#and then you get back home and seven hours later Taylor Swift is wearing a very sparkly kind-of dress and announcing a confusing new album | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scuttling · 3 years

Text

Paper Rings

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 10,191 Tags: SFW, Fluff, Literature, Friends to lovers, Everyone thinks they're dating, There was only one bed, Some angst with a happy ending, Confessing love in the rain, TW fire and blood/wound Summary: Some of my favorite tropes rolled into one cute fic inspired by Taylor Swift's Paper Rings. (lyrics and music) Link to A03 or read below! “Good morning, my friendly neighborhood crime fighters,” Penelope says as she enters the briefing room, wearing a dress that is bright bubblegum pink, with fingerless gloves and glasses to match. You, Derek, and Spencer groan your replies, because you just got home from a case last night, with less than seven hours between arriving at your apartment and returning to the office, and that is everyone’s least favorite thing.

You can’t deny that her typical sunny disposition makes you smile a little bit brighter, but you’re still exhausted, and even your usual extra large travel mug of breakfast blend is barely taking the edge off.

That’s probably why, when Aaron enters with trays of steaming espresso drinks from the cafe down the street, and a striped box of donuts, you act like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my god, I love you. Thank you, I love you.” He got an array of basic drinks based on everyone’s usual orders, and you scan for one that has something with latte, but he takes one out and hands it to you, smiling when you take a sip and sigh—okay, he’s smiling with his eyes, but you are well versed in his body language and facial expressions, and he’s practically grinning at getting your order (triple one pump hazelnut extra hot latte) correct.

You are not the only one to notice.

“Get a room, you two; it’s just coffee,” Derek says, taking the white mocha from the tray and drinking half of it in one sip. “Now if you tell me there’s a bear claw in there, I’ll confess my undying love too.”

“I don’t know; I asked for an assortment,” he says, and it’s clear he did, but your cup has your name on it; you cover the ink with your hand and take another grateful sip. “I do know there’s a plain glazed in there, though,” he says a bit lower, just for you, and you smile, give his wrist a squeeze, and dive for it before Jennifer Jareau can get her hands on it.

That’s all the morning meeting consists of—bickering and bantering and caffeine and carb consumption—and when the group disperses, you follow Aaron to his office and sit down in the chair across from his.

“Thanks again for breakfast. You definitely raised the morale of the troops,” you say with a sip of your perfect latte, and he shares the hint of a smile.

“You’re welcome. It helps that you’re all so easy to appease.” He flips open his bag, pulls out a small, worn, paperback book, tosses it toward you. You pick it up, run your hand over the well-loved cover, and hum.

“The Call of the Wild—this made it into the Aaron Hotchner Nightstand Collection?” He arches a brow.

“It’s so overrated that it’s underrated; no one ever actually reads it, they just assume they know what it’s about. It’s a great book, if you’ll give it a chance.”

“Hey, you’ve read all of mine without complaint; of course I’ll give it a chance.” You take the last, sad sip of your latte and stand up, point out the door with your thumb. “Speaking of, mine’s still downstairs on my desk. I’ll be right back.”

Exchanging books started as an offhand comment one night, on a flight home from Georgia, when he’d mentioned that he never buys new books, only cycles through the same ten or twelve he’s been reading since college. He knows what he likes, finds something different in the text each time he reads, and you’d found something so profoundly beautiful about that that you’d asked for the list. You wanted to know more about the books that tug at his emotions enough that he’s read them day in and day out for over twenty years with no boredom in sight.

He’d done you one better, said he’d be happy to lend them to you, if you’d like, and that was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Seeing college-aged Aaron’s notes in the margins of battered paperback novels was a prospect too good to be true.

Of course, you couldn’t accept the gesture without returning one of your own, so you’d offered to share your favorite books with him too, only... you don’t exactly give him your favorite books. You purposefully buy the cheesiest romance novels you can get your hands on, pass them off to him while he hands you poignant, classic novels that have won literary awards and Nobel prizes.

Today’s is called Lord of Scoundrels, complete with a shirtless man on the cover, kissing a woman with dark, flowing hair and a light blue dress; you snicker the whole way to your desk and back up to his office—earning curious glances from the rest of the team—and when you drop it on the desk in front of Aaron, you watch closely for a reaction.

As usual, he doesn’t really give you one, just flips the book over, skims the summary on the back, and nods.

“Sounds interesting,” he says, and your heart does a little flip.

He could easily hand the book back, laugh in your face, refuse to read something so clearly out of his wheelhouse, but he thinks these novels are important to you, and he never fails to read them, offering his favorite parts the same way you do for his.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t.

“I think you’ll really like it. Sebastian and Jessica start out kind of indifferent toward each other, but the more they interact, the more they find they have in common. It’s very acquaintances to friends to lovers, if you’re into that.” He looks up with an expression you place as uncertainty, even if you’re not quite sure the reason for it. You smile softly. “I should get to work, but thanks for the book. I’ll see you at lunch?”

It’s been so nice lately that you started taking your lunch outside, sitting on a bench beneath a huge, shady oak tree, and Aaron had taken to doing the same; you both quickly realized it was stupid to sit outside together, apart, so you meet up in the bullpen now and walk out side by side, spend the hour talking about your books or the team or Jack or life in general. He shakes the uncertain expression, nods his head.

“Of course. Thank you,” he says with a wave of the book, and you head back downstairs to start your day.

You’ve become mostly accustomed to the feeling, but it still surprises you a little when all that gets you through the day is thinking about your next conversation with Aaron. A week later, you’re on a case in Pittsburgh, and you and Aaron are paired up to room together. That’s nothing unusual—it seems like you’ve been rooming together more often than not lately, which is fine by you; he’s tidy, quiet, always interested in a late night snack, pretty much the perfect roommate—but when he opens the door and you step inside, the single king size bed in the middle of the room takes you by surprise.

“Uh… do you think it’s a mistake? Or maybe they just ran out of doubles?” you suggest; he's kind of frozen in place, and while it’s not ideal, you know it’s not actually going to be a problem. You’ve shared a bed with JJ before, and Spencer, and even though you don’t feel the same way about them as you do about Aaron, you think you can manage a couple nights in close quarters.

“Probably just ran out of doubles,” he agrees after a moment; he doesn’t bring up calling the front desk to ask for another room, so you don’t either, just hang your clothes and head into the bathroom to change into your pajamas and do your nightly routine.

It’s a little awkward at first, and you don’t know why; over the last six months or so, he’s actually become your closest friend on the team, and conversation usually comes easily, but silence settles over the room uncomfortably as you slip between the sheets on your side of the bed.

He goes into the bathroom, does his own nightly routine, then comes out in his pajamas and turns on CNN.

You take out your book, pay no attention to Aaron, but the longer he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the news ticker on the television screen but not actually watching it, the more you wish he’d just get over himself and come to bed. If he’s trying to wait for you to fall asleep, he’s going to be waiting a while.

“So you were right; I love Buck,” you say as a way to start some conversation, to bring some normalcy to this unusual situation. You hold up the book you’re reading, the one he let you borrow. “His struggle between remaining loyal to his owner and answering the call of the wild—I love dogs, but I never imagined a book about a dog could be so moving.”

He turns back with a soft smile, then switches off the tv and heads over to his side of the bed; he pulls back the comforter, slides between the sheets, meets you toward the middle of the bed.

“I told you you’d like it; what chapter are you on?” He leans over to look, so close it wouldn’t take much to lift a hand and brush it over his hair; it looks unfairly soft, and part of you wants to card your fingers through it, to tug on it and mess it up a little. He probably wouldn’t even mind if you did.

“Chapter 7—I only have a few pages left.” You snuggle more comfortably against your pillow, lean into his shoulder, and move the book so it’s more evenly between you. “Want to finish it with me?”

He does, and you read silently at a similar pace; he reaches up to turn the pages, and you think about how these hands have flipped through this book so many times before, what he might have been thinking, feeling, while reading. It’s a more intimate act than you’ve shared with anyone in a really long time.

When you finish the book, you sigh, let the feeling of reading a really great story envelope you; you turn to face Aaron, and he’s looking at you… and then there’s a knock at the door that startles you both.

He gets up, walks over and checks the peep hole, then opens the door.

“Are you sure?” you hear JJ ask, and he steps back so she can enter the room; when she sees you tucked snugly into the middle of the bed, she shoots you a soft smile and mouths you’re welcome, which makes absolutely no sense without context. You’ll have to bring it up to her later and ask what exactly you’re supposed to be thanking her for.

“So you said the detective called?” Aaron prompts her, and she looks away from you, nods.

“Yes, he wanted me to ask if we could have a few agents meet him at the second crime scene tomorrow instead of the precinct, figured it could save a little time.” Aaron looks confused, like he doesn’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow, but he ultimately agrees.

“Sure. You, Reid, and Prentiss can head straight there, if that’s what he wants. I’ll let them know in the morning.” JJ nods, and looks over at you, and then back at Aaron, who makes a kind but curious face. “Was there something else?”

“Huh? Oh, no, that’s it. I just didn’t want to forget. I’ll let you guys go—enjoy the rest of your night,” she says with a smile and a wave, and when he closes the door behind her, you both exchange a look.

She’s definitely acting a little weird, but it’s late, so you give her the benefit of the doubt.

You scoot over to your side, put the book on the nightstand and switch off your lamp; Aaron climbs back into bed and switches his off, too, and he turns to face the wall while you lay on your back and stare at the ceiling.

It takes about half an hour, but he falls asleep first; you turn to face him, watching his back, following the rise and fall as he softly breathes in sleep, and the peaceful rhythm lulls you into submission, and you drift off as well.

When you wake up a couple hours later, he is on his stomach with his face pressed into his pillow, and you are draped over his back with your cheek against his t-shirt. It’s soft, and warm, and smells like him, and you glance at the clock and realize it’s too early to do anything but get comfortable and fall back asleep, so that’s exactly what you do.

The next time you wake up, to light creeping in between the curtains, Aaron is no longer in bed, but you’re holding his pillow, still warm beneath your cheek. He doesn’t act weird when you get up and start moving around, just pops out of the bathroom with his toothbrush dangling from his mouth.

“Got you a latte,” he says around it, gesturing to the desk and the pair of paper cups that sit on it, and you grin.

“Seriously, you’re my favorite human,” you answer, and you grab your coffee and lean against the doorframe, sipping and sighing until you’re a little more clear-headed. “Sorry if I crushed you; guess I was restless last night. I usually don’t move around that much.”

He just shrugs, spits out a mouthful of foam into the sink.

“You didn’t crush me. I’m pretty solid, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease, looking at him over the lid as you take another sip. “Now hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom if you want to leave here at a decent hour.” He rinses, zips up his toiletry bag noisily for dramatic effect, and slips past you, rubbing a hand over your unruly bed head as he goes. The day passes quickly, with lots of interviewing witnesses, following dead-end leads, and bad police station coffee. When Aaron calls it and tells everyone to get some dinner, you all split off into smaller groups—Spencer and Derek go for Chinese, JJ and Emily opt for pizza, and you and Aaron end up at a retro diner with burgers and milkshakes and a plate of fries between you to share.

“I think we should be focusing more on the docks,” you say, dipping a fry in ketchup and taking a bite. “Even if that’s not where the bodies end up, it seems to be where the unsub is meeting with the victims. We could stake it out tonight, maybe. If you want.” You never want to step on his toes, because he is the boss, the leader, even if you’re friends too; you try to be careful how you phrase things, especially in front of other people, because you don’t want your comfort to look like disrespect, however unintentional.

“That’s a good idea. You and I can head down there after this; I’ll let the others know to patrol nearby, in case we need backup.”

He dusts off his fingers and pulls out his phone, types out a text, and you look around the restaurant—the place looks like it was ripped right out of the 50s, with a checkered floor and lots of red vinyl, a shiny jukebox in the corner. Out of place is a flatscreen tv behind the counter; during the day, when it’s busier, it might play news or sports, but you two are the only ones here at the moment, so the staff is hanging out beneath it watching a movie. It’s Titanic, you realize, when the iconic ‘Rose floating on a piece of debris’ scene plays, and you snort, take a long drag of your chocolate shake.

“I always hated this part. They could have found a way for him to survive, too. Unnecessary death for the heartache factor,” you say, and Aaron looks up from his phone to the screen, makes a sound of contemplation.

“I always thought it was kind of romantic. When you love someone, you’d do anything for them to be okay, even at your own expense. Even if it’s stupid.” You look over his face, study the features you know like the back of your hand, and you guess you can kind of see that, but you can’t say that, so you just sigh.

“I suppose you think Romeo and Juliet is romantic, too,” you tease, and he looks back at you, rolls his eyes.

“It’s very much of its time; it's a lot harder to suffer a miscommunication like that these days. And there is something to be said for star-crossed lovers—people who shouldn’t be together, for one reason or another, but can’t help but drift close anyway.” You swirl your straw in the metal cup, thinking briefly of how that happens to describe the two of you, and when you look up at him, you think you see a hint of that same thought on his face.

More likely, that’s just wishful thinking.

“I like the sword-fights,” you say to lighten the mood, and he laughs, and you both polish off the rest of your food and then head for the docks.

Two hours in and absolutely nothing has happened, but just when you’re ready to complain, or suggest playing I Spy or something, there’s movement from one of the shipping containers to your right. You nudge Aaron, point to the container, and you both creep closer, trying to make out the situation.

When you’re just around the corner, it’s clearly two men fighting, but you obviously don’t know if this is your unsub, two random guys having it out on the docks, or what, so you mutually agree to wait until you have some kind of sign that this is your guy. When one of them pulls out a hunting knife that looks vaguely similar to your murder weapon—as close as you can tell in the dark, anyway—you raise your guns and identify yourselves as FBI.

The unsub drops the knife, but fists his hands in the other guy’s jacket, manhandles him to the edge of the dock, and shoves him into the water, then jumps as well. You swear, and Aaron takes off his jacket, throws it on the ground, then his phone on top of it, and looks back at you.

“Stay here and call for backup,” he instructs, and then he jumps in too; you call the team from your comms, get a response from Emily, and then toss your phone onto Aaron’s jacket and follow him.

He, of course, went for the victim first, so you look for the unsub, who is not visible above the water. You completely submerge yourself, feeling for more than looking for him, because the water is cloudy on a good day and pitch black at ten o’clock at night; when you pop your head up for air, you see Aaron getting the victim up onto the dock, and the unsub bobbing a bit further out. You swim to him, limbs aching, and he seems to know it’s time to give up.

He’s winded, gasping for breath, so you keep him above the water to your own detriment, dragging him by his wet jacket instead of cuffing him, because you’re not trying to kill the guy or lug his unconscious body back to shore. You just barely keep your own head above water most of the time, coming up for big gulps of air when absolutely necessary.

You finally make it to the dock, and your team has arrived, so Derek pulls him out of the water, makes sure he’s alright, and puts some cuffs on him. Aaron’s hands are on you right after, getting you up on the dock, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.

Despite the warm spring breeze, the water was freezing, and you can feel your teeth chattering. He rubs your arms for warmth, crouches down to look you seriously in the eyes.

“Thought I told you to stay here,” he says with an arched brow, a scowl you can tell is more concerned than angry. You wet your frozen lips and try your best to smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack.”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot, but fondly, if that’s possible, then hugs you so tightly, guides your face to press against his warm neck. How he’s not teetering on the edge of hypothermia is anyone’s guess.

“Your lips are practically blue. Stupid,” he murmurs, but his mouth dusts over your temple in what is unmistakably a kiss, and when you’re able to feel your lips again, you reciprocate, press them a little harder against his throat while you shiver in his arms.

It doesn’t mean anything except I’m happy we’re both alive. Probably.

That night in bed, he faces the wall, and you stare at the ceiling, but you wake up with your nose against the back of his neck. The way he’s breathing tells you he’s not asleep, and when you wrap your arms around him, he holds them tight. Things don’t change after Pittsburgh, and that’s okay. You are comfortable with the way things are, and you love what you have—lunches under the oak tree, the exchange of books, late night texts when you both can’t sleep, hands brushing when you walk to the parking garage, glances shared across the jet. All those things make it easy not to focus on what you don’t have, what you’re not even sure Aaron would want anyway.

You exchange books again on Friday at lunch: he hands you Beloved by Toni Morrison, a book you already know and adore, and you hand him Ravished by Amanda Quick.

“Dubbed the Beast of Blackthorne Hall for his scarred face and lecherous past, Gideon,” Aaron shoots you a glance—“that’s purely coincidental”—“was strong and fierce and notoriously menacing. Yet Harriet could not find it in her heart to fear him. For in his tawny gaze she sensed a savage pain she longed to soothe... and a searing passion she yearned to answer.”

You hold back a smile.

“It’s a modern retelling of a classic story—Beauty and the Beast,” you add, taking a bite of your sandwich. He looks you over like there’s something he wants to say, but he just tucks it under his arm and steals a piece of melon from your lunch.

“I have Jack this weekend, so I probably won’t get to read much, but it sounds intriguing.”

“Well I hope you like it when you read it. Tell him I said hi; it’s been too long since I saw him. I bet he’s looking more like you every day,” you say, popping a piece of melon into your mouth. He smiles softly.

“A little, but Haley says she sees her father in him, and I have to agree. We may have to wait a few years until he looks like me; he’s too cute for that now.” He doesn’t sound self-deprecating, just fond, but you can’t let a comment like that stand, regardless.

“You’re cute; the difference is that kids are cute all the time. You’re an adult, so sometimes you’re handsome, sometimes you’re cute, sometimes you’re hot… it can be hard to reconcile.” This time, he looks you over with something light and playful in his eyes, and it’s something you want to explore, but the timer on your phone goes off, indicating that lunch is over, so you just exhale softly and pack up your things.

You don’t talk much after that—his Fridays are usually busy with meetings, and he leaves in a hurry to pick up Jack, which is understandable.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope invite you out for drinks and dinner—“because we know Hotch is busy,” Penelope says, which has literally nothing to do with your weekend plans, but you don’t correct them—so you don’t linger either.

You go out for Italian, so you are sleepy and full of wine and pasta by the end of the evening, and you smile at your friends.

“Thanks for inviting me out tonight, guys. I had a really good time.”

“Of course,” Emily says, taking her last sip of Pinot Noir. “We barely see you anymore; it was long overdue.”

“Definitely,” you agree. “I should really try to drag my ass out of bed more often.” You can’t help it, though, that after a long day, your bed and a good book just call your name. You’ve always been introverted in that way. JJ laughs softly, chin in her palm, elbow on the table.

“Honeymoon phase. Give it another couple months and you’ll be past that.” You do have a new memory foam mattress that has made sinking into the pillows and blankets all that more indulgent, but you didn’t think JJ knew about that. And you’ve never heard of a honeymoon phase for a mattress before.

“Eh, I don’t think so. There’s literally nothing more satisfying on this earth.” The three of them exchange an amused look, but your phone vibrates, and that catches your attention; you smile when it’s Aaron, sending you a photo of Jack with a toothy grin and his hands covered in fingerpaint. You look up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.

“Alright, we’ve lost her. See you all Monday,” Emily says, pulling you in for a hug; when she steps back, she smiles. “And tell Hotch we said hi.”

“I will,” you promise as you hug the other two. You hang back a moment, type out a reply—Looks like you’re having lots of fun without me!—and get into your car to head home.

You change into comfy clothes, drink a glass of water, and climb into bed with Beloved, and at around 9:30 you receive a reply.

Having the most fun we can without you. Maybe next time Jack is over, we can tempt you with dinosaur chicken nuggets and fingerpaint?

You smile, the happiest you’ve been all night—and that’s saying something, because you really did have a great time—and send back, It’s a date. Come Monday, you’re feeling pretty good, well-rested and relaxed from probably too much time in bed, but Aaron looks upset when he walks into the morning meeting. He keeps it short and sweet, and everyone disperses quickly, giving you sympathetic looks as you hang back to try to have a word with him. He clears off the white board, tidies up the table that doesn’t need tidying, and you place a hand on his back, gentle and comforting. He sighs, and you can feel the tension leave him almost instantly.

“Hey. What’s bothering you?” you ask softly, leaning around to try to catch his expression; he looks tired, sad, and maybe a little conflicted, leans into your touch.

“Taking Jack back to Haley’s was rough last night; it always is, but yesterday was really bad.” You know a little about this from weekends past, how Jack always cries when Aaron has to leave, how he feels terrible about it for the rest of the evening, but it must have been extreme for him to still be so upset. “And Haley…” He sighs again, runs his hand through his hair. “It’s like it’s one step forward, two steps back with her sometimes.”

“Why don’t we go sit in your office and you can tell me more?” You want to continue discussing this—that’s what friends are for, and he’s clearly in a bad state emotionally, you think it could help—but he just shakes his head.

“No, I… it’s okay. I don’t want to weigh you down with my problems.” You take your hand off his back, lean a hip against the table and look up at him.

“I’m not just your friend when it’s all easy breezy, lunch in the sunshine, talking about our favorite books,” you say with a sad smile; he reciprocates a little, which is more than you expected. “I’m here when things are complicated, when you have bad days, too. The Monday blues especially.” One of his hands rests on the table, and you cover it with yours, lean in to press your forehead to his shoulder. “Let me be here, okay? Even if all you need me to do is listen.”

It takes a moment, and his eyes are wet when he finally responds; he inhales deeply, nods, and brushes his free hand over your head in something of a hug, murmurs a rough, “okay.”

You sit in his office for an hour—which, again, is more than you expected—listening to him talk about his weekend with Jack, how heartbreaking it was to take him back to Haley’s, how he tried talking to her about taking him more often and she just wasn’t sure she could trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He understands where she’s coming from, knows he’s been unable to keep his word in the past, thinks he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt; he hasn’t asked for advice, seems to just want to vent, so you just listen.

“Then I mentioned you, that you might come for dinner next time he’s over, and she was worried about that,” he says, exasperated, and you frown.

“Why would she worry about that? I’ve been around him lots of times.” It doesn't make sense, because Haley has always been nothing but sweet to you; Aaron looks up at your question, and it seems a little like maybe he hadn’t meant to say that part, though you can’t imagine why.

“It’s just different now… because he’s older,” he says after a brief moment of hesitation. “She doesn’t want him getting attached to someone who might not always be around, you know.” You sigh softly, because if that’s all it is…

You lean forward, take his hand, squeeze it tight.

“I’m always going to be around, Aaron. I can talk to her, if you want, tell her that.”

“No, it’s—you don’t have to do that.” He squeezes your hand back, closes his eyes for a beat. “Just hearing you say it, it makes things easier. I’ll talk to her again next time.”

You talk a little more, and he seems a lot better afterward, even if he is a bit less expressive during lunch; you figure any progress is good, but it makes you sad to see him so down, so naturally, you formulate a plan to help get him back to the Aaron you know and love.

At the end of the day, when he makes his way to the bullpen, you spin around in your chair, take him by the sleeve.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” you say in no uncertain tone of voice. “For a few hours. I’ll bring you back for your car.” He agrees with a fond look, and you lose yourself in the expression for a moment, then stand up, grab your things, and walk with him out to the garage.

Rush hour traffic is what it is, and you leave Aaron in charge of the music, which means you get The Beatles and The Who, Rolling Stones and Neil Diamond, and you’re both singing along and so much happier by the time you pull into the parking lot of the bodega nearest your apartment.

“Just running in for provisions—be right back,” you say with a grin, and when you return with two paper bags of loot, he looks at you like you might be his favorite person in the world with an age in the double digits. It’s a look you love putting on his face.

“Do I get to see what provisions you’ve acquired?” he asks, teasing, but you shake your head and tell him he’ll see it when you get there.

With a pit stop in your apartment to grab a blanket and a few throw pillows, you take him up to the roof and get things ready for your makeshift picnic. There is white wine, still mostly chilled; cubed cheese, far from gourmet but no less delicious; crusty french bread that was fresh this morning but at this hour is a little extra crusty; blueberries, because they didn’t have grapes; dark chocolate, because you share a fondness for it; and paper cups for the wine.

Aaron takes a look at your bounty, spread over the blanket, and smiles the first real smile you’ve seen all day.

“Fancy,” he teases, and he takes off his jacket, gets on the ground with you. You pour each of you some wine, pop a blueberry in your mouth.

“No, but I thought a meal—and I do call it that loosely—under the stars might do you some good.” You lift your paper cup and tap it against his, brush your fingers over his hand. “To the best boss, best dad, best friend I could ask for.” You take a sip, but he doesn’t at first, watches you with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Do I get to make a toast?” he asks after a few beats, and you smile, nod, and hold up your cup. “To the only person stupid enough to jump into a freezing cold river after me. To the only person I would consider eating a bodega dinner with. To the only person who sees me the way you do.” You both take a sip, which is hard to swallow around the lump in your throat. He looks into your eyes, then breaks the dark chocolate into slivers and hands you a piece like he didn’t just say the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you before.

You eat, and talk, and drink, and when you’re done with dinner you put everything back in the bags and lay back on the blanket, side by side, and stare up at the stars. The moon is high and full, shining while the stars twinkle around it, and you can’t think of a single time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“This was really perfect,” Aaron says, almost a whisper, after about twenty minutes of companionable silence. “I can’t thank you enough for being there for me today.” You turn to face him, hands curled up under your chin, and he turns toward you as well. He’s so handsome in the moonlight your heart almost aches.

“You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to see you happy.” You feel your eyes well up with tears, because he deserves to be happy; you sigh, blink them away, and he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, rests them there for a long time. When he eventually pulls back, you bring a hand to his hair, brush it back at his temple, and then the creaking of the door makes you pull back, sit up.

