#and the current number is making my ocd go fucking WILD

[servin-up-surveys]

survey #159

Can you commit to one person? Yes, I personally am a deeply monogamous person.

Do you shave your nether regions? Completely personal decision, no, I only ever paid attention to the bikini line way back when as a teen and I was comfortable wearing them, but now I have like, no reason to. I especially think it's a bad idea with how my skin reacts to shaving anyway, I become incredibly itchy and I'm prone to ingrown hairs. Shit just ain't worth it. I don't care what others do and I don't have a preference in partners.

How long can you just kiss until your hands start to wander? Uh this varies, like a lot????? Most importantly, how serious are we, but also where are we and what is the general mood between us?

Is there someone mad because you’re dating/talking to the person you are? No, certainly nobody that I know of.

What’s your opinion on age differences in relationships? If you are both legal adults, I literally do not care. You do what you want to do with the partner who wants to be with you. I do agree it's very problematic when especially celebrities target young people, like that is a very real and alarming thing with often manipulative motives behind it, but this certainly isn't always the case. *I* personally don't think I could go beyond a 10-year gap in a partner (and I'm completely disinterested in much younger than me), but that is for me and my relationship alone, other adults can make their own adult decisions.

What’s your dirtiest secret? Nothing very "dirty" honestly, just doing things in beds we shouldn't have, but I feel like most people have done something like this at some point lmao

Do you have a best friend? I confidently consider my boyfriend my best friend, but if you exclude him and also my mom for being "more" than mere friends, then I don't currently. I'm closest with Mazzy and Tez, but simply considering the "best" friendships I've had in the past, it's not entirely the same. I know when I see someone as my best friend, I feel like everyone just knows it in their gut.

What country are you from? I've never left the USA, ugh get me the fuck OUTTTTTTTT

Did you finish high school? I did, then everything went down the drain. My brain just melted shortly after high school, like I really do blame both how viciously over-medicated I was but also my trauma for doing some WILD shit with my head and my ability to process and remember information, because it was exactly around this period where things just changed.

Favorite fictional character? Pyramid Head from the Silent Hill franchise.

Do you count your steps when you walk? No, and I majorly pity those who do have that obsession, it sounds fucking miserable, I've always thought that. OCD in general is.

Would you date someone who’s know for cheating, and if yes, why? I really don't think I'd be able to.

What age do you think is appropriate for kids to start having sex? Well, kids shouldn't be having sex, but I am aware how unrealistic it is to expect most people to wait until they reach the magic age of 18, because they regularly don't, so I'm gonna cut the majority of the population a bit of slack and say absolutely never before 16, but that really just is an arbitrary number. I think maturity has more to do with this than precise age, that and discipline to sticking to never neglecting birth control methods.

Do gay, lesbians, bisexuals, or transgender people bother you? Obviously not when you consider I'm a pansexual, and although a cis person, I am all for trans rights, like I'd die fighting to protect those.

Have you ever been front row at a concert? Which one(s), and how was the experience? No.

What's the strongest earthquake you've ever experienced? I've never experienced one, for which I'm extremely grateful, they sound terrifying.

Have you ever been told you look like a celebrity? No, not that I recall.

Do you own a leather jacket? No, but I have ALWAYS wanted a faux black one, ever since like the start of high school, maybe even before.

Do you have any cereal in your house at the moment? Yeah, we have some Special K and Cheerios, off the top of my head.

Is the street you live on short, long, or somewhere in the middle? It's pretty short, because we live in a development, so there's lots of turns as the roads wind around.

Who was the last person to call you baby/babe? Girt is the only one who ever does, so it woulda been him.

When you’re at the grocery store do you use the self checkout? Dude honestly we don't even go in the store anymore, if it's a place like Wal-Mart; Mom just does those orders where you pick the groceries up, like employees get everything for you. It's easier and quicker, and it's also apparently saved us money, because she's not passing things in the store and thinking "hm didn't plan to get that but it sounds good," stuff like that. Before Covid happened and these pick-ups became a regular thing, if we went inside for not all that much, yeah, we often opted for self-checkout.

If you were abandoned in the wilderness, would you survive? Oh I'm fully aware I wouldn't.

What is a compliment you receive often? That my hair is nice.

Do you like your parents? Yeah, I love them. My dad isn't perfect and I'm very aware of where he's messed up, but I also know how to recognize that he tries.

Where is the furthest place you’ve traveled? Illinois, Chicago general area, so high up.

Which do you prefer, to eat or sleep? I mean I generally find eating more enjoyable than sleeping, but it really depends on what I need in that moment.

What did you do on New Year's Eve? I feel like Mom and I had a drink and just chilled here at home.

Who makes you happiest right now? Girt.

Will you donate organs after you pass? Definitely, I am a massive advocate for this sort of stuff, like you are not going to need ANYTHING in your body after your die, so let it help somebody if it can. It's like a last act of kindness.

Which fictional character can you not stand? Uh, I don't know about can't stand.

What do you think people have an unnecessary stick up their ass about? Good lord, conservative toddlers losing their shit when a brand they like shows support for minority communities, like LGBTQ+ most prominently. People deciding they're no longer buying that beer, no longer shopping in that store, like holy fuck congrats you're a literal walking dumpsterfire of a person.

What common advice do you think never works? Ha, honestly a lot, like everyone's different and different things will work for different people. A strong one though is when people advise depressed or just mentally ill people to "think positively," like it's not that fucking easy. Depression is a literal illness of an organ, and it's basically the equivalent of telling someone with cancer to consciously decide to no longer have cancer. You can't snap your fingers and fix it.

Do you have the same religious beliefs as your parents? No. I'm positive my mom's Christian, but she's the kind that uses her faith for good and only good, she really does, and never tries to impose it into someone else's life. I'm quite sure my dad's a Christian, especially given how fiercely religious his wife is, but I've never seen him act on it, and he doesn't talk about it. I guess the title that best suits me is agnostic, but I can tell you I very much don't believe in a god that takes care of this planet like its baby, and I don't envision it's anything like any god I know of.

Would you ride a motorcycle if given the chance? (Or have you?) No, I don't think so, I just don't trust them. I think the only case where I MIGHT do it is with my mom driving, she fucking loves motorcycles and it's always been a dream of hers to have one. I trust her with my life and I know she'd love it.

What's your favorite Led Zeppelin song? "Kashmir" wins pretty easy, I honestly haven't loved a whole lotta songs by them that I've heard, even when I was really big into classic rock. I very much respected them, though.

How do you treat yourself? Most likely I'd let myself have a soda.

Are you going to pursue a career according to what you enjoy? I'm very much trying. Doing anything artistic though and gaining traction is pretty damn hard when you're not like, family of somebody already famous; building an art career from the ground up is fucking brutal.

What happens to your old clothes? Mom either donates them or throws them out, it depends on multiple things.

What’s your favorite frozen treat? In general, ice cream, but specifically, these snowcones you can get from a business native to NC, Pelican's SnoBalls, in a few spots. It's insanely customizable and their "menu" is absolutely massive, having so many flavors and other treats you can add into it, and this place is FLOODED in the spring/summer months, it's literally depressing when they close for the winter, lol. You've never had a shaved ice product better than this place, it was literally Sara's favorite thing about here, haha. They even have dog-friendly products! In such a hot state it's great for when a dog is with you in the car, especially when your car doesn't have working AC, lol.

Teach me something in another language. Uh not writing in the language itself, but I always thought it was interesting how numbers 21+ are read in German; it's backwards to English-speakers, like you read the smallest numeral first, then the second, third, etc.; like 26 just as an example would be read "sechsundzwanzig," despite the two coming first in the number itself. It gets more complicated as you pass 100 thresholds though; if there's a comma in numbers because of its size, you do say like, how many billions there are before the millions. It's bonkers how long you can make a singular word in German if you're writing out numbers in non-digit form.

What type of music do you like and why? Most kinds of metal and rock, and I'm particularly fond of electronic elements being added to music like that.

Would you be/are you a good role model to a younger sibling? I'm not, Nicole has exceeded me as a human in a number of ways; it's hard to believe she's my "little" sister. Pretty sure I'm always going to see myself as the disappointing/embarrassing sibling.

Have you ever dated someone you work with? No.

List all of your siblings’ middle names. "Nicole" and "Marie" are the only two that I remember.

What was the last present someone gave you and what was the occasion? A bouquet of flowers, for completing physical therapy.

When was the last time you left the house? Where’d you go? Yesterday, to get my tattoo finished.

What’s the most number of people you’ve ever lived with? I want to say the most was five; on two different instances Misty and Bobby lived with us when I was a little kid, but neither stayed permanently for different reasons.

Do you have any pets? How long have you had them? I've had Venus since 2017, and Roman 2018. We've had Cookie less than two years, I know.

