#and that time my mother drank the wine out of the divorce box because it was too late to go to the liquor store

[assembledherethevolunteers]

Future Management

A/N: Hi all! So, this is a story that I’ve been working on for a bit and have it mostly plotted and half way written. This is the prologue for ‘Future Management’! I hope you all enjoy and any love you can give is appreciated.

Pairing: Ben Hardy x fem!Reader

Summary: You and Ben Hardy had been together for the better part of the decade.  After hitting a rough patch, the two of you decide to end things.  However, one small surprise keeps you two connected more than you thought.  

Warnings: Cursing, some angst, implied smut (very very brief)

You sighed as you looked at the boxes sitting in your living room.  If you had any tears left, the sight would make you cry, but it was too late for that.  

“I think that’s everything,” a voice said behind you.  You turned. Ben was leaning against the doorway glancing around the room, as if trying to find something else to pack away. Then he met your eyes. Maybe you did still have some tears. “Oh, love,” Ben crossed the room and hugged you tight.

You hugged him back as the tears started steaming down your face.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ben rubbed your back, but you still couldn’t speak.  “This is the best option, remember?  For both of us.”  

“I…I know!” You tried to take a deep breath.  

Ben placed a kiss to your temple.  You pulled back to look at him.  He had tears in his eyes as well.  You watched his eyes slip to your lips.  You swallowed.

“Ben,” you whispered.

Ben placed a hand on your cheek and wiped tears away with his thumb.  You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch.  

“Y/N,” Ben whispered. “This maybe a cliché, but can I kiss you?  One more time?”  

You nodded before you felt Ben’s soft lips against yours.  You kissed him back.  It almost felt like nothing was broken.  You groaned.  Ben took that as an invitation and slid his tongue past your lips.  Your hands found their way into his hair, pulling him closer. He slipped one hand to your waist, pulling you flush against him.  You slid one had down to cup his ass and he smiled into the kiss.  

“You know, I think we owe one more time to the bed.”  

Not a lot more words were spoken after that.  

“We were always good at that part,” you giggled.  Your head rested on Ben’s bare, sweaty chest.  

He laughed and pressed a kiss to your hair.  

“Yeah, we were,” he sighed and glanced at the alarm clock.  “I need to go.  I’m already late to meet my new landlord.”  

You sat up and wrapped your comforter around you, suddenly realizing what you’d done.  

“I um…I forgot you had that meeting.  You should…probably get going.  Do you need help with anything?”  

“No, I think I’ve got it,” Ben replied as he started getting dressed, not looking at you.  

“Okay,” you whispered.

“I’ll um…” Ben placed a kiss to the top of your head and you felt the heat behind your eyes again. You closed your eyes so he wouldn’t see. “I’ll see you at the mediator’s office Thursday, yeah?”  You thought that Ben’s voice sounded a little thick, like he was holding back tears too.

You just nodded and then he was gone.  You sat waiting for the door to close. You heard him lift the boxes, but thought that just maybe he hesitated for a moment before the door finally shut.  

You threw your head back on the pillow and let the tears flow.  

Seven years of your life you’d given that man.  One year of dating before he asked you to move in, six months of living together, six months as an engaged couple, and nearly five married.  Now, it was all done.  Well, almost.  You still had to finalize a few things that had been left out of the prenup.

When the idea was originally floated by both your attorney and Ben’s, you both had laughed.  

“We won’t need one!” You said.  

“We’re going to make it!” Ben had said.  

Obviously, neither of you were right.  And thank God you had listened to your lawyers because otherwise, this could’ve been a real shitshow.  Especially in the press.  Both of you being actors, it made keeping your private life more than difficult.  

You finally stood up and walked into the kitchen, not caring if your nosy neighbors looked in and saw you naked.  You glanced into the refrigerator and…

“Who the fuck drank all the wine?”  You grumbled, knowing you were to blame.  Thankfully, there was a convenience store not far from yours and Ben’s…well, just your place now.  

You quickly got dressed and drove to the store.  You grabbed two bottles of white wine and a pint of ice cream.  As you waited in line, you saw one of those trashy tabloids with Ben’s picture on it.  He was putting some things in his car.  

HEARTTHROB HARDY MOVES OUT!

The headlines underneath were all speculations about what had led to the divorce.  (The possible mistress! Going broke? ‘Total lack of affection on both sides!’ One source claims!)

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you could see your brain.  

“Hello, did you find everything okay?” The cashier asked you when you got to her and she rang you up.

You nodded, still sneaking glances at the magazine.  

“Anything else?”

‘Fuck it,’ you thought and handed the girl one of the magazines.  You paid and went back home.  

You decided to make yourself a bath while you drank your wine and read through what the press was saying about the divorce.  

First off, there was no mistress.  Ben would never do that to you.  Maybe it was crazy to assume that because you also had assumed that you wouldn’t get divorced, but you knew it was true.

Secondly, you weren’t going broke.  You and Ben had been smart with your money before either of your careers had really even taken off, and even more so afterwards.  

The total lack of affection thing was…the most accurate of any of the allegations.  The two of you had made a promise that your careers would never get in the way of your relationship.  Unfortunately, it was a promise that neither of you could keep. You both were just too busy with projects and your relationship got put on the back burner.  It wasn’t that you didn’t still care about each other.  No, no, you cared for Ben deeply, but you both had gotten bad at showing it.  

Cancelled or missed dates, text messages and phone calls left unanswered, going out with coworkers instead of each other became more and more of a habit, until you just started fighting.  Passive aggressive notes left on the refrigerator.  Snarky texts that got heated responses.  Until one day, you both just snapped.  

“I CAN’T KEEP DOING THIS, BEN!” You had screamed.  

“WELL I CAN’T EITHER, Y/N!”

“I’M SO FUCKING TIRED OF ARGUING!”

“AND YOU THINK I ENJOY IT?!”

“MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST CALL IT QUITS THEN!”

Ben didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.  

“FINE BY ME!”

