like a visit to the gyno. 

  “Hey! I thought it was pleasantly average.” He clears his throat. “You know, besides the fact you farted mid-insertion and I started crying after 20 seconds.” 

  “You mean right after you came, right?” She says matter-of-factly. 

  He glared. “Is it my fault you have a gorilla grip pussy? Is it?” 

  “Zuko, you’re so fucking — ” 

  “What happens when you put a hot dog in the microwave for 2 minutes?” He crosses his hands and folds them over his lap like a professor waiting for a volunteer to answer the equation on the board. 

  “So in this metaphor, are you calling my pussy a microwave?” 

 But in true Zuko and Katara fashion, it was clumsy and a mess and could be erased with an emergency Burger King outing where they ate in silence and pinky promised never to speak of it again. 

 She wonders if Zuko should’ve been her first date to prom, too. 

 She wants to stop feeling so bothered . She couldn’t quite pin it, but lately everything he did frustrated the shit out of her. How he was taller than her now. How he didn’t need her to fight his battles because he goes to the gym now and wears a fake Gucci belt because he’s just so cool (brooding Asian guy is the trend, and Zuko thinks he’s the blueprint). How he said yes to going to prom with Mai, the prettiest girl in their grade.

 “Don’t look in there!” Katara yelps, a blush creeping on her cheeks. 

 “Why?” Zuko questions, taken aback. He was entirely too comfortable in her room.

 “Um. Maybe I don’t want a freak going through my dirty underwear pile!” Her eyebrows are halfway done, and she only has one eyelash glued on. She was stressed, scared her dress might not fit with how many of Sokka’s cookies she stress-ate because she just wanted the night to be perfect . 

 “Relax, what are a few discharge stains going to do to me, huh? If anything, it gives your pussy some much-needed personality.” Zuko wasn’t going to stop until he found his fake Gucci belt in Katara’s closet. 

 “Zuko!” Katara screams at the top of her lungs. 

 “Do I have to remind you about the time you broke our friendship bracelet while masturbating and I dug the bead out of your vagina like the good friend I am?” 

 She shoves him back from the closet, crowding in his space. That belt was going to remain in its rightful place. “Oh, fuck you! I took the fall for you when you opened your laptop in history class and forgot to exit from your “VIBRATING PANTIES” porn tab!” She pushes him before plopping on her bed. 

 Katara buries her face in her pillow at that point, too entirely embarrassed and body too hot to continue to look at his nonchalant face. He doesn’t quite remember when exactly Katara became so cute . 

 Pretty? Definitely. Fearless? For sure. 

 But blushing Katara, embarrassed Katara, cute Katara? 

 He thinks it’s because they rarely saw each other now, despite his patented place in her bed. His band, Hello Zuko, was aiming for at least a few dive bar performances to build a reputation, especially with their new title track “Tennis Ball.” Katara was a familiar face at their town’s soup kitchens.

  “Where are you going?” he would sleepily mumble as he tried taking his midday nap before late night performances.

  Katara’s hands are full with ingredients, swaying side to side and eyes red and drowsy. “Trying to temper chocolate. Why? What’s up?” 

 She never misses a performance, though. Comes to them with a sparkly poster doused in glitter, and t-shirts with his face on them and everything. He never misses a fundraising event, making sure to bring a steaming thermos filled with tea because Katara was never the type to remember to take care of herself, and always buys out her fundraising goodies (even her overbaked brownies.) 

 He pulls her up by her ponytail, cupping her face in between his hands. 

 “You look cute.” 

 “You look like the human equivalent of toeless socks,” Katara mumbles, face squished in between Zuko’s hands. “Why are you giving my clit piercing a kiss kiss right now? What do you want?” 

 Zuko shakes her head in between his hands. “Pinky promise me you’ll drop all penises to dance with me if they play any Usher song?” It was like he was in fifth grade all over again. “Call me a Nissan because I just want you Altima-self.” 

 She lets out a cackle, the sound nearly deafening. “Don’t worry, the DJ will get us falling in love again in no time.”  

 “Do you have to go with Jet?” He asks, pouting. He lays his head in her lap, too entirely preoccupied with picking at her pilling sweatpants to look at her questioning eyes. They promised they were going to be each others’ dates at the beginning of the school year. It was more fun going to dances with Katara. She knew how to do the worm and every lyric to every Rihanna song out there (but she refuses to sing any with Chris Brown parts). 

 “What? You know I like my men stupid.” She runs her hands through his locks, undoing the crunchy gel job that Iroh had painstakingly spent time on. Zuko didn’t have the heart to tell him it made him look like a youth pastor.

 “You do like your communal meat thermometers.” He wants to keep the hurt out of his voice. 

 She shoves him off her, getting up to put on the dress hanging off her closet’s door handle. “You’re going with Mai, remember?” She yells through the closed closet door. 

 “But the thing is, I’m not planning to fuck her afterwards at the shitty hotel like it’s some type of CW show with some old bitches playing teenagers!” 

 “Just say XOXO, Gossip Girl .” 

 He still resents her for getting him invested in Blair Waldorf’s headband collection. “It’s not my fault Jet looks old. He looks like he’s at least 27 for fuck’s sake!” His face grows more distressed as he spits out each word. He only said yes to going with Mai after finding out Jet asked Katara using some shitty poster that said “my heart is always running when I see you” with a box of Nike outlet sneakers after English class. 

 “I think you’re just jealous that I emptied my intestines for someone who is about to be in it within the next three hours. When have I ever done that for you?” 

 Zuko’s about to retort something until Katara slams open the door, flooding his eyes with a dusty blue, curve hugging dress that did weird things to him. Like make his heart beat out of his chest, and his throat all dry when he’s searching for the words to say. Looking for the right words that say he thinks it’s impossible someone’s smile could make sunsets brighter, make the stars twinkle even more, make the unthinkable just a fingertip’s grasp away. 

 “Can you see the outline of my underwear and/or desperation from the back?” Her spin has him bumbling like an idiot. 

 //

 He wishes it was Katara that night. Letting him shyly press his sweaty fingers into her waist as Katy Perry’s “E.T.” pierced their eardrums. He knows she would have pinched his nipples as punishment, all things considered. But the fluorescent lights of the disco ball would’ve highlighted how her pretty flush would dust her cheeks, and he would hold her close to his beating heart despite her complaining her foundation would stain his Target dress shirt, and everything would make sense. 

 “Did you cum?” Jet was absolutely pretty with an oh-so fat horse cock. Too bad he was like the Justin Timberlakes of the world, and always spoke unprovoked. 

 Katara scoffs. “Yeah, I came to my senses.” She flicked his forehead. “How would I do that? Tell me. How the fuck would a few thrusts and you panting your Sweet and Sour sauce breath in my ear get me off?” She shoves the sweating boy off her. “Can I say jk and will it make me a virgin again?” The hotel room had scratchy sheets and smelled like a waterpark bathroom. 

 He groaned. “I’m sorry .” He’s completely unremorseful. “Your tits smell like Cinnabon’s cinnamon rolls and I couldn’t help myself!” Katara is about to cut his dick off for breathing in the same vicinity as her, before a gasp stops her entire world. 

 //

 “Zuko!” she screeches, opening the hotel door with the same devastation as when Britney Spears discovered Ryan Seacrest wasn’t gay painting her features. 

 “You know what they say.” Zuko’s smirking, entirely ignoring Katara fuming. “Chlamydia is the powerhouse of the cell.”

 “You’re. A. Dick!” She says in between smacks to his head. Jet makes a speedy exit, still pantsless and clutching his suit to his chest, while Zuko mouths a ‘ call me’ to Mai, who amusedly waves goodbye to Katara. 

 “Oh god, this is exactly like the bead incident all over again.” 

 “ You’re not helping! ” 

 “Maybe we’ll find Atlantis up there too,” Zuko murmurs, concentrating on positioning the hotel’s mirror under her legs. 

 “Please, Rihanna. Have mercy on me.” Katara’s hands are in prayer mode as Zuko turns on his phone’s flashlight. “I will literally french braid my pubic hairs and never open my pussy to anyone ever again if this condom doesn’t kill me. Please don’t let it kill me. All those times I took an extra gummy vitamin were a joke . I never wanted to die, I just wanted to feel a little thrill in my life. Please—” 

 Zuko screams when the squelch of the condom splatters onto the mirror. 

 //

 “You’re wearing underwear under there right?” He likes the look of his blazer draping over her, buttoned to look like a chic, oversized dress and not because it was the easiest thing to throw over Katara to run and grab Plan B. 

 “No, because I would obviously let my fat cooter out, cute and bare and vulnerable in a Walmart.” 

 “A simple yes would have sufficed.” 

 She’s reaching for the box and wincing at the price when she feels a gentle nudge on her arm. “Ma’am, your entire pussy is out in a Walmart,” the employee breathes out pathetically. 

 “I am well aware.” She ekes out. 

 The employee eyes her up and down with a gaze that practically calls her a whore . “Please put her away.” Zuko’s face grows beet red as he tries holding back a laugh. 

 It was always easy like this. When the world was just Zuko and Katara, holding hands in her driveway while they watched the sun rise in his shitty Corolla. She’s still wrapped up in his blazer, he’s since loosened his cheap tie and his hair is sticking every which way. She likes his smile, especially now that it comes so easy. 

 He’s smiling a lot more now that his father is gone. Ozai essentially told Azula and Zuko to fuck off , and ran off to some big city to steer a hospital with too many controversies and too many white guys at the helm. Iroh came back from his meditation sabbatical, enthusiastic to take care of the siblings. Zuko seems a lot happier with Iroh around, and even spends nights sleeping in his actual bed. (Katara’s a little hurt, but keeps that to herself). 

 She wishes she could bottle up these moments with Zuko up and just hold them in her hands. Moments when they were still young and curious and still had time to wait for life to figure itself out. She wants to find a way to make these a permanent fixture, instead of memories that would fade with age. “Let’s get out of here,” he offers up, eyes starry. 

 “Yeah?” She folds her knees up to her chest, and he taps her under her chin to level their gazes. 

 “ Republic City . We can make something out of lives. Medical school, culinary school. Get out of this shithole. Get away from our past.” His smile is contagious. “Best friends, forever and ever, right?” 

 She’s so pretty, her wide eyes sparkling as they take in the rays of sun. She returns his smile. “Best friends, forever and ever.” 

 Katara remembers how Ursa would say Zuko always dreamt too big, his heart always wanting so, so much . 

 “It’s a blessing, but more of a curse,” she would note, with the wisdom only mothers are capable of possessing. Sometimes, Katara selfishly thinks the day Ursa left hurt her more than it hurt Zuko. They were impossibly close, to the point where Zuko even had to intervene when Ursa started siding with Katara during their arguments (he knows in his heart his Mother’s Day macaroni portrait of her was better). 

 She would wonder how the world could let her live like this, dangling something she’s always wanted right in front of her face, only to snatch it away. Wonder if it was easier to die, than live with a hole in her heart that seemingly doubled in size overnight. 

//

 “Zuko, please look at me.” 

 He’s mad, she could tell. With his pout and the way he was forcibly trying to squeeze his eyes in a glare. He’s been sitting in the same spot in her bed, eyes trained on tutorials on how to convincingly persuade your doctor to give you an adderall prescription and “who bit Beyonce” conspiracy videos. 

 “Well, what if I just wanted you to respect my privacy! For the first time in 15 years! Maybe I needed space!” She yelps after twenty minutes of the silent treatment. 

 Zuko sends her a look that has her freezing up on the spot. “Katara, you had a whole baby .”

 She felt thoroughly scolded, but she was stubborn. “And? What about it?” 

 “You had an entire one, and didn’t even bother to tell the godfather? When was I supposed to find out?” 

 Katara didn’t think that one through, to be honest. It was easy to forget, in between diapers that smelled like a fish sauce and an expired Vagisil smoothie, and balancing work. She lays down beside him, thoroughly exhausted after putting her little girl, Yue, down for a nap. “One, who made you the godfather? And two, I guess we’re just not close like that.” 

 “Look, I literally have your social security number memorized, and have practically given you a Pap smear. You really want to say ‘ we’re not close like that ?” He sends her a look that has her resolve faltering the slightest. “You did your pregnancy announcement like a Sailor Moon transformation sequence with before and after pictures of you being pregnant, and you didn’t think to fucking tell me?” 

 Katara gasps. “I had you blocked !” 

 “Azula’s a snitch!” He also got a glimpse of the photo of Katara in her hoe time dress that barely fit over her belly with the caption: how the mighty have fallen . He pauses, sucking in a breath of air for strength. The hurt flashes in his eyes and the only thing she could think to do was wrap him up in a familiar embrace. 

 At 19, Katara is so incredibly lost, and just wants her best friend by her side. 