Do you like flowers? If so, what type? Of course, I love all flowers for their individual beauty, like I'm one of those people that totally agrees with calling flowers "nature's candy." Does anybody not like flowers, aesthetically?

Do you know anyone who has an odd pet? What do they have? I'm sure I do, but this also depends on what you consider as "odd."

Do you like sapphires? Are they your favourite gemstone, or if not, what is? Sapphires are gorgeous, yeah, but I definitely prefer things like opals, specifically dragon's breath opal. Opals can just be so many different colors.

Did you have a traditional gender colored room when little? Pink, purple? No.

Can you read sheet music? I USED to be able to, I remember very little now.

Do you know who your latest ex is dating? I have no idea if she's with anyone, I never let myself check her socials out or anything.

What are your plans for the weekend? It is the weekend; I'm not doing anything today, but tomorrow, Mom and I go to Girt's place for this yearly dinner they do in memory of his dad; it's his favorite meal. It includes things that are very popularly disliked (such as chicken hearts), and thankfully because of last year I think they already know I'm not eating/am eating before coming, I know at least Girt knows.

Have you ever dated someone who was emotionally or mentally unstable? Yes.

Do you have to sleep with a television on? No, I very much prefer no TV, unlike how I was as a kid. It's distracting, and I already have enough trouble falling asleep.

If you were offered to smoke some weed right now would you accept? No, I never want to smoke anything.

What did you purchase last? I paid the remaining cost to finish my tattoo yesterday.

Do you think your most recent ex misses having you around? No.

Ever seen your best friend cry? Yes, once. It's pretty damn hard to make him cry.

Do you have any brothers? If so, what are their names? Yes; his legal name is Robert, but I've always known him as Bobby.

Ever thought you would be with someone forever? I sure did, so intensely that I really, really, REALLY did consider it an indisputable fact; at that time, a future didn't exist for me without Jason, like it FACTUALLY was not possible that we were going to split, and I know that's exactly why our breakup resulted in literal, diagnosed PTSD. It completely destroyed my way of thinking, it just flipped my brain entirely on its head, and I couldn't cope for a very, very long time.

What grades did you get in middle school? Pretty much solely As and Bs.

Last time you used a knife? Yesterday for dinner, Mom made steak.

What’s one thing you’ve never done but would like to try? Travel out of the country.

What are you doing for Valentine’s Day? Uh I have no idea what we're doing next year for it, it's already passed for '23.

What month did you come into the world in? February.

Do you prefer rabbits to mice? No; I love both, like a lot, but I know more about mice and rats and find them to be very interesting creatures and fantastic, loving pets.

Who out of all the people you know reasonably well is the most "dark?" Uh I really don't know, I have a lot of friends that like dark aesthetics, but they aren't dark people.

Favourite chocolate-based candy? Reese's!

#survey #surveys #random questions #personal questions

[gotatext]

hello, it’s swamp witch nora again…. i couldn’t stay away.... hitting u with a tiny baby boy who is also terrible (sometimes).  musical softboi who loves karl marx and hates children dying in cobalt mines to make smart phones. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board, have a peruse. fyi sorry for those of u who have read this intro a thousand times i literally.... can never b bothred to change it n i think thats really sexy of me x

CHARLIE PLUMMER / DEMI-BOY — don’t look now, but is that rory bergström  i see? the 23 year old music student is in their junior year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be whimsical, impassioned, self-indulgent and nitpicky, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he / they will make a name for themselves living in griffin street. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her. )

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some

has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. rory don’t really know where they fit yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all!! slippin out of his physical form into the spirit realm! isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but currently feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it!!!!

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

occasionally deals weed n pills when strapped for cash, but only 2 ppl he knows, and on a very small scale grass-roots level!! (so its ok???) rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car. we love to see it

aesthetics: bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and drumming into blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, watching vine compilations until your eyes turn square, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones,  floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes:  weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… has never hooked up with anyone… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

actually i think rory had sex w delilah in the last version of this rp so if u want a hook up plot its possible just unlikely. they’d hav 2 be the driving force i reckon cos rory doesn’t really act on impulses like desire or anythin.... jst bottles that shit up !!! but yea we could do a spicy hook up plot maybs, depending on the person

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

#tw drugs #tw ocd #tw anxiety #HUNTINGTONINTRO

[1dffexchange]

Warm Blood

To: Eriza @booksncoffee

From: Natasha @wokeuptired​

Summary: This is ridiculous, and Carver knows it.

She doesn’t even know his name, and he’s all she can think about. One kiss at an office Christmas party—an office where she doesn’t even work most of the time—and she can’t get him off her mind. 

It doesn’t help that she’s spending a week working in said office, sitting at a neat freak’s desk and trying not to leave fingerprints behind while looking over her shoulder every five minutes to see if he—Mistletoe Boy—is at the coffee pot. 

She’s beginning to think she dreamed him up.

ONE.

Carver Cantrell is not somebody who makes stupid decisions.

That is the first thing she would want you to know about her: this is not her modus operandus. She is not the kind of girl who buys a plane ticket and jets off to Paris on a whim. She doesn’t purchase expensive articles of clothing without stalking them online for a few weeks first. The wildest evening she has is when she orders something different from the Chinese place on the corner. Nobody would ever call her a wild child.

And she certainly doesn’t kiss boys she’s never met under the mistletoe at the office holiday party just because she feels like it.

Except she just did.

“Wow.”

Carver pulls back, unsure of which of them said that, her or the guy she’s just been locking lips with. Her heart is beating so loud she can hear it in her ears, and she can feel her blood hot in her cheeks. His eyes are bright blue, so blue she can feel them in her toes.

Which is a feeling she’s never felt before. Crazy, because Carver thought, right before this second, that she’d felt them all.

Her emotions have tended towards the severe ever since she was a kid. Imagine six year-old Carver, throwing a fit at the supermarket because her favorite cereal was out of stock, and her helpless mother, standing three feet away with her hands up so that other shoppers wouldn’t assume she was the cause of the tantrum. Skip to middle school, when Carver didn’t eat for two days after she and her best friend—the same Jess whom she roomed with in college, walked beside at graduation, and is currently accompanying to this party—had a fight. Just last month, she watched a Hallmark movie where a woman reunited with her teenage love after twenty-five years, and she sobbed for an hour.

Anger, sadness, happiness—Carver has always felt them all in extremes. She’s learned over the years to take deep breaths until the emotions calm down so she can figure out which ones to listen to before she acts, but they’re still there, nonetheless.

Like two minutes ago, when she turned a corner on her way to the restroom and walked right into the sturdy chest of the guy who currently has his arms wrapped around her. He sparked something in her right away, and the inches they’ve just put between them have done nothing to dampen that flame.

“Sorry,” he says. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips warm. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

This is where she should say something like, “Fuck that, do it again!” but her mind draws a blank. Her brain is too busy considering his accent, which is decidedly not California surfer boy like every boy she’s dated since she moved here a year ago, to come up with something witty to fire back at him.

“Hey, Car—”

She looks over my shoulder to see Jess coming around the corner. She has a plate in her hand piled high with Carver’s weakness: angel food cake, the literal food of angels.

“I found this,” she says, holding it out. “And you. And, you’re busy, apparently—who’s this?”

Carver follows her gaze back to the boy in question, who’s pushing a hand through his hair and grinning. His hair looks like it’s straight out of a shampoo commercial. She should’ve touched it during their kiss. What a missed opportunity.

“Sorry, I—I was actually on my way out,” he says. His eyes return to her as he brushes a fingertip across her cheek before stepping back. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she manages before he turns away and disappears around the corner.

Jess grabs her elbow. “What was that? Who was that?”

Carver lets her tug her back into the party. “I have no idea.”

Five minutes later, Carver’s shoveling angel food cake into her mouth and recounting the last hour as Jess rambles on with the office manager, Kayla. Michael Buble’s Christmas album plays in the background, stockings hang on the wall, and a small Christmas tree sits in the corner, but nothing can disguise the fact that this is an office. A well-designed office, but an office nonetheless.

Jess has worked for West & Up for a year, and Carver’s going on month three. West & Up is one of those newer companies that’s popped up as interior design has become accessible to anybody with internet access. It’s part online home goods retailer (think Wayfair but a bit less fashionable), part interior design firm. Jess does web design, and Carver crunch numbers.

They both work in the Century City office, where a bunch of nerds in glasses occupy cubicles in a decidedly less fashionable building right next to the freeway. Carver had never been to the Santa Monica office before tonight, and she’s definitely been missing out, because not only can you smell the ocean from the balcony, cute boys also work here.

One cute boy in particular.

