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vanmccannonlyfans · 3 years

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Cocoon

part i.

But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

“How do you have so many of these?!”

Alicia had 10s of boxes of tests in her suitcase, as if they were hotel shampoo bottles or restaurant breath mints. The pink floral branding stuck out against the sea of black leather and denim that comprised her wardrobe.

“Get em in bulk on amazon, cheaper that way and saves me a trip to the store.” As if bulk buying pregnancy tests was as casual as ordering toothpaste or tampons.

You moved to the bathroom to take the test, stepping over used towels strewn across the floor. You were glad you were doing this in a place so impersonal, however uncomfortable. Whatever the outcome, good or bad, you would be able to leave without any memories tainting the space, never to return and have to relive the feeling. If this was your bathroom at home, you’d be reminded every time you had to go.

Alicia camped in front of the mirror, smacking her lips together after every layer of strawberry gloss, the wand alternating between tracing her plump lips and pumping the tube for more product. Leaning against the fake granite hotel counter, she fussed with her raven black bangs and adjusted her top.

“Is it ready yet?” She asked, without averting her eyes from their own contact, her lips now more reflective than the mirror.

“I can’t look..” The room was twisting more than your stomach as you picked up the test, double vision making it impossible to count the number of lines.

Was there just one? Two? How dark does the second one have to be?

“Does this look positive to you?”

Alicia cocked her head at the test, brow furrowed.

“The second line is faint...but it’s there.”

“Fuck,” You exhaled as you fell against the wall, exasperated.

“Didn’t you always want to be parents?”

“Well yes, but...not so soon. We don’t even have a place to live...”

Life on the road was hollow and lonely, even with your best friends. Playing shows every night to strangers who saw you as enigmas, then returning to cold hotel rooms to sleep until the having to get back on the bus or plane for the next event, repeat ad infinitum until you had crossed off a laundry list of places you had stepped foot in but not actually experienced. It all seemed so fun and exciting until you realized that you didn’t know anyone anywhere and were too tired to do things even on days off, and ended up just sleeping the day away and ordering in pizza. It wasn’t a viable situation for raising a child, and hardly sustainable for an otherwise healthy adult.

You laid on the scratchy quilted comforter, each tick of the clock intensifying your anxiety, like a bomb about to detonate. Every second brought you closer to confronting a situation that felt neither fully real nor fantasy. Like your whole world depended on what he would think.

The beep of the key card brought you back down to earth from the peaks of your existential dread. You couldn’t wait to be held, comforted, told it was going to be alright, even if neither of you had any idea what to do. His touch was a balm to your aching soul, one that no antidepressant could rival.

Van entered without a word.

“Baby?” You called to him, as if he couldn’t see you.

He remained silent, dropping his guitar case on the ground. After what felt like eons, he looked up toward the window behind you, as if you were invisible.

“I think you should go.” His eyes were sallow, skin dehydrated from all the smokes and shitty fast food and beers every night.

“What?” The single word came out like a croak, your voice evading you. First you couldn’t be seen, now you could hardly be heard, as if you were dissolving from material reality. As if only his acknowledgement made you real. “Van--”

“No,” He cut you off, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, the other on his hip, swiveling him towards the wall. His adams apple rose and fell without a word, bobbing like a buoy on a choppy sea.

“I don’t want to fight about this. I just want you to leave.” He looked down, running a hand through his hair before tucking it under his armpit as if he were chilled.

You were in disbelief. The same man who had invited you to accompany him across the world was discarding you as easily as you had tossed the test that said you were carrying his child into the bin.

“But Van--”

“JUST GO!” He belted, shaking the room with his volume. You had never heard him yell like that, hardly had ever seen him genuinely angry.

You struggled to catch your breath, hot tears erupting from your eyes.

“--I’m pregnant.”

There was a loud crack as Van’s phone hit the wall, leaving a mark.

“STOP LYING!” He thundered, grabbing your shoulders.

He was finally looking into your eyes. His were red and glassy and you could smell the last cigarette on his skin, so much so that you found yourself on the floor throwing up, then running to your suitcase like a wounded animal, then in the brass elevator, then out the lobby and into the street. You weren’t sure where you were going or how you would get there, just that you wanted to be gone.

When your legs finally collapsed from exhaustion, you found yourself out of breath in front of a bodega, simultaneously sweating and shivering from the physical and emotional trauma. You went in to buy a bottle of water and drank it in greedy gulps while scrolling on your phone to take your mind off of your predicament. At the top of your inbox was a flight confirmation, forwarded from the band’s manager. It was a plane ticket back home.

The sterile, unfriendly design of airports had always thrilled you. They were an exciting gateway to a new place in the wide world you hadn’t explored much of. You had never even been on a plane before Van had toured outside of the UK. The complete lack of rules and disregard for conventional social norms enchanted you; how strange a place to have bars open at 6am next to designer shops and restaurants more expensive than you had ever eaten in. Van would order bailey’s in your coffee while he had a morning beer, before sneaking tipsy kisses in cheap seats at 42,000 feet.

Now the airport felt like a portal to hell, sucking you back to the place you had escaped from.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming home, or that you had broken up, or...anything. You hadn’t spoken a word to anyone besides the cab driver who asked which terminal to drop you off at. You weren’t sure who you would tell first, what you would say. If you opened your mouth, nothing would come out. Except maybe some incoherent stuttering and word salad, which fit how you felt inside--both numb and acerbic, cold to the touch but teeming with a pain so primal and acrid it could kill a horse. The water in your stomach felt like it was curdling, and you hoped you could make it through the flight without throwing up.

The cab dropped you off on the corner of your parent’s property where the guest house loomed, hardly visible through the gloaming. You fumbled with the key, hoping it hadn’t been changed since the last time. The door rattled open to dusty furniture and soupy air; musty and untouched as if it had been abandoned. You and Van used to sneak in here in for quickies and hold clandestine parties, lighting candles instead of turning on lights to not tip off your parents that you were present. The stain from when someone dropped a bottle of whiskey still marred the floorboards, and you wondered if anyone had been in here since you left.

You had hardly surveilled the place before the door snapped open behind you.

“Fuck, you scared me!” It was your brother, shaking the dew from his trainers. “Why are you back? I thought you would be gone until next year, at least.” You sucked in the thick air, scanning the room for alibis. Stretching the last few moments before you had the acknowledge that you now walked the earth all by yourself.

“Oh, you know. Just felt homesick.”

Your brother respected your lie, letting it dissipate in the stale air like the smoke from a snuffed wick.

“I never liked him, anyway”

Your parents were happy, albeit a bit startled, to see you. They had converted your room to an office and all of your old things from high school, like notes from Van and old chemistry notebooks, were collecting dust in the attic. It was good to have the guest house to yourself, to be miserable in peace without the lingering tension of having to acknowledge the reason for your return, or to have anyone ask why you were throwing up so much and sleeping for 14 hours at a time.

Your dreams were so deep and lifelike that you had trouble discerning reality from fiction in your own memory; your nightmares even worse. Once you dreamt that Van had come into the guest house bedroom with a cup of tea asking how you’d slept, how his baby was doing. When your eyes had burst open, you were cold and alone. Anguish gripped your stomach, forcing it’s contents up your throat then down onto the floor.

Other times the dreams were of him fucking you. Most nights it was just replays of your breakup, repeating every time you fell back asleep after being jerked awake from the sheer horror of that moment, worse than any organic monster ridden nightmare you had ever had. Each iteration more fresh than the last, as if someone was rewinding it over and over again on a cassette tape, starting at a high pitched blur then ending only when you could feel his hot breath ghost across your face.

Some days you woke up so paralyzed by your grief you wondered if you were in hell. Each moment was unbearably painful and eternal, the mere act of breathing felt sisyphean. But in hell, there was relief in the utter helplessness. Here, your actions had both consequences for yourself, and others. You weren’t sure which was worse.

The clinic was on the outskirts of town, far enough away you weren’t likely to run into anyone unless they were there for the same reason. The ultrasound tech didn’t make eye contact a single time, snapping her gum as she dispensed the chilly ultrasound gel in a single deft shake.

Your chest tightened when you heard the heartbeat for the first time, eyes prickling with tears. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump ticking through the monitor flooded your heart with a profound sense of relief.

Finally, something that was yours.

Tour stretched on, every night sold out. Press junkets, radio shows, interviews, and photoshoots were plastered all over social media, news papers, television, even the bus station adverts and shop bathroom posters. You quickly learned not to check your phone outside of calls and avoided the media. It was easy when you hardly had the energy to lift your head in the first place. Isolation was easier than breathing, and a lot less painful.

You had learned the hard way when you had tried reading the paper each day. You could leaf through mindlessly, until page 6 which always featured a half page spread of Van and a nameless girl, all uniquely the same. They always took similar form, as if made in a factory by formula: tight jeans and low cut blouses, cakefaced and bottle blonde; each one skinner, prettier, and younger than the last. Some looked like they had school the next day. You stopped reading the paper.

When you told your family you were pregnant, your mother cried--whether out of shock or happiness, you weren’t sure. Your brother punched a hole in the wall, then went outside to smoke. Your father just sighed--a long, deep sigh that validated his disappointment in your circumstances and choices. His reaction was the most heartbreaking.

Unlike your mother’s reaction, you knew unequivocally that his was one of disappointment. You were supposed to go to uni, maybe Oxbridge or a fancy American school or even elsewhere in Europe where you could learn a new language and lounge on picnic blankets in the sun with a bottle of wine and fancy cheese while mulling over your Literature seminar readings. You were supposed to be interesting and clever and successful and far away from here. Instead you were back where you had started, some wash up’s discards, nothing to show for it except a new dependent on your taxes.

Your brother followed you back to the guest house, determined to argue as ever. He was a man of few words until he was upset, and then every word cut like broken glass.

“Are you sure you want to keep it? It isn’t too late for you to finish up and go to uni.”

You had almost forgotten that you basically dropped out to follow Van on tour.

You had told your family that it would just be a couple stops, then you never came home. Until now.

One day your mother phoned in a rage after receiving a letter from the school that you had been expelled on the grounds of truancy. You remembered you told her you were turning in your work remotely—an obvious, bold faced lie.

Your relationship with Van had changed you from a studious rule follower to a fool, lucky in love, dropping out of high school to accompany someone else building their dream. Loving Van was like climbing a tree, higher and higher with no thought of how you would get down. But now you were flat on your ass, with another between your legs.

Your personality change had sparked concern in your friends in family, allegeding that you were “not that type of girl” to abandon everything for a man.

“I’m not really sure what type of girl I am,” was your only response.

After all,how could you know who you were meant to be when you were so young? Being with Van, being Van’s, was fun and exciting in a way you had never experienced. You’d never really dated, and didn’t have a lot of friends outside your brother’s friends, which was how you met Van. He was always nearby, goofing around and causing trouble.

Your earliest memories of Van were of riding bikes through town, collapsing in the cool grass when your legs turned to jelly and you could hardly peddle anymore. Van would blow dandelion seeds in your face while you giggled and rolled away from him. All of the hours spent under the gushing lemony sunshine ended in grass stained knees and freckled cheeks that lingered long after the popsicle drippings had been washed from your fingers.

That was the beginning--the familiarity; the quintessential bedrock of love that matures as you do, which each outgrown shoe and lost tooth. The type of childlike innocence entwined with companionship that warms your stomach just to think of, having had such a pure memory to call your own; an endless syrupy summer’s day that no one can take away from you.

As you grew and changed from girls and boys to women and men, your love morphed right along with it. There were many long stretches of time you hadn’t seen him at all, either from busyness with school or a row with your brother. But whenever you saw him again, that warmth returned right back to you, starting in your stomach and burning up to your sternum, bright and effervescent.

Your relationship mutated from platonic to romantic one night at a house party. Alcohol was still a novelty to you and two bottles of beer was your limit. You and Van were sitting together on a couch, the dim room filled with your other friends, illuminated only by fairy lights and the occasional flicker of a lighter. Van was telling ridiculous stories all while gesticulating wildly, each one making you laugh harder than the last. The combination of the alcohol and throwing your head back with laughter so many times had made you feel like you were on a rollercoaster, vertiginous and bubbly.

As if you hadn’t had enough, you got up to get another drink and fell back down onto the couch--except you missed your original spot by several inches and landed squarely on Van’s lap. You laughed out loud at your clumsiness. If you were sober you would have been so embarrassed! But your lowered inhibitions helped you see the humor in the situation. The room was aglow and the world was still big; the energy of youth electrifying the room.

Van instinctively placed a hand on the small of your back to steady you, and quickly jerked it up towards your shoulders as to not make you feel uncomfortable. A twinge of excitement seared in your stomach. You had never really touched before, and this felt nice in the most unexpected of ways--as if you had found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

You studied Van’s face, having never been so close to it. The perfect slope of his nose, the confetti of reddish freckles across high cheekbones, the pink pillowy lips that outfitted his wide mouth.

He must have been staring at your lips, too, because they clashed together as if drawn by magnet. There was no saying who kissed who as your heads met, puckering together needily. You wrapped your hand arms around him, leaning into his warm body so that your heads were resting on the couch, lips married together. His mouth tasted sweet like fairy floss, the room spinning like a carousel. You weren’t sure how long you made out for, but it felt like you were alone in the room full of people, coiled in the sweetest embrace that made time stand still. When you finally came up for air Van was grinning like he knew something you didn’t, gingerly tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I hope your brother didn’t see that,” he joked, making you blush.

You didn’t remember much of how the rest of the night went or how you ended up in your own bed the next morning, but the mere thought of having kissed Van so publicly both thrilled and mortified you. Surely people would talk--or were they all too drunk to notice? Did this mean he fancied you, or was it alcohol fueled happenstance?

At school the next week you heard his voice echoing in the halls, and turned to see him hanging on another girl while fraternizing with a group students the same year as Van and your brother. He tickled and teased her before hugging her from behind, then kissing her cheek with fervor. White hot shame flared inside you, ruddying your cheeks. You hurried home in a daze, scolding yourself for being so naive. He was a flirt and you were a fucking idiot for allowing yourself to be involved with someone like that--your brother’s friend, no less.

But the next weekend the same booze soaked gathering reoccurred, this time with more warm bodies packed into a smaller room. You sipped from a can while exchanging small talk with a girl from your chemistry class, wondering if you should leave or have another drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Van had arrived with the same girl from earlier, making a scene as he greeted his friends.

You decided to have another drink.

Cracking open a fresh can, you turned away hoping Van wouldn’t notice you. You smiled and nodded while your classmate blathered on, not registering a single word she said, unable to concentrate on anything other the imaginary tension in your head. The slick condensation beading on the aluminum can was your only anchor to reality as your body flushed from the discomfiture as much as the humidity. Though you hated to admit it, you wanted to be the girl next to him. Instead you slurped more beer, hoping to reach a level of inebriation where someone else started looking better.

Eventually the heat of the room became too suffocating to bear, and you excused yourself for a smoke. The noise of the party was barely a low thrum from the cement patio, despite being eight feet away. You sat on the very edge of the pavement, stretching your legs out into the dewy grass. The damp chill grounded you, your heart rate descending as you exhaled into the ether. The stars scrambled against the inky sky, floating in and out of focus as your nerves melted away with each crisp breeze. You were more drunk than you thought, but it felt nice out here where you weren’t being choked by calefaction and confronted with Van with the other girl.

The first drag of your cigarette was interrupted by a body shuffling next to yours, thumping down beside you on the cement.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing out here by yourself?” It was Van.

You scanned over the back of your shoulder to see if the girl was around you. She was not.

“I’m alright,” you sighed, tapping the ash from your cigarette onto the curb.

Van wrapped his arms around his crossed legs, shaking his hair out. From under his fringe, his eyes searching your face for clues to decode your expression.

You exhaled the smoke so at least there would be something between you to shield you from his intent gaze. The chirp of crickets in the distance filled the silence. Snuffing the butt out on the cement, you got up to leave without a word. Van grabbed your hand, stopping you in your tracks.

His expression nearly broke you, wide eyes begging for an explanation, confused as it was hurt. Letting out a deep sigh, you weighed your options: stay with him and exchange meaningless platitudes or leave. Leaving seemed like the better choice.

“I’m going home.”

Van sprang up. “You shouldn’t go alone this time of night after drinking. I’ll walk you home.”

Secretly, you loved the initiative he was taking. He wasn’t asking, he was announcing. This type of attention and caretaking were foreign to you, even as the kid sister and tagalong. No one ever fussed over you. Even though Van was known for being sweet to everyone, you were pleased as punch he was fussing over you.

Dark was the night as you trudged home, guided only by the flaxen incandescence of streetlamps and drunken intuition. For a long time neither of you spoke, reveling in the quietude of the sleepy town in the dead of night.

Van broke the silence. “So how’ve you been?”

“Same as it ever was,” you sighed, still uncomfortable with the hidden motive of his small talk. “Is your girlfriend gonna be upset that you’re walking me home?” Van laughed to himself, even though it wasn’t a joke. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

Only partially did those words alleviate the tension that had been badgering you all night. The alcohol poisoning your bloodstream was making you bold.

“So you just kiss all your friends like that,” You kicked a bottle down the road. Van’s head jerked up, turning towards you.

“Let me kiss you not as a friend then.” You stopped dead in your tracks. Of course he could be bolder than you. For the second time that night, you looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. You could feel yourself freezing in place like a deer in the headlights, but your bodies were being pulled together as if magnetized. Van grabbed your face as your lips married; exchanging greedy, hungry kisses. His arm migrated around your lower back, pulling you into him, subsuming your bodies as one. You kissed as if you couldn’t breath without the other’s air, desperate and smacking.

Even when your lips finally parted, your figures remained cocooned together. Your noses brushed at the tip, studying each other’s faces. Never had you seen Van so still and ruminative before. He brushed his thumb across your cheek before imparting a final kiss.

“How’s that for not friends?”

Soon Van was coming to your house to see you more than your brother and their friends. He would meet you in the hallway to exchange forbidden kisses, risking demerits and suspensions. Now instead of lurking on the outskirts at parties you were right next to him, the center of attention, with his arm wrapped around you.

You could tell your brother wasn’t comfortable with your arrangement, but he never said anything discouraging. You had never smiled so much in your life, and people sometimes didn’t recognize you next to him. You drank more and wore less. School began to feel like a prison, entrapping you 8 hours a day when you’d rather spend time with your sweetheart. Even in subjects you loved, you couldn’t focus. You tried to study while the band practiced, but you’d always get distracted by how cute Van was and his never ending questions about their creative direction. You started helping manage their shows, calling venues and arranging transport and making sure every piece was in its place.

Soon you were helping out so much that you were hardly home and rarely saw your other friends. As the band became more successful, you would occasionally skip school to accompany them to far off gigs and events, reveling both in the rebelliousness of playing hooky and the sheer delight of watching your favorite person achieve their dreams.

One of your favorite teachers had warned you against following Van, confronting you during office hours when you had dropped in to ask about an assignment. There was genuine concern in his expression, as if you were his own child that was making a stupid mistake.

“I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but you really should rethink your decision to leave. You could go to a great school and study whatever you wanted. You’re brilliant and clever and could charm the most stoic of souls. There are plenty of people in the world like Ryan, who will want to harness your energy to use for themselves. Don’t let them.”

You had thought he was just jealous, or perhaps had a tiny crush on you. You smiled at your past naivety. He was right. Your brother agreed.

