Kip Tweedy headcanons (Or facts, since she's my character??)

(even if no one asked) (For those who don't know, Kip is my Chicken Run OC. She's a human character, but is an ally to the chickens! She can talk to animals, which is a special power only she has!.. In the events of the first movie, Kip would be around 10! For the sequel, she'd be 16!)

-She is related to Melisha Tweedy, but she has Willard Tweedy's last name because the Tweedys adopted her. They are Kipper's legal parents, but she'll still refer to them as her aunt and uncle.

-Kip loves rainy weather! She enjoys taking calming nature walks in the rain because the air smells so fresh.

-Kip is quite multi-talented. She's always been good at arts and crafts, for example! However, she learned her cooking skills from her Aunt Melisha! Melisha (obviously) wouldn't ever really "play" with her young niece. Instead, Melisha would teach Kip skills and that is how they'd mainly bond with one another.

-Kip also learned a lot of "handyman" skills from her Uncle Willard. Yes, Kip loves learning about tools and repairs. When she was little, she'd "help" Willard by passing him hand tools as he would fix something that had broken (that is how she learned what all the tools were called!). As she got older, Mr.Tweedy taught Kip how to use tools safely and efficiently. She's quite good at it. When she reaches high school, she's the only girl to sign up for any woodworking class and is better than most of the boys! (Bonus info: Mrs Tweedy was always nervous about Kip getting hurt, and Willard being too stupid to protect Kip properly, so she was never a fan of her niece messing around with power tools...until she became good at them and could fix things around the house!)

-Her first friends on the farm (when she first moved in with the Tweedys) were Nick and Fetcher! The rats were raiding the house for food and junk, and Kip would always catch glimpses of them from the corner of her eye...maybe she'd leave out snacks for them to take?? (I haven't come up with all the details yet) But I'm imagining Kipper sneaking downstairs at night and chilling in front of the fridge with the rats as they have a late-night snack together in secret. They'd introduce themselves, and become acquainted. A few days later, the rats would thank Kip for the food with a small toy they found on their journeys!

-Kip is scared of needles! She has a hard time handling medical stuff in general

-Her best friend, however, is Ginger! She gets along well with Babs and Mac too. Bunty wasn't a fan of Kip at first because Kip is human and the hen distrusts her. Eventually, Bunty grows fond of Kip when she sees examples of Kip's goodness.

-Kipper is Molly's favorite aunt (Auntie Kip!) and will be overcome with joy whenever she comes over for a visit. When Kip stays for a few weeks, Molly will want to spend each night over with her auntie and her cool tent. The two will listen to music together, eat candies and chips, and maybe even draw pictures together!

-Kip's favorite food are french fries!

(Adding an old drawing of Kip for reference! hehe)

You Are In Love - S. R.

Pairing: Lawyer!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader Summary: Glimpses of yours and Steve’s life together, starting with your first meeting. Fluff with 2% angst.  Word Count: 3.5K Warnings: death of a parent, grief, brief mentions of funerals, smut, oral (f receiving), mention of alcohol Inspired by: ‘You Are In Love’ by Taylor Swift

There was something about weddings. Some dreamy combination of cake, champagne, and romance that made people do crazy things. Groomsmen awkwardly hit on bridesmaids, 19-year-old cousins stole sips of booze when no one was looking, uncles got far too intoxicated, and well-meaning friends shared horribly inappropriate stories.

But how often did people fall in love at weddings?

You were nursing a flute of champagne while the procession announced the bride and groom. The bride was a friend of yours from college and as she danced with her new husband, you glanced across the room and locked eyes with- well, you didn’t know his name but God dammit if you didn’t want to.

He was a stunning specimen. Tall, broad shoulders, classically handsome, a well-trimmed beard and brunette hair. He caught your eye the way a stunning piece of art does- one that you stare at trying to understand its beauty and makes you want to save it forever. Print it out, make it your screensaver, and just try to hold on to this piece of perfection.

His blue eyes were exquisite and they were locked on you. While the newlyweds slow danced to a dreamy ballad, you made your way toward tall, sexy, and handsome.

You moved discreetly so as to not draw attention away from the couple. When you landed in front of him, you realized that you didn’t have a game plan. But thankfully, you didn’t need one.

“Beautiful wedding, isn’t it?” He asked. Thank God weddings came with their own default ice breakers.

“So beautiful. I’m really happy for them.” You said, looking toward your friend.

“How do you know the happy couple?” He asked.

“I was roommates with the bride in college. How about you?”

“I loosely know the groom. My brother works with him. His girlfriend dumped a few weeks ago so he brought me.” He told you.

You frowned.

“Aw, your poor brother.”

He chuckled and gestured toward two people in the back of the ballroom leaning against a pillar and making out.

“I think he’ll be alright.”

You laughed. When you looked back at him, there was an unspoken electricity. There was something magnetic about him.

“But since my brother is already indisposed, I now find myself without a date to dance with.” He said slyly.

Your stomach did a flip at his charming words.

“You want to dance with a perfect stranger?” You challenged playfully.

Without skipping a beat, he stuck his hand out.

“Steve Rogers.”

You laughed as you slipped your hand into his much larger one.

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, now that we are properly acquainted,” He said, gently pulling your champagne out of your hand and setting it on a random table. “Would you do me the honor of being my dance partner?”

Sliding your hand into his, nothing felt more perfect.

The two of you danced through every song but the slow ones were your favorite because you got to be in close proximity to him. Eventually, both of your stomachs demanded you eat and while you shared appetizers, you also shared life stories. Steve told you how he was a lawyer and how his mom raised him and his brother by herself after leaving her abusive husband when Steve was only two years old. That led to him becoming a legal advocate for battered spouses and abused children, which made your heart lurch. Somehow, despite a rough upbringing he was the most comedic and light-hearted person you’d ever met. His jokes had you in stitches all night and he confessed that his guilty pleasure meal was french fries and milkshakes. You felt honored to get such a deep glimpse of him.

And the feeling was mutual. You told him how you were working at a publishing house as an editorial assistant and your parents split up when you were five. You also talked about how you grew up poor and had to go to community college, which sprouted an urge to want to travel the entire world. Normally, sharing such intimate details about your life made your stomach twist into knots but you felt safe sharing with Steve. There wasn’t a single fiber of you that tensed in his company.

You shared a piece of wedding cake and continued telling stories. Some were lighthearted anecdotes and some of them were deep thought-provoking queries about the universe.

The wedding had died down to a dull roar, the bride and groom having left to start their lives together almost an hour ago. You and Steve were the only people remaining that weren’t completely hammered.

“I’m telling you, he’s real!” Steve protested with a laugh.

“He is not!” You cackled. “There’s no such thing as bigfoot.”

Steve had his jacket hung on the chair behind him and the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned. The small tuft of chest hair available to your sight was driving you wild but you kept your attention on what he was saying.

“Oh yeah? How do you know?” He said, bracing his palms on his chair and leaning forward. You two had pressed two chairs together, creating a makeshift bench.

“Because I’ve never seen any bigfoot carcasses in the woods.” You told him. It was cute how passionately he felt about bigfoot. There was a playfulness in his argument but you still adored how he felt so strongly about things so trivial.

“So? I bet you’ve never seen any bear carcasses either. Doesn’t mean they’re not real.” He said proudly.

You opened your mouth to respond but floundered. That logic was actually sound. You’ve never seen a bear carcass nor any footage of them. It might have been the champagne but your entire world suddenly flipped on its head.

When you locked eyes with Steve again, the two of you burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. The kind that pinches your stomach but makes you feel alive.

Unfortunately, the moment was uninterrupted when the wedding planner approached the two of you and told you that the ballroom would be closing soon and everyone had to file out. You and Steve weren’t bothered though. He stood up, slinging his suit jacket around his shoulder and offering his arm to you. Graciously, you took it.

When you got outside, there was a chill in the air but you didn’t care. That didn’t stop Steve from draping his jacket over your bare shoulders though. You smiled gratefully at him as he hailed a cab.

When the taxi approached, you felt a pit in your stomach. You didn’t want the night to stop. You turned back to Steve and you could see in his eyes that he felt the same. He swallowed and stared at the ground for a few moments before he gently grasped your hands in his.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut.

You were both drinking in the moment, delaying the inevitable goodbye.

“Can I see you again?” His voice was desperate like if you said no, he’d fall apart.

How could you say anything else but yes?

~

In the time you and Steve made a date for the following Thursday, your closet had somehow transformed from an eclectic chic wardrobe into a frumpy mess of horrifying fabrics. Of course, it was your nerves magnifying everything. You wanted this date to go perfectly. After you ripped the last dress you had off of you, you decided you’d be better off buying something new.

$120 dollars and an herbal tea later, you felt better. The dress was a stunning little navy blue number that suited your figure. You kept it in the garment bag hanging on the back of your door. It took everything in you to not put it back on and stare at yourself in it over and over again. When Thursday finally came and you put it on with the rest of your ensemble, you couldn’t help the squeal you let out.

Steve picked you up at your door, and literally looked like someone had knocked him out when he looked at you. He floundered for his words for a moment before he landed on one.

“You look phenomenal.” He said, causing your cheeks to heat up.

You gave him a compliment of the same magnitude and he led you to his car, opening the door up for you. ‘Such a gentleman’, you thought to yourself.

The date was magical. Even though it was just dinner at the Italian bistro near his place, it was like the lightning from your first encounter had struck again. You shared more details about your lives, specifically your work. You told Steve how you wanted to write a book, which he found endlessly fascinating, trying to pry bits of the plot from you (which you had yet to even develop).

He spent the entire date with your hand intertwined with his. He ordered a bottle of wine for the two of you that you polished off in no time. You shared a piece of raspberry chocolate cake for dessert and as you watched him you knew there was no other way the date was going to end.

You had found yourself sliding into his side of the booth, your hand on his chest while he whispered how beautiful you were into your ear.

“You said you only lived a few blocks away right?”

He spent the cab ride with his hand caressing your thigh and he could hardly unlock the door with you attached to his lips. You fell into his bed as easily as you fell asleep and you spent the entire night coaxing each other to earth shattering orgasms well into the wee hours of the morning.

You woke up tangled in his arms with Steve peppering kisses to your jaw and neck.

~

Being Steve’s girlfriend came with many perks. Steve being the main one, of course but it also came with a bouquet of red roses delivered to your office. You cooed as you read the card and sent a text thanking him.

Y/N: I love them, Stevie! Thank you. ♥️

Steve: Anything for you, doll. 😘

It also came with the perk of everyone at his office knowing who you were. You’d be lying if you said you didn't feel a sense of confidence and smugness being known by everyone in the office as Steve’s girl. You knocked on his office door and Steve smiled when he saw you holding a bag of takeout.

“Hey, sweetheart. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” He said as you walked into his embrace. He hugged you tightly and you gave him a sweet kiss.

“I knew you were working through lunch on that Antonoff case so I figured I’d bring you something to eat. You’re not working yourself too hard, are you?” You asked, threading your hands through his hair.

He leaned into your touch and sighed happily.

“I wish I could say no but this case is taking everything out of me. I’m gonna be so happy when we wrap it up on Friday. And then we can spend all weekend together, just like I promised.”

“Looking forward to it, handsome.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll leave you to it.” You turned to leave when something on his desk caught your eye.

It was a picture frame and in it was a picture of you. One that Steve had taken about a month ago when you went sailing and really liked your outfit. You picked the frame up and studied it intensely.

“You keep a picture of me on your desk?”

“Of course. Seeing your face keeps me going. Besides, I want everyone to know how much I love my girl.”

When it registered what he said, his cheeks turned bright pink.

You could cry, you really could. You set the frame down and sat in Steve’s lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. You gave him a sweet kiss.

“You love me?”

He touched his forehead to yours.

“I do. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Stevie.”

You smiled, so wide that it hurt. But you didn’t care. You were in love.

~

The smell of warm food woke you up from the most pleasant sleep. You climbed out of bed and walked into the living room where you saw Steve buttering a few pieces of toast. You sidled up next to him and slipped your arms around his waist.

“Smells good.” You mumble into his shoulder.

His chest rumbled with laughter.

“It’s just toast, baby.” He said, pressing a kiss into your hair. “But I do make the best toast this side of Brooklyn.”

“I will be the judge of that.” You say, stealing a piece of toast off the plate and taking a bite.

“Well?”

“Good butter to toast ratio, lightly burned, not too crunchy. I give it a 9.5.” You tell him.

His smile faltered and he pouted at you.

“Only a 9.5?”

“I’ll give you an extra half point if you give me a kiss.” You told him.

“So if I want to make it to the Toast Regionals, I have to sleep with the judge?”

You nodded.

“That’s sex politics for you.”

“Well then,” In one swift movement, Steve snaked an arm around your waist and lifted you up on top of his counter. He wedged his way in between your legs, his abs pressed against your center. He tangled a hand in your hair and pulled you close to him, his lips ghosting over yours. “If that’s what it takes.”

He captured your lips in a passionate kiss, tongue sliding against yours which elicited a moan from you. His fingers danced up your thighs and pulled your underwear down, haphazardly throwing them off to the side. He detached from your lips and kissed down your neck and chest until he was nosing at your entrance.

“Steve.” You said breathlessly. Just his mere presence was dizzying.

“Can I have you, sugar?” He asked, peering up at you through his lashes. The sight of him buried between your thighs had you clenching around nothing.

Biting your lip, you nodded.

Steve smirked and kissed your thighs for a tortuous amount of time before he finally licked a a strip up your entrance. He licked at your folds before slipping his tongue in fully and swirling it around your clit.

The warmth of his tongue and the coldness of the countertop against your ass was an intense sensation. You wound your fingers into Steve’s hair and tugged at his roots.

He smirked against you, able to tell when he was doing something that you really liked. His tongue was merciless as he ate you out, suckling at your clit but only for a moment to draw out your pleasure.

When you started whimpering and your thigh muscles tensed, Steve could tell you were close. Ever the gentleman, he didn’t keep you waiting. He ate you out vigorously, licking into you and holding onto your hips to coax you to your orgasm. When the wave of pleasure finally came over you, he licked up every bit of cum that he had been the cause of.

He took your hands in his and helped you off the counter, onto your feet. Your legs were like jelly though, so you clung to him for support.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips.

“How about I run a bath for us, sugar?”

~

Steve felt his blood turn to ice seeing you in your current state. Your eyes were red rimmed and puffy and your breath was coming out in shaky exhales. The two of you stood in the cemetery and he held your hand as silent tears streaked down your cheeks.

“I hate funerals.” You said. It was the first words you had spoken all day.

He frowned and pulled you into him, kissing your hairline.

“I know, sugar.”

You looked up at him with wet eyes.

“Get me out of here.”

He obliged.

He drove you out of town, he didn’t know exactly where he was taking you until a sign for the beach caught his eye. He led you two into a secluded cove where you could sit along some rocks and look out into the ocean.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” He asked after an appropriate amount of time.

You looked over at him. You had your knees brought up to your chest and had your arms crossed over your knees. You leaned your cheek on your arms and took him in.

“You’re doing it already.” You said, your voice hoarse. “My mom really liked you. One of the last things she said to me was to not let you get away.”

Steve scooted closer to you and slipped an arm around your shoulders, letting you cuddle into him.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

~

Steve paced around the apartment, enough to put a hole in the floor.

“Stevie, it’s only 8:47. You’ve got like 15 more minutes until you get the email.” You said calmly.

“13.” He corrected.

You playfully rolled your eyes as you continued frosting the cinnamon rolls.

An agonizing 17 and a half minutes later, Steve’s phone pinged. He paused mid bite and stared at his phone anxiously. You placed a hand over his.

“It’s gonna be okay. Deep breaths.” You reminded him.

Steve nodded and picked up his phone. He tapped it against his chin a few times before he held it out to you.

“Will you read it for me?”

You gave him a small smile and took the device from him, unlocking it and scanning over the email. Your eyes widened and you grinned at him. His eyes widened but you could tell he needed verbal confirmation.

“You got it.”

“I got it?” He asked breathlessly.

“You got the promotion!”

“I got the promotion!”

Steve barked out a laugh and ran around the island to lift you up in his arms. He spun you around, peppering kisses to your head and thanking you over and over again. You assured him that the job was all him but he reminded you that you were the one keeping him sane while he awaited his boss’ decision.

“Thank you for keeping me calm. I honestly don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

“Well let’s break out the champagne and toast to never having to find out.” You grinned at him and pulled a bottle from your wine rack and a bottle of OJ out of the fridge.

~

You had never been to Paris and you certainly wouldn’t forget your first trip. You and Steve shared a slow, chaste kiss in front of the Eiffel tower. It was almost midnight but your jet lagged minds could hardly tell.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. You always thought that when you got proposed to, you’d scream and run around and be in complete disbelief. But when you caught sight of it, your heart rate didn’t speed up and you didn’t scream because it felt right. Nothing made more sense than you and Steve. You two were a moment in history now, a classic pairing more recognized than tea and sugar. All your friends knew the love you shared, it was glaringly obvious that adoration radiated between the two of you for one another. Promising yourself to him felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He took your hand in his and got down on bended knee, blue eyes boring into yours. He had tears swimming around in his eyes but he wore an easy smile. He didn’t even have to ask to know the answer, but your Steve was a gentleman.

“There’s nothing in or outside of this world that I want besides you. You’re calming when I need peace and you’re an espresso when I need energy. I go to sleep every night dreaming about our future together, how we’ll argue about what color to paint our kids’ nurseries and eventually stop hosting Christmas Eve parties and just take family trips to Aspen instead.”

He opened up the box and nestled inside the fabric was a jaw dropping five carat diamond ring.

“You’ve made me grateful for the life I’ve been given every single day that I’ve known you. I don’t want to exist in a universe where there isn’t an us. I want to be a family, I want us to be together forever. I want us to be absolute, with no question that you were made for me and I, you. Will you marry me?”

It was the simplest question and the simplest answer.

“Yes.”

Moonlighting

Pairing: The Corinthian x Female Witch Reader Genre: Fluff, romance Warnings: Very little smut Rating: None (the smut is very minimal, so I don’t think it’s needed) Notes: - If you are curious about the ’Moonlighting’ theme song, you can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sECrATrDzY

You and Corinthian were chilling on a Saturday night like an ordinary couple. Little did you know that things would get serious between you and your boyfriend…in a good way ����

Ever since you came home from New York, you've spent all your time with Corinthian, your boyfriend. You were in the Big Apple for a week to see the sets and meet the actors of the movie that will be made from your book You were the executive producer and fortunately, you were satisfied with everything.

Alongside Corinthian, you spent time with your friend Cole and your family. They were less interested in your trip to New York, but more so in your love life. They asked if you have someone and you only told them that you are dating a guy, but you don't say more because the relationship is still fresh. And then, you didn't feel like answering their million questions.

Your boyfriend told you everything that happened while you were away. He said that Sandman, aka Morpheus, was freed from his 100-year captivity and how vile the recently created Dream Agents were. You listened to him sometimes in amazement, sometimes in shock, but you were glad that he was not hurt.

 It was Saturday night. You and Corinthian were like an ordinary couple: you were watching TV from your bed, while you and him were lying on your stomach, swinging your legs. You didn't feel like cooking, so you ordered hamburgers with cola and French fries. You nibbled the fries from a large plate while watching TV, and sometimes you fed each other. You were wearing Corinthian's sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and he was wearing grey sweatpants. His sunglasses were on the bedside table next to your bed. He didn't wear his sunglasses at home because he didn't feel the need to since he showed himself to you. It was strange to him at first. He thought he felt more vulnerable and naked without sunglasses than without clothes, but you were important to him, so he showed you his true self. It meant a lot to him that you accepted him like that, with unusual eyes.

You watched Moonlighting, one of your favourite series. You used to watch it a lot and since then, whenever you have time, you sometimes watched an episode on DVD. You loved the atmosphere of the ’80s and the legendary duo of Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. Corinthian, on the other hand, only saw a few episodes, said he wasn't really hooked, and then he had other things to do.

"Bruce was hot when he was young." you said as you bit into your fries.

"Young Cybill wasn’t bad either. If they both looked like this today, I would definitely have a threesome with them." Corinthian teased you, you rolled your eyes while let out a big sigh. He was a real artist at making every conversation around the topic of sex, but that's exactly what you loved in him.

He continued

"Did you know they allegedly didn't get along on set?"

"Yes, and I'm a little sorry, because they were so beautiful together." you said regretfully, as if it were two of your acquaintances. "You know what I figured out?" you looked at Corinthian.

"What?" He asked with raised eyebrows and a French fry in his hand.

"You're like Bruce's character, David. You're both well-dressed, charming, attractive guys, only women have a crush on David, while every breathing living thing has a crush on you." you said with a chuckle and ran your fingers through Corinthian’s hair

���Hmm, I think there is some truth in what you say.” he giggled mischievously, "I say you're like Maddie, only hotter." he said with a wink. You leaned over and gave him a kiss on the lips.

The episode came to an end with the catchy theme song performed by Al Jarreau. This song was one of those that always cheered you up when you were sad. You started singing.

"I didn't know you had such a good voice." Corinthian said in surprise. You then sat up and continued singing with theatrical hand movements, He was lying on his side looking at you happily. He loved how funny and silly you were.

You stood up on the bed and continued the song, making sure that the rest of the fries didn't fall off the plate. Corinthian laughed hard, then got out of bed and reached for his phone and started filming you.

“Oh Y/N, this is some nice footage! If you were a celebrity, I could make a fortune out of this!”

You pointed at him while singing and then said.

"Corinthian, if you don't stop filming, I'm going to call my lawyer!" you tried to pretend you were serious, but then you laughed. You got off the bed and tried to take the phone out of his hand, but you didn't have much of a chance considering he was almost a head taller than you. I’ll show you, you thought to yourself and teleported the phone out of his hand and onto the bedside table.

"Shit, I forgot you're a witch." Corinthian slapped his forehead and pretended to be surprised at what he saw. You rarely used your supernatural abilities, because you would solve everything yourself. But sometimes you used your magic power just for fun. The theme song ended, you teleported your own phone into your hand and searched for the full version of the song. Corinthian started humming.

"Shall we dance?" he asked and held out his hand to you. You gave him yours and he pulled you close. He held one hand up next to his head, interlocking his fingers with yours, his other hand holding your back and you clinging to his shoulder. You started waltzing around the bedroom, while Corinthian sometimes spun you around, sometimes he even dipped you. You were as skilled as if you had been dancers in your real life, even though you were only improvising.

He suddenly picked you up and fell on the bed with you. You looked into his teeth eyes. The whole evening you felt like you were in a romantic movie. It occurred to you that Corinthian might never had the chance to be in such a loving atmosphere with someone, but with you, he could experience the nicer, more human side of life.

“Y/N.” He said your name with his Southern drawl, which you loved so much.

"Yes, Corinthian?" you asked and stroked his cheek. He took your hand and kissed your palm. He looked deep into your eyes.

"I love you." he said.

Your heart began to beat faster, your breath hitched. You were overcome with such a feeling of happiness that you wanted to cry. He had told you several times before that he loved this and that about you, but this was the first time he actually said it. He didn't need a string quartet to serenade you, he didn't need to write it on a big poster. It was just the two of you.

And it was perfect.

"I love you too." you told him and you kissed each other gently. Corinthian looked at you, his sweet smile was radiating warmth, then kissed you again. He moaned loudly and deepened the kiss, then took off your loose sweater. He started kissing your neck, then your breasts, while you ran your fingers through his hair. Then he wandered lower and pulled your panties off. You couldn't wait for him to satisfy you so you could show him how much you love him…

Tags: @placeinthemiddleofnowhere​, @thecorilove86​

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐲

↦  pairing  :  nakamoto  yuta  x  female  reader  . ↦  genre  :  angst  ,  smut  . ↦  sub  genre  :  church  boy!yuta  ,  neighbors!au  ,  fwb!au ↦  tropes  :  mutual  pining  ,  friends  with  benefits  ,  small  town  lovers  . ↦  word  count  :  5082  . ↦  warnings  :  religion  ,  smut  ,  brief  mention  of  smoking  ,  all  lowercase  .

a  /  n  :  i’m  just  here  to  drop  this  &  then  go  back  to  lurking  ,  it’s  just  been  in  my  head  so  long  that  i  need  to  let  it  out  .  this  is  unedited  &  probably  doesn’t  make  sense  ,  but  we  r  just  gonna  roll  with  it  &  pretend  that  it  does  .  i  might  just  .  Linger  after  posting  this  but  if  u’ve  an  nct  127  member  +  a  specific  au  ,  perhaps  ,  let  me  know  .  anyway  ,,,

playlist  :  every  chase  atlantic  song  ever  (  see  :  church  &  devilish  )  ,  no  right  to  love  you  by  rhys  lewis  ,  god  don’t  leave  me  by  highasakite  .

i.  he asks you of your virtue on a friday night. you’re family friends, his parents are fond of yours and when both children are home from their post - graduate lives, they take the opportunity to reconnect. he’s washed in the red glow of the neon signs in the diner window, leaned back in the ugly red booths with his arm draped up on the seat –  and though his father leads the sermon every sunday, he looks like sin. you’ve always thought that about him; there was no way someone who looked at you like that was ever holy. so much danger laid in his dark eyes, in the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his lips –  he was utter temptation and you were just a sinner.

but, when he leans across the table to ask you, “are you a virgin?” you almost choke on your drink. your parents are right behind you in their own booth, talking to his parents about the town and the changes that keep coming –  and he’s got a smooth curve to his lips while he innocently reaches for a french fry from the little black basket on the old, linoleum tables.

“how is that any of your business?” you ask, boldly swatting his hands away from the basket you ordered after he said he didn’t want anything. “or appropriate to ask?”

“we’re friends, aren’t we?”

but you send him a skeptical look, because no –  you are not friends with yuta, or the nakamotos. your parents are. in your entire life, he’s only ever held a genuine conversation with you when forced. awkward dinner parties, after your high school graduation parties, that one thanksgiving they were invited over because your extended family bailed –  he’s barely more than an acquaintance. yuta’s a familiar face in the crowd, a vague figure you might recognize if he’s dressed a certain way, the laugh you think you recognize when you’re halfway across the country at school. you might’ve spent years pining over the boy down the street who looked like he himself was an angel, but never once has he ever looked your way on his own volition.

“is that what you call this?” you muse, picking up a french fry. “friendship?”