Carver has never felt such an instant connection with someone before, and she can already tell it’s going to consume me. This is how her mind works: it can only focus on one thing at a time, and that one thing nearly always becomes an obsession. That’s why she’s so good at math. Her OCD keeps her doing problems over and over again until she’s sure they’re perfect. And her OCD will no doubt have her going over that kiss incessantly.  

“Carver, it’s going to be so great to have you here in January,” Kayla says. “I’m so happy you said yes.”

Carver swallows a bite of angel food cake and fakes a smile. Truth be told, she’s not looking forward to her temporary reassignment to the Santa Monica office. She hates changes to her routine, and she hates things that aren’t her choice. Kayla says she agreed, but when her supervisor presented it to her, it didn’t really seem like saying no was an option.

“I’m really excited to see how things work around here,” she says, which is about the best answer she can manage without the unrelenting guilt she always feels when she lies. She doesn’t tell Kayla she doesn’t understand why she can’t continue her internal audit of the company from her own cubicle.  

She has a slight suspicion that she’s going to arrive for her first day in January and be instructed to count the pens in the copy room.

TWO.

Kayla Warner is not the kind of person who takes no for an answer.

This is typically something that works in Niall’s favor, because Kayla is the office manager and when she’s on your side, she gets shit done. Niall befriended her on his first day at West & Up, and ever since, she’s been going to war for him. She got him the best cubicle (aka the one furthest from the break room), always makes sure he leaves promptly at five, even if she has to drag him out herself, and never fails to order his favorite brand of pens. Usually Kayla Warner is his hero.

But now that she’s decided to be his matchmaker, he’s moving her decidedly into the “villain” column. Once Kayla has an idea in her head, there’s absolutely no talking her out of it. Which doesn’t mean Niall isn’t going to try.

THIS IS A BAD IDEA.

Niall watches as three little dots appear on his phone, showing that Kayla is responding to his all-caps message. He never should’ve told her about Mistletoe Girl in the first place, but Kayla could tell that something was up when he suddenly appeared way more interested in Kayla’s incessant stream of office gossip than he used to be. Kayla practically sniffed it on him.

“You kissed somebody at the Christmas party, didn’t you?” she demanded, the question mark only there out of politeness. Kayla’s like a bloodhound when it comes to secrets, especially secrets related to the affairs of the heart.

Not that Niall’s heart is involved here. He really doesn’t want it to be, because it shouldn’t be, not after one kiss. Even if it was the most perfect kiss he’s ever experienced in all his years of kissing–barely a decade, so he wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert, but he knows a good kiss when he sees it.

Kayla’s still typing, so Niall navigates away from the text message thread and opens Instagram. He’d scoured the employee profiles a zillion times over the past few weeks searching for Mistletoe Girl, looking at all the Carters and Carolyns and Carlas that work for the company, and he couldn’t find her. But now, thanks to Kayla, he knows her name, her actual name, so he can stalk her on social media.

Carver Cantrell. Her profile is private, so Niall can’t see much beyond her bio and her profile picture (her smiling face pressed up against a puppy’s much smaller one), but it’s gratifying to know that she’s real. It’s a relief to know that he didn’t imagine the whole thing. And it’s nice to know that she loves dogs. Loving dogs is a good sign.

Niall doesn’t blame himself for questioning his sanity. It was like something out of a romance film, wasn’t it? Kayla’s obsessed with those things, “Love Actually” and “27 Dresses” and all that. It’s not every day that you’re on the way back from the bathroom at the dreaded office Christmas party when a cute girl crashes into you right under the mistletoe. And it’s certainly not every day that a kiss with a stranger makes you reexamine the way you look at the world.

Kayla’s reply rolls in, distracting Niall from reading Carver’s bio for the hundredth time.

THIS IS A GREAT IDEA

YOU CAN LEAVE HER CHOCOLATE AND FLIRTY NOTES ON YOUR DESK

I’M A FUCKING GENIUS

The messages arrive one after the other in rapid succession. Kayla texts like she talks: without breathing. It overwhelmed Niall when they first met, the speed at which Kayla thinks and talks and moves, but he’s slightly less intimidated by her now. Slightly.

Sighing, Niall clicks through to the text thread and hits the call button. It only rings once before Kayla picks up.

“You’re not going to be able to talk me out of this,” she says. Something clangs in the background; she’s probably making cookies again.

“It’s a terrible idea in every way,” Niall says. He stands from the couch and goes into the kitchen. Speaking with Kayla always makes him feel like he’s not doing enough. Like he ought to be doing at least 6 things simultaneously while talking to her. “You know I hate people in my workspace. It’s like you’re making us move in together, and we’ve barely even spoken.”

Kayla laughs. “Exactly. This is a great trial run. I’m pretty sure she’s just as much of a neat freak as you are, but if she’s not, you’ll be able to tell, and then you can abort the mission.”

“I want to abort the mission already.” Niall opens the fridge and starts unloading it of containers full of leftovers that should’ve been thrown out weeks ago. “You’re the one who’s not letting me.”

“That’s because I am your best friend and I care about your well-being.”

“But—”

“I’m not hearing it, Niall Horan,” Kayla says. “Now stop pretending to clean your kitchen, hang up the phone, and figure out a plan for tomorrow, will you? I can’t do everything for you.”

“Are you sure you can’t?” Niall asks. “Because you’ve done the rest of this for me. So I think you could just—”

“Don’t be facetious, Niall, it doesn’t suit you,” Kayla says before hanging up.

Sometimes Kayla reminds Niall of his mother, and since she’s far away across the Atlantic Ocean, he doesn’t really mind that.

Except right now. Right now, it’s driving him crazy.

THREE.

On Monday, January 7th, Carver parks her car in the lot outside West & Up’s Santa Monica office. She’s ten minutes early, and she fully intends to use all ten of those minutes to have a panic attack in her car.

There’s a post-it on her dashboard that, at her therapist’s suggestion, reads, “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE,” and she repeats that aloud to herself a few times, but it doesn’t help. She makes a list in her mind of all the things that could go wrong. Maybe her cubicle neighbor will smell like baloney sandwiches. Maybe she will embarrass herself in front of the CEO. Or, maybe, worst of all, she might run into Mistletoe Boy.

She’s done her best over the past couple of weeks to forget about him, but she hasn’t gotten very far. And Jess’s constant mentioning of the kiss hasn’t helped things. She’s scoured the employee profiles on the company website for the guy with the soft lips and the foreign accent that Carver kissed at the Christmas party, and she’s come up empty.

“He must be one of the ones with no photo,” Jess has insisted multiple times.

“Or maybe he doesn’t work at West & Up anymore,” Carver told Jess last night as she was waxing on about how her chances of running into him again were about to increase exponentially. “Or maybe he never did, and he was crashing the party and that’s why he ducked away so fast. Or maybe he’s engaged to one of the girls from HR, or—”

“Or maybe you’re looking for excuses,” Jess said, jabbing an elbow into Carver’s side. They were watching “Set It Up” on Netflix for the zillionth time, and Jess had paused in speaking all the lines along with the actors to remind Carver that she may have watched her chance at one true love walk out the door a few weeks back. “Do not hide in your cubicle for the next week, okay? You need to, like, make yourself visible.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

“Go to the coffee machine, like, all the time. Introduce yourself to everyone you can.” Jess turned to Carver, her eyes wide, her tone serious. “And, for the love of God, make a fucking move if you see him again.”

Carver tries not to think about that right now, as she squints into the sunlight and curse herself, again, for leaving the house without her sunglasses this morning, as that’s basically a death sentence in Los Angeles.

She reads her post-it again: “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.”

Then she takes a deep breath and opens the car door.

Kayla practically pounces on her when the elevator doors open on the third floor. She checks Carver in and shows her where the restroom is and babbles the entire time about how great her New Year’s was and how she hopes Carver’s was great too and did she watch the ball drop this year?   

“You can use Horan’s desk,” she says, leading Carver through the office. It’s an open plan, desks everywhere, most of them totally cluttered. Paper everywhere, knicknacks, dusty computer screens. But the desk Kayla guides Carver to is wiped clean. “He’s one of our architects. He’s on site all week.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?” Carver runs her eyes over the spotless desktop. There’s a pothos plant in a terra cotta pot next to a black mug holding six identical black pens, and that’s it. The only bit of personalization she can spot is a dinosaur sticker on the corner of the computer monitor. Horan, whoever he is, clearly values cleanliness over, well, pretty much everything else.

It actually reminds Carver a little bit of her workspace, but at least she’s got more than one plant.

“Oh, yeah,” Kayla says. “He won’t care. He might come by in the evenings, though, so you should be out of here by five if you can, and don’t leave anything lying around. He’s a bit of a neat freak.”

“Right.” Carver pushes the keyboard out of the way and puts her laptop on the desk. “I’ll be out of here by five.”