It’s your neighbor from 422, who you’ve seen on the roof a handful of times, sneaking away from his wife to smoke a cigarette. He squints in the dark, recognizes you, and waves.

“Hey, 418! You’re not alone tonight.” Aaron sits up too, and you laugh softly.

“Nope, but we were just leaving. The roof is all yours.” Aaron stands, pulls you up, and you grab the blanket and pillows while he grabs the bags, and the two of you head back down to your place.

It’s after ten when you get the groceries put away, and you stand next to Aaron in your small kitchen, contemplating what you want to say next. Your mouth betrays your brain, says what you’ve been thinking but weren’t quite sure how to approach.

“It’s late; I know I said I’d take you back to your car, but you could stay here if you want. I have a spare toothbrush, and I know you have a spare suit at the office, and it’s not like it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed before.”

You’d completely understand if he’d rather go home—you hate when your plans are changed at the last minute, and you prefer to do your full nightly routine for your sanity’s sake—but he only nods, and you lead your way to the bedroom, show him the master bath.

You are in your pajamas, tucked into bed, when he comes out in his boxers and undershirt; he hangs up his suit in your closet where you’d left him some space, then climbs in beside you. He looks over at you, then past you, at your nightstand, which has a stack of books on it—none of them romance novels. You grin, busted after months of book exchanges, and he leans over you to look at the titles.

“Persuasion, To Kill A Mockingbird, One Hundred Years of Solitude—Beloved.” He looks from your copy of the novel to his, which you hold in your hands, and you shrug sheepishly.

“I like reading the notes you put in the margins,” you say meekly, hoping he’s not angry, but all he does is laugh.

“Let me guess: you don’t actually like romance novels.” He leans back against your pillow, and so do you, resting the book on your lap.

“I mean, I don’t not like them… but I’ve been buying those just for you.” The smile on his face is brilliant, and only makes you yearn for him more; things you have been purposefully not feeling are flooding your heart and mind and body now, with him so close, laughing over this stupid secret you’ve been hiding for so long. “And you, sweet man that you are, have been reading them, and discussing them.” You put your hand on his shoulder, and he ducks his head to laugh again.

“Since we’re being honest… I didn’t read all of them. I tried,” he says when you act offended, shoving the shoulder you’re resting against, “but some of them were so bad. I just flipped through, found something I thought could pass as my favorite part, and hoped to hell you didn't ask too many questions.”

You both laugh until you’re breathless—he is so different from how he was this morning it makes you want to cry—and when your laughter dies down you look at each other, sharing breath, two heads on one pillow; is it any wonder you bridge the distance, pull him close for a warm, gentle kiss?

When you break the kiss, you are instantly worried about what Aaron will do—you aren’t drunk, aren’t even tipsy, so you know he can’t be, so much bigger and more solid than you, but will he think it’s a mistake? He kissed back, you’re pretty sure, but maybe that was an accident, something done on autopilot—

He leans in for a second kiss, mouth deceptively soft, and you curl your arm around his back, press into it with lips desperate not to let this end now that it’s started. When you separate, you are both looking into each other’s eyes again, breathing a bit heavily, and you meet in the middle for a third kiss, the best kiss you’ve ever had in your life.

That kiss ends when you yawn in his face, and he chuckles softly, leans over and switches off your bedside lamp; you smile at the ceiling, and he wraps his arms around you, presses his lips to your shoulder, and tells you good night. The next day, the two of you arrive at work early so he can shower and change into his fresh clothes without anyone on the team noticing—not that you think they would really care, but they’re nosy, and a little annoying, so you both agree that’s probably for the best.

You don’t talk about the kisses, even though they’ve been the only thing running through your mind since they happened; you promise to discuss it at lunch, though, and that’s such a sweet, romantic prospect that you think you prefer it better that way anyway.

Only, you don’t ever get to lunch, because there’s an urgent case in Minneapolis, an all hands on deck situation, meaning even Penelope joins you on the jet. You debrief on the flight, hunker down in the conference room, and split up to cover more ground; you barely get to speak to Aaron the whole time you’re there except to be given instructions and to fill him on what, if anything, you’ve learned.

You don’t even make it to your hotel that night, working around the clock to catch the people responsible for terrorizing the city. It takes not one, but almost two full days, and when you board the jet on Wednesday evening, everyone is dead on their feet. You barely remember the flight or the trip home, and you fall onto your bed fully clothed and crash just like that.

Thursday is your birthday, which you almost forgot, and so you assumed everyone else would too. You should have known better, because even if your team can be annoying, they are still your friends, and they love you, so you are well and truly spoiled.

You are treated to a latte and bagels from Emily, purple cupcakes with silver sprinkles from Penelope, a piggy back ride from Derek, a book of poetry you’ve had your eye on from Spencer, and a card from JJ—really, it turns out, from all of them.

“Enjoy a romantic getaway on us?” There’s some kind of certificate in the card, and when you flip it over, you discover that it’s for a hotel and spa that offers couples massages, mud baths, intimate aromatherapy? You arch a brow. “Uh, thanks, guys. Are you trying to tell me something here?” JJ’s face falls a little and she points to the card.

“It’s a romantic getaway. For you and Hotch? Since things have been so hectic lately,” she says, but your ears are kind of ringing and your brain is stuck on the for you and Hotch part.

“Oh. Um. Sorry—it’s just kind of soon, I think? How do you guys even know about that?” you murmur. The two of you haven’t had time to discuss Monday yet, and you haven’t spoken a word to anyone; you wouldn’t have guessed Aaron would have either, but there is a gift certificate for a romantic getaway in your hands, and you’re kind of spiraling.

“Well come on, we haven’t exactly been pretending we don’t know,” Emily says, and you can feel the confusion in your features when you look up at her. “And you guys haven’t been exactly secretive. We’re happy for you, though.”

“I mean, we haven’t been secretive, but we haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet. It’s only been three days.” You are met with looks similar to the one on your own face.

“What do you mean, three days?” Spencer asks with a frown. “You and Hotch have been dating for almost two months. Right?” he says, looking at the others, and they nod, but it’s tentative. Your first reaction is to flush, and you close the card, fan your face with it.

“You guys think… You guys thought…” You look at them, then up at Aaron’s office; there’s no way he can know that you’re having a moment, but he chooses then to come downstairs, coincidentally. He’s smiling at first, but it falls when he looks at your face.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” He presses a cool hand to your hot cheek, flicks his eyes over yours, and JJ makes a noise; when you glance over at her, she’s gesturing between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, we were wrong? What were we supposed to think?” Aaron frowns, not following, and you take a deep breath.

“They got me a gift certificate for my birthday. To a spa. For you and I to have a romantic getaway, because they were under the assumption we’ve been dating… for two months.” The way he pulls back quickly makes your stomach ache a little, but you say nothing. You should have known.

“You say I love you,” Derek begins like he’s listing evidence. “You have lunch together every day. You’re always smiling at each other.”

“Seriously, some of the softest, gooiest smiles I’ve ever seen,” Penelope adds.

“You eat together on cases, you’re texting all the time when you’re not together.”

“I’ve been pairing the two of you up in hotels since I first figured out you were dating,” JJ says, and the whole ‘you’re welcome’ thing suddenly makes some sense. “I booked you that room with just the one bed so you’d maybe feel more comfortable about us knowing, so you’d see that we don’t mind.”

“You’re always looking at each other, always touching,” Spencer says. “In Pittsburgh—that was the first time you really hugged or kissed each other in front of us. We were trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but it was kind of a big deal.”

You look over at Aaron, try to gauge his reaction, but for the first time in a long time you can’t tell what he’s feeling. You can’t really tell what you’re feeling, either. Sadness. Worry. Loss? But what have you lost?

“We’re friends,” you say, even if it sounds weak to your own ears. “We’re… close.”

“We wouldn’t exactly make sense as a couple, would we?” Aaron asks rhetorically, and your heart clenches when he says that. He told you this morning that he’d made dinner plans for you, both for your birthday and to discuss the kisses, what they mean, where you go from here, but that doesn’t sound very promising anymore. “We’re just—”

“Star-crossed,” you say, but you feel like your eyes are vacant. You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You’re stupid for kissing him, for letting yourself think he could feel the same way you feel, have felt for a while. Isn’t friendship enough? Don’t you already have this special bond so unlike what you have with anyone else in your life? Why press your luck? You know better than that. “We should get back to work.”

You don’t look at Aaron, so you don’t know whether or not he looks at you. JJ does, and you can tell she knows you’re upset, but she just nudges everyone on their way, and you take a seat at your desk—it’s covered in balloons and streamers, the Penelope special.

You’ve never felt less like celebrating.

At lunchtime, Aaron stops at your desk, and the two of you walk out to the bench, open your bags in silence. You’re almost halfway through the hour before he tries to speak.

“Uh. I. About earlier,” he finally gets out, looking down at his sandwich, and you shake your head even though he’s not watching you.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to.” You take a bite of your salad even though you don’t taste it. “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. You are who you are,” smart, sweet, handsome, tender, caring, “and I am who I am.” Too quiet, too young, too impulsive, too silly, too emotional. He nods, looks at your face for the first time in a while, swallows.

“Right.” You’re due to exchange books back—his is on your lap, yours is on his—and he picks them both up. “I’m like this,” he says, holding up Beloved. “Faded cover, dog-eared pages, scribbles in the margins: middle-aged, divorced, a little broken, barely holding it together for the kid I don’t get to spend enough time with. You’re like this,” he says, holding up Ravished. “Fresh and glossy and shiny and new, with your whole life ahead of you, the whole world ahead of you. You could do anything, with anyone.”

You frown, because this is not what you meant, at all. How could he think that about himself, when the well-loved cover and the dog-eared pages and the scribbles in the margins are all the best parts of him?

“Aaron,” you say, but it sounds like pleading; you reach out to put your hands on his arms, but he pulls them back. His eyes are rimmed red, lips pressed together to hold back everything he’s not saying.

“I think lunch is almost over.” He packs up his things, leaves you with tears in your eyes and a wilted salad and a brand new romance novel you’re never going to read.

Later, he cancels dinner, says something came up, and you go home to your empty bed and watch Titanic and bawl your eyes out when Rose tells Jack she’ll never let go. Friday, you get another case. Weekend cases are no one’s favorite, but especially not yours, when you desperately needed that buffer of time away from Aaron to sort out your feelings and get back to some sense of normalcy. Instead, you’re flying to a small town outside of Nashville to catch a serial arsonist, and when you get to your hotel, you and Aaron are sharing a room.

At least there are two beds, this time.

You go with Emily and Spencer to a crime scene, walking around a house that was once picture perfect and is now all charred wood and ash, and you quickly tell yourself to get a grip and not look for metaphors for your own life while trying to solve a case. What kind of investigator are you? Pathetic, apparently.

You work until evening, and when it’s time to break for dinner, you buy a sad looking assortment of items from the police station vending machine and eat in the conference room by yourself.

It’s a good thing you do, because they get a call about the fire while everyone is still away, and you and a few locals are the first on the scene.

It doesn’t start out bad, mostly located in the back of the house, but you know how quickly these things can spread, and the fire department is working hard to put it out. One of the officers is talking to the family, and the mother is crying, so you come closer to figure out why.

“She said the daughter was supposed to be staying at a friend’s, but sometimes she changes her mind at the last minute and comes home. She can’t get ahold of her,” the officer says, and you nod, thinking.

“Where would she be? The front or the back?”

“Her room is in the front, second floor; if she’s here, that’s where she’d be,” the mother says, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and you tell the officer to stay with them, that you’ll take care of it. You talk to the firefighters—this town is so small there are only two that were able to respond, and they’re both busy trying to put out the fire, but they clear you to go in if you stick to the front of the building and get out of there as fast as you can.

Your team isn’t here yet either, too far out for comms to be effective, and you can’t get ahold of Aaron, so you make a judgement call and head inside.

The front of the house is so eerily normal it’s almost easy to calm your nerves and pretend the back isn’t in the process of being destroyed. You open the front door, run up the staircase, and call out for the girl; she answers, not from the front of the house, but the back—a bathroom maybe? Flames lick up the wall beside it, but you can get to the knob, and she comes rushing out, into your arms, terrified. You weren't expecting that, and you both fall back: your head hits off the floor, but she seems okay, so you tell her to run out the front door and find her mom.

You press a hand to the back of your head, and it comes back tacky with blood. There’s ringing in your ears for a couple of minutes, and then your favorite voice in the world comes through.

“Where are you? We’re here, where are you?” You’re getting hotter, and when you crane your neck up, you can see why: the fire is getting closer, creeping toward the staircase, creeping toward you. You inhale, cough, and press your walkie button.

“I’m upstairs in the hall; hit my head. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming for you.” You groan. Stubborn man.

“It’s not safe, Aaron.” You hear the crackle of static, hope maybe he heard your warning and will wait until more firefighters arrive—but knowing him the way you do, that’s just wishful thinking. His voice rings out again, and despite the pain, you can’t help but smile.

“You jump, I jump, Jack. Just stay put; I’ll be right there.” You close your eyes, drift in and out of consciousness; when you see him, all you can think is how ridiculously in love with him you are, and that you really hope you’ll be around to tell him. You are, of course, fine. Your head is the worst of it, even the smoke inhalation was mild, and the fire didn’t touch you, so there are no burns. Aaron doesn’t leave your side the entire time you’re being checked over, looks serious and concerned, though he smiles when the mother comes over and squeezes you so tightly you wince a little. It starts to rain, making the firefighters' jobs a little easier, and it feels oddly cleansing, after the day you’ve had. Someone offers you an umbrella, but you decline.

The fire is successfully put out, and the half of your team that didn’t respond to the scene responded to a call for suspicious activity, which ends up being your unsub. You are all happy no one was killed this time, and since you’re staying the night again, the group decides to grab a drink to celebrate. You don’t have a concussion, but your head still aches, so you pass, and Aaron passes with you.

You head to the hotel, park in the lot, but you don’t even make it halfway across before you stop, a hand on his arm.

“I need to say something,” you tell him, and he looks up at the dark sky like, right here? Right now?, even though you’re both already drenched. You nod, because if you don’t do this now you might never—almost dying always gives you an unhealthy amount of confidence, which you attribute to equal amounts of adrenaline and stupidity. “When we first met, I didn’t think we’d have a lot in common. We’re both quiet, but in wildly different ways, and I’m quick to trust and let people in while your guard is almost never down.”

He looks a little sad at that, and you realize you’re kind of doing what he did, putting the two of you into completely different categories, emphasizing the ways you don’t belong together. But that’s dumb, so you don’t give him time to focus on that for long.

“But being your friend, Aaron—the more time I spent with you, the more I came to feel like no one has ever understood me the way you do. No one has ever seen me the way you do.” Rain is pouring down all around you, beating against the pavement, flattening your hair against your head, but you don’t care. Regardless of his reaction, this is actually kind of perfect. “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you—that was an accident, I admit. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You step closer to him, put your hands on his waist; he doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need shiny, glossy things; you're the one I want—faded cover, dog-eared pages, notes in the margins. I love you exactly as you are.”

He is gorgeous in the rain, water in his hair, dripping off his nose. His expression looks hopeful, and you pray to god that’s not wishful thinking.

“Say something, anything,” you beg, anticipation killing you, and he presses his hands to your cheeks and pulls you close for a deep, passionate, soulful kiss that says it all.

The words are nice to hear, though.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with you either,” he breathes against your lips when the kiss breaks. “I told myself it was just a crush, because someone so young and beautiful was paying so much attention to me, treating me like more than just the guy giving orders. But the more time I spent with you, the more undeniable it became. You are everything good about the world—bright, optimistic, caring, funny, sweet. How could anyone not fall in love with you?”

You swallow hard, lean up to press your lips against his again.

“When you said we wouldn’t make sense as a couple…” He shakes his head.

“That was just me chickening out. After we kissed, I was all but ready to ask you to go steady,” he says, and you both smile, because he’s such an old fashioned dork, but god, do you love him. “And then we found out that the team thought we’d been together for months, and you looked freaked out, so I freaked out. I’m sorry. I should have made us talk about it sooner.”

“Classic pointless miscommunication,” you say with a laugh, and he chuckles too, kisses you again.

“Let’s go inside and get dried off; there’s a birthday gift in my bag I’ve been meaning to give you.” He takes your hand, and you head up, duck into the bathroom to change into dry clothes, squeeze the water out of your hair. There is a small, flat, wrapped present on your bed when you emerge, and you smile, sink down to open it.

It’s Romeo and Juliet, a brand new copy, but when you flip through it, there are blue inked notes in the margins. Aaron comes to sit beside you, touches your face like you’re something precious.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” he murmurs, and you smack him on the arm with the book.

“That’s from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I know you know that,” you say with a grin. He nods in admission, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, lean in for a warm, loving kiss. When you pull back, it’s with a soft smile. “Give me my sin again?”

“My pleasure,” he whispers, and you sink into his embrace and promise never to let go. The following week, you both leave work at noon on Friday so you can enjoy your romantic getaway. You drive to the spa, and Aaron reads over the brochure on his phone with a tone you find hilarious.

“Mud bath—I’m not bathing in mud. That’s counterintuitive.”

“It’s special mud; more like clay,” you say, but he snorts, scrolls.

“Seaweed wrap—nobody is wrapping me in seaweed. That sounds like a nightmare.” You laugh softly and take your exit.

“It’s supposed to be rejuvenating. JJ recommended it.”

“JJ weighs fifty pounds. It would take all the seaweed in the Atlantic to wrap me,” he says, and you roll your eyes, jab your finger into his ribs.

“But what if I get to unwrap you?” you ask, eyebrows raised; you briefly glance over and he makes a face of contemplation.

“Okay, that’s a maybe. Intimate aromatherapy—what does that even mean?”

“I think it means we do something that makes us smell good and then we go back to our room and kiss and stuff.”

“Now that doesn’t sound half bad,” he murmurs. “Foot massage? I’m not letting a stranger touch my feet, that’s weird.” You look over at him, squinting.

“You literally plugged someone’s bullet wound with your finger yesterday, but someone touching your feet is where you draw the line? Will you do anything on the list?” He scrolls down it, and his extended silence makes you laugh.

“Meditation. Couples massage,” he says, reaching over to rest a hand on your thigh. “There’s a sauna.” You think of him, sweat-drenched in a fluffy white towel, and take a deep, calming breath. “I bet the room is nice; did you bring a book?” You smile indulgently, reach out a hand to brush through his hair.

“Yep. It’s called A Duke’s Wild Kiss…” He gives you a mildly withering look, and you lightly tap the bridge of his nose. “Just kidding. I brought To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.” His answering smile is brilliant.

“Are you serious?” You nod, and he gestures to the backseat, where your bags are. “That’s what I brought, too.”

You spend too much of your romantic getaway in your room, but it is really nice; you do the couples massage, though, and aromatherapy, and the sauna, and then you take turns giving each other a foot massage while the other reads To the Lighthouse out loud.

The world probably doesn’t deserve Aaron Hotchner; you definitely don’t, but somehow you get to keep him anyway. A/N: Though I snuck in a few parts of a few different lyrics, two lines in particular inspired this fic: 'Now I've read all of the books beside your bed' and 'I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this.' A lot of my fics lately have incorporated books... guess I better get reading!

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #paper rings #inspired by #taylor swift

910 notes · View notes

barchie-fanfiction · 3 years

Text

in case you missed it...

hello from your barchie-fanfiction admins! thanks for following us - over the next few days we’ll be posting some author masterlists of some heavy hitters in the fandom (think 5+ fics!), but until then... we thought everyone needed some more season five in their lives.

so, in case you missed them... a collection of completed fics (as of march 5th) that take place somewhere in season five canon (or not canon)!

pre time jump

(stop fighting) and know our love is real Author: Littlebarchie07 Rating: General Length: 2,019 Summary: 3 times Archie starts coming to terms with potentially losing Betty and the 1 time he realises they will always be connected. Notes: Part 2/2 of The Truth series.

(stop pretending) and let our love begin Author: Littlebarchie07 Rating: General Length: 1,244 Summary: 3 times Betty lies, and the 1 time she finally admits the truth. Notes: Part 1/2 of The Truth series.

but we were something, don’t you think so? Author: societysgot Rating: General Length: 1,718 Summary: "Why didn't you tell me?" She tries to look him in the eye but finds that she can't, "That you were leaving." "Well I—" "Why Arch?" Notes: An alternate take on the bus scene, and before.

closing walls and ticking clocks Author: inthehallway Rating: Teen Length: 3,365 Summary: Maybe you need to consider why you’re really so terrified of him finding out. Is it only because you know you’ll lose him? Or is it also because you’re scared of the feelings you’ll be forced to face once he’s gone? After prom, Betty can't hide from the truth anymore. Notes: An alternate take on prom. AKA, everyone finds out.

Dancing is a dangerous game Author: Littlebarchie07 Rating: General Length: 1,081 Summary: Based on the lyrics from “you’re a cowboy like me”. Betty-Barchie centric of an AU prom scene. Notes: AKA Archie and Betty actually dance like they should have.

for what it’s worth it was worth all the while Author: bettycooopers Rating: General Length: 1,030 Summary: Betty slips into the back door of the Andrews house the way she has a thousand times before, but this morning it feels different...despite the fact that it still, somehow, feels like the most natural thing in the world. Notes: Takes place the last day of school. Aaaaand we’re sad again.

i’ve been looking sad in all the nicest places Author: societysgot Rating: Teen Length: 1,399 Summary: "It's not that simple," She went to place a hand on his arm, but he felt himself pulling away before she made contact. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Well, it shouldn't be this hard." Notes: They talk!! They discuss things!! Betty actually knows that Veronica knows!! A gift.

If This Was A Movie Author: booksnshows Rating: General Length: 3,228 Summary: Betty Cooper has been dreaming of prom since she was a little girl. The truth is...she always pictured going with Archie Andrews. Notes: An alternate take on prom. Written early post S4.

so give me tonight Author: bettycooopers Rating: General Length: 2,392 Summary: They (whoever they are, exactly,) say that prom night is supposed to be one of the best nights of your life. Archie Andrews would like to go on record saying that is absolute bullshit. Notes: Did someone say prom porch parallel?

there’s no warning when everything changes Author: bettycooopers Rating: General Length: 1,525 Summary: The song sounds different coming from Veronica, so it doesn’t occur to Betty until she hears it: he’s not made for this world, and neither am I. Notes: A look is worth a thousand words. Sometimes, 1500 of them.

valentine Author: spideychoni Rating: Not Rated Length: 2,333 Summary: when things fall apart in archie and betty’s relationships, will they find each other again? a graduation after party changes everything for the blonde haired girl and the redheaded boy. Noted: A graduation after party?? Eyes emoji.

You Were The Someone Waiting For Me Author: darlingfilms Rating: Teen Length: 1,123 Summary: Picture this, it’s the senior prom in Riverdale and Betty and Archie go with their partners, but it’s clear who they’d rather be with. Notes: The author mentions there’s another chapter, but it’s marked as completed, so! Enjoy!

time jump

'tis the damn season Author: bettycooopers Rating: Mature Length: 13,878 Summary: you could call me babe for the weekend 'tis the damn season A Taylor Swift inspired "we're dating, but only during the holidays" AU told in five parts. Notes: Liberties taken - namely, they do talk within those years, and Archie doesn’t get deployed - but otherwise follows canon. Also, it’s epic.

all i want for christmas Author: bettycooopers Rating: General Length: 3,527 Summary: Archie’s heard of an orphan Christmas before, but he didn’t actually think he’d have one...at least, not yet. Notes: Written pre-S5, so FP doesn’t leave!

come home to my heart Author: inthehallway Rating: Mature Length: 9,248 Summary: He’s only been here for a few hours, and she already feels like a piece of her that’s been missing for too long is shifting back into place. But he's going to leave in a few days, and they'll have to say goodbye to each other all over again. She wonders if this will even be worth the pain it's going to cause them both in the end. Two years after graduation, Archie visits Betty at Yale. Notes: Sequel to didn’t know you were golden ‘til i tore your heart open. Written after S4, so Archie goes to the navy, not the army!

post time jump

all the bad dreams that you hide Author: bettycooopers Rating: General Length: 2,708 Summary: Betty has control of the nightmares. At least, that's what she tells herself. Notes: Based off of that Roommates Theory we all fell prey to. What happened in Albany, Cher?! Tell us!!!

Honey Author: JemmaLynn13 Rating: Mature Length: 6,755 Summary: A post shower fic where Betty finds herself wearing Archie's bathrobe with no other clothes to change into. Notes: Seriously, how did this girl get home? Alice is gonna find out by 5x07, at this rate.