“listen, i’m just curious.” despite him loudly stating about how unhungry he is, he takes another one of your fries. “i was thinking about what i did to you behind the church last time we were both in town.”

his words are innocent, but his intents are devilish. despite your best efforts, you feel your cheeks heating up at the mention of spring break –  of his head underneath your dress as he spoke invocations between your thighs. he had a way with word , he always had and he had talked his way up your dress. it was just a hand on your thigh in the pews, then a ghost of kiss behind your ear when leading you out the church, then the filthy prayers that he executed with his tongue. he had drawn god’s name from your mouth while holding you against the church, held your legs apart as you cried out his name on holy ground.

he was thinking about it, but you thought of it often –  probably more than he did.

“you stopped me before we could go any further, i thought you just weren’t interested.” the corner of his lips lifted. “but then, i thought to myself, is she a virgin? is that why she stopped me?”

you chewed on your food slowly, bravely holding his gaze as the neon lights buzzed in the background. “do you think i’m a virgin?” you asked. “it’s been months since you ate me out behind your dad’s church and you’re only asking now? how long have you been thinking about me?”

unexpectedly, you match the cockiness that he wears so well. time has changed you; you’re no longer the damsel, the final girl –  purity wrapped in cream white, ring of abstinence around your finger as you keep your head bowed in submission. you’ve found freedom in the things your parents have warned you stay away from –  in men like yuta, who hold onto god while shaking hands with the devil. you wouldn’t let yourself be hurt anymore, you refused to continue to be the church girl who let everyone walk all over him. next time, you’d hurt them instead of letting yourself get hurt – you’d leave before you could get left.

you wonder if time’s changed him. unlike you, and some of the other people in your class, he didn’t opt for higher education after high school. his instagram is mostly inactive, but you’ve kept up with his temporary stories, his treks through europe and his stays in asia. everywhere he goes he looks like he belongs. there’s always someone on his arm or by his side –  he’s got an endless supply of charm that’s helped him on his way, he’s always been that way.

“a long time, angel,” he says.

and there it is –  the way he looks at you while bathed in the color of lust and sin. he is temptation and you are eve, he beckons you to take a bite, and who are you to say no? it’s barely an hour before you find yourself on top of him in the backseat of his old car with his hands in your hair and his lips on your collarbones. the windows are fogged up by the heavy breaths that fall from your lips, unholy sounds filling up the empty spaces around you.

how can something so blasphemous sound so sanctifying? your name on his tongue as he fills you up, the moans drawn from the back of his throat while his hands leave your locks to roam around your body. his palms are hot against your sweat covered skin and he leaves a trail in his wake –  like he’s drawing out a map with his fingertips, leaving his fingerprints on you. you could listen to him all day, listen to him talk about how tight you are, about how good you’re treating him, about how much he’s wanted you.

he is the prophet who’s made you a believer, hands between your legs as your core tightens –  oh, how he encourages you, how his lips meet yours as he fucks you while your hips buck. stars fill your vision while he fulfills his fantasy on you, thrusting up into you and gripping your hips. he calls your name just as he finishes, his strokes slowing to a stop as he pushes your hair out of your face.

a gentle kiss on both your temples, you know then how hallowed he is.

ii. he calls you the next morning from his kitchen. his parents are still asleep when his eyes open and he swears he can still smell your perfume on his skin. he’s nothing short of sacrilegious, but you’ve always been holy to him. there’s something about the way you smile when you receive good news that makes his heart flutter, and he loves the way you look over your shoulder whenever someone calls your name. for so long, he’s watched you become strong and independent while keeping his hands to himself.

divine corruptor, but he never wanted to taint you.

because he can still remember you moving in down the block –  another girl he’ll have to welcome into bible study, another kid he’ll have to pretend to like because his parents are too chatty. but suddenly he’s thirteen and watching you stop a family dinner to bandage the boy across the street. the sunset hits you just right, lights up your face as you make the little boy promise to be more careful. you probably don’t remember how you looked at him as you walked back up the path to his home, but he does. thirteen and looking to a god who’s never loved him, wondering if love is real after all.

but, then he’s seventeen and you won’t meet his eyes at thanksgiving. you won’t eat the stuffing he brought, and he wonders if he said something wrong. later, his parents tell him that your entire extended family bailed and that the cousins you missed so much hadn’t so much as called you. it wasn’t his stuffing that had you down, it was the absence of someone who promised you they’d be there. he left you a hand turkey on the window of your bedroom and tickets to the movie you spoke to your dad about that night –  he had to bribe his ex - girlfriend that worked there.

and still, you never looked at him. you ignored him in the halls, chose the loudest kid in class to partner with instead of him, went to prom with one of his friends instead of even asking him. he had spent his entire teenage life watching after you with the stars in his eyes while you grew and moved on without him. even after high school, one day you were still at home, the next day your parents were at sunday service telling him about how you went to some hot shot college across the country. they’re so proud of you, but he shares the same pain with them –  that you all but left everyone behind. he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

but years pass and suddenly you’re back in his church at the same time as him. you look as good as you always have, sundress appropriately chosen for service with your smile equipped as always –  and even though it’s been years, his heart skips a beat. he’s distracted from the conversation his father’s pulled him into and he’s looking at you. you hug old neighbors and catch up with friends who never left, you ignore him as you always have until he sits next to you and he’s instantly aware of the shift in your demeanor. your posture’s a bit different and you hold your head up a little higher than usual. your hand laces with his and you’re asking him to help you get some air after he teases you.

“what do you want me to do, angel?” he asks you when you’re on the front steps of the church.

it’s you that initiates the kiss, who cups his cheeks and pulls him into you like you’ve been waiting to do it. he’s breathless for the entire kiss and he almost loses himself when you ask him rather what he wants do instead. you tasted sacred, and the noises you made as your legs shook around his head were imprinted into his mind until you came home again. that day, you had used him to get you off and left before he could get inside of you. you had walked away and left nothing but a fantasy in his head and he had spent months with his hand wrapped around himself thinking of what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stopped him.

that yellow dress would still be bunched around your waist, he’d hold it as he watched himself disappear inside of you. your panties would be all but forgotten on the ground while he pushed you against the side of the church, he would listen to your moans, hear his name from your lips, taste all of you for the rest of the day. he always thought of you, even in another country with another girl in his arms. you deserved better than his dirty thoughts, though, he knew that. you were worth so much more than just the lust you gave him a taste of, but you came home again and you looked wicked.

it isn’t the way he wanted it to happen, but it isn’t as if it’d happen any other way. girls like you don’t end up with boys like him –  that’s a truth he accepted a long time ago. but still, you answer the phone groggily and his lips spread into a smile. he listens to you complain about the time and about how he almost got you caught sneaking in last night –  because you’re an adult , but your parents still treat you like a teenager.  it’s such a mundane moment, watching the sun rise while listening to your giggles on the phone, but he knows he’ll remember it forever.

iii. you’re wrapped up in his arms for the rest of summer. you spend nights with his hands between your legs while your mouth is wrapped around his cock. mornings are rare, but when they arrive they often come with his body against yours – skin to skin while the sunlight peeks through the curtains. it’s often you find yourself at the church with your parents, shaking hands with his father before disappearing for the service to rendezvous with the best adventure you’ve ever had in your life.

he forces you to new heights, leaves your legs shaking and you gasping for air from pleasure you never knew you could feel. he is dangerous – taking you from behind as he bends you over the top balcony of the church after service, leaving a mark on your neck that wasn’t there when the day started, pulling you away from old friends who definitely notice the way your cheeks get tinted when you meet eyes with him. if this was supposed to be a secret, it was a poorly hidden one – but you didn’t mind.

you started counting the days before you had to leave. one more year, and you would come home. you didn’t want to come home originally – you returning for the summer was just supposed to be a pit stop on your journey around the world. but he had made you stay. he had found his way into a heart you swore would always be shielded, he had held your hand while on the top of the car and asked you to stay. you’re sure that, “we should keep doing this.” didn’t really officially count as an invitation, but you had taken it as one anyway.

why hadn’t you done it sooner? why had you always been so scared of the pastor’s son? if he made you feel like this now, could he have done it sooner? would high school have been different if you chose him instead of his friend, who used you on prom night and never spoke to you again? would you have chosen a school closer to home if you knew that he could make you forget all your troubles? would you have gathered the courage to meet his eyes if you knew how angelic he looked when he fell asleep with an arm wrapped around you?

“what are you doing?” he mumbles. he shakes you from your thoughts as you readjust your position. your head lays on his chest and you look up at him as the sheets fall around your waists, your left hand is intertwined with his right, the way his thumb brushes over yours makes your stomach erupt with softness.

“i’m just thinking,” you reply quietly. “i’ve known you for more than half my life, but never like this.”

“like what?” he meets your eyes in the growing darkness of his room. there’s happiness in the liminal spaces like this, you’ve found, in the quiet afterglow of pleasure is when you’re at your highest. “naked?” he teases you. “intimately?”

your own smile appears on your lips widely, and you sit up to wrap the sheets around your chest. “yeah,” you nod. “and, you know, more than just – yuta my neighbor, yuta the pastor’s son, yuta who dated all the girls in my eighth grade math class.”

he sits up too, leaning against his headboard after running a hand through his hair. “is that what you thought about me?”

you thought so much more of him than he’d know. he was out of your league, and he wouldn’t ever be interested in someone like you – that much, you were always so sure of. he never seemed interested when he came over, he always seemed eager to leave; you never even spoke past formalities. you thought he was the most interesting kid in your entire town of three hundred, but you were just a nobody. he was divinity and you were nothing but a follower. he was going to go off and do something so great with his life, you’re in a useless major with a useless life plan.

“no.” you shake your head this time. “i thought you were holy.”

because you couldn’t ever forget how he looked sitting in the front pew like a marble statue. he was handsome, and posed against the stained glass windows he looked like one of the paintings hung up on the halls of the church. you’ve never forgotten how beautiful somberness looked on him, how even when there were tears in his eyes, he still looked like he could end wars with a single glance. it was an odd situation, seeing him behind the school on graduation day with a cigarette between his fingers pretending not to cry. you would’ve said goodbye to him then if you had had the courage, but you had spun around and left without even saying hello – something you had grown all but used to.

he snorts in response to you, shaking his head like he can’t quite believe you. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“but, i do.” you scoot over until you’re close enough to straddle him, the sheets fall from around you as you climb on top of him. “i swear it on everything i have, yuta, you’re holy.”

he looks like he wants to argue, to fight against the title you’ve given him but instead, he pulls you in for a kiss. it’s slow and deep, almost torturing the way he kisses you like it’ll be the last time. he always kisses you like this, before he makes you cum, when he says goodbye, when he pulls you out of the crowd and into his arms. you don’t know why, but you won’t ask him to stop.

he kisses you and you break away to kiss his jaw, his neck, his chest – you kiss him until your mouth is wrapped around him again. his hands are always in your hair like this, his eyes are always half shut when you swipe your tongue over the head of his member, he always looks you in the eye when you dare to look up. he’s so holy, you wished he saw it too.

iv. you break his heart on a wednesday evening. three months of this and suddenly he’s got you in the back of his car again and he accidentally tells you “i love you”.

it’s in the heat of the moment, he confesses immediately after, but he can’t lie. he loves you, and he’s never loved anyone else like this before. you are everything to him. he looks at you and still loses his breath, he still gets giddy when he sees your contact light up his phone, he can’t go to bed without making sure you know he’s thinking of you. he thinks you love him too, because this isn’t just friendship. what you guys have going on is so much more.

it stopped being about the sex a bit ago, when you fell asleep in his arms and he held you until you woke up. it stopped being about the sex when he knew what to get you when you got bad news without you telling him. it stopped being about the sex when no other girl in the world compared to you, when you asked him if he’d visit you over the school year and he promised to. he passed friendship the minute he learned about your weird habit of leaving flowers on the windowsill of old mrs. buchannan because she liked the color. he knew he loved you when he had to pause the movie because you cried over the death of a minor animal character. he thought you loved him when you called him holy.

but he tells you he loves you and he can hear the rose gold glass shatter.

“hey,” he says your name as you fix your skirt in silence. “hey, come on, say something.”

“you don’t mean that.” your response comes quietly.

“i don’t mean what?” he pulls his pants up, fixes the buttons of his shirt. “that i love you?”

“you don’t love me.” you open the car door and step out. “you can’t.”

he’s taken aback by your comment, very briefly fixing his hair before stepping out of his side and watching you briskly walk away in the empty parking lot of the closed down k-mart. “what is that supposed to mean?”

you turn around, jacket wrapped around your arms as you look everywhere but at him. “i mean what i said. you can’t love me, yuta, i’m not someone you’re supposed to love.”

“then who am i supposed to love?” he takes steps around the car toward you. “if not you, then who?”

“anybody but me,” you insist, and he can’t understand why you’re pushing him away now. he can’t understand. “you’re supposed to love someone who’ll give you adventure and a lifetime of happiness. i’m just me – i’m– i’ll only leave. break your heart.”

“is there something i’m missing here?” he stands his ground even though you stray further away, one step at a time. “when was this decided – that you’d just leave and break my heart?”

and he’s so desperate to keep you, to hold onto you and keep you in his life. he doesn’t want this, you still taking steps back away from him like he’s the demon he’s always been sure he is. you’re enveloped in the dim lights of the parking lot, the streetlights cast a halo over you as you teeter near the edge of darkness – and still, he’d fall to his knees in worship for you if it meant you’d stay.

“you’re not supposed to love me, yuta, please,” your voice breaks, and it hits him so hard he almost stumbles back. “i’m sorry.”

you leave him in the half lit parking lot, but you don’t turn around to see him sitting down on the pavement with his head in his hands. what a constant theme in his life, to find so much happiness and see it walk out of his life. he thought you’d be the one that stayed, but he can see now how unfair it is to have placed all his expectations on your shoulders. you aren’t atlas, you aren’t made to carry the weight of his faults and his world, that’s his job, that’s his duty. he shouldn’t have expected you to love him the way he loves you, he shouldn’t have expected anything other than another girl who wanted to burn her hand in the lust.

it’s okay, he thinks, it’ll be okay. he’ll be okay, he always is. but he picks himself up hours after you left and climbs into a car that still smells like the perfume you sprayed earlier when you complained about the smell of cigarettes and that pine scent you hated. he drives to the church with his windows down, speeding through the empty streets so fast he can barely breathe though the wind. he uses the back entrance of the church with tears in his eyes and falls into his place in the first pew, letting the darkness wrap around him as he leans forward and cries.

yuta doesn’t pray, but he prays for you anyway.

v. you leave tomorrow, and your parents open the door to let in the nakamotos. he isn’t with his parents, and you don’t know if you’re more relieved or disappointed. because it’s been two weeks since he said he loves you, and it’s been two weeks since you saw a future in which he left you because you couldn’t make him happy.

what was it? your own insecurities, or the constant pattern that everyone that you fell in love seemed to leave? you could dissect it all. the fact that he was out of your league, that you had spent half your life yearning over him and waiting for him to look at you as someone other than the daughter of his parents’ friends. every girl he had ever dated was prettier, or more adventurous, or better than you in one way or another. every friend he had had more substance than you would ever muster. every story he told you reminded you that you didn’t fit into his life.

and then the second point, that you had fallen in love so many times just to be left alone in the cold. you had found yourself lost in the woods so many times because of the boys you chose to love. because of that, you had mapped the forest on your own, built your own shelter, and kept yourself warm with your own fire. it was foolish of you to let the fire die out and to venture out toward his flame, it was incredibly stupid of you to fall in love with him when you had promised yourself that you’d leave before you could get left.

but dinner is so empty without him, and he’s everywhere. he haunts you in everything you do, you can see him in everyone you meet. because the truth is, the hoodie he left still smells like him even if it’s just been sitting on your desk chair and whenever you see something funny the first person you think of his him. you find him in the sunsets and the shadows in your room, you touch him in your dreams and hold him so tightly you wake up in tears. he has burrowed his way into your heart and the joke’s on you – you ended up hurt in the long run anyway.

you say goodnight to his parents as they leave – his mom hugs you extra tight and tells you it’s from yuta. 

“he’ll miss you, sweetheart,” she says as she pulls away.

that haunts you for the rest of the night. you can’t sleep, you can’t form a coherent thought, and you’re walking out of the front door fiercely at two in the morning without caring about the consequences. you walk across the lawns to his house, you find his room on the ground floor and knock on the window – quietly, three times. seconds feel like hours as you wait, and for a second, you think he’s gone, but just as you’re about to sprint back home, his curtains pull apart and you see his face.

you’re helpless as the moonlight hits his face, lighting up his features. heaven lost an angel and he’s right in front of you. you’ll never understand why he thinks so lowly of himself, why he can’t see the wings that sprout from his back and the halo that hangs over his head. you can remember a night spent with him, listening to him tell you about his stories and his adventures. how highly he spoke of others, how he didn’t speak of himself, how he only mentioned his mistakes and his flaws. you had told him how holy he was, he had denied it until his hips were between your legs and you forgot all about it. 

he slides his window open, pushing the screen aside and leaning out. he looks like a masterpiece, painted and carved by god himself – the big man that you knew he didn’t really believe in. if god was real, he gifted mankind yuta.

“i leave tomorrow,” you say.

he nods slowly. “i know.”

“i came to say goodbye.”

“okay.” he looks you in the eye. “goodbye.”

“bye.”

not all stories have a happy ending, you know. you’re so sure that you won’t have one with him, you’re so sure that if you tell him how much you love him it’ll end apocalyptically – but your heart hurts so much you can’t breathe. you can’t move your feet from its spot in the ground, you can’t leave the way your mind is telling you to.

“please give me time,” you mumble – you don’t even know what you’re really saying. the words are coming out faster than you can stop them. “please wait for me. i just need a little time.”

“for what? what in the world could you possibly need time for?” he asks, stoic features finally moving; they shift into a frown, a sarcastic laugh from his lips.

“i need time to love you the way you deserve to be loved. because i do, i do love you. i love you.” it’s relieving to say, you can almost breathe again but the way he looks at you – for the first time that summer, he doesn’t look at you like you’ve gifted him the sun. he looks at you like you’ve stolen the light, like you’re a bringer of darkness. “i just – i can’t.”

“and i can’t wait for you.” he shakes his head. “i can’t do it.”

“please,” you beg. you take a step toward his window as he takes a step back into his room. “please.”

“i can’t.”

tears blur your vision and you don’t want to cry, you don’t want him to see you sob over him. but you can’t hold them back, they fall onto your cheeks as he pulls back the screen on his window – a barrier that prevents you from climbing in familiarly. 

“i love you,” he says to you. “i meant it when i said it, i mean it now. but you need time to love me and i need time to unlove you.” you’ve never seen him look so sad before, but he closes his window, then his curtains.

rightfully, he cuts you out of his life and leaves you in the darkness. you walk back home in tears, you land on your front steps in tears. some stories just don’t have happy endings, some have lessons – yours: that in trying to get hurt by another person, you ended up the most hurt you’d ever been. 

oedipus, by trying to escape your fate, you’ve walked headfirst into it.

The Fair

(Peter)

I bobbed my sign and flexed my pecs.  I was tired and hungry and I only had one spot left to fill, so if the only reason they stopped was the size of my breasts, I was okay with that.  5 minutes later someone pulled over and I led them to my house and into the remaining opening on the lawn.  I breathed in the fresh air as I walked up the steps to the front door of my parent’s house, it was a glorious day!  Suddenly, I thought I heard someone say my name.  I turned to look around for a person, but there were none to be found. I guessed I must have misheard, my parents lived in a house near the corner and a few blocks from the Minnesota state fair so the cross street was always busy at this time of year. “Y/n!”  I turned again and noticed a red van had slowed to a stop in front of my house.  “Hello?” I squeezed between the cars on the lawn to the sidewalk and when I emerged I was surprised to say the least.  “Hi, Y/n!”  It was my high school crush, his mom and his two younger brothers.  “Hello, Mrs. L.  What a surprise!”  “Hey, Y/n.” “Hi!”  “Hi, Y/n!”  “Hi, Ben. Hi, guys!”  I waved to his brothers in the back seat.  “How are you?”  His mom asked with a kind smile.  “I’m very well thank you.”  “Where were you at graduation, you missed, Mrs. May’s speech.”  Ben asked “I know I was so bummed, but I have never been sicker in my life.  I got to skip Jennings’s final though.”  “Lucky. Anything crazy happen over the summer?” “Actually today I...” His mom was being honked at from behind.  “Here just a minute.”  She pulled past the intersection and Ben hopped out crossing over to where I was at the corner.  We talked for a while about my trip to Ireland, graduation, his boat, college and the fair.  “Yea, some of my friends are actually playing in the grandstand tonight, my cousin was supposed to come with me but her flight got delayed. Hey!  Would you like to come, I’ve got backstage passes too and it’s a pretty good line-up tonight.”  “Really?!  That would be awesome!  When should I be here?”  “Well, music starts at 7 so how about 6, gives us time to get over there maybe stop for snacks.”  “I’ll be here.”  He hugged me, which I wasn’t expecting, so I was a little stiff and after a few salutations he took off.  I stood there for a few moments and waved him off, what an odd turn of events!  I’d never seen him near my house and he never wanted to do anything with me outside of school!

 Tonight was a big night, I put on cute hoops and love beads with my favorite psychedelic top and shorts, I slipped into sandals and put my suede, fringe jacket on.  I kissed my mother, reddened my lips and headed out.  Ben was dropped off just as I stepped out.  I was preoccupied with my bangs for a moment before coming up to meet him.  “Hey, Y/n, thanks again.  Wow, you look really nice!”  “Oh! Thank you, so do you.”  Weird, Ben never complemented me.  Maybe once in our whole 6 year acquaintance.  “Let’s go, I feel like some French fries!”  I said and we walked off.  We wandered back toward the grandstand, grabbing fries and snow cones and talking along the way.  Conversation flowed freely between us and it made me remember why I had liked him, but I also saw the things that made me glad nothing had ever happened there.  He never wanted to talk about an ‘us’, even a friends ‘us’, he was self-preoccupied and he kept bringing up past girlfriends and girls who liked him now.  He was always kind of making a move while making it clear he didn’t like me that way. I was also really happy that I... “The show starts in 15 minutes, we should get to our seats!”  I said eagerly.  We found our seats right in the middle and the perfect distance from the stage. A small local band called Unless walked on stage and were introduce by a groovy guy named Eric.  Ben leaned over and asked, “Are these your friends.” “No, they’re later.  I actually do know Eric though... Woo!  Go, Eric!!”  

 As the evening progress Ben got confused, these guys were the intro band, if they weren’t my friends then it could only be the big famous band.  “Which group are you friends with?”  He finally asked as the group left the stage to loud applause.  “Oh, the M... Here they are!”  He turned to watch four young men walk on stage bouncing and making faces. “Yay!!  Peter!!!  Mike!! Micky!!  Davy!!”  I was best friends with the Monkees.  “You’re friends with them?”  He asked in awe and disbelief.  “Oh, yea. We met about a year ago.”  There was tumultuous applause and I heard Peter say, “Thank you, thank you!!” “I love you. Peter.”  I called.  Ben decided I was crazy, I didn’t know them, I just said that to seem cool and that he’d be very forgiving when I looked foolish backstage.  They hopped up and down in time as they started Last Train to Clarksville.  After a few songs and a costume switch, Mike walked up to the mic with a smile, “Now this last song is for a very special young lady in the audience tonight!  She’s special to all of us but especially to Peter.” Ben saw my face turn, from glee to shock to overwhelmed happiness.  “He told them!”  I gasped. Ben looked at me, utterly perplexed. The spotlight finally landed on, “Ms. Y/n Y/l/n, will you please report to the principal’s office.”  Micky stole the microphone.  I beamed as I got out of my seat, touched Ben’s shoulder, oblivious to his total shock and made my way to the stage.  Davy was waiting to hug me, “Congratulations.”  He whispered in my ear.  I kissed his cheek and moved to be scooped off my feet by Micky.  “I’m so happy!!”  He spun me around and I kissed his cheek to.  “You guys planned this didn’t you?”  I asked Mike, as he hugged me, “Congratulations, Babe.”  I kissed his cheek and gave him a squeeze before running into Peter’s arms.  “I love you!” He whispered.  “I love you too and I can’t believe you did all this!”  “I didn’t and I have no idea what’s next!” He warned.  “Oh god.”  I smiled as Davy grabbed the microphone.  “Now everyone’s probably wondering why we brought our friend up here.”  There was an affirmative murmur from the audience. “Well, because this morning Peter, here, asked Y/n a very important question...”  There were screams and gasps all through the grandstand.  I buried my face in Peter’s chest.  “What did you say, Y/n?”  The place got quiet as Davy held up the mic for me.  I looked into the eyes of the expectant crowd and it suddenly felt very personal and I was nervous, but then I looked up at Peter and he smiled, his warm sunshine smile and I felt confidence and joy fill me up. “Yes.”  I held up my left hand, splaying my fingers and moving it a little so the ring would catch the lights.  There were cheers and whoops enough for people in Minneapolis to hear. Peter gave me a quick kiss before heading back to his spot by Davy.  Mike pulled me over to sit in front of Micky’s drums.  “So, Y/n, here’s your favorite!”  He said to the mic.  They struck up “The Kind of Girl I Could Love.”  I beamed as I clapped and sang along softly.  Mike winked at me, I turned to see Micky wiggle his eyebrows.  Davy smiled and Peter... I could tell he meant every word.  He looked at me like no man ever had, like I was his whole world.  

 At the end of the song I was hoisted onto Micky and Mike’s shoulders and carried off stage to tumultuous applause.  The boys carried me all the way back to their trailers. We started a bonfire and had someone go get us food, the boys were starving.  “I’ll be right back, I had a friend with me and I don’t know if he’ll be able to find me.”  Peter kissed my cheek as I hopped out of his lap and hurried over to where they were letting people with backstage passes in.  There was a couple of young guys who walked right passed me, two teen girls, one of them noticed me, burst in to tears and they both fled.  Then I caught Ben’s eye, he seemed dazed but I was still too happy to notice.  The bouncer let him through and I gave him a huge hug.  “What did you think?”  “You actually know them?”  “The Monkees, well Yea.  Peter’s my fiancé and Mike, Micky and Davy are my best friends.  Do you want to meet them?  There’s corndogs and beer and stuff.”  He shrugged with a halfhearted smile.  I led him back the way I came.  The boys waved as we approached.  “Okay introductions.”  I said pretending I needed a second to prepare.  “Yea, Y/n, who is this long haired weirdo?”  Mike asked.  “Be nice Michael, this is my friend from school, Ben Lisbon.  Ben this is Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones and my fiancé Peter Thorkelson!”  Micky gestured to the vacant seat next to him.  “Chair on the sit!”  Mike gave him a look, “Micky, Micky it’s sit on the chair.”  Davy corrected him.  “I don’t even know anymore!”  Micky ran his hands over his face, just as, “Phillis!!”  Mike’s wife emerged from his trailer.  “Y/n!  Oh, my, gosh it’s so good to see you.”  She gave me a bone crunching hug.  “Don’t squish the baby!”  I said. “I know, I’m tiny right you can hardly tell.”  I shook my head as she gestured to the large bump under her dress.  “Phil, there is a human inside you, cut yourself some slack, besides you are glowing!”  She blushed and fanned herself, batting her lashes.  “You bet your boots she is, come ‘er.”  Mike took her hand and brought her over to sit on his lap.  