“You know where I am if you need anything. See you at lunch!” Kayla calls as she disappears around the corner

Carver opens her laptop and clicks through her email to the spreadsheets the company wants her to look through. Luckily she hasn’t been asked to count any pencils yet, but the day is still young.

By lunch time, her fingers hurt and her eyes are dry. Kayla takes her to a salad place across the street, and Carver forces myself to choke down kale topped with assorted vegetables. When she was younger, she believed that she’d magically develop a taste for salad once she reached her twenties, since it’s what twenty-something professionals always ate for lunch on tv shows, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Then she returns to Horan’s immaculate cubicle, puts her earbuds in, and zones into the work. She used to think that she’d have to hate her job in her twenties, just as she’d have to love salads, but the truth is, she loves it. She loves columns of numbers and when there’s a knot in the data she has to untangle. She loves losing herself in it, because in the numbers there is always an answer.

In life, there often aren’t answers, and she’s not a fan of ambiguity.

Before she leaves, she can’t resist opening the top drawer to see if that’s where the owner of this desk hides his mess. But, no, it’s just as organized as the surface. Plastic bins hold pens, paperclips, pencils, and post-its, all in separate sections. There isn’t a thing out of place. She wonders if he uses dinner plates with dividers, too.

Carver snags a bright pink post-it out of the drawer and scrawls a quick note on it before sticking it to the monitor.

Thanks for letting me use your desk. I tried not to leave too many fingerprints. Sorry for snooping through your drawer, but I wanted to find your organizational weakness. Apparently you don’t have any. Congratulations. - Carver

FOUR.

Niall chickened out.

After all that berating last night and a pep talk via text from Kayla this morning, he chickened out. He didn’t leave anything at his desk for Carver, and, to top it off, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Every day at the Wilson project is a busy day, and today was no exception. This morning, two of the guys ripped out the old range and found faulty wiring, which is a remodel nightmare second only to flooding. That should’ve been enough to distract Niall, but it wasn’t. He pulled out a pen to make some notes and wondered what kind of pens Carver likes. He looked at granite samples with the Wilsons and wondered if Carver would think the black countertop would darken the room.

And then he thought about how fucked up it was that he was thinking about what Carver would think, considering he doesn’t even know her. Fucked up and creepy.

But here he is anyway, driving to the office in 5 o’clock traffic to see if Carver’s left any mark on his cuble. A very small, slightly creepy part of him is hoping he’ll be able to catch a trace of her perfume lingering in the air. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe scents, but he smelled it on her the night they kissed, and he knows he’ll recognize it instantly if he smells it again.

Kayla’s already left, which means he doesn’t have to face an interrogation when he passes her desk. The entire office is pretty much cleared out, which is how he likes it. Honestly,if he could work from home, he would. Other people are exhausting.

Which is part of the reason he’s afraid, he thinks, of meeting Carver. He’s idealized her so much in his head, but what if when he meets her, really meets her, she’s boring? Or annoying or just plain exhausting? What if spending time with her makes him wish he were spending time alone? The disappointment could crush him.

Which is why it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t care.

As he rounds the corner towards his cubicle, his heartbeat quickens, which is a total betrayal of his attempts to be nonchalant about this whole thing. He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Then his desk comes to view.

Nothing appears to be amiss. His chair is tucked in just the way he likes it, all of his black pens are still in their black mug, and his dinosaur sticker hasn’t moved. But—

Wait, what is that?

Niall grabs the post-it off the monitor and brings it up to his face. Is this Carver’s handwriting? It’s much neater than he’d expected based on the way her hair was slightly askew at the party. One’s general upkeep, he’s noticed, tends to belay their handwriting, and their handwriting reflects their level of organizational mastery.

Niall’s own hair is always flawless.

He reads the note to himself a couple of times, smiling at the mention of fingerprints. Apparently Carver has a sense of humor. And she might like post-its just as much as he does.

Hmm. Niall takes a seat at his desk, opens the drawer for another post-it, and grabs a pen. Time to come up with something clever to say in response.

FIVE.

In the morning, there’s a new post-it note on the monitor. Carver grins when she first sees it, because she’s always loved the idea of penpals, letters exchanged between strangers. She’s never had one herself, but novels always made it seem like you could tell your friend who lived worlds away things you couldn’t tell your BFF who lived next door.

Carver doesn’t have any such expectations of Niall Horan, of course, but it still makes her a bit giddy to see that he’s written her back.

But that feeling disappears as soon as she reads the note.

Thanks for your note, and thanks for keeping my desk clean. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I don’t really mind fingerprints. As long as there aren’t too many. And you keep them off the computer screen. You have neat handwriting, though, so I think I can live with you using my desk for the week. - Niall

Carver turns the post-it face-down on the desk. Maybe she was slightly rude in my post-it, but his message is ruder. “I can live with you using my desk for a week”—who talks to a stranger like that? It might be sarcasm, but he should know better than to be sarcastic in a note. There’s no room for nuance in a post-it note, they’re much too small.

What Carver wants to say in response is also much too long for a post-it note, so she yanks open the top drawer in search of notepaper. Her desk back in her cubicle hosts a variety of cute notepads and post-its, but all she can find in Niall’s desk is a small yellow legal pad. Despite its unattractiveness, it’ll have to do.

She does decorate the corner with a giant flower, though, courtesy of one of Niall’s five identical black pens.

Dear Niall,

Thanks for your note. I appreciate that you can live with me using your desk for a week, although I’d like you to know that I’d gladly vacate for another workspace if given the chance, since you seem like an asshole. Is that your weakness? You don’t know how to be nice to strangers on post-it notes? Good luck with that. I hope you enjoy being alone.

Note written—or at least started; Carver thinks she might have more to say later—she shoves it under Niall’s keyboard and opens her laptop. She’ll leave it there for the day, keeping it in the back of her mind, and right before she leaves, she’ll decided whether or not to leave it.

No impulsive decisions, even in anger.

Except maybe she should be impulsive. Maybe she should stand up for herself, even though there may be negative consequences, like an even ruder reply tomorrow, or a chastising by Kayla or even a meeting with HR for inter-office harassment.

Carver goes back and forth about it all morning. She spends a bit of mental energy regretting leaving a note at all yesterday, and then a bit more energy wishing she’d asked Kayla more questions about the owner of the desk. Like, is he a nutcase? Is he obsessed with fingerprints? Because he catalogues them? Because he’s a crazy, stalking, murdering, psychopath?

By lunch time, Carver feels like she’s bursting at the seams. Kayla shows up for lunch, and Carver practically leaps out of her seat. They barely make it out of the building before Carver brings it up.

“Hey, so this Horan guy? What’s he like?”

Kayla looks over her shoulder as she pushes out the front door of the building and into the sunlight. “Why do you ask?”

Carver wrinkles her nose at Kayla’s smile. “He left me a super rude note.”

The smile drops instantly. “What?”

Carver squints into the sunlight and stops to fish her sunglasses out of her purse. “Yeah,” she says to Kayla. “I left him a note last night, thanking him for letting me use his desk and whatnot, and I come in this morning to a note that’s like, don’t leave too many fingerprints and I won’t kill you.”

“What? There’s no way Niall wrote that,” Kayla says.

Carver follows her into the same salad place as yesterday. “I mean, I may’ve exaggerated a little. But that was the gist of it.”

The conversation pauses as Carver orders her food—the same salad as yesterday—but Kayla brings it up again as soon as the two of them are seated. The restaurant isn’t exactly quiet, but Kayla is not the kind of person, Carver’s beginning to realize, who lets a loud space hinder her conversation.

“Niall is not an asshole, I promise,” Kayla says. She extracts a metal straw out of her bag and sticks it in her drink. “He’s just not that good at people.”

“What?”

Kayla shrugs. “Listen, I’ve been friends with him for three years. He doesn’t always make the best first impression. Like, he tries, but it’s hard for him.”

What? Carver thinks the question this time instead of voicing it. She understands being socially awkward, but the best thing about written correspondence is that you can revise it a thousand times before sending it off (or, as it were, leaving it taped to a monitor).

“Like, okay,” Kayla continues. “He probably thought he was being funny. But he’s such a dingbat he doesn’t realize that sarcasm doesn’t translate when it’s written down, or he thought he was making a joke and he didn’t realize that he’s not funny. Like, he’s really not funny.”

Carver tries to think of something to say in response, but she finds herself coming up empty. Kayla’s trying to apologize for Niall, but Carver’s realizing that she really doesn’t want to hear it. Luckily her salad arrives, saving her. She shoves a forkful of lettuce into her mouth and chews as Kayla rambles on.

Finally, Kayla pauses, so Carver asks what she really wants to know. “So, do you think I should write back?”

Kayla’s fork hovers in the air on its way to her mouth. “Do you want to write back?”