He’d slept in the guestroom that night.  You woke up the next morning and found that he was gone.  He’d left you a note saying he’d talk to his lawyer and see what could be done.  You cried for nearly an hour before you called your own lawyer.  

You tiptoed around each other at home.  Neither of you speaking to the other.  Ben stayed at Gwilym’s house until everything was settled, which apparently would be a lot sooner than either of you thought.  

Six weeks later you were sitting in your manager’s office.  You glanced down at your hands folded in your lap.  You were still trying to get used to not wearing your ring anymore.  You still had it, even though you’d tried to give it back to Ben.  It had been an old Jones family heirloom.  

“Keep it, that way you’ve got something to remember me by,” Ben had given you a melancholy smile when you offered him the ring.  

“You know I could never forget you, Ben.”  

You weren’t sure what it was, but you’d been so tired lately.  Thankfully, you were between projects right now, the next one starting in just a couple of weeks.  

“And of course you’ll have a trailer next to…are you alright?”  Your agent, Donna, looked at you, tilting her head. “You seem…off.”    

You opened your mouth to respond when you were hit with a wave of nausea.  You shook your head, grabbed the trashcan on the side of her desk, and vomited into it.  

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Donna.  I just…”

“All fine, darling. Do you need a mint or gum?”  

You nodded and Donna handed you a mint.  It made your stomach churn again, but you held it in.  

Donna tilted her head again and her eyes raked you up and down behind her cat eye glasses.  

“Y/N, tell me something,” she started.  

“Yeah?”

“When um…when was the last time you were…intimate?”  

You blushed.  You and Donna had always been close, but not THAT close.  

“That’s uh…a little personal, don’t you think?”  

She hummed, but didn’t stop staring at you.  

“What about your last period?”  

“Jesus, Donna!”  

Donna held up her hands in surrender.  

“I’m just floating the idea out there.  You’ve been tired and moody lately, and now you’ve thrown up in my trash can.  As a mother of three and soon to be grandmother, I would suggest getting a test on your way home.”  

You scoffed, which must’ve been good enough for Donna because she moved back to your new movie you were starting. However, now you couldn’t focus.  When WAS your last period?  Of course, the last time you’d been intimate had been with Ben, but you two had taken precautions.  

Wait…had you?  You both had been so lost in the moment that it…it may not have been as safe as you thought.  

On your way home you slid the hood of your raincoat up, put your sunglasses on, and walked into a store that you hoped nobody would recognize you.  You quickly bought the test, paid cash, and left, desperate to get home.  

As you waited for the results, you bit your nails down to the quick.  

“You’ve got time to grow them back,” you said to yourself.  

Your house had been quiet since Ben left, but in the two minutes you spent waiting for the answer, you’d thought the silence would cut through you.  

Finally, your phone dinged. Two minutes were up.  

You took a deep breath. It was now or never.  

You looked.  Two pink lines.  

Fuck.  

The next thing you remembered, you were standing in front of Gwilym Lee’s door.  You knocked and stood there, still in a daze.  It took a moment before Gwilym appeared in front of you. He seemed shocked to find you there.

“Y/N, are you alright?” Gwil’s voice was soft.  You realized you must look a sight.  Your eyes were probably still red rimmed, and you were in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt.  

“Sorry, Gwil,” your voice was scratchy and raw.  “I…is Ben here?  I…this was the only place I could think to come.”

“No, he’s not, he’s um…he’s at his new place.  Why don’t you come in for a bit?  I can put the kettle on and…”

You shook your head.  You had to see Ben.  

“Can you tell me where he is?”

Gwilym didn’t answer but took your hand and pulled you into a tight hug.  You started to cry again.  

“Why don’t we go inside? I can give Ben a ring and have him come over.  He’s not far.”  

You couldn’t do anything but nod.  Gwil pulled you inside and led you to the couch.  He gave you a blanket and then said something before disappearing into the kitchen.  You felt like your mind was just spinning like tires in mud.  A baby.  A baby while getting divorced.  Maybe this could stop the divorce.  Maybe you and Ben could…

‘That’s just stupid’ a voice in your head said.  ‘Clearly he doesn’t want to be with you.  Why would you want a baby with somebody who doesn’t want a life with you?’

‘It’s not like it would be a bad thing.  We wouldn’t have to be a couple or anything. Maybe he would want to be with you during the pregnancy at least.  Then the two of you could work on things.  Then maybe…’

‘Don’t get your hopes up. If he wanted to still be with you, he would be.  He would’ve fought for you.’

‘He’s so stubborn though, and so are you.’

You heard the kettle shrieking, pulling you out of the argument in your head.  You decided you’d better use the bathroom and clean yourself up if Ben was coming over.  You stood up and walked over to the bathroom.  

You looked at yourself in the mirror.  God, no wonder Gwil was worried.  You looked like…well, you looked like you had been crying for hours.  Which you had.  You knew you owed him an explanation, but you had to tell Ben first.

You splashed some water on your face and gently patted it dry.  It helped a little.  Your mind and heart were still reeling when you stepped back out.  

“I’ve got green tea. I figured caffeine wasn’t really needed,” Gwil handed you the mug as you sat down next to him on the couch.  

You just nodded and took a sip.  

“I called Ben.  He said he’s be over shortly.”  

You nodded.  “Thanks.”

“So, are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“I need to tell Ben first.”

Gwil just sighed and sat back.  

“I’m sorry, Gwil.  You shouldn’t have to be in the middle of this.”

Gwilym just shrugged. The two of you sat in an uneasy silence for a few minutes when there was a knock at the door.  Gwil quickly stood up and strode over to the door.  He opened it to reveal Ben, flicking a cigarette away.  You looked at him for the first time in weeks without lawyers around.  

He looked tired.  His hair was disheveled, his clothes looked loose as if he hadn’t been eating (which made you worry about him), he didn’t even look like he’d changed his clothes in a few days.  

“Come on in, mate.  Something to drink?”  

Ben looked at you and shook his head.  He walked in, almost like a ghost.  He sat in a chair across the couch.  You were sure that the other two in the room could hear your heart pound.  