 We chatted for a couple hours.  I was never happier than when I was with the Monkees, Ben was a little quieter than usual, but he had fun talking to them.  I noticed he kept trying to pull me away from Peter, it was hard, though, we kind of gravitated towards each other.  At 11 he mentioned he had to get back and in the end we all decided to go.  “We can drive!”  Said Micky glancing around at his mates with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Suddenly all four of them hopped up from their seats.  Phil sighed and shook her head.  “Come, my trusty cohorts!  Let us to the Monkeemobile!  Away!” Mike said pointing at the last exclamation.  The other three surrounded him and mimicked, “Away!”  I laughed as they marched off to the car.  I stood and offered Phyllis and Ben my arms.  Ben didn’t join in when we mimicked, “Away!”  

Soon the crazy red car was parked in front of my house, where Ben’s mom was waiting to pick him up.  I hopped out with him to say goodbye.  “I hope you had fun!  We’re a crazy group, but we do know how to have a good time.”  He stopped walking.  “Yea, it was great.  Thank you, Y/n.” He took my hand and my heart clenched.  “Y/n, do you ever wonder what would have happened if...we’d...”  He tried to catch my gaze.  “I used to.”  I responded simply, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”  I said, trying to gently release his hand.  “I kinda thought I had.”  He said trying to make eye contact.  I sighed, trying not to laugh.  A year ago I would have given anything to hear him say that, my heart would have burst just now.  But, as soon as I left that wretched high school and got a taste of the real world, freedom, peace, true happiness and finally real love, I realized that my crush on him was a whim, a fancy and now that I could look back on our acquaintance with my new experience and knowledge I realized that not only would he make me really unhappy, I didn’t feel anything for him.  Nothing at all.  “Goodbye, Bennett.”

 When I had maneuvered into the far back seat of the car, Peter was waiting for me with open arms.  “Hi.”  “Hi.” “I missed you.”  I smirked at him.  “I was only gone a minute.”  “Yea.” He nuzzled into the hug and I kissed his hair, laughing. “I love you, Peter.”  He looked into my eyes and stroked my hair.  “I love you too.”  When the others had finished waving goodbye to Ben and his mom, Mike called back from the driver’s seat.  “Alright, Ms. Minnesota, where too.”  The smile on my face was stuck there, I smiled at all the happy, eager faces, I felt the warmth and love you feel when you have real friends. “O’Gara’s, drinks are on me!”  There was a loud cheer as the car pulled out onto the dark street.

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*I don’t own the Monkees or anything under their brand, I just wrote this story*

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After the Rain (Fanfic)

Delia

In which in an attempt to bond with Lydia Delia takes her on a shopping trip. Worried about her step-daughter making friends at her new school Delia tries to guide her, though often making the situation more awkward than it already was. 

Note: this fanfic goes to show that coming out comes in many diffrent ways, there’s no one way to do it

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Lydia wasn’t the biggest fan of shopping but Delia suggested that they go on a step-mother-step-daughter shopping bonding trip that weekend and Lydia literally couldn’t think of one reason not to despite her best efforts to come up with one at the moment. She just hated how crowded the mall could be and she doubted that what Delia meant by shopping was a trip to the electronics store where Lydia could browse around all the camera accessories and expensive cameras she’d never be able to afford. She had guessed correctly that their outing would be browsing the local mall in the next town over, getting their nails done, and getting lunch. Not all of those things she hated, she actually enjoyed going to the nail shop with Delia who didn’t even push it when she got black nails, as usual, the only thing Delia suggested was some glitter which Lydia reluctantly added and refused to admit that she actually quite liked. 

“Lydia I know you’re starting school in a month or two and I thought maybe we could get you some new clothes,” Delia suggested, pushing her food around her plate while they sat in the restaurant

Lydia smiled, “I have a uniform, but thank you anyway.”

“I know you have a uniform, don’t know why Charles insisted on picking a school with the ugliest uniform I’ve ever seen-”

“It’s only a white button-up shirt and a black skirt.” Lydia teased, “It’s not the end of the world.”

“Maybe not, but you do need clothes for not school. When you go out with your friends and do things that typical teenagers do like..I don’t know do Fortnight dances and talk about memes. You want to be up to date on the newest fashion trends so you can look...as the kids say, Lit AF.”

“Delia I enjoy spending time with you but please for the love of God don’t talk like that again. I’m embarrassed for you.” Lydia covered her face with her hands and groaned, “And I don’t like the popular clothes. You must know by now that I prefer black.”

“We can work with that though! I know you like dresses but you definitely need some shirts and pants, and I know it’s a while until winter but it’s really cold in Connecticut so you’ll need a winter wardrobe.”

“I lived in New York all my life? I’m pretty sure I know how to dress for the snow.”

Delia blushed, “I know, I know you do I just want to help your transition to this new school smoother. I know you really struggled at your old school and kids can be so mean, I just don’t want you to have to deal with that all again. I want you to be happy here.”

“I am happy here, I have all of you guys at the house to keep me company.”

Delia got quiet and looked over at her step-daughter. She didn’t want to say anything to the contrary because Lydia looked so sincere when she said that. There was a genuine smile on her face, and while Delia was glad that she loved spending time with them she wanted to make sure that Lydia had friends of her own, friends her own age that she could really connect with and be happy around. Even at her old school, she was pretty alone, Lydia didn’t open up about much when they first met in New York at Delia’s old office but it was evident that Lydia spent much of her time at school by herself. She would mention a few kids every now and then but nothing to suggest they were more than passing acquaintances. She also knew that Lydia was harshly bullied and it would break her heart if it happened at this new school. Lydia liked to call herself an outsider, she didn’t like to follow the trends at school or online, and Delia sincerely hoped that Lydia would find her people in Connecticut, but shuddered at the memories of a desolate and lonely girl sitting with her knees tucked to her chest while she sat in Delia’s office talking about how she loves learning but can’t take the constant harassment from her peers. Delia had once tried to convince Lydia that her problem was positivity and that all Lydia needed to do was be more warm and friendly and as a result, people would like her. She now realized how wrong she was and how much more damage that did to Lydia by unintentionally shifting the blame onto her. 

Delia shook away the thoughts of the past, wanting to move forward in her relationship with her step-daughter. She returned Lydia’s enthusiasm with a smile, “I know you love spending time with us, and I hope that you find more people to be around. I know it would be good for you.” 

“Yeah maybe,” Lydia shrugged, disinterested. 

The two of them finished their meal, paid their bill and went over to the mall. It was less crowded than the malls had been in New York, which eased some of Lydia’s tension. She still had to dodge the aggressive perfume testers offering her a free sample. They went to a couple stores mainly with Delia finding herself a couple of things to buy though she would suggest things to Lydia that would earn a scrunched up nose or a shake of the head. Delia kept trying to get her more colorful looking things, light blues, yellows, pinks, and reds. Lydia would be open to the idea of more color in her clothing but bright obnoxious colors had always been a turn off for her, she wanted to be able to blend in and bright colors made her stick out. Delia ended up convincing her to buy a blue blouse and a light grey cardigan. 

Walking through the mall Lydia noticed a small kiosk selling lots of knick-knack trinkets that were a combination of wholesome to strange and unusual. Grabbing Delia’s hand she dragged her over and spent the next twenty minutes looking at all the items. She ended up picking out a new collar for the kitten they had just rescued the other week. They had most of the stuff they needed for the kitten already but Lydia had never really had pets as a kid so she was ready to spoil the hell out of the kittens she affectionately named Cation in response to Delia urging Lydia to be more positive. 

With bags in their hands after a full afternoon packed full of shopping, they started to head towards the exit and back to the car. Delia was attempting to coax more conversation out of the teenager asking about her life and what she was looking forward to with the new school year starting in the next month, “You’ve been around town quite a bit when you go for walks around downtown...have you seen any people worth mentioning?”

“I mean I saw a person trying to befriend a pidgeon by offering it french fries if that’s what you mean. That was pretty interesting.”

“No I mean like,” Delia pursed her lips trying to think of how best to ask Lydia the question, “Have you seen any cute boys? When I was your age I had like a crush of the week basically. Didn’t really date much until later in high school but there’s no harm in having any crushes.”

Lydia blushed trying not to think about the cute girl at the ice cream shop she had seen when she took Skye after babysitting last week. She looked to be around Lydia’s age but what are the odds that in a small town like this that she’d find any other people like her, “No not really.”  She lied trying to deflect the conversation.

“Really? Because you seem to be blushing an awful lot for somebody that doesn’t have a crush.” 

Looking around for any conversation started that could be an escape from this embarrassing topic Lydia briefly locked eyes with a boy she had seen around town before. He was a jerk, always yelling with his friends’ really annoying and sometimes degrading things about the people walking past him. He had tried flirting with Lydia before, she didn’t give much credit to it considering he had hit on the girl before her and the girl after her. He was the least bit smooth and for a fifteen-year-old, he was more vulgar than she had anticipated. She quickly darted her eyes away when he noticed her and gave her a cock-eyed smile and a wink. Lydia rolled her eyes and groaned at him. 

Delia playfully nudged her shoulder. She didn’t understand why Lydia had been so dismissive of the boy, even if she didn’t like him he might have been someone she could have been friends with when she started school so she didn’t need to start from scratch. Delia played around with the thought that maybe Lydia did have a crush on him and was trying to be coy about it to get her off her back, “Hey! Is that who the mystery boy is? You shouldn’t have ignored him, that’s not polite!”

Without even thinking Lydia blurted out, “I’m not interested in being polite or heterosexual.”

The minute the words passed her lips Lydia froze, she hadn’t even planned on coming out to Delia, at least not yet, not this way. It had been so hard when she told her father she had no clue why it just slipped up in this conversation, she was usually so good at keeping it on the down-low, changing the language so people didn’t ask. She always thought that coming out was this long conversation with lots of hugs and tears, and though Lydia felt like she was going to cry for being so careless in how she told her, Delia didn’t really seem to have much of a reaction. She simply smiled, shrugged and said, “So...are there any cute girls around town worth mentioning.”

Empty Frame

A/N: Continuing to check off the smooches with another one shot, not connected to anything at all. I had no idea what to do with this prompt until this morning and it all just sort of fell together. This one is #19- one more left for Billy! 

Word Count: 2,464

Prompt from: @audreychaz

Billy hadn’t added many personal touches to the place. Growing up without much privacy or many possessions taught him that practicality should take precedence over sentiment, his years of military service enforcing that idea. Only carry with you what you need to survive. Don’t get too attached to things that can break or get lost or stolen. You ran your hand along the back of the couch as you walked through the space, taking in its emptiness. Furniture. That’s it, that’s all there was. No decorative items, no plants to bring some color to the room, no blankets draped on the chair to make it warmer or more comfortable. It was just a space to be in, and on first glance it would be impossible to know who lived there. No clues, no cues no context, just your standard New York apartment, creaky floorboards and crown molding, walls painted in neutral tones. It could even be a model just for show, staged to create the illusion that it was ready to live in. 

The sound of the shower, muffled through the walls and through two closed doors, was the only thing that made it clear that the dwelling wasn’t uninhabited. That, and the hefty, packed bag that sat by the entrance, his name embroidered in bold block lettering with olive green thread. Your eyes fell to the pack, stuffed with necessities, and it hit you like a punch to the gut that the place was about to become infinitely more empty. You closed your eyes and turned away, swallowing the tears that threatened to spill. No. Don’t start that. Not yet. 

Clearing your throat, you pulled your sweater more tightly around your body and left the living room, suddenly unable to share the space with that bag and what it stood for. You padded down the short hall, socked feet taking you to the bedroom. You opened the door, the sound of the shower becoming louder, the air a bit warmer from the steam, the clean scent of his soap overwhelming your senses. The bedroom looked more lived in. Pillows and sheets still ruffled from when you’d lazily pulled yourselves from them a few hours earlier, last night’s clothing in a pile on the floor. Reaching out you touched the mattress, pressing your hand down into it. Images from the night before and from countless other nights filled your mind; his hands on your thighs as they hooked over his hips, his breath on your throat as his beard raked against your skin, your fingers in his hair and your name falling from his lips. Removing your hand, the images vanished and you felt a sharpness in your chest that you weren’t ready for. 

The pipes shuddered in the walls as the cascade of water hitting the tile slowed to a drip and then stopped. You heard the shower curtain, it’s metallic rings clanging together as he pulled it aside, followed by a sniff and the rickety towel rack as he yanked the towel from the bar. He’d be getting out of the bathroom soon, and then you’d only have an hour or so with him. That sharpness deepened and twisted, but you shook your head. He hasn’t left yet. 

You crossed to the dresser, to the one spot in Billy Russo’s home where he’d dared to display a personal item: a photo of himself and Frank, drenched in rain and covered in mud, lips and noses bloodied, and smiles wide with their arms thrown around one another. He’d told you the story behind the photo one morning while you walked around the room wearing the first rays of the sun and one of his shirts, sleeves too long and bottom hem reaching almost to your knees. 

“That was one’a the toughest days in trainin’ I ever had.”  He spoke from the bed, lounging with one arm bent behind his neck and his eyes focused sharply on you. You picked up the frame and turned around towards him. He beckoned you back over to the bed with a tilt of his head, and you obliged, climbing in next to him as he moved into a seated position. Licking his lips and raking his hair back with one hand, he continued. “We just finished up this brutal two week camp, Frankie and me and our unit. This was the last night.” His arms came around you as he pulled your back to his chest, one hand leaving your body to take the frame. “It was about 37 degrees that night, been rainin’ for hours, and we’d just finished a 12 mile run wearin’ all our gear.” He laughed. “The last fuckin’ thing any of us wanted to do was take a bunch of punches and get thrown in the mud, but” he shrugged. “Gotta prove yourself, ya know? So Frankie pumped me up, told me these guys ain’t shit, that I’m tougher than they are.” You listened raptly, noting the difference in his voice when he talked about Frank as opposed to any other friend or acquaintance. “I stumbled my way through that goddamn gauntlet and I waited for him on the other side, and when he got to me I socked him right in the gut.” He laughed again. “Fucker laughed so hard. He’s the toughest son of a bitch I ever met, and that’s not the last time he’s got me through some tough shit. Frank’s like my brother, only family I got.”  

“I’m glad you have each other, Billy,” you’d turned to kiss his cheek as he set the frame on the bedside table. 

“Yeah, yeah me too.” Both hands were on you again, gripping your waist to turn your body. He pulled you on top of him then. “But I’m even more glad I got you,” he growled low into your ear, the rest of the morning melting into the sheets. 

The photo was as much a part of the room as the pillows on the bed or the clothing on the floor, so its presence wasn’t out of the ordinary. What shocked you was the addition of a second photo that you hadn’t noticed last night. Your breath escaped your lips in a rush and for a few seconds it was impossible to take another. Your trembling fingers came up to the second frame, the same plain, simple black wood design that held the picture of Billy and Frank, this one also containing a snapshot of a moment in the rain. 

It had been a hot summer afternoon, the two of you walking down by the waterfront in Hunter’s Point. You’d sat for a while sharing a carton of french fries and a few beers at a bright yellow picnic table, music and chatter filling the air as seagulls and pigeons swooped low to dine on fallen crumbs. It was in that perfect pocket of time when he’d been back from deployment for long enough that things felt normal again, and his next was far enough away that neither of you were thinking about it. It was just an average day, no special meaning other than his hand around yours; a Thursday, if you were remembering correctly, that you’d spontaneously used a vacation day for. You’d been so engrossed with one another that you hadn’t noticed the ominous clouds gathering on the Manhattan side of the water, or the increasingly empty tables and sidewalks around you as people started heading for shelter as the storm rolled in. By the time the sky darkened enough to get Billy’s attention, it had opened up, dousing you both in a matter of seconds, your squeal pulling genuine laughter from deep in Billy’s soul as his arms wrapped around you. He tugged you under the covered picnic area to get you out of the downpour, but you were both already soaked, your t-shirt sticking to your skin and your hair plastered to your face. Looking around you realized that you were alone, save for the workers in the food stall, withdrawing from the windows so they didn’t get splashed by the fat raindrops. “Hey,” you looked back up to him, blinking water from your eyes as he grinned. “You okay?” 

You bit your bottom lip and looked up at him. “Yeah, Billy, I’m okay,” your voice came out in a breathless laugh. 

“Good,” he swiped a droplet of water from your bottom lip, staring at you like it was the first time he’d seen you, like the rain had turned you into something else. “You know somethin’?” he asked, a tilt to his head. 

“What’s that?” You asked, clinging close. 

“You’re perfect.” He said it matter of factly, as though he’d just had the realization and couldn’t imagine why it had taken him so long to come to it. “You’re perfect for me.” 

Without giving you time to respond, he caught your lips with his own, his hands moving over your rain slicked body to cradle your head and pull your hips closer to his. He kissed you slowly, tongue easing between your lips and tasting of rain and beer and the words he wasn’t saying out loud. I love you. You felt it in the beat of his heart as he pressed you closer to his chest, and you responded immediately, gripping his hair in fistfuls to lock yourself into that kiss. I love you too Billy. You said it back with a roll of your hips into his, pulling a soft groan from his throat as you tugged gently on the long locks twisted around your fingers. It was different from the kisses you shared in bed in the dark; short little nips, biting lips and tongues fighting for dominance, when your hunger for each other eclipsed everything else. This was slow, building and deepening with each movement of your tongue, each pass of his lips over yours, every flex of his fingers. This was a promise, an offering, a pledge. It was more than he’d given anyone, and you knew that without question, trying to give him just as much back. 

When he finally broke the kiss he didn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his lips to yours once more, leaving them there for long seconds, his breath mingling with yours as you both fought to steady your lungs. He moved his fingers in your hair, other hand climbing between your shoulder blades to hold you close. “Perfect,” he said once more, so softly it was almost washed away with the rain. 

You laid your head against his shoulder, heart glowing so much that it was hard to believe that you were standing in the middle of a storm. You hadn’t said the words, but you felt them and you knew that he did too. The idea came over you as suddenly as the sky had opened up; you wanted to capture this moment, this change, forever. Pulling your phone from your pocket, you kissed him again, snapping a photo that caught the slight smile on his lips as yours reclaimed them. 

Your fingers slid over the glass as the tears you’d been fighting all morning finally formed in the corners of your eyes. You hadn’t heard the door open, too lost in the perfect memory of the afternoon that you held in your hand. He came up behind you, hands planted on the dresser on either side of your body, pressing himself against your back, lips in your hair. “That was a good day, wasn’t it?” One arm came around your waist, hand closing around your far hip as the other reached around to take the photo from your hands. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head as you let go of the frame. 

It was a perfect day. “Yeah, Billy, it was.” You turned to lean against the dresser, wiping at your eyes so you could look at him clearly. “I didn’t know you had that picture...I…” 

He dropped his hand from your hip, turning the frame over in his grasp to open the back of it. “You posted it on...I dunno instagram I think? Or you sent it to me or...somethin’...and I printed it out…” The back of the frame popped open and he lifted the glossy print away from the glass, setting the empty frame back on the dresser. “Wanted to put it here,” he indicated the dresser and the framed photo of him and Frank. 

“What are you doing...why did you take it out?” You felt a few more tears roll down your cheeks at the realization that framing that photo meant that he’d added you into his family. 

He smiled, eyes scanning every inch of your face before leaning in to kiss the corner of one eye. “Takin’ you with me.” He answered. “Takin’ that perfect day…” he leaned further in, arms coming around you to hold you to him and lips coming up to whisper in your ear. “Takin’ my perfect girl with me.” 

Your heart swelled as waves crashed against and inside of it. “We’ll have lots of perfect days when you get back home, Billy,” you said, assuring yourself as much as him. 

“Yeah,” he said, pressing another kiss behind your ear before he disentangled to finish getting dressed. “Yeah, we will.” 

Two hours later, you were almost on borrowed time if Billy was going to make his flight. “Alright, you ready?” He asked, as though you were the one that was leaving civilian life to head to an active war zone. You nodded, but then froze mid nod and ran back to his bedroom. “What are…” You were back in seconds, and his eyes were drawn to your hands. “What are you doing?” 

You were holding the frame that he’d taken the picture out of, lips pressed together to fight against the tears that threatened to fall again. No, hold it together until you’re back home. Don’t let him leave with your tears. “Just gonna hold on to this…” you said quietly. “Til you get home.” In your head, the empty frame was already on your bedside table, already in a spot where you could see it as soon as you woke up or as you were drifting off to sleep, reminding you that the man you loved loved you, too, that he was coming home to you, that you’d have so many frames to fill in the future. You sniffed, hoping he’d understand. 

He nodded, reaching for your hand to lead you out as he locked up. “Good idea.” With a click of the lock, the apartment was left even emptier than usual; Billy taking all that he had, all that he needed with him- his gear, the necessities, and you.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @thebbtongue @lexxierave @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices @songforhema @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @roses-in-your-country-house @ymariejp @belladonnarey @audreychaz @songtoyou @breanime @luminex3 @stories-you-wont-hear

I’ve been debating for the better part of six months whether or not to post this, because it’s probably one of the most personal things I’ve ever written (definitely the most personal thing I’ve ever written about my aromanticism).

But it’s Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week, and now is as good as a time as any. So here it is.

The boy in my English class dislikes almonds in his chocolate.

He prefers dark chocolate to milk, doesn’t like M&Ms of any shape or form, uses pens he finds off the floor, and wants to study mechanical engineering like his older sister who is four years older than him.

I do not know why I know all this.

Or really, I do know. We sit at the same table in class, brushing elbows occasionally as we do group work, and argue about where pink goes in the rainbow. (“Before red,” I say, organizing the mechanical pencils, but before I place the pink one, he takes it and puts it after purple.) We discuss chemistry and precalculus, poring over mathematical problems that define our lives within these walls. We mention how the flutists are bad at marching, causing the other girl at our table to say not all flutists. We talk in the halls, walking past each other to get to class and sharing inside jokes that are just thinly veiled arguments.

Most days I find myself thinking about how this happened. We have nearly nothing in common, because he hates electrochemistry while I love it, and if we hadn’t arbitrarily sat next to each other at the beginning of the year, we wouldn’t have ever talked. We should be strangers, only meant to pass each other in halls, but now we’re something else.

Acquaintances. Friends, maybe. Something more, possibly.

My entire life, I have heard girls talk about boys. Because girls like boys. Because that boy is cute. Because that model is hot. Never have I understood this. I spent years staring at pictures and wondering if I’m missing something. What does hot and cute even mean?

If we were going to talk about attractiveness, why didn’t we talk about girls? Especially that one girl in my third period class with the prettiest hair and excellent taste in music?

We gossiped in P.E. once, sitting in a circle on the football field and whispering amongst ourselves so the others couldn’t hear. One of the girls, two years my senior, discussed her boyfriend and their sex life. Another nodded, agreeing with her on something or another. I sat, hands in my lap, not knowing how they could want to have sex with someone else. I tried to figure out how all of them, five girls in total, excluding me, had boyfriends. Girls are better than guys, was on my tongue. What’s the point of dating? I didn’t say.

Later I find out I am aromantic and grey asexual. Words heavy on my tongue, I tell no one.

One day I find there is more than one type of attraction. Platonic, romantic, and sexual are the most commonly talked about. There's more, like alterous — a type of attraction about wanting emotional closeness that is not entirely platonic or romantic. I think back to the boy in English class, who doesn’t eat French fries and likes grape Jolly Ranchers and plays Bloons Adventure Time TD, and what I feel for him. I don’t think he is cute, even though some people say he is okay-looking, whatever that means. I don’t want to kiss him, even though that’s what most people want to do with people they like. I don’t feel this burning desire to be called his girlfriend or take his last name, even though I think that is what girls think about.

I want to sit on a bench in the shade with him, listening to music together. I want to send him memes at two in the morning, laughing at jokes that shouldn’t be that funny. I want to lean against his shoulder, talking about the homework we have this weekend.

There are no dates, no romance, no flowers. A friend and her significant other who visited from Florida watch movies together while holding hands. My friends in a relationship with each other cuddle in class when nothing is happening and during lunch when they’re tired. My friend receives her favorite flowers from her boyfriend and presses them in books.

It doesn’t sit well in my stomach.

I do not want that. Holding hands in the dark while watching movies repulses me. Cuddling in public or for recreation terrifies me. Receiving flowers of any kind from someone bores me. I do not get those fluttering butterflies around the people I like, only lingering looks and awkward conversations. I do not get those pining thoughts about the people I like, only passing thoughts of oh that’d be nice irregularly.

My attraction is different from others. Even with the boy from English class, the only person I have ever liked this way, I do not get those landmarks. For the first time in my life, I find myself feeling something normal, but it is then ripped away when I realize that I like this boy —  a boy that I do not find cute, a boy that I do not want sex with.

He dated someone before, two years ago. A smart girl who loves doing chemistry labs that liked him — actually liked him, unlike what I feel for him — eventually broke up with him when he showed no interest in her. I know that if I ever confess, in a convoluted way that’s only possible with a vocabulary lesson, the same thing will happen to me. The boy I like agrees to date me because we are friends who go over quiz questions and complain about physics together, and eventually I learn he does not like me as much as I like him (or, worse, I cannot like him the way he wants me to), and we break up.

Our relationship will be uneventful. Boring. Mundane.

Then again, I am uneventful. Boring. Mundane. I do not like people, do not want to date anyone, do not want to have sex. I barely even like the person I do like, the first person I’ve ever been intensely attracted to.

Someday we will graduate high school. He will study mechanical engineering. I will forget about him, the boy who dislikes almonds in his chocolate, and my life will go back to being what it was before.

Whatever it was.

