#i literally googled this like ten times i was like surely its a different guy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

alwaysmarveling · 3 years

Text

Socks

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: toxic relationships, small mentions of death, gaslighting, fighting, and miscarriage

Word Count: 4k (literally exactly 4k, I’m kinda proud)

A/N: Based on the song “1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back” by Olivia Rodrigo as suggested by @vancityfire13, I hope this meets all your hopes and expectations <3 also technically this is my first prompt from someone who’s not me??!

You met Wanda at the library. Your legs crossed, eyebrows scrunched, and bottom lip caught between your teeth, you’d settled in the familiar corner of the library's world languages section. That area was always quiet, which you’d found out after many trips to the library as a kid. When the occasional patron did wander through, perusing the shelves, sometimes they brought family or friends, weaving together sounds and syllables that had to be from another language. It was the only sound you’d tolerate while you were immersed in your reading. Well, to be fully honest, you loved it, wondering what the hushed voices were saying, what stories they were telling. So Wanda’s English was a jarring wake-up call.

“I like your socks.” Her eyes flashed to your ankles, leaving you wondering if she was more drawn to the sky blue color or the characters covering it.

You’d noticed the brunette walking the aisles about ten minutes ago. Unlike most, she ran her fingers along the worn spines, seeming only half-interested in what the titles read.

“Thanks.” Your voice was cold, unwelcoming. She gave you a terse nod before heading off, her footsteps silent against the worn carpet. You thought she was gone.

A week later, you were back at your spot. You’d finally finished the work you’d been putting off for weeks, just about to reward yourself with a reread of Little Women, a book you’d read an uncountable number of times since you were a child. She was an unwelcome interruption.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but-”

“I was looking for a book for my brother. His name is Pietro. Was Pietro. There was a Sokovian fairytale he always loved. Begged my mother to read it to us every night. He could recite it by memory by the time he was five, knew every word. I thought I did too.” Your eyes traced down the curve of her spine. Your mother would have scolded you for standing so poorly.

“I’m sorry for your loss” was all you said, your lips forming a tight line when you finished.

“I couldn’t- I can’t remember the title.”

“I can try to help you find it?” You weren’t sure why you offered, maybe the lost look in her eyes, the growing strength of her accent as she talked, or the way her fingers traced her empty palms. No one should leave a library empty-handed.

“Do you speak Sokovian?” The corners of her eyes creased as you shook your head.

“I suppose you won’t be much help then, will you?” Her words held no bite, only the sadness of a stranger who was trying to hold herself together, her emotions threatening to unravel her at the weakened seams. You matched her facial expression out of sympathy, but she was gone before you had a chance to apologize.

“Do you like Disney?” she had asked you. Her eyes were back on your ankles. You were wearing the same socks as when the two of you first met. You were milliseconds away from answering, your tongue already against the roof of your mouth, ready to shut down the conversation immediately afterward. But then you noticed the way her hands fidgeted in her lap, her fingers always moving, almost like they were dancing. You sighed. You should be nicer; she’d really done nothing wrong.

“It’s alright.” Your shoulders raised and dropped, your answer purposefully vague. “Did you manage to find the book?” The darkening of her eyes was enough to tell you that, no, she hadn’t found it. “What’s the main character’s name?” Her gaze followed you as you pulled out your laptop.

“Boleslav,” she answered finally. Her gaze was timid, unsure. Why were you helping her? You’d been so closed off before.

“Do you know any major points of the story? The names of the other characters?” Before she could answer, you eyed the pillow that sat next to you. She took a seat.

The two of you poured over Google, eventually finding the story and its location in the library. But by that point, you were too wrapped up in your findings on the Internet to get up. Too wrapped up in each other.

---

Wanda insisted she make it up to you, for finding the book for her.

“For helping me find my brother,” she insisted, pulling you out of the library. If she was anyone else, you would have responded by saying that she could make it up to you by leaving you alone with your books, but she wasn’t anyone else. So you let her tug you out of the building, Mirabelle, the librarian, giving you a wink upon seeing you leaving the building with someone else, soft smiles gracing your faces.

You thought she would’ve brought you to coffee, but it seemed you hadn’t yet developed the ability to understand her. She brought you to the city, a small store on the corner. Socks lined the walls, the different colors and patterns flooding your vision.

“Your Disney ones looked old.” You half-nodded as you scanned the store, your hand going limp in hers. You remembered learning about rods and cones in class ages ago, not quite remembering what each one did but remembering that one of them was involved in seeing colors. Those—whatever they were called—must’ve been on overdrive.

You picked one pair for her, and she, one for you. You wore those socks constantly, slipping them over your feet the second they were out of the wash. You never told Wanda about it, but you didn’t have to; her eyes fell to your ankles every time she saw you, a small smile on her face. You didn’t know if you did it for her reaction or simply because you loved them. Maybe it was both.

---

Wanda drew you into her world. Some might have used the word “yanked” given how quickly your relationship moved. But that made it sound involuntary, as if she’d forced you to move in with her when she’d asked you exactly eight months after your first date. And if you’d known she had powers when you first met her, you might’ve agreed. Maybe she’d entranced you and now you were stuck with her, even if you didn’t really want to be.

But the truth was that you did, you wanted to be with her every second you could. And though magic never left her hands when she was with you, even her name was magic, the way those two syllables rang beautifully in the air as she formally introduced herself for the first time. She spoke English when she talked to you, but you swore that whatever left her mouth was a language of her own, so elegant, sweet, and charming in a way that no English speaker could replicate.

But, one night, her words twisted into daggers, punctuated syllables sharpening into dangerous ends, the beginning of each sentence like a handle she grabbed and used to hurt you further, twist until it was lodged as deeply into your chest as it could go.

You weren’t sure what you did to make it happen. Maybe it was just a bad night. She was drunk, after all, home from some party with the Avengers that you hadn’t gone to. The two of you had talked it over before, though, both agreeing that it was too soon in your relationship to attend anything where it’d be publicly released, which was why you were confused about why she was cursing you out for abandoning her, not being there when you needed her.

You promised that you’d be sure to go next time. Wanda just turned around, dismissing you without another word. You weren’t sure what was worse, the silence or her words. She somehow missed the tears that streamed down your face.

The next day, she knocked on your door. This time, she was the one in tears, the rate at which they fell only increasing when she saw how puffy your eyes were.

“I- I’m sorry,” she bumbled, the sounds tumbling out of her mouth like a barrel coming down the Niagara Falls. She couldn’t have stopped them if she tried. You watched her struggle through an apology, something about her insecurities being magnified as she saw all the other couples around her seemingly happy. She just wanted that. And even though her speech was much more clumsy than the usual effortless diction you were used to hearing from her, you allowed her words to draw you in, provide you shelter from the horrors you’d experienced yesterday, when your heart raced and blood rushed your ears and your palms were so sweaty you couldn’t get a grip on anything. You allowed her arms to draw you in, make you feel safe. You allowed her to bring you home.

---

Wanda saw a side of you that no one had ever seen before. Scratch that, Wanda saw all of you. Where others would’ve looked away or missed the true meaning of your words, she dug deeper. You lived your whole life with a mask on, swapping one out for another to appease those around you. Wanda took them all off.

But she didn’t force them off; she made you want to take them off. You were the one who peeled them off one by one, the experience being extremely unnerving every time you revealed that much more of yourself to her, but you always found yourself relieved at the end. Because she accepted you, she loved you.

Right?

---

You called her once, during a mission. It was something the two of you had been doing ever since you started dating. You would ask how she was doing, make sure she was okay, and she’d do the same for you. Of course, when her missions were off-the-grid you didn’t call, but if the two of you were allowed to stay in contact, she insisted that you guys do so.

“I have to make sure my love is okay,” she’d murmured, just before she left for her first mission since the two of you started your relationship. She was holding you in her arms as the two of you swayed back and forth. Your feet were bare for once, the cold kitchen tile underfoot grounding the both of you. Neither of you had wanted to let go; your hands were clasped firmly together around her waist, and hers rested on top of yours. But eventually, the incessant honking from Tony became too much, and the two of you reluctantly moved apart.

“I’ll call you the second I can, yeah? And make sure you call me in the morning when you wake up.”

“I will,” you nodded as Wanda’s hand came up to brush against your cheek.

But somehow she’d forgotten about your agreement, and nothing but annoyance filled your ear, the phone pressed up against it.

“Y/N, I really don’t have time for this right now.” You sucked in a breath, her tone an instant reminder of that night she’d yelled at you. But that was so long ago. And you hadn’t done anything; there wasn’t a party you’d missed since then, not a moment since then that you’d let her feel alone. Or was there?

“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “Should I call you back later?” All you got was a sigh, doubt and panic filling your chest in the momentary silence.

“We’ll see. Goodbye, milaya.” There was barely a pause in between her voice and the disconnect tone. You weren’t sure if the pet name was sincere or a habit leftover from the good times.

Were you still in the good times?

What went wrong?

Where did you go wrong?

She came back from the mission, and all was well again. She spun you around and around, her melodious giggles filling your ears and causing the corners of your mouth to lift. But you couldn’t help your brows from cinching inwards, wondering where this Wanda had been when you’d called. Was it just another fluke, or maybe something you’d imagined?

“I love you, printsessa, so, so much,” Wanda whispered. You loved the way her smooth voice filled your ears, made you feel whole again. Maybe it was the kitchen? Was that the place she felt safe, the place where she felt like she could love you fully? Maybe that’s why she seemed so closed off during the mission. When you didn’t respond, too lost in thought, she spoke up again.

“Detka, d’you know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me? I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her eyes sparkled. No red mist emerged from her fingertips, but you swore Wanda’s essence was magic in and of itself. How could you ever deny her?

You surrendered.

“I love you too. More than anything in the world.”

---

The next day, Wanda woke you up with excitement filling her voice, insisting that you come with her to the compound to pick up some of the things she’d left behind.

“I want to show you off,” she’d laughed as she rolled you over.

“We’ve already met, babe. They love me, you’ve said so yourself,” you groaned. She shook her head as she corralled you into the bathroom.

“You haven’t met all of them! Now c’mon, let’s go!” You agreed, and she was right, there were lots of new people there.

“You must be Y/N, right?” You nodded as you shook the man’s hand.

“I’m Clint. I’ve heard, um, lots about you. And your socks.” The two of you laughed at his joke, but something about his chuckle was off. His smile never quite reached his eyes. Wanda whisked you off too soon for you to figure out why though, bringing you over to a rather large man. No, god, he’s a god. Thor, he said. His name is Thor.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you’d responded.

“The love of my life,” Wanda sighed, her voice wispy and dreamy. The god’s eyebrows had raised at that.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you then, Y/N. I didn’t know Wanda was so fortunate as to have a love so strong.” Sometimes you had to remind yourself of that too. “You are very lucky, my friend.” Am I?

You exchanged jokes with Natasha, learned of some of Bruce and Tony’s new projects, listened to stories of Thor’s childhood adventures on Asgard; the night went well. Until it didn’t.

You were yanked into a mostly empty room, the door quickly shut behind you. Was that a flash of red you’d seen in the corner of your eye?

“What did you do?” someone hissed. The voice was familiar, but by this point, you weren’t sure if it filled you with dread or joy when you heard it. Was that part of the excitement of your relationship, trying to figure out the complexities of it all, trying to predict which version of your lover you’d get this time?

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I didn’t do anything, Wanda, I swear!”

“Then why is Clint telling me to break up with you? What did you say to him?” Your head shook, your whole body shook. This was news to you.

“I didn’t say anything. Please, Wan-”

“How am I supposed to believe that, Y/N? Do you really think he’d just make that up out of nowhere?” You tried to find the words, the ones you should say, the ones she’d want you to say. You had nothing. The witch’s anger grew, her hands slamming down on her sides. “God, Y/N! It’s like sometimes I don’t even know who you are!”

But wait, that was how you felt. Wasn’t it? Or had you dreamed that up too? What had you done?

“Wanda, I promise I didn’t do anything. I’ve been friendly to him all night.”

“So you expect me to believe he’s lying, then.” Your eyes fell to her chest, its rise and fall rapid but deep, going up and down several times before she spoke again. “Y/N, he named his child after my brother. Why would he lie to me?” You could do nothing, say nothing to fix this. You weren’t sure exactly what you did, but you’d messed up. Again.

“Maybe he’s right, then.” Her hand ran through her hair, the brown locks that you loved to twist around your own fingers, play with as she laid in your lap, a show playing in the background. You missed those times.

But weren’t you just doing that last night?

You weren’t sure. It seemed like so long ago.

---

Weeks, months, even a year passed. Wanda had apologized for that night at the compound. She’d also apologized for the countless number of other times the two of you had fought since then. But it was okay, you’d thought, because for all those arguments was an equal number of moments where the two of you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe, slow-danced at 3 AM, used your hairbrushes as microphones to sing concerts for your millions of fans. At least, you thought it was an equal number. Did number matter anyway?

Wanda went from being your girlfriend, to being your fiancé, to being your wife. Like Thor had said, you were “very lucky.” You are very lucky. Because right now, you’re looking down at the stick in your hand, and there are two lines, not one. The two of you had done something so many couldn’t; that was a huge blessing. And now you had to tell Wanda.

Finding the box was harder than you thought, but the other part was much easier. All you had to do was go to the store Wanda had taken you to all that time ago, the small store on the corner. And when the brunette lifted open the lid to find a pair of socks so tiny they could only be for one thing, one person, one baby, she knew. She was ecstatic. You were relieved.

Four weeks. Four weeks later from that day was the worst day of your life. Just as quickly as the baby had come, it had gone. He or she was gone. Was it your fault? The doctor had been quick to shut those thoughts down, insisting that there were many factors that could’ve caused the miscarriage, but you certainly weren’t one of them.

But Wanda didn’t talk to you for a whole week, spending the nights in the guest bedroom to avoid you. It was the longest the two of you had gone without speaking. That had to mean something, right?

It did. It meant that it shouldn’t have been a surprise when you came home from work the following Monday to find half of the things missing. All of her things.

The box was still there, though; you saw it out of the corner of your eye. It sat on top of a cabinet, the two socks poking out of the top.

The two of you had fallen in love with those tiny socks faster than you’d fallen in love with each other. They held so much love, so much promise. But now they were empty, devoid of anything they might’ve held just hours before. They were nothing more than a painful reminder of what could have been, what should have been. Meanwhile, your own socks were still on, the same ones Wanda had given to you on your first date. You weren’t sure you could take them off if you tried. Was that a reminder too? Did it have significance?

The ticking of the clock suddenly caught your attention. You had been standing at the doorway for thirty minutes, but what were you supposed to do? Were you supposed to go somewhere? Where would you go? Wanda was gone, not leaving any clue as to where she could’ve run off to, and you were alone.

When was the last time you’d been truly alone?

Didn’t you use to like being alone?

You grabbed your keys. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, but whatever it was, you wouldn’t find it here.

You push open the door, always the one on the right. Walk twenty or so steps through the entrance, turn left. Take another left, then walk-

It was different. Completely different. The shelves weren’t the same color, metal had been swapped for wood, the carpet was new; what had happened?

“Y/N, sweetie, is that you?” Mirabelle’s voice. At least she was still here. You turned to face her, taking in her wrinkled face, the tortoiseshell glasses that had been perched on her nose since you met her as a child. “Oh my goodness, it is! We haven’t seen you in ages. We were all so worried.”

“Wha- what happened to the library?” Her kind smile flipped, her lips separated with their corners turning downwards.

“We got a renovation at the end of last year, honey. Didn’t you see it on the news?”

“Right,” you nodded, swallowing again, trying to push down the lump that had been growing in your throat for over an hour. “Um, where’s the world languages section?”

“Upstairs, love. Take two rights and you’ll see it. Enjoy your visit, okay?” You nodded again, pressing your lips into a wavering smile that Mirabelle accepted.

You found the section easily enough, pushing yourself into one of the beanbags that crowded the floor. It was quiet—you supposed not many people came to the library on a late Tuesday afternoon—but something was missing.

No, that wasn’t it. Nothing was missing. Everything had changed, and you couldn’t settle yourself no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t recognize the white walls or the large windows that surrounded you. You couldn’t recognize the book in your shaking hands; the title read “Little Women,” but it lacked the comfort and familiarity it once brought you. You couldn’t recognize the artwork that hung on the walls, the large signs suspended from the ceiling.

You caught a reflection in the shiny metal of a book cart that lay several feet away from you.

You couldn’t recognize yourself.

When you finally left the library, Mirabelle frowned as she watched you exit the doors, not stopping to check out a book like you always did. No one should ever leave a library empty-handed. You’d forgotten that too.

---

She came back less than a week later, her cheeks tear-stained and her eyes rimmed with red as she stumbled her way through an apology.

“It was a mistake, detka, I promise. I made such an awful mistake, and I’ll never forgive myself. I won’t blame you if you don’t forgive me either.” You stared at her, neither your eyes nor your mouth moving as you tried to take in what she was saying, tried to come up with an adequate response.

Which had changed more, the library or you?

“Please, you’re the only thing that matters in my life. I can’t lose you.” The melody of her once-full voice was broken, the chords fragmented and notes falling out of tune. It was as broken as you’d felt for the past few days. Maybe she understood. But you couldn’t think anymore because you were suddenly in her arms again, her tears soaking your shirt as she sobbed.

The library had been renovated, its modernity and welcoming environment being a major improvement to the once somewhat dilapidated building. You had slipped, your feet wrapped in the socks Wanda had given you as you stumbled down the dark, crooked hallway of your life, trying desperately to get a hand on the wall, grab a solid footing.

You had two options: save yourself or fall.

“Please, Y/N, please. Promise you’ll stay.”

You fell backwards, your head being the first to slam into the floor.

“Of course I’ll stay, Wan. I’d never leave you.”

You weren’t sure if you’d ever get up. After all, changed or not, what’s a library without its books? Who are you without her?

-----

🏷 : @007giu

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff #avengers x reader #marvel #mcu #I wrote something #alwaysmarveling

289 notes · View notes

atsukashii · 3 years

Note

Hi is it ok if I request y/n x kuroo & she/her & ☀️ & pink please?

smooth like butter, like a criminal undercover gon' pop like trouble breaking into your heart like that

✘ hey google: how do you tell if a guy is flirting with you?

✘ GENRE: fluff

✘ WARNINGS: aged up characters, bookshop au

✘ WORD COUNT: 1.9k

“I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring in your own snacks.”

Closing your work locker, you raise an eyebrow at the familiar six foot, raven haired guy, who smirks down at you as if he just won first prize. In cringe worthy pick up lines? Yeah he can take that medal.

“Are you calling me a snack?” You ask, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Will you go out with me if I say yes?” Kuroo asks again, wagging his eyebrows at you teasingly, and you immediately know he’s messing with you.

“Not a chance.” Offering him a scathing glare, you spin on your heels and slip out the front door of the shop. When you’d first gotten the job at the small bookshop near your house, you'd have been ecstatic. Although you’d been less ecstatic about your new colleague who you’d never met before in your life, but had been slipping you cheesy and corny pick up lines every day for months.

You didn’t even know that there were that many ways to flirt with someone, but alas, Kuroo proved you wrong every shift. At first, you’d been a flustered bumbling mess trying to come up with a response, but as you caught on to how his hazel eyes glinted with untamed mischief, you’d decided that Kuroo wasn’t your favourite person.

That wasn’t to say that you by any means hated the guy, there was no way you could when he was literally one of the nicest people you’d ever come across in your life. He held doors open for you, and would volunteer to carry the new boxes of stock out back because they were heavy - although you had an inkling that was partly to show off. In the end, Kuroo is sweet, kind, and hilarious. But he thinks that hitting on you every day, and asking you out as a joke is also hilarious.

And it’s hilariously pissing you off.

Because somewhere down along the way, between the angel references and calling you a ‘cute-cumber’ you’d found yourself smiling at the lines. You found yourself anticipating getting to work shifts with him, just to see him and for the chance to witness the familiar rogue smile and the pure giddiness that emits from his very being.

But to him, it was a joke. And that left more than a bad taste in your mouth.

Adjusting your bag once more, you try to slide the store door closed behind you to keep the aircon inside - a stark contrast to the summer heat bearing down on you. Before it can close completely, a hand rolls the glass door to a stop and you find yourself once again looking up into hazel eyes.

“Not finished?” You snipe back, having reached your quota of fake flirting for the day. Kuroo doesn’t flinch at your tone, or maybe he just chooses not to notice judging by the smile that graces his face. Maybe, just maybe you could eventually get over him. It’s not going to go anywhere, if it was going to, he wouldn’t have waited literal months to make a move. So maybe, you can let him go.

“Oh I have plenty more for you princess, but I just thought you might want this first.” In his hand is a copy of the book you’d been reading behind the counter of your shifts. Blinking twice, you realise it’s got similar dog eared pages and a crinkled spine from continuous use - that's your book. Instinctively you peer into your bag on your shoulder, and alas, it's empty. With an empty mind, you take the item from Kuroo’s outstretched hand, and offer him a quick thanks as you try to swallow the emotion in your throat.

“You’re most welcome. Walk home safe, I'll see you tomorrow princess.” Kuroo responds with a rogue wink that has you flushing from head to toe. His knowing grin proves that was the response he was looking for, so you quickly shove the book in your back and practically run from your work - swearing that you can feel his gaze on you the whole way home.

Yeah, there’s no chance you’re going to get over him.

This is cemented on your next night shift. You stand behind the counter, your eyes glancing up from the book you’re reading to the group of teenage girls giggling amongst the young adult isle. Really, it should be an actual law for people to be as quiet in bookstores as they are in libraries.

The door opens once more, and you begin to groan internally at the thought of even more rowdy teenagers coming in, but instead Kuroo slinks through the door in all his six foot two glory. Dressed in his work shirt, some black jeans and his usual sneakers, he looks good and the bastard knows it from the raised eyebrows he shoots you when he catches you looking. You don’t reply, but instead turn back to your book, ignoring him and the gaggling teenagers who suddenly shut up as he walks past them to go to the back room. You can’t blame them as their eyes stay glued to his every movement. Kuroo walks like he was meant to carry the world on his shoulders, but instead spins it like a basketball on one finger. As if the most difficult things for him are effortless. Like a god amongst men. Okay, let's not go that far. If he ever heard that, his ego would asphyxiate everyone from here to the south pole.

“Do you like my shirt?” Kuroo’s question has you turning around before you can stop yourself, but you’re all levels of confused as he holds the hem of his shirt in pinched fingers away from his body. His shirt? It’s his work shirt…

“Uh it’s your work shirt…” You manage to mumble out, brows still furrowed, completely baffled.

“Yeah but its made of a different material.” He points out, moving closer to you, only looking up from his shirt and to you when he’s standing only a few feet away. “Boyfriend material.” His grin is actually blinding, so you’re not sure if you’re squinting from that, or from the way you scrunch up your nose in distaste at his line.

“I hate you.” You grumble, turning away and looking down at your book once more, letting your hair fall over your cheeks to hide the flush splashed brightly across them.

“Hate me? Why must you hurt me so princess?” Kuroo jokes, and you find yourself getting more and more disappointed as he grows quiet and begins to start on his own work for the shift. It’s not until you both notice the gaggling girls practically drooling on the floor at him that you decide you need to take your break.