 He’s busy, the summer before everything Republic City. Everytime she tries their house, Azula answers, rolling her eyes while clad in a Harry Styles shirt, because it’s a girl’s rite of passage to go through a One Direction phase and wear badly made merchandise from Hot Topic. He’s usually busy packing, or fucking Mai until she sounds like a car alarm during Fourth of July fireworks. 

 “Azula, no . You cannot kidnap Mai’s younger brother and trade him in for concert tickets to send a message.” 

 “Not even for floor ones?” Katara’s glare summed up her answer. “I used to look up to you,” Azula retorts, returning to her stan Twitter.

 She waits, waits, waits. The moans keep coming and she just rolls her eyes. Her stomach churns, mainly because she thinks Mai called Zuko’s dick The Pussy Penetrator every time he hit her g spot (you know what, good for her). But also because her scholarship to the university was less than she expected, and Hakoda didn’t want to cosign on a loan. She just wanted her best friend to be there for her. 

 She feels sick, sick enough to vomit in one of Iroh’s plants, while Azula rubs small circles into her back. 

 “You should’ve swallowed,” Toph reminds, bundling Katara’s thick hair into a ponytail as the girl hurled up her California roll. She’s so exhausted, she even leans her head against the Walmart toilet bowl, five positive pregnancy tests tossed carelessly beside her. 

 “Think it’s too late for that,” Katara grits out. “What are you doing?” 

 The last thing she expected was Toph’s hands gathering together in prayer formation. “Praying to Rihanna your period comes.” 

 Like many people her age, having a mental breakdown during a pregnancy scare and praying for a miracle in a public restroom was normal. But for the first time in her life, besides the time Rihanna willingly twerked on Drake at the 2011 Grammys, Ms. Robyn Fenty herself failed her. 

 “Fetus deletus that bitch! Fuck them kids !” She brings herself eye-level to Katara’s stomach. “Read the womb, bitch!” 

 “Did you just call my unborn baby a bitch?” Katara’s eyes are bleary from the smell of vomit and her future going down the drain.

 “You should’ve kept that bitch-baby in the drafts,” Toph sweeps the stray hairs from Katara’s watery eyes. “My cousin saved up for her abortion by running a pyramid scheme. I can get you her number.”

 Katara wanted to die. “I think I’m just going to crawl in this toilet and die. Call my brother if I don’t get flushed down all the way.” 

 “Again, I’m just a Walmart employee,” Toph snickers, helping the girl up. She’s rarely left her side since then. Their friendship just works, a pair of fuckups. The girl with the accident baby, and the Walmart security guard trying to figure out her own shit after running away from home. 

 “I should’ve been there!” Zuko reminds, tone heavy with betrayal.

 Katara remembered the few moments before he boarded the plane to Republic City. She wanted to be selfish. She wanted to tell him to not get on the flight, to keep holding her like he did at the entrance of the gate. She had a kiss ready on her lips that he wasn’t ready to give, backing away when their faces were too close, when she was too close. He just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving with regrets.

 “I should’ve been there holding your hand, letting you call me names, and fighting nurses if they breathed too close to this precious angel,” Yue holds his pinky with her little fingers, almost as though it was a natural reaction. His heart simply seizes up at the gesture, and he holds her tighter to his body. She was wailing after waking from her nap, colic crackling her throat for the last three months and causing her middle of the night wakeups to be painful and frequent. But with Zuko, she’s all calm and perfect and polite and beautiful and angelic. 

 “Didn’t know you liked kids this much,” Katara shrugs. She leans in, and Zuko throws his free arm around her. 

 “I’ll have you know I am the resident expert in telling children’s stories,” Zuko insists. 

 “Like?” Katara quirks up her brow. 

 “Like Rumpleforeskin, the mythical man who can weave majestic golden fleece from the ends of his pubic hair.” 

 She smacks him upside the head. “You’re disgusting .” She curls in deeper into his embrace. He had that twinkle in his eye that could mean he was going to masturbate to this moment in the shower later, or he was in love. It renders her breathless every time 

 She hopes when he looks at her he doesn’t see the eye bags, or the titty milk leaking everywhere, or the permanent crease in her brow. She hopes he could still see her, underneath it all. When she was just Katara . 

 “I guess, not telling you was just my way of keeping our dream alive.” She pauses, stroking Yue’s barely there hair. “I keep thinking that one day I could find the time to go to Republic City, and I don’t know. Get a chance to just be me .” 

 “Do you regret it?” Zuko’s rubbing circles into her back until she gets sleepy and her heart feels too full. 

 “I don’t know.” She tries, quiet, almost ashamed. “I don’t know.” 

 //

 At 21, Katara feels like she’s at the top of the world. 

 Not only did she get promoted from girl wearing a dumpling costume outside handing out 15% off coupons that only worked if you left a Yelp review, to a server in a shitty dim sum restaurant, she was also accepted in the culinary program at the local university. It wasn’t Republic City per say, but Yue could attend the nearby preschool and go to the university-run childcare program afterwards while Katara was working. 

 She even got a hold of Jet, who refused to disclose his location or job. But judging by the copious child support mandated by some judge who hated men as much as Katara did, he was doing well. He sometimes Venmos Katara a few extra dollars on Yue’s birthdays. 

 Sokka and Hakoda, while hesitant to the little girl’s presence early on, spoil her absolutely rotten. When they think Katara’s passed out after her 14 hour days, they’re red in the face, screaming at Zuko over the phone about who was going to get Yue the Peppa Pig Playhouse (complete with flashing lights) she always talks about. 

 Hakoda even tries at therapy, wanting to be there for the apple of his eye. Sometimes, Katara’s hurt he never tried for her, tried in her childhood. She’s happy for him, nonetheless. 

  (Mostly) everything was working out.

 “How are both my girls doing?” Zuko would always sing-song during his nightly Facetime calls. Yue would scream and snatch the phone from Katara’s hands, delighted at the sound of her one and only Uncle Zuzu. He’s an extravagant gift giver, regularly sending Yue glittery Hello Kitty and Wonder Woman backpacks. He even buys her a whole iPad for her fourth birthday, already coming with child safe settings on and YouTube loaded with her favorites (namely, Barbie: Fairytopia ). He’s guilty he couldn’t come home, but then again, he rarely ever did. Too consumed with work, grad school applications.

 Katara can’t help but feel her heart pulse the slightest bit faster during those calls, even if she shuts it down as quickly as it comes.

  He’s so good to her . 

 She used to cherish those moments he used to tell her secrets, dreams, everything in those hours early in the morning before high school would start. With approximately 3,209 miles between the two of them, she wakes up to texts instead. 

 **

Zuko: I dreamed that I was being held at gunpoint by one of those thicc caterpillars from A Bug’s Life , and if I didn’t finish the MCAT in approximately 20 minutes, they would shoot me in the face. The dump truck ass of those ants were the bullets

Katara: Please block my number

Zuko: No. <3

**

 He’s all gentle smiles and eyes squeezing into little half moons just like Yue’s after he plays a game of Facetime patty cake and messes up on the beat just to hear the little girl laugh. 

 The next month, Zuko had decided enough was enough . He missed his girl. 

 His hospital, for the first time in a year, was letting him have the weekend off. So he books Katara a ticket straight away, because he thinks he’s going to die if he has to be around people who don’t know who Megan Thee Stallion is. 

 “Boys only speak two languages. English and emotional manipulation,” Toph reprimands, hugging Katara so tight she could barely get in a word. “Please remember that.” 

 It was her first time leaving her hometown in her life, her first time on an airplane for God’s sake. She’s jittery though, the cushioned seats Toph somehow upgraded her ticket to (after covertly whispering with the gate attendant) doing nothing to alleviate her nerves. 

 When she jumps in his arms in baggage claim, he breathes in deep. Her hugs have always warmed his insides, and he didn’t realize how much he craved it until he was greedy, pressing into her and refusing to let go despite her many protests.

 “Come here often?” he mumbles, smiling into her shoulder. 

 Her cheeks grew hot at his touch. “Occasionally.” She whispers back. 

 He decided there and then in front of Gate 3 they needed to make up for lost time as quickly as possible. 

 The college party is entirely too sticky, entirely too messy for a proper (extremely) late 21st birthday celebration. Her crop top and big earrings and glittery eyeshadow and endless curves has Zuko wondering how much he’s missed in the last few years. When she hugs him close to her and screams out Nicki Minaj lyrics, he doesn’t remember her being so soft and even prettier. Beautiful. Breathtaking, knocking the wind out his lungs if she as so much blinked. 

 She looks like any 21 year old, without a care in the world, just figuring out their life. He wonders what this version of Zuko and Katara was. 

 Maybe they got to go to Republic City together. Maybe they work in the same building, and are just letting steam off from work. Maybe they loved each other. It was dangerous though. He feels as though she’s caging him in, that grip on his heart sparking up again without his permission. Her fake lashes he saw her glue on in the airport bathroom flutter about, hands coming up to accentuate her words every time she tries to scream something in his ear over the pulsating music. He just grips her waist harder between his hands, holding her tight.

 //

 In a perfect world, all she saw was him. She wishes it was him. She sometimes thinks she sees Zuko’s eyes in Yue. She sees his smile. She sees his heart. 

 While they’d spent the entire night stumbling through the city, his girlfriend was home. Barefoot, pregnant. Looking like the cover of some women’s lifestyle magazine, stray curls escaping her bun to frame her face in all its angelic glory. Glowy and flawless and every bit beautiful. Different from the girl Katara caught crying in the kitchen.  “You can hate me all you want, you can talk shit about me all you want. But I love him,” Jin insists. “I’m his girlfriend , for fuck’s sake. 

 Katara has to stop herself from recoiling. She had a specific vision of their future. One that included doing taxes together and matching sweaters and teaching him her new macaroon recipe and Yue balanced on his lap. 

 But one look at Jin, and it becomes glaringly obvious how little she fit in with his new life. 

 “I don’t hate you, Jin.” It’s every bit sincere, but the girl doesn’t look convinced. 

 Jin rolls her eyes. A pointed look freezing Katara in her place.

 “Ok, I might’ve complained once or twice about your VSCO filter choice.” 

 “Yeah, Zuko sent a screenshot of your texts to me instead of you by accident.” 

 “God, you know he always fucking does that? To be fair though, M05 is too orange and is not a good look on anyone. You can do better, I know you can.” The two girls laugh. It was devoid of any genuine emotion, just meant as an attempt to fill the empty space between them. “If I had known. Fuck, if I had just known, I’m sorry, Jin.” She had no idea Zuko had a kid on the way, that they were still living together and determined to co-parent while their relationship was in a weird limbo. If she was Jin, she would’ve kicked someone’s pussy and made a scene and set something on fire. But Jin wasn’t that type of girl. Jin was soft and pretty and looked like she smelled like an interior designer's perfectly bleached asshole. 

 “Do you love him?” Jin seemed to shrink into herself, small enough Katara might miss her in a blink of an eye. 

 Katara couldn’t quite decipher the meaning behind the question. She thinks she’s too scared to. 

 Katara doesn’t know how to respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak. This Zuko wasn’t the Zuko she knew. She loved the Zuko who would steal people’s Netflix passwords off of 4chan, and cosplay as Todoroki at Anime Con to make a few bucks. Not the one who can afford sky rises in the big city. 

 He didn’t even tell her that his big internship in the city was for his father’s hospital, and he was next in line to running it. “You’re a lawyer with health insurance and your own Netflix account! You’re good for him, Jin.” Katara falters the slightest. “I just want to see Zuko happy.” 

 “Me too.” Jin says quietly.

 “Whatever, fuck Zuko !” She tries at extending the olive branch.  “I can’t believe you’re preggers!” She puts a gentle hand on Jin's belly, and her vagina immediately winces. “You know, your vag will never look the same, and you might grow a third boob in your armpit.” 

 “You’re lying .” 

 “Yeah, a lump of breast milk can form there, too!” Katara is about to scroll to the photo in her phone when Jin laughter breaks through the night. 

 //

 “I hope your dick gets bitten off mid-blowjob!” She whisper-screams, struggling with her suitcase until it smacks all at nearly every corner and edge. She was just making noise for the sake of making noise, but it made her feel better. 

 He didn’t expect waking up to a charge on his card for a flight booked in the last ten minutes, or Katara shoving his good mixer in her suitcase. 

 “You hate it don’t you?” He always loved it when Katara went into Hulk mode anytime a bully dared test her protective nature. While it was never entirely directed at him, he now understands exactly why Chan peed his pants. Katara was terrifying . 

 “What?” Zuko’s confused, rubbing an eye booger away. 

 “You loved it when I’m crying over Jet, crying over something, fucking something up in my life. Being mad at the world. You hate that I’m better, and making something of myself now!” She’s angry and grasping at straws. 