The Chef

I had refrained from entering the formulas to the CIA operatives and sending them out. I knew that there would be no suitable outcomes prior to a transaction such as this. Sure they could threaten me, charge me with international fraud and national product alteration. They could do so many more things more powerful, but they won’t. Not when I have the recipes. They are currently hidden, and only I know their whereabouts. It makes them so frustrated, but they have to play my game if they ever want my formulas and recipes. They will play. I know they will. There is no other way. I made sure of it.

Let’s take a gander at some of my backstory. I am Keith Benson, and I am a chef. I have more than just talent when it comes to cooking. I AM cooking talent, if you will. Most prefer to just simply say ‘best cook in the world’. I hate to boast, but there are no faults in that fact. Plain and simple.

When I prepare a meal, the sweltering sound of the pan leaves customers’ mouths watering in agonizing anticipation. They are salves to the presence of my cooking, and that’s only the sound. Imagine what goes through their heads when the aroma of my preparations enters their nostrils. The essence of ecstasy is immensely immersive when it comes to my preparations, and that’s only the preparation. Stage 1 if you will. Stage 2 is when the plate is placed in front of the guests or patrons. It’s that good. Everyone said so. I’ve never met anyone who said different.

One can only imagine what goes through the mind of the individuals who now are only moments away from satisfying the agony. It’s almost as if a layer of ecstasy has been ceased as it had existed. I’m only speaking from experience based on the input of former patrons and costumers. Stage 3 is the best by far. The accounts vary by person. There is nothing more I love than pleasing those who wish to have their stomach filled. The customers are the bread and butter. That is why I do everything to utilize my talents fully. There’s no feeling in the world better than watching someone fall in love with your very own dish.

I became very famous. Everyone wanted a bite. They’d pay hundreds for a full dish. No joke. I felt like my life was just a huge glop of ecstasy. Nothing ever slowed down. My rates were always high and I was very admired in the community. Everywhere I went, people followed. I became sort of a celebrity. I’ve been cooking ever since I was 8 years old. I realized about 2 years later that it was what I wanted to do in life. From then on, nothing but recipe after recipe, combinations after combinations, collaboration against collaboration.

When I was 13, I made my first cake from scratch. Surprisingly in an unlikely manner, my family fell in love with it. They commented on how accurate I was with the texture and flavor inputs of the cake when I set it all up. How could I forget that? It’s one of my greatest memories. I entered contests throughout junior high, and I won ¾. People were impressed.

I decided to buckle down and pursue my passion. I used the same idea, but based it on other foods. Most were successful at first. People thought I was talented at first, but they didn’t see me do equations and measurements accordingly with my baking and cooking tools. From there I met a famous chef who shared his secrets with me. This was after I graduated from college. He was French. At that point, I’d had baked, broiled, and fried over 1 million food meals. From there, I used my natural talent, and created my own recipes to food using what I’ve learned from master chefs, TO become THE master chef. Implying I’ve also had my own tricks as well.

Life was as I perceived it would be prior to my success. Unfortunately, that didn’t last very long. Everything took a turn when suddenly I realized I’ve been cooking up and baking the same ingredient combinations for the past 10 years. I’ve tried everything. I perfected everything. Regarding meat, the most famously known, essential food condiment, I’ve tried literally everything. Everything from hippo meat to indigenous African beetle meat. Hey, being the world’s master chef has its quantities. Even dog and cat meat.

That’s when the thought crossed my mind. I’ve never tried human meat. I’ve actually never tried human meat. It can’t be that bad. You can’t judge until you try it. For some unknown reason, I was particularly excited about the idea. Maybe it’s because I was somewhat depressed and I needed something new to fill my desires. Having nowhere to try it, nor no one to participate, I cut off my own finger. It was my first finger next to my thumb on my left hand. It hurt like hell but it was well worth it.

It was incredibly delicious for some reason, and all I did was fry it and broil it. The flesh was easy to peel off and the meat itself was freshly done. I consumed it and made the decision to adjoin the meat alongside my other famous recipe inventions. It increased the flavor of many of my swilling recipes. I added what I knew would make the best difference. I knew that human parts are actually good candidates for texture accumulation alongside flavor enhancers. I knew I could always take it a step ahead and the essence of the human larder could be used to enhance everything edible. Including the essence of my welfare prior to my soul in the universe.

I was once again filled with happiness and hope, believing I’ve found what I was missing in my life. Excitedly, I called two of the most prolific critiques in the food industry. They too showed moods of enthusiasm. Perhaps they longed for another one of my dishes. Well I had something for them, alright. I must refrain from telling you how I’d prepared these amazing meals. They’re watching me closely. All I can say is, I was in the mood to make quite an impression and I didn’t have a whole lot of time to do it. I cut my whole left hand off. I wasn’t prepared for the pain, almost impossible to block out no matter how many times I implied to myself that it was for a good cause. I had six hours to prepare the meal.

The procedure made me pass out twice, but I held my ground. I drilled a hole in the wall and inserted two inputs that connected to large looped bolts where I tied the thick Indian ropes. I connected them to other smaller bolts after inserting the smaller bolts into the large sturdy ropes. I tied the thinner smaller but more powerful ropes around my ankles, very tightly. I knew I was going to have to use a heated saw to cut it off, but I thought I could easily handle it after what I was about to do.

I drilled four more smaller holes to put a metal restraint with metal straps to hold down my arm. I had nothing to use but a premium butcher knife to cut my hand off. I put a spoon in my mouth to bite down when the pain started. 8 efficiently executed slashes in, the tip of the spoon was separated from the rest of the body. It hurt that bad. I looked for something else to bite down on immediately. I almost used my other arm. The head of the spoon was swallowed. I took no notice in it whatsoever. I still don’t know how I managed, but I just fainted a couple of seconds after my struggle.

The amount of blood spilled on the floor was apparently incredible, looking back on it. I woke up in a haze. Nearly a minute later, my pain receptors turned on again. I wailed in agony. I wanted to quit. I stood there for an hour hesitant to what my final decision would be. What I really wanted was to pass out again. So I luckily found another spare butcher knife (not as big as the one I was using) and used the handle to bite down on.

I resumed my task. I just focused on slicing through as hard and efficiently as possible. I tried so hard. I tried so hard to avoid coming to a stop. I had sweat covering me. I almost got in 5 slices. Almost. I passed out at the end of the fourth. This time for 4 hours instead of 2.

Realizing I only had about 30 minutes, I decided to quit. I needed to get to the hospital. I felt incredibly weak, as if something had drained all my body’s life support. I had overestimated myself. I dialed 911 and called for an ambulance. I told them my arm had gotten stuck in the mechanical absorbing meat grinding flattener. I quickly decided to put my nearly detached hand in the receiving area of the machine. 8 more slices would’ve done it. I had to drill holes and do the powerful rope attaching deal, but it worked out. I thought I’d lost so much blood there was none left. I was wrong. I believe the machine even took some of my skin above where I’d jammed the blade, about 4 inches.

I was taken to the hospital. I hid my hand in the freezer room. I was given a mechanical robotic prosthetic hand thanks to my income. I prepared the meal using the meat flattener/grinder. Then I used my special combinations which made the meat so much better. I named the dish “La Vaggia Della eta” because of its Italian style. I served it with my famous buttered fettuccine. Of course they fell in love and mentioned that I’d never failed to amaze them. They said it was the best meal they’ve ever tasted, no less by my hands!

I added my other famous meat recipes, but the most important ingredient to my success was the human meat. It gave it that special texture-like taste that you’d always swear you taste in a variation of a product, but to a much bigger scale!

I took to hiring hitmen on the deep web to kill random individuals I became acquainted with, and bring them to me. I prepared the meals monthly, then weekly, and finally, daily. I experimented with every organ, every tissue layer of the human anatomy. People were impressed that I could whip up such successful meals after so many years of the same stuff. And the best part was, it was good!! I went from millionaire to billionaire.

I even established my own corporation. I was head of it, of course. We sold nearly 8.9 billion products. Critics claimed that the products should be given the same respect and treatment as coca-cola itself. It was that good. I had 8 years of success and joy. Then came the final chapter of my life.

The elite health inspectors and chefs couldn’t help but to go digging. They loved my new dishes and products, but they needed to know how the hell I’d made it so good to get where I was now. Everything that good has to be discovered . I just wish they’d found out later. They hired a couple of scientists supposedly who worked for the FDA. It took them 4 months to find out what my special ingredient was. They were too busy eating my dishes on break rather than focusing full time on their study. They eventually found traces of skin cells and human gene extract in my products.

I can only imagine what went through their heads. I’m not as crazy as you think. When you think about it, the idea of delicacies is to indulge oneself by survival standards in the most comfortable way possible. If you need something in a dire situation (in my case sentimentally personal) then you have every right to try to hone it.

Before they officially took me to prison, I told them that my recipes could not be used without the human meat. They demanded the locations to avoid them getting into the wrong hands. I denied them the locations. I’d truthfully swallowed the bottle containing the recipes.

They also needed the recipes to put on record to sentence and condemn me. They needed evidence according to law. So I forced them to play my sick game. I had bottles with substitute recipes. I made the floor slippery with large amounts of canola oil. After spotting it, in frantic haste they ran to claim it. It was taped to the meat flattener/grinder. Of course the one in front slipped and his hand got caught in it. It began to suck him in. While being inserted into the machine, he managed to rip the taped recipe from the machine. The other FBI officer took it. He didn’t even bother to look at his partner as he became hamburger meat and flattened.

They threatened to torture me once more agents arrived. I was forced to tell them that I’d swallowed the actual recipes. They gave me the death penalty. Death by lethal injection. What a surprise. 2 months before my supposed death date, I requested one final meal. Myself. The authorities, not caring one way or the other, decided to grant my request, thanks to those who supported me 9-25 years ago. I’m scheduled for lethal injection in 2 days. Better get to work. Haven’t eaten in weeks. Have a good life. And as always, bon apetit.

~~

Police notes: Clearly mentally insane, the subject’s last request was granted. Surprisingly, agents Ross and Foster stuck around to see him bleed out. According to them, they were surprised as to how long he’d lasted prior to his self mutilation. According to them, a small incision was made to reach his internal organs without bleeding out completely. The managed to amputate and consume his limbs in a matter of days. The most surprising, yet most disturbing of all was the absence of his eyes along with the smile on his corpse.

–

Survey #223

“broken and sad, as the tarnish on your crown, nowhere to go but down.”

What’s your favorite chocolate in the valentine box? The one with fudge in the center. What color hair did your first crush have? Brown. What’s a condition you have that you haven’t been officially diagnosed with? Do not ever self-diagnose, ever. There's a quote about this that I love: Something along the lines of, "Your five-minute Google search doesn't compare to my doctoral degree." Something like that. Anyway, everything I have has been professionally diagnosed, though my therapist and psychiatrist both know I question if my bipolarity is actually borderline personality disorder. My psychiatrist doesn't see it, and my therapist says my level of self-awareness makes that highly unlikely. Idk though, a loooot of symptoms remind me of myself. What’s your favorite version of the Bible? None. Do you think pineapple belongs on pizza? Noooo. I hate sweet/savory combos. Which one of your parents do you think is smarter? My mom. My dad is smart in his own way, but if you're talking about textbook knowledge, yeah. My mom is smarter in that area. Which parent do you think you inherited your intelligence level from? I 120% got my total lack of common sense from Dad. Otherwise, Mom. Do you store your bike in a garage for the winter? I don't have a garage nor bike. What were your favorite gym class activities in elementary school? Okay, do y'all remember those rainbow tarps you'd form a big dome out of? I loved that shit. Even though all we did was talk once inside, lol. I also loved those square roller things. You know, the ones that put your fingers at great risk. Would you rather wear a tunic top and jeggings or a crop top and high-waisted jeans? Okay so I'd fucking love to wear high-waisted jeans w/ a crop top if I had the body for it. Do you think hoodies look better oversized and long, or cropped? Oversized ones are the best. Have you ever had a professional make-over? No. Have you ever had a professional photo shoot? No. Did you ever want to be a model? Noooo. What’s your anti-depressant? Vraylar + Lamictal lmaooooo. Do you stretch or do yoga? Not anymore. List all of the colors of dresses you have worn to school dances. I only ever went to prom. My first was maroon, the second black. Did you enjoy school dances? Here's the tea: they're overhyped, at least for my personality. It's loud as hell so you can't hear each other talk, and the music's shit. I only went to his senior prom and mine for the novelty of it. What is something you want to be for Halloween? I am very legitimately considering be a handmaid from The Handmaid's Tale this year. Read that fucking book, it's one of the best I've ever read, and fucking terrifying as a woman. Who is your favorite parent? I love both for who they are. Do you have chronic pain? Only in my legs due to muscle atrophy that I'm recovering from now thanks to school. What is your favorite part of going to the dentist? My teeth feeling especially clean afterwards. Have you ever not been able to see the big E at the eye doctor? Ha ha, yes. My vision is godawful. What’s on your wish list right now? Just donate to my tattoo fund, lmao. What are you behind on? Politics. What did you get rid of that you wish you had kept? I wish I'd kept Jason and mine's last prom pictures, but literally just because now, I think I looked gorgeous. Does your hometown have bad memories attached to it? The Bloods gang seriously tried to break into the house while my sister and her friend were home alone as pre-teens, guess. Does it irritate you when someone has a dream but does nothing to work toward it? I mean, yes? I feel like everyone should care about that to some degree. Certainly not to an obsessive degree, it's not your life, but you should care that people work towards their aspirations. Do you find the concept of colorblindness fascinating? Yeah, sure. Which site have you been bullied on the most? I wouldn't say I was ever really bullied, but I guess the closest was on an old RP site from one particular person. Who do you wish loved you? A few people. Not necessarily romantically. Do you know anyone who has twin babies or toddlers? Yes. I actually think she has two pairs. If so, what are their names? Idr. I only know them loosely through dance. Would you ever want to have twins? FUCK no. Who has the cutest babies on your Facebook newsfeed? My acquaintance Anastasia literally has the prettiest daughter ever. If you could have a car in any color you wanted, which color? Pink, duh. Or maroon. What is your favorite Avril Lavigne song? WHY'D YOU HAVE TO GO AND MAKE THINGS SO COMPLICATED What’s a song lyric that you like? Korn came out with a new album, and my favorite song's lyrics include "God is making fun of me," and it's my favorite thing ever. Would you ever hitchhike? Why or why not? NOOOOOOO, I don't trust people. What’s one thing you’ve done to celebrate Earth Day? As a kid, I made a bird house one year. There was this backyard decorating show on Animal Planet when I was little, and on one episode, they made one out of an empty milk jug and leaves, so I duplicated that. What color is your stapler? Black. Was your middle school crush the same as your high school crush? No. Have you ever been homeschooled? Towards the end of 8th grade, I was homebound. I was deeply depressed, and school didn't help. Have you ever completed a weight loss program? No. What was the last thing you were mad at a doctor about? I will forever and absolutely always despise my old doctor for putting and keeping me on a medication that resulted in me gaining around 150 pounds, and I wish I was fucking kidding, and blaming it on me the entire time. Where you live, is it possible to get sunburned&frostbitten in same week? HA, yeah. Do you ever turn your phone off because you don’t want to talk? No, I'll just ignore it. Do you like McDonald’s sweet tea? I hate sweet tea period. Do you like rap? Very little of it. Usually just some Eminem. Do you ever lay down and look at the stars? I haven't done that in a long time. Well, we weren't lying down, but rather sitting in chairs, but when Sara was here last summer, she, Mom, and I all sat outside one night making s'mores and having some drinks, and we looked up at the stars for quite a while. Don’t you hate when songs remind you of the person you’re trying to forget? There are a couple songs I physically can't listen to due to PTSD. Whose bed were you last in besides your own? Uhhh. I think my niece's, though I was just sitting on it. Who’s the last person you kissed? Sara. What’s your relationship with that person? We're really fucking gay for each other. Do you know how many people you’ve kissed? Three or four. I can't remember if I ever actually initiated a kiss with Girt or ever kissed him back, but I don't think so. Do you burn easily in the sun? Like toast on the whitest bread. Have you ever blacked out? I mean, I've fainted. Who do you hang out with the most? My mom lmao. Are you positive or negative? So in my FYS class (that is literally more like therapy), we very recently took an emotional intelligence test (it's like a scale that tells you your strengths and weaknesses in some major areas), and my optimism score was ABYSMALLY low. Like, as low as it could be. I've always called myself a realist, but this was a very detailed and professional test, so I'm taking my results into consideration. Do you believe life is fair? Ha ha, what a way to prove the last answer, but you couldn't possibly make me believe life is fair. It's chance and cause and effect. Have you ever bought a youtuber’s merch? LMAO YAAAAAAAAAAAAAA'LL I'm too embarrassed to ask for "unusual" things. Do you have any embarrassing health issues? One or two. I am a Walking Health Issue. What are you longing for? I want Sara to live here so badly. Distance is getting hard. Who was your first roommate? Jason, Amanda, and Jacob. Who lived across the hall from you your first year of college? I never lived in a dorm. Have you ever had a janitorial job? Omfg no. I'm a germaphobe. Have you ever worked in food service? Hell no. I can't deal with hungry people. What is your favorite flavor of frosting? I'm a chocolate bitch. What is your favorite type of donut? Depends on where it's from. Dunkin' Donuts, omlllll gimme a chocolate frosted (never with sprinkles, sprinkles are gross). Krispy Kreme, BITCH I will kill a glazed. What is the name of your favorite bakery? We don't go to any proper bakery. We just get stuff from the ones at grocery stores. What is your current favorite Starbucks drink? I don't go to Starbucks. When was the last time you wrote someone a letter? For a certain holiday for Sara. I think it was Valentine's Day? Do you write mostly in cursive or in print? It's some hybrid font of both, but mostly cursive. What do you usually get for your birthday? Meerkat-related stuff. What is a childhood dream that hasn’t stuck with you? I wanted to be a vet. Who was your first favorite cartoon character? Uhhh. Probably Ash Ketchum (I FUCKING WROTE "KETCHUP") or Pikachu. Who is your favorite Disney princess? It was Ariel as a kid, now I don't particularly care, but probably Snow White. Do you like Coca Cola? Hell yeah. Do you like McDonald’s french fries? Are you even human if you don't? Did you get your hair color from your mom, your dad, or a grandparent? My hair was dirty blonde as a kid, so I don't have a clue where that came from. It turned brown though, so I guess Mom, but hers is way darker than mine. What are some other names your parents’ considered when naming you? The only one I remember is Kathryn. Who was the last person you know who had a baby? Uhhh I think it was one of my high school friends. …And what was the baby’s name? Jaspen. If you had a boy and a girl, what would they be named? Alessandra is NOT up for debate (if I wanted kids, anyway) lol, and Damien. What color is your dresser? Brown. Have you found your first gray/white hair yet? WOW no that would be mighty depressing. Is your hair long or short? Short. …and which way do you like it best? I CANNOT believe I didn't go short earlier. Do you have a problem with needles? Nah. Have you ever had to use an epi pen? No, thankfully. Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? Also thankfully no. If applicable, what color are your glasses? Black. Do you like the name Addison? Yeah, it's cute. Have you ever made your own Halloween costume out of clothes from your closet? No. At least, not a *real* costume. I've just dressed particularly dark before. Have you ever gotten sick in the car? No. Do you enjoy editing photos? I do. Have you ever called the wrong number? Yep, oops. Do you usually pick Truth or Dare? Truth. I never pick "dare," actually. Do you like kissing? I mean yeah, if I love the person. Which Internet browser do you use? Chrome. When was the last time you read a whole book, to the last page exactly? A couple weeks ago I finished The Handmaid's Tale for school. How many times have you had sex within the past two years? Guesstimate? A big 'ole zero lmao. Has your boyfriend or girlfriend ever cheated on you? Were you mad or sad? No. Are you a superstitious person? Have you ever been superstitious before? No. When was the last time your area had a tornado warning, if ever? A few months ago. Have you ever had one of those major fights with your current bf/gf? When we were younger and unstable friends. Do you think road kill is gross? I think it's sad more than anything, but I mean yeah, it can be. But considering a personal project of mine is photographing roadkill to depict the brutality and sadness of it, it obviously doesn't gross me out all that much. Is it obvious when people hurt your feelings? I think so. How many teeth do you have? The normal amount. Have you ever lived outside of America? No. Do you get allowance? I'm 23, I obviously don't now, but I never have. Do you pop your pimples? Yeah, oops. Who did you last dance with? Sara. Have you ever wanted to kill someone? I think so. I wasn't going to like, actively pursue that, but I wanted her dead. Have you ever had braces? Yep. When you get married, do you want to keep your last name? No, please take it away. Do you shave your pubic hair? No. I'll obvious trim/shave along my upper legs in I'm going to wear a bathing suit or something, though. Have you ever seen a tornado in real life? Thank fucking god no. Do you have to plug your nose while swimming under water? Yep. I have zero clue how people stop water from going up their nose, even if they don't breathe through it. Do you like soft or hard pillows? s o f t What’s the last thing your parents bought you? Mom bought food, Dad bought me my laptopl. Do you know anyone who committed suicide? I'm 99% sure a pre-teen online friend did. I know some people loosely. When was the last time you cried out in pain? That's probably a TMI from having IBS. What do you say when you answer the phone? "Hello?" Do you ever get the feeling you don't belong? Belong where? I need specifics. Are you a timid person? Incredibly. Ever been in love with two people at the same time? No. Ever vomited because you were in shock? No. Do you think the world is a nice place or a horrible place? It's a hybrid of those. Ever had a rumor spread about you? The only one I knew of was one Jason's ex started in high school, that being that we had a baby. Despite the fact I was obviously never pregnant. If you found out you were pregnant how would you react? I'd be fucking terrified and incredibly confused because that's physically impossible. Have you ever been dumped by text? Did it hurt? More like over Facebook Messenger, and fuck yes it hurt considering I was literally madly in love with him and we'd been in a serious relationship for three and a half years. In your opinion what would be the worst possible way to dump someone? See above. (: How do you take out your anger? 99% of the time, cry. Have you ever snuck out of your house? No. Have you ever kissed someone of the same sex? Yeah. What’s the craziest thing you’ve done on a dare? Idk. I never did crazy dares. Have you ever cussed someone out? Yes. What’s the most trouble you’ve ever gotten in with your parents? Idk. My dad never really punished us, but rather Mom. I would say the time I texted her back "fuck you," but I was an adult by this point so she couldn't really do anything, but I do noooot want to imagine how she would've reacted if we were physically together. When she picked me up, she was furious, but I think she was more shocked I actually said that than anything. I don't remember that night much, surprisingly, considering I tend to remember awful days like that. Have you ever cheated on someone? No. Have you ever had a friend-with-benefits? No. Have you ever spread a nasty rumor about someone? No. Have you ever broken someone’s heart? I don't know. Have you ever been physically abused? Thank God, luck, Heaven, or whatever, no. What’s something you really regret saying to someone? I think more than anything, the time I sent something along the lines of "thanks for sending me to the hospital again" to Jason before I went to the ER for the bajillionth time. Doesn't matter if it was the first, fifth, or thousandth time, that was fucking evil and could've seriously hurt him. Is there something really bad that you’ve done, that only YOU know about? Uhhhh I don't think so, at least. Do you have a lot of secrets? It depends on who is involved. Mostly though, no. Does it take a lot to make you feel guilty? I don't know, actually. Have you ever broken a really important promise? I don't think so. Have you ever gone out with a best friend’s ex? More like mutually flirted with her boyfriend behind her back until he left her for me when I was 12. Fucking disgusting. Have you ever made out with someone who was just a friend? No. Have you ever cheated on a test? I actually don't think I ever have. Have you ever told someone’s deep, dark secret? No. I'm honestly very trustworthy with secrets. Have you ever gotten in a fist fight? No. Have you ever done something bad JUST because you knew you shouldn’t? Maybe as a kid? I don't think so? Have you ever purposely hurt yourself? Yeah. Have you ever pushed someone into a pool? I don't think so? Have you ever copied someone else’s homework? Again I don't believe so. Possibly once, idr. Have you ever kissed someone the same day you met them? No. What’s under your bed? A box of art stuff. Have you ever you shoplifted? No. What do you want more than anything else? Happiness. Have you ever tried coconut water? I have not. How many online accounts do you have? Or have you lost count? Holy fuck, there's no telling. Who was your first love? Jason. Are you the type to hold grudges? Definitely not. What was the last video game you played? I actually have World of Warcraft open right now, but that's a computer game; does that count? If not, uhhh. It's been a long while... I think maybe The Legend of Spyro: Dawn of the Dragon. What’s your favorite flavor of vitamin water? Never tried vitamin water. Are there any bands/artists that get you all emotional? Ozzy Osbourne makes me so nostalgic. His music is so important to me. Have you ever been to a convention? (comic, Youtube, etc.) No, but bitch try to stop me from going to PAX East one day to hug God and cry for two hours in joy. What brand are most of the electronics in your household? I don't think we have a consistent brand for our electronics. It depends on what the thing is. What’s your favorite aunt or uncle’s first name? I can't remember my favorite aunt's name, but the only uncle I know well is Rob. He's hilarious. Have you ever smoked a cigarette? No. Who was the last person you invited into your home? Sara. Are you of legal drinking age in the country you live in? Yes. How old were your parents when they got engaged? I have no clue. Early 30s? Are your parents still together? Hell no. What flavor was the last ice cream you ate? Chocolate. Are you health conscious? To a degree. Have you ever done a first aid course? No. If so, would you be prepared to perform CPR if necessary? N/A Are there any songs that get stuck in your head very easily? A lot. Who was the last person to text you? Sara. If you found out you couldn’t have children, would you adopt? I'd be fucking ecstatic if I found out I was infertile, especially with how terrified and paranoid I am about being raped. I don't want kids, ever. Would you go back to your most recent ex? No; I don't like him like that. Do you remember the show Bananas in Pajamas? I don't, but I know my older sister was obsessed. If you could know how, when, and where you’ll die, would you want to know? Hell no. Are you really excited for anything? I'm probably going up to Sara's for her birthday and Christmas and I CANNOT wait. Have you ever eaten any type of insect? Not intentionally? I think a gnat or something flew into my throat once, but idk. I've certainly never tried to. Who is the most famous person you’ve ever met? Nobody lmao. Do you have trust issues? Oh yes indeed.

Growing Out Of It: Pt. 1 - The Unexpected (Shawn Mendes)

In which the reunion of old school friends stirs up some uninvited feelings

No warning, just very slow burn-ish. Also roughly 4.2k words. Enjoy!

Mary-Anne shot an expectant glance from the other side of the bar, thin brows wrinkled and mouth straight. “Kid spilled her drink at 12.”

