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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Text

Stuck in 1903

Part Two

Masterlist

Summary: Damon and Bonnie had come to your rescue, or so you thought, but it is Kai’s every intention to get close to you again

Pairing: Kai Parker x reader

Warnings: angst, smidge of fluff, mentions of smut, mentions of death, mentions of murder, bad friendships, mentions of poison, swearing

Word Count: 2052

Find Part One Here

divider by @firefly-graphics

If the Other Side continued to exist, then you would be there rather than this subordinate prison world which had been designed for one bad witch. Kai's own kind feared him, you had experienced him mentally draining your energy, he was a chore to put up with, but he could do much more than that, you had learnt from Bonnie. He fed off magic, physically stealing it from bodies and items that harboured any of it, which had poisoned his mind to hunt for power. Your friends had informed you that he had murdered his siblings, well some of them anyway, and had attempted to do so to more of them. And now you knew, with supporting evidence, never to trust Malakai Parker.

Without Damon and Bonnie you had to resort to fending for yourself, which was not at all difficult since this version of Mystic Falls that you were trapped in was quite literally a ghost town. The forever enveloping silence was torture, though the method of ignorance had not been designed for you; it was all for Kai, and that unsettled you. There was one more thing that you had been dreading - the possibility that you could not escape from the remote isolation without the aid of the guest starring siphon himself. This hell was built to contain him for eternity, but now there was magic that he could use to his own advantage nearby.

Your cheek rested upon the side of your hand, mushing the flesh whilst your elbow was poised upon the countertop of the kitchen island in the Salvatore house. All of your concentration validated your deep thoughts, of which you were broken from as a plate was placed directly in front of you, a pancake decorated with chocolate chips and syrup to form a smiley face. Damon was the culprit as he threw a tea towel over his shoulder, expectedly looking at you.

"I'm not hungry." You informed the vampire, who simply frowned at your lack of an appetite. "I ate yesterday, which was technically today." Beneath the table, you crossed your ankles, as you earnt a sigh from your well aged friend; he clearly was not impressed by your behaviour. But you didn't know what he had expected from you, you had been trapped here for longer than you could remember, and alone until you had discovered the man that had been outcast by his own family. At the time you had not known of his murderous tendencies, and had wanted nothing more than to get away from him, and you wouldn't like to admit it but you even missed him a little.

He was annoying and cocky, and withheld crucial information from you, though there was something that contradicted that all. Whenever any one of your friends had suffered the fate of death, they were always attempted to be brought back to life against the natural order of things. It made you wonder and doubt a little if they had even tried to resurrect you. In this separated reality, there was no jurisdiction so that you could know, though each time that either Damon or Bonnie looked at you, you could swear that there was guilt written in their gazes.

"Look I knew being stuck here with Kai must have fucked you up-" he should have bit his lip, his assumptions were anything but correct. And that was proven as you defensively darted out of your seat and jabbed your finger in his face, making him pivot his jaw back. There were many things that were 'fucked up', and supposing that you were one of them because you had died after sacrificing yourself to ensure that they all continued to live just didn't settle right with you. The context of the morbid situation did not help with condoning any reassurance at all, in fact, it gave a spine to your lack of faith in him and the others in the first place. Out of everyone, it was inherently worse to be here with Damon, all he had cared about was his precious Elena as well as himself, and after existing for well over a century, that was insurance that he was never going to change.

"It wasn't him who did that to me, it was roaming this damned place by myself, I had no one. And as crazy as it sounds, I think spending time with the notorious Malakai Parker helped me keep what was to spare of my sanity. If I'm not wrong, I may even say that I've found more being here than dealing with the bullshit y'all cause back home." Perhaps your words were a tad harsh, if Bonnie were in the room you were sure that she'd have a somewhat understanding of what you were saying. Though she was not, and thus you had to deal with the harshness of her best friend all by your lonesome. And it seemed that you had rattled him, apparently he couldn't handle the truth.

"Then why don't you run back to the sociopath? When we discovered that you were here, we found the pair of you attached to the hip anyways. And with him inside of you, I'd never seen you so darn happy, better here with him than tempting me to drink bleach from the way that you constantly complained when you were alive; I swear you were worse than Donovan." It was on your mind's own command for you to take a step back, and away from the toxin that Damon had so cruelly spat at you. Ans the way that he compared you to Matt made you angry; it was though he were ignoring that there were valid reasons for the blond to be the way that he was - after all, the monster before you had practically killed his sister. A laugh renegaded out from your mouth as you realised that you had been right all along, none of them cared. You were just a burden that stopped them from having a perfect life together. If this were a book, then this would be the beginning to your villain arc, and ironically enough Damon saw himself as one of the good guys. Now that was utterly ridiculous after every reckless thing that he had ever done!

"Have it your way then bloodsucker." All along, you should have trusted your guy, and from now on you knew that you would listen to it. And strangely enough, it was calling you to Kai, maybe it was because he was your last resort to escaping this imprisonment that had been meant for him alone. Turning on your heel, you heard Damon flop the towel down on the side and sigh, though you continued to walk, appeasing your better judgement elsewhere. "Wait." He tried to convince you to stay, belatedly understanding the mistake that he had made, but it was no use, you were already on your journey of getting as far away as possible from him.

The Mystic Grill, it remained to be familiar in your eyes as you entered. It was empty and void of drunken assholes and narcissists that you had wasted too much time on. The only person that you missed in the modern alternative was Matt Donovan, he was the only person that didn't treat you as though you were invisible or a nuisance. You wondered how he was coping with your absence, knowing him, he was probably relieved that Damon was gone. But you weren't, because he was here with you instead. Trailing your fingertips over the counter of the bar, out of the corner of your eye you saw a lonely glass of bourbon that was sat there as though it were lamenting you with mockery. You tried to hold your sentimental sob inside, but it was practically impossible. It tore through your body, bellowing out from your mouth as you stifled and fought through your tears.

A hand caressed the landscape of your back causing you to jump and flinch from the unexpected contact. One thing that you had learnt from evading and eventually experiencing the qualms of death, was that you could never be too careful. For no more than a second you had predicted that the intruder to your pity party was Damon, that he had followed you as you tried to distance yourself from him, but alas it was not, instead of being greeted by a fretless vampire, you were condemned by the sight of a powerless witch, of whom had purposely interjected your moment of cracked emotion and wore a brave smile for you. Wiping your eyes with the back of your sleeves, you couldn't help but snap at him. "If you're here to finish what we started then tough luck Parker, you've been here long enough and you have two hands, figure something else out."

His tongue darted out to swipe at his own bottom lip, as he raised his hand, showcasing his offering to you. "I was only going to see if you wanted a pork rind, you look like you could use one." Sighing, you dug your hand into the pungent packet that was littered with dust and crumbs, retrieving a few treats for yourself as you placed them in your mouth. "And now should be when the poison kicks in..." With your hand, you gave him a little shove as you tolled your eyes at his homicidal comedy. "Come on, that was funny! I'm funny!"

"If you say so, there's not very many people around to give you an honest opinion." It was true, the only other human like lifeforms impartially close by were Damon and Bonnie, and well, you weren't going to scurry back to them anytime soon. "And if you had poisoned me, then you would know that I would be fine and dandy in not so long, It wouldn't make a difference if that wasn't the case either, I mean I'm already dead, what could be worse than that?" Kai looked at you with shock; he didn't know that about you, that you had actually suffered a final breath. Now he thought about it, the grand scheme of things he didn't know much about you in general, though he was prepared to learn. He had often found death to be fulfilling, satisfying even, but he'd never thought about its victims being so beautiful. Yet here you were before him, by chance the one force that could motivate and help him find a way out of this jarring hole of reaping misery.

"You're here, that's all that matters." As soon as those words fled from his lips he realised exactly what he had said, and a blush framed his features. "I um - that wasn't what I - you know, yeah..." He scratched the back of his neck as you shook your head at this new side that you were seeing of Malakai. His parents called him Malakai, of course he was going to become a killer, but right now you saw nothing more than an embarrassed boy whose skin had flushed as an affect of his own words. From your experience, everyone was either the killer or the killed - you two were one of each. Like ying and yang, you fit perfectly, it was a balanced divide that was settled on whichever rhythm played out in the air. And to correspond with that thought you walked over to the jukebox, a song beginning to play which made Kai want to cover his ears. "I hate this song." He told you; he really did, if he could murder it, he would without a doubt.

"Then don't listen, just dance with me." You extended your hands out to him, to which he begrudgingly reached for. And as he snapped his eyes open, he realised that was all a memory, and that goddamn song was still playing. All he could think about was you, he had seen how upset you had been to die, and yet you were gone again, and it was all down to your so called friends. One was standing before him as he sat in chains, imprisoned against a chair. "Are you here to punish me?" He asked Bonnie, wanting nothing more than shut his eyes and see your face again.

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freddiekluger · 3 years

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Why Cap Being Internally Closeted Is Not Only Possible, But Valid Representation

i wrote this to a lot of mitski and onsind, so you can’t blame me for any feelings that bleed through

now i don’t know if it actually exists, but i’ve heard of there being a lot of discourse surrounding the captains story arc regarding his sexuality- i believe the general gist is that having a queer character that remains closeted to themselves is either unrealistic or ‘bad’ representation, and as someone who really treasures the captain and relates to his story so far a lot, i thought i might break this down a bit.

i’ve divded up every complaint i’ve heard about this into four main questions which i’ll be covering below the ‘keep reading’, because this is gonna be pretty comprehensive. full disclaimer i reference my experiences as an ex-evangelical non binary butch lesbian a couple times, and i spent a year studying repression and the psychological impacts of high demand sexual ethics for my graduating sociology paper, so this is coming with some background to it i swear

the big questions:

can you EVEN be gay and not know it????

but isn't this just ANOTHER coming out arc, and aren't we supposed to be moving beyond those?

but if cap can't have a relationship with a man because he's a ghost, what's the point?

since cap's dead, isn't this technically bury your gays, and isn't that bad?

1. "but is it really possible to not know? Isn't that bad representation?"

short answer: no and no.

before i get into the validity of the captain's ignorance about his own orientation as 21st century rep, let's break down how the hell the captain can be so clearly attracted to men and still not even consider the possibility that he might be gay, as brought to you by someone who literally experienced this shit.

the captain's particular situation is both a direct result of the lack of information around human sexuality he would have had (aka clear messaging that it's actually possible for him to be attracted to men. i don't mean acceptable or allowed, i mean physically capable of happening- the idea that orientations other than heterosexual exist and are available to him, a man), and a subconscious survival mechanism. the environment in which he lives is outright hostile to gay people, while the military man identity he has constructed for himself doesn't allow for any form of deviation from societal norms, let alone one so base level and major. as a result of this killer combo of information and environment, instincts take over and the mind does it's best to repress the ‘deviant’ feelings until a. one of these two things changes, or b. the act of repression becomes so destructive and/or exhuasting that it becomes impossible to maintain. the key to maintaining a long-term state of repression of desire is diverting that energy elsewhere, and a high-demand group such as the military is the perfect place for the captain to do this (this technqiue is frequented by religions and extremist ideologies worldwide, but that’s not really what we’re here to focus on).

while the brain is actively repressing ‘deviant’ feelings (aka gay shit), this doesn't mean you don't experience the feelings at all. when performed as a subconscious act of survival, the aim of repression is to minimise/transform the feelings into a state where they can no longer cause immediate danger, and something as big as sexual/romantic orientation is going to keep popping up, but as long as the individual in question never understands what they’re feeling, they’ll be able to continue relatively undisturbed. you know how in heist movies, the leader of the group will only tell each team member part of the plan so they can’t screw things up for everyone else if they get caught? it’s kind of like that.

this is how the captain appears to have operated in life AND in death, and it’s a relatively common experience for lgbtq people who’ve grown up in similar circumstances (aka with a lack of information and in an unfriendly-to-hostile environment), and accounts for how some people can even go on to get married and have children before realising that they’re gay and/or trans.

personally, while i can now identify what were strong homo crushes all the way back to childhood, at the time i genuinely had no idea. there was the underlying sense that i probably shouldn't tell people how attached i was to these girls because i would seem weird, and that my feelings were stronger than the ones other people used to describe friendships, but like-like them in the way that other girls like-liked boys? no way! actually scratch that, it wasn't even a no way, because i had no idea that i even could. i even had my own havers, at least in terms of the emotional hold and devotion she got from me, except she treated me way less well than cap’s beau. snatches of the existence of lgbt people made it through the cone of silence, i definitely heard the words gay and lesbian, but my levels of informations mirrored those that the captain would have had: virtually none, beyond the idea that these words exist, some people are them, and that's not something that we support or think is okay, so let's just not speak about it. despite only attending religious schools for the first couple years of primary, until i got my own technology and social media accounts to explore lgbtq content on my own- option a out of the two catalysts for change- the possibility of me being gay was not at all on my radar. don’t even get me started on how long it took me to explore butchness and my overall gender, two things which now feel glaringly obvious.

when shit starts to break down, you can also make the conscious choice to repress which can delay the eventual smashing down of the mental closet door for a time (essentially when the closet door starts to open, you just say ‘no thanks’ and shut it again by pointedly Not Thinking About It). in the abscence of identifying yourself by your attractions, it becomes quite common to identify with a lack- in my case, this meant becoming proud of how sensible and not boy crazy i was, and in the captain’s case, this means becoming proud of how sensible and not sensuous/wild (aka woman crazy) he was, identifying with his LACK of desire for women and partying (which, even in the 40s, involved the expectation of opposite sex romances and hook ups). i’m not saying that’s the only reason he’s a rule follower, but i think the contrast between About Last Night and Perfect Day pretty much support this. (the captain getting on his high horse about general party antics that he inherently felt excluded from because of underlying awareness of his difference & his tendency to project his regimented expectations of himself onto others, vs. joining in the reception party, awareness of how the environment supports difference in the form of clare and sam, and relaxing his own rules by dancing with men- the captain doesn’t mind a party when feels like he has a place there.)

so the captain was operating in a high demand, highly regulated environment (primarily the military, but also early 20th century England itself), with regimented roles, rules, and expectations. working on the assumption that he wouldn't have had out/disclosing lgbt friends, he would have had little to no exposure to lgbt identities, and what information he did receive would have been hushed and negatively geared. while my world started to open up when i started high school was allowed to have my own phone + instagram account, resulting in me realising something wasn't quite 'right' within a few years (making me a relatively early realiser compared to those who don't come out to themselves until adulthood), in life the captain never had that experience. he didn't receive the information he needed, his environment didn't grow less hostile. with the near-exception of havers related heartbreak, his well disciplined and lifelong method of repression never became destructive/exhaustive enough to permanently override the danger signals in his mind and allow him to put his feelings into words. neither of the most common catalysts for change happened for him, so he continued as usual, even after his death.

BUT, and here’s where we come to why this is actually great representation, arrival of mike and Alison represents the opening up of new world. for the first time, the captain is actively made aware of the fact that his environment is no longer hostile, and better than that, it’s affirming. he’s also getting access to positively geared information about lgbtq people and identities, so option a of the two catalysts for change is absolutely present, and resoundingly positive.

the captain’s arc is also relatively unique as it acknowledges the oppressive nature of his environment, but actually focuses on the internal consequences, and the way that systems like those that the captain lived in succeed because they turn us into our own oppressors. for whatever reason, we repress ourseslves, and often can’t help it, and i find that the significance of the journey to overcome that is often overlooked in more mainstream queer media. perhaps it’s just not very cinematic, or it remains too confronting for cishet audiences, but ghosts manages to touch on it with a lovely amount of humour and hope. Jamie Babbit’s But I’m A Cheerleader is another favourite piece of queer media for the same reasons.

not only does it show this, but as the captain continues to get gayer and lean into some of his less conventional traits (like an interest in fashion and the wedding planning), it shows lgbt people who have been or are going through this that there CAN be a positive outcome. it takes a lot to unlearn all the things that have painted you as wrong, especially when a massive institution is desperate to continue doing so, but you can do it, you can be happy, and it's never too late. (i've been meaning to say that last point for ages for ages, but a mutual beat me to it here)

2. not just another coming out arc

i absolutely support the demand for queer stories that don’t center around coming out (it’s like shrodinger’s queer: if you’re not coming out on screen, do you really even exist?), but i don’t align with the criticisms that the captain should already be out. for the reasons mentioned above, the captain’s particular story is fairly different to the ‘young white teenager who mostly knows gay is fine, it’s just everyone else that’s got the problem, but have a unremarkably straight sounding soundtrack, a trauma porn romance, and a cishet saviour’ that we keep seeing. the captain’s ongoing journey with his sexuality emphasises the overaching theme of the show: recovering from trauma and humanity’s endless capacity for growth, and i think that’s worth showing over and over again until it stops being true.

additionally, while the captain’s journey regarding his gayness is a big part of his character and story, ghosts makes it clear that it’s not the ONLY part, and being gay is far from his ONLY characteristic or dramatic/comedic engine. the fact that i’m even having to congratulate ghosts for doing that really shows how much film and television is struggling huh.

while all queer media is, and should be, subject to criticism, i think if it helps even one person then it absolutely deserves to exist, and i can say i’ve found the captain’s journey to be the lgbt story i’ve found that’s closest to my own, which says a lot considering he’s a dead world war 2 soldier who hangs out with other ghosts including a slutty Tory, a georgian noblewoman, and a literal caveman.

