#leggy has the same type as his dad
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I want a Barduil fic where Bard marries Thranduil and becomes Legolas's step dad and then teen Legolas gets a crush on Bard. Then Legolas meets Aragorn and falls in love with him instead!
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Dabi smut with a teacher. Like in some quirkless au or something (He’s scarless but hella pierced and tatted), he had to pick up kid!Shoto one day and he sees his hot black teacher (Sis got thickness and curves for days, even in simple clothes) So he consistently picks up Shoto (even when he doesn’t have to) just to hit on her and when he finally scores a date with her, he’s at his limit after seeing her in casual wear and how amazing her personality is.
I LOVED this request. I had so much fun writing it and the details were amazing! I hope you enjoy
Hot For Teacher (Dabi x Black Reader) Quirkless AU
“Ah, come on kid,” Dabi sighed, expelling a stream of smoke as he waited at the curb for his baby brother to get out of school.
He rolled down the window to air out the car and watched the stream of middle schoolers burst through the double doors and head to their respective busses or cars.
“Shooo,” Dabi groaned, “where are you? I got shit to do, kid.”
He enjoyed hanging out with his youngest sibling, and he had no problem picking the kid up, but he also had a business to help run. If he didn’t get back to the shop in an hour and a half like he’d promised Hawks, he’d get an earful about responsibility and time management and blah, blah, blah.
He leaned back in the driver seat, deciding to give Shoto another fifteen minutes before he texted the kid.
Just then another wave of kids exited the building, Dabi’s bright blue eyes scanned them before landing on the finest woman he’d ever seen in his life.
Her cream colored silk blouse popped beautifully against her rich brown skin and a pair of slacks hugged her wide hips. Her makeup made her dark eyes sparkle and red lipstick painted her pouty mouth.
Dabi sat up, turquoise eyes running up and down that beautiful body of hers as the sexy teacher strutted past to talk to parents and wave good bye to students. When she turned around, his eyes slid down to the fattest ass he’d ever seen and he licked his lips.
Damn it must be hard as hell for her students to concentrate in class.
She turned again and began walking back towards the school. Fuck! If he didn’t stop gawking he would miss his chance. He couldn’t let that happen.
Holding his cigarette between his lips, Dabi quickly stepped out of the car and took leggy strides to catch up with the teacher.
“Excuse me.”
She turned around, her big dark eyes landing on him. Immediately Dabi knew she was sizing him up and wasn’t impressed. She gave that same disapproving teacher look Fuyumi gave whenever she was put off by someone.
Regardless, he flashed her his most charming smile. He may not be a goody two shoes like these other khaki wearing dads out here, but he knew he looked damn better than any of them.
“Sorry to bother you ma’am. I was just hoping you could help me out.”
“Sure,” she smiled back, showing off a pair of pretty white teeth. “Let’s start with that cigarette. It’s against our school policy to be smoking on the premises so if you could.” She cocked a brow expectantly.
Dabi cocked his own pierced brow back in response, but quickly stubbed out his cigarette on a nearby janitor’s cart and threw it away in the accompanying trash can.
Her smile widened. “Great. Now, how can I help you?”
Dabi chuckled. “Well, ya see, I just got this new phone and cleared out all my old contacts. Ya know, new year, new me and all that,” he shrugged, “anyway, my contacts are pretty empty now. So, I was wondering if I could get yours.”
She let out a little snort of amusement.
“That’s your pick up line? How many Girls have had the misfortune of hearing that one?”
“You’d be the first,” Dabi smirked back. “Figured the usual ‘hey beautiful, what’s your name’ line wouldn’t exactly help me stand out.”
“Trust me, you don’t need help standing out.” She replied, eying him again.
“Then that means I’m ahead of the game, right?” He held out a hand, “I’m Dabi.”
Tentatively, the teacher shook it. “Ms. Y/n.”
“Ms. Y/n, huh...” Dabi repeated slowly, his eyes ran over you with a barely masked longing. “Not ‘Mrs’?”
“Not yet.” You replied.
“How soon are you looking to change that?” Dabi asked, his smirk growing a bit smaller and more intimate.
“Who said I was looking to change it at all?”
“Certainly not me,” he replied, “that’s why I asked. I would love to talk more about how much you don’t want to change it over dinner sometime though.”
You fended off a smile. You were not about to give this over confident asshole any encouragement.
“Sorry, but I make it a point not to date my student’s parents.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a parent then.”
“Oh? So you just like to stroll on the campuses of random middle schools and hit on the teachers for fun?”
Dabi chuckled again.
“I’m here to pick up my little brother. Ah, hell, speaking of which, I actually could use your help with that. Kid hasn’t come out yet and I’ve already been here over half an hour.”
Your pretty face immediately crumpled with worry.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“Todoroki Shoto.”
“Oh!” You looked surprised. “Shoto. I think I saw him headed towards the baseball field. I think the team has practice today.”
“Dammit! Really? Well, I better go say hi to the kid anyway. You mind, uh, leading the way?”
“Sure.” You shrugged.
Turning, you took the lead and guided Dabi towards the baseball diamond behind the school. You could feel the man’s eyes on your ass the whole way, and couldn’t help but put an extra switch in your hips as you did. Much to his appreciation.
You had to admit the man was fine as hell. The black undercut with lines cut in the side, his multiple piercings and even the colorful tattoos you saw peeking from under his fitted black tshirt were hot as hell. However, you had long since given up on bad boy types. You preferred nerds. Still a little light flirting wouldn’t hurt anything, right?
“There he is.” Dabi stated once the two of you verged on the field. He held up his hands to his mouth and called out: “Yo, Sho!”
The boy looked up, heterochromatic eyes widening in surprise.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had practice today you little half and half?”
“Why don’t you ever check mom’s texts?” Shoto shouted back. “She told you to come later.”
You snickered as Dabi pulled out his phone and checked his text messages.
“Huh. Well I’ll be damned.” He muttered to himself. “Alright, kiddo, I’ll be back in an hour!”
“Can you stop shouting and leave now?! I have to concentrate.”
Dabi laughed before turning back to you.
“Anyway, thanks a lot for your help Ms. Y/n.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Still, I would love to thank you properly. Maybe over coffee.” He said, sounding hopeful.
“Before it was dinner.” You quipped, playfully.
“I know. I‘m just planning for future dates.”
You giggled, shaking your head. “It was nice meeting you, Dabi.” With that you turned and strutted off.
“I hope you know I’m gonna keep trying until I get a yes or no.” He called after you.
As you entered the school’s back entrance you could hear Shoto shouting: “Can you please stop hitting on my teachers? I have to see them everyday!”
Unfortunately for Shoto, his plea seemed to go in one overly pierced ear and out the other because almost everyday since then, Dabi made it a point to stop and talk to you when he came to pick up Shoto.
“Hey there, Ms. Y/n. My contacts are filling up fast. You sure you don’t wanna reserve a spot?”
“Sorry Dabi, but my no dating policy extends to immediate family members as well.”
“I hated to cancel our reservations, but you’re left me no choice, Ms. Y/n.”
“Nobody told you to make reservations, Dabi.”
“Dinner was lonely the other day. If only I had a beautiful black queen to keep me company.”
“I’m sure There are plenty of black queens out there that would have loved to accompanying you to dinner.”
“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have been you.”
Dabi was unrelenting. Always complimenting how amazing your outfits looked on your skin tone, how flattering your make up was, or if you wore a new hairstyle or new jewelry.
You couldn’t lie. The attention was both flattering and refreshing. Since becoming a teacher, you usually only got hit on by studious academic types. Attractive yes, but straight laced and all the same with their game
Unfortunately a disturbing amount of married dads also tried their luck with you.
But Dabi was different.
He may have been a far cry from your usual type, but he was always perfectly respectful and even funny. Not to mention he was much closer to your own age than other men that came on to you.
He must have started bribing Shoto for help or asking him about your interests too. Because sometimes when he would see you, he’d have a new book to give you or your favorite iced tea from a cafe you always frequented. Which, admittedly, was pretty damn cute.
The tatted up alt boy was actually growing on you. So one day, when both of you least expected it, you finally agreed to give him your number and go on a date.
That was the first time you ever saw him straight up smile. Not smirk or grin. He actually beamed. Just like a little boy who’d been told he could have a puppy.
Ok, ok. You admit it—he was cute.
Hopefully, that charm would extend over to dinner.
When the big date came, Dabi cleaned himself up. Opting out of his usual dark attire for a deep blue fitted Ralph Lauren polo and skinny khakis. He even took out some of his piercings in an attempt to look more presentable. He thought he cleaned up pretty nice if he did say so himself, but it was nothing compared to what you strutted in wearing.
Dabi had gotten used to your stylish but conservative work attire. He was so used to your hot teacher look, that he forgot you probably had some regular clothes in that amazing wardrobe of yours.
And damn did you pick out the most show stopping dress you had. You wore a wine colored dress that cut low in the front showing off those juicy tits of yours and stopped above the knee. The heels you wore made your thighs look even yummier and your ass was jiggling out of control with every step.
Down boy. Down boy. Down boy.
He scolded himself.
“Well, don’t you clean up nicely, Dabi?” You teased.
“I’m Touya tonight, beautiful.” He struck a pose like a GQ model. You laughed. “Dabi was that guy that kept hitting on you, Touya’s the guy that’s gonna try not to screw it up.
“Oh,” you ran a manicured finger along his solid chest, “well, I agreed to a date with Dabi, but I guess Touya could be fun too.”
Dabi licked his lip, and your eyes fell on his tongue piercing, hungrily.
“Depending on how well the night goes, you might see Dabi come out later tonight.” He replied, suggestively.
You rolled your eyes, but could feel your cheeks (and your pussy) warming.
“Boy! Come on.”
Dabi as Touya opened the door to the restaurant and ushered you inside.
The restaurant he took you to was definitely a high end place; complete with soft candle light, a jazz quartet, and a maître d’.
The chemistry the two of you had definitely translated over dinner.
Dabi was just as funny as he always was and he was genuinely interested in getting to know everything about you. He hung on to your every word about the funny things your students did in class. He enjoyed hearing your college stories. He even knew some of the books you enjoyed reading and could talk literature easily.
You discovered that he was the co-owner of a tattoo and piercing shop. He was the oldest of his siblings. And he enjoyed traveling and learning new things.
Dabi enjoyed vibing with you. He loved that your personality and sense of humor was just as amazing and substantial as that body he wanted a piece of so bad.
Dinner rolled into drinks and lasted well into the night. By the time the two of you were done it was damn near four A.M.
From that night on, you and Dabi became practically inseparable. He picked you up from school right along with Shoto for dinner after work, swung by with coffee, bought you any and everything you wanted (he does come from money after all) and after a year of dating, you became more than just a ‘Ms.’
Pt.2
#dabi x black!reader#dabi x reader#flirting#first dates#bnha fluff#my hero academia#bnha imagines#bnha#bnha scenarios#my hero fanfic#bnha headcanons#dabi scenarios#touya todoroki#mha headcanons#black writers#curvy reader
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I might be making this type of aus on stories
So *inhales*
The ghost of spongebob(an angst au) the part where spongebob feels something bad is going to happen to squidward and therefore he knew while squidward was walking on the street and spongebob was meters away from him that was where spongebob took the hit and pushed him aside. And that was where squidward cried so hard because spongebob died because of him
Vampire world a vampire spongebob au
Soft universe soft spongebob that squidward started to notice him suspiciously
School similator just like yandere simulator but spongebob and all of the characters even side characters are in a school. And spongebob is a yandere simping for squidward-
Partners as detective squidward doesnt know spongebob was his partner all he doesnt notice that his partner detective is spongebob and spongebob is disguised so he wont know his identity
Villain spongebob the au where spongebob was so tired of all the FUN stuff so he became really evil
The end of his(angst) the way where spongebob got trapped into a void and couldnt go out until next month he was still stuck there and squidward could only go there by him sleeping and dreaming And spongebob turned like an error stuff something like that
Human characters just them all as humans
Teen school i know they both dont go to the same school as a teen but i made an au where they both were together in a highschool
Mermaid boy squidward and spongebob as mermaid
Dreamland them dreaming some stuff
Genderbend what do you expect they both coyld be a girl
The strict parents (angst) sypnosis: spongebob's parents visited spongebob's house and the way they saw him looking like a childish boy they both were really disgusted so they forced him to change his identity into a mature one either he likes it or not
Swapped the au where spongebob is grumpy and squidward is childish
Flowers i already made this but the story is where spongebob accidentaly ate a toxic flower and was going to die Squidward didnt notice he had it.
A new future generation the place where spongebob and squidward have two kids and the both kids are named coraline and clairene Clairene is 10 while coral is 13 she is adopted and spongebob is a mom while squidward is a dad so same as karendy and patindy so karen is a mama and sandy is mom their kid is named aidan who is a male and he is 12 and the other one king patrick and queen mindy they only have one daughter and her name is pops she is older than coral she is 14 and hangs out with her always and about squilliam well yes he has a husband too his name is squillias leggys (credits for the comic who made it herself as pancaketiffy) they both have two adopted sons one is named kristopher non binary and an 18 year old the other sibling is samuel 19 years old AND AS FOR MR KRABS AND PLANKTON YOU COULD SAY THEY BOTH ARE LEGALLY MARRIED AND MAKING UP THEIR LOST TIME WHICH THEY DID WHEN THEY WERE FRIENDS SINCE KIDS!
*loses breath*
So yeah.... THATS ALOT STORY I HAVE ON MIND WHICH I WANT TO MAKE
(I feel lost of breaths)
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hop or max (or both👀) realise how close bill and steve have become and love it because they can just see how happy the boys are
The two boys hadn’t noticed Hop standing there.
They were sitting, pressed hip to hip on the stairs outside the Byers’ when he arrived to pick up El.
They were passing one cigarette back and forth despite the full pack sitting between them, and the outline of a pack he could see in Billy’s breast pocket.
They were talking softly, giggling, touch lingering as they passed the cigarette back and forth.
Billy’s face was soft, was open when he looked at Steve. Hop didn’t know much about the kid, but had heard stories, stories of how rough and tumble he tended to be, how he was hard and mean.
He looked like a damn teddy bear next to Harrington on the steps.
And Jesus, Steve was almost unrecognizable to Hopper.
He had known the kid for a long time, knew his dad all through school, knew Steve when he got old enough to start causin’ trouble.
He had seen Steve looking bored and proper, like he was above everything, like he was too good for Hawkins. He had seen Steve get knocked down a few hundred pegs, had seen him rattling about the town with a nervous twitch in his shoulder, a crazed glint in his eye and a spiked bat in his trunk.
Hell, he’d even seen the kid breakdown, had found him in the woods one night, crashing through with his bat, had started spewing off about how he needed to make sure they were all gone, that everyone’s safe.
(He had cried and shook and slept on Hop’s couch for about a day and a half after that.)
He was used to the spoiled little prince, or the haunted teen with trauma past his years.
He was not used to this carefree boy, this giggly mess sitting next to his friend, sharing a cigarette.
He liked the look on Steve. Liked the line of his shoulders when they weren’t carrying the weight of the world.
-
Max huffed.
She had been woken up by a few thumps in Billy’s room. He had originally figured Neil was in there being awful, but then she heard giggles, unmistakable teenage girl giggles.
That gave way into unmistakable teenage girl moans.
She slammed a pillow over her head, blocking out the high-pitched whimpering. It was the same as the past few nights.
This girl, whoever she was, Billy must like her if she kept sneaking into his bedroom.
Usually, Billy was sneaking out, not letting this girl in.
When the noises had stopped, she took the pillow off her head.
“Sucks that your parent are home. It makes me nervous, you comin’ here. When do they leave again?” She rolled over, didn’t care to hear the chick’s response. She put on her headphones, falling asleep to the Metallica tape still in Billy’s walkman, didn’t hear Steve say, just two more nights, Bill.
-
“You need any help?” Hop was elbows deep in the sink, scrubbing at the dishes from dinner.
Steve was leaning against the counter, rolling up his sleeves. He didn’t wait for an answer, just shoved himself next to Hop and began scrubbing.
“You and Hargrove seem to be close.” He was too focused on rubbing the stains off of Joyce’s dishes to see how Steve’s cheeks went red.
“Yeah, we’re friends.”
“I think you’re good for each other. You both seem better.”
“‘Do you mean better?” Hop shrugged.
“He doesn’t seem as pissed off. I haven’t given him a speeding ticket in over two weeks for rage driving, and you haven’t seemed so, I don’t know, fucked up.”
Steve had to put the dish down as he laughed, was laughing so fucking hard he had to squat down, try to collect himself. He wiped his eyes when he stood back up.
“He’s secretly a really nice person. Don’t tell him I said that.” Hop winked at him.
-
Max threw Billy a weird look.
She had asked for a ride to Steve’s house, which was met with a I’ll be ready in ten from Billy. Twenty minutes of him getting his hair just so, they set off.
And then Billy got out of the car with her, walked her to Steve’s door.
“Don’t you got a date?” Billy just furrowed his brows at her. She looked pointedly at his clothes, the red shirt he only wore on his dates, almost all the way unbuttoned.
“Nah. Just haven’t done laundry in a while.” He was staring her down.
“Are you and Steve even friends?” But he didn’t answer. The door swung open, revealing Steve dressed casually in a pair of sweats. He smiled at Max, ushering her inside to the kitchen with the rest of the brats as he stepped onto the porch to talk to Billy.
She doubled back.
“You look nice. Got a date?”
“Yeah. Leggy brunet. Totally hot. Has this tight ass, is such a slut.” She cringed at the way her brother was talking about this poor girl. Plus, ehy had he lied to Max, said he didn’t have a date.
“Sounds like a wet fucking dream.” Billy muttered shuddup as Steve laughed.
Steve was making fun of Billy, as wasn’t getting the shit beaten out of him for it.
“Well, come in then. It’s cold.” It really wasn’t but she raced off to join the others in the kitchen, left too soon to see Billy pin Steve against the door, kiss him roughly for a few seconds.
Billy snuck out again, after dropping her off at home.
-
Hop was on quarry duty tonight.
It was Valentine’s Day, which meant most of Hawkins’ young couples would be parked at the quarry or Lovers’ Lake or one of the other lookout make out spots.
Hop was wandering through with a flashlight, knocking on windows with a Hawkins PD, get outta here, you’re trespassing.
He came upon Billy Hargrove’s unmistakable car, the dark blue Camaro parked under a large tree, mostly hidden from the other’s.
He was expecting to knock on the back window, but heard voices coming from the hood.
Billy and Steve were passing what smelled like a joint back and forth, laying back on the windshield looking at the stars.
“Fuck knows I got no other plans for this year. I don’t mind waiting.”
“It’s a whole year, Steve. You’d be stuck here until I graduate.”
“What else am I gonna do?”
“You might still get into Chicago.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Bill.”
Hopper came stomping up to their line of sight. Steve put out the joint against the side of the car and tossed it into the bushes.
“Subtle.” Billy shrugged at Hop.
“I was expecting to have to pull you off some girl, Hargrove.”
“Hawkins chicks ain’t really my type.” Hop just shook his head.
“Well, you two are still trespassing. Services roads closed at six.” Steve just nodded vigorously as he slid off the car.
“We’ll scurry right off, Hop. Sorry.”
“And if you two are gonna smoke, please do it in a house, or somewhere I can’t smell it.”
The two slammed themselves in the car, Hop could hear them laugh as the car roared to life.
-
Max was digging through the backseat of Billy’s car, trying to find her skateboard.
He had hidden it from her, like a fucking child, so she snagged his keys when he was too busy being a meathead, working out in the living room.
It was as gross as she was expecting. Billy like to keep his car very clean, especially compared to his pigsty of a bedroom.
She picked up an old worn sweatshirt, found a plain shoebox underneath.
She didn’t want to snoop, but she was curious.
There were a few pictures of Billy’s mom right on top. She only recognized her from the necklace around her neck, the one Billy now refused to take off.
There were some movie ticket stubs, a big wad off cash she made a mental note of, a slip of paper she recognized from a fortune cookie from the place Billy would take her on Thursdays after school in California to get their two for one entree special. He had some jewelry in there, probably more of his mom’s, and a gaudy valentine covered in glitter.