Judging by her exasperated tone, I obviously wasn’t the only one categorically done with LLV’s Kid’s Sundays. I liked kids, I really did, but they were still a pain in the ass sometimes. 

And the parents.

I sighed, remembering the run-in with a particularly nasty mother last Sunday who had insisted that her little five-year-old wouldn’t - couldn’t - consume our fatty french fries, which, by the way, were literally the food about seventy percent of LLV’s costumers came here for, and complained about how we, as a restaurant, endangered her child’s health.

Fucking tourists.

Usually I liked my job, really, it was quite fun, quite sociable, it paid the bills (the horrendously high bills in Toronto), and I couldn’t recall too many unpleasant encounters with costumers, Canadian customers, but those Americans. Sometimes Europeans, too. They could be arseholes.

Desperately wishing for a nice, peaceful family at 12, I grabbed a few napkins, a wet wash cloth and made my way over along the dark, wooden bar, through the black maple pillars and the maze of birch tables, all filled with happy families, some with only one kid, some with grandparents and some pushed together to accommodate all six children. I waved at Tina and Felix, Jonah and Tracy (I hadn’t remembered the names of the little twins yet) and nodded at Mr. and Mrs. Crubick. They made it to every Kid’s Saturday. 

Today they sat at 15, meaning that I was only three tables away. And yes, I probably should’ve noticed the woman crouched on the floor a few metres down and a toddler wiggling her arms, barely reaching above the table top, a wee bit earlier. Because then I definitely wouldn’t have stepped into the wet patch on the floor, stumbled and almost lost my balance. 

The woman looked up, her short blonde hair messed up and shirt battered with a few light yellow stains. She looked exhausted. “I’m so, so sorry. Little Amy was way too excited about her apple juice.”

“No, ma’am. It’s all fine, no worries. This happens all the time here.” I said, getting to work with my wash cloth. 

The woman sighed. “Sorry to cause such mayhem, Miss. I’m sure you weren’t planning to wipe the-”

“Miss, Miss!” A light voice interrupted. 

The woman and I turned our heads to the toddler. She was cute, wearing pigtails and ribbons and a little chain with plastic bananas around her neck. Her brown eyes were wide. 

“I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to, I just wanted to show Mummy something. Look, I drew her a picture! It’s the big tree in our garden.”

I smiled at her. “That’s a pretty picture. Hey, Amy, right? Do you want me to tell you a secret?”

She nodded eagerly. The woman got back on her feet as I finished up the floor as well as I could. Then I turned back to the girl and started wiping the table. The woman settled back into her seat, lifting her cup and motioning at the little one to secure her drawing utensils.

“Listen, Amy, you see the tall guy over there, behind the bar? The one with the brown hair and yellow shirt, like the one I’m wearing?” The girl nodded. “His name’s Matthew. He’ll make you a new juice if you draw him a pretty picture. How’s that sound?”

The girl gave an excited squeak. Then she wriggled in her seat and got to work. 

Her mother smiled broadly, relieved, and thanked me. I smiled back before returning to the bar, taking a few orders and waving at Felix and Tina again.

“You’re too nice.”

I shrugged at Mary-Anne, occupied with typing the orders into our tablet.

“Matthew’s gonna cut off your tips one day, you know.” 

Mary-Anne was 48 with wild brown curls that she kept in the tightest bun and piercing black eyes. She had a son in drama school in Lethbridge and in constant disagreement with her, especially because she’d desperately wanted her son to become a doctor. Still, she was much more of a delight to be around than any other adult in my life.

“No, he won’t. He knows the importance of good customer service,” I said pointedly, before snapping my eyes to my unbelievably tall boss and catching him with a grin on his lips. “Hey, Matt, you’re gonna get a drawing from an adorable little girl in exchange for an apple juice. Please don’t disappoint her.”

Matthew shot me a thumbs-up. Mary-Anne scoffed, but a small smile lingered on her lips.

She’d been working at LLV for ages, years before I’d started and she had used to be distant at first, insisting I’d only gotten the job because my chem tutor Will was an old friend of Matt’s. Which wasn’t necessarily wrong. I’d been in desperate need for a way to keep the bills paid while studying at U of T and ever since my parents had cut the money chords, I’d been barely scraping by. But I had proved myself. I had Matt now. And Mary-Anne. And the LLV. 

And life didn’t seem as pointless as it had used to. 

“Hey, Teddy just came in.” Matt said suddenly, making me whip my head to the door.

“Usual spot?”

After his small nod I grabbed the little notepad and sauntered over to the round tables by the window front, right by the terrace, and spotted her familiar mop of brown hair and gesticulating arms. She was with two guys and another girl, all dark-haired and wearing light coloured shirts. I felt like a burst of spring in my yellow top.

And I wasn’t even fully at the table when Teddy waved at me frantically. “Lacey! How you been?”

I grinned. Teddy was one for the books. Always happy, always bubbly. One of my favourite customers, especially on Kid’s Sunday. 

“Now that you’re here I’m fantastic. How’re you, back in your old space?”

She laughed. “My favourite space,” and tapped the birch table twice. I took the opportunity to look over her company, my gaze getting stuck at a certain face, adorned with curls and a bright smile. No way.

My grin became involuntarily bigger. 

“Shawn? Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in ages!”

Obviously this was a blatant lie. I’d seen him everywhere. On billboards, on magazines, on TV, YouTube, Instagram...the guy was all over. But years ago, when he hadn’t been a world-famous singer, he’d just been the guy sitting next to me in Algebra, struggling on problems and having a laugh if we got it totally wrong. And English Lit. Oh, and biology. Kind of.

Shawn’s eyes lit up. “Lacey Windsor? The Lacey Windsor?”

“Yes! Oh my god, this is-” I didn’t get to finish my sentence because Shawn sprang up and pulled me into a hug, tight and friendly. I grimaced upon remembering the last time we’d hugged. Actually, the last time we’d even seen each other. Graduation. 2016.

I leant back from the hug, mind flashing to that warm night in June and how we’d danced like idiots, sneaked drinks into our gym and sat on the bleachers after the parents had left. Katherine, Ivy, Brian, Shawn and I, not my usual crowd, but Lisa and Theo had been impossible to keep trace of the whole night (ah, yes, young love) and so I’d somehow ended up with the cool music squad after Shawn had taken pity on me and called me over. Only to be sat next to my on-and-off crush of almost two years for the next something hours. It had been a great night. I still called Ivy a very good friend to this day.

“It’s so nice to see you, Lacey! How have you been?” Shawn sat down again, staring up at me expectantly. Suddenly I felt jittery.

“Yeah, I’ve been good. What about you? What are you up to nowadays, rockstar?” The nickname rolled over my lips too comfortably, considering the last time I’d called him that.

He laughed shortly, opening his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Teddy’s slow drawl of a voice, which was one of the things I liked most about her. She didn’t let anyone rush her.

“Wait, you two know each other?”

I wanted to giggle at her raised brows and dropped jaw; also, I wanted to cry at the suddenness of this situation. I’m just as surprised as you, Teddy, trust me. Her fingers dangled in the air, motioning between Shawn and I.

“Yeah, we sat next to each other in school.”

“Algebra was a bitch, wasn’t it?” Shawn immediately regressed to talking to me again, looking up through his long lashes and with his signature grin; and I was 16 all over again. Shit.

Before I could even try to answer, Teddy spoke up. “So, like, you two have been totally unaware that you’ve practically been living in the same street for what - almost a year?”

I shrugged unsurely, feeling incredibly out of place. “I guess?”

Life had a funny way of playing out sometimes. Then I gaped (How did she know where I live?), but was once again cut off by Teddy who continued with a quip in her voice, eyes glistening with mischief. Oh, she was enjoying this.

“Yeah, remember when I drove you home that night, Lacey? When you were drunk out of your mind? I even said that you live conveniently close to the guy I write songs with. Remember?” Her drawl changed into a chuckle. “You were so confused about my job...”

It clicked. Of course I remembered. Three months ago, the night Teddy had become more than a customer - a mutual, an acquaintance, a friend. In other words, an enigma with the most intriguing life I’d ever witnessed (except for, you know, the guy I went to High School with who rose to international stardom before even graduating). I shook my head at her. Unbelievable.

“Wait...so you mean to tell me that the girl you’ve been wanting me to meet is Lacey Windsor? Lacey Windsor from my High School? That’s too much of a coincidence.” Shawn stared intensely at Teddy. I kind of wanted to crawl into a hole. Had she been trying to set us up? 

Sure, we’d had a heart-to-heart once, had been somewhat friends ever since then (and I might’ve told her how much I used to like Shawn Mendes when he was still my ‘dirty little secret’, by which I had actually meant High School classmate) but apart from that, I’d pretty much only been her waitress. The only thing special about me was my great sense of favouritism.

And she’d wanted Shawn to meet me?

Teddy looked between Shawn and I, visibly disappointed in the new developments. “Well, my plan to get you two laid obviously backfired.”

My jaw dropped and I sputtered for a moment, alarmed. “You - we...what do you mean get us two laid?!”

My voice got unexpectedly shrill at the end and Teddy had definitely picked up on it. She was smirking now. I felt Shawn’s gaze on the side of my face, with mouth still hanging open and I wondered if he had noticed too. I ignored him. Don’t ruin this. Shawn cannot know about your childish High School crush on him. He has millions of female admirers now. He’s a fucking teenage heartthrob.

Teddy and Shawn were suspiciously quiet. (Probably freaked out.) My face heated up. How would I get out of this without making it awkward?

I cleared my throat. “Well, thanks for your concern, Teddy,” I shot her a pointed look, “but I don’t need you to get booty calls for me. I can manage on my own just fine actually.” Then I looked at the two unknown witnesses on the table, gripping my pencil tightly and ignored Teddy’s glinting eyes. She still found this amusing.

I jotted down everyone’s orders, making contact with lingering eyes and timid voices. Maybe my outburst had been a bit, well, much. I wasn’t usually this harsh, especially not with customers, but seeing Shawn like this, completely unexpected (even though obviously kind of planned - what the fuck, Teddy?) and immediately being accused of needing to get laid in front of him and also by him, that had been a bit much, too.

To put it nicely, I was kind of pissed. I had not envisioned catching up with my crush from algebra and English and biology through a dumb booty call. And a failed one, at that. 

I avoided their table for the rest of the day, even though the four had already been out the door only two hours later. Teddy holding her phone up on the way out and warning me of a call that was to ensue later while Shawn had twisted his lips into something distantly resembling a smile and had given me a short wave. I was miserable. 

“You overreacted, Lacey. Teddy was just trying to be nice. How could she’ve known that you know him and that you’ve admired him from afar like a middle schooler for ages?”

Mary-Anne was huffing and puffing, scrubbing the surface of the bar that Matt had - as usual - made a mess of.

“And she was right too. You haven’t been with someone in a while. You’re twenty-one, for god’s sake, get out there more! When I was your age, let me tell you –“

Basically, she blurred the line between mum and best friend a lot. Not to mention brooding older colleague, which was a role she only seemed to play when the LLV was overflowing with customers and sometimes, that truly was my favourite.

I groaned quietly, staring past her and sorting through today’s empty glass bottles. Clear in the red basket, green in the clear, plastic in the massive IKEA bag. Yeah, maybe not indulging in Mary-Anne’s talk would make her shut up. Maybe, hopefully.

“And Lacey Windsor, he is handsome, that Shawn guy,” she continued after a short silence. My face contorted into a whine. My heart raced. Handsome. He is handsome. Was handsome. In High School. Shit.

Aren’t you supposed to grow out of childish crushes at some point?

“And he was so polite, dear. You should give him a shot! Maybe just give him a ring? Shame if not, he was so into you too. Downright sad when I brought the food and not you, he was. You should’ve seen it!”

Now I whined out loud. “Stop, Mary-Anne. Please. I can’t -”

She had the audacity to giggle. “Can’t what? Contain the butterflies?” Whistling and grinning, she focused back on wiping the bar. I pierced her with a glare, a mixture of annoyance and disgust at her giddiness. When had my life become the subject of entertainment for other people? First Teddy, now Mary-Anne?

She was about to wipe down the sink when she chirped, “Man, I wish I was young again,” and I cracked, exclaiming,

“Mary-Anne, it’s not as fun as it seems.”

She winked and my cheek twitched. On my way out, I caught sight of a drawing attached to the far left liquor cabinet: a stick-figure with a yellow shirt and brown ponytail, carrying a massive pen in its hand. It was signed with scraggly letters, crooked but genuine. A-M-Y.

Teddy didn’t call that night. She came back to LLV three days later, on a Wednesday evening as I was covering for Matt on the bar. It was getting cold already in Canada and the flu had hit last week. Which also meant that LLV was unusually (and conveniently) empty.

“Lacey, I’m so sorry about Sunday,” she said, sliding into the bar stool right across from me. “I didn’t even mean the whole getting laid thing, it was supposed to be a joke. And I absolutely didn’t mean to offend you or something, or to meddle in your love life, but I just thought it’d be nice for you to meet someone to distract you from Nate and, let’s be honest, that dry spell of yours has been going on for three fucking months and I thought-”

I staggered, taken aback, and decided I needed to step in before she went too far with her rambling, “Well, hello to you too, Teddy,” I said, clipped, and continued mixing the Cuba Libre the blonde surfer dude from 7 had ordered, torn somewhere between laughing and fuming.

When she remained silent, I brusquely added, “Didn’t know you were so familiar with my sex life,” and stared at her. She shrunk slightly.

“Listen, I know we don’t exactly know each other in a conventional way and I didn’t mean to overstep.” Then she squared her shoulders and I knew I was in for a lecture. “But honey, it’s also not exactly rocket science to figure you out.”

I raised my brows in indignation. “Sorry?”

The relationship between her and I was weird, to say the least. We were mostly business. Waitress-customer kind of thing. But then, once I had cried in front of her because of Nate and she’d taken my drunk ass home, she came by in the evenings, sat down at the bar and asked me how I was doing. Eventually, I became curious and returned the question, and so we’d been bonding over the noises of my colleagues, costumers in all kinds of moods and the sound of the cocktail shaker for about three months. As the time went by, we became mutuals who saw each other once in a while and chatted about life, nothing serious, but also not nothing.

“Lacey,” she sighed, looking at me with her big blue eyes. Sometimes I despised her for being eight years older - and probably wiser. “I’m not stupid. You obviously haven’t been with anyone since Nate. No, don’t give me that look. You reek of sexual frustration.”

I gasped. “Excuse me?!”

This was new. Discussing our sex lives when we had usually focused more on my rather embarrassing moping about past loves. I slapped her forearm. “It’s only been two months and we really shouldn’t be discussing this here.” I gestured around the business of LLV, then moved to finish the Cuba Libre and put it on my tray. And I was off, leaving Teddy alone at the bar, shuffling to 7 and back, getting stopped to take orders a few times. Where on earth was Mary-Anne when you needed her?

“So,” Teddy’s voice filled my ears as soon as I got behind the bar again, only to be interrogated. “I did the maths. Two months? Who on earth did you lure in between your thighs and didn’t even bother mentioning it to me? Remember me? The person you cried to after you and Nate broke up?”

I gave her a pointed look. Then I shrugged, done with trying to keep the secret. All my dignity was already out the window anyways. “Nate.”

Teddy’s jaw was on the ground for the next minutes that I spent recalling the events of that Thursday evening in early September where I had randomly called Nate because of a bad day, just to hear his voice. And how he’d actually been in Toronto for a few days and thinking about calling me too; how we’d somehow ended up grabbing dinner and talking about all the good times we’d had and then the bad times and how he regretted having to break up but loved his job in Vancouver. And then a good-hearted hug had led to lingering eye-contact and rough breathing led to kissing and spending the night on his friend’s couch.

Teddy regained her composure, sitting up straight. “So you’ve had your closure now?”

I nodded, reassured because she didn’t seem to judge, and then turned to the coffee machine to make her an Espresso. We bathed in the silence for a bit, not knowing what the other was thinking and also not particularly caring to disrupt, until Teddy initiated,

“Well, I had hoped you’d know by now but I gave Shawn your number.”

I whipped my head to face her. “You did what?”

She held her hands up, surrendering. “I know, I’m sorry. But he was persistent. And I really don’t get why you insisted on ignoring us that hard on Sunday. Did he do something to you in school?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Have you met Shawn?”

“Yeah, right. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Teddy rested her chin on her palms, studying my face as I concentrated on the coffee machine. I was doing a miserable job of concealing the twisty feeling in my stomach. Just thinking about what Teddy might’ve told him about me prior to coming on Sunday. Did he think lowly of me now? Working as a waitress, struggling to pay bills and apparently relying on customers to get laid? No, he wasn’t like that. I knew him. Had known him for years. 

“So, what I’m guessing is this,” she was back with the drawls, “You were embarrassed.”

She radiated mischief and satisfaction, even more when I moved to shake my head. A poor attempt at dignity. 

She erupted in a toothy grin. “Don’t even try denying. You are so easy to read.”

I put the hot Espresso in front of her with a huff and a red face. How dare she?

“Then again, so is Shawn; he was burning to talk to you the whole time. I’m actually really surprised he hasn’t texted you yet.”

Teddy was saying all this very nonchalantly while blowing on her Espresso, like she hadn’t just revealed that Shawn had obviously been thinking about me too. I stared at her taking a sip. Then she looked up at me. I was distressed. Shawn? Burning to talk to me? 

We’d gone two years without talking to each other and graduation seemed like another lifetime already. I tensed. It felt so long ago that he’d taken my hand on the way to my house. And it felt even longer ago that his breath had fanned my face when he’d let go of the hug at my door, when he’d kept his hands around my waist and looked from my eyes to my lips. 

And that final, infinite moment right before I’d leant in, all ragged breathing and beating hearts and my first real kiss.

(Now that felt like an outer body experience at this point.)

I’d never told him that he was my first kiss, of course. We’d looked at each other afterwards; him scratching the back of his neck, me fiddling with the straps of my bag. The empty glass bottles rumbled inside it and I had hesitated when I said, “That...That was nice and all, but, and don’t get me wrong, I’m drunk and this was probably a mistake. I guess, you know, you’re a rockstar and practically on a world tour in a few days.”

And he’d lingered for a second, then nodded and well, then he was gone. For two years. Gone, but never really. It had proved quite difficult to ignore his existence when he became a celebrity. So I’d done the only thing any reasonable person trying to get over a crush did: Unfollowed him every-fucking-where and changed the radio station when a song of his came on. The only real connection I still had to him was my friend Ivy, but she had understood to shut up about him in front of me. Especially when I got with Nate a year and a half ago.

Somewhere around that time, I’d also gotten a new phone and I hadn’t even bothered to text him my new number. Still, I found myself wondering if our kiss had meant anything to him like it had to me back then. 

I suddenly jerked my head, willing that thought out of my mind. Which didn’t go unnoticed by Teddy.

“Windsor, why am I getting the expression that you two have history?”

Clicking my tongue, I delved into the story.

Seven hours later, I laid in bed. Phone in hand and Shawn on my mind. My tiny room had nothing but a glass laptop table from IKEA, my wooden childhood bed and a few clothes racks (also IKEA, naturally). The rest of my stuff was stored in an array of cardboard boxes beneath the window, labelled with creative tags like cheap high-tech (chargers and various cables I had no idea how to use), pics to laugh at, pics to cry at, good books, trash books or, my favourite, a massive binder that read paid bills. I was a picture perfect (broke) university student.

My room was also freezing because I had forgotten to close my window this morning and I heard the faint sound of my roommates Timothy and Charlotte respectively watching movies in their rooms. Sucks to be sandwiched.

I envisioned what Shawn’s apartment must look like. It was probably really spacious, with big windows and high-ceilings. Minimalistic in furniture and full of music stuff. My fingers hovered over the keyboard; I stared at his contact info. Shawn Mendes.

Who was I kidding? What would I even text him? And would he even bother to reply at all?

I decided not knowing was better than being disappointed. At least I could still entertain my fantasies that way.

PART TWO??

Brief knb scenario, angst with a happy ending: Kuroko, Kagami, Midorima, and Akashi's friend confesses she's falling in love with them. They never thought of her as a potential girlfriend, so they reject her. Then and there, she declares "then we cant be friends anymore. Because i dont want to watch you fall in love with anyone else". After being without her, they realize they would be good together and they make up with her.

Ooooh, an angst; I think this is either the second or third angst request I’ve ever received (the exception being the mini Akashi series (Part 1, Part 2, Part 1.5,.) (Had to link the wattpad part since I changed the name of my blog)

Just like my Ai/Camus/Ren request, and the Yosen one, It’ll be a generic scenario, but different outcomes with each one.

The setting for these will be after “Extra Game”; so that means, no Bokushi (aka, Akashi being back to his normal self)

In addition, for the resolution, Kagami and Kuroko’s results will be exactly the same (just different since they’re different names)

And I’m sorry but......one or two of them might just end in angst aaaaand this might’ve taken a slightly different direction.

Let’s begin!!

Meet me at Starbucks/Maji Burger after practice please; I need to talk to you.

Those were the words you said to your best friend before he headed off to practice, and while they were vague words, to you, they meant a whole lot more; these words would mark your future with him.

You looked down the (F/D) in your hand, nerves starting to get the best of you. You didn’t want this talk to ruin your friendship with him, but at the same time, hoping that he won’t say no. Taking a sip of your drink, you looked at your phone and started to play “Munchkin Match”, and after 30 minutes,  just as you were about to complete the level, you got a text from him, saying that he was on his way.

Feeling your stomach drop, you said a silent prayer to help calm your nerves. You heard the bell ring, and looking up, you saw your friend walking in, walking towards you; all you can do was give him a smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Kuroko

Location: Maji Burger

“Sorry I’m a little late, (L/N)-chan,” he said, as he walked over and sat across from you. “Coach worked us a bit overtime.”

“It’s alright,” you say with a smile, “I completed a few levels in ‘Munchkin Match’ while I waited, so it’s all good.”

“So you managed to beat that one level?” he said with a smile, knowing that you were struggling with a level that was over 200.

You nodded in response.

“I’m going to go get a milkshake and I’ll be-”

“One milkshake,” a server said, as they brought out the vanilla milkshake and set it on the table.

“Thank you.”

The server left with a smile, and Kuroko turned to look at you. “You didn’t have to do that you know,” he said.

“I know, but I wanted too,” you replied, taking a sip out of your own milkshake.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, getting down to business.

You pressed your lips together, looking down at your milkshake; you knew that Kuroko was kinda blunt, yet, you still felt extremely anxious. He’s your best friend, and you shouldn’t feel this way, yet it's scary.

“Tetsu,” you started, as you took a deep breath, “We’ve been friends for a while.” You still couldn’t look him in the eyes, at least not at the moment. “You understand me, you respect me, you pretty much know everything about me. I know you’re focused on basketball, but I just wanted to tell you,” you paused again, “I’ve grown to love you, Tetsuya, and I find myself still falling for you.”

You felt relief wash over you, for the burden of this confession finally being out in the open. Yet, your heart was still pounding, nervous about the response you were going to receive.

Looking up at Kuroko, you saw that, like usual, his face showed no emotion as he was taking sips of him milkshake, which you expected since he wasn’t a very expressive guy-yet the look was making you really nervous.

“I appreciate the confession, (L/N),” he started, looking at you straight into your eyes, “but I’m sorry, I’ve never thought of you as a potential girlfriend; just a good friend.”

You froze; you thought you knew him well. The way he acted around you...maybe you read into his kind gestures. You thought you had braced yourself for the rejection, but it turns out that you hadn’t. You felt your heart break, as your stomach sank; you tried to avoid crying, but the tears just came out.

“I honestly hope that my response doesn’t change anything-”

“I’m sorry, but it does change everything,” you say, looking up at him as tears were on the brim of your eyes. “I’m sorry but we can’t be friends anymore-”

“Why would you say that? I enjoy-”

“Because I don’t want to watch you fall in love with anyone else,” you said, cutting him off as you got up from the table and walked away.

“(L/N)-san-”

“See you around, Kuroko”. And just like him, you disappeared from him sight.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Kagami

Location: Maji Burger

Kagami  choked on one of the many burgers that he had ordered; he  wasn't sure if he heard your words correctly.

“You say what now?” he choked out, after taking a sip of hiss soda. “Did you just drop the-”

“Yes,” you say, looking awaam him, not meeting his eyes. “I’m falling in love with you, Taiga.”

Kagami starred, his brain trying to process your confirmation. You fell in love with him? There was no way that someone could.He will admit that he does like you, after all, if he didn’t you two wouldn’t be friends; but actually dating you?

“Sorry,” he said bluntly, taking another bite of his burger, “I’ve never thought of you as a potential girlfriend, just a good friend who helps me with my studies. Besides, right now, my only love is basketball.

You stared at him in disbelief, surprised that he said that so bluntly; what really surprised you was how he mentioned his studies. Does he just see me as a freakin-. You paused your train of thought by quickly standing up, the chair scraping against the floor. You were furious-not at the rejection (although that did sting), but at how casually he brought up tutoring. “No Kagami, I'm  the one who’s sorry,” you said, glaring at him, “After today, we can no longer be friends and your tutor-,

“Haa? Why?” he said after swallowing the last bite of his 7th burger.

Now is when you felt the anger subside, being replaced with sadness and hurt. “B-because I don’t want to watch you fall in love with anyone else.” Grabbing your things, you quickly bolted from the building, ignoring the shouts from your former friend

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Midorima

Location: Maji Burger

“I didn’t realize that Takao would be joining us,” you said as you saw your friend walk into Maji Burger with his ‘shadow’ partner.

“Sup, (N/N)-chan!” Takao said cheerfully, as he and Midorima say down across from you. “Hope you don’t mind that I tagged along. You know how Shin-chan is in regards to hanging out with you.”

“Shut up, Takao.”

You chuckled since you knew what Takao said was true; while you and the shooting guard were close friends (or as close as he would allow you two to be), he still couldn’t grasp the concept of ‘friendship’, but you’ve found that he’s slightly getting better.

“So what did you want to talk about, nanodayo?” he asked, pushing his glasses back onto his nose. “I have important things to do-”

“Be nice, Shin-chan,” Takao said, patting his partner on the shoulder. Quickly, he turned his gaze to you, meeting your eyes; since you were friends with Midorima, you naturally grew extremely close to Takao, who seems to know you more than you know yourself. Once he made eye contact with you, he knew exactly what you wanted to talk to him about (after all, you talked about Midorima to him all the time-and you were surprised that he was able to keep him mouth shut). “I’m sure (N/N)-chan has something important to tell you.”