3. if captain gay, why he no have boyfriend????

another complaint that’s been circulating is that since the captain doesn’t, and likely won’t, have a boyfriend, that makes him Bad Representation because it follows the sad single gay trope. i kind of get the logic from this one, and a lot of it is up to personal interpretation, but part of me really enjoys the fact that the captain’s journey towards accepting himself is separated from having a relationship.

coming out is often paired with having romantic/sexual relationships (either as the reason or reward for doing so). my own struggle with repression didn't end the second that came out, and i still struggle with letting myself develop & acknowledge romantic feelings as a result of actively shutting them (and most other feelings in general) down for years, and statistics show that lgbtq youth in particular tend not to live out their 'teen years' until their twenties. by not giving cap a relationship straight away, ghosts separates the act of claiming identity and sexual orientation from finding a partner (two things which are, more often than not, separate), and also provides some very nice validation to folks who have yet to have the relationship they want, especially when lots of mainstream queer media is now jumping on the cishet media bandwagon of acting as if every person loses their virginity and has a life defining relationship at sixteen. it’s essentially a continuation of the earlier theme of “it’s never too late”, and who’s to say the captain won’t get a gay bear ghost boyfriend to go haunt nazis with??? people die all the time, it could happen.

(also, i think him and julian will have definitely shagged at least once. it was a low moment for both of them and they refuse to speak of it.)

lots of asexual/ace spectrum fans have come out to say how much they’ve loved being able to headcanon cap as ace, and while that’s not a headcanon i personally have, i think it’s brilliant that ace fans feel seen by his character- we’re all in this soup together babey (and sorry for cursing everyone still reading this with that cap/julian headcanon. i’m just a vessel)

4. “okay, but cap’s a GHOST- doesn’t that make this Bury Your Gays?”

this is a bit of a complex one, but i’m going to say no as a result of the following break down.

Bury Your Gays (BYG), aka the trope where lgbtq characters are consistently killed off (and often with a heavy dose of trauma, while cishet characters survive) is probably one of my least favourite lgbt media tropes. BYG has two main points:

1. the lgbt character is killed, thus removing them from story entirely- hence the use of the phrase ‘killed OFF’ (killed off of the show/film)

2. the character’s death reinforces the perception that lgbtq people’s lives must end in tragedy, instead of being long and fulfilling, or are inherently less valuable. bonus points if the character is killed in a hate crime or confesses same-gender love right before they die (that one implies that queer love genuinely has no future!)

not every death of an lgbtq character is bury your gays, and i personally feel that the captain is an example of an lgbt death that isn’t.

first of all, while the captain is dead, so are the vast majority of characters in ghosts. the premise of the show means that death is not the end of the line for its characters- for most of them, it’s the only reason we get to see them on screen at all. as such, the captain being dead doesn’t remove him from the story, so point one is irrelevant.

at the time of posting, we don’t know how or why the captain died, but we've had nothing to suggest his death was in any way related to his latent sexuality, so his mysterious death doesn’t actively play into the supposedly inherent tragedy of queer lives, nor the supposedly lesser value. that’s as of right now- since we don’t know the circumstances of his death it’s a little tough to analyse properly. while the captain’s life absolutely features missed opportunities and it’s fair share of tragedy, hope and growth (which seems to be the theme of this post) abounds in equal measure. the captain may not be alive, but we DO get to see him growing and having a relatively happy existence, that for the most part seems to be getting even better as he learns to open up and be himself unapologetically- that doesn’t feel like BYG to me.

while writng this, it’s just occured to me that death really is a second chance for most of the ghosts, especially with the introduction of alison. from mary learning to read, to thomas finding modern music, they’ve all been given the chance explore things they never could have while they were alive, and hopefully grow enough to one day be sucked off move on.

in conclusion,

i love the captain very much and i hope his arc lives up to the standards it’s set so far. i don’t know where to put this in this post, but i’d alo like to say i LOVE how in Perfect Day, the captain wasn’t used as an educational experienced for fanny at all. i am very tired of people expecting me to be the walking talking homophobe educator and rehabilitator, so the fact that it’s alison and the other ghosts that call fanny out while the captain just gets to have fun with the wedding organisation made me very happy.

here’s a few other cap posts that i’ve done:

the captain’s arc if adam and the film crew stayed

a possible cap coming out

the captain backstory headcanon

if you’ve read this far,

thank you!

also check out @alex-ghosts-corner , this post inspired me very much to write this

#i subluxed all my fingers and wrists doing this but worth it #bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts headcanon #bbc ghosts analysis #the captain #caphavers #the captain x havers #ben willbond #lgbt representation #lgbt rep #queer media #lgbt media

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

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The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least.

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least.

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really.

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Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made.

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam.

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“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible.

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen.

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise.

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem.

The crux of their problem, really.

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already.

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication.

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again.

She’s totally going to say it again.

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines.

And they’re trying to avoid that.

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too.

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult.

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be.

Showing with other people, though. That made sense.

It made—sense adjacent.

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical.

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week.

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm.

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything.

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan.

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible.

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma.

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out.

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything.

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud.

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her.

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort.

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table.

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma.

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation.

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either.

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his.

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems.

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them.

Will looks far too entertained.

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking.

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly.

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused.

That’s fair.

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it.

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes.

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds.

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working.

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers.

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength.

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous.

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate.

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time.

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least.

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge.

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet.

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation.

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though.

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point.

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism.

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point.

Emma smiles.

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem.

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks.

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important.

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better.

Probably because she’s wearing it.

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused.

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed.

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles.

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least.

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her.

Sooner rather than later.

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his.

Emma rolls her eyes.

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now.

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy.

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks.

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be.

Or quest. Whatever, honestly.

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else.

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd.

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle.

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him.

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized.

Until he had to pretend he didn’t.

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though.

He flips his wrist.

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night.

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices.

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot.

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night.

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo.

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way.

That sucks, admittedly.

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses.

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her.

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this.

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding.

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity.

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?”

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly.

He opts for honesty.

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all.

Sort of.

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over.

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head.

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend.

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe.

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly.

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so.

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do.

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this.

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs.

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done.

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable.

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over.

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #i was not kidding about the amount of christmas fic #i've got three more prompts to write and also the blue line stuff i rewrote and a new time travel chapter tomorrow #guess who's stressed in a holiday sort of way???

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jedimordsith · 3 years

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How do you deal with doubts as a writer? I am currently writing a fic but I keep wanting to restart because its not “perfect” or the way I hoped it would be. I hate restarting and I just want to finish it, but I’m so unhappy with where the story is right now. It’s really making me doubt myself and my capability of making a good story.

First off, please accept all the hugs. 🤗🤗🤗 It is crazy hard and super frustrating when fic doesn’t work the way you want.

I’m not sure how cohesive my thoughts are today, but I’m going to try to answer this as best I can.

1. Remember that there’s no such thing as perfection.

This sounds cliche, but it’s a hard (and inconvenient) fact. Language is inherently incomplete and fluid. To make matters worse, we all speak/write and consume it through the lens of our own understanding and experience. So it is physically impossible to produce anything that absolutely 100% conforms to our vision and is perceived the way we perceive by everyone else all the time.

While this can be cause for frustration, it can also prompt us to give ourselves the grace we both need and deserve as creators.

2. Blame the muse.

Have you seen Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk about muses? As someone who has written both under the influence of a muse and strictly via formula as “work,” I deeply hold to the idea that muses (a) are real, (b) can be fickle, and (c) cannot be rushed.

If something is fighting you, it may not be a reflection of you at all. Some stories have a life of their own and that’s okay. Viewing things through this lens doesn’t necessarily make it less frustrating when things don’t work, but it does make it easier to keep your head out of an angry, depressive, or doubting spiral when it happens.

3. Give it time.

I know you said you want to finish, and I empathize with that feeling. (So, so much. Really.) But sometimes fics need time to “ripen.” Especially if they are complex or near and dear to our hearts.

Case in point: Gift and DBW each took around 3 years to complete and even then neither is as good as it could have been.

If you can, maybe set the fic aside and work on something else. Or make a deal with yourself to finish a full draft and then set it aside. Make a list of things that aren’t working and then go do other things and let your subconscious chew on it. (I swear to the Force that this does work. Just be prepared to get whacked over the head out of the blue with ideas and solutions.)

Circle back around to the fic every month or every few months and see what happens. You may be surprised at the solutions that “magically” present themselves once you have a little distance!

4. Get a Duck (or a friend).

Are you familiar with Rubber Duck Debugging? Turns out the same process works for us writers!!

As a prime example, I struggled with a particular chunk of Oracle until I sat down and talked through the problem with sweet and patient @celinamarniss, who helpfully pointed out that I’d actually already written the solution into the fic... I just couldn’t see it. 🤯

[Full disclosure: I also talk to my dogs and my Artoo Detoo when I’m writing at weird times and don’t have a person to bug.]

A trusted friend or beta can do amazing things for changing our perspective and feelings about our fics and can be instrumental in getting them back on track when they derail!

5. Check in with the rest of your life.

This one is huge for me. I could literally write you a book on this point by itself.

Writing does not exist in a bubble. If you are tired, stressed, hungry, generally anxious, or overwhelmed, all of those feelings can glom onto your fic and make you feel far worse about it than is actually called for.

So take a step back, check in with yourself, and do some self-care. As a bonus, even if it isn’t the root of the problem, this will definitely set you up to better tackle fixing your fic!!

6. Recognize that the struggle is a sign of growth.

I am watching Haikyuu!! right now and there’s a series of episodes where my beloved Volleyball Idiots are a hot mess. Every member of the team is actively pushing outside his comfort zone, trying new things, and drilling skills. And guess what? They suck. Everything goes from pretty good to disaster. Catastrophe. Gloom, despair, and agony. Seriously.

But it’s temporary. More importantly, it’s a sign of growth. This is true in writing, too.

If you’re writing something that’s challenging you, it means you're at the top of your game and pushing the envelope, dude!! That is the opposite of sucking or being incapable!

I’m not gonna lie -- it can be a miserable feeling while you’re in the trenches, but it also means that if you stick with it, your story has the potential to be amazeballs.

[Further disclaimer: None of this is theoretical or idealistic. This list is legit what I do with my writing when I’m struggling, and it is what I know that other writers, both fanfic and pro, do when they struggle.]

Writing can be a brutal hobby. It can also be breathtakingly beautiful and rewarding. Don’t let the brutal rob you of the breathtaking. It will get better. I promise. ❤️

#writer problems #writer's life #writing advice #writing is hard #long post

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rheyareads · 5 years

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Let Me Tell Ya Bout My Best Friends

I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately.

Losing someone so special to me has left this void of space in my soul and I spend a lot of time wondering if she knew just how much I loved and admired her. The more that I think about things, the more I realize that I have spent my life trying to become a person she would be proud of. I looked up to her so much more than I think I was even aware of myself, and I wanted to be someone kind and inherently as good as she was herself.

Now that she’s gone, I just think of all the things I’ll never get to tell her and that has me thinking of the other relationships in my life. So often we leave feelings unsaid and assume people know how we feel about them, so I’ve been trying to be better about saying how I feel in the moment and using the time I have to make sure people know that I care and admire them.

Reflecting on that, I come back to relationships in my life and the way that they have shaped me. Ultimately, our time here on earth is meant for relationship building and we are inherently shaped by everyone we encounter. Some harden our hearts, some brighten our minds, some enliven our souls, and some can even leave us damaged. It’s a scary idea because it’s something we can’t control beyond a certain extent – we can walk away from toxic relationships, but we also open ourselves up in this vulnerable position whenever we let someone new into our lives.

In thinking on that, I wanted this blog post to be about some of my most significant friendships that have shaped me. It’s hard to find an appropriate time or place to really tell people how you feel so I thought this would be a good space to do that. I think it’s important for me to be authentic when I’m feeling depressed, but it’s just as important to be authentic when I’m not. In moments where I’m thinking rationally, I want people to understand that I’m capable of understanding the depth of love and connection I have in this world. The problem is that depression confuses all of that and sometimes makes it impossible to sink in when you’re feeling hopeless and alone.

I’m going to group these into categories and then freely discuss. Full disclosure – when feelings are involved, I’m a lengthy narrator so this could get long.

Your Work Friends Sometimes I think your work friends are actually your closest friends. These are the people who see you every single day. They go through the same daily grind as you and share a common struggle. What’s great about work friends is that they’re not people you would always seek out to form a connection with, so you get benefits from them that you don’t get with those who share similar interests with you. These people can be from totally different backgrounds or age ranges and offer so many differing perspectives that spice up the everyday mundane drone of the work week. They’re the only reason you even get through work, half the time. They’re the reason leaving even the crappiest of jobs can sometimes be heartbreaking. They’re the friends who save your every-day monotony and give you reasons to laugh throughout the week.

I love work friends. Work friends sometimes become some of the best friends in my life and I always appreciate the laughter they bring to my life. I have had A LOT OF JOBS in my lifetime and even though some of them weren’t the most exciting or glamorous jobs in the world, I was always happy at work because I had them there to laugh with or complain to. These are my work-week heroes who listen to crazy stories, celebrate birthdays and milestones, cover you when you’re sick or experiencing tragedies and are there for you when they really don’t have to be at all.

I don’t think work friends get enough credit on the friend spectrum but they’re some of the greatest people in the world and they are incredibly influential on your life. I’ve had some amazing work friends that I’m really happy became regular life friends as well because I can’t imagine my life without them. Some of my best stories, best laughs, and best memories come from my relationships with people at work.

These friendships have really shaped my work ethic. They help me to be a better driven person professionally by pushing me through the tough spots but they also have helped me to have a better understanding of relationships in general by exposing me to people I wouldn’t normally pursue a connection with.

The Pure Friend I think everyone in life has a friend who is literally so pure they are just the most precious gem in your friend treasure trove. If you don’t have one, then I hope and pray you find yours soon! I don’t mean pure in the sense that they are reserved or sheltered from the world in a white coat never swearing or uttering a bad thing – I mean pure as in just honestly the best. Fucking. Person. Period. Like, you don’t have a bad thing to say about them because they are just who they are and who they are is dope as hell and you are so thankful they stumbled into your life. You might not be super close with this person, but you never have a bad time with them and you’re always happy to see them when you do.

For me, this is my friend Joe. I have a lot of negative feelings towards my time at Brockport and the way my career ended there, but I would do it all over again if I had to pick between that and never meeting Joe. He is the friend that can keep up with your crazy, understands your confusing thoughts, laughs at EVERY JOKE before you even say, and just straight up genuinely makes the world a better place. He also bakes, which is the best, because you reap the benefits of his hobbies in the form of treats. The granola to my Sponge, the struggle to my bus, the ying to my yang – this is a friendship that I treasure and brings me nothing but utter happiness. Joe and I could talk about serious issues in the political climate and seamlessly (maybe not seamlessly but very confusingly, over the course of six unrelated stories) transition into a conversation about the meaning behind a dream about a fish tank and not skip a beat. I just always felt understood with him and there was never any hiding who I was or fear of judgment – just laughter and food and drinks and procrastination and all the pranks.

This friendship shaped my ability to believe there is good in this world despite all the messed-up shit you see every day. Things don’t have to be dramatic or complicated – they can just be good.

Side note – bonus points if this friend comes with the cutest puppy in the world who becomes your self-appointed God-Child/Nephew.

The Unexpected Friend This is the friend you didn’t expect to become an important part of your life. I think this friend is special in a way that the others aren’t able to be, because this isn’t a friendship that really “should have happened’ in whatever way that works out for you. You meet a lot of people and it’s obvious some are just meant to be in your life, but then there are those who you meet in certain categories and you never expect to walk away one day having them be someone you care so deeply about.

My friend Sarah falls into this category. Aside from the fact that I actually thought she despised me the day we met; she was never someone I would have thought I’d still be spending time with on a regular basis with years later. In our case, she’s younger than I am, and I was her boss, but it was early on when I realized we shared the same old soul. What I appreciate most about our friendship is the fact that there’s still a mentor/mentee vibe that lingers underneath where I’m able to be someone to offer insight into situations I’ve experienced because I’m a little older. It’s nice to have someone who trusts you as that kind of person and it’s nice to be needed in that way.