Hush, I’m Here Author: NewObsessed Rating: Teen Length: 1,350 Summary: He stares up at the ceiling. Everytime he closes his eyes, all he sees is the battlefield and his fellow soldiers laying motionless across the grounds. Still he tries to let sleep come. After what feels like mere seconds, his eyes pop open again. Only this time, it isn’t because of his nightmare. It's because of someone else’s. Her scream slices through the silence of the house. Notes: We may have lost roommates in canon, but not in fic!!! The potential, friends.

i am your secret, baby, watch me unfold Author: bettycooopers Rating: Explicit Length: 3,151 Summary: Betty turns on her stereo and pours herself a drink, smiling – the idea of parading around her empty house in lingerie with her makeup done and a highball glass of gin while she waits for Archie is appealing, to say the least. Notes: You know what we didn’t lose, though? Friends with benefits. Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

“If I kissed you right now, what would you do?” Author: bettycooopers Rating: Not Rated Length: 765 Summary: It’s past midnight when Betty texts him and tells him to meet her outside the auto shop. He shrugs on a sweatshirt and texts her back (for any particular reason, betts?) as he’s making his way out of the house, not bothering to wait for her to answer. He knows he’s going to end up there, anyway. Notes: A fun mini ‘verse where Betty pretends for all of five seconds that 5x05 was a one time thing. Whatever you say, Cooper!

jump into the heat Author: MaiaSpeedster Rating: Teen Length: 444 Summary: As they kissed and undressed each other, Betty couldn’t help but to think how dumb she had been to waste all of these years. She already knew how good Archie was at kissing, but the way he ran his hands over her figure and pressed his body to hers… God, she had never felt anything like it. Notes: Betty’s thoughts during 5x05. Y’know. About that scene. We think you know the one.

just for now Author: staryu Rating: General Length: 713 Summary: where Betty leaves but Archie is sad and really wants her to stay. Notes: Everyone, including Archie, wanted him to ask Betty to stay during 5x06, right? It’s okay, Arch, fic’s got you covered.

let’s go somewhere they might discover us Author: bettycooopers Rating: Explicit Length: 3,670 Summary: Archie’s synapses are clearly slower than usual, but he manages to look over at her subtly enough and raise his brow in a want to get out of here sort of way and Betty smiles, looking over to Kevin. “I think I’m going to let,” she pats Archie on the shoulder and raises her brows, “Sergeant Andrews here walk me home.” Notes: Based off of 5x06 stills. Drunk Archie! Exhibionist Barchie! A Betty who is terrible at friends with benefits! Yeah!

light my fire Author: bettycooopers Rating: Explicit Length: 2,797 Summary: Betty wakes up frustrated. She goes to bed frustrated. Riverdale is frustrating, in general – but the fact that she’s living in her childhood bedroom with Archie Andrews only a few hundred yards away, looking frustrating all the time is making it worse. Much worse. Notes: Based off of that still Roberto posted of Archie in firefighter gear. Yeah, you know the one.

lock the door (and throw out the key) Author: bettycooopers Rating: Explicit Length: 8,269 Summary: Cheryl’s always been one for chaos, and this key party seems like the kind of thing that will cause it no matter who winds up together. Notes: What’s going to be more chaotic, the actual key party (if it happens), or the events of this fic? Place your bets!

Love’s under a lock and key Author: creative_soul Rating: Mature Length: 3,306 Summary: Seven years have past since Betty left Riverdale behind. Seven years have passed since she last saw Jughead, Veronica and Archie... but now here she is seven years later on the steps of Thistle House. Notes: So... you’ve heard about the key party theory by now, right?

Our place, we make the rules Author: Littlebarchie07 Rating: Teen Length: 1,816 Summary: Betty goes over to Archie’s house for a *not* midnight hookup the night of the shower scene but is surprised when Jughead answers the door. Post 5x05. Notes: Betty is the least subtle she’s ever been, and also made us laugh out loud with one line in particular.

tell me you love me on the bathroom floor Author: soldierwitch Rating: Mature Length: 804 Summary: It’s been seven years since Betty’s had Archie. Though in hindsight she realizes that what she had back then was just a taste. A chaste kiss on the lips, a slip of the tongue. Underneath the stream of water coming from his shower head, she wonders what she really knew of him physically. Notes: Set during the shower scene.

That Shower Scene Author: ThisCalmsMe Rating: Explicit Length: 3,420 Summary: Barchie shower scene, that's it. That's the summary. NOT for underage viewing. Notes: The author said it themselves, but you know what scene this is. Can you believe we get to tag this as canon? Us neither!

The Small Hours Author: network_connectivity_issues Rating: Teen Length: 2,632 Summary: Just a little angsty bonding between Betty and Archie based on some of the snippets and speculation coming out of the Time Jump trailer. Notes: This fic is god tier. End of.

Through Fire and Rain Author: Littlebarchie07 Rating: Teen Length: 1,218 Summary: The aftermath of the fire at Archie’s house, Betty asks him to stay with her. Takes place after 5x06 Notes: The 5x07 subplot we deserve!

Who’s That at the Door? Author: CanaryWidow Rating: Teen Length: 1,853 Summary: A 5x07 speculation fic where Betty and Archie are tiptoeing around their true feelings for each other in a FWB relationship. Reality, in the form of Glen, comes knocking at their door--literally. Notes: Give us jealous Archie, we’re here for jealous Archie!

“You didn’t have to do this, you know.” Author: staryu Rating: Not Rated Length: 473 Summary: here have jealous betty at a bar! Notes: Give us jealous Betty, we want jealous Betty!

“You didn’t have to scare me like that.” Author: bettycooopers Rating: Not Rated Length: 485 Summary: Betty wakes from the nightmare (the nightmare, the one she always has) gasping for air and presses her hand to her face. She sucks in a long breath, the way Dr. Starling had instructed – why she had even mentioned the nightmares to her mandatory therapist, she’s not sure, but the only thing that’s even come close to useful from their sessions has been the deep breathing. Notes: Okay, but we all had at least considered that Betty could’ve been pointing that gun at Archie, right?

you ought to keep me concealed just like i was a weapon Author: bettycooopers Rating: Explicit Length: 4,037 Summary: “We’re getting that fucking house back,” Betty says, her voice low. “There’s no other option.” Notes: We’re still yelling about this one.

#type: masterlist #setting: canon #setting: s5 au #status: complete

9 notes · View notes

sambergscott · 4 years

Text

teddy from jazz brunch

pregnant amy bumps into teddy on a case ft a very ridiculous bonus scene at the end

The wait for the bomb squad to show up is always an anxious one. Especially when the guy running it is an ex that has proposed to her three times since they broke up and the last time she saw him he tried to stop her wedding. She can’t tell whether the fluttering in her stomach is the nerves about the case, seeing Teddy again, the baby kicking or a combination of all three.

“Apparently they’re five minutes out,” Rosa informs her, returning to the scene with two to-go cups. She hands Amy the soothing ginger tea and keeps the coffee for herself.

Amy sips the herbal tea, scrunching up her nose in disappointment. She’d much rather have a coffee and a shame cigarette or two but her doctor probably wouldn’t approve. Nor would she want to do anything to harm their little Shrek.

“You think there’s any chance Teddy has given up his super cool bomb squad job and retired to the South of France before he’s 40, do you?”

“No, I don’t think there’s any chance of that. I worked with him last month.” Rosa narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What’s wrong?”

She knows her so well. It’s kind of annoying, considering how little Amy knows about her, but she’s always had her back, especially since Jake went to Florida. She feels comfortable confiding in Rosa more than almost anyone (except Jake) and lets all her worries slip out.

“I haven’t seen Teddy since the wedding and what if he proposes again or tries to hit on me or acts weird about the baby?”

“Then I’ll punch him for you,” she says without hesitation.

And Amy knows that as a Police Sergeant and soon-to-be-mom she should not condone violence of any kind, but she’d be lying if she said Rosa’s words didn’t bring her a teeny bit of comfort. Maybe aversion therapy is the only way to stop Teddy’s toe-curling declarations of love. Every time he tells her he still has feelings for her: punch. Every time he gets down on one knee: kick. He’d probably have a dozen broken bones before lunch and still propose as the paramedics loaded him into the Ambulance.

“Santiago,” Rosa mutters, nodding at the swarm of bomb squad trucks pulling up outside the warehouse.

Teddy is the first one to jump out and walk towards them.

Crap.

She practices the breathing techniques from the lamaze class they went to last week and hopes he’s gone blind or doesn’t recognise her or will walk straight past them and talk to the other officers gathered nearby.

No such luck.

“Sergeant Santiago,” he grins, his eyes clearly lighting up when he sees her.

She smiles awkwardly back at him. “Lieutenant Wells. Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too,” he responds, sounding a lot more genuine than her feeble attempt at a nicety. “Still married?”

Oh, boy. He lasted all of what, ten seconds?

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, showing off her ring.

“Happily?”

“Very happily,” she insists. She tries hard not to roll her eyes. There’s a bomb that needs diffusing, she needs to be professional. She lowers her hand and instinctively rests it on her bump. Big mistake.

Teddy’s eyes follow the movement then widen like saucers. “Oh. You’re - oh - OK - wow.”

“Yep. I am.”

He looks back at her - his expression filled with a weird concoction of disappointment, confusion and hope?

She’s a great detective, she’s great at reading body language in interrogations and anticipating what a suspect is about to do next. She knows when her husband is happy, sad, horny; she knows when he’s had a shitty day at work and just needs to snuggle up with her and watch Die Hard and when to blast Taylor Swift and dance around the apartment. She knows her unborn baby is most active at night when Jake pulls up her shirt and tells him about all the fun things they’re going to do together and that he hates the smell of Boyle’s lunch as much as she does. She can even tell how Captain Holt is feeling.

“Is it mine?”

And OK, she didn’t predict that.

Despite her expert intuition skillz (with a z, her husband is rubbing off on her), she could have never predicted that. She doesn’t even know how to respond.

Thankfully, Rosa steps in.

“You haven’t slept with her in over five years, dumb-dumb. It’s Jake Peralta’s. You know, her husband. The guy who broke you two up.”

Amy bites her lip to stop herself from laughing.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I remember him,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. “Nice to see you again, by the way, Detective Diaz.”

“The feeling is not mutual,” she responds.

He cowers under her glare. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. So, uh, the bomb?”

“Yes. The bomb.”

She explains the situation, how their investigation into a drug dealing operation led them to this warehouse, but they’d spotted a bag with wires hanging out through a window on the east side of the building. He follows her to the window and gets on his tip-toes to see inside. A few seconds later, he confirms their suspicions that it’s almost definitely an explosive device, probably designed to destroy evidence rather than actually hurt anyone.

“You know the drill, we’ll need to clear the area. You probably shouldn’t be here,” he says to Amy, gesturing at her bump. “It’s not safe. I love you and I want to protect you and that baby.”

Rosa clenches her fist, true to her word, but Amy places her hand over it before she can make impact with his face.

“What the hell, Santiago?”

“I don’t want you to get suspended, I need you on this case. And besides, Teddy’s right. It is too dangerous. I’ll go back to the Nine-Nine and read your notes later. Please don’t kill him,” she adds as an afterthought. When he goes off on one of his tangents about Pilsners or San Diego or Belgian Spaghetti, it can be kind of tempting. It was for her, even when they were dating. But Rosa can’t go back to jail. Their baby already loves her and they asked her to be godmother only last week.

“Fine,” she growls. “But if you say the word Pilsners once, so help me God, I will-.”

“Bye Teddy,” Amy cuts her off, turning 180 degrees with a flick of her perfectly shiny ponytail and heading towards the police tape they set up earlier. She pulls out her phone and texts Jake to ask if he’ll pick her up.

He responds twenty seconds later with on my way and the kiss face emoji.

She finally relaxes.

bonus: Holt sends her home early, claiming that she looked tired and she should not be over-exerting herself at seven months pregnant. He informs her that the mission was successful; the bomb was diffused safely, that no-one was injured and that they were able to collect enough evidence from the warehouse to bring down the entire operation (the dumb-dumbs left a phone lying around with everyone’s name, phone number and contact photo in). The case is a slam dunk.

She doesn’t see or hear from Rosa until morning. She shows up late, wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

“Walk of shame alert!” Charles announces, clearly noticing, too. “Means you had sex. Nice one, Ro-Ro!” He raises his hand for a high five, but she barges straight past.

“We’ve all been there,” Hitchcock smirks, slapping his hand against Charles’.

“Gross,” everyone complains, shuddering at the thought of Hitchcock’s sex life.

“Right, I’m going downstairs,” Amy says to Jake, resisting the urge to kiss him. He looks very cute and kissable today with his unruly curls and her favourite plaid shirt. She really misses working opposite him. “Come visit me in an hour?”

“’Course I will.”

She grins and heads towards the elevator, but the doors open before she can gets there.

Of all people, Teddy walks out.

His uniform is crumpled and his hair is a mess and she’s already having PTSD-like flashbacks to when he came in to audit the precinct and proposed to her in front of everybody. She’s already drafting her rejection speech in her head when he says Rosa’s name and this time it’s Amy’s eyes widening to the size of saucers.

“You left your phone at my place,” he explains, brandishing said phone.

She actually blushes (Amy has never seen her blush before) and retrieves it from him, stomping back to her desk.

“Oh. You - oh - OK - wow,” Amy stammers, taken aback. “You... and Rosa?”

#b99 fic #jake x amy #my writing #do i.... ship rosa and teddy now?#this is so dumb im sorry

109 notes · View notes

amydancepants-peralta · 5 years

Text

one love, one house (no shirt, no blouse)

Oh hi again, @kamekamelea! Being the glutton for punishment that I am, I bring you a 2nd fic for the B99 2019 Fall Fic Exchange, by @b99fandomevents.

This is one is rated E, and is NSFW. 🙊

(It’s also a little long ... you could say I got carried away. It’s on AO3 if you prefer) 😅

one love, one house (no shirt, no blouse)

From the safety of her bed, a fourteen weeks pregnant Amy Santiago listens to the rustle of fallen leaves on the street below as the wind outside begins to pick up. The sound mingles with hints of laughter as a group of women vacate the Thai restaurant across the road; twisting with their neighbour two floors up as they adhered to their nightly violin practice schedule. There is a crossword puzzle in her hands, clutched mainly in aid of distraction, but she hasn’t been able to concentrate on the words for close to an hour now.

She listens as their front door opens, the familiar jingle of her husband’s keys dropping into the bowl by the door, landing on top of her own. He calls out her name as he passes through the living room, and when she calls back Amy can hear the hesitation in her voice, cringing at the sound.

Jake smiles when he sees her, because he always does and it makes her love him all the more, leaning in for a quick kiss while she stays laying on the bed. She can taste a familiar trace of a bottle of Heisler, remnants of after work drinks with Boyle, and she smiles at him when he pulls away, hand resting briefly against his chest before dropping back to the comforter with a thud. Today had been her day off, and she had played the growing a tiny human card earlier this morning when Jake had gotten up for work, smiling and burrowing further into their ridiculously warm comforter when he had kissed her on the forehead before leaving. Even with the texts they’d sent each other throughout the day, and all the swirling thoughts in her head, Amy could feel herself resetting now that he was back in front of her.

He’s moved to the shower now, a tuneless rendition of a Taylor Swift song carrying through the walls of their apartment, and distractedly she hums along to the melody.

The wind outside builds, curtains dancing against the force of the breeze as the streetlights leak into their bedroom, causing Jake’s badge to glint from where it sits in its usual place on their dresser. He’d noticed her melancholic silence as he’d prepared for his shower, and she knew that he was giving her the space she needed. But now the taps in their bathroom were being shut off, and Amy was very conscious that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be back, prepped and ready to listen. If only she could figure out what to say.

Her eyes fall on the polaroid of the two of them that had been sitting on their dresser for years now: a candid of the two of them one year in, at a party thrown by Mike, Jake’s old buddy from his days at the academy. He’d captured them mid-laugh, Amy’s arm resting comfortably around Jake’s neck as she grins; Jake’s already snaked around her waist, scarcely any space between them. They were drunk, happy, and completely in love, and Mike had grabbed a marker and written ‘this is for good’ along the bottom of the photograph before handing it over to them with a wink. The smile Jake had given her that evening, as he tucked the photo safely away into his jacket, had pushed her heart into double time. He’d placed it carefully up against the mirror that very evening, before returning to her side to peel off the dress the way he’d been whispering the whole night, and Amy knew that Mike was absolutely correct. This was for good. For better, for worse. No matter what.

To think that it had been over four years since that evening, and that they still looked at each other the way they did in that photograph, filled her with such happiness that for a moment Amy felt ridiculous for feeling the way she did. But pregnancy, she was learning, came with a whole typhoon’s worth of emotions, and some were harder to ignore than others.

She gives Jake a sympathetic wrinkle of her nose as he walks back into their bedroom, the fatigue of the day obvious in the drop of his shoulders. His face is partially hidden behind a towel as he rubs it through his wet hair one last time, and once free he glances over at her with a pensive gaze. Without thinking, Amy grabs the edges of the sweater she was wearing and tugs it downwards. He notices, brows furrowing as he tosses the towel into the laundry hamper in the corner, and she feels a pang of guilt run through her.

Changing the topic, Amy puts on her best smile. “Long day at work?”

He rolls his eyes as the memory flashes back. “You could say that. Remember that collar I was telling you about a few weeks ago - the serial car thief?”

She nods, eyes turning curious.

“He’d made bail, and his court session was today.”

“Okay?”

“Terry and I were waiting out front for our coffees, and he rolled up to the courthouse while we were there. In another stolen car.”

“ …. wow. You really can’t fix stupid.”

Jake sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose - an old habit she knew he used to remind himself to breathe through his frustrations. “So not only did I have to sit through his hearing, I then had to take him back down to the precinct so that I could book him for additional acts of crime he’d committed while on bail. Only to then escort him back to the watch house, because he was most definitely found guilty of his previous charges.”

Amy pouts her lower lip in sympathy, using the restless energy in her hands to twirl her hair around her index finger. “Did he even have an excuse for the second stolen car?”

He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief as he repeats the sentence he’d heard earlier that day. “Apparently his ‘real’ car had broken down, and he knew it super important to make it to court if he didn’t want to get into more trouble.” He raises his fingers for air quotations. “So, he had ‘borrowed’ another car, a block from his house. He was, and I quote - ‘Totes gonna give it back, bro.’ An honest thief, if you will.”

“Ha. That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.”

“Yeah, an oxymaroon for sure,” he mispronounces the word, and Amy finds it too endearing to correct. Choosing instead to fall silent, hair twisting tighter around several of her fingers now, it only takes another moment before Jake has stopped at the end of their bed.

“What’s going on, Ames?”

Amy wriggles her body on the mattress, resisting the urge to pull on the edge of the sweater again as she looks up at Jake. She can feel her cheeks heat up under his gaze, and she gives a helpless shrug. Using the nickname she and her husband had named their baby, she mumbles - “Peanut kinda popped a little today.”

His eyebrows jump at her answer, face brightening at the mention of their growing family. The excitement that crosses his face every time they speak about their baby is incredibly endearing, and makes Amy feel all the more ridiculous for what she’s about to say.

“She popped?” Jake repeats, mattress dipping slightly as he sits along the edge of her side of the bed.

“He or she popped,” she corrects with a smile. They didn’t know the sex of their baby, and were keeping it a surprise, but they’d only been seven weeks in when her husband had declared with Absolute Certainty that they were having a girl. The countdown on her phone told her that today made fourteen weeks, and with that came a bump on her previously (relatively) flat stomach.

Amy had stood in front of their floor length mirror earlier that evening, the sweater she had long since stolen from her husband’s drawer rucked up around chest, eyes narrowing as they roamed the expanse of her body, pausing again and again on the swell of her abdomen. There was a definite curve to her stomach, a swelling similar to when Jake had won a pizza eating contest at their favourite local restaurant, gripping his prized red hoodie against his bloated belly with one hand and her hand in his other as they’d walked home, moaning as she reminded him of the need to walk off the overload of carbs he’d just consumed.

None of it should have come at any surprise - the Week Fourteen tab in the Second Trimester Binder had warned her several days ago, in fact, that protrusions would start to become obvious as her inner muscles began to stretch to accommodate her and Jake’s baby. But it turned out that all the preparation in the world couldn’t account for seeing it all happen in real time - and if she was being completely honest with herself, Amy was having a little difficultly in accepting the change.

All rules of science aside, it truly was a little miracle that her body was capable of doing this - of creating life - and part of her is torn between the idea of pressing fast forward so that she and Jake can meet their child sooner rather than later, or pressing pause and having the chance to really treasure these moments. But the memory of Gina at her baby shower, resplendent in her position of front and centre, her stomach stretched beyond watermelon size as Milton dutifully rubbed her back, keeps flashing into Amy’s mind. It seems almost impossible, but she supposes it is actually inevitable, that her body will change just as much.

Jake’s hand falls to the other side of her on the bed, the stretch of his arm highlighting the subtle curve of his bicep as it peeked out from his grey bed-shirt. His concern at her silence was obvious, and Amy gives him a tiny smile, running a quick debate in her mind over whether she should tell him what was really on her mind. It’s over in a flash, because if there’s anything she’s sure of, it’s that there is nothing that she can’t tell him, and there was a good chance he already knew. He had grown incredibly intuitive to her thoughts over their years together, a skill that both frustrated her and made her love him all the more. She raises her left hand, running her fingers along the arm that stayed relaxed against his side, smile growing larger as he shifts until their fingers link together.

“It’s just …” his brown eyes take on that doe-eyed look that never fails to weaken all her defences, and just like that, Amy says how she really feels. “My body is changing, and I don’t feel like myself.”

He blinks. “I mean, I know I’m the least science-y one in this relationship, but I feel like we kinda knew that was going to happen?”

Amy begins to chew on her bottom lip slightly. “Yeah. It’s all tracking perfectly with the timeline I put together. I’m a little ahead of things, actually.”

“Santiago style.” He responds with a wink before turning serious. “But … you’re not enjoying it?”

She shakes her head. “It’s not that. I love that I’m carrying our baby, Jake. Honestly, I’m so, so excited to meet our little one. I just …” her hand releases his, resting against her bump instead. “I wasn’t expecting to feel this way. Like I’m changing, and there’s nothing I can do about it. For the first time ever, I can’t control what my body is doing.” Her voice drops to a mumble, eyes squeezing shut. “And maybe you’re not going to find me attractive as everything keeps growing.”

Her confession is met with silence, and reluctantly Amy opens one eye, looking up at Jake. He meets her eyes with a confused blink, bending his elbow as he leans in closer.

“Here’s the thing, Ames - and I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it, for however long you need to hear it, and I’m so sorry that you’ve ever had to doubt this. But I fell in love with you for who you are, and not the body you’re in.”

Amy releases a breath that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, eyes turning misty as she listens to Jake talk.

“You are the love of my life, Amy Santiago, and it is entirely because of the beautiful soul you have. And let me tell you - I am always, always going to find you amazing. No matter what. And you are literally the sexiest person I’ve ever met. Your incredible mind, and ever-growing heart, make you this unstoppable force that never fails to make my brain short-circuit. And the fact that you are now carrying my child?” He pauses, shifting until his left hand is resting on top of hers, covering her bump. “Oh my god. Just … your body is magic, you are magic, and I’m still stunned, after all this time, that you chose me.”

She blinks, the tears beginning to fall, their path shortened by Jake’s gentle hand wiping them away. Resting her hand along the curve of his neck, Amy pulls her husband closer, meeting his lips with her own as she tries to pour all the gratitude she has for him into one kiss. It’s not enough, because one kiss could never be enough to show it all, and he leans closer again as they meet for another, lips parting for more.

The fading taste of the Heisler, mixed with the usual scent of his shower gel, was proving to be strangely intoxicating and Amy moves her hand up towards his hairline, carding through while her grip tightens, pulling Jake closer. He lets out a contented sigh into her mouth, moving closer until his arms are underneath and he’s holding her close.

His eyes are cloudy when they finally pull apart, blinking in a daze, and Amy smiles in satisfaction. Even after thousands of kisses, she still managed to send him crazy, and she knows that what he said earlier was true. Jake as going to love her, no matter what - just as she would love him, through the darkest of skies. What they had was a forever kind of love.

Hooking her finger into the neckline of his shirt, Amy tugs until he shifts, mattress sinking as his legs end up on either side of hers, muscles flexing as his lowers to his knees.

Jake dips, shoulder blades raising as he tucks his head underneath her sweater; a move that he has done a thousand times and still doesn’t fail to make Amy giggle, and she drops her right hand to the bump that his head has created. His warm breath tickles her skin as he drops kisses to her ribs, the muffled sound of an approving sigh breaking through as he realises she is not wearing a bra. His hands grip the edge of the sweater as he pulls his head back upwards, Amy’s hand tracing the edge of his jawline as his grinning face becomes visible, so full of affection that her heart just might combust.

“I love you so much, Jake Peralta.” Her voice is shaky, the hormones still heavy if not a little quieter, and he blinks slowly before pulling her in for another kiss. When he finally pulls way, he shifts the bottom of her sweater, pushing it upwards until it rests around her ribcage, her skin shivering slightly from the exposure to the cool night air. He shuffles down the bed, resting his body weight on his hands as his legs rest against Amy’s, and her hand resets itself to his hairline, the familiar feeling of his curls agains her fingers making her sigh with comfort.

His lips travel up her torso, ever so gentle over the subtle bump, and when he reaches the peak he pauses, looking up at Amy with an indescribable look in his eyes.

The hand in his hair stops, holding still within the coils as she looks back at him, holding his gaze before breaking the silence. “Babe?”

He smiles, a sign of reassurance she holds more valuable than most peoples words, and shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. Just ...” he drops another kiss to her belly. “Wow.”

Wow.

Amy smiles back, the pride and elation obvious as her hand moves through his locks again. Wow indeed. This incredible man, with messy hair and earnest eyes and the biggest heart she’s ever known, is the father of her child. Suddenly, all of her concerns didn’t seem so big. “Look what we made, Jake. You and I, our love ... we did that.”

He winks. “I remember.”

She can feel her face heat up as the blush reaches the tip of her ears, but still she laughs, tipping her head up to meet Jake as he pushes himself towards her, lips meeting hers for a kiss. It was incredible, the way he threw away all of her fears so easily. One touch from him, and all of her self-consciousness faded away. Jake adored her, more than she had ever known to be, and as his hands drop to her waist and reach for the hem of the sweater she lifts her arms up, helping him pull the material away, doing the same with his until there’s nothing in between them. The swell of her abdomen is more obvious now that there isn’t fabric covering it, but there is enough love shining in his eyes to banish all other thoughts.