“Hi, Ben,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered back to you.  

“I’ll um…I’ll just…take a walk,” Gwil was out the door before either of you processed that you had essentially kicked Gwilym out of his own home.  

“So,” Ben cleared his throat.  “How have you been?”

Miserable. Awful. Empty.

“Oh, fine I guess, you?”

Ben just shrugged.  

The two of you sat in an awkward silence.  

“So,” Ben tried to begin.

“Benimpregnant.”

It all came out in a rush as if it was one word.  You weren’t sure if Ben actually heard or understood you, but judging by the look on his face, he had.  You watched his eyes widen and heard him inhale quickly.  

“You’re what?” You could barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.  

“I took two tests. Both were positive.”  

“B…but you…I thought we…wha…I…Y/N,” Ben suddenly stood up and started pacing.  “What are we going to do?”  

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…w…we’re not…together.”

That broke your heart. Every optimistic thought in your head was just shut down by 5 words.  The room started to swim.

“You don’t want me to k…keep the baby?”  

Ben’s head snapped to you. “What?”  He took you in for a moment before he dropped to his knees in front of you.  “No! No no no, oh, sweetheart,” he took your hands.  It felt nice to have him holding your hands.  And being so close.  “Of course I want us to have the baby!  That’s not what I meant at all.”  

“Then what do you mean?” You stared at him.  

“That I am so excited. I can’t believe we’re going to be parents,” Ben smiled tentatively.  

“B…but you still want to go through with the divorce?”  

The two of you sat, just looking at each other.  Ben opened his mouth to say something twice, but just ended up staying silent.  You pulled your hands away, finally taking the hint.  He didn’t want to make it work.  Not even for your child.  Fine. Then you didn’t need him.  

You suddenly stood up. You felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and you needed to get out of here.  You wanted to be home.  You wanted to cry.  You wanted your husband back, but that evidently wasn’t happening.

“Y/N,” Ben stood up, but you started walking towards the door.  

“Maybe we can add a custody agreement to the divorce decree,” you threw over your shoulder.  Ben didn’t chase after you as you walked to the door. He didn’t even say anything as you opened the door and walked out.  

Your legs carried you to the car.  You sat for a moment, but you weren’t sure why.  It wasn’t like Ben was going to come after you.  You started the car and started to pull away.  You thought that you saw the front door start to open, but then tore your eyes away.  

You and Ben were over. Nothing was going to change that.

#ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy x you #fan fic writing #queen #gwilym lee #joe mazzello #rami malek #lucy boynton #krissys writings #reader insert #bohemian rhapsody #bo rhap

[acadmie]

Immaculate Conception

I think I wanted for a long time to be the kind of woman who could be content as a mother to bathe her children immaculately in a claw-foot tub, but I am not, and I have only recently come to terms with that.

My tub is very nice. I take baths almost every day. Some people think baths are gross, which, fine, within your rights, but I’ll take my bath while you take your shower, and we’ll see who comes out more relaxed. My baths are my own time. I close and lock the door to my bathroom the way I always have done since I was a very small child. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

Admittedly I made the choice to make rooms not all mine. That’s what being a parent does, in effect - it ensures that you will always share your life with someone else, unless you royally fuck up. I don’t think I’ve ever royally fucked up Elliot, because if I did, he would tell me right away with his smart mouth. 

He is the opposite of an immaculate child. He had the opposite of an immaculate conception. He loves to be dirty. He was born dirty, and he will die dirty. Last week he saw the sparrows in the park taking turns bathing in a puddle and flung himself into it. When he stood up, covered in mud and a few comic feathers, he said, “Look, Mom! All clean!” 

Yeah.

Bathtime doesn’t go over well in our house except when it’s mine. When it’s Elliot’s, it is a grand affair. He demands bubbles, which I make myself out of dish soap and sugar on the kitchen counter. He makes tidal waves. If I don’t hold him tightly after he gets out of the bath, he will rip himself and the towel from my hands and cannonball back into the water, soaking the floor and the walls and making me paranoid about the state of our grout.

It surprises me every time that such a dirty child can be so enthusiastic about baths. When I was a child, I hated bathing right up until the moment I got into the water. It felt good to be grimy - it was the product of a day well spent. I hid in my closet, behind the door, holding in laughter and reveling in the dirt under my fingernails. Eventually my father would find me and drag me out by the ankles and stick me in the tub while the water ran, and I accepted my fate and put my ears under the water and felt the thundering of the faucet like an earthquake just for me. 

It was nice there, under the water. The faucet shut off and there was wonderful, floating silence. I shook my head back and forth and felt my hair against my neck. My sweat and the dirt mixed with the water and left me gently. I lay there until the water got cold, until my fingers pruned and my nails became soft, and when I stood up unsteadily I was as pink and as smooth as I had been the first time I opened my eyes to the world. 

I grew up Catholic, which meant one of my first baths was at the altar in a burnished bowl of holy water. I don’t think I liked it. My parents kept the home video footage; I watched it later and could see the moment I was lifted out of the water. I don’t know what it felt like before, so I can’t know the difference from what it felt like after, but I think I must have been perturbed by being so suddenly and rudely stripped of whatever sin I had already managed to commit, because in that moment, the camera focused on my small, grainy face, and I looked into it and gave the first stink eye of my life.

The way I hated church was similar to the way I hated bathing. Waking up on a Sunday was poisoned by it. Everything I wore was too dry and too stiff; I would start to fluff my skirt and my mother would bat my hands away from it. She would only let me eat dry toast for breakfast. “All you can get on you is crumbs,” she declared. I tried to get as many crumbs on me as possible in hopes that perhaps I wouldn’t go to church, but we went anyway, and the next weekend she didn’t let me eat until after Mass. 