This friendship helped me understand that relationships don’t have to make sense all the time. I don’t know why someone who’s 6 years younger than me wants to hang out with me and my friends – but does there really need to be a reason?

Your Soulmate Soulmate is a complicated word and I think people define this differently. For me, this is the friend that was meant to be yours and completes you in a way other people can’t. This is someone who lifts you up, inspires you and makes you want to be a better person because their light brings out your best light.

My little is my soulmate and will always be my most precious jewel. It was evident in our first conversation with each other that we were meant to be together. I have never been so inspired by a person’s soul as I have by hers. She is kind, determined, unbelievably talented, and the most genuinely good person I have met. She is my little sister, but she is also the person I look up to. The person who makes me want to be better, to do better, to strive for better than I have. I look at her accomplishments and I am so proud of the woman she is.

We may not live together anymore, and we may not get our daily naps or cuddle sessions, but she is a person I know will always hold a special place in my heart above the rest. The fact that she married one of my high school friends (more to come) just brings out my hopeless romantic who believes in true love and fairytales and rainbows and everything that books and movies say can be true.

This friendship healed my heart. My little knew me during one of the worst times of my life, when I was an actual train wreck and she loved me through it all. She believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself and gave me hope. She healed the hurt I had from friends who taught me that friendship came with conditions by loving me without any.

Your Second Family This is the family who adopts you as one of their own. These relationships are precious because they extend beyond the friend that brought you in – you share dinners, and holidays, and celebrations, and late-night talks, vacations and kitchen hangouts together. They roast you in the family group chat, or ask you to dinner on a week night. These are the people who will sit and talk with you for hours in a kitchen in your pajamas or make fun of you for snoring in your sleep. They’re your family and you’re a part of theirs and it’s a really special thing.

Admittedly, I’ve always been that friend who likes to talk to people’s parents. I’m not sure why, I just always gravitate towards adults (I say that as a 29 year old like I’m not an adult myself). But when Danielle and I became close, it was a package deal with her family. I remember being utterly terrified of her dad the first day he met and accused me of trying to steal his guns (hahahaha) but from that day forward I was just part of the family.

These relationships are special to me because I have a lot of baggage when it comes to family. My family has had a lot of ups and downs and I’ve endured some crappy things (and some awesome things too, don’t get me wrong) and the Freeman Forest was this home away from home safe-haven for me. To know you have people who love you, when they don’t have to, is such a special thing and it heals a lot of the damage you may have picked up over the years. Group chats, and bus trips, outdoor adventures (and disasters), dinners and just hanging out in the kitchen are things you probably do with your friends all the time. These things were ordinary, but they were my favorite things to do for so long because of the people I was doing them with.

This family means so much to me in so many ways. You don’t have to like your kids friends or your siblings friends – that’s why we all go out and get friends because we’re all different – so when your friends with someone and their family chooses to care about you and include you in their lives as well, it’s a really powerful and beautiful thing. I’m really lucky to have a group of people who took care of me like I was one of their own.

The Family Friends These are the family members in your life who are more than that. They’re your best friends and bridge the gap between two parts of your world. Cousins, sisters, aunts – these are people you were born into a relationship with but choose to deepen that connection outside of just family functions.

I’m really lucky to have two cousins who have been more like friends to me my whole life. Allie and Jenny have both brought me so many moments of laughter and have been the sanity I needed to get through crazy family parties, funerals, celebrations and everything in between. I would actually be lost without both of them and I’m grateful that we get to spend more time together because we choose to be more than just family by being friends as well.

Your High School Friends These are probably some of your most complicated and yet simple relationships. That sounds contradictory but hear me out. These are the friends who’ve known you so long they have seen you through practically everything. They were there for the bad fashion decisions of your past, they were there through your awkward stages, your firsts of practically everything and you’ve grown up together. That much time complicates a lot of things – relationships have highs and lows, people grow apart, move far away or change and there’s a lot of room for negativity to creep in if you’re not careful. It’s hard to maintain these friendships but you do it anyway. The simplicity of it all is that no matter the time or distance, these are the people make you feel at home.

For me, its likely surprising to no one that these friends are “the boys” as I often refer to them. Looking back on our younger days, it’s sometimes really, really….REALLY hard to see why I even called them friends in high school but I promise you the deeper impact of our friendship makes the teasing and nicknames worth it. When I think about people who’ve shaped my life, these guys have a significant place in my emotional DNA.

It’s hard to change your identity when you’ve known someone since you were a kid. Sometimes I think the friendship I have with these guys clouds my ability to see myself as anything other than the annoying girl they made fun of in high-school because that’s how I’m used to defining myself. It’s hard to grow and become something better when you have a lot of people in your life who have seen you through that growth period and treated you a certain way. They have broken my heart in more ways than I can count, but they’ve also seen me at my absolute lowest points and stuck by me despite everything. When you grow up with people, you have to accept that you’ve probably hurt each other at certain points through that growth and that’s why I love them despite some of the not-so-picturesque parts of our past. As with all groups, there are some I have stayed closer to than others, but I can’t tell you how much joy these idiots bring to my heart when we’re all together. Seeing them grow up and accomplish things, get married and thinking of them starting families literally overwhelms my heart.

For me, these are the people who influenced how I viewed love and shaped me into the hopeless romantic who wants to believe that everything can have a happy ending. Most people don’t get to have friends from elementary school and still talk by the time they get married, but I do. That idea of perfection has been toxic for me at times, but it also brings joy to my heart and reminds of the good in this world.

Your College Friends These are the friends who will never judge you because they have gone through the weirdest shit with you. (They’re actually probably judging you hardcore, but in a loving way because they’ve been there too.) These are the friends who were there for the transition years – the years where you weren’t quite an adult yet so you could afford to make horrible decisions and spend the next morning huddled together on a bed laughing and wondering how you were still alive. These are special friendships because it’s likely that they’ve seen you through horrible times that deepened your connection, but they also were there to have the best fucking time with you when you needed it.

For me, these are my sorority sisters and fraternity brothers. When you’re in college, everything is this heightened, dramatic experience but when you leave you realize just how lucky you are to have lived with 9 people and have room sleepovers, spontaneous parties, nights in playing just-dance, endless movie marathons on break and every party in between where someone did something insane. When I look back, I just remember all the laughter and fun (and some of the drama) and I’m so lucky to find people I know I can count on for my whole life.

People judge this era of my life – and for good reason, I was a disaster in college – but my sisters were there for me at my brother’s funeral to support me when he died even though we had only known each other a few months at that time. My roommate held me the night he died and let me cry until I fell asleep. I drove to be with her when her mom died. I’ve celebrated, and cried, and everything in between with these girls and they’ve never missed a beat if I needed someone to lift me up. My last blog post was intense and the first 10 people to comment on it and offer encouragement, love and support were these women who haven’t seen or talked to me in months/years.

I look back on this time in my life and it brings so much laughter to my soul. From parties, to fundraising for Push for America, to standards board, to life in a disgusting house filled with the best and worst people to live with (depending on whether or not you wanted to work the next day or eat your own frozen food items) these are friends I’m so thankful to have. These are the friends who shaped me through the most difficult time of my life. They are the ones who let me re-define myself, for better or worse, and still show up to support the woman I am today.

Your Tribe When you think about friends, these are THE friends. The friends who are literally your ride or die. They are probably the most judgmental of all your friends, but they do it from a place of love. They’re the people that just get you – no frills, no expectations – they accept and love you for your total person, even when that person is a disgusting pig or pain in the ass.

Everyone has a tribe and I’m thankful that my friendship with my cousin led me to finding mine. These are people I never would have thought I’d find, let alone would want me and my non-stop singing, harry potter loving, annoying ass self, around. These are the friends I can hang out with in my sweatpants all day, every day, but will also tell me when it’s been long enough in the sweat pants and I should probably start trying a little harder. They will tell me I’m beautiful and genuinely mean it just as genuinely as they will tell me I’m a troll who needs to brush my hair.

These people become family in a way that family never could. They’re the family you chose because your souls matched up in some way, not because you were born into it, and that relationship is special. There are too many of them to name individually, but they are invaluable in my life and something I wouldn’t trade for all the American dollars in the world.

These friends have helped me realize not take things so seriously all the time. School and work are great, but life is about being ridiculous in a restaurant at 2am as much as it’s about getting a degree or a good job. Friends should support and lift you up, but they should also tease you and help you realize you’re being a diva too. They bring the balance to your life and that’s why they’re the ones who stay with you throughout the whole rollercoaster ride.

Have you fallen asleep yet? Are you still here? I told you this would be long. But I went to a Gender Reveal Party and I’m feeling sentimental and I thought it would be good to let out some positivity rather than always focusing on my self-deprecating thoughts of loneliness. If you take anything away from this, I hope that you become more honest with the people around you and let them know how much you care, now. I think people would be a lot happier if they had any idea how much they mean to others around them and brightening someone’s day always feels great. I hope this brightens some of yours!

from WordPress https://rheyareads.wordpress.com/2019/05/05/let-me-tell-ya-bought-my-best-friends/

#general nonsense #random writings #Uncategorized #advice #comment #emotion #emotions #friends #frien

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dullheadache-blog · 5 years

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i am a bird now/but that is me

I'm looking at myself. But not a reflection. There's no mirror or anything like that. It's just me. Sitting there on the couch, staring back at myself in dull bewilderment. I feel that this is real and actually happening. If it were a dream, I don't think it would even phase me. And I would probably be able to see both mes, as my dreams are usually from the point of view of some assumed audience. I'm unable to see the me that's having these thoughts. Just the other me. The one I'm seemingly existing outside of right now. I'm uncertain what to do, so I'm just kind of waiting for him to react. Being that he's me, perhaps he's thinking the same thing. Will we both just remain here in silence, committed to the belief that the other will eventually do something? I don't know. What do you say to yourself? The answer eludes me, but apparently not him.

“What the hell?”

His voice startles me. I wasn't expecting it to be so unfamiliar. Supposedly, you never really hear the way you actually sound. Knowing this doesn't make it any less jarring. It puts me off. I have no idea how to respond, so he continues on without me.

“You're that woman from the Angel Olsen show.”

My confusion now even greater, I slightly crane my neck in an attempt to achieve the slightest of clarity. As I do, I notice some hair slide down across the side of my face. I lift my hand up to investigate and immediately become aware of its curiously delicate appearance. I reposition it, that it is directly before my eyes. But my arm is met with some resistance. I look down to discover that the obstacle appears to be a pair of breasts. Breasts that I'm alarmed to realize are my own. I am no longer without anything to say.

“What the hell!”  

I dart toward the bathroom. I go to the mirror and I recognize the person staring back at me. But they bear no resemblance to that man in the living room.  

“I'm that woman from the show.”

I stumble back in disbelief, desperately trying to make any kind of sense of what it is I'm seeing. I can hear him approaching. Reflexively, I slam the door shut.

“Are you okay?”

What kind of stupid question is that to ask? I'm on the verge of hyperventilating. I think. I don't know. I've never actually done that before. But I assume this is what one feels like just before they start doing it. Unable to pick up on the obvious, he reiterates

“Hey, you okay?”

I survey the room for something that might provide me with an answer. Maybe just an escape. 

“Give me a minute.”

“Well, you are in my apartment.”

“Seriously, just give me a minute.”

“How did you get in here? Or find out where I live? Are you stalking me?”

Like anyone's going to stalk you. Still searching the room, my eyes catch my reflection in the mirror.

“Just let me figure this out.”

“Because you don't already know all of that!”

I take in the long hair, the breasts, the excessive make up that I seem to be wearing

“Shut up!”

Okay. Okay. What is this? What is happening? How is it that I'm in a shouting match with myself? Am I sure this isn't a dream? I know I'm like never aware that I'm dreaming, but I really want that to be what this is. Because what is this? I'm a woman. The woman from the other night. I'm a woman. I'm a woman. I'm a woman. I'm a woman.

“Oh my god, I need tampons!”

“What?”

I have to go out. Alright. I'm going to do this. I splash some water on my face, then grab a towel to dry it off. It messes up my make up. I don't care. I can't worry about that right now. Blood could start coming out of me any second.

“I'm coming out.”

“Okay...”

Deep breath. I slowly open the door. Just enough that I can slide out. I'm not sure why I don't allow for more space. But I know it creates a small sense of security. I'm grateful for that.

“So I don't really...”

I kind of turn my head away slightly. I just can't look directly at him. I can't look myself in the face.

“I don't know how to do this without sounding completely insane. I'm pretty sure it's actually impossible.”

“I'm inclined to believe that.”

“Just, just let me say whatever. Like before you respond or anything. And don't even respond to that, just...”

  I can tell he thinks I'm crazy. But he's also checking me out. Because that's what he was doing the other night at the show. What I was doing. Because I am him. So I'm talking to myself. But it's myself that doesn't know that I'm myself and thinks I'm the woman he was lusting after the other night. Okay. Should I try to explain the situation? What would someone have to say for me to believe this? Do I just blurt out something that only he would know? That I would know! Why do I keep referring to him like he's another person? I don't care what's going on, there's only one person in this room right now. This is any other night where I end up just talking to myself. So what do I tell me? He's totally staring.

“You thought of me this morning when you masturbated, but you weren't imagining us having sex or even me being naked because you've been involved in too many relationships that drug on far too long simply because of the ease of finding yourself in that situation despite not really having anything in common or necessarily even liking any of them because who's going to turn down sex especially not you because you've gotten to a point where you can only meet women at shows and since you always have to drive to Baltimore or Philadelphia to do that you just don't have the energy to approach anyone plus they probably live in those cities and do you really want to have a semi long distance relationship(?) and your sister's name is Karen(!) and your mother's maiden name is Martin which if she had been a single parent your name would have probably ended up being Mark Martin like the race car driver even though you don't like racing but you still know who that is because your dad is into it or he used to be when you were a kid and this girl who's name may have been Abby or Aubrey wanted to kiss you and you said only if you could see what was under the bandaid on her arm her right arm and she showed you and you swear it was just like this black hole and then she kissed you and that was your first kiss but you remember what you thought you saw more than the kiss and that's pretty much set the precedent for every relationship you've ever been in which I never really thought about until just now.”

His eyes widened and his mouth goes agape. Maybe that was too much. I feel like maybe I should say something to bring him back down. I don't know. Maybe that's just going to make it worse. Maybe I should just wait for him. Fuck, how is all this going to play out? What if he doesn't buy any of it? I don't even know if I have any money or anything. Like if that was included. Where would I go? I can't really go home or stay with any of my friends. Would I have to sleep in the park and hope that nothing happens? Or try to “hook up” with someone and also hope that nothing happens? Is that something I'm going to have to constantly worry about now, 'cause it's really freaking me out. He needs to say something.

“You can respond to that if you want.”

That pulls him out of his daze. Now he's kind of just glaring at me.

“Can I?”

“If you -”

“What the fuck was that? Like, where did that come from? You seriously are stalking me!”

“How would I know what you were thinking? You don't go around telling people what was on your mind while you were jerking off.”

“I could!”

“You don't ever talk about anything sexual, because then people are just going to ask about previous relationships. And you don't want to talk about that. Those girls are out of your life. Why relive your past failures? That's fucking stupid.”

“Who are you?!”

“I'm you.”

“Well, you look like the woman from the other night. That's somehow in my apartment and knows everything about me.”

“Because I'm you. Look, I don't know how this works. How this happened. But there's no way for me to possess such intimate knowledge without being you.”

“Maybe it's a dream.”

“If it was a dream you know you would probably be trying to force yourself on me right now.”

“I don't like what you're trying to imply.”

“Oh, it's just some subconscious belief that any potential relationship isn't going to work out. So why not just forego the inherent obstacles of courtship in favor of something strictly physical? Which is fine within the context of the dream. Definitely wouldn't want to take that exact approach in real life.”

“I wouldn't do that."

“Whatever. So do you like have enough of a handle on this that we can move onto other stuff?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“Like I don't know the specifics of anything going on under the surface.”

“Like penis or vagina?”

“Like I don't know how real any of this is. So I don't know what inconveniences I may have to deal with.”

“Thank you for choosing the least disgusting way of saying that.”

“I wasn't doing it for your benefit.”`

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because this is an inconvenience I have to deal with.”  

“Pobrefuckingcito. Did I ruin your evening? And your plans to dick around on the internet until you fall asleep!”

“I was going to watch a movie or something.”

“But not before you...” 

The horror of realization sets in.

“Oh my god. You were going to masturbate. That's how this happened.”

“What?”

“That's the last thing I can remember from before. You were thinking about her. Me. Wondering about what could have been. Maybe she'd be at the next show you went to. Maybe you'd talk to her this time. Hey, it seemed like she smiled a few times and looked away. Right? Hold on to the fantasy, at least until you got to the bathroom.”