She’s reminded of a night not so long ago when all the schedules and planners and binders had begun to consume Amy, and Jake’s initiation of cuddling on the couch had been met with a distracted point of her fingers towards her meticulously printed out ovulation schedule.

He’d let out a sigh, nuzzling into her neck and whispering that sometimes sex was just about pleasure, and not procreation (and damn it, he knew that using the proper term was going to send her crazy), before grabbing her notepad and casting it to the side, picking her up and carrying her willingly and giggly into their bedroom.

That night he went down on her for the better part of an hour, pushing her so close to the edge over and over that by the time she finally came undone, her fingers had clawed their bedsheets clear from the mattress. He absorbed her moans with a kiss that was so full of passion that she felt weak in the knees, the taste of her and him mixing together into the most intoxicating blend.

She had been too exhausted to repay the favour that evening; spaghetti legs stuck to the mattress, but if the sound of her name echoing off the tiles is anything to go by, the blow job she gave him in the shower the next morning well and truly made up for it.

He had been so insistent on keeping things romantic as they tried to conceive - all the while knowing that the sweetest things were what he was already doing - ie., following her perfectly planned timetable. Still, he stocked up on candles and body oil, curating SexyTime playlists on his already busy workdays and giving her sympathetic smiles when she would dejectedly add tampons to their shopping list. And then, one afternoon on the cool tiles of their bathroom floor with nine differently branded pregnancy tests surrounding them, Jake and Amy found out they were having a baby. And everything since then had been surrounded by excitement, anticipation and curiosity.

And perhaps, a little trepidation. He could tell now, before anything had to be said, and he stared into her eyes (into her soul, it felt) before trailing a line of feather-light kisses down her neck, the tip of his nose skirting along the swollen curves of her breasts before heading down towards her edge of her yoga pants. Dropping gentle kisses to the curve of her abdomen, Jake looked up at her, those chocolate eyes sending her heart into overdrive as she lifted her hips in silent permission, smiling as he peeled away her final layers of clothing.

Amy had read in various books, and on the occasional website support group, that sex in the second trimester was nothing short of amazing.

She had been dubious, to say the least. For the first three months, she had felt anything but sexy. While a bizarre cocktail of emotions and hormones and thoughts were running through her body, if Amy wasn’t running to the bathroom to throw up, she was thinking about when she could take her next nap. It had been an interesting beginning to her pregnancy, and while she and Jake hadn’t been celibate the entire trimester, their times together had definitely become less frequent.

Fellow pregnant women, all in various stages of gestation, had raved about how good sex was once you got over the first hump (so to speak). That everything was working double time down there, that the nerves were on full alert 24/7, and that multiple orgasms were not uncommon.

This all sounded incredibly appealing to Amy, but if you’d asked her earlier that evening, she probably would have given you a firm shake of her head. But as she lay on their bed, exposed and yet feeling so protected all the same, Amy realised just how much she had missed these moments. And perhaps it was the comfort of her husband’s words, or the familiarity of his touch that had flicked her inner switch from normal to horny in 2.5 seconds - whatever it was, she was here for it, and when Jake began a line of kisses along her inner thighs, she could feel it all over her body.

His caresses move to her centre as her hand travels down, rubbing herself briefly before moving into Jake’s hair and he takes her lead, stroking his tongue against her clit in an achingly slow circle. Amy moans, bucking her hips towards his mouth, tightening her grip around his strands in reprimand. He pulls away slightly to look up at Amy, lips tainted with her arousal, and smiles as he slides two fingers deep inside.

Her head tips back, hair splaying around the pillow as she lets out a satisfied sigh. Jake knew how to use his fingers so effectively on her, bending knuckles and twisting wrists at just the right moment, that sometimes she finds it insane that they worked together for so many years without her ever knowing just how well he would be able to make her scream. Whether it was skill, or a mixture of knowing that it’s him and how he makes her feel didn’t matter. This wasn’t going to take her long, and Amy wanted more, and now.

She moves her hand from his hairline, trailing the pad of her thumb along his profile until her hand is free, crooking her finger towards him in a silent request he is only incredibly willing to honour. Elbows digging into the mattress as he leans forward, Amy pulls Jake in for a kiss before reaching her left hand for his right, tugging until his fingers are in her mouth. Her tongue wraps itself around his digits, sucking gently, smiling around his hand as she tastes herself on Jake’s fingers.

He looks at her with such fire in his eyes that Amy can feel the burning within, head dipping down to leave a kiss against her wedding band before pulling his hand free from her mouth and kissing her, hot and deep. Goosebumps rise onto her skin when he wraps his arms around her, twisting on the mattress until Amy is on top, her hair falling down over their faces as their tongues continue to explore each other’s mouths.

They’re both breathless when she pulls away, kissing the tip of Jake’s nose with a wink as she shuffles down his body, holding herself deliberately close to his chest until she reaches his boxers. Fingers toying with the waistband Amy looks up at her husband, his neck craning off the pillow, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, and she smiles as she shifts to the side, pulling the shorts down until his erection springs free. His legs kick slightly underneath her, shimmying the fabric off completely and her hand moves to grip him, pumping her wrist once or twice before he’s reaching for her waist.

Jake’s fingers dig into her lower back as she allows herself to be pulled forward, and he mumbles “I need to taste more of you,” before encouraging Amy to lower herself completely over his face.

And OH.

Mother of ALL THAT IS HOLY.

The books were not wrong.

Amy had already been turned on from Jake’s actions a couple of minutes earlier, but with a single flick of his tongue against her clit her head is thrown back, hair tickling her spine as she lets out a satisfied moan. She could feel her blood rushing downwards, nerves dialling up to a thousand as he begins tracing patterns against her, alternating between gentle and dominant, and her hips swivel as she leans her hands onto the mattress behind them.

It wasn’t going to be long - she could feel everything inside her beginning to tingle - and with a heady mind Amy reaches her left hand further back until she’s gripping Jake’s dick in her hand, starting a slow pump from this unfamiliar angle, and the responding moan that comes from his mouth vibrates directly into her.

His hands hold her thighs steady as Amy begins to gyrate against Jake’s mouth, verbalising her satisfaction in a garbled series of nonsensical words and gasps, her grip tightening before letting go completely as she climaxes. She stays put for a moment, ribs expanding with each desperate gasp of air, and as she pulls herself back up into a sitting position against Jake’s chest she lets out one final gratified sigh.

“My god you’re hot,” Jake whispers, hands trailing up and down her waist, and Amy smiles back.

Leaning forwards, she rests one hand along his neck before closing the gap with a kiss. “I love you so much, Jake Peralta.” His hand mirrors hers, thumb caressing her jawline as he kisses her back, humming happily against her lips.

Her legs are beginning to feel weak as the rush of blood slows, and Amy rests her body against the comforter, pulling Jake towards her as she moves. The weight of him on top of her is comfortable, a welcome warmth from the breeze still blowing through the open window to their right, and he pulls away from another kiss to whisper her name as his legs slide against hers.

It was becoming obvious to Amy how insane she had been to ever doubt the pregnancy books (honestly, why did she ever doubt books?), because the simple act of laying underneath Jake was turning her on all over again. His cock is hard, pressing up against her aroused clit as he holds her close, trailing kisses up and down her neck the way he likes to in the lead up to the fun stuff, and the subtle movement of Jake’s body against hers was rubbing her in all the right ways. All she needed was the tiniest of adjustments on her end, tilting her hips just so, and -

She lets out a strangled moan into Jake’s ear, fingers gripping his strands of hair as her body trembles beneath him with orgasm number two. His breath is hot on her neck as he pulls away slightly, looking down at his wife with an incredulous look on his face.

“Did you just …?”

Her heart is racing and her brow may just be a little sweaty, but Amy nods quickly.

Jake glances down at where there bodies aren’t yet joined before returning to her face, hips flexing above her as his erection brushes along the tip of her clit again. Amy’s body jerks in reaction, and he grins. “But we haven’t even … I mean, I wasn’t trying to - ”

Letting out a quick huff of air, Amy moves her hand to the back of Jake’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss he’s not soon to forget. “Don’t even think about stopping now, Peralta.”

He smiles, and it’s so sexy it hurts, and already she can feel herself gearing up for another O. This is amazing. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Santiago.” he growls into her ear, dropping slightly to gather her wetness around his erection before sliding in, the feeling of him inside her so hot and hard and it’s only been a week or so but oh, how she has missed this.

There’s a persistent tap of water against their window as the rain starts to pour down, the cool air from the still open frame washing over their bodies as Jake and Amy work to create their own heat. A tiny shiver runs along Amy’s arms and Jake pulls her closer, her legs wrapping around his waist as he begins to move. He’d been so attentive throughout it all, giving extra focus to the chapters of each book that spoke on sex during pregnancy and checking with her whenever things started to get heated. Each time had been just that little bit different, her body changing on a weekly basis, and the feeling of him inside of her now, his stomach brushing up against her slightly swollen belly, the life they created together between them was new and exciting and sexy.

His thrusts are slow to begin, pushing himself in and out of her in even strokes that he replicates with his kiss. He’s giving her a chance to come down from her climax, she realises, his eyes watching her carefully as he raises himself above her ever so slightly. And she loves him for it, that he’s still so considerate of her needs despite her orgasm count being two against his zero, but she wants him to feel as incredible as she does, so her legs tighten their grip around him, a non-verbal sign that she knew he would take as a plead for more.

She remembers the very first night they spent together, kisses tasting like kamikaze as Jake’s sheets tangled around their feet. It had felt so right - like two puzzle pieces who had finally found their other halves - and even though part of her hadn’t been ready to admit it yet, Amy knew that night. That her and Jake had something, a pull towards each other that was stronger than anything she had ever known. It’s never faded, and tonight in their bedroom as he rolls their still connected bodies until Amy is on top, she knows that it never will.

Her hands rest against his chest as she sinks down lower still, taking him in completely as they each let out a soft moan. Jake moves his hands from her upper thighs to her waist, thumbs rubbing against her skin as they travel up towards her breasts, toying with her nipples as Amy lets out an appreciative groan. They had become so sensitive in the last couple of weeks, almost to the point where she couldn’t stand the thought of anyone or anything touching them, but it turned out she had just been needing Jake’s hands against her. Her clit, already throbbing with sensitivity from her previous orgasms, rubbed against Jake’s cock as she began to lift her hips, picking up a rhythm both could enjoy.

The two of them had always fit together so well, but tonight Amy felt so full - so complete, with their baby safely tucked away in her womb - and as she looked down at Jake’s face she knew he was feeling it too.

His hips thrust upwards to meet hers with every movement and Amy rotates hers from side to side in response, biting her lip with a poorly contained grin when Jake’s responding moan echoes through their bedroom. Her fingertips dig into his skin when she begins to bear down, already feeling another climax isn’t far away, scraping along his chest while Jake whispers her name repeatedly.

The reverence in his tone, combined with the heated gaze he was giving her, is enough to send Amy over the edge again, leaning down to place her forehead against his as the sensations became too much. He cranes his neck upwards to dot her face with kisses, so quick but so tender, and as she comes down from the high Amy pulls back again, draping her hair over one shoulder as she looks down at her husband.

Later, when they’re catching their breath, Jake will tell Amy that the sight of her riding him, the swell of her growing abdomen glistening with their combined sweat, was one of the sexiest things he’d seen in a long time. One for the memory bank, he’ll say. But for now, all Amy can go on is the feeling of Jake’s hard cock inside her, how complete she feels, and how she’s climaxed three times and is ready to feel Jake let go as well.

Her knees draw closer to his waist as she tightens her thighs around Jake’s pelvis, drawing on all her reserved energy as she increases her pace. “Come for me, Jake. I wanna feel you, babe.”

His hands dig into her thighs on either side, a mixed-up version of words and moans the only thing falling from his mouth as Amy pushes harder, slamming down on his cock as her body flutters around him. One hand snakes around to rest against her clit, thumb rubbing in meaningless circles and - here comes number four - she clenches her muscles around him, pulling him under as he comes with a shout, Amy only a short second behind him as his thumb finally gives her reprieve.

Sheer exhaustion forces Amy to collapse against her husband’s chest, unfocused eyes staring dazedly at the still billowing curtains as her entire body begins to throb. That had been next level kind of stuff, and if this was what pregnant sex was going to be like, she was absolutely going to have to do that again. And soon.

Jake’s voice vibrates through his chest, one hand coming to rest in her hair. “Holy …”

Amy’s cheek slides against his pectoral muscles as she smiles, breath still coming out in slow pants as her body twitches further down. “You said it.”

He chuckles underneath her, other hand resting against her bare butt and squeezing. “Just when I thought that life with you couldn’t get any more amazing.”

Her responding laugh is breathy and warm against his chest, body shivering slightly as the cool breeze outside picks up now that the rain has subsided. Without hesitation Jake reaches for the edge of the comforter, lifting as much as he can without disturbing their still joined bodies, throwing the blanket over Amy. Her head tucks back into his chest, dropping tiny kisses of gratitude against his skin, lips picking up the still racing thump thump thump of his heart.

They’re silent for the moment, both of them basking in their combined state of bliss, until Jake clears his throat.

“I promise you, Ames. If you ever start to worry about losing control over how your body looks, or you think that maybe I won’t find you attractive, you can talk to me. I am here for you, no matter what. And I am so excited for this future we’ve built for ourselves. Our family is going to be the best in the neighbourhood - and our kids are going to beat every other kid’s butts.”

Moving her arm until it’s resting underneath her chin, Amy props her head up slightly to meet Jake’s gaze. That all sounded kind of amazing … but more than one child hadn’t really been discussed any more than the occasional passing comment. “Kids plural, huh?”

He shrugs slightly, face turning slightly red as a sheepish smile crosses his face. “I mean, maybe?”

The smile that has yet to leave her face grows wider, and she cocks her head to the side. “How about we get through this one first, and then talk about the others?”

His responding nod is enthusiastic, drawing a laugh deep from Amy’s chest, and he sweeps a stray strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Absolutely. But I should warn you, I do have one fairly convincing argument up my sleeve.”

The competitive edge in her sparks at the words, and she raises one eyebrow in response. “Is that so?”

He winks, pulling her impossibly closer before replying. “More than one pregnancy means more chances for us to have more of this crazy, mind-blowing kind of sex.”

Her laughter is captured up in his kiss when Jake pulls her closer, hands moving to rest against her waist to keep her warm and sheltered from the cooling breeze. She leans back slightly to look over him when they finally break away, head shaking incredulously. “I may live to regret this, but I’ve gotta say, I’m pretty sure you just convinced me on baby number 2.”

Jake’s face breaks out into a grin, raising his eyebrows when Amy continues.

“But also, I’m going to need more members on my team. So that we can really kick your ass when it comes to heist time, Peralta.”

The last thing Amy hears is Jake mumbling “Game on, Santiago” before he’s pulling her in for a toe-curling kind of kiss, the embers of her arousal beginning to spark all over again.

Whether they ended up with five children or just the one, their home would be one filled with love, because that was what she and Jake had in spades. And in all honesty, Amy couldn’t wait to see what their future held.

#mine #myfic #b99fandomevents #b99 fall 2019 fic exchange #smutfic #Kasia I hope you like this one!#it's long I'm sorry #title of your sextape #peraltiago smut #b99 fanfic #b99fics #b99 fanfics #Jake x Amy fic

117 notes · View notes

weightlossfunda · 4 years

Text

I’ve spent the past year losing 80 lbs and getting in shape. A lot of people have been asking me how I did it; specifics like what diet I was on, how many times a week I worked out, etc etc. So I thought I’d just answer everyone’s questions by giving you guys step by step instructions on how you can achieve everything I have… IN JUST 4 EASY STEPS! Ready? Here we go!!!

1.) NO BEERThis is a big one, and one that you’ve probably heard before. Every time you drink a beer, it’s like eating seven slices of bread. That’s a lot of bread!

2.) PORTION CONTROLThis is especially true when you go out to eat at restaurants. A good trick to do is when your meal comes, cut it in half and right away ask for a takeout container, so that you can save the rest for later — and even better, if you start your meal out right by ordering lean meats and veggies, you’ll slim down in no time!

3.) HAVE YOUR HEART BROKENAnd not just broken; shattered. Into itsy bitsy tiny little pieces, by a girl who never loved you and never will. Join the gym at your work. Start going to the gym regularly, and even though you don’t know that much about exercise and you’re way too weak to do pretty much anything but lift 5 lb weights and use the elliptical machines with the old people, do it until your sweat makes a puddle on the floor. Then go home and go to bed early and the next day do it again. And then again. And then again.

Listen to stories of your ex-girlfriend fucking around with gross and terrible people, stories from your friends who think they are doing you a favor. Go to the gym and make more puddles of sweat. Buy books. Learn about different muscle groups and how they work together. Start eating healthy. Learn about nutrition. Plan out your week of meals. Try to forget her.

After work one night, go up up up all the way to the top floor of the parking garage and walk all the way to the back. Look out at the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles and think about how every single one of those office lights represents a person. Try to imagine how they feel. What they’re doing right then; if they miss someone special, if they wonder if someone special misses them. Then realize that most of those lights are probably shining into offices with no one in them except for a custodian or two. Realize you are alone, that you are staring at no one. Turn your collar up against the cold and drive home to a meal of a single chicken breast and steamed vegetables. Go to sleep. Go back to work. Go to the gym. Sweat.

Buy a scale. Pick a goal weight. Imagine the goal weight as a shining beacon on a hill. You are at the bottom, in the dark. Talk to her at work. Notice the awkward way she walks in high heels and her goofy smile when she looks over at you. Feel something clench inside your chest. Think about the gym and what muscle groups you are going to work that night.

Get on the treadmill. Push yourself to level 3, then level 4. Then 6. Run so fast you feel like you are going to die. Hit level 10. Pray for death. Think of how bad she makes you feel. Find the strength to keep going.

Late one night, make the mistake of looking at her Facebook and Instagram posts. Feel lower than you ever thought possible. Unfriend her and try to forget what you’ve seen. She is doing things with other people that you asked her to do with you. She is having a great time without you, and you are wasting your life listening to Taylor Swift on repeat and making sweat puddles on a gym floor.

Watch as your life shrinks down to four things:��1.) work, 2.) the gym, 3.) the food you eat, 4.) sleep. She wears the necklace you bought her and tells you that she got it “from someone who’s really special”. That night you discover that Slayer’s “Angel of Death” might be the perfect song to do squats to.

Start to make friends at the gym. Vince and you spot each other on Wednesdays; Chase and you spot each other on Fridays. You used to look down on bro nods and fist bumps — but since that’s how gym rats communicate, that’s become the language you speak most often. Work, Gym, Food, Sleep. Over and over. More sweat puddles. More fist bumps. You run hundreds of miles and lift thousands of pounds.

You start to see new people working out here and there and you realize you have done something you once thought impossible: You have become one of the regulars. Once in a while, you are the last one leaving the gym. You make a point to get to the gym earlier, but your workouts start to stretch from one hour to ninety minutes to two hours. You are now routinely the last person at the gym. You run. You lift. You make more puddles.

Your body changes slowly, then all at once — you are suddenly thin and muscular. You hit your goal weight, pick a new one, then hit it again. You go out and buy new clothes. You receive wave after wave of compliments. Your ex tells you that she’s seeing someone else. Your chest clenches. You feel exhausted.

That night you go to the gym. You listen to all her favorite songs. You run farther and lift more than you thought your body was capable of. It is a good workout. It leaves you numb. You go home and eat a single chicken breast and steamed vegetables. You go to sleep. You dream of a bottomless black puddle.

You’ve stopped drinking alcohol months ago, so now when you hang out at bars or parties you don’t talk to anyone new. But with your new body and new clothes, gorgeous women hit on you constantly. One time, a woman literally comes up to you and says she thinks you’d be good in bed and hands you a napkin with her number on it. As she is talking to you, her hand resting on your chest inside your shirt, all you can think of is how badly you need to beat your best time sprinting across the park across from your house the next day. That night when you get home you research the best shoes for trail running and click “buy”. The shoes are a hundred dollars. The phone number goes in the trash.

There is a girl you see a lot at the gym, who always does these weird leg exercises you’ve never seen before. She’s beautiful. You make it a point to not look at her — because you are overly worried about looking creepy like that guy in the blue shirt who never wears underwear and always hangs around the lat pulldown machine — but you notice this girl is always at the gym when you are, and seems to always choose the bench next to you. You turn up the Slayer and concentrate on making your puddles bigger.

Your ex parades her new boyfriend around, flatly ignoring you the entire time. He is taller than you, more ripped than you, better looking than you, and — according to the Greek chorus of your mutual friends — he comes from money. As you watch her introduce him to everyone but you, you remember how her blue eyes lit up underneath the ferris wheel on her birthday when you gave her those bracelets she’s wearing. In your pocket, your hand makes itself into a fist.

That night, you deadlift your body weight. You sneak a photo of yourself in the mirror and email it to yourself with the subject heading “You Are A Warrior”. The next day you are disgusted with yourself and delete it.

You make puddle after puddle after puddle and eat single chicken breasts and work and sleep and the weather gets warm and then gets cold and you know all of Taylor Swift’s songs by heart and the only things that exist in the entire universe are you and The Gym and then something different happens: a night comes where you are not the last person in the gym.

It is you and the girl who does the weird leg exercises. You end up walking out at the same time.

Her name is Melissa and she works in the building next to you. She’s worked there for two years. She asks you out to dinner on Friday, promising it’ll be healthy. The leg exercises are Pivoting Curtsy Lunges.

You start seeing Melissa a lot, both inside the gym and out. You tell no one. You add a couple cheat days to your week — for when you two get dinner and share dessert — and you start getting a lot less sleep. You phase out Slayer in favor of Springsteen. Vince and Chase note that you’ve stopped looking like you’re praying for death when you run. Your ex texts you late at night to ask you out to coffee, but you don’t write her back. You can’t remember the last time you fantasized about puddles.

One night you’re walking Melissa to her car in the parking garage and she is parked up up up all the way on the top floor. She says she wants to show you something and she takes your hand and leads you all the way to the back. You both stand there in the dark looking out over the twinkling lights of the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She says. “All those lights.”

You tell her that yes, it’s beautiful, but it makes you sad. All those pretty lights mean nothing; they’re just shining into cold lonely offices with nobody in them. Melissa squeezes your hand and says yes, each light is an empty office — but they’re only empty because the people have all gone home for the day. All those twinkling lights aren’t sad; each one is a person who’s at home, happy with the one they love. And how romantic is that?

You look at her in the lights and she smiles. Something in your chest expands.

Late one Sunday afternoon you are writing out your rent check and realize it’s been exactly a year since you started working out. You think of all those miles you’ve run and those pounds you’ve lifted and chicken you’ve eaten and puddles you’ve made. It doesn’t seem that bad. You realize that it’s not about hitting a goal weight, or lifting a weight. It’s about being able to wait. Waiting, being patient, and trusting that life will slowly inch along and things will eventually get better. After all, change takes time.

But time is all it takes.

4.) NO FRUIT JUICE Too much sugar!!!

#fitness gym fit workout fitnessmotivation fitfam love sport healthy lifestyle crossfit gymlife instagood muscle healthylifestyle exercise in

1 note · View note

apple-grass-and-smiles · 4 years

Text

Leading Us Home

In an absolutely miraculous and never-to-be-seen-again series of events, inspiration struck twice in the course of 24 hours, so you get another Batcat story adapted from a Taylor Swift song and thousands of words in various chats about the meaning of home to Selina.

Summary: Selina has a motto: "You can't have a home if you don't have a house."

Selina, at her most basic, core self, has a pretty major issue with the word ‘home’. Like most important (but sad) ideas that become fundamental to understanding an individual, it’s an issue that started when she was a child. Selina remembers being six, maybe seven, the first time she got caught by the police. The officer was a large man who clearly was more interested in the baseball game going on in the background than Selina or the fact that she was so malnourished that you could count all her ribs if you bothered to give her more than a cursory glance. She can still see him bending down to look her in the eye, completely ignoring the bruises and cuts that covered every inch of her skin, and asking her where home was.

Even at the tender age of six or seven, Selina was smart enough to recognize that as a stupid question. So she gave it all the weight it deserved and simply shrugged before replying, “You ain’t got no home if you ain’t got no house.”

It’s a phrase that even now, at age 32, Selina Kyle stands by.

******************************************************************************

When Selina was about 20, her mother sent her a letter. In it were far too many paragraphs where she apologized profusely for any of her words to feel even the slightest bit sincere. She would have happily burned the letter without a second thought if not for the picture included. In the partially ripped, incredibly stained photo stood a young Maria, eyes with bags beneath them, standing in front of a dilapidated brownstone with a tiny infant in her arms. The letter explained that the one-bedroom apartment had been home to Maria, Selina, and the unnamed photographer for the first year or so of Selina’s life. The address, Maria wrote, was 416 Lily Dr. and she hoped that maybe knowing where Selina had come would somehow help her know where she was going. The idea was, of course, completely stupid, because that building might have been where she learned to walk and say her first word and smiled for the first time, but the only record of those things were Maria��s memories and Selina was past the point of harboring any dreams that her mother would one day come back to share those distant memories with her daughter.

After all, you don’t have a home if all that’s left is a pitiful photo and an address for a house.

******************************************************************************

St. Maria’s orphanage ended up being “home” for Selina until she was about 10 and had realized that sleeping underneath the bridge with a ratty blanket was better than sharing a twin bed with two other girls and having to dress up once a week to see if someone wanted to try and adopt her. (The nuns always described her as a free spirit, but everyone seemed to know that the term simply meant that Selina would never sit still long enough to make herself at home and would instead leave with a backpack full of your food and whatever she could snag from your wallet.) All in all, the orphanage wasn’t the worst place ever and she got off relatively easily in comparison to some of the other abandoned children she knew, but it also could never be mistaken for a home. Everything about the place, from the mismatched floor tiles to the peeling wallpaper that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to stay on the walls or accept it’s death, screamed of impermanence. Nothing and no one in the building wanted to stay. The girls wanted to go to families. The nuns wanted to go to mass. The hopes and dreams of everyone within wanted to go to people who could actually have a shot at realizing them.