Closing your book loud enough to startle the group of girls and the guy flicking aimlessly through a volleyball magazine at your side. “I’m going for my ten.” You offer in explanation as you try to move out back. You don’t get to even make it past the counter before there's a warm hand wrapping around your own. Kuroo’s hand completely engulfs yours in the best ways and you can’t help but gape at it as it pulls your walk to a stop.

“Are you alright?” He asks, drawing your eyes reluctantly from your entwined hands to his face, and once you spot genuine concern there, you hesitate with your response. How do you say that no, you’re not okay because would you be if the person that you liked jokingly asked you out on a daily basis for months on repeat? But never meant it?

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Kuroo doesn’t let go just yet, but instead scratches the back of his neck with his other hand nervously.

“You know, if I'm honestly bothering you, please tell me. I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable y/n,” He offers, shame and hurt flashing brightly in his eyes - and it shocks you stupid for a few seconds. It takes you an added moment that he’s talking about his teasing. Wait, he thinks he’s bothering me? Is he?

“Kuroo, if it was bothering me I would have told you alright?” You say softly, your gaze drifting back to your hand. “I mean sure sometimes it can be a bit much but that's mainly because I'm an idiot.” Not expecting those words, Kuroo’s nerves bleed into a confused frown that has you wanting to reach up and thumb away the line between his pinched brows.

“An idiot? Princess, if what I'm saying is bothering you-”

“It’s not what you’re saying that’s bothering me, it’s the joking.” The second the words leave your mouth, you wish you could reach out, grab them, and shove them back down your throat, because the way Kuroo drops your hand as if it burnt him hurts more than you thought it would.

“Joking?” His tone is utterly perplexed, and this time, you’re the one looking back at him with confusion. A loud laugh barks from his chest and you immediately feel embarrassed for absolutely nothing. Kuroo is laughing so hard and obnoxiously that tears actually crest the corner of his eyes, and at this rate you’re ready to just walk out the door if it means you don’t have to deal with this embarrassment for another second.

“You mean to tell me, that all this time you thought I was joking?” Kuroo gets out between laughs, and you feel your stomach drop at his words. What does he mean did you think he was joking? Was he not?

Your silence is answer enough because he runs a hand through his thick dark hair and leans back on the counter behind him.

“Jesus Christ Y/n!”

“You would laugh at me after you said them!” You defend, pointing an accusing finger in his way. How could you not think he was joking when he’d laugh at you, his whole being the very embodiment of mischief when he would say his lines.

“Because your face would go red and you’d tell me I was an idiot under your breath, because it was cute!” Kuroo rebuts right back, trying once more not to laugh, and you can’t help but groan. You cannot believe that this entire time, he was actually trying to ask you out on a date. Well, you can’t fault his perseverance and tenacity.

“Kuroo,” you grumble, bridging your fingers and pressing them to your forehead in thought, just trying to calm your raging heart at the fact that this is happening.

“Y/n,” he grins right back, and you can feel him closing in on your position before you can even see him. But once you open your eyes again, letting your hands fall from your face, Kuroo’s stunning features are right up close and more beautiful than you’d thought.

“Does this mean that you’ll go out with me when I ask this time?” You really do try for your pride's sake to not flush at his words, but heat still crawls up your neck and Kuroo’s growing smile tells you that your mental attempt to stop it isn’t working.

“Yes, I will.” You say, letting the smile tug at the corners of your mouth.

“Good, I'll remember that for my new line tomorrow.”

✘ A/N: more fluffy kurro for ya day, y'all i am l i v i n g for this man rn

#special event 🧚‍♀️✨#lols writes #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyuu kuroo #kuroo tetsurō #haikyuu kuroo tetsuro #kuroo x reader #kuroo x y/n #kuroo x you #kuroo fluff #kuroo imagine

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 3 years

Text

Fic: What We Don't Know Can't Hurt Us

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Librarian!Reader (cishet female) meet-cute

Warnings: No warnings really, some language and mention of masturbation and sex. Reader doesn't like kids. Yearning. Frankie is a TOTAL DILF SWEETHEART. Sad ending.

Summary: Reader is a librarian who has to temp at the kids' section desk from time to time which is a pain because she doesn't like kids. And who is a regular if not a very hot, scruffy-looking dad with the very polite and mild-mannered daughter? Sparks fly but some things maybe aren't meant to be.

Words: 5,155

a/n: Just to be clear, this one doesn't end well. I just wanted to write something sad, I guess.

Oh, shit, there he is again. The Hot Dad.

You straighten a little in your chair and once again curse the fact that you’re working in the children’s section at the library: the only desk that isn’t adjustable. You prefer to do your service desk duties standing up, not only for ergonomic reasons but because you hate how patrons look down on you – literally – when you’re seated by the desk. Also, you tend to slouch and it’s not an attractive look. And at the kids’ section, you’re all supposed to work on the same level as the little tykes. And you’re not particularly keen on those.

You are, however, keen on hot dads. God knows you only get them once in a blue moon and if they show up, it’s usually in tow of a whole clan of children and a wife. But this dad has been in once before when you’ve had desk duty and you saw him stop at the shelf for picture books about divorce and pick out a few. You also heard him tell his little girl that she shouldn’t bring the books she chose to her mom’s. Divorcee, so fantasizing was even more allowed – although he probably had a girlfriend. Guys like that always do.

“You don’t want to lose them, sweetie,” he had explained patiently to his daughter. “You can keep them in your room at my place but if you take them to your mom’s there’s a risk you lose them and that means I have to pay for them. You see, we’re only borrowing these books, that’s what you do in a library.”

You had smiled an inwards smile when listening to him. There was nothing you loved more than parents who actually seemed to understand that all the material in the library was free at one simple condition: return it in time, in the same condition as you borrowed it. A lot of people did not seem to grasp this and made a huge deal when they failed to meet these conditions and were faced with late fees or even had to compensate for lost books. But when parents who knew how to use a library include their offspring, explain how it all works for them, well, that’s how you foster a new generation of good library patrons.

This dad did just that. And he was very careful with the books, prompting his daughter to be the same. Every book she pulled out of the stacks, he helped her put back in the right place. That’s practically marriage material right there and it was enough to make you weak at the knees, to be honest. After almost ten years working in a public library, you were disillusioned about people in general and their intelligence in particular. Sure, you liked your job enough to not cry in the mornings when you had to leave bed, and you did enjoy the work itself (mostly), but… having to deal with people was exhausting. Having to deal with little people even more so, and the worst was having to deal with adult people who had little people with them. Parents.

Hence your absolute obsession with Hot Dad who was soft-spoken, really good with his kid, understood to appreciate the library and its services, nodded his hello to you when passing by the desk, didn’t make a mess, clearly read to his kid regularly and encouraged her to read for herself. You just didn’t get to see people like that so often, and it triggered your interest. You allowed yourself to daydream about him.

Francisco Morales. You remember his name from his last visit, when he and the kid came up to the desk with their haul. You always encouraged patrons to use the self-service check-out (the less you had to do deal with them, the better), but for this guy you were more than willing to go the extra service mile, even with the kid staring at your every move from across the desk as you registered all the loans. You silently gave her plus points for not trying to “help” like some kids did, and for the quiet but clear Thank you she gave you without prompting from her father.

You’re busying yourself with the returns, loading them onto a cart, when you hear a soft, deep voice go Excuse me behind your back. You twirl around and see Morales, pulling his baseball cap off his head to reveal curls that would make any hair model cry of envy.

“Sorry to bother you,” he offers. Take me now, you think to yourself but instead, you give him your brightest customer service smile, the one you rarely give patrons.

“No worries, how can I help?”

“We’re looking for picture books about farm animals. You don’t happen to have those separated? I noticed you have some subject areas separated.” He gestures back towards the picture book stacks where his daughter is quietly perusing.

“We don’t, but I think we have some Julia Donaldsons available, let me come and have a look.”

You don’t always offer. With most patrons, you’d tell them to look under D for Donaldson and then smile sweetly and ask them if they’re okay to do it themselves. You can’t do everything for everyone, that way they’ll never learn. But for Francisco Morales and his well-behaved little girl, you’re absolutely willing to make an exception.

There are some Donaldsons that the girl, whose name you learn is Sofia, eagerly accepts when you present her with them.

“I love fawm animals,” she sighs happily as she browses the first one. “Do you?”

“Who doesn’t love animals?” You make the effort to small talk although communicating with kids usually makes you awkward.

“What’s youw favowite? Mine is bunny. And howses. And lambs.”

“Goats! I love goats, they’re so cute and sweet and playful.” You almost add something about goats being the devil’s favorite animal as well but manage to stop yourself in time.

“Is there something else you want to ask the librarian?” Morales asks his daughter. “If not, I’m sure she has a lot of work to do, and we shouldn’t keep her any longer.”

“I’m here to help,” you shrug and give him a little smile: not a polite, impersonal one that you’d give a patron, but a more intimate one. A flirty smile. “You just need to ask.”

The smile he gives you back is warm and grateful, and you realize that he doesn’t have different facial expressions for different people. He doesn’t work in customer service because if he did, he’d know the difference. Not that you ever thought he worked in retail or anything like that, well, maybe a hardware store, but no. He just doesn’t seem like the type. The way he moves his body suggests something a lot more physical.

Oh, you’d like to get physical with him, alright…

All the sucky library-themed pick-up lines flash through your head. Can I check you out as an overnight loan? Can I insert my private collection into your empty stacks? My reference desk or yours? Am I being too loud, well, you’ll just have to shush me with your lips. You’re like an overdue library book because you have fine written all over you.

Worst part is, if Hot Dad Morales tried any of these on you, you’d probably forgive him and go for it. Maybe. You’re really not that simple, but a girl can dream, right?

The kid thanks you and you return to the relative safety of the desk and the mundane task of alphabetizing returns. You need to calm the fuck down and act professional. Daydreaming is fine but you’re barely toeing the line.

God, you need to get laid. As if that’s something that one can remedy just by walking into a store and ordering a medium dick with a side of hands and tongue.

📚📚📚

The next time you see Francisco and Sofia Morales, you’re taking your lunch break in the small park outside the library. It’s a sunny day and you didn’t fancy sitting in the breakroom with your salad, listening to colleagues talking about who cares what. So you took your lunch box, fork, and water bottle, and went to sit on the park bench the furthest away from the swing set and sandbox. The weather is nice and you enjoy yourself and your break from the library’s chat service. You never know what you’re gonna get when you work the chat: a stupid question about opening hours which anyone could google the answer to, or something more complicated like requests for books with partial or no titles, rarities, or subject areas that you don’t know much about. That’s when you get to use your whole competence and really dig deep, think outside the box, solve problems. You love it but it’s challenging at times, and takes a lot of energy. Your outdoor break is welcome.

“Hi!”

You hadn’t noticed the girl walking up to you and the greeting startles you.

“Oh, hi.”

“We’we wetuwning the animal books,” Sofia informs you seriously. You have to smile.

“Good job. You want more of those or something else this time?”

“Mowe. Will you help me find some?”

“I’m not working the desk at the children’s section today but my colleague there will absolutely help you. Just ask her.”

Now you see Morales walking towards you from the swing set, carrying the large, flowery canvas tote that says “book bag” he always brings to the library.

“Hello,” he nods with that warm smile that he definitely gives everyone. “Sofia, don’t disturb the lady on her break. I’m sure she wants some peace and quiet before she has to go back to work.”

Jesus fucking Christ. How does this man just know shit like this?

“I’m sowwy,” Sofia immediately offers. “I wanted to say hello.”

“Don’t worry, it’s okay,” you allow, although technically, he’s not wrong. “I’m almost done. It was nice to see you. I hope you have a good visit to the library.”

“Thank you!” She skips along and Morales chuckles as he takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head, swipes his long locks out of his forehead, then puts the hat back on.

“You’re her favorite, you know,” he tells you. When you raise your eyebrow, not comprehending, he hurries to elaborate. “Of the librarians. She says you’re the best.”

“Thank you, but whatever for?” You know you do a good enough job at your usual position and that your regulars appreciate you, but you are also very aware of not being at your finest in the kids’ section.

“You have to ask her,” Morales grins as he looks out for his kid, who has returned to the swing set and is pumping her legs on the swing, brows knitted in concentration. “But she’s very taken with you. I think it’s because you’re very calm and focused with her.”

Calm and focused??? You almost laugh out loud. That’s everything you’re not when you’re at the kids’ desk.

“Thanks,” you manage, because you have to say something.

“She’s also really interested in your tattoos and I definitely think she wants to get her nose pierced now,” Morales goes on. “I told her that we don’t comment on people’s appearance, but just a heads up, she might ask you about those.”

Ah, the unpredictability of children.

“I appreciate it.” You really do. You don’t mind talking about your tattoos or the septum ring you have but if a kid suddenly asks about it, you’d rather be prepared.

“Anyway, sorry to intrude on your lunch.”

“No worries,” you reassure him. “You can… sit down for a while if you want to? I have ten minutes left.”

Your heart beats faster at your proposal. It’s not exactly appropriate but you just want to enjoy his company for a moment. And discreetly sniff him because he smells so fucking good, woodsy and smokey but with a hint of… vanilla? You’re terrible at recognizing smells but it reminds you of some aroma reeds you had a couple of years ago that smelled like a wood cabin with vanilla sugar spilled on the floor. You loved it but like everything you love, it was discontinued.

Morales looks over at his daughter before nodding, the book bag slipping down from his shoulder as he places it next to the bench.

“If you’re sure?”

“Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

He likes your straightforward answer, you can tell from how his eyes crinkle a little and how relaxed his body language is when he sits down.

“I’m Frankie, by the way,” he says, like he just remembered that introductions are a normal part of human interaction. He extends his right hand to you and as you accept it and tell him your name, you can’t help but marvel at how huge his hand is. Big, warm, slightly damp but not in a weird way.

“Nice to meet you, Frankie.” Frankie. Francisco Morales is Frankie. It suits him better than Francisco, to be honest.

“And that’s Sofia.” He points to the girl who seems content swinging by herself. You realize you’re expected to say something nice about her to the proud dad.

“She seems sweet.”

“Yeah, she’s awesome. And she loves coming to the library, it’s all she talks about when I have her.” He clears his throat and adds: “Her mother and I got divorced quite recently. I only get her five days every other week.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Shit, it’s divorce and custody talk from the start. You have no idea how to respond to that.

“That’s life,” he shrugs, “but I figured that going to the library every time I get her could be a good routine to ground her. And then we have books that we can read together for her entire stay.”

It’s definitely a good routine as far as you can tell.

“When I was between nine and thirteen years old, my dad would take me to the local library every Monday evening,” you tell him, smiling at the memory. “My dad never opened a book in his life but he patiently read the auto and tech magazines while I collected half the kids’ section with me. When I went to tell him that I was done, he always pretended to object to the amounts, but then he’d help me carry it all to the car.”

As you tell him this, you’re looking at him, no, staring at the patchy, grey-splashed beard he’s sporting. It’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. What’s the story there, why doesn’t it grow evenly? Is this a thing? You don’t have enough experience in the field of facial hair. Is it genetic? Is it always like this?

He keeps looking at his daughter as he listens to you with a small smile on his face, clearly enjoying your little anecdote.

“That’s lovely,” he says, turning his attention back to you when you’re finished. “Dads and daughters, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

You pick up your phone to check the time. Shit. You have to return to the chat.

“I gotta go. Lunch break’s over.”

You collect your things and stand up, brushing off your skirt. Frankie stands up as well and picks up the book bag.

“I’ll see you in there?”

“I’m not a the desk today.”

“Oh.” He seems disappointed, his eyes flickering from you to the ground. “That’s too bad.”

“And the kids' section isn't my primary department.”

“The bad news just keep on coming, don't they,” he jokes as the two of you start to walk towards the entrance. Sofia jumps from the swing and comes running.

“She's not at the desk today, daddy,” she tells Frankie precociously.

“I know, mija. We'll have to ask someone else about the animal books, okay?”

Sofia doesn't seem too happy with this solution but nods. You take your leave before she has the opportunity to ask about your body modifications, and disappear through a door marked “Staff Only”.

📚📚📚

The following weeks you seem to see Frankie everywhere. You run into him at the supermarket and get drafted into advicing him on what cereal to buy for his kid. “Something healthy, but good so she'll actually eat it.” How the hell should I know? you want to scoff, but you're simping for him enough to help him choose something you'd never in a thousand years touch yourself. You see him in town one afternoon when you're running errands and he suggests you grab a coffee - holy hell, in your book that's a fucking date - but you decline as kindly as you can, citing a busy schedule when in fact you're mostly just scared out of your mind. The daydream is becoming a little too real and you're absolutely not ready for that, especially not because of the kid. If it wasn't for Sofia, you could have dared the leap, but dating a guy relatively fresh out of a marriage, and with a kid to boot? No, that's asking for trouble and you don't want trouble.

One afternoon at the kids' desk, you once again get to help Sofia find books, this time on sharks.

“She went from farm animals to sharks in one week,” Frankie confides in you when the girl is sitting quietly in a reading nook, carefully studying every page and occasionally widening her eyes at what you suspect is pictures of shark teeth. “It's sharks this and sharks that. She asks if there are sharks in every body of water she sees, from the pond in the park to the ditch outside my parents' house.”

“Have her watch Jaws and she will never want to think about sharks ever again,” you suggest, earning a laugh although the idea was probably a little bit on the morbid side.

“Maybe, but that would probably scar her for life. I actually want her to learn how to swim.”

“Then best not.”

You pick up a couple of books someone else left behind on a table and make a gesture that says I have to re-shelve these, come with and Frankie follows you to the right shelf.

“You know, she talks about you as her friend at the library.”

Now, some people would find that adorable but you don't. You're not friends with this kid, you're in a position where you could possibly influence her keenness to literature and literacy but you will always risk critique from her guardians. Being a children's librarian is like a hybrid between being in customer service, and being a teacher. You get to form young malleable minds but you are always subjected to criticism, even when you've done nothing wrong. Kids are patrons, like adults, and to have them see you as friends is only going to complicate things.

“That's nice,” you reply carefully, not really sure what else to say. It's so hard to talk to parents sometimes, one wrong words and you're basically Satan, you can't know because you don't have kids yourself, how dare you not worship the ground my offspring just vomited all over?

“You're definitely her favorite librarian.”

That you can take. You have a couple of adult patrons who come in regularly and prefer to get their reading recommendations from you. They always have time to discuss literature and they bring you a box of chocolates for Christmas.

“Well, she's easy to help. She always knows what she wants and she's polite. And quite easy to please,” you smile, meaning every word. You don't mention that the only time you like kids is when they're like Sofia is right now: reading quietly in a corner, handling the books with care.

“You're my favorite librarian as well,” Frankie adds, and now that sweet smile he's always wearing when you see him is shy. There's definitely a red tinge on his cheekbones as well and it makes you want to lean forward and kiss him on his goddamn mouth with that goddamn full lower lip that he sometimes sucks into his mouth or fucking licks...

“How many librarians do you know?” you ask and manage to sound easy-going, or at least you think so. The laugh Frankie produces is low and rolling and it makes your stomach coil in on itself. Fuck him and that deep voice he rode in on!

“Got me there. It's basically you and Mrs Wilkerson, the school librarian who scared the shit out of me when I was in elementary school. She made sure I didn't step foot in a library until, well, now.”

“Oh, I so wanted to be a librarian like that when I was a kid!” You grin at Frankie's horrified expression. “No, no, hear me out! I always had this idea that those librarians led these super rich, fulfilling lives as night-time vigilantes or that they were actually millionaires who spent their free time floating around in pools with fancy drinks in hand.”

“Were you... a normal child, besides these illusions?” Frankie teases you and before you can stop yourself, you're slapping his arm playfully. Like a girlfriend would. Or someone more intimate than a Favorite Librarian, at any rate.

“I'll have you know that the voices in my head are saying that we had a very normal and healthy childhood,” you reply with as much dignity as you can muster, while desperately wishing for the phone to ring or another patron to ask for your help. But no, the ones present seem to be managing on their own - except for one mom who seemed to have overheard your joke because she is now staring at you with hesitation in her eyes.

It's Sofia who comes to your rescue with her request of being taken to the bathroom. By the time she and Frankie are done there, your colleague has come to relieve you of your duties at the children's section.

📚📚📚

You knew of course that it was coming. You may not be that experienced in the terms of dating and relationships but you weren't stupid and you had some experience: Frankie was going to ask you out. It had to happen. Technically, it had already happened that afternoon in town when he asked you out for coffee. He maybe didn't see it as a date, but you certainly did.

It happened when you had just started your shift in the children's section and it was a fucking mess. A class of kindergarteners had just left and the teachers hadn't bothered to keep them in check, so there were not only books on every available surface, they were also put in the wrong way and in the wrong places. Your colleague who you were relieving stayed behind to help you, feeling too bad to leave it all to you.

That's when Daddy and Daughter Morales showed up. You weren't really happy about the existence of kids in the first place but made an effort for Sofia, who brought you a drawing she had made in preschool that day. It featured some figures in green, slightly reminiscent of animals and one human but you wouldn't be able to tell. Luckily, Frankie explained it to you.

“She's waited all day to give you this drawing of you with goats.”

“Wow,” you manage. “Thank you, Sofia, this was so kind of you.”

The girl is beaming with pride. “Will you put it on the wall?”

“Super probably!”

“I can see you're busy,” Frankie notes and ushers Sofia along. “We won't distract you. Come on, honey, let her do her job now and maybe you'll get to talk to her later.”

You nod your thanks and focus on cleaning up the entire department before you colleague leaves and Frankie and Sofia come to the desk to borrow this week' picks. Sofia seems uncharacteristically giddy.

“Do you want to come with us to the awbowetum?” she asks with a wide, expectant smile. Fuck shit ass hell.

“We're going on Saturday,” Frankie fills in, “and we were both hoping you'd want to join?”

Saturday. Thank goodness.

“Sorry, I work on Saturday,” you say, trying to sound rueful. It's true and you're relieved about not having to lie. “But thanks, it's sweet of you to ask.”

Sofia is clearly disappointed and so is Frankie, but he masks it better.

“Some other time, yeah?”

If it were only him, you'd tell him it wasn't a good idea. But you can't say that with the kid right in front of you. You may not like kids but that doesn't mean you want to scar them for life.

“Yeah, maybe.”

You loan them the books and as they leave, Sofia waves happily at you and Frankie shoots you one last smile that makes you press your thighs together in your seat.

Come Saturday, you're by your usual desk in the section for adult fiction and you almost fall off your chair when you see Frankie come up the stairs and straight up to the desk.

“Hi.” He's had a haircut and a shave and looks different. Still good, but very different. The dark locks of his hair are more tamed. The mustache is still there but you miss the patchy beard.

“Um, hi? Where's Sofia?”

“In the car, with a friend. We're going to the arboretum.”

“Right. I hope you have a good time, the arboretum's lovely.” You still don't understand what he's doing here and he seems to have some difficulty in telling you. Moving his weight from one foot to the other, he scratches his neck and looks down - why does he have to be so freaking cute? - before looking up at you.