Midorima turned to look at you and your (e/c) eyes made contact with his. “Well?”

“I’m going to order some food, I’ll be back,” Takao said, getting up from the table; the conversation that you were about to have with him was meant to be private. However, Takao couldn’t help but feel that this talk will end badly.

You let out a sigh and decided that it was now or never. “I’m falling in love with you, Midorima Shintarou,” you said, “I want to be more than just a friend-”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” he said, cutting you off, “I’ve never thought of you as a potential girlfriend, nanodayo. If anything, you’re more of an acquaintance.”

Looking from Midorima, your eyes switched to Takao, only to quickly go back to Midorima. “Then we can’t be friends or...whatever we are anymore...because I don’t want to watch you fall in love with someone else.” You quickly got up and left, leaving behind a baffled Midorima.

“I take it the conversation didn’t go too well?” Takao asked, returning to the table with a tray of food.

“I thought it went fine, nanodayo,” he replied, pushing his glasses further up his face, “Not in her case-not that I care.”

Takao let out a sigh, taking a bite out of his french fries. You’re an idiot, Shin-chan.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Akashi

(Bokushi no longer exists)

Location: Starbucks

“Thanks for taking time to meet up after your practice, Akashi,” you say as you saw him approach the table you were at.

“I don’t have long, but you’re my friend, so I can squeeze you in.”

You couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at his statement. Ever since Rakuzan’s loss to Seirin last year, and Vorpal Swords win as well, based on what you were told by Kuroko, Akashi had returned back to his old, apparently kinder self. He no longer had that harsh aura around him, and seemed to be more approachable (yet he still had his authoritative state of mind-yet it was not as harsh as it used to be).

It’s now or never, you thought as you took a deep breath. “Akashi-”

“I already know what you’re going to say,” Akashi said, as he cut you off, looking you straight in the eyes.

“W-what?”

“You invited me here to confess to me, correct?”

You were speechless; You couldn’t believe that he read you so easily; but then again, it was Akashi, but still, you thought you hid your feelings well-guess you hadn’t.

“I understand that we’ve known each other for a while and we’re friends, but I’ve never seen you as a potential girlfriend,” he said, quick and to the point, “I’ve only considered you as a friend, or a close friend, but nothing more. I'm sorry, but we could still be friends right?.”

Looking into Akashi’s eyes, you could tell that he was being sincere, yet, it still hurt.  You do want to still be friends with him, but yet, you couldn’t. “I’m sorry, Akashi, but we can’t be friends anymore,” you start as you stood up, “Because I don’t want to watch you fall in love with someone else.” You looked at him one last time, both of your eyes connecting. “I’m sorry.” And with those final words, you quickly left, leaving the redhead behind.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Once you made your way back home, you bolted straight to your room, completely ignoring your parents who greeted you; they knew how you felt about your friend, so they figured they would leave you alone, and talk to you later.

Slamming the door shut, you pressed your back against it, slowly sliding down until you reached the floor. Bringing your knees to your chest, you buried your face in your arms and let the tears you were fighting to come down.

Every manga, tv show and fanfiction that you have read and seen that dealt with this situation, always ended in happy endings; the guy friend would return the feelings for the heroine, and they would live happily together. Yet in your case, it was the opposite.

You knew the difference between fantasy and reality, yet you were hoping that this particular fantasy would have had the happy ending that you were looking for.

Guess there’s no such thing as happily ever after, you thought, as you let your sobs echo through the room.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Setting: A few weeks later

----------

Kuroko/Kagami

Location: Seirin Gym

“Don’t break the hoop, Bakagami! We’re still a new school!”

“I’m not going to break it!” he shouted back, letting go of the rim and landing on the floor with a thud

“Kagami-kun, there's no need to yell,” Kuroko said, appearing out of nowhere, startling the taller teen.

“Still at it with the misdirection, huh?” he growled, getting annoyed with his shadow’s antics. “You’re going to end up giving someone a heart attack one of these days.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kagami-kun,” he replied, grabbing the ball and walking to the other side of the court, “Now, help me out.”

“Teme...don’t tell me what to do like-”

“Kagami! Leave Kuroko alone!” Riko yelled, “Don’t make me get the fan!”

Letting  out a ‘tch’, Kagami followed his shadow.

“You  know,” Kogani said, catching one of  Hyuuga’s rebounds, “It..doesn’t the gym seem too quiet?”

Everyone stopped what they were doing, thinking on what the male had said. He had a point; it really was quiet, especially since there were only two people yelling at Kagami instead of the usual three.

“Now that you mention it, it is quiet without (L/N) here.”

“She probably got weirded out by all of the puns,” Kogani said jokingly, resting his elbow on Izuki’s shoulder.

“Don’t be  ridiculous,” Izuki said with confidence, “There’s no way that’s the case; puns and dad jokes work every time.”

“Didn’t-no one uses any dad jokes except you, senpai” Furihata said, walking over to him.

“Well, dad ain’t right” Izuki said, “Kitacore”

“Can you like stop for once in your life?” Hyuuga groaned fighting the urge to chuck the basketball directly into the point guards face.

“Nope,” Izuki replied with a cheeky smile, as Nigou barked in agreement. “See? Even Nigou agrees with me.”.

“I’m so done with you.”

Riko turned to look at both Kuroko and Kagami, immediately picking up on how quiet they had become; what really gave it away was how they froze at the mention of your name.

“Oi, power duo,” she yelled, “Did something happen between you and (F/N)-chan?”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Kuroko

“”She confessed to me,” Kuroko said, “She said that she loves me-”

“EEHHH!?!”

“That’s so cute!” Riko said in excitement, “Just don’t let it get in the way with prac-”

“I said no,” he added, cutting Riko off. “I’ve never considered her to be a potential girlfriend, just a good friend.”

“You’re an idiot,” Kagami said, hitting Kuroko on top of his head, causing the shorter male to let out a pained yelp. “You should’ve said yes.”

“Kagami-kun, I don’t see how I could have,” he replied. “Because if things went wrong when we’re together, then our friendship will be truly over.”

“I don’t think that's the case with (F/N),” Izuki said, he's joking tone immediately switching to a more serious one. “I’ve lost count as to how many times (F/N) gets asked out in class; she always turns them down because they all don’t have the any of the three traits that she looks for in a guy.”

“And what would that be, Izuki-senpai?” he asked.

“Compassion and loyalty and dedication” he replied with a smile, “Kuroko has a lot of compassion and dedication; whether it be basketball or anything with Nigou, he has it-”

Kuroko slightly started to smile, until he heard the rest of Izuki’s sentence.

“-even though you rarely show it physically,” Izuki concluded, only to speak up again when he saw the partially dejected expression on Kuroko’s face, “However, you still show it somehow, and (F/N) seemed to have picked up on it.”

“How do you know this?” Hyuuga asked, “We’re in the same class, yet I’ve never noticed it.”

“Because she’s a childhood friend of mine,” Izuki said, stealing the ball from Hyuuga and making a basket, “She’s my neighbor. She tells me everything.” He turned to face Kuroko. “I’m going to say this as your senpai, and not as (F/N)’s friend. You’re missing out. And besides, we can all tell that you like her more than a friend-don’t deny it,” he added, as he saw Kuroko open his mouth, as if he was about to interject.

There was silence as Kuroko let the words that Izuki said sink in. He had noticed that things were quiet at practice these past few days, the sound of your voice yelling at Kagami was missed, your words of encouragement, even the sound of your laughter echoing throughout the gym; man did he miss it. Plus, he misses hanging out with you after school at Maji’s, at lunch, even just saying a quick ‘hi’ in between classes.

Izuki was right; he does love you.

“While you might be right, Izuki-senpai, I already hurt her feelings by rejecting her, so there’s really no chance that she’d accept my apology.”

Izuki shook his head, “You’re wrong. She’s a very forgiving person...sometimes a little bit too forgiving. But one thing I do know, is that she will definitely return your feelings; she hasn’t given up hope, but she’s still keeping her distance. She usually waits for me in the little garden right by the gate to the school so we can walk home together”

Kuroko’s  expression brightened up a bit, as one of his rare smiles spread across his face. “Thank you, Izuki-senpai.”

“I’ll let you go early, just this once,” Riko said,  noticing how Kuroko was starting to become very antsy

With a smile, Kuroko grabbed his things and bolted out of the gym, excited that you hadn’t given up hope.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Kagami

“She...uh...confessed to me,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “She said that she’s fallen in love with me.”

“EEHHH!?!”

“That’s so cute!” Riko said in excitement, “Just don’t let it get in the way with prac-”

“I said no,” he added, cutting Riko off. “I’ve never considered her to be a potential girlfriend, just a good friend.”

“W-what?”

Before Kagami could utter a response, he felt a jab in his side; Kuroko had elbowed him in the ribs again. “Damn it that hurt!” he growled, glaring hard at the teal haired male.

“Kagami-kun, you’re an idiot. You should’ve said yes.”

“How could I have?” he exclaimed, a little too loudly. “I’ve honestly never seen her as a girlfriend, just as a good friend.”

“I’m sorry, you rejected (F/N)-san?” Koganei said, in disbelief.

“What did you say to her exactly?”

Kagami froze, as he recalled what he said, instantly regretting it. “I told her, in addition to seeing her as a good friend, I also told her that she’s a good tutor as well-”

“That’s the worst thing to say to a girl!” Riko yelled, whacking Kagami with the paper fan.

“I panicked!” he defended, “but it was insensitive.”Also, I don’t see how I could’ve said ‘yes’. Because if we were to date, and we broke up, then our friendship would be completely destroyed and she would end up with Aomine.

“....What the hell does Aomine have to do with this?”

“Apparently, it’s a rival thing, Koganei-senpai.”

“I don’t think that's the case with (F/N),” Izuki said, he's joking tone immediately switching to a more serious one. “I’ve lost count as to how many times (F/N) gets asked out in class; she always turns them down because they all don’t have the any of the three traits that she looks for in a guy; and I know that Aomine especially doesn’t have it..”

“And what would that be, Izuki-senpai?” he asked.

“While stubborn guys are one of the traits she hates, which you have-don’t deny it,” Izuki started, noticing that Kagami was about to reply, “she has actually looked past that flaw in you. She actually values how determined, ambitious and headstrong you are. Plus, she’s noticed how much you have matured since last year.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because she’s a childhood friend of mine,” Izuki said, stealing the ball from Hyuuga and making a basket, “She’s my neighbor. She tells me everything.” He turned to face Kagami. “I’m going to say this as your senpai, and not as (F/N)’s best friend. You’re missing out. And besides, we can all tell that you like her more than a friend-don’t deny it,” he added, as he saw Kagami open his mouth once again, as if he was about to interject.

There was silence as Kagami let the words that Izuki said sink in. He had noticed that things were quiet at practice these past few days, the sound of your voice yelling at him from arguing with Kuroko was missed, your words of encouragement, even the sound of your laughter echoing throughout the gym; man did he miss it. Plus, he misses hanging out with you after school at Maji’s with Kuroko-laughing at the eating contests that he has with Aomine whenever he showed up-, at lunch, even just saying a quick ‘hi’ in between classes.

Izuki was right; he does love you and he’s a real idiot for not realizing that sooner.

...Maybe the nickname “Bakagami does suit him

“While you might be right, Izuki-senpai, I already hurt her feelings by rejecting her, so there’s really no chance that she’d accept my apology.”

Izuki shook his head, “You’re wrong. She’s a very forgiving person...sometimes a little bit too forgiving. But one thing I do know, is that she will definitely return your feelings; she hasn’t given up hope, but she’s still keeping her distance. She usually waits for me in the little garden right by the gate to the school so we can walk home together”

Kagami’s  expression brightened up a bit, as one of his smiles spread across his face. “Thank you, Izuki-senpai.”

Riko let out a sigh and looked at the clock on the wall, “I’ll let you go early, just this once,” she said,  noticing how Kagami was starting to become very antsy

With a smile, Kagami grabbed his things and bolted out of the gym, excited that you hadn’t given up hope.

Once the ombre haired male left, everyone turned to look at each other, surprised at the whole situation.

“Koganei, are you alright?” Riko asked, “You were quiet this entire time, and you love to interject.”

“I’m still in shock that (F/N)-san actually loves him. Out of all guys in this school, she chose him? I was expecting her to choose Izuki, since they always hang out together.

“Not a chance,” Izuki said, “I see her as a sister.” He looked at the door that Kagami just ran out of, “But if he hurts her, then I will not hold back-”

“Don’t kill him! We still need him, plus murder isn’t legal yet!”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Midorima

It had been a few months since Midorima had rejected your confession and you have been avoiding him like the plague; however, something seemed off. While you did talk a lot and get on his nerves (not as much as Takao does), he will admit that he found amusement and comfort in your presence; yet, now that you’re not around anymore, it felt...odd.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, it’s been too quiet, much more quiet than usual and he couldn’t figure out why that was-until it occurred to him; Takao wasn’t around.

That’s why it's so quiet, he thought as he exited the locker room, headed to the court for practice. He wasn’t too worried about Takao not coming in at the same time with him, since that energetic point guard loved basketball.

Opening the door to the gym, he wasn’t surprised when found the others practicing; however, what did surprise him was that Takao wasn’t on the court with them.

“It’s about time, Midorima!” the captain said, “Get your ass over here and start warming up.”

Nodding, he jogged over towards his team, and once he was there, he saw Takao talking to someone.

“Takao, we’ve got practice, let’s go, nanodayo.”

“Haii!” Takao said, turning around to face his team partner with a smile.

Once he turned around, Midorima’s eyes slightly widened; it turned out Takao had been talking to you. When your eyes met his, he felt a lump in his throat, and his heart slightly beating faster.

“Have fun and play hard, Kazu,” you said with a smile, completely breaking eye contact with your former crush to face the point guard. “And don’t do anything stupid-”

“I won't,” he chuckled, as he walked away, grabbing the shooting guard by the arm and leading him to the court.

For some reason, when you walked away without acknowledging him, it hurt...not that he would ever tell anyone about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Few hours later

“Man, practice was tough,” Takao groaned, as he left the locker room with Midorima stretching his arms over his head.

“It wasn’t that bad, nanodayo,” he replied. “Otsubo’s were a bit harder.”

“Yea, but keep in mind, Yuja-senpai is Miyaji-senpai’s younger brother; so he most likely told his brother to make our training hell, since we’re the aces of our team!”

Midorima couldn’t help but slightly smile. “Guess that’s true,” he said as he looked down at the shorter male.He did however, find it strange that Takao hasn’t brought up going out to eat somewhere like he usually does.

Then again, these past few months....they haven’t really hung out much; despite how much detest Midorima shows against Takao, he still enjoyed his company-not that he’d ever tell him that.

Coming out of his thoughts, he saw Takao smiling as he looked down at his phone. “Are you looking at those BTS memes?” he asked, as he recalled how you had introduced both of them to that popular K-Pop band a year ago; you ended up turning Takao into a member of their fanbase.  

“No, I save those for class,” he says as he starts to reply to a text with a huge goofy grin on his face.

“Takao,” Midorima said, his tone of voice a bit harsher, “I know you,  and I know when you’re lying.”

“Fine,” Takao sighed, “It is BTS related, yet-” Takao paused, unsure of how to tell him the true meaning behind the text, since he didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings. “(N/N)-chan got BTS tickets, and she’s telling me about it.” His tone of voice changed into a slightly happier one.

“I see.” Midorima felt strange; he remembered the group chat that the three of you are in, and how whenever you were excited, you would text both of them, oftentimes, to the point where Takao got so riled up, that his phone would be blowing up with texts from the both of you (and it would even be at 3am when he’s trying to sleep).

“Yea, she’s really excited.”

Midorima heard the slight hesitation in Takao’s voice at his last statement. “What are you hiding, nanodayo?” he asked.

Sighing once again, the young point guard stopped and looked up at his friend. “You remember that day a few months ago, when we meet up with (F/N) at Maji Burger?”

Again, Midorima raised his eyebrow. Takao rarely calls you by your full first name; its usually a rendition of your name or just a weird nickname. “Of course I remember,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“Well, we’re kinda...dating right now,” Takao said, rubbing the back of his head.

Midorima just stared at Takao, unsure of what to say, or how to feel. Should he feel happy? Sad? He was so confused and uncertain.

“Are you mad, Shin-chan?” Takao asked, bringing the male out of his thoughts.

“Why would I be mad? She and I were never dating-”

“I know, but, things have been awkward between you two and I don’t want that to get in the way of basketball-”

“It’s fine,” he said, trying his best to reassure the point guard, who just smiled in response. “So how long?”

“Just a little over a month,” he said, “That’s kinda why I haven’t asked to hang out as often as I used to. Hope you’re not mad.”

“Again, why would I be mad? If you’re happy with her, then why should it matter to me?”

Before Takao could respond, both males heard you shout his name. Turning to look around, they both saw you walking up to the two of them-mostly making eye contact with Takao the whole time. The moment you stood in front of them, you paused, as you made eye-contact with Midorima.

“Guess what, (N/N)-chan!” Takao started, trying to break the awkward tension between you and the shooting guard, “Shin-chan isn’t mad that we’re dating!”

You turned your head to look up at him, and turned your head back to face the green haired male. “Seriously?”

“Yea!”

“Oh thank god,” you said, letting out a sigh of relief, confusing both males in front of you.

“I don’t understand, I thought you hated me, not that I cared or anything,” Midorima said.

“Don’t get me wrong, I did hate you,” you started, “And I still kinda do, but then I realized that if you hadn’t shot me down, then I would’ve never ended up with Takao.”

“...Then why not tell me, not that I would care, nanodayo?”

“Because things were already awkward between us, soI begged Takao not to tell you because I didn’t want your partnership on the court to suffer.”

“We wouldn’t have suffered, nanodayo. I don’t know about him, but I know how to separate personal life outside of basketball life.”

“Rude-”

“He’s not wrong, Kazu,” you said, agreeing with the green haired male, “While I love talking basketball with you, it does get annoying after a while.”

“Why are you ganging up on me,” he pouted.

Giggling, you leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, instantly cheering him up.

While Takao might’ve cheered up from that simple action, Midorima couldn’t help but feel jealous. He shouldn’t be jealous at all, yet here he was. Why would a simple kiss on the cheek make him like this?

“Anyway, would you guys like to grab something to eat?” you suggested, startling both males.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Takao asked, afraid that if the three of you hung out, you would just end up falling for Midorima again.

With a mile you nodded, “Yes, I’m sure. Besides, I want to here what’s been happening in the life of one of my good friends.”

“But I tell you-”

“I want to hear if from, him, Kazu.” You turned to look at Midorima, “That’s alright with you, right?”

“Don’t care,” he replied, only to have his stomach growl. “....Fine.”

The three of you took off, Takao’s arm around your waist, towards Maji’s. During that walk, Midorima couldn’t help but ponder on the words that you had said earlier, in regards to him.

One of my good friends.

Hearing those words, even thinking about those words, made his heart sink; he felt his chest tighten.

Was this how you felt when he turned you down? Broken and upset.

Midorima took out his lucky item, which happened to be half a heart of a best friend keychain that his sister has. While the real symbolism is that when the hearts were conjoined, it would spell out “best friends”, in this situation, he felt that it was the opposite;his best friend (whom he would never admit to him in person) dating the girl that he shot down would end up making him regret it, and breaking his heart.

Oha Asa is messed up at times.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Akashi

“It’s been really quiet lately hasn’t?” Mibuchi asked, as he, Akashi, Hayama and Nebuya were walking towards the locker room.

“How so, Reo-nee?”

“In what way, Mibuchi-senpai?” Akashi said.

“At practice,” he replied, taking off his shirt and tossing it into his bag. “Usually there’s so much laughter and joy in the gym when (N/N)-chan was there.”

“Agreed; even though she wasn’t our manager, she made probably the best food I’ve ever had!” Nebuya exclaimed, a bit too loudly,

“That is true,” Hayama said, letting out a sigh as he thought about the food. “She was always there for our team.”

Mibuchi let out a soft gasp as he came to a realization. “She stopped coming after she invited you to Starbucks that one day,” he said.

“You went on a date?!” Hayama asked excitedly, “With (F/N)-chan?! So lucky!!”

“It wasn’t a date,” he said, immediately calming the snaggletooth male down, “She wanted to tell me something one on one, that's all it was; just two people getting coffee.” Akashi was really hoping that they would drop the subject of you, but of course, like the nosey seniors that they were, kept pestering him about it.

“Start from the beginning,” Reo said sitting on the bench, “What happened when you entered the place?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Akashi said, starting to get annoyed. “What goes on in my personal life doesn’t concer-”

“If it’s anything with (F/N)-chan, then it concerns all of us.”

“Especially since she was our unofficial manager,” Nebuya said, as his stomach growled.

“I said no.”

“Come on Akashi!” Hayama whined, as he rested his arm on Akashi’s shoulder, “You were so cold to us last year; this would be the least you could do for us.”

“No,” Akashi said more sternly, “And get off.” He could feel the anger starting to build up inside him.

“Then just tell me,” Reo said, “You know I won’t-”

“She fucking confessed that she loved me okay?!” Akashi snapped, startling everyone in the locker room; from the pestering, to the fact how angry he was at himself for probably being the reason why you stopped coming around, it was all too much.

The three Uncrowned Kings just stared at their captain.

“She loves you?” Reo said, breaking the silence in the room.

“Did you just curse!?”

“She does-or at least she did,” Akashi sighed. “ I turned her down.”

“Why would you do that?!” Reo exclaimed in shock and disgust, “You have no idea how lucky you would’ve been to date her!”

“I just never thought of her as a girlfriend, just a good friend. Besides, my father wouldn’t allow our relationship if he knew.”

“...Seriously, is anyone going to acknowledge that Akashi just cursed?!” Hayama reiterated, only to be ignored again.

“Screw what your father wants!” Reo said, snapping at the redhead, once again startling everyone in the room. “He doesn’t know anything about love. He pushes you to the point to be perfect at everything! That is not love!”

“Parental love and relationship love are completely different, Mibuchi-san.”

“Love is love, Sei-chan.”

“Then tell me,” Akashi growled, slightly more annoyed as he walked towards his senior, “If you know so damn much about ‘love’ like you say you do, then how do you know when it’s love? Hmm?”

Reo turned, looking down at his captain. “Love is making a choice every day,” he started, “We make the choice whether to love or not. Loving someone is an action; you have to choose to put your needs aside for their own. Sometimes it’ll be easy, and other times it’ll be hard. You made the action of becoming good friends with her-you chose to open up around her; no one forced you to do that.” Mibuchi placed a hand on Akashi’s shoulder, “So how do you know when it’s love? That’s the wrong question to ask, Sei-chan. You should be asking if you choose to love someone. If you find you do chose to love them, then good for you, if not, then it's your loss.”

Everyone was once again shocked, which seemed to be a common trend in the room. No one would have expected the flamboyant, shooting guard to be serious, and give actual useful advice.

“Adding to that,” Nebuya said, finally speaking up, “Another way, in addition to....whatever he just said, to know, is if you miss the person when you’re apart.”

“That too,” Reo said, nodding in agreement.

“You three should focus on studies and basketball, rather than focusing on what ‘love’ is,” Akashi said, grabbing his bag and leaving the room, really not wanting to deal with the peer pressure, “Rest up and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door slammed shut and Reo let out a sigh, “He might’ve changed from last year, but he’s still stubborn as ever.” Reo turned to look at the snaggletoothed male, who was quiet the whole time. “What do you have to say about this?”

“Hmm?” Hayama asked, “Sorry Reo-nee, but I was still in shock that Akashi cursed, that I kinda zoned out.”

Reaching into his locker, he grabbed a notebook and whacked him over the head with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Needing fresh air after what happened, Akashi decided to tell his driver to not pick him up. That whole conversation he had was pointless-yet he felt that he was the one at fault, since he was the one who snapped at their pestering. He’s Akashi Seijuro, he’s known to not let things get to him.....yet the topic of you...something about it got under his skin.

THe words of his seniors played through his head, as he couldn’t help but actually, consider the advice.

Loving someone is an action. You chose to be friends with her.

MIbuchi was right about one thing, he did choose to be friends with you, and he chose to just be friends with you. Akashi has never really had a true friend outside of the Kiseki no Sedai, so your friendship was indeed new to him (and apparently, he came to the realization that friendships with a female is completely different from ones with males).

He will admit that without you around, things have been different, and he has been more lonely; for once, basketball wasn’t enough for him. He wasn't sure why your absence from his life was affecting him this much; last year when he was...different, he grew used to it. Yet again, you were still there for him, even though he pushed you away.

He couldn’t help but remember the day he rejected you. Since he was the heir to one of the biggest companies in Japan, people would confess their love for him, all the time, just because he was rich; so he was never sure when a confession would’ve been an honest one.

Once again, Reo’s words echoed through his mind as he continued to think about it; you had chosen to be friends with him, you chose to still be friends with him through last year. You had chosen to fall in love with him.

So her love was actually genuine, he thought, as he let out a sigh, I fucked up big time. And that was when he realized the harsh truth; I do love her.

He was brought out of his thoughts when he saw the familiar shade of your hair, sitting on a park bench as you were looking at your phone; to him, it looked like you were expecting a text message.

Gathering up his courage  (which he didn’t know that he had lost), he walked over to approach you, to apologize. “Hello, (F/N),” he said, grabbing your attention as you looked up from your phone.

“Hello Akashi,” you replied. You saw that he had his sports bag over his shoulder, and was surprised that he was actually walking home instead of driving. “I take it you’re walking home today?” You didn’t like the silence that was between you two.

“Indeed. It is a nice day so I figured I’d walk home to enjoy the weather,” he lied, since he didn’t want you to know that he was actually walking to clear his mind of his thoughts about you. “Would you mind if I sat with you?”

You shrugged your shoulders in confirmation and with a small smile, he say next to you, making sure that there was a reasonable amount of distance between the two of you.

“I know you, Akashi,” you say, breaking the silence that was between you two, “What’s the real reason why you’re walking home?”

He inwardly chuckled; he knew there was a reason he was attracted to you, you were observant, which not a lot of people are. Yet, being put on the spot like this, made him nervous, and he never gets nervous. Was this how you felt when he rejected you?

“Guess you really do know me,” he chuckled, “I was hoping to talk to you.”

You purse your lips together; already getting an idea to where this was going to go-but it’s Akashi, so who knows what it could be. “About what?”

“I want to apologize, for what I did months ago,” he said, slightly being taken back as he saw you flinch a bit. “I’m sorry for how I rejected you, and I’ve been thinking that you would like to know the reason why.”