Carver blinks. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Well, I’m a firm believer that you should do whatever feels right to you,” Kayla says, setting her fork down. “So maybe what you need to do is figure out what it is you want to do.”

Carver nods, repeating that over and over in her head until it starts to make sense.

At least, the words make sense. She still has no idea whether or not she should leave the note.

SIX.

“I wrote her a note.”

“Yeah, I know, you idiot,” Kayla says sharply. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Niall nearly drops his phone. That would be especially bad considering he’s currently squatting over a puddle of water in the middle of the Wilson construction site. He’s downgrading it from kitchen to construction site, since every 10 minutes a new problem arises that requires something else to be ripped out or torn up. The drywall is gone, revealing rotting studs, and when they pulled up the tile this morning, they found mold in the floorboards.

This house isn’t even old. Niall doesn’t understand it.

But he has to deal with it nonetheless.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“She asked me about you,” Kayla says. She’s whispering, like maybe she’s sitting at her desk right now and doesn’t want to be overheard. “Hold on, let me go outside.”

Niall stands up and turns his back on the other guys staring hopelessly into the puddle. He walks into the Wilsons’ backyard, which borders a strip of land known for being a mountain lion hotspot. When he first moved to LA, Niall was fascinated with them, with P-22 and his brave freeway crossings (both the 405 and the 101) and  his adventures around Griffith Park. Experts say that P-22 will probably never leave Griffith Park’s 8 square miles, which is only half a victory. He’ll be safe because he’s the only male mountain lion living there, but he’ll never mate. His line will end with him.

Niall isn’t nearly as pessimistic about his own future, but he does have a few things in common with P-22. In a city surrounded by people, sometimes he feels like he’s living on an island. Anyone who wants to get to him will have to cross treacherous territory.

“Okay, I’m back,” Kayla says in Niall’s ear. “Now tell me what the fuck you were thinking, please.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niall says.

“Your note! You were a total asshole. At lunch today Carver was like, who is this guy and what the heck is his problem? And she’s totally right. What the heck is your problem?”

Right now Niall’s problem is that Kayla doesn’t seem to be planning on letting him get a word in. “Well—”

“Stop talking. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. You don’t know how to be nice to people because you are afraid of making authentic connections because then someone might get close enough to see that you’re as perfect as you pretend to be.”

“Hey—”

“It’s not your turn, idiot. You need to fix this now, because you haven’t completely ruined your chances, but you’re close, I can tell you that. I tried to tell Carver that you’re just bad at first impressions, but she wasn’t hearing it. Like, she literally zoned out and stopped listening to me.”

Niall feels like doing that right now. He also feels like jumping headfirst into the Wilsons’ pool, or throwing his phone in so the water can drown out Kayla’s voice. Or maybe he should leave his phone here and walk off into the forest and make a new home with P-22. The mountain lion won’t judge him. It might attack him, but it certainly won’t do so while calling him an idiot.

No, Niall can do that himself. He definitely feels stupid right now. He thought he was being witty and maybe even flirty, but clearly none of that came across. Instead he made himself look like an asshole, and he’s probably completely ruined his chances with Carver, who—he can admit this to himself, even if he hasn’t said it out loud—might be the one girl who could save him from a P-22 fate.

“So figure out a plan, Niall, because Carver is probably sitting at your desk right now writing a note to you about how much of a dickhead you’re being, and your deserve it!” Final words voiced, Kayla hangs up.

Niall sighs, allows himself a moment of self-pity, and opens the notes app on his phone to make a list.

Before end of work day:

- Call plumber

- Figure out how to explain further delay to Wilsons

- Call Wilsons, explain, apologize

- File report with office

By tomorrow AM:

- Fix Carver problem

- Refill gas tank

- Sleep?

It’s shaping up to be a busy afternoon.

SEVEN.

Carver wakes up the next morning feeling perfectly normal, and then she remembers what she decided. Before she left the office, she pulled her note out from underneath Niall’s keyboard, signed her name to it with a flourish, and taped it to his monitor.

She sits up in bed, overcome with a wave of nausea. Assuming Niall went to the office last night, which he most likely did because he seems like the kind of person who follows his routines religiously, without exception, there is going to be a note waiting for her, and it’s probably not going to be a nice one.

But when she gets to Niall’s desk, there’s nothing there. Her note is gone, but there isn’t a new one.

Fuck. There are so many things this could mean. Maybe he read her note and was so annoyed by it that he decided she wasn’t worth responding to. Maybe he laughed and crumbled it up into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder as he walked through the parking lot to his car. Or maybe a janitor threw it away and he never even saw it.

Carver pushes it out of her mind, though, because she has work to do. There are numbers to be crunched and data to be sorted and there is plenty to distract her anxious mind.   

But she can’t get the note out of her head. How did he react to her note? Why didn’t he respond? Is she a terrible person for leaving it in the first place?

Just before 11 AM, Kayla pops her head over the edge of the cubicle, a mug of coffee in her hands. “Morning,” she says. “Can you do me a favor?”

Carver minimizes my spreadsheet and grins. “Of course. I need a break anyway.” That isn’t an overstatement. With all the circles her brain has been going in, Carver wonders how she managed to get anything done this morning.

“Great.” Kayla holds out a manila envelope. “Can you take an early lunch and drop this off for Horan at the Wilson house?”

Drop this off for Horan. Oh, shit.

“Of course,” Carver says, but meanwhile her brain is having a heart attack. She hates spur of the moment plans, she hates going to places she’s never been before, and mostly she hates that she might be about to confront Niall in a place she’s never been before, where she can’t control anything.

She can’t say any of that out loud, though, so she takes the envelope from Kayla and puts the address Kayla gives her into Google maps on her phone. She blasts the “Mamma Mia” soundtrack on the drive, but it doesn’t help calm her nerves.

Even though the house isn’t geographically that far away, it takes nearly half an hour to get there, which must be why Kayla told Carver she wouldn’t expect her back before two.  Los Angeles traffic is no exaggeration.

She parks her car at the end of a long driveway and pushes her sunglasses onto her head. She remembered them this morning, but she doesn’t think they’re going to save her from whatever is going to happen at the top of the drive.

The house is the first thing that shocks her. It’s beautiful, and that’s not a term she typically uses to describe architecture. She may work for West & Co., but she’s a math geek. She’s a human computer. She doesn’t have a natural taste for beautiful construction, but this she recognizes. It’s two stories and massive but not obviously so, because the facade has varying heights and it doesn’t look like an imposing box. She can tell, though, that the people who live here are loaded. There are mediterranean stones and slightly tinted window panes and she can just bet that the back of the house is entirely glass to give the residents the best possible view of the hills behind.  

She walks through a beautifully manicured front yard to find that the front door is open, so she goes inside without knocking. The front hall is two stories high, and a living room with mid-century modern furniture is on the right. It looks like it belongs in an Architectural Digest celebrity home tour on youtube. There is no clutter anywhere, like maybe no one lives in this house and it’s actually just used for filming and photoshoots.

Carver follows the sound of hammers through to the kitchen at the back of the house. There are floor to ceiling windows, just like she expected, and even though the kitchen is entirely deconstructed—it looks like custom cabinets are currently being installed—she can already tell it’s going to be beautiful.

“Hey, Horan!”

Shit. Carver follows the direction of the shout and steps further into the kitchen, and that’s when she sees him.

He’s outside, so they’re separated by a massive kitchen and a sliding glass door, but it’s definitely him.

It’s Mistletoe Boy.

It can’t be, though, right? He can’t be Niall. Niall can’t be him. They can’t be the same person.

But then somebody shouts, “Horan!” again and Mistletoe Boy turns and, oh shit, he’s coming this way, and Carver definitely cannot deal with this right now. She backtracks out of the house and grabs a construction worker who’s just coming in.

“Can you give this to Horan?” she asks, holding out the envelope. The guy wrinkles his brow, but he shrugs and takes the envelope. “Thanks,” Carver says, and then she practically runs to her car.

Carver starts the engine as she’s buckling her seatbelt (even though her mother taught her never to do that), and she drives out of the neighborhood with her heart attempting to beat its way out of her chest. She pulls into the first parking lot she sees, shuts off her car, and leans her head on the dashboard.

Of all the things to happen today, it had to be this. She had to find out that Mistletoe Boy and desk asshole Niall Horan are the same person, and that had to happen at his construction sight and it had to be a total surprise, and now she’s sitting in her car in a parking lot outside of a Whole Foods and this is fucking Beverly Hills or something (Carver really doesn’t know where the fuck she is right now) and she’s probably going to get arrested for having a panic attack in her car.

Deep breaths, Carver, her voice of reason tells her, and she leans her head back and tries to listen. Her dashboard post-it tells her that “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE” but that doesn’t seem realistic right now.