“That's not what I was -”

“I was still there for that. That's exactly what you were thinking!”

“Obviously I didn't know this was going to happen, okay? And you just said it yourself, you were there for that.”

“So?”

“So that was you too. So you can't just put all of this on me.”  “It is all you!”  

“Because we're supposed to be the same person?”

“We are!...I am.”

I'm incapable of any semblance of certainty right now. Nothing I can manage seems to change that. It just fuels my anger, confusion, but mostly fear. Because I know this is real. But the validation in knowing I'm right does nothing for me. I need comfort. Reassurance. To know that this is something that can be dealt with. And that this feeling engulfing me is just temporary. I look up at him, what used to be me, and I see him looking back. And it's weird. But not for the obvious reasons.

“So you like probably need pads or something, right?”

“Yeah. I didn't even think of that. Sounds a lot better than sticking tampons in my -”

“Vagina?”

“Yes, I have a vagina. That's so weird.”

“Not really. Lots of people do.”

“I'm not lots of people.”

“You are now.”

“This is a lot of shit to deal with.”

“You at least have a place to stay.”

“Do I?”

“You didn't think I wasn't going to let you stay here?”

“This is fucking insane. I didn't know what was going to happen. My whole existence right now is nothing but uncertainty. If you didn't believe me, I was totally screwed.”

“We'll figure it out.”

“I don't know what the fuck to do. We're the same person, so I know you don't either.”

“We can start by getting you some stuff. Things you're going to need.”

“Tampons.”

“Or pads.”

“But like for period, you can't just use pads. God. I really don't think I can do that.”

“Maybe you'll luck out and it won't be an issue for you.”  

“That would freak me out even more. Like if that's not going on, then what the fuck am I?”

  “One problem at a time. Come on.”

I reluctantly follow him out of the apartment. We pass through the front door and I have the impulse to take out my keys to lock it. But he beats me to it. I then consider the possibility that perhaps I would have been unable to anyway. I check my pockets. They inform me that my suspicion was correct.

In spite of this, I am still a bit thrown when I see him get in on the driver's side of the car. I begrudgingly go around and take what I wonder might become my permanent place in the passenger seat. He perhaps anticipates my disorientation, as almost immediately he informs me

“You may have to adjust that.”

“Why is this back so far? Who was the last person that sat here?”  

“Uh...Maybe Holly, I think.”

“That was like last year, wasn't it?”

“No. January or so.”

“That's still eight months ago.”

“That's not last year.”

“Stop being all defensive. Nothing was ever going to happen and you know it. She wanted to go to that show. We were her way there. She spent pretty much the whole ride to and from “sleeping”, occasionally “waking up” to check her phone. Nothing was going to happen.”

“Weren't you saying earlier about not wanting to talk about past relationships?”

“Past failures.”

“Same thing.”

“No, that was entirely a failure.”

“You know, I don't have to do this. What I'm doing right now. I could just say fuck it and let you bleed out.”

“Ew.”

“Then quit being a dick.”

“That's such a cheap shot. And it's not like I'm doing it intentionally. It's how we are. We've just never had to deal with it before.”

“I'm really this obnoxious?”

“I'll be your mirror.”

“Does that mean I should call you Nico?”

“You should not. Especially with the whole her being really racist thing.”

“Marketta?”  

“We don't even like Mark, why would I pick that?”

“Solidarity.” 

“No. Anyway, I feel it's kind of obvious what my name's going to be.”

“But I never found out what hers was.”

“Show girl? That would be creepy as hell. If I was going to do that I would just make it Holly. Or some actual ex. Erin. Michele. Perhaps Carrie.”

“You wouldn't.”

“Of course not. Those are all horrible names.”

“And horrible people.”

“Michele wasn't.”

“She was just really boring.”

“And yet we still went out with her for six months.”

  “What else was I going to do?”

“Sad truth. But you still -”

“Hey, did you just want to go to CVS?”

“I can do that.” 

 “Good, because we're here. So you might want to do something with your face.”

“What's...Oh, the make up.”

“You look like some high school goth.”

“Whatever. Worst case scenario, they think you did something to make me cry.”

“I feel like you want that to happen.”

“People believe what they want to believe. It's entirely out of my hands.”  

“I didn't realize you had money to pay for any of this stuff you wanted.”

“Stuff I need. Unless you want to try to get menstrual blood out of this seat.”

“I hope you don't think you can always use the threat of perioding on things to get your way.”

“Sure I can. And I honestly don't know why all women wouldn't do this. Lemons and lemonade.”

“We don't need lemonade.”  

“Right. Because I can make it.”  

“I really don't want to think about what lemonade is in this scenario.”

“It's the whole reason we're here.”

Once inside, I instinctively make a beeline for the hygiene aisle. Though I’ve never been here before, I find it right away. Perhaps this is my woman’s intuition kicking in.

“So many options. Overnight. Heavy. Thin. Flexi-wings. No wings. Unscented. Maybe we should look it up on the phone.”

“Now? We should have done this before we came in.”

“Shut up and give me the phone.”

“I can look it up.”

“You don't know what you're looking for.”

“Neither do you.”

“I'm more attuned to these things.”

  “You've been female for all of twenty minutes.” 

“Why are you whispering?”  

“Is this really a conversation you wish to have loudly in public?” 

 “Just shut up and give me the phone.”  

“Take it. There's no reception though, so it's not going to help you.”

“Still probably do a better job than you.”

“Maybe you -”  

“Wait, shut up.”

“Stop telling me to shut up.”

“There's someone coming down the aisle. Pretend like we're having a conversation.”

“We are.”  

“Something normal.”

  “I”m not sure what that means in this context.”  

“The phone really is more helpful.”  

“I think once the contract's up I'm switching to someone else. I mean, we're on a college campus and I'm getting no reception. If that's really the case, they might as well just shut down the whole school.” 

“That seems a bit excessive.”

“I'm not using the college. What do I care if it's here or not?”

“Pretty sure they put this store here primarily to accommodate the students.”  

“There's another CVS just as close to us as this one. We could have easily gone there.”

  “Then why'd we come to this one.”  “Because it's the nicer one.”

The aforementioned someone also seems to be in need of supplies. I try my best to make like this is routine for me, but my eyes are firmly locked onto her hand that is so assured of what it wants. I've never witnessed such confidence in my entire life. Current or former. Always Infinity Flex Foam. I watch in awe as she walks away. Once she's out of site, my hand violently jerks out before me to snatch a pack off the shelf. In doing so, I may have knocked some other stuff to the ground. But I can't be certain that it wasn't already down there.

“So you thinking you might want to go with those?”

“Probably alright.”

“And the ones on the floor?”

“I don't much care for those.”

“You're just going to let them there?”

“I get things are the way they are now. I can appreciate that. But that doesn't magically erase the discomfort of standing here doing this.”

“You literally could have picked everything up in the time it took you to say that. Or even have done it while you were talking.”

While I know he's right in my ability to perform the task, I can't help but feel he's still not seeing the bigger picture of what's going on. This simultaneous existence in two different worlds. I have an idea of how I'm supposed to go about this, but there's still the memory of thirty years spent outside. It's like a phantom limb trying to hold me back. Plus, I just don't feel like doing it.

“You got this.”

I make my way to the counter, as he predictably puts everything back on the shelf. I wonder if I should feel bad. Or if even thinking that is an acknowledgment that I do. But really it's just the way we do something in the moment that we know will screw us over later. I'm sure he'll do something to return the favor, so I decide I'm in the right not to care. Oh, iced tea.

“I'm getting this too.”

“I don't have an endless supply of money.”

“We have four sixty five in our account. Utilities just came out and you got two more paychecks before rent's due. You also have forty three dollars in your pocket.”

“Our account?”

“Yes, our account.”

“So you're going to go to work for me tomorrow to make that money?”

“I am never stepping foot in that place again.”

“Then I guess it's not our account, is it?”

“I can take you over here.”

“You're going to put me out like this? After everything that I've been through today?”

  I angle my face that the cashier can clearly see just how much I had needed to “do something with it”. I want her sympathy for me to turn into disgust towards him, since he seems so intent on returning that favor.

“Are you okay?”

I turn back to face him and am made immediately aware of his displeasure. He takes the forty three dollars out of his pocket.

“Yeah, I'm alright.”

He steps up to the counter, but she is clearly not sold on his innocence.

“Thirteen seventy eight.”

He hands her the money and anxiously seeks out a magazine to focus on while she makes change. She turns to me as she holds out his change and the receipt.

“Did you want a bag for this?”

It wasn't much to carry before it had been paid for. But knowing that it was now mine, even just sitting there on the counter, it possessed this new weight that I still wasn't entirely ready to take on.

“Maybe for the pads.”

She places them into an unnecessarily large bag. Like some kind of metaphor.

“Here you go. Have a good night.”

I pick up the bag and consider my exit.

“Thanks.”

I feel like I'm carrying it wrong. That it must be noticeable. I want to look back to see if anybody's staring. But I don't dare do it. I want her to still be on my side. It'd be upsetting to not have that. I appreciated the solidarity. Even if it was under weird circumstances. Being such a dick.

“Hey, dick. You forget something?”

He's beside me, drinking my iced tea.

“What the hell?”

“What the hell you? Why'd you try to make me look like an asshole to that cashier?”  

“You were being one. It is our money. I worked for that too. Put up with those sexist creeps everyday. Just because now that it actually matters, doesn't mean that it didn't before.”  

“I'm trying really hard to be nice to you.”

“You shouldn't have to be trying. You should just be nice. And you should definitely stop throwing it back in my face. Which you've done about ten times already. This is why people don't like us.”

“Who doesn't like us?”

“A lot of people.”

“I don't believe that.”

“We haven't had interaction with anyone we're not obligated to in over a month.”  

“That's not true.”

“Margaret's birthday at the bar.”

“Has it been a month?”

“Yes.”

  “Okay. But that was still an invitation to hang out with her on her birthday.”

“She just posted something on facebook for anyone to come out. She has like five hundred friends.”

  “But she doesn't hate us.”  

“She could like us more.”

“She should.”

“Should she?”

“I think so. I'm nice to her. When haven't I been?”

“Well, it's like I just said. You like to constantly remind everyone of how nice you are. What you've done for them.”

  “Because people are dicks.”  

“They are. But no one wants to own up to that. Much in the way you're doing right now.”

“Fine. I apologize for being a dick.”

“Only because I shamed you.”

“Yeah?”

“Let's just go home."

I begrudgingly retake my passenger seat. Try as I might, I can find no comfort in it. But I'm not sure how much I'm really trying. Is this the way things are meant to be? Constantly scraping for a position I can never have? Just always going along with whatever I'm allowed. This isn't what I had intended. I thought she'd at least like me. Want to...It keeps coming back. Knowing that this a thing entirely of my own design. I thought things would be better. Now I'm here without the slightest idea how to solve her problems. My problems. What do I even do with these?

“So you're staring at that pretty intently.”

“Because I intend to stick this in my underwear, so I am reading the accompanying literature. That I can be fully aware of just how invasive this is going to be.”

“And?”

“First of all, you need to forget pads of the past.”

  “Done.” 

 “And try Infinity with FlexFoam, our most amazing pad ever. While regular maxi pads mostly contain fluff -”  

“They're made of marshmallow?”

“Yes. But I assumed they didn't have any fluff, so I settled for these. Which are made of FlexFoam, a unique material that provides up to eight hours of comfortable, leak-free protection.”

“You got to wear that for eight hours?”

“If need be, eight hours. But thing is, it's so soft and flexible you'll barely notice it's there.”

“I don't fucking believe that.”

“Hey, until you try it, you won't believe it.”

“Does it really talk to you like that?”

“Yes. There's also a disgusting diagram of what looks like milk being poured out that then turns into a pad being soaked in piss.”

“That's -”

“Wait, there's more. Oubliez les serviettes du passé et essayez Infinity avec FlexFoam, notre serviette la plus à ce jour.”

“It actually sounds less condescending in French.”

“Oui. Que les maxi-serviettes régulières sont constituées -”

“You're going to read the whole thing?”  

“Maybe just this one bit here: grande partie d'une.”

“That's pretty good. But it doesn't really tell you anything helpful.”

“I knew it wouldn't.”  

I put the package back into the bag and just let it drop down to the floor mat. Even though it's now out of sight, it's still all I can focus on. I anxiously begin to swish it back and forth between my feet.

“I almost wish I could ask Mom about this.”

  “Can only imagine what that conversation would have been like.”

“Okay, so you're at this age now where some new stuff is going to start happening. Maybe some of your friends have already experienced it. And that's alright. It's not a race. If it hasn't happened to you yet, that's fine. Because I hope you would tell me if it had.”

“That guilt there at the end is eerily spot on.”

“That's how she is. As you know.”

“I guess that's probably the same talk she must have given Karen.”  

“I feel like that's a conversation her and Karen never had.”  

“Why wouldn't they?

"I just imagine she wouldn't have felt like she needed to."  

"Why not?"  

"Because Karen's never come across as someone who needs protecting."

“We are the baby.”

“It's more than that.”  

“What else is there?”

  “I really do admire your ability to so effortlessly go from acknowledging we're the same person in one sentence to pretending we're not the next. And, you know, denying that I'm privy to every detail of OUR entire life. It's quite the gift. You're so blessed.”

“I don't think it's really that big of a deal.”

  “It definitely was. But I'll concede that she probably wouldn't have volunteered to have the talk with us. The issue would have had to been forced.”

“Might be a generational thing.”  

“Perhaps.”

We round the corner to the apartment and I begin to brace myself. While the bond I have...had with my mother didn't really extend beyond a default parent child setting, simply thinking about having someone to awkwardly walk me through this was comforting. It was the first warm feeling I've had in my brief second life. I wonder if I'll ever be able to experience it anywhere other than some false nostalgia. He finds a spot and parks the car. He exits the vehicle. I keep looking forward, but there's nothing there. So I get out too.

By the time I reach the front door he's already inside and halfway up the stairs. I slink past the foyer and fumble with locks behind me. As I ascend towards OUR apartment, I notice the bag keeps grazing each step. I wonder if it's this uncertainty I'm carrying that's just dragging me along, but then it occurs to me that I am now shorter than I used to be. Another new burden to add to what seems to be a growing list. And he stands there at the door, maybe viewing this, me, the same way. Or maybe he's just waiting up. We enter and he turns on the light. There's a crackle that I had almost forgotten.  

“I don't need that on.”

“I didn't know if -”

“My eyes still work and I haven't forgotten the layout of the apartment we've lived in for the past five years.”

  He pushes the switch down.

“Okay. Lights off.”

“I'm not helpless.”

“I wasn't implying that you were. But I didn't know, like maybe you have shit eyes now. You say you don't, so I apologize for trying to be considerate.”

“Remember that whole conversation earlier about how nobody likes it when you constantly remind them of how wonderful you are?”

“That wasn't the whole conversation.”

“But it should have been the big take away.”

“I know this was also a contested point before, but I'm trying really hard.”

“Aw, poor white man -”  

“Which you were until like a half an hour ago.”  

“I think it's been at least an hour.”  

“It's definitely hasn't. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say, All I'm trying to say -”  “Are you going to explain things to me now?”  “I'm just trying to accommodate you as best I can. And! Because I know you want to interject right here, maybe just resist the temptation to attach negative connotations to my use of the word accommodate because I'm not trying to suggest that you're any kind of burden but certainly our newfound plurality is something of an obstruction to our customary, singular routine of just not really giving anything any kind of real thought, consideration and this is something we must now the both of us deal with and so I am trying, yes trying, to make this easier for you which in turn helps me too. It's mutually beneficial. I'm not wrong about that. I'm pretty sure. Thank you.”

“I'm hungry. Do we have food? Should we have gone to the grocery store?”  

“You're not even going to acknowledge any of that?”

  “I'm asking if there's anything to eat. You can accommodate me by answering that question.”  

“Yeah, okay. Well, there's -”

  “I already remembered what we have. But thanks anyway. Really.”

“I can't say I'm a fan of the condescension.”

  “You got your acknowledgment and a show of gratitude, so shut up.”

 I expertly navigate my way through OUR still dark home to the kitchen, where I finally deign to turn on a light. I grab a bowl from the cabinet then carefully examine the spoons before committing to one. A trait I had really hoped not to inherit. I take the fuller of the two boxes of Rice Krispies and fill the bowl.  

“Hey.”  

He's hanging out at the fridge door.  

“We're out of milk.”  

“No, we're not.”  

“No, we are. Look.”  

Incredulous, I ignore his proof and seek out my own. I poke my head into the “mud room” and am met with unwelcome company: an empty milk container in the bin.

“Fuck.” 