 Zuko furrows his brows, not sure where to progress from here. “Ok, run that by me again?” 

 The air vanishes when her stare cools over to absolutely icy.  “There’s nothing else I can give. So what the fuck do you want from me?” 

 He laughs, all hollow and almost mocking . “You know, I was afraid of you coming here.” He lies.  

 She stops in her tracks. “What the hell do you mean?” 

 “I thought...I thought you wouldn’t get this new me, because it’s different!” He protests. “See, this is exactly the reason why! You’re mad I can afford real Gucci !” 

 Katara recoils, looking embarrassed for him. God, were men so fucking stupid, and so proud of it, too. “Are you fucking serious.” 

 Zuko’s frustrated, running his hands through his hair. “What the fuck are we doing, Katara?” 

 “You tell me!” She demands. “I’m not that kind of girl, Zuko! I’m not that kind of girl that is going to break up a fucking engagement, or whatever the fuck you weirdos are doing!” 

 He throws up his hands. “I’m not happy! We’re not happy.” 

 “What? You think now that you’ve sold your soul to your piece of shit dad and you can buy jewelry that won’t turn your fingers green that I’m going to fuck you?” 

 “No! I’m not saying that—”

 Katara scoffs. “Then what the fuck are you saying? Grow up, Zuko. Grow the fuck up and just leave me the fuck alone .” 

 “You’re still Katara.” He throws his hands up in the air, trying to stop her. Even if he felt like his entire world was falling apart, there was one thing he would always be certain about. “I’m still Zuko. The same Zuko who loves you .” 

 Katara turns her head, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her upset. “The thing is, this isn’t you, Zuko.” Katara says with finality. “It isn’t you .” 

 When she gets home, she spots it right away. On their dining table, white paper folded neatly,  Yue was the type of little girl who looked to both sides of the street before crossing, repeating it  two more times to be safe. She always took extra care to make everything even, never a wrinkle in sight on her homework. 

 The Crayola family portrait that brought to life everything she’d imagined and more. Katara doesn’t have the heart to look for longer than a second. 

 //

 At 27, Katara’s pretending that it’s the happiest day of her life. 

 She didn’t think he would listen to her, you know, men rarely did anything right. Zuko, though, heeds her warning and only calls exactly two hours before Yue’s bedtime like clockwork. There weren’t any surprise texts to wake up to anymore, no more evidence of Zuko in her life. She doesn’t even find out about Jin’s affair with one of those Axe commercial guys until months later. 

 When she goes to unblock his number and text him, to try and talk to him, she gasps. She sees those grey iMessage bubbles, and she’s ashamed her heart splutters, awakening a feeling she thought she’s dampened. She puts her phone down for milliseconds, before checking it again and again and again. She finally threw the damn thing across the room when a week passed. 

 She thinks it’s for the better, especially when she was sure she finally got things right with Jet. 

 “ We’ll make this shit work together.” Jet reassures, gathering her close to him she could see every little detail of him. “Like Kanye said, ‘you’re a MILF, and I’m a mother-fucker.” 

 She covers her ears, pushing him into the restaurant’s glass door. “No thank you. No more non consensual reciting of Kanye verses.” 

 “Yeezy, breezy, beautiful, baby. Get into it.” Jet winks, and Katara feels herself gagging again.

 Then again, Katara always had a thing for stupid. And for three easy payments of $Penis.99, he had an all access experience to her pussy and her trauma. 

 “And he bought me those carrot cake cupcakes I always look at when we go to the supermarket but I never want to chance it because it could have raisins instead of nuts and I think I hate raisins more than I hate white men named Nathaniel.” 

 Toph jabs Katara in the forehead. “Wow, he spared $5 on some dry pastries, and your pussy was suddenly screaming pick me, pick me !” 

 “They were gluten free, too,” she points out. “Plus, my pussy doesn’t scream!” 

 “Oh right, my bad! It whispers!” 

 “ Toph !” 

 “Last night I heard it go wash me! Wash me!” 

 It felt good with him, though. It felt good to see him help Yue with math homework, making dinner in their little kitchen, pressing kisses to her in the morning despite her breath smelling like Khloe Kardashian’s earring backing pussy. Someone to come home to. 

 “Piece of shit, I’ll fucking kill you!” She was punching him over and over again until her knuckles were ripped raw, sitting straight on his throat. Beating him stupid in the middle of her shift. He thought he could get away with it. With Katara now stuck in the kitchen as one of the head cooks, and the fact he had a reservation in one of the private rooms for him and his secretary to go over...numbers, he didn’t think much of it. 

 Too bad Toph was too invested, and had a friends-to-lovers storyline to live vicariously through. 

 “Scram, fuglies!” Toph screamed to other customers who had already started chanting “WorldStar!” 

 Katara lost her job, lost her mans, lost a section of her eyebrow because Toph accidentally tried helping and swung the wrong direction. 

  “Catch me outside, how ‘bout that!” She yelps triumphantly, despite the fact Katara was cradling her own bloodied face. 

 And here she was, about to lose her best friend, too. 

 She accidentally Facetimed his old number, and spent the last hour mulling over her feelings with an executive of a porn studio who picked up mid-shoot. “Just tell him you love him!” The balding man is exhausted.

 “What do I even say? Do I tell him, ‘I think I’ve always loved you?’ Is that too cheesy? You know that feeling when your heart just—Oh my fucking god! Is that Sandy Cheeks from Spongebob ?!” She screams, slamming her hands over her eyes. The squirrel’s melons-for-tits would never be erased from her memory.

 He only has fear in his eyes when he looks at her. “You didn’t see anything.” Robert bites out, promptly hanging up. 

 In her post-Jet purge, she realized she wasn’t the type of ex dead set on destroying his things. After all, she was selling his light-up keyboard to pay for Toph’s birthday boob job. Her residual anger was instead, spent hacking away at the drawer he always kept locked. Until she found it.  

 A letter from him. 

 “ I’ve always been afraid that our friendship would’ve spilled over until all I could do is categorize it with four simple letters .” Katara whispers, eyes frantically scanning the paper. “And I’m done being afraid .” 

 “The four letters he’s talking about is D-U-M-B  B-I-C-T-H . Dumb bitch. The ‘bitch’ is silent.” Toph insists. “I can’t believe you let a balding bum, whose credit score tanked because he invested his entire savings in Shake Weight Milkshake making machines, knock you up instead of Zuko.” 

 “It was innovative at the time,” she whispers. 

 “Fill the void in your heart, not your pussy.”

 She's whipping out her shitty MacBook Air, and praying his email still worked. But when she calls all she sees is her.

 “You told me to come to Republic City and find him!” Mai exclaims, holding up her hand where a big ring blinding the fuck out of her. 

 She feels her heart crumble at the same time she crushes the letter in her hand. 

 “I did do that, didn’t I?” Katara winces. The time the model stopped by in their hometown, Katara was still happy and getting her pussy pounded regularly and let that shit get to her head. She thought it would be a blessing in disguise, and wanted to help Zuko out, too. 

 "Fuck." 

 //

 Their wedding looked ripped out of a 2014 Basic Bitch Pinterest board, and she’s definitely sure she couldn’t be happier. 

 “Why is her name spelled like ‘Mai’ and pronounced ‘May?’ Like, shouldn’t it be spelled like ‘Mei?’” 

 “Katara, you’re just being a bitch,” Toph reminds while Katara stares at the sign with their wedding hashtag in front of the photobooth with all the ‘YOLO’ signs and 2013 mustaches.

 “I am well aware!” She asserts, chin jutting out. 

 Mai’s New York Fashion Week ready body was gorgeous, perfect in Zuko’s hold. 

 Katara wished life was like a rom-com. Where she could burst through the doors, declare her love, piss on him in her ugly, big bridesmaid dress and mark her territory once and for all. 

 But life wasn’t a movie. Life was just this shitty piece of dumpster fire shit and was always fucking her over like the Target self-checkout line camera. 

 What could she do? Deliver some long-winded speech about how she would go to realign the stars in the heavens if it meant a chance to rewrite their fate? That she hoped she visits his dreams before his mind could settle into reality, the same way he visited hers and overstayed his welcome every single time? Make everyone uncomfortable and wonder if they boned? 

 Then again, she was never going to be the one to block her best friend’s blessings. Not on the happiest day of his life.

 “I think this is the happiest day of my life.” Katara says seamlessly. 

 Zuko sees it though, sees right through her and has to stop himself from reaching out to her. 

 “It wasn’t ever easy being Zuko’s best friend. I mean look at him now, getting married to someone perfect . He’s not even in the same ballpark, league, or hell, stadium porta potty as her!” 

 Zuko ducks his head with a brief pout that breaks Katara’s heart. Everyone laughs in spite of him, until he joins in, too. “You know, it’s easy to pretend that finding love is easy. You could find love in all the little things in your life. All the people, all the details. It’s easy to say you always, completely, truly love someone. Because that’s what we want love to be, right? At the surface, sure.” She folds the flimsy paper she had on hand, nothing was written on it anyways. “You want it to be perfect.” 

 “But the love everyone works so hard to get, is the love that’s hard . It’s the love that isn’t safe. The love that challenges, excites you, the love that will never have limits. The love that’s messy and beautiful all at the same time.” She looks at him, truly looks at him for the first time in years and all she could do was smile. 

 “It’s easy to find love, but it’s near impossible to find a soulmate.” She raises her glass. “Join me in a toast to the bride and groom. I wish you a lifetime of happiness.” 

 And while everyone is gathered out on the dance floor, she’s sobbing pathetically and smearing the winged eyeliner she worked so hard to perfect on the car ride there. Trying to stop any of the pain from consuming her. 

 She’s out on the rooftop of the venue, the cold air whipping her face as she tries lighting up a blunt. 

 “Are you getting high at my wedding !” Zuko is incredulous, and shocks Katara enough to drop the joint off the roof. 

 “On all things Fenty Beauty, bitch what the fuck?” Katara wipes the tears from the corner of her eyes. 

 “The flower girl wanted to see her mommy.” But Katara sees right through Yue’s little act. Pretending to sleep so she could be held by Zuko (me too, girl. Me too). 

 It felt dangerous, the way she could toy with his heart, his own personal defibrillator shocking it back to life. She’s pretty even with red-rimmed eyes, with the fake smiles he knew was trying to appease him to leave her alone. If anything, all it does is make him want to kiss her until her troubles are gone. 

 He wanted to do a lot of things at that moment. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, tell her that above all else, he missed his girl the most. But, he had everything on his plate and then some. 

 “The chicken was dry as fuck.” He blurts, wiping the sweat from his face. Only Katara could send him back a few decades. “I wish you could’ve catered it.” 

 “Yeah?” She laughs and wants to call him out for stalking her company’s Facebook page. “Remember you tried my new recipe and you vomited all over the front row at your fourth ever Hello Zuko performance?” She misses his messy hair, when he didn’t look so clean cut and rich bitchy. 

 “I didn’t know you weren’t done cooking it!” 

 She shoves his head, and he joins her, dangling his feet precariously off the roof. 

 When she’s here with him, when he has her in his hold for the first time in years, he sees his whole life with just a glimpse in her eyes. And all he wants to do is build a machine and reverse all the time that’s passed them by. 

 “I made a mistake.” Zuko breathes out, eyes nervously darting around. 

 As sure as he was that Nicki Minaj deserved a Grammy, he was sure he loved her. 

 “W-What?” Katara blinks at him. 

 “I made a mistake, Katara.” He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, carding his hand through his hair. Looking every bit devastatingly handsome. “I realized something. After the speech, after just, everything.” 

 “I realized I just can’t have my cake and eat it, too.” 

 Just like that, just with the way he built her up, it comes tumbling down. 

 “So what are you saying?” Her heart was on the verge of cracking in half and he didn’t even know it. Because all he could pin her with a look she couldn’t read, and she thinks if he was a smarter man he would’ve at least pretended that it hurt him to hurt her. 

 But it did. 

 It broke him, ripped him in half to see her face turn to steel right before his eyes. 

 “What I’m saying is, after all these years.” He doesn’t have it in him to face her. “I think I have to finally let you go, Katara.” 

[stevemoffett]

A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are

In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”

It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.

I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.

For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.

Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)

My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.

But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.

Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?

Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.

I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”

At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.

I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”

I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.

And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.

That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.

Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”

This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”

When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.

From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.

The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.

One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.

I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.

“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.

The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”

After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”

My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.

“It’s over?” I asked.

“You’re all done,” he said.

“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”

Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.

An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.

“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.

It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.

The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.

A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.

“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”

This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.

The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.

*

I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.

I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.

My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.

When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.

“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”

In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.

This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.

But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.

A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.

Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.

But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.

Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.

But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.

Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”

My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.