To be fair to the nuns and the orphanage and the dying wallpaper, it wasn’t their fault. Everyone knows you can’t make a home out of a place meant for escaping.

******************************************************************************

Selina was 13 when someone once again tried to give her an address to stay at. By 13 she was pretty certain homes and houses were meant for people with bank accounts and three meals a day and that she’d have to be content with squats and crash pads and surprisingly large cardboard boxes along the pier. She wasn’t particularly bitter about this information as much as she was ready for everyone to stop trying to prove her wrong.

But, sadly for her, Jim Gordon was the type of person who was incredibly determined to convince Selina that she was wrong so he arranged for her to stay with Bruce Wayne while the rookie cop attempted to track down the false leads she had given him. Even now, decades later, Selina can hear the creak of the large doors echoing as the butler opened the front door and welcomed Selina inside for the first time. By age 13 Selina felt quite confident that she had seen the best Gotham had to offer, but this mansion was something else entirely. It was the kind of place that could house every homeless kid she spoke to in a month and have none of them ever run into each other. She could have survived her entire life off of stealing the small, but priceless trinkets within the mansion. No one would even have noticed and she would have maybe been able to afford a nice sleeping bag.

Selina had wandered into the foyer as the adult men talked in the entryway. It was a strange place, the Wayne Manor, it seemed torn between proving that it belonged to the great and noble Wayne family and desperately attempting to convince you that you were safe and loved and understood by the people who lived within its walls. Everywhere there were signs of wealth, but there were also signs of someone, maybe the mother, working to make the manor a home. There were family photos, not portraits, on various walls, board games, so many records and record players that Selina stopped counting at 16, all of which seemed meant to serve only to encourage visitors to ignore the empty chill of the enormous rooms.

Selina, with all the wisdom of a 13-year-old who was tired of fake displays of love already, simply rolled her eyes and headed up the stairs to investigate a very nice blue and white vase. Didn’t the manor’s decorator know that a manor isn’t a house and you can’t have a home without a house?

******************************************************************************

By age 17, Selina Kyle knew the Wayne Manor better than anyone else. Alfred would have, and did, argue with her about this particular statement, but she refused to relinquish the title. After all, he had arranged for the security system and he didn’t know if half as well as Selina did. (At the beginning of this years-long argument, Bruce had foolishly suggested that perhaps he was the one who knew the mansion best, which prompted Selina to throw her spaghetti bolognese at him while Alfred pretended to not notice; Bruce had quickly withdrawn his name from the competition.) Selina certainly didn’t live at the manor, but there was always the same room made up for her and ready should she ever decide to stop by. The room was nice and Bruce had even put a small stuffed cat on the bed sometime when she was 14, but it was not the room she spent the most time in. Instead, the little, informal kitchen and dining room was the spot in the manor that most captured her heart. She knew that room perhaps better than anywhere else in the world. She knew that the fourth wood plank from the door creaked and had memorized exactly how to walk to not make any noise. She knew that the bush of cornelias underneath the window by the sink smelled best during the summer rainstorms and that if you only opened the window a few inches you could enjoy the smell without letting any rain into the room. Looking back, she blessed every one of the moments she spent in that room with the rain gently tapping on the roof and the smell of the flowers filling the kitchen. (One time Bruce had bought her a cornelia flower perfume and the poor boy was baffled to discover that she refused to wear it when it wasn’t raining out.)

It was exactly one of these rainy afternoons when Selina realized that perhaps she was too close to the manor and its inhabitants. She had snuck in earlier than morning and helped herself to a sandwich before settling in in the kitchen. She knew Bruce and Alfred would be out and had been excited to see their faces when they returned to find an extra, unexpected person in the house. However, when they returned with bags full of groceries, they greeted Selina like she had been there the whole time and simply declined the offer to go grocery shopping, not as if she had broken in. Bruce had assured her that they had remembered to get her the pomegranate juice and granola bars she liked since she had run out last week and Alfred had reminded her that the sweater she had left there a couple days ago was at the dry cleaners and should be ready to be picked up later this afternoon if she would be so kind as to grab it the next time she went into the city. And then, with a sense of horror washing over her, Selina realized she knew exactly where to put all the items in the grocery bag she’d been handed to unload. So, she raced to put the asparagus in its drawer, the lightbulbs in the mudroom off to the left of the dining room, and the cinnamon in its proper place in the spice rack, before dashing off to grab the imaginary book that she had supposedly left in her room.

Selina’s heart seemed about to beat out of her chest as she looked around the room (her room?) at the drawers that had her clothes and her bathroom full of the combs and products that kept her hair manageable and the little gifts and trinkets spread over the shelves from birthdays and Christmases and apologies for running off to the stupid chalet in Switzerland. It just couldn’t do. She was a street kid, a cat, not someone who could be tied down to a room with a bed and curtains and her favorite foods and her absolute favorite people. So that night she packed everything she could into her little backpack and ran away.

Because who was she kidding? A girl like her could never have a home in a house like that.

******************************************************************************

Bruce crashes with her for a week during the year the bridges were blown. She can’t remember why, but vaguely thinks it might have been because of her incident with the scalpel. He probably passed it off as giving Alfred space or helping make sure nothing went wrong with the root that was healing her spine, but she remembers a distinct sense that Bruce was waiting for her to collapse into a ball and die at any moment. And that feeling got really old, really fast. In a city like Gotham, especially during that year, oftentimes the safest places were rooftops, so Selina had snuck out of her room late one September evening and climbed onto the roof. She had sat there for no longer than 20 minutes when Bruce emerged from her window. The autumn night was mostly warm, but the wind would pick up every so often and send a chill through her body. He hadn’t been out on the roof for more than a minute or so before he slipped his jacket around her shoulders. The gesture caught her off-guard for a moment, but the past few months of her life had been nightmarish and every night felt so unreal that she chose to ignore the voices in her head screaming for her to move away because sharing your heart with someone means letting them choose if they protect it of if they break it and settled in beside the young man next to her.

Selina was young and still didn’t have a house, but maybe houses were overrated and the right person was all that was required to make a home.

******************************************************************************

Bruce leaves a few months later and it feels like he’s finally revealed that this was simply a years-long con and she had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. The manor was gone and Alfred didn’t know how to react around her and Jim was busy and Barbara had a baby and everyone seemed to think that she must know how to get ahold of Bruce because no one who really loved someone would leave without a good-bye.

But he did.

He left without a good-bye and instead let a note that spoke of home and how she would always matter to him and have a place in his soul break her heart for him. But, she told herself, it was fine. After all, Wayne Manor was blown to smithereens and you ain’t got no home if you ain’t got no house so it didn’t matter that the person who had made her feel at home had left without saying good-bye..

******************************************************************************

The manor was rebuilt by the time Selina was 20. She and Alfred had worked hard to make it as close to the original as possible. The only purposeful difference were the carpets in the study because neither could muster the strength to buy ones identical to the carpet that Selina had nearly bled out on. She spent a grand total for four days in the new manor before running away.

Alfred may have been determined that this new house could be a home, but Selina knew it just wasn’t going to be the case.

******************************************************************************

The first apartment she rents legally is with her paycheck from the Martha Wayne Foundation. She had successfully bid for a small position helping to plan events for the Foundation and while she suspects that the job was given to her solely because no one wanted to figure out if denying Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend a job in his mother’s charity would be what it took to bring him back from wherever he was off hiding, she didn’t push it. Regardless of the reason for her getting the job, Selina loved the work and loved the status and the apartment that she got as a result of her work. It had been maybe a year after Gotham was reunited with the mainland that Selina had realized that the only way she was going to be able to get the kind of scores and respect she so desperately craved from Gotham’s underworld was if she could make a space for herself in the city’s ruling class. After all, Barbara had been a socialite and Lee had married a Falcone and been respected by the entire GCPD. If Selina was going to get a fraction of the power either of them had had, she was going to need to insert herself into the kind of life Bruce had led. So that’s what she did.

The apartment felt like proof that she could fake her way into a richer world. Gone were the days of squats and sleeping in a different bed every night. Now her apartment was painted a deep purple and had fresh flowers at all times (cornelias because the smell still made her happier than anything else) and a closet full of dresses for galas and cocktail parties and dates with men who got more money from their trust funds in a month than she had ever touched in her life. Was it home? If you had asked Selina that, she would have scoffed at you and rolled her eyes.

After all, you can have the nicest house in the world, but if you’re faking belonging there, it will never be a home.

******************************************************************************

The party was barely even starting when Bruce Wayne left and asked the valet to bring him his car. He’d only been back in Gotham for six months and parties felt even more tedious and ridiculous now than they had before he’d left for a decade. Besides, Selina had been there and he still wasn’t certain where they stood (if you had asked him where Batman and Catwoman stood in relation to each other he probably would have been able to give a more concrete answer, but even that was a big ‘probably’). So of course he should have been expecting her to be in the passenger seat of his car when he slid into it. And of course he should have been expecting to hear her soft voice casually whisper that she rents a place on Rose Avenue if he wanted to check it out.

She doesn’t give him a chance to decline her offer and he barely manages to mind since he couldn’t have turned her down anyway. Later, after he’s explored the apartment and they’ve explored each other and refused to even consider exploring what their relationship might be like in this new reality, he asks her if she likes her new home.

Selina scoffs in that way that he knows means he shouldn’t have bothered asking such a stupid question in the first place. “Bruce one day you’ll have to learn, just ‘cause someone has a house doesn’t mean they’ve got a home.”

******************************************************************************

After the wedding reception, Bruce grabs his bride’s hand and walks her back to the mansion’s entrance, the one that they’ve been through more times than either could count. Selina couldn’t shake the feeling that walking through those grand front doors should feel different now that she was the Mrs. Wayne who would be working so hard to make the mansion feel like a home, but she didn’t. She had run through those doors as a tiny 13-year-old fleeing for her life. She had climbed through every window in the estate as a 15-year-old unsure of the new relationship unfolding before her. She had wept where the kitchen had once been as a 19-year-old who didn’t know if she was crying for the building that was gone or for the man who had left her to try and rebuild her life on her own. She had helped pick the carpets and wallpaper and artwork that still remained in the manor as a tentative 22-year-old. She had cursed and railed against the world in the east gardens as a 25-year-old learning that the Martha Wayne Foundation would lose 20% of its funding because Wayne Corporation felt it didn’t generate enough good press to deserve the money it had previously received. She had brainstormed with Bruce on the stairs of the foyer as they tried to figure out how to bring peace to their city after another attack from Jerimaiah Valeska as a 29-year-old trying to bond with her childhood friend again. She had snuck barefoot through the kitchen last night when she gave in and accepted she was too excited for her wedding to get any sleep. She had lived so much life in this giant manor that she had once thought could never hold love and peace and happiness in its vast rooms. And the new last name she had claimed didn’t make her any different from the teen who had pushed all the furniture out of the study to dance the the late Waynes’ records with their son. Her whole life, the religion that kept her going on the darkest days, all of it was built into this place.

Bruce insists on carrying her over the threshold because the man is still as much of a sentimentalist as he was when he was a kid who brought her a snowglobe from Switzerland. As he sets her down, he looks her in the eyes and smiles, “Welcome home, Mrs. Wayne.”

Selina, despite her efforts, can’t keep back a laugh at his endearing sincerity. “You know, Mr. Wayne, I used to say that you can’t have a home without a house, but, after thinking about it again, I think a mansion can indeed count as a house.”

“So, you’ll call this home?”

“I think that may just be something I can agree to.”

#Guys seriously #this is never going to happen again #do not hold your breath because it won't #Also I love my unofficial batcat fam for whom this was most definitely written #I still know I have a writing tag somewhere and I still know I don't have a clue what it is #batcat #Selina kyle #bruce wayne #gotham #Also there is nothing more satisfying that cross posting everything all at once

9 notes · View notes

jawnjendes · 5 years

Text

shawn meets... | bella

SUMMARY: in the life of a rockstar, shawn mendes comes across some unique people. sometimes, things stray from the norm. (AU, shawn x every one of my oc’s)

AN: hiiii this is somewhat of a continuation of my last series, goth gf. you dont HAVE to read it to know what's happening here, but there will be references to it every so often. if you've been here since the goth gf days then, hi. i appreciate you. enjoy this shit. let me know ur thots.

****let me know if you want to be added to the taglist!

bella's origin story | bella's playlist | masterlist

It felt awfully strange to be in Annalise's hometown, knowing she wouldn't be going home right away. The residential part of North Hollywood where her parents lived still felt like it was a million miles away. The glamorous Lyft Lux was going through the equally glamorous parts of the city, and it was almost mundane despite the fact that she had been away for over a year.

Shawn and his younger sister, Aaliyah, were frequently pointing out the exciting things they had only seen in photos and movies: the Chinese Theater, the Walk of Fame, the Hollywood sign. They were bundles of energy and excitement. Annalise was only jittery because she never fully processed that she lives in the same city as her favorite YouTuber, Bella Santiago.

Over a month ago, Bella discovered the Shawn Mendes profile on Spotify, causing her to give him a shoutout on Twitter. Then, just after the release of his newest EP, In My Blood, Bella messaged Shawn, offering to fly him out to LA, put him in a hotel and make a video with her. Shawn immediately jumped at the chance, but he couldn't go without bringing two of the biggest Bella stans he knew, Annalise and Aaliyah. The only reason why it took until the New Year for this to happen was simple: exams and Christmas.

When the semester ended, Annalise spent the holidays and her 22nd birthday with Shawn's family in Pickering, much to her own family's disdain. It was different, celebrating Christmas on the morning of the 25th, rather than the 24th. It was also different not eating tamales or pozole like she did with her family. It totally wasn't annoying when Shawn blasted that god awful Taylor Swift song on the morning of Annalise's birthday. She totally didn't miss her family either.

She had to promise her parents that she would stay in LA for the duration of the holiday break in return for missing all the important holidays. It wasn't a hard decision to make, but it was going to be hard letting Shawn go. Annalise only hoped that there would be time for him to meet her extended family during this trip. From what she understood, as soon as Bella was done with him, Shawn and Aaliyah were getting on a plane straight back to Toronto.

As it turns out, Bella Santiago is insanely generous. She reserved the three of them a deluxe suite at the Marriott. They had a view of the city, a massive king size bed, and a pull out sofa bed. Everything was spotless, and luxurious.

"She didn't have to go this hard," Aaliyah pointed out as she tossed her suitcase to the side.

"What, would you rather sleep on the floor?" Shawn teased. "And pick that up and move it so it's out of the way!"

She rolled her eyes as she did what he said.

Annalise made herself comfortable on top of the white sheets. While all of this was exciting, she was fucking exhausted. It felt like it was much later in the day, having gotten up at seven. The time change made it feel like it was well in the afternoon, but it was barely eleven.

"How's your tummy?" Shawn asked from the window. He had his phone out and was taking photos of the view.

"Much better," she replied.

Against her better judgment, Annalise had a coffee during the five hour flight, and it did not agree with her. She made good friends with a barf bag… or three. All the caffeine must have left her system if she was feeling better now.

"What time do we meet Bella?" asked Aaliyah, padding over to stand by her brother.

"Three o'clock," Shawn replied. "In the ballroom downstairs."

That prompted all three of them to take a death nap for the time being. It only lasted about three hours, and when their alarms went off, none of them felt any more rested.

Annalise was the first one to actually get up and get ready. For once, she was intimidated by who she was going to be standing in front of today. She had to look her best, even if it was in all black.

It didn't take long for Aaliyah to follow suit. Soon enough, both girls were sitting in front of the window, using the California sun for their light as they did their makeup.

The funny thing is, as much as they cared about looking their best, neither of them were going to be in Bella's video. She only wanted Shawn, who was still lying in bed half an hour before the scheduled meet up.

"What are you gonna wear?" Annalise asked her boyfriend.

"I don't know," he replied, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Will she even care about what I'm wearing?"

"You're gonna be on her channel," Aaliyah said, looking up from her handheld mirror, "which has millions of viewers, including some of my friends who will never let me hear the end of it if they see my brother looking like a clown in front of the queen!"

Shawn grinned and got up. "I'll go like this, what do you think?" He held his arms out, showcasing his plaid pajama bottoms and a Nike hoodie. He also only had one sock on.

"You'll be dead before you step out of the room like that," Ann darkly added.

“Thanks Satan.” He chuckled.

Shawn was only pretending to be calm. Inside, he was shaking and his insides were heavy. He didn't even think about Bella's subscriber count until Aaliyah pointed it out. He really wanted Bella to like him too. She seemed like such a sweetheart from her videos, Shawn hoped that wasn't just a persona.

He had spent most of the flight watching her videos (when Ann wasn’t puking up her caffeine, of course.) He made it through a few tutorials, learning a lot about not only makeup, but Bella herself. She suffers from several anxiety disorders and constantly works to better herself. She left her parents when she came out to them as bisexual, and she hasn't spoke to them or her extended family in years. She recently got out of a relationship with another YouTuber named Ethan Nestor, which was part of the reason why she spent half of 2019 in her hometown of Palm Springs. This woman has some thick skin, there was no denying that.

One of the best things that Shawn learned about Bella was that she had a butterfly tattoo on her left arm. In another video, she talked about how her viewers drew butterflies on their arms in support of her when she was down. She got it tattooed for them, and the colors of the wings were the same as the bisexual pride flag. Shawn looked at his own butterfly tattoo differently now.

The other best thing he learned was how talented of a singer Bella was. She had covers on her channel, and Shawn watched every single one. Bella had such a rich, beautiful voice, and it looked so easy for her to hit any high note. She sang Love on the Brain without any strain on her face. She sang a gayer version of You Belong with Me, and played guitar with it. She sang with Markiplier as the opening act when they were on a comedy show tour in 2018.

Shawn couldn't wait to sing with her, though he was intimidated. He thought he was a good singer, but put him next to someone with Ariana Grande levels of talent? The nerves were never ending.

It was ten til three when everyone was ready. Their only predicament was to go down to the ballroom early or not.

“Did she text you?” Aaliyah asked, clearly antsy. “Is she on her way or anything?”

Shawn shook his head. He had changed into a white tee, black jeans and a denim jacket, which the two girls approved of. “Should I message her? Or… her manager? She’s the one who made all these arrangements.”

“Hey, she might not even be here on time,” Ann said. “YouTubers are like celebrities. They run on their own schedules just because they can.”

“Bella wouldn’t do that, would she?” Aaliyah said in disbelief.

“Only one way to find out.”

And to the ballroom they went. The space was huge, clearly meant for a party. There were sheer white curtains hanging from the huge windows, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. In the far corner of the room, tables and chairs were folded and leaning against the wall. Shawn, Aaliyah, and Ann looked around the room, all silently nervous and excited. Only a few minutes into it, they heard female voices just outside the room.

“But we’re always early! I knew I should have driven myself!”

“It’s two fifty-nine! Relax, they’re probably not even here yet!”

“Huh, I’ll be damned,” Ann mumbled, looking at her phone to verify the time.

The owners of the other two voices entered the room, carrying expensive-looking camera equipment and studio lights. They were followed by a bellhop, who was carrying a keyboard in a case. One woman was short and curvy, brown and freckled. Her short black hair was curly and glossed down, and she was wearing a bright red pantsuit.

The other woman was long and lean, decked out in a white long sleeve crop top, a black skirt, and knee high boots. Her iconic bright pink hair made a comeback, that wasn’t in her latest video. Her kind face looked airbrushed and flawless, although her brown eyes looked alarmed, like she was caught in headlights.

The first person to break the silence was the woman in red, already establishing her power. “Hello!” She held her hand out to Shawn. “I’m Sonji, I’m Bella’s manager. I believe we spoke on the phone. And on Twitter.”

“Yeah, yeah we did,” he said as they shook hands. “Uh, this Aaliyah and Ann, my sister and my girlfriend.”

“Hi, ladies!” Sonji greeted, shaking their hands as well. “So lovely to meet you! God, you’re all so pretty!”

Both girls mumbled shy thank you’s.

“Okay, so my handsome friend here and myself are going to set things up for the video,” Sonji explained. “In the meantime-” She looked at her silent client. “-Baller, come talk to your little protégé.”

Then, Sonji led the bellhop further into the room, over by the windows.

Bella still had a bag slung over her shoulder and a massive studio light stand in her hands. She was clutching it to her chest, a very performative and awkward smile etched on her bright pink lips.

“Hi!” she said after one very long second. “Uh - lemme -” She set down the giant lights and removed the bag from her shoulder. Then she stood up straight and smoothed out her hair. “Hi! Uh, I said that already!”

“I’ll say it again! Hi!” Shawn greeted, smiling politely.

Bella looked at him and opened her arms for a hug. “It’s nice to finally meet you!”

It might be weird to put it this way, but she smelled pretty. Whatever perfume she was wearing was probably more expensive than the flight over here. Shawn hugged her around her shoulders, inadvertently touching her surprisingly soft hair. You could just tell that she didn’t spare a single penny when it came to caring for herself.

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting you to be so tall!” she said, looking up at Shawn. “For once, I’m not the tallest person in the room!”

She couldn’t have been taller than Ann, who was five foot five inches and felt very short most of the time.

“And this is the sister and the girlfriend?” Bella said, turning to the other two girls. She went to hug Aaliyah, who was more than delighted by the gesture.

Bella leaned back and took her hand. “I love your nails! Love the shape and color!” She ran her thumb over the white acrylics. “So cute!”

“Aw, thank you!” Aaliyah was beaming.

Then, Bella turned to hug Ann. It’s important to point out that in most situations, Annalise Flores is stone faced, calm, and collected. Today, however, Ann had wide eyes, like she was face the good Lord herself… like she was going to drop down on one knee and propose to Bella.

Shawn wouldn’t blame her.

“Me encanta su delineador!” Bella told her, gently cupping her face.

“En serio?” Ann softly asked.

“Yes, que linda! Those inner wings are to die for! What do you use?”

“Um.. uh, I think it’s NYX? I don’t know the exact one, but it’s definitely NYX!” Ann chuckled nervously.

“Well, it looks amazing!”

Ann looked like she was going to faint with that euphoric dazed look on her face. Thankfully, she stayed on both feet because Sonji grabbed their attention. She managed to sneak by Bella, take the lights and bag, and set them all up by the window. She also set up the keyboard, camera and two chairs. There were three other chairs behind the camera as well. Sonji was incredibly fast.

“We are all ready to go!” she said to the others.

“Shall we?” Bella gestured for the other three to go first.

Shawn, Ann, and Aaliyah went over to the set up, excitement only increasing from here.

"Were you two going to be in the video too?" Sonji asked the two girls.

They both shook their heads.

"Nervous? Don't blame you, the Internet is brutal."

That didn't help Shawn's bundle of nerves. He took a silent deep breath as he went for his guitar case while Bella sat in front of her keyboard. The Internet is brutal, and Shawn's own minuscule corner of it was safe solely because of the size. The fans he tweeted every so often were seemingly normal, and no one was overly critical about him or his music. More exposure means more space for criticism and plain old hate.

Bella had over five million subscribers, and at least forty thousand of them took an interest in Shawn over the last month and a half. It was a lot of new people to make a good impression to. He took another deep breath and removed the guitar from its case. There's no going back now.

"So, I don't want this to be a structured, planned out video," Bella explained when Shawn took the empty chair next to her. "I just want us to talk so my viewers can get to know you, and we'll sing whatever comes to mind."

"Sounds good," Shawn said, not really hearing himself.

"Now everybody - and I mean everybody - take in a deep breath."

The room was silent except for the sounds of everyone inhaling through their noses. Aaliyah and Ann still looked excited as they followed Bella's instruction. Sonji followed as well, like she had done this a thousand times.

"And exhale," Bella breathed out, and the others repeated. "Good. Get those nerves out, breathe away the anxiety. This is fun, we're having fun."

Shawn felt a little better, knowing she was just as nervous, if not more. Throughout all of Bella's mental health videos that he watched on the plane, none of them seemed to touch on how severe her own case was.

Finally, Bella addressed the camera, her soft voice suddenly projected. "Hey, it's Bella! Welcome back to my channel! Today, I'm here with a very special guest! Some of you saw me tweet a while ago…"

Oh god, what the fuck was Shawn going to say? He looked over at Ann, who smiled reassuringly and silently did the motions for deep breathing. Stay calm. You're a strong guy.

"So how long have you been making music?" Bella asked him as she mindlessly pressed keys on her keyboard.

Shawn recalled as best he could. "Uh, I sang covers when I was fifteen. Didn't make my own music until a few years later."

"Nice! Are you in school, or work or something?"

"Yeah, I'm in college. I'm majoring in music and botany."

"Oh, you like plants?"

Shawn was mildly impressed. Most people had to ask what botany is, and he would have to explain for the thousandth time. Then, he would be told to drop the music major because it's easier to find a job in plant science.

"Flowers," he clarified. "I work in a flower shop."

"That's so cool!"

The conversation got easier as time went on. Sometimes Aaliyah or Ann would chime in if they felt that Shawn was getting too confident. Bella giggled every so often, which made everyone in the room adore her even more.

Shawn was about ready to propose when Bella started playing Mercy on her keyboard and humming the beginning. He stared at her in shock for a few seconds before he played along on guitar. Hopefully that didn't look too embarrassing on camera. He listened to her voice for a moment before singing with her in the chorus.