“I can run to Turkey Hill quick.”  

“So you can hold that over me forever.”

  “Yuh huh.”  

He dickishly exits out onto the fire escape, while I contemplate just how hungry I am. I decide that the sound of his footsteps still making their way across the driveway is justification enough for me to begin shoveling the milkless cereal into my mouth. After all, my sudden coming into being must have exerted a great deal of energy. I should probably sit down and rest. But it seems whether he's around or not, I can't escape some kind of constant nagging. The pads have taken what should have been my seat on the couch. I could sit beside them and just ignore them. But that would be childish. And I already have fingers covered in cereal dust, so I think I've probably hit my limit for today. I snatch the bag and trudge to the bathroom. I leave the bowl atop the radiator and go in.

“The water's still running.”

I hit the lights and secure the door. Then go to investigate the tap. It has a tendency to drip, but is that the case or I am just weaker now. Thinking that reminds me how just half an hour ago I was trapped in here. Everything was so frantic and terrifying. I put my hand out before me. It's steady. But does that mean it's all okay now? I don't wish to lose momentum, so I retrieve the package from the bag and commence the experiment.

I open the box and am somewhat pleased to see no trace of pink, given all the condescension they were trying to give me on the outside. I pull one out and examine it closely. Hoping to unlock it's secrets. Or at least find instructions. But I'm overthinking this. It just lies there. That's all there is to it. I'm just stalling like it's some phone call I don't want to make. The longer I wait...Maybe I should try to pee first. That's sensible.

I unbutton my pants and shimmy them down to my knees. I then hesitantly pull down my underwear. And I find myself greatly relieved by the presence of obvious genitalia. Because despite my acknowledging its existence earlier, there was still a legitimate dread that I would prove to be all Mattel-like. Yet I still have the seat lifted halfway up before everything fully clicks. I let it drop back down.  

The porcelain is cool against my skin. That's good. It should help with...My hand is instinctively going between my legs. I pull it back and my fingers make contact with my pubic hair. I always found myself mildly repulsed when this happened as my former self. Now it's somewhat pleasant? Or maybe there's just a satisfaction with this new form that I could never find in him.

  “Oh. That was way harsh, Tai.”  

And I have still yet to piss. Why can't you just work with me? I turn the faucet back on and thrust my hand into the trickling water in the hope that it'll pass the message along to my urethra. If we had milk. If he hadn't taken my tea, this wouldn't be an issue. So this is his fault. He should be the one stuck here trying to do this. Seriously, what was our goal here? Was it lust? Or were we just tired of being alone? It has been over a month. But we didn't even really enjoy ourselves. Just a bunch of dudes talking about dicks for some reason. Kept waiting for things to wind down so we could leave. But then on the way home, I kept thinking how I maybe I should've stayed. That doesn't make any sense. Neither does this.

I pull my hand away from the sink and wad up some toilet paper to dry it off. Annoyed by the lack of cooperation, I stand up and retrieve a pad from the box. I start tearing at the wrapper until it is rendered an assortment of debris on the floor. I shove the pad down into the bottom/trench of my underwear and pull my pants back up. I flush the toilet even though I didn't technically do anything. This is still an accomplishment and I'll allow no lack of proof to suggest otherwise. The sink having been left running, I wash my hands. I catch myself in the mirror. The mascara is still messed up. I put my face down into the basin and attempt to rinse off the remnants of the other night. Because that isn't me. She's wherever. I'm here. I turn off the faucet. Make sure it's completely off. And blindly reach for a towel. I furiously rub it against my face. I remove it and see two black streaks. I consult the mirror once more.

“Good enough.”

That now behind me, I reacquaint myself with the cereal and seek out the comfort of the couch. I collapse into its soft embrace. I put my feet up on the ottoman and immediately wonder if they'll ever come back down. I've existed for maybe a half hour, but it feels like it's been so much longer. And maybe it has. What if this is something that has been coming for a while?

  Some illumination presses itself up against the window.

“Coming.”

He's back. That was quicker than I anticipated. I'm not sure what to do. I have the impulse to feign being asleep. The cereal's all but gone, so it's not like I really need the milk anymore. Give me shit about that. I get that it's how we are, but dude needs to learn to read a room. And at least for the time being, just be on my side.

He suddenly appears in the kitchen, cockily holding up the milk.

“Here.”

He doesn't even face me.

“Everything they had expires in two days, so drink up.”

“It's like the night we moved in.”

“Place is pretty janky.”

“Thanks. You can just put it in the fridge.”  

“You don't need it now?”

  “I was really hungry.”  

I brace myself for the onslaught of his disapproval of yet another inconvenience.  

“I'd imagine sudden existence will do that to you.”  

“Yeah, it's pretty draining. Probably just fall asleep right here.”  

“You can have the bed if you want.”

  “But, like, going forward I'm stuck here.”

  “We can alternate. You know, until we figure out a more permanent solution.”  

“What's that supposed to mean?”  

“I was thinking like getting another bed. But that spare room's not exactly ideal for a bedroom. I don't know. Maybe we end up moving.”

  “How long have we talked about doing that?”

  “Maybe you'll prove to be just the push we needed.”

  “Thanks for objectifying me.”

  “You know that's not what I meant.”

  “Eh.”  

“But you also know that, from here on out, it's something you should definitely get used to.”  

“I think I'm going to go to sleep now, so you can...you know, fuck off.”

  “But I was going to make some flowery speech and wish you happy birthday.”  

“I guess it is. Let's just pretend you already did and that it was very moving and not at all strangely focused on you and that you didn't then try to follow it up by awkwardly hugging me and agree to just say goodnight.”  

“It wouldn't be that weird if you were standing up.”  

“Yes, it would. Goodnight, Mark.”  

“Whatever. Goodnight...”  

I can see that he still hasn't figured it out, so I accommodate him.  

“Alison.”

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simper-fi · 7 years

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Replies!

Some old, some new, one very long rant about my job. :) For @mikexx2, @ofgodsandllamas, @soloriya, @ove51, @simminginsilence, @dramallamadingdang, @littleblondesim, and @eulaliasims!

mikexx2 replied to your photo “Graham and Melanie are really hitting it off… (Have you forgotten...”

I was all ready to holler, "Melanie forever!" And then realised Emily is Emily Bushby, and there's no competing with the Bushby girls

lmao! You got that right, I’m very partial to the three of them. <3 Melanie is adorable, but... come on. There’s no contest. :P

ofgodsandllamas

replied to your photoset

“The one and only time Graham wakes up before dawn (usually he isn’t...”

LMAOOOOOO Graham..... i feel you dude. that was me even in college too ENJOY IT WHILE UR YOUNG, SPROUT.

ahahahah Graham has perfected the art of the all-nighter, the true hallmark of a college student!

soloriya

replied to your photoset

“The one and only time Graham wakes up before dawn (usually he isn’t...”

nice shots! <3

Thank you dear! :D

ove51

replied to your photoset

“The one and only time Graham wakes up before dawn (usually he isn’t...”

How come you've got 2 moons?

Am I not supposed to? D: I have no idea, lol. I don’t think I ever gave it a thought before and just assumed it was normal! I have two suns, as well.

simminginsilence

replied to your photoset

“The one and only time Graham wakes up before dawn (usually he isn’t...”

:O Trigun!! Haven't watched that in ages... <3

I re-watched it about a year ago! I forget what made me think of it at the time, but I looked it up on youtube and sure enough, all the episodes are on there. :D I have to get around to re-reading the manga as well!

dramallamadingdang

replied to your photoset

“It’s a boy!! :) Welcome the first baby in Sycamore Cove, little...”

*raises eyebrow* Are you sure you're not pregnant? Nah, I'm kidding. :) I'm actually not the type to get attached to my Sims, but if this is your longest-lived neighborhood, I can certainly understand sentimentality. :)

Hahaha! Not pregnant, no. Probably hormonal at the time, though. And a Family Sim at heart, regardless. ;D But yes, this is my longest-lived neighborhood by a long shot (although that’s not saying much), and I’m definitely the type to get way too attached to Sims. :D

littleblondesim

replied to your photoset

“It’s a boy!! :) Welcome the first baby in Sycamore Cove, little...”

I love your posts. You're just a simmer simming and you share it all with us. Thank you. :)

Ahhhhhhhh, I love this! Thank you ;____; <3 It makes me happy that people enjoy my posts as much as I enjoy playing/sharing them. :’D <3

littleblondesim

replied to your photoset

“Evelyn teaches Sonya how to walk. Look at that determination! :P”

You say determination, I say she's thinking about world domination now that she's mobile.

You know what... on closer examination, I think you might be right! I’m going to have to keep an eye on this one. ;)

eulaliasims

replied to your photoset

“Finally got around to replacing 90% of my hood deco with light-up...”

So gorgeous! :D Your neighborhood just keeps getting better and better looking, I swear.

Meep, thank you so much! <3 I’m only trying to keep up with the best. ;D

dramallamadingdang

replied to your post

“What's your job in real life?”

If I were a pharmacist, I'd be terrified of filling the bottle with the wrong pills. That actually happened to my aunt once, a long time ago; if she'd taken the pills she was given they'd have killed her. Fortunately, it was a pill she'd been taking for years, so she knew they were the wrong ones when she opened the bottle, but...Yeah, I'd be the most obsessive pharmacist on earth, I think. :) And therefore slow. So yeah. "Stressful" would be the word...

This! I’m definitely on the slower side (compared to other pharmacists I’ve worked with) because of my intense fear of making a mistake. Not saying that other pharmacists don’t care, but I’m obsessive to the point where I will quadruple-check a prescription and re-read it to myself a dozen times (which must appear crazy to my co-workers/customers). When it comes to medications and patient safety, there’s no such thing as being too thorough.

But of course, there are the impossible corporate standards and arbitrary “metrics” that pharmacists must meet. We’re timed on how quickly we fill the prescriptions, answer the phones, complete prescriber follow-up and patient adherence calls, etc. On one hand, I understand I’m working for a company and the company needs to stay in business. On the other hand, though, pharmacists stress over the metrics and push themselves nearly to the breaking point so as not to attract unwanted negative attention from their corporate supervisors. And that, unfortunately, forces many to compromise thoroughness in favor of getting everything done within these arbitrary time limits. There are loads of articles and studies that have shown the negative impact of these corporate standards on pharmacists’ performance. It’s extremely sad that our profession has essentially been reduced to “fast-food pharmacy” - churning out as many prescriptions in as little time as possible, and setting the unrealistic expectation for our patients that everything can be done ASAP. Of course I don’t want to keep people waiting forever for medications, but when I have to call the doctor for clarification, or the insurance because the medicine isn’t covered, or my vendor because I don’t have the med in stock (in between which I have to stop what I’m doing to answer questions for people at the consultation window, or mix an antibiotic for a child, and so on and so forth)... the time adds up. Not to mention I don’t get a lunch break so I’m trying to force myself to take a bite of a sandwich in between all of this. ;)

Whew, that was quite a ramble. Can you tell I harbor quite a lot of bitterness about my job? ;) But yes, between these arbitrary corporate metrics, long shifts with no lunch breaks, working nights/weekends/holidays, and the inherent stress that comes with dealing with people’s health and well-being, the job is extremely stressful. It’s no surprise (at least in my company) that most pharmacists burn out and quit after the first few years. If I didn’t have loans to pay (and if I had the cojones and/or a plan B) I’d have quit a loooooong time ago. ;)

#mikexx2 #ofgodsandllamas #soloriya #ove51 #simminginsilence #dramallamadingdang #littleblondesim #eulaliasims #replies

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anavoliselenu · 6 years

Text

Crashed chapter 4

I enter the patio quietly, the song Hard to Love is playing softly on the radio, and I’m grateful that it masks my footsteps so I don’t wake him as I set his pain meds and plate of food down on the table next to him.

“You can go now too.”

His gruff voice startles me. His unexpected words throw me. My temper simmers. I look over at him and can’t do anything other than shake my head in sputtering disbelief because his eyes are still closed. Everything over the past couple of days hits me like a kaleidoscope of memories. The distance and avoidance. This is about more than being irritated from being confined during his recovery. “Is there something you need to get off your chest?”

A lone seagull squawks overhead as I wait for the answer, trying to prepare for whatever he’s going to say to me. He’s gone from crying without explanation to telling me to leave—not a good sign at all.

“I don’t need your goddamn pity. Don’t you have a house full of little boys that need you to help fulfill that inherent trait of yours to hover and smother?”

He could’ve called me every horrible name in the book and it wouldn’t sting as much as those words he just slapped me with. I’m dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing as I stare at him, face angled to the sun, eyes still closed. “Excuse me?” It’s no match for what he’s just said, but it’s all I’ve got.

“You heard me.” He lifts his chin up almost in dismissal but still keeps his eyes closed. “You know where the door is, sweetheart.”

Maybe my lack of sleep has dimmed my usual reaction, but those words just flicked the switch to one hundred percent. I feel like we’ve time warped back to weeks ago and I immediately have my protective guard back up. The fact that he won’t look at me is like kerosene to my flame. “What the fuck’s going on, Donavan? If you’re going to blow me off, the least you can do is give me the courtesy of looking at me.”

He squints open an eye as if it’s irritating him to have to pay attention to me and I’ve had it. He’s managed to hurt me in the whole five minutes we’ve had alone together, and the fact that my emotional stability is being held together by frayed strings doesn’t help either. He watches me and a ghost of a smirk appears, as if he’s enjoying my reaction, enjoying toying with me.

Unspoken words flicker through my mind and whisper to me, call on me to look closer. But what am I missing here?

“Selena, it’s just probably best if we call it like we see it.”

“Probably best?” My voice escalates and I realize that maybe we’re both a whole lot exhausted and overwhelmed with everything that’s occurred, but I’m still not getting what the hell is going on. Panic starts burgeoning inside me because you can only hold on so tight to someone who doesn’t want to be held on to. “What the hell, Justin? What’s going on?”

I push off the chair and walk to the ledge and look out over the water for a moment, needing a minute to shove down the frustration so patience can resurface, but I’m just plain worn out from the whiplash of emotions. “You don’t get to push me away, Justin. You don’t get to need me one minute and then shove me away as hard as you can the next.” I try to keep the hurt out of my voice but it’s virtually impossible.

“I can do whatever the hell I want!” he shouts at me.

I whirl back around, jaw clenched, the taste of rejection fresh in my mouth. “Not when you’re with me you can’t!” My voice echoes across the concrete of the patio as we stare at each, the silence slowly smothering possibilities.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be with you.” The quiet steel to his words knocks the wind out of me. Pain radiates in my chest as I draw in air. What the hell? Did I read this all wrong? What am I missing?

I want to tear into him. I want to unleash on him the fury I feel reverberating through me.

Justin deflects his eyes momentarily and in that moment, everything finally clicks. All of the puzzle pieces that seemed amiss over the past week finally fit together.

And it’s all so transparent now, I feel like an idiot that I didn’t put it together sooner.

It’s time to call his bluff.

But what if I call it and I’m wrong? My heart lurches into my throat at the thought, but what other option do I have? I smooth my hands down the thighs of my jeans, hating that I’m nervous.

“Fine,” I resign as I take a few steps toward him. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t need this shit from you or anyone else.” I shake my head and stare at him as he grabs his hat, places it on his head, lowering the bill so I can just barely see his eyes that are now open and watching me with guarded intensity. “Non-negotiable, remember?” I throw my threat back at him from our bathtub agreement weeks ago, and with those words I see a sliver of emotion flicker through his otherwise stoic eyes.

He just shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly, but I’m onto his game now. I may not know what it is, but something’s wrong and frankly this been here, done that bullshit is getting old. “Didn’t you learn fucking anything? Did they remove the common sense part of your brain when they cut it open?”

His eyes snap up to mine now and I know I’ve gotten his attention. Good. He doesn’t speak but I at least know his eyes are on me, his attention is focused. “I don’t need your condescending bullshit, Selena.” He yanks the bill of his hat down over his eyes and lays his head back, dismissing me once again. “You know where the door is.”

I’m across the patio and have flipped his hat off of his head within seconds, my face lowered within inches of his. His eyes flash open, and I can see the wash of emotions within them from my unexpected actions. He works a swallow in his throat as I hold my stare, refusing to back down.

“Don’t push me away or I’m going to push back ten times as hard,” I tell him, beseeching him to look deep within and be honest with himself. To be honest about us. “You’ve hurt me on purpose before. I know you fight dirty, Justin … so what is it that you’re trying to protect me from?” I lower myself in the chaise lounge, our thighs brushing against each other’s, trying to make the connection so he can feel it, so he can’t deny it.

He looks out toward the ocean for a few moments and then looks back at me, clearly conflicted. “Everything. Nothing.” He shrugs, averting his eyes again. “From me.” The break in his voice unwinds the ball of tension knotted around my heart.