She closed the box, didn’t care to dig further than the valentine, didn’t see Steve’s neat handwriting inside of it, the pictures Billy hoarded underneath it, pictures of Steve, pictures of him and Steve, even a few saucy ones of Steve.
Instead she turned her attention to the hoodie, to the faded Hawkins High Swim Team on the front.
She gave it back to Steve next time she saw him.
“Found it in my brother’s car.”
It would be back in a few weeks, anyway.
-
Hop opened the door to the cabin when Steve rapt on it.
He was toting a bunch of board games, was there to watch El for the night.
Hop raised his eyebrows when Steve set them down, revealing the faded Judas Priest shirt. He knew Steve liked shitty pop, wouldn’t be caught dead listening to hard rock.
“Nice shirt.” Steve looked down at himself, going red.
“Oh shit, Bill slept over last night, he must’ve left it.”
And then Hop noticed the bruises. The dark hickies on his neck, just under the stolen shirt.
Hop’s pretty sure he would’ve never heard the end of it if Steve had a girlfriend, pretty sure the kid’s would’ve lost their shit over it.
So Steve maybe was dating in secret, dating a boy in secret, a boy he spent Valentine’s Day with, a boy he giggled with and shared cigarettes with, a boy who’s shirts he stole and forgot he was wearing them.
But Steve was soft when he sat down next to El, smiled at her nicely and asked about the book she was reading.
So Hop shrugged, and went to his late shift.
-
“You wanna go to the mall?” Billy was standing weirdly in her doorway, trying to make himself look like he belonged there. “Could call up that chick friend of yours.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“What’s the catch.”
“No catch. Just needed to get something from the mall. Thought you’d wanna go.” He had been acting really off lately.
He’d been talking to her how they used to, before Neil doubled down and moved them halfway across the country. He had even made a joke the other day, one that wasn’t a mean comment masquerading as a joke.
“Lemme call El. Maybe Hop would drop her off.” She was even more suspicious as he smiled at her, went to back to his room. She talked to El for a moment, who said Hop would drop her off in ten minutes.
She poked her head in Billy’s room, saw him looking in the mirror, primping himself.
“Does your girlfriend work at the mall?” He gave her a withering stare.
“Don’t have a girlfriend.” She grinned.
“You so do. You know, I heard her sneaking in here a few months ago. I know that you sneak out to go and see her.” Billy flushed. “And it’s always the same voice, so don’t lie and say it’s different girls you perv.”
“Shut up, Maxine.”
“Make me, William.” He stamped his foot like a little kid.
“That’s it! No more mall for you today. I’m just gonna go by myself.” She blocked him in the doorway.
“Just tell me her name.” He shook his head.
“Fine. Tell me where she works and El and I will leave you two alone.” He shifted his jaw around.
“She works at Scoops Ahoy?”
“Isn’t that where Steve works?”
“He introduced us.”
But, But that didn’t add up. Billy had been seeing this girl long before Steve started working there. Maybe they knew each other before? No, Steve famously didn’t have any friends besides the party when Billy started sneaking around with that gir-
And then it hit her.
The fucking sweatshirt.
The Hawkins High Swim Team sweatshirt.
Leggy brunet. Totally hot. Has this tight ass, is such a slut.
She almost threw up.
Steve was her brother’s secret girlfriend. How did she not fucking see this.
“Cool. We’ll let you two be gross or whatever.”
He gave her a tiny smile. She was trying her best not to scream.
Hopper dropped El off and Billy drove them to the mall, let Max pick the music and at one point, had even hummed along to the Hall & Oates song. Fucking Rich Girl.
She pulled El along to The Gap when they hit the mall, Billy making a beeline for Scoops.
“We’re gonna spy on Billy.” El just smiled slyly and nodded vigorously.
They crouched behind plants out in front of Scoops, could just hear Billy talking to Steve’s coworker.
“Dingus, your homoerotic rival turned lover is here.” Steve’s shoes squeaked as he launched himself from the back room. Max’s hands were clammy. She was right.
“Don’t be so loud, Rob.”
“There’s no one here.” Max heard a sound like something being hit dully. Steve yelped. Billy just slapped his ass. “But, you are not allowed to leave me for more than your fifteen. Not like last week. The rush came and I was alone for an hour, Steve. An hour.”
“O-kay, Rob. We’ll be quick.”
“And disinfect any surface you two fuck on. I refuse to touch that.” Billy roared with laughter as Steve squawked indignantly. Max peeked up to watch Steve drag Billy into the backroom. Billy grinned at Robin, a really nice, happy smile before turning to Steve.
#im sorry for being super inactive#ive been having a bunch of health issues#yikes writes#steve harrington#billy hargrove#harringrove#steve harrington x billy hargrove#billy hargrove x steve harrington#harringrove fic#harringrove ficlet#harringrove drabble
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PERMANENT PLOTTING CALL ELECTRIC BOOGALOO
hey hi hello fancy seeing you here so guess what?? i have decided to be like the Cool Kids and throw out a plotting call! what this does is essentially tell me that you are okay with: me jumping into your dm’s or discord or what have you to yell about our muses something that you are also MORE than free to dow with me, meme it up on meme fridays and just throw one after another at each other, casually throw little starters out here and there that can be responded to whenever and plot out some good shit for the future!
A WARNING: as I have Ritsuka’s canon point set to post lostbelt 5.2, there WILL be spoilers here!! there are none in this plotting call but just in general and they may come up in future plots so just a little fyi
below you’ll find a tier list of the possible things we can plot about but if you have an idea that isn’t listed, then please feel free to tell me!
01. FRIENDS.
Ritsuka is a very charismatic and friendly person. She’s just someone who can make friends as easy as breathing and has a sort of warm and welcoming aura about her. Friends of hers are usually people she will absolutely drag out to a convenience store at 3 am to buy drinks and then go crash a playground and just have fun, take them out to lunch to a new place that opened up, going to movies and stuff and just....having a jolly good time, you know?? it’s been awhile since she’s had any regular friends since she’s been surrounded by heroic spirits for years but she’s a good friend!! she’ll have your back and if that means letting you cry on her shoulder or having her deck someone that’s trying to mess with you in the face, then so be it!
02. BEST/CLOSE FRIENDS
same as above but with a bit more. these are people that she trusts very, very much and is a bit more at ease letting herself show more of the ‘ i have to save humanity again and god is it tiring’ side to. usually, this area is mostly filled with Servants since they already know what she does but that doesn’t say there can’t be people who she might end up trusting enough to divulge those secrets. as of right now, it’s only two (2) whole people, though.
03. DADS AND MAYBE MOMS (TM)
do you want to look after this smol human master?? this girl who has the crappiest sleeping schedule and probably keeps too much in and acts like she’s okay a lot and has a recklessness that rivals every single other person on the planet??? do you want to give her an allowance and be some sort of parental figure in her life???? then please feel free to do so because she needs it imo. she already has like 3 dads and we are always welcome to more and a mother figure or two, too!! just know that like, at this moment in time, casgil is #1 dad.
04. FELLOW MAGE BUDDIES
listen. listen she may be a third rate one with not so good magical circuits and an overall shitty knowledge on magecraft trust me she knows this Everyone likes to remind her , but she still is very eager to learn about it! it’s an interesting subject so anyone who also uses magic is an A+ person to befriend and get to know! they can be like a teacher and teach her things or a fewllo study buddy when it comes to magecraft. either works!
05. NUMEROUS GODS WANT ME DEAD WANNA FIND OUT WHY?? AKA ENEMIES
GOD does a girl love some enemies. I am always down for if yor muse wants to be an enemy of Ritska’s, if they want to antagaonize her and taunt her and just generally be the villain they’ve always wanted and/or were meant to be. she may just be an ordinary human but she will do what she can to stop you and fight back even if that means getting an injury or two.
06. YEARNING PART 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO AKA SHIPPING
that’s it. no i’m kidding. while shipping is NOT a big priority for me at all and is more of something I want to happen organically, I am not adverse to it. but listen. listen to me, shipping with Ritsuka is not difficult-- she’s just one of those people who can mold nicely with another but due to everything that has happened in part 2 of the f/go storyline and currently with the lostbelts, ritsuka has this sort of thing where she’s....unsure if she should ever take that leap if such the occassion arises. it is not that she doesn’t think she deserves it, it is just that A Lot is going on, A Lot has happened and sometimes she just wants to hold someone’s hand and like, sleep on their shoulder but is #Doubt. i also like for there to be some chemistry and all of that, for it to build up slowly rather than just jumping right in so like, gestures to the picture above. did someone mention slowburn, anyone????
07. FRENEMIES
you hate her. you don’t like her one bti and yet oh no, now you’re saving her because that’s my rival and oh now you’re kinda being nice to each other here and there and ah fuck. Ritsuka is the type to try to befriend her enemies at times so this is an option. so if you ever wanted one protag to be the rival of but also wouldn’t mind going to denny’s to get some food, then heck yeah!!
this is a Lot and i know i’m missing a lot but like....i just wanna plot things sometimes you know and this guide should help anyone else who also wants to but is just the screaming emoji. so like, you can comment a number that catches your eye or just like this and then at some point soon i’ll stick my leggy into those dm’s
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TAGGED BY : @weiwuxiian
NAME OF YOUR MUSE : Fergus
ONE PICTURE YOU LIKE BEST OF YOUR MUSE’S FC :
(Surprise, it’s not the leggy icon. An outrage, I know.)
TWO HEADCANONS YOU HAVE FOR YOUR MUSE THAT YOU NEVER TOLD ANYONE :
It’s not that Fergus doesn’t want to have kids--it’s just that his current circumstances make it more advisable not to. I honestly think he would be good with children because he is so easygoing and fun-loving and would be the most patient parent/babysitter in the world. How good of a role model he would be is questionable because he and the kids would probably get up to ridiculous antics but he’d probably at least try to buck up his responsibility a little. Regardless of whether he had or adopted children he would love them so much...with his whole heart...
I’ve brought it up a little before but I don’t think I’ve gone into tons of detail about his genderfluidity? Like, he’s totally fine with being male, but he doesn’t really care about gendered roles or clothing. Like, he’s aware of how certain actions/clothes will affect the way he’s perceived, but in his mind it’s all just him being the person he is. Sometimes he might affect certain mannerisms/dress to work to his advantage but usually he just does whatever the hell he wants. If someone refers to him as a girl, and treats him as one, he won’t care. Same goes for anything else. He doesn’t have a preference, “male” is just what he grew up with and what people usually perceive him as so he defaults to it.
THREE THINGS THAT YOUR MUSE LIKES DOING IN THEIR FREE TIME :
Sleeping
Fist-fighting
Winding people up
I guess I could also say kicking down walls and doors and also stripping but I’m not going to include those for real lol...
SEVEN PEOPLE THAT YOUR MUSE LOVES/LIKES :
Beowolf
Leif
Karin
Diarmuid?
If we are also going with interactions on here then he also likes Reyson, Linus, and Fee lol (Libra is ‘that one rope-loving priest who threw an axe at me’). In my modernverse Machyua is one of his besties.
TWO THINGS YOUR MUSE REGRETS :
Letting his father leave that one last time (as in, letting him walk out the door of whatever place Fergus was hidden in the last time he saw him before he died)
??? Idk he’s not really the type of person to carry regrets around, he just likes to get on with life
TWO PHOBIAS YOUR MUSE HAS :
Settling down: It’s not that he’s really against it, it just makes him feel really skittish if he’s forced to stay in one place for a long time. He’s been on the move his entire life, so he feels like remaining too long will lead to someone eventually figuring out that hey, aren’t you that one missing scion of Conote’s royal house...which can lead to assassination attempts or political disasters. Or both. Staying too long can also lead to his next fear...
Getting attached: He’s friendly! He’s protective! But! He also doesn’t usually form deep lasting bonds with people just because again, he moves around a lot and doesn’t usually have the time to form them. But also because of his dad being dead and also changing caretakers all the time in his childhood. Some of them were kind, some weren’t, either way he didn’t stay very long with each. The point is, getting attached makes you want to stay, staying = disaster in his mind, so getting attached = no-no. Also if you don’t get attached too deeply you can’t feel the pain of loss so strong when you have to leave or they die.
TAG TEN PEOPLE TO DO THE SAME THING : ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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What do you think Jade Lalonde, Rose Harley, and Dave Egbert would be like? I've already seen some analysis on John Strider so i don't wanna force you into rehasing anything ^^;
Jade Lalonde, my girl Jade raised by a Permissive parent, probably wouldn’t look toooooooo terribly different from canon Jade. Her interests are well financed, and she’s a good self-motivator, which is probably good because showing off her achievements to a drunken parent isn’t going to get the same response as a coherent parent. Of course, Mom is super proud of her brilliant daughter, and of COURSE she loves her super duper dearly and thinks Jade is the most intelligent girl alive, but it can get a little frustrating for Jade to explain her interests, and then ten minutes later realize her mom hasn’t retained a word. This Jade’s gonna be more acclimated to frustration and broken expectations, which is gonna manifest itself in two ways. She’s not gonna respond much at all when she’s disappointed, sometimes by really major things that she SHOULD get pissed off about, or she’s going to blow the fuck up over seemingly minor shit that most people would be able to brush off. But it’s more about the principle of the thing than the actual expectation that got broken, y’know? Probably gonna be sneakier than canon Jade, able to manipulate the situation to get her mom to actually DO stuff she needs her to, whether that be through passive aggression or batting her eyelids or setting up a situation so her mom “conveniently” will be reminded of certain things, and that’s gonna carry over into her other relationships as well, entirely unintentionally at first, that’s just sorta how she’s used to operating. Her role, then, as the Witch of Light, combined with that naturally honed ability to manipulate the situation with intelligence and a calculated amount of luck, is going to be one that comes naturally to her, and she’s going to be a HELLRAISER. She’s going to be UNPARALLELED. There will be no imp nor ogre nor time travelling demon who spits destruction from his maw that will be able to stand against her. She’s here, she’s brilliant, and she and her friends will be catching no unlucky breaks because she is the one whose will Luck bends to.
Rose Harley, raised by a dog and some chess people, alone on an island. Probably gets pretty entrenched in her know it all bossy phase pretty quick, but is less sure of herself. Doesn’t get a lot of positive feedback aside from her dog and some chess people who she’s pretty sure she’s smarter than, but that makes human interaction even harder for her, and she’s never really been good at interpersonal stuff to begin with. Lots of false confidence, I think, but suffers from impostor syndrome pretty badly. She WANTS to belong in the group, she really really wants to be involved and included and someone who BELONGS there, but can’t shake the nagging feeling that everyone else is a regular human being and she’s. Weird. And not in a good way. Gonna be more anxious than her canon counterpart, I think. Her favorite books she’s read 1000 times over and she’s got SUPER in-depth thoughts and analysis for the stuff she takes interest in, a very very brilliant girl who is never sure when “sharing” becomes “oversharing” and when “odd in a fun way” becomes “Rose that’s creepy.” Her role as the Seer of Space goes along well with being awake on Prospit prior to the Game even starting, as she has dealt with visions of the future all her life. Unfortunately, since space is all-encompassing, she’s not seeing what is fortuitous, or what WILL happen, or even what SHOULD happen, she’s seeing what happens in pretty much any timeline anywhere and it’s her task to sit down, think about what she’s Seen, and parse together whether they should or shouldn’t take that path. Her honed analytical skills will be pushed to their limits and brought to task over and over again, but through her smarts and what she has Foreseen, she is able to direct their group and conduct them in such a way that the new universe is spawned and they are able to win. The fact that she is SO CRUCIAL to their success helps her feel more like part of the group, but presents a NEW problem of wondering if maybe now they’re just pretending to be interested in her for her abilities. Her big hurdle is allowing herself to see that she is loved and wanted, and she truly does belong with them.
Dave Egbert is a kinda nerdy dude, he takes his camera with him everywhere and is always taking selfies or posting stuff to his instagram and did you hear? I heard someone say he has a collection of like, roadkill or something. Dave absolutely has a collection of dead shit. Also cicada shells that show up on the trees and bushes, because hey man cicada shells are cool. He’s super into his dumb nerd shit like video games and even reads that dumb gamebro magazine that he damn well KNOWS is dumb but he likes it and he’s not embarrassed about his interests! He knows the stuff he likes isn’t cool and doesn’t try to pass it off as cool, he just enjoys himself and fuck the haters. He ADORES his dad, was definitely one of those kids that began crying the MOMENT his dad dropped him off at daycare or smth, very attached but also complains about him sometimes, because kids complain about their parents, especially since Dad Egbert is the type of dude to walk up in front of his kid’s friends and use the embarrassing toddler nicknames like “sport” or “squirt” or smth and Dave’s friends are like “lmao your dad actually calls you ‘sport’ I thought that only happened in movies” and Dad also has like, a wallet full of Dave’s pictures and Dave is just like “daaaaaad” but also heck yes he was an ADORABLE baby so he sorta thrives off the attention. Has the biggest, dumbest crush on John imaginable. Dad found out Dave was queer not because Dave came out, but because Dave is just SO OBVIOUS about his stupid giant big dumb crush on John and Dad just sorta… quietly accepted this about his son and tries to be a good parent however he can. He’s not the most well-educated about queer stuff but he always tries his best to be respectful and that goes doubly now that he knows his kid isn’t straight. Dave having a supportive parent is a very good concept and one I am wholly behind in literally every way. His role as Knight of Breath is the defender of freedom, which probably means he must first liberate his consorts from his denizen, and then has to go a step further to protect his friends, probably from their own neuroses. Jade thinks she has to leap through all these mental hoops, but she doesn’t, Rose thinks she has to PROVE her worth, that she’s valuable, but Dave would love his sister even if she couldn’t do anything for them, John has been trapped in this toxically masculine, angry place for years and Dave can help him out of there, help him find peace and acceptance even within himself, Dave can pry back the dark gunk that’s been coating John’s soul and let him breathe freely, possibly for the first time in his life.
John Strider, we’ve touched on so I’ll just go over briefly here, but I like to keep these asks done in sets and now that I’ve set a pattern I’m not breaking it. John would end up one of those nasty, nasty, angry bullies. Bro is toxic, abusive, hypermasculine, and unpredictable, which means John winds up angry, lashing out, and hypermasculine as well. He goes way too far, way too often, and doesn’t apologize, total jock stereotype from oldtimey movies and shit, strong and athletic and attractive and just plain mean. Acts like he’s hot shit because whenever he’s at home he’s painfully reminded that he is small, and weak, and can’t actually do anything. Dave is his bro and he likes him plenty but he makes a lot of mean spirited gay jokes to start, probably as a cover for his own identity crisis that he has buried so deep deep down inside him you’re gonna need a shovel to unbury that shit, and is oblivious to Dave’s crush on him. Has a soft spot for Jade, who is kinda the only person who can get John to talk about his feelings frankly and honestly, and probably has a crush on Rose because he thinks that that’s what he’s supposed to do. She’s a girl, she’s his friend, that’s how heterosexuality works, right? His role as Heir of Time, I’m afraid, would be a deeply unpleasant one. What would likely happen is he directs the alpha timeline by having his offshoot timeline selves merge with his alpha self, like what Rose did from Davesprite’s timeline back in canon. But instead of just, like, ONE offshoot timeline self merging with the whole, it’s every single dead John. Every single time his friends die, he dies, every time something goes wrong, he gets to Experience that. He gets to have those memories seared into his brain, one with himself, one with every timeline that has ever existed, and it only further cements his belief that life is cruel, and uncaring, and doesn’t give a single solitary shit about him, or his loved ones, because he does love them. He’s broken inside, all warped and twisted wrong, but he does love them. It is only, and I do mean ONLY, once he and Dave manage to have their heart-to-heart, once John allows Dave in, that John is able to slowly pry out of the dark and hurting place that has stifled his soul for so long. Not to be stupidly, ridiculously cliche, but it is love that frees him, and the love between the two of them that helps him heal. John Strider and Dave Egbert would be a nigh-inevitable otp like that’s just the way this AU would work out my dudes.
