#infinitelonging

Dating Headcanons | Accepting

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where they first met and how

The grocery store. Breanah broke a jar of cranberry sauce and then went on a rant about it and Zack just stood there and let her go on. Bless.

how long their ‘flirting’ phase was before feelings got involved

I really don’t think either knew flirting was happening? I mean they knew but uh...there definitely was a lot of not flirting flirting. I think feelings happened before the flirting was realized

who fell for who first ( if applicable )

I want to say Bre, because she will fall hard and fast, but this might have been Zack

where their first date was and what it was like

Breanah’s place, if she held true to form, she offered to feed Zack and he accepted and then she kept feeding him.

who asks who out and how ( with a sign? spelled out on a cake? just a simple ‘will you go out with me’? )

Breanah, she sort of demanded he go out with her/come over for dinner to make up for interrupting Zack time. And then also offering to at the very least show him hers. 

who proposes first

Zack, he does a lot of preparation for it and prepares for Breanah to reject him (spoiler alert: She does not!)

if they keep / kept their relationship secret or let everyone know right away

It wasn’t a secret per se but like it was on the DL because of a mutual acquaintance between the two of them. But like the important people (i.e Izzy) found out right away.

where the proposal happens and how ( kiss cam at a baseball game? on a hillside surrounded by ducks? at a disney park? )

OKAY SO. There’s a lot of mental prep for it on Zack’s part and it comes out sort of in the same way that their family planning went - “wanna get married?” and Breanah who is busy doing something like cleaning the dishes or the dogs just says “sure” and then later when Zack’s like “Wait that’s not how I wanted it to happen” he redoes it without it sounding like a casual question. There may be a jar of cranberry sauce involved.

if they adopt any pets together

Breanah comes with two dogs so they may adopt one more later

who’s more dominant

Bre tries to be more dominant but it’s really Zack. And Breanah likes being told what to do sexually so as soon as she’s on the same page, it’s Zack’s show, Bre’s just a part of it.

where their first kiss was and what it was like

It was at some sort of gathering and part of me wants to say a lot of it was orchestrated by Izzy without locking them in a closet but I can only imagine that they played something like truth or dare or spin the bottle because Izzy was feeling “nostalgic”

if they have any matching couples stuff ( mugs? sweaters? pillowcases? )

Nope! Maybe like pillowcases but that just comes with the bed set?

how into pda they are

Not very! Breanah is moreso when she’s territorial but she’ll do small things like hold his hand or like small kisses. 

who holds the umbrella when it rains

Zack because he’s taller

where their usual ‘date spot’ is ( if applicable )

The couch! A lot of dates ended up with them falling asleep on the couch. Not for lack of trying but they Netflixed and Chilled by legit chillin

who’s more protective

Zack is. He is more silently protective versus Breanah

how long it is before they sleep together ( can be as in ‘had sex’ or as in ‘shared a bed’ )

It takes them actually getting into the relationship for anything to happen and even then, maybe six months? Breanah learned how to romance before putting out which is the takeaway from this

if they argue about anything

Breanah working and not in the Zack has to be the only breadwinner but because she will run herself ragged if nobody says anything

who leaves more marks ( lipstick, hickeys, scratchmarks etc. )

It’s equal. Zack definitely leaves more hickeys but Bre has left scratchmarks and lipstick stains. (If we’re talking Dujour verse, Bre DEFINITELY does this)

who steals whose clothes and how often

Breanah takes Zack’s clothes, mostly his shirts and sometimes his hoodies

how they cuddle ( spooning? facing each other? )

They spoon

what their favourite nonsexual activity is

Naps

how long they stay mad at each other

Hmmm I think Zack holds it more than Bre does

what their usual coffee / tea orders are

Breanah’s coffee is usually more creamer than coffee. Zack would not surprise me if he took it black

if they ever have any children together

Yah, Penelope! And then probably a second one later down the line because why stop at one? 

if they have any special pet names for each other

No?

if they ever split up and / or get back together

Their splits are at different times because Breanah’s afraid of Zack breaking up with her because she’s “too much” and then Zack thinking he’s not good enough for her but then they get back together but like obviously these are reasons for arguments that lead to them making up

what their shared living space is like ( messy? clean? what kind of decor? )

It’s cleaner than one would expect. Decor is a mishmash of “oh that looks cute!” 

what their first christmas / hanukkah / etc as a couple was like

Zack had formally met Breanah’s parents that same holiday so it was a lot of her dad razzing him and Breanah and her mom trying to make it stop.

what their names are in each other’s phones

Breanah has Zack listed as Zack, Zack has Breanah as Bre

if they have any ‘couple traditions’ ( buying a new mug for their collection every year? baking every friday evening? )

They don’t have any ‘couple traditions’

who falls asleep first and who wakes up first

Zack falls asleep first depending on the day but Bre wakes first

who’s the big spoon / little spoon

Zack is usually the big spoon but Breanah will take it sometimes because Zack deserves to be spooned

who hogs the bathroom

Breanah is more likely to, but she usually doesn’t.

who kills the spiders / takes them outside

“Why do you--” Sam’s train of thought is momentarily interrupted by the top of a candle shoved in his face. He dutifully takes a steep inhale, and then pulls his lips down in a show of impartiality--it certainly isn’t the best he’s smelled. “What’s that one called?” 

Mia turns the candle to face him, and he sees why he can’t consider himself smitten: Freshly Baked Cookies--a.k.a., vanilla extract on steroids.

“Why do you need to buy candles, again? In what way does that make your apartment more ‘festive’?”

this is the first time i’ve seen anything abt these wildfires. thank you for bringing it to our attention and in all sincerity thank you for this post. was a convicting read and TRUE and i will do better going forward.

im honestly sorry for coming across extremely aggressive but i feel like that’s all i have now - crying and being aggressive or else no one will pay attention. some international newspapers have been writing about it ON THE DL, it doesn’t really make front page news... THAT SAID it’s totally normal that most people (especially those living outside of southern europe) have no idea of what’s going on (if the information isn’t getting to you, then you can’t be informed PLUS the world is a mess overall and every country as a fuckton of things going on atm - i’m NOT comparing tragedies, i don’t believe in such a thing). 

i wrote that post specifically for those who always reblog (usually) american centered causes + news and yet stay silent when shit happens in countries that get little to no exposure... i follow them, they follow me (on all of my blogs), they’ve seen the shit i’ve posted & they know who they are. 

“reblog for exposure” “pray for them” - i saw this several times on my dash regarding the fires and the drought on california (just an example) ...... not that i needed to though. do you know why? because it was on my non-english speaking non-american tv and newspapers. 

everything that happens in the “popular” countries makes it to the news, the good things the bad things the dumb things....  i just opened the guardian (one of my fav news outlets) and, actually the last time i checked there was not 1 piece of info about the situation in southern europe but now there is a mention to storm ophelia and in small lettering “iberian fires turn uk skies red”.

Send me a ship & prompt for a mini fic

It had been...long enough since Estevan had spent extended one on one time with anybody that wasn't Logan. Sure, he had brief intervals of seeing the others, usually if Stella was desperate for a sitter or the odd moments he'd run into Finnegan at the grocery store. He received even less time with Hazel than the others so an extended car ride, sans Noah, was filled with silence, the radio doing nothing more than to fill the void between them. Este glanced at Hazel, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. His look was met with one of her own and any idea of conversation was nipped in the bud.

Hazel wasn't intimidating by any means, not now that he had gotten used to her. She wasn't his closest friend, probably the most distant at this point but they still were friends. He swallowed, deciding to bite the bullet. If anything, she'd ignore him, maybe scoff at his words. At least he would say it to someone who wasn't Logan or Lizzie.

“I want to really help Logan with Lizzie,” he hesitated before continuing, “I already am, I'm there practically every day...and…” everyone, except probably Logan knew how he felt towards her. His actions alone spoke volumes and thanks to the other three they made sure it never got anywhere.

There was an upside to the group not getting together anymore. Nobody could stop him from hanging out with solely Logan. Perks to a crumbling family.

“And I mean it beyond what you've seen before.” Este didn't bother to see if Hazel was even listening. “Lizzie helps, she's a spitting image of Logan and Logan's working so hard I want to do something to show her how much I appreciate her.” Another hesitation, his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I'm pretty sure I love her.” The last part was quiet, although he was confident Hazel heard him. “Don't say anything to her.”

“Can you pick your head up? It’s one a piece for Christ’s sake.”

The low light of Cassie’s bedside lamp served as the only source of illumination in the room, and it, too, was softened by the shield of the blanket they both laid beneath, protecting them from the outside world.

In the time since they’d become close, this sort of intimacy became common; sharing blankets, sharing food and/or drink, sharing time together doing menial tasks like grocery shopping or doing laundry. It seemed easier than sharing the heavier, weightier things within them, the dark insidious parts of them that had drawn them to the bereavement group and, thus, to each other, in the first place. They knew the basics. They lost a fiance. They lost a child. They lost. It was enough.

Lane, crying, inexplicably–because that was what she did, now–took a shaking exhale, allowing herself the release. Then, on the inhale, she laughed a little, breathless, realizing how ridiculous this entire ordeal was.

“They’re good people,” she said quietly, finally. “They’re nice. They were always nice to me.”

“Because you’re a nice person,” Cassie reasoned, her voice soft.

“But I don’t..I don’t want to keep doing this every year.” Lane’s voice was less certain. “I don’t want to keep remembering and remembering and then reliving and then being sad about him. I don’t think I can.”

They still celebrated his birthday. And, to add insult to that injury, the day of his death became a remembrance day. Because of the way he’d chosen to be buried, they couldn’t all convene at a grave-site, so, naturally, they all convened in his childhood home, where his childhood bedroom, filled with his childhood things, remained. A perpetual time capsule for a person who couldn’t even appreciate it. Lane had played along the last two years because, well, what kind of a bitch almost-wife wouldn’t? But the thought of it drained her, and with its impending arrival Lane felt herself torn.

“Do you think he’d want you to go?” Cassie reasoned pragmatically.

Lane laughed, then, truly and genuinely. “He’d hate it. He wanted to be turned into a tree, for God’s sake. He’d hate all of it.”

Cassie laughed a bit, then, too. “Then don’t go. No one will think any less of you.”

After a beat, she corrected: “I won’t think any less of you.”

Lane reached out beneath the blanket for Cassie’s hand and took it with a furtive squeeze. Whether or not she’d end up going, Cassie’s support notwithstanding, it was just a relief to know that someone supported her at all without pitying her.

Lane sniffled, wiping the last of her tears from her soaked cheeks, and sighed. 

In the south, October is still widely considered an extension of summer.

There are times, Will had to admit, that he longs for the chill of a Michigan winter, the kind he’d get when he visited his grandparents’ as a kid. The chattering cold that seeped into your bones, the way the leaves fell early sometimes and danced through the streets in tiny hurricanes of foliage, the colors, even he had to admit, beautiful. He’d never been east, to see the leaves, but as a kid, his gran had told him about them, promised to take the trip when they could. 

Time has a way of sneaking past you.

The moment it rolled into town, its reputation seemed to have preceded it–everyone had either gone and loved it, mystified by its sights and laughing about its thrills, or longed to. 

Will could not say he was so inclined.

…

His head is resting in his hand, the paper against the steering wheel, when he gets the call: a missing girl. 

Children–teenagers, especially-have a way of disappearing, and Will would be hesitant to admit that his first response wasn’t one of fear or urgency but that of…well, slight indifference. The town grows stifling once you hit a certain age, and high school seems to go on forever, and you ache for nothing more than freedom. To just be out. To just see something other than the island, than it’s people, than the ocean spread for miles and miles, hopelessly endless, a void. Most kids do make it out. Why should he look for them?

But then he gets the details, murky as they are: last seen in the woods surrounding the newest attraction in town. Suspected kidnapping. Daughter of