“But why now?” you ask, looking at him confused.

“Because I’m stupid and it took me awhile to realize the reason why I turned your confession down.” He paused to look at your reaction, to see whether or not he should continue; your expression didn’t change, so he decided to continue. “Because I wasn’t sure if your confession was genuine or not. I didn’t know if you were just confessing to me just because of who my father is, but I now realize that I was wrong. Love is a choice and you chose to love me, and I was stupid to turn it away. I’m sorry, and during that time, I realized that I actually do return your feelings. And I hope it's not too late for me to return your feelings. I never truly appreciated how much your friendship and companionship was to me, and I can’t go another day without you.”

You just stared at the male, trying to process what he said (and in partial shock that he had admitted that he was wrong). “I appreciate the apology Akashi, and I accept your apology. However, I have to apologize myself, for the romantic feelings I had for you are no longer apparent; I’ve moved on. But I will admit that I have missed spending time with you and being your friend.”

Akashi wasn’t surprised that your feelings had vanished, but he was surprised that, even after he hurt you, you wanted to still be friends with him.

Before he could respond, your phone went off, indicating that you had a text message. Looking at your phone, a smile appeared on your face, and you stood up. “My date’s here,” you say as you gather your things.

“Date?”

You nodded, “Yea, I’ve been seeing someone lately and things are looking serious,” you smiled. “You actually know him. He went to our school.”

Akashi froze, trying to analyze who it would be;  it wouldn’t be Nebuya, and it was definitely not Reo. There’s a possibility that it could be Hayama, since he was unusually quiet after practice, but you had used the verb ‘went to’.

“I hope that doesn’t affect the fact that I would like to rekindle our friendship.”

Before he could verbally respond, a familiar figure had approached the two of you, stopping right next to you.

“Long time no see, Akashi,” the person said, with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Likewise, Mayuzumi-san,” he replied, putting on a smile.  

“I hate to end our conversation here, but I will hopefully talk to you tomorrow, okay?” you said excitedly, “Because I would be happy to have my close friend back.”

Akashi flashed a sincere smile, “Of course,” he said, “I’d like that as well.”

Smiling, you grabbed Mayuzumi’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze (you knew how insecure he could be....even though he wasn’t aware that you knew). “That’s awesome!” you exclaimed with a smile, “I’ve missed hanging out with you and the other three. Ooh! Maybe the six of us could hang out one day!”

“It would have to be around both mine and Mayuzumi-san’s schedules,” Akashi said, “Plus, we have the WINter Cup coming around the corner too.”

“Mm, we’ll think of something-”

“As much as I like this mini reunion, we have to get going; the library will close in about an hour,” Mayuzumi said, starting to get uncomfortable with how casual you were with Akashi-since yesterday you couldn’t help but rant about him.

“See ya tomorrow Sei-chan!” you say, as you walk away with Mayuzumi.

Once out of sight, Akashi ran a hand through his hair; he braced himself for rejection, but he never expected for you to already be dating someone-especially one of his seniors.

With pain in his heart, he began to walk away.

I guess the saying is true; you never really know how much you love a person, until they love someone else

I know you said short, but I kinda got carried away with Midorima, Akashi and Kuroko (by the time I got to Kagami, I got lazy; sorry)

Before the end, I just want to apologize, that this took a completely different turn (probably slightly??) I'm also sorry about the angsty ending for Akashi and Midorima (kinda not sorry, but also sorry) - it’s just that from most of the angst that I read about Akashi usually end up happy....so I wanted to change that.

HOWEVER

If you guys want to see a happy version of Akashi and Midorima, as well as the continuation of the Kagami and Kuroko scenarios, shoot me an ask, and I’ll write them; I will say...probably need 6 asks. (IF YOU ASK VIA ANON, ONLY ASK ONCE PLEASE!!! It’s hot fair to me if just one person sends in the request numerous times...since I do have other requests to write as well)

....OR, if this post gets 20+ notes, I’ll also write them.

Anyway, the ask box is still opened; but I think at the moment, I’ll just take UtaPri requests until the end of the week..and depending on the number I may or may not close the ask box...dunno yet...I got no sleep last night so i’ve been up for almost 24 hours.....so if I sound rude, or if this seems rushed, then I’m sorry.

Anyway, until next time!

~Orca

Wading In

A pointless piece of fluff. This story features the GFFA equivalent of French fries, a game that’s basically 3D shuffleboard/curling without ice, Leia wearing shorts, and Han being Han.

You’ve been warned.

When Luke had come bounding up to the Falcon and informed Han Solo that some of the pilots were having a party, and that he ought to come join, Solo had not hesitated to agree. The last time these rebels had thrown anything they’d referred to as a party (as opposed to a reception which had been as stuffy and buttoned-up as it sounded) had been the night after their victory over the Death Star. It had been a raucous and jovial gathering, and Solo had enjoyed himself immensely. If the same pilots responsible for that night (he’d been informed that Gold Squadron always won the after party) were in charge of whatever was going on today, then he was more than happy to join in the reveling.

Luke led him out the west exit of the old Massassi temple and through a brief tangle of trees to a clearing that had until recently been home to a lookout tower. As the base was being deconstructed in advance of the impending evacuation, the clearing, halfway between the temple and the nearest friendly patch fresh water, looked to have been adopted as a social gathering place.

Most of the pilots of Han’s acquaintance were casually hanging about. They were lounging on a few canvas camp chairs and a number of munitions and supply crates that had been repurposed as seating. There was a game of hoversnap in progress, the field taking up the center of the semi-circle they’d arranged themselves in. Dressed in civilian clothes to the man—half of them shirtless and a few barefoot to boot—they might have been a bunch of university buddies on holiday rather than a bunch of battle-hardened fighter pilots eking out a bit of down time. It didn’t look so much like a party as just a few guys making the most of an afternoon off, but it still beat sitting around the hangar waiting for his next cargo.

Especially since his buddies from the flight line were hardly the most interesting thing to Solo’s eyes. It was the unexpected presence of Princess Leia that had his attention. She’d run off almost immediately after the ceremony where she’d hung the Medal of Heroes around his neck and he hadn’t heard yet of her return to base.

She wasn’t dressed like herself, either. The cut-off trousers she wore were only barely decent, hanging onto her hips only thanks to a length of rope she had tied through the belt loops, and rolled up at the cuff to show more leg than Han ever imagined he’d see of her. She had a short-sleeve uniform blouse unbuttoned and tied up at her waist, her ivory camisole was visible, as was a strip of bare skin between its tail and her shorts. She had her hair braided around the top of her head, and a look like she hadn’t a care in the galaxy as she stood behind what looked to be a makeshift work station.

“I didn’t know you were back!” Han said to the princess as he and Luke joined the group.

“Just this morning,” Leia answered. “these guys accosted me almost the moment I landed. But I had heard that you were sticking around. Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah,” Han said back, “your Commander Willard took me aside—told me you all’d be evacuating this base. Said he could use good pilots with fast ships to get through the blockade. Told me I could name my price. So here I am.”

“How noble.”

“We can’t all be heroes, Princess.”

“Didn’t you just get a medal for heroism?” Wedge teased from his seat just to Leia’s left.

“Yeah, well,” Han said with a shrug, “we can’t all be heroes all the time.”

“I suppose,” Leia groaned, “Here,” she said, pointing to a plate of golden-brown something at the far end of the table where she stood, “have a handful, we have plenty. Luke, you too.”

“What is all this?” Luke asked, not hesitating to pick up one of the long, thin pieces and have a taste.

“These are Alderaanian salt tubers,” Wedge replied, “Tycho grew them.”

“Her highness brought me the starts four… five trips home ago,” Celchu piped up from his seat nearby. One of the few pilots with a shirt on, he also wore a hat and sunglasses. Solo wondered if he was concerned about possible sunburn.

“Help yourself,” Leia encouraged, “there’s plenty.”

“And If we need to do another batch, we can,” Wedge added, “Get Leia to cut them, she does it better than the rest of us.”

“But whatever you do,” Tycho added, “don’t let her highness touch the fryer.”

“It was an accident!” Leia challenged.

“How’s your hand, by the way?” Janson asked. He was standing at the edge of the hoversnap field, scoping out his next throw, and looking a little ridiculous in a pair of too-tight shorts and a faded old shirt in a very loud print, which he wore open over an otherwise bare chest.

“It’s getting a pretty nice blister,” she replied, holding up the back of her left hand for inspection.

“Yeah, it is,” Han affirmed. He’d seen burns like that plenty of times on his own hands when he’d gotten a little too careless working on his old speeder before allowing the manifold proper time to cool. It was an oil burn, and it was liable to hurt—a lot. He was kind of surprised she seemed so nonplussed by it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his commlink, waiting to hear Chewie’s characteristic warble on the other end before speaking again. “Hey pal, listen,” he said, “I’m out in the clearing off the west end of the building with a bunch of the guys. Do me a favor, will ya? We got a coupla cold cases under the deck plates—pull one out and bring it back here. And grab a medpac while you’re at it. “

“I don’t need a medpac,” Leia insisted, “it’s not that bad.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Han agreed, putting his commlink back into his pocket. “Put a little burn cream and some firm wrap on it to keep it from gettin’ infected and it’ll stay that way.” Leia rolled her eyes and went back to slicing tubers.

“These are really good,” Luke said, his mouth full of fried tuber as he reached for another handful.

“They’re my favorite,” Tycho said back, lining up at the edge of the hoversnap field to aim his next throw.

“I still can’t believe they took to the soil,” Hobbie said.

“I’m not surprised,” Tycho replied. He tossed the sphere into the field and balled his hands into fists as it hit Janson’s last sphere, knocking it into a lower scoring range. “They’re pretty hearty,” he added, turning around and flashing a grin at Wes, who was shaking his head as he stepped back to the throwing line.

“But they won’t grow in space,” Wedge added, crossing to stand beside Leia and beginning to scoop the newly-sliced tubers into the fryer basket.

“Just about the only thing that kills them is artificial light,” Tycho explained, making his way over to the platter and snagging another few fried tubers for himself. “So we’ve got to eat ‘em before we evacuate. Wedge built the fryer,” he said to Skywalker, who was still hovering over the platter, helping himself to the bounty three at a time, “and Janson spent days rendering the lard and nicking pots of cooking oil from the galley to get the thing working.”

“Looks like I came back just in time,” Leia said, reaching around Wedge’s back to grab a bite for herself.

“Yeah you did,” Wedge replied, dropping the basket into the fryer. “We didn’t want to do this without you, but we were about to have to. This is our last day of stand-down before we’re airborne again. We won’t have another chance before we’re evacuated to hang out in our civvies eating tubers and playing hoversnap.”

“And drinking lager,” Han added.

“What?” Janson asked, turning his head to look at Solo so quickly it effected his throw. His sphere wound up outside the scoring field altogether, but he didn’t seem to care much. Solo was pointing into the jungle, toward the temple. Chewbacca was walking toward them, carrying a large rectangular case.

“Had some bottles in the Falcon’s stores,” Han replied. “Seemed like a good time to share.”

Chewie quickly closed the distance and set the cooler down between the fryer and the crates the pilots were using as seats. Solo snagged the medpac from the top of the case and raised his eyebrows at the princess. She rolled her eyes, but acquiesced, following him to sit on an unoccupied trunk so he could bandage her hand.

Yowling his objection to being out in the heat, Chewie bid the group adieu and headed back toward the air-conditioned ship.

“I don’t blame him,” Janson said, pulling open the cold case and examining its contents, “it’s hotter than blazes out here. But this is going to help,” he added, “thanks Solo.” Janson then took on the job of passing out libations, pulling out the tin bottles and passing them around to his friends.

“You’re welcome,” Han replied. “And there’s more where that came from, so drink up. I’m gonna need to cargo space t help you rebels evacuate.”

“None for me,” Hobbie said, “I have deck duty later.”

“If you’re only saying that for my benefit,” Leia said to him, turning her head so as not to watch Han tend to the burn on her hand. It looked gnarly enough without the addition of the viscous burn gel he was using. “Don’t worry about it. I can’t imagine one bottle of lager would be enough to cause problems. But if you want to make absolutely sure,” she added, “pass me one and I’ll let you know if I get buzzed. If it doesn’t affect me, you’ll know you’re safe.”

There were a few hoots and chortles at Leia’s assertion, and Janson hurried to put the next opened bottle into the princess’s un-burned hand. Han finished his ministrations on the other, coating the blister and the red skin around it with anesthetic and antibiotic and then sealing it up with self-firming bandages to keep it from infection. Leia took a pronounced swig of the lager, much to the delight of the others, as Wedge pulled the fryer basket back out of the oil and dumped the freshly-fried treats onto the platter beside him.

Luke was quick to snag another several.

“Han, you really should try these,” he said to his friend.

“If you want,” Wedge added, “I’ve got a jar of Mieriks mustard for dipping. It’s over on the far side of Hobbie—help yourself.”

Han stood up and moved toward the plate of fried tubers, snagging a lager out of his cold case on the way.

“Careful with the mustard,” Tycho said, “that stuff will take the paint off your X-wing. I don’t want to think about what it’ll do to your insides.”

“Solo’s a fellow Corellian,” Wedge reminded his friend, “our palates aren’t so delicate as our dear Alderaanian colleagues.”

“Watch who you’re calling ‘delicate’,” Leia challenged between gulps of lager, “I happen to like spicy food.”

“Yeah,” Hobbie chimed in, tossing his final sphere into the hoversnap field, “well, you’re tougher than the rest of us put together. So your opinion on spicy mustard doesn’t count.” The hoversnap field unit chimed then. All of the spheres fell from their places in space onto the dirt and the scores were projected in the place of the hover-field. “You want next game, Solo?” Hobbie asked then, “I’ve beaten all the rest of these chumps.”

“Nah,” Han said, taking his first bite of fried tuber and immediately reaching for another. “I’ve never been any good at hoversnap. But if any of you have got a deck of cards….”

“Do all pilots enjoy gambling?” Leia asked, as she got up from her seat and ducked around Solo to snag a fresh fried tuber slice off the top of the platter, “or just the ones I manage to attract?”

“I think it’s all of us,” Hobbie answered her, “except maybe Skywalker.”

“He’ll learn to like it once I teach him how to win,” Solo countered. Luke, his mouth still full of tubers, couldn’t help but laugh.

“Maybe,” he allowed, shrugging his shoulders and reaching for another bite.

“Don’t have a deck of cards,” Wedge replied to Han’s earlier question, “but you know what we could do—now that Hobbie’s affirmed his position as the undisputed hoversnap champion—?”

“What’s that?” Solo asked.

“Well, it’s hotter’n Centerpoint on meltdown,” he answered, “so I figure let’s all go jump in the river while we’ve got the chance.”

“Yessssssss!” Janson shouted, taking off at a flat run toward the narrow strip of trees that separated the clearing from the nearby river. There was a chorus of whoops and laughter as the rest of the pilots took off behind him, Luke bringing up the rear with a generous portion of freshly-claimed fried tubers clutched in his hand. Tycho was already out of his clothes and in the water, and Wes was tossing his loud-patterned shirt over a nearby tree branch.

Han headed off after them. Unlike the others, he was dressed in his everyday clothes, and it was far too hot to run—even toward the blissfully cool river. Leia seemed to be taking her time as well, following the others, but without any semblance of enthusiasm.

“I see you’re hangin’ back,” he said, “what’s the matter? Can’t swim?”

“Of course I can swim,” she snapped back, frowning up at him.

“Oh,” Han said then, “so what is it then? Don’t want the guys seein’ you in your skivvies?”

“No,” she replied. “It’s not that… I’m not modest.” Han felt a pit form in his stomach. Somehow he knew what the issue was. He lowered his voice as they moved closer to where the others were piling into the river.

“You’ve still got bruises,” he said. Leia’s eyes got wide as she looked back at him, and Han knew he’d hit the nail on the head. They’d never talked about what had happened to her on the Death Star. But he knew what the Empire was prone to do to prisoners they thought might have valuable information. He’d always approached her with the presumption she’d been tortured, or at least subjected to treatment he would classify as torture, and she’d never said a word to the contrary.

After the moment of surprise at Han’s assertion, Leia nodded subtly.

“Only a few,” she confided. “If they were fresh, I could pass them off, but it’s clear they’re not. I thought they’d be gone by now.”

“Yeah,” Han said, patting her on the shoulder as they slowed their approach even further, “Deep tissue bruises are a pill. I once had one on my leg from a speeder crash took more than six months to go away completely. It doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

“No,” she said promptly. “It’s just ugly and I don’t want to talk about it with the guys.”

Han patted her shoulder again before crossing his arms over his chest.

“I hate to be a party pooper, princess,” he said then, loudly enough that the guys in the water were likely able to hear, and surely audible to the few who were still undressing on the river bank. “But that firm wrap I used on your hand is kinda old. I don’t know if the seal is trustworthy—I’m not sure it’s suck a good idea for you to get in the water.”

Leia turned her head in surprise.

“Leave it to you to patch me up with substandard medical supplies,” she snarked back at similar volume, but Han could see the gratitude in her eyes for the out he’d just given her. “I’ll just take my boots off and wade in up to my knees,” she said then, “so I don’t get it wet.”

Han smiled over at her as he plopped down onto a downed tree branch and began tugging off his boots. “You okay with that?” he asked under his breath. Leia nodded.

“Thank you,” she said softly as she bent down and began unlacing her boots.

“Hey, no problem,” he said back, “we haven’t known each other all that long, but we’ve been through some stuff and I’ve got your back. You and the kid both,” he added, “as long as Chewie and me are around, we’re on your side.”

“Thank you,” she said again, “I appreciate that.” Leia slipped her feet out of her boots and yanked her socks off before standing up again and stepping to the edge of the river. Han was out of his boots as well; he rolled his trousers up at the cuff and waded into the water beside her. “You’re not getting in?” she asked. Han shook his head.

“I didn’t get dressed for swimmin’ this morning,” he said, “if you know what I mean.”

A flush rose to Leia’s cheeks.

“I’m glad we’re getting to know each other,” she said, wading farther out into the cool water, “but I didn’t need to know that.”

“I’m glad we’re gettin’ to know each other, too,” he said back. “And I fully intend to see you eat a spoonful of Mieriks mustard before I bug out of here for good, because I’m havin’ a real hard time imagining an Alderaanian princess likin’ that stuff.”

“So I just refuse to eat spicy mustard, and we get to keep you around?” she teased, grinning up at him as though she’d just beaten him at something, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Tagged by  @pyrrhesia​

rules: answer these 85 statements about yourself

last 1. drink - iced chai 2. phone call - my doctor’s office 3. text message - to a friend asking when she’s coming over to watch Aggretsuko 4. song you listened to - Futatabi/Reprise, Spirited Away 5. time you cried - earlier today

ever 6. dated someone twice - yes I have (we’re still dating) 7. kissed someone and regretted it - yes (it was a few years ago) 8. been cheated on - yes (it was a decade ago) 9. lost someone special - yes  10. been depressed - yes, including today 11. gotten drunk and thrown up - yep

fave colours 12. midnight blue 13. silver 14. teal

in the last year have you… 15. made new friends - absolutely! mostly from the Ships game, a few from fandoms. some great new friends 16. fallen out of love - no but i’ve done the opposite 17. laughed until you cried - this happens a lot  18. found out someone was talking about you - which way does this mean, because there’s the “talking bad shit behind your back” and the “people talk about you like you’re awesome”. either way both have happened to me.  19. met someone who changed you - discovered parrhesia​ and i are drift-compatible 20. found out who your true friends are - you know this phrase “true friends” has always bothered me. but I have had changes in who is just acquaintances and light friends and who turns out to be ride-or-die for me, so, I guess so 21. kissed someone on your facebook friends list -  hmm - only use my FB for convention group matters and my FB friends list I think only contains convention people and I’ve kissed some of them so, yeah i guess so

general 22. how many of your facebook friends do you know irl - see above about them being people I’ve met/know from Mysterium, so like, all of them? 23. do you have any pets - one! bailey the cat 24. do you want to change your name - I have already done this legally! it cost like $300 and was worth it! 25. what did you do for your last birthday - cake was brought to me! hung with friends! ships game and gay flirting IC! 26. what time did you wake up today - like at 11:40am and i hated it. I was briefly awakened at 8am for drains drainage.

27. what were you doing at midnight last night - probably talking to people on discord! 28. what is something you can’t wait for - short term: the drains to be out. medium-term: surgery recovery to be over.  30. what are you listening to right now - a music box album of Bee Gees music 31. have you ever talked to a person named tom - yes 32. something that’s getting on your nerves - fucking surgery recovery 33. most visited website - I really don’t want it to be Reddit or Tumblr but odds are it might be one of those. 34. hair colour - it varies, it’s like a light brown normally but I also dye it a lot 35. long or short hair - it’s shaved right now down to a 1/4″ so very short.  36. do you have a crush on someone - it is a known fact that i am often in the state of “i am ambiguous if i have a romantic or a friend crush” (so, crush or squish), and that that state can vary in intensity. right now i have two crushes of the absolutely-sure-it’s-a-crush kind, and both are of strong intensity. 37. what do you like about yourself - i think i’m real good at connecting with other people and being an emotional support for them because i’m such a strong Feelings type, maybe i’m not your best for logical advice but i’m gonna be great for you if you wanna have emotional talk 38. want any piercings? - thinking about the ears but I’m a coward 39. blood type - AB+ 40. nicknames - Cat, Cap, Cappy 41. relationship status - in a co-habiting long-term relationship, am in a state where i am open to additional relationships 42. zodiac - Aquarius Sun ( Capricorn Moon, Pisces Rising if you wanna get complicated) 43. pronouns - they/them or he/him. he/him are the ones i use at work and legally. 44. fave tv shows - Star Treks! Battlestar Galactica (1978 only). Sailor Moon (original or Crystal). 45. tattoos - none but I think about it someday 46. right or left handed - right 47. ever had surgery - a hysto and top surgery, which was last week so i’m still recovering from the latter 48. piercings - none yet because I’m a coward 49. sport - I don’t play any now but I used to do synchronized swimming. i follow the Rochester Americans in AHL hockey because they’re local, cheap to see, and hockey has great fights 50. vacation - I love to go to the beach. so please take me to a coastal city! I also unironically love going to Disney but am so over going with people who aren’t legitimately excited to go. I really wanna fucking leave the country at some point. so ideal vacation would be a coastal city in another country? 51. trainers - uh like...shoes? i have a pair of sneakers and multiple pairs of those vibram toe shoes cause they’re super comfy.

more general 52. eating - sweet things. french fries. love french fries

53. drinking - also super sweet things

54. i’m about to watch - nothing atm, but probably more Sailor Moon Crystal later this week 55. waiting for - I feel like 28 answered this? “drains to come out” and “surgery recovery” mostly. 56. want - finally fucking having a crush on someone who is interested back. (if i can’t have that, i really want to do the thing where you’re having a nice quiet intimate voice-chat with close friend at after-midnight in a dark room.) (i guess i just want reciprocated-intimacy) 57. get married - in the case it’s useful as a legal construct then yes 58. career - i kinda like this IT support gig. a writer would be a great career but then i’d have to learn to carry through with something so i’d need focus. if we had UBI and i could meet all my needs otherwise i’d love to go back to being in a coffee shop.

which is better 59. hugs or kisses - hugs! i find kissing a little weird but if the person i like wants to do it i will do it 60. lips or eyes - eyes for sure 61. shorter or taller - taller! 62. older or younger - either? i’m open to a flexible age range but all my recent dates have been younger than me... 63. nice arms or stomach - arms are a turn-on, but i don’t find stomachs a turn-off, they can be great to pillow on 64. hookup or relationship - i want to have both of these things in my life. so, which i want always depends on the specific person i’m thinking about 65. troublemaker or hesitant - i usually go after the hesitant types, so i’d love to date the troublemaker kind for once! but i’m such a sucker for the shy hesitance

have you ever 66. kissed a stranger - yes 67. drank hard liquor - yes 68. lost glasses - no 69. turned someone down - yes 70. sex on first date - yes (well, we’d been dating online for awhile but had sex the first time we met IRL) 71. broken someone’s heart - yes 72. had your heart broken - yes (multiple times) 73. been arrested - no 74. cried when someone died - yes 75. fallen for a friend - all. the. fucking. time. this is a thing i do a lot. see above about my difficulty distinguishing between squishes and crushes. 

do you believe in 76. yourself - not really, which is tough. 77. miracles -  I’ve had enough weird life coincidences that I’ll say sure 78. love at first sight - i believe in meeting someone and knowing that they’re going to play a significant and meaningful role in your life, and then having that feeling pan out as a reality. sometimes it’s been meeting someone who i wind up dating (so love), once it was meeting a random stranger who helped me on a train who turned out to be my mentor in college for the next year. sometimes i just click with someone and go “i know you’ll be my best friend”. so i’d generalize this to “i believe in recognizing a significance” 79. santa claus - no 80. kiss on a first date -  yes 81. angels - they might exist?

other 82. best friend’s name - man i can’t have just 1 best driftmate! don’t ask this :( 83. eye colour - Green 84. fave movie - Pacific Rim 85. fave actor - Idris Elba

am tagging: anyone who wants to, as idk how many of you have patience for all of these  questions! but it’s fun!

The Matisse we never knew

Henri Matisse, unlike the other greatest modern painter, Pablo Picasso, with whom he sits on a seesaw of esteem, hardly exists as a person in most people’s minds. 

One pictures a wary, bearded gent, owlish in glasses—perhaps with a touch of the pasha about him, from images of his last years in Vence, near Nice, in a house full of sumptuous fabrics, plants, freely flying birds, and comely young models. Many know that Matisse had something to do with the invention of Fauvism, and that he once declared, weirdly, that art should be like a good armchair. A few recall that, in 1908, he inspired the coinage of the term “cubism,” in disparagement of a movement that would eclipse his leading influence on the Parisian avant-garde, and that he relaxed by playing the violin. Beyond such bits and pieces, there is the art, whose glory was maintained and renewed in many phases until the artist’s death, in 1954: preternatural color, yielding line, boldness and subtlety, incessant surprise. Anyone who doesn’t love it must have a low opinion of joy. The short answer to the question of Matisse’s stubborn obscurity as a man is that he put everything interesting about himself into his work. The long answer, which is richly instructive, while ending in the same place, is given in Hilary Spurling’s zestful two-volume biography, “A Life of Henri Matisse.” The first volume, “The Unknown Matisse: The Early Years 1869-1908,” was published in 1998. The second, “Matisse the Master: The Conquest of Colour 1909-1954” (Knopf; $40), completes the job of giving us a living individual, as familiar as someone we have long known, who regularly touched the spiritual core of Western modernity with a paintbrush.