*sticks m leggy out* I love getting long winded and these are fun, please share your thoughts with me my dudes.
#Rose Lalonde#John Egbert#Dave Strider#Jade Harley#John Strider#Rose Harley#Dave Egbert#Jade Lalonde#Homestuck#kidswap#answers#John#Dave#Jade
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Previous Chapters: Teaser/Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6
Unexpected – Chapter 7
Do you have any plans tomorrow?
He wonders how many great adventures, or possibly dismal outings, started with that very question. Perhaps it was a lead in to boat trips to Catalina Island or road trips along Route 66. Perhaps to rain ruined picnics in the park or horrible first dates. He realizes he’s romanticizing the question. He realizes it but it doesn’t stop him from still wondering for a little bit.
It’s a simple question. One probably asked a million times each day. By bosses and friends, coworkers and family. It’s a basic conversation piece. A friend zone piece, he reiterates in his roaming mind. One that doesn’t necessarily mean anything other than the person who asked it is looking for some sort of idle chitchat and that’s the question they keep in their back pocket for such the scenario. Hell, he’s pretty sure the words have come out of his mouth in exactly that manner at least a thousand times through the years.
But this time, this time the question came from Taylor.
He had stared at his phone when the message popped up. Did he have plans? Yes. Pretty important ones at that. A hike with Dodger in the morning followed by a lunch meeting with his manager and then a photo shoot he committed to three months ago.
He considered why she had asked for far too long before cursing himself and saying it was that simple friendly question, no need for analyzation. And then he responded with the basic “yes.”
It took her over an hour to present him with her next question, one that etched a smile onto his face for reasons he’s not totally sure of. Would you cancel them for me?
He’s aware that no was the obvious answer. Completely and totally aware of it. Manager meetings is something he never cancels and photo shoots, while not his favorite of activities, is a commitment he always keeps. But yet when he opened his phone to type out a message telling her he was sorry but he couldn’t . . . well, he couldn’t. He typed the word “yes” again and hit send before he could erase it.
And that is how he ended up here. That’s how he ended up dressed like this.
He glances at his phone one more time, making sure that he’s at the address she sent him last night with a smiley face saying she would meet him there. There are a few cars in the driveway and a bouquet of red and blue balloons tied to a post on the front porch. Yeah, he’s at the right place, he thinks.
He's about to get out of the car when he sees her and he feels the muscles in his chest tighten. She’s stepped out onto the porch, her hand clasping a much smaller one, her smile radiating on her face. It takes him a moment to realize what she’s wearing and that muscle in his chest tightens even more. It’s his Captain America t-shirt. The one he threw at her that day at her house.
Fuck, he thinks, shaking his head with a laugh. This friend zone thing is going to be much harder than he anticipated. Which is probably not true because he had already anticipated it was going to suck.
She’s being pulled down the steps by the little hand in hers when he finally steps out of the car. The gasp that escapes the little boys mouth is unmistakable, his remarkable smile taking up most of his small face.
“Captain America,” the boy squeals, dragging Taylor closer to him.
“I told you I had a special surprise for the birthday boy,” she says, her eyes meeting his with a twinkle. She mouths “thank you” before looking back to the boy. “Leo, meet my friend Captain America.”
Leaning down, he reaches his hand out to Leo, allowing a gentle smirk to tug at his lips. “Nice to meet you young man.”
Leo grabs at his hand, his palm miniscule against his own and before he knows it, the boy has jumped into his arms. He wraps him in his embrace, lifting him as he stands. His eyes land on Taylor, both of their smiles instantaneous and he mouths a “you’re welcome” before he starts to walk toward the house, Leo still clinging tightly to him.
He finds himself swarmed by kids and adults alike when he steps into a large living room littered with balloons and streamers in familiar colors. Little ones with wide eyes raise their shields to him or tug at the bottoms of their t-shirts to show off their emblem emblazed garb. Leo sticks by his side throughout, leading him to a corner to show him his 3-tiered cake before clasping his hand back in his as more kids and adults arrive.
It doesn’t take long for him to realize that he’s not the only attraction in this room. The same wide eyes and awed expressions finding Taylor just as quickly as they do Captain America. He smiles every time they do, watching with his own awed expression as she delivers kisses upon small heads and hugs around tiny shoulders repeatedly.
He supposes that Jaime recognizes his amazed stare at some point when she offers him a “she needs her own superhero costume” statement with a laugh and a nod towards Taylor. He chuckles out a “yeah” but knows it’s not true. She’s perfectly adept at being the superhuman that is Taylor and everyone in the room seems to know it. He knows well enough that he wouldn’t elicit nearly the response he is getting right now if he arrived merely as Chris Evans.
He loses her amongst the guests a few minutes into the party, when he’s pulled with mighty hands into picture after picture. He talks to Kyle, to Jaime again and to several other adult guests, Leo’s admiring gaze never very far away. And then sits at the kid table to eat vanilla cake and Neapolitan ice cream.
She arrives soon after, pulling up a chair that hits at her calves and sitting beside of him at the table. She laughs when he knees rise to the height of her chest and then places her plate on her legs. “I’m not sure how much I owe you for this but I know it’s a lot.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “You don’t owe me a thing, Ms. Swift. I’m enjoying myself.”
Her baby blues rest on him as she stuffs a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. She licks at her lips before she responds. “I’m glad to hear that. They love you.”
“No.” He takes a bite of cake. “They love Captain America. I’m just the lucky bastard that gets to act like him.” She smiles, tilting her head down. “And I’m fairly certain they love you even more. I’m not sure how many cheeks you’ve kissed so far but I’d venture to guess it’s way more than I have.”
“Really? How many have you kissed?” She peaks an eyebrow at him before turning her spoon upside down to lick ice cream from it.
“None,” he confesses.
She smiles lightly, placing the spoon back down on her plate before she juts her face toward him slightly, raising her chin to expose her full cheek.
“Well then let me be your first.”
It’s a friendly request, he knows. He has to know. But he can’t help his mind from roaming, his heart from wanting the kiss to be elsewhere and to mean more.
She laughs when he plants a quick peck on her cheek and then returns to eating the food from her plate. “Thank you again,” she says after a few seconds, “I’m sure you had better things to do on a Saturday so I’m very thankful you took time out of your day to do this for Leo.”
“I didn’t do it for Leo,” he says quickly, his words slipping before his mind can stop them. He searches for a buffer and finds only a slight one. “I did it because you asked me to. I figured I owed you for letting my family invade your house for two days.”
He expression softens when she rests her gaze on him. “Regardless, I’m thankful.”
A pair of skinny arms engulf her neck at precisely that moment, pulling her back slightly as tiny wet kisses are planted on her face. “Thank you for the present, T,” Leo wails between slobbery pecks.
He smiles at the scene before him, watching as Taylor wraps her arms tightly around her godson’s waist and pulls him into a massive hug. She kisses all over his cheeks and forehead. “I’m glad you like it sweet boy,” she exclaims, her joy evident in her words.
Leo’s still giggling when she finally releases him from her grasp and he turns his attention to Chris. “Did you see,” he asks in a small voice, his speech not fully developed, “T got me a batmobile.”
Taylor’s eyes find his immediately, a gleam in them. “It’s not a batmobile. It’s a black corvette. I figured all 2-year old’s need to get around in style.”
“I was going to have to protest if it was a batmobile,” he winks before Leo grabs his hand and pulls him up, no doubt leading him toward Taylor’s gift.
He’s chasing behind the car within minutes, a small army of little humans running and laughing behind him. It’s a game that continues for at least a half hour, with Kyle sometimes giving him a two minute break before he gets pulled back into the car chasing drama again.
He tosses a football with a couple kids later and then pretends to be hurt when each child takes a swing at a Captain America piñata filled with hundreds of pieces of red and blue wrapped candies. When the little ones start to wear down, he heads back to his car to retrieve a large box from his trunk and places it in the middle of the yard. He searches for Taylor as hands grab at the shields in the box but he doesn’t find her.
He’s handed a beer by a sympathetic dad once the box is empty and the kids find their second wind, running around the yard mimicking their superhero. He laughs with him as they walk to the patio and he takes a seat at a table. They make chitchat, talking about baseball and the Avengers films for a few minutes until the man excuses himself and heads inside. His seat doesn’t stay empty for long, a leggy brunette sitting in it before it can even get cold.
Chris offers a quick “hello” before his eyes go back to scanning the yard full of kids.
“I’m Layla,” she says, her voice raised enough to prompt his gaze back to her.
He offers her his hand. “Chris.”
“I know,” she laughs, “everyone knows who you are.”
Chucking, he shakes his head. “No, they don’t,” he nods toward the kids, “they think I’m just Captain America.”
She leans into the table as she laughs, a gesture he’s familiar with. He’s seen it plenty of times around the table at get togethers at his parents’ house or parties at Jeremy’s. Women offering tiny glimpses of their ample cleavage in hopes that it appeals to him. He appreciates the effort, he always has, but he’s never found himself attracted to any who made it.
“That suit looks nice on you,” she continues with a wink of her hazel eyes.
“It should,” he laughs, “it was tailored specifically for me and I’m sure it cost more money than every piece of clothing I have in my closet combined.”
He expects what’s coming next and he smiles the moment she utters the first word. “I’d like to see your closet sometime.”
He takes a swig of his beer, merely chuckling in response to her and then turns his attention fully back to the play taking place in the yard. She gets the hint, reluctantly, sighing heavily as she pushes her chair back and walks away.
“Must be hard attracting women like that,” Kyle chides as he steps near him, not taking a seat.
“It’s the costume,” he laughs, nursing at his beer again.
“Nah. I’d say it’s you.” The older man hesitates momentarily before he continues. “Thanks for making my kids day. Maybe his life so far.”
He nods, glancing up at him with a smile. “You can thank Taylor. It was all her idea.”
“The power of Taylor,” he chuckles, “she amazes me sometimes.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
Kyle continues. “She got you here. She’s amazing with Leo, always has been. She’s got him and all of these kids twrapped around her finger.” He takes another drink of his beer and sees Kyle do the same beside of him. “I don’t know if you know but she donated a ton of money to the hospital for his 1st birthday. He has a condition . . . I won’t go into that . . . but she donated this money in his name to the doctors researching that condition. Jaime and I didn’t even know she did it until we received a letter from the hospital. I know she could have gotten him anything but that was absolutely the best thing she could have done. Amazing lady.”
He smiles, his heart reacting to the story Kyle just conveyed. “She is.”
“She’s going to be a great mother,” Kyle states, catching him off guard, “you can see it in everything she does. How the kids respond to her, how she is so gentle and caring with them. And then to do stuff like what she did for Leo on top of that. And I’m not just talking about the donation, I’m talking about stuff like today too.”
He hates the image that Kyle’s words bring to his head. Beautiful images of Taylor as a mother, images that he has purposefully never allowed his mind to process because of the other images that ultimately arrive as well. Of Tom.
“Did you two become friends through Tom?”
The question breaks him from his thoughts and he nods his head. “Yeah,” he lies, not wanting to rehash their fated meeting on the airplane to Paris.
Almost immediately another thought sifts through his mind, one he hadn’t considered before but now he does. Why did she not ask Tom here today? Why did she not request him to dress as Loki? He’s well aware that even though Loki is a villainous character, Tom’s charismatic portrayal of him has always made him the most loved of the bad guys. But as quickly as the questions arise, answers arrive. Perhaps she did ask him and he was busy. Perhaps he was her second choice.
He knows he could probably press Kyle to see if a Loki themed party was every considered but he chooses not to. It would sound strange and look conspicuous. And considering the friend zone that he’s sequestered to, that wouldn’t be the best of choices.
Kyle chats with him for a few more minutes before he asks for directions to the restroom so he can change back into his normal gear. The older man then chuckles and offers his sympathy for him wearing the hot suit for so long before he directs him inside.
He takes his time cleaning up, folding away the Captain America costume and splashing cool water on his face before he walks out and tosses his bag in the corner, making a mental note to remember to pick it up before he leaves.
He grabs another beer from a cooler sitting on a counter in the dining room and throws his head up at a couple guests before he makes his way down a hall toward the patio door. He’s just about there when he catches a glimpse of Taylor standing alone in another room, her elbow resting against the wall just to the side of an open doorway.
His eyes graze over her, taking in the tense sight of her body, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyes are pierced downward. She holds a drink at chest level but doesn’t seem to be interested in drinking it.
He takes a few more steps in, stopping when he hears hushed voices, and placing the beer bottle in his hand on a nearby table. Taylor either doesn’t notice him or chooses not to. A few words are spoken and he recognizes the voices to be Jaime and a friend she had introduced him to earlier, Jared. He vaguely remembers Jaime mentioning Jared runs a website but he doesn’t remember the name.
“I don’t know why people would want to celebrate that like it’s a special occasion,” he hears Jaime say, barely audible. He realizes he has no idea what she’s talking about.
“Yeah well, as much as we know how nice Taylor really is, there are a lot of people out there who believe she’s the snake they made her out to be last year. You should see some of the messages my staff has been getting this week. I think I’ve spent 99% of my time dealing with things coming in about Kim and Kanye exposing Taylor and how we should be running pieces to commemorate the one year anniversary of it. Some of it has been brutal.”
“Please don’t run anything like that,” Jaime pleads from the other room.
“Oh, I’m not,” Jared responds, “but it’s getting hard to read. I had one the other day saying how Taylor makes herself look like an angel but she’s a devil inside. I’ve had so many saying she’s a snake, a robot, how much they despise her. I don’t know how many times I’ve read the word fake and snake this week. Then there are the ones I get on the regular . . . calling her a whore. It’s all so unfair because I know she’s not like any of that but I can’t even really write a piece trying to dispel all of that crap because I’ll just be called biased and drug through the mud too.”
He sees Taylor’s head fall even more, her body shaking slightly.
“It’s hard for me sometimes,” Jaime’s words fall back to his ears, his eyes solely on Taylor, “being her friend and getting hate for it. I despise seeing all the crap written about her, it hurts me to my core and I hate the thought of Leo hearing the stuff when he gets older because he loves her so much. I know it will hurt him.”
And that’s when Taylor turns, her eyes catching on him for the first time and the cup she’s been holding in her hand slipping out and crashing onto the ground. He lunges toward the ground just as she does, Jaime and Jared walking quickly into the room with startled expressions.
“I’m so sorry,” Taylor says breathlessly as she paws at the mess on the floor with just her hands. She doesn’t look at him, not at Jaime or Jared, but he can see her pained expression and he knows it’s not from the drink on the floor.
“I’ll go get some napkins,” she says, her body bolting to an upward position. He glances at Jaime, her face wrought with guilt as she knows Taylor has overheard her conversation. She nods toward Taylor’s retreating back and he turns and goes after her.
“They’ve got that,” he says when he catches up to her, sliding his hands along her waist in an attempt to stop her movement. He’s surprised when she does, stopping and moving her body slightly.
“I can’t do this here,” she says through broken and hurried words.
She doesn’t need to say anymore for him to understand what she needs and he quickly slips his fingers into hers, tightening his grasp and tugging to start her toward the door. “I need to call Brandon,” she murmurs and he shakes his head.
“I’ll take you,” he whispers before grabbing his bag and taking her purse from Jaime’s outstretched hand.
They’re in his car within seconds, pulling out right after and she turns her head to face out the window. They’re a mile down the road before he asks. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet,” she says softly, her gaze never budging.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home,” she responds simply, her voice low.
He takes a deep breath in and then lets it slip out. “How about this,” he says firmly, keeping his eyes locked on the road ahead of him, “I need to run by my house and check on Dodger. It’s close by. And then you can tell me how to get to your house and I’ll take you home. Is that ok?”
She barely nods, her body rigid, her gaze focused.
She says nothing more the remaining miles to his home, her voice still absent as they park and he steps out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”
He’s greeted immediately by Dodger when he walks into the house, the exuberant dog jumping up and licking at his face excitedly. It hits him then what he wants to do and he pats Dodger down long enough for him to toss his bag onto the floor and for him to head into the kitchen and grab a couple things from the freezer.
He sees a weak smile on Taylor’s face when he exits the house and starts back toward the car. It grows as he gets closer.
Dodger jumps into the back seat when he opens the door. “He wanted to meet you and he loves car rides.” When she glances at him, he winks. Just then, Dodger bounds from the back to the front, his full body landing on Taylor as he nuzzles his nose against her neck.
“Good god, he’s already smitten,” he jokes, watching as the sullen look vanishes from Taylor’s face as she giggles at the dog nestling into her.
He smiles when he tosses the bag from his hand into the back floorboard and closes the door, listening to Taylor talking to his dog, watching as she playfully pets him as he rounds the car.
“Thank you,” she laughs as he slips into the car, Dodger licking upon her cheek.
“For what?”
Resting her head back against the seat, she smiles. “I know what you’re up to Evans. And it’s working.”
He grins as he grabs his sunglasses from the visor and slips them on.
He watches the standoff taking place in front of him. It’s amusing to say the least. Dodger, standing near Taylor’s feet, his head down goofily as he stares at the cat scowling at him from under the chair ten feet away. Meredith, Taylor had told him when they arrived at her house. Another cat, Olivia, walks back and forth in front of Taylor and Dodger, more intrigued by his dog than annoyed.
“Stop being a diva, Mer,” Taylor instructs, laughing as she lays her hand on Dodgers head and rubs it hastily, “he’s a friend.”
“I don’t think she wants a friend,” he coughs through a chuckle.
Taylor glances at him, grinning. “Oh no, she definitely doesn’t. I’m fairly sure she would file for emancipation from me if she could. Meredith has no friends. She does, however, have a keen knack for being catty so don’t be surprised if she decides to cuddle with you sometime just to piss Dodger off.” She stops when the last word escapes her mouth, glancing downward for a moment before she returns her gaze to him. “Not that I’m expecting you to stay long. I know you were just doing me a favor and dropping me off. I’m sure you have a date or a meeting or something you need to do.”
She turns away then, placing her attention back on Dodger. “I don’t have anything to do,” he says, knowing he should probably tell her about Jenny, about there not being nor ever going to be a date, but he just can’t seem to do it. He knows part of it is because he doesn’t want to hear her talk about Tom and it would be almost inevitable in that conversation. Tom and Jenny seem to be intertwined in their minds and words. They have been since they met.
However, he does choose to tell her the truth about something else. “I did have a photo shoot scheduled but I cancelled it when you asked about doing this for Leo. I wasn’t sure how long it would take.”
“You did that,” she questions, quickly glancing at him.
“You asked me to,” he shrugs nonchalantly.
She smiles sheepishly then, lowering her chin until it hits on her chest. He believes he can see the fairest hint of tint rise in her cheeks.
“Anyway,” he interjects, “show me your house.”
She spends the next half hour showing him around the bottom floor, stopping in each room to show him design details or to tell him a funny story that happened there. He peruses over the slew of awards that line her shelves, the notes from admirers she has tucked in spaces around the house and the tons of pictures of family and friends that adorn spaces in every single room.
She doesn’t take him upstairs, opting to tell him instead that there are just bedrooms and bathrooms up there and then taking him outside to the patio. He laughs as Dodger follows happily behind. “Your cats don’t try to get out,” he asks when he notices Olivia stop just inside the patio door.
“No. They know better. Plus, they are a bit pampered so they wouldn’t know what to do if their pretty paws got dirty.”
“Do you know what to do if your pretty paws get dirty?” His question prompts a dirty look followed by a quick jutting of her tongue from her mouth.
“I am no prima donna princess. I thought you would know that by now.”
He takes a seat on one of the patio couches, tossing his feet onto the edge of the firepit in front of him. Dodger plops down just in front of the couch he is on. He watches Taylor as she sits on a couch perpendicular to him.
“You’re still a bit of a mystery to me, Taylor,” he says as he places his hand in his chin, “I like that. I like pulling back your layers and learning more and more about you.”
She cocks her head to the side, a grin tugging on her lips. “I doubt I’m that interesting.”
He stares at her for one second and then a few more, studying the intensity of her blue eyes, the wondrous depths of them. “Believe me, you are.”