I was determined to hate church. I lagged so far behind my parents on our walk around the block that my father tugged me forward by the wrist. I scuffed my shoes on the sidewalk. We approached the big stone steps and I hung back, kicking the dirt by the garden. This was the last frontier, usually, because as soon as I got up the steps the old ladies who always stood at the door would start to make a big stink about how lovely my dress was, and how lovely it was to see me, and what a lovely big girl I was becoming. This was the final frontier not because it was the point at which I could no longer escape, but because quietly, I liked it. It was a lovely dress. I was a lovely girl. And so I slid my head under the water.

Those first steps into church were always the best. It was so full of light. Big windows commanded every bit of sun into the room so that it felt open enough to never be full. My parents made their crosses and bows in front of the pulpit and tugged me into a pew where I would always sit on the outside. My father permitted this only because I made a habit of going to the bathroom several times during the service. I made a habit only because I wanted to sit on the end of the pew, closest to the light. 

This was how I met Soren. One day during the service, I sat quietly at the end of my pew, reveling in the warmth of the sun. A shadow cast itself gently across my lap. I looked up, and there he was - small and dark in the aisle against the window pane, sitting there, hands tucked together, in the white shirt he always wore. I remember looking at him and deciding that we were there for the same reason, even if that reason wasn’t exactly the right kind of worship.

For all the time that I was made to spend in church as I child, I don’t think I really understood what I was supposed to think of God. The congregation would stand, so I stood; they would sing, so I sang. I ate dry communion wafers and drank water pinked with wine. The priest would talk about God, and so would my parents and their friends and the old lady church greeters. God is good! So was I, if it meant Santa was coming. But when we were in church, and I could drag my eyes away from the windows for a minute, looking at them was like looking at a door left wide open. 

Soren was always my best friend. We met in church, but I don’t think either of us really cared about it. It was an understanding that ran between us like water, that we didn’t ever have to talk about. There were things bigger than us, sure. A lot of things. But he and I both preferred the bigger things around us that we could see and touch and smell and taste. At first, the light in church on Sundays. Then the enormous trees that grew in his backyard, then the lake in the summer, then the deafening rhythm of a rainstorm. We were perpetually in awe of the way that life existed carelessly around us, continuing no matter what happened in our lives, the same way that time moved after a clock had stopped, bringing the sun down and up again without the need for an hour hand.

Soren and I liked small things, too. Caterpillars, frogs, water bugs in the stream behind my house. We played cards and read chapter books and built walls out of rocks. I think his hands knew how to do everything since before he was born. He could pick up a moth without hurting its wings, and untie any knot my shoelaces got into, and pack a snowball tight enough that it would explode inside the collar of my winter coat. Mostly we baked bread. His mother was a baker; they had big jars of flour in their house that she used to make cookies and pastries and immense tiered cakes for his birthday. We made whole wheat and sourdough and focaccia and ate it together on the steps of church before the service. He always saved a little for after, too - “I don’t like the way the wine tastes in my mouth,” he explained to me one afternoon after digging a hunk of it out of his small pocket. I didn’t like it then, either, but we were friends for long enough to see each other get a taste for it. 

In some time I was seventeen and I found out that my parents were wonderful Catholics in that when they got divorced, they did their best to hide it from God. They lived in the same house, maybe amicably, if you squinted hard enough; they kept their rings; they went to church. The doors that were once open inside them closed. So much of their energy was spent on this that, to me, the ins and outs of their separation were out in the open. 

Everything in the house became strictly divided property. They would use the kitchen in shifts. They split the couch apart. They blocked out when their shows were on cable and made topical compromises on who would use the DVR each week when Locke and Key came too close to overlapping with The Walking Dead. I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother surrounded by stacks of books in their bedroom, which had now become just hers, sorting out which ones were his and putting them in boxes to go to his room downstairs. It was so definite, so clean cut, that it felt more violent than if they had fought more openly. It was like they had made the decision to be separate people without allowing me a moment to separate them as my parents. 

I had been going to church halfheartedly before they separated, but at some point in the legal and physical and spiritual process I stopped. No Easter service, or Christmas service. No Mass. It was a relief, in some ways - I wouldn’t have to stand between them in the pew anymore, or diffuse conversations with their church friends who they hadn’t told yet. It was an effective resignation from my position as the parent of their divorce. But in other ways, it felt just a little like death. Or not death. Like a door closing. Soren said he missed me during Mass, and I said he should just come over after.

I got used to it quickly. The time that I had used to go to church on Sunday I could now use to sleep in and eat buttered toast and wear sweatpants, three novel things that lost their novelty after the first few weekends and just became what I did with myself. While my parents were gone, the house was all mine. This was a novelty that never wore away. Part of me was ashamed of it. Who got excited about living in their own house?

Another, bigger part of me was more satisfied at home than I ever had been at church. If there was a God, He probably lived in my house. Walking freely through the rooms without being afraid of crossing boundaries or making allegiances or interrupting arguments or staged quiet hours was a new kind of worship that I didn’t know I was capable of. I got excited about opening the drawers in my kitchen, and sitting in the middle of the couch, and pulling up the window shades. I let as much light into every room as I could and lay in patches of sun for hours. When I got bored or listless I could leave, and the house would always be content to wait for me until I came back. For those hours, the divided space I lived in became fully mine. 

I did other things, too, besides take baths and practice living in my own house. I had Soren, and other close friends who I could invite over or go out with; we played board games and planted peppers and drove several cars gently into ditches and made a habit of trespassing in the woods across town. They had other friends who had other friends who invited us to concerts and parties and bought alcohol that I wrapped in a sweatshirt and hid in my closet, only to forget about it and find it later when I was hunting through clothes for my rain boots. It was cheap stuff, the kind of vodka that comes in a plastic jug that, if unmarked, might also be used to transport corrosive acid or washable glue, and near the end of my senior summer, when my parents were thinking of selling the house and I was weeks from departing to college, I thought that it would be a good idea to invite everybody over to drink the rest of it.