Nonetheless, Carver says it out loud.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells the steering wheel.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her bitten-down fingernails.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her purse, haphazardly thrown on the floor on the passenger’s side as she rushed away from the Wilson house.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells herself.

Then someone knocks on her window, causing her to shriek.

Everything is not going to be fine.

EIGHT.

Carver looks up, eyes wide, and Niall regrets this immediately. When he saw Carver rushing to her car looking as though she’d seen a ghost, he knew instantly that she saw him, realized who he was, and panicked. His brain told him that if he let her go now, he might never see her again.

So he followed her out. He jumped in his truck and trailed her car out of the Wilsons’ fancy neighborhood and into the parking lot of a Whole Foods. Whole Foods is a store that he generally tries to avoid because the prices are ridiculous and all of the Prius drivers in the parking lot give him dirty looks when he parks his truck, but none of that matters right now.

What does matter is Carver, and she looks like she would rather cry than talk to him.

Too bad, because for the first time in a long time, Niall doesn’t want to walk away from this problem.

He meets Carver’s eyes and waves. She grimaces, so he tries to smile. Carver closes her eyes, takes a visible deep breath, and reaches for the door handle.

“Shit.” Niall takes a step back, out of her way, and tries not to panic. He didn’t really think this part through. What the hell is he going to say to this girl? This girl of his dreams? The girl who is now standing in front of him, leaning against her closed car door, looking up at him like he’s already broken her heart.

Damn, what a mess. Niall hates messes.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Carver says. She looks exactly as he remembered her: green eyes, blond wavy hair, oversize glasses. Just as cute as she was before Christmas.

He said hi, then she said hi, so it’s his turn again. Unfortunately, his mind is blank.

This was much easier in December, when they were standing in the dark under the mistletoe and Niall didn’t yet know that the kiss they were about to share would haunt him for several weeks following.

“Sorry about the note I left you,” Carver says, saving his ass. “I shouldn’t have written any of that.”

Niall shakes his head. “No, I deserved it. I’m a terrible note writer.”

Carver bites her lip; she’s either holding back a smile or a frown. “You could definitely use some practice.” It’s definitely a smile.

Niall smiles back. “Will you let me try again tomorrow?”

Carver nods.

NINE.

Dear Carver,

This is what I should’ve written in the first note: I knew that you were using my desk, and by that I mean that I remember you from the Christmas party. I’m glad that you’re using my desk, but what I’d like better is if you’d go out on a date with me. I think you’re kind and funny and sweet, and I want to learn more about you.

Best,

Niall

TEN.

Dear Niall,

Yes.

- Carver

#1dff #exchanges

[elle-stevens]

The Break Up Blog - Day Thirty Nine

This is getting harder and harder to do every day. 

Don’t get me wrong, keeping a blog about my feeling since breaking up with X has been helpful and even cathartic to an extent. But dredging up every moment in my memory and every feeling that comes with it is exhausting. 

I slept alright save for the hours when I kept waking up and stressing about class. Every Friday, the students now have to write a diary entry in the books that C designed. Simple in theory, right? Except the elementary students at our school seem to genuinely have zero English skills. Or they have the requisite skills, but get completely flustered when they actually have to use it, kinda like me and my ambiguous relationship with Mandarin. 

So I changed the topics for grades 3 and 4 and thought that simplifying their task would help by writing vocabulary on the board. It kinda worked with grade 3 and all the students in my class managed to write a few sentences each. 

But grade 4? 

For 40 minutes, I sincerely thought that I was in a zoo and all the wild animals had gotten loose. One of my autistic students had a very OCD day and wouldn’t stop shouting out ‘The bus isn’t here!’ in Korean, too many of my boys were queuing up in front of the classroom computer to use the online dictionary. And of course, SB had a dumb fight with with another student, E, and legit walked out of my class and slammed the door on top of it. 

I’d love to say that the latter pissed me off simply because SB was in the middle of it. But he’s actually been relatively well-behaved in class in the last two weeks, almost like he’s had a lobotomy. And honestly, by the time he pulled that crap on me, I was too exhausted and dumb-founded to take offence. Now that I’m thinking on it now, I definitely need to tell SH about what happened in class. I hate to bother her about it because she already has to deal with this nonsense as their homeroom teacher, but I’ve just had it with the total disregard for my authority in class. 

I was forced to sit in the grade 6 homeroom and wait for them even though I knew they wouldn’t make it for class while having their school event during the day. I don’t get why the homeroom teachers force the foreign teachers to hang about like chumps during school events in the unlikelihood that the event will finish early and we’ll be able to pick up the slack with the dregs of the class period? It’s starting to feel like I went back to university two years ago and got a teaching certificate for nothing. I’m just an over-glorified babysitter at this point in my life and it sucks. 

N came to find me while I kept the grade 6 classroom warm (or chilled in this case because the afternoon was hot af). She wanted to have her ‘official’ conversation with me about renewing my contract at the school. I did change things up a bit when N mentioned tried to persuade me to consider applying for a teaching position in the high school department of our school. I initially wanted to do that months ago, but ML was pretty adamant that I was unable to change the terms of my contract since my school only hires high school teachers in the second semester and my contract ends in February next year. Never mind the fact that I initially interviewed for a high school position at my school before coming to my city, but got recruited into the elementary department at the last second when one of the teachers broke his contract in the middle of the school year. But who really cares about minor details like that? 

I told N I’d keep an open mind about it if she could swing things for me to work teach high school instead. I stopped considering it before when I thought that ML would stay in the managerial position for another year. But C told me that ML’s going back to Korea next year, so working under a new manager might actually be better. H might get pissed off at me for switching departments though; she’d probably take it as a personal affront to her management style. It is in part because of that, but honestly, I’m just done in general with this school. It’s too much bullshit layered with bullshit at every turn. 

After my meeting with N, I went back to my office, only for H to talk to me about a punishment I gave my fifth graders two days when they wouldn’t shut up in class. Instead of disciplining the students in my own way, H suggested that I turn the classroom in a democracy and let the students decide on their own punishments and rewards in the near future. It’s a great idea in theory, but now that I think about it, it’s basically an FU to the teacher. As it turns out, I’m pretty much irrelevant in my own classroom. 

And people actually wonder why teachers want to leave this school...

I saw N and ML talking out of the corner of my eye while H talked to me. I guess N gave ML the ‘good news’ about me wanting to leave. I could care less at this point. H’s eyes looked strangely red-rimmed during our talk, like she was seconds away from crying. I wonder if she heard about my news already? Who knows and honestly, who cares at this point? 

I’m over it. 

Still, I sat with CI at lunch and we had a good talk about our different classroom woes. He’s become a really good work buddy, I’m glad that C picked him out from a sea of what was probably a lot of crap teachers. Even talking to N about some of my minor grievances helped too. I even found time during the day to perform surgery on a clay doll one of my third grade girls made that had its leg and sword hilt (I don’t know what kids are into these days, lol) ripped off by her classmate. I went home to get my glue gun because the departmental ones are suddenly missing and I sutured the old sport’s injuries. Then I left said doll in the third grade homeroom, I hope my little chica finds it there. 

All of this dumb shit that happened - It’s ok really when I think about it. Now I know that I’m done with being treated this way. Good luck to my school principal with finding teachers that are half as competent and caring as C, me and even CI, even though he’s staying another year. 

After all the fuckery at work and the number that X pulled on me, I’m done with people taking me for a James Blunt in my professional and personal capacities.

‘James Blunt’ in this case is British rhyming slang. Do yourself a favour and look it up, it’ll give you a good laugh. 

I may look like a ‘James Blunt’, I may even act like a ‘James Blunt’ when I’m taking the piss. But don’t get it twisted: I am not a fucking James Blunt by any stretch of the imagination.  You can’t fuck with me and expect me to treat you the same way ever again. 

It only needs to happen once. And after that, I’m done with you. I may smile at you and even help you with things from time to time. But I will never open myself up to you again. 

That’s what happened to X in the end and I can see how it will happen with some of my current colleagues as the months progress. I thought it was kind of C watching C and H’s friendship turn to shit in real time when H became our manager. But I get how it happened: when you get a little of anything good, it makes you selfish and you end up turning on the people around you. 

I did that when I dated X. She became the centre of my universe and I lost track of everything and everyone. I even had a huge fight with P and G because of X when I used too much bandwidth from the family router to video call X every day for a year. 

That was a really bad fight and the way my siblings looked at me while it happened still haunts me. It’s like they saw me, but an uglier version, and they didn’t like it one bit. 

I shudder when I think of that memory, especially when it was all for nothing with X. I nearly lost my relationship with my brother and sister over X. And what the fuck was even the point of it all? 

I don’t ever want to be that way again the next time I fall in love. I want to go into the whole affair with my eyes completely open. 