He had plenty of questions for Bella after they went through that song. "Where did you get a voice like that?"

"I could carry a tune as a kid," she explained, "so I was put into singing classes to hone it. Then I did church choir, school choir… I just never really stopped singing." She paused and then chuckled nervously. "This is gonna sound pretentious, but I think I got this voice for a reason. Meaning, I have this platform and all these followers. I think I'm meant to use my voice for good. Help people in whatever way I can."

Shawn smiled. "That's beautiful. I see that in your videos. I kinda went on a binge on the plane."

Bella grinned.

"One thing that stood out to me…" Shawn hesitated, minding the camera and the future viewers of this video. "You are so unapologetically bisexual. You always make the point to the person you needed as a kid, because there is still so little bi representation in the media. And you decided, if no one's going to do it, then you'll do it yourself, and I think that's incredible."

"Yeah, I didn't have anyone telling me it's okay to feel what I feel, and I don't want anyone to go through what I went through as a teen."

Shawn nodded, glancing over at Ann once. He had talked about touching on this particular topic with her, and he was starting to have his own shred of doubt.

But, he learned from his girlfriend. Fuck it.

"I wish I had someone like you as a teenager," he said to Bella, strumming his guitar. "I mean, when I came out to my family, I was lucky. They were loving and accepting, but I still couldn't find anyone out there who was like me, in real life or in the media. I really wish I had found your videos sooner."

Bella was beaming. "I knew I liked you."

The two of them went back and forth between talking and singing. They compared butterfly tattoos, and then Bella was asking him about his other tats. Shawn learned a couple of Little Mix songs too, which led him to discover where his girlfriend got that fixation from. He was mostly amazed at how Bella was able to belt out song after song like it was nothing. Like she was meant for this. Why did she choose to be a makeup artist?

"Have you ever been offered a record deal?" Shawn asked. "Or thought about making your own music?"

"Mm, yes and yes," she said. "But singing is more of a hobby. I can't see myself delving into the music industry at all. Makeup is where it's at for me. Makeup got me through some of the hardest times in my life."

Shawn wouldn't say no to a record deal. He'd move to Los Angeles tomorrow if he could. He would do just about anything to play music full time. He glanced over at Ann again, who winked with a smile.

next chapter

_______

taglist: @normalcyisoverrated-beyou @justordinaryjen @chillingbythesea @iloveshawnieboi @shawnsunflower @someoneunimportantxx

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes smut #shawn x oc #shawn meets fic #ok ok ok so theres 5 oc's total #bella is just the first n i lov her lil nervous ass sm #i wanted to bring her back for somethin like this bc i missed her n her story #and sonji is actually god herself yes its true #this wont be the last you see of either of them #if anyone wants to know more abt bella pls shoot me an ask!#next chapter is gonna be a doozy

35 notes · View notes

justkarliekloss · 5 years

Text

Karlie Kloss interview for British Vogue August 2019 by Elaine Welteroth (Part 2)

* If you have a fan accoun and repost it, please give credit.

The sun is finally up when we land in Los Angeles and discover, via text, that the Project Runway production meeting - the reason for our early cross-country flight - has been cancelled at the last minute. As I unleash a growl of annoyance, Karlie rests her hand on my shoulder and gives me a dose of the glass-half-full positivity that has defined her career: "Well, at least now maybe you can go get some sleep before the day..." I am reminded that I have never met a single soul more relentlessely cheerful than Kloss. It is not a persona: she is good to the core. "When you say that someone is nice it can sound pejorative but it's not," says her friend and mentor Diance von Furstenberg. "It is that honesty and eagerness that is resonating. Karlie is a good girl and a good role model for young girls."

Indeed, just ask around about her and you'll begin to wonder if she is the kindest person in fashion. But do not mistake her sweet nature, or her recent conversion to Judaism (the Kushner family are Modern Orthodox), for weakness. "Changing part of who you are for someone else can be seen as weak. But you know what? Actually, if you've been through that I've experienced, it requires you to be anything but weak," she says of her decision to convert. "It requires me to be stronger and self-loving and resilient. I really did not take this lightly. It wasn't enough to just love Josh and make this decision for him. This is my life and I am an independent, strong woman. It was only after many years of studying and talking with my family and friends and soul searching that I made the decision to fully embrace Judaism in my life and start planning for a future with the man I chose to marry."

The newly-weds recently put their immaculately decorated two-bedroom apartment in the East Village up for sale, looking for a new home in which to start their married life. Kloss first settled in New York five years ago, at the apex of her catwalk career, spending her hand-earned money on a place next to the Hudson river. At that point, she'd been working for five years, having been first scouted in St. Louis mall at the age of 13, when she was a coltish 5ft 8in and a burgeoning ballerina. Two years later, she landed her first New York Fashion Week show, with Calvin Klein, and her first editorial, an Arthur Elgort shoot with Teen Vogue. In the early days, Kloss travelled to jobs accompained by her physician father and her art direction mother, who protected her from the wilder aspects of the industry, but even as an adult, she has never been swept up in the party scene. Famously private, Kloss keeps a tight-knit circle of friends - albeit a high-profile one that includes Taylor Swift, Serena Williams and Derek Blasberg.

Once out of the airport, we part ways to shower. A few hours later we reunite on James Corden's set, where Kloss charms a rowdy audience with a little beauty trick she picked up backstage using a spoon to enhace Corden's lashes on live TV. Finally, after a scooter ride through Venice and a late dinner, jet lag strikes, and we decide to catch up on the phone a few days later, when she's managed to pull away from her hectic schedule for a meditative retreat with her husband in Wyoming.

In her Zen state, it's easy to see why she has so enthusiastically embraced the Jewish Shabbat, a day of rest that requires unplugging from work and completely disconnecting from the digiital world from sunset each Friday until nightfall on Saturday. She describes it as a "grounding force" in her otherwise non-stop lifestyle. "I think we all have a tendency to just keep going," she says on the phone. "Some people find grounding through meditation. Some find it through exercise. And to each their own, but for me, Shabbat has brought so much meaning into my life. It helps me reconnect to the actual world."

Kloss's studious approach to embracing Judaism reflects her insatiable curiosity. In 2015, long before the current wave of feminist hashtagivism, she enrolled in New York University's Gallatin School to study feminist theory. During this soul-searching period, she quit one of her most lucrative contracts, with the lingerie conglomerate Victoria's Secret. Bear in mind that this was before the rise of cancellation cuture, before walking away from a problematic company could earn a celebrity praise from the "woke" masses.

"The reason I decided to stop working with Victoria's secret was I didn't feel it was an image that was truly reflective of who I am and the kind of message I want to send to young women around the world about what it means to be beautiful," Karlie says. "I think that was a pivotal moment in me stepping into my power as a feminist, being able to make my own choices and my own narrative, whether through the companies I choose to work with, or through the image I put out to the world."

At the time, such a move may have felt risky and potentially damaging. But Kloss's star has only continued to soar - last year, Forbes named her the second most highly paid model in the world (Kendall Jenner pipped her to the top spot), and her fortune is estimated at $20 million. "In the modelling industry, every year is like a dog year," she says, smiling. "If you survive a year, it's like seven years in any other industry." If so, then she is a statesowman at just 26 - one whose enterprising embrace of new media put her on the front line of the digital revolution (she was one of the first major models with her own YouTube channel, in 2015) at a time when fashion was still resistan to change. I know because I was one of the magazine editors lurking around backstage the first season she showed up with a camera to capture her own getting-ready process in Hyperlapse to share with her growing following on social media. I found it innovative. Others found it bothersome, at best.

"I appreciate you using the word innovative. In the moment, I was a nuisance," Karlie laughs. "I got so many dirty looks at Paris Fashion Week. I remember getting yelled at and they would call my agency because I was Instagramming backstage." But she insists her rise hasn't been all selfies and sunshine. "I remember being 16 or 17 years old and afraid to say, "I don't want to wear this sheer top because I'm fully exposed and my mom is in the audience." I remember how it felt when I didn't say that I didn't want to do it, and how humilated I felt seeing those images and feeling sad that I didn't stand up for myself," she says. "Now I'm not trying to please anyone but myself."

The lesson she wants to share with other women? "Looking back at my late teens and early tweenties, I think I was fearful that I would lose a job or lose my position if I said I didn't want to do something. But I did not lose out on jobs, If anything, the more I exercised the power of my voice, the more I earned respect from my peers. And I earned more respect for myself. Only now do I have the confidence to stand tall - all 6ft 2in of me - and know the power of my voice," she says. "There are days when I wake up and I feel like I'm not this enough or too much that. We are all so critical of ourselves. But I love everything I do now, there is intention behind it."

#karlie kloss #vogue #british vogue #elaine welteroth #kkinterviews #britv19

13 notes · View notes

nadiafm · 5 years

Photo

𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓶𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓮𝔃

intermediate family

nadia’s family has grown in the past few years , but she only considers her mother and sister to be her true family .

father : SANTIAGO is a fifty year old contractor in san diego , california . he left paloma , nadia , and catalina nine years ago after fleeing the failing marriage , and did not put forth much effort in maintaining a relationship with his kids .

mother : PALOMA is a forty - nine year old middle school school teacher in aventura , florida . she tends to drink a little bit too much wine , takes anti-anxiety medication every morning and night , and has given up on love totally & completely . except for the men she occasionally brings home , but cat and nadia don’t really talk about that .

little sister : CATALINA “ CAT ” is fourteen and a freshman in high school in aventura , florida . cat has always felt like she was in nadia’s shadow , like both their parents favored nadia over her , and while nadia was bitten by the love bug , cat takes after her mother in that she has no interest in falling in love with anybody , lest she end up like her mother . she was never as close to her father , and though she does suffer from some major abandonment issues , she doesn’t necessarily miss him .

“ step mother ” : DANIELLE , whom nadia has only met once , is a thirty-seven year old stay - at - home - mom in san diego , california . she does not approve of nadia at all , and is part of the reason that a wedge was driven between nadia & her father the only summer that nadia went to visit ( unbeknownst to nadia ) .

half brother : HUNTER is a seven - year - old twin who is equally parts devil and demon . his parents have signed him up for every sport in the book in hopes he releases his energy & aggressions in practice instead of on his sister . nadia hasn’t seen him since he was an infant .

half sister : ESTEFANIA “ ESTEF ” is a seven - year - old twin who wears pink frilly dresses and loves horses . only listens to taylor swift and will throw a tantrum if anyone plays anything else in her presence . nadia hasn’t seen her since she was an infant .

half sister : CELENE is a four - year - old that nadia has never met , nor has any interest in doing so .

hometown & family home

in comparison to a lot of her classmates, nadia is not rich . but that isn’t to say her family is poor by any means . they live in an upper class community and have a house by the beach — her father was a contractor , and developed a lot of homes in miami while he still lived in florida . her mother , a middle school teacher , made a decent living . so it’s not as though nadia had a deprived , poor childhood , she just didn’t necessarily own a closet full of designer clothes and the newest iphone in her pocket .

aventura is famous for their shopping mall , which is the third largest in the us . it was the place to hang out in high school , and nadia spent a lot of her time there growing up . it is also home to turnberry isle miami , which is a well known resort in the area . many of nadia’s teenage memories involve sneaking into the resort and finding their way into guest - only amenities like the pool and spa .

nadia has lived in the same house her entire life . a cozy , two bedroom , one story home in the suburbs of aventure , florida , about a twenty minute drive from miami without traffic . the home was the first house her parents bought together , back when they were still in love . still , the home holds a lot of sentimental value for nadia , and she loves it with her whole heart . she always looks forward to going home .

car

nadia got her learner’s permit as soon as she turned fifteen , and her license on her sixteenth birthday . still , that just meant driving her mom’s car when her mom wasn’t using it .

on her eighteenth birthday , during the summer after her senior year of high school , she was given her very first car as a birthday gift ( the car she and her then - boyfriend ethan would use to drive to hollingsworth together ) . a used , 2013 2 door jeep wrangler sport , her pride and joy . she named her danger , and drives it to hollingsworth every fall , driving it back home to miami every summer . the car has its roof and doors off all summer long .

room ( society house )

nadia lives in the zeta house , and admittedly her room can get pretty messy . still , it’s one of her favorite spots to spend down time . her walls are decorated with pictures of her favorite memories ( she’s been carrying around disposable cameras the past two years , which has accrued quite a few photos for the wall ) , her bed is stacked high with throw pillows , and her desk is covered in papers and pens and post it-s .

favorite spot on campus

nadia’s favorite spot on campus is the quad , because she loves to people watch . every student walks through at some point in the day , heading to class or heading home , and she could sit up against a tree with her airpods in watching people walk by for hours .

pet

when nadia was seven , her birthday gift was a large box with holes in it . she thought it was a pony . but when she ripped back the wrapping paper , it was the most beautiful , fluffy little long haired german shepherd . she named her honey . honey was hers , not the family dog , hers . she slept in nadia’s room , snuggled up in bed with her every night . when her parents would yell at her , honey would bark her head off until they stopped .

when honey was twelve , she started showing signs of old age . she died the following year . nadia was nineteen at the time , a sophomore at hollingsworth , and she was distraught for days . she even went home for the weekend and laid cuddled up in bed crying . that week , she went and got a tattoo of her face , in THIS sort of fashion .

most valued possession

nadia’s most valued possesssion is the lionel messi jersey her father gave her when she was twelve . it was the last gift he gave her before leaving , and seeing as nadia is a loud and proud argentine , she loves it dearly . it doesn’t fit well anymore , unless she wears is as a sort of tight crop top , and she has plenty of other argentina soccer jerseys to wear on game day , but that specific one will always be the most important to her .

best friends

growing up , nadia’s number one best friend was josie . they were , and still are , two peas in a pod . they met in seventh grade when they were both crushing on the same boy , and through that , a friendship formed . josie decided to go to school in california , where she’d always dreamed of going , and where nadia had once dreamed of with her . she was the only one who had advised nadia not to follow ethan to hollingsworth , but of course she didn’t listen , and might regret not going to ucla with josie , but mostly she’s happy she picked hollingsworth . after all , it just means she gets to visit ucla sometimes .

at hollingsworth , nadia considers dash & lux her best friends , the one she can count on to be there , and not judge her . ever . which means a lot ! considering she does a lot of things worth judging .

first love

like actually in love with or ? fksjghsjhg

ok a little bit nsfw , also trigger warnings : underage sex , slut shaming

the first time nadia felt what she thought was love was freshman year of high school . mother fucking connor perch . he was actually really sweet to her at first , they met after being assigned desks next to each other in freshman year biology , though neither of the were very interested in the subject . ANYWAY , connor was on the basketball team , and you know nadia is a sucker for student athletes , so she had a crush right away , and by october of their freshman year they were dating . they were only fourteen , so to be fair they didn’t do much . it was mostly holding hands and chaste kisses in the hallway and sitting on his lap at lunch and things like that ! but mans was trying to lose his virginity . ( nadia’s first time had been in a car with a boy she barely knew that summer before high school , but he didn’t know that , and of course she didn’t tell him ) .

anyway , she was madly in love with him , or so she thought at fourteen . she was like ... this is going to last forever ! and he knew about her dad and all , was always very sympathetic , always doing things like leaving flowers in her locker and love notes in her pockets . he was really sweet ok ! can ya blame a hopeless romantic for falling in love !

it was june , just a few days after school let out for summer , when nadia agreed to give him a blowjob . in the middle of it , when she looked up , he had his phone out and was recording . and nadia being nadia , she didn’t stop . she literally finished giving him a blowjob and it was only after , when they were sitting in her bed , that she gently asked him why he recorded that , and if he’d delete it . he said it was for himself , for him to look back on when he was at home alone . but it was only about a week later that nadia started getting texts from other boys at her school , asking things like how much she charged and if there was a summer vacation discount . and girls were posting things on formspring ( remember formspring ? lmao . ) calling her a slut and an attention seeker and god knows what else , and when she confronted connor about it he broke up with her , saying she was needy and clingy and if she didn’t want to be labeled as a slut why did she go down on people ! safe to say that was her least favorite summer ever . maybe second now , to the summer after she and rowan broke up .

favorite outfit

nadia’s go to outfit is a mini dress with sneakers . it’s literally all she wears !! spring ? autumn ? toss on a cardigan on top . winter ? add her favorite furry jacket . but she always out here showing off her legs , her tits , her ass . like her mama always said , if you got it , flaunt it , baby !! we love you mama paloma

#i finished this so long ago !#and then when i hit save drafts IT ALL DELETED #so here i am #finishing it again #task

2 notes · View notes

robertjacobsugdens · 5 years

Note

robron + fake dating!!! (i already forgot the number because i got so excited about it #rip)

Here you go! Just seventeen years later, I am SO SORRY.07. Fake dating.CW: forced outing, brief discussions of homophobia and biphobia. All of Aaron’s opinions on music are his own and I don’t endorse them nor condone them.

In Aaron’s defense, he’s drunk when it happens.

Technically, Aaron, a music journalist, should be impartial and fair.Practically, he and Robert Sugden, former boybander from the early 2000s gonesolo, have a feud going on. Well, they had one. These days, what with theintermingling of their personal lives, they mostly have a grudging andexpletive-laden acquaintanceship.

Adam once called them “frenemies” but Adam is an idiot and what he saysdoesn’t count.

Aaron can’t quite remember howit started. Probably with him saying something about how Robert’s the BritishTaylor Swift but with none of the emotional range. He might also be in a feudwith Taylor Swift now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure.

It’s all very fuzzy. Theapocalyptic amounts of alcohol he’s been consuming all night probably aren’thelping matters. They are, however, helping with the fact that he’s currently inRobert Sugden’s living room, witnessing all kinds of straight PDA.

There’s a party going on, somekind of celebration because Robert’s been nominated for a music award. Aaronfeels like he should definitely know which one, but it’s escaping him at themoment. What he does know is that it’s one of those cheap ones voted by thepublic, a popularity contest more than anything. Record executives love themthough.

If this lavish party isanything to go by, so does Robert.

Aaron takes a swig of hisbeer. Robert’s a sell-out, nothing new there.

Aaron tries to regain focus.He’s been waiting for Adam and Vic’s make-out session to end for a while now,but it doesn’t look like it’s happening any time soon. When he sees Adam’stongue enter Vic’s mouth for the third time in five minutes he decides to cuthis losses and get up.

He wanders around for a bit,nodding hello to the few people he knows, mostly other music journalists hereto network or just to score some free alcohol and food. Can’t say he blamesthem.

He’s just thinking he hasn’tseen Robert at all, and what a blessing that is, when he does see him. He’swearing a white button-down shirt and jeans, surrounded by people in silks andglitter, but he still stands out the most. There’s something about him thatdraws people’s attention. If Aaron were the sort of flowery writer that editorslove he’d describe it as a ‘magnetic aura’ or something equally stupid. As itis, he’s just annoyed in a way he can’t quite verbalize.

Robert sees Aaron from acrossthe room and smirks at him, a flash of white teeth that’s gone almost as soonas it appears. Aaron turns back. What a wanker.

Aaron wakes up with a bangingheadache and a mouth that feels filled with cotton.

He opens one eye, slowly, andwhen he’s not assaulted by the daylight as he feared, he opens the other one aswell. He notices gladly that the curtains are shut, allowing him some reprieve.Then he remembers that he doesn’t have curtains in his bedroom and a wave ofnausea hits him.

He’s on a bed, diagonally,mercifully alone and fully clothed, shoes included. It’s not his bed though.

Aaron gets up, gingerly, andas he does some of the memories from the night before flood back to him. Heremembers getting drunk, he remembers getting annoyed with Robert aboutsomething but he can’t quite remember what, he remembers wandering onto thesecond floor and into a guest bedroom and then suddenly not reallyunderstanding how locks and doors and handles work anymore.

Not one of his finest moments,admittedly.

So, he’s still at Robert’s, inone of his bedrooms. He takes his phone out of his jeans pocket and looks atthe time, it’s only 10.30 on a Sunday, he’s sure Robert’s still asleep. He canprobably get out of there without even having to see him.

This is fine. This is allfine.

Aaron’s trip downstairs is assilent as he can make it, which, given his current state, is not very silent atall. At one point he even trips on the carpet and barely manages not to fall onhis face, releasing however a string of curses. He sends up a silent prayerthat Robert’s room is very far away and Robert is a very sound sleeper.

“Aaron? Are you trying to giveme a heart attack?” Robert half yells, suddenly and inexplicably at the bottomof the stairs. He’s clutching his chest with a hand in a way that Aaron feelsis way too dramatic for the situation.

He’s wearing an open robe, apair of pajama bottoms and nothing else. Aaron is man enough and hung-overenough to admit that it’s distracting and that’s why it’s taking him forever toanswer. Not that he’s going to let Robert in on that.

“I fell asleep.” Aaron says,crossing his arms. “Why are you already up?” Aaron asks, with way moreaccusation in his tone than is warranted, all things considered.

Robert gestures towards theliving room. Aaron comes down the last few steps and peers into the largeliving room, where a cleaning crew is eliminating every trace of last night’sparty and studiously ignoring them.

“You look like you’re about tothrow up.” Robert says, wrinkling his nose. “Please not on the carpet.”

Aaron grunts at him. He canrecognize a hint when he gets thrown one.

“Fine. I’ll leave you to it.”He says, rushing towards the door, Robert right behind him.

“What?” Aaron asks.

“Last time you tried to leaveyou ended up in my guest bedroom. I’m just making sure you don’t end up in myattic.” Robert says. He looks weird. Sleepy, maybe. Soft. His bare feet barelymaking a sound on the plush carpet and his hair still a mess from the nightbefore.

Aaron idly wonders if there’sanyone upstairs, still in Robert’s bed, waiting for him to be done and get backunder the covers. He shakes the thoughts off. He might still be drunk.

He opens the front door andsteps into the fresh air. It’s cold, but at least it’s making his nausea goaway.

“Aren’t you forgettingsomething?” Robert asks from the door. Aaron turns around and finds himselfface to face with Robert, who’s leaning on the doorframe, robe open in a waythat’s too artful to be casual. It’s a little thing but it reminds Aaron why hedislikes Robert so much. Everything about him is studied and fake.

“What?” Aaron barks out, backon familiar emotional territory.

Robert blinks at him a coupleof times. “Didn’t you have a coat last night? It’s cold.” Robert asks, finallyclosing his robe, as if his words had conjured the chill.

Aaron shrugs. He’s not goingback in.

Robert sighs. He disappearsinside for a few seconds before reappearing with a bundle in his arms.

“Here, take this.” He says,thrusting the thing at Aaron. “You can bring it back to me next time.” Andbefore Aaron can protest or speak, really, he closes the door.

Aaron unfolds the coat, it’sone of those posh ones that cost hundreds of dollars. He shrugs it on.

Aaron does throw up on the wayhome. He’s not sure he can blame Robert for it but he definitely makes avaliant effort.

Aaron manages to drag himselfout of bed on Monday morning, held together by determination, a prayer, and thepromise of coffee.

In hindsight he should havestayed in bed.

It starts with Adam sendinghim a text with an incoherent string of emojis and a link to one of thosegossip sites that he hates. He’s about to ignore the whole thing when he seesthe name ‘Robert Sugden’ in the link. He must still be half-asleep because hejust taps on it, opening a new page.

Aaron’s greeted by pictures ofRebecca White leaving Robert’s house. They’re from the morning before and Aaronquashes the spark of something ugly in his stomach that flares at therealization. She looks okay, surely more put together than Aaron looked in thesame situation. Robert’s robe is mercifully closed.

He’s scrolling through thepictures and asking himself why Adam would ever think he’s interested in themwhen he sees the back of his own head. A picture of it, to be precise. He’sstanding close to Robert, who somehow looks even more naked in the picturesthan he was in real life yesterday morning. He doesn’t remember standing thatclose either, but the angle makes it look like they were only a few inchesapart.

Aaron skims the article, buteven calling it an article feels too much of a concession. It’s a bunch of baselessspeculations about their relationship, Robert’s relationship with Rebecca, andwhat might have gone down the night before. They have even embedded a few ofthe tweets he and Robert have exchanged during the years in for good measure. Thearticle calls them ‘foreplay’ and Aaron doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Robert calls him. Of course,Robert calls him. Tragedies always strike in threes.

It’s five pm and Aaron isabout to call it a night, earlier than usual, just so he can escape the circusthose pictures have created. His co-workers, who are usually to scared to eventalk to him, are openly laughing at him. Well, not so openly anymore after healmost bit Tracy’s head off earlier, but still. There’s definitely somelaughing at his expense happening. His own motherhas called him to laugh at him about it.

He’s just about ready to gohome, drink one or seven beers and go to bed when his phone rings. It flasheswith Vic’s number. He’s seriously tempted to let it go to voicemail, but in theend, he answers it.

He shouldn’t have.

“I’m going to be at your apartmentin half an hour, meet me there.” Robert says, in a tone Aaron can’t quitedecipher, then he hangs up.

Aaron is so incredibly temptedto stand Robert up. He could go to a pub and get his one to seven beers there,go back home once he’s sure Robert’s gone or even crash at Adam’s.

He sighs.

He goes home.

Robert is standing next toAaron’s apartment complex, leaning casually against the wall, a foot proppedback against it. He’s wearing a pair of stupid fake hipster glasses and a hat,trying to blend in. Aaron wants to punch him in the mouth.

He doesn’t even acknowledgeRobert as he goes inside, but he can feel him following. Aaron suddenly remembershe’s still wearing the coat Robert had given him yesterday and feels caughtout, but he’s not sure why. His own winter coat, the only one he has, is stillsomewhere inside Robert’s sprawling mansion, and it’s not like Robert can’tafford a new one if he really needs it.