She shakes her head as she lowers it slightly. “I’m interesting,” she mutters, “and I’m a snake and a whore and the devil.” She laughs in a tone he’s never heard from her before, one that teeters on a line of hurt and amusement.
He knows what she’s talking about, what’s she’s remembering. The words spoken about her at Leo’s party. One’s that he’s heard about her in the past and, no doubt, she’s heard just about every day of her career.
“I’ll need to apologize to Jaime for messing up her carpet,” she continues, raising her head but keeping her gaze torn from his, “sometimes I forget how to brush it all off, how to be strong.” She cracks a soft smile. “Or maybe it’s just hard to be strong all of the time. A kink in the armor I’ve worked so hard to build over the years. It’s exhausting.”
“You’re human,” he says softly, watching her so intently that he notices when she flinches the faintest of bits.
“No, I’m a robot. I’m sure you heard that.” She smiles. Fake, he knows. And then she shrugs one shoulder. “You know, what Jaime said is 100% true. It’s hard being my friend. People will attack you and drag you for the simple reason that you are my friend. You should really think about that . . . you should probably stay away.” When her words slip into the air, Dodger gets up from his place near him, walking slowly until he reaches Taylor’s feet. He rubs his head on her leg and Taylor smiles, placing her hand on his back and patting it.
He shakes his head, aware that she doesn’t see it, her eyes focused intently on his dog in front of her. “You’re far from that,” he whispers, “please always know that. You aren’t just interesting to me. You’re kind and caring, your heart is bigger than anyone I know. You’re intelligent and talented and irritatingly funny.” She smiles softly when he laughs. “You are absolutely not what they say you are and I’m not staying away from you because of them. Why would I ever choose the words of the naysayers over you, a woman that I know, whose heart that I know.” She raises her gaze to him, her hand still on Dodger’s spine. He smiles. “I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”
With a shake of her head, she gives him his answer. “I don’t want you to.”
“Good,” he laughs, his voice echoing across her patio, “now where is my strong Taylor. The one that Jaime declared needed her own superhero costume.”
She smiles, her lips finally reaching her ears genuinely. “I’m still here. The strong Taylor is always here. She just takes a hiatus from time to time.”
She pulls her feet onto the couch, wrapping her arms around her legs in front of her. She’s still in his t-shirt, her makeup nearly gone after the long day. She looks relaxed, at ease, exactly the way he loves seeing her. Exactly the opposite as she was just minutes ago. He can feel the constriction in his chest just by his simple view, just by her sitting silently across from him. Yet here he is, feet away from her, the couch firmly providing his friend zone but his heart nowhere near it.
He shakes his head, forcing an ironic laugh from the depths of his lungs. “I almost forgot . . . . . I’ll be right back.”
He’s off the couch and into the house before she can protest, heading toward the freezer and grabbing the bag he placed in it when they first arrived. She’s lighting a fire in the firepit when he steps back outside, her eyes meeting his when he does.
“Pick your poison,” he says, holding the bag up for her to see and then lowering it to remove the items from it. “Poison number one . . . . Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. Because they couldn’t just settle for amazing chocolate ice cream, they had to add brownies to it.” She laughs, sitting back on the couch as she watches him hold the ice cream up. He places it on a nearby table before he reaches for the second item in the bag. “Poison number two . . . tequila.” He winks.
“Tequila,” she says, raising her eyebrows, “I would have never pegged you as a tequila guy.”
He chuckles. “Well you pegged me absolutely . . . . right. Jeremy brought it over after a fight with his ex. It’s been in my freezer ever since. I haven’t touched it. But since I didn’t have time to go get a more appropriate liquor, it’s gonna have to do. I figured you needed a little release after today.” She nods slowly. “So which poison do you prefer, Swift?”
Wriggling her eyebrows, she giggles. “Both.”
She eats half of the pint of ice cream after he searches her drawers and cabinets for spoons and glasses, stopping only long enough to let out a moan as she savors the bites. He opts for the tequila, his face drawing as the first drink burns ridiculously down his throat. She giggles, spoon in her mouth, when she sees him.
They laugh and joke, her about how very un-Superhero like his reaction was, him about how she seems to be making love to the container of ice cream before she places the carton back on the table and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You up for a little fun?”
“Always,” he chokes out, his heart racing up a bit at her question.
She disappears for a few minutes, allowing him more time to nurse the tequila in his glass. She carries a small box in her hand when she returns. If he’s not mistaken, it’s an old index card box.
“Are we researching your nanna’s recipes,” he jokes.
She smiles, shaking her head, and then plops back down on the couch. Dodger watches her every move as does he. “Nope,” she laughs, “pour me a glass and make sure your glass is full. We’re playing never have I ever.”
Glaring at her, he scoffs, “Like from the Ellen show?”
“Yes. But with a bit of a twist.” She flips open the box on her lap, taking the card out from the front and laughing. “I think in the original game, each person goes back and forth with a never have I ever statement but with this one, there are actually questions ready for you to ask and we both can answer. I don’t even know what most of these are actually. Camila wrote them the last time she was here but we were drinking wine and I fell asleep probably three questions in.”
“Party animal,” he goads.
She pierces her lips, moving her head from side to side as she fights to keep the smile forming on her face from growing. “I can hold my own. That you can believe.” She glances down at Dodger resting peacefully beside of her. “Dodger,” she says loudly, perking his dog’s ears right up. She leans down, resting her nose against his as she rubs behind his ears. “You’re in charge of keeping me awake, ok?” And just like that, the dog nods. Literally nods his head.
“Can I mention that my dog is a traitor,” he scoffs, holding his drink up, “he hasn’t left your side since we got here and he just met you.”
She scrunches her nose. “He’s a good judge of character. And obviously he thinks my character is better than yours.”
As if on cue, Dodger raises his head up and then lays it down on Taylor’s lap with a sigh prompting her to burst out laughing. “See.”
“Traitor,” he mutters again, shaking his head in disbelief.
He leans back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other and raising an arm to line the back edge of the cushion. “So how does this work?”
Taylor places the box on the wide edge of the firepit, an equal distance between both of them and then reaches over to pick up the glass of tequila she had asked for him to pour earlier. She pats her hand atop Dodger’s head as she sits back down.
“You pick out a question and read it out loud. If the card says something that you have done, then you take a drink of your tequila. Obviously if it’s something you haven’t done, then you don’t drink. Simple.”
“Simple until you get lit,” he adds with a headshake.
She lowers her chin with a quick, firm nod. “Hence why the cards were made. We had played the game the original way prior to that and thirty minutes and several drinks in, we were all so tipsy we couldn’t even come up with questions.”
“But you think you’ll be able to read them,” he teases.
She tilts her head back, looking toward the sky briefly and then lowers her chin again. “Point taken. But we’re still playing.”
“And if I get tipsy, or better yet, totally shitfaced . . . .”
“Then one, that’s your fault because you brought the tequila,” she cackles, her palm once again finding Dodger’s head. He yelps in appreciation. “And two, I have a bed.” His stomach plummets with her words and he watches as her cheeks grow red with realization. “I mean,” she corrects herself slowly, “that I have an extra bed.”
He’s abundantly aware this is a bad idea and the way he’s feeling at this very moment just cements that. Liquor plus a game of revelations with a woman you’re secretly in love with should not even be a consideration. But just like yesterday when he should have told her no, he finds himself saying yes yet again. Because as bad of an idea as he knows this is, he sure as hell wants to hear every miniscule detail about herself that she’s willing to share. Unless it involves Tom, he silently adds as an afterthought.
“Ok then, let’s do this.”
Famous last words, he considers before cocking his eyebrows and staring at Taylor.
They’re twenty minutes and he’s three shots in when he starts to feel it. The slight haze in his brain, the half second delay in his speech. Not noticeable enough for her he believes but sure as hell noticeable for him.
The questions have been easy so far, Chris taking shots on questions about drinking so much you don’t remember what you did that night, having secret fantasies about a current or former neighbor and having a treehouse growing up. Taylor though had only taken one shot on a question about being in a car accident.
He had scoffed at her when she didn’t drink on the being drunk question but she had defiantly shaken her head, insisting that while she’s been drunk, she’s never been so drunk as to not remember what she did. Regardless of whether he believes that or not, he’s currently sitting on the verge of becoming pretty tipsy while she’s no worse for wear.
That, he thinks, needs to change. Not only because, well quite frankly, he wants to see Taylor tipsy but because, more than that, he wants to soak up everything about her.
“How are you feeling,” she asks from her position on the couch. He glares at her, bare feet on the cushions, knees back up to her chin. She leans her head against her knees and grins mischievously.
“Great,” he lies, sorta, he actually doesn’t feel bad but great probably isn’t the most accurate of words.
He leans forward, grabbing a card from the box and reading over it before he throws in down in the pile he’s been collecting on the floor and picks at another one. “Didn’t like that one,” he mumbles as he reads over the next card.
“I don’t think that’s how this is supposed to work.” She laughs but he doesn’t look up.
Instead, he reads the words from the card in his hand. “Never have I ever drunk texted.” Immediately, he reaches for his glass and takes a drink. His eyes land back on her the moment his glass goes back down.
He watches her as she licks at her bottom lip, bites on it and then juts her tongue back out to lick the top. He won’t admit how much that arouses him and he hopes to hell that it’s not showing in his eyes.
Slowly, very slowly, she moves her legs off the couch, leans down and picks up her glass from the floor. When it reaches her lips, she throws her head back and takes the full contents of the glass down.
He smiles. He knew it. “I need details,” he chimes, his smile growing, “I thought you were far too controlled to drunk text.”
“No one is far too controlled after several glasses of wine.” She winks. “You really want to know one?”
“One? There’s more than one?”
She cackles when he wiggles his eyebrows, throwing her head back as she relaxes into the couch. “Met Gala.” As soon as the words come out of her mouth, he decides he doesn’t want to know anymore but he also knows he can’t stop her now. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his tequila glass dangling in his fingertips between his legs. “I had an amazing night with Tom. He was . . . perfect and wonderful and I had never felt the way he made me feel that night. But I had a boyfriend.”
He somehow forces a smile onto his face, the fakeness of the emotion paining him. He keeps his gaze from her as she continues. “So, nothing happened and he went one way and I went the other and then I went back to my hotel room and drank what was probably an entire bottle of Malbec and I texted him.”
For the life of him, he doesn’t want to know what she said. So, he doesn’t ask. And when she silences after a few seconds, he finally raises his eyes to her. “You don’t want to hear?”
He notices the confusion in her eyes immediately, her blue orbs darkening, her eyelids falling a fraction. He shakes his head. “No . . . I do,” he croaks, hoping he sounds the least bit convincing, “what kind of drunk text did you send Tom?”
She hesitates, her mouth falling open slightly and then she lowers her eyes to the ground. He knows she’s thinking, likely contemplating his reaction or perhaps her words and then after a few seconds she looks back to him again. “It doesn’t matter,” she says gently before she quickly leans forward and grabs a card from the box, “let’s do another question.”
He’s perplexed by her answer, by her decision to not continue with her story when he was the one who asked for details in the first place. But she pays him no mind when he narrows his eyes on her, quickly reading the words on the card aloud.
“Never have I ever liked a Justin Bieber song.”
Without an ounce of hesitation, she lunges forward, grabs the tequila bottle and takes a drink from it. He smiles, still perplexed, but also amused.
When she returns to her previous position back on the couch, she glares at him, her lips rising into a sinful grin. “But you can never tell anyone. I shouldn’t like any Justin Bieber song. But, unfortunately, some are catchy.”
Bridging the distance between himself and the tequila bottle, he grabs it and takes his own long swig. His eyes meet hers when he’s done. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
They journey through a couple more questions, both taking shots from the bottle in response to walking out of a movie because it was so bad and snooping through someone else’s medicine cabinet. Taylor narrowing her eyes on the latter question to ask if he’s snooped through hers only for him to respond, “not yet.”
She’s excused herself to go and check on the cats when he pulls the next card out and reads it to himself. Never have I ever sexted someone. He shakes his head, placing the card down in the pile at his feet. As much as he wants to know her answer to that, he equally doesn’t want to know.
Friend zone, Chris, he repeats to himself. Friend. Zone.
He doesn’t notice Dodger standing at the back door, patiently waiting for her until she returns, stepping outside and rubbing the dogs head again. He watches as his typically loyal dog follows on her heels as she reaches him and lifts a card from the box before she turns and goes back to her seat. Dodger does the same.
“Never have I ever kissed someone of the same sex,” she reads, nodding her head as if she likes the question.
He closes his eyes, knowing what’s to come, and then reluctantly leans in to get the bottle. She’s laughing loudly by the time he finishes his drink.
“Who,” she questions, her voice reeking of amusement.
“RDJ,” he responds with a headshake, “it was a joke. Totally playing.”
She winks, a twinkle in her eye. “Totally.”
“And you haven’t,” he asks, “not even in jest?”
She grins, licking at her lips once again. “I have many fans who believe that I have. Not only believe that I have but believe I’m secretly a lesbian. But nope, I haven’t. As much as I love my girls . . . . my attraction is only to men. And actually, only to certain men.”
“Men of the British variety,” he says, the words coming out before he can edit them. He glances at her, expecting her to be annoyed but she’s not. Instead, her expression is soft, her lips upward in the faintest of smiles.
“Not all British,” she says softly and then hastily pulls her eyes away, leaning down and rubbing her hand along Dodger’s spine. “Your turn,” she says when she raises back up.
He pulls out another card. “Never have I ever said I love you and didn’t mean it.”
Neither moves, both remaining comfortably in their positions. Taylor shakes her head. “I don’t play with those words. If I say them, I mean them. I think people use them too easily and I know that I wouldn’t want someone to tell me they love me if they didn’t mean it.”
He watches her, watching the emotions spread across her face. “Do you believe someone has?”
She smiles softly, her eyes seeming to glaze over somewhat. “Yeah. I believe those words were used as weapons before. Or maybe weapons isn’t the right word. Maybe as a prison. He knew I would cherish them and so he threw them at me often, keeping me well in his control. It took me far too long to realize he didn’t mean them.”
He wants to ask who “he” is, wants to with every fiber of his soul. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because he can tell by the darkness in her eyes that whoever “he” is hurt her to her core and the last thing he wants to do is have her rehash it, to remember him.
She gives him no time to consider it anyway, another question arising before he even realizes she has a card. “Never have I ever skinny dipped.”
They both lean forward, their hands brushing against each other as they reach for the bottle. She pulls back immediately, giving him access to it. He takes his drink, his hand still tingling from their simple touch, and then reaches it across the open space to give to her, noticing how careful she is to keep her fingers from his.
He shakes it off, knowing he can’t think too much into her action.
When her tequila is stomached, he removes another slip from the box and reads over it silently. “I’m gonna have to edit this question a little bit,” he scoffs, “never have I ever faked an orgasm . . . . other than for a movie.”
Her gaze falls down, a spiteful smile encasing her face. It takes her a few seconds, and no movement from him, to move her body and grab the bottle. His mouth falls open as he watches her take a long, long, swig.
And then a thought bolts into his head. “Wait,” he stutters, eyes glued on her, “it wasn’t with me, was it?”
The bottle is still on her lips when his question is asked and she almost chokes, gasping through laughs as she moves the container down. “No. God no,” she says, his body filling instantly with both relief and interest at her words. God no.
She tugs at her lip. “You want to know who,” she asks, a glint evident in her eyes. He nods. “Adam.”
Confusion fills his head. “Who the fuck is Adam,” he asks, tossing his head back.
Instantaneously, her laughter booms across the patio, seeming to echo in every nook and cranny. It takes her a few seconds to settle enough to answer. “Calvin Harris. His real name is Adam. The man I dated was Adam. Calvin is an entirely different creature.” He shakes his head at her words and then nods to her, urging her to continue. This is an answer he doesn’t mind getting. Doesn’t mind at all. “I’m fairly certain every orgasm I had with him I had to bring on myself.”
“What,” he basically screams, embarrassing himself with his tone as he finds himself picturing her bringing herself to arousal. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Friend. Zone.
“I faked many in between those I did myself,” she giggles, “you are the only person who knows that. And I can’t believe I’m sitting here telling you.” She throws her head back against the cushion, her laughter echoing once again. “Oh my god, I’m embarrassed even saying it.”
“Don’t be,” he sorta laughs, sorta chokes out, “but didn’t you date him for a while?”
“Yes,” she draws out the word, “he was amazing to me at the beginning. As a boyfriend. The sex was eh but I was very willing to look over that because he was such a good guy. To begin with. To end with . . . not so much but that was when Calvin took over.”
He glares at her, his mouth open. It takes him a few seconds to find his words. “But you had to use . . .”
“My hand,” she finishes and then winks at him.
He crosses his legs, fighting against the automatic arousal there while he struggles to push the images of her, and her hand, from his mind.
Friend. Fucking. Zone.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Clenching his eyes shut, he lets out a long and haggard breath. “Next question please,” he squeaks, keeping his eyes closed as he hears her start to read.
“Never have I ever masturbated thinking about a friend.”
Holy fucking hell, he thinks.
He hears the glass bottle clank and the sound of swishing liquid, hastily prompting his eyes back open. She grins when she sees him. “I’m not giving you details,” she says softly and then reaches the bottle out to him. When he doesn’t immediately take it, she presses, “don’t lie to me, Chris.”
He reaches for it, allowing his fingers to tease against hers on purpose, his eyes set solely on her baby blues. He sees her flinch, sees it vividly, and he knows he made her do it.
He also knows though that she has drank a lot of alcohol.
Taking his drink, he keeps his gaze on her and then slowly lowers the bottle, places it on the ground between them and reaches for another card.
It’s only when the card is in hand does he remove his eyes from her. “Never have I ever,” he chokes, “been envious of a friend.”
No hesitation is required for him to grab the bottle back up, taking a hasty draw. Taylor doesn’t move.
“Who,” she asks softly and he shakes his head, his mind suddenly much hazier than before.
“No details,” he responds, his voice equally small. Tom’s image clouding his entire head.
She leans forward, removing a card and reading over it. “Maybe we shouldn’t play this anymore.”
“What’s the question,” he chimes, raising his brows.
“Never have I ever been in handcuffs.”
She makes a face, one he’s not sure of and then scrunches her nose up. Leaning forward, she gets the bottle and drinks. “Tom’s kinky,” she says before she shoves it across the wide space toward him.
He grabs it with a lean, taking a long and hard swallow. He hasn’t been in handcuffs but he doesn’t tell her that. The drink is for the image in his mind. The fucking image there that the drink didn’t exactly erase.
He takes another one.
“Wow,” she says, her voice somewhat surprised, “apparently you are too.”
He doesn’t correct her, instead choosing to look at her and wink. He’s not totally sure why but he does. And then he watches as her already alcohol tinted cheeks brighten even more.
“Next one.” He grabs at the box, his hand feeling heavy from the combination of tequila and revelations. “This is fucking vague . . . never have I ever been jealous. Your friend must have been a few shots in when she wrote that one.”
Taylor smiles softly and then stands up, having to move her arms out in front of herself to steady her balance. Taking two steps to her side, she sits down on the opposite end of the couch, closer to him and closer to the bottle of tequila. She reaches down, pulls it up, and takes a drink.
He laughs as he watches Dodger scoot his lazy body closer to Taylor on the couch.
“I was jealous today,” she says, prompting his eyes quickly up to her. Her cheeks redden again and he expects her to pull her gaze away. She doesn’t. “That woman. Layla. I was jealous,” she stammers, “when she was talking to you.”
Her eyes are glassy but vivid and he feels his breath hitch in his chest as he looks into them and she finishes her words. And just like that, she yanks them away and he knows that the realization of what she’s just said has hit her. Just as it’s hitting him.
“What do you mean,” he asks, voice low.
“Uh.” She breathes in heavily. “I was being silly. I am right now telling you this.” She laughs unconvincingly. “It was probably because one of the kids had called me Mrs. Captain America before that because of my shirt.” She looks down. “Your shirt. Umm . . . yeah, that was probably it.”