“What … what are you talking about?” I slide my hand into his and squeeze it, wondering what’s going on inside his head. “Protect me? You ordering me around and telling me to get the hell out is not you protecting me, Justin. It’s you hurting me. We’ve been through this and—”

“Just drop it, Selena.”

“I’m not dropping shit,” I tell him, my pitch escalating to get my point across. “You don’t get to—”

“Drop it!” he orders, jaw clenched, tension in his neck.

“No!”

“You said you couldn’t do this anymore.” His voice calls out to me across the calming sounds of the ocean below despite the turbulent waves crashing into my heart. The even keel of his tone warns me that he’s hurting, but it’s the words he says that have me searching my memory for what he’s talking about.

“What—?” I start to say but I stop when he holds his hand up, eyes squeezing shut as the cluster headache hits him momentarily. And of course I feel guilty for pushing him on this, but he’s crazy if he thinks I’m going anywhere. I want to reach out and soothe him, try to take the pain away but know that nothing I can do will help, so I sit and rub my thumb absently over the back of his tensing hand.

“When I was out … I heard you tell Becks that you couldn’t do this anymore … that you’d gladly walk out …” his voice drifts off as his eyes bore into mine, jaw muscle pulsing. The obstinate set to his jaw asking the question his words don’t.

“That’s what this is all about?” I ask dumbfounded and struck with realization all at once. “A snippet of a conversation I had with Becks when I said I would have gladly walked away from you—done something, anything differently—if it would’ve prevented you from being comatose in a hospital bed?” I can see how his mind has altered bits and pieces of my conversation with Beckett, but he’s never asked me about it. Never communicated. And that fact, more than the misunderstanding, upsets me.

“You said you’d gladly walk out.” His repeats, his voice resolute as if he doesn’t believe I’m telling him the truth. “Your pity’s not needed nor welcome.”

“You’ve been pulling away because you think I’m only here out of pity? That you got hurt and now I don’t want you anymore?” And now I’m pissed. “Glad you thought so highly of me. Such an asshole,” I mutter more to myself than to him. “Feel free to make assumptions, because in case you haven’t noticed, they’ve done wonders for our relationship so far, right?” I can’t help the sarcasm dripping from my voice, but after everything we’ve been through together—everything we always seem to come back to when all is said and done—I’m hurt that he even remotely thinks I’m going to want him any less because he’s not one hundred percent.

“Selena.” He blows out a loud breath and reaches for my hand but I pull it back.

“Don’t Selena me.” I can’t help the tears that swim in my eyes. “I almost lost you—”

“You’re goddamn fucking right you did, and that’s why I have to let you go!” he shouts before swearing out a muttered curse. He laces his fingers at the back of his neck and then pulls his elbows down, trying to staunch some of his anger. My eyes flash up to meet his, my breath choking on confusion. “I heard you on the phone with Haddie the other night when you thought I was asleep. Heard you tell her that you’re not sure you’ll be able to watch me get back in the car again. I can’t be made to choose between you and racing,” he says, anguish so palpable it rolls off him in waves and crashes into the desperation emanating off of me. “I need both of you, Selena.” The desolation of his voice strikes chords deep within me, his fear transparent. “Both of you.”

And now I get it. It’s not that he thinks I don’t want him because he’s hurt, it’s that I won’t want him in the future because I’ll fear for every minute of every second that he’s in that car, as well as the minutes leading up to it.

I had no idea he’d heard my conversation. A conversation with Haddie that was so candid, I cringe recalling some of the things I said, without the sugarcoating I’d use with most others.

I lift my hand to his face and bring it back to look at mine. “Talk to me, Justin. After everything we’ve been through, you can’t shut me out or push me away. You’ve got to talk to me or we can never move forward.”

I can see the transparent emotions in his eyes, and I hate watching him struggle with them. I hate knowing something has eaten at him over the past week when he should have been worried about recovering. Not about us. I hate that he’s even questioned anything that has to do with us.

He breathes out a shaky breath and closes his eyes momentarily. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.” His voice is so soft the sound of the waves almost drowns it out.

“What’s best for me?” I ask in the same tone, confused but needing to understand this man so complicated and yet so childlike in many ways.

He opens his eyes and the pain is there, so raw and vulnerable they make my insides twist. “If we’re not together … then I can’t hurt you every time I get in the car.”

He swallows and I give him a moment to find the words I can see he’s searching for … and to regain my ability to breathe. He’s been pushing me away because he cares, because he’s putting me first and my heart swells at the thought.

He reaches up and takes the hand I have resting on his cheek, laces his fingers with it, and rests it in his lap. His eyes stay focused on our connection.

“I told you that you make me a better man … and I’m trying so fucking hard to be that for you, but I’m failing miserably. A better man would let you go so that you don’t have to relive what happened to Max and my crash every time I get in the car. He’d do what’s best for you.”

It takes a moment to find my voice because what Justin just said to me—those words—are equivalent to telling me he races me. They represent such an evolvement in him as a man, I can’t stop the tear that slides down my cheek.

I give in to necessity. I lean in and press my lips to his. To taste and take just a small reassurance that he’s here and alive. That the man I thought and hoped he was underneath all of the scars and hurt, really is there, really is this beautifully damaged man whose lips are pressed against mine.

I withdraw a fraction and look into his eyes. “What’s best for me? Don’t you know what’s best for me is you, Justin? Every single part of you. The stubborn, the wild and reckless, the fun loving, the serious, and even the broken parts of you,” I tell him, pressing my lips to his between every word. “All of those parts of you I will never be able to find in someone else … those are what I need. What I want. You, baby. Only you.”

This is what love is, I want to scream at him. Shake him until he understands that this is real love. Not the unfettered pain and abuse of his past. Not his mom’s twisted version of it. This is love. Me and him, making it work. One being strong when the other is weak. Thinking of the other first when they know their partner is going to feel pain.

But I can’t say it.

I can’t scare him into remembering what he felt for me or said to me. And as much as it cripples me that I can’t say I race you to him, I can show him by standing by his side, by holding his hand, by being strong when he needs me the most. By being silent when all I want to do is tell him.

He just stares at me, teeth scraping over his bottom lip, and complete reverence in his eyes. He sniffs back the emotion and clears his throat as he nods his head, a silent acceptance of the pleading in my words. “What you told Haddie is true though. It’s going to kill you every time I get in the car …”

“I’m not going to lie. It is going to kill me, but I’ll figure out how to handle it when we get to that point,” I tell him, although I already feel the fear that stains the fringes of my psyche at the thought. “We’ll figure it out,” I correct myself and the most adorable smile curls one corner of his mouth, melting my heart.

He just nods his head, his eyes conveying the words I want to hear, and for now, it’s enough for me. Because when you have everything right before you, you’ll accept anything just to keep it there.

“I’m not any good at this,” he says, and I can see the concern fill his eyes, etch across his features.

“No one is,” I tell him, squeezing our linked fingers. “Relationships aren’t easy. They’re hard and can be brutal at times … but those are the times you learn the most about yourself. And when they’re right,” I pause, making sure his eyes are steadfast on mine, “they can be like coming home … finding the rest of your soul …” I avert my eyes, suddenly embarrassed by my introspective comments and my hopeless romantic tendencies.

He squeezes my hand but I keep my face toward the sun, hoping the color staining my cheeks isn’t noticeable. My mind races with the possibilities for us if he can just find it within himself to let me have a permanent place there. The silence is okay now because the empty space between us is floating with potential instead of misunderstanding. And on this patio, bathed by sunlight, we’re lost in thought because we’re accepting the fact that there are tomorrows for us to experience together, and that’s a good place to be.

As my mind wanders I see the plate of food and pain meds on the table next to us. “Hey, you need to take your pills,” I say, finally turning toward him and meeting his eyes.

He reaches out and cups the side of my face, brushing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. I draw in a shaky, affected breath as he angles his head and watches me. “You’re the only medicine I need, Selena.”

I can’t help the smile spreading across my lips or the sarcastic comment that slides off my tongue. “I guess the doctors didn’t mess with your ability to deliver smooth one-liners did they?”

“Nope,” he says with a devilish smirk that has me leaning into him the same time he does, so that we meet in the center.

Our lips brush ever so gently, once then twice, before he parts his lips and slides his tongue between mine. Our tongues dance, our hands caress, and our hearts swell as we settle into the tenderness of the kiss. He brings his other hand up to cup my face, and I can feel it trembling as he tries to keep it there. I lift my hand up to hold onto the outside of his and help him hold it against my cheek. Desire coils deep in my belly and as much as I know I can’t sate my body’s yearning, per doctor’s orders, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to desperately.

When we connect through intimacy, it’s more than just the mind blowing orgasm at the hands of the oh-so-skillful Justin, but rather something I can’t exactly put words to. It’s almost as if, when we connect, there is a contentment that weaves its way deep down in my soul and completes me. Binds us. And I miss that feeling.

A sexy as hell groan comes from the back of his throat that doesn’t help stem the ache I have burning for him. I reach my free hand out and run it up the plane of his chest, loving the vibration humming beneath my fingers as a result of my touch. Chills prickle my skin and it’s not from the ocean breeze but rather the tidal wave of sensations my body misses desperately.

“Fuck, I’m dying to be in you, Selena,” he whispers against my lips as every nerve in my body stands at attention and begs to be taken, branded, and remade his all over again. And I am so close to saying fuck the doctor’s orders that my hand is sliding down his torso to slip beneath his waistband, when I feel his body tense and his breath hiss out.

I’m immediately swamped with guilt over my lack of willpower to take the temptation so readily at my fingertips and I switch to high alert. “A bad one?”

The grimace on Justin’s face remains, eyes squeezed shut, as he just nods his head softly and shifts backward in the chair until he’s reclined. I reach for the medicine and put them in his hands.

I guess I’m not the only medicine he needs after all.

I wander the halls of the Malibu house—worry over Justin, homesickness for the boys, and missing Haddie all robbing me of sleep. This has been the longest I’ve been away from any of them, and as much as I love Justin, I’m needing that connection with my life.

I need their energy that always lifts my soul and feeds my spirit. I’ve missed Zander’s deposition, Ricky’s first home run, Aiden being called into the principal’s office for stopping a fight rather than starting one … I feel like a bad mother neglecting her children.

Not finding solace, I climb the stairs for the umpteenth time to check on him. To make sure he’s still knocked out from the cocktail of medications Dr. Irons prescribed on the phone earlier when Justin’s headache would not let up.

I’m still worried. I think I subconsciously fear falling asleep because I might miss something he needs.

Then I think of Justin’s revelations earlier before the headache hit, and I can’t help the smile that softens my face. The knowledge that he was trying to push me away to protect me may have been misguided, but perfect nonetheless.

There is most definitely hope for us yet.

I walk toward the bed, Halestorm playing softly on the stereo overhead, and can’t help the breath I hold as I sit down on the bed beside him. He’s lying on his stomach, his arms buried beneath the pillow and his face angled to the side of the bed facing me. The light blue sheets have fallen down below his waist, and my eyes trace the sculpted lines of his back, my fingers itching to touch the heated warmth of his skin. My eyes roam over the scar on his head and note that the patch of hair is starting to grow in with stubble. In no time at all no one will even know the trauma beneath his hair.

But I’ll know. And I’ll remember. And I’ll fear.

I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, needing to get control of my rampant stampede of emotions. I notice his discarded shirt on the bed beside him and can’t help picking it up and burying my nose in it, drinking in his smell, needing the mapped connection in my mind to lessen the worry that’s now a constant. It’s not enough though, so I crawl into bed beside him. I lean forward, careful not to disturb him, and press my lips to the spot just between his shoulder blades.

I inhale his scent, feel the warmth of his heated flesh beneath my lips, and thank God that I get this moment again with him. A second chance. I sit like this for a moment, silent thank yous running through my mind when Justin whimpers.

“Please no,” he says, the juvenile tone in the masculine timbre is haunting, unnerving, devastating. “Please, Mommy, I’ll be good. Just don’t let him hurt me.”

He thrashes his head in protest, body tensing, arms bracing as the sounds he’s making become more adamant, more upsetting. I try to wake him, take his shoulders and shake him.

“Please, Mommy. Pleeeaaassseeee,” he whimpers in a pleading voice wavering with terror. My heart lodges in my throat and tears spring to my eyes at that eerie combination of little boy within the grown man.

“Wake up, Justin!” I shove his shoulder back and forth again as he becomes more animated, but the strength of the prescriptions that Dr. Irons had me give him are too strong to pull him from the nightmare. “C’mon, wake up,” I say again as his body starts rocking, the all too familiar chant falling from his lips.

I hiccup a sob as he shifts again, voice silenced and rolls onto his back. He shifts a couple more times and I’m relieved that his nightmare seems to have left him. He still seems uneasy though, so I crawl up beside him and lay my head on his chest, leg hooked over his, and rest my hand on his frantically beating heart. And I do the one thing I can in hopes of soothing him, I sing.

I sing of little boys and imaginary dragons. Of believing in something unbelievable. Of forgetting and moving on.

“My dad used to sing that to me when I had nightmares.”

His rasp of a voice scares the crap out of me. I didn’t even know he had woken up. He places an arm around me and pulls me in closer to him. “I know,” I whisper into the moonlit room, “and you were.”

Silence hangs between us as he blows out a soft breath. I can tell his dreams are still on his mind, so I grant him the silence to work through them. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head and keeps his mouth there.

When he speaks, I can feel the heat from his breath as he murmurs into my hair. “I was scared. I remember the vague sense of being scared those last few seconds in the car as I was flipping through the air.” And it’s the first time he’s admitted to me anything to confirm my fears in regards to the crash.

I run my hand over his chest. “I was too.”

“I know,” he says as his hand finds its way beneath the waistband of my panties and cups my bare ass, pulling me up his body so my eyes can meet his. “I’m sorry you had to go through that again.” I can see the apology in his eyes, in the lines etched in his forehead, and I’m unable to speak, tears clogging in my throat at his acknowledgment of my feelings so I show him the next best way I know how. I lean in and brush my lips against his.

His lips part as I slip my tongue between them, a soft groan rumbling in the back of his throat, spurring me on to taste the one and only fix to my addiction. My hands run over his stubbled jaw to the back of his neck, and I take in the intoxicating mixture I’ve grown to crave. His taste, his feel, his virility.

His hands cradle my face, fingers tangled in my curls as he draws my face back momentarily so we’re inches apart, our breath whispering against each other’s and eyes divulging emotions we’ve previously kept guarded under lock and key.

I can feel the pulse of his clenched jaw beneath my palms as he struggles with words. “Selena, I …” he says and my breath catches. My soul hopes with bated breath. And I mentally finish the sentence for him, fill in the two words that complete it, complete us. Express the words that I see in his eyes and feel in the reverence of his touch. He works a swallow down his throat and finishes, “Thank you for staying.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” I can see the words I breathe out sink in and register as he pulls me toward him, guiding my body to shift and settle in a straddle over his lap while his mouth crashes to mine. And it does crash. A frenzy of passion explodes as my need collides with his desperation. Hands roam, tongues delve, and emotions intensify as we refamiliarize ourselves with the lines and curves of one another.

Justin runs his left hand down my back and grips the flesh on my hip as I rock over the ridge of his boxer-brief clad erection. Sensation swells within, creating an ache so powerful, so intense it borders on painful. My body craves the all-consuming pleasure I know only he can evoke.

I swallow his groan as I am engulfed in the emotion—the connection between us—in this moment. I feel Justin’s right hand slide down to my other hip as he brings his hands to the sides of my tank top trying to pull it up and off. But when I feel his right hand fail to grasp the material, I quickly take control, not wanting it to affect this moment. I cross my arms over my front, grab the hem, and lift it over my head.

I sit astride him, bare except for a scant pair of panties, as his eyes scrape over the lines of my body, raw male appreciation apparent in his gaze. Unfettered lust. Undeniable hunger. He reaches back out to touch, to dance fingertips up my ribcage enabling him to guide my face back to his so that he can take, taste, tempt.

I moan at the feeling of my breasts pillowing against his firm chest, hardened nipples hypersensitive to the touch. Justin urges my hips back and forth again, and the sensation rocks me, nerves ready to detonate. I angle my body back, lost in the feeling when his mouth finds my breast, warm heat against chilled flesh.

I want him. Need him. Desire him like I never thought possible.

Our breaths pant and hearts race as we act on the instinct that has pulled us together since day one. And it’s in this moment that I feel his hand flex and hear the warning of Dr. Irons flash through my head. I want to ignore him, tell it to go the fuck away so I can take my man again, pleasure him, own him as he owns me in every sense of the word. But I can’t risk it.