“About that... I wanted to apologize. I wasn't sure it was a good idea to ask you to come with, but Sofia was so persistent. She likes you so much. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. I'm sorry.”

“That's alright,” you brush it off because there's not really anything else you can say. “Don't think about it, just go have a good day.”

“I also wanted to ask if you wanted to go grab a drink with me. Just me. Maybe next week when Sofia's at her mother's.”

Fuck, there it is. His hopeful face makes you hate yourself for the answer you have to give.

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Frankie,” you begin carefully. “I'm really flattered, but you're... recently divorced with a kid. That's a lot of baggage and things could get complicated. I don't want to get caught up in that.”

You've practiced this speech at home but it still breaks your fucking heart because Frankie is so good-looking, kind, funny, and sweet. You would've asked him out yourself already if it wasn't for the baggage. Fuck, you masturbate to the thought of him, for crying out loud! You imagine what it would be like to be with him, to make dinner together and watch movies and go to bed and wake up in each other's arms. You think about sex with him a lot. You make an effort with your appearance those days you know he'll show up at the library, you don't even mind the kids' section that much anymore because you get to talk to him.

You are fucking in love with him, or at least the idea of him because you don't know much about him, only that he used to be a pilot in the special forces but now he trains new pilots, he has best friends who are like uncles to Sofia (and who have been asking about this mystery librarian she always keeps talking about), he likes cooking and loves baking with his daughter, he hates working out but knows he should take better care of himself, hell, you even know what brand of milk he buys.

He's clearly disappointed but keeps a brave face, one that you can see right through because he wears his heart on his sleeve.

“I understand that,” he says quietly, mildly. “I'm sorry, I hope I didn't embarrass you.”

Jesus fucking Christ can this man not???

“No, don't worry. I'm sorry I couldn't give you the answer you wanted. It's just... not a good time.”

Shit. You shouldn't have said that. Now he might think it could be a better time later.

Frankie nods and smiles sadly. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He clears his throat and nods. “I better be going. You have a good weekend now.”

“You too.”

He shoots you one final smile before he turns around and leaves. As you watch him go down the stairs to the exit level, you just want to call his name, do your run through the airport and hurry after him, throw yourself into his arms, kiss him, Jesus, imagine that somewhere there's someone who'll get to kiss him some day, tell him that you made a huge mistake and you want to go out with him, you want to have drinks with him and dinner and breakfast and lunch for the rest of your lives because nothing would make you happier than making him happy. You want to be the reason his eyes crinkle and his cheek displays that little dimple that makes you lose your train of thought every time you see it.

But it's not for you. People with kids need to prioritize their kids and you know that you can't be anyone's number two. You don't want to get caught up in custody disputes, you don't want to be "your father's new slut", you don't want to be anyone's stepmom. You don't want to have to spend five days a week in the same house as a five-year-old. Being in a relationship is difficult enough as it is and if you can make choices that avoid some of the problems, you're going to make them, no matter how much it hurts.

And it hurts. A lot. But so much in life hurts and you've made it through before.

He must already be out the door, probably in the car. Does he say something about this to his daughter and friend? Is it a female friend? No, it must be one of his army buddies, probably one of the brothers.

You pull up Frankie's profile in the library database and see his phone number. You could call him anytime. Or send a text. Keep talking to him, flirting.

Shit. It's a bad idea.

A patron approaches the desk and you force yourself to look mild and service-minded.

“Hi, do you have Hate To Want You by someone called... Ray, I think?”

“Please hold a moment, I'll check.” You stifle the sigh that threatens to escape you and hope that the day will be busy so you won't have time to think about Francisco Morales again.

#my fic #triple frontier #francisco catfish morales #francisco frankie morales #frankie morales #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader

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joyfulholland · 3 years

Text

Sore Loser

a/n: this is part 3 of The Coconut Debate and Bad at Excuses. I’ve been trying to write something else but kept getting stuck and these just kind of come out of the chaotic good part of my brain. if anyone has any requests/prompts please send them in!

word count: 1226

Y/N changed the group name to Tom owes us all £10

Sam: I only accept cash

Harry: Can I have mine in the form of an amazon voucher?

Tom: I don’t owe you anything

Y/N: don’t be a sore loser

Harrison: Yeah a bet’s a bet

Tom: it didn’t count

Tuwaine: Yes it did

Y/N: you told me the ending

Y/N: and you said you weren’t going to give anything away this time

Y/N: therefore you owe us all a tenner

Tom: I didn’t think you counted as you’re my GIRLFRIEND

Harrison: Still counts

Harry: Pay up

Tommy to Y/N/N: don’t watch it without me

Y/N/N: oh come on that’s not fair

Y/N/N: how did you even know

Tommy: because I’m psychic

Tommy: and you’re predictable

Y/N/N: but you’re so busy and I’m going to see spoilers if I wait

Y/N/N: you saw how everyone found out about destiel

Tommy: ok fine

Tommy: how about we watch it at the same time? on the phone or something

Y/N/N: deal

Sam to Tom owes us all £10: Where do you keep Ketchup

Sam: Quick I’m trying to prove a point

Y/N: the fridge

Harry: Fridge

Tom: fridge

Tuwaine: Fridge

Harrison: The cupboard

Sam: Thanks to everyone except Harrison

Y/N: Haz you heathen

Harrison: Is it in the fridge when you buy it in the shop?

Harrison: No

Harry: You can buy multi-pack cartons of OJ not in the fridge and then you put them in the fridge at home

Tuwaine: And it says on the bottle to keep refrigerated

Harrison: I’m a rebel I live by my own rules

Tom: bullshit

Y/N to Harry: the only logical answer is to sacrifice the washing machine

Harry: I beg your pardon?

Y/N: sorry lol that was for Tom

Y/N: actually if you’re with him can you tell him that for me

Harry: He said to remind you of the fire sneezes and the plastic

Y/N: shit he’s right

Harry: What the fuck are you two talking about?

Y/N: where you would hide a baby dragon if someone came to inspect your house

Harry: Oh right

Harry: The oven?

Y/N: I thought of that but Tom said you’d have to take the grill shelves out and that would cause suspicion

Harry: Fuck this is hard

Tuwaine to Tom owes us all £10: Tom I’m not speaking to your girlfriend

Tom: why??

Harrison: She beat him at the bowling snapchat game three times in a row

Y/N: and he’s a sore loser

Tuwaine: No I’m not

Tom: lol

Sam: Don’t worry about it mate she’s undefeated on all counts

Harrison: I’ve never won against her

Tom: I refuse to play it with her now she’s too competitive

Y/N: that’s not true tom you’re just a sore loser too

Harry: Y/N HOW COULD YOU

Harry: I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE YOU PLAYED SNAP BOWLING WITH

Y/N: Harry if it makes you feel better you’re the only worthy opponent

Harry: Lol yeah it does thanks

Harry: Also Tom would like me to say he’s not speaking to you now either

Y/N: lol point proven

Y/N/N to Tommy: would you still love me if I only ever wore the colour brown

Tommy: different shades or just the exact same brown all the time

Y/N/N: does it make a difference?

Tommy: maybe Tommy: lol nah would love you no matter what you wore

Y/N/N: even if I exclusively wore a banana costume even when we went to bed

Tommy: even then

Y/N/N: I miss you

Tommy: I miss you too

Tommy: I’ll ring in a bit x

Y/N/N: can’t wait x

Harrison to Tom owes us all £10: What was the name of that song that was on that advert

Tuwaine: Well that narrows it down

Sam: Yeah might need a bit more than that

Harrison: the one with the singing

Y/N: Haz mate come on

Tom: literally still could be any advert

Harry: Specifics needed

Harrison: The one with the opera singing

Harrison: But then there’s the guy on a deck chair

Sam: The Alexa advert?

Harrison: YES

Harrison: What’s the song called?

Tuwaine: aren’t there two songs in that one?

Harrison: Yeah I want the second one

Harrison: Not the one from the Magic Flute

Tom: You can remember the opera but not the other song?

Harrison: I live a cultured life

Tom: once again I am calling bullshit

Y/N: I Feel Love Donna Summer

Harrison: Thank you!!

Harry: I reckon you could have just googled that for a much quicker result

Harrison: Shut up Harry

Tommy to Y/N/N: do me a favour and tell Harry you don’t know what a badger is when he texts in a minute

Y/N/N: alright

Harry to Y/N: Your boyfriend is broken

Harry: He’s claiming he doesn’t know what badgers are

Y/N: what?

Harry: I reckon its exhaustion from over work

Harry: It’s affected his brain

Y/N: no I meant what is a badger?

Harry: Oh you have got to be kidding me

Harry: When did he text you??

Y/N: Harry I have no idea what you’re talking about

Y/N: are you sure you’re not the one who is exhausted?

Harry: This isn’t funny

Tuwaine to Tom owes us all £10: You guys know that Snoop Dog Just Eat advert?

Harry: Oh god not adverts again

Harrison: Let it go Harry

Tuwaine: Do you know how much he got paid??

Tuwaine: 5.3 MILLION

Sam: Damn

Tom: tbf it was a catchy song

Y/N: doggy dog christmas

Tom: exactly what a great lyric

Harrison: I liked the puppet one

Sam: Yeah did that money cover all the adverts because he did more than one

Tuwaine: No idea just says 5.3 mil

Harry: I want a takeaway now

Sam: You just sent me a snapchat of your lasagne

Harry: I know but now I want something from Just Eat

Harry: Snoop has tempted me with his lyrics

Tuwaine: Maybe that 5.3 was well spent if he’s tempting you and we’re just talking about it

Y/N: Harry as if you’re sending Sam snaps when you aren’t opening mine

Harry: it’s because I know yours is a game of wild checkers and I want to give it the proper commitment

Y/N: okay forgiven

Tom: I feel like I need to stage an intervention for you two about your snap game habits

Y/N: you’re just jealous that I don’t play with you anymore

Harrison: Why did you send Sam a photo of your lasagne?

Harry: I wanted him to give it a score out of ten

Sam: I gave it an 8.5

Tommy to Y/N/N: just arrived at airport x

Y/N/N: counting down the hours x

Tommy: like the tiktoks?

Y/N/N: yes but I’m not actually recording it

Tommy: so you’re just saying them out loud to yourself?

Y/N/N: no don’t be daft

Y/N/N: I’m telling them to Tessa

Tommy: oh of course my mistake

Harry changed the group name to Tom owes us all £20

Y/N: lol I knew it

Harrison: This is easy money

Tuwaine: Tom it’s like you’re not even trying

Sam: We’ll have the full 50 soon

Harry: I might wait to cash out until we do then have one big amazon voucher

Tom: I’m not paying any of you a single penny

Y/N: lol such a sore loser

xxxxx

tagging: @geminiparkers @rebekkah4766 (please message me if you want to be added!)

#tom holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x you #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fluff #Harry Holland #harrison osterfield #Tuwaine Barrett #sam holland

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ordinaryschmuck · 3 years

Text

What I Thought About "What If...Captain Carter was the First Avenger" from Marvel Studios' What If...

Salutations, random people on the internet who certainly won’t read this! I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Back when Marvel Studios announced the new lineup of films and shows, I was admittingly underwhelmed. Nothing we've seen so far has been poorly written, far from it, but during the announcement, nothing really popped out at me as worth getting excited for. That is, except for one series: Marvel Studios' What If... An animated series that changes the canon of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, all through the simple question. The question being, "What if this happened instead of that."

From the get-go, I was sold on this idea. I'm a sucker for hypothetical scenarios, thinking up all the ways of how some of my favorite stories in fiction could be drastically different thanks to one tiny change. Some might call that "Fanfiction the Series," and while you're not wrong, I fail to see how that's a criticism. Because fanfiction can be fun...just as long as you ignore the sick freaks, sure, but it still can be fun! So whether Marvel Studio's What If... is fanfiction or not, it still didn't change how excited I was to watch it. Was it all worth the hype? Well, to answer that question requires spoilers, so keep that in mind as we dive deep into Marvel's most ambitious project yet.

Now, let's review, shall we?

WHAT I LIKED

The Watcher: Gonna get the generals out of the way before I talk about what I specifically like about this episode. Ok? Ok.

Now, using the Watcher as the narrator for this series is just perfect. What If... already has a similar energy to The Twilight Zone: An anthology series that takes viewers to new and mysterious realities all through the guidance of an omniscient narrator. And using the Watcher as that type of narrator might just be the second-best choice...number one would be Stan Lee, obviously, but...he's dead now. May he rest in peace.

I haven't read that many comics, so there's not much that I know about the Watcher's character aside from a ten-second Google search. But something tells me that a character described as a celestial being that observes and records the events surrounding the galaxy sounds like the exact type of omniscience to guide us through the unknown. All added with Jeffrey Wright's performance, who really does convey a character that sounds like he's as old as time and wise beyond his years. Plus, it's pretty cool that such a seemingly odd character now technically plays a major role in the MCU canon. Comics are weird, and if the Watcher proves anything, it's better to embrace that weirdness than deny it.

The Animation: Looks like someone watched Spider-Man: Into the Spiderverse.

That really is the feeling I got when watching this. What If... doesn't look as good as Spiderverse (Nothing can be as good as Spiderverse), but the idea is still there as it combines primarily CGI animation with a few hand-drawn elements. It makes certain scenes just pop and, at times, even makes specific shots look like they're straight from panels in a comic book. Besides, while Spiderverse still looks better, that doesn't mean the animation isn't phenomenal in What If... The scenery looks gorgeous, the CGI models moderately match their live-action counterparts, the expressions are fantastic, and movements are as smooth as butter. There was definitely some money that went into this series to make it look as good as it did, and my eyeballs were more than grateful because of it. Especially when it comes to--

The Action: Holy s**t, was it a good thing that this series was animated!

The MCU has had its fair share of great fight scenes in the past, but it always felt restricted to what the big superhero fights could be due to everything needing to look "realistic." That all changes in What If... Because now that this series is animated, we can finally chuck realism out the window and allow these characters to be as epic as they were in the comics. The movements are swift, the blows look like they hurt, and best of all, you actually get to see characters fighting each other! There are no random cuts to hide the stunt doubles or weird camera angles to avoid audiences seeing how ugly the CGIed replacements are. We get to see all of the action with zero restraint, thanks to the fact that animation is limitless and allows writers to get away with literally anything. And shows like this make me wonder, "Why the hell isn't the MCU animated?"

Peggy as Captain Carter: It's here that we get into the specifics, and by golly, do I love me some Peggy Carter making a return. And what a return she made!

Seeing Peggy kick Nazi ass as Captain Carter is as awesome as it sounds as she gives a new definition of a "Strong, independent woman." She took s**t from no one and was more than willing to destroy anybody who said differently. It's a ton of fun for fans (the ones who aren't sexist, at least) and even fun for Peggy as well now that she gets a chance to wreck shop. However, that in itself could cause problems. If you watched Agent Carter (a great show, by the way), then you'll know that Peggy doesn't act as...somewhat meatheaded as she does here. As she said it herself, she's "usually more covert than this." And she is, as she was pretty much the first superspy in the MCU, who's impressive through how she effortlessly infiltrates her way to winning the day with diminutive requirements for fighting. So stripping that away gets rid of a core part of what makes her character so interesting. Although, in fairness, you could blame the fact that the reason she's acting like this is that the super-soldier serum is messing with her brain a bit. We've seen through U.S. Agent the reciprocations of the wrong person taking the serum, and while Peggy is far from the worst pick, there are hints of why Steve Rodgers was the best choice. Still, even though it's not the same Peggy Carter, that doesn't mean Captain Carter is a poor addition to the hero roster in the MCU. She's cool in all the right ways, even though they're drastically different from what made her compelling, to begin with.

Howard Stark: Another character I'm more than happy to see again!

Howard didn't leave that much of a grand of an impression in Captain America: The First Avenger, but in Agent Carter (Seriously, great show), he was a blast. You can just tell he was Tony Stark's father through all the ways he fast-talks in and out of problems and brilliantly comes up with solutions thanks to being tech-savvy. The main difference between Howard and Tony, however, is that Howard prefers to stay on the sidelines, where Tony learned to be more proactive. You get a sense of that in this episode. Because even though he goes to save the day, you can tell that he would rather be anywhere else. And, as a bonus, Howard's just funny. Probably not up there as one of the funniest characters in the franchise (Paul Rudd's Ant-Man reigns supreme), but he still cracks me up more times than not. Howard may be nothing more than a side character, but he'll always win me over no matter how small of a role he has.

Steve Rodgers in the Hydra Stomper: Don't mind me. Just admiring the fact that despite being crippled and skinny, Steve Rodgers still finds a way to fight the good fight, which is who Steve is to me. One of the best things about The First Avenger is that it fully understands the hero that is Captain America. Serum or not, he will do all he can to do the right thing and won't give up despite how many times others tell him he should. So if Steve's going to fly around in a suped-up Iron Man suit that's appropriately named "The Hydra Stomper," then Steve'll f**king soar. Because he is a gosh dang superhero, no matter what name he takes at the end of the day.

Fast-Forwarding Through Events: Some fans might take issues with this. Don't get me wrong, I would love to see all the little changes that Captain Carter makes to the story, but realistically that's not the best choice to make. Let's be honest, there's not that much to show other than what this episode did, and doing a full-on rewrite of Captain America: The First Avenger would have rubbed some fans the wrong way. Besides, from what I can tell, most of the What If... comics are one-shots that very rarely branch out into longer arcs. The primary goal is less to write this large-scale story and more of this self-contained narrative that does what it precisely delivers: Show fans a glimpse of what would happen if this happened instead of that. That's what we were given, and I can't really complain that much. I would have loved to have seen more, but I can learn to be happy with what I got.

Colonel Flynn Taking Credit: This guy is sexist and an idiot, and that's why I hate him...but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't at least chuckle when he said everything was his idea. It's such a scumbag move that I couldn't help but find the humor in it.

(Like, what even was that scene where Peggy was pissed at Steve kissing a girl. THEY WEREN'T EVEN DATING !)nd Steve falling in love inThe First Avenger, which certainly wasn't helped by how they had these dumbass misunderstandings of each thinking the other was dating someone else. Here, they at least get to interact, confiding in one another about their insecurities and offer support when needed. And while it may be a little rushed, I'm more willing to believe their romance in under thirty minutes than I did in over two hours. It could have been better, but it also could have been much, much worse.

(Like, what even was that scene where Peggy was pissed at Steve kissing a girl. THEY WEREN'T EVEN DATING AT THE TIME!)

“I won’t tell you anything.”/”He told me everything.”: That's the Peggy Carter I know and love! Added with a solid joke, too.

Steve’s Pratfall: It's nice to know that no matter what universe we see, Marvel is still funny.

Peggy’s Sacrifice: Much like Peggy and Steve's romance, I buy Peggy's sacrifice way more than Steve's. Several fans already pointed out how it makes no sense for Steve to crash the plane into the icy waters when it seemed like he had enough control to land it or could have easily jumped out after aiming for the crash landing. Here, there's a more legitimate reason why Peggy sacrifices herself. The monster was undefeatable, and the only way to stop it was to push it back through the portal. Peggy, being the only one strong enough to do so at the moment, was the only option, and there was no way where she didn't end up going through with the monster. Even her return makes more sense, as I think her being lost to time and space sounds more believable than Steve surviving being frozen in ice. Something no mortal man should live through. Peggy's sacrifice proves that while the MCU can't change its cannon past, the writers learn from their mistakes and make something better.

WHAT I DISLIKED

The Reasoning Behind Peggy Becoming Captain Carter: So, the idea that one small change can greatly alter the story we knew is a great one, and it's one of the main reasons why I was excited about this series...but how does Peggy staying in the room cause the Hydra agent to detonate the bomb early? I understand the ripples that come from the Butterfly Effect, but I feel like that's too big of a leap to reason how Peggy ends up taking the serum instead.

Colonel Flynn: How is it possible that this guy is somehow even more of a pain in the ass than the general he replaced? At least Chester Phillips had the decency to respect Agent Carter!

Red Skull is Still on the Dull Side: Red Skull isn't an awful villain, but he wasn't really a great one. It's the same here, as he's just as forgettable and wooden an episode of television as he was in a full-length movie. But at least he had a cooler death this time.

Sebastian Stan is Not a Great Voice Actor: He's not awful, but his talent really doesn't shine in this regard. Some people think that being an actor and a voice actor is the same thing, but it's not always the case. Through live-action, actors are given a chance to express emotion through their expressions, movement, and voice. With voice acting, actors still have to convey emotions, but strictly through their voice. Meaning that actors like Sebastian Stan are limited to what they're used to and can stumble a bit when trying to perform in a field of acting they're unfamiliar with. You can tell he was trying his best, but this type of thing can take far more practice for others to perfect.

“Whew. Thanks. You almost ripped my arm off.”: ...hhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHA! HA HA! Ah...oh man...I, uh...I felt the internal bleeding with that one. Wow. Just...wow.

Bucky Leaving After Steve “Died”: Ok, now that's the biggest bout of bulls**t I've ever heard. BUCKY WOULD BE WITH STEVE 'TILL THE END OF THE LINE AND WOULD NOT HAVE LEFT THAT QUICKLY!

...This episode did Bucky dirty, didn't it?

IN CONCLUSION

I'd say that "What If...Captain Carter was the First Avenger" is an A-. It's still a solid start of what I can already tell will be a great series, but some elements could have used some polishing out. I loved it, but it wasn't as bloody brilliant as it could have been.

(And I meant it: WATCH AGENT CARTER! It's pleasantly surprising!)

#marvel cinematic universe #mcu reviews #marvel studios what if #peggy carter #captain carter #steve rodgers #hydra stomper #howard stark #bucky barnes #what i thought about #what if reviews

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satoruvt · 4 years

Text

the color of you - blue (6)

ITS HERE. I HOPE I DID WELL. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT AKDSHKFJSDH

pairing → keigo takami x reader

word count → 3213

summary → you’re not really dating, so you can’t really be in love with him... right?

song inspo → hell of flying by jeremy zucker, cassette by demian, a lil of bugbear by chloe moriondo

this chapter → y/n comes to conclusions, keigo’s a dork, tension, a fight, crying.

So it’s been… strange.

Or rather, it hasn’t been strange at all, which makes everything even more strange, somehow. You feel like things should be so much different, but they’re not. You reached a wild conclusion that threw you for a fucking loop, made you sit in your kitchen at Angel Cakes and contemplate what the hell you were going to do about anything that would ever occur to you from here on out. Sometimes you almost ask Keigo how things haven’t changed at all, since you’ve decided that you like him, but then you have to stop yourself from saying anything because, oh, right, you haven’t told him.

You don’t plan to, either.

It’d just mess everything up, wouldn’t it? To say “hey, I know we’ve been fake dating for like two and a half months now but I’m kind of liking the idea of really dating you”? Kinda fucked. Not to mention, from a professional stance, what if it ruins your guys’ chemistry when you’re being watched by the entire world? If someone finds out that the whole thing is fake - regardless of your feelings - it means Keigo’s public image and your entire life at the bakery. Everything would go to shit, and after it’s burned down, you doubt you’d even have Keigo.

So you’re not telling him. You’re in love with one of your closest friends, who you are also fake dating, who is also the Number Two hero in the country, and you’re not telling him how you feel. Yes. Okay.