“I’ll be right back.” Aaronsays before Robert can even open his mouth. He even manages to make it soundlike a warning.

He comes back with a case ofbeer and half a bottle of whiskey. Whatever it is Robert wants, Aaron isresolutely not listening to it sober.

Turns out, Robert wants themto date.

They are both so incredibly,stupidly drunk. They’re on Aaron’s couch and they’ve managed to demolish thealcohol and the meager contents of Aaron’s fridge, which mostly consisted of oldtake-away and a solitary carton of eggs. This is fine. It’s fine.

“So, you want me to, what, beyour reverse beard?” Aaron asks. He’s put Robert’s glasses on, and it turns outthey’re actually prescription glasses and it’s giving him nausea, but it’sbetter than the glasses being on Robert’s stupid face, so he’s keeping them.

Robert shrugs.

“Because between the pressthinking you shagged your ex-wife’s sister and a bloke the latter is… better?”Aaron asks, unsure. He’s, again, extremely drunk, but he’s pretty sure this won’tmake sense even once he sobers up.

“I didn’t.” Robert says,adamant, his eyes glassy from the booze, but intent. “Sleep with her.” Heclarifies.

“I don’t care who you shag,mate.” Aaron says, taking a swig of his beer, but something in his chest feelslooser.

“People do. The Daily Mailcalled me ‘a closet hopping groundhog gay.’” Robert says, finishing off therest of his whiskey. He looks so offended and sad, his hair sticking up indifferent directions from where he’s carded his fingers through it, his shirtrumpled.

Aaron laughs. He doesn’tbother to point out that only idiots read The Daily Mail.

“It’s not funny!” Robertprotests, but he’s laughing too. “I don’t even know what that means.” He continues,more to himself than to Aaron.

Aaron knows it hasn’t beeneasy for Robert to come out. He’s had to put up with his fair share of bullshitand Aaron can relate. Still. This is insane.

“I still don’t get why yougotta date me.” Aaron says with a grimace.

“Haven’t you read thecomments? People like us.” Robertreplies. “The idea of us.” He amends.

Aaron rolls his eyes. Robert’sobsession with what people think of him will lead him to an early grave.Probably by Aaron’s hands.

“Come with me to an event ortwo. A couple of dates. Then we can tell people we split amicably.” Robert says.Aaron gives him a look. “Or with a lot of animosity, whatever works for you.”

The crazy thing is, Aaron isconsidering it. He’s drunk enough to at least admit that to himself, and topreemptively give himself an excuse when he’ll wake up sore and regretfultomorrow.

“You’ll have full access. I’llmake sure you get the exclusive on any new project of the people I know.”Robert continues. He’s blurry and earnest seen through his own glasses. Aaronwants to throw up.

“Fine.”

Aaron wakes up with a crick inhis neck for having slept sitting on the couch and a banging headache, sunlightstreaming in from the windows. He wants to die and throw up. In that order. Hereally needs to stop doing this.

Why did he even do this?

“Would it kill you to buy aset of curtains?” Robert asks, his voice scratchy from sleep and what Aaronhopes is the mother of all hangovers.

Right. That.

Aaron takes two aspirins andstands in the shower for as long as there is hot water. He towels himself dryand puts on some clean clothes. He even manages not to throw up. He takes it asa win.

When he goes back to theliving room Robert is still there, looking intently at Aaron’s recordcollection. There’s not much in the living room, his favorite ones taking upevery available bit of space in his bedroom, these are mostly the spillovers.Still, he figures it must be an interesting collection by the look ofconcentration on Robert’s face.

He’s wearing his glasses again,as well as his stupidly expensive coat and his hat. Despite the hangover, helooks good. Aaron hates him just a little bit more for it.

“Why are you still here?”Aaron asks, weary, but lacking the usual bite. It’s been a long day already andit’s not even nine am.

“You break for lunch, right?”Robert asks, completely ignoring Aaron’s question. Aaron nods. “Okay, Leylasaid we should go for lunch. Seafood.” Robert continues, whipping up his phonefrom his jeans pocket and looking at the screen.

“Did she?” Aaron asks, lookingaround the room trying to locate his own phone in an attempt to not look atRobert anymore. This is insane. In the harsh, cold light of day, this is positivelyinsane.

“She says ‘right now lunch says this relationship is new and lowkey and we’re having fun but within thebounds of respectability politics because we live in a heteronormative society.’I’m quoting.” Robert shrugs. “That must be some fresh fish if it’s saying allthat.”

Aaron groans. “Jokes like that’swhy you need a PR boyfriend instead of having a real one, mate.”

Robert is late. Not that Aaronis surprised. There are many a-Twitter rants from Aaron about Robert’stardiness. Honestly, he’s revising his stance on this, their feud is all Robert’sfault.

Not that there is a feudanymore, not publicly at least. Or privately, Aaron has to grudgingly admit. He’salmost getting used to Robert. It’s disconcerting.

He’s just about to get back insidewhen a sleek silver car parks in front of him. Aaron would recognize that caranywhere. He gets inside.

Robert’s showered and changedclothes. He’s still wearing jeans, but now he’s also wearing a button-downshirt and a blazer. If Aaron were anyone else, he’d probably be feelingunderdressed, but thankfully, he’s Aaron Dingle.

“It’s lunch.” He says pointedly.

“There’ll be paparazzi.” Robert replies just aspointedly, looking Aaron over. It sends something like a spark down Aaron’sspine, he squashes it down. Not in a million years.

The food is good at least. Hecan’t say the same for the company. Robert’s spent the entire time subtlyworking his angles so the paparazzi can get good shots while trying to looknatural.

Every time Aaron thinks hemight actually like Robert, Robert gives him a stark reminder of why he doesn’t.It’s like clockwork.

“Why do you even care?” Aaronasks, brusquely. He’s tired of being ignored, but he hadn’t meant to say it outloud. Still, at least it startles Robert out of his daze.

“What?”

“About all this. It’s mental.”Aaron says. Robert looks like he’s waiting for Aaron to elaborate, but Aarondoesn’t.

“It’s sort of my job.” Robert replies,and to his credit he doesn’t say it like he thinks Aaron is stupid for notgetting it, which must be a struggle for him.

“Making music is your job.”Aaron says, defiant.

Aaron would rather die thanadmit any of this, but Robert has a good voice. He even has the classictraining and the rags to riches story to back it up. Farm boy turned pop star. Ifit were anyone else, Aaron could see the appeal. The fact is, Robert seems toobusy constantly obsessing over his image to actually sing anything worthlistening to and it makes Aaron want to shake him.

“Did you remember when peoplefound out?” Robert asks, and intense look on his face, and he doesn’t have tospecify what, Aaron knows he’s talking about his sexuality.

Aaron does remember. He’s theone who had to break the news to Robert that there were pictures of him with abloke circulating around various gossip magazines. He remembers threatening toquit if the newspaper bought any of the pictures. They had been one of the fewoutlets to not even run a story about it. The fallout hadn’t been great.

Aaron nods.

“How much work do you think ittook to make sure I still had a career after that?” Robert asks, but it’s a rhetoricalquestion.

Aaron gets it, he really does.Music journalism is a difficult world for a gay man to break into, he’s had toadapt, toughen up. It’s messed up that he’s had to do that, but he knew thescore going in. He doesn’t think Robert did. Or maybe he did and had decided along time ago to kill that part of himself was a viable solution. Aaron’s notsure which option would make him sadder.

Then something happens. Robertseems to remember they’re in a public place and there’s people taking theirpictures and he plasters a smile on his face. It’s a good enough imitation ofthe real thing, Aaron will give him that. Aaron knows better, still, he lets itgo.

“When we get out, I’m puttingmy arm around your shoulders.” Robert says, but Aaron knows it’s his way ofasking. Aaron shrugs.

“This is mental, mate.” Adamsays. They’re at work, huddled around Aaron’s phone, looking at the picturesfrom the day before.

Adam knows, because Adam isAaron’s best mate and because Aaron needed to share the insanity with someone andAdam was the best bet. Adam’s sworn not to tell anyone and that’s good enoughfor him. Not that he’s telling Robert that Adam knows. Compared to how Robertfeels about Adam, Aaron and Robert’s relationship is a picnic in the park.

Aaron looks at the picturesand he feels something hot flutter in his stomach. He looks at them and he canfeel Robert’s warmth through their two thick coats and the smell of hisaftershave. Robert’s smiling his real smile at him.

“It’s alright.” Aaron concedes.

After a week or so they manageto graduate to dinner dates, and hey, at least Aaron’s getting free meals outof this. It could be worse.

Tonight, they’re ending theirdate at Robert’s to unwind. Robert is barefoot in the kitchen, cooking, theradio is playing a pop song Aaron would never admit to liking, but he does. It’soddly domestic and it’s making Aaron feel weird. He wants to say he doesn’t likeit, but in the privacy of his own head he has to admit it’s not true.

It’s nice.

“I need the loo.” Aaron says,suddenly overwhelmed.

“Use the one upstairs.” Robertreplies without even turning around. “Try not to get lost again.” Aaron flipshim the bird.

Aaron does get lost again. Inhis defense, Robert’s house his huge. How many bedrooms and bathrooms andbarely used offices does one person need? That’s how he ends up in what he’spretty sure is Robert’s bedroom.

It’s the only one that seemslived in. There are pictures of Robert’s family on the dresser and a few bookslying around, bookmarks sticking out. There are also a few vinyls and a recordplayer. They all look brand new. Intrigued, Aaron picks them up. They’re alltitles from the collection he keeps in his living room. A lot of Fleetwood Mac.

Aaron’s just about to leavewhen he notices a leather notebook on Robert’s nightstand. He picks it up, itlooks expensive and well-loved. He can see post-its sticking from the sides,but it otherwise looks carefully maintained.

“You can open it.” Robert saysfrom the doorway, making Aaron jump.

“I got lost.” Aaron replies,caught out.

“It’s okay.” Robert shrugs,but he seems tense, nervous. Maybe he does want Aaron to open the journal. Aarondoes.

Inside, in Robert’s neathandwriting are songs. Lyrics and music. They’re all dated, some going back towhen Robert first started out. Aaron jumped to the last page, Robert had apparentlystarted working on the last one the day before.

“I didn’t know you actuallywrote your songs.” Aaron says. Robert’s stuff tends to be over-produced garbage,earworms designed to be catchy and meaningless, that’s the kind of stuff that’susually cranked out by over-paid teams of producers.

“I don’t. Not the ones I singanyways.” Robert replies. He sprawls on the bed, facing Aaron. He puts hishands behind his head, exposing a silver of skin between his shirt and hisjeans and wow isn’t that a sight.

Except.

Aaron’s gotten pretty good atreading Robert by now and he can see the tense line of his shoulders, the way he’slooking at Aaron with fake confidence. He’s waiting for Aaron to judge him. Aaronthinks Robert might always be waiting for others to judge him.

Aaron goes back to the journal.He takes his time, reading a few of the lyrics, singing the melodies under hisbreath. They’re unpolished, some of them unfinished, but they’re good. Aaron’sheart feels like it’s going to explode in his chest. They’re good.

“This is the stuff you shouldbe singing.” Aaron says, reverently closing the journal and putting it back onthe nightstand. “It’s great.”

Robert breathes and thetension seems to leave his body completely. Aaron thinks it might have beensome kind of test and he’s irrationally elated he seems to have passed it.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”Robert admits, and the way he says it makes Aaron think it’s probably his firsttime saying it out loud. “Going full Cher.” Robert jokes.

“It might even earn you thefirst good review of your career.” Aaron says deadpan.

Robert throws a pillow at hisface.

They eat dinner, they watch amovie, they drink beer, they sit close, closer than most people do, and then Aaronleaves.

They’re on Robert’s dooragain, shivering against the cold night air, Robert framed by the light comingfrom inside the house.

“I had a good time.” Robertsays.

“I’ve had worse.” Aaronreplies because Aaron is an asshole, but Robert doesn’t seem to mind because hesmiles at him. “You never gave me my coat back.”

“I think the maid threw itout.” Robert says, wrinkling his nose.

Robert reaches towards Aaronand does the zip of Aaron’s coat up higher, well, Robert’s coat really. He patsAaron on the chest once, resting his hand for a second right on Aaron’s heart.

“You can keep this one.”Robert continues.

That’s when Aaron sees theflash go off in the corner of his eye.

Right.

This is fake.

So. Aaron might be in lovewith his fake boyfriend, which is fine and not at all disconcerting. Also, definitelynot as hilarious as Adam seems to think it is.

The thing is: Robert is all action,even when he shouldn’t be. He and Aaron tend to have that in common. Robert’sbeen driving so far. He’s been taking all the first steps. If he had wantedAaron, he would have made it happen by now.

Adam thinks Aaron is an idiot,but Adam doesn’t know anything and he can shut his stupid mouth.

Aaron’s wearing a suit, thenicest item of clothing he’s ever owned, courtesy of Robert’s tailor. They’regoing to the MTV Music People’s Choice whatever – Aaron’s been preoccupied withother matters lately and he usually never covers this stuff anyways – and they’rewearing matching suits. Aaron’s wearing blue and even he has to admit that helooks good.

Robert, however, looks on awhole other level. He’s wearing a color he’s insisting Aaron call “maroon” (it’sdark red), and he looks every bit the star he is. Not that Aaron is evertelling him that.

That said, someone tonight isgoing to test whether people can actually cry from sexual frustration and thatperson is Aaron.

The night is a blur ofperformances and awards and speeches and Aaron finds himself enjoying the experience.Especially whenever Robert leans into him to whisper something mean andsarcastic in his ear. By the time they’re ready to announce Robert’s category,Aaron’s about ready to kiss him or kill him. Whichever option becomes availablefirst, really.

An overly tanned blonde manAaron doesn’t recognize is on stage, opening the envelope with what he mightthink is panache but it’s mostly just making Aaron’s hands itch.

“And the award for maleperformer of the year goes to…”

A beat.

“Robert Sugden!”

Aaron jumps up his seat, theentire room roaring into applause and cheers. It might have been his abuse of theopen bar, or his genuine happiness, or maybe just the fact that he’s been wantingto do this for a while. He grabs Robert by the lapels of his jacket and kisseshim for all he’s worth.

Robert kisses him back.

It only lasts a few secondsbefore Robert has to go accept his awards, but it leaves Aaron’s mouth tinglingand his spine shivering. Aaron can’t hear a word of Robert’s speech, theroaring in his ears too loud.

The after is a blur of congratulationsand drinks and there’s an afterparty to attend, but Robert holds Aaron’s handthe entire time.

The thing is: Robert is allaction, it’s just that sometimes those actions aren’t obvious to the uninitiated.Like buying someone a coat without telling them about it, or asking them to behis fake boyfriend, or opening up to and being vulnerable with them.

“I’ve been trying to date youfor months!” Robert insists, the two of them tangled in bed.

AaronDingle @aarondingledon’t tell @rjsugden I said this, but his new album’s alright

#aaron x robert #writing*#long post #josephtate #ask

104 notes · View notes

fullstop-official · 5 years

Text

A Scheduled Four Hours of My Local Drugstore Hell

AKA: Chapter Two

Once upon a time, two high school sweethearts were married. They’d already fallen head-over-heels in love, so they tied the knot, bought a house, built successful careers, and even started a family together.

Then, they got divorced when their son was in seventh grade.

Since the divorce, I’ve lived with my mom in the Valley. Not too long after their marriage dissolved, my dad got a job offer to teach English at Purdue, and he couldn’t possibly pass up such a sweet deal, so he moved to Indiana. I only get to see him in person a few times a year, less and less since he started teaching spring and summer courses. At first, it was pretty tough and kind of hit me hard, but it probably could have been worse. It was a fairly clean break – there wasn’t really a lot of fighting. Instead, they just both sort of realized they’d married the wrong person. They’re still friends, which is better than what Bryson had to deal with when his parents split up, so I figure I’m one of the lucky ones.

***

After band practice, I’m back in the Gator’s passenger seat with an altered mood and the dread caused by the clause of a hastily written contract looming over me. At the very least, Travis is always musically prepared, so I don’t have to sit through the overplayed crap on the radio. Not all of his stuff is particularly to my taste, but it’s absolutely nothing like Selena’s so I can deal with having to hear a Nickelback song every once and a while.

I don’t have a car of my own, so this is all commonplace. Travis is basically my ride everywhere. We usually aren’t too far apart anyway. Both of us live in Woodland Hills in the third quadrant (as bisected by the highways and major streets) where the roads start to mercilessly curve in order to work with the mountains. The bends, levels and hills made it an equally exciting and terrifying experience learning how to drive, so more often than not, I graciously decide to leave that part up to Travis.

I live in one of the two-story homes, which is pretty rare because Woodland Hills is basically made up of single-story ranches that were definitely built during that bold period between the fifties and the eighties – low, gradual rooflines, giant stone on the same building as ugly siding, the whole nine yards. I wouldn’t be too surprised if half of them still have shag carpets, faux wood panels, and flower power wallpaper from the seventies.

Travis pulls into my driveway behind my mom’s car, and we both climb out of the Gator. We head inside through the front door. The smell of spices and grease hits me the instant we step from the LA summer heat into air conditioning. The scents waft from the kitchen in through the living room.

“We’re home!” I call out as Travis and I kick off our shoes. We follow the aroma, and the crackles and pops that start to become clearer, into the kitchen.

My mom’s still in scrubs which means when she got home the hunger and thought of dinner overruled everything else, including changing clothes. She’s standing before the stove with stir fry sizzling on the element.

“Doctor Scott!” Travis uses his standard greeting – a high, breathy, surprised gasp in his best impression of Janet from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It does not suit his voice at all, but it’s been his go-to hello for my mom since we first saw the movie back in middle school. I’m sure that must be why it’s one of his favourite scenes because, honestly, it’s thirty straight seconds of people yelling names. And it repeats.

“Travis is here,” she states, half sarcastic and wearing a grin. “Big surprise.”

“Yeah, I just can’t seem to get rid of him,” I joke.”

Travis scoffs back teasingly as he drops into one of the chairs at our kitchen table. “Em fo dir teg ot gniog reven er’uoy, Nagrom,” he says in reverse.

“Taht tuoba ees ll’ew, Sivart.”

“Stop speaking in tongues or I’m hiring an exorcist,” my mom chimes in. She turns a bit to look over her shoulder while I open the fridge. She asks, already knowing the answer, “Are you staying for dinner, Travis?”

“If you insist.” I don’t have to see his face while I’m digging around to know that he’s smirking as he says it.

“Intercepting my leftovers before they even had a chance,” she sighs playfully.

“Is it vegetarian stir fry again?” I ask, only because I notice from the corner of my eye that her pan seems to lack protein. I kick the fridge door shut, hands occupied by two sodas. I toss the Cherry Coke to Travis and he, thankfully, catches it. There have been a few tragic instances where one of us has missed, and the can exploded as a casualty, and it really isn’t fun cleaning liquid sugar off of every surface in a seven-foot radius.

In response to my question, my mom lets out a little disapproving hum. “It wouldn’t be if you’d ever listen to me and take the chicken out of the freezer when I ask you to.”

Travis laughs as he cracks open his can.

“At least I know it means you’re eating your vegetables.”

“I mean, I don’t really have many other options. Between driving to somewhere for a burger or staying and eating your rabbit food, this one’s the simplest.”

“Kind of an Occam’s Razor for food choices,” Travis interjects.

“Precisely.”

“You two are weird.” She looks up from stirring the pan and focuses on me. “Work tonight?”

I nod. “At six. Short shift. But I wouldn’t be stuck in CVS purgatory if I already had a car and didn’t have to save for one.”

“I gave you a choice. Car now or tuition later.” She points the spatula at me. “And you, my friend, picked the smart option. Even if it means Travis gets to steal my food and camp out in my home. Will I be seeing him later, too?”

“Likely,” Travis answers. “I am his ride everywhere, after all.” It’s his small attempt at helping my cause and rescuing me from part-time retail, but it ultimately doesn’t end with my mom seeing the light and offering to buy me an alternative mode of transportation.

Travis changes the subject after taking another sip of his drink.

“Coming to the gig Friday night, Doctor Scott?”

My mom has told him many times that he can call her by her first name, or even just call her mom at this point. Travis refuses. She’s stopped trying to fight it.

“Nope. Date night.”

My mom has seen a few other guys since the divorce, but she’s been with her current boyfriend, Derek, for about six-or-seven months now, I believe. Ironically, he was my dad’s best friend all through high school. They were even in a band together back then, too.

“Besides, Ray’s Underground is kind of sketchy. Don’t they pay you in beer?” She gives me a “mom look,” one brow raised.

“They pay us. We get about four-fifty a show. Bryson funnels it back into the band.”

“The free beer is just a perk, not currency,” Travis adds with a grin.

“Why can’t you be like normal teenagers and just lie to me about your illegal shenanigans?” She shakes her head. Her hair is still pulled back, so the low ponytail flops between her shoulder blades. “I’ve heard you guys a hundred times anyway. You’re good. I don’t have to go watch every show.”

“Too bad. You’ll miss Morgan’s lead-singing debut.”

I feel the physical part of me freeze up, and others inside die instantly with that kill shot that came out of nowhere. My mom’s head whips up from the stove and her light, wide eyes spend a second bouncing between me and my best friend. He’s still wearing a smug face. I’m just trapped in that “stay perfectly still and nothing bad will happen” mindset like some stunned piece of prey. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, her gaze settles on Travis in disbelief.

“Morgan?” she asks. “Morgan Scott? Morgan Jamie Scott the Second?”

My parents are both uncreative, naming-impaired, cruel narcissists. I have my dad’s first name and the middle is my mom’s, so I guess it’s a good thing they were both stuck with unisex names. I’ve been told it would have been reversed if I’d been a girl: Jamie Morgan.

“My son?” The spatula tip is pointed my way again. The tenseness has begun to fade away and now I just want to roll my eyes at her theatrics. “Him?”

“Even signed a contract,” Travis confirms. “He’s going to sing our encore, front-and-center.”

“Wow,” she remarks. “I’m almost sad I’m going to miss that.” Her curious stare briefly finds its way back to me before her focus moves back to her cooking again. “What are you singing?”

Travis jumps in and answers before I can. “Blank Space.”

I notice a second too late that he refused to elaborate on which version we’re doing.

I feel that sinking pressure of remorse mixed with something that’s bordering on annoyance because my mom bursts out laughing after putting the title to a song, and the song to the original singer’s face, and then probably that face on my face. She’s obviously thinking about the overplayed pop version she’s heard a billion times.

“Thanks, Trav.” Monotone. Sarcasm. In response, he just raises his can of Cherry Coke to me like a small, mischievous salute. He’s grinning and practically glowing with schadenfreude.

When she stops mocking me, my mom turns. She shoves her spatula into my hand. “Watch the food, Taylor Swift; I’m going to go get changed.” As she steps around me to leave, she reaches up the height I’ve got on her and messes my hair, only adding to the humiliating taunting. “God, you need a haircut.” She says this about once a month to me, and every few days to Travis – not that it accomplishes anything.

I sigh silently as I take her place before the frying vegetables, and she disappears from the kitchen. I hear her laughter start up again – she isn’t finished basking in the sheer hilarity everybody except me seems to find in the deal I was bribed into making.

“She’ll be calling me Taylor Swift for the rest of my life.”

“No doubt.”

“I hate you,” I say.

“I know,” Travis replies, definitely still smirking.

***

When I get off of work at ten after a scheduled four hours of my local drugstore hell, Travis is waiting for me in the Gator, parked in a space by the door and blaring Sum 41 so loud all of Winnetka is liable to complain. He turns the volume down when I climb into the passenger seat to something more suitable for conversation.

“Fun night?” he asks to tease me.

“I think a piece of my soul died.”

Travis chuckles in response – he’s heard enough of my CVS horror stories to know I’m not exaggerating. He encounters some idiots at his job, sure, but there’s a special brand of general-public stupidity that I’m exposed to every single time I walk into CVS wearing a nametag and a polo.

“What did you do while I was being tortured?”

He’s wearing another conceited look as he backs out of the space in the vacant lot. “I met up with Sweet Caroline Wu for a little while.”

Sweet Caroline Wu goes to our school and had a major Neil Diamond obsession back in the tenth grade, hence the nickname. (She’s hot too, which is also pretty sweet, in my opinion.) Travis and Sweet Caroline have been hanging out as a pair for a couple weeks now, usually whenever I’m working. They both say they’re not dating or fooling around, but they absolutely are. Travis talks about her a lot in that dopey, smitten way. I end up hearing a lot about how her lips taste like strawberries, and how her hair smells like coconut, and how her breasts feel (perfect, according to him).

So, yeah, they’re totally dating.

“Is she coming on Friday?” I ask. I know Sweet Caroline doesn’t really like the kind of music we play, but she likes Travis enough that she’ll sit through an entire band practice just to fawn over him.

“Of course. I promised her a backstage tour after the set. And she can be another witness when you dump your girlfriend.”

Those words sound like a choir of angels to me. I almost expect the night-darkened heavens to part, and a beam of light to shine down on the promise of mine and Selena’s contractually-destroyed fake relationship as it’s so close to coming to an end. It’s the clause of my agreement with Bryson, however, that stops this from happening. It weighs heavily on me like a cloud of smog blocking the Godly illumination’s full radiance.

By the time we’re back in Woodland Hills and pulling into my driveway, the music has shifted to blessthefall. Travis shuts the Gator off in the middle of Hollow Bodies. He hauls a familiar overnight duffel bag over his shoulder as we walk to the door, which means that, at some point between making out with Sweet Caroline Wu and coming to pick me up from work, he went home, at least for a few minutes.

“How is it over there?” I ask him.

“Not safe. Have to wait it out another month.”