I bring my hands down to my hips and lace my fingers with his. I break from our kiss and rest my forehead against Justin’s. “We can’t. It’s not safe.” The strain is apparent in my voice, expressing how hard it is for me to stop from taking exactly what we both want. Justin doesn’t utter a sound. He just presses his hands into my hips as our labored breathing fills the silence in the bedroom. “It’s too much exertion.”

“Baby, if I’m not exerting myself then I’m sure as fuck not doing it right.” He chuckles against my neck, stubble tickling my skin that’s already begging for more of his touch.

I force myself to sit up so I’m farther away from the temptation of his mouth, but neglect to realize that my new positioning causes more pressure on the weeping apex between my thighs as my weight settles down on his erection. I have to stifle the moan that wants to fall from my mouth at the feeling. Justin smirks, knowing exactly what just happened, and I try to feign that I’m not affected but it’s no use as he rolls his hips again.

“Justin,” I moan, drawing out his name.

“You know you don’t want me to stop,” he says with a smirk and as he starts to speak again, I reach out and put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

“This woman is just trying to keep you safe.”

“Oh, but you forget that the patient is always right and this patient thinks that this woman,” he says as he draws my finger into his mouth and sucks on it causing desire to coil within, “needs to be thoroughly fucked by this man.”

My legs tighten around him and I dig my hands into the top of my thighs as my body remembers just how thorough a fucking by Justin Donavan can be. And despite my resolve, my body screams take me, brand me, claim me. Own every part of me, right here, right now.

“Safety,” I reassert, trying to regain some type of control over my body and the situation. Trying to think of his safety rather than the constant ache burning like a wildfire within me.

“Selena, when have you ever known me to play it safe?” He smirks that devilishly handsome grin he knows I can’t resist. “Please … let me exert myself,” he pleads, but I know that beneath the playful tone is a man scavenging what’s left of his restraint. “I’m dying to take the driver’s seat and set the pace.”

I can’t help my laugh because his words cause a certain comment to come back to me. “When we first met, Haddie wondered if you fucked like you drive.”

He snorts out a laugh, a mischievous grin gracing his lips and leaving that dimple I love. “And how’s that?”

“A little reckless, pushing all the limits, and in it until the very last lap …” I let my voice trail off as I tease a fingernail over the midline of his chest, his muscles flexing as he anticipates my touch.

He angles his head to the side and his arrogant smile grows wider. “Well, was she right or do I need to take you for another spin around the track to refresh your memory?”

I love seeing the Justin I know, the Justin I missed, so vibrant that I decide to have a little fun—play him at his own game. He wants sex that I’m not going to give him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t put on a good show to tide him over. Give him a little something to ease the burn.

Or intensify the ache.

I run my fingers back down his chest and then to my parted knees and up and over my thighs. His eyes follow their wanton progression as they sit on top of the triangular swatch of fabric covering my sex. “Not sure I remember, Ace. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in action.”

He sucks in a hiss of breath and the reaction drives me, spurs me to go one step further. I rub my hands over my naked stomach and up to cup my breasts already weighted with desire. I purposefully drag my lip over my bottom teeth, breathing out a soft moan as I pinch my nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, the sensation ricocheting through my every nerve. Justin’s eyes darken, his lips part, and I feel his cock throb under my core at the sight of me pleasuring myself.

His reaction empowers me, allows me to have the courage and confidence to carry this out. A few months ago I would have never done this—touch myself so brazenly under the scrutiny of his stare—but he’s done this for me, shown me that my curves are sexy; the body I used to readily criticize is something he desires, something that turns him on. Is more than enough for him.

And because of that knowledge, I can give him this gift with steady hands and complete confidence.

I let another moan fall from my mouth, and as much as I can see the desire swell in green eyes, I can tell the minute he’s on to me. The slow, lopsided spread of a smile turning up one corner of his deliciously handsome mouth. He just shakes his head subtly, mirth dancing over his expression as he shows me he’s more than willing to play this game.

“Baby, if you’re trying to get me to stop, then you shouldn’t throw around comments like that.”

He rolls his hips beneath me, his rock hard length pressing exactly where I ache for it to fill—where I’m silently begging for it to stroke—and feeds my pleasurable pain. I try to stifle the reaction on my lips, try to play coy, but it’s no use when he does it again. My mouth falls lax, a satisfied purr comes from deep within my throat, and my hands fall without thought to press against the outside of my damp panties. Needing something to stifle the urge to take what I so desperately need, so desperately want.

Him.

When his hips settle, my fingers dig into the flesh of my thighs to prevent me from taking what I want—fingers ripping down boxer-briefs, taking his steeled length in my hands, guiding him into me, stretching me to sublime satisfaction—I gain enough composure to raise my eyes back up and lock onto his. To feign that I have a tight hold on the control that’s begging to be snapped.

He reaches a hand up and draws a line down the middle of my chest at an excruciatingly slow pace. His smirk spreading to both corners when my nipples pebble from his touch, proving that despite my strong façade, I’m affected by him in every possible way.

“Well, if you think I fuck like I drive, you should see me drop the hammer and race you to the finish line.”

I can’t help the breath that catches in my throat. It has to be coincidence that he uses the term race—it is his profession after all—but every single part of me hopes momentarily that I’m wrong. That he’s using the term to tell me he remembers. But as quick as the thought soars with hope, it burns out, shutters the breath in my lungs. So I do the only thing I can, to help to make me forget, and help him remember.

It’s time to give him the show I’ve been tempting him with.

As his eyes flicker back and forth between my eyes and my fingers, I spread my legs further apart wanting to make sure he can see everything I’m doing. My fingers slip just beneath the waistband of my panties and then stop, my own body aching for my touch as much as I can see he is by the look in his eyes and his own fingers rubbing together, itching to touch me himself. But he’s still in control. Still so calm.

Time to test that restraint.

“I thought racing wasn’t a team sport,” I say from beneath my lashes. “You know, more of an every man for himself kind of thing.” I make sure he’s watching, make sure he sees my fingers slide a little farther south. And I know he does because his Adam’s apple bobs as he works a swallow down his throat.

“Every man, yes,” he finally says, his voice strained. “Racing can be a dangerous sport too, you know?”

“Oh really?” I respond.

I take it upon myself to give into the sweet torture of parting myself and rubbing the evidence of my arousal around so I can apply the much needed friction to my clit. And as good as it feels—the pressure, the friction, his hardened dick rubbing against me—nothing turns me on more than the look on Justin’s face. Undeniable arousal and complete concentration as he watches movements he can’t see but can only guess at through the silky red fabric.

I want more from him. I want that stoic restraint snapped, and so I give into the feeling, into the eroticism of the moment—of him watching me while I pleasure myself—and I do the one thing I know will help push him over the edge, pull that hair-string trigger I know he has so tightly wound. I lift my head back, close my eyes, and let “Oh, God!” slip from my lips.

“Sweet Jesus!” he swears, restraint snapped right along with the strings of fabric holding my panties together.

I keep my head back knowing he’s watching me move my fingers—absorb the pleasure—because there is something unexpectedly liberating about him stripping my clothes so he can see. I am unbound, unashamed, and utterly his for the taking, both physically and mentally.

I feel my pulse quicken. Warmth spreads through me like a tidal wave of sensation that I willingly want to be drowned in. Justin groans out in front of me and I come back into the present, lift my head up, and open my eyes to find his trained on the delta between my thighs. I hiss a moan as I bring my hand out for him to see the evidence of my arousal glistening on my fingers. I struggle to control the burning fire spreading through me, igniting places I didn’t even know exist and try to find my voice.

“Well, Ace, danger can be overrated. It seems I know how to handle a slick track perfectly well,” I purr, unable to fight the smirk that plays as his fingers dig deeper into the flesh at my hips. I keep my eyes locked and taunting on his as I bring my fingers up to my lips and suck slowly before withdrawing them.

The muscle in his jaw tics. His dick pulses beneath me in reaction. His breath rasps out. “Slippery and wet, huh? Danger has never been more fucking tempting,” he drawls before his tongue darts out and wets his lips as he tracks my hands sliding back down my torso, over my breasts, down my stomach, and back down to between my thighs. This time though, I spread my knees wider as I use one hand to part my cleft so he can see my other hand slide down between the swollen, pink flesh. I can see the struggle flicker across the magnificent lines of his face, watch the desire swamp him, and the knowing smile that curls up his lips somehow fits him with absolute perfection.

My handsome, arrogant rogue.

A little cocky.

A lot imperfect.

And completely mine.

“You know,” he rasps, trailing a fingertip up one thigh, purposely missing my core clenching in anticipation before continuing down the other leg. “Sometimes in a race, in order to reach the finish line, rookies like you have to tag team to get the result you want.”

I don’t fight the smile that comes or hide the shudder of breath as his fingers leave my skin. I lean forward placing my hands on his chest and look straight into his eyes. “Sorry, but this engine seems to be doing just fine running solo,” I say, scraping my fingernails in lines down his chest as I sit back up. His muscles convulse beneath my fingers proving that even though the arrogant curl to his lips remains, his body still wants and needs what I have to offer. I slip my fingers between my thighs again and deliver the line I’m hoping will push him over the edge. “I know exactly what it’s going to take to get me to the finish line.”

“Oh, so you like to race dirty, huh? Break all the rules?” he taunts, tossing the ball right back into my court.

“Oh, I most definitely can race dirty,” I tease with a raise of my eyebrows before I reach a hand out, his eyes narrowing as I bring a finger, coated with my moisture, to his lips. His hand flashes up immediately and grabs my wrist, guiding my fingers into his mouth, the low hum in the back of his throat reverberating over me, through me, into me. And my own restraint is tested as his tongue swirls over them, my hips grinding down and rocking over him in automatic response. Holy shit that feels like Heaven. My nerves reach the fever pitch of ache as I rock back again, his hard to my soft, and all I can think about is the need coursing through me. The moisture pooling between my legs. The thought of his fingers on me, in me, driving me.

Fuck, I need him now. Desperately. So I do the only thing I can without downright begging. I deliver the last coherent dare I have left because all of my thoughts are jumbling in my head with this onslaught of sensation. I lean forward, the feather of my lips up his whiskered jaw line, and inhale his scent before I whisper, “Being a seasoned pro such as yourself, you just might have to show this rookie exactly why they say rubbing’s racing.”

I rotate my hips over the top of him and I can feel his teeth grind in willpower. I repeat the motion one more time, a satisfied exhale slipping between my lips as my body begs for more. “Big bad professional race car driver like you afraid to show a newbie how to drive stick, huh?”

I forgot how fast Justin can move, bad hand and all. Within a heartbeat he’s pushed me so I’m sitting back up again. My feet have been pulled forward so they’re flat on the bed on either side of his rib cage, and he pushes my knees as far out as they can go.

Bingo.

Fuse lit.

That razor thin edge of control snapped.

Thank God!

He must be mistaking the look on my face—the one of relief edged with desperation—as confusion because he says, “I’m shifting gears, sweetheart, because I’m the only one allowed to drive this car.” I can hear the hum deep in his throat as he slides his hands up my thighs, stopping to sweep his thumbs up and down my tight strip of curls. A teasing touch that sends tiny tremors ricocheting through me, hinting at what’s to come, the level of pleasure he can bring me to.

His fingers still and he drags his eyes up my body to meet mine, a smug grin ghosting his mouth. He holds my stare—almost as if daring me to look away—as he moves one hand to part my swollen flesh while the other tucks his fingers inside of me. My head falls back as I cry out at the feeling, fingers moving, manipulating, circling to stroke over the responsive bundle of nerves. He slides his fingers in and out, my walls clenching around him, gripping onto him in pure, carnal need. Greed.

I watch his face. See his tongue slip between his lips, the desire cloud his eyes, watch the muscles ripple in his arms as he works me into a fever pitch. Causes me to climb quickly because I’m so pent up—so addled with need—that the sight of him, the feel of him, the memory of him, pushes me over the edge.

My fingernails score down his forearms as my body tenses, pussy convulses, and the broken cry of his name fills the room around us. I fall forward, collapsing on top of Justin’s chest as the heat spearing through me in waves liquefies my insides. Makes coherency a distant possibility. I want the feel of my skin on his. Need to feel the firmness of him against me and the security of his arms wrapped around me as I swim through the sensation he just flooded me with.

I pant out in short, sharp breaths as my body settles, his fingertips tracing lines up and down my spine. I can feel his soft chuckle against my chest. “Hey, rookie?”

I force myself to look up at him—to pull myself from my post-orgasmic coma. “Hmm?” is all I can manage as I meet the amusement in his eyes.

“I’m the only one that’s allowed to drive you to the motherfucking checkered flag.”

I can’t help the laugh that comes out and bubbles over. He can claim my checkered flag any day.

“Oh, buddy, I’m so proud of you!” I fight back the wave of guilt that rolls over me. I missed helping Connor study for a test in his most dreaded subject—math. “I knew you could do it!”

“I just used that little trick you told me about and it worked!” The pride in his voice brings tears of joy to my eyes, and at the same time, grief over not being there.

“I told you it would! Now go get ready for baseball. I’m sure Jax is waiting for you already!” He laughs telling me I’m right. “I promise I’ll see you a little later in the week, okay?”

“’Kay. I Lego you.”

“I Lego you too, bud!”

I hang up and look out toward the patio as laughter filters in above the crash of the waves—years worth of friendship breaking though Justin’s bad mood. I’m so thankful to Beckett for stopping by. I hear them belt out another laugh, and as much as I wish I was the one putting the smile on Justin’s otherwise scowling face of late, I’m just grateful that it’s there.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

I watch them clink the necks of their beer bottles over something and I sigh out loud, wanting the tension between Justin and me to go away. I’m sure it’s because we’re both sexually frustrated. To need and want and desire when temptation is right beneath your fingers, but to not be able to take and devour, is brutal in every sense of the word.

And yes, his more than skillful fingers brought me a small ounce of the release I needed the night before last, but it’s not the same. The connection was made but not cemented, because when Justin is in me, literally stretching me to every depth imaginable, I am also completely filled figuratively in every sense of the word. He completes me, owns me, has ruined me for anyone else ever again.

I feel closer to him right now—spending so much time with him—and yet further away. And I hate it.

I shake myself from my pity party and think how much worse things could be right now. I slip my shoes off and head out onto the deck for fresh air. I walk between Justin and Beckett’s lounge chairs and sit in one of my own, facing them.

Behind my sunglasses I take in the sight before me, and I know there isn’t another woman in the world that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes right now. Both men are relaxed, clad in board shorts, ball caps, and sunglasses. I let my eyes roam lazily with more than ample appreciation for the defined lines of their bare torsos and fight the smile that wants to pull at the corners of my mouth.

“Well if it isn’t Florence Nightingale,” Beckett drawls in that slow, even cadence of his as he brings the bottle to his lips.

“Well I think if I was Ms. Nightingale, I’d be telling my patient, Mr. Donavan here, that he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with all of those pain meds running through his blood.”

“More like Nurse Ratchet.” Justin snorts, looking at me from beneath the shadow of his bill, green eyes running over the length of my legs stretched out on the chaise in front of me. A quick dart of his tongue over his lips tells me he wants to do a whole lot more than just look.

“Nurse Ratchet, huh?” I ask as I slide my foot up and down the calf of one of my legs trying to not feel insulted.

“Yep,” he says, pursing his lips as his eyes watch me over the top of his beer bottle. “If she gave me what I really wanted, I’d be able to recover that much quicker.” He raises his eyebrows at me, the suggestion in his eyes devouring me.

“Well shit,” Beckett swears, “if I’m not trying to get the two of you back together, I’m fucking trying to keep you apart.”

“Fucking,” Justin drawls in Beckett fashion, “now there’s a word.”

Becks just snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Definitely a good word indeed.”

Justin breaks our eye contact for the first time and angles his head over to look at his oldest and best friend. “Rest assured, bro, when the doc clears me, nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to be coming between Selena and me for a long fucking time, except for maybe a change of sheets.”

My cheeks burn red at his frankness but my body clenches at the promise of his words. And I don’t care that Beckett just heard because I’m focused on the words long, fucking time.

“So noted,” Becks says as he takes another tug on his beer.

“I gotta take a piss,” Justin says, shoving himself up from the chaise. As I’ve learned to do over the past days, I force myself to remain seated as Justin struggles momentarily with his lack of balance and the sudden dizziness that I know assaults him. After a few moments he seems steady and goes to place his beer bottle on the table next to him. About a foot from the table, Justin’s right hand’s grip gives way and the bottle clatters to the deck below.

Becks’ eyes flash to mine momentarily, concern passing through them before he laughs and pretends not to notice. “Party foul!” he laughs. “I think Nurse Ratchet just might be on to something in regards to mixing all those drugs with that alcohol.”

“Fuck off,” he tosses over his shoulder as he turns toward the house. “Just for that I’m grabbing another!” I watch Justin walk into the kitchen, and when he thinks no one is looking, he looks down at his hand and tries to make a fist out of it before shaking his head.