“Probably,” he repeats. Or presses. He’s not even sure right now. His mind so cluttered and his chest so constricted, the alcohol seizing his body. The alcohol and her.
“Can I tell you something and you promise that after tonight, we won’t speak of it again. Because I probably shouldn’t even be speaking of it now.”
He nods, his head swimming. “Yeah.”
“From the instant I met Tom, I’ve thought about him as being my one. My guy forever. But lately, sometimes,” she stumbles over her words, “sometimes I think about you.”
In that moment, his body, his mind, his words, his movements . . . they all fail him. All locked up and trapped by emotions and alcohol and considerations of those exact things in her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, he tells himself, frozen in place, not knowing if he should even allow himself to feel.
“Never have I ever been so embarrassed,” he hears her say hastily, barking out a laugh as she stands up. He moves his head only enough to see her have to steady herself again and he knows she’s tipsy, maybe even drunk. And so is he.
And a whole fucking lot more.
She smiles as Dodger stands up beside of her and he watches as she places her hand on his head. He wonders if that is to steady herself as well. “We won’t speak of tonight after this,” she says, her body swaying back a bit. She stiffens and then grins and he can’t tell if it’s real or forced. And then she turns, muttering something about having to go check on the cats.
He can only watch, his body still rebelling against him, as she goes inside with Dodger following closely on her heels.
What the hell just happened, he thinks. What the hell did she just reveal? And better yet, does it mean a damn thing other than she’s drunk?
He leans his head back against the couch, punching his legs out in front of him. He closes his eyes, his head feeling muddled, her words swimming amongst the liquor there.
His body feels heavy, his limbs like rocks and his head starts to pound just as his heart has been. A quick, steady beat that gradually grows into a hammering hit. Over and over again, wrecking him.
The alcohol, or maybe her words, doing the damage.
He awakens a few hours later, his head still hurting and his body still swollen. It takes him a few hazy minutes to realize where he is, a few hazy more to remember his exchanges with Taylor.
The fire has died out but a dim patio light is now on and he can see a small white piece of paper tucked under a glass of water on the edge of the pit near him. Two capsules of what he believes is Tylenol lies beside of the glass.
His body aches and moans as he moves to get it, his muscles stiff, his head once again swimming with the new movement. He has to rub at his eyes to clear them enough to see. He recognizes Taylor’s handwriting immediately.
Drink the water and take the Tylenol. I know you need them (I did). I didn’t want to wake you but I fixed the guest bedroom up for you as much as I could.
Tossing the pills in his mouth, he washes them down with the full glass of water and then places the glass back on the pit and forces his rigid body up from the couch, stretching to try to release some of his stiffness.
He does this for a few minutes before he moves inside, navigating toward the stairs by the dimmed lights he figures Taylor left on for him. He tries not to think of the previous night, or the previous few hours before, as he slowly takes each stair until he reaches the top.
Another dimmed table lamp sits on a table a few feet away and he glances in each direction, noting the rooms on each side. He realizes he has no clue which one is the guest room. So, he guesses. Taking a few steps and pushing a door open to his right.
He guessed wrong.
There, underneath a big white comforter, is Taylor. Dodger lies beside of her, on top of the comforter, with Olivia cuddled up to him. He doesn’t go in but he doesn’t leave immediately either, allowing his eyes to take in the sight in front of him. To etch it permanently in his memory just as he did when he found her cooking breakfast with his niece and nephews.
He recognizes his t-shirt still on her, peaking out just a bit from under the top of the comforter. It sends a pang through his heart, a smile to his face.
He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring and etching, until Dodger raises his head and looks at him. He then lets his head fall back down onto the bed animatedly and Chris takes one final look before he steps out and closes the door.
Taylor’s words, her embarrassed revelation, spring back to his mind when he finds the guest room. He still doesn’t know if she meant what she said or if it was the alcohol talking. He still doesn’t know if he should even allow himself to wonder about it. But he does anyway.
And he allows himself to think about what he could have said to her after but didn’t. Even with her revealing her embarrassment, he had said nothing. And now, sitting alone in her guest bedroom, he regrets that.
So, he picks up his phone, finds her name in his text app and types out a message, hitting send before he can erase it.
He knows she won’t see it until the morning but he feels he has to do it. To give her an embarrassing revelation just as she did him. His though done a bit soberer. His though 100% the truth.
He glances at the sent message and reads over it one more time.
You left me speechless when you said you sometimes think of me as the one. So, here’s my admission to you . . . I wish more than anything that I had met you first.
He closes his phone, his eyes and falls back against the pillows on the bed.
He knows he’ll never be more envious of anyone than he is of Tom Hiddleston right now. The one who met her first and loved her first.
The reason he has to love her silently now.
Sometimes, he thinks to himself, sometimes. He knows he’ll have to settle for that.
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JEAH
TWO HOURS PRIOR
( TXT / Jeyun ) “Your best suit is at the dry cleaner’s”
( TXT / Jeyun ) That one was from Mom
( TXT / Jeyun ) “I’m already home and I’m not fetching your clothes, so figure it out like the big kid you are now”
( TXT / Jeyun ) That one’s from me. Don’t be late 👋
NOW
She’s chasing time, if not by her limbs, then by the way her eyes dart from the hands of the antique cherry grandfather clock in the foyer to her lap and back again. There could be metaphors of perpetual restlessness here, spun pretty to the imagery of beating wings, a blur of dove feathers and whatever else. But there’s nothing inherently lovely about her deep lack of patience, which only ever keeps Jeah on the constant edge of her seat, nude ankle strap heels tap-tap-tapping against the tiles.
Tonight’s game plan: a clean sweep of handshakes, backhanded compliments, handed off flutes of bubbly before it’s hand over hand at the wheel with the car driving the hell out of there. Funny to think back she’d been of the belief that these gatherings would be the last of her troubles, only to find they’re at the very forefront.
With the baby to thank for all of this, naturally.
Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, or something. In other words, responsibilities that most certainly don’t count in her track record.
The whine of the door hinges has Jeah standing, the sigh that escapes her lips something along the lines of Finally. “Awesome.” She grabs the keys and her purse. “Kim’s off for tonight, so it’s on us to get there.” Pause, curious glance over her shoulder. “You got everything?”
JEYUN
( Outgoing → Noona ) Thanks
( Outgoing → Noona ) I’ll see you in a bit
Jeyun is the disciple and fifteen minutes is the monkish chant cycling in his head. Fifteen minutes. He clasps onto a handle on the bullet train. Fifteen minutes is all he needs to get a suit on his person and get his person out the door. He swipes out of the underground. If he arrives home at seven thirty and they leave at seven forty-five they will make it to the venue fifteen minutes before eight thirty. He steps off the escalators and onto the sidewalk just as the sun is beginning to set. It looks beautiful today, shining onto the glass doors of the dry cleaner’s in feathered cuts of silver.
He exchanges receipt for hanger and with suit folded neatly over forearm he walks the full five blocks back to the family apartment, each leggy stride longer than the next. He is greeted with exasperation, but there’s no reason for it. He’s fifteen minutes early.
Still, one can’t afford to dally. “Whoop,” he zips past her small frame and makes a beeline for the bathroom, but the hallway is narrow and his attempt ends up clumsy at best. “I’ll be right out!” Jeyun calls, his voice and frenzied disrobing muffled behind oak.
The baby reemerges, trail of cologne following him like a halo, into the foyer where Jeah waits with lips pressed into a thin line. He slips into the calf leather derbies she’s laid out for him at the door with a sheepish smile, “Sorry, you were saying—” and looks down to the crown of her head as she gathers the keys. There’s a piece of lint by her ear. He picks it off and keeps it between his fingers so he can dispose of it outside. “—joyride?”
Like every time before it, the joke earns him a chilly wave of the hand.
—
The family vehicle’s passenger seat is, at this point, perfectly molded to his sitting form. This too, is part of his fate as the youngest. But there’s another perk—he rests a hand on the volume knob and with one tweak Elgar in E is coursing through every material surface of the car. He pays no mind to his sister. With his other hand, Jeyun browses through texts to confirm the address and inspect the first few restaurant reviews.
“Japanese? Didn’t we do kaiseki last time, too?” He scrolls further down. “Ooh, on second thought. Egg walnut tamagoyaki for dessert. Fall offerings are the best, aren’t they…”
JEAH
Clocking in a little after eight o’ clock, traffic has lightened up significantly. At a red light, her grip loosens from the wheel and the turn signal is left blinking, fingers drumming idly in wait. This particular concerto conjures memories from the summer of ‘37. Sixteen, sullen, and suffering because of those god-awful scales, and finishing solid in second place. The 2015 Garavaglia is sitting in the corner of her old bedroom, virtually untouched since high school graduation. Selling it? Out of the question.
The light flicks green and the car slows back into motion. “Did we?” With Jeyun’s impeccable habit of tracking minute details, chances are he’s right. And after a good minute, she says, “Oh. Well. All I remember is the sake.” Junmai-shu flooding over her tongue by the cup as it’d been passed over talk of inter-generational politics, nostalgia beyond her years, and the plight of current economy. Big talk for big people, with the matching shoes to step into. "Think it’d kill them to do fusion for a change?”
An afterthought: it actually just might. Guess you can never be too careful with the conservative type at these things.
They veer to the rightmost lane. The digits on the dashboard flip to 8:10. According to the GPS screen underneath, their destination is the second to last building, straight down. “At least I can count on you to spice up the menu when you become head honcho or whatever.” She grins, and there’s that characteristic glint in her eye. “Matter of fact, that should be your first course of business.”
JEYUN
Jeyun had played accompaniment for her, of course—his sister’s trusty steed, finely trained and black coat of fur thick with pomade and brushed back just so. He likes to think that the reason for Jeah’s drop to second that summer had been a result of his absence, as her finger slipped on one of the cadenza’s double stops. However smug the recollection may make him now, his heart had nearly dropped out of his body then. Du Pré moans and groans through the speakers. “You were better,” Jeyun looks straight ahead. “Than first. Choi something.” Choi Kyungil. Current principal cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic. Not that Jeyun was ever the sort of person to search for a person’s whereabouts out of sheer pettiness and over a decade after the fact. “Maybe even better than Jacqueline.” He turns the volume knob up.
“We did,” Jeyun nods. “I’ll have to learn from your example this time around.” Not the drinking part. “And keep myself to a steady nibble.” There’d been so many courses over the course of three hours that he’d barely made it to the okayu without falling backwards for a digestive snooze. Just conjuring up the image of a bowl of porridge is enough to get him queasy and he winces at the possibility of it appearing again on tonight’s offerings. “If it doesn’t kill them then it might kill me,” he says with a bitter laugh. Some years ago a craving for sea urchin had backfired horribly and he’d never been able to look at another risotto the same way ever since. Perhaps all rice dishes had a personal score to settle with him. He should have never let that pot go unattended all those years ago.
The vehicle slows, approaching the valet at the back of the restaurant. A cheery bucktoothed attendant comes to take their place and Jeyun hands him a few of his crispiest bills, ironed last week. He waits for Jeah to join him at the curbside and they round the corner to the front. “You have a point.” Jeyun grins. It’s a known fact at the Oh’s that dad doesn’t have the most refined of palates—courtesy of his outer city upbringing. “I’ll make sure it’s the spiciest so you won’t have any excuses to skip.” They step through the courtyard, greenery abundant and fragrance potent. Then through the first set of doors, wide open. The next set of doors slides quickly open and the proprietress is already there folded over ninety-degrees.
“Ha, ha. Excellent word play, sis.” He steps a slight ways in front of Jeah before the woman leads them past a maze of corridors to their room. It’s something he’s tried to get used to doing but it still feels unnatural and he’s certain Jeah has noticed every time. “I’m sure there will be more pressing things calling for my attention when the time comes.” He lifts his wrist. 8:15 on the dot. Fifteen minutes early. “Things like, how to redecorate the house. Or who to hire to take our Christmas card photo. Unless you’d like to take those responsibilities head on instead.”
JEAH
“You remember his name.” It’s a statement, not a question, complete with the knowing lift of her voice. Half in the sheer perceptibility of Jeyun’s habits, half at how she’s never forgotten herself:
Choi Kyungil.
Even if she closes her eyes and recalls his face now, all there is to see is the cross hair framed perfectly over his side profile. Standing ten feet away with a bouquet of deep red roses and the first place emblem, and the single thought that snaked around the folds of her brain was what if? She’d never held a gun in her entire life, and still hasn’t, but the press of retribution on her hands had been the closest she’d ever gotten to the feeling. Just as cold. Maybe even just as satisfying.
It runs in the family, after all.
Jeah only laughs at his remark. “I don’t think Jackie would appreciate that at all.” The music is cut short. “Dead for over fifty years, and her legacy’s still kickin’.” Pulling the keys out of the ignition, she steps out to hand them to the attendant. “If that isn’t something, I don’t know what is.”
Upon entering, they’re greeted with the scent of jasmine. The establishment is pristine. Lush plants encircle a stone fountain that sits at the center. All details absorbed with vague interest.
Jeah turns to the sight of Jeyun’s back, and is suddenly reminded of a second memory. She’d only been eight then, sitting in their parents’ bedroom. Mom had just clasped a string of pearls around her neck. Dad was pulling on his suit jacket. When they’d been about to exit the room, her mother had placed a hand on the back of his shoulder, and he’d straightened under her touch. By the time she began to do the same to the eldest, herself, and the youngest, Jeah finally understood. The significance of the single, plain gesture.
So she does it in her place: as Jeyun steps in front, a reminder. Hold your head high. Jeah’s hand returns to her side just as promptly as it’d left it, and they walk on.
Inside, the table is set. She takes her place near one of the ends. Fifteen minutes to kill. “You know I’d be the first person to stop the Christmas card thing. Mom would hate me for it.”
A pause, as she ponders the weight of her question. “Who would we send them to, anyway?”
JEYUN
The two acclimate quickly to their surroundings, shedding their coats and handing them off to the hunched proprietress, who murmurs demurely if the lady and sir will have anything to drink while they wait for the rest of their party to arrive. Any gyokuro will do please and thank you, Jeyun hums, and with a delicate shuffling of her feet she is gone as if never there.
Jeyun’s claims the seat across from his sister and at the opposite end of the table, slinging his scarf over the backing of the chair. Build your own presence instead of relying on the collective. Emanate it as far as it will go, until it permeates every corner of the room.
The woman returns with a sizable kettle, glazed shiboridashi, and two thinly thrown teacups on a tray. She pours silently, systematically, and slips out. The fountain just outside their window bubbles on, flow of water gliding down rocks smoothed by years both kind and unkind. Warm in his hands, he gives one of the thimble cups to his sister and gives it an unceremonious clink. The most intentional of cultural blunders to be sure, but no one else has to know.
He lifts the cup to his lips. The broth is pleasingly vibrant and sweet, like taking a stroll through a rainforest. “I thought you might look at it differently. Oh Jeah’s first foray into art direction. It’s only a matter of time.” She’d proved herself as the Oh’s representative visionary based on doodles from childhood. She’d upheld her status at her senior thesis show five years ago. Her decision to venture into law had been something of a curveball—whether she’d done it for herself or with the family in mind, he’d yet to home in on.
“Mom’s got a lock on her contact book. We’d have to pry it out of her own hands first.” He laughs. It’s on the tip of his tongue to list off uncles and aunties and their grandmother who is always the first to call once she’s received her card, gushing about Jeah’s beauty resplendent before she catches herself halfway and states—voice neutralizing to its original contralto—how she couldn’t help but notice Jeah isn’t getting any taller.
No, halmae. She’s twenty-seven this year. Even if her face, unblemished and skin stretched taut and firm, hardly betrays it, her time’s passed. Jeyun unconsciously places two fingers to the patch of skin beneath his left eye. The loose puffiness there is sobering. They’re trudging onward in other ways.
“I’m terrible.” Jeyun says instead. “I can’t think of anyone other than Kyunghoon and Jinwoo. And it’s only because they came to me this morning with news of their engagement. Which is finally a thing, by the way.” Everyone else is a convenient, gray-streaked blur. Lost in a soup of fortissimos, debts, and headcounts.
“Still, I’m not sure anyone actually likes receiving them. At their core they’re just disguised opportunities for moms to boast about their kids, right? Be it in the quality of the photo or the content of the letter. This year our boy James graduated from middle school. He will be attending Daewon in the spring and we wish him all the success in the world! Congrats, James! Or, Chaerin is doing great in her acting career. She filmed in Peru in June and Prague in July! She’s becoming more well-traveled than this old dog!” He frowns. “Come to think of it. What did mom say about us last year? I didn’t get a chance to see before she sent them all out. It couldn’t have been anything remotely interesting.”
JEAH
The cup is held firm between her thumb and pointer, but she doesn’t raise it to taste yet. Under the light, the color of the brew is true to the namesake. From the aroma alone, she’s melting through the seasons quick: March frost receding for fresh, new pastures. Spring just can’t come soon enough.
“Real funny, Jeyun.” He manages to coax an amused look out of her all the same. "Different themes, maybe? With a bit of practice and some sideburns, Dad could have the Scrooge look down to a tee.“ A step up from their usual fanfare: for as long as Jeah can remember, the cards have always came out nearly identical to the ones from the year before it. The same positioning before their ornament-studded Christmas tree, standing tall and poised in their long sleeve knee-length velvet dresses and chunky cashmere sweaters in variations of cardinal red and evergreen. They’re all smiling, or trying to, at least—the photo revealing various degrees of tight-lipped discomfort save for (of course), Mom. Everlasting it seems, in her serene, elegant glow.
"She’s going to do it for as long as she can.” Jeah finally holds up her tea with a sigh. “Upholding tradition and all.” There’s no pause to savor the notes—a turn of the head, and the cup returns to the tray empty. It’s a daunting, but irreversible thought: them growing older, their parents old. Briefly, she wonders if the third person gone without mention goes through the same morning ritual that she does. Waking up to look yourself dead in the eye, and in that slit of startling disconnect between slumber and clarity, you really aren’t you.
But that’s a given in a way, isn’t it?
“Oh wow.” Some good news for a change. “After all that circling around each other, huh?” she chuckles. “There’s Soobin with her new baby too, but I only know that ‘cause Mom told me.” Pretending to know any more beyond that point is a lost cause, one Jeah certainly has no qualms over. Soon they will reach a point in their own lives where the family tree is no longer recognizable, with themselves as the two last branches dangling in the breeze, waiting for the fall. Gruesome. No wonder why Mom wouldn’t let her take on the job.
She resorts to toying with the empty cup. As Jeyun carries on, she can’t help but pick up on the pattern in all of his examples. “You can't possibly be jealous.” A certain playfulness colors her tone, complete with the lifting of the corners of her mouth. Still the baby, ever the baby. The cup is set back down again. "Since you can’t remember, Mom wrote about how she was so happy to have you back home.“ Home: something that spells out another sort of promise.
The sound of approaching footsteps signals the time: 15 minutes up, and this leg of their conversation folds to a close.
Jeah straightens up, parallel to the back of the chair. She takes stock, and the number of heads she ends up with is not a pleasant discovery.
“Hell of a night this’ll be.” She slowly stands to bow in greeting.
Hell of a night indeed.
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hhhhh I still want to talk about voltron but I don’t have anything in particular to say other than ???screaming???
ok except I’ll put down a few random things I do remember, putting them all under a cut cause it’ll be messy and spoilery
ngl when they kept saying ‘special prisoner’ towards the beginning my first thought was “lmao oh man are we finally gonna get Real Shiro and operation kuron is gonna cRUMBLE” but then I thought “wait we saw Romelle (?) in a promo, I bet it’s her- surprise Allura guess what your altean cousin is still alive!” but then they revealed it was pidge’s dad and I was like “oh right, him lol”
tbh I was kinda surprised they brought him in. Finding her dad was like... kinda the only thing that was driving Pidge? I mean yeah ofc she’s on team voltron/focused on saving the universe, but finding her dad has always been #1 priority. Now that he’s back and safe and headed back to earth, I guess it’s no more distractions for Pidge? aka I’m p sure that’s the writers saying her arc is over lmao.
oh yeah, so I’ve been reading a bunch of pidge!whump lately, and just. the painful scenes when pidge was mourning her dad was just. (’:
hnnNN I still don’t trust lotor. I mean compared to last season fine I trust him like... 90% more.... but still not 100%. >:U I don’t like how he’s kinda... using allura... to further his/their plans for peace. It’s sketchy.