You’ve had a lot of time to reflect about your own feelings, because after Keigo left to fight that villain the other day (and after you managed to get off the ground and clean up) you were sure it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. Yeah, he looked pretty, and there was something dreamy and domestic about laughing and throwing baking ingredients at each other, so maybe your heart just got confused.

But you’d called him to ask if he was okay (instead of a usual text) and he’d picked up the phone and laughed and your heart had not done that before. Not with Keigo, not on the phone, and not like that. And usually his pet names amused you, but he’d called you “sweetheart” over the phone and his voice was tired and drawled a bit. It made you dizzy. You said goodbye pretty soon after that.

You’re barely walking up the stairs of your apartment complex when your phone buzzes in your pocket. Butterflies (and moths, a few) erupt in your stomach when you read the name, and then immediately die when you read the text itself.

keigo baby 🐦

Do u want to have a playdate with me 👉👈 I could come over if ur mom says its okay

Why him? You think to yourself, swallowing the vomit in your throat and fishing your keys out of your bag to unlock your door. You text back when you get inside, throwing your belongings on the nearest surface.

y/n

don’t ever talk to me again

keigo baby 🐦

Is that a yes??

y/n

….fine, but if u ever use those emojis again i’ll break up with u. legally

keigo baby 🐦

baby no!!!!

You throw your phone down onto your sofa before flopping over it, letting yourself sink into the cushions for a moment. It takes no more than ten minutes for Keigo to be at your door, letting himself in without so much as a knock. You know that it’s technically your doing, since you didn’t lock it when you came in, but you still whine at him about it, and he mocks you jokingly.

It seems he either senses your tiredness or didn’t have anything in mind to do anyways, because all Keigo does is lift your legs up from where they’re sprawled out on the couch and sits down in their place, letting them flop back onto his lap. He adjusts so his wings aren’t smashed against the back of the couch (or, at least, not as much). You move your feet off of his lap.

You’ve come to really appreciate days like this, where you simply bask in his company and he does yours. As much as Keigo is nonchalant about his lifestyle, you know it’s exhausting for him to do what he does every single day, and then to have to talk to people (fans, reporters, anyone). He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know. And, well, if you can give him a moment of comfort -

God, no, stop thinking like that. You can’t afford to think like that right now.

The two of you talk, occasionally sharing posts from social media and laughing at dumb little cat videos (there was one that was five whole minutes of one of the guys from that k-pop band being compared to cat pictures and it’s the most wholesome thing you’ve ever seen to date). Before you know it, it’s been a few hours, the sun just fully covered by the distant mountains. The sky cools down in purple and blue hues, dressing up for the night to come. You and Keigo are laughing over old vines, and in your mind you think that it really couldn’t be that bad for this to be every night instead of just… some nights.

At the end of the compilation Keigo groans out a lingering laugh, stretching his legs out as best he can without hitting your coffee table. You stand up, feeling the need to move around as well, and walk towards your kitchen for a drink. Keigo stands after you but doesn’t move, letting his wings flex and stretch from being contained for so long. You get a glass of water, lift it to your lips just as Keigo lifts his arms above his head and holy fucking shit, his stomach -

Tummy! the tiny voice in your head squeals, but the hornier one screams at the top of its lungs ABS and honestly you don’t know what the fuck to do and neither does your body so you choke on your water. Keigo startles, eyes wide, and with a mumbled “holy shit” makes his way over to you as you cough and sputter over your sink.

It takes a minute, but you eventually come back, eyes watery and face red for multiple reasons. You take a deep breath and Keigo rubs your back, eyeing you, which only makes the entire situation worse.

“Jesus, are you okay?” He asks, and you nod, but you can’t look at him.

“Yeah, uh,” you clear your throat, blinking a few times. “Just… went down the wrong pipe, I guess.”

Fuck.

You barely recover from seeing a sliver of Keigo’s stomach, and the memory haunts you for days. You attempt at willing it out of your brain, try to tell yourself that you just didn’t see it at all, but your heart is strong as hell and refuses to let your head forget it. You think about it multiple times a day. You think about it for at least twenty minutes each time. You think about it until Keigo texts you a little less than a week after it happened.

Your phone buzzes on the counter in the kitchen and you finish up your bread dough, putting it into a bowl gently and setting a timer to let it prove. Once your hands are effectively clean, you open the message, letting yourself scoff.

keigo baby 🐦

Just finished a photoshoot, could really use a donut right now :/

Attached to his message is a picture of himself, and honestly, he looks really fucking good. It takes pretty much everything in you not to collapse and die. God.

You look up a picture of a donut on Google - they sold out today, and you are not going to make one just for Keigo - and send it to him. For my hardworking fake boyfriend, you send with it. Mostly to emphasize fake for both of you. Yourself especially.

keigo baby 🐦

Fake??? :( sweetheart, u hurt me

Your mind stops working when you read his text, so you leave him on read.

The next time you see Keigo in person is when you’re contemplating whether or not you should keep… hanging out with him.

The contract only has a little over a month left, so it’s not as if it’d be that hard to deal with… besides, it’d be easier on the both of you when this whole thing inevitably ends. You don’t see yourself being able to be around him without thinking about kissing him over and over. Not now, at least. You hope it changes. You hope it’s a weird phase or something.

Keigo texts you and invites - demands - you over (his excuse is that with the hero conference coming up soon many of the smaller heroes are taking care of villains and giving him more time off) and honestly, if you’re really gonna try to stop talking to him as much, this could be your goodbye or whatever. Also, he mentioned wine, and you need to get drunk. Like, “give me an entire bottle so I can cope with the idea of falling for you because I know that you don’t feel the same and I am simply trying to ride out the rest of this “relationship” so I don’t ruin our dynamic and chemistry while we’re being watched by literally the entire world” drunk.

Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks.

Every time you go to Keigo’s apartment it reminds you of just how broke you are, but you suppose the apartment itself is fitting. It’s definitely modern, but it holds the clutter of Keigo’s personality - blankets strung everywhere, LED lights, a poster of Endeavor hung up in his closet (but you’re sworn to secrecy about that, you pinky promised). When you knock on his door he doesn’t answer, and it’s a good minute and a half before you get a text that says “it’s open, come in” and you sigh, because again, why him?

He’s sitting on the couch, and when he sees you he smiles like he didn’t just refuse to open the door because he’s too lazy. “Well, if it isn’t the love of my life,” he says, and for a second you can fool yourself into believing it’s genuine.

“I’m just here for the wine, dude,” you tease, and he mocks offense at your words.

“Ouch. Mid-relationship rejection.”

Nonetheless, Keigo gets the wine himself (selective little shit) and two glasses, pours each of you one. It isn’t long before you’ve had at least three glasses but no more than five, and you’re maybe, perhaps, a little drunk.

Keigo is, too, so you’re not really alone, but he’s talking about something Endeavor did like he’s the greatest hero in the world. It makes you smile, just a bit, but then again, you’re usually sentimental when you’re drunk, so maybe it’s just that. Or maybe it’s because you like him. It doesn’t really matter now.

“Hey, Kei,” you murmur when he’s done with his story. He hums, takes another sip out of his glass. “What happens when this is over?”

You look at your feet, scrunching up your toes inside your socks so you have something to look at. Then your eyes move up more, to the top of his coffee table, and then finally they land on him, and he looks gorgeous. He always does.

Keigo blinks once, twice, then shrugs, goes back to his wine. “Dunno. I hope we’re still friends, though,” he says.

“Friends? You want to be friends?”

You’re drunk. You should go to sleep, or go home, or something. Talking is not something you should be doing.

“What?” Keigo asks, but more like he didn’t hear you rather than he didn’t understand, so you take your chance, even through your hazed mind.

“Nothing,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. “Forget about it.”

And it seems like he does, because when you wake up on his couch the next morning with a killer headache and he stumbles out of his room with a groan he doesn’t mention anything about it even when he talks about everything else.

Keigo texts you a few days later, a picture of him posing with another wine bottle.

keigo baby 🐦

round 2??

The picture is cute. He’s smiling, all lips and curves and blonde hair and tan skin. He’s dressed in sweats, you can see, but he still looks like a model. It makes your heart sink and fly at the same time.

y/n

can’t, sorry. have to stay late at angel cakes. i’ll see u at the hero conference tho

He doesn’t text you for a while after that.

The conference comes quick, and before you know it you’re in another hotel suite, getting makeup done. It doesn’t take as much dressing up - your dress is shorter this time, less formal, your makeup less extravagant. You don’t feel nervous, not like last time, but you don’t necessarily feel comfortable either. Your makeup artist is different this time.

It takes a considerably less amount of time for you to get ready, and you stare at yourself in the mirror before it’s time to go. Your dress is beautiful - blue, royal, deep and light at the same time and gorgeous. Simple, too, nothing too out there. When you step out of the hotel room you notice Keigo’s still in his hero costume, but you suppose he has to be. You don’t match with him like you did last time.

There’s no banter, no teasing, no compliments. The ride to the venue is quiet. Keigo sends you a look at one point - a “tell me what’s wrong” look - but you only shrug, offer him the best smile you can, which apparently isn’t convincing, because he frowns when he sees it. You wish he wouldn’t frown so much.

The conference is short, but maybe you’re just distracted. An usher walks you to your seat at a VIP table and it seems like you sit down and then it ends. You clap for Keigo, smile like you’re endlessly proud of him - and you are, even if it doesn’t show that well tonight - and watch him make a scene becuase that’s what he does. He winks at you at one point during the night, while he’s talking into the microphone, and you know it’s for the publicity. The conference ends significantly earlier than the awards show, however, so you don’t have to stay in the suite for the night.

The ride back to the suite seems shorter than the ride to the venue and it takes you maybe twenty minutes to wipe the makeup off of your face and take off your dress. You walk across the hall to Keigo’s room, knock on the door. He answers.

“Okay, I’m gonna head out, I’m feelin’ kinda tired,” you tell him with a small smile. “Just wanted to say bye.”

“Let me walk you home,” he says instead, and your brain yells at you no!

“No, it’s fine, Kei -”

“Please. I want to.”

He’s never said that before, and a part of you knows you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if he hadn’t, so you nod and let him follow you out of the hotel and to your apartment. The walk is silent and it makes you feel uneasy but you can’t really do anything about it, not with what you’re trying to do, so nothing happens until you reach your apartment.

You know where this is going, even if you don’t want to, so you take a deep breath, hold the door open for him so Keigo can come inside. He looks at you weirdly for a moment but then enters your apartment, standing in the junction of your entryway and living room like he’s uncomfortable. You let him, then walk to the kitchen for something to drink.

“What’s wrong with you?” You ask, eyeing him suspiciously.

Keigo scoffs. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

You know he noticed - it’s impossible not to, but you didn’t think… you didn’t think he’d call you out on it. Your pause is evident, but you pretend like it didn’t happen at all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.

“Yeah? Wanna rethink that, sweetheart?”

The almost-malice in his tone when he says your usual pet name startles you, and when you look up at Keigo it seems like it startled him, too, doe-eyed and looking at you. You shake your head, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room behind him to throw your things down, try to pass the message to him that this is not good. “You’re wrong,” you say.

“I’m not - I’m not wrong, Y/N,” he says, turning around to look at you. “Every time I see you it seems like you’re pushing me away, like you’re not here, and I don’t know if I did something, but I -” he pauses, runs a gloved hand over his face and you want to tell him that it’s not his fault, but that would lead to you telling him everything, and you can’t. “I miss you.”

His voice is broken. When you speak again, your voice sounds like his, but somehow worse. Smaller. “You’re wrong,” you insist. You know he’s not.

“I’m not,” he pushes back. “I’d like to think that in the months we’ve been -”

He stops himself, and you take your opportunity. “That we’ve been what? Dating? We’re not dating, Keigo, we both signed a fucking contract to benefit your public image! This is nothing!”

You have no idea what you’re doing. It’s not nothing. It will never be nothing.

“You think this is nothing?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you know for sure we’ll still be friends when this is over.”

He can’t, and he won’t. You’re trying really hard not to cry, but it hurts to fight with him like this, and it hurts that you think you’re falling in love with him, and it hurts that if you tell him it’ll ruin everything and it hurts, so a few tears slip out anyways.

“Y/N,” Keigo says, and his voice is so soft. You want to melt into him, but you shy away when he reaches for you. “Please just tell me -”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you choke out. “I can’t - I’m - I’m calling it. I’ll send my lawyer if you need anything but I just…”

You can’t even look at him. Has he always been so far away?

“Get out, Keigo.”

It sounds so cold, so unfamiliar, coming from your mouth and you half expect another person to have said it entirely. This isn’t you, this isn’t how you and Keigo act, this isn’t… this isn’t it. There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for something, but then you hear him sigh - practically feel him deflate, and then he walks out of your apartment, door shutting quietly behind him.

It’s so quiet when he’s gone.

You take a deep breath, walk back to your bedroom, curl into yourself on the bed, and cry in the blue light of the sky left behind by the sun.

#GUYS I LOVE ANGST I HOPE I HYPED THIS UP ENOUGH #AHHHHHHH #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia x reader #my hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia imagine #my hero academia imagine #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha hawks x reader #hawks bnha x reader #keigo takami imagine #x reader #reader insert #imagine #tcoy #the color of you

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stephkaylor · 3 years

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FAVES & FAILS: #1 (Teen Wolf)

I’ve decided to do this questionnaire when a show/book series/movies where I answer these questions with fun gifs too (its Tumblr, what did you expect?), if you want more info, the original idea post with links to each of my completed lists is here ⚡️. A bunch of my faves have already ended so getting all of these out will take a minute, but I’m aiming to post a new one twice per week. 🤞🏻Anyway, enjoy!! OH!! ALSO, I’ll be discussing plot elements in this list so...SPOILER ALERT!!

TV Show FAVES and FAILS: TEEN WOLF

FAVORITE MALE CHARACTER: STILES STILINSKI

HANDS DOWN, no question about it! He was the soul of the show, and funny, and so incredibly human on a show full of the inhuman, and that was what made him so integral. Anyway, I could go on forever about how much I love Stiles, but here’s a gif:

LEAST FAVORITE MALE CHARACTER: GERARD ARGENT

There isn’t really a male that makes me want to punch something, so good for the writers, I guess?

FAVORITE FEMALE CHARACTER: LYDIA MARTIN

I really want to say Allison but it HAS to be Lydia, hands down! Her character development from a girl pretending to be vapid and shallow and who hid her genius so she could “fit in”, to a strong, powerful, confident woman secure in who she really is and the power inside of her (figuratively AND literally, lol), this girl is the real MVP.

LEAST FAVORITE FEMALE CHARACTER: MONROE

This was hard because there are several female characters that made me want to throw my laptop out of the window. The short list is Kate Argent, Allison’s mom... I could go on... but Monroe’s systematic attempt to wipe all supernaturals out of Beacon Hills and then maybe the rest of the world gave me fucking high blood pressure and a rage issue. I don't care how “scared” you are, killing a kid who hasn't done anything wrong just because they are different than you is some fucked up, borderline genocidal bullshit. And she survived the finale!!? Like I had to deal with her self-righteous smirky attitude and you didn't even have the decency to punch her in the face and let me watch?!? Rude.

THE CHARACTER THAT DESERVED BETTER: Aiden (and kind of Ethan)

I badly want to say Allison again here because I love and miss her tons. But she died protecting her family and friends and I believe that she is happy wherever she went afterward. Watching Aiden die in his twin brother’s arms I don’t know who I felt the worst for. The boy dying, or his brother who now has to live without him... I’m gonna go cry now, brb.

THE DEADWEIGHT CHARACTER WE SHOULD’VE DUMPED IN 2009: Kate Argent

Luckily she was not a regularly appearing character, but when she showed up it was always “for revenge” and I'm like...can we just...not this season? I was having a lovely time and then you showed up with your petty anger for whatever fucking shit that happened in, like season one. Like, honey... if it’s been so long since you’ve been relevant that I have to google what you’re upset about because I have honestly forgotten...maybe it’s time to let that shit go. Kindly fuck off now, please...

OVERHYPED CHARACTER: Derek Hale

Like, don’t get me wrong, he’s great and I loved when he was on the show, but I feel like some people think he carried the show and it wouldn't survive without him. Well, surprise! because he went away after season 4 and I still think some of their best shit came in season 5 and the beginning of season 6.

UNDERHYPED CHARACTER: Deaton

Um, he was basically Scott’s druid emissary and he got no recognition for it. He saved all of the main pack members’ lives at least once. Also he didn't make Stiles pay for the windows, so he’s apparently not an asshole.

OVERHYPED SHIP: Scott and Malia

I feel like they had to adjust the final season A TON because of Dylan’s injury and Kira not coming back and I think the writers panicked when they didn't know who to put Scott with (because our leading man could never not have a girlfriend, *gasp* THE HORROR!) because Lydia needed to be with Stiles and I think they picked Malia because she was basically the only one left...I was never into it. In fact, when my friend texted me after we watched the episode where they get together, my response back to her was literally “meh 🤷🏻‍♀️”.

UNDERHYPED SHIP: Allison and Isaac

It would’ve been so nice to see where that relationship went. Don’t get me wrong, had she lived, I would’ve wanted Allison to end up with Scott. But I loved that the show was willing to say that it is okay to fall in love more than once in your life. Sometimes the shows aimed at a younger audience have a tendency to act like your first love has to be the one you’re with until you die and that’s just not realistic. It was nice that the writers didn't box these characters into that mold because it gave them more depth as characters.

FAVORITE SHIP: Stiles and Lydia

I don’t know how to explain how much I love this pairing. Like, from the beginning he saw her for how amazing she was and he supported her as she came into her powers and then she was always there making sure that someone was taking care of him when he was taking care of, literally, everyone else, and then when he disappeared SHE KNEW something was wrong nearly instantly, and ‘remeMBER I LOVE YOU’ I need to stop before this run-on sentence goes on forever. ALSO they’re canon official, which never fucking happens for my ships so I’m fucking excited, sue me.

FAVORITE VILLAIN: Deucalion

His backstory was well-developed and deep, he was clear with his goals, he actually executed said goals in a logical and timely manner, he was a fucking ALPHA OF ALPHAS, nuf said.

MOST HEARTBREAKING MOMENT: Allison’s Death

Hands down, the most heartbreaking moment on the show, and I will fight anyone who comes at me with a different opinion. Because like--she was smiling when she was stabbed because she had figured out a way to help her friends and then she died in Scott’s arms and told him she loved him even though they weren’t together she still loved him and he still loved her, and I truly believe that she had zero regrets when she died, and how bittersweet is that???! But Scott couldn't take her pain because it didn’t hurt anymore, and Lydia had to feel her best friend die and she screamed Allison’s name and if you are not hurting right now are you a monster???!?!

FAVORITE STORYLINE: Eichen House Escape/Dread Doctors in Season 5

It was hard to pick between the Dark Druid storyline in season 3A, but the Eichen rescue/Lydia learning how to be a BAMF Banshee from Meredith while she was catatonic (ALSO ‘Stiles saved me’ I AM DEAD!!!), and the whole la bête du gévaudan thing was great, and reuniting the pack after Theo had royally fucked it up earlier that season, it was all just superb! *chef’s kiss*

STORYLINE WE COULD’VE DONE WITHOUT: Like, the whole second half of the last season, TBH

It was a petty, counterintuitive, and just garbage. The monster was dumb, Monroe is a royal twat (as I stated above), and it didn't have a conclusion. Like, the fuck? This isn't Game of Fucking Thrones you guys do not need to leave every season finale with so many loose ends it make people want to throw their laptops off of a cliff into a vat of hydrochloric acid. And it was the LAST SEASON so there’s no hope of fixing this bullshit storyline. ugh, kill me now.

BIGGEST PLOTHOLE: Scott’s pretty selective “True Alpha” powers

They, like, kind of tried to pass it off as it taking a ton of energy so he can’t always do it all the time. But he got through a mountain ash barrier to save Deaton and activated his True Alpha but then couldn't get into Eichen to get Lydia out because of the mountain ash...? oh and also where the fuck did Cora and Isaac go? (I, sincerely, hope he’s not still just chinning in fucking France wondering were Argent fucked off to)

OVERALL MARKS OUT OF TEN (10 being that watching this show has probably increased your life’s worth by at least five percent; 1 being the only thing this show has given me is a stomach ulcer and trust issues):

8.75 out of 10. This show was a blessing and I would definitely recommend it to other people. (mostly because I love to get people hooked on my favorite shows and then they're stuck and we can be tortured together).

THE END! Thanks for reading my overly-long and overly-obsessive list. Do come again soon. I’ll probably have another of these up next week. 🤍🤍🤍

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captainkippen · 4 years

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idk if you're still taking prompts but, TJ as a tattoo artist and Cyrus getting his first tattoo. i love your writing so much, my friend and i just spent an hour talking about how much we love 1986 and best laid plans kskskskss

This ask is literally like over a year old, I’m so sorry. Thank you for your kind words about my fic though!

The Sun Sets Of Itself

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Cyrus said, peering into the studio.

Behind him, Buffy and Andi shared an unimpressed look. They’d been through this entire song and dance at least three times since they got on the bus to get to the shop, and that had been after the several months of Cyrus going back and forth on whether it was a good idea or not.

“Dude, if you don’t want to do it you don’t have to,” Buffy sighed.

Cyrus worried at his lip for a moment, eyes flicking up to the intricately painted lettering.

‘DARKSIDE TATTOOS.’

The studio had a five-star rating on Google. Its reviews all said the shop was clean, the staff polite and the artwork itself was of excellent quality. Cyrus had spent weeks pouring over their Instagram, checking out the individual artists and stressing out about the exact wording of his booking email. It was perfect.

“But I do want to,” he said.

The girls groaned. Andi looked heavenward with an expression on her face that said Cyrus might die by her hand if he didn’t walk through that door in the next ten minutes.

“Look,” she said. “Like Buffy said, you don’t have to, but you know if you don’t you’ll end up regretting it. This was your idea dude.”

It was true. He had wanted it badly enough that he’d gone to his Rabbi to talk through it. The idea had been sitting in his head since he was thirteen; a rose for his Bubbe, just over his heart, with her favourite phrase written underneath in Hebrew.

“Okay,” he said, bracing himself with a deep breath. “Okay.”

A small bell tinkled overhead when he pushed the door open and within an instant, a blonde head popped up from behind the desk at the front. The girl raised an eyebrow at the three of them and zeroed in on Cyrus.

“Cyrus Goodman?” She asked.

He nodded mutely.

“Awesome! Okay, I just need you to sign these forms for me before you can get started. Do you have your I.D on you?”

He pulled his driver’s license out from his pocket and handed it over, taking the clipboard of papers from her as she checked it over. After seeming to decide that he was not, in fact, lying about his age, she turned and bellowed towards the back of the studio.

“TJ! YOUR TEN THIRTY’S HERE!” She then turned back to him, smiling sweetly. “You can take a seat over there. He’ll just be a minute.”