It was a Wednesday. My dad was out of town - he had found more and more excuses to spend time a couple states away, “on business”. My mom was staying with her sister while her husband (of a successful Catholic marriage) had surgery in the nearby hospital. She had left earlier in the week, with a kiss on each of my cheeks and a pointed look that probably meant, in a loving way, don’t get drunk on shitty vodka while I’m gone. I gave her a look back that probably meant, in a loving way, you need to practice for when you can’t tell me what to do anymore. 

I think fondly on it. In the months leading up to and the months after Elliot was born, people kept asking me, “Don’t you regret it?” And I didn’t, and I don’t. I liked sitting on the floor of the kitchen, drinking shitty vodka soda with my friends. I liked playing soft music loud enough to feel it in my ankles. I liked going outside with them and closing the door. I liked walking around the block. I liked Soren stopping us in front of the church, and I liked going in through the basement window, and I liked coming up the stairs to see it like an empty swimming pool, so blue, so broad, so full, still, of light, just the way I had left it. 

We scattered ourselves among the pews, in the balcony, at the seat of the big organ and the smaller piano. I wandered through the rooms, in and out of the confessional, climbed the steps to the bell tower and down again. I felt oddly returned to myself. I had done this many, many times. My feet knew how the floors felt under them; my fingers knew how the walls felt under them; my eyes knew where to find the shadows in the dips of the hallway and the cracks in the wood. But I had never seen them like this. Not from this height, or this hour, or without resistance to come in the first place. 

The moon shone through stained glass and illuminated the star above Bethlehem.

I wanted to take a bath. 

The baptism pool was hidden in one of the side rooms behind the altar. Under the water, the lights were on; they swam green and white beneath the surface, a promise of warmth, of cleanliness. I stripped to my underwear and stepped onto the first shallow stair, and the next, and the next, until the water hit my waist and my ribs and my chin, until I closed my eyes and ducked my head under and felt my hair rise up and float around me as if I was suspended in space, and when I rose to take a breath, it felt like the first time.

The baptism chamber, like most of the church, was lined in windows. Plexiglas along the bottom, but as the ceiling arched, stained glass masterpieces of Mother Mary: at the birth of Christ, at his crucifixion, her holding his body, her mourning, her assumption, her coronation. She seemed to have infinite grace. She was innocent. She was pure. She was holy, in every sense. Was it because of the child? Was it because God chose her to have the virgin birth, to bring forth his voice into the human world? Or was it in the way she carried herself, swaying hips, steady eyes, assured of her place in the world with our without Christ or God or the Wise Men coming out of the desert?

Behind me the door creaked. I could tell without looking that it was Soren - I knew the way he breathed from all the nights we had spent sleeping on each others’ floors. 

He said, “How does it feel to be back?”

I said, “I wish you had some bread.”

He laughed softly and came to sit by the edge of the pool and started taking his shoes off with deft hands. I watched him untie his laces and strip off his socks and roll his pants up just above his ankles, and then he dipped his feet into the pool and it was the two of us there together just like it had always been.

Being there with him felt familiar. It felt like knowing him was knowing me inside and out. And so I wasn’t nervous when I pulled myself out of the pool, or when he reached out to touch my wet hair, or when I leaned in to meet his soft mouth. I wasn’t nervous fumbling at his buttons, or lying on the stone floor, feeling the cold on my back but the warmth between us. We laughed together, in gasps, and I could feel his heart beating, and I wasn’t nervous, because this really was something that was bigger than us. I knew it was, lying on my back next to him after, looking up at Mary and thinking that most of the time holy things had nothing to do with God, but just with the knowledge that rightness and goodness existed in places where everyone could find them.

When I had Elliot, my parents freaked out. They told me they were scared for me when they really meant they were scared of me. But I’m not stressed about getting into Heaven, really, because I think I’m probably having little bits of it all the time. When I take a bath. When I sit in the sun. When Elliot and I stay home on Sundays and make bread. Some voice in the back of my head is always saying, when we sit down to dinner with our fresh bakes and with my glass of wine, eat of my body, drink of my blood, and maybe that’s God, but maybe it’s me, instead, content to be dirty and clean at the same time in a world of my own creation.

Elliot is five. That’s old enough now that he likes to take showers, but Monday is bath day for both of us. During the day, Soren takes him to a stream, or up a mountain, or on some other kind of adventure that lets him get absolutely filthy. When they get home at night, I shepherd Elliot into the bath while Soren makes easy dinner. I give him bubbles and soap and the kind of shampoo that won’t sting if it gets in his eyes, and he washes himself and tells me about his day with his dad. When I pull the plug on the drain, he stays until the tub is completely empty, leaving him goosefleshed and giggling until I wrap him in a towel. 

While they’re gone during the day, I sit in the water and look up at the window. It’s a cloudy skylight, covered with years’ worth of dirt and grime, but still clean enough to let a good amount of light in. I like to think that if we didn’t live in an apartment, and if we had a good amount of money, I’d put in some stained glass up there. Something innocuous, like a caterpillar or a loaf of challah, but with just the right amount of color and drama to remind me where I came from, and what worship feels like when you do it for yourself. 

I stay in the bath for a long time. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

#short story #writers on tumblr #x #plot and suspense #spring 2020

[d-noona]

BARTERED BRIDE

SUMMARY: Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financer used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition – Y/N L/N. Left distute by her father’s recent death, Y/N walks into Namjoon’s bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Y/N needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he’ll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Y/N ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?

WORDS: 1898

Kim Namjoon x Reader

M.List  | Ch. 03 - Coming Soon!

CHAPTER 02 - A Little Push

She was on her way to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee when someone pressed the front-door buzzer. Answering it, Y/N found a bike messenger outside.

“Miss L/N?”

“Yes” she answered. “Big Hit X-Press, Package for you. Would you please sign for it?” Y/N wrote her name on the form and took the padded bag. There was nothing to indicate where it came from, only a plain white label with her name and address printed on it. Perhaps it was something she had ordered and forgotten about.

She closed the door and, walking back to the living room pulled the tab that opened the bah and peered at the contents, immediately recognizing the file Kim Namjoon had said was a resume of his life. Now there was a sheet of headed paper clipped to the cover. Aiming at the sofa, Y/N flung the package from her. As soon as she had her coffee, she’d find some sticky tape and a label, send the file back, unstamped, with UNSOLICITED UNWATED BUMPH written above the address.