But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”

Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.

Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

“So what does that mean, then?”

I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.

I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.

My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.

It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.

*

I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.

But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”

In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.

This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.

I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.

I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.

*

I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.

In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.

For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”

Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.

I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.

The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.

Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.

I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”

There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.

Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.

With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.

The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”

Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.

Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”

One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.

*

I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.

There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.

Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?

There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.

But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?

Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 23 Review: In the Not-So-Hidden Temple

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

CONTENT WARNING FOR MENTION OF SUICIDE TOWARDS THE END OF THE REVIEW

Welcome back to my Garden of Evil, which I have let lay barren for far too long. A few busy weeks of mask-making threw me off my posting schedule last April and I have only just begun to get back into the habit of writing episode reviews. Also, I knew that I would need to do a lot of research for this one, so I kept putting it off while I worked on my essay about Strange Paradise on WKBF. But now I’m ready to return to reviewing this show regularly, and let me tell you that I learned some very interesting things while researching this episode.

But first, a word from Jean Paul Desmond.

Jean Paul: “Erica, my darling, I do know what is right and wrong, and to be with you is all that is right for me. I cannot control either, though, for is it wrong to want you alive again? Is it wrong for me to want to give up my life for yours, if need be? Because the Devil will not have my soul! And, if it means freeing you from the capsule, I will. We will destroy each other so that at least we may share our eternity together.”

Jean Paul is wearing a lovely green shirt that, unfortunately, we will never get to see again after this episode. He has also not yet given up on his habit of stalking, as we see when he spies on Matt Dawson. Matt prays for Erica, then goes to investigate the coffins of Jean Paul’s ancestors while Quito sneaks up behind him. Then he starts talking to the mute servant about how much he wants to leave Maljardin and tries persuading him to sail him back to the main island.

That is when Raxl finds him there and tells him something which I can't make out (see Part 1, 2:54 to 2:59). Debby Graham transcribes part of her line as "he is deaf," but Raxl says more than that. Bryan Gruszka of StrangeParadise.net says nothing on either his synopsis or the corresponding trivia page about Quito being deaf, so it’s possible that he didn’t understand her line either. Still, I'll be damned if I can make out anything with the bad audio. The automated captions don't even transcribe any of it, correctly or not, so I have no idea what the hell she’s saying.

"He may not be able to talk," replies Matt, "but he can hear." You would think that being together with Quito since at least 1689 would be more than enough time for her to figure out whether he is deaf or not, but I guess I'm wrong. Anyway, she decides that, because Matt is a minister, she can safely confide in him about the evil on Maljardin aka THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES.

Stop trying to distract her, Dan! Go rant about Jean Paul to a hidden camera again!

Meanwhile, Dan is being a patronizing ass to Alison in the lab as she searches for Dr. Menkin’s missing notes. I can’t tell if Dan was intended to be so unlikeable or if their scenes together just haven’t aged well. Either way, they still have no chemistry (unlike her and Jean Paul/Jacques) and I still have no idea what she sees in him.

But enough about them for now. Let’s return to the crypt, where the interesting stuff is happening. There’s a lot to unpack, so I will be going through their dialogue and analyzing the important bits.

Alison (from the previous scene): “You talk of-”

Matt: “-Evil, of danger, but not of how I am to fight them.”

   Raxl: “God--the Christian God--He is good?”    Matt: “He is love, Raxl.”    Raxl: “So you are good.”    Matt: “I am His servant.”    Raxl: "It is not enough to do as the curandero does."    Matt: "Curandero?"    Raxl: "When evil walks, the soul is lost. The curandero--the sorcerer--calls for it to return to the body."

Here Raxl references a type of traditional healer popular throughout Latin America. According to Wikipedia, the rituals of curanderos and curanderas combine traditional medicine from indigenous cultures with religious practices from both Catholicism and traditional African religions. Sound familiar? That’s because modern curanderismo came about because of the same social factors as the religions collectively known as Vodou[1]: namely, colonialism and the transatlantic slave trade, which led to increased interaction between indigenous peoples, African slaves, and European colonists. When the colonists tried to impose Christianity on the people they enslaved (both indigenous and black), many of them responded by combining Christian figures and trappings with their own religious practices in a process known as syncretism. Although curanderismo is not Vodou, both are syncretic traditions with a similar history and a similar association with witchcraft. This is probably why the show makes the connection between them.

Matt: "And is a soul lost in this place, Raxl?" Raxl: "Most easily. It returns [through the hands] or [through the temples]." [She touches those areas of Matt's body.] "These are its holes in the body. When it departs, it goes from them. When it returns...The magic of the curandero is a fervent belief of my people. You understand?" Matt: "Which you no longer believe."

The Reverend appears to assume that, because Raxl is seeking his help, she must no longer believe in the curanderos’‘ magic. Most likely this is because he follows a religion that tends toward exclusivism, the idea that one true religion exists and all others are wrong. Although Matt has already revealed that he does not believe this--he said in Episode 10 that “a minister should have an interest in all spiritual phenomena” and “any path that leads to God should have a minister’s approval”--he might still unconsciously believe that a non-Christian who expresses an interest in God must want to convert.

Raxl: "I believe the Christian God is good." Matt: "And that I, His servant, can help you with this, this matter of the soul?" Raxl: "Someone must! Please! Help us! HELP US! SOMEONE MUST!"

Yes, he’s still watching them.

And Raxl notices the camera!

Raxl tells Matt that they mustn’t stay in the crypt in case someone overhears. Jean Paul watches as they grab torches and get ready to head to the Not-So-Hidden Temple, and very nearly discovers the temple’s entrance, only to turn away at the wrong moment to scowl at the camera:

Proof that I did not just make that up.

When we return, we see Raxl and Quito escort Matt to the temple. Between the torchlight, the eerie music, and the darkness of the tunnel, it’s a surprisingly effective scene that gives a sense of suspense and wonder. When they reach the temple, Raxl tells Matt about the temple’s history:

Matt: “I’ve read about many ancient temples, but this one is-” Raxl: “Secret and sacred, the Temple of the Serpent.” [She and Quito pass their torches between their hands, as they do in many of their rituals.] “An ancient people years ago lived on Maljardin. You know of them?” Matt: "Like the Aztecs and the Tarascans, the Totonacs." Raxl: "Like them were our island people. For three thousand years, they were one with the Earth." Matt: "Farming people?" Raxl: "Not warriors, not dealers in the Devil's business of death. This was our temple, is our temple!"

So Raxl and Quito are natives to the island and of indigenous Central American descent, related to the Aztecs, Tarascans, and Totonacs. (In spite of this, both of their actors are white.) Unlike the Aztecs, however, they were a peaceful people. That is, except for one little thing...

Raxl: "The Christian god is not displeased?" Matt: "God believes that each may have his own belief." [He touches the altar.] "If this is what I think it is..." Raxl: "The basin of the blood sacrifice."

Meanwhile, Jean Paul heads to the crypt to continue stalking and is shocked to find neither Raxl. nor Quito, nor Matt, nor the very obvious hidden door leading to the Temple of the Serpent:

Well, if you had left your monitor on and watched it for just a minute longer, you would know all about the not-so-secret door to the temple. *Jacques voice and laugh* You snooze, you lose, Jean Paul!

Back in the Temple of the Serpent, Raxl and Matt discuss the use of the altar:

Matt: "God wouldn't be pleased with this!" Raxl: "Only the priests used it, and only to please the gods of fertility and the maize." Matt: "Sometimes humans were sacrificed." Raxl: "As others have sacrificed. You know the Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered Serpent?" Matt: "Yes." Raxl: "He gathered bones of the dead from all the world. When he returned, he sprinkled his own blood on them." Matt: "And thus created his man." Raxl: "This is the belief."

Here we learn the identity of the Serpent whom Raxl worships: it is Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec creator god also known as the Feathered Serpent. In Pre-Columbian times, many peoples throughout Mesoamerica worshipped feathered serpent gods, including the Olmecs, the Yucatec Maya (Kukulkan), and the K’iche’ Maya (Q’uq’umatz). Although the legends and appearance of the Feathered Serpent vary from culture to culture, all Mesoamerican Feathered Serpents are generally considered variations of the same ancient deity, once again connecting to the aforementioned practice of syncretism.

Before re-watching this episode, I had forgotten that Raxl identified the serpent as Quetzalcoatl. Because the show, many ads promoting it, and the tie-in novels refer to her religion as voodoo, I assumed (after Googling “voodoo serpent” and reading many pages in the results) that the serpent she worshiped was the Vodou god or lwa Damballah, a deity similar to Quetzalcoatl. According to legend, Damballah created the world and all living things, much like the Feathered Serpent, who restored humanity to life after its death at the end of the world’s previous cycle.

Some modern pagans and Vodou practitioners syncretize Quetzalcoatl and Damballah. This post on La Bloga by Ernest Hogan and this essay by the Steemit user yestermorrow are good examples.[2] Another example of this association can be found in Leslie Marmon Silko’s novel Almanac of the Dead, where one character, a black Vietnam vet named Clinton, says the following about them:

The spirits of Africa and the Americas are joined together in history, and on both continents by the sacred gourd rattle. Erzulie joins the Mother Earth. Damballah, great serpent of the sky and keeper of all spiritual knowledge, joins the giant plumed serpent, Quetzalcoatl. When someone dies, the spirit goes to the Dead Country. Legba Gede, Lord of the Crossroads of Life and Death, directs the traffic of the human souls.[3]

Does Raxl also syncretize the West African and Mesoamerican serpent gods? They never say, but I think she does. She likely practices a combination of her native religion, curanderismo, and "the conjure faith” (as she and Vangie usually call voodoo).

Matt: "Did you bring me here to talk of ancient tribal history, Raxl?" Raxl: "Tribal? It wasn't! It is the highest culture!"

Matt inadvertently reveals a somewhat condescending attitude toward the ancient Mesoamerican civilization on Maljardin by calling it “tribal.” The word’s connotations of primitiveness are not lost on Raxl.

Matt: "All right, but what of this danger, this evil that rambles around here?" Raxl: "You scorn what I have said. I see it in your face and in your eyes: your scorn, derision. Your presence corrupts the Temple! It was wrong of me to bring you here, to trust you!" Matt: "Wait! If you must trust someone, trust me. I scorn nothing about this temple. It's a place of worship. I respect it as I would my own. If I seemed impatient with past history, it's only that the present concerns me more."

Sure, Jan Matt. I totally believe you respect a temple with an altar for blood sacrifice. Not that many people would, but still, his claim not to disrespect it is not entirely convincing (to say the least). It’s about as convincing as his insistence that he’s officiated at many funerals in crypts back in Episode 16. Even so, Raxl agrees to trust him and tells him all about Erica’s death and Jacques’ possession of Jean Paul.

Meanwhile, Jacques continues to torment his descendant. He also continues to reference things which no mere mortal from the 17th century would have been aware of:

Ah, yes, just like the bus depot that Louis XIV built at Versailles and the time clock he made all his ministers punch.

But Jean Paul can’t keep himself away from his hidden stalker room for long and returns to it two minutes later to spy on Alison, who is looking for Dr. Menkin’s notes on Erica and who is also desperately trying to persuade Dan that she does not have feelings for her brother-in-law. And then he visits the lab to let them know he was spying on them:

He’s stopped hiding the fact that he’s spying on everyone.

Dan, sick of dealing with Jean Paul and his moods.

Getting salty!

Dan asks Jean Paul when he reported Erica’s death. He insists that Dr. Menkin wrote a statement about her death, which he showed to the Cryonics Society before they froze her corpse, but Dan does not accept that. He asks if he ever told the authorities of Erica’s death, but Jean Paul didn’t for obvious reasons. He refuses to allow anyone to open the capsule to give Erica an autopsy, because that would mean that she could never be revived (not sure what his logic is, since zombies exist in this show’s universe).

He also officially rehires Dan, which is when he learns that Jacques already did so a week ago. This sends Jean Paul over the edge and he sends them off so they don’t see him rummage through the medicine cabinet.

THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE SECTION ABOUT SUICIDE. IF THE TOPIC OF SUICIDE TRIGGERS YOU, SKIP AHEAD TO THE NEXT PHOTO OF JEAN PAUL.

He grabs a bottle of cyanide and sneaks behind them back into the Great Hall. He announces to Jacques that he plans to kill himself and Jacques along with him, as though suicide were enough to defeat THE DEVIL. He is delusional, of course. All that would do is prevent Jacques from taking over his living body (and, as I mentioned above, zombies exist in this show’s universe, so Jacques could--in theory--possess an undead Jean Paul). “Now, be a good boy,” Jacques purrs to him like the handsome biscuit-maker that he is, “and store that away for another day. Now join your guests, eat slowly, and digest what I have said very carefully.”