There were some positives at work. Besides having some good heart-to-hearts, my colleagues really liked the coconut tarts I baked for them. Even if they were just blowing smoke up my ass, it felt good to hear the compliments and know that I’m not sucking at this too. 

I’m feeling really tired today, so I hope I have enough energy to exercise in a little while. I ordered dinner from a chicken restaurant below my apartment complex, I’ll cook something tomorrow. Since R wants me to charge me an arm and a leg for a physiotherapy consultation, I made an appointment at a local clinic tomorrow instead so a doctor can look at my right arm that keeps twinging whenever I move it. I hope someone speaks English there, I’m tired of floundering about like a beached whale with zero Chinese speaking skills. 

My sinuses are still pestering me, but not as bad as before. I still have to check through my student diaries this weekend and mark and correct them. That’s a problem that can wait till tomorrow after I’ve had a good night’s sleep. D’s birthday gift finally arrived, I also have to figure out when I can drop it off at her apartment. 

I just want to rest this weekend and not think about anything. After Sunday, I’ll be done with my current workout programme; I might switch to something simpler like swimming after this. 

I’m just done. 

My body and brain need a proper rest. 

I might stop writing these blog entries after Sunday is over, I’ll see how I feel. Right now, I don’t want to think and just drift off deeper into myself.

#breakupblog #daythirtynine

[hencethebravery]

If you're interested I'd love some fic commentary for Alive.

Oh, yes, very much so. btw, sorry to take so long answering this. I was far and away this weekend. If you’d like to read “Alive,” without my obnoxious commentary you can do so here. xo

I’m (still) doing author commentary!

One day, I plan to love so loudly, my body abandons every demon harvesting me. — Arati Warrier, “Alive”

A/N: I didn’t mean for this to happen, but this fic turned into an exploration of trauma and anxiety. The Killian in this soon-to-be universe ended up being a war veteran with OCD and illogical, rampaging thoughts and I ended up choosing the poem after the fact.

It’s a tricky thing. Once you’ve known the taste of someone’s lips and found it to be a far more momentous occasion than you had initially anticipated. Beforehand, one might think you’ll only know it the one time, and the odds of it happening again are unlikely, so… you do it, aye? Curious. How do you not do it again? That’s the question, isn’t it? Especially if it was a little bit unexpected, let’s say—it had failed to show up on the calendar for the month of June, and now the rest of your life is totally fucked to hell.

It’s not possible that anyone else’s lips could throw such a wrench into his schedule. Not even much of one, to be fair. Working freelance as he did, odd hours and odd jobs, one unexpected, life-altering kiss does not a fucked up schedule make. If anything, there was an added flair to his rather mundane existence that hadn’t been there earlier. Spike the coffee, eat an egg, walk the dog, kiss your mate, do the shopping—and what was that last thing?

You: “What was the what thing?”

Your Brother: “Kiss your who?”

Doesn’t matter. Point is, when you’re talking to your brother about sharing an all too brief kiss with the bloke you once rode the bus with, you try and keep it casual. After all, Liam Jones has no reason to know that you’ve circled June the 5th in an expensive black ink that’s bled through the page—all the way through to August, in fact, when there’s supposed to be a boat trip scheduled for the whole lot of you, and you have to ask yourself, “How do you not do it again?”

A/N: I’m really excited, because I’m in the middle of writing a tiny prequel to this fic (quite by accident), and having the opportunity to provide commentary on this is super helpful. Anyway, a lot of the anxiety and OCD-esque thoughts seen here often show up in my own brain, which is why they show up here. Sometimes if my schedule gets disrupted, even a little bit, it’ll ruin the rest of the week or the month or the year or whatever, so I ended up relying on the whole “schedule” thing a few times. Making it vaguely humorous is the only way to deal, hence, Killian treating his own coping strategies as objectively silly is a common enough mechanism.

The answer to that question is that you bloody well don’t. You keep that tongue of yours firmly ensconced inside your own mouth unless you’re shouting down bar maids or showing up your know-it-all brother at trivia night. You manage to live your life for a whole two months without screwing anything up. Well done, you.

You manage to abide by the calendar you’ve kept since naval training—the calendar that, for all intents and purposes, saved your life once upon a time. Being the roughed up, dramatic younger brother had its perks, but in the end, rampant alcoholism, a suspicious rash, and a series of exceptionally burned bridges had taught him the benefits of following a careful schedule. It hasn’t managed to buff out all the sharp corners; rum tastes too sweet and his memory is a little too good, but no price is too high when you’re trying to avoid the odd skin allergy. Which is what it was.

Regardless, August arrives and it’s hotter than the East Coast has any right to be. He’s quite confident in his assertions that even Afghanistan wasn’t this hot, and considering the fact that Afghanistan was actually hell, he’s not sure what to make of the temper tantrum that the state of Maine seems to be currently throwing.

“Just last week you were complaining about how cold it was,” comes David’s muffled voice from below deck, “enjoy it.”

David Nolan is of an optimism so profound it’s certain not to be believed. The man has thought exceedingly well of almost everyone and everything in their lives since they were children, which, to Killian’s mind, can only end badly. He’s not written it down, but it has been inscribed within the gelatinous valleys of his brain somewhere, this unspoken responsibility—don’t let it ruin him. Having people like David Nolan in the world is a very important thing, and the only way to keep them around is to have people like Killian picking up the pessimistic slack.

A/N: Killian as a black sheep has become a common trope in a lot of my OUAT fic where he makes an appearance. I love his brash selfishness in contrast with the “Charming” family’s own tendency to be selfless. I love that he probably sees it as his responsibility to use his darker impulses to help those people who have managed to retain their own lighter impulses. God. I love him so much.

“It’s my boat, mate,” Killian shouts down the hatch, “I’ll complain where I like.”

On the side of his monthly calendars there’s a designated “Notes” section, set aside for various odds and ends. He’s been known to put some poetry there on occasion, either verses he’s written or found, a phone number or two, an exceptional cocktail, what have you. For the month of August there’s a sailboat at the top (nothing too fancy), followed by wave, after wave, after wave, and then, down at the bottom, there’s a capsized sailboat. Hence, pessimism.

The heat is physically uncomfortable, to be sure, but it’s also demanding. For example, it demands that two men working on a boat out in the hot sun remove some of their clothing in order to avoid fainting or otherwise feeling ill in such unreasonable weather. This, however, requires him to confront the somewhat uncomfortable question of how he avoids doing the thing he had done only the once—with no intention of repeating said thing. His calendar said so.

A/N: @phiralovesloki loves “His calendar said so,” and I love her because she loves it so much. It’s like an endless cycle of love.

David Nolan in a t-shirt is not unlike David Nolan wearing nothing at all. If anything, it might be worse. Without the shirt, it’s almost as if he’s existing in a moment of unreality, wherein there’s nothing especially remarkable about that chest over there other than the fact that it is one. He’s got one of those too—if anything, his is better, covered in a masculine dusting of hair as it is. David’s white t-shirt looks like it’s been run through the wash a couple hundred times. There are barely-there tears at the sleeves and around the collar. Today it is stained with sweat beneath his arms and lower back.

A/N: Josh and Colin are two of the most aesthetically pleasing humans I have been #blessed to witness. I know this seems kind of like a female Gaze moment, but whatever, we deserve it. Women get “Gazed” at everyday of our lives, so it’s only fair that I write a poetical fanfiction wherein I get to think about two handsome men on a boat in tight, ratty t-shirts. Leave me alone.

The heat is overwhelming, like the desert, only there’s a wetness in the air that makes it harder to breathe. For a moment, he misses the feeling of having a gun in his hand so he grabs a beer from the cooler and holds it against his neck, his pulse tapping against the glass like machine gun fire. Interrupt.

A/N: To use the word “interrupt” in the middle of obsessive thoughts is something my therapist taught me. The more you know.

“You see those clouds?”

David’s voice is soft at his side, his own mouth wrapped around the lip of a bottle and he has to say that no, he hadn’t even noticed. The poorly drawn “ship” sailing on the pages of his calendar starts to sink in the wake of poor weather and his heart aches—keeps beating quickly in his chest and he knows a panic attack when he feels one. Inconvenient things, they seem to be.

“Killian,” David says, apparently for the second time, and he puts a hand on his shoulder. Definitely not in the calendar.

Killian doesn’t much feel like answering. Killian wants to write about the sky in his notebook. Not any sky, mind you. This sky, because it’s somewhat of a nightmare to behold. Even with the boat tied to the dock and the sight of safe, dry land in the distance, the sky at this moment is a wild thing. Moments ago, the air smelled like salt and bubbling yeast. The sun was a large, imposing spotlight on the deck of his ship, making the wood warm, their skin sweat.