Cyrus spent the next ten minutes sitting with Buffy and Andi on a small rustic bench, bouncing his leg restlessly and taking in the artwork that filled the walls. It was obvious that each wall was dedicated to a different artist, the styles all unique and eye-catching in their own way. There was a small collection of framed watercolour pieces above Andi’s head that had captured her interest and, across from them, several traditional pin-up pieces were displayed. The longer they sat the more tattoos Cyrus wanted, but the more terrified he got at the same time.

“What if this is a mistake?” He whispered to Buffy. His attempts at subtlety were lost, though. From where she was filing her nails at her desk, the blonde girl looked up and smirked. She was quite scary, actually.

“You’re overthinking it again,” Buffy hissed back.

He sighed. She was right. What he needed was a distraction. Maybe he should’ve brought his knitting with him. He still had a sleeve to go on the sweater he was making for Bex, after all.

Just as he was pondering how well knitting might have distracted him from the thought of permanently etching a piece of art onto his chest, a rather different distraction showed up.

“Cyrus Goodman?” Came a voice.

When he looked up, his jaw dropped. Standing there waiting was the prettiest guy Cyrus had ever seen. He looked like he’d walked straight off the cover of an alt-rock magazine. Tattoos covered his arms and neck and his hair was carefully shaved into a sharp undercut. He even had the gauges in his ears that Jonah was always saying he wished his mom would let him get. Beneath the fluorescent lighting, his green eyes seemed to glitter. Cyrus was aghast.

“Catching flies there, Cy,” Andi murmured, and he snapped his mouth shut.

“I’m TJ,” Tall, Punk and Gorgeous said, offering Cyrus a hand. “You ready to go?”

When Cyrus had finally gotten himself together enough to greet TJ properly, he’d followed him to his section in the back.

“Are your friends coming?” TJ asked.

Buffy had interjected quickly enough with her, “It’s cool, we’ll wait here.” And Cyrus wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not. On the one hand, he didn’t need to embarrass himself in front of all three of them, but on the other… he kind of wanted someone there to tell him to stop being a weenie when the needle started up.

TJ smiled at him all the way through agreeing on the design he’d drawn up, Cyrus taking off his shirt and getting the near purple outline copied onto his chest. Cyrus thought he might vibrate out of his own skin.

“I’m glad you messaged me for this,” TJ said as he prepared the ink.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I really like doing flowers, especially when customers let me do the whole design. They always turn out exactly how I pictured them.”

Cyrus laughed nervously. “That’s good. I really like what you came up with - the gold detail on the petals was a nice touch.”

TJ grinned as he pulled out the gun.

“You ready?”

No.

“Sure,” Cyrus squeaked.

“Tell me if you want a break.”

The pain wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. After a moment he even found himself relaxing. For some reason, he’d assumed that it would be a silent encounter, but TJ chattered on as he worked. He asked about Cyrus’ degree, getting excited when he mentioned film and going on a tangent about Fight Club. For a brief moment, Cyrus was worried he was about to reveal himself to be one of those men who called other people ‘snowflakes’ unironically, then found himself surprised and delighted when TJ started talking about the inherent homoeroticism of Tyler Durden’s character. After a while, Cyrus found himself chatting back just as happily. He hadn’t expected the two of them to have so much to talk about.

“So, what does it mean?” Asked TJ, after finishing up a long-winded rant about the coffee he’d spilt all over Amber - his sister and the girl at the front desk apparently - earlier that week on one particularly bad morning.

“Huh?”

“'The sun sets on its own.’ Is that right? I ran the words through a translator, but the internet screws it up sometimes.”

Cyrus smiled, trying to glance down at the tattoo without moving too much. TJ had just started on the words.

“Almost,” he said. “It’s ‘the sun sets of itself’. It’s an old proverb from the Talmud. My Bubbe used to say it to it me a lot when I was worried about something. I think she meant it kind of like 'life goes on’, but I don’t know if that’s actually what it means though.”

TJ nodded, smiling back. “That’s pretty cool. Is that why you’re getting this, then? For your Bubbe?”

“Yeah, she died a few years ago but I figured it would be a nice way to honour her. She was really into art.”

“Sounds like a cool lady.”

“She was.”

When they finished up, Cyrus was surprised to find disappointment settling in. Not with the artwork, which looked just as wonderful as he had hoped, but with the fact he had to leave. TJ’s smile and warm manner seemed to be strangely addictive. He wanted to know everything about him.

“Think you’ll be coming back anytime soon?” TJ asked, leaning against the desk as Cyrus handed a wad of bills over to Amber.

“Definitely.”

“Thank God,” TJ said, looking genuinely relieved. “I was worried this would be my only chance to ask you out.”

Cyrus left the studio bright red, grinning and with TJ’s cell number programmed into his phone. Buffy and Andi could tease all they wanted, but getting a tattoo had definitely been a good idea.

#andi mack #tyrus #my writing #tj kippen #cyrus goodman #buffy driscoll #amber kippen #Anonymous

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neriad13 · 3 years

Text

Favorite Media of 2020!

There was a large swathe of this year during which I was unable to concentrate on reading (as there probably was for a lot of other typically-frequent readers), so, as a result, I ended up listening to way more podcasts and watching way more TV shows. Not a bad thing, but boy did I read way less books than usual.

However, for the first time in a while, the amount of fiction I read was about equal with the amount of nonfiction I read. Last year’s reading resolution was to read more fiction, so...success??

I did read a lot of phenomenal fiction when I had the energy to do so this year.

Books - Fiction

The Martian - Andy Weir

This book is the hardest of the hard sci fi I think I’ve ever read. Every single aspect of it is minutely researched and calculated. The author literally wrote equations to write this book. The science is insanely impressive and yet...it never loses its sense of humor or humanity in the mix. In fact, they’re the thing that drives the entire story.

Warlock Holmes - G. S. Denning

Way early in the year I was strolling down the fantasy aisle at the library, when this cover caught my eye. I took one look at it, went “oh, this looks silly” and...proceeded to devour the entire series in a matter of weeks.

It is very silly. Especially when it’s pointing out something that was silly in the original. There’s something so satisfying about Watson immediately answering Holmes with the correct number of steps in their flat when he’s trying to make his point about how most people don’t pay attention to things like that.

World War Z - Max Brooks

Every single scenario in here could easily support an entire book. A park ranger whose job it is to contain the yearly zombie spring thaw? HECK YES. I’d read tens of thousands of words about that. A Chinese admiral who defaults, steals the government’s premier submarine, loads it up with the families of his underlings and takes to the sea for years to live in the maritime economy that has sprung up in a world where everyone is trying to escape the shore? That could be an entire movie on its own.

Every chapter was more creative than the last and as a huge worldbuilding fan, this book was so, so fun.

An Unkindness of Ghosts - Rivers Solomon

In which a queer, neurodivergent protagonist solves a mystery on a spaceship which is a microcosm of antebellum era politics! This had a beautiful, mysterious, wonder-inducing writing style and it was a joy to peer into the wildly differing minds of every single character.

Books - Nonfiction

Underland - Robert MacFarlane

In every chapter, the author visits a different hole. Basically.

It’s an exploration of caves, catacombs, mines, nuclear waste facilities and the hidden underbelly of every forest. It was fascinating. And fundamentally changed how I look at time.

Rejected Princesses - Jason Porath

After years of having enjoyed the web entries, I finally got my hands on the first book and was not disappointed.

There are the more entertaining entries, of course and the art is as charming as always, but what struck me the most were the more difficult stories. The deeper you go into this book, the more horrific it gets. The author does not hold back on the indignities suffered by the historical figures he writes about. It’s terrible...but also very, very illuminating.

The Gift of Fear - Gavin De Becker

This book - while maintaining all the essential information in it - could be pared down to one sentence in a sea of blank pages and that sentence would be: trust your instincts. End of story.

But in a world where instincts are either customarily suppressed or going haywire, it’s not quite that easy, which is why I’m glad there is more to the book.

I picked it up thinking “ha ha, betcha can’t help a person with anxiety who fears all the time already” and...what it actually ended up doing was giving me the tools to differentiate between real fear and unfounded fear. And did help with the anxiety quite a bit.

Fanfiction

Watch Over Me - cakeisatruth

A Bioshock fic from the point of view of a little sister who is learning how to trust and be an ordinary child again. Dark and sweet. An excellent combo.

All That is Visible - Ultima_Thule

An exploration of a minor character in a well researched historical context? That’s my jam! How did they know?? A Tron fic about what it’s like to be a female programmer in the 70s.

Graphic Novels

The Adventure Zone - McElroys + Carey Pietsch

Yesssssssss! It was a running-to-the-library type event whenever my library got a new volume in. The jokes are so good, the art is so lively and the ways in which they added the details that the podcast couldn’t necessarily get across is *mwah*

Trail of Blood - Shuuzou Oshimi

Hoooooooly shit, the art style of this one!! It’s beautifully detailed and expressive, sure, but the real draw for me was how it changes with the emotional state of the main character. There’s this sequence in which he’s consumed with anxiety at school and all of his classmates become blurry and unfocused, until they can’t be recognized as humans at all, that particularly sticks with me.

It’s a horror story about a kid who witnesses his loving mother push his cousin off a cliff for seemingly no reason and is then obligated by her to keep the secret, which is eating him from the inside out. It’s so good, guys, please read it.

Level Up - Gene Lien Yang/Thien Pham

A story about a kid who is haunted by his late father’s desire for him to become a gastroenterologist. It’s funny and touching and the ending gave me what I can only describe as a feeling of exhilaration. Y’know that feeling when something unexpected but not out of left field, perfectly in tune with the narrative arc and gut bustingly funny happens, all in the same panel? That one.

Film

Searching

This is a fairly standard thriller about a dad trying to find out what happened to his missing daughter. It’s also found footage...but not in the usual way, which was what made it so compelling to me. It’s told through the dad’s phone calls, google searches, social media interactions, news footage, security cameras and webcams. It was such a cool way to tell a story.

Train to Busan

There’s a lot that’s already been said about this movie and I don’t think there’s much more I can meaningfully add to that. Suffice to say that ya gotta take care of each other if you’re going to survive a zombie apocalypse!!

TV Series

My Brother’s Husband

As close to a perfect adaptation as a person can get (barring the entire conversation in English which was...oof). I was so happy when they took it a step further and showed Kana and Yaichi actually getting to meet Mike’s family.

Zumbo’s Just Desserts

I watched a lot of baking shows this year. Like...a lot. They were my much-needed comfort viewing for the year and this one was my favorite, even over The Great British Baking Show (which I LOVE). Why? Because the pastry chef for whom it’s named makes such bizarre and wonderful desserts and fosters an environment in which the competitors do the same. I’ve never seen anything like a lot of the desserts that make an appearance on this show. Every single episode was an awesome surprise and so help me, this show had better get a third season.

She-ra and the Princesses of Power

There’s also a lot that’s been said about this one, so I won’t say much more. Suffice to say: DAMN. That’s how you do an 80s toy tie-in cartoon remake.

Infinity Train

This show’s premise is probably the most unique I’ve seen in recent years. Its balance of comedy, horror and existential dread is also *mwah* I also love how much it trusts the viewer to figure things out on their own.

Primal

A late entry sliding in before the year ends! I finally got to watch the second half of the first season last weekend and it was EXCELLENT. The pacing, the brutal fight scenes, the adorable dinosaur antics, the animation, the quiet moments - *mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah-mwah*

The most emotional moment for me was the part in which the protagonists watch, with sorrow, as the rabid dinosaur who’s been trying to kill them all night dies an excruciating death.

Also it sets up a fascinating new plotline right before ending in a cliffhanger!! Another one for the ‘had better get a next season’ list.

Games

Night in the Woods

This is one that’s been on my to play list for a few years and I was so glad I finally got my hands on it. It’s like...The Millennial Experience (TM), the game. I felt so seen, playing it. The character writing was fantastic.

Prey

I don’t know why I put off finishing this for so long. I guess I wasn’t in the right alien killing headspace for a while?? Anyway, the setting is gorgeous, the alien biology is weird and cool, the ethics are delightfully murky and the interconnectedness of the station was really cool, especially in the OH SHIT moments at the end.

Podcasts

The Adventure Zone

I tried to narrow this down to one favorite arc, but found that I couldn’t do it. I love Balance for its comedy and creative energy. I love Amnesty for its drama and acting. I am loving Graduation for the depth of its world and the way in which the real story behind everything that’s happened is slowly unfurling. It’s a good podcast all around.

The Magnus Archives

Who obsessively listened to every single season while playing Minecraft in about a month? Surely not me, nooooo. Of course not.

There’s also been a lot said on this one, so I’ll keep it brief. I’ve seen things in here that I haven’t really seen elsewhere in horror. My particular favorites were the creepy psychiatric hospital in which the horror comes not from the patients, but from the denial of the doctor to believe them about their mental illnesses and every single thing related to the Anthropocene. The one with the Amazonian village made out of trash - CHILLS.

#tma #taz #prey 2017 #night in the woods #infinity train #warlock holmes #she-ra #zumbo's just desserts #a thought

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loftec · 4 years

Note

Hi i don't know if anyone haven't ask you about it or i'm the only one who wants to read it but CAN YOU PLEASE SHARE YOUR NOTES (ch.44) i don't know if you were serious about that but i really would love to read them cause i'm obsessed with everything what is ntw related 🖤 hope ur well

Hi friend! It’s possibly just you (or one other person, in case of separate anons) but that is enough! I was absolutely serious.

Note on the notes! This is not all of it, because my notes for this chapter were often repetitive and very messy, and some older notes were from four years ago when I didn’t bother writing things out properly, so they barely make sense even to me. But! I’ve done my best to sort everything in some kind of linear order, and removed most of the repetition. And, well, you asked for it... sorry! 🖤

Ian shows up in the morning, Mickey digs out the magazine Iggy stole from Amelia’s dentist’s office the other day and confronts Ian about the big-ass article in Rolling Stone about IAN’S BAND, says he’s listened to some of their songs, takes out a paper where he’s written down some lyrics that sound strangely familiar.

You’re famous!

I’m in a band, people know about us right now, tomorrow they might not. I’m not famous.

You’re kinda famous.

Ian talks about Mickey recognizing him because of Frank. Hints that there might be several songs inspired by Mickey. It’s awkward as fuck, didn’t want you to know.

Were you ever gonna tell me?

Oh yeah, I had a plan. 3 dates, dinner and a movie, day out with Yev, dinner at my place turned vigorous love-making. Second prong; cohabitation, engagement, marriage, then on our wedding night I tell you about crushing on Justin Timberlake when I was 12,

then I tell you I’m semi-famous, if it still applies.

Mickey thinks his face might be on fire.

What the?

I’m fucking with you, Mick. Figured you already knew.

This again?

You angry?

No, I’m not fucking angry. Just-

Freaked out.

Kinda, yeah.

You shouldn’t be. Please.

It’s weird that I didn’t know, I feel like a schmuck. (And I’m pretty sure by your count we’ve already been on those first two dates.)

I’m sorry. I thought you knew and by some fucking miracle didn’t treat me different. I’d been gearing up to maybe have to have this conversation on our date, ‘cause it’s shit sometimes, you know? I don’t do interviews and I never talk about myself when I gotta do them, but there’s still a limelight and a lot of bullshit that complicates

I’ve been crushing on you since we met basically, and I thought I’d just… let it run its course, keep my mouth shut about it and deal until it went away and we could remain friends without me fucking it up.

Didn’t work, by the way.

Good.

Mickey is talking about it with Etch, who suggests that Ian’s been writing at the diner for a reason.

Etch looks up some lyrics and Mickey caps locks them to Ian

You might have inspired a few lately…

Fuck off. How many?

Since we met? Pretty much all of them.

Maybe one or two made it on to the album, but I wrote those before we really got to know each other so they’re just like… about moments, and how I would feel around you.

Didn’t think of it as creepy but it kinda sounds that way now.

No it’s fine

I won’t do it again.

Said it’s fine. Kinda like it.

Yeah?

You gonna tell me which ones are about me, or is that a secret too?

What are you doing tonight?

Thought you said you were going on tour?

We are, it starts tonight. It’s a small fan club gig here in Chicago.

You have a fan club?

Kinda. I’ll put you on the guest list if you want to come.

(Mickey calls Svetlana to make sure Yevgeny can stay with her over the weekend.)

It’s fine if you don’t want to, we’ll do something else when I get back.

Calm your tits Gallagher, course I wanna go. Needed to make sure I’ve got Yev covered.

Oh okay, good. You’re on the list. Doors at 7, gig starts at 8, no support.

You’ve got no chill.

(Ian doesn’t answer for a while)

I like it.

Good, that was torture. Never doing that again.

(Etch teases him about having his nose in his phone, and makes him aware of new guests arriving)

Gotta get back to work

Yeah, me too. See you tonight?

No chill at all.

Ian invites him to the concert and gives Mickey his phone number. Mickey makes sure Yevgeny stays with his mom on saturday, and after work he goes home and gets ready. Showers and cleans himself thoroughly, puts on cologne and a band t-shirt he hasn’t worn in ages, it’s gotten kinda tight on him since he got it. (He puts on a dress shirt first, tucks it into his pants and glares at his reflection).

He’s on the guest list when he gets there, the girl in the box office can’t find him at first but then Anne shows up and points him out, he’s on the VIP list and gets a pass that he’s told he needs to carry so it’s visible. He makes a point of shoving it in the admission guy’s face, but then shoves the ostentatious thing down the pocket of his jeans. Anne shows him in and tells him about the gig, about how the fan club got started. Anne says he can go backstage but he says he’ll pass, thank you. He gets a beer and finds a good spot, there’s a balcony halfway through the venue where he’s got a perfect view of the stage without having to stand in the front.

They text a little, Mickey says he’s there and Ian says he’ll make a sign when they play a song inspired by him.

run-through of the concert, Ian touches the side of his nose when the song is about Mickey. He’s sexy as fuck, and has some ridiculous stripper moves.

He takes off his hoodie at some point, and sweating through his tank he and Anne put on gloves and start hitting the barrels with crowbars.

Anne is the maestro, maybe Ian crowd surfs at some point? Warren Ellis that violin, man. He has little routines with Anne, and some with Jon too. One song, Anne gets one of his guitars and he does noisy stuff with his violin and plays on the oil barrels with Stran, completely in sync.

They got some good stage banter going, and at some point Ian does a Tom Waits impression, and Anne groans and says he’ll sing the whole thing if they’re not careful. There’s a reason why he’s

For the encore, Ian touches the side of his nose and they start playing a song, Anne saying that this is a first. It looks like Ian is about to sing, but then it looks like he changes his mind and they start playing a song that Mickey sure as fuck hope isn’t about him. The insufferable man on a date right next to Mickey tells the woman he’s with that they were about to play the mysterious title track from their last album that never ended up on the record

“it’s derivative, but cute”

how can it be a title track if it’s not on the album

the guy talks about how he’s got a friend working as an engineer in the studio and he’s sent him an early demo version. It’s not their best song by far, but it’s cool that pretty much no one else has heard it.

Mickey asks the girl if she’s ok with this joker, and she says she’s fine. He offers to get her a cab or something, if she wants to get out of there.

She says she’s not interested

Lady, if I wanted to get with either of you, it wouldn’t be you. Just sayin, I ain’t picky, but that guy would’ve gotten the boot ten minutes into the date if he were here with me, no offense.

WHAT IF.

The concert is over, and crowd starts to let up. Then a fight breaks out at the front and Mickey makes his way towards it. It’s over before he gets there, and sees a guy in his 40s with a bleeding nose, and Lip shaking out his fist, a security guard between them.

Mickey talks to the guard and defuses the situation, putting the bleeding man in the position of a sad overzealous fan. It somehow warms Lip to him, absurdly, and he finds himself apologized to, Lip shaking his hand and wincing when Mickey grips his bruised knuckles a little too hard. Lip vaguely explains that that was an old ex of Ian’s, a real piece of work, and then offers Mickey to come backstage with them to see Ian. Mickey declines.

It’s Lip, Carl and Debbie (Liam is too young, and Fiona too pregnant).

“I was drunk, and wrong, and when I’m wrong I say I’m wrong. (IT’S FROM DIRTY DANCING YOU LITERALLY FORGET EVERY TIME AND HAVE TO GOOGLE IT WHENEVER READING THIS NOTE should I really be quoting Baby’s dad in this fic? Probably. If anyone can, it’s Lip.) And Ian tells me you’ve been there for him a lot lately

I wouldn’t say that

But he did, he doesn’t tell me a lot these days, but he told me that.

Mickey gets another beer at the bar as people mill towards the merch and exit, he sits on a stool with an eye on the backstage passage. He watches the band come out to talk to some of the lingering fans and sign shit. Ian comes out and is immediately surrounded by fans, he locks eyes with Mickey across the room and Mickey raises his beer in a silent cheers. Ian comes up to him after a few minutes, he looks damp and exhilarated and unexpectedly nervous,

How was it?

Not bad, Gallagher.

he asks Mickey over. He has to pack up his shit and do the rounds, but he’ll be done in half an hour, tops. Mickey says he’ll meet him outside.

Ian leaves and Mickey finishes his beer, watching Ian talk to some fans, signing shit and taking pictures. He goes for a piss and then goes out for a smoke.

Ian comes out after twenty minutes, carrying two guitar cases and a large wheelie-bag. Mickey takes one of the guitars off his hands and they walk together.

(maybe Ian has a banjo and he gives it to Mickey to carry and Mickey is all really? I wanna kick your ass so bad right now, country boy, but then carries it anyway.) (banjos are cool)

Walk from the club. Mickey mentions talking to Lip. They talk about Ian’s Tom Waits impression. You’re not musically illiterate at all! Talk about Mickey’s Radiohead tee that he stole from a hookup when he was sixteen, he’s grown into it now. Talk about Ian’s onstage dancing, used to be a stripper, well, not saying you can’t still do private performances (?? you know what I mean! this is not what they’re saying but you’ll remember it) (Note from 2020: I DID NOT REMEMBER IT.)

Talk about wanting to learn playing the trumpet. Don’t have trumpet playing lips.

”Sure you and your lips can do whatever you set your heart to, I believe in you.”

Looks at Mickey and smiles.

”What?”

”You’ve been flirting with me since we first met, haven’t you?”

”Maybe.”

”Huh”

“What?”

“Oh nothing.” “Just re-evaluating everything you’ve ever said to me.”

”Re-evaluate this;” gives Ian the finger.

”That an invitation?”

”Fuck you is what it is,”

“sounds like an invitation.”

Ian tells him a little about his different instruments, Mickey picks up the beat up guitar Gus first gave to Ian and strums it, Ian asks him to play him something but Mickey snorts and says he’s counting on getting laid tonight and him playing would be detrimental to that plan. Ian doesn’t think so, but accepts it when Mickey gives him the guitar.

”I’ve walked some thousand miles,�� he starts softly, eyes on his left hand, moving over the strings, ”I have slept many hundred nights, and people’ve said hello and bye through the years since you were mine. But don’t think I’ll stop my mourning, don’t I know it’s overdue. Just because I’ve gotten older, none the wiser I cry for you.”

”Honey, cutie, sweetie-pie,” ”My darling boy, sweet old times, as long as I keep you in mind I will remember what love is like. So, don’t think I’ll stop my mourning, don’t I know it’s overdue.”