Spurling is a veteran English theatre and literary critic and a biographer of Ivy Compton-Burnett. The fact that she is an amateur in art matters proves to be an advantage, given that she is also unfailingly sensitive and thoroughly informed. Matisse’s greatness resides in capacities of the eye and the mind that almost anyone, with willingness, can discern, and no one, with whatever training, can really comprehend. I don’t think it is possible to be more intelligent in any pursuit, or more serious and original, and with such suddenness, than Matisse was when he represented a reaching arm in “Dance I” (1909), or the goldfish that he painted as slivers of redness in a series of still-lifes in 1912. How can intellectual potency be claimed for an artist whose specialty, by his own declared ambition, was easeful visual bliss? It’s a cinch, now that Spurling has cleared away a century’s worth of misapprehensions and canards. Take, for example, the popular notion that Matisse was hedonistic. Hedonists seek pleasure. Matisse served it, as a monk serves God. He was a self-abnegating Northerner who lived only to work, and did so in chronic anguish, recurrent panic, and amid periodic breakdowns. Picasso recompensed himself, as he went along, with gratifications of intellectual and erotic play. Matisse did not. His art reserved nothing for himself. In an age of ideologies, Matisse dodged all ideas except perhaps one: that art is life by other means.

“The Unknown Matisse” told of an awkward youth from a dismal region of northern France—he was born in the cottage of his maternal grandmother, in 1869, and was raised in Bohain, an industrial textile center. He was an unhappy law clerk when, in 1889, he began to study drawing and, while laid up with appendicitis, was given a set of paints by his mother. The effect was seismic. He said later, “From the moment I held the box of colors in my hands, I knew this was my life. I threw myself into it like a beast that plunges towards the thing it loves.” How much did he mean that? He meant it to the extent of warning his fiancée, Amélie Parayre, whom he married in 1898, when he was twenty-eight, “I love you dearly, mademoiselle; but I shall always love painting more.” Amélie assented. She “had spent much of her life searching for a cause in which she could put her faith,” Spurling writes. Her parents were ruined in a spectacular scandal, as the unsuspecting employees of a woman whose financial empire was based on fraud. Spurling attributes to Amélie’s memories of that public disgrace a cocooning “suspicion of the outside world” that would always mark the Matisse family. (If there is any reason to doubt aspects of this book, it’s the unprecedented coöperation that the author coaxed from the congenitally overprotective heirs.) Amélie and, later, Marguerite—a daughter Matisse had fathered with a shopgirl in 1894 and raised with Amélie—were strong-willed confederates of Matisse in his work, and severe critics when his concentration flagged, managing a virtual family firm of which the artist was both the fragile chairman and the slave-driven labor force. According to Spurling, “The family fitted their activities round his breaks and work sessions. Silence was essential.” Even during the years when Matisse lived mostly alone in Nice, an “annual ritual of unpacking, stretching, framing and hanging ended with the whole family settling down to respond to the paintings.” The conference might last several days. Then the dealers were admitted.

Matisse was not taught to paint; he just started doing it. His first two canvases, from 1890, are essentially consummate Old Master-ish still-lifes, the first one pretty good and the second, featuring opulent reds, a knockout. (Of the second painting, Spurling writes, “Digging this picture out of his father’s attic ten years later, Matisse said it came so close to containing everything he had done since then that it hardly seemed worth having gone on painting.” Twenty years later he had the same reaction to it, only stronger.) He had style before he had craft, which he picked up along the way by copying paintings in the Louvre and taking classes with, among others, the arch-academician Adolphe-William Bouguereau and the Symbolist Gustave Moreau. (His one art-schooled technical standby, almost a fetish, was the plumb line. No matter how odd the angles in any Matisse, the verticals are usually dead true.) Most of his early works employ a dark palette and tend to be gloomy, but each strives for an integral vision. Matisse was thirty-one years old when he began showing in Paris—in 1901, a year after Picasso, eleven years younger, arrived in town from Barcelona. (They met in April of 1906, at the salon of Gertrude and Leo Stein.) It was in 1905, in the Mediterranean town of Collioure, that Matisse, in close collaboration with André Derain, combined pointillist color and Cézanne’s way of structuring pictorial space stroke by stroke to develop Fauvism—a way less of seeing the world than of feeling it with one’s eyes.

“Matisse the Master” opens in 1909, with the Matisse family—which now included, in addition to Marguerite, two sons, Jean and Pierre—living in a former convent on the Boulevard des Invalides, in Paris, where the artist conducted a painting school. His immense notoriety, which had been confirmed in 1905-06 by “Le Bonheur de Vivre,” a fractured fantasia that seemed to trash every possible norm of pictorial order and painterly finesse, was regularly exciting near-riots of derision in the public. (“My Arcadia,” Matisse called the picture, which established his career’s dizzying keynote: calm intensity or, perhaps, intense calm.) His huge-hipped, sinuous “Blue Nude,” of 1907, discomfited even Picasso, who complained, “If he wants to make a woman, let him make a woman. If he wants to make a design, let him make a design. This is between the two.” As usual, Picasso (then creating “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon,” his own monumental riposte to “Le Bonheur de Vivre”) was onto something: pattern was a decisive element in Matisse’s kind of picture, which applied a passion for decorated fabrics that began in his childhood. But Picasso was loath to admit that the combined effects of ornamental rhythm and blooming flesh constituted a revolutionary correlative, and not a contradiction.

Picasso and Matisse are poles apart aesthetically. Matisse told his students, “One must always search for the desire of the line, where it wishes to enter, where to die away.” Picasso’s line has no desire; it is sheer will. Form builds in Picasso, flows in Matisse. Picasso uses color. Colors enter the world through Matisse like harmonies through Mozart. Young artists and intellectuals in Paris at that time overwhelmingly favored Picasso’s analytical rigor, to the extent of attacking Matisse in print and snubbing him in public. Gertrude Stein (unlike her sister-in-law Sarah Stein, Matisse’s first major collector) enjoyed ridiculing him, “reporting with satisfaction,” Spurling says, “that her French cook served M. Matisse fried eggs for dinner instead of an omelette because, as a Frenchman, he would understand that it showed less respect.” Matisse’s intimate friends among artists were mostly easygoing minor painters, such as Albert Marquet. His temperamental aloneness made him prey to vertiginous depressions. He later recalled a breakdown that he underwent in Spain, in 1910: “My bed shook, and from my throat came a little high-pitched cry that I could not stop.”

Matisse himself precipitated the most significant and indelible controversy of his career. In 1908, in a famous text, “Notes of a Painter,” he stated as his ideal an art “for every mental worker, for the businessman as well as the man of letters, for example, a soothing, calming influence on the mind, something like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue.” At the end of “The Unknown Matisse,” Spurling writes that the metaphor “has done him more harm ever since than any other image he might have chosen.” Straining to defend it, she hazards that “this passage reflects its obverse—Matisse’s intimate acquaintance with violence and destruction, a sense of human misery sharpened by years of humiliation, rejection and exposure—which could be neutralised only by the serene power and stable weight of art.” This tack strikes me as unnecessary, on two counts. First, in general, the principle of Matisse’s armchair seems ever sounder in comparison to more stirring but ultimately vain programs of modern art. If “modernism” had any effective purpose beyond acclimating cultivated people to rapid worldly change, it was a bust. Second, in particular, the tired businessman whom Matisse most likely had in mind was no Babbitt but almost a co-producer of some of the artist’s greatest works, the Russian textile magnate and visionary collector Sergei Ivanovich Shchukin, who wrote to him in 1910, “The public is against you, but the future is yours.” “Dance II” (1910) and “Music” (1910), heraldic mural-size slabs of resonating minor-key red, green, and blue, fulfilled commissions for Shchukin’s house in Moscow, which by 1914 contained thirty-seven Matisses—“He always picked the best,” the artist said—in history’s first dedicated museum of modern art. (Lenin expropriated the collection in person but allowed Shchukin to remain, in servants’ quarters, as caretaker and guide. He died in Paris, in 1936. The collection is now in the Hermitage and Pushkin Museums.)

Among Matisse’s students was Olga Meerson, a Russian Jew who had studied with Wassily Kandinsky in Munich and, already possessed of an elegant style, sought to remake herself under Matisse’s tutelage. Her talent is as apparent as her emulation of him, in a charming 1911 portrait, that shows him reclining on a checkered bedspread, reading a book with amused eyes. Spurling writes, “She personified the pride, courage and resilience that he responded to all his life at the deepest instinctual level in his female models.” She also epitomized a period type of “self-reliant single girl,” an obsessive subject for Matisse in those years, which Spurling locates between the earlier heroines of Henry James and the later solitaries of Jean Rhys. Matisse’s 1911 portrait of Meerson shows a primly dressed and posed, tremblingly sensitive woman slashed with “two fierce black arcs—plunging from neck to thigh, and from armpit to buttock,” which resist any explanation aside from their sheerly formal éclat. Spurling loses me when she hesitates to concede a sexual relationship. The body language in two group photographs from 1911 testifies that Amélie scented the worst. (In one, nearly everyone faces the camera except Meerson, who stares at Amélie, and Amélie, who carefully gazes at nothing.) A combination of Amélie’s jealousy and Meerson’s peremptory neediness caused a severely rattled Matisse to end the connection, with a maximum of bad feeling all around. Meerson moved to Munich, where she married the musician Heinz Pringsheim, a brother-in-law of Thomas Mann. Never having fulfilled her promise as a painter, she committed suicide in Berlin, in 1929.

But the Matisses’ marriage ran afoul not of any romantic rival but of the artist’s growing will to stand, however precariously, on his own. A climax came in 1913, when Amélie sat more than a hundred times for the “Portrait of Madame Matisse,” a thunderous painting, in drenching blues and greens, of a chic and stony woman leaning forward in a chair, with a black-featured gray mask of a face. (“Saturday with Matisse,” a friend’s diary reported at the time. “Crazy! weeping! By night he recites the Lord’s Prayer! By day he quarrels with his wife!”) Spurling says that the portrait, which was the last work to enter Shchukin’s collection, caused Matisse “palpitations, high blood pressure and a constant drumming in his ears.” Such frenzy was not rare when Matisse had difficulty with a painting, but in this case it was compounded by something like exorcism. The portrait expresses no specific feeling but, rather, registers innumerable emotions, not excluding tenderness. The game tilt of Amélie’s small head, sporting a dainty ostrich-feather toque, could break your heart. He referred to the painting years later in a letter to her as “the one that made you cry, but in which you look so pretty.”

One well believes Spurling that life with Matisse could be “close to unendurable,” but enduring it had been Amélie’s vocation, through years of impoverished existence in studio-centered homes. What eroded her role was security, which Shchukin’s patronage provided, along with a big suburban house in Issy-les-Moulineaux, where the family moved in 1909, and from which Matisse was increasingly absent. (In 1930, his travels took him to the United States, where he was thrilled by New York, and to Tahiti, where his melancholic character drew comment from a new friend, the German filmmaker F. W. Murnau: “Shadows are rare here. There’s sunshine everywhere except on you.”) Matisse continued to depend on Amélie, just not enough. Sulkily, she ceded routine leadership of the family to Marguerite. The 1913 portrait was his last painting of her. The couple finally split in 1939, when Amélie tried to dismiss the coolly efficient young Lydia Delectorskaya, an orphan refugee from Siberia who, having been hired as Amélie’s companion, increasingly served the ailing master as model, assistant, and nurse. Delectorskaya reacted to being banished (among other sorrows, which included a thwarted ambition to study medicine) by shooting herself in the chest with a pistol, to remarkably slight effect. Soon the artist and his wife were legally separated and Delectorskaya was back. Phlegmatic in the face of the family’s icy resentment, the Russian said of Matisse, “He knew how to take possession of people and make them feel they were indispensable. That was how it was for me, and that was how it had been for Mme. Matisse.”

Spurling, in her preface to “Matisse the Master,” announces an intention to demolish “two standard assumptions, both false.” The first, which is, indeed, common, concerns “the supposedly exploitative relationship” that Matisse had with the women he painted. The second, which was bruited in 1992 by an American art historian, Michèle C. Cone, in a book on artists in Vichy France, is less often heard, and involves, according to Spurling, “baseless but damaging allegations about Matisse’s behavior in World War II.” In answer to the first charge, Spurling—backed by access to Matisse’s immense correspondence, among other previously withheld archives—contends that the artist, after his marriage, rarely, if ever, had sex with models, despite his keen feelings for many. In this, Spurling is up against a climate of cynical received opinion. I’m one of numerous critics on record as being certain, based on no evidence, that Matisse womanized during his decades in Nice, which started with seasonal sojourns in 1917, when he lived in hotel rooms painting naked or harem-garbed models who, Spurling writes, “were drawn from the tide of human flotsam washed up in Nice between the wars.” Matisse never disavowed, in principle, the libertarian anarchism of most of his avant-garde generation. Nor did he seem to share the wintry belief of Piet Mondrian, quoted by Spurling, that “a drop of sperm spilt is a masterpiece lost.” He would visit brothels, though apparently without enthusiasm. (“Not much fun,” he said.) But I discover ready support for Spurling’s arguments in my own experience of the Nice odalisques, who loll on chairs or chaises amid flowers, fruits, and sumptuous fabrics. Indubitably erotic, the pictures diffuse arousal. Their sensuality never fixates on a breast or a thigh but dilates to every square inch of canvas. Such is the character of Matisse’s formal radicalism, early and late: distributed energy, suspended gesture, deferred climax. Might the tension have been so precious to him, as the engine of what gave his life meaning, that its only end could be exhaustion? It may count that, according to Matisse, he never ate even the fresh food that he used for still-lifes—including oysters, from a restaurant in Nice, that were returned in time for the lunch crowd.

Spurling associates the Vichy charge with a “popular image of the painter indulging himself among the fleshpots of Nice in wartime,” which is absurd on its face. During the war, Matisse was isolated in Nice and Vence. He was old and ill with cardiovascular, renal, and abdominal disorders; he underwent a colostomy in 1941 and, a year later, almost died. Cone bases a speculation that Matisse “sided with the nationalism of the current Vichy regime” on a mild complaint by the artist, back in 1924, that people were mistaking, as French, the cosmopolitan art scene in Paris. (“French painters are not cosmopolites,” he told a Danish interviewer—an observation, largely accurate, about the Parisian avant-garde of the twenties.) Beyond that, Cone primarily cites wartime interviews, in which Matisse chatted amiably about his work, as evidence of irresponsible disengagement. It’s true that he shielded his art from politics under all circumstances—he created the reverberant domestic idyll “The Piano Lesson” (my favorite twentieth-century painting) in the summer of 1916, while death swaggered at Verdun. But there seems to be no gainsaying his at least passive solidarity with the Resistance, which swept up the two most important women in his life—Amélie, who was a typist for the Communist underground, and Marguerite, who served as a courier—as well as his son Jean, who was involved in sabotage operations. (Pierre had by that time become an art dealer in New York.) Amélie was jailed for six months; Marguerite was tortured by the Gestapo but escaped from a cattle car that was stalled on its way to a prison camp in Germany during the war’s chaotic waning months. The artist’s loyalty to the poet and leading Communist Louis Aragon, who, while on the run, spent time with Matisse and wrote passionately about him, also weighs in his favor.

Matisse was so consumed by aesthetic sensibility that his responses to life, when not baffled and distraught, were like unwitting prose poems. Asked to recommend a possible mate for Jean, he sized up one young woman as “tall, well made, limbs a bit long—sprawling movements like a young dog—intelligent, very gifted and very reserved.” His habits were incredibly regular. On a typical day in Nice, in 1917, Spurling tells us, he “rose early and worked all morning with a second work session after lunch, followed by violin practice, a simple supper (vegetable soup, two hard-boiled eggs, salad and a glass of wine) and an early bedtime.” Spurling knows her man so well that you readily tolerate her occasional reading of his mind: “By the seventeenth it was so hot he stayed indoors all day, drawing fruit, reading or dozing on the studio couch, feeling his feet swell and thinking about his ‘Still Life with Green Sideboard.’ ” (As anyone might: that quiet painting, from 1928, is one of the most uncannily ambiguous ever made; you cannot decide if you are looking at or into the surface of a cabinet door.) He had warm but awkward dealings with his sons, realizing late in life that he had burdened them with the sort of hectoring pressures to meet his standards that he had suffered from his own father. Pierre said of the boy in “The Piano Lesson,” “Yes, it was me, and you have no idea how much I detested those piano lessons.” The one person who could command Matisse’s attention was Marguerite. She had married a brilliant man of letters, Georges Duthuit, who was Matisse’s best critic in his lifetime; when Duthuit proved unfaithful to her, the artist forbade him to write about his work. Matisse is never so affecting as in his account of the two weeks that Marguerite spent with him after her escape in 1945: “I saw in reality, materially, the atrocious scenes she described and acted out for me. I couldn’t have said if I still belonged to myself.”

Matisse spoke with self-knowledge both sad and ruthless—on behalf of driven artists in general—when, in a 1941 letter to Pierre, he referred to a harrowing recent painting by his friend Georges Rouault: “A man who makes pictures like the one we were looking at is an unhappy creature, tormented day and night. He relieves himself of his passion in his pictures, but also in spite of himself on the people round him. That is what normal people never understand. They want to enjoy the artists’ products—as one might enjoy cows’ milk—but they can’t put up with the inconvenience, the mud and the flies.”

The last decade and a half of Matisse’s life, spent mostly as an invalid, was a bonus gift of time—“a second life,” he called it—in which, deciding that he had gone as far as he could with oil painting, he invented and developed a new kind of art. His compositions of paper cutouts included the 1947 book “Jazz,” and designs for Catholic vestments to go with his total design of a convent chapel in Vence—an improbable, gruelling commission, including seventeen stained-glass windows and several nearly abstract murals, that was arranged with help from a favorite former model, who had become a nun, and an idealistic young monk who came to remark, “I feel less and less Gothic, and more and more Matisse.” The project horrified not only much of the Catholic hierarchy but also a contemporary art world then largely in thrall to Communism. (Picasso is often said to have recommended that Matisse decorate a brothel instead. Actually, he proposed a fruit-and-vegetable market, to which Matisse “was proud of snapping back that his greens were greener and his oranges more orange than any actual fruit.”) But such was Matisse’s prestige, with the added advantage that the artist largely financed the project himself, that the chapel opened in 1951 in a ceremony led by the Archbishop of Nice. At first bewildered by the chapel, the sisters of the convent came to love its chaste serenity and effulgent color. “From now on,” Spurling writes, “indignant or derisive sightseers demanding to know the meaning of the stations of the cross received a firm response from the nun in charge: ‘It means modern.’ ”

Matisse’s cutouts realized a brilliant conjunction of drawing and color which had always been implicit in his art—often, as if his lines were not the container of his color but the edge produced by its expansion, like the contour of wetness left by a wave on a beach. Formed with scissors, color and shape become effectively one. In his house, luxuriant with simple amenities and living things, he “exercised dominion . . . from his bed,” Spurling writes. “Models and assistants were jealously guarded, cut off from outside contact and more or less confined to the premises.” Picasso, accompanied by his lover, Françoise Gilot, was a frequent and welcome visitor. While still fencing with each other like old duellists, they talked art. (Gilot remembered one occasion when Matisse, producing American catalogues of the work of Pollock and Robert Motherwell, asked Picasso, “What do you think they have incorporated from us? And in a generation or two, who among the painters will still carry a part of us in his heart, as we do Manet and Cézanne?”) Matisse died at the age of eighty-four, on November 3, 1954, with Marguerite and Delectorskaya at his side. Spurling reports that Delectorskaya “left immediately with the suitcase she had kept packed for fifteen years.”

If Spurling fails to make one important element sufficiently clear, it’s the connection between the peculiarities of Matisse’s life and his singularity, which is also his absolute modernity, as an artist. The key fact is his self-invention as a painter, entering art history from essentially nowhere, as if by parachute. Never having had traditional lessons to unlearn (unlike Picasso, with his incessant industry of demolishing and reconstructing the inherited language of painting), Matisse innovated on something like whim—a privilege, without guidelines or guarantees, for which he paid a steep toll in anxiety. There is even a touch of the naïf or the primitive about him, though it is hard to grasp, because his works quickly assumed the status of classics, models of the modern. You can track his inspirations, seeing, for example, that his discovery of Russian icons, during a visit to Shchukin in Moscow in 1911, informed a large confrontational painting of him and Amélie, “The Conversation” (1911). But how does this marital anecdote (the great man in pajamas!) manage to impress as an all-time symbol of creativity? Matisse couldn’t say, and no one else can, either. The circumstances of his life and time, as detailed in this appropriately capacious biography, continually distill into drops of wonder.

~ Peter Schjeldahl · August 22, 2005. Peter Schjeldahl has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1998 and is the magazine’s art critic. His latest book is “Hot, Cold, Heavy, Light: 100 Art Writings, 1988-2018.”

Information on Vietnam for Backpackers

Socialist Republic of Vietnam - a nation stricken by the scaries of war, however the nation's history does not just pre-date to the Vietnam War. We're handling a civilization that goes as far back as 3,000 B.C. This is a location where individuals are gentler than its past, gradually being checked out by visitors, with the Vietnamese as warm and inviting like no other. The minute you step here, there the war lacks a trace. The minute you step here, you're life, as you understand it, had actually altered. To fall for this nation is by no implies an accomplishment with the smell of Vietnamese coffee adequate to keep you knotted and entranced. Vietnam is a location of appeal, tranquility, custom and entirely remarkable gastronome, a location where all senses are engaged with the intensity of colours, the drone of motorcycles, the smell of charcoal smoke roasting goodness, and the cool of evaporation on the skin.

Vietnam remains in no rush to overtake the remainder of the world however it is thriving to turn into one of the best traveler trips. Experience starts right here in the streets, the sea of bikes, around 4 million afflicting the traffic and offering the addict some adrenaline high. This develops an images of a surreal dream that is a headache to cross. For visitors who return a 2nd, a 3rd, a 4th time around, Vietnam is slackly altering in a speed of ups and downs, however as the residents would state, "same exact same, however various".

LOCATION

Vietnam (16 10 N, 107 50 E) is besotted for its greatly forested landscape of nearly half the overall location. With an overall location of 331,688 km2, Vietnam runs along 3 other nations in the Indochina peninsula and is nearly the size of Germany. Aside from forested land, hills and mountains likewise cover the surface up north at 40% of the overall location, with southern of Vietnam flat lands using up less than 20%. The greatest mountain (and point) in Vietnam is the Phan Xi Pang, 3,143 metres above water level, the South China Sea (0 metres).

ENVIRONMENT

The weather condition in Vietnam varies regionally with a location big enough to cover 2 environment zones: tropical and temperate. In North Vietnam, 4 seasons accept the temperate zone- winter season, spring, summer season, and fall. The Central Highlands suffer extremes of hot summertimes and cold winter seasons, while the South Vietnam environment is essentially tropical. The ideal time to be in Vietnam, upon crucial tip would be from January to March, as months prior to or after are identified by either really cold with flooding in some parts, or the high roasting sun.

POPULATION

In this reasonably huge nation prospers a population of 88,576,758 Vietnamese, the majority of which are Kinh or Viets make up practically 90% of the population and, as such, practice political and financial control, while a fantastic numerous minority ethnic groups that remain in presence are, by size, Tay, Muong, Khome, Hoa, Nun, and about 47 others. Many Vietnamese are Buddhists however a significant 80% are not devout of any religious beliefs. Simply 9.3% highly related to Buddhism, 7.2% are Christians. A tiny minority abide by ethnic faiths like Hoa (1.5%) and Caodaism (1.1%).

LANGUAGE

VIETNAMESE is the socialist republic's main language, while ENGLISH is the favoured 2nd main language over the colonial language FRENCH. The language paradigm in Vietnam likewise includes some CHINESE and KHMER with some ethnic groups with their languages or dialects. Something they all got in typical- a love for football.

TOURIST ATTRACTION

Football, there is so much more methods to have a grand time in Vietnam. While the temples and historic monoliths are ending up being rather too solemn and severe for the preference, paying a brief see to the one and only Uncle Mao is quintessentially vital. After an academic trip of the nation, be it in Ho Chi Minh or Hanoi, an authentic nature experience is a need to in these parts be it at the Nha Trang, Phan Thiet, Ha Long Bay or the Ban Gioc waterfalls. Hoi An is maybe among the locations with the greatest resistance to alter, hence its interest tourists with the taste for the old and genuine.

FOOD

Vietnamese food is a fair-weathered good friend to the world with Viet dining establishments growing and acquainting the entire world beginning with the ever popular pho. Pho is a real and devoted breakfast pal, effervescent as it is universal attractive and enabling everybody, residents and travelers alike, a taste of Vietnam-in-a-bowl. No, that is a garnish tray not a fresh salad. You include the sprouts, a capture of lemon upon preference, then the chili and fish sauce, and lastly, the coriander leaves. Now dissecting the banh mi, there you will discover on that crispy therefore excellent baguette a bed of succulent grilled pork, ham, veggies, dressing, some shrimp paste and sometimes a fried runny egg surprise. This is the genuine luxurious sandwich. Another favourite is the goi coun or fresh rice spring roll which consists of a healthy balance of pork, veggie, and tofu. Banh xeo, likewise common all over Vietnam is a light and hearty treat for no greater than 20 cents which is basically an arrangement of goodness on a crispy and crispy rice and coco milk batter. This appears like the exact same batter as in Sri Lankan hoppers or the Indian dhosa-any possibility of impact? Once again, Vietnamese flavour is everything about a balance of tastes- of sweet, sour, salted, certainly hot with a tip of tart aspect sans extreme oil.

Would like some coffee to swirl everything down? I do not learn about the majority of you however the play of the sluggish drip of coffee on a bed of condensed creaminess will make the tourist wish to awaken to this sound every early morning. Comparable to the baguette, Vietnamese food played mom to French food, raising it as her own. As a result, newly baked pastries and cakes the visitor can smell 5-7 homes down the road.

Life in Vietnam renders simpleness, however a good life is a dream to be had for the residents, and with an unthinkable group living near the poverty line, the expense of living here tends to be actually economical especially to the independent budget plan visitor. Enjoy the meagre offerings of standard Vietnam while it is still possible, for whatever the weather condition, modernization will slowly come regardless resistance. The only guarantee the tourist will get is to hope and make the self think that as things alter, Vietnam will stay "same exact same."