Travis’ older brother, Tyler, is home for the summer. He’s majoring in structural engineering at UCB, which means that Travis’ parents are asking him about his courses, and also asking Travis what his plans are after he graduates high school. They don’t like the answer that he gives.

Both Longfield brothers got in part-time at this garage during the summers, and, while Tyler sees it as a source of a few extra bucks, it’s what Travis wants to do – I mean, not the cleaning and administration stuff he’s stuck doing, but the fixing part. His parents think he can do better than “just a lowly auto mechanic,” even though he’d definitely have an apprenticeship lined up after vocational school, and a guaranteed full-time job after that. When his brother is home, that all goes out the window, and he has to spend most days and nights over at my place. He’d end up in a straightjacket otherwise.

My mom is still awake in the living room when we enter. She’s sitting in front of the TV, watching one of her recordings of some drama on NBC that makes her cry. I always tease her and tell her she should stop watching if she can’t handle the tragedy they’ve scripted, but she holds true to her claim that it’s all just too beautiful, and intricate, and deserves to be viewed. She keeps watching and crying over fictional characters.

“How was work?” She’s already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Hell.”

“That’s nice.”

She’s not really listening.

Travis and I go upstairs and leave her be.

I think my bedroom is relatively normal for a teenager – posters, books, clothes, a mother who’s constantly trying to make me clean it all up to no avail. The only uncommon thing is Travis’ bed. It’s a futon, but it’s never put back into couch mode, nor do the extra pillows and blankets ever leave it. Travis sets his bag down at the foot of it.

“What magnificent wonders of the past are you forcing me to watch tonight?” I pull off my polo – my glorified prison uniform – and toss it aside. I’d burn it if I didn’t need the money in my car fund.

Travis already has three DVDs in hand. He’s sort of a movie buff, which means I’ve seen just about every piece of cinema produced between 1927 and the present, regardless of whether or not it’s actually good.

“Psycho, The Searchers, or Casablanca?”

“Psycho.”

“Shower scene. Implied nudity,” he remarks. He’s smirking, mostly because he’s an ass, and also because he isn’t wrong.

“Beats cowboy racism and a movie I’ve watched a hundred times.”

“Casablanca is a classic,” Travis defends, already putting in the disc for Psycho. “Three Academy Awards.”

“I know,” I say, teasingly, “Because I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

He flips me off playfully, and we fall into something familiar and comfortable, despite the creepy motel vibe and plenty of chocolate syrup blood.

Chapter: 1

#writing #creative writing #chapter two #interlude #wip: interlude #book: interlude #original fiction #ya fiction #//swearing #ocs #oc #wip #morgan scott #travis longfield #writeblr

1 note · View note

queensofrap · 7 years

Photo

The Year of Cardi B - She went from stripping to becoming the breakout star of 2017. So what's she worried about?

Cardi B is butt-naked in the doorway of her hotel bathroom, yelling about her vagina. On a mid-October evening, she's readying herself for a college show in Baltimore, and the toiletries provided by the hotel aren't to her liking. "That soap gave me the yeast infection of 2017!" she hollers in her thick Bronx accent. "My pussy was burnin' like a Mexican taco!"

It takes all of 10 seconds in Cardi B's presence to be reminded of the sheer force and hilarity of her personality. Simply being Cardi B, at maximum volume, made her a star – first on Instagram, then on the VH1 reality show Love & Hip-Hop: New York – before she'd recorded any music at all, let alone knocked Taylor Swift from the top of the pop charts with the sly swagger of her single "Bodak Yellow." She is the people's diva – or "the strip-club Mariah Carey," as she once rapped – unfiltered in a way the world often doesn't allow female stars to be. In a culture reshaped by streaming and social media, where the kids, without much corporate nudging, get to decide who the stars are, Cardi B is what you get.

Yesterday, Cardi turned 25.  She took a rare day off, hanging  with her entire family – sister, parents, cousins – at her mother's house. But she missed her boyfriend (now fiancé), Offset of Migos, who was touring in Australia. "I was sad, because it's like, 'Oh, my gosh, I'm not getting no dick on my birthday,'" says Cardi, whose bedazzled acrylic nails are decorated with tiny reproductions of Offset paparazzi shots. "But I wasn't going to get dick on my birthday anyway, because I got my period."

She finds a cleanser she can deal with and hops into the shower, before slipping into a bright-red spacesuit-inspired Milano di Rouge jumpsuit, complete with a yellow patch that reads "Safe sex saves lives," part of the designer's anti-HIV initiative. She glances at it and arches her eyebrows. "Girl," she says, "I don't even use a condom."

It may not seem like it, but this is actually a newer, more cautious Cardi B. After a few social-media controversies – including when she was justly called out for a since-deleted tweet that referred to Kim Jong Un as "Won Tung Soup" – she is trying to learn to hold back a bit. "I used to tell myself that I will always be myself," she says. But she worries that she's going back on that vow. "Little by little, I'm feeling like I'm getting trapped and muted."

Her life is changing fast. She put out her first mixtape, Gangsta Bitch Music, Vol. 1, in March last year, back when she was still Love & Hip-Hop's breakout star. It was a gloriously raw and raunchy introduction that cashed in on her TV catchphrases with songs like "Washpoppin'" and "Foreva." She released Vol. 2 in January this year, five months before announcing a major-label contract with Atlantic Records.

In June came "Bodak Yellow," named in homage to Florida rapper Kodak Black, whose song "No Flockin'" inspired its flow. "Bodak Yellow" is an unlikely Number One: a tough trap song with zero concessions to the mainstream, or even anything like a conventional pop hook. In a year when the youth power of streaming services, which now count toward chart positions, is changing the very meaning of pop, she's become the first female rapper to score a solo Number One since Lauryn Hill in 1998. Not bad for someone who initially pursued rapping as a way to monetize her reality fame. ("I said, 'TV don't make you rich,'" recalls her manager, Shaft, who once produced Lil' Kim. "'You gotta sell something! Waist trainers, hair, something.'")

The pressure is building. Her once-carefree social-media presence has drifted toward moody reflections about the downsides of fame. She's stressed about creating a debut album – the very word "album" makes her wince – that can live up to "Bodak Yellow" and the best of her mixtape tracks, not to mention the challenge of creating singles that can keep her on the charts and avoid one-hit-wonderdom. There is a chorus of doubters in her head, she acknowledges, and it sounds something like this: "Can she make another hit, can she make another hit?"

She fears failure, and paints a vivid picture of what it might look like: "If you go broke and lose your career, it's bad – and everybody is talkin' shit about it! At least if you lose your 9-to-5 you don't got millions of people judging you and talking shit while you lost your job."

Seven years ago, Cardi B was convinced she'd already failed at life. To please her mom, she was studying at a Manhattan community college with plans to become a history teacher. Born Belcalis Almanzar, she'd grown up in the Bronx's Highbridge neighborhood, and she was struggling to survive financially on her own. "It was just very sad," she says, uncharacteristically subdued. She's in the back seat of a black SUV on her way to a performance at Baltimore's Morgan State University, and the college setting is bringing back memories. "It was very frustrating – you have to pay for everything. When I finally got a job at Amish Market, I had to debate, 'Do I wanna go to class or do I wanna finish my shift?'"

She dropped out after two semesters, and soon took up stripping – a career move helpfully suggested by her Amish Market boss. "A lot of people wonder, 'Why would anybody want to be a dancer?'" she says. "Because there's money!" She used some of her stripping cash to briefly return to school. "I kept missing classes," she says, "and quit because I felt like I was already failing. It was such a disappointment."

Her strict Trinidadian mother worked seven days a week at a local college; her Dominican father, who separated from her mom when Cardi was 13, was "the cool parent," she says. For Cardi, his experience doing "different things in the streets" was a cautionary tale. "That's why I be so careful with my money and always try to invest. I see people who have it all and then lose it."

As a kid, Cardi had a sense that she was destined to do something creative, which led her to a performing-arts school on the Bronx's east side. She tried acting and singing (though she was convinced all of her classmates were better), wrote some poetry. But she'd also crack up friends and boyfriends by rewriting songs by, say, Beyoncé to make them "waaay sluttier." That hobby caught Shaft's attention years later, leading him to encourage her to pursue rapping seriously.

Until then, Cardi B relied on her abilities to charm and to hustle to pay the bills. And it worked: She quickly broke 100,000 Instagram followers in her strip-club days, expanding outward from her loyal customers, mostly on the strength of playful videos – "sucking dick" and scamming men were favored topics.

After Shaft suggested rapping, he began making beats for her at home, and helped her find a lyrical voice that matched the charm of her delivery.

But Cardi – who calls herself "a negative person" – had to overcome her own skepticism. She thought hard about her subject matter (her first single: "Stripper Hoe"), determined to defy haters "expecting me to drop something trash. It just made me, like, 'Aha, I gotta study these other rappers,'" she says. "Study how to do something different from them. You know all these female rappers, they talking about they money, they talking about they cars, so it's like, what's something that I enjoy? I enjoy fights!"

A few hours after the show, Cardi B is back in her hotel room, still wearing her red jumpsuit. She's curled up in the bed, blankets piled on top of her, talking about the future in a tone that's almost resigned. "I cannot turn my life back around," she muses. "I'm already a public figure, I'm famous. … It's like, I might as well keep it going, might as well make the money. People are always going to talk shit – I cannot make myself unfamous."

She's faced an impressively varied set of criticisms and unsolicited opinions. She's been accused of not being a real lyricist ("I'm not trying to be"); of somehow "not being black" because of her Latina heritage and light skin ("It gets to the point that you ask yourself, 'Damn, what the fuck am I?'"); of sleeping her way to the top ("I always had sex appeal – and niggas still give me a hard time"). The rapper Azealia Banks has quarreled with her, but Cardi B has tried hard not to play into the narrative that female rappers can't get along. "It's not even the female rappers that are catty, it's the fans," she says. "They just want that beef."

Her in-progress album is never far from her thoughts. "I got six, seven solid songs that I like, but I wonder if a month from now, I'm going to change my mind." All the looming expectations, she admits, are making it harder to come up with songs. "It's not as fun to do music," she says. "My mind doesn't flow as free 'cause I have so much on my mind."

She's aiming to mix the Spanish and reggae music of her youth with the trap sound that's inescapable at the moment, putting in late nights with her "Bodak Yellow" producer, J. White, and dancehall specialist Rvssian. She freely acknowledges she's chasing hits. "It's so sad to say, and I don't want to be the one to say it, but you gotta follow the trend," she says. "This generation loves to get high. They love to be on drugs. This is why they on that shit: They don't want to think about what you're saying."

She cites Kendrick Lamar and J. Cole as rappers who still write brilliant, conscious lyrics – some part of her might want to try to follow suit, but she feels like she couldn't get away with it. "A bitch like me, it might not work out for me," she says, "so I'm going to stick to trapping."

It's barely past midnight in Cardi's hotel room, and she is already exhausted. "I'm an old-ass girl now," she says with a sigh, head on a pillow. For all her outrageousness – she finished her show tonight by hopping offstage and twerking in the audience – she's not much of a partier. She stopped smoking weed at 21 because it interfered with her increasing fame and accompanying schedule. She had taken Molly as a confidence booster before stripping but doesn't need it anymore. She rarely drinks. "If I drink," she says, "it's like, my man is gonna be around, and I'm gonna have sex."

She's been with Offset since a chance meeting with him in New York in February – just after Migos scored their own Number One with "Bad and Boujee." "We polish each other," she says, noting they confer on music-biz questions. "I could always ask him, 'Do you think this is OK to do? Do you think I'm getting tricked?'"

She hasn’t been shy about the ups and downs in her relationship with Offset, like the night in October when she seemed to break up and make up with him on Instagram in the course of several hours. She also hasn’t been shy about her intentions to marry him — and, a few days before Halloween, Offset made her dreams come true, popping the question at a Philly concert with a raindrop-shaped ring. She knows she wants to have a family. "I need to make money for my family and my future family," she says. "I'm not a YOLO person. I think 25 years from now. I think about my future kids, future husband, future house."

And where exactly will she be in 25 years? She smiles dreamily, and says, "I see myself cursin' at my kids."

#cardi b #rap #rolling stone magazine #hiphop #hip hop #female rapper #female rap #rapper

648 notes · View notes

redhourglass · 7 years

Text

Bad at Love

Written for @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid and @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian‘s Divas of Storytelling Challenge. My song was Taylor Swift’s “Back to December,” but I also took inspiration from Halsey’s “Bad at Love,” which is where the title is from, as well as countless other TS songs because I’m a monster.

Summary: Ten months after your breakup, you meet up with your ex, realizing where you went wrong in your last fight. (Non-hunter AU)

Warnings: Angst and fluff throughout, reader has some anxiety, Dean has a daughter from a previous relationship

Words: 2.9k

“Huh.” She doesn’t quite know how she feels about it now, but in almost cynical way, she finds it kind of funny. She’d been mistaking love for so many smaller emotions for so long, and the one time she actually gets it right, it’s well after the relationship is already over.

Yesterday.

Her hands hug her coffee mug, now mostly empty, her paint-chipped nails anxiously tapping against the porcelain cup as she shifts her gaze from the looking out the window, to the door, and back again. Straightening her sweater and smoothing the pleats of her skirt, she takes a deep breath through her nose and exhales slowly through her mouth, counting backwards from ten the way her therapist told her to.

Her therapist also advised against multiple cups of coffee, but here she was, on her third cup of the day. She wouldn’t have been so tempted to accept the refill if she hadn’t been so early, but nerves got the best of her. She hadn’t slept more than a few hours the night before, tossing and turning most of the night.

Ten months is a long time to go without thinking about someone. She’s never been able to do that, but kudos to the people who have. Is it foolish to linger on something that ended almost a year before? Most definitely, but it’s not like she can just forget about what happened. He was a huge part of her life. To discard all those memories would be losing a part of the person he helped her become.

Pushing up the the sleeve of her sweater past her wrist, she glances down at her watch. Seven minutes past ten.

Is he coming? Had he changed his mind?

To be honest, if he had decided not to come, she won’t blame him. She would’ve been hesitant, too, if if one of her exes had asked to see her again.

“And Dean, the one you dated before this. You loved him, correct?”

She opens her mouth to correct her therapist because obviously she hadn’t loved him or she wouldn’t have left, but the words don’t come. Her mouth just hangs open, and she realizes, with a twist of the winch around her heart, that she’d been wrong about herself all along.

The memory threatens to put a gloom on her otherwise hopeful mood, so she straightens her posture, pushes stray strands of hair back behind her ear before glancing again at the watch on her wrist. Figuring she would at least wait another half-hour, she pulls her book from her purse and opens up to the place where she left off.

She found the fairy-tale much simpler and more forgiving and than the real world. As they say, everyone does love a good happy ending. She just hoped her own story could have a fraction of that same happiness, though perhaps with less dragons to slay.

Four pages later, the bell above the door chimes.

She glances up, having been so immersed in her ink and paper world she’d forgotten there was a much larger universe outside of it. As if by magic, her eyes are drawn to the man who’d just come in, her breath catching in a barely audible gasp in her throat. She sets her book down slowly, not even paying much attention to where she places it.

Her table is closer to the wall at the back of the diner, so it takes his eyes a minute to find her. The green of them nearly stops her heart the instant they do. He crosses the room in a few strides, and she reads a similar apprehension on his face as her own.

To combat some of the winter chill, he’s grown a beard, a burgundy knit beanie pulled down over the tops of his ears, and he’s wearing the same mossy green coat she remembers wearing a few times around the apartment. It had smelled so much like him, almost feeling like a hug whenever he wasn’t home.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle, as rugged as she remembers, and warm like tomato soup as he slides into the booth seat across from her.

“Hey yourself.” So much of him is the same, yet now that he’s up close, she can see many of the finer differences. His eyes are different, not in color, but in intensity — stronger, yet distant, like he’s keeping his emotions behind a concrete wall. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping well, either. Maybe thinking about today kept him up late, too.

Her hair has fallen back in front of her face again, bangs too long to be bangs but too short to stay behind her ears. She pushes the hair back out of the way with a single swipe of her hand. “I guess this is kind of awkward, huh?”

“A little,” he says, though his smile is kind.

“Should we start off with the basics?”

He shrugs. “I guess. I’ve never really done this before, met up with an ex, so…”

Her heartbeat thumps loud and fast. “Is it bad that I asked?”

“No, not really,” Dean says. She’s relieved. “It wasn’t really weird or anything, just…strange?”

“That would be a synonym of weird,” she says and can’t help but laugh. It’s not hard to force herself to relax at this point. She’s always been comfortable with Dean, but he was right about this being strange. There’s an urge to let things fall back into old habits, but she knows that she’d quickly fall into the realm of becoming too comfortable if she let things go too far. They aren’t together anymore. She has an inkling that it’s going to be hard to remember that the longer they’re together.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, ignoring the heavy pounding in her chest. She’d read somewhere that acting confident in an otherwise uncomfortable situation could help alleviate some of her anxiety. Sort of a ‘fake it til you make it’ mentality. Her smiles is twice as cool as the nervous teenager she feels like she is on the inside. “So, how has life been treating you, Dean Winchester?”

“Well…” He purses his lips, searching for the right words. “Life’s been treating me…pretty okay, I guess. The shop’s been keeping me pretty busy since you wrote that article about the benefits of supporting local small businesses, so thanks for that. Again.”

“Of course,” Her smile is polite, if not kind.

“But mostly, it’s just been back and forth between home and work,” Dean says. “Bobby…You remember Bobby right?” Y/n grins, remembering the man fondly. It had taken her two weeks to break through his gruff exterior. She finally broke down and bought him an expensive bottle of whiskey. He’d warmed up to her pretty quickly after that. “Well, he hired a couple more people to help run the place and to keep me from working on the weekends as much as possible. Gives him the chance to relax more, too.” Dean leans in close, resting his elbows on the table. “You know, he’s talked about retiring?”

“Well, he’s worked there, what, thirty years?”

“Close to it, yeah.”

“Then he should retire.”

“That’s what I told him,” Dean says. “But I also bet he’d be so bored from sitting around all day that he’d be back at the shop within a month.” His rumbling laugh sends shivers down her spine. He’s exactly the way she remembers. She’s not sure what she expected, but the familiarity of him hits her like a punch to the gut.

She laughs, too, but it’s too distracted to be genuine. “That’s probably true. Poor guy.”

Dean smile remains on his face as he relaxes, small crow’s feet crinkling warmly around his eyes. “So, how’s life treating you these days, Y/n? Same old chaos or has it mellowed out some?” His arms stretch out to rest casually on the top of his booth. “You’re still working for that online newspaper, right?”

The waitress comes by then, taking Dean’s order — a black coffee and a piece of their best pie.

“Yeah, I’m still working there,” Y/n says as the waitress walks away. “It’s been the same old kind of thing, you know, either running around like a madwoman trying to finish an article or throwing crumpled up pieces of paper at the trashcan because I can’t think of what to write about.”

“That sounds stressful.”

“It is,” she says with a sigh, propping her elbow up on the table so she can rest the side of her cheek on the palm of her hand. “Which is part of why I’ve started looking for a different job. I could use a little quiet right now.”

The waitress come back with Dean’s coffee and the slice of pie, setting both down in front of him. Y/n can’t help but smiles when she sees it’s a slice of apple pie, the kind she made for him on Father’s Day.

She sits up straight in her seat as Dean picks up his fork. “How is she?” She bites her lip, fingers knotting together with genuine concern. If anything hurt as badly as ending her relationship with him, it was knowing she’d inadvertently ended her relationship with his daughter as well.

“She’s…good,” Dean replies slowly. “She started the first grade a few months ago at a new school, so that’s been a little rough.”

“Understandably,” she adds. She’s done her fair share of moving around to know what that’s like.

“But she seems to be making some new friends, so I’m happy.” He takes a bite of the pie. His eyes almost roll into the back of his head, unable to hold back a low moan.

There had been a reason she’d chosen this diner. One of her friends at the paper had reviewed it a few months ago and said this diner’s pie was some of the best in the state.

She laughs lightly at Dean’s dramatics, pleased he’d liked it so much. “That’s good. I’m glad she’s doing okay.”

Dean nods, swallowing. A somber looks crosses his face and he stares down at his plate. “She misses you,” he says, looking up as if to gauge her reaction.

Her heart clenches in her chest. Without much thought, she places her hand over his, brushing her thumb back and forth across his knuckles in a gesture meant for comfort as she says, “I miss her, too.” Dean gives a stiff nod, his jaw locking in discomfort as he struggles to look away from her hand, and she realizes she’d overstepped a boundary. She pulls her hand away and returns it to her lap where it form into a tight fist, so tight her nails dig half-moons into her palm. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why’d I do that?

The rest of their time together is brief and skirted. Though they’re getting along just fine for the most part, she can tell Dean’s holding back, not quite laughing the way he used to or smiling as brightly as she remembers. She doesn’t blame him in the slightest, feeling she’s guilty of the doing the same thing.

Ten Months Ago.

He stands behind her as she cooks, distracting her by trailing kisses down the side of her neck as he wraps his arm around her middle, holding her close to him. “Marry me,” he whispers as he plants a kiss right below her earlobe.

She’d gotten so caught up in what he was doing that she nearly drops the spatula. “What?”

“Marry me.”

She starts to laugh uneasily. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why is that ridiculous?”

She gives him a dubious look. “Um, because we’ve only been together four months?”

He purses his lips, contemplating it for a second, then shrugs. “So what? I don’t see any problem with that.”

Wriggling out of his grasp, she turns around to face him. “So, I haven’t even met your dad yet.”

As expected, Dean stiffens.

“See? What I’d tell you?” She turns her back to him, returning to her cooking, completely dismissing him.

“That’s not…” Dean huffs, scowling. Digging into the pack pocket of his jeans, he pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.

“Calling my dad to see if he wants to have dinner tomorrow night.”

“What? Dean, no!”

“You wanted to meet him,” Dean says, “so I’m letting you meet him. What’s the big deal?” With a frustrated huff, she rips the phone from his hands. “Hey!”

“Dean, I’m not marrying you,” she says stubbornly.

“Why not? Do you not want to?”

“No, I…” The decision is too difficult, too complex for a simple yes or no answer. She shakes her head helplessly, groaning in frustration as she drops her face into her hands. “I don’t know,” she says, her voice slightly muffled, though not enough to where Dean can’t understand her. “It’s just,” She lifts her head, crossing her arms. “It’s too early for me to think that far into the future. A lot could happen between now and then.”

“Too early to think about our future?” Dean’s eyes narrow. “I have a daughter, Y/n, the one thing I constantly have think about is my future. I need to know that she’s going to be okay, that if something were to happen to me, someone would be here to take care of her. If you’re not willing to think about a future for us, if you can’t even see one, then what’s the point?”

Her eyes widen in shock as the weight of his worlds settle. Moisture stings in her nose, making her eyes glisten.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, actually. I do. I don't date to fool around, Y/n. I do it because I want to marry someone. I’m ready for marriage. Clearly, you’re not, which means I love you in a completely different way than you love me, if you even love me at all.” It’s a low jab, but the resentment and bitterness has been building up for some time.

Y/n’s bottom lip trembles without a sound. She hasn’t said the words yet, fearing their relationship would just end as badly as her previous relationships if she does, like it was some curse of irony or misfortune. He’s said them a number of times, and he’s always said he was okay with her not saying it back, that actions spoke louder than words, but clearly that was a lie.

Dean turns away from her, facing the kitchen table where the two dozen roses he bought for her last week have wilted in their glass vase.

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight. We can pack up your things in the morning after I take MJ to school.”

Y/n instantly pales. “What am I supposed to tell her?”

Dean looks back at her. “I’ll tell her,” he decides, knowing it would best best if she heard it from him.

Y/n nods, sniffling, and quickly wipes her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her sweater. “I don’t want to stay ‘til morning,” she says quietly.

Dean presses his mouth in a thin line. “You want help packing your stuff?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’d rather just do it myself.”

When MJ is dropped off after soccer practice later that evening, there’s one less car in the driveway.

Now.

Drinking when you’re at an emotional low is not something she recommends. She hadn’t realized she’d been keeping her feelings locked up until she’d already downed half a bottle of wine.

She should have guessed though, that seeing Dean again after all this time wasn’t something she would just walk away from unscathed. Wounds she’d thought healed have opened like a floodgate, and before long she’s sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, coasting down the road at about forty-five. She has no destination in mind, just relies on the hum of the road beneath her tires and the autonomy of the drive to calm her down. It starts to rain, a dull pat-pat that soothes her tortured soul like a strings in a symphony.

She takes back roads through unfamiliar neighborhoods, choosing turns at whim, and it’s not until she turns onto the last street that she realizes she’d unknowingly been leading herself to an actual destination. She eases to a stop in front of his house, peering out through the rain-streaked car window at the house that glowed softly in the yellow light of the streetlamp out front. There’s a few lights on inside. Pulling up the sleeves of her jacket, she sees that it’s almost midnight, yet Dean appears to still be awake.

The rain has eased up to a light mist by the time she gets out of her car, her breath condensing in a white smoke as it hits the air.

This is her swallowing her pride, her regret, and the feeling that ten months ago she didn’t understand. This is her taking her future by the hand and running with it. Love was once a fleeting thing to her, a mystery, a curse. Now, it’s as simple as breathing.

At his front door, she takes a moment to gather herself and raises her fist to his door, knocking hard four times. Then she shoves her hands back inside the pockets of her jacket, stands back, and waits, counting to ten as she holds her breath, then exhales.

Let me know if you would like to be tagged in future fics!

Tagging: @tardis-is-mine @andhiseyesweregreen

96 notes · View notes