”Just because I’ve gotten older, none the wiser.”

”I cry for you.”

I’M THINKING OF WRITING MY OWN SONG BECAUSE I WAS THIS MOMENT TO BE MORE BEFORE SUNSET THAN ANYTHING, ALL SMILES AND DRAMA FREE. SO MAYBE A TEXT THAT IS A LITTLE MORE STRAIGHTFORWARD.

Ian plays the song and when he’s done, Mickey kisses him and they have really enthusiastic sex on the couch. Mickey is about to leave after when Ian invites him to stay,

How about some long-ass foreplay on the couch and then they move into the bedroom.

They start on the couch, they take it to the bedroom, they collapse on the bed after and Mickey is feeling too good to argue when Ian mumbles at him to “stay”.

(Sings the song, says it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a song, it’s one quick thought put under a spotlight. Feeling like he should have known Mickey his whole life already. It’s too much, isn’t it? In the kitchen.

”do you normally take guys home and serenade them?”

”nah, don’t think it’d be very effective with most.”

”But you figured I’d swoon?”

”Figured you’d want the truth.”

”which is?”)

??? Need to find a good mix of excitement and new and easy, balanced with ho shit wtf are we doing this isn’t going to end well i think i fucking love him shut the fuck up. needs to be sexy and a little rough, as well as painfully sincere against better knowledge. kissing will do that. they’re doing stuff the way they usually do stuff, but for some reason it feels completely different.

Important that Mickey kisses him.

They stand up and stand chest to chest, Ian says they don’t have to do anything, Mickey says shut up and get naked

he helps ian take his shirt off and kisses him the second his face comes back into view

They fucks on the couch.

OR ALT FADE CUT END and don’t go explicit. Just saying, it’s an option. A valid option.

They can go at it in one of the sequels? Like the roadtrip can be more explicit? If I want? But also not?

I mean, there is such a thing as a nice middle ground right.

I just don’t think I’m interested in going all out porn after 40+ chapters of whatever.

THEY KISS AND THEN THERE’S A MOTHERFUCKING FADE TO BLACK MY FRIEND, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT I HAVE DECIDED. Soz

WHAT IF!!

Iggy comes in, is all: guess what I found at the dentist this morning?

M: again? Did Amelia break another tooth?

I: It’ll grow back, take a look at this

E: Did you steal that from the dentist’s office?

M: Rolling Stone, wtf?

E: your dentist’s got rolling stone?

Mickey reads the headlines out loud as a customer comes in and asks Etch about something they’ve lost the other day, and Etch starts rifling through boxes behind the counter as Mickey moves over to sit down in Ian’s booth, rifling through the magazine.

M: what am I looking for?

I: I marked the page

E: what’s this note?

Mickey starts reading the article, realizing that the blurred picture is of Ian, and the interview is with Ian, and holy shit. Ian is legit famous.

Etch starts reading the list of coffees, eventually turning the page over and pointing out that there’s a phone number.

Iggy comes to the diner in the morning, Etch is rifling through stuff behind the counter and Mickey is doing the rounds with the few guests still there after the morning rush.

Iggy shows him the magazine he found at the dentist’s and Etch is in the background like wtf is this, reading from Ian’s note with the coffee orders, Mickey only half listens, trying to take in the fact that Ian is fucking famous.

Etch says there’s a phone number too and Mickey brushes him off.

Then he’s like, hold the fuck up! And gets the note from the trash and tries the number, and Ian fucking answers. And they have the you’re famous conversation on the phone and voila, Mickey has his number and vice versa.

So Mickey calls Ian in the morning, then there’s text talk during the day.

From Ian

So, you’ve had my number for x days and you only now decided to use it?

That’s cold.

From Mickey

You wrote it on a piece of paper you then balled up and threw on the floor, asshole, it’s a miracle it didn’t end up in the trash. didn’t know I had it until this morning.

You suck at this. (This is a nice revelation that he likes, but Maybe that doesn’t come across in text.

Not a complaint btw, just gleeful observation.

From Ian

Are we still on?

From Mickey

Of course.

Dumbass.

Ian

I probably deserved that.

At some point Mickey starts capslocking and sending lyrics to Ian, who has to explain through text why he’s written songs about Mickey, saying that he’ll point them out tonight.

HERE’S A QUESTION

SHOULD I SKIP THE WHOLE “WRITING SONGS ABOUT MICKEY” BUSINESS??

Isn’t it enough that Ian is famous and kept this fact from Mickey? Isn’t the writing songs business a little creepy? and if he did write songs about Mickey, would he really publish them without Mickey’s consent? No. Maybe I’m deliriously tired and about to fall ill right now, but I actually think I should skip that part. It’s a little sad because it’s been part of this idea for three years, but if I’m uncertain about it now imagine how I’m going to feel about it later?

When I started writing this story, it was supposed to be a quick and silly thing, and now it’s something else. It’s not important or anything, but also it is. To me. And making a decision on the rating was a big deal for me, and I think this is another one of those things. I’ve been holding on to this idea for so long but when I really think about it, is it even romantic? It’s romantic in that kind of teenage dream way, maybe? It’s more romantic to me if they fall in love for reasons other than Ian writing songs. But he’s written NTW, and he still thinks about performing it live, but we skip the whole thing about songs being about Mickey.

So they talk on the phone in the morning, and then there’s a text coming in after a little while asking if Mickey wants to come to the show.

HEYHO IT’S A REVOLUTION AND I FEEL FREE

Mickey and Ian text after the show (after Mickey declines going backstage) Ian asks him to meet him round back in twenty minutes. When Mickey goes out there, he sees Ian talking to a couple of fans by the bus and Mickey hangs back to smoke while he waits. The fans leave and Ian looks around, checks his watch, he has a bunch of guitars with him.

I AM LEANING HEAVILY TOWARDS MICKEY KISSING IAN HERE. He’s like “Stop, hold this” giving Ian back the guitar, so he can grab on to him and kiss him, smiling against Ian lips as the guitar tips over and clatters against the asphalt.

They’re outside Ian’s house, Ian says he has to get up at an unholy hour tomorrow. Invites him in anyway.

They’re in the elevator, then they’re in Ian’s apartment. Ian plays him the song, Before sunset ending.

almost none of that rhymed, just letting you know. kinda embarrassing.

(almost none of that rhymed, just letting you know. kinda embarrassing.

yeah, it’s not a very good song. is why we cut it from the record

oh yeah? thought it was ‘cause of the like, intensely personal subject

that too)

They smile at each other like fools and Mickey feels like he is exactly where he’s supposed to be, and there’s no rush. Fade to black.

Etch finds the paper, says there’s a phone number on it. Mickey dials the number and goes out back as it rings out. When Ian answers, he reads a question from the interview and they talk.

He goes back into the diner and basically blows the whole thing off, it doesn’t make any difference to him and he has to go back to work. Yevgeny does his homework and Iggy leaves, and Ian invites Mickey to the gig via text. Etch invites Yevgeny to stay over at theirs for a movie night.

Does Mickey tell Yev about the gig?

Start with Mickey out back, smoking. The phone rings and he waits for Etch to take it, but it keeps ringing. He bangs the door and yells PHONE and then it stops ringing. He kills the cigarette and goes back inside. Etch is behind the counter talking on the phone and going through the lost and found, looking for whatever the caller has lost. Mickey clears a table. It’s afternoon. Etch hangs up but keeps going through stuff in the box, talking to Mickey, when Iggy comes in.

It’s maybe more like afternoon (?) when Iggy comes in and shows Mickey the magazine. He calls Ian and they have a quick conversation (he probably goes outside to have it, to escape his audience) and they establish that Ian is sorta famous. Then they text back and forth a little, until Ian invites him to the show.

Mickey calls Svet to arrange it so Yev can stay with her, and then accepts. He goes home after work to eat, have a shower and change out of his clothes. He wears the only band tee he owns, mostly because it’s funny and because it’s kinda tight and he doesn’t think he looks too bad in it (and a dress shirt is way too much for a concert not-date, not that he tried on a couple first. Then he does a little bit of cyberstalking only to find very little personal information and a lot of crazy fans. Maybe he watches a couple of music videos, but they’re all really weird cartoons so they give him nothing. They’re cool though, and guess the music’s alright, even though he doesn’t have a connection yet to it so it’s hard to tell if he likes it.

Yevgeny calls, because Mickey switched the days and he wants to know why. Mickey asks if he knows about the Broken Bells, and Yev’s like duh who doesn’t? And freaks out when Mickey tells him about Ian. He doesn’t tell him about the whole date situation though, just that he’s going to the concert. Maybe Yev asks for some merch.

Mickey takes an Uber to the venue, even though it’s not too far from the diner (but on the other side, so at least a 30 minute walk) and it seems like they’ve already started letting people in. He hangs back until the admissions office is clear and then tells the lady that he’s on some kinda guest list. She can’t find him, and he’s about to give up and go home when he sees a familiar figure in the background. He calls her Stay-puft first, but then also remembers that her name is Anne and calls her that too. She remembers him, and finds him on a different (VIP) list, the venue staff woman is embarrassed, but Anne is borderline flirting she’s so nice about the mistake. Mickey gets a pass that he’s supposed to keep around his neck, but he shows it to the guards and then tucks it down his back pocket. Anne shows him inside the venue and asks if he wants to come backstage and say hello, but he kindly declines.

He has a quick peruse of the merch table (he checks the CDs, and then sees a smaller table next to the merch with a guy handing out pins, Mickey talks to him and finds out that it’s “fan club” pins to commemorate the gig and Mickey asks if his VIP pass gets him one, it does, and then the guy asks if Mickey wants to sign up for the newsletter) and then gets a beer, before finding a good spot on the mezzanine floor. He’s got a balcony railing for support and beer holder, and he’s got an excellent view of the stage. The floor is filling up with people packing themselves against the front. He texts Ian saying he’s here and they text a little back and forth. He gets someone to watch his spot and goes to the restroom. There, he finds a kid getting cornered by a middle-aged man. The kid looks vaguely familiar and not older than sixteen. Mickey steps in and casually accuses the guy of creeping on a kid and the guy immediately backs off, the kid says thanks and that he’s eighteen (because it’s an 18+ gig) and Mickey says sure.

Getting back to his spot, There is a douchebag on a date behind him that he wants to move away from, but he doesn’t want to surrender his good spot. He decides to tune him out, he’ll hopefully shut up once the set starts. It’s just a couple of minutes after eight when the lights dim and a song comes on louder than before, and the band start coming out on the stage. Ian is wearing jeans and a hoodie, like he normally does, but he’s clean shaven and his normally smiling face is set in blank determination. Anne is the front person, and she commands the audience with the slightest gesture. It’s obvious that the venue is filled with old fans, they all know exactly what to do exactly when she asks them to do it. Ian’s got like four guitars and a whole lot of other shit around him, and he’s super focused on doing his stuff, but now and then he does little routines with Anne and Jon, and gets a big cheer for his occasional solos.

A few songs in, Ian gets up to stand on one of the oil barrels, and Anne starts banging on it with a crowbar. That’s when Mickey starts to really get into it. It’s cool, and it’s a lot harder than Ian made it out to be, but kind of theatrical at the same time. Ian is brilliant, even though he dances like an uncoordinated stripper.

There is banter between the songs, mainly between Anne and Stran (girl sure bangs those drums!) Anne starts banging one of the oil barrels again and Ian and Jon do a little step dance next to each other across the scene.

At some point Ian takes off his hoodie. He’s wearing a white tank and he’s already sweating through it. He gives his guitar to Anne and puts on gloves. Him and Stran do a little bant-y thing and then they start a new song by both banging the barrels in unison while Anne and Jon start playing (maybe Jon plays something else, like an electric piano or a marimba?). At the crescendo of the song, Ian takes out a baseball bat and goes to town on the barrel, sweat shining on his muscly arms and his wet hair flopping down his forehead.

They go off the stage, but come back when the crowd chants a song, stomping their feet and clapping their hands. Anne says they’ve got one more song for them, and they start playing. She moves away from the microphone and it looks for a second like Ian is going to step up and sing. Douchebag behind Mickey tells his date about an unreleased b-side to the last album. But then Ian steps back and says something to Stran, who nods and moves into a slightly different beat. Without blinking Anne, steps back up to the mic and sings the last song.

Some of the crowd lingers by the stage after the lights have gone back on, but most move towards the bar or the merch table. Mickey hangs back to watch the crew take down the stage, and the two oil barrels being handed over to someone in the audience, along with set lists and left-over picks. Walking down from the mezzanine floor to go look for the restrooms, a fight breaks out on the floor. Mickey immediately recognizes one of them as Lip and the other one as the creep from the bathroom, and intervenes by clearly positioning himself on Lip’s side and reminding the creep that he could get him in trouble, the creep backs off and agrees when Mickey tells the security guards it was an accident (in a way that isn’t obviously helpful, but in the end still makes sure that Lip isn’t hurt or arrested for punching a guy) (because he did, he punched a guy, who is thrown out by the guards after Mickey’s intervention). Lip, Carl, Debbie, and Liam is there, but it’s only Lip who knows who Mickey is. He hangs back to talk to Mickey while his siblings go backstage (and PROBABLY DOESN’T tell him a little bit about the guy being Ian’s ex, making it clear that Lip really doesn’t like him). He also apologizes to Mickey for last time. He asks if Mickey wants to go backstage, but Mickey declines. He’s decided earlier with Ian through text that he’ll wait for him and thinks it’s better to do it somewhere that isn’t backstage where he might get asked questions and have to talk to people who aren’t Ian.

He gets another beer and stands in the bar next to the merch, watching as Ian and the rest of the band come out to sign some stuff and shake hands. Ian still looks slightly damp from sweat, even though he’s obviously changed clothes and run a towel through his hair. Mickey wonders if his skin tastes like salt. He drinks his beer.

Ian comes up to him after a little while, asking well? (or texts him, which probably makes more sense? But I also want Mickey to see Ian post-show)

Not bad Gallagher, not bad at all.

Ian looks pleased and asks if Mickey wants to come over, even though Ian has an early morning. Mickey says yes and Ian asks him to wait until they’re done packing up.

Mickey finishes his beer, goes to the restroom (where he sees douchebag by the urinal) and then he goes outside to wait for Ian. (He talks to douchebag’s date and offers to get her a taxi before the guy comes out.) He smokes a cigarette, and before he knows it, Ian is by his side, carrying a fuck ton of guitars. They decide to walk, for some reason, talking on the way.

HEY

Ian says he’s got a car coming and they walk a little bit to where they’re getting picked up. They talk about trumpet lips and stuff and Mickey kisses him. They get interrupted by the car arriving, and Ian picks up his guitars and says “you coming?”

Fuck yes

They sit in silence in the car, but it’s a good one. Ian says

Lip told me what you did back there.

He didn’t tell you shit.

He did, told me you stepped in and stopped him from getting arrested

He was getting his ass kicked, someone had to help the guy

And Liam told me you got him out of a tough situation in the restroom

That was Liam? Some pedo’s creeping on a kid by the urinal, I’m not gonna stand by doing nothing.

You know that’s not what happened

Yeah, well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

He isn’t a pedo, and Lip would’ve beat the shit outta him if you hadn’t stepped in.

You defending this guy?

No, trying to say thanks.

You’re shit at it.

Thank you, Mickey

Better.

So… friend of yours.

No. (Ian isn’t forthcoming with the info)

Alright, whatever.

And he’s definitely not someone I wanna talk about, tonight.

(Ian is smiling at him, all the promise in the world in his eyes)

Fucking fair enough.

They arrive.

OR Ian joins Mickey outside and they stand around and talk

They talk about Ian’s Tom Waits impression. You’re not musically illiterate at all! Talk about Mickey’s Radiohead tee that he stole from a hookup when he was sixteen, he’s grown into it now. Talk about Ian’s onstage dancing, used to be a stripper, well, not saying you can’t still do private performances (?? you know what I mean! this is not what they’re saying but you’ll remember it)

Talk about wanting to learn playing the trumpet. Don’t have trumpet playing lips.

”Sure you and your lips can do whatever you set your heart to, I believe in you.”

Looks at Mickey and smiles.

”What?”

”You’ve been flirting with me since we first met, haven’t you?”

”Maybe.”

”Huh”

“What?”

“Oh nothing.” “Just re-evaluating everything you’ve ever said to me.”

”Re-evaluate this;” gives Ian the finger.

”That an invitation?”

”Fuck you is what it is,”

“sounds like an invitation.”

That’s when a taxi pulls up and Ian walks toward it

Could use some help with these.

They ride in silence

They carry Ian’s instruments from the car, and Ian says something cute

Mickey’s like “Stop, hold this” giving Ian back the guitar, so he can grab on to him and kiss him, smiling against Ian lips as the guitar tips over and clatters on the asphalt.

They’re outside Ian’s house, Ian says he has to get up at an unholy hour tomorrow. Invites him in anyway.

There he asks Ian to play him something that other people don’t get to hear (mostly to be a cheeky monkey, but also because he wants it) and Ian plays him None the wiser.

I’ve walked a thousand miles to end up in your corner booth

Grinning idiot when you bitch, falling fool for your dirty mouth

Sitting on my busy hands when you swagger by and I say -

Hey waiter, pour some coffee in my cup and bring me my toast, before you fuck me up

I’ve been in some thousand fights and it’s clear that so have you, too

Faded threats and cigarettes, sharp glass polished by the sea

Wish you’d put your hands on me and make your feelings clear

Hey waiter

meet me ‘round the back door, tell me I’ve got it wrong and fuck me up some more

‘Cause I’ve fallen a thousand times but never felt this way before, like I should have met you long ago

Walked with you by my side and had your back through thick and thin

Sickness and health, come what may, and I say-

Hey waiter

pop the damn champagne

None the wiser

you fuck me up again

Hey waiter

tell me you’ll be mine

I’ll give you my life

and fuck you up in kind

I wish I was just a plain white shirt

then you could wear me off to work

and I’d be one of the things you keep close to your heart

soft white cotton wrapped around your heart

(Contrasts have faded now

but color still haunt my mind

And words ripped off from their lines

Make bitter tears flood my eyes

Don’t think I’ll stop my mourning

Don’t I know it’s overdue

Just because I’ve gotten older

None the wiser, I cry for you)

Honey, cutie, sweetie-pie

My darling boy, sweet old times

As long as I keep you in mind

I will remember what love is like

So, don’t think I’ll stop my mourning

Don’t I know it’s overdue

Just because I’ve gotten older

None the wiser, I cry for you

’Cause I always say ’I love you’

when I mean ’turn out the light’

And I say ’let’s run away’

when I just mean ’stay the night’

But the words you want to hear

you will never hear from me

I’ll never say ’happy anniversary’

Never stay to say ’happy anniversary’

Bom-chaka bom-chak 23 verses

And he climbed up a mountain

And he looked around

Some kind of forest

With all these dinosaurs

And he stripped his woman

He stripped her bare

But there was a pterodactyl

There!

#Anonymous

21 notes · View notes

harryandmolly · 5 years

Text

Complicit // 14 // Final

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, love, love languages

WC: 8k

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

He really, really should’ve had a plan.

But, in all fairness, Shawn’s never done the whole “jump on a 12 hour flight on a whim to chase after the love of his life” thing before, so how could he have been expected to make such a plan?

But still, he thinks, standing against a wall under a baseball cap outside Naples International Airport, he could’ve done some more thinking before all this. Or at least could’ve made a pseudo-plan on the plane.

The most Silver could give him in terms of guidance was the address of the house and that Naples is the closest airport. She’s never been to the “Vineyard” before. When Shawn asked if the “Vineyard” was a nickname or if it meant the house is on an actual vineyard, she didn’t know that either. Not extremely helpful, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.

From what he gathers on Google Maps, sucking up international roaming data charges like nobody’s business, Ravello is about an hour and a half southeast of Naples. Not ideal. But the Amalfi Coast is a pretty big attraction, so he figures there’s probably a train. He just has to find a train station.

On the way out the door with his backpack, the only luggage he bothered to pack, he Googles a train route.

Walk half an hour to the Calata di… something something and take the N5 to… somewhere and walk 3 minutes to somewhere else to catch a bus to somewhere…

.... no fucking way.

He bites into his lip and squints around. Should he rent a car? He winces. Driving in Italy sounds terrifying. What if he gets into a crash? Who is he supposed to call?

No. He needs to hire a car to take him to Ravello. That’s the plan.

More Googling. More squinting. He’s vaguely grateful that he’s been able to stay under the radar so far. He’s not sure he could handle this and dozens of screaming Italian girls begging for selfies without snapping.

He ducks behind a large leafy fig tree when he sees what looks like a group of middle school-aged girls on a field trip scramble past, squealing and laughing. Close call.

He leans against a column and sighs. Silver also gave him Mia’s personal cell number. He could just call her and tell her he’s here and hope she wants to see him and come pick him up.

Shawn sighs heavily, pouting. He’s not going to do that. This is his only shot at being a romantic hero, like, ever. He’s not going to pansy out and call her for a ride. He’s going to show the fuck up because that’s what Mia deserves.

Whether she wants to see him is another matter and he’d rather not worry about that until about halfway up her driveway.

He sets off toward the transportation center at a quick stride, curls fluttering between the brim of his cap and his forehead. He swerves suddenly to avoid another throng of young women that look ready for a beach vacation.

He parks in front of a driving service and a tall, unnaturally beautiful blonde man who doesn’t look up at him.

“Uh, ciao?” Shawn tries.

He glances up. Shawn holds his breath for the pop star response. It doesn’t come. He exhales.

“Do you speak English?” Shawn asks, wincing at how ignorant he sounds. The man nods boredly.

“Cool. Uh. Ok. I need to go to Ravello.”

“Si, Ravello. There is a train,” the man drawls, the slowest talking Italian Shawn’s ever met.

Shawn nods, uncertain. “Yeah. Right, yeah. But… can I get a car to drive me?”

The man even blinks slowly. “There is also a bus.”

Does this guy just not want business? Shawn sighs.

“Do you not take people to Ravello?” he tries, looking to bridge whatever gap this is as quickly as possible.

Finally, the man seems to give in. “Ravello is a long drive. 125 euro. We take--”

Shawn slaps his Visa down so fast the man stops abruptly and stares at him. He sees a tinge of crazy in Shawn’s travel-weary eyes. He fights the urge to roll his own and books the trip.

Shawn had hoped he’d start to relax in the car since at least then he’d know he was heading somewhere. There was no relaxing to be done.

His driver Giorgio seems to have gotten his start in Formula One. Shawn figures he should be grateful, given that the speed they’re driving at will probably cut the travel time in half. But he can’t help but wonder about the headlines if he dies in a fiery crash against the side of an Italian coastal mountain.

Pop Superstar Shawn Mendes Dies In Search Of Love, Giorgio to Blame

Shawn Mendes Perishes At The Height Of His Career, Unrecognizably Mangled

Shawn Mendes Is An Idiot, Fatally

He’s so sure there’s no way they’ll make it between the two trucks Giorgio decides to squeeze them through, but they do. Shawn slams his eyes shut and focuses on the Cez-approved meditation breathing exercises that, by the way, do not save you from your crazy Italian driver who almost plows into the back of a Peugeot going god knows how fast on the E45.