She went to the kitchen, half-filled the electric kettle and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. Usually she drank herb tea, being on a more or less permanent health kick. But sometimes, on days like this, she allowed herself a shot of caffeine. Postponing dealing with the package, she spent the next hour going through her father’s wardrobe, making sure nothing in the pockets of his suits before she folded them. Rather than giving them to a charity shop, she hoped to sell them. The chaos he had left behind him made it essential to raise money in every way.

With the hanging cupboards empty, the next job was the drawer, but after another cup of coffee or maybe a glass of white wine. She opened a bottle of Muscadet and filled a glass. Instead of taking it back upstairs she couldn’t resist her curiosity about the letter that man Kim Namjoon sent with the file. Later she debated going to a movie to make her mind off her problems for a couple of hours. But there she was still a lot to be done and she had already wasted half an hour reading the contents of the file.

She decided to phone for pizza and concentrate on the job in hand. During the evening she would call her mother, her mother didn’t know about the interview she had with Namjoon. Y/N felt it best not to mention it. She’d been trying to play down the financial side of her situation. Her supper arrived sooner than she expected. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the pizza delivery man who stood outside. It was Kim Namjoon.

Y/N’s friendly expression froze into a mask of dislike. “What do you want?” she said curtly. “I thought you might have calmed down a little by now.” Says Namjoon. “I haven’t. I’m busy” she started to shut the door but he put a foot across the threshold and the flat of his hand on the door to hold it open. She had never expected to herself saying ‘How dare you” to anyone but it was what sprung from her lips, followed by a “Get out!”

“I’m not inside yet,” he said blandly. “We have things to talk about. May I come in?”

“We have nothing to say to each other. You have no right to pester me like this. If you don’t go away, I’ll call the security man and have you thrown off the premises” the further time passing Y/N’s annoyance started increasing. “On what grounds?” he dared say. “Making a nuisance of yourself!”

Kim Namjoon smiled, showing his dimples. However his smile wasn’t a kind or amused smile. It was the sort of expression she associated with sadists about to do something which would give them pleasure but cause excruciating pain to their victim. “I think you’re bluffing.”

He stepped into the hallway. To her chagrin, Y/N let him, she had not much of an option. He was far too large and muscular for her to use physical means to deny him access, she had muscles of her own, but not in the same class as his. He had looked a strong man in his office, but that might have been partly good tailoring. Now that he had changed out of his city suit into chinos and a dark blue cashmere sweater over a cotton shirt, it was clear that the breadth of his shoulders over nothing to clever padding.

“This is outrageous,” she snapped, while instinctively backing away to avoid coming into contact with that tall and powerful male body as he closed the door. “Don’t pretend to be in a panic. You know perfectly well I’m not going to harm you.”

“How do I know that? You’ve already shown signs of derangement.” She says nonchalantly “Not really. I’ll admit to being unconventional. You’ll get used to it.” He glanced around the hall and then with a gesture at the open door of the living room, said “After you.” Having no choice but to act on her threat or let him speak his piece, Y/N walked ahead of him. If he expected to be invited to sit down, he could think again. Grinding her teeth, she saw that she had left the file on the low glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Even worse, it was open, proving she had looked through it. But the first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the file but the half-full glass wine, her second, she had left by the telephone.

“A bad habit, drinking alone,” he remarked, with sardonic glance at her hostile face. “I don’t as a rule. It’s been a tiring day. I’m not used to dealing with people who think they can trample roughshod over the rest of the world.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “You have to be the most objectionable person I have ever met.”

“Because I want to marry you? Even if they don’t wish to say yes, most women regard a proposal as a compliment” he says. Y/n quirked her brows up “Not when it comes from a stranger who regards women as chattels.”

“There are cultures where it’s the custom for girls not to even see the face of their husband’s face until after marriage ceremony. Marriage is a practical institution. It’s because our culture ignores that we have so many divorces. Wouldn’t you rather stay married?” Y/N scoffs at this. “I am not interested in marriage, certainly not you.”

At this point the buzzer sounded again. She saw him looking displeased by the interruption as she went to answer the door. This time it was the takeout delivery man. She took the box to the kitchen before paying him the money she had ready in her pocket. Rejoining Namjoon, she said pointedly, “My supper’s arrived, I’d like to eat it while it’s still hot.”

Ignoring the hint, he said, “You ought to keep your door chained until you see who your caller is.”

“Normally I do. It’s only because I thought you were the man with the pizza that you were able to barge in” y/n replied. “That was lucky…for me.” He began to look round the room, taking in the color scheme, the books and paintings, and the mirrors. Y/N loved mirrors, especially antique ones. As a child, her favorite book had been a copy, inherited from her grandmother, of through the looking glass. Somehow the wrong way around view seen through a mirror always looked than what was really happening around her. She had often wished she could step through the frame of a mirror into a world where things we the same but different. Her parents’ marriage a happy one and herself a model pupil like her elder sister. “Nice room. Who designed it?” asked Namjoon.

No one had ever remarked on the way the room looked. She couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of gratification that someone had finally noticed the effect she had spent a lot of time and thought achieving. “Nobody well known,” she said. “Please, I want to get on with my supper and I have everything packed by tomorrow afternoon. I really don’t have time to talk. Even if we had anything sensible to talk about.”

“A pizza’s a poor sort of supper, especially if you’re eating alone. Let me buy you a decent dinner and try to convince you that my plan makes a lot of sense, then, if you like, I’ll give you a hand packing.” While Namjoon continues to survey the room without looking at her. “ABSOLUTELY NOT. No way!” Y/N said emphatically, but not with much hope he would accept her refusal. He didn’t, “No to dinner, or no to help with the packing?”

“No to both and no to everything. Have another look through some magazines and pick some other woman. I am not for sale, Mr. Kim” she says indignantly. “Do you like music?” he asked. Disconcerted by the seemingly irrelevant question, she said “Some music, yes.”