END OF SECTION ABOUT SUICIDE

I enjoyed this episode, particularly the scenes with Raxl, Matt, and Quito. The Reverend may be somewhat of a creep when it comes to his behavior towards Holly, but I like his other subplot with Raxl and how they join forces against Jacques despite their religious differences and the temple’s dark history. Also, although initially I kept procrastinating, researching for this entry was fun and I ended up having fun going down the rabbit snake hole. I’m not an expert on Vodou, curanderos, or ancient Mesoamerican religions now, but I’ve learned some interesting things.

Coming up next: An analysis of the top five things wrong with Tim’s subplot.

{<- Previous: Episode 22   ||   Next: Episode 24 -> }

Notes

[1] I use “Vodou” here to refer to the real-world religions commonly known as voodoo and “voodoo” in reference to their portrayal in popular culture.

[2] Along with Simbi (another serpent lwa), Damballah is also believed to possess the ability to control snakes; because of this, many of his devotees further syncretize him with Saint Patrick and Moses.

[3] Leslie Marmon Silko, Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992), p. 429, https://archive.org/details/almanacofdead00lesl. (RIP National Emergency Library)

[boymeetsweevil]

Another draft because FS is taking too long

Title: two wrongs don’t make a right (so what do two douchebags and a dweeb make?)

Douche/fuck boy Jimin and Jin, weirdo!OC

Jimin waits until the girl’s tiny frame disappears down the hallway in a blur of overly familiar stained sweats before turning to stare down a very sheepish looking Jin.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, got it?” He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing it and making him resemble a cockatoo.

“Dude, relax. I get it, you have a rep to maintain. Everyone ventures outside their type for a first time.”

Jin winces. He knows he’s known for being incredibly picky—only ever sleeping with 4.0 girls (the number referring to their maximum dress size and minimum GPA). Someone even did a story on it in the Hot Takes section of the school magazine. He’s still not sure if it’s a moment he should proud of.

“About that…” he trails off and tugs nervously at the throw blanket he hastily clothed himself with when Jimin burst into their shared living room only to catch him in a rather compromising position. With that girl of all people.

“What?”

“Itsnotthefirsttimeanditwontbethelast”

Jimin blinks slowly, trying to process the flurry of words and Jin’s ashamed tone. When what Jin said finally hits him, he grins darkly.

“Man, c’mon. Don’t joke like that about her, its not nice.”

“Jimin, I’m—,” Jin looks around the hallway suspiciously before dragging Jimin into the dorm and slamming the door shut. “I’m being serious, okay?” Jimin’s jaw drops and he begins to sputter.

“But…why her?”

The first time Jimin encountered you was during a particularly late night in the stacks of the library last semester. The year was starting off hard and he was getting his ass kicked in one particular introductory psych class.

At around 1 in the morning, he had one more problem to finish on his take-home exam but was desperately stuck. He remembered seeing someone who he recognized from class sitting in the economics section. He thought it was odd initially. Usually no one sat there because the smell from the librarians’ bathroom often carried over. And no one wanted to study to the smell of coffee shits.

Taking a break, he grabbed his laptop and wandered around the stacks to find the classmate. When he found you, you were in the process of packing up, struggling to get your earphones into the headphone jack of your phone while also carrying a stack of periodicals and a burger from the campus grill, which happened to be leaking ketchup onto your already dingy tracksuit. He approached you carefully.

“Hey, you’re in Professor Kang’s class, right?”

“Huh?”

His voice startled you and you lost your precarious grip on your stuff. The poorly wrapped burger fell to the floor and bled a little onto your white converse. The periodicals fluttered down around your feet.

“Shit, sorry. Lemme help you,” he offered as he put his laptop down. You gasped from your spot already crouched on the ground.

“No, please, it’s really okay. Please, I’m fine, I don’t need—“

But he already had one printout from the stack in his hand and automatically turned it over. When Jimin looks back on the memory, he thinks that this may have been the biggest mistake he’s ever made in his life.

He would later find out after a nervous google search that the paper in his hand, and probably 80 percent of the papers on the ground, were called fursonas. While a handful might have been somewhat decent, most of them were of overly buff rabbits with bubble butts raised for the viewer or tigers fisting weeping, veiny dicks over pastel backgrounds. The one he held was of a duck, or something, with a weight lifter’s body with an obscene expression on its face while tentacles swarmed it from all angles. The implications of what might be happening in the picture made Jimin’s head hurt.

“Oh my god, what the fuck. What the fuck,” he whispered. He was so stunned that he let you rip the page from his hand.

“It’s called fur-centric hentai and its art,” you hissed. The line sounded mechanical and well-practiced if you asked Jimin. He watched you gather the rest of your belongings quickly, burger included, before leaving him crouched in the economics stacks.

Jin snaps his fingers in front of Jimin’s zoned out face only to have him be brought back to reality with a look of slight disgust.

“What’s your problem, fix your face,” Jin snapped.

“I’m just trying to figure out why you chose her, of all people. You remember that story I told you about the Econ stacks. I was so scarred, I got a C on that test.”

“Pretty sure you got a C because you didn’t realize there was a second page of the homework.”

“Well, if she hadn’t thrown her weird animal dicks all over the place, I would have realized there was a back and finished the assignment”

Jin sniffs and drops the blanket he was wearing, before walking over to the kitchen to get a drink, naked as the day he was born. Jimin follows on autopilot.

“Maybe you should stop trying to yuck my yum,”Jin says over his shoulder.

“Oh my god, don’t say it like that. I’m just saying, man. She’s weird. And gross. And more importantly not.Your. Type.” He enunciates each word with a poke to Jin’s bare back while he gets them some beers.

“You think I don’t fucking know that? That’s why I keep it discrete. Why do you think I told you not to come home every Tuesday and Thursday at until after 8:30?”

“You said you had lab.”

“How the hell could I do a lab in our apartment?”

“It…It could happen.”

“I’m a poetry major,” Jin pinches the bridge of his nose at his roommate’s stupidity, “Damnit Jimin.”

Jimin purses his lips when he realizes he might be even dumber than he thought.

“Wait a second, you’ve had lab,” he makes giant air quote gestures, “for, what, 2 months now? You’ve just been fucking her this whole time?”

There’s a beat of silence as Jin takes another swig from his beer. “Yeah,” he finally says. The matter of fact air of his response makes something glitch in Jimin’s brain.

“What the hell, dude? That’s a lot of repeat service. Does she have something on you? Is that why you’re doing this? Did you break an expensive-ass vase or something?” Jimin stops to think, his mind running wild with possibilities. “Holy shit, are you being pimped out?”

“No. God, would you just shut up?” Jin sighs quietly. “I’m sleeping with her so much because she’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Jimin takes a step back at the defeated sincerity in Jin’s tone.

“How? What about that time with that other girl--what was her name?” Jimin runs a hand through his hair trying to remember any name of one of many the girls Jin has had a fling with. “Oh! Irene or something? What about her?”

“I mean, Irene was fine. She gave pretty good head. But last Thursday I thought I came harder than I’ve ever come in my entire life.”

“You ‘thought’?”

Jin looks up wistfully somewhere behind Jimin’s head at the memory. “Well then she came over the following Tuesday and rocked my shit,” he smirks. “And then that was the hardest I’ve ever come in my life.”

“So she gives good head. Who cares? There’s plenty of girls on campus who give good head and also don’t draw furry porn for a living and wash their damn sweatpants.”

“You don’t understand, dude. It’s not just the head. It’s the head, and the handjobs, and the pussy. It’s everything.”

Jimin raises his eyebrows incredulously. “The pussy is better than the handjobs?” He has to try hard not to look impressed. Meanwhile Jin is smilng, almost relieved now that the secret is out and he can talk openly about the mindblowing sex he’d been having.

“The first time she jerked me off, I passed out immediately after I came and woke up late to the class the next afternoon.”

Jimin narrows his eyes but motions with a hand for Jin to continue.

“The first time she blew me I couldn’t even walk afterward.”

“Wait...was that the day you told me you thought you had a sprained ankle? The one that healed after 24 hours?”

“Yep.”

The smug tone and the second stupid lie make Jimin want to rip his hair out. “Why do you lie so much,” he whispered, pain in his voice.

“I wasn’t lying, I really thought I had a sprained ankle.”

“From a blowjob?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What about the, uh, the pussy,” Jimin asks after realizing the FBI probably won’t come through the doors and snipe him for talking about vagina.

“The one time she let me hit it raw, I cried.,” Jin says, absolutely beaming.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.”

“I am, though. I think she was gonna let me do it again today.” Jin closes his eyes and smiles softly while Jimin looks on, unamused.

“So? What happened today? She underperform or something?” There’s a hint of jealousy and a lot of curiosity in his tone, but Jimin would deny it if anyone asked him.

“No, asswipe. She got spooked because you showed up when you weren’t supposed to.”

“Well, sorry for ruining your lies,” Jimin snaps, cracking open his own beer.

“You think this is a joke?” Jin shoves Jimin in the chest roughly. “We didn’t get to finish because of you. Now I have to jerk off with my own hand. That’s pathetic”

“And what were you doing before you met her? Listen to yourself, she’s making you crazy. No one is that good in bed.”

Jin stomps over to the couch and settles down before turning and looking at Jimin over the backboard.

“You know what? You go and sleep with her 3--no--4 times. And if she doesn’t completely fry your brain, I’ll pay for any and all of your takeout for the next month. But If she does, you gotta switch mattresses with me and not come by the dorm until after 10 on Tuesdays and Thursdays from then on.”

“Dude, gross I don’t want your sex soaked mattress. It’s the same as yours anyway. Minus the ten gallons of old jizz on it.”

“No, it’s not. You have that, like, Tempurpedic thing.”

“True,” Jimin nods thoughtfully, “But don’t you think it would be weird if the roommate of the guy she was fucking started trying to get in her pants? Also, I could just lie and say she didn’t do it for me. Then you’d be forced to pay for my food and—Hold on. If she’s so good, why are you so willing to pawn her off to me?”

“Why do you ask so many stupid questions? First of all, she’s not mine just because I’m sleeping with her. I’m just telling you to go see if she’ll let you. I mean, there’s no guarantee. She barely even gave me a shot.”

“She barely gave you a shot? But you’re, like, the campus prince”, more air quotes, “How did this even happen?”

“Well, to make a long story short, we were both high at her sorority and I’d heard rumors about her from Wonho, so I went to…talk to her in her room.”

“Wonho is Wonho, though. He’d fuck anyone if the weed was good.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, my friend. He has a diverse and sophisticated palate. He knows what he’s talking about when it comes to weed and sex. Once I took him up on his suggestion and she said yes, I never looked back,” Jin says with a dreamy voice.

Jimin watches the back of Jin’s head loll on the sofa. When a soft sigh emerges from where the older man is sitting, Jimin recoils and runs out of the kitchen, away from the couch.

“Are you jerking off right now? Dude. Not cool.”

“Get the fuck out, then. It’s Thursday, which means I’m getting off by 7:30pm and I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s here when it happens.”

“Fine,” Jimin huffs and reluctantly stuffs his feet back into his sneakers where they lie by the door. “I hope your dick chafes.”

Jin purposefully releases another, louder moan and Jimin runs out of the apartment.

“I’ll have an order of the half crispy, half spicy and a large coke. Thanks,” Jimin says to the clerk at the grill before checking his phone for the 8th time in the hour.

8:01 Jimin - Are you done yet?

             (8:10 read by Jin)

8:11 Jin - yeah but round two starts soon so

8:11 Jin - *middle finger emoji*

Jimin quickly shuts down his messenger app and opens up Flappy Bird while he sits at a table and waits for his order number to be called.

“Stupid asshole and his stupid dick, kicking me out of the stupid apartment. Fuck you, dickhead,” Jimin mutters to himself.

“What did you just say?” 

Jimin’s head whips up at the infantile voice coming from the seat across from him. Jeon Jungkook is sitting at his table, eating a veggie burger. Who the hell orders a veggie burger from a chicken place?

“Were you talking to me,” Jungkook asks again, pushing his bulky glasses up with a finger.

“Jeon, why would I be talking to you? A better question is why the hell are you talking to me?

[atinywriting]

Bloody Pen | Wooyoung Serial Killer AU Chapter 4

For the Love of Art

As Hongjoong turned his back and left to question the officers, he was unfortunately unaware of the smirk on Wooyoung’s face. Wooyoung released the breath he held in and curled his fingers. The tension in his body relaxed.

He couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. No one would suspect him.

There was no doubt Hongjoong was smart from the various cases that Wooyoung had worked with him. But... it was also quite easy to manipulate logic. It was easy to fabricate the old trio tale of “motive, means, and opportunity”. After all, the best way to tell a lie was to tell parts of the truth.