In June the air smells like earth. Certain parts of the farm are freshly turned at this time of year, and no matter where you go, it emanates over the property. Through the fields, over the lake, between the trees. Over hill, over dale, point made. June is new. They are, the both of them, new. When Killian kisses David, it’s because he can no longer bear it.

“The wanting.” Answering the question, what was it he could no longer bear? Because he was starving in his little house by the sea full of dry, winter air that had given him nosebleeds. It was probably all that dirt in the air—all those trees in bloom. All that pollen in his hair, the perpetually dirty state of his hands.

The answer is a little bit dramatic, but David seems to take it in stride, either because he’s known Killian for most of his life, or maybe because he understands, either way, he smiles. When David smiles it’s a thing you don’t need to see, and sure, you should, of course you should, but Killian is exceedingly grateful that in this moment, he doesn’t need to open his eyes.

A/N: When Josh Dallas smiles it is literally like looking into the sun. That’s what this is about.

It’s his gut that’s empty, not his gaze. He is, quite frankly, sick of opening his eyes. All he needs to do is feel it, and he knows that his friend “wants” too—just as frantically, as hungrily, as poetically. He plays the follow-up question in his head on a tortuous loop the next few days. He even writes it down so he can stare at the shape of the letters and hate himself even more than he already does.

“How is it you smell like that?”

Because it is something… indescribable. He can wax poetic on the state of the air in June all he likes, he has words on words on words to describe it, but all of a sudden, the smell of this man is the scent of which he cannot seem to describe. And he answers, “Like what?” and Killian can only answer with his mouth against his, because it’s not about the words suddenly—it’s about the breath. It’s about David’s forehead against his, their lips barely touching, and he answers with a kiss because he’s a fucking idiot.

August doesn’t smell new. It smells tired. Or maybe he’s just tired. Either way, the bright, overbearing sun is lost behind a sky of heavy, dark clouds and the man at his shoulder smells like beer and sweat. Like the moth-eaten blankets he had kept below deck all winter. The trees are gone but he can still feel the bark against the skin of his back.

“We’ve got to tie the lot of this down,” he answers suddenly. He had wanted to avoid the inevitability of turning around to face him, the tree at his back—with that concerned look on his face. Killian smiles, but it’s not like David’s in June. You’d have to see it, or you wouldn’t even know it was there. “She’ll be fine tied to the dock, but I don’t want to lose any of this gear.”

He’d savor the refreshing feeling of the breeze if there were any time for it, but they seem to have run out of it, and thankfully for him, David seems to have adopted a similar sense of urgency. Moving around deck as he is, his hands wrapped deftly around thick rope, one knot after another. The thunder continues on in the distance, unperturbed, and there’s a flash of lightening that leaves an echo across a purple sky.

There’s another crack followed by a second flash, and the sky opens. Despite the maddening anxiety he has contended with all day, there is something undeniably satisfying about knowing he was right about the “shirt on being worse” thing. David pauses in his run about the deck to enjoy the torrent of rain that’s been unleashed on the two of them, a loud yell of relief passing his lips, and Killian wonders what they taste like in August. At sea, in a storm—like salt? Like rain? Like the beer they’d been drinking earlier. Like dirt, like himself, lingering on his tongue for months.

When David dashes across the deck, clothes clinging to his form, every muscle carved beneath wet fabric as if he were a statue, Killian is busy trying to forget about the sinking ship in his calendar. He’s trying to remember what it was his therapist had said about “being in the moment,” and suddenly David’s lips don’t taste like June. They taste like August, in the rain. Wet and messy and just as hungry as before.

“Aren’t you sick of it,” David not quite shouts against his lips, the rain and wind lashing against the deck, “that ‘wanting?’” He’s smiling again, that wide, sunshine-smile that he has worn everyday of his life and Killian can see it out of the corner of his eye. In between the heavy, wet drops hanging from his lashes and the hair falling against his forehead—of course he can see it.

“Yes!” Killian shouts over yet another thunder clap, both of their faces turned towards a manic sky. “Bloody exhausted!”

A/N: For all my talk about Killian Jones being a black sheep he’s also a dramatic garbage human and someone needs to make fun of him sometimes. Re: David, calling out Killian’s Extra™ ass, mumbling about “wanting,” when it’s just a kiss and he needs to fucking relax.

The sound of the storm is softer below deck, as if it were a record playing in another room. The ship tugs on her moors but she’s steady, tied against the dock as she is. The only other sound is that of the air heaving in and out of their lungs, heavy with anticipation and adrenaline.

“You smell good too,” David admits between each, tired breath, “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

“Sometimes the waiting is the best part,” Killian answers gently, and there’s something in his tone, a note of understanding that he’s impressed to find he actually believes. “I’m good at waiting.”

As David moves closer he peels the wet t-shirt off his back and chuckles, shaking his head. “No, you’re really not.” The shirt falls with a decisive, wet splat against the ground, but Killian is too distracted by the return of David’s forehead, his hand against his neck. His fingernails are short and blunt against his skin, the scratch of an almost, but he feels his skin prickle all the same. Standing still in wet clothes, the warmth of the sun a fleeting memory, he knows he should feel cold but there’s this heat inside of him—flickering and alive.

A/N: Canon tells us that Killian Jones can wait, but does he do it well? idk about that. Dude turned Emma Swan into a ship for a year.

“If that’s the case,” he whispers, his own hands hovering at his sides, “what are you waiting for?”

The kiss is gentler this time, the shelter of the cabin urging slowness, carefulness. Here, they are beyond the reach of the whipping wind and stinging rain. The gaze of a seaside town, the towering pines. Their breath is softer, less like they’re running out of time, and there’s a drag between each pass of his lips. He feels as if he’s being savored and it’s not a thing that you deny yourself a second time.

“You should—” David’s voice is rough, like he hasn’t spoken in years and Killian’s pride does a little victory dance at the thought of its return, “You should change.”

Logically, Killian knows that David means “change clothes,” he knows this unequivocally. But he also has a tendency to err on the side of unnecessarily meaningful and he takes it to mean something else. Not in a negative way, he does not, by any means, feel that David wants him to be somebody else. This he also knows, unequivocally. What he also knows, what he has come to learn, is that his heart in its current state? It’s not sustainable. “You should change,” his heart speaks in David’s voice, “you need not want quite so much, when you can so easily have it.”

A/N: That was basically a long-winded way of saying that you should stop getting in your own way, which is usually my main problem.

He shivers at the sensation of cool air hitting his bare flesh, but there’s hardly a moment to feel uncomfortable. There’s David’s hand against the soft skin of his stomach, his fingers trailing through the fine hair beneath his belly button, and the warmth, it feels as if he’s slipping into a soaking tub. The rain continues it’s harsh pitter-pattering against the side of the boat as they move towards the small bed, clumsy step after clumsy step.

It smells like dust as they land, like the attic in the farmhouse, but the pile of blankets manages to catch them just fine. The cotton, washed one too many times, coming up to swallow their legs and shoulders, keeping them in a soft, dry place. He secures his own lips against David’s jaw, that sharp corner just beneath his ear and the moan that follows is more of a feeling than a sound—more of a sob than a gasp.

When he returns to his lips to catch yet another, quiet moan, it tastes even better than it had in June, then it had above deck moments earlier. Again, indescribable, and he feels a bit frustrated by the fact that words might fail him sometimes. After all, they do sit so well on his tongue, they feel manageable in a way that his thoughts don’t, that his heart doesn’t, and without them he worries that he’ll lose any sense of control he might have.

At some point the rain must stop, but it’s hard to notice, what with the hands and the lips and the feeling of his stomach as it moves against his own, in and out with every breath, sometimes quick and sometimes so slowly he’s worried that he’s holding it. At some point, in between the feeling of David’s lips against his rib cage and his hands at the button of his jeans, the sun very briefly returns before evening falls.

It’s his favorite time of day, those few moments before twilight. The rich, buttery light of the setting sun falls through the porthole over the bed, warming their entwined bodies atop the mussed blankets. The darkness behind Killian’s closed eyes turns a muted red color, and he can feel the warmth of the sun as it slowly sets against his skin, the fleeting light of day a gentle goodbye.

The water is calm against the boat, rocking them carefully back and forth, and his mind has never been quieter. The steady torture of a mind that refuses to settle, that must be shaken up and poured out over each and every month, everyday—that must be considered and thought over and applied and re-applied. Where no one means what they say, where he rarely means what he even says, but here, in this moment between sleeping and waking, it is blessedly silent.

He hears David mutter something against the back of his neck, and he knows, even without being able to see. He smiles.

A/N: I really hope that this fic was familiar to people who live with anxiety everyday, because it was certainly familiar to me as I was writing it. I know it’s also Captain Charming and CC is magical to be sure, but I still hope all the anxiety-related stuff was interesting for people.

#@hencethewriter #attn blogging #yayimallamaagain