“Have you heard of Min Suga?” he continues. “Never heard of him.” It was an exaggeration. She had heard the name but that was the limit of her knowledge. “He was a Korean composer who lived in the last century. His most important work was done in Prague, helping to form a national opera. He had a nasty end. Went deaf and died insane.”

“If I wanted to know about the lives of obscure composers I’d borrow a book from the library.” Y/N is starting to get pissed. “Is reading one of your pleasures?” replied by the man. “Yes, as it happens, it is. But –“

“That’s good. It’s one of mine and I have a large private library.” Feeling her temper starting to simmer, Y/N said patiently, “I shouldn’t think it includes the kind of book I enjoy and if Min Suga is one of your favorite composers your cd collection would send me to sleep. I had enough of that stuff in musical appreciation sessions at school. I only like pop music.”

It wasn’t true. She had thought that if she was to share her love for classical music this might put the man to further push his determination on marrying her. Not visibly deterred, he said “The reason I mentioned Min Suga is because his most famous opera was called THE BARTERED BRIDE. BARTER, The exchange of goods, was how people traded before money was invented, I am not trying to buy you Y/N. I am however proposing a trade-off. Things I need, for the things you need. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come out to dinner?”

“Definitely not….”

“In that case I’ll leave you to your pizza and take myself off for some Arbroath smokies at Scotts, or maybe their Loch Fyne smoked salmon.” As he mentioned that two specialties of one of Korea’s best restaurants, the hard eyes warmed with malicious amusement. Could his private detective have found out that she adored fish and seafood. On his way to the door, Namjoon added, “I’ll call you in the morning. After you’ve slept on the idea, you may find it more appealing.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll take the phone off the hook.” She snapped and let himself out.

#KIM NAMJOON X READER #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok. #Park Jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook #nts #bangtan sonyeandan #smut #romance #fan fiction

[gettingsnowedunder]

Oh lord I’m gonna stay in this coffee shop which moves from playing Susanne Sundfør to Happy Mondays to Blur for the rest of my life. Take all my money. I’ve written three reviews this morning I’m not even a human right now.

I’m a being made of sub-par opening lines. Opening lines are so hard.

#all I can think about is Thrift! Thrift Horatio! #and that time my mother drank the wine out of the divorce box because it was too late to go to the liquor store #I’m not a PERSON #stories

[d-noona]

BARTERED BRIDE

Chapter 2: A Little Push

Kim Namjoon is a ruthless financier used to buying and selling stocks, shares and priceless artifacts. But now Namjoon has his eye on a very different acquisition - Park Han Byeol. Left destitute by her father’s recent death, Han Byeol walks into Namjoon’s bank looking to extend her overdraft. As Han Byeol needs money and Namjoon needs a wife, he proposes the perfect deal: he’ll rescue her financially if she agrees to marry him. But in this marriage of convenience can Han Byeol ever be anything more than just a bartered bride?  

She was on her way to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee when someone pressed the front-door buzzer. Answering it, Han Byeol found a bike messenger outside.

“Miss Park?”

“Yes?” she answered. “Big Hit X-Press, Package for you. Would you please sign for it?” Han Byeol wrote her name on the form and took the padded bag. There was nothing to indicate where it came from, only a plain white label with her name and address printed on it. Perhaps it was something she had ordered and forgotten about.

She thanked the pretty bike messenger, reading her name on her tag "Zil" to make sure she's appreciated, closed the door and walked back to the living room pulled the tab that opened the bag and peered at the contents, immediately recognizing the file Kim Namjoon had said was a resume of his life. Now there was a sheet of headed paper clipped to the cover. Aiming at the sofa, Han Byeol flung the package from her. As soon as she had her coffee, she’d find some sticky tape and a label, send the file back, un-stamped, with UNSOLICITED UNWANTED BUMPH written above the address.

She went to the kitchen, half-filled the electric kettle and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. Usually she drank herb tea, being on a more or less permanent health kick. But sometimes, on days like this, she allowed herself a shot of caffeine. Postponing dealing with the package, she spent the next hour going through her father’s wardrobe, making sure nothing in the pockets of his suits before she folded them. Rather than giving them to a charity shop, she hoped to sell them. The chaos he had left behind him made it essential to raise money in every way.

With the hanging cupboards empty, the next job was the drawer, but after another cup of coffee or maybe a glass of white wine. She opened a bottle of Muscadet and filled a glass. Instead of taking it back upstairs she couldn’t resist her curiosity about the letter that man Kim Namjoon sent with the file. Later she debated going to a movie to make her mind off her problems for a couple of hours. But there she was still a lot to be done and she had already wasted half an hour reading the contents of the file.

She decided to phone for pizza and concentrate on the job in hand. During the evening she would call her mother, her mother didn’t know about the interview she had with Namjoon. Han Byeol felt it best not to mention it. She’d been trying to play down the financial side of her situation. Her supper arrived sooner than she expected. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the pizza delivery man who stood outside. It was Kim Namjoon.

Han Byeol’s friendly expression froze into a mask of dislike. “What do you want?” she said curtly. “I thought you might have calmed down a little by now.” Says Namjoon. “I haven’t. I’m busy” she started to shut the door but he put a foot across the threshold and the flat of his hand on the door to hold it open. She had never expected to herself saying ‘How dare you” to anyone but it was what sprung from her lips, followed by a “Get out!”

“I’m not inside yet,” he said blandly. “We have things to talk about. May I come in?”

“We have nothing to say to each other. You have no right to pester me like this. If you don’t go away, I’ll call the security man and have you thrown off the premises” the further time passing Han Byeol’s annoyance started increasing. “On what grounds?” he dared say. “Making a nuisance of yourself!”

Kim Namjoon smiled, showing his dimples. However his smile wasn’t a kind or amused smile. It was the sort of expression she associated with sadists about to do something which would give them pleasure but cause excruciating pain to their victim. “I think you’re bluffing.”