I CAN’T TELL IF THEY’RE TRYING TO MAKE LOTOR/ALLURA (lallura?) A THING BUT I REALLY DON’T LIKE IT. EXTREME SIDE EYE. NO.
lol I totally thought they were going a “lotor is redeemed and now a newly recognized white lion paladin” thing w the last episode, glad I was wrong
also w his altean heritage “oh didn’t you know I am a special kind of altean aka one of the Chosen Ones” like wtf mate we thought you were a bad guy until only Super recently so you can’t do this??
at first I thought he was saying he was The chosen one bcause of his new glowy marks, and I was about to throw a huge fit until I saw allura’s marks were glowy too. don’t worry coran, we still love you.
I adored lance this whole time??? he’s such a good boy. I loved how he was so Super Sketched Out by lotor every time they were in a scene together (same). I love him taking responsibility and taking charge and voicing his opinions and !!! idk how I feel about blacklion!lance, but I love that he’s maturing and he’s definitely a great leader type.
also when lance was shakey leggy the entirety of the white lion thing. adhd lance is canon and I am living.
also??? whenever hunk raised his hand to ask for clarification on stuff? hunk u are such a good egg and I love you
ok usually I’m wary of ~comedy episodes~ or the like, but oh man the garrison trio hacking the robot was the best thing ever. hands down 10/10. what a blessing.
and while I absolutely loved the pidge/hunk nerd fight, I couldn’t tell if that was the show like? testing the waters for ship potential or what? like it was great until her dad was like “ah yes that’s how your mom and I met” [beat where pidge/hunk stare awkwardly at each other] and I was like uhhh. I like hidge (or I guess it’s punk now?) but let’s keep it platonic pls.
I hate that I’m automatically suspicious of any m/f onscreen interaction cause it always feels like it has possible shipping undertones and I hate that. is that an aroace thing or just me being weird and paranoid?
speaking of, before I realized that krolia was keith’s mom I was convinced that she was supposed to be a love interest?? smh@me but like when the guy was all “don’t let your feelings get in the way” I was like ‘great, keith’s gonna see her and get all doki doki on her and mess up the plan’ (keith is aroace and u can fight me on that) but then when she said “I left you once, I won’t leave you again” I was like OH
also I keep seeing everyone thinks acza is related to keith/ is his sister? idk man I’m not fully on board. I have no other explanation as to why she constantly spares/stares at keith, but idk. doesn’t feel right. I’ll prolly be wrong, but /shrug. I’m open to any other interpretation.
OH ok jumping back a couple episodes, but I’m so glad pidge’s dad kept calling her Katie, but it RLY weirded me out like the (1) time he called her Pidge. like... that’s a whole nother rant for another time, but we still don’t know the ~meaning~/reason behind the nickname other than matt prolly came up w it and she initially hated it for some reason? idk we still don’t know where the nickname came from (I know nicknames don’t always make sense, but pidge is a weird nickname and to get that from Katie uhh) but anyways it makes sense for matt to call her pidge, but for her dad to call her Pidge at the end? idk that was weird
NOW AS FOR OPERATION KURON OH BOY
(finally we get confirmation??? sorta not rly but???)
shiro/kuron was SHADY AF this season and I’m MAJOR SIDE EYE
like seriously every moment he spoke??? he was on opposing sides of the rest of the team and just??? (screams)
I think it was when he was fighting lance and he pulled the “I’m the leader of this team, what I says goes” like wtf dude ?? real shiro never acted that way once is nobody else on the team seeing this
AND WHEN HE WENT ALL “I’m sorry to hear that” I SCREAMED
#NOT MY SHIRO
and that weird mindspace thing?? I still don’t get what went on in there but when shiro didn’t appear at first?? I was like ‘oh man finally a legit confirmation’ (sorta not rly) but yeah that was entirely sketch
and later when ‘shiro’ didn’t remember it I kinda wish Lance got a second opinion from the others about it? like “ok so you remember the white mindspace place like I do right, so then that means shiro’s the only one who saw it as a weird black voidy unconscious thing? along w the fact that he’s been acting noticeably weird lately hmMMM” but no they didn’t go that route :(
alas I’m flipping out now that Operation Kuron is finally(??) a thing all along, since they just kinda... ignored it... last season, and everyone on the voltron crew was all “cmon can’t shiro get a different haircut w/o everyone freaking out? nothing’s going on cmon” like we’re onto you...
aha I have no idea what this means for ‘real’ shiro tho... like where is Real Shiro?? has he just been trapped somewhere the whole time?? and/or what if it’s actually Real Shiro all along but he’s obviously being mind controlled or something? will we get 2 shiros together?? panic ensues??
I feel like I‘m back in the black butler fandom aaaa
(jumping back to the first episode whoops) ok I haven’t seen anyone talk about it but ??? what tf happened with the whole prison break thing??
like ok lotor proves that his info is reliable and they can trust him on that (nothing’s been a trap so far), but then he says ‘oh btw you guys might wanna know there’s this “special prisoner” held at this place that you might wanna check out’ but then the second they get there it’s like a trap from the start??
first they pass thru a field thing that deactivates the cloaking (they didn’t detect that first??) and they immediately get ambushed (like someone was waiting for them hmMMM) and tHEN matt’s parachute doesn’t deploy??? (SUSPICIOUS AF, WHO DID THAT.....) like seriously that doesn’t just “happen” and nobody talked about it wtf
then ofc the guards are already taken down and their dad is taken away before they got there, but like.... none of that was brought up to lotor afterwards.... I’d be like “wtf what happened there, u sold us out??” unless zarkon just... decided to get their dad out ahead of time bcause he got a feeling they’d be coming or??
like.... everything went wrong compared to a normal spontaneous mission, but like... it wasn’t ever addressed and I’m so confused over that??
/end rant
another thing I don’t get is lance’s new bayard scene. while I totally appreciate it and it’s super cool!! but?? at the same time why?? like we never saw him use his cool new sword other than that One scene so what was the point. they better be showing it a Lot next season.
also idgi why it was red?? it’s basically a red sword, just like keith’s red sword. is it bcause he’s red lion now and essentially took keith’s place? all his other bayard guns are still blue, so I don’t get the switch.
ok I’mma need a side by side comparison between keith’s red sword bayard and lance’s new red sword bayard. Like I’m sure they’re different, but allura made a big deal over ~I haven’t seen that in 10,000 years~ and at first glance..... they look almost exactly the same....
again just. what was the point idk.
I’m glad we got to see more of keith ;u; I’ve been starting to miss him? like it bothers me so much that he used to be one of the Main 5 and now sometimes we get two seconds of him onscreen but no speaking. anyways I think he comes back as a paladin next season so?? hallelujah
ANYWAYS I THINK I’M DONE /marks calendar for June 15th
(oh man that’s the day Incredibles 2 comes out hhhh)
(2 new earth/universe-saving-team things coming out at the same time? coincidence? I think not)
#ignore me#maddie liveblogs voltron#voltron spoilers#vld spoilers#wow this is much longer than anticipated#what a surprise said nobody#anyways spoilers aho on this post#I'm gonna need to rewatch this whole season sometime soon#so much went on hhh
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Who Is Kaia Gerber & Who Are Her Friends? Betches
Ask any normie who runs Instagram, and they’ll tell you the Kar-Jenners. And you know what? They’re totally right, but they too need to know about the newest clan taking over the’ gram. Anyone with their thumb on the pulse and on the right follow button knows that Kaia Gerber and her crew are taking over Instagram. We all know who Kaia Gerber is: she’s an up-and-coming mannequin whose mom is supermodel Cindy Crawford and whose father impelled Casamigos with George Clooney( and apparently he does carrying high-end business sh* t extremely, but let’s not impersonate like I know how any of that works ). She’s 16 years old and has practice more going for her than any of us: perfect genetics, an endless supply of tequila, and more than two friends. But who is this friend group, accurately? Sure, they obstruct Shadow Hill and I.AM.GIA in business, but what else are they up to? Presley Gerber Presley is Kaia’s equally good-looking friend, of course! He’s an up-and-comer in service industries, just like his little sis, having modeled for big time brands such as Burberry and Calvin Klein. This mainstay at pattern week and the sheets of Vogue has even been in a Pepsi business with mama Cindy, who was in her own iconic Pepsi commercial-grade decades ago. It was chilled and all( and much less contentious than Kendall Jenner’s Pepsi ad ), but still will never be as great as Britney’s Pepsi commercials. Not much else know anything about Presley, because when you’re that good-looking, you really aren’t obligated to be interesting. Huhhhhh A post shared by Presley (@ presleygerber) on Jul 5, 2018 at 11:36 am PDT Charlotte Lawrence Charlotte is Kaia’s equally leggy, evenly just law ride-or-die. Her pa is farmer Bill Lawrence and her mommy is actress Christa Miller. Her dad was a bigwig on Scrubs and Cougartown — em> those shows that you kiiiinda forgot about up until now–both of which her mom performed in. That means that Charlotte has clocked in a lot of time growing up around performers like Zach Braff and Courteney Cox, that actors you kiiiinda forgot up about up til now. Charlotte is pursuing the music job superhighway, and has performed at venues such as Baby’s All Right in Brooklyn and Bowery Ballroom. She’s actually pretty great and has a promising occupation ahead of her. film cameras& mama hats A post shared by Charlotte Lawrence (@ charlotteslawrence) on Jul 16, 2018 at 5:21 pm PDT Charlotte D’Alessio Charlotte D’Alessio( no relation to Amber, who made out with a hot dog) is Kaia’s other bestie, because Kaia seems to love being affiliated with girls who are as lithe and brunette as she is. She is also dating Presley Gerber exclusively, which wholly doesn’t sound ungainly for Kaia at all. This Canadian attractivenes was discovered at persons below the age of 16 at Coachella. That festival is a sh* t display of Bachelor dealership starlets and Instagram simulates, so the facts of the case that she poked out sufficient to come discovered as a mannequin is a feat in and of itself. Charlotte has a few bikini expeditions under her region, as well as having modeled for symbols like TopShop and starring as a femme fatale in some really muddling music video for some European strip we’ve never heard of.( Can some cinema major applied their worthless stage to be applied for once and please explain to me why there was an misery octopus in that vid ?) When she’s not modeling or having good-looking sex with Presley Gerber, you can usually find her offsetting Boomerangs where she’s slightly tilting her ability and sticking out her tongue, or hosting Instagram lives, where she repeatedly asks the same questions over and over again about whether or not she got a nose job( which she denies coming because “I just know how to work my directions! ” Sure, Jan) and what her workouts are like( which she claims to not even do. Again, sure, Jan ). pleasseeee A post shared by Charlotte D’Alessio (@ charlottedalessio) on Aug 6, 2018 at 12:41 pm PDT Chiara Chiara is the token edgy, crazy chick for the working group that they need to have. Otherwise, their clique would look more Wonderbread than an Abercrombie& Fitch ad, and that’s merely not eliciting. Chiara is, of course, a pattern, and her mama was a representation as well. Her Instagram reeks of the kind of portrait that would be reblogged along with Lana del Rey quotes and Sarah Bah Bah art. Resting face A post shared by Chiara (@ chiara) on Jul 29, 2018 at 8: 58 pm PDT Madison Beer Madison Beer was* discovered* by Justin Bieber when she was a tween for dealing Etta James’ “At Last” on YouTube. She moved from Long Island to L.A. to determine music, but is more known for her knockout good looks and staggering street vogue on Instagram. She actually merely liberated a few singles, yet garnered over 10 million admirers on Instagram with little to no legit music vocation. She ultimately exhausted her first EP this year, As She Pleases , and it’s actually really, really good. Like, I don’t is familiar with you, but I was expecting a girl that’s more Instagram famed than acclaimed for, ya know, endowment to fell a skunk of an EP, but” Home With You” and” Say It To My Face” are legit bops. She recently completed an American tour as well, so things are definitely had begun to ramp up for Madison Beer. dat fendi fendi A post shared by Madison (@ madisonbeer) on Jul 10, 2018 at 12:11 pm PDT Zack Bia I don’t even get what this kid’s spate is. Even before writing this article, I have Googled Zack Bia repeatedly to figure out what he does or what famous parents he has, and I got nothing. It frankly obstructs me up at night doubting how this hypebeast twerp hangs with this gang and has accumulated the following he has. He’s dating Madison Beer, so maybe that’s where a great deal of my disdain for this minor comes from, because I can’t decide if I want to be Madison Beer or appointment Madison Beer. Signs show he may have gone to USC at one point, but that frankly means nothing because you just attend USC unless you’re in Greek life or are an athlete. I certainly don’t have anything else to say about this kid because, like I said, I don’t know what the f* ck he does. So I only hate-scroll through his douchey Instagram instead. beverly slopes high alum A post shared by ZACK BIA (@ zackbia) on Feb 1, 2018 at 10:19 pm PST Isabella Jones Isabella Jones is actually @bananablue17 on Instagram, because she didn’t get the memo that you don’t have to use your AIM screenname from 6th gradation as your Instagram handle. Isabella is–wait for it–a model. She’s also currently dating a SoundCloud rapper whose tattoos look like a sleepover prank that you’d doodle on people while they’re asleep. He goes by Teddy. Just Teddy. A coincide manufactured in heaven, really. happy 4th A post shared by Isabella Jones (@ bananablue1 7) on Jul 5, 2018 at 2:36 pm PDT Emma Delury Emma Delury is mostly the girl next door’s little sister who hasn’t been tainted more, but the older quarterback of the football squad plans on making a move on her once it’s no longer sinister to hook up with her. So it originates total sense that she’s modeled for the likes of Pink by Victoria’s Secret, PacSun, and Brandy Melville. No word on if she’s dating anyone, but Isabella leaves statements on every single picture of hers within 10 hours of affixing them saying how beautiful she is and how in love with her she is. These girlfriends are well on their acces to being so notorious that they have BS rumors about them dating like Karlie Kloss and Taylor Swift do, right? [?] A post shared by Emma DeLury (@ emmadelury) on Jul 5, 2018 at 4:13 pm PDT Kevin Malone from “The Office” I am Kevin Malone and you all are the Instagram patterns pic.twitter.com/ fIVMj4yfyn — Millie (@ milliebeemoore) July 17, 2018 No, severely. How the f* ck did this happen? Whoever This Leech Is Madison Beer did an interview a couple months away and was asked about her famous crew, and she took chances to propel some shade–even though no one even asked! Ugh, these types of theatre is the only thing that offset inessential 18 -year-olds satisfactory. Regardless, she said some toxic chick maintenances trying to defrauded her highway into their group to come adherents and ever since, I’ve been wanting to know who it is. My money’s on Meredith Mickelson, because everyone in this group follows her except for Madison, and I don’t truly know what Meredith does with her age besides take selfies while driving, take Boomerangs of herself putting her tongue out, and making videos of herself forgery laughing. dinner A post shared by MEREDITH MICKELSON (@ meredithmickelson) on Jul 30, 2018 at 12:39 pm PDT Epitomes: @presleygerber, @charlotteslawrence, @charlottedalessio, @chiara, @madisonbeer, @zackbia, @bananablue17, @emmadelury ,@ meredithmickelson/ Instagram; @milliebeemoore/ Twitter Read more: https :// betches.com/? p= 33731 http://dailybuzznetwork.com/index.php/2018/09/16/who-is-kaia-gerber-who-are-her-friends-betches/
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We had to clear a lot of land for the garden, orchard, and pasture, and we can use the wood to build the barn and other outbuildings. Mark hauls the logs away and splits them into lumber whenever he has time, because he is the best at it and he knows exactly what he needs.
It seems backwards to cut down trees to plant an orchard, but all the edible trees here are yellow poplar, silver maple, white and red oaks, and a handful of walnut, and of those, we generally only use maple syrup and walnuts, because acorns are pretty tasteless once processed properly. Yellow poplars attract honeybees, but it’s hard to tell where the honey came from.
Mostly, we would eat fruit.
But, because most take at least five years to produce, as far as I know, and we already have a household of eight, and I am nineteen, and will have children until I hit menopause, which could work out to about ten kids, assuming I don’t have twins or triplets, we will go through at least five literal tons of fruit a year.
We definitely want our orchard started this year because it takes years to get fruit and nuts from a tree. When we were researching, we kept hearing people say they wished they had started orchards first, so we aren’t making that mistake.
For what we want to do—produce 95% of our food on a daily basis—, with the size of family we expect to have, and the household size we have now, dwarf trees aren’t practical, and we have the space to go with the practical solution—standard-sized trees. Most of the trees we have already in containers are dwarf trees because Mark took grafts from trees my family has, and we will definitely plant them, and we already have very small amounts of fruit from them.
We want to grow standard trees, because for one thing, it is easier to plant one tree than two trees, and although standard trees take up more space, two standard trees will generally produce more fruit than two dwarf trees, and for one thing, see the family size and how much food we want to produce ourselves, and for another thing, we will sell what we don’t eat fresh or have to preserve for the winter. Standard trees tend to cost less than dwarf trees of the same variety, and so the upfront cost is less, and if a standard tree costs $25, and even with fertilizer from the farm store, since we use well water and rainwater, and even if we have to replace a tree that died, it will pay itself off slightly later than the dwarf trees, but with more fruit production for the cost to buy and maintain the tree. I think. I’m 85% sure that is how it will work, and I might be wrong. If we plant the same number of dwarf trees instead of the standard trees we plant, I would still have to either get fruit from the store or not feed the kids much fruit, or we would have to plant at least twice the number of dwarf trees, and it would be very expensive. Standard trees live longer, and if a dwarf tree dies after about 20 years, our youngest kid in 25 years will probably be about five years old, and by the time he was in high school, we would have another tree ready to bear fruit. They are tall and sturdy enough for kids to climb for fun, and Mark and I aren’t scared of heights for when we have to climb them. We don’t mind leaving the fruit at the top for birds and to drop down for animals, too. We don’t care if animals, including wild animals, eat the fruit that falls on the ground and we plan on leaving it there for them or picking it up for our animals and whoever we know who can’t get fruit for whatever reason. Standard trees require more pruning, and we can burn the pruned branches or feed them to the goats, but many of them are still too tall when even half-grown for a goat or deer to nibble resulting in significant damage or loss. We don’t have to stake them, which is nice. We like heritage and heirloom seeds, and I don’t know if more trees are available as standard than as dwarfs, but it is cool to grow a tree basically the same size as it has been for centuries.
Mark grew some berries fairly common in Latvia, but cultivars available in America here when he was a kid, and I babysat the plants when he was in Latvia. In the orphanage, he mostly encountered strawberries, because they ate a lot of packaged food. He found out about bilberries, salmonberries, and loganberries while he was in America, because he did not often buy food, but Mom was telling him about the garden and said something like, “But a lot of Americans don’t have bilberries, salmonberries, and loganberries,” and showed him a picture, and he didn’t know what they were. Fruits tend to be perennials, which worked well because he only had to plant them once, and we could plant them in summer, although the first time, some of them died. We would freeze the fruit if they came into season when he was not here, but he could eat them when he visited. My grandma taught him to take grafts from trees, so he has a wild pawpaw, a wild crabapple, a wild cherry tree, a wild chinquapin tree, which is a nut we haven’t actually harvested yet because the little critters get to it first, and a wild pecan growing in pots. Mark bought some random standard-size apples to grow in pots, and I stored the apples for him or made them into apple pie filling, cider, or applesauce. Apples are definitely his favorite fruit, and I think it is the most useful fruit we could grow, so we have a ton of apple trees, and some of them are ones he found in Latvia, but they are not necessarily Latvian. Some of them originate in Russia or some other Eastern European place. Importing those apples was a pain in the neck and half of them died, so we went through the rigmarole again, and half of those died, but this time, none of them have. If they die when we transplant them, he might cry.