But at least he points out Mount Vesuvius. And doesn’t crash them into it.

They lose sight of the ocean for a while, which makes Shawn panic. The guy isn’t using a GPS, claims he knows every corner of every town on the Amalfi Coast. That sounded a lot better to Shawn before he got in the car, before they were winding through something called the “Riserva Statale Valle delle Ferriere,” which seems as good a place as any to ditch a body.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

It’s a chant in his head until, by some miracle, he catches sight of the water again and it’s exactly like every Instagram travel post he’s ever seen of the Amalfi Coast. He thanks whatever god there is, and thanks Giorgio, too, who grunts.

Ravello, Shawn’s not surprised to report, is fucking beautiful. Cliffs appear out of nowhere and spill off down bleached white coastline to crystalline turquoise water. It’s a goddamn postcard. The town, from what he can see of it from above, is a scattered board of colorful post-its clinging to the side of a mountain. His hungry brain tells him he can smell fresh pasta and seafood, but he knows it’s just an illusion of a man who ate half an airplane meal and a couple stale biscotti several hours ago.

Rather than descend toward the coast, Giorgio winds him around the hills past farms of lemon trees. The sun hangs low. Shawn thanks his lucky stars that he’s not having to deal with locating this place in the dark.

Giorgio stops at the base of a dirt road sporting a sign with Mia’s address. Shawn practically flings himself out of the car, almost forgetting his backpack. He shoves his Tom Ford sunglasses on against the harsh snap of the late afternoon sun. He looks around. Along the dirt path, hardly even a road, are rows upon rows of grape vines. It seems the house name is literal after all. He’ll be sure to tell Silver if he makes it out of this alive.

He starts walking.

It’s a trudge, really, up a reasonably steep hill. He slips once or twice and puts a knee into the dust, kicking up a froth of it around him that clings to his sweaty skin and white t-shirt. By the time he finds Mia, he’s going to look like he swam and crawled all the way to her.

Good.

He crests the hill to find… more hills. There are a series of large buildings that don’t look anything like homes, more like warehouses or farmhouses. Given that it’s not yet harvest season, only a few hands are out tending the vines. He descends towards them, probably looking as ridiculous as he ever has in his life.

They seem to want to ignore him. It’s a habit of Italian men, maybe. He has to wave and walk straight up to the closest figure, an older, shorter man with only a few teeth to speak of.

“Ciao. Uh… Mia Bianchi?”

Shawn hopes if she’s the lady of the house, they’ll know to take him to her. The man stares back blankly.

“Uh… dove… Mia Bianchi?” he tries again. The man looks over his shoulder at his coworkers, who’ve stopped to stare at the tall, sunburnt Canadian idiot. Shawn sighs.

He doesn’t even have a picture to show them. She’s the love of his stupid life and he doesn’t even have a picture of her.

Except that he does. He has a lot of them. Black and white and sparkling. And completely inappropriate to be sharing with a bunch of strange farmhands. He grunts and reaches for his phone anyway, nearly dead, just like his chances of making this stupid romantic gesture work.

Shawn zooms in carefully to just her face and shows it to the smaller man. He squints and attempts to touch the screen, but Shawn nearly slaps his hand away.

“Dove Mia Bianchi?” he almost whines.

One of the younger hands strides up and glances at the picture. He exchanges a few words with the others and looks Shawn over. He sighs and nods at a golf cart a few yards away, then walks towards it.

Shawn blinks, then follows.

If nothing else, it’s a faster way to get over the hills. Plus, if he’s on the vineyard, she can’t be far, right?

“Mia?” Shawn asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

The guy shrugs. It’s not very comforting. But Shawn’s out of options, so he gets in the cart.

The hills just keep going. After about ten minutes of cruising along and over them with nothing but vines in sight, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful for the ride. He glances over at his driver, seemingly much more sane than Giorgio.

“Shawn,” Shawn says, pointing to himself with a flat smile and a little wave.

The man nods. “Maurizio.”

“Grazie, Maurizio,” Shawn grunts, sitting back as they ascend another, steeper hill. He worries for a moment about the possibilities of this golf cart skidding back down from whence it came. It becomes unimportant when they reach the peak and he sees a house.

Well, it’s not just a house. It’s practically a palace. From behind it, he can see the way it sprawls over tens of thousands of square feet. There’s a pool, he thinks, and a few different gardens, and it looks like a grove of trees, maybe olive or citrus, he’s not sure. At some point, the path turns from dirt to pebbles and the ride gets louder. It almost drowns out Shawn’s heartbeat in his ears.

Maurizio slows under the shade of two old stone pine trees and turns up a narrow path lined by lush, well-tended gardens replete with color. He takes the curve around the fountain in the center of the path slow enough for Shawn to notice the detailing. The basin of the fountain is held up by a sculpture of a renaissance-style naked woman. Curled against her, with his arm around her hips, is a man helping her hold it up. His face is tucked tenderly into her neck.

The cart stops. Maurizio clears his throat. Shawn stands and steps off.

“Uh, grazie!” he calls as Maurizio starts to gun it back down the path. Maurizio looks back at him and laughs in a way Shawn doesn’t need translated.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Shawn sighs for the millionth time that afternoon. He knows.

It’s golden hour on the coast. Behind the red tiled roof, the sun spills marigold light everywhere it touches, including the belltower on the chapel beside the main house. Green shudders flap gently in the evening breeze. The front door is wide open. The smell of fresh bread has Shawn’s mouth filling with saliva. He starts to head toward the door when he hears something.

Off to the left, down a grassy footpath, he follows it. It’s as familiar to him now as her perfume, as the feeling of her hair in his fingers, as the smile she gives him when he’s very good for her.

He’d know Ol’ Blue Eyes anywhere now.

It’s one of his Italian tracks, playing off a turntable parked in another open door on the side of the house. He drops his bag beside it, smiling when he hears pruning shears and quiet steps. The record sleeve reads “Come Back to Sorrento.”

He takes a deep breath and follows the sound of the shuffling steps. Sinatra’s voice fades as Shawn nears a small grove of olive trees. The grass below his feet is dappled with shade and the streaming sunset light. A breeze rustles a wave of red fabric out behind the trunk of a tree toward the back of the grove.

Shawn holds his breath, watching a long bronzed leg follow it, stepping backward, then another. She’s on her tiptoes, barefoot in a deeply red mid-length sundress, the cap sleeves fluttering around her arms that follow her focused eyes to the branches above her head. She hasn’t spotted him yet. He could still run. He doesn’t have to stand here until she throws her pruning shears at his head for showing up at her family home unannounced in fucking Italy.

Mia turns her head to check on another branch and he lands in her periphery. Her lips part. Her eyes blow wide like saucers. The shears fall by her feet. She lowers off her toes to face him. The wrap dress hugs her everywhere he’d like to.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, lifting a hand into her hair just as another breeze picks up around them, lifting her dress around her knees to wave at him.

“So… uh… ciao,” Shawn nearly chokes.

Mia just stares for a minute. It feels like forever since she’s seen him, even if it’s only been a couple weeks.

He’s fucking glorious even covered in dirt. His hair is a little matted and sweaty, like he was wearing a hat. His white shirt clings to him. His black jeans have patches of dirt on the knees that give her flashbacks to the day she took him to Malibu in her Aston Martin. She shivers.

“What-- I mean, how… I don’t…”

“Silver told me you quit,” he blurts.

Mia’s eyes seem to swell again, then shut as she groans. “She gave you the address.”

“Yeah. I think… I think maybe she wanted you to want to see me.”

Mia chews on the inside of her lip. Another breeze tickles through the olive branches, surrounding them with a light earthy scent. Shawn shifts anxiously on his feet.

“So you just… showed up,” Mia murmurs. It’s a statement of fact, expressionless. She doesn’t sound annoyed or surprised or, to Shawn’s slight disappointment, pleased. But he knew better than to expect that. Or he thinks he should have.

Shawn shrugs. “I think after everything you’ve done for me, you deserve the effort.”

Mia’s lips tuck in slightly at the corners. She nods down at her feet. “Effort, huh?”

Shawn fights the urge to reach for her, even though it feels right. He wants to do this delicately.

Patience. That’s what Silver told him. If there’s anyone besides Mia he should be listening to right now, it’s Silver.

“I came because I want to talk to you. About everything.” His voice sounds impressively calm to his own ears, even as he feels his hands shake.

Mia looks up and immediately past him into the kitchen. She cards a fluttering strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.

“I have extra towels. You can clean up in the guest bath.”

She swerves around him and into the house. He stands there in the grove for a moment or two, blinking after her.

He’s not knocked out, he’s just… regrouping. That’s what Shawn decides in the shower as he scrubs the salty sweat from his hair and watches reddish dust swirl down the drain.

He was struck dumb when she led him up the stairs to one of what looks like many guest rooms. She got him a fluffy towel and showed him how to work the faucet because it’s a bit tricky. She turned and left without another word.

Shawn didn’t have a speech prepared or anything, he didn’t write a sonnet on the long trudge up to the house, but he didn’t expect her to shut down as soon as he started getting into it, whatever it was going to be. That took the wind out of his sails.

He’s not giving up. Not yet. If after a real conversation she says she does not love him and wants him out of her house, he’ll go. He’ll hold his head high and leave, knowing he put his heart on the line. And he’ll be ok.

Shawn’s breath shakes. He blinks quickly under the spew of warm water above his head. He plants a hand against the wall for stability. It’s the first time he’s let himself think about it, really consider the idea. What if he really actually made all this up in his head? What if she’s really as good as what he pays for and feels nothing for him beyond a professional sort of fondness? Or perhaps worse, what if she’s had feelings, but they’re not enough?

He closes his eyes and slowly scrubs his face with his pruny hands. He’s conspicuously been in the shower a long time. He bets she doesn’t mind -- gives her time to strategize.

Shawn lifts his head and turns off the faucet. He doesn’t want her strategies or her carefully delivered lines. He wants her.

He wants Mia as much as he wants Penny.

For once, Mia does something that would make the former owner of this home, her great grandmother, very proud. She sets aside her panic, confusion, irritation and angst and prepares for a guest.

She sets the table. She decants a bottle of Castello di Ama chianti. She hauls the record player back inside and switches over to Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs and decides not to overthink the choice. She sets to work on a quick spaghetti alla vongole with the clams she bought at the market this morning. Her homemade loaf of ciabatta rests warm in a checkered cloth on the table.

Anything to distract herself.

But then she almost lops off a finger slicing the bread. She nicks the pad of her thumb and gasps, instinctively squeezing her fingers around the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold on, I’ll get a napkin.”

She turns from the counter to see Shawn in a t-shirt and sweats at the bottom of the stairs, his hair shining wet against his neck. He swipes a paper napkin off a credenza and meets her at the counter. She watches him as he checks the cut, dabs it with the paper, wraps his hand around it to apply pressure and holds it over her head.

He looks down at her. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not really,” she murmurs, sounding sheepish.

He’s closer now to her than he was before. Holding her arm over her head seems an oddly intimate gesture between two people who’ve seen and done a lot more. It’s heightened by the way he caresses her palm with his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“God, I missed you so much,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

Mia aches with the returning words and lets them rattle through her bones. She’s not going to say them back.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking coming here. Did you cancel work stuff? What about the album? And the tour?”

Shawn seems unfazed. “I’m on a break before we start working on tour promo. I actually went to your house. Got worried when I didn’t see Pammy’s leash outside.”

Mia’s eyes flash with affection. “She’s… staying with Gus for a while.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I bet you miss her.”

Mia’s eyes drop. Her other hand, gripping the counter behind her to keep from grabbing at him, squeezes tighter.

“Of course. All the time.”

After another few seconds of Shawn’s intense staring and Mia’s equally intense avoidance, he lowers her hand. The small cut has stopped bleeding. He cups her palm, kissing it gently. Mia turns away.

Shawn’s head drops. He sighs.

“So. You quit.”

Mia continues slicing bread. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised. I know how happy it made you.”

Mia’s stomach swoops. The ease with which he talks about her profession still strikes her sometimes when she least expects it. He talks about it like it’s any other job, like he never for a second thought to judge her for it.

“It got too complicated. I have other things I wanted to focus on.”

She takes the freshly sliced bread to the table. He follows with the bowls of salad and pasta.

“Like what?” he chirps.

Mia grunts, irritated. “A project. It’s a charitable thing.”

He seems to decide not to push for the moment. She tucks into her bowl of pasta, eager for something to shut him up.

He hums, bobbing his head as he slurps up a bite. “This is fucking great. I didn’t know you can cook.”

She shrugs. “I’m an Italian woman, Shawn. If I can’t cook, I shame my ancestors.”

He smiles as he swallows and reaches for his wine. He looks oddly relaxed, comfortable in her favorite surroundings. It strikes her as odd, suddenly, that he’s here. She’s never brought any non-family member here before. Not even Silver. Definitely not a client.

But Shawn brought himself. He flew 12 hours and, Mia knowing the journey well, probably took trains, buses, ferries and god knows what else to arrive on her doorstep.

She has yet to truly reckon with it. She sips at her own glass and watches him look around.

“This house is incredible. It’s a family place?” he asks.

Mia swallows and nods carefully. “For a long time. My great grandmother was the last one who lived here full time. We sold the vineyard in the 90s. The rest of the estate is still ours.”

Shawn looks around at the vaulted ceilings and the rustic stucco walls and stone floors. A glass door looks out onto a vast back patio strung with twinkle lights that overlooks the acres of vineyard land that used to belong to her family. The farmhands have packed it in for the evening. There’s no one in sight all the way to the horizon, where the sun has burst into flames of pink and gold. Shawn hasn’t felt this far away in a long time.

When he looks back, Mia doesn’t bother to look away. She knows the games are over. Glancing away from his pretty face so he doesn’t catch her staring won’t work anymore. He’s not here for a game. She swallows and feels her heart in her throat.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Shawn murmurs. He sits forward across the smooth oak table. The sunset light catches him through the window. It makes his intense gaze even more entrancing. Mia’s fingers twitch around her wineglass.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t think I’m ready to hear whatever it is you’re about to say.”

She watches something flicker in his eyes uncertainly. He wets his lips and seems determined to soldier on.

“Mia, I know this wasn’t the plan. For either of us. It was never supposed to become… this. But I think it’s been something real since at least Vegas. Maybe before. And I think it’s as real to me as it is to you.”

Mia’s heart sprints. She knew what he was going to say. She’s known since he showed up in her little olive grove. She’s not sure why being so close to hearing the words has her pulsating in her own skin. She shifts in her seat.

“Shawn, please…” she begins, shaking her head, “I don’t want to put you through this. I know you’re already here and… god, I still can’t believe you’re here. But I don’t want to make you say it.”

“Why?” he presses, “Why can’t I say it?”

Mia closes her big brown eyes. He misses them immediately.

“Because it’s not going to make a difference. It can’t.”

She opens her eyes when she hears his wooden chair creak. He’s sitting back, his jaw tight, his eyes still on hers. He swirls the wine in his glass absently.

“Tell me I’m crazy. Not for coming out here, not for wanting this with you, tell me I’m crazy and I imagined all of it. Tell me it was all for show, all for money. Tell me Rio wasn’t real, or your house, or my house. Fuck, tell me Vegas wasn’t real. Mia, tell me you don’t love me. Please. If it’s true, please tell me.”

It’s silent. They’re far enough up the mountain from the town of Ravello that there’s no sound but the breeze in the trees and Mia’s heartbeat in her ears. She feels her face going scarlet with every word. Her hand shakes in her lap where he can’t see it.

She sits up tall, channeling Silver, and thumbs at the base of her glass.

“Like I said, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“How could it not?” Shawn hisses. He sits forward again, his gaze imploring, “Mia, it’s the only thing that matters.”

Mia scoffs. It’s patronizing and ugly. Shawn flinches.

“We both know better than that. We’re not teenagers, Shawn. Actually, even if we were, we’d be in the same position. You’ve been very famous for a very long time. I was never an option for you the same way you’ve never been an option for me,” Mia explains, her voice quivering under her false calm.

“Jesus Christ, Mia, you’re not an option,” Shawn spits. His eyes seem to darken, or maybe it’s a trick of the fading sun, “You’re the one. You’re the fucking one.”

Mia’s eyes drift shut as they well up. She lifts her hands into her silky hair and releases a rocky sigh.

“You’re not thinking. You have to think, Shawn, not just feel. This is your whole life we’re talking about. You know I can’t just fit into it. I would be catastrophic for you. Anyone could tell you that. Andrew would be first in line, I bet.”

Shawn stands. He walks to the door and stares at the rolling hills strung with vines like Christmas lights, neat strands growing darker with the night. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If I let Andrew tell me who I can and can’t be with, my life isn’t mine. I’ve experienced something close enough to that this summer. I know I agreed to it, I know I was complicit in the whole thing, but I’m not interested in that anymore. If that’s where I really am in my life and my career, none of this is worth it. And that’s not even about you, Mia, that’s about me. I won’t put up with that. I’d sooner fucking quit and never play a show again if it meant I couldn’t be with someone I love because of however it looks to some people.”

Mia’s chest shudders. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I can’t live with that, please.”

He whirls on his heel and stares at her, eyes hot. “Don’t say what? That I’d give it up for you if I had to? Fuck, Mia, of course I would. What kind of fucking human being would I be if I picked being famous over the person that I love?”

“Stop, please,” Mia begs, shaking her head, pressing her face into her hands.

She hears him shuffle over the stone to her. His fingers are gentle as they pry her hands off her face. He cups her wrists, massaging them slowly.

“Hey,” he whispers, the aggression in his voice gone as quickly as it came, “It doesn’t matter. That’s not our reality, it doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to make that choice, so neither do you.”

Mia’s lower lip quivers. “Shawn, I don’t think you realize what would really happen if you stood up in front of the whole world and told them you love a whore.”

Shawn releases her hands. The corners of his lips turn down. His eyes are hard and somehow cracked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t say that. I know you don’t even believe that. You’ve never thought of yourself like that, I know you haven’t. You know you’re so much more than that.” His voice grows louder as he continues until he’s shouting.

Her brow furrows. “You don’t know! You don’t know anything! The things I’ve done, the things I’ve said, the things I’ve had done to me. Shawn, if you had an inkling of the depraved… fuck. If you had any idea at all, you wouldn’t be saying this. You probably wouldn’t come near me ever again.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” he barks back, his eyebrows lifting, “Really? Fine. I’ll call that bluff. I’ll sit here with you all night if you want. Tell me everything. Every filthy detail. Sorry, Mia, it’s not that fucking easy. I won’t love you any less.”

“You can say that now! You don’t know, Shawn! You don’t even know me. What do you know? You know my dog, you know my music taste, sure, you know my name. What if everything Penny did was a lie? What if you love a ghost?”

Shawn goes cold. He stiffens all over. She watches it from his eyes down. She freezes in place.

“Don’t try to tell me I love something that isn’t real,” he breathes. There isn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his face or voice. Mia looks down at her feet.

Shawn steps forward again. Slowly, gently, he cups his hands around her neck, his thumbs working softly into her jaw.

“We can talk about image and PR and logistics. We can talk about Andrew and the headlines and the future. But don’t insult me, honey. I know what’s in front of me. I know what I love. I love you. I love you, I love you. We can talk about the rest, but we can’t talk about that. That’s real and it’s not up for discussion.”

Mia’s eyes close, pressing the building tears down her cheeks. Her head lowers in defeat. Shawn’s hands skim down her shoulders to her upper arms. He plants his lips on top of her head and breathes. Two deep inhales, two deep exhales. Then he steps away and heads back up the stairs.

Neither of them sleeps that night. He’s in the guest room down the hall from her master suite. At around 3am, she gives up altogether and sits out on her balcony under the crescent moon wrapped in a chenille blanket. She’s convinced that inside she can hear him breathe.

Meanwhile he sits at the end of his bed, sheets half torn off from his tossing and turning, begging for words. He’s never had to beg before. His artistic, lyrical brain has handed them to him his whole life. Those aren’t the words he needs now. He needs the ones that will convince her.

When she wakes up, he’s downstairs in a t-shirt and boxers. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s staring hopelessly at her espresso machine. She knows he hears her come down the stairs, but he doesn’t turn around.

Silently, Mia arrives by his side. She presses a few buttons until the machine starts to whir. She reaches up to the cabinet above her and pulls down two tiny espresso cups. When she hands him one, their fingers touch. They both nearly jolt apart.

She spends the morning outside. She gets her white sundress filthy picking citrus off the trees. She hauls baskets and baskets full up to the porch. Each time she brings one up, it disappears and ends up on the counter, but she never sees Shawn move them.

At lunch, he smells more seafood. She glistens with sweat over a deep dutch oven full of hot oil, frying calamari. He slices lemons and opens the bottle of white she has on the counter, pouring them glasses. They eat silently, picking at their salads, letting Rosemary Clooney’s voice do their talking. When he finishes, Shawn looks at Mia. Mia looks up at Shawn. He takes her hand and guides it to his lips, a silent thank you. She lets him touch her for five seconds before she pulls away and heads back out to the lavender garden. When she comes back for dinner, the kitchen is clean and the fruit is stored in the butler’s pantry.

She roasts a chicken with rosemary and thyme, along with some potatoes and carrots and lets him rest his hand on her knee while they finish a bottle of wine.

“I found a guitar upstairs,” he confesses, chewing his wine-stained lower lip.

She glances over at him. “My grandfather’s. It’s old and shitty but yours to use if you want it.”

He nods appreciatively, rubbing his thumb into her warm skin. She aches to rest her fingers on his pulse, just to prove he’s really there.

That night, they clean up together. He walks her to her room and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t hear his footsteps walk away from her door for a long minute after she closes it.

His gentle plucking of the guitar from down the hall puts her to sleep.

She’s gone when Shawn wakes up. He lets himself panic for only a minute or two. All her stuff is still here, and this is her house, after all. She returns around lunch in an old pickup truck with bags from the market. Eggs, cream, cocoa, fresh mascarpone. She announces she’s making tiramisu for after their branzino dinner. She smiles a little, tentatively, and it nearly makes him fall at her feet.

Neither of them seems interested in disappearing today the way they did the day before. They hover near each other, rotating positions, swirling like opposing magnets. Shawn keeps the guitar close. Once he gets it in tune, it doesn’t sound too bad. He works on a melody. He thinks it must be good because she’s humming along in the kitchen while she prepares a batch of limoncello and rosemary gelato.

(He doesn’t know what army she’s cooking for, but he just hopes he gets to be a part of it.)

He finishes the song that afternoon, pacing around the lavender garden with a sprig of it tucked behind his ear. When he’s satisfied and turns to head inside around sunset, he clocks her on a balcony above looking very settled, like she’s been there a while. She’s far enough up that she didn’t hear it, so she must’ve just been watching him.

They eat in silence -- branzino with lemon, citrus salad, arugula with balsamic, then tiramisu for dessert. They nearly finish two bottles of wine, like they’re both preparing to get mouthy. Shawn goes first.

“I think I knew when I bought the necklace. Like, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew what it would mean to you to have that. I wanted so badly to give you something as meaningful as what you’ve given me.”

Mia stiffens at the sudden conversation after a long drought. She recovers quickly, thanks to the wine.