“How’s he doing?”

I turn to face Becks. “The headaches are coming less and less but he’s frustrated. He keeps finding little things here and there he can’t remember. And he’s feeling confined.” I shrug. “And you know how he gets when he feels confined.”

Beckett blows out a loud breath with a shake of his head. “He needs to get back out on the track as soon as possible.”

I stare at him, mouth lax. “What?” slips from between my lips, feeling a stab of betrayal at his words. This is his best friend. Doesn’t he want to keep him safe? Keep him alive?

“Well, you say he’s feeling confined … the track is the one place he’s always been free of everything,” Becks says, holding my stunned stare. “Besides, if he doesn’t get behind the wheel soon, he’s going to let that fear he has eat at him, embed itself in his head, and fucking paralyze him so when he does actually think he can get back in the car, he’ll be a danger to himself.”

I’m an intelligent person and maybe if I weren’t still surprised by Beckett’s first comment, I would really hear what he’s saying—see the whole picture—but I don’t. “What are you talking about? Since he’s been home all he’s been grumbling about is getting back on the track.”

He just chuckles and even though it’s not condescending, I feel like my back is up against the wall here and grit my teeth at the sound. “Fuck yeah, he’s scared, Selena. Scared out of his fucking gourd. If it’s not his hand that he uses as an excuse, it will be something else … and he needs to get over it. If he doesn’t, the fear is just going to eat him alive.”

My mind jogs back to the past week. Things Justin has said about racing. Actions that contradict the words he’s saying, and I begin to realize that Beckett is right.

“But what about my fear?” I can’t help the desperation that laces through my voice.

“You think I’m not scared? That it’s going to be easy for me too?” The bite in Becks’ voice has me turning to look at him. “You think I’m not going to relive those seconds over and over in my mind every time I buckle him in the car? Every time he flies down the chute? Fuck, Selena, I almost lost him too. Don’t think this is going to be easy for me because it’s not. It’s going to be fucking brutal but it’s what is best for Justin.” He shoves up from the his seat and walks over to the railing, hands spread out supporting himself as he leans into them. “Until you came along it was the only thing he cared about. The only thing that kept him fucking sane.” He blows out a biting breath. “It’s the only thing he knows.” He turns back around to face me, eyes hidden behind aviators. “So yes, he needs to get his ass on the track and I’ll be his biggest fucking cheerleader, but don’t let that fool you into thinking my heart’s not going to be racing every goddamn minute he’s out there.”

My eyes follow him as he paces to one end of the patio to let his agitation abate and then back toward me before grabbing his bottle and turning the end up, downing the remainder of his beer.

“Racing’s about eighty percent mental and twenty percent skill, Selena. We’ve got to get his head back in the game, thinking he’s ready, then he’ll be ready.”

I see the logic behind his reasoning, but it doesn’t mean I’m not scared to death.

I lift my face up to catch the last rays of sun before they dissipate and sink into the horizon. I hum along to Collide playing softly on the outdoor speakers as my mind wanders to Beckett and our conversation, to how I’m going to feel watching Justin get behind the wheel again and if he’ll fear it as much as I do.

“Hey, what are you doing out here all by yourself?” Justin’s rasp pulls at me on every level, and I open my eyes to find him looking down at me from my comfortable spot on the chaise. Warmth spreads through me when I see the pillow crease in the side of his cheek, and I can’t help but wonder what he was like as a little boy.

“Did you have a good nap?” I scoot over as he sits down beside me, but I purposefully don’t move too far so I can snuggle up closer to him.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in. “Yeah, I was out.” He laughs pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But no more headache so all is good.

“I can’t imagine why you’d have any type of pain with the amount of beer you two put away.”

“Smart ass.”

“I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass.”

“Aren’t we feisty tonight?” he says as he tickles my rib cage. “You know what feisty does to me, baby, and I sure as fuck could use it right now.”

I squirm out of his grasp. “Nice try, but we most likely only have a couple more days and then I’ll be any kind of feisty you want me to be,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows as his fingers ease up and smooth down my back.

“Don’t promise shit like that to a man as desperate as I am, if you’re not going to deliver, sweetheart.”

“Oh, no worries, Ace,” I say, snuggling back into him, “I’ll deliver truckloads of feisty as long as I know you’ll be okay.”

Justin doesn’t say anything, rather he makes a non-committal sound in response. We settle into a comfortable silence for a while, and I welcome it because this is the first time in the past few days where there isn’t that inexplicable tension vibrating between us. As the sun sinks and the ocean waves sigh into the oncoming night, my mind begins to wander back to my conversation with Becks. And being me, I have to ask, have to know Justin’s thoughts about racing again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs into the crown of my head.

I hesitate at first, not wanting to bring up any thoughts if they’re not there already, but ask anyway. “Are you scared to get back on the track? To race again?” The words rush out and I wonder if he can hear the underlying trepidation in my tone.

His hand pauses momentarily on its trek up my spine before it continues, and I know I’ve touched on something he’s not completely comfortable talking about or admitting to. He sighs out into the silence I’ve given him. “It’s hard for me to explain,” he says before shifting so that we’re side by side, our eyes meeting. He shakes his head subtly and continues. “It’s like I fear it and I need it all at the same time. That’s the only way I can put it.”

I can sense his unease so I do what I do best, I try to soothe him. “You’ve figured it out with me.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

I had no intention of taking the conversation here, making him feel uncomfortable in talking about the “us” that was there before the crash. The “us” he raced and doesn’t remember. I reach out and rest my hand on the side of his stubbled jaw and make sure I have his attention before I speak. “You feared and yet needed me …” My voice fades.

He draws in a breath as emotions flicker through his eyes. His lips purse momentarily. The silence mixed with the intensity in his eyes unnerves me. I can hear the hitch of his breath, the sound of the ocean, the pound of my heart in my ears, and yet silence from him. He looks away and I prepare myself, for what I’m not sure. But when he looks back at me, a slow, shy smile curls up one corner of his mouth, and he nods his head in acceptance. “You’re right, I do need you.”

Parts way down deep sag in relief that he’s finally acknowledging our connection. Accepting it. And I don’t care that he isn’t telling me he races me, because this, the fact that he needs me, is more than I could ever have hoped for.

He brings a hand up gently to cup the side of my face and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. He leans in and whispers his lips over mine tenderly before kissing the top of my nose. When he pulls back I see the wicked grin on his face. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Your turn?” I ask as his fingers play over the buttons of my top.

“Yep. It’s question and answer time, Selena, and it’s your turn in the hot seat.”

“I’d like a turn in your hot seat,” I say back to him, earning the lightning fast grin that pulls on every hormone in my body like a magnet.

“Watch it, sweetheart, because I’m a walking case of blue balls that wants nothing more then to be buried in that finish line between your thighs.” As he speaks, he leans forward, close enough to kiss but doesn’t grant me one. Talk about sweet torture. When he speaks next, his breath feathers over my lips. “It’s best not to test my restraint.”

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gretagerwigarchive · 6 years

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Interview: Greta Gerwig Talks Her Screwball Comedy ‘Mistress America,’ Working With Todd Solondz & More

by Rodrigo Perez, Aug 11, 201.

source: http://www.indiewire.com/2015/08/interview-greta-gerwig-talks-her-screwball-comedy-mistress-america-working-with-todd-solondz-more-260940/

How are you doing? This movie is terrific by the way. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

[In a joyful swooning voice]. I love it as well.

Well, you’re a little bit biased.

[Laughs] Yes. Well, I’ll just say it’s also very possible to not love things you’ve made [laughs]. But I’m really proud of it, so, I’m very happy to talk about it for many many hours.

Well, we have 15 minutes [laughs]. Tell me how it was generated, because it’s nice to see this female dynamic on screen that we don’t see very often, and in this smart, funny, complex way.

After we had written in “Francis Ha” together, Noah and I—even before the movie was out in the world—talked about making another one, and writing another one together, and I think part of it was that we really loved the collaboration and also the crew we had assembled which was really special: Sam Levy the director of photography and Jen Lame, who was our editor, and [production designer] Sam Lisenco, and [first assistant director] Oscar Boyson, and all the people who were tirelessly working on this. So, it almost felt like making a second album. Getting the band back together.

But, we had another idea and we were talking about what we we would want to write, and what ideas we had floating around, and there was another screenplay, about something else, but the character, Brooke Cardenas, was in it.

Another screenplay that had your lead character from “Mistress America” in it?

Yes. And we were reading it out loud and I started talking in the voice of Brooke, and then we started writing more about Brooke and every time I talked in the Brooke way it would make Noah laugh and then we thought, “Maybe we should give Brooke a movie. But how are we going to do it, and what kind of movie do we want to do?” We knew we wanted the essential relationship to be about women again, but we wanted it to be a different configuration— one’s 18, and one’s 30, and they’re strangers. And they go into this, kind of instant intimacy, with Tracy [Lola Kirke] idolizing Brooke. And inherent in idolizing someone is that you tear them down, at least in some ways. It’s almost impossible to only idolize someone and then not see who they really are later on. And that can be disappointing obviously.

So, we built a story around that idea. We spent a lot of time on the script before we got on set. Because, basically, what you see on the screen is what was on the page. We don’t shoot a lot of stuff that doesn’t end up in the movie.

The TIFF announcement came out very recently, and much to my amazement you and Noah didn’t have another secret movie to announce.

It wouldn’t be be humanly possible! (laughs) But yes, we’ve been working. Noah, in particular, has been working at a clip. But I think it’s a relief to both of us that we don’t have another one.

So no secret announcement next week then, huh?

I swear to God there’s not another next week. Oh! Actually, I spoke too soon. It’s not, well—there might be some announcement that you will look back on this conversation and think “She was lying to me!” But it’s not… [ed. It’s the announcement of her next directorial project, “Lady Bird,” which was revealed not long after our interview].

[Laughs] Okay, but there was one TIFF film announced that you’re in, “Maggie’s Plan.”

Rebecca Miller‘s movie. Right. Yes, I knew that made it [into TIFF] (laughs). And I think the world knew that I made that too so it was a little less under the radar like these recent films with Noah. [Rebecca Miller] is a really special lady I think. I admire her a lot and I loved working with her.

Brooke is such a hilarious creature of a character; such a bulldog, so overwhelming, but recognizable. She reminds me of when I first moved to New York and was intimidated by people who were super sophisticated. [Laughs] Yes. She’s larger than life. She’s a hustler, she’s always on, she’s always acting. Except for these few moments where she lets it drop, which just shows her vulnerability, which is absolutely heartbreaking. But she’s got this incredible energy and confidence and I think when Tracy meets her, she’s just completely infatuated with her. And Brooke wasn’t based on one person, but more an amalgamation of different people. And different moments and people I’ve met when I was 18 and I was intimidated by them and just shit scared of. And I was always worried that they would see straight through me, and know that I was lame. Why would they hang out with me? And I think a lot of that feeling went in to creating who Brooke was.

That dynamic energy must have been fun to play. She has an unearned confidence, but it’s confidence that’s still so magnetic.

Yeah, I had more moments in this film than in any other film of having to get over my own sheepishness and self consciousness. That scene where I had to dance with a band [laughs]. Or when I had to be the soul cycle instructor, or when she just delivers any of the proclamations, I would feel—Greta would feel this deep sense of embarrassment and shame [laughs].

She’s a little bit crazy and even though she’s not successful, ultimately, there is something about the way Brooke just goes after life with everything she has that’s somehow not only inspiring but seems to have integrity even if she’s lying. This is not a commentary on social media at all, but the way the way that she talks about Twitter, and Instagram, which is somebody who doesn’t understand the subtleties of self-promotion. She’s just doing it like a bulldozer.

But I find that quite touching and also more sympathetic than people who are quite deft at it. I think that when she says “It’s just a quick tweet on Twitter” my heart breaks for her. And I think being baldly self-promoting and baldly going for it is so much more sympathetic to me than trying to hide your own ambition.

What were the screen heroines you were modelling yourself on or at least thinking about during the writing and acting process?

We thought a lot about a certain kind of character in ‘80s movies. “Something Wild,” that Melanie Griffith character, and “After Hours” with Rosana Arquette, and Mia Farrow in “Broadway Danny Rose,” kind of these hard women. And, you know they’re all women. Even if they’re young. They’re not delightful girls. They’re hard living women. And then also the heroines at screwball comedies in the ‘30s and ‘40s just because also women and also they’re just nuts in the best way. I always think the person who I idolize the most of all is Carole Lombard and her incredible pitchiness and the way that she’s able to be big and real at the same time. It’s something I always aspire to.

You and Noah were writing an animated movie at one point. Was the Brooke character taken from that?

No. Those were all dogs. So… [laughs]. It’s a talking dog picture. Those characters didn’t … it makes me sad. It was a really good screenplay. It’s sort of out of our control. So, we’re not sure what’s happening there.

So Brooke came from another screenplay? Have you ever thought of connecting characters from different stories in different movies the way that say Todd Soldonz or Kevin Smith has done?

You know, I never think that way, but Noah thinks that way more than I do, Or he’ll have an idea of maybe continuing a character. I very much see them in their own universes and their own films and it’s sorta—the lights go up and then they go down, and that’s all you got of them. I don’t even like—I remember the first time that DVDs became available. And I remember seeing DVD extras of deleted scenes for the first time. And I hated it! I felt like, “I shouldn’t be looking at this!”

I think it was for “Good Will Hunting,” there was a scene where Mini Driver went to go talk to Ben Affleck at the construction site, and my whole brain just shut down [laughs]. I was so angry at it, for being another thing that had happened in that world.

I’m not necessarily saying Brooke herself should be in another movie. I was just curious because you said you had plucked her from another script.

No. That was never really a fully realized script. It was half-cooked. So, in a way, to plunder her from that was ok.

The Untitled Half-Cooked Greta Gerwig & Noah Baumbach project?

I think that was just a half-cooked Greta project. It had to do with summer stock theatre in Vermont. Don’t worry, I’ll make that movie one day, but it won’t have Brooke in it! [laughs]

Speaking of connected universes, you’re playing Dawn Wiener from “Welcome To The Dollhouse” in Todd Solondz’s new movie “Wiener Dog.” How does that work? [ed. note: the character of Dawn was briefly reprised in “Palindromes” at her funeral.] Well, I want to say right now, and I will repeat this many times, Todd specifically told me I was not to do an imitation of the old Dawn Wiener from “Welcome To The Dollhouse.”

So don’t expect that, and he didn’t want it. But, I adore Todd, and I love his writing, and I love the worlds he’s created, so I had the best time. And the [director of photography] who shot it, Ed Lachman, he’s a dream. I think DPs are reliably my favorite people on set. They have such a great combination of technical know-how and artistry. Anyway, it was a wonderful time and I hope I surfaced the film well enough, because I really love Todd and I think he’s one of the good guys.

Does Dawn come back to life in the movie “Wiener Dog”?

I know, it’s a bit weird, right? Well I don’t think he cares about that. I felt a little less insecure about that, because in “Palindromes” he has different people play the same person. He does that a lot, so, it’s like “Eh, it’s one of the things he does.” He can just be like, “Well, it’s my universe, and I can ignore”… It’s like, he just does whatever he wants.

He’s Todd Soldondz

He’s Todd Solondz, he does what he wants.

#2015 #Interview #Greta Gerwig #Mistress America

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rheyareads · 5 years

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I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately.

I’m going to group these into categories and then freely discuss. Full disclosure – when feelings are involved, I’m a lengthy narrator so this could get long.

NYC with Katiuzca

Homecoming King Ben

If you look closely you can see “Kayla Sucks” on this cup

Pure Friend I think everyone in life has a friend who is literally so pure they are just the most precious gem in your friend treasure trove. If you don’t have one, then I hope and pray you find yours soon! I don’t mean pure in the sense that they are reserved or sheltered from the world in a white coat never swearing or uttering a bad thing – I mean pure as in just honestly the best. Fucking. Person. Period. Like, you don’t have a bad thing to say about them because they are just who they are and who they are is dope as hell and you are so thankful they stumbled into your life. You might not be super close with this person, but you never have a bad time with them and you’re always happy to see them when you do.

This friendship shaped my ability to believe there is good in this world despite all the messed-up shit you see every day. Things don’t have to be dramatic or complicated – they can just be good.

Side note – bonus points if this friend comes with the cutest puppy in the world who becomes your self-appointed God-Child/Nephew.

Let Me Tell Ya Bought My Best Friends I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. Losing someone so special to me has left this void of space in my soul and I spend a lot of time wondering if she knew just how much I loved and admired her.

#advice #comment #emotion #emotions #friends #friendship #general nonsense #identity #opinions #random thoughts #self improvement #self reflection #thoughts #write #writing

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