He stepped into the hallway. To her chagrin, Han Byeol let him, she had not much of an option. He was far too large and muscular for her to use physical means to deny him access, she had muscles of her own, but not in the same class as his. He had looked a strong man in his office, but that might have been partly good tailoring. Now that he had changed out of his city suit into chinos and a dark blue cashmere sweater over a cotton shirt, it was clear that the breadth of his shoulders over nothing to clever padding.

“This is outrageous,” she snapped, while instinctively backing away to avoid coming into contact with that tall and powerful male body as he closed the door. “Don’t pretend to be in a panic. You know perfectly well I’m not going to harm you.”

“How do I know that? You’ve already shown signs of derangement.” She says nonchalantly “Not really. I’ll admit to being unconventional. You’ll get used to it.” He glanced around the hall and then with a gesture at the open door of the living room, said “After you.” Having no choice but to act on her threat or let him speak his piece, Han Byeol walked ahead of him. If he expected to be invited to sit down, he could think again. Grinding her teeth, she saw that she had left the file on the low glass-topped table in front of the sofa. Even worse, it was open, proving she had looked through it. But the first thing that caught his eye wasn’t the file but the half-full glass wine, her second, she had left by the telephone.

“A bad habit, drinking alone,” he remarked, with sardonic glance at her hostile face. “I don’t as a rule. It’s been a tiring day. I’m not used to dealing with people who think they can trample roughshod over the rest of the world.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “You have to be the most objectionable person I have ever met.”

“Because I want to marry you? Even if they don’t wish to say yes, most women regard a proposal as a compliment” he says. Han Byeol quirked her brows up “Not when it comes from a stranger who regards women as chattels.”

“There are cultures where it’s the custom for girls not to even see the face of their husband’s face until after marriage ceremony. Marriage is a practical institution. It’s because our culture ignores that we have so many divorces. Wouldn’t you rather stay married?” Han Byeol scoffs at this. “I am not interested in marriage, certainly not you.”

At this point the buzzer sounded again. She saw him looking displeased by the interruption as she went to answer the door. This time it was the takeout delivery man. She took the box to the kitchen before paying him the money she had ready in her pocket. Rejoining Namjoon, she said pointedly, “My supper’s arrived, I’d like to eat it while it’s still hot.”

Ignoring the hint, he said, “You ought to keep your door chained until you see who your caller is.”

“Normally I do. It’s only because I thought you were the man with the pizza that you were able to barge in” Han Byeol replied. “That was lucky…for me.” He began to look round the room, taking in the color scheme, the books and paintings, and the mirrors. Han Byeol loved mirrors, especially antique ones. As a child, her favorite book had been a copy, inherited from her grandmother, of Through The Looking Glass. Somehow the wrong way around view seen through a mirror always looked than what was really happening around her. She had often wished she could step through the frame of a mirror into a world where things we the same but different. Her parents’ marriage a happy one and herself a model pupil like her elder sister. “Nice room. Who designed it?” asked Namjoon.

No one had ever remarked on the way the room looked. She couldn’t help feeling a slight sense of gratification that someone had finally noticed the effect she had spent a lot of time and thought achieving. “Nobody well known,” she said. “Please, I want to get on with my supper and I have everything packed by tomorrow afternoon. I really don’t have time to talk. Even if we had anything sensible to talk about.”

“A pizza’s a poor sort of supper, especially if you’re eating alone. Let me buy you a decent dinner and try to convince you that my plan makes a lot of sense, then, if you like, I’ll give you a hand packing.” While Namjoon continues to survey the room without looking at her. “ABSOLUTELY NOT. No way!” Han Byeol said emphatically, but not with much hope he would accept her refusal. He didn’t, “No to dinner, or no to help with the packing?”

“No to both and no to everything. Have another look through some magazines and pick some other woman. I am not for sale, Mr. Kim” she says indignantly.

“Do you like music?” he asked.

Disconcerted by the seemingly irrelevant question, she said “Some music, yes.”

“Have you heard of Min Suga?” he continues.

"Never heard of him.” It was an exaggeration. She had heard the name but that was the limit of her knowledge. “He was a Korean composer who lived in the last century. His most important work was done in Prague, helping to form a national opera. He had a nasty end. Went deaf and died insane.”

“If I wanted to know about the lives of obscure composers I’d borrow a book from the library.” Han Byeol is starting to get pissed. “Is reading one of your pleasures?” replied by the man. “Yes, as it happens, it is. But –“

“That’s good. It’s one of mine and I have a large private library.” Feeling her temper starting to simmer, Han Byeol said patiently, “I shouldn’t think it includes the kind of book I enjoy and if Min Suga is one of your favorite composers your cd collection would send me to sleep. I had enough of that stuff in musical appreciation sessions at school. I only like pop music.”

It wasn’t true. She had thought that if she was to share her love for classical music this might put the man to further push his determination on marrying her. Not visibly deterred, he said “The reason I mentioned Min Suga is because his most famous opera was called THE BARTERED BRIDE. BARTER, The exchange of goods, was how people traded before money was invented, I am not trying to buy you Han Byeol. I am however proposing a trade-off. Things I need, for the things you need. Are you sure you won’t change your mind and come out to dinner?”

“Definitely not….”

“In that case I’ll leave you to your pizza and take myself off for some Arbroath smokies at Scotts, or maybe their Loch Fyne smoked salmon.” As he mentioned that two specialties of one of Korea’s best restaurants, the hard eyes warmed with malicious amusement. Could his private detective have found out that she adored fish and seafood. On his way to the door, Namjoon added, “I’ll call you in the morning. After you’ve slept on the idea, you may find it more appealing.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll take the phone off the hook.” She snapped and let himself out.

#BTS #BANGTAN SONYEONDAN #BTSRM #BTSLEADER #KIM NAMJOON #JOONIE #NAMJOONIE #RMXLEADER #KIMNAMJOONXREADER #JOONBUG #BARTERED BRIDE #BTSFANFIC #BTSROMANTICFANFIC