“What I gave you was sex, Shawn. A lot of it. Really good sex that required you to make no decisions, gave you no responsibility. I took care of you in a way you’ve never been taken care of before.”

His eyes flash and Mia regrets her words immediately.

“If you really think I don’t know the difference between sex and love by now, you must think I’m a fucking moron.”

Mia’s chest deflates as she sighs. “I don’t think you’re a moron.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re treating me like one,” he jabs, draining his wine. She misses his heavy, warm hand on her knee when he stands and starts pacing back and forth in front of the table.

Mia stares at him, tensed with every word she won’t let herself say, every feeling she’s been beating back for months. Her spine aches. Her brain swims. Her mouth is dry.

Shawn stops suddenly so that his boot skids a little on the stone floor. Mia blinks quickly.

He stands in front of her, staring. Slowly, without moving his eyes from hers, he lowers to his knees, turning her in her seat to face him. Having his hands on her again makes her want to scream. She waits, holding her breath.

“I just need you to say it. Please. I know you don’t think it’s enough, so it can’t hurt, right? Because there’s a part of me, the piece I hate, the piece I’ve always hated and that’s always hated me that still wants to convince me it’s not true. So please, please, just once, just say it. Say it if it’s true.”

Mia’s knuckles are white as she grips her chair. They feel oddly detached and wiry when she pries them up, flexes them, and sieves them into his hair. His eyes shut. He lowers his head to rest in her lap. She takes a deep breath.

“I love you, Shawn Mendes.”

Mia’s on the counter in an oversized t-shirt, swinging her feet, eating limoncello and rosemary gelato out of the freezer bowl. Shawn stops at the bottom of the stairs and smiles at her. His love for her gets so big it feels ready to explode out of his ears.

He shuffles up to lean beside her at the counter with the extra spoon she offers. They eat quietly, smacking their lips.

“So what’s the charity project?”

He catches her off guard while she puts away the rest of the ice cream. She stands upright, a little too straight, then catches herself and forces herself to relax.

“Uhm… it’s an idea I had a long time ago. A non-profit sort of thing for La Splendeur. A way to look out for the girls that are working jobs like mine but on the street. It’s always seemed so arbitrary to me, you know? The women that wind up as courtesans making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year flying all around the world doing the same thing that women standing on street corners do, constantly putting their lives in danger. Sex work is so odd that way.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. “How can you help them?”

He watches her brighten a little, scooping hair behind her ears as she explains.

“Resources make all the difference. Women like that end up there because they don’t have resources. We can provide shelter, safety, rehabilitation if necessary. We can start a scholarship fund. We can offer career counseling and interview practice and resume building. Or we can help them organize and stay safe so they don’t end up with pimps. They just need help, and money can provide a lot of that.”

He bobs his head, clearly interested. “So where does the money come from?”

“Philanthropists and investments. Between Silver and I, our network is pretty vast. A lot of the donors will likely prefer to remain anonymous because of the nature of it, but we only need a couple powerful people that would speak up and draw attention. If they say it’s ok to care, it’s ok to care. Julia Granger and Christian Becker could be those people.”

Shawn cracks a smile. “So where are you in all this?”

Mia smiles back, infected by the pride written all over his face. “Silver and I are finalizing the paperwork for the creation of the non-profit. We’ll start approaching investors formally when I get home.”

Shawn ducks his head, turning his enormous, goofy smile down at his feet. “That’s incredible, Mia.”

His voice is gentle, touched. She tingles all over. She wants to run into his arms just to feel them around her again. She locks her own around her chest instead.

“Th-thank you. It’s been a long time coming.”

They lock eyes again. The air sizzles.

Mia smiles sadly. The silence is pregnant with potential headlines written about the Canadian golden boy loving the whore who wants to help the whores. Shawn scrabbles for words to fight them off but comes up choked and huffing breath.

He watches her disappear outside, heading for the vineyard.

The bottoms of Mia’s feet are nearly black. She takes a sick sort of pleasure in it. It makes her feel like a kid again, she guesses. Reminds her of chasing Peter around the gazebo, skinning knees, playing “scuba divers” in the pool while their family ate and drank and sang, happier in Ravello than they ever were in New Jersey.

She sits on the swing beneath the pergola, listening to him sing now. The house is so much quieter than it used to be, but no less filled with love. It’s a different kind of love. And despite their desperation to beat it away, it gets stronger every second. Shawn is the strong one, the brave one, she thinks, letting it into his heart before she could.

Because it’s not like he’s not scared. She knows he is. She can hear it in his voice and see it in the way he holds himself around her. He can’t know what would happen if they made it real -- could they last? Could they manage to see past all the bullshit the papers would surely print and hold on? If they did, would their love be worth anything after all the bulletholes and sharp words?

She hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, leaning into his melody. She has the song memorized now. He keeps playing it the same way like he’s planning on changing something but never does. She already knows it’s perfect.

It’s a love song about tortured yearning, a hidden love, a love that’s bursting, searching for the sunlight. Mia thinks it’s his best ever. She considers herself biased.

After the sun sets, she heads inside. He’s not really playing anymore, just kind of plucking away. She needs to think about getting dinner ready. He’s sweet, offering to cook, since she does so much of it, but she really loves cooking Italian food with Italian ingredients in Italy and won’t think of wasting an opportunity. Plus, she still loves taking care of him.

The stairs to the wine cellar are cool, worn stone. The cellar is built into the foundation of the house, which was once part of a fortress that stood on their property in the 11th century. Now lined with shelves of hundreds of bottles of every variety of Italian wine, it’s one of Mia’s favorite spots.

His footsteps are quiet, too. He’s adopted her barefoot lifestyle. He stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Facing the wall of dolcettos from the 80s, Mia twirls a finger around a protruding bottle, covered in dust, with a foil cap.

“I used to hide down here when Peter and I played hide and seek. For some reason he never thought to look down here. I always thought it was so obvious.”

Shawn steps closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Maybe he wanted to let you win.”

Mia smirks, looking over her shoulder at him. “Maybe.”

She turns, her arms crossed behind her back, leaning against a shelf. He fixes his eyes on hers, biting the inside of his lip.

“I’m not… I mean, I’m not saying it would be easy,” Shawn murmurs, rubbing at the back of his sunburnt neck, “I know better than anyone how it all works. I don’t want you to think I’m just ready to throw us both to the wolves. I wouldn’t do that to you or to us. I just want to talk about it, for real. I… I know we’re worth it, honey.”

Mia’s chest inflates. She tilts her eyes up at the low ceiling. Her tears start hot and fast.

“I could be the thing that ruins everything you worked so hard for. I don’t want that for either of us. I’m not sorry about who I am or what I’ve done, despite what I’ve said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be ripped apart publicly for it. That kind of attention puts more pressure on a relationship than either of us is really prepared for. You have to know that.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I do. I know. I don’t want that for you or for me. But I don’t think that’s the only outcome possible. I think this would take a lot of thought and discussion about what we’re both comfortable with. And it’s going to take some of both of us… letting go a little. Which I know isn’t your favorite thing.” He looks at her pointedly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Mia chuckles for the first time in days. “Point taken.”

Shawn senses cracks in the veneer with the way she’s looking at him now, like she actually might be considering it, all of it. For him. With him.

He takes a chance, and takes her hand.

“And the most important thing is we go at our own pace. We… I mean, obviously, we’ve done and seen a lot already. And I know I have so much left to learn about you. We can focus on that first, just getting to know each other more. I know how to make a relationship really loud, but I know how to keep it quiet, too. If that’s what you want.”

She looks down at their entwined fingers. She blinks quickly and feels her heart rate pick up, like her body knows something her mind hasn’t decided yet. She swallows and looks back up at him.

“I’ve never been both Penny and Mia with one person before. Because I know I am both. Penny’s as much a part of me as Mia is. I got good at letting them share my body because they never inhabited it at the same time. I’m still trying to figure out how that’s supposed to work. How I’m going to be caretaker and businesswoman, domme and girlfriend. I don’t know how to be someone who wants to be honest and upfront about my history and also wants a big white wedding and a couple kids. So if I don’t know how to do that, be that, how can you know and love that about me?”

Shawn’s smile is cautious but warm. He scoops up her other hand and cradles them close to his chest. He’s not afraid of showing her how his heart is clanging around in his chest. She’s had a piece of it in her body for a while now.

“Because it’s you, Mi. Whether or not you’ve meant to, you’ve let me know both. I’ve loved both this whole time. I just want the chance to be there with you as you figure it out.”

Mia looks up at him. She thinks about the night they met -- watching him come completely undone, taking a sip from his glass, waking up to see him slam his eyes shut to pretend he wasn’t watching her. She sees the same look of wonder in his eyes now as he looks down at her, all of her. Mia always knew she was worth loving. Having someone else figure that out was always the part she wasn’t sure of. But she’s sure now. He is, too.

Mia pulls her hands from his, sliding them up his chest. She plucks at the curls at the back of his neck, tugging him closer as she presses back against the shelf. Shawn’s breath hitches in his chest. His hands fall to her hips.

Mia nods, no words of protest left. His lips are gentle against hers, confident and calm. She lets him take the lead this time.

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

Grazie mille 💜

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @mendesoft @singanddreamanyway @alone-in-madness @abigfatmess @shawnitsmutual @awkwardfangirl2014 @september-lace @sinplisticshawn @rollingxstone @yslsaint @randi-eve @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire @itrocksmysocks @parkerspicedlatte @simpledomain @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day @thecurlsofgod @magcon7280 @bensbuttercup @shawnsmusical @paigeasourous @tell-me-when-ur-ready @softmendesss @searchingunderthestars @buggy-blogs @mendesficsxbombay @tnhmblive @greedydevil @tamegray @meltingicequeen @havethetimeeofyourlifee @normalcyisoverrated-beyou @t-i-n-y-d-i-n-o @hannahlouiseee @sarahlauramendes @shawnsmoose @mendezlatte @1dbetch @graysonmendes @shawnsababe @ineffsi @ultradreamologistblog @bluerose711 @sauveteen @valedictorian65 @cleocc @ly--canthrope

#Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fiction #shawn peter raul mendes #sub!shawn #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes drabble #shawn mendes one shot

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somethingmissingthiswaycomes · 4 years

Text

Nightmare time!

I dreamed that, presumably at some point in the future, this thing was developed. An irl character creator. The characters were conscious, living, emotive beings, but they were editable at any point in time. They were also like children They would start out literally as babies, and you had to go through a process with some paperwork and junk, but once you were doing that they were already growing. You had to be there for them in a high-speed childhood so they would see you as their parent and feel cared for—because oh boy, is it easy to forget how fast they grow and miss ten whole years of their life.

Once they're full grown, you can still edit their appearance. How?? Well, all you really have to do is like. gesture. They do it themselves at your input. Because they're not technology, and there's no way to actually control them.

They

Are

Made

Worms

Tapeworms, specifically.

They're a hive mind of tapeworms with a shape-shifting/cloaking ability that let's them look human.

And they can shoot individual tapeworms into other living things, under skin and into plants, because of course they can.

But all you have to do is treat them with love and affection and they won't uhhhh do that?

Yeah, that didn't work out.

The one I made for some ungodly reason felt hurt when she realized I was grossed out by the fact she was made of worms. Her response to that was to try and make it more interesting, useful, good, etc. She showed me that she could absorb information from anything she stuck a worm into. It was just a plant, but I watched stuff slither around under the surface thinking "uhhhhh this thing is dead, oh God, aah" then the worms popped back out and went back into my weird worm child.

She never turned evil this whole time. That's what's most disturbing I think. Nightmarish stuff happened, but all she wanted was to be loved for who and what she was.

Anyway at least one or two worms ended up staying in the plant, which did in fact die, and took on the shape of a... monstrous version of the original plant. These tapeworms grew and reproduced asexually, hense the character created child actually growing, so this new tapeworm plant monster, pressumably mad power hungry on the knowledge that it could not only absorb knowledge, but take over the full body and DNA structure of anything it took over, started shooting out these barbs that would stick in people and, yeah, get under their skin. Eat them from the inside, fill them up with worms, and bam, more of it.

Fucking

Ran

There was no avoiding it. It quickly took over the entire goddamn world.

Now, there was another part of my dream that felt like a whole different thing, but it got mixed up in this bit, so I'll try to explain. The people making these beings knew this could happen. There were different... breeds, or strains, that would just reproduce uncontrollably, and refused to assimilate into a human form. Or any form. I don't think they could. Aaand they couldn't be killed or destroyed... So they were placated. They seemed content to reproduce and then fuse/merge into each other, forming bigger and bigger combined consciousnesses.

They weren't tapeworms btw. Trey looked more like the fluke worms in Hollow Knight, which I just googled and found out are, in real life, another kind of parasite.

Great!

So, somehow, these out of control tapeworm creatures who realize they could do anything they wanted got to the flukeworm masses, and things. kept going.

The government got involved. I saw helicopters and shit. Military stuff. I was running across a field at one point trying to wave down a helicopter because oh God get me off the ground and it — landed on its side, a guy climbed out, and he shot me. I'm not sure why. But I was begging him to NOT shoot me for a second before everything just. ended.

Then I woke up in a horror movie situation with some knowledge about what was going on that I assume got to me through the parasitic nightmares now living in my undead brain.

Any body that was in anyway intact after death (with some really upsetting visuals thanks brain) would never get a break. Ever. The flukeworm/tapeworm nightmare situation had grown into this massive flesh beast, and all of these human bodies, preserved as they are, were swallowed into it and stuck on the walls of the inside, which looked like... just... skin, but with all these broken human bodies spread eagle on the walls, some kind of white filament outlining their little personal bubble.

There was some practical reason for this, but at that point I went "FUCK NO WAKE ME UP" and the dream ended.

There was a point earlier on that I thought was like... another path the dream could take? Or some randomness? But I think it works out better placed in the future.

Half of the entire world was taken up by these giant tubes of flesh. They were conscious, and kept merging into each other, shrinking the overall population but growing each time. There were no individual beings on that half of hhe earth. But these intelligent masses allowed the other half to be left unharmed. There was even a bit where some individual being did somehow develop out of that mess, and they encouraged her to leave because she didn't belong there, rather than,,,, absorbing her. Which they could have.

They were benevolent, apparently. They grew more intelligent as they assimilated more and more beings. As they fused together. I think that was their goal. Become more and more intelligent, more and more conscious, more and more alive.

I think they left/kept the humans alive because the process took so long.

#last night i dreamt #Nightmares #cw body horror #Cw tapeworms #Cw gross #Cw gore #Cw nightmare fuel #Flukeworms #Tapeworms #Parasites #Cw parasites

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kainumbernine009 · 3 years

Text

I literally cannot do anything else until I get this out.

I’m... really not okay.

And when I say that, I’m not mentally unstable. I say that because I’m tired of waiting on empty promises, I’m tired of never having money in our account, I’m tired of living in a fucking city where half of the white people fucking worship the ground Trump walks on, and where most of the gay community has so much messy drama that it’s worse than middle school. And I went to a rough middle school.

I never talk about my past, because I don’t like to. It sucked. HARD. Being and only child in my family was nothing less than torture, especially as a closeted queer person. We grew up in the white Christian part of Nashville that dominated Music Row in the 90′s and early 2000′s. I played basketball with Alan Jackson’s daughter, and being around famous people was just no big deal. But, my parents decided to leave Nashville after my dad lost his job at TPAC, and we moved down south an hour to the town where the KKK got started (Pulaski, TN).

I had maybe two non-white people in my private Christian school growing up. I was never afraid of Black people, but my parents showed their racist asses quick when we moved there. The KKK has never left America, guys, no matter how many articles you read or studies you do. From 2005 to 2009 I saw a white town show its very worst to the Black community. I’ll never forget the first time I saw a march for “White Christians for Purity” the summer before Obama got elected. The disgust I felt inside was palpable. I had all kinds of friends in school, and I didn’t give TWO SHITS who they were or what they looked like... but I saw children my age, being brainwashed by their parents, that “white” is “right.”

Ever since then, I have been learning and growing about the issues of race. I remember my white classmates using the N word and getting away with it. I remember hearing about the principal at the high school punishing all the Black kids but not the white kids. I remember being invited to a church south of town that was a historically Black church, and how nice the ladies were to me for coming.

But I’ll never forget the racism that the religious groups promoted there, especially First Baptist Church and the 12 Tribes. I’ll never forget how FBC told me that my friend was going to Hell because she killed herself. I’ll never forget my mom telling me not to marry a Black man because of “impure genes.” I WILL NEVER FORGET THE INJUSTICES I SAW WHITE PEOPLE DOING TO BLACK PEOPLE THERE. NEVER.

And thank God, I have shaken the burden of religious guilt, but I still fight against this mentality. I live in a place that’s usually not even 10 minutes away from Trump-humping, sister-fucking, meth-addicted Confederate cunts in any direction. And we’re even closer to the rich white people who silently supported him, upset that their taxes would go up because of Biden.

And in the past four years since Trump got elected, I’ve gotten married, graduated college with honors, started my own photography business, and was making more than my husband there for a minute. I did my own taxes, marketing, editing, and everything. And then I came out as trans.

I lost everything.

I lost my studio. I lost friends. I had rumors started about me. I had people post hate messages on my wall. I had people at my drag shows tell others not to tip me, for whatever fucking reasons. I’ve had bosses give cis people jobs over me, and I’ve had government workers give me second looks when I hand them my license.

It. Fucking. Sucks. To. Live. Here. Like. This.

Oh yeah, did I mention I’m also a witch/medium? I’ve talked to dead people before and have told their relatives things I shouldn’t have known otherwise about their grandparents. Like, this information doesn’t even exist on Google. And I’m attuned to reiki. I’m always aware of what’s happening on at least SOME metaphysical level. This is a gift that I’ve had to go through life developing and learning about myself, with no one’s help but me.

I didn’t even know until I was an adult that I have autism and ADHD.

I’ve taken bullets from people who were about to kill themselves. I’ve yelled at 5th grade music classrooms for doing racist dance moves and appropriating Native Americans (I have a degree in Music Education K-12). I’ve consoled kids in classrooms who suddenly have panic attacks. AND I’ve told horny teenagers to stay in their fucking lane and respect the girls around them. I’ve apparently been an inspiration to those around me, but inspiration NOR exposure pays the bills. I’ve already had COVID, and so has my husband, but I knew that after graduating college that I would never have a fulfilling life being a music teacher in Tennessee’s public schools.

And now that we have COVID, and an orange, small-dicked, pedophilic, rape apologizing, dirty, crusty white president who STILL REFUSES TO CONCEDE, who is DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE FOR HAVING HIS FOLLOWERS SEND DEATH THREATS TO MY FAMILY, I really don’t know what the fuck else to do other than go burn down all the houses I know of in North Georgia that belong to these Christian sex cult pedophiles and call it a day. My girlfriend unfortunately was born into one of those families, and I know just how bad it can get. In fact, her dad’s lawyer threatened me with blackmail earlier in November, so that was fun!

And now, on December 11, 2020, I’m still sitting here in the same fucking house, doing the same fucking things I’ve been doing all year - trying to get a job and failing horribly. I’M SICK AND TIRED OF THIS COVID BULLSHIT AND OUR INCOMPOTENT CUNT OF A PRESIDENT! And there’s only ever one other person I’ve ever called a cunt... my own mother.

I’ve lived in many places. I’ve met many different people. I’ve made mistakes, and have grown, but there’s one thing for damn sure that I always make sure to do, every single fucking day.

I ALWAYS try to do better.

In addition to this, I treat everyone with the same amount of respect, unless they have done something directly to me to negate that. If I know that someone believes in something that directly harms me or my family, I don’t even associate with them. I don’t spend my energy on things that don’t need it. And everyone else should, too.

The problem with some of y’all is that you care about the wrong things. Like will Becky text me back or did I get front row seats to that concert, or did I slave my life away to capitalism just so that I can own a Mercedes and have my friends jealous. I’ve had way too many dear death experiences to know that EVERY single fucking day is a gift. EVERY day.

I don’t want to be remembered first for the art I create. I want to be remembered for my character. I want to be remembered as the courageous person who never backed down in the face of adversity. But when you live in a place that already hates you and that is against you, that’s really fucking hard. Trust me. My marriage went from a cis straight passing couple to a white gay passing couple. I’ve seen how people’s attitudes changed around me as I transitioned. I know what it feels like to slowly lose a piece of your privilege you were born with.

So yeah, I kinda get a little fucking upset when I see people saying All Lives Matter, or when I see doctors refusing to treat trans patients in pandemics, or when I see cops YET AGAIN harassing Black people only a few blocks away from my house for no other reason than racism. And at this point, anyone who thinks they know me but only knows what people think they know about me can suck my entire ass and eat ten dicks. I don’t give a FUCK about who you are or what you’ve done. If you treat me or other people with no respect for no reason other than to be an asshole, you’re just plain shit. If you SERIOUSLY believe every little rumor and lie that someone tells about me before meeting me, fuck you AND the horse you rode in on.

What I can’t stand is people doing or saying things just to get a rise out of me or others. I thought we left petty shit in high school. Some of the people that “know” me really need to fucking grow up and grow a pair and either say what they want to my face, or stay mad. I’m tired of playing fucking petty games with y’all. We have a whole ass pandemic to solve.

So here’s the ultimatum... if you agree that Black Lives Matter and that queer people deserve basic human rights, EVEN THE ONES YOU HATE, then that’s the bare minimum to even be a decent person. If you can’t even do those things, then I don’t fucking know what else to say to you.

So NBC, maybe not have John Mulaney joke about my license debacle with my gold van on SNL, and Seth Meyers... maybe HIRE ME INSTEAD of Mulaney because clearly y’all don’t know about the south as much as I do? Oh, and that gazeebo joke with Lee University... I caught that. I may have autism, but I’m not a fucking idiot. I mean. I’m funny when I’m given the chance. And yeah, I’m on a watchlist, but who the fuck isn’t these days? At least all my secrets are out for the world to see, and I have a bangin’ tattoo.

I’m tired of everyone being like “omg, I’ve seen what he can do, it’s fantastic!” or “omg you’re so funny haha” and bragging on me and then NOT FUCKING HIRING ME. I’m TIRED of waiting on something that’s clearly at this point never coming.

I don’t even have testicles, and my balls are bigger than most of the cis men I have EVER met.

So, if you want to help me, or hire me, or get me out to an audition... I’ll be there. But until then, I’m so fucking MAD at some of these producers. Yeah, my mom is a cunt, but she worked in various forms of digital production from the 1980′s until she retired this year. She taught me SO MUCH about directing, writing, shooting, and more. I know how these things are supposed to run behind the scenes. I know what the fuck I’m doing, and I don’t take constructive criticism like a bitch. I actually WANT to be criticized, so I can do even better.

So PLEASE, for the love of Christ... y’all need to get your priorities together AND PLEASE STOP LEAVING ME OUT OF THE LOOP WITH THIS BULLSHIT. Grow a fucking pair and either call me, email me, or leave me alone. It’s really not that fucking hard. Looking at you, Lorne Michaels.

Oh and someone tell my husband what the fuck’s been going on because I’m tired of him gaslighting me about it.

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