Wooyoung was honest and truthful as long as the case didn’t involve himself. If it did involve himself, who would suspect a person helping out with the investigation? Especially one who had helped solve many cases for a long time. No one. No one could ever guess, not even fathom with the idea that he himself had tampered with the evidence.

Wooyoung took a few steps back to admired his handiwork. It was actually the first time he had killed in such a meticulous way.  

And he found it... much, much more fulfilling. More gratifying.

Usually, he’d use a knife. A simple slash to the throat or a few stabs to the abdomen would always do the trick. Strangulation was nice occasionally. Guns weren’t the most interesting weapon. It killed too quickly, but he sometimes used it.

This time Wooyoung had planned it out only minutes after drugging the victim. He had only 8-10 hours before it died from hanging upside down. As soon as it woke up, the fun began.

Since it was hanging upside down, the blood would rush to it’s head and keep it awake. There would be no chance to faint from the pain. Wooyoung slowly dragged it out; cutting, slicing, and slashing into the flesh. It was satisfying hearing the screams, begs and cries. And the final blow, the thing’s eyes popping out of it’s head and gurgling as he cut into the neck. The light leaving its eyes as the blood gushed out and flowed down.

But, it wasn’t just more fun. This kill was also special. It would be the first murder in the project he proudly titled, Bloody Pen. Inspired by you and in dedication to you.

A gift for you, his lovely muse.

He remembered what you had shown him on the second date. Your new book would be about a serial killer whose trademark would be riddles and puzzles.

As he read your words and spent time with you, he couldn’t help but feel something familiar in you. A kindred soul? Just like how you enjoyed writing stories of crime, Wooyoung enjoyed orchestrating a story with each kill he made to pin it on someone else.

Gang related violence. Domestic abuse. An accident. Out of defense. Suicide. Overdose. Poisoning. A drunkard killing their significant other. A crime of passion where one killed out of a fit of rage. Revenge. Jealousy. Greed.

Each kill had their own small details that made it a unique story. And this time, he would weave in your story. He’d end this theme after the fourth or fifth one and continue after sometime.

Indeed, he was having more fun than usual. But, he’d get caught after a while. It was the mistake of many murderers to unconsciously establish a repeated pattern.

Wooyoung hummed as he sealed up each piece of evidence in their proper containers. His job was done. Now, he only needed to transport it all to the forensic center. Another would come by soon to properly preserve and transport the body to the lab later.

Thankfully, Wooyoung wouldn’t have to do any extra work with tampering. The rain from two days ago had diluted and erased all of his traces.

He whistled a cheerful tune as he walked to his vehicle. After dropping the evidence off, he went home and slept peacefully till the alarm clock rang.

The sky was clear. The sun was bright. The birds were singing. Another day. Another kill. Another day he got away scot-free.

As he ate lunch, he hummed as he flipped open the pages to your second book. He only had read the brief summary on the back, but he was already hooked by the premise. In fact, it was inspiration for the next kill.

A serial killer who turned all of their lovers into dolls to keep them company.

In one hand he held a pencil, outlining and sketching the plan out onto his notebook.

Salt. Baking powder... He stopped. Huh, he’d have to do a little bit of his own research into this.

Ping!

He picked up the phone and your name popped up.

My apartment at 1? For help, if you’re not busy please? ^^ I’ll text you my address.

Wooyoung paused, contemplating to himself. He’d most likely be called back to the lab around 3-4 pm. Then again, just two to three hours with you sounded nice.

You bit your lips as you waited for a reply. Hopefully, you weren’t being too annoying. You jumped in your seat as a text came in.

Only for a few hours. Then I gotta work orz

Yes! You quickly sent your address and slumped against the couch. Closing your eyes and enjoying this small moment of happiness—Wait. Your eyes snapped open and looked around your apartment.

It was trash. Utter trash from your laziness to clean up. You also looked like trash with your messy appearance and your rats nest of a hair. And... you only had an hour left till 1.

You immediately rushed: picking up whatever you could into the recycle or trash can, dusting, and sweeping the floor. You glanced at the clock. 5 minutes left. You threw on whatever looked nice enough.

A ring and a few knocks had you running to the door. You smoothed over your hair once more and opened the door. And there stood Wooyoung with his usual bright smile. Your eyes glanced down to his hand. An envelope? He handed it to you and you took it with a questioning look in your eyes.

“The diagrams you wanted,” he explained. “I drew up how different types of wounds looked. I even have bullet points on the back to describe each one. You like it?”

At those words, you practically ripped the top of the envelope off. You slid the papers out and carefully went through it all.

It was bloody. It was disgusting. It was gory with its details.

“I... I love it,” you whispered as your fingertips stroked the papers. You clutched the diagrams close to your chest. Pulling all nighters just to search up the most minuscule of details were practically over. You had Wooyoung now.

“Please marry me.”

Your eyes widened and you covered your mouth. Why did you say that? You peeked up to see him equally surprised before his face had formed the smuggest grin you had ever seen in your life.

He was enjoying this.

“I, uh, I mean...” you fidgeted under his gaze.

Why? You screeched in your head. You wanted to crawl into a ditch. You wanted to curl into a ball and never see the light of day again.

But, Wooyoung was already here in front of you. There was no escaping embarrassment.

You were snapped out of your dazed state when you felt his hand stroking the top of your head. You flushed under his attention.

“Baby steps,” Wooyoung drawled with the ever present smirk on his face. “But I wouldn’t mind marrying you—“

Before he could say any more, you stepped back and flailed your arms. Heat rose to your cheeks. “Do you wanna just come in!?” You squawked.

Wooyoung chuckled and took his shoes off as he stepped in. Your reactions were honestly adorable.

The apartment felt warm and welcoming with cozy simplicity. He sat down on the couch and looked up to where you still stood trying to calm down. He tilted his head. “Are you not joining me?” He asked with a slightly teasing tone. “I can’t help you if you’re all the way over there.”

Right! You scurried to take a seat beside him and flipped open your notepad.

“Tell me exactly how to make the deaths more interesting.”

Wooyoung began, “First of all, I noticed the way you write deaths are either vague or not descriptive enough. You might as well just be saying ‘He stabbed her and she died’. Which isn’t wrong, but that’s also really boring.”

You grumbled with a pout, “Well, it’s not like I could Google this up. Literally, no website goes into detail on this kind of stuff.”

You were dedicated to having as much accuracy as possible. Which was why details were the most agonizing thing to write. Most of the time on the Internet, you could not find it. Either turning up with a vague answer or a blank result. As much as you hated it, you couldn’t dwell on it because it would take forever and you’d probably die before publishing anything. You could only continue on. But now, it was becoming a glaring problem that needed to be fixed.

“Well.” Wooyoung smiled. “You have me for that now.” He wrapped an arm over your shoulder causing your heart to beat faster. “Secondly, how does the killer feel?”

You blinked. “How does the killer feel?” You repeated.

Wooyoung nodded. “When people are reading about serial killers, they’re interested in how a person can be so warped. They hang on to every word. What they think. What they feel.” He gestured to your notepad. “With that in mind, try rewriting your first death scene in the manuscript.”

You pressed the pen against your pursed lips. You ran back and forth to get your manuscript for reference. After minutes of thinking, you wrote it down, occasionally drawing a line through a sentence and scribbling out some words. You handed the notepad to Wooyoung and fidgeted with your fingers.

“Better now?” You looked at him, trying to assess his reaction.

He scanned the small passage. His eyes and mouth was wide. Shivers went up Wooyoung’s spine. He could feel goosebumps rise up on his skin. His breath was taken away.

The room was dimly lit and dead silent. She was strapped to the table. Her mouth stuffed with cloth, her eyes bulging out. I studied my toolbox. Yes, the scalpel would do. A smile crept on my face as I caressed the blade. Her flesh was calling for me. Her fearful face reflected onto the blade before I cut a perfect chunk of flesh out.

He lowered his head, so you couldn’t see his face. He gritted his teeth and bit his lip. The tapping of his leg grew more agitated. It took every fiber of his being to hold his blood lust in. He finally took a deep breath, relaxed and exhaled.

You were incredible.

“Much, much better,” Wooyoung breathed out as he handed the notepad back to you. “I actually felt chills.”

“Yes! Progress!” You screamed. You tackled him, wrapping your arms around Wooyoung and resting your head against his chest. “I love you. I mean—” You quickly corrected yourself. “I love how you’re helping me. Not that I don’t love you, but like it’s way too early to say that when we’ve only known each other for a few weeks and...”

He chuckled hearing your rambles and stroked your head. You really were like a puppy learning new tricks for treats and affection. Your adorableness was such a sharp contrast to the small dark passage you had just written. Honestly, if he hadn’t known you, he would’ve thought you were the same as him.

You released him and cleared your throat. “Anyways, what else could I do to improve?” You asked.

“Not any other obvious thing I can think of.” Wooyoung put his hand to his chin and nodded. “Yeah. Your only real problems was around the deaths. You have the backstory, the motive, the mystery. And now, you have a better idea to write out deaths and you have me for details to spice it up.” He smiled and patted your head. “You’re doing a great job.”

A giggle bubbled from your throat at the praise and affection. You looked at the clock, surprised to see that it had already been past 2 pm. Did time really past that quickly?

It suddenly then dawned on you, you didn’t really know much about him. Other than his profession, you didn’t know why he was in it. Nor did you know his interests. You didn’t know anything about him personally. Wooyoung had work soon, didn’t he? Maybe you could get to know him a bit more in the little time you had left.

“Why did you decide to do forensics?” You felt Wooyoung jump up a little and he stared at you in surprise. “Um, did I accidentally ask a personal question?”

He blinked a few times before replying softly, “No... I’m just surprised you’re interested in me enough to ask. You really want to know more about me?”

“Of course.” Why didn’t he think you would be? You were slightly confused but you brushed it off.

He finally answered your question. “I was always interested in the human body. How it moved. How it functioned. The anatomy. I did so well and had such a knack for biology that a teacher told me I should try out forensics.”

“I see. Don’t answer if you don’t want to, but can you tell me about your family?”

Wooyoung frowned. Family? He looked down at his feet and back at you. His eyes widened.

What?

He stared at you. Flashes of her face merged with yours. No. She was dead. You weren’t her. Sweat beaded his forehead. His body trembled. His breath stuttered. His throat tightened. Why was it getting hard to breathe? He clenched his fist, digging his nails into his palm.

A gentle warm grasp of his hand snatched him out of his state and his eyes snapped to your alarmed eyes.

You rubbed your thumb on his clenched fist. “Are you okay?” You softly asked.

Wooyoung quickly stood up. He had to leave.

“I... I think I need to go out for a bit,” he faintly said. “Get a clear head before working.”

Without a word, Wooyoung went straight for the door. Just as he was about to step out, he almost jumped feeling your warm hand grabbing onto his arm. He turned to meet your soft, concerned eyes.

Why did those soft eyes and your warm touch start to feel so familiar now?

“I’m here for you whenever you need some comfort, you know?”

Wooyoung numbly nodded and you stared as he ran off. You groaned as he finally left your sight. Thoughts swirled through your mind as you closed the door. 

You cursed yourself. Way to go me. You royally have screwed up now.

Hopefully, this didn’t change anything between you two. You’d hate to lose him because of this.

You would have to apologize to him later. For now, you’d give him some space unless he came to you first.

[not-close-to-straight]

Cupid Comes Calling (Stuckony) (Part One)

This is a continuation of SECRET SANTA SHENANIGANS which featured hot but dumb weatherman Bucky, gorgeous but useless sports anchor Steve, and Tony as the station manager that is both Done with Their Shit and Hopelessly In Love all at the same time. 

PART TWO HERE

*************************

“It's Valentines Day this weekend and we have a list of unique places you can take that special someone that are sure to make this weekend one to remember.” Sam smiled broadly at the camera, all smooth words and perfectly timed facial expressions, looking handsome as only he could in a soft pink shirt and darker pink tie. “Stay tuned, New York. We'll be right back after the break.”

“Commercial!” Someone in the back shouted, and everyone in front of the cameras breathed a sigh of relief, slumping in their chairs for the few minutes before they had to go back on air.

“Sam, gorgeous.” Tony jogged up to the front and handed over a piece of paper to the anchor. “Slight change in that Valentines Day line up though. Turns out that bakery owner is a homophobic prick so this station is definitely not endorsing him even if he makes the most amazing sweet tarts in the world.”

“Aw.” Pepper took her paper with a frown, scanning the information about the new bakery they would be promoting. “We have to find a new place to get Friday morning treats?”

“Yeah, I’m not happy about it either.” Tony clicked his tongue in disappointment. “But it’s gotta happen. Works out actually, because the new place is owned by about the cutest couple you’ve ever seen in your life and they’re saving up money to adopt a couples kiddos. They could use the advertising.”