Mark also took grafts from the wild red mulberry tree, wild black walnuts, dwarf Winesap, dwarf Golden Delicious, and dwarf Northern Spy apple trees somebody else planted about 75-50 years ago, and then the person died and the dwarf trees got kinda leggy. And Mark grafted the trees Mom and Dad planted: one semi-dwarf Elberta peach, one dwarf Bartlett Pear, one dwarf Beurre Bosc Pear, and one standard Hall’s Hardy Almond. When we moved here, he grafted some of our trees in the woods, either to plant in the orchard or in the woods, depending on the type.
When we were in the VW, we passed wild fruit and nut trees sometimes, and we tried to grow them from cuttings, but not many of them took. I have some nice wildflowers from it, too, but I am not planting purely decorative flowers for the foreseeable future.
I (and Mark, in the summer, because he helped) had a big garden when I was a kid, and planted some berries around it. I have several tropical mature or almost-mature trees and plants in pots, but most of them are things like nutmeg, coffee, and banana, because I’m weird.
I took cuttings and roots from berries Mark planted to sell the fruit to help us save up for the homestead, and planted them in containers so we could move them around, and because Mom and Dad were running out of space in the yard, even with vertical growing. Trees tend to grow too slowly to use for that, but we will plant the trees in the pit orchard. In containers, I have all kinds of wild things my grandma took cuttings or roots from and planted in her garden or gave to me or helped me forage, or that I found because she taught me how, wild blackberries from my grandparents’ property (yes, the bushes I was abducted near; I will not be intimidated by a berry), and wild herbs, and wild flower seeds from my grandma (or seeds/cuttings/roots from the plants I planted with those). She said I should plant the trees in containers so I could take them with me when I left home. My grandma would find wild edible plants, gather seeds or roots or whatever, and plant them in her garden or spread them out in the woods, and it was especially useful for black currants, because they cannot be imported to West Virginia. If they grow naturally, and are native plants to West Virginia, and we found them in West Virginia she and I figure they are probably fine to use, and so far, when we have asked officials, we have been told it is fine to use them, but not propagate them commercially. Her garden has wild food in it because she likes seeing all the edible things God stuck in the woods, and she spent years finding it all. Then I have strawberries and blueberries from my parents’ garden.
We don’t know where to plant the plants from family so they don’t get overshadowed or mess up the organization, which is one reason why they were not organized with the others and the other reason is they are heritage plants. We kind of want to keep them separate from the others or at least mark them as from the family somehow.
We keep moving them around the property to figure it out. We could plant dwarf trees and standard trees together, but a standard tree would overshadow a dwarf tree and it wouldn’t produce fruit or nuts, and that is completely counter-productive. We would be stupid to plant a tree somewhere we know wouldn’t let it do what it is supposed to do and what we want it to do. We might plant them on one side of the driveway with the berries, or around the log cabin, VW, and outhouses, or we might leave them in the pot for now.
Most trees like full sun, and require it to produce fruit and nuts, and they need plenty of room, and so we gave the trees the maximum distance apart the description said they needed. We would rather have too much room for them than not enough. And once we plant a tree, it is there forever, or we have to get a new tree, and it isn’t as easy as planting a tomato in the wrong place.
And we are planting sugar maples, but it will take a couple decades to tap them, even though we got the oldest sugar maples we could afford and find, and we plan on planting more over the years.
So we have thought through the orchard a lot, and we knew what kinds of fruit we wanted and had narrowed a list of 3+ cultivars per kind of fruit to choose from. By we, I mean both of us together with a million tabs open, seed catalogues, orchard websites, colored pencils, and graph paper, not me showing or telling Mark the list of things to grow or doing whatever the job is by myself, and asking him to speak now or forever a while hold his peace. By important, I mean something like what vegetables we are planting, or if he wants me to let out the currently out-of-season clothes he has outgrown or if he wants new/new to him ones. He has a limit to how much he can plan and conform to a plan, and I have a limit to how much I can conform to a plan. So I have a basic plan and plan for multiple things to go wrong or change the plan. We expect to change the plan while doing it, and we adapt to whatever happens, but with something like an orchard, we had better be pretty dang sure we like the plan and it works well for the trees.
We have some high number of fruit and nut plants to plant. I forget, and if I count, and Mark sees the count, he will be overwhelmed and cry. I never want to make my husband cry.
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Driven chapter 9
A pattern starts to evolve with my continued scrutiny of the images, and I realize that most of his escorts are long, leggy blondes, stick thin, with some type of plastic enhancement. And all are drop-dead gorgeous. Much to my chagrin, I realize they look very similar to Haddie, except hers are real. Ironically, the pale hair next to his dark features makes him seem more aloof and edgier somehow.
I note that each girl exists through a context of time, except for one. One particular stunner is scattered through different periods of time, and I wonder why that is. Is she an escort? The one he takes when his other arrangements have fallen through and he needs a date? Or is she the one he keeps going back to because there is really something there? After clinking on several of their pictures together, I finally get a caption that offers her name. Tawny Taylor. The caller on his phone yesterday. What is she to Justin? I know I could dwell on this for hours so I force myself to push it to the back of my head and resolve to think about it at another time even though I’m afraid to know the answer.
I look like none of them. I may be tall, but I’m definitely not petite on their anorexic scale. I’m thin but I have curves in all the right places, unlike their ruler-straight physiques. I have an athletic body that I’m proud of—that I work hard at to maintain—whereas they look like they have no need to even think about exercise. I have curly hair in a rich chocolate brown color that stops midway down my back; it is unruly and a pain, but it suits me. I continue the comparisons until I tell myself that I need to just get off the page before I become depressed. That my hatred toward them has nothing to do with them in particular.
I go back to Google and type in “Justin Donavan childhood.” The first few pages reference children’s organizations that he is involved with. I quickly scan through the links, looking for one mentioning his childhood in particular.
I finally find an old article written five years ago. Justin was interviewed in connection with a charity he was supporting that benefited new changes speeding up the adoption process.
Q: It is public knowledge that you were adopted, Justin. At what age?
CD: I was eight.
Q: How was the adoption process for you? How would you have benefited from these new initiatives that this foundation supports?
CD: I was lucky. My dad literally found me on his doorstep, took me in, for lack of better term, and I was adopted shortly after that. I didn’t have to go through the lengthy process that occurs today. A process that makes kids who desperately crave a home, a sense of belonging, wait months to see if an application will be approved. The system needs to stop looking at these kids as cases, as paperwork to be stamped with approval after months of red tape, and start looking at them as delicate children who need to be an integral part of something. A part of a family.
Q: So what was your situation, prior to being adopted?
CD: Let’s focus less on me and more on the passing of these new measures.
Does he not want to talk about it because it draws attention away from the charity, or was it so bad he just doesn’t talk about it? I scan the rest of the article but there is nothing else about his childhood. So he was eight. That leaves a lot of time to be damaged, conditioned as he’s said, by whatever situation he was in.
I stare at the screen for a couple of minutes imaging all kinds of things, mostly variations of the kids who have come through my care, and I shudder.
I decide to look up his parents, Andy and Dorothea Westin. The pages are filled with Andy’s movie credits, Oscar nominations and wins, and top-grossing movies, amongst other things. His family life is referenced here and there. He met Dorothea when she had a bit part on one his movies. At the time she was Dorothea Donavan. Another piece clicks into place. I wonder why he uses his Mom’s surname and not his Dad’s. I continue scanning and see the basic Hollywood mogul background, less the tabloid drama or stints in rehab. There are a few mentions of his children, a son and a daughter, but nothing giving me the answers I’m looking for.
I return to search again and scan through the different links that mention Justin’s name. I see snippets about a fight in a club, possible altercations with current-generation brat-pack actors, generous donations to charity, and gushing comments from other racers about his skill and the charisma he brings to his sport that had been tinged after the CART and IRL league split years ago; a wide range of information on such an enigmatic man.
I sigh loudly, my head filled with too much useless information. After over an hour of research, I still don’t know Justin much better than I did before. I don’t see anything to validate the warnings he keeps giving me. I can’t help myself. I open up the page again for CDE and click on the picture of him. I stare at it for sometime, studying every angle and every nuance of his face. I glance up and sadness fills my heart as the picture on my dresser of Max catches my eye. His earnest smile and blue eyes light up the frame.
“Oh, Max,” I sigh out his name, pressing the heel of my palm to my heart where I swear I can still feel the agony. “I will always miss you. Will always love you,” I whisper to him, “but it’s time I try to find me again.” I stare at his picture, remembering when it was taken, the love I felt then. Seconds tick by before I look back at my computer screen.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, strengthening my resolve as the song on my computer, Justin’s referenced song, repeats itself for the umpteenth time. It’s time. And maybe Haddie is right. Justin may be the perfect person to lose and find myself in at the same time. For however long he lets me, anyway.
I look back at my phone, suppressing the overwhelming urge to text him back. To connect with him. If I’m going to do this, I at least need to make sure a couple things are on my terms.
And chasing after him is definitely not going to allow me to achieve that.
CHAPTER 11
I barely recognize the girl in the mirror who stares back at me. Once again, Haddie has gone all out with her preparations for the launch party tonight thrown by the public relations company she works for. She spent almost an hour blowing my ringlets out so that my hair hangs in a straight, thick curtain down my back. I keep staring at myself in the mirror trying to adjust to this different person. My eyes are subtly smoked so the dark smudges have an opalescent quality, reflecting the violet in my irises. My lips are lined with nude liner and lip-gloss, making the slight touches of bronzed blush on my cheeks stand out.
She has talked me into wearing a little black number that shows off more skin than I’m comfortable with. The bust of the dress runs into a deep V, hinting suggestively at my abundant bra-proffered cleavage without being trashy. Just a suggestive hint at my curves. The straps go over the shoulders and connect the non-existent back with thin gold chains that drape loosely and attach at the swell of my butt. I tug down on the hemline for it falls mid-thigh, something I’m not altogether used to.
I look again in the mirror and smile. This is not me, the girl I know. I sigh shakily as I add chandelier earrings to complete the look. This may not be me, I think, but this is the confident girl I want to be again. The new me who’s going to go out tonight, let loose, and have fun. The girl who has resolved to have a night of fun and gain some self-assurance before I undertake all that is Justin and his warning-laced pursuits.
“Holy shit!” Haddie walks into my bathroom, a whistle blowing from her lips. “You look hot! I mean—” she stumbles over her words, “I’m at a loss here. I don’t think I have ever seen you this smokin’ sexy, Selena.” I smile widely at her praise. “You’re going to have them lining up tonight, baby. Hot damn, this is going to be fun to watch!”
I laugh at her response, my self-esteem bolstered. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself,” I compliment her harlot-red dress that shows off all of her best assets. I slip my heels, wincing at the feel of them, and smirking at the memory of the last time I wore them. “Give me a sec and I’ll be ready.”
I grab my clutch and stuff my driver’s license, money, and keys into it. When I grab my phone to place in the small purse, I realize I never asked Haddie about the voicemails from her I’d listened to earlier.
“Had? I never asked you what was so exciting about the event tonight. What hot celebrity did you guys secure as a carpet walker?”
She gives me an enigmatic smile. “Oh, it fell through,” she dismisses casually. I shake off the feeling that for some reason she is laughing at me. I quirk my head at her and she turns around, effectively changing the subject, “Let’s go!”
***
The entrance to the trendy club downtown is quite the spectacle, complete with criss-crossing searchlights, velvet ropes, and a red carpet ready for stars to walk for media photo opportunities. The entrance is complete with a backdrop displaying Merit Rum, the new product being launched. We park in predetermined spots for Haddie and her fellow PRX employees at the trendy, upscale hotel that owns and is somehow or another physically connected to the club. Haddie flashes her credentials, which allows us to whisk past the hoopla and within moments we are inside the populated club, the dull throb of the music pulsing through my body.
It has been years since I’ve been in a club like this and it takes me a while to acclimate to the dim lighting and loud music and not feel intimidated. I think Haddie realizes my nerves are kicking in and that my confidence is waning despite my sexed-up appearance for within moments she has pushed us through the throng of people to the bar. With disregard to the numerous bottles of Merit lining the slick countertop, Haddie orders us each two shots of tequila.
“One for luck,“ she grins at me.
“And one for courage,” I finish for her, our old college toast. We clink glasses and toss back the liquid. It burns my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve done a shot of tequila, I wince at the burn and put the back of my hand to my mouth to try and somehow stifle it.
“C’mon, Selena,” Haddie shouts, unfazed by the liquor. “We’ve got one more to go!”
I raise my glass, an intrepid smile on my face, tap it to hers, and we both toss them back. The sting of the second one isn’t as bad, and my body warms at the liquid, but it still tastes like shit to me.
Haddie gives me a knowing glance and starts to giggle. “Tonight’s going to be fun!” She hugs her arm around me and squeezes. “It’s been so long since I’ve had my partner in crime back.”
I throw a smile at her as I take in the club’s atmosphere. It’s a large expanse of a room with purple, velvet-lined booths around the bottom floor. A glossy bar with a mirror placed behind it fills one whole wall, the mirror reflecting the room back, creating the illusion that the massive space is even larger. In the middle of the main floor is a large dance floor complete with trussing lined with moving head lights that are spinning, creating a dizzying array of colors. Stairs angle up from various intervals around the floor to a raised VIP area where teal booths are sectioned off by velvet stanchions. In one section of the VIP area, a plexiglass partition allows all below to see the M.C. spinning the music that pumps through the club. Model-worthy waitresses flit around in hot pants and fitted tank tops, uniform purple flowers adorning each one’s hair in some way or another. The club is swanky class with a touch of sophistication despite the various advertising paraphernalia for Merit Rum placed strategically around the room.
It’s nearing eleven o’clock, and I can see the crowd thickening and can feel the vibe of the masses pulsate with energy. In the VIP area, there is a crowd of people around a particular corner, and I wonder what trendy celebrity Haddie’s team has gotten to promote their newest product. I’ve been to enough of these functions with her to know the drill. Hot celebrities shown taking photos with new product equals big-time press for not only the item but Haddie’s company as well.
I take the glass Haddie hands me, my usual Tom Collins, and I sip from the straw as I point to the upper section. I raise my eyes in question rather than shout over the music that is starting to increase in volume as the club becomes more crowded. I figure we have about thirty minutes left until the decibels are so loud that the only way to communicate will be to yell.
She catches my silent question asking who’s up there. She leans over to talk in my ear. “Not sure. We have several people confirmed for tonight,” she shrugs a noncommittal answer. “Some surprises are in store as well.”
I narrow my eyes at her wondering why she is being vague with me, seeing as I’m not going to blab to anyone and ruin the surprise. She just smiles broadly and tugs my hand to follow her. We navigate through the mob of people, moving together as one unit. I can feel the alcohol slowly start buzzing through my body, warming me, easing my tension, and relaxing my nerves. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel sexy. I feel beautiful and sensual and at ease with those feelings. It’s not the alcohol that’s making me feel this way directly; rather the alcohol is allowing it by lessening my anxiety and insecurities.
I squeeze Haddie’s hand as she pushes through to a purple booth, which is reserved for PRX staff. She looks back and smiles genuinely at me, realizing that I’m starting to relax. Starting to enjoy. We break through the crowd to the booth to find two of Haddie’s colleagues there. I smile to them and say a quick hello, having met them before at previous events I’ve attended. I thank one of them for his compliments on my vamped-up style for the evening. As we sit down, there is a large cheer from the other side of the room on the upper level where the crowd had been earlier. I glance up to see what’s going on and notice nothing really but a number of women showing way too much skin hoping for whatever hot item PRX has invited up there to take notice of them.
I roll my eyes in disgust. “Fame whores,” I mouth to Haddie and she bursts out laughing.
I finish my drink as the catchy beat of a Black Eyed Peas song fills the club. I start moving my hips to the tempo and before I know it, I grab Haddie’s hand and drag her through the people out onto the dance floor. The surprised look on her face has me laughing as I close my eyes and let the music take me. We sing the words together, “I gotta feeling, that tonight’s gonna be a good night,” as we undulate in our own world on the dance floor.
I haven’t felt this liberated in so long that I just want to suspend this moment in time. I want to capture it in my memory so that the next time I start to fall in that dark place, I can remember this feeling to help me hold on to the light.
Haddie and I move to the music, working our way through several songs, each one strengthening my confidence and increasing my fluidity on the floor. Several of her co-workers, Grant, Tamara, and Jacob, join us as the song switches to Too Close, an old song but one of my favorites. I flirtatiously dance with Grant, acting out the song with him. We laugh, our bodies rubbing innocently up against each other, enjoying the playful interaction of the lyrics.
I raise my arms over my head, crossing them at the wrists and swivel my hips to the rhythm, the alcohol buzzing through my system. I close my eyes, absorbing the atmosphere all around me. A tingling sensation up my spine has me flashing my eyes back open.
I look up, and despite the synchronized unison of the mass on the dance floor, I stop, frozen in place when I see Justin. He is standing on one of the stairways that angles down from the VIP section. He has a drink in one hand and his other arm drapes casually around the shoulder of a statuesque blonde. She is turned into him, her hand rubbing gently through the top unbuttoned portion of his dress shirt. Her face tilts up to him and even from a distance, I can see her reverence and adoration of him although he has his head turned away from her, laughing with a rakish man on his left. A large daunting man stands behind him, eyes scanning the crowd. His security, maybe? Justin flashes a smile at his male cohort and it’s natural and unguarded, allowing me to momentarily appreciate his absolutely devastating looks. The blonde says something and Justin turns his attention back to her. She lifts her hand from his chest to rest on his cheek and lifts her face up, placing a slow, seductive kiss on his lips in ownership.
My insides churn at the sight, clouding my vision so much that I don’t pay enough attention to see if Justin is encouraging and returning the kiss or merely just tolerating it. My mouth is suddenly dry. I am paralyzed on the floor as I watch him with her. Numb really. We’re not together—my constant refusal of him has not demonstrated that I want otherwise. And despite my intense and unfounded hurt right now, all I want is that to be me he is holding. Me he is kissing. In the seconds that all of this swirls within me, my hurt begins to shift to anger. How stupid was I to think a guy like him could actually want a girl like me when he could have a girl like her?
I notice Haddie fall motionless in my periphery, taking notice of what I see. I’m about to turn to say something to her when Justin lifts his chin away from his arm candy, and looks up, his eyes locking onto mine. My heart skips over a beat and lodges itself in my throat. Despite the distance between us, I see shock flash in his eyes at us being in the same place, same time, yet again.
Even though a fellow dancer jostles me, my eyes hold steadfast to his. I know I need to leave the floor before my emotions get the best of me and my threatening tears begin to fall, but I am riveted in place. Unable to break the inescapable, magnetic pull he has over me. He releases his hold on the blonde immediately, discarding her easily. He hands his drink off to his male companion without looking and strides unfaltering down the stairs. His emerald eyes burn into mine, never losing our connection.
As he reaches the dance floor, the music changes to a deep, pulsating throb enveloping Trent Reznor’s hypnotic voice. Without a word or a look, the horde of dancers seems to move apart as he stalks onto the floor toward me. His expression is indiscernible, the muscle pulsing at his jaw, the shadows from the lights playing over the angles of his face. His long legs eat up the distance quickly. Numerous people turn their heads in recognition as he struts past, but the hungry look in his eyes stops them from approaching him any further. Despite the music’s volume, I audibly hear Haddie suck in a breath as he reaches me.
All of the things I want to yell at him, all of the hurt I want to spew at him, disappears as he stalks up to me, and without preamble grabs my hips in his hands, forcefully yanking me up against him. He holds me there, pressed against him, as his body starts to move, hips begin to grind into mine in sync to the punishing tempo of the song. I have no other option than to move with him, respond to the animalistic rhythm of his body. I slide my hands over his hands on my hips and lace my fingers through his. Holding him.
Holding on to the ride that is undeniably coming.
Our eyes remain locked. My head tilts back to look up at him. His lips part slightly, and I can hear him hiss out as my hips respond with him. His eyes darken, glazing with desire, filling with heat—with a predatory need. His scorching look alone has my nipples tightening and my body becoming a melting mess of need in anticipation of his touch. Of his undoubted possession of me.
I bite my bottom lip as he moves our combined hands from my hips to behind my back, kneading my backside through my dress, handcuffing me there. We continue to move as one with the music, the feeling of his firm, defined thighs pressing against mine. His arousal rubs thick and compelling against the lower part of my belly. He leans his face down so that we are within inches of each other. I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he sighs into me.
It is by far one of the most erotically sensual moments of my life. The rest of the world has fallen away. The intoxicating effect he has on my body blocks out the crowd of people around us, all looking our way, noticing me because of the man I am with. Rather it is just he and I. Moving. Responding. Arousing. Anticipating.
The song comes to an end, but we remain entranced in each other’s spell. I breathe for what I feel like is the first time since we’ve touched, a long shaky breath. I don’t realize that the music has stopped, and that the DJ is speaking over the microphone about the product of the evening. That except for the small crowd around us, the attention of the club has turned and is focused on the stage.
Justin and I stand there, not moving, feeling like we are barely breathing despite our heaving chests, absorbing each other and the sparks of sexual tension that are igniting between us.
“Justin! Hey, Justin,” a voice breaks through our connection, snapping me out of my spellbound state. Justin swivels his head to find one of the PRX staff calling his name. “It’s time. We need you on the stage. Now.”
He nods curtly before looking back at me, eyes smoldering with a rapacious urgency that makes my insides shiver. He unlaces his fingers from mine, releasing his hold on my hands and pulls away slightly. The warmth of his body is gone immediately, but my body is still humming from the connection, aching with need. He gives me a slow, suggestive smile and shakes his head softly. At me? At his own thoughts? At which one I’m not sure.
He reaches up a hand and tugs on my hair, his eyebrows quirk up as if to ask me why the change in my hair. I shrug shyly at him, words escaping me. His name is called again. He turns to go, but not before I watch the transition on his face from the Justin Donavan I know, to the public persona. Aloof and untouchable. Sexy and untamable.
We haven’t uttered a single word, and yet I feel like we’ve said so much.
I watch his broad shoulders as he walks through the crowd toward the stage, his bodyguard falling in step beside him, pushing back the people swarming him. I watch the spectacle and a little part of me smiles at the fact that I’ve seen the real Justin, not this one. At least I hope I have, my ever-present doubts returning.
Before I can finish watching his ascent to the makeshift stage, Haddie has me firmly by the arm and is pulling me unceremoniously from the dance floor. My resistance is futile as she drags me down a corridor, past the line for the bathrooms, and toward a small alcove near the exit. She spins me to face her, an incredulous look on her face.
“Ow, you’re hurting me!” I snap at her, yanking my arm away, not exactly thrilled at being taken away from the chance to watch Justin.
“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” she asks, each word a staccato. I don’t even know how to answer her. I think I’m still under his spell for my words are not forming. “Holy shit, Selena! You two were basically fucking each other with your eyes. I mean, I felt uncomfortable watching you two, like I was peeping into your bedroom,” she rambles on as she does when excited, “and you know I never get uncomfortable.” She leans back against the wall and tilts her head up to the ceiling, an unbelieving look on her face.
I stand there and stare at her for I don’t know how to answer her, so she continues. “I knew you said you guys had made out,” she continues ignoring the childlike snort of laughter that comes from me, “But you never told me that there was … that spark … that chemistry … such intensity … My God! I mean, I was hoping when you saw him that—”
“What?” Her last sentence triggers my brain to function. “What do you mean you were hoping?”
She smiles sheepishly at me. “Well …”
What the fuck is going on here? “Quit stalling, Montgomery!”
“Well, I was calling you last night to tell you we had landed him as a guest—Merit’s one of his new sponsors. Anyway I called just because I was excited, I thought we could sit back and lust after him tonight—I didn’t know anything about what had happened. I talked to Dane and that was when I found out you were out with him.” Her words are tumbling out now. I nod at her to continue, my eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “Then you came home and everything unfolded …”
“And what? You decided not to tell me because …”
“Well,” she contemplates, “After you told me everything, I had no idea that you two—your connection—is that magnetic. That captivating. I thought maybe if you saw him here, I could help you—I could push the issue. Help you have some fun.”
I blow out a loud breath, silently staring at her. I know she means well, but at the same time, I don’t need my hand held like a child. I’m mad at her. Mad at Justin for being here with that bimbo. Mad at him for waltzing up to me and taking hold as if I belonged to him. Mad at him for making me want him so badly my insides are burning. My contemplative silence settles over us.
“Don’t be mad, Selena. I’m sorry. I was doing it from a good place.” She bites her bottom lip, pouting at me, knowing I can never stay mad at her for any period of time. I smile softly, effectively forgiving her.
I sag back against the wall and close my eyes, listening to the cheering of the crowd at something the MC says. The question rattling around in my brain comes to the forefront. “Who’s his plus one?” I ask, referring to the blonde. Is she one of his arrangements? Someone he picked up in the club? Why is he kissing her if he is telling me he wants me? Did he not ask me because I’m not enough—pretty enough, sexy enough, glamorous enough—to be on his arm in public?
“Does it matter?” she sputters, “I mean, Jesus, Selena, you two are—”
“Who?”
“Not sure,” she shakes her head. “His people just asked for clearance for ten. No names were given.”
I let out a slew of curses that make no sense, just something I do when upset and trying to process through a situation. Haddie eyes me cautiously, knowing my litany of cuss words and its implied meaning. “Talk to me, Selena,” she urges. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“I’m not lying to myself, am I?” Haddie looks at me confusion etched on her face in question. “I mean, I’m not making it up? The chemistry? Justin?”
“Are you crazy?” she stammers, grabbing me by the shoulder and giving me a little shake. “I thought you two were going to spontaneously combust out there! How can you question it?”
The crowd erupts again, the sound echoing down the hallway. I can hear Justin’s voice on the microphone. The rasp of his voice pulls at me. The crowd cheers again at something he says, and I wait for the noise to subside some before I can continue. “If he’s that into me. If there is that much chemistry … then why is he here with that blonde? Kissing her? Why not ask me? Or am I just the girl he wants to fuck on the side?” The confusion and hurt are evident in my voice.
Haddie twists her lips up as she thinks about my comments. “I don’t know, Selena. There are so many scenarios here.” I raise my eyebrows at her as if I don’t believe her. “He could have already had her as a date before he met you. Or he could really want you and she could be the piece on the side until you say yes.”
I snort again. “Really? Did you see her?”
“Have you seen you?” she rebukes. “Have you looked in the mirror, Selena? You’re gorgeous on a normal day and you look unbelievable tonight! I’m kind of getting sick of telling you that. When are you going to start believing it?” I roll my eyes at her like a child. She ignores me and continues on her possible scenarios. “She could be one of his arrangements? Or maybe she is a fame whore who met him here? Or maybe she’s a friend.”
“When’s the last time you kissed a friend like that?” I whip at her, taking my hurt out on her. She just stares at me, arms folded across her chest. “What am I supposed to do?”
“I’d say keep doing what you’re doing. He obviously likes you, including your stubborn streak and smart mouth.”
“But, how do I—what do I?”
“Selena, if you’re mad at him, be mad at him. It hasn’t stopped you from saying something to him before, and he still wants you. Just because you’ve decided to sleep with him doesn’t—”
“How do you know I’ve decided that?”
“Oh, honey, it’s written all over your face—and your body, for that matter. Besides, anyone watching that display out there already thinks that you have,” she laughs sympathetically at me as my eyes widen. “Look Selena, every girl in this club would fall into line if he snapped his fingers. Everyone, that is, but you. He’s the one pursuing you. How many times in his life do you think a woman has said no to him? Has walked away from him? Maybe he likes that. And if he does, don’t change it just because you’ve decided you want to do the deed with him.” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“But that’s just it,” I confess, “Am I a challenge or does he really want me? And if it does happen, then will the challenge be over and then he’ll be done with me?”
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Tim Weah Has the Talent—and the Pedigree—to Save U.S. Soccer
American soccer fans disillusioned by their country's failure to qualify for next summer's FIFA World Cup may soon be shouting a new four-letter word at their TV screens. At the Under-17 edition of the sport's showpiece tournament this past month in India, printed on the back of the USA's Number 10 shirt was a small word with big connotations: WEAH.
For anybody who has followed global soccer for more than a few seasons, the surname will immediately strike a chord. It will also prompt a pair of questions, the answer to both of which is yes.
Yes, Timothy Tarpeh Weah, the leggy young man wearing the binary numbers on his back, is the son of George Weah.
And yes, he too has an eye for goal.
"King George" was a Liberian forward named World Player of the Year in 1995. During an 18-season career, he made a living tearing past sorry defenders to score almost 200 goals, collect league titles with Paris Saint-Germain and AC Milan, and be crowned Africa's best player three times. After winning the FA Cup with Chelsea in May 2000, three months after the birth of his second son, he celebrated on the pitch at Wembley with a t-shirt that read: "I believe in God, Timothy."
George, who is a presidential candidate in Liberia, was born in Monrovia and grew up playing with a worn-out ball in the city's slums. "Timmy" (as his friends call him) was born in New York after his dad met wife Clar while opening a bank account in the Big Apple. Young Tim was, in his own words, "kicking a ball from the moment I was born" and went on to captain New York's BW Gottschee, despite being a year younger than his teammates.
"It was around then that I really thought I can be something; that I can make a name for myself," Weah told VICE Sports in Delhi. "Usually a parent wants their child to be exactly like them, but my father gave me the freedom to be myself and play my own game, so I've never really felt any added pressure.
"Actually, sometimes going into games, opponents would tend to say 'Oh, his father was the best player in the world,' so they'd get a little bit scared. I've always tried to use that to my advantage."
At 13, Weah joined New York Red Bulls, but spent the summer in London training with Chelsea, whose defender Mark Guéhi remembers him as "a special player" and "always a big attacking threat." An offer from the London club never materialized, but soon after, during a trial with French side Toulouse, Weah caught the eye of PSG scouts, who invited him to join their U15 side.
Weah's older brother, George Jr, had played for the Parisian side's second string and helped his younger sibling with the cultural transition. Tim settled quickly: In his first full season, he scored a hat-trick in the UEFA Youth League — the age-group equivalent of the Champions League—and later notched five goals in a single match during a youth tournament in Qatar.
"It was a big challenge for Tim," says John Hackworth, the USA U17 coach. "When he went there, he spoke no French at all, but he worked hard on it and was fluent within five months. He's very proud of that because while his name might have gotten him in the door, he had to do the work and earn the contract himself."
In July of this year, he signed his first professional deal, tying him to Paris until 2020. He is now focused on breaking into the first-team squad by the end of the year, an ambitious goal given the wealth of attacking talent at the Parc des Princes. Exactly one month after signing his contract, Weah watched excitedly as PSG—owned by the Qatar Investment Authority and recognised as one of the game's richest clubs — bought Neymar Jr for a record $260 million fee. A few weeks later, another marquee deal was agreed, 18-year-old Kylian Mbappe joining from Monaco for an eventual $210 million.
"I don't think it will be hard for me to break into the team because I am very versatile," says Weah, who shares his father's room-warming smile as well as his confidence. "I can play on the wing, I can play through the middle, you can play me anywhere. But just being around those type of players is awesome, and with Neymar being my favorite player, it would be very cool to play alongside him. It's the same throughout the squad though, be it Mbappe or [Edinson] Cavani—just learning from those kind of players is really important for a young player like me."
Weah has so far trained only with the first-team substitutes, but at PSG's U19 level he continues to display his old man's knack for finding the net. In September, against Celtic in the UEFA Youth League, he scored the winning goal in a 3-2 victory. His leaping, pinpoint header was more than a little reminiscent of his dad.
"Since his move to PSG, he has grown in all areas," says Andrew Carleton, an international teammate who has played alongside Weah since they were 13 years old. "He's gone from a player who was always really good but sometimes inconsistent, to becoming a more consistent player and someone we can rely on, game in, game out."
Measuring six-foot, one-inch and boasting the build of a sprinter, Weah runs ostrich-like with his chest slightly ahead of his feet. It gives the impression even his own legs can't keep up with his desire to get to where he's going. In India, he was deployed as a left winger and became the first American male to register a hat-trick in a knockout-round at a World Cup. His second of three against Paraguay in the Round of 16 was an audacious right-footed strike from distance.
"He is a young man who can take it as high as he wants," says coach Hackworth. "He has the potential, he's certainly a fantastic athlete, and he's dedicated to being a very good pro. I think it's just a matter of time. He is still a young man with a lot to learn, but he has so much potential. He's a wonderful example to others too: works hard, takes everything very serious, and is a pro off the field."
That professionalism quickly became apparent at the World Cup. From the day the USA squad arrived, pumped full of anti-malarial drugs, Weah was the player most sought after by the swarms of Indian press. While his hat-trick only served to increase the hype, he remained obliging, graciously answering the same banal questions about his father that follow him everywhere. Even after the US were eliminated by eventual winners England in the quarter-finals, he fronted up once more, taking time to discuss not only the disappointing result, but also his future, faith, and family.
Unlike many of this young US team, Weah's parents did not travel to India. His father was busy campaigning in Liberia—he faces a run-off on November 7 after obtaining a plurality in last month's election. He lost a similar run-off in 2005, but has spoken often about how much he learned from that first loss and how it has prepared him better for this campaign.
It is a lesson the young Weah has taken onboard. The U17s defeat to England hurt, but much like the senior team's failure to qualify for Russia, he says it will only motivate him to train harder, play smarter, and ultimately win more games when his turn comes around.
"It's true," he says, "sometimes you learn more from a defeat than a victory. We fought until the end and I hope to be back at a World Cup with the U20s or maybe the first team. It's all up to God and I know I still have a lot to work on, but discipline, dedication and desire will get me to where I want to go. Of that I'm sure."
Tim Weah Has the Talent—and the Pedigree—to Save U.S. Soccer published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv
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Tim Weah Has the Talent—and the Pedigree—to Save U.S. Soccer
American soccer fans disillusioned by their country’s failure to qualify for next summer’s FIFA World Cup may soon be shouting a new four-letter word at their TV screens. At the Under-17 edition of the sport’s showpiece tournament this past month in India, printed on the back of the USA’s Number 10 shirt was a small word with big connotations: WEAH.
For anybody who has followed global soccer for more than a few seasons, the surname will immediately strike a chord. It will also prompt a pair of questions, the answer to both of which is yes.
Yes, Timothy Tarpeh Weah, the leggy young man wearing the binary numbers on his back, is the son of George Weah.
And yes, he too has an eye for goal.
“King George” was a Liberian forward named World Player of the Year in 1995. During an 18-season career, he made a living tearing past sorry defenders to score almost 200 goals, collect league titles with Paris Saint-Germain and AC Milan, and be crowned Africa’s best player three times. After winning the FA Cup with Chelsea in May 2000, three months after the birth of his second son, he celebrated on the pitch at Wembley with a t-shirt that read: “I believe in God, Timothy.”
George, who is a presidential candidate in Liberia, was born in Monrovia and grew up playing with a worn-out ball in the city’s slums. “Timmy” (as his friends call him) was born in New York after his dad met wife Clar while opening a bank account in the Big Apple. Young Tim was, in his own words, “kicking a ball from the moment I was born” and went on to captain New York’s BW Gottschee, despite being a year younger than his teammates.
“It was around then that I really thought I can be something; that I can make a name for myself,” Weah told VICE Sports in Delhi. “Usually a parent wants their child to be exactly like them, but my father gave me the freedom to be myself and play my own game, so I’ve never really felt any added pressure.
“Actually, sometimes going into games, opponents would tend to say ‘Oh, his father was the best player in the world,’ so they’d get a little bit scared. I’ve always tried to use that to my advantage.”
At 13, Weah joined New York Red Bulls, but spent the summer in London training with Chelsea, whose defender Mark Guéhi remembers him as “a special player” and “always a big attacking threat.” An offer from the London club never materialized, but soon after, during a trial with French side Toulouse, Weah caught the eye of PSG scouts, who invited him to join their U15 side.
Weah’s older brother, George Jr, had played for the Parisian side’s second string and helped his younger sibling with the cultural transition. Tim settled quickly: In his first full season, he scored a hat-trick in the UEFA Youth League — the age-group equivalent of the Champions League—and later notched five goals in a single match during a youth tournament in Qatar.
“It was a big challenge for Tim,” says John Hackworth, the USA U17 coach. “When he went there, he spoke no French at all, but he worked hard on it and was fluent within five months. He’s very proud of that because while his name might have gotten him in the door, he had to do the work and earn the contract himself.”
In July of this year, he signed his first professional deal, tying him to Paris until 2020. He is now focused on breaking into the first-team squad by the end of the year, an ambitious goal given the wealth of attacking talent at the Parc des Princes. Exactly one month after signing his contract, Weah watched excitedly as PSG—owned by the Qatar Investment Authority and recognised as one of the game’s richest clubs — bought Neymar Jr for a record $260 million fee. A few weeks later, another marquee deal was agreed, 18-year-old Kylian Mbappe joining from Monaco for an eventual $210 million.
“I don’t think it will be hard for me to break into the team because I am very versatile,” says Weah, who shares his father’s room-warming smile as well as his confidence. “I can play on the wing, I can play through the middle, you can play me anywhere. But just being around those type of players is awesome, and with Neymar being my favorite player, it would be very cool to play alongside him. It’s the same throughout the squad though, be it Mbappe or [Edinson] Cavani—just learning from those kind of players is really important for a young player like me.”
Weah has so far trained only with the first-team substitutes, but at PSG’s U19 level he continues to display his old man’s knack for finding the net. In September, against Celtic in the UEFA Youth League, he scored the winning goal in a 3-2 victory. His leaping, pinpoint header was more than a little reminiscent of his dad.
“Since his move to PSG, he has grown in all areas,” says Andrew Carleton, an international teammate who has played alongside Weah since they were 13 years old. “He’s gone from a player who was always really good but sometimes inconsistent, to becoming a more consistent player and someone we can rely on, game in, game out.”
Measuring six-foot, one-inch and boasting the build of a sprinter, Weah runs ostrich-like with his chest slightly ahead of his feet. It gives the impression even his own legs can’t keep up with his desire to get to where he’s going. In India, he was deployed as a left winger and became the first American male to register a hat-trick in a knockout-round at a World Cup. His second of three against Paraguay in the Round of 16 was an audacious right-footed strike from distance.
“He is a young man who can take it as high as he wants,” says coach Hackworth. “He has the potential, he’s certainly a fantastic athlete, and he’s dedicated to being a very good pro. I think it’s just a matter of time. He is still a young man with a lot to learn, but he has so much potential. He’s a wonderful example to others too: works hard, takes everything very serious, and is a pro off the field.”
That professionalism quickly became apparent at the World Cup. From the day the USA squad arrived, pumped full of anti-malarial drugs, Weah was the player most sought after by the swarms of Indian press. While his hat-trick only served to increase the hype, he remained obliging, graciously answering the same banal questions about his father that follow him everywhere. Even after the US were eliminated by eventual winners England in the quarter-finals, he fronted up once more, taking time to discuss not only the disappointing result, but also his future, faith, and family.
Unlike many of this young US team, Weah’s parents did not travel to India. His father was busy campaigning in Liberia—he faces a run-off on November 7 after obtaining a plurality in last month’s election. He lost a similar run-off in 2005, but has spoken often about how much he learned from that first loss and how it has prepared him better for this campaign.
It is a lesson the young Weah has taken onboard. The U17s defeat to England hurt, but much like the senior team’s failure to qualify for Russia, he says it will only motivate him to train harder, play smarter, and ultimately win more games when his turn comes around.
“It’s true,” he says, “sometimes you learn more from a defeat than a victory. We fought until the end and I hope to be back at a World Cup with the U20s or maybe the first team. It’s all up to God and I know I still have a lot to work on, but discipline, dedication and desire will get me to where I want to go. Of that I’m sure.”
Tim Weah Has the Talent—and the Pedigree—to Save U.S. Soccer syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6
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