“He picked you because you were hardworking and clever and too sweet to realize he was taking advantage of you! You were the best girl at that school and he fucking knew it. None of the girls like Alice or Nia would have lasted longer than a second with him! They would have crumbled from not being the center of attention, nor do they have a brain cell to show for it. He wanted someone to support him and do all of the hard work while he took credit for all of the glory. I mean, he didn’t even arrange you as a manager or assistant like Larry so you could get paid by the touring company!”

You hated when your brother was right, because it was a gut punch every time. He was a man of few words, but those choice words stung. You had organized much of the band’s earlier endeavors, like communication with agents and venues and examining contracts for faulty clauses and loopholes. The band was hardworking and talented, but still too hungry for success to make good judgements on their offerings. Without you, they surely would have fallen prey to a lecherous label under a contract that would have destroyed them.

“I know it wasn’t malicious, because he can’t pull his head out of his ass to think about anyone else. He surely knows you could achieve more without him, the thought just never occurred to him because it’s his world and the rest of us just live in it. And now you’re having his child in the town he abandoned while he’s living out his rockstar fantasies. Did he ever even call you to make sure you made it home, and the plane didn’t fucking explode with his unborn child on it? Does he even fucking know your pregnant? Does he even care?”

You turned away so that your brother wouldn’t see the hot tears in springing from your eyes.

“You can go now,” you mewed, hoping he would take the hint.

“If he sets foot in this town again, I’m going to fucking kill him.”

It was a promise.

#this is a wip but i wanted to post it bc it is both cringe AND fail #catfish and the bottlemen #catb #catb fic #catfish and the bottlemen fic #vanfic #van mccann #van mccann fic #van mccann fanfiction

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jonah-aesthetic · 3 years

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That One Pt.3 I Jonah Marais

Jonah Marais X Reader / Ivette X Daniel Seavey

Plot: Jonah kidnaps the reader into showing her who he is. They’re something like friends as she faces the deal her dad gives her to change her career path. Ivette couldn’t be more supportive for her best friend.

Word count: 5.6k

Author’s Note: Um this series is longer then I thought oh well I’m proud of it. I wish I put in more Jonah, but next part with hopefully have that as your relationship blossoms. Um I just realised Jonah is a pianist and not a guitarist I feel so dumb for making that mistake. Not edited.

Rating: 16+

One Two

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Days continued to past by like seasons, painfully slow. As if you were waiting for the October breeze in the middle of summer. Finals came and gone shedding you of dreading nights of studying, coffees with seven espresso shots, and long early 2000s playlists. You haven’t heard from Trey since the night of the party and you assumed weren’t going to hear from him again.

You were still furious with Jonah, he had you in his bed and said nothing about it. He was probably use to having girls in his bed and didn’t bother making an excuse. Your heart grew fonder from him as the days went on as your brain’s resentment bloomed stronger. The great battle between the brain and the heart has begun.

“You know you could come with us.” Ivette’s voice sliced through your thoughts. You both were curled into each other on your double bed in your one person dorm. A soft white fleece blanket cover in orange pumpkins engulfed the both of you, Bottles of pop scattered all around you as well as bags of candies and chips. The light was off as you both watch To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before for the tenth time this week.

“To the gala?” You asked with an amused eyebrow. The gala in question was the annual auto auction for richest families in the city. This year it was a 1956 Breathtaking Chevrolet Corvette Convertible. Gorgeous metals, pristine cherry red paint, and an engine purred like nothing before. It was a car that you’d probably kill for.

“Yes, I know you hate them-”

“I don’t hate them, I severely don’t like them. There’s a difference.”

“There’s really not. Anyways it’d be fun if you came. You’d get to mingle with hot Richies and maybe take one home for the night.” Ivette made her voice as innocent as she could. Leaning more into your side with brown puppy dog eyes.

“You’re going with Daniel I don’t want to crash the date and Julie thinks Jonah and I are together.” You sigh looking at your moving feet under the thin blanket. They poke out revealing your still healing wounds, starting yo close with nothing but tiny scars. Jonah was very precise with disinfecting them. Without him they would’ve been infected deeply right now.

“Okay, it’s up to you.” Ivette didn’t push. She knew there was something going on between the two of you. Your best friend didn’t know exactly what but it was something, she didn’t tell you what to do wanting you to figure it out on your own. Sometimes you wish she’d push ans prod at you about it, but at the same time you were grateful for her.

“I love you.” You say giving her a small smile, she returned the words and hugged you close to her. Your phone rang and buzzed on your night stand cutting the moment you were sharing with your best friend. You felt Ivette move as she reached for it, confusion etch into her dark brows. “Who is it?” you ask.

“Its..It’s your dad.” You sat up at the information, shock running in your veins. “What.” You asked dubious, you grasp the phone into your hands not believing what she had said. Your dad’s name glowed at the top on the screen with the a blank picture. He didn’t deserve one. You glanced at Ivette, she shared the same expression you did. Then you answered it.

“Y/n How has the semester been going?” His voice was almost robotic. Of course the only thing he cared about was the family legacy that you didn’t want.

“Why are you calling me?” You ask coldly remembering the last time you interacted with him. In your room throwing everyone of your paintings is a box telling you that this wasn’t a career path he wanted you on. He never saw the hours you spend on them, never cared to actually look at what you brought to live.

He found a premed program and you were going to attend weather you wanted to or not. Of course he told you he didn’t want to see your life fade out and he was doing this because he cared about you. Your dad continued to put your life’s work into the attic with no further discussion. At that point you were mentally drain and didn’t fight him on it.

“Look I know I haven’t been fair to you. I just..I didn’t want to see you sit there and do nothing with your life. I thought painting was a hobby not a passion, but I went up into the attic recently and saw them tucked into the corner. I was amazed at what you created with a brush and a little colour.” His voice had more expression in it.

“What are you getting at? I was busy,” You say glance at Ivette sitting against the head bored observation written in her eyes. Chewing at her raw finger tips.

“If you can sell one of your painting for two grand you can drop out. And I’ll put you through art school.” He sighed like he was already regretting his discussion.

“Are you serious?” You asked not being about to control your excitement. He was giving you a chance even if it was just a sliver it was something.

“Yes you’re miserable I know this because you haven’t said anything me for two years.” regret dripping in his voice.

“Two grand for one painting?” You asked as if you didn’t hear him word for word.

“Yes those are my conditions, don’t make me regret it.” The line goes dead and you stare at the wall flabbergasted still processing the information.

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I pressed his body against the wall with the all the strength I had. He could over power me with any wrong move I chose to make. The silver tip of my dagger tug into his throat, olive skin sizzled under the touch of it making the Alpha seethe at the pain you were inflicting on him.

Do you think you can over power me little Omega the humour in his question was like venom

Where is Kaden I growled at him, the anger and fear raiding off me.

I killed him, I couldn't have my precious mate fall in love with a pathetic human

Without thinking you ran the dagger across his throat, the skin parting and burning at the touch of it. Red blood erupted from the cut, flowing down the blade and my hands. Shock was written in his eyes and a whimper left his lips.

I loved you he accused as his blood choked out of his mouth and bubbled at the fresh cut on his throat. I never loved you it was a lie to get him back. I seethed at him,

Ungrateful I gave you this kingdom. I ga- the dagger found the way into his heart cutting off his wretched words. Warm blood splattered across my face and it felt like sweet sweet revenge upon him. I plunged the dagger deeper into his chest, feeling the way it pierced through his heart. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, body falling limp to the ground your grasp on him faltering.

I felt the second he died, the breaking of the matting bond and the power of the alpha swarm into my body. Redemption w-his green eyes stalked onto me-wait that didn't happen!

The Presence of Him tore you from the beautiful universe of werewolves. Ink appeared on the pages of the book between your fingers again. Jonah leaned against a book shelve half covered by your book. You narrowed your eyes and glared at him. Sighing heavily you reluctantly put your book down, you were at a good part and wasn't exactly happy to be interrupted.

“What do you want? I’m currently busy.” You Grumble at him from a bay window inside the library. The sky was reaching a midnight blue as the stars gleamed and sparkled. Lights inside didn’t shine as bright as the ones at Chocolate Shop, those ones were luminescent. Threading through Jonah’s curls and making them gorgeously lighter. His eyes were a bright green that seems to call your name-stop!

“Sorry to interrupt, must of been a good part from the expression you were making.” He says leaning against a book shelf watching you from your little nook. The leather jacket he wore circled his lean biceps flawlessly, He wore all black. His bruises before had faded and healed clean as the grey lion pendant dangled at his chest.

“You did. But now that you’re hear might as well get on with it.” You say now wondering what expression you were making awhile reading.

“Ivette didn’t tell you? Her phone must be dead.” Confusion was displayed on his sharp features. At the small mention of Ivette being in trouble you scrambled for your phone. Mind scattering on what could of possible happened to her when Daniel was on watch. Heart picking up speed as you found that the useless device in your hands was dead.

“What happened to her?” You ask abruptly, getting to your feet and forgetting about your book. “Calm down, she’s fine. No limbs missing and all her blood is in tact.” Jonah says easing your raging mind. “Ivette’s tire pressure was too high, she ran over a massive rock and it exploded.”

“Well what are you waiting for lets go.” You insist walking past him urgent to see if Ivette was truly okay. Sure Jonah said she was but you had to see for yourself. “Your book.” Jonah called over his shoulder, still in the same position watching you amazed. “Right my book.” You mumble to yourself as you go back and retrieved it on the velvet cushion.

Jonah’s Jeep had the harsh contrast of Ivette’s Range, while hers smelled of cherries and light vanilla Jonah’s had smelled of sandalwood and cinnamon. The heavy aroma of a male was evident in the seat of the passenger seat. Radio hummed like that night of the party, Jonah’s fingers drummed to the beat. His rings clanking against the steering wheel and you wondered what they’s feel like dancing on your soft skin. What would his warm fingers feel like gripping your chin while he made you look into his green eyes. Stop.

“What street was it on?” You asked still looking outside the passenger window. Head resting in your palm watching the trees pass on the highway. You wondered what happened to Ivette’s heels, because they weren’t sitting on the floor of Jonah’s vehicle anymore.

“I lied.” Jonah says coolly, your head snaps to him. “What do you mean you lied?” Your voice furious. “Ivette is at the fraternity watching Frozen 2 with Daniel and Zach.” His voice nonchalant as he kept his eyes on the road.

“Stop this car Jonah or I swear I’ll jump out.” You threatened, your hand on the door knob. “You’re not go-” You unbuckle your seat belt, pulling the door open. The interior light beams on. His face falls watching you scoot closer to the door. The adrenaline from the rage you held for him blocked all rationality. The pavement races past the tire as the wind kissing your legs and cheeks, whipping through your hair with a wicked breeze .

The Jeep swerves as he grabs your wrist yanking you back in the car. The vehicle behind him honks as he swerves the Jeep again to reach across from you and slam the door shut. The silent anger on his stone cold face deflates yours. you finally got under his skin. You smile to yourself as you look out the window again.

“Why would you think of doing something like that?” The roar of his voice made you flinch. You didn’t dare look at him knowing he was burning holes into the fabric of your shirt. That angry passion for your well being was attractive to say the least.

“Honestly Jonah why do you care all of a sudden?” Your voice flat. If you acted like you had no feelings for him maybe you’d be able to trick your heart into thinking it was real.

He said nothing as if he didn’t have an answer. But he had multiple and had no idea which one to pick. He didn’t and let the silence fill in. He glanced at you every ten minutes that passed, you could tell by the way the leather groaned at his movement. He drove forty-five minutes out of town just to show you the view of it on a massive cliff.

He yanked the steering wheel all the way to the left taking a sharp left. With fast hands he spun it all the right and reversed to the edge of the cliff. You watched him with observant eyes as Jonah popped the trunk, unbuckling himself as he got out of the Jeep. Not saying a word to you as he crawled into the back.

Why did he bring you here? why had he reacted the way he did when you were trying to hop out of the moving Jeep? Although you had to admit that it was a tad bit too much, even for Ivette. There wasn’t a clear answer for him.

The open of the passenger door had you jumping out of your skin. Heart skipping a beat, confused you didn’t sense his presence reach you. Looking up at him with doe eyes, his complex soft in the moonlight. Not an ounce of anger in sight.

“Come,” his voice gentle offering his right hand to you. The softness of him reminded you of how he took care of you that night at the ice cream shop. Cleaning your wounds and feeding you ice cream. Maybe that’s why your chose to place your hand in his. Warmth crawled up your forearm and stopped at your shoulder blade. His hand fit in yours like a puzzle piece like it was meant to be there.

Silently Jonah guided you to the back of the Jeep, keeping you close to his body as he parked fairly close to the edge. You leaned into him closer once your foot kissed the edge and dirt flung off the cliff. Breath catching in your throat as your heart dropped in your stomach. “I got you.” Jonah whispered pulling you closer into his side. You looked up at him, all you saw was his jawline but you were beyond grateful he didn’t feed you to the cliff.

Your fingers ached to gasp the back of his neck and pull him to your lips. He was making it harder each day to resist the urge of him. Warm hands wrapping on your hips had you gasping, digging into the fabric of your shirt he lifted you onto the back of his Jeep. Blankets coated the hard plastic floor of the Jeep making it more comfortable.

The view of your city in the dead of night was breathtaking. Street light, traffic light and store light illuminated it. Like is had been the only star left in the sky. “Gorgeous isn’t it?” Jonah’s breath hits your neck and you now realised how close he was sitting next to you.

“What am I doing here, Jonah.”

You turn your head to him, noses almost grazing each other. You’re meet with his eyes and a small sigh leaves your lips. The green was the exact colour of an oak tree leaf, small flecks of brown floated into his flawless swirls of green. You could spot each individual stand of his curls upon his forehead. Light stubble mingled onto his jawline reaching his cheeks vaguely. There was a faint scab on his eye from a previous wound you wouldn’t of spotted out if you weren’t so close to him.

Fuck.

“I wanted to show you view of the city, stunning from the outside at a certain time. But if you reach inside you can spot all the flaws it has to offer and yet you’re still in love with it.” Jonah swallows harshly and you could see how his Adam’s apple bob. You finally pull your gaze away from him hearing your heart pound in your ears.

“It’s the point of view you look at it. You could despise it from the pollution it causes and end up leaving. Or you could love it know it’s flaws and help take care of it.” You spot Chocolate Shop close enough to see the glowing brown letters.

“You only see the outskirts of me, I’m here to show you the inner point of view of thee Jonah Marais.” You turn to him again and raised your eyebrows at him amused.

“and who is Thee Jonah Marais.” You mocked him playfully.

“I’m serious. Let me show you and you’ll find out along the way.” He shrugs his shoulders as in question towards you.

You’re quiet looking at him searching for anything. Not green eyes looked to the side and there was no biting of the lip. Zero fidgeting and zero wavered octave in his voice. He wasn’t playing around like you thought he was. If he was willingly to reach out, trick you, and make the effort to tell you then you’d let him with no resistance.

“Who is Jonah Marais?” You asked,

He tells you the entire story of his life, every year of his life he could remember. How he was just a kid in his room going live on Younow to finding his the guys and starting a band with them. How it was a rocky begging with barely any gigs to being booked every weekend for six weeks at a time.To adopting Sawyer and moving out for college. Jonah held this rock star persona about him scared to let people in. You were so wrong about him and you felt like shit for it, maybe he’d forgive you for it.

Now You were curled up into the corner of Jonah’s Jeep covered in blankets. The cold breeze of the night air getting to you. He strummed his acoustic guitar that he seemed to always have tucked into the back seat. Fingers changing against the strings making a beautiful melody. He sat at the edge of the Jeep letting his legs dangle off, his back to you as he hummed.

I can’t even hide it

I haven’t stop thinking about your lips

mm, your lips, yeah I losing my mind

It’s been too long, I’m missing your kiss

yeah, your kiss

Jonah’s voice is soft as it tangles with the stings of the instrument perfectly. Almost the same octaves of an angel, gentle and flawless. No scratch that a god the sound pulled you to him which felt slightly strange to you. Your body wanted to be by his side watching his fingers pick at the strings. Instead you nuzzled into the blankets further.

you

you’ve been there through it all

you answered all my calls

you

I can’t believe I let you go

Beautiful, you let the thoughts of him flow freely. Not scolding yourself for thinking them. It was like you were meeting him for the first time, a side of Jonah you’ve never seen before. Even his vaguely muscular back was perfect, They were most likely sculpted by god himself if Jonah wasn’t already him.

Tears and slamming doors

I’m falling, now on the floor

Begging, begging please

you don’t want me no more.

A small innocent yawn passing your lips halted Jonah’s voice and finger picking. Looking back at you with a tired glance full of worry. Looking into his green pools you yawned again like a kitten and Jonah couldn’t help but swoon. Sleep was swarming your body and Jonah could tell by the dopey smile on your face. But all you wanted was him to start playing the guitar again.

“Don’t fall asleep again you’ll end up in my bed again.” Jonah warns,

That makes you stare at him blankly full attention on him, “How did I wake up in your bed again? ‘Cause all I remember is the ice cream and the lights were out after that.”

He tells you, including the part where you woke up, Coddling Sawyer’s head in your lap. Throwing an old t-shirt at you in hopes you’ll change out of your dress. Prepping the couch for a hard’s night sleep.You wanting him to stay until you fell asleep, but not wanting to sleep.

“Oh.” You look at the blanket not wanting to look at him. “I asked you to sleep in bed with me?” You voice so much softer then before. “Yes.” was his only response. You believed him, who would he lie about something so small. You’re upset with yourself that you let your feelings take the steering wheel.

“Look you were intoxicated and half asleep, everybody wants someone when they’re like that. Don’t beat yourself up.” Jonah says scooting a little closer, placing his guitar down, tiny reassurance that it really was okay.

“Thank you.” You glance back up at him giving Jonah a delicate smile. He returns it, “Let’s get you home, the sun is rising.” he says offering you a hand. Just past his head you spot light blues and pinks blending in with the bright yellow of the sun. You spent the entire night with Jonah and you didn't even realise, Talking with him only felt like an hour, give or take.

“I guess it is.” You say letting your hand slip into his. You flinch at the warmth it caused to bloom in your shoulder blades, you haven’t gotten use to it.

---------

Ivette drove you to your parents house the next weekend. You needed to pick a painting to sell or at least put it up for bidding. Your car was still in the shop. It’s been months and you’re about to give up on it. But Ivette was gladly willing to drive you said it was a quick road trip.

The attic’s floor creaked with every step you took searching for that breathtaking painting. You would see between to floorboards into the den and began to wonder if it was safe to be up here. “What about this one?” Ivette’s optimistic voice left you perplex. Glancing up you sighed staring the painting in the eyes.

“No body in there right mind would pay two grand of a a faceless watercolour painting of Phcahontas.”

“I would.” Ivette shrugs before putting the canvas back into the bin that said watercolour. You shake your head and laugh playfully. “That’s because you’re my best friend Ivette.”

“Yes, and the painting your selling I’m buying.”

“Um. No, you’re not...Ivette I swear if you buy this canvas. I won’t speak to you for a month.” You threaten digging through the landscape acrylic paint.

“It’s only a month.” Ivette says pulling up a cafe picture done in all pencil crayon. You and you shake your head.

“I’m serious. I have to do this on my own.” You say honestly, flicking through watercolour ocean life. Multiple bins were full of stories you created with your hands. Divided by the media you used to make them and the surface you made them on like canvas or card-stock.

“Fine. What happens if you sell it for lets say five-hundred-thousand?” She asks her attention mainly on picking out art piece she thinks are worth it.

“None of my paintings are worth that, but if and that’s a big if. Pay you back for all the things you gave me.” You say still digging and now realising they were sorted into years. Damn you painted anything you could think of.

“No you’re not!” Ivette basically yells at you and your eyes widen in shock at the random out burst.

“Okay you fucking psycho. I would get a vehicle. A used one that would run on four wheels just fine.” You say really thinking about it, that’s what you loved about Ivette she listened to you and never judge you for anything.

“I think that’s a perfect stat.” She purred like that was the answer she was looking for. An hour whizzes by scavenging for the most likely candidate and goofing around with Ivette. Skipping directly over painting of your family you did, surprisingly there’s a lot. Like the one with your dad painted into the king of hell, or Ivette painted as a goddess.

“I think I found it!” Ivette shouts so loud it causes the family dog to bark. Your face is blank as you stare at the canvas hanging from her finger tips. The second painting you had painted for spirit animal week back in high school. First you painted a doe. Your art teacher said it was un-gradable by how perfectly you captured yourself in it.

That lion dangling from your best friend’s fingers was of Jonah’s spirit animal. You had a brief thing for him back then and if anyone saw it back then they’d know exactly who it was. he always carried himself like the king. That school was his domain to say the least, not to mention he always wore the lion pendent around his neck. The same one he wears to this day.

“That’s the one.” you say reluctantly. If you were going to sell an art piece for two thousand it’d be this one. You’ve spent hours on that one piece, it was your most dedicated painting as embarrassing as it was to admit.

You took a few pictures of the painting before packing it into the trunk of Ivette’s Range. Posting it on a few website for bidding you hoped it go for the wanting price. Giving her a small nod Ivette started the hour drive back to campus with a coffee run.

------

The sun stretched through the massive window of Ivette’s gorgeous loft. Kissing the top on her glass table top. Notes and text books of your other classes spread along the glass leaving small gaps between. Nothing big was coming up but you liked refreshing your brain with the keyed information. This hack saved you from getting confused in your college courses, only god knows how perplexed in high school classes.

Sure your dad gave you a sliver to dodge all of this but you weren’t going to relay on it. Of course you prayed to the sun and the moon that it would sell. And that’s why the painting sat in your dorm room waiting to rot.

Taking a sip of your iced coffee you sighed in bliss, nothing like a well made coffee to chase the worry away. On the couch you could spot Ivette’s head tucked into Daniel’s shoulder. God they were so fucking cute.

“What’s the colour scheme for the gala?” Daniel hummed into her forehead before planting a kiss there. “I was thinking somewhere between red and white?” It was a question, a chance to see what Daniel was okay with.

“I think red is amazing. Wine, ruby, burgundy, or blood?” He answered her with a question. She Beamed at it the knowledge for the colour. “Ruby.” She said before bringing her hands to jawline and pull him to her before kissing him.

Your attention turning back on the notes in front of you. Ivette was undeniably happy with him and you wished she had the courage to stay with him this time. No matter what she says she deserves to finally be happy with him.

“Y/n?” Your whips up and eyes connected with hers. “You should come, I know you said no already. But it’ll be fun. You’ll be my plus one since the Seavey’s are invited.” Her eyes softened and formed into her famous puppy dog eyes. Bottom lip rolling out into a pout, a pleading that worked for a good percentage of the time.

“It’s in two days. I don’t have time to gather a worthy gown.” You resisted her charm. “I can make a quick call or two.” She practically begged you.

Daniel glances at you with a mischievous ocean glint in his eyes. Flashes a smirk before leaning into Ivette, what was this one up to now? He’s always in the centre of Jonah’s treacherous plans. He whispers into her ear and a small wave of shock washed over her. She’s nodding before Daniel has a chance to pull away and agree to what he said to her.

“Fine It’s up to you.” Ivette shrugs trying to brush of the fact Daniel whispered his evil plans in her ear. Which were differently about you if he had to whisper them to her.

“Whatever you’re up to Seavey keep me out of it!” You narrow your eyes at him. Wide doe eyes Daniel begins to throw his hands up in surrender. Trying to seem innocent but failing miserably and looking suspiciously guilty. “I Wouldn’t speak of such crime.”

He winks.

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

You haven’t gotten wind of their devious plan for twenty-four hours, you felt safe enough to say you were in the clear. You took a seat at your favourite coffee shop Golden Biscuit, the one Trey worked at. You asked about him and they had said he stopped working a week ago, the day of the party. which felt oddly suspicious.

Trying to bury yourself back into the steamy werewolf romance your phone buzzed on the table top. Shaking the entirety of it yet you reluctantly reached for it. Ivette’s name flashed at the top “This better be life or death.” You mumble to yourself.

“Where are you!?” You could hear the tears and desperation wrapping in her words. It was rare for Ivette to call you in hysterical breathes of cry. But you knew exactly what it sounded like a the first breath that left her lips.

“Hey calm down. I’m at the coffee shop. What happened?” Your voice soft as your attention was on the situation at hand.

“Bonnie sent me the wrong size! I need your help to fix it please!” You could hear her hiccup in her distressed striped voice. “Just take a breath, I’m assuming your in my dorm. Hold tight Ivette I’m on my way.” You soothe knowing how important these galas were to her. It was the one night a year where she could replenish her statues of a Richie and not feel guilty about it.

“Okay, okay.” she says finally breathing through her nose. “I love you.” You say into the phone gathering your book into your bag and your coffee into your hand.”I love you too.” She replies back sounding less hysteric almost making you halt at the sudden change in her voice. You waved it off as a mind trick continuing to rushing out of Golden Biscuit and towards campus.

Shouldering the door open you clatter to the floor of your dorm with an exaggerated oof. Chest tight and legs feeling like jelly as you pull yourself up, door wide open as your keys dangle from the knob. A few passing students pier in with wondering eyes. You huff before kicking the door shut closing it on anymore prying eyes. You’d remind yourself to fetch your keys later.

As soon as you collected your breath you saw no sign of Ivette and her hysterics. You rolled your eyes knowing she tricked your gullible little ass. Those theatre class we really paying off, Ivette really knew how to act and knew you’d come running in her signs of panic.

A large crisp orange box sat a top your bed along side a black bag. Cautiously your hands reached for the gift bag pulling tissue paper out. Glancing inside you spot your silk green dress and Ivette’s heels. In your hand the dress condition was pristine as if it’s never been worn. Confusion your hands dart for the heels and you began to inspect them, not a single blood stain upon the velvet straps. Were these replaced?

Setting the thought aside you begin to open the box, a top white tissue paper was a clean envelope. Inside the wax seal was the Marais family crest, breaking it you fingers find a letter inside written in delicate swirling loops.

A little birdie told me your dress size. Now forgive me for the colour there wasn’t much option in a day’s notice. Daniel and I will fetch the both of you at her house. By the way I took your green dress on a trip to the dry cleaners.

- Jonah Marais

As soon as you think you’re in the clear it rolls into view. He didn’t give you a chance to say no, clever you didn’t think you could because the gala was tomorrow night. All Jonah brought was stress upon you and your perplexed feelings. But now you felt more friends then enemies but there was still the instinct to stay clear of him.

sighing you places the letter down and unwrap the tissue paper. A gorgeous sapphire ball gown with a sweet heart neckline sit inside. mesmerised by it’s workmanship you grasp it in your hands. Silky texture nothing like your green dress,this was higher quality thick in fabric and softer. You wondered the price. It stayed a mystery because no tag dangled off the dress. Ivette most like told you about your fear of her expensive gift and removed it with his hands. God those hands plucking the strings of his guitar.

This wasn’t a reality it was written deep in some fantasy book you’ve read before. You were dreaming or you’re hallucinating, that’s the only explanation. It was a rare occasion you got the man and the gown, This shit was only in between the pages of fiction.

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

Thank you so much for the people who have stuck with this series you’re god sent I swear.

Which was your favourite part? Do you guys like the other elements of the story like the reader selling the painting and the Gala? or are you all about the romance?

Don’t be afraid to message me if anything offended you with my POC characters. This is a safe space for everyone and I want to make it right!

Taglist: @jonahlovescoffee @randomlimelightxxx @someinsanefangirl @evans-dejong

26 notes · View notes

maribatlife · 4 years

Text

Without Context Pt. 3

AO3

Shorter wait this time guys!

Tag List:

@bee-wrecker

“This is unbelievable. You’re probably the only person in Gotham who wouldn’t recognize that name. Wayne, as in Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham.”

“Oh, is he your dad?”

“Pixie, never change. But the rest of the family is going to want to meet you soon. I let you know when.”

“Sure, my schedule is wide open.” He gave her an expectant look. “Oh, duh, you need to be able to contact me. How could I forget that? Silly Marinette, hehehe.” She babbled as she wrote down her phone number for him.

“Thanks Mari, I’ll text you later.” He said as he put his helmet back on and swung off the balcony.

As Jason left, Marinette realized how late in the day it was getting. “Gah, the shop! How could I forget!”

“Marinette, Marinette, MARINETTE” Tikki shouted. “You’re the owner, you decide when you open.”

“But the customers….” And she rushed down the stairs.

The day was fairly slow, a few people popped in to see the new shop. Jason texted around noon to set up dinner for Friday.

Right before she was about to close, 3 women entered the store. Marinette let them browse as she set up for the next day. “Is there anything I can help you with?” She asked, having run out of busy work.

“Actually, yeah,” the girl in purple replied. “Our,” she paused, clearly trying to think of the right word. “Brother just met his soulmate.”

“And you’re meeting them soon?” Marinette finished.

“Exactly! Plus, I’m sure there’s going to be a huge fancy-ass party as soon as his dad can get everything together.”

“Your site said you do commissions?” The one in the wheelchair asked.

“I do, the ready-wear can be fitted and ready for the end of the week, and commissions are dependent on the final pattern. I have a look book here if you would like to browse for ideas. We can schedule a consult appointment for later in the week...” she trailed off.

“Oh, right, I’m Barbara, this is Stephanie,” she gestured to the blonde in purple, “And Cassandra.” She motioned at the young Asian girl with them. “Later in the week definitely works for the consults.”

“So you met your Soulmate?” Stephanie asked as she browsed the racks.

“Yes, a few days ago.” Marinette sheepishly admitted. “He startled me and I screamed in his face.”

“Well, it’s better than mine,” Stephanie laughed. “Mine scared me at night and I smashed him in the face with a brick.”

That night, while embroidering on her couch, Marinette heard a thump from her balcony. Seemingly ignoring it she placed her hoop on the coffee table and reached for the bracelet she kept in her pocket. As she turned around, she saw the giant shadow, entering through her balcony door. Batman, she thought. What the actual f-

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” his low voice boomed.

“Oh look it’s the man with a giant batsuit,” She sassed back.

“It’s Batman.”

“The man with a giant batsuit.” No way was she going to let him know that he had actually frightened her. “What do you want, furry?”

“What are your intentions towards Hood?”

“Well I figured that we would ride off into the sunset together and live happily ever after.” Her saccharine voice biting through his armor. “Oh, maybe we could raise unicorns and exist off candy all day long.” She dropped the tone, “Go jump off a roof. Our plans are between us and if you want to know you should try building a better relationship with Hood. Now get out of my apartment before I call the cops.” She turned back and continued her embroidery. After he left, she locked the sliding door, no more unexpected visitors tonight. She had barely covered a petal of the flower, when she heard another thump, this one significantly lighter. One of the birds she thought.

On her balcony, Robin struggled to open the door. He had managed to get it unlocked but did not realize she kept a barrier on the track to stop it from opening.

She sighed before getting up to open the door. “What do you want Draco?”

“My name is Robin. I do not know this Draco you refer to.”

“You poor, uneducated child.”

“-tt- How can you be worthy of my brother?”

“Take it up with the universe, kid.” Robin was visibly getting angry with her, but she was done.

“I challenge you to a duel,” He snapped, hand flying towards his sword.

“Nope, nope, no you don’t.” Nightwing swung down and grabbed the sword out of his hand.

Unhand my sword Nightwing. She must prove her worth to join this family.”

“Robin, that is not how any of this works. I’m so sorry, Miss.” He directed towards Marinette. “Baby Bird and the Bat have issues respecting privacy. Have a good night.” He called out as he jumped off the balcony, dragging Robin with him.

“You know what,” Marinette told the kwamis that had gathered around her as she secured the door again. She cast a forlorn glance at her embroidery sitting abandoned on the coffee table, “I think I’m just going to go to bed. It’s too late for this.”

Early Friday morning, the 3 women from earlier came by to pick up their altered items. A few hours later, Marinette had worked herself up into a full panic. “Tikki,” she whined from the depths of her closet. “What am I going to wear? What if they hate me? Gahh, I can’t do this right now!”

“Marinette, whatever you choose will be fine.”

“But Tikki, this isn’t a normal meeting. This is meeting my soulmate’s family! It has to be perfect.”

“What about the Chat dress,” Plagg interjected. “It’s black and don’t you always say you can’t go wrong with black?”

She dragged out a 50s style off the shoulder Swing dress with a built in alternating neon green and black tulle petticoat.

“Oh and the Ladybug heels,” Tikki dragged out the aforementioned deceptively simple black shoes. Marinette had painted the sole and shank of the heels to mimic her original Ladybug costume.

“Hmm,” she mused. “What to style it with?” She quickly added a few loose waves to her hair, before hesitating. To bring Kaalki’s glasses or not? At a nod from Tikki she grabbed them and they shifted into a pair of cat-eye glasses. “Alright, I think I’m ready.” At that moment the doorbell rang. “Oh, that must be Jason.”

“Marinette,” Tikki said from her bag, “Don’t forget the Macarons!”

“Right,” she grabbed the box. “Thanks Tikki.”

Jason stood, leaned against the hood of a cherry red convertible. “You ready to meet everyone?”

“Can you go over everyone again on the ride?”

“Not a problem,” he opened the door to let her in. “First, we have Bruce and Alfred. Alfred raised Bruce after his parents were murdered. He knows everything and is amazing.”

“And Bruce is your dad, right?”

“Yes, he might go full Brucie on you.

“What is full Brucie?”

“Oh that’s what we call it when he acts like a total dumbass. Dick coined it, he was the first one that was adopted. He’s now a Cop in Bludhaven. After me, B took in Tim. He’s sixteen and already graduated High School, right now he’s working at WE in R&D. The last of us is Damian, he’s Bruce’s bio son. His mom showed up a coupla years ago and told B, “surprise, it’s a boy!” He’s an angry little shit.”

“Do they know that I know?”

“Nope, figured we could have fun with that. That’s why you’ll get the Brucie treatment.” Soon they pulled off the long mountain drive onto a private road where an ornate gate stood open, waiting for them.

“They’re watching us as we pull up right?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Jason parked the car next an imposing staircase, leading up to the soaring Gothic entry.

“Wow,” Marinette muttered under her breath. “I wish I had my sketch book.”

Jason chuckled as he led her up the stairs. “You’ll have plenty of chances to sketch to your heart’s content.” As they reached the top step, the double doors swung open to reveal an older man in a suit. “See spies everywhere,” Jason murmured in her ear.

“Master Jason, welcome home. This must be Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

“Hello Monsieur Pennyworth, please call me Marinette.”

“Of course, Miss Marinette, if you call me Alfred.”

As they walked into the entry, they heard a cry of, “She’s here!” As, who Marinette could only assume was Dick, flipped off the second-floor balustrade, swinging on the chandelier on the way down. “Hi, Marinette, right?” He held out his hand to her.

“You must be Dick.”

“Aw, is Jay-bird talking about me?”

Marinette got a teasing glint in her eye. “Oh yes, he mentioned how you can’t stop yourself from jumping off of high places.”

Before she could continue, she was interrupted by a wordless scream of unadulterated rage. “Drake, get back here and face your punishment like a man!”

Two boys came running down the stairs, the younger chasing the older with, wait is that a katana. They really weren’t any good at this whole secret identity thing, were they, thought Marinette.

“Really Demon Spawn, you’re going to do this today?” Jason said as he plucked him off the ground. Dick was just pinching his nose in exasperation.

#jasonette #maribat #without context au #My writing

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

Text

Flatbush & Atlantic: part iii

Part iii is here! Read it, reblog it, text your friends about it, talk to ME about it, everything.

part i part ii

part iii

November 13

From: Mat

The tickets should be at will call! Let me know if you have any trouble, we’re headed out for warmups in a few

Cass shoved her phone back into the back pocket of her pants, turning to Samaira. “He put them at will call, which is,” she scanned the front of Barclay’s, “right there.” Samaira followed her to the counter. “Hi,” she said as the ticketing agent called for the next in line, sliding her license under the glass. “There should be two for Cassidy Shaw.” The agent nodded, reaching over to leaf through a filing box and pulling out the envelope. “Enjoy the game!”

Samaira looked over as Cass handed her her ticket, eyeing the long line to get through the metal detectors. “What kind of seats did he get you?”

Cass shrugged. “I’m not sure. He said they were good ones? Somewhere lower bowl, mid-ice I think.” Just got them, be in in a few! See you soon, she sent back to Mat.

She tugged on the collar of her Rangers jersey, ignoring the occasional dirty look thrown her way. It was only one borough over, so she was far from the only fan in blue and red, and she couldn’t deny that there was a part of her that was looking forward to seeing Mat’s reaction when he saw her in their rival’s colors. It was too early into her and Mat’s relationship for her to be wearing his jersey to games; she wouldn’t want to curse anything prematurely, but jerseys could run upwards of two hundred dollars, and she didn’t exactly have that kind of money to go spending on just anybody. Not that Mat was “just anybody,” but Cass was someone who thrived on stability and she wanted to be sure.

The usher at the doors scanned their tickets, and it was only then that Cass bothered to look down at hers to see where they were headed. She was familiar enough with the layout, it wasn’t her first Rangers-Islanders game and had been to a Lorde concert her first year in law school. Walking down the stairs, they kept going, and kept going, and kept going. Until they were right at the glass behind the home bench. Samaira whistled. “Boy came through.”

Cass nodded, smiling apologetically as the pair squeezed past the others in their row. “I’m not sure how he got them, these ones are usually sold out months in advance. Or some rich guy has them for season tickets.”

Samaira raised an eyebrow. “As much as you hate to admit it, he’s kinda a big deal around here, Cass,” she said, leaning over to her. “I don’t think it’s that hard for him to get seats on a week’s notice.” Not only was Samaira one of her best friends at school and the only one who had the night free, but she was also a born-and-raised New Yorker — and a huge Islanders fan. Mat told her that he’d set aside two tickets, and it didn’t take Samaira more than a minute to respond in all caps when Cass asked if she’d be interested. The guys were nearly done with warmups, and it only took a minute or so for Mat to notice her, raising his eyebrows and looking pointedly at her jersey.

“Sorry,” Cass mouthed, shrugging her shoulders. Smiling, he shook his head, skating back to the blue line to take another shot. Cass excused herself to go to the bathroom after warmups had finished, her phone lighting up with yet another text right as she finished drying her hands. Traitor. She laughed. You knew what you were getting yourself into, Barzal 🤷🏽‍♀️

She got back to her seat just as the players were skating back out, handing Samaira one of the two beers she had picked up on the way. “Don’t spill,” she said ruefully. “These were like ten bucks each.”

After lineups and the national anthem, they sat back down, and the puck dropped.

---

Much to her chagrin, the Islanders had won 3-2, but Mat had netted two points, one of which was an absolute beauty over Lundqvist’s left shoulder. So she really couldn’t be that mad. As much as Cass would have loved to stay and congratulate Mat on the win, it was ten o’clock and she really needed to head home if she wanted to get back anytime before midnight. Walking back to the train, she figured Mat would be done with postgame interviews and risked a call. He picked up on the first ring.

“What’s up?”

Cass smiled. “Hey, Mat. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay and see you after,”

“Don’t worry about it, babe, I know you’ve got a long ride home.” The pet name slipped easily from his lips, and Cass felt her heart skip a beat. “It means a lot that you wanted to come.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I? You had a great game, that goal was incredible. I’m fine with you winning against my team if you’ll do it like that every time.”

“I’ll convert you if it’s the last thing I ever do.” He deadpanned. They talked for as long as they could, until Cass had to swipe her metrocard and was about to lose reception. “Talk to you later?” Mat asked hopefully.

Cass giggled. “If I’m not passed out, sure. Promise me you’ll get some sleep too?”

“Promise.”

Samaira lived on the same line as her, getting off with a hug and a promise to meet up for lunch on Monday. Cass had taken the route at night a hundred times, but it was just as much second nature for her to keep a hand on her pepper spray as it was to keep refreshing her Instagram feed.

As soon as she made her way up the stairs into the cool Bronx air and back to the land of cell reception, a text from her dad popped up. It had entirely escaped her mind that sitting right behind the bench meant that she and Samaira would have had plenty of airtime on the networks broadcasting the game, or that there was a 100% chance her dad was watching. He had taken a picture of the TV when she just so happened to be smack-dab in the middle of the screen, grimacing at what she guessed must have been another Islanders goal. And how did you get those tickets? Were they from the internship?

Cass let herself into the apartment, waving goodnight to Ryanne, who was watching Netflix in the living room, and tried to formulate an answer. No, not from work. They were a gift.

From?

The person I’m seeing. Cass hadn’t told her family about Mat yet. It’s not that she thought they would disapprove, but she wanted to make sure that it was real, really real, before she let her family in on it.

She could imagine her dad scratching his head. What kind of law student would have that kind of money? For that matter, what kind of person? Are you and Samaira together? Cass let out a laugh. Her parents knew Samaira and loved her to pieces, and she doubted they would have had any issue if she was dating her. But she wasn’t.

“Rip the bandaid off,” Cass whispered to herself as she shucked her coat off, leaving her in the jersey and leggings. Hahaha no, not her. They were from Mat. She added as an afterthought, Barzal.

You’re dating Mat Barzal?

I am.

Huh.

Guess the cat’s out of the bag?

Nov. 17 (tues)

Cass’s seminar leader for Native Law, Professor Davidson, had just emailed the class, cancelling that afternoon’s meeting. My daughter came down with the flu, she had said. It wasn’t the cancellation that bothered her; obviously, if you have a sick kid, take care of your sick kid. It was the fact that now she had four hours to kill and no idea how to spend them. If she went home, that was an hour’s trip either way, so what was the point? And as much as she genuinely did love the library (and she really loved libraries), she knew those chairs and knew that her ass would start hurting somewhere midway through hour 3. As if on cue, Mat called. He had left for a West Coast roadie a few days earlier, and wouldn’t be back for almost a week.

“Hey!” She said brightly. “Congrats on the win last night, I would have called but I definitely fell asleep somewhere during the second intermission.” The Islanders had beaten the Ducks 4-2 the night before, but the time difference meant that it finished well past midnight, and Cass had been up early.

She heard him laugh on the other end. “Nah, no problem. I’m glad you caught it though. How has your day been?” One of the things Cass had grown to appreciate the most about Mat, even in their short time together, was how deliberate he was. He didn’t just ask her how she was or how her day was going because that was the standard “boyfriend” question of the day, he asked because he genuinely wanted to know. Because he cared.

So she was honest with him. “So-so. Yoga was great, they had my favorite instructor which was pretty nice. Good meeting after. Got a croissant. But then one of my classes got cancelled, so I’ve got to either find some coffee shop to work at or park myself at the library, neither of which is sounding too appealing at the moment.”

“Why don’t you just crash at my place?” Mat asked, like it was the most obvious question in the world. “It’s closer, I’ve got coffee and stuff if you want.”

Cass was taken aback for a moment. It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t crossed her mind, momentarily, but she didn’t think that they were there yet. She had been to his apartment before, once, under very different circumstances. Mat had tried, valiantly, to cook pasta and roasted veggies for dinner. Tried being the key word. The vegetables had all been burnt to a crisp, and he had thought the pasta was supposed to be cooked for 18 minutes, not 8, causing it to more closely resemble pudding than pasta. They ended up ordering Italian from the place down the street. But having a stay-in date at someone’s apartment and letting them crash there alone were two very different things, and Cass was touched not only by the offer, but by the fact that he trusted her enough to extend it. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course, Cass. I want you to be comfortable. My spare key’s left with the front office, I’ll call them and let them know you’ll be picking it up. Shouldn’t be a problem. You remember how to get up there, yeah?”

“Mhm. Thanks, Mat, for real. You totally didn’t have to do this.”

“But I wanted to. Listen, morning skate’s about to start so I’ve got to go, but text me if you have an issue getting up. Or, like, if you forget where the bathroom is or something,” Mat added as an afterthought.

Cass laughed. “I think I can manage to find it, but thank you for the offer? Talk to you later.”

“Later.”

Half an hour later, Cass was curled up on his living room couch, a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen and her books sprawled haphazardly on the coffee table. She spotted one of his hoodies slung over the armchair on the other side of the room. I don’t think he’ll mind if I steal it.

---

Nov 23 (mon)

The team had gotten back from the roadie around noon, and Mat had insisted on taking Cass out for dinner after she got off from work. “It’s been almost a week since I’ve seen you,” he had bemoaned on the phone earlier. Shaking her head and laughing internally at how needy her boyfriend was, she agreed to meet him at a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away.

She arrived just a few minutes before him, kissing him as they sat down. Grabbing a basket of chips, she headed over to the salsa bar. “How good are you with spice?” She asked Mat.

“I can hold my own, as long as it’s not like a Carolina Reaper or something crazy like that,” he answered, cracking a smile.

She laughed in response, setting the cups down on the table. Her enchiladas and his pozole came later, and Cass blushed at the knowing glance their waitress gave her as she slid the dishes onto the table. “How does it stack up?” Mat asked after she had taken a few bites.

Cass nodded happily. “It’s good. Really good. Obviously, I’d be disowned if I didn’t say that my grandma’s is better, but this is a close second.” Mat sipped his horchata. Cass had balked when he said he’d never tried the drink before, and his glass was now near-empty.

“Yeah, glad to hear it. This is super good too,” he said, eating another spoonful. She could tell something else was on his mind.

“What is it, chou?” Cass asked.

Mat bit his lip. “You’re still good to come to the game against the Canes tomorrow, yeah?” She nodded. “How would you feel about sitting up in the box?” Her brow furrowed. The box? Sensing her confusion, Mat continued. “Up with the other girls.” Cass knew that there was a box for the WAGs, obviously, but it hadn’t quite hit her that she was one now. She had met Paige, Beau’s girlfriend of six months, a few weeks prior, but that had really been more of an accident than anything. They had been walking around the Central Park Zoo one weekend, one of their first official dates, and happened to run into the other couple somewhere around the lemurs. It being lunch and the boys being boys, the group stopped for some sandwiches. Cass and Paige got to talking, chirping the boys for their sub-par “disguises” — “Since when has sunglasses and a baseball cap fooled anyone?” Paige had asked. Cass had laughed, they had exchanged numbers, and been talking ever since.

So, there was going to be at least one person she knew there. Why not, then? “Yeah, sure, sounds fun!” Cass said, nodding and tapping her fingers on the table, trying to get her nerves out.

Mat ran a hand through his hair, smiling nervously as if he hadn’t been too sure of what her answer would be. “Good,” he said, leaning down to pick up a bag. “Would have made this pretty awkward if you said no.” He handed it to her; she hefted it, trying to tell what was inside.

“Ooooh,” she said, “I didn’t know we were at the ‘presents’ stage of our relationship yet.” Mat blushed.

“Didn’t really cost me anything,” he mumbled.

“It’s got some weight to it. Soft. I’m going to go with...a mink stole.”

Mat looked baffled. “I’m not even going to pretend to know what that is.”

Cass laughed, untying the piece of ribbon that held the handles together. She pulled out a navy and orange jersey. “It’s one of the ones from my rookie season, figured I couldn’t have you going up there wearing another Rangers jersey. Didn’t want to throw you out to the wolves.” It was only then that she shook it out and turned it over. Barzal - 13.

Cass beamed, leaning over the table and kissing him on the cheek. “I love it, chou.”

---

Nov. 24 (tues)

Cass glanced at her watch. 6:38. The train was running on schedule, so she still had a little bit of time before she was supposed to meet Paige up in the box. She had offered to wait for her outside of the arena and walk her up, but she had driven Tito earlier and Cass didn’t want her to be stuck outside waiting for her. The car was packed with orange, blue, and white-clad fans, so nobody paid her any mind as she pulled out Mat’s jersey from her bag, switching out from the fleece she had been in all day. Are you sure it won’t be weird if I wear a jersey? Don’t most of the others show up to these things in dresses and shit? Cass had frantically texted Paige late last night.

Don’t worry! She had responded. Some do, yeah, but it’s def not uncommon to be in a jersey. I’ll be wearing Beau’s :)

It didn’t take long to get through security, showing her pass to the employee at the elevator and shooting Mat a good luck text, she let Paige know she was on her way up. Mat had given her the box number, so she made her way up to the suite, nervously smiling at the usher. “Hi,” she said.

The usher gave her a quick once-over and a curt smile. “Hi. Name?”

“Cassidy Cabrera Shaw, um, Mat Barzal should have added me.” She scanned the clipboard, making a tiny checkmark next to her name.

“Enjoy the game.” Cass tentatively made her way in, searching for Paige but still a little thrown off. It hadn’t escaped Cass the way the usher had looked at her, like there was something just a little off about her, like she didn’t quite belong.

It was a good thing that she didn’t have enough time to get too into her head, because Paige came barreling at her, wrapping her in a massive bear hug. “You came!!” She said, squeezing Cass’s hand once she finally released her.

Cass laughed. “Did you think I’d skip out on you?”

Paige shook her head. “No, I knew you’d come through.” She pointed to the hooks on the wall, where a mixed bunch of purses, scarves, and coats were hanging. “You can leave your bag there, let me get you a drink and introduce you to the other girls.” Cass followed Paige into the main room, where a dozen or so women milled about, sitting on couches and keeping an eye on the warmups below. Paige nodded at the bar. “What are you feeling? White? Red? Sparkling? I can make a mojito if you want. It won't be good, but if you’re desperate,” she shrugged her shoulders.

Cass threw her head back, laughing. “If they’re picking up the tab?” She replied, tilting her head towards the ice, “Give me the best champagne you’ve got.”

Paige grabbed a flute. “Yes, ma’am.”Pouring the champagne, she handed it to Cass, leading her over to where a group was hanging by the window. “Hey guys!” She said brightly, one hand touching the back of Cass’s shoulder reassuringly. “Girls, this is Cass. Cass, this is Lauren, Kerry, and Karley,” she said, pointing to each woman in turn. Lauren pulled her into a tight hug.

“Lauren Rodych Eberle,” she said, “Paige told us you’d be coming along. It’s great to have you.” The other girls introduced themselves, leading her over to a corner of the room. “These are the comfiest couches,” Kerry noted. “You always want to grab them as soon as you get up, they’re a hot commodity.”

Cass laughed. “Good to know.”

“So you’re Mat’s girl, yeah?” Kerry asked.

“Yep,” Cass replied, trying and failing to roll up the sleeves on Mat’s — her? — jersey.

She smiled. “I’m happy. He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong, but could use a girl to balance him out. Bit of a himbo, but,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “almost every hockey guy is.”

Cass nearly snorted out her champagne. “Fair statement.”

Kerry took a sip of her own wine. “So, Paige said you’re in law school, yeah?” Cass nodded. “What’s that like?” If Mat could talk about hockey for hours on end and still not get through half of what he wanted to say, that was Cass with the law. It was refreshing to talk with a person who wouldn’t constantly try to interject with their own theory of jurisprudence or Constitutional interpretation, just someone who was genuinely interested in what she had to say.

---

The team had managed to extend their win streak to 3, a wraparound from Nelson that just squeaked past Reimer clinching the 2-1 win in the third minute of overtime. Everyone let out a collective cheer, some gathering their things and others hanging back to mingle. Cass meandered back over towards where Paige was waiting by the door; they didn’t have to rush since the guys probably hadn’t even finished showering yet, but the plan was to meet them down by the locker room.

“How’d you like it?” Paige enquired.

“It was really nice,” Cass answered genuinely. “I love going to these things with friends, but it’s nice to be around people who know the game and know the guys.”

“That’s the whole point,” Paige said easily. “We’re all in the same boat, even if some peoples’ home or work lives look different, nobody quite ‘gets’ this whole thing like each other.” Paige led her down elevators and corridors until they were nearly at the home team locker room. “Oh!” She exclaimed, causing Cass’s to snap around and look at her, startled. “No, nothing bad,” she added hastily. “Usually once or twice a roadie, the wives of a veteran or captain will host a family watch party. A lot of the partners and kids will come over, it’s really cute. Obviously don’t blow off work or something to come, but I’ll let you know.”

Cass smiled. “That would be nice.” The locker room door opened, players starting to filter out.

Anthony came out before Mat, giving Paige a kiss on the top of her head and smiling at Cass. “Mat should be out in a minute,” he added. She thanked him, congratulating him on his first-period goal.

True to Tito’s word, Mat appeared soon after, embracing Cass. “What’s that dumb look on your face?” She asked, seeing Mat’s satisfied grin.

“You’re wearing my jersey.”

“Well, yeah,” Cass said slowly. “You gave it to me.”

Saying their goodbyes to Tito and Paige, Mat tangled his hand with hers. “Nothing. You look good in it.”

---

Nov. 25 (wed)

The coffee tasted bitter in her mouth, but the much-needed caffeine jolt it gave her was enough for Cass to choke it down, shoving her cup — the white-and-blue one Mat had given her — into its spot on the center console of her white Escape. Cheryl had been with her since just before her freshman year of high school, the culmination of summer jobs, graduation gifts, and a used car lot. It wasn’t practical nor economical for her to drive most places in New York, so she usually sat in the parking lot of their apartment building unless one of the girls needed to run out at night or Cass was driving back home, as was the current case. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and she had a two hour drive (if she was lucky) and hours of cooking ahead of her before the clock ever struck Thursday.

Digging into the CD holder, she handed over the toll to the attendant at the station, giving as grateful a smile as she could muster when the toll arm lifted. Mat was going to call after practice, promising to keep her company on the drive up. He had been a little pouty about her leaving for the better part of a week so soon after he had gotten home, but one reminder from her about how long his roadies could run had shut him up quickly.

Cass loved family, so Thanksgiving had always been one of her favorite holidays. Their house was hosting this year, and if Cass had any money to bet, she’d guess that as she drove, her mom was frantically running around the house, pulling out napkins and silverware and trying to figure out how to fit fifteen people in a two-thousand square foot house. While her mom’s side rarely made the trip up from Texas and Hermosillo, her dad was from a big New England Irish Catholic family that never let a single holiday pass by without celebration. Her dad’s parents meant Grandma Maggie and Grandpa Joe, which meant an inevitable barrage of questions as soon as anyone let slip that she wasn’t single anymore. Cass loved her grandma to pieces; really, she did. But she was going to want to know his name, where he worked, where he went to school, and his mother’s damn maiden name before she would give it a rest.

Her phone was hooked up to the car, so Mat’s call came straight through, interrupting her preferred driving music, a mid-2000s playlist starring copious amounts of early Lady Gaga. “How’s the drive going?” He asked.

“Uh, pretty good,” Cass replied, changing lanes to pass the sluggish Honda ahead of her. “Just crossed into Connecticut, I’m thinking it’ll be another hour or so? How was practice?”

Cass heard the door to his apartment close behind him. “Good, Coach had us run a lot of passing drills, so it’ll hopefully pay off next game.”

“Friday, right?” She asked. “Against the Caps?”

“Yeah, should be a good game. They’re doing really well this season, hopefully the boys come through, extend the streak a little bit.”

Cass smiled. “You’ll be great. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see you, but —”

She could imagine him shaking his head on the other end of the line. “Babe, you don’t need to apologize. Thanksgiving’s a big thing here, and I know it’s been awhile since you’ve really spent much time with your family.”

“Yeah,” Cass said, chewing her lip, “that’s true. Pretty much my dad’s whole side is going to be there though, so I’m prepared to spend a solid hour fielding questions about you and my whole ‘new relationship’ I’ve got going on. I think they’ll be disappointed you’re not there.”

Mat chuckled. “It’s fine, Cass,” he said, reassuring her. “Just promise them you’ll bring me next year.” Cass couldn’t stop a big, dumb grin from spreading on her face. Next year.

“I promise.”

#hockey imagine #nhl imagine #mat barzal imagine #mat barzal #hockey writing #nhl writing #hockey imagines #hockey smut #nhl imagines #nhl smut #islanders #new york islanders #islanders imagines #islanders writing

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arabrot · 3 years

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Who Do You Love by John Doran

Who Do You Love?

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire.

You’d think that by travelling that distance around a country you could get the measure of it. Especially if the country was only 361 miles from top to bottom and even less from East to West. You’d be thinking reasonably but not accurately.

Despite journeying the equivalent of one fifth of the circumference of the entire Earth in 31 days, all we got to see was the road itself. England endless. What we experienced was just a percentage of a splodge, a smidge of a blotch on the coastal fringe of Europe that deserved neither the sobriquet Great, nor the title United. How did such a small area of land contain such extravagant lengths of major road? In the same way that a human body could house a tapeworm 33 metres long. Probably not comfortably but hopefully not fatally either. Undoubtedly, in May 2015 - general election month - England had beauty to spare: it’s just that none of it was visible from the motorway.

We met on the forecourt of a petrol station near an airport. Heat haze was already starting to rise from the tarmac. The Driver was dressed immaculately in a tight-fitting black suit, shades and wide-brimmed black hat. His concession to non-monochromatic decoration was silver chains carrying cocks and crosses. He looked like Asa Hawkes, the “blind” preacher from Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood - but much thinner. He tipped the brim of his hat hello. This was not his stage hat but his everyday hat. His stage hat, the kind of prairie Stetson featured in the opening scene of Holy Mountain was massive and kept in the kind of box that suggested it was an essential part of a drum kit. It had its own carefully allotted slot in the back of the van with the tons of amplifiers, speaker cabinets, guitars, synthesizers, boxes of books, suitcases full of clothes and bags and bags of oranges we were taking with us. There was only one way to fit all of this stuff into the vehicle, and packing it correctly was like 3-D Tetris. All it took was one giant, impractical hat in the wrong place and then everything had to be taken out again and reloaded in the correct position.

He was the colour of milk, which made the angry red scars up either side of his neck all the more vivid. He looked like the missing link between human being and some future race of Lovecraftian eel-men who would be able to breathe via gills under water.

As well as me and the Driver, there was the Passenger. She looked more like she had stepped straight from the set of Bladerunner than a Jodorowsky or John Huston movie. This was to be their last tour as boyfriend and girlfriend as they were headed straight to a deconsecrated church in rural Sweden to get married as soon as the trip ended. I was merely a temporary guest in their world. A road voyeur with a month long pass.

Within minutes of setting off we hit the M25 we became enmeshed in May Day traffic. I realised that most of the month was going to be spent looking at slow moving traffic on motorways.

But just as driving to Brighton was slow and painful, leaving it the next day was a dream. On the motorway, time stretched and contracted simultaneously in temporal doppler effect. The days seemed longer but time blistered, popped and broke apart pleasantly as the brain switched down a few gears into a near pure experiential mode. There was little to worry about. All I could do was count the pylons and pretend I had a flamethrower to aim at UKIP billboards and hoardings; to luxuriate in motorway sign typography and listen to Maggot Brain as loud as it would go. Miles Davis’ Agharta was the soundtrack to us speeding out of the south up the M1 towards the Rainy City. Al Foster’s ringing, open hi-hat was our fuel. And then it was nothing but John Coltrane, Electric Wizard and NOMEANSNO until we reached our destination. It started raining the second we hit Stoke. And then before long we were on the Mancunian Way heading for Piccadilly in torrential rain, parking the van under a tangle of flyovers. When I planned this jaunt it was a thing of beauty. I took an AA road map and unfolded it until it covered half the floor space in my tiny living room. I took a sheet of stickers from my son’s Thomas The Tank Engine magazine and created a spiral of towns and cities, first round the edges near the coast and then spiraling in toward the centre. Our proposed journey looked like an occult temporal and spatial message only discernable from the god perspective. What I planned was a perfect thing. But after you plan your perfect thing what happens is this: promoters start phoning you up or emailing you. ‘We’ve double booked you with a Stereophonics tribute act’; ‘There’s actually a bar mitzvah on that day’; ‘It’s Record Store Day.’ And then the perfect thing falls to pieces. By the time we hit the road the perfect thing looked like that terrifying film of a spider on LSD trying to spin a web. And there was only one thing worse than a spider on LSD trying to spin a web and that was a spider on caffeine trying to spin a web.

We stopped for several coffees en route to Sunderland the next day. The weather was beautiful. Fields of golden rape seed glowed under a blue sky. But I gave up counting the UKIP billboards. There were just too many. The purple pound signs zipped past in a blur. We’d been on the road for five days and I hadn’t seen a single sign for Labour. It was almost a relief when we passed a huge hoarding in an arable field next to a broken tractor which proclaimed: “Prepare to meet your Lord!” We pulled in soon after to stretch our legs in front of a petrol station that shared a forecourt with a sex shop wrapped in a large tarpaulin hoarding, proclaiming: “Under new management!” Next door was a garden centre flying a row of ten confederate flags and two Union Jacks. There was a knackered and rusty jet stream caravan serving up plastic cups of filter coffee.

It became clear early on that the Travelodge was our friend. Every Travelodge the Driver, the Passenger and I shared was identical. A family room. One double bed, one fold out couch bed, minimal decoration, very interesting mass produced art, scant furniture, tea making facilities and a portable telly, often chained to the wall. The Travelodge may have had less furniture in it than the average bail hostel and may sometimes have smelled like a suburban pet shop from 1984 but it was totally fine as we were low ranking touring musicians and writers, not visiting dignitaries from Saudi Arabia.

After Leeds, our Travelodge was situated in a motorway retail park so the following morning we walked just a few hundred yards to the Toby Carvery for breakfast. Pushing open the double swing doors we were confronted by a man in stained chef’s whites, with hair pushed under a light blue plastic turban crowning a jowly and crimson face. He was methodically and noisily applying a large cleaver to a foot long cylindrical sharpening steel with a schnick-schnick sound.

“Hello!” said the Driver cheerfully. “Are you Toby?”

The chef looked up slowly and a pendulous and translucent bead of sweat swayed under his nose. His eyes were like drill holes in gammon. Bruised udders of flesh were hanging below each of his nicotine-stained ocular orbs. He was possibly the most hungover man I had ever seen. He jawed away silently, his eyes flickering dully with rage as he started straightening up. The BPM of metal on metal increased. The three of us circled round him gingerly and headed rapidly for the breakfast counter past tables rammed full of people who looked like they were about to die. I had never seen so many morbidly obese people in one place at one time. It was like God’s waiting room with unlimited fried egg.

Oh England, you are sick.

It was only £5 per head and you could eat as much as you wanted but the choice was only bacon, sausages, roast potatoes, black pudding, fried egg, fried bread, beans and mushrooms. The thrill of the open road. Unlimited roast potatoes and bacon for breakfast.

(We spent just one night at the supposedly more upmarket Premier Inn, and it was relatively more luxurious but due to its incomprehensible automated reception machine, it took us an hour and a long conversation with two angry Premier Inn employees to gain access to our room. “Getting into this hotel was like the opening scene from a new episode of Black Mirror”, said the Driver, a recent convert to the show. “There’s nothing like waking up in some shitty English town, before eating some shitty English breakfast before driving slowly down some shitty English motorway for 12 hours before loading into some shitty English venue and playing a shitty gig to ten people before going to some shitty Travelodge just to watch a really well made English TV series which explains to you exactly why everything is so fucked”, he told me gleefully.)

Any hotel room was actually very much like home as long as you had a laptop, a handful of Nick Cave CDs, some Right Guard and a copy of Threads on DVD, which happened to be the exact contents of my overnight hotel bag.

Waking up in another identical Travelodge on another identical Motorway retail park the next day I realised finally that this was literally the worst place for a writer to be during general election month. Nowhere had wifi that worked. It was like being in a bubble of ignorance for 31 days. We had to choose these parks to minimise the chances of the splitter van getting stolen with all of our gear inside it. Every Travelodge we stayed in was essentially the same, surrounded by a handful of other outlets - a Toby Carvery or a Harvester or, if you were really unlucky, both of them. Then maybe also a Costa, a Boots and an Esso petrol station as well. They were all accessible from a motorway roundabout that wasn’t really near anything other than either an airport, a prison or an industrial estate. A vague hangover from reading JG Ballard as a schoolboy led me to believe that there would be some kind of mind-expanding nourishment to be had from this aspect of the venture but these motorway retail parks were all identical. They were the most co-opted and least free spaces of all.

After breakfast, outside, sitting on a wall drinking a cup of tea in the sunshine, I looked intently at a semicircle of rooks surrounding a single bird of their own kind. They were slowly advancing in toward it. The bird in the middle was stock still and not moving. It didn’t look like a friendly encounter. The Driver and the Passenger came out and joined me. The parliament were just about to attack the accused in order to peck it to death but just as the corvine jury bore down, they were disturbed by a loud noise from above. The Red Arrows flew over the Travelodge in formation causing them to scatter It felt almost as if the Driver existed in a bubble of weird, uncanny, apocalyptic and esoteric events that moved with him wherever he roved. But it was also as if he barely noticed any of them. I stood pointing at the sky.

“Yes, yes” he snapped irritably as if he was sick of seeing this kind of thing. “Let’s get in the van and get off otherwise we won’t get to Digbeth in time.”

That night I dreamt that the solid iron core of the Earth was about to slough us all off until the planet stood raw and bleeding in space, just roiling magma with no skin to contain it. The utter indignity of being born between waves, the scions of a pusillanimous age we were all about to be cast into the void with the filthy scab of a country we called England. A flat and unmagical land. A depressing and tawdry place. When I opened my eyes Toby was stood in the corner of the room, sharpening his cleaver, schnick, schnick, schnick, schnick. Empty eye sockets carved out of rancid, fly-blown gammon.

“We have to stop eating lunch at the Harvester!” I sprang out of my fold out bed and shouted at the Driver and the Passenger, waking them from their sleep. “The full rack of ribs is fucking killing me!”

Fuck the Harvester. Fuck Toby Carvery. All of the clothes that were hanging off me on May 1 were now snug and it was only May 12. My ears were ringing with the premonition of some future blue cheese dressing related pulmonary event.

It was easy to see how ruinous life on the road could be, even when you didn’t drink or do drugs. I felt sorry for younger bands who felt they had to go out partying every night after shows. After a couple of weeks it must end up hellish.

The road to Hull was paved with UKIP signs. Only Necrosis by Cadaver played at ear disrespecting volumes kept us sane. It was dark as we drove into town and ghosts lined Ferensway waiting to greet me. The cinema where I’d had my first date in town, the pair of us just turned 18 - watching Shirley Valentine no less, saying, “Imagine being that old” about Pauline Collins and Bernard Hill - was now a bingo hall. The war memorial that I regularly drank sherry in front of on a bench. The Welly nightclub where I saw a punter swan dive off a balcony and go headfirst through the corner of a formica table. When they took him out on a stretcher there was a blanket pulled up over his face. And then down past my old house on De Grey Street and into the car park of the Adelphi. And then the ghosts waved us back out of town.

The drive to Great Yarmouth was gruelling and 13-hours long because of traffic - we got stuck behind no less than three serious road accidents. Bodies strewn across baking tarmac. Bloodied travellers weeping in incomprehension at the hard shoulder. Slow moving the traffic might have been but at least we had plenty of long albums to listen to. Just like a mattress in a shared student house or the narrative flow of the Bayeux Tapestry - Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly sagged in the middle but it was very, very long, making it ideal for the van.

Eight hours later, after the show, we flew down the A47 unimpeded like we were clinging to a rocket, listening to Slayer albums sequentially at full volume, gabbling like a bunch of four-year-olds as we went. By the last day, I felt like I was about to die and constantly on the verge of tears. I didn’t want it to end. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. It was genuinely the worst of all times. And yet I’d crawl over broken glass to be able to do it all again right now.

You know, if you really want to get the measure of a country don’t drive round it. Take a train or walk. Maybe buy a bicycle or a skateboard or something.

We drove 5,000 miles of barbed wire and parked the splitter van by the roadside.

John Doran, Bangkok, Thailand, December 2017

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out-of-jams · 4 years

Text

Airplane Mode | Track 07: 21st Century Girl | jhs

Summary: Inspired by Love at First Touch by bagelswrites

In a world where a bruise marks the first touch of your soulmate, time is the only thing that matters. The marks take hours to appear, sometimes even days if you're really unlucky. Once First Touch is initiated, both parties only have a few weeks to find the other. From then on, the body begins to reject any form of sustenance other than the touch of the other. If one fails to find their soulmate in time, they starve to death.

So what happens when your soulmate is a world famous idol?

And you're just one fan in a sea of many who can't even speak the same language?

Pairing: Hoseok/ FemOC

Word Count: 5.1k

Genre: Fluff. Angst. Idol!au. Smut. Soulmate!au. Explicit language.

Warnings: Explicit language. Anxiety. Somewhat brief depiction of a panic attack.

Words written in bold are spoken in Korean.

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“It’s cold as hell.” Eunjae’s mumbled complaint passed through the black face mask pulled over her mouth and dissipated into the winter air.

With teeth chattering, she quickened her pace to keep up with the older woman next to her. Eunjae’s over the knee black boots clicked against the sidewalk and she took a moment to be grateful that they were only three inch stiletto heels. Even with the sleeves of the thick, red Supreme hoodie that she’d borrowed from Hoseok’s closet that morning covering her hands, she was still freezing.

There wasn’t much that she could have used from his wardrobe without looking like she was playing dress-up, so Eunjae did what she could. A small, cute black belted fanny purse that she’d designed months ago was hooked around her slim waist. With her silver hair loose down her back and tiny rings through her cartilage piercings, Eunjae was pulling off a very Ariana Grande-esque look.

She’d been lucky that while her clothes were nowhere to be seen, most of her shoes and accessories had been shipped out to Seoul early. So after digging through two boxes worth of various shoes, she’d found her favorite pair of boots. Even though Eunjae wasn’t necessarily self conscious of her short height, her footwear collection might say otherwise. Almost every pair she owned were either platformed or heeled. Though she did own the occasional regular pair of running shoes.

“Let’s go in here.” Eunjae barely got a warning from the woman walking beside her before she cut to the right and almost left Eunjae in the dust.

At eleven am on the dot that morning, the doorbell to Eunjae’s apartment rang, effectively scaring the hell out of her. She’d been in the bathroom inspecting herself in the foggy mirror, the steamy air from her recent shower billowing out into the hallway.

The sound had startled her so much that Eunjae’s hand jolted from where she’d been drawing on winged eyeliner. The brush jerked, leaving a huge black streak down her cheek, which she scrubbed at viciously as she stumbled to the door. Luckily, the bruises had faded completely from her skin due to the impromptu cuddling session in the car with Hoseok on the way back from the airport.

Unlike earlier that morning, there was only one ring of the doorbell as the person on the other side waited patiently. With sudden nerves invading her senses, Eunjae hastily ran a hand down the hoodie she converted into a dress. The hem fell a little lower than mid-thigh and she was grateful that her boots were tall enough to help prevent her from accidentally flashing someone.

Eunjae took a moment to take a deep breath before pulling open the front door. She wasn’t normally so nervous about meeting new people. In fact, she was actually pretty outgoing. But something about the whole situation just made her a bundle of nerves that she tried to hide behind the bright smile she pasted onto her face.

Standing on the other side of the door was a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Though it was hard to tell for sure. The woman’s wavy black hair was cut into a fashionable bob that did well to accentuate her elf-like face. She was dressed business casual, with a white blouse underneath a black blazer, french tucked into a pair of jeans. The woman had on a pair of short white heels with a cross body purse hanging from her shoulders.

She gave Eunjae a polite bow of the head and extended her hand with a smile on her red painted lips. “Hello, Morales Eunjae-ssi. My name is Park Soyeon and I’m here to show you around Seoul.”

Soyeon’s soft, accented voice soothed Eunjae’s nerves and she reached out to take her offered hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You as well.” Soyeon brushed her hand through her short hair, the gold watch on her wrist glinting under the lights. “I work as an English interpreter for the company, so I’ve also been appointed to tutor you in Korean, if that is something that you’re interested in.”

With a hand still swiping the excess eyeliner gel from her face, Eunjae stepped to the side and waved the woman in politely. “Absolutely. Yes. Come in and please ignore the mess that is my face.”

Now, almost two hours later and a healthy amount of shopping to break the ice, Soyeon’s personality was beginning to emerge. The woman was professional, that was a given, but the more time the pair spent together, the more Eunjae discovered that the woman’s initial innocent appearance was far from true. Her energy was enough to rival Hoseok and despite being in her mid thirties, she gave off a very spirited vibe. And the woman loved to shop.

Eunjae found that out the hard way when she had to physically hold Soyeon back from dragging her into all the high end stores in Gangnam. While yes, Big Hit was paying to supply Eunjae with enough clothes and necessities to last until the rest of her belongings arrived in Seoul, she didn’t feel comfortable racking up a huge bill. Soyeon had pouted all the way to the less expensive, less high end designer stores. But she’d perked right back up at the cute displays in the windows. Apparently, Soyeon’s girlfriend was huge into fashion, which only served to prompt the woman into even more of a shopping fiend than normal, since their anniversary was fast approaching.

Sitting across from Soyeon at a corner table inside a cozy cafe, Eunjae sipped idly at the sweating glass of water in front of her. With one hand fingering the sleeve of her too big hoodie, the other tapped across the screen of her brand new iphone. That had been something that Eunjae decidedly couldn’t pass up on, since she needed it to communicate and all.

Soyeon had nearly run her down in the Apple store when Eunjae tried to pay for it herself. While she didn’t have a job, she still kept up a somewhat steady flow of income into her bank account. Sometimes Miles would invite her to costar in some of his YouTube videos (or she’d just invite herself over since she practically lived there anyway) and since he made so much revenue, he would split the profits with her. Despite explaining this to the interpreter who snatched her wallet, the woman refused to acquiesce. So Eunjae reluctantly let Soyeon swipe the black company credit card to purchase it.

The first app that Soyeon had insisted she download was something that everyone in South Korea had. The air in Seoul wasn’t always clean enough for the human body to inhale, so the app forecasted when and when not a face mask was needed in order to step outside. Hence the face mask currently pulled down below Eunjae’s chin.

“So I think after this, we head back to the company. Sound good?” Soyeon’s voice came out muffled as she chewed on the end of her straw. The iced latte in her plastic cup was almost completely drained with more ice than coffee left.

“Sure.” Eunjae closed out of the most recent text thread with Miles and set her phone on the table. “If you want.”

Soyeon paused in her vicious chugging to eye Eunjae over the rim of her coffee. The woman’s eyes were narrowed in thought and she pursed her lips as she stirred the remainder of her drink. “You nervous to meet the boys?”

Eunjae huffed a laugh and dropped her gaze to her cup, using the tips of her pointer fingers to push it back and forth across the table. “I’m just surprised you’re done shopping is all. You were like a tornado of fabric and credit cards back there. I thought they’d have to call in a SWAT team to stop you.”

“Uh huh.” Soyeon leaned forward on the table and placed her chin on her fists, lipstick stained straw pressed between her lips. “You have nothing to worry about. The boys will be nothing if not respectful.”

She reached out a hand to stop Eunjae’s fidgeting ones, pausing long enough for Eunjae to look up. “Besides, you barely speak Korean and not all of them completely understand English. What could possibly go wrong?”

With a playful roll of her eyes, Eunjae snorted in amusement and fell back against her chair. “That’s like, exactly what someone says right before shit hits the fan.”

“Whelp.” Soyeon shrugged, taking one last noisy pull of her drink. “What’s that weird English phrase you showed me earlier?”

Eunjae simply raised a brow in response, lips pursed in mirth.

Soyeon giggled before standing from her chair with a wink. “‘Ain’t nothing to it, but to do it.’”

“I regret showing you that video so much right now.” Eunjae groaned but followed the older woman’s lead, standing and shoving her phone into the purse around her waist.

The ride to BigHit Entertainment was spent with Eunjae anxiously playing with the sleeves hanging over her hands. Numerous bags stuffed with more clothes than she needed spread across the backseat in a multicolor rainbow of plastic. A radio station streaming Seoul’s most current popular music blasted from the car speakers. Soyeon had turned the volume up to an obnoxious level, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel along with the beat.

Eunjae sank down further in her seat, causing the top of the hoodie to bunch up closer to her nose. The faded scent of, well, Hoseokstuck to the fabric and she had to stop herself from burrowing into it. She felt strangely comforted by the smell in a way that she didn’t understand. Maybe it was just a soulmate thing? Or perhaps it was because he was the closest person that she knew in the whole country? Who knew. Which was a little sad in and of itself since she barely even knew the guy.

The closer she got to the company, the more her nerves came out to play. Eunjae tried to push the thoughts--the reality--of the situation to the far recesses of her mind for as long as possible. But now she was less than two miles away from coming face to face with the boy group that she’d been fangirling over for a while now. Not only that, but she would have to put all of her nerves, her doubts, her starstruck anticipation aside because her soulmate was J-Fucking-Hope.

What if the members of Bangtan hated her? What if, for some reason, they couldn’t get along? Where would that leave her with Hoseok? Would he grow to dislike her too? Eunjae didn’t want to imagine being rejected by the one person in the world that the universe decided to pair her with. She didn’t know if she could handle that.

Over and over, the thoughts played in a continuous loop in her head until she’d worked herself up into an anxious mess. With her bottom lip caught between her lips, Eunjae fiddled with the golden crescent moon shaped earrings in her lobes. She clenched her eyes shut and turned her focus back outward, grasping onto the closest thing to keep her grounded.

Some song from Red Velvet was blasting from the speakers and Eunjae let the lyrics flush the dangerous thoughts from her mind. She had a habit of doing that sometimes: working herself up with situations that always turned out to be way less of a problem than she’d feared. And Eunjae didn’t want to turn into panicking mess before she even stepped foot out of the car.

Just as she got her anxiety under control, Soyeon whipped the compact SUV up to a gated parking lot. The woman barely had to slow to a stop and flash her employee badge before the security guard at the gate let her in. The car maneuvered around the various filled spaced until Soyeon finally pulled into an empty spot. As she cut the transmission, Eunjae took one last steeling breath.

“Come on, kid.” The woman patted her shoulder comfortingly before she opened her door and slipped out.

The cold air from outside shocked Eunjae back to her senses and she scrambled out to follow. The stiletto heels of her boots clacked against the concrete parking lot as she followed Soyeon inside the building. For once, Eunjae was thankful for the cold because it forced her to pick up the pace to prevent herself from freezing to death.

Instead of taking the front entrance of the building, the parking lot led to a back entrance for what appeared to be employees only. Soyeon bounced on the toes of her shoes as she quickly slid her laminated employee card through the scanner at the side of the door. With a beep, it flashed green and the woman rushed to pull the door open. She barely gave Eunjae two seconds to scramble in after her to avoid being locked out.

White marble floors and beige painted walls greeted the pair as they slipped inside. Eunjae had been expecting some kind of grand, showy interior. There were absolutely zero pictures of the inside of the BigHit Entertainment building online, which left ARMY to speculate what it was actually like inside. What she hadn’t been prepared for however, was how normal it looked.

Where they entered looked like any normal office building. They were in a wide, open hallway with a bright green exit sign glowing above the door they’d entered. To the right was another door that led to a stairway that Eunjae presumed went all the way up to the top floor. The rest of the hallway was empty of life: no doors, no employees, nothing. Just a security camera perched on the ceiling with a red light slowly blinking in and out of existence.

Soyeon turned to Eunjae with a sigh of relief, most likely from having just escaped the biting cold. The puse dangling from her shoulder swung with the moment and Eunjae had to shuffle out of the way to avoid being hit. “Well, this is where we part ways. I have a lot of work I need to catch up on.”

Eunjae blinked in both shock and confusion, stuffing her facemask into the purse around her waist. “Wait, you’re just going to leave me here?”

A short laugh left Soyeon’s red painted lips, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Not--”

Before the woman could finish her sentence, the metal door to the staircase swung wide open. It hit the wall with a thud as whoever pushed it put too much force against it. A sheepish looking Hoseok poked his head out from the doorway and he checked to make sure he didn’t put a dent in the wall.

“--exactly.” Soyeon finished her statement with a smirk of amusement. Tilting her head to the side, she raised an eyebrow at the rapper. A string of rapid Korean left her lips and if her teasing tone was anything to go by, Eunjae could take a guess at what she was saying.

Hoseok’s eyes scrunched as he let out a loud laugh; a shrug lifting his slim shoulders. “Whoops?”

The words had barely left his mouth before his attention turned to Eunjae. Quicker than she could process, he scanned her from head to toe. His expression morphed into something unreadable, eyes darkening in the fluorescent light. But before she could try to discern it, his eyes flashed back to hers with a dimpled smile, hair pushed back from his forehead like he’d ran his hand through it repetitively.

“How was shopping? Good?” The question left Hoseok’s mouth carefully, like was was trying to make sure that he was translating the correct words.

As with every other time Eunjae found herself around the man, the corners of her lips pulled up into a smile. She was the type of person where the energy of others directly affected her own. While he wasn’t as goofy and loud as he was on camera in person, the man’s friendly disposition rolled off him in waves so strong she could almost feel it on her skin.

“Yeah. Very good.” Eunjae shoved her still cold hands into the pouch of her borrowed hoodie.

“Aw, my little protégé!” Soyeon’s icy cold fingers pinched one of Eunjae’s cheeks playfully, earning an annoyed nose scrunch. “You’ll be fluent in Korean before you know it.”

Soyeon, much to Eunjae’s benefit (or horror), had been throwing random Korean words and phrases at her all day. After making her repeat them a few dozen times, the woman would give her random pop quizzes at the most inopportune times. And if that wasn’t enough, Soyeon had the habit of sometimes abandoning Eunjae at a store counter to fend for herself (“Immersion is the best learning tool, kid.”). All-in-all, the woman’s teaching methods were completely abnormal, but Eunjae couldn’t say they weren’t a little effective.

“Yah.” Eunjae waved the Soyeon’s hand off with a pout. “You’re such a bully. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Sucks to suck, kid. Anyway,” Soyeon put a hand between Eunjae’s shoulder blades and pushed her towards an amused looking Hoseok. “Go hang out until the boss man sends someone to come get you two. Shouldn’t be too long, but also, who knows with how long business meetings usually last?”

The woman left no time for anyone to reply before she turned on her heel and strutted down the hallway. Pointing a finger at Eunjae from over her shoulder she added, “I’ll have someone drop those clothes off later today. And I’ll meet with you sometime either tomorrow or the day after. Seeya!”

All Eunjae could do was stare as Soyeon disappeared around the corner. She’d evaporated just as quickly as she’d appeared.

The sound of Hoseok clearing his throat brought her attention back to him and even with the added height of her boots, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. He nodded his head back towards the door to the staircase.

“After you.”

Murmuring her thanks, Eunjae stepped past him into the stairwell. It was just as empty as the hallway and the drab colored steps seemed almost endless, twisting up and out of sight. Turning back to Hoseok as he followed behind her, Eunjae raised a brow, half curious and half anxious. “Where to?”

“Studio. Everyone..,” Hoseok flashed her a reassuring smile, hands gesturing with his words. “Excited to meet you.”

Well if that didn’t send a jolt of nervous anticipation down Eunjae’s spine, she didn’t know what would. She wasn’t sure if she should be thankful that the rest of the members were excited to meet her or if she should feel more pressured to make a good first impression. With her finger pointed to herself, she squeaked, “me?”

Hoseok’s contagious laugh forced the tight muscles in her shoulders to relax a tad. He opened his mouth to respond, but before any words could make their way out, a loud rumble sounded from his stomach. His eyes widened and he looked down at his body as if he’d been betrayed.

“Hungry?” Eunjae stifled a giggle behind a sweater paw. It reminded her, however, that she had yet to eat for the day. The dread that had been weighing down her stomach all day had effectively chased away her appetite. Now though, it mingled with a twinge of hunger.

“A little.” Hoseok smiled sheepishly with a hand resting on his stomach like that would stop the sound from escaping again.

“Have you eaten?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips and Eunjae’s brows pinched in concern at the grimace on his face. Hoseok’s shoulders lifted a little in a shrug. “Tried.”

“But?” She urged.

“I..,” Hoseok’s nose scrunched as if the memory he was reliving was unpleasant. His head tilted to the side slightly, eyes raising like the words he was searching for were etched into the bottom of the staircase above them. “Got sick.”

Eunjae’s eyes widened at what he was saying. She quickly did the mental math in her head, counting the weeks since they’d initiated First Touch. The timeline just about matched up to the normal statistic of when food would become totally obsolete to the body. Since she hadn’t eaten anything that day she didn’t know if her body would react the same.

And she didn’t really want to test that theory.

Slipping a hand out of her hoodie pouch, Eunjae extended it out towards Hoseok. The movement pulled his gaze down to her outstretched hand and she wiggled her fingers with a small laugh at his questioning eyes. “I’d be a bad soulmate if I let you starve.”

His slender fingers intertwined with hers slowly, almost completely wrapping around her smaller hand. Any remaining tension in her body dissipated at the electric current that burst through her veins with the feeling of safety, warmth, home. With a flash of his dimples, Hoseok gave her hand a quick squeeze of thanks and turned to the stairs.

“This way.”

As they ascended the steps, Eunjae couldn’t help but silently thank the fact that the touch of a soulmate also took away the feeling of pain. While she was used to walking around in heels, the toes of her shoes were starting to pinch her feet and it would only be a matter of time before she had to change her confident strut into an awkward shuffle.

Hoseok pushed the metal door open once they reached the third floor and Eunjae followed him out into the hallway. The heels of her boots sunk into the soft carpet and she sent him a questioning look when his hand slipped from hers.

He simply nodded his head at the doors lining the length of the long hallway. Words embedded in the frosted glass doors read out the names of some of BigHit’s main producers. Hoseok threw a wink over his shoulder and held a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

Eunjae just hummed in understanding. From what Sejin had said weeks ago at their initial meeting, the nature of her and Hoseok’s soulbond had to be kept on the downlow. She just wasn’t sure who was or was not informed. Did anyone outside of Bangtan and their management get to know? With the way Hoseok didn’t touch her as they walked down the hallway, Eunjae hazarded a guess that none of the producers knew.

The hallway was quiet except for the occasional sound of drums or piano keys drifting from the closed studio doors. Eunjae couldn’t help her inner fangirl from internally screaming. Where she was walking, Producer’s Row, was where all of Bangtan’s songs were made. Just a few feet away from her could be the key to their next big hit.

Lost in thought, Eunjae almost ran into Hoseok’s back as he stopped in front of one of the frosted glass doors. His lips quirked up in amusement and she had no warning whatsoever before he twisted down the handle. All she could catch were the letters spelling out MonStudio.

As soon as it opened, music poured from the room and spilled out into the quiet hallway. Eunjae couldn’t see anything past Hoseok’s tall frame and she took that moment to gather herself. That was it. The moment that she’d been preparing for all day. She was about to meet the members of one of the most famous boy groups in the world.

She didn’t get much time to prepare before Hoseok’s hand slid back into hers and he lead her into the room. Whether he was grabbing her hand to soothe the nerves wafting off her in waves, or to sate his hunger, Eunjae wasn’t sure. But she didn’t give it much thought because there was only so much her overwhelmed brain could process at once.

MonStudio, Kim Namjoon’s studio, wasn’t very spacious. The walls on either side of his desk were taken up by glass shelves displaying numerous amounts of bears and trinkets gifted from fans. There was a leather couch pressed up against the wall closest to the door and a small coffee table in front of it. The knee high table was littered with paper, some balled up haphazardly and others with words and sentences scratched out in black ink.

Taking up a seat on the couch hunched over a notebook furiously scribbling was one of Korea’s most famous rappers. With his blond hair pushed back by a thick headband, Min Yoongi paused in his writing to look up at the sound of their entrance. The end of the pen in his hand tapped a staccato rhythm against his pale cheek like he couldn’t contain the words it itched to spill.

The rolling chair that had been facing the desk across the room spun around as well. Eunjae was grateful for Hoseok’s hand in hers keeping her grounded against the starstruck feeling creeping up her throat. Kim Namjoon, in all his dimpled, long-legged glory greeted them with a smile.

His pressed a button on the computer keyboard behind him that caused the music spilling from the giant speakers on his desk to cut off. Namjoon’s hair glittered a dark grey underneath the lights of his studio. The baggy green sweater and beige cargo shorts he wore almost blended into the beige painted walls. It was just those two waiting in the room and Eunjae felt her fear dwindle a little at the fact that she wouldn’t meet all six members at once.

“She’s here?” Tilting his head, Namjoon tried to peer around Hoseok, who almost instantly moved out of the way.

Eunjae suddenly felt like she was on display. At the corner of her vision she could see Yoongi’s eyes flicker down to where Hoseok’s hand was wrapped around hers. An uncharacteristically shy smile tilted at her lips and she wiggled the fingers of her free hand in a wave. “I’m here. Hi.”

Hoseok gently pulled her farther into the room and motioned back and forth between her and the two other men in the room. “Eunjae, Namjoon-ah. Yoongi-yah, Eunjae.”

The use of the informal nickname didn’t seem to bother Yoongi as both him and Namjoon dipped their heads in a respectful bow. Both men spoke their greetings at the same time, Yoongi’s deeper voice blending in with Namjoon’s.

“It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Namjoon’s English was perfect and Eunjae couldn’t help but feel a little relieved at the fact that he could translate between the four of them. Gesturing towards the couch that the eldest rapper was perched on, he smiled. “Please, have a seat. Get comfortable.”

Yoongi gathered the notebook in his hands and the stray pieces of paper scattered around him and shifted to sit on the floor at the other side of the coffee table. Eunjae’s eyes widened. “Wait! You don’t have t--”

“Too late!” Hoseok released her hand only to grab onto her shoulders and guide her to the now empty couch. She didn’t have time to argue as he dropped onto a cushion and pulled her down next to him.

Instead of taking her hand again, Hoseok simply threw an arm over her shoulders. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and she smiled in answer to his silent question. While he acted casual about the skinship between them, Hoseok repeatedly made sure that she was comfortable with it.

“So,” the sound of Namjoon’s voice brought her attention back to the other two in the room. Thankfully, neither of them made a comment about the fact that she was pressed into their best friend’s side. “How are you settling in?”

“I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet, to be honest.” Eunjae huffed a laugh, sinking further back into the comfortable couch. It was no wonder that the rappers would sometimes sleep in their studios if all of their couches were so plush.

“That’s understandable.” Namjoon’s golden cheeks dimpled. “It’s a pretty big change.”

“That’s one way to describe it.”

Namjoon snorted in amusement and crossed one of his legs over the other, the chair beneath him rolling back a little at the movement. “Well if you ever need anything, you can come to any of us. We’ll try to help you the best we can.”

Eunjae could feel Hoseok’s warm stare burning into the side of her face as she gave her thanks to the grey haired man. Yoongi simply sat cross-legged on the floor, attention wavering between the conversation going on around him and the open notebook on the coffee table. The words begging to be etched onto the page conflicted with his desire to participate. That and the fact that the blonde wasn’t entirely comfortable speaking in English.

Hoseok spoke to Namjoon, the end up his sentence lilting like a question.

“Hobi-yah wants to know how old you are.” Namjoon translated for the rapper at her side.

Blinking at the question, Eunjae almost smacked her forehead at the realization. Korean manners were based a lot around how old somebody was, with more respect going towards those who were your senior. And she couldn’t recall ever telling Hoseok her age, so she wasn’t offended at all by the question. “I’m twenty-three.”

Hoseok made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded halfway between teasing and something else that she couldn’t decipher. He tapped a finger against his chest and hummed, “older.”

“I know.” Eunjae’s answer pulled a smile from his lips.

“Speaking of,” Namjoon rested a cheek against one of his hands, his forearms propped up on the chair’s armrest. Whatever he was about to say got cut short as the door the MonStudio echoed in a knock. All attention turned towards the figure on the other side of the frosted glass. “Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal Sejin in all his exhausted glory. The man sent an apologetic smile at the occupants in the room, finger pushing up the falling frame of his glasses. “Sorry to interrupt, but Bang PD-nim is ready to see these two.”

Whatever slight comfort that Eunjae felt within the confines of the cozy studio was wiped away almost instantly. The anxiety that had turned to a gentle simmer cranked itself all the way up, threatening to bubble over. She held it in though, pushed it down until it hid behind the small upwards tilt of her lips. Hoseok moving his arm from around her shoulders had her bracing herself for the inevitable.

She followed him as he stood from the couch, and with a few quick parting words to the other two men in the room, Eunjae trailed after Hoseok’s fleeting back.

Time to put on your big girl panties, bitch.

#bts #bts fic #bts fic rec #hoseok #hoseok fic #hoseok fanfic

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wishingforatypewriter · 5 years

Text

Between Us (Chapter 8)

Summary: In which the stresses of young professional life put strain on relationships. (The rest of the story can be found here)

Megumi had known for years now that her boyfriend had an uncanny talent for making things difficult for himself, but his endless ways of doing so never ceased to amaze her.

You see, five months ago they had packed up everything they owned and moved from New York to Paris—him with the intention of opening his first restaurant, and her with an unrelenting desire to stay by his side.

Souma could have done what most chefs would do—take his savings and his seed money and start small, grow his reputation and clientele—but he had never been one to play it safe.

He had chosen a location right in the middle of the sixth arrondissement, within blocks of both Shinomiya Kojirou and Tsukasa Eishi’s culinary fortresses, and he hoped to compete in this high profile venue using low prices and common ingredients.

And naturally, he was working quadruple time to make his menu stand out.

“What are you making?” Megumi asked after she came home from her shift at the Shangri-La. An intoxicating savory smell was wafting out from the kitchen.

“Stuffed quail,” he explained as he took his dish out of the oven. “How was work?”

Megumi shrugged. “Some of the customers were a bit difficult,” she said. In her experience as an executive chef, the super wealthy tended to be, but that was who the hospitality industry catered to in these city centers. It was a world away from her family ryokan in more ways than one. “But it was fine.”

Scattered around the kitchen and living room were balled up pieces of notebook paper with five, ten, fifteen riffs off the same recipe ideas. There were also three half-empty coffee mugs that he must have abandoned as soon as he was caffeinated enough to remain upright.

“Did you eat yet?” he asked her.

Megumi shook her head. “But I won’t try anything strange today,” she warned him. At this point, about one in ten of his recipes would turn out a failed experiment, and at his current rate of innovation, Megumi was subjected to four or five of these horrors each day.

Souma laughed at the half-terrified face she made and then plated the quail for her along with a soup-trio starter served in shot glasses.

Megumi took a seat at the kitchen table and let him serve her. The deep savory flavor sent tremors through her, made her eyes roll back. If not for her continued exposure to his cooking, she might have been flat on her back at the first bite.

“How’s it taste?” he asked, all broad grins and honey eyes. A person who didn't know him as well would have no inkling of the trial and error that had gone into it, the rejected drafts and countless hours of revision. They would never guess that he was running himself ragged.

“It tastes wonderful,” she said, meaning it completely. “Now add it to your menu and get some rest, please.”

He sighed, running a hand through his red hair. “Come on, Megs,” he said. “I was kind of looking for feedback.”

“I'm not a haute cuisine critic,” she said, not for the first time that week. “I won't go inventing flaws in a dish that's already great, just for you to spend the next twelve hours obsessing over it.”

“It's not obsessing. I'm just trying to get this right.” Even as he spoke, he was scrawling something onto a notepad. A revision, maybe, or an idea for a new dish entirely. “Nakiri said if I fuck up the opening, the restaurant will go under in three months.”

It took everything within Megumi to keep from stating that in this particular instance she didn't give a flying fuck what Nakiri-san thought. Still, she felt certain that the possessor of the god tongue could convince him of anything. “I know the restaurant is very important to you, and Nakiri-san is a reliable source when it comes to these things, but the average customer would love this dish, and that's who you’re cooking for, right?”

“Of course, but I-” He never did finish his thought, as just then his work phone started ringing. And when did he become the sort of person who needed a work phone? It seemed like one of many invisible lines he had been crossing by the day. “I gotta take this.”

“I know,” she said, leaving him to go out on the fire escape with his phone and the half empty box of Marlboros she was ignoring right now, but wouldn't for much longer.

He would keep working long into the night, though Megumi could not be relied on to say whether or when he actually made it to bed. By now she had realized the futility of something like waiting up for him.

Though her work and studies brought her to Europe frequently, Arato Hisako did not often venture to Copenhagen. So the significance of her sudden visit was not lost on Alice, and it greatly saddened the Nakiri heiress that she would have to turn such an old and dear friend away from her home unsatisfied.

“You know I can't help you, Hishoko.” She crossed one leg over the other and took a dainty sip of Darjeeling tea from a painted cup.

Hisako narrowed her eyes fractionally, her grip on her own teacup tightening ever so slightly. She was desperate, Alice could tell, but still clinging to her well-practiced composure, her steely nonchalance. “It's been almost a year. You and Kurokiba must know where he is.”

“Ryo-kun might, but good luck getting him to talk when he wouldn't even say anything to me, his soulmate. Like can you even believe the disloyalty engendered by this so called bro code?”

The brief rant was met with a half-annoyed look from Hisako, who clearly wasn't interested in her long-term relationship woes.

Alice shook her head. “And even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you.”

“Why in the world not?”

“He’ll be back when he makes his fortune, and if he didn't tell you anything, there has to be a reason for it.”

Hisako rolled her eyes. “The reason must be that he wants me to never speak to him again.” She placed her teacup down and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can understand wanting to start over after those Sendawara snakes stole his research, which is exactly why I told him not to take that job in the first place.”

“You did warn him multiple times,” Alice conceded.

“But to just disappear is so idiotic. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere and no one would know.”

“We got from dumb to dead in a ditch really quickly, Hishoko. If you're that worried, why don't you just ask Professor Shiomi?”

“I came here because Jun called me and I couldn't tell her anything.”

“Oh.”

“He's just so prideful and selfish and-”

“And are you sure you don't just miss him?”

“As if I would! I'm only asking out of consideration for Jun. And I have a boyfriend, anyway.”

“Does ‘boyfriend’ know you came overseas to inquire after your ex?”

The pregnant silence between them spoke for itself.

Alice just sighed and poured more tea into their cups. “You two are hopeless,” she said. “At any rate, since you're here, we might as well have lunch.”

---

“Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Ikumi said as she started closing up her beach side shack.

“It's a nice place,” Erina replied between sips of rum punch. After weeks of writing restaurant reviews in her apartment, reclining on the beach in Los Angeles was exactly her idea of paradise. “I’m glad you invited me to your kitchen.”

“It's really more of a project than anything else,” Ikumi said. “My father is making me get a business degree out here, and if I didn't start cooking again, I was going to lose my shit.”

“I hear that.” Erina adjusted her sunglasses, trying to remain present in the conversation despite the perfect beachside dish coming together in her mind’s eye. She would have to get back to Madrid sooner rather than later. “Are you going to relocate to Italy when you graduate?”

“Hard no.” Ikumi grabbed her car keys and led Erina towards her bright red convertible. “I'm breaking up with Takumi the next time we see each other.”

Erina’s eyes widened a bit. The last time she checked, Takumi and Ikumi had been as solid as Alice and Kurokiba or...or Yukihira and Tadokoro. “I don't mean to pry, but what happened?”

“Nothing happened, really. It's just the distance. Every time he’s supposed to come out here, something comes up. If it's not his father, it's his uncle, or his grandmother, or the fucking trattoria. I’m just tired.” She made a sharp turn onto the highway, just to get stuck in gridlock. She muttered a curse under her breath. “This is the worst thing about L.A. If you ever want to set up shop in California, just go to the Bay Area.”

“Noted,” Erina replied as she took in the traffic jam. They’d probably be stuck in it for at least twenty minutes. “So what happened when you went out to Tuscany?”

“Oh my god. His parents were so rude to me the entire time, especially his mother, and he didn't do anything about it. The only person who bothered to stick up for me was Isami. And then later he tried to explain that they were ‘just a bit conservative.’”

At this, Erina couldn’t help but snort a little. “What does Takumi Aldini know about conservative? Did he grow up wearing Victorian ball gowns around the house?”

“That's exactly what I said! And you know what, if he’s going to let his mother slut shame me for not wearing a turtleneck in the middle of July, we don't need to be in a relationship. At all.”

Not for the first time, Erina felt glad that all her relationships thus far had been short, sweet, and shallow. All this aggravation would only distract her from truly pursuing her cooking.

“When you make the split official, there are some guys I can introduce to you.”

“Are they on the national football team?” Ikumi asked, smirking.

“Naturally.” It had taken Erina a while to warm up to the athletic types, but they had grown on her.

“Yes!” Ikumi turned the air conditioning up in her car, seeming to finally accept their lot. “You and Arato-san have been doing it right this whole time.”

Were they, though? Truth be told, only time would tell. But she carried the image of the dish with her as the car inched into the horizon, and forgot to call her new boyfriend when they got back to Ikumi’s place.

#shokugeki no soma #soumegu #sorina #akisako #ryoali #between us

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peppermintquartz · 5 years

Text

Cute Artist

Companion piece to Beautiful Stranger

Read on AO3 here

Seth can usually find a seat at the counter, but for some reason The Coffee Hug is twice as crowded as it normally is. The barista behind the counter – Bayley, her name tag reads – isn't Becky who works the afternoon shift and already knows him well, so he has to tell her exactly how he likes his cortado.

Bayley listens to the detailed instructions with a bright, warm smile throughout, despite the crowd, so he leaves a bigger tip in the jar. Good service and all that. The cortado smells perfect, which soothes his slightly jumpy nerves.

Today he is going to meet his new business partner, Sasha Banks, at the gym which he is going to run as head trainer. She's just bought it from another person, but she is thinking of converting that to a Crossfit box because that is the next craze, and most Crossfit practitioners are loyal customers.

Seth loves the challenge of Crossfit and is eager to take the lead in making over a place to convert more people to the benefits of the sport. He just has to make sure he can impress her. His old boss Hunter hasn't been too happy about him leaving, but Seth wants to make it out of Hunter's shadow.

Sasha and Seth have been going over the details of his role the past two weeks, and the two weeks before that, he's spent unpacking and learning the neighborhood.

Scanning the coffee shop for a place to sit and finish his drink, he spots a table that's occupied by a guy in a hoodie. The guy is frowning at a sketchbook and scratching out whatever he has written on it, but at least he's not some hipster with the too-cool-for-everyone indoor sunglasses and earphones and skinny jeans.

In fact, as Seth wends his way through the crowd, he notices that the guy has a fairly fit body. Perhaps he's an athlete of some sort. Then he sees that the guy is drawing – he's an artist. The art is cute and punk at the same time, and very distinctive. Seth feels that he'll be able to recognize that style anywhere.

“Hi, excuse me, may I sit here?” Seth asks.

The guy looks up and the hood falls down.

Oh, Seth thinks. The guy has the bluest eyes and really red lips. His short dark hair looks soft and the fade only accentuates the lines of his neck and his bearded jaw. Oh no. He's cute.

“Uh, sure,” says Cute Artist. His Irish accent is very strong and Seth's heart flips in his chest.

Oh my god. He can read me anything. Takeout menus. Instruction manuals. Financial reports. Seth sets his coffee down next to a mug of tea and thanks Cute Artist, trying not to show how flustered he is. As he removes his scarf and beanie, he wonders if it's too gauche to ask for Cute Artist's name and number.

However, when he finally sits down, Cute Artist is already back at work on his sketches, drawing a variety of animals. Giraffes keep appearing, for some reason, with big round hooves. It's all extremely adorable.

Even more adorable is Cute Artist when he draws. The tip of his tongue is sticking out, just enough to be tempting, and his brow is slightly furrowed. He has really elegant and strong hands too, Seth observes, and reminds himself not to be a perv about it. Instead, he fishes out his phone to text Dean and Roman to keep them updated. They are skeptical (Dean) but supportive (Roman), and already his buddies are making plans to visit in June.

D: you got the numer of tht barista yet?

S: shes got a girlfriend dean and her gf is an amazon queen

D: you mean like drag queen or

S: no i mean tall n built like a goddamn tank fi a tank is blonde with a fantastic bod, i think sh e can knock me out if she punches me

R: ...

While Seth waits for Roman's reply, Cute Artist grunts and turns the page. The barista, Bayley, notices and comes over and tops up Cute Artist's tea. Seth's hopes begin to flag.

“How's it going?” she asks.

“Hey babe,” Cute Artist replies. Seth's heart sinks to the floor. Cute Artist passes his sketchbook to Bayley and lets her flip through the pages. “I don't know. What do you think?”

Bayley frowns. “Mm. I don't know.” She puts the sketchbook on the table. “She'll want something bolder, I think.”

Cute Artist moans and his head falls forward to thunk on the table. His despair is so ridiculous and adorable that Seth wants to buy him balloon animals to cheer him up. Oh no. I have a crush on a random guy at a coffee shop and he has a girlfriend and I don't even have his name. I am pathetic.

“Keep going babe,” says Bayley, petting the back of Cute Artist's head. “I'm sure you'll get there.”

“Thanks.”

Cute Artist bonks his head on the table a couple more times and now Seth has to speak up, because he cannot take any more of such endearing antics. “Hey, you're gonna spill my coffee, man.”

Immediately the guy sits up, his cheeks pink. Seth has to remind himself that Cute Artist and Barista Bayley are dating and he must not make a move. Cute Artist tugs on his ear and says, “My bad. Just trying to bash through artist block, sorry.”

“No harm done,” Seth says. He wants to keep Cute Artist talking, just to hear more of his voice. Frantically rummaging through possible topics of conversation, Seth stammers, “Your girlfriend makes really good coffee. I’ve just moved in down the block like a month ago and I’ve been here at least twenty times. First time I’ve seen you though, but I usually come in only after lunch.”

Shit. Fuck. I'm babbling. Thank fuck Dean and Renee aren't here, they'll never let me live it down.

Cute Artist turns even pinker. “Bayley’s not my girlfriend.”

Seth's ears perk up.

“She’s my best friend. I'm gay,” Cute Artist continues, unaware that in Seth's world, the skies have cleared and angels are singing. “And uh, I-I usually work from home, and yeah, she makes great coffee, and I’ll tell her you said so, and um, she lets me use this table when I need to have white noise around me because I invested in her shop and-”

He stops, suddenly, like he realizes he is saying too much to a stranger, and his blue eyes dart from Seth's eyes to the table, as if embarrassed.

Seth thinks his heart is going to explode with glee. Cute Artist is gay, and he seems to be interested. Then those baby blues look up again and Seth forgets all his smooth pickup lines. Instead, his tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth.

“Well,” he manages to say, “I’m glad you invested in this place because I now have great coffee anytime I want some. Please do tell her that too.”

Oh my fucking God Rollins, you might as well have stamped 'UNDATEABLE NERD' on your forehead, what the FUCK was that response?

To keep from humiliating himself further, he drinks his cortado. He's been to a number of coffee places around the neighborhood and this is the only place that makes it properly, without the milk overwhelming the coffee flavor. It's obnoxious of him but Seth used to be way more obnoxious than that, so he thinks keeping his coffee preference is, on the whole, not a bad deal.

Cute Artist sets his pencil down to take his mug of tea, but his hoodie sleeve catches the binding of the sketchbook and knocks it over. Papers fall out of the book, all with drawings of varying levels of detail.

“Oh shit!” Cute Artist blanches, but he at least puts down his tea before getting down to pick his artwork up.

Seth helps too, telling people around them to stop walking just so he can gather all the papers. As he does so, he sees all sorts of drawings, some in the charming kid-lit style like the giraffes earlier, and some almost angry graffiti-type designs. There's a certain flair to all of them, however, and Seth wishes he can look through the sketchbook.

“Thank you,” says Cute Artist sincerely as he tidies up the pages. “It's really... It's that sort of day for me, I think.”

“Been there, man,” says Seth. Good, he sounds a lot more natural now. “All of these are yours?”

“Yeah.” Cute Artist fidgets and averts his eyes.

Seth nods. “You're really good. How long have you been drawing?”

The smile that blossoms on Cute Artist's face is like the dawn. It is astounding how he lights up the room with a simple expression. No one else in The Coffee Hug matters. Seth's poor heart flips again.

“What? What did I say?” he asks, just so he can try to meet Cute Artist again and say the same thing again to get that brilliant, beautiful smile again.

Cute Artist is bashful now. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are pink. “Nah. Most times people say I'm talented.”

“Talent is nothing without hard work.” It's a saying Seth learned from Hunter. It makes Cute Artist blush and that makes all the shit Seth went through with his old boss worth it. “You must've worked your ass off to get that good.”

Cute Artist is definitely flustered now.

This is your chance, Seth thinks, and he is just about to ask Cute Artist for his name and number when his phone rings. He swears internally, but answers right away.

“Seth? Sasha here.”

“Yeah, hey,” says Seth. Gimme five minutes, Sasha, come on. Cute Artist's smile is gone and he's back to playing with his pencil.

“We were supposed to meet ten minutes ago, are you gonna be here soon?” Sasha asks.

“Really?” Seth checks his watch and curses silently in his head. He is late, and he hates being late to anything. “Goddammit. Yeah I'm coming right now.”

He finishes his coffee, pulls on his beanie and his scarf, and makes sure he grins at Cute Artist as a signal that he really doesn't want to go but he has a plan. He knows Cute Artist is Barista Bayley's friend, so all he has to do is ask Barista Bayley to introduce them.

It's a mad dash to Sasha's gym, and she scowls at him when he shows up panting.

“Well I guess your run counts as warm-up,” she says. “Come on, test these babies out and we can decide what to keep and what more to buy.”

“We need merch,” says Seth as he changes into his workout clothes. His compression pants are under his jeans and his Dri-fit is under his Henley, so it's really just him shedding his layers. “Once we get them signed up, we can keep them coming back if we can cultivate brand loyalty.”

“I got a guy designing logos for our stuff,” says Sasha.

Seth thinks about Cute Artist. Maybe he can use this as an excuse to get his number from Barista Bayley. “I just bumped into this artist earlier at the coffee place and he's really good, from what I saw. Maybe we can hire him if your guy's work isn't up to par.”

“Oh please,” Sasha says, one hundred percent Cali girl, “Finn's work will kick your guy's ass.”

Seth hums noncommittally. “We'll see. Come on, let's start.”

They go through all the existing machines and they argue over whether they can incorporate each one into a Crossfit workout. It's exhilarating, working with Sasha, because she is opinionated and ambitious, just like Seth.

They are debating how many tires to purchase when someone clears their throat.

“Finn!” Sasha says when she looks over. “You're early. Hey, Seth, this is the graphics designer I was telling you about, Finn Balor. He’s doing designs for the towels and bottles and all that. Take a look at his stuff. Bet the guy you met is nowhere near his skills.”

Seth thinks the angels have returned to put on an encore performance, because right there at the door is Cute Artist. Cute Artist Finn Balor, who is blushing and grinning, looking so endearingly adorable that Seth knows, he knows he is going to fall for Finn real damn soon.

“Hey,” he says. Keep it natural, Rollins. “Seth Rollins. I'm gonna be a trainer here.”

He shakes Finn's hand, which is cooler than his own and stronger than Seth expected.

“Small world, huh,” Seth quips, unable to hide his happy grin.

“Yeah,” Finn says, smiling back. “Small world.”

#ballins #seth rollins #finn balor #well i had to #seth and finn are too cute not to

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technicallycasualobservation · 3 years

Video

youtube

Red Phone Box Convert into Coffee Shop in London

Today, Lucy and I visited 'Walkmisu', a tiny wall cafe just outside Russell Square Park in central London.

0 notes

canna-base · 6 years

Text

Honest Review of the Pax 3 Handheld Portable Vaporizer by a Chronic Pain Patient

As a fairly recent convert to MMJ, it took me almost a year to lose my love affair with rolling a blunt and suffering the noxious smoke to medicate. Trying to subtly partake of much needed sweet leaf relief was a chore, dodging into the alley next to my home and trying to avoid the gaze of curious kids was proving stressful. It was more the image of their dad smoking than the substance itself, of giving them a bad mental image that allowed them to “smoke” was not good parenting. Plus I don’t want to feel like taking herbal medication is something to be ashamed of.

But a whole 12 months past before I got together the resources (saved!) to afford a decent pocket vape. My requirements were;

Discreet

Easy to use

Didn’t look too “druggy”

Did the job efficiently

Had accurate temperature control

I used to be a cigarette smoker, many moons ago but having never ‘vaped’ I was not sure what to expect. I knew the device had to heat the dry herb to hit the off button on my considerable knee pain and I knew that three light-ish puffs on a ‘joint’ got the job done, albeit with that smokey aftertaste, aroma and fear that a neighbour may smell the err, medication.

So I did some research and decided that a Pax 3 was the ticket, I almost purchased an entry level eBay special but figured that £80+ could be totally wasted (ha!) and I should go with a reputable brand. After reviewing our various recommendations I went and bought a Pax 3 from a local supplier.

Shopping For a Dry Herb Vaporizer

Evapo is a vape shop in Guildford mostly given over to liquid non-MMJ vape-ware, vaporisers, liquids and accessories but there was one cabinet market “CBD” which, given this is the UK, was a subtle clue as to what the cabinet held. The choice was limited to a Pax 2 or a Pax 3. Given that I am an inveterate tech-head I opted for the app controlled Pax 3.

The salesman was a cheerful upbeat sort who talked discreetly but knowledgeably of the features/benefits and what a dry herb vaporizer did. Plus, Evapo had a 15% off deal that weekend which reduced the ticket price from £219.99 to £186.99. Seemed a bit steep for a first time vape purchase, I mean, what if I didn’t like it? What if I didn’t get the relief I am seeking? Hey ho, figured in the name of research it was worth the spend. Five minutes later I exited the proud owner of one spanking brand new Pax 3, and instructions on how to pair it up with the app, more on that in a moment.

Unboxing the Pax 3 Herb Vape

When I got home I opened the box, which is as stylish as the Pax 3 itself, very Apple design led. You slide the box out a sleeve, and it opens with a satisfying resistance provided by hidden magnets. I can see why they get the price they charge.

It contains charger & USB charge cable, cleaning materials (pipe cleaners and pipe brush), a keyring that doubles up as a scraper, an oven like compartment with a holder for concentrates and waxes, a second half-charge oven lid, raised silicon mouthpiece and a stitched material sleeve and of course the device itself. The enclosed documentation is quite slim on any actual operating instructions, but does give you the limited instructions in many different languages. Plus a safety booklet, again, bereft of any instructions but telling you of the many dangers a device like this can inflict.

Once released from its plastic coffin the device is pleasingly heavy in the hand. The heft gives it a solidity, again the comparison to Apple cannot be overstated. It’s solidly built up to a standard not down to a price.

I choose a matt black finish and thus with one click on the top of the mouthpiece, the LEDs stood out like runway landing lights. I set up the device to charge, it already had 3 of the 4 lights lit, and within 20 minutes the remaining light blinked on and we were good to go.

youtube

Pairing the Pax 3 With The App

By the time the charge had finished I was ready to pair the Android version of the app with the device and had gotten to the point where you shake it to pair it. Try as I might my Google Pixel 2 XL running Android Pie (9.0) was just not having any of it, tried different settings on the phone and despite the phone stating it was paired, the app itself refused to play ball. I am guessing this is a Android Pie bug, maybe? I had only installed Pie on the phone a few days earlier so I am guessing app bugs are a distinct possibility. Many of the reviews however also noted pairing difficulties, so perhaps not? Later I downloaded the iPhone iOS app onto my iPad and that not only paired without trouble it also controlled the device well.

First Use and Impressions

Anyway, to the first trial, my ‘herb’ was ground and packed into the oven chamber, it took a relatively little amount, I would say half a single skin joint. I thought this seemed like a very minor amount given that the device allowed for several hits on one fill, but I went along with it. Within a couple of minutes I was ready to go, with a fully charged Pax 3 that was now also fully charged with bud I hesitantly hit the ‘on’ button. The device heats quickly 20 – 30 seconds and the flashing purple LEDs turned green notifying me that the Pax 3 was ready to dose me.

I’d opted for the highest heat setting, I just felt that if I was going to try it then I should really give the Pax 3 a run for its money. I took a tentative first pull. The taste was not what I expected, a floral, greenery taste with a slightly timber smoke edge to it, not burning but that kind of smell you get in a wood on a hot day. I guess that’s the oils and the waxes boiling off their terpenes which give the bud its flavour profile. As the flavour died back and I exhaled it suddenly gave me a taste of coffee grinds, not full on coffee in your mouth but that half smell of roasting you get as you walk past a coffee house.

Very pleasant, very smooth and much nicer than a pull on a ‘Fatty-Boom-Batty’. The specific stock I was smoking is not overpoweringly strong, but does do the job for my pain. As an example I can take a single pull on a one-skinner and have it hit the off button on my knee pain for a couple of hours but leave me focused enough to answer calls, write code and function without the distraction of grinding bone on bone action. I took a second tentative pull, and then thought, screw it, and took two much longer, deeper pulls.

The Pax 3 vs Knee Pain

It was Saturday night and I was feeling like kicking back a bit so wasn’t concerned if I overshot the runway when it came to switching off the red flashing pain klaxon. As per usual the hits took time to kick in, with my usual method of ingestion it takes around 10 minutes for the meds to make their way into my brain and do what it does. Oh-so much better than the mechanised approach that codeine seems to take. Wrapping everything in cling film and preventing you from feeling pretty much anything but the ‘ready break’ glow (US readers Google it, you’ll see how accurate that actually is) that Codeine gives you.

I usually then go make a cuppa, and settle into the sofa with my better half and wait for the pain to roll back and relief to roll in. Well, the Pax 3 definitely delivers, I was starting to feel the effects inside the ten minutes, and all was good. Everything suddenly felt very good with the world, in a way that pain seems to rob you of. Pain adds jagged pixelations to your every move, thought and sensation. It’s like you’re dealing with low resolution images and trying to pass them as 4K cinemascope.

Codeine always took away the ‘jaggies’ but delivered a vaseline smeared lens perspective of the world. All soft focused and fuzzy edged, you felt like the world was a bouncy castle made of marshmallow. However the Pax 3, not only delivered the usual relief but somehow it felt less punchy, like the difference between a $20 bottle of bourbon vs $120 bottle of premium single malt scotch. You can see why the Pax 3 gets the reviews it does.

Controlling Dose with My Second Use

Lets just say 30 minutes later as I am lying on the sofa, totally baked, I tried to have a chat with my other half and ended up giggling away as she laughed at me, not with me. I remained quite lucid, but was just very relaxed by the whole body sedation which is not how my current supply usually hits. The effect lasted at least 4 hours, in fact I went to bed and slept soundly, I usually wake early, 6:30 or 7am, woken by the knee pain, but I overshot that by at least 2 hours. Woke feeling fresh although a little fuzzy but coffee and breakfast sorted that for me.

Therefore I wanted to avoid this with my second use, which was much more controlled, after a little bit of reading online. Just 2 short pulls and the device turned down to a less intense heat at 3 LED lights. I think this might be the sweet spot as the effects again took 5-10 mins to become very noticeable but there was much less of a body sedation, in fact I felt a clarity in my thinking and it just neutralised my pain.

Gone.

Not a trace.

Before medicating I would put the pain at a 3 on our pain chart, far from unbearable but definitely ’nagging’ and niggling at me. So the two hits were a good amount to kill the pain but not dull my entire brain. In fact I would now consider a single pull at 3 lights during a working day. Maybe.

Final Impressions and Overall View

I would give the Pax 3, 5 stars, but I have no other benchmark other than self-rolled all-weed blunts, joints and the occasional bong rip. I feel like I did when I upgraded to my first smart phone. Suddenly I had a computer in my hand and felt like I was ahead of the curve. The Pax 3 is very similar, having previously burnt a tube of rolled up dry herb I now have control and can set the temperature to the exact setting I want and get much more measured doses from my choice of pain meds. The only remaining variable of course is the plant material itself.

I suddenly see that devices like the Pax 3 are invaluable in allowing pain patients to get closer to a proper dosing regimen and if they feel like having a little more fun on a Saturday night, then at least it is a choice. That, for me, is what Cannabis should be about, the choice, the choice of your medication, the choice to choose your own safe pain meds. That it is your body and therefore making a choice of herbal remedy vs the output of an industrialised process, is your right.

I wish I had tried a vaporiser earlier, the Pax 3 is a very good product that does the job without fanfare, but does it stylishly and without announcing to the world you partake. The only small downside was that after I had fiddled about with it, trying to get it to sync with my Android phone, and then using it to heat my herb it got a little warm. Not uncomfortably, or dangerously, but it did warm noticeably, which given its function is not unreasonable, but it got a touch warmer than I thought it would. Put that down to user expectations perhaps, but one to consider. I am exploring a silicon sleeve for it, just to make it the perfect portable medical device.

youtube

The Pax 3 is a total winner and I am very pleased with the value for money and recommend it to you if you are considering using a vape. If you have pain, don’t leave home without it.

Click Here to Order The Pax 3

The post Honest Review of the Pax 3 Handheld Portable Vaporizer by a Chronic Pain Patient appeared first on Cannabis for Chronic Pain.

source https://canna-base.com/pax-3-handheld-portable-vaporizer-review/

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fortress-of-iserlohn · 6 years

Note

YOU HAD BETTER KEEP WRITING YOUR STORIES / STORY IDEAS. THIS FANDOM IS TOO SMALL AND THE STORIES ON AO3 ARE ALL EITHER CHINESE OR RUSSIAN.

HEY FRIEND. CAN I INTEREST YOU IN SOME OTP MEMBERSHIP? *PRAYS FOR ANOTHER REUYANG CONVERT*

BUT OMG YES. i 100% agree! the fandom is too smol, needs mOAR of everything pls

but dw, i am busy scribbling away. all the time. gotta feed my otp obsession somehow????

ANYWAY WORD COUNT SUMMARY BELOW OF MY WIPs + 700w of random modern reuyang AU lmao

current word count on my almost completed fic (and i’ll let you in on a secret it’s not reuyang EN GASP) - this should be ready to post in a week or so, have about 1-2k left to write i think:

and then of course, the monster i am raging on and off at, the canon au fic. i want this done before september but we’ll see, i think it’ll be another 5-10k (more rather than less ugh):

but anyway, i’m always super excited to see someone else interested in my fic, please have some half-headcanon’d drabbles - i was screaming @beingevil at professor yang & then why not add some movie star reuenthal:

Yang runs into Oskar for the first time when he’s about ten minutes late for his own 8am lecture.

The ‘runs into’ is literal because Yang’s turning around a corner, a folder full of lecture handouts that didn’t make it into his bag tucked under one arm, eyes fixed on his phone screen, his other hand composing a text slowly to his assistant so they would start the class without him.

He’s just sending off the text, sighing, when he walks into something very solid. His lecture notes go flying, as does his phone, both of them landing with a sharp crack against the concrete pavement that makes him wince instinctively, one after the other. Yang himself ends up with his back pressed against a dirty brick wall, slightly out of breath from the impact, but uninjured.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” The voice that speaks is deep, a man’s voice, and it’s only then that Yang realises what had actually happened.

The man is crouched before him, picking up his sheaf of papers, which Julian had the foresight to clip together with a bulldog clip after helping him print it last night as well as his phone.

When he stands, he towers over Yang by a good head. Strangely enough, despite it being halfway through autumn, his face is mostly obscured by a pair of aviator sunglasses tinted entirely black and an unmarked black cap pulled low over his forehead.

Yang takes the proffered items gratefully, inclining his head. “It’s not your fault, I should’ve been watching where I was going.”

A quick glance at his phone screen tells him that it’s broken but still working, the LCD panel lighting up when he presses the power button, which is more than he could’ve hoped for under the circumstances. He slides the now slightly dirty manila folder containing his class notes into the relative safety of his bag and zips it shut.

When he looks up again, the man is watching him, eyebrows furrowed a little warily, but when Yang just stares back at him a little questioningly, he seems to relax a bit.

“How can I make it up to you?” the stranger asks, tilting his chin towards the broken phone.

Yang pockets it hurriedly and waves his hands in front of himself a little awkwardly. “Oh. No, don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s mostly my fault anyway.”

He checks his watch, mutters a curse, and then looks back at the other man apologetically. “I’m sorry, I need to run, I’m already late for my class.”

Then with another awkward wave, Yang hurries off without turning back.

“He’s a what?” Mittermeyer blinks at Reuenthal.

“A college professor,” Reuenthal repeats patiently. He’s sitting with his ankles crossed, slouched casually into his chair.

His customary black aviators are shielding his distinctively coloured eyes, an adequate disguise for the most part. Most people, even if they recognised him, were nice enough to leave him be, especially when they saw that he was just out and about with a friend.

They’re sitting at one of the coffee shops that Mittermeyer likes to frequent with his wife usually, with hearty breakfast options paired with strong-flavoured, locally grown coffee beans.

Reuenthal’s already on his second cup while Mittermeyer is still slowly savouring his first.

Their breakfast plates have been cleared away already by a cheerful young waitress who had done a very obvious double take when Reuenthal had first walked in with Mittermeyer, but was professional enough to be nothing but polite during service, making sure that they were seated in a small corner, tucked away where no one could see them with a casual glance from the entrance or through the large ceiling to floor windows that faced out to the main street.

“He’s lovely,” Reuenthal says, pulling off his glasses and tucking them into the front of his crisply ironed off-white shirt. “Smart, adorable and has absolutely no interest in my fame. He didn’t even know my name the first time I met him.”

Yang pushes open his office door and is immediately overwhelmed by the scent of fresh flowers.

There’s several artistically arranged boxes of different blooms placed around his desk, all bright colours, yellows and pinks and purples.

When Yang edges closer, he sees a bouquet of blood red roses that sit on his desk proper. There’s a small note tied to the bottom, a thick, smooth cardstock that Yang flips open.

There’s no flower that can compare to the beauty of your smile, it reads, written in a bold, elegant hand.

The initials printed on the bottom are O.v.R and Yang flushes a bright red when he realises who the sender is.

#anon-chan #ask me #talk reuyang to me #reuyang #linc ficlets #to the anon who sent me an ask about the arranged marriage au #i am 100% working on it <3 #eulerian-circus #logh #legend of galactic heroes

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tinwingo · 3 years

Video

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Red Phone Box Convert into Coffee Shop in London

Red telephone boxes are iconic in London, but who uses a telephone booth nowadays, when everyone has a mobile phone?

Red Phone Box Coffee Shop Today, Lucy and I visited 'Walkmisu', a tiny hole in the wall cafe just outside Russell Square Park in central London.

Nayem in London

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9087miles · 3 years

Text

It means nothing to me… OH VIENNA! - October 2019 Part 3 of 3

I lifted my head off the pillow and immediately the night before came rushing back to me in vivid Technicolor. My mouth was dry and the scent of hops and alcoholic ethers was strong. I dropped my head back onto the pillow and groaned. Today was going to be rough. Like the gallant hero that he is, Tom rose like the undead and put clothes on. He said he was going to the pub to check the lost and found. He returned about half an hour later empty-handed, but with a cut on his hand on a stray rusty nail in the lost property box. To show my gratitude, I feebly slithered out of bed as a show of my own strength.

Out on the street we stopped about a block from the apartment for a much-needed coffee from a little cafe. We wrote postcards and I called my dad. It was his birthday the day before, but I missed the window of opportunity to call. My voice was hoarse as I recounted what we had got up to the night before. After I hung up from my folks, we finished the coffee and the postcards, before heading back towards Stephansdom. It was noticeably quiet for mid-morning, especially considering it was a Saturday. After passing the second block of closed shops, I did a quick search on my phone to discover that it was Austrian National Day. That would explain why the flights were extra cheap for this particular weekend.

Secretly hoping that nothing would be open and we would just have to go back to the apartment (where I could bask in what was shaping up to be a slow, agonising death of a hangover), we carried on up towards the cathedral. Along the way, glinting from the corner of the main strausser, was Swarovski Kristalwelten. People were going in and out, so we approached for a look - it would be rude not to! Inside, on three floors, was the mother of all Swarovski shops with a basement museum/gallery. We wandered around for about half an hour and I ended up with a little touristy delight. It was a little box filled to the brim with crystal beads in all manner of colours and sizes.

At a loose end, Tom suggested we go and get breakfast. We found a little coffee lounge and went in. It was almost a parody of itself, with morning people lingering over their newspapers and drinking their fancy coffees - so Viennese! We plotted what our options were for the day. Tom mentioned that somewhere on the other side of town was an art building that he wanted to see, so that was a possibility. When we exited the cafe, we noticed that there signs pointing towards Mozarthaus, a museum in a house that Mozart once lived. On the chance that it might be open, we headed off in that direction.

No photos were allowed inside (but I snuck one in the hallway to give a sense of what we were in for), but it likely wouldn’t have made a difference. The rooms were mostly empty, with patrons experiencing the house through the audio guide handed out at the start of the tour. The pressure from the headset alleviated the throbbing in my skull as a British man narrated the life and times of Mozart in 18th Century Vienna. Around each room were one or two spectacles; in one the iconic red coat that Mozart wore - which turns out to have belonged to a female acquaintance. Amadeus had spotted her at the opera and later wrote saying that he had some lovely shiny gold buttons that would make it sing, and that she should give it to him. Further towards the end were puppet shows and projections, all depicting the operas that Mozart wrote.

We went back to the apartment for a spell, while Tom worked out where would go to next. I buried my head into the pillow and suggested that the next stop should definitely include Panadol. Working out that it was only a short fifteen minute walk, I mustered every ounce of strength and hauled myself up for the second leg of the day.

The walk was actually quite pleasant. We walked down back streets of palatial houses and crossed a bridge over the Danube. When we arrived at the Hundertwasser House, it was truly something to behold. Originally a tyre factory, the building had been converted into apartments for low income households. The decoration on the building and the surrounding streets can only be described as creative chaos. Mosaic as far as the eye could see and not a single straight line in sight - Hundertwasser had an aversion to them, describing them as such:

The straight line is godless and immoral. The straight line leads to the downfall of society.

Today we live in a chaos of straight lines, in a jungle of straight lines. If you do not believe this, take the trouble to count the straight lines which surround you. Then you will understand, for you will never finish counting.

Across from the Hundertwasser house in a little artist village, full of shops and more of the same style of arts and crafts. It was built by a collective and serves as a bit of a shrine to the Hundertwasser philosophy. Tom bought a bottle of water and some paracetamol, so I took the opportunity to neck a couple (and the entire bottle of water). I was determined to be present for the day! We wandered around the little boutiques in the artist village for as long as it took for the water to work it’s way through my system. I needed a wee, so we headed down some stairs to find a beautiful fountain and one of the wackiest public toilets I have come across to date. Aside from the wacky and disconcerting mosaic tiling (although I wasn’t convinced it wasn’t just my melting brain) there was a looping audio documentary about the lifecycle of faeces.

We did a repeat of dinner back at Alt Wien, which was becoming a regular haunt for our little trip. I was feeling much better for having soldiered on with the day but I could only manage one pint of beer. After we finished and walked back towards the apartment, the bells of Stephansdom rang out into the still warm night air. Because all of the buildings are so close and the streets quite narrow, the sound ricocheted and reverberated around like a harmonious singing bowl. We followed the luring sound and ended up at the church. Realising that it was still open, we took one of the final opportunities to see it before we left Vienna.

Inside the air was thick with the fog of frankincence. A service had just taken place and the hushed tones of parishioners and tourists making a hasty exit were barely noticeable as we walked against the crowd and into the belly of the gothic Goliath. At the end of the nave was all of the exciting things in the church, but a gate had just been locked. On the other side were a couple of nuns stubbing out candles and getting ready to head back to their cells. We ogled for a little while at some of the dark art on the walls. The European Catholic churches just nail the drama of the whole affair so well.

Back in the apartment, I lay down and poured the contents of my Kristalwelten purchases onto the bedsheet to admire. I felt a sense of triumph to have managed the day, glad that we’d not wasted the opportunity to see so much beauty.

*****

The last day - when we realised Vienna waits for you

The last day was started at Kaffee Alt Wien, where so many of our Viennese adventures began. We had packed our bags and checked out of our apartment with plenty of time to spare. The flight wasn’t until after lunch, so we could finally pace ourselves. I felt like it had taken the whole trip just to reach the optimum point of relaxation. And I knew that our impromptu underground nightclubbing was partly to blame for that.

Knowing that the trip was nearing its end, I scoured the Alt Wien menu for a suitable last supper. Notable mentions were the Hangover Breakfast (a plate of goulash and a small beer) and the Très Chic (espresso and a cigarette - only served until 12 noon). In the end, I opted for the Kaiser’s breakfast, which was listed as:

Kaiser’s Breakfast

Two soft boiled eggs, cottage cheese, peppers (capsicum), organic ham, cheese, jam, honey and biscuits.

It sounded like a meal fit for an emperor and the perfect way to book-end three days of schnitzel, potatoes and beer. When it came out on two plates, accompanied by a basket of bread, I realised I should have opted for the Très Chic! Tom was smart, choosing a simple ham and eggs, which was presented in a cast iron handled skillet. I battled through my entire calorie intake for the day, giving everything a good go. Including the ten slices of cheese down the middle of the plate.

Back in the direction we had started from, we passed the park we’d stopped in at the beginning of the trip. Across the road was the MAK Museum of Design. I had mentioned to Tom that I might like to take a look in there when we passed by days earlier. We struggled to find the office for tickets. In broken English, the ticket seller up sold us to a ticket that included entry into Blickfang, an international design fair. We perused a lot of different exhibits, commenting on the ingenuity of some people, and the charlatanism of others. We hurriedly finished the loop to make sure we had enough time for the MAK.

Although I could have personally spent all day in there, we only had a few hours to kill at the MAK Design Museum. We studied the map with one of the docents and triaged the things we wanted to see. We started in the basement to see a special exhibition about design and technology through the lens of futurism. It was all very high-brow, but there were some very intriguing social commentary pieces about the life and times we find ourselves in and the dystopia we face in the not-too-distant future. Another of the special exhibitions was a collection of elaborate Japanese woodblock prints. There was a mix of traditional and modern, with a couple of notable celebrities worked in - I still regret not buying a print of the Bowie picture!

Back up at ground level I got to experience a surreal immersive experience in a garden based on Klimt’s landscape work. With a VR headset and headphones, I felt like I was walking through a dream about a video game. The rest of the museum was focused on the Vienna Succession of the 1890s and the sumptuous furnishings of the homes of Vienna over the last couple of hundred years. We whipped through an exhibition of Baroque Rococo glass and lace, before we collected our bags and exited through the gift shop. Back on the train to the airport, I sighed and watched as the beauty faded, gave way to suburbia and the reality of drudgery came slowly creeping back.

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