“New bakery it is.” Sam flashed Tony a thumbs up, then tilted his chin so the make up girl could freshen up real quick. “Thanks Tony.”

“Steve.” Tony had to work hard to keep his expression even semi neutral as he approached his sort-of boyfriend, his smile as professional as he could make it considering how badly he wanted to grab Steve by that stupid tie and kiss him half to death.

This is why we're not supposed to date co-workers, huh?

“Steve.” He started politely. “The Rangers are a hockey team, not a baseball team.”

“The Rangers are definitely a baseball team, baby.” Steve felt no need to be anything even approaching the vicinity of professional around Tony, so he leaned right over his desk and smacked a loud kiss onto Tony’s mouth. “I knew that without even looking it up on my phone.”

“What Tony’s trying to say-- hey baby doll--” from Bucky, who sauntered over from the weather station and bent Tony over for a kiss that had the station manager blushing bright red. “--is that yes the Rangers are a baseball team, but they are also a hockey team.”

“Wait--” Steve’s brow dipped in confusion. “No… that’s not… no?”

“Yes.” Tony said emphatically. “Yes they are.”

“Well that’s just stupid!” The blonde declared. “How am I supposed to know which one I’m talking about?”

“You could do your job and a little research.” Tony blew out a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Or you know, you could Google whether it was baseball or hockey season?”

“Um--”

“It’s hockey season, sugar.” Bucky supplied, flicking at Steve’s ear and scowling when his hand got slapped. “Baseball don’t start until the end of March.”

“How do you know that?” Steve challenged and Bucky retorted. “I Googled it!”

“Okay guys.” Tony blew out another breath, grimacing when his head started throbbing. Apparently not even his mega hot boyfriends were enough to distract from his migraine. “Focus for like two seconds for me, alright?”

“You still got a headache, sweetheart?” Steve’s blue eyes darkened in sympathy. “I’ve got some ibuprofen if you want, it's just in my locker. You know my combo, go grab it.”

“I took some out of your nightstand before I left this morning.” Tony winced when a piece of equipment knocked over with a loud clatter. “I don't know why my head hurts so bad today, but if we can just make it through the broadcast then I can go home and lay in the dark and cry for a little bit.”

“Aw honey.” Bucky stepped up behind Tony, one big hand settling low at his hip, the other massaging at the back of his neck until Tony went a little limp, sagging back into his shoulder. “I got some of that essential oil stuff at my house. Don’t use it for nothing except rubbing on Stevie when he gets all--”

“MICS!” Sam shouted and Bucky chuckled, letting go of Tony long enough to turn his mic down.

“He was going to say when I get a knot in my back.” Steve finished. “But that’s fine, Sam definitely deserves to believe Buck was gonna say something terrible and inappropriate.”

“You two are the worst.” Tony straightened with a sigh, squeezing at Bucky’s hand in thanks as he went. “Steve, remember. This is hockey season, the team is in New York, please do not make another comment about how the Texas Rangers don’t strike you as the type to play hockey since you’re pretty sure they rode horses back in the day, yeah? And please stop saying ‘yee haw’ after every other comment.”

“Fine fine fine.” Steve kissed Tony one more time, then turned and kissed Bucky too. “Now that I know they aren't in Texas I won't make any more horse references.”

“It’s a good thing you got a sweet ass, cos you sure are dumb.” Bucky muttered against his mouth. “Careful or you’ll have to go back to stripping to pay your rent and I dunno if you fit into those buttless chaps anymore.”

“I’m sorry--” Tony leaned closer. “Steve you wore what to do what to pay what now?”

“Nothing.” Steve shoved Bucky away, clearing his throat loudly to overshadow whatever Bucky was saying. “Tony, babe, I did nothing to pay nothing and Bucky needs to shut the hell up about absolutely nothing before I start saying everything about everything about his days as a clown!”

“Good Christ, there’s so much I don’t know about you.” Tony reached out to adjust Bucky’s hair, smiling a little when Bucky caught his hand and kissed his palm. “One minute till we go back on air. Steve, remember the teams please. And Bucky--” he paused to think about what tip to give their weathermen. “Um-- keep your pointing perky. Those are happy clouds not sad clouds.”

“My pointing will be the perkiest.” Bucky swore. “And by the way? Your ass looks so great in those pants I just wanna--”

“MICS!” Sam shouted. “Your mics are on! Do not compliment my boss’s ass while your mics are--”

“We’re back!’

“--Welcome back to Channel Eight.” Sam switched gears in a split second, professional and put together and definitely not annoyed by the antics of the his coworkers. “Ready for Valentines Day, New York? We’ve put together a list of the cutest places to take that special someone, so when Cupid comes calling, you’ll be ready.”

“We sure do, Sam.” Pepper, who could make the most plastic line sound as sincere as a prayer. “Do you know, I had the best cake I think I’ve ever eaten in my life from Sweetheart’s Cafe over on 67th?”

“Sweethearts Cafe?” Even Tony rolled his eyes at how cheesy Sam sounded. “It’s practically meant to be for Valentines Day with a name like that Lets take a closer look at how great this place is.”

They cut to a video, Sam and Pepper oohing and ahhing over the sweets in the cafe and Tony grinned when Pepper kicked Sam in the shin over a particularly terrible joke.

His news team was the worst and he loved them a ridiculous amount.

********************

“Hey sweetheart, are you sure we can’t get you anything before we go?” Steve stuck his head into Tony’s office as he and Bucky headed out the door. “At least a drink? Or you can catch a ride home with us, so you don't have to deal with a cab. Traffic won't help your headache at all, you know?”

“My place is in the opposite direction from both of your apartments.” Tony didn’t look up from his paperwork. “So thanks, but no thanks. Don't want to put anyone out.”  

“Aw, did he figure out our master plan to get him to go home with us?” Bucky peeked around the door as well. “Come on baby doll, you don’t need to work so late tonight, just take off a little early. You have a headache anyway, you’re not gonna get anything done.”

“Shockingly enough, I was getting plenty done before you two started bothering me.” There was no sting in Tony’s words, a fond smile towards the pair. “And I do have to finish this before leaving. Don't worry, I'll text you when I leave, shouldn't be more than an hour.”

“Alright.” Steve waited a beat, then added. “But are you sure? Because you spent the night at my place last night so we were going to spend the night at Bucky's tonight to keep things fair and--”

“You’re making my headache worse!” Tony said loudly and this time he meant it, so Bucky and Steve ducked out, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“You coulda told him sex cures headaches.” Bucky said thoughtfully as they headed down to the parking garages. “Everyone knows a nut is good for what ails ya.”

“Everyone knows a nut--” Steve sighed. “Bucky, where do you learn this shit?”

“My entire job is pointing at things.” Bucky unlocked the passenger door so Steve could get in. “I have a lot of time to watch stuff at work. Learning videos and all that.”

“Stuff.” Steve repeated, tossing his bag in the backseat. “Learning videos? You mean porn. Are you watching porn when you’re supposed to be learning weather patterns and predictions? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Nah Stevie, I’d never watch dirty stuff at work.” Bucky said earnestly, pushing his hair out his eyes so he could blink over at Steve as innocently as he could. “I mean-- I’m not you.”

“It was one video, one time--” Steve huffed a breath when Bucky cracked up laughing. “And it wasn’t porn I was watching body building competitions--” Bucky laughed even louder. “--BECAUSE I WAS THINKING ABOUT ENTERING A COMPETITION-- you know what, fuck you. Have your nut by yourself.” Steve grabbed his bag again and jumped out the car, slamming the door behind him.

“Stevie!” Bucky was still laughed too hard to talk, but he made an attempt at grabby hands through the window. “Stevie come back! It’s so boring doing sexy things by myself! I have two boyfriends now, it ain’t right for a man to sleep alone!”

“Oh hey, that reminds me.” Irritation put aside for a few seconds, Steve turned back to the car. “What are we doing for Valentines Day? It's coming up real soon.”

“We could do the same thing we did last year?” Bucky suggested. “Drink super sweet pink drinks and get nekkid on various surfaces?”

“Well I mean--” Steve’s smile was a bit goofy. “Yeah, but we’re a real couple this year and we have Tony so maybe we should do something besides pound Barbie Ferrari’s and have black out sex on my kitchen counter. Like dinner? Buy each other presents? Maybe get a hotel room for the night? What do you think?”  

“I dunno, Tony’s place is nicer than most hotels.” Bucky thought a moment, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You get your ass back in here, maybe we’ll talk about it.”

“Are you-- are you holding Valentines Day plans hostage unless I come home with you?” Steve straightened to his full height, crossing his arms menacingly. “Bucky, if I didn't know better I'd think you were trying to coerce me into the car and have your wicked way with me. What kind of guy do you think I--?”

“It’s snowing, dummy.” Bucky cut in. “Quit talking ‘bout how you want tits and get in the damn car  before you freeze. We both know your ass ain't gonna walk through the snow or even stand on the sidewalk to get a taxi, you're way too high maintenance for that.”

“You think I want tits?” Steve got back in the car. “That’s what you took away from my speech?”

“You crossed your arms under your bosoms, Stevie.” Bucky pulled out from his parking spot and headed towards the exit. “What else was I s’posed to think about with them all pushed high like that? Course I figured you were thinkin' bout getting tits.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Steve glanced down at his chest, flexing a little. “So anyway, Valentines Day. Think we should plan something nice for Tony. Something that lets him know we’re in this for the long haul, you know?”

“The long haul?”

“I don’t know Buck, sometimes it seems like Tony thinks that we’re dating but we aren’t dating him.” Steve frowned. “You ever get that vibe?”

“Like the other night when we said we wanted to go out to dinner and he asked if he could come too.” Bucky supplied. “Or when we order lunch and he asks if we mind if he eats with us, as if we're gonna tell him no? Because yeah, that was weird.”

“Or how he wanted to know whose house we were going to a few weeks ago?” he added. “Because if we hadn’t made plans yet, maybe we could come over to his place. It’s like he thinks we have a whole thing going on that only includes him sometimes.”

“But that’s stupid.” Bucky said flatly. “Because we told him at Christmas that it wouldn’t be like that, that we were crazy about him. You thinkin’ we should do some grand gesture so he knows this is real? Like a big romantic thing from a movie. Chocolate and fancy cards and like… musicians and stuff?”

“We could surprise him with something sexy.” Steve suggested and Bucky's eyes lit up. “Something romantic.”

“Oh!” Bucky cried. “Like edible massage oils!”

“And I do like the idea of a hotel.” Steve continued. “Big bed, maybe something with a jetted tub or at least a shower that can hold the three of us at once.”

“Edible underwear!” Another nearly shouted idea. “A thong made from licorice!”

“And we could order in fancy room service so we can eat in bed.” Steve side-eyed Bucky when the brunette made a yummy noise. “It’s sexy to feed each other things, right-- Buck, are you hungry? Do we need to stop for a burger or something?”

“OH! What about warming lube? It comes in all these random flavors and you can get it whipped.” Bucky licked his lips. “Whipped lube, Stevie. Imagine what we could get up to with that mess.”

“Babe.” Steve pointed out the window. “If you’re hungry let’s stop and get some food, but stop naming edible sex things. You’re weirding me out with this conversation. First tits and now edible sex things? What’s wrong with you?”

“I am starving, yes.” Bucky decided. “First food and then Valentines Day plans. But there’s nothing wrong with getting experimental with fun things in the bedroom Stevie. Stop being such a prude.”

“Okay.” Steve was instantly offended. “I am not a prude. Not a prude. I’m up for fun things, but it’s sort of a leap from lets try a new position to you wearing a thong I’m supposed to eat off with my teeth!”

“Who says I’d be the one wearing a thong?” Bucky dug for some cash as he pulled into a drive through. “You’re wearing a thong. Me and Tony are eating it off with our teeth.”

“No way. I don’t want teeth anywhere near my dick.”

“Well then, you should have thought about that before saying you were up for fun things.”

********************

[tcswritings]

Messages. (WIP/unpolished)

:: updated on 07/18/2019 ::

The day after the party. Orla is thinking many thoughts.

*****

It had been a bit more than six hours since he left and when she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands on her body as well as his unsteady breath against the skin of her neck and how strands of blonde hair had tickled her face every now and then. 

What truly made her stomach flutter though was thinking back to all the brief moments when his eyes had met hers, when they shared sweet looks, to make sure the other one was feeling just fine, comfy and secure.

Biting her lip, she couldn’t help but smile to herself for the dozenth time that afternoon. Sleeping with someone wasn’t new to Orla and while she wouldn’t call herself an expert in the field, she had more than a basic idea of how these things worked and how to make them enjoyable for both parts. Last night, however, she had found out that sleeping with a friend was in no way comparable to anything she had experienced before and she also had to realise that the things she knew weren’t exactly helpful in that matter - she had felt like a clueless, giggling idiot anyway.

It hasn’t been bad, though, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually, but Orla couldn’t stop asking herself if people writing books and movies about friends falling in love had ever fallen in love with a friend themselves - there were usually big talks about how knowing each other inside out makes these things oh-so-much easier and friends would just switch to being lovers as if it was the most natural and uncomplicated thing ever and Orla couldn’t comprehend it at all. What happened last night was probably the most exciting and amazing moment of her young life so far and nothing made perfect sense just yet - it had all happened so fast after all.

That was not the only thing on her mind, though. There was something else, something far more essential.

She lay flat on her bed and stared at the ceiling and she had been doing that for the entire day, more or less. Ever since Mick had left the house she had been wondering. Wondering if what they did was right, if they should have waited until they had figured out at least SOME details (considering the well-known fact that sex had also great potential to mess things up), if they would do it again, when they would do it again and, most importantly, what they even were now, because if there was one thing certain it was that they had left their strictly platonic friendship behind.

Before he left, Mick had kissed her goodbye and he had also promised that they would meet up tonight but there hadn’t been any sign of life from him ever since and Orla had long started wondering if he had given it a second thought and maybe - she cringed at the mere thought - even changed his mind.

She reached for her phone for the umpteenth time (the last time was about five minutes ago) and unlocked it, only to feel the familiar little sting as she couldn’t spot the highly anticipated red little bubble that alerted her any time she had new messages.

Instead, she got the impression that her messenger merely laughed at her now:

No new message, girl.

Nope.

Not a single one.

Stop waiting.

He doesn’t care.

Just accept it already.

Orla sighed and tried to shake the weird thoughts off as she snuggled into her pillow a little more. She was being silly and she knew it. Those might be legit worries if it was any other guy she had just met the other night but the guy in question was Mick and Mick wasn’t like that. He was always true to his word and as she knew that he had some things to do today - and she knew that way before that unexpected and pleasant turn of events last night - she figured that she would just have to be patient.

How about you just text him, Dummy? her messenger now suggested, probably as a little gesture of reconciliation for sparking her mopey thoughts a minute ago. Or maybe just call him? It’s 2013, gals no longer sit around waiting for a man to make a move, we make shit happen!

Orla pursed her lips as she opened the messenger again. She didn’t even have to scroll; Mick was the first to show up in her chats as they had send each other a few texts at the party last night while they were wandering around apart from each other, trying to find a private spot where it would just be the two of them but they hadn’t been very successful.

She chuckled as she read his last few lines again.

SAT, 03-16-2013

1:17: kitchen again?

1:18: NO DONTCOME hERE someone puked in here

1:19: Im gonna go upstairs

1:25: where are you

1:25: WHERE

1:25: are

1:25: YOU

1:26: thou shalt answer

1:27: Im desperate

1:29: IM LOST 😂

1:30: this house is HUGE

1:30: almost LIKE oUS

1:30: OURS

1:32: oRLAA

‘Adorable’, Orla thought, smiling. They had found each other just a bit after that last message and they had managed to share at least one more passionate kiss before they had to jump apart once more as they got disturbed by a little group of drunk idiots - she couldn’t even remember who - staggering into the room.

She chuckled as she began typing.

Hey handsome 😘 I was just wondering whether we could

She stopped. Too casual. This wasn’t asking for getting a snack during lunch break after all. Orla hit the delete button and pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Maybe I should google for some reference’, she thought. ‘How to properly address your childhood friend with whom you had sex last night.’

Or, well, maybe not.

I just saw this ad for porch swings and I thought I could get one so we can

God, no. 

You like big butts and you cannot lie… 😜

NO! (She could very well imagine the face he would make if he read that one, though.)

If choosing what to wear is what’s taking you so long to get back to me I’m happy to inform you that I fancy the kind of activity which doesn’t require any apparel at all so stop making a damn fuss 👀 💋

Smart. Playful. Sexy.

But no.

Please don’t change your mind about us and come back here, I miss you!

Woah. Needy, much?

“Aaaaah!” Orla cried out in frustration as she tossed her phone to the side, slumping back into the pillows. “This sucks.”

Only a few moments later she had another thought. Couldn’t it be that Mick was going through the very same thing right now? That he was sitting on his bed or his couch, or maybe in his kitchen just in this moment, long legs up on the other chair, chainsmoking, like he did so often when he felt lost, typing some words into his phone every few moments, only to delete them again because nothing he came up with felt appropriate?

Maybe Mick was just dying to hear from her all the time. Maybe he was just as insecure as she was and when she thought back to the party as well as to what happened after it, right here, she suddenly felt very silly for even thinking that he might want to back out. The way he had looked at her as well as his body language had spoken volumes after all.

Orla swiftly reached back for her phone and opened the messenger once more. Sometimes the best way to overcome awkward situations was to be honest and straightforward. Once she was done typing, Orla hit the send button and closed her eyes as she took a deep breath.

*****

“I can very well remember the last words Ethel said to me and they were sure words to live by.”

Terry Irvine, a stocky, balding man in his fifties, made a pause, heavy with meaning, as he looked around the tastefully decorated room, feeling deep satisfaction as he saw that everyone was listening to his words with rapt attention.

“She said ‘Lives are like rivers, Terry:” he went on, “Eventually they go where they must. Not where we want them to.’(*)“

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she said.” Connor O’Loughlin scoffed quietly. “A mean old bitch will suddenly start crackin’ wise proverbs after she spent her lifetime just spattering shit at any given occasion.”

Mick bit his lip as he tried not to laugh at his younger cousin’s remark and he wondered whether anyone in his room actually liked ‘Aunt’ Ethel as the few memories he had of her certainly weren’t the best. She had sometimes looked after him when he was still a kid and as far as he could remember, she never allowed him to do anything besides sitting still while reading bible verses together and she also made him eat the worst, greasiest porridge that the world has ever tasted and the mere memory of it made his guts turn.

Friends and family were gathered together today, mourning Ethel’s recent death, but Mick felt rather indifferent about her passing; he was merely here to do his parents a favour who claimed that they had always been particularly fond of the old hag and while that might even be true, he couldn’t help but feel that they also wanted to represent the family business which, considering the estimated average age of the majority of people in the room, was actually a clever stroke.

“... and I’m sure that Ethel is smiling down upon us just now, as she sees all her friends and family joined together in love and harmony, thinking of her and the wonderful things she has done for each and everyone of us...”

Not only was he not listening, Mick also still had other things on his mind. Far more important and definitely nicer things. (No offense, Ethel.) He made a little step back and once he was sure that no one was watching, he reached behind his back and grabbed a handful of bread cubes from one of the bowls on the buffet table, still looking at Terry addressing his audience with his pompous speech as well as his grossly overstated gestures and expressions. That speech would last for an eternity, Mick just knew it, and he didn’t feel like starving, especially not now that his life had seemingly taken a really great turn.

“... I ask you now to observe one minute's silence as a token of our respect and sympathy for our sweet Ethel...”

Mick pushed the image of Ethel’s wrinkled and actually not-so-sweet face aside. Happily munching his bread cubes, he now recalled the memory of a pair of pale blue eyes looking at him from under the longest lashes he had ever seen. Orla O’Connell’s gorgeous, freckled face became clearer and her red-tinted lips smiled sweetly at him as Mick’s mind once again drifted off to last night, to their very first kiss on the porch swing and the ones that followed, to the moment when he had brought Orla home and when she had insisted on him staying and when she had started undressing him in the hallway and how they had barely made it to her room where they would eventually-

“Oy, creep, what are you grinning at?!” Connor’s sister, Delilah, now hissed at him, interrupting his pleasant thoughts and nudging him with her elbow a little harder than necessary. “Stop eating!”

“Ow! I’m hungry, fuck off.” Mick spat back. “Terry’s at the top o’ his game, it’ll take ages until they open up the buffet.”

“Disrespectful freak.” Delilah muttered, shaking her head and crossing her arms. She was usually all bark and no bite, Mick knew, but very irritating nonetheless.

Terry now directly looked into Mick’s direction and cleared his throat. Mick stared back at him, swallowing down his bread crumbs, suddenly seeing the many irritated faces staring at him, among them the horrified expressions of his parents.

Oh.

It was actually the second time that day someone had caught him with food and he usually would have laughed at the coincidence but considering that he was at a memorial service, he decided against it.

“Sorry!” he called.

Terry closed his eyes and sighed. “Now, one minute’s silence, please.”

Mick bit his lip. Thanks, Delilah. While he usually hated being made look silly, nothing could ruin his mood today, not even his uptight cousin. Granted, it probably was a little inappropriate to think of the things he had just thought of again at a memorial service but then again, no one could read his thoughts and wasn’t death also about celebrating life, after all?

Just as Mick’s mind wandered back to all the moments he had celebrated life with Orla last night he could feel his phone buzzing in the pocket of his suit jacket. Making sure that everyone else was still busy remembering Ethel, Mick stuffed the last few bread cubes in his mouth, pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and when he saw that the new message was from the person he hoped it would be from, a stupid-but-blissful smile spread across his face. He unlocked the screen.

I want dinner and I want to see you. Not necessarily in that order. And yes, this is me asking you out on a first real date. 💖 

Swiftly scanning the room for possible watchers again and seeing that everyone was still caught up in one minute’s silence, Mick eventually looked back down on his phone, hit the reply button and started typing.

hi gorgeous

kinda in the middle of sth here but Im gonna call ya once I get out

He pressed the ‘send’ button. Not keen on provoking another awkward situation like the one that had just happened, Mick wanted to put his phone back but as he felt another buzz, he was too curious.

What kinda thing? Was that a ‘yes’, by the way?

ethels memorial service

What, Ethel died??? 😱 😱 😱

yeah last monday

You could have mentioned that at some point?!?! 😨

its fine no one actually liked her and she was old

OMG MICK WTF!!!

Torn between the excitement about meeting Orla later and the fear of getting another weird look from Terry who had just picked up his speech again, Mick eventually decided to put his phone away for now.

what

its true

talk to you later

It just occured to him that he still hadn’t let Orla know what he thought of her suggestion. Rolling his eyes at himself, he dug out his phone once more.

and yeah

that was a yes

😘

*****

Some miles away, Orla frowned at her phone’s screen, feeling mild irritation but, above all, a great rush of joy. She would call Mick out later for merely casually mentioning that he was going to be at the memorial service of a family friend that day (and also for that rather insensitive remark about no one liking said family friend, no matter how much of a truth it was) but joy had overwhelmed her. He said yes. He wanted the date.

*****

(to be continued…!)

(*) A proverb by Richard Russo, author and screenwriter.

[palmer20mccain-blog]

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Even articles with bylines that include that chiropractor's brand are probably not really articles written by simply the fact that genuine chiropractor. Suspect rational laziness and chicanery as soon as any kind of professional puts their name and even credentials on an article he or she as well as she did not author. While it is a good common training, that really does not mean that could be the right way to promote yourself. On-line reviews, this kind of as Yelp! and Google!, are great. Often , though, businesses game the system by simply making fake reviews. Are the reviews from often the identical approximate time? With regard to example, will be ten opinions all by March spring 2012? If so, that is definitely suspect. If the reviews look legitimate they may well give you some understanding into the particular kind of DC, but in the event they are dubious next you should remember the old adage "buyer beware". Very often a bad examine (that is legitimate) will certainly be implemented with several illegitimate fine reviews throughout order to drown out your bad one. Getting after illegitimate reviews you may really be able to get hold of some sort of wide range of good facts from looking at reviews, thus don't hesitate to make use of a search engine to seek for "jones friends and family chiropractic reviews" and see just what comes up. Testimonials ought to be appeared from as marketing, nevertheless they most likely are true stories through real patients. The chiropractic specialist is selecting what meaning you want to hear. If they choose your five people who talk about the chiropractic specialist curing their very own back pain, then that chiropractic specialist wants you to see them as a professional in back pain. In the event they talk about young children and allergies, that will be what they want you to realize they specialise in. Inside this way, testimonials enables you to get a look with the chiropractor. Particular recommendations are the best resource of details since the idea is typically unfiltered and even direct. Ask a good friend or family fellow member and you will definitely get an unbiased thoughts and opinions. The perfect chiropractors (and the best lawyers, realtors, in addition to even bakers) all of get most of their new business because they treated the particular customers they previously have very well. People are rapid to complain about inadequate service, while someone provides a a valuable thing to say about how they have been addressed then you ought to recognize this specific as worthy of your focus. Believe of it like this particular: that person experimented with a new chiropractor so you don't currently have to. A new personal affiliate from an individual you faith is very easily the the majority of valuable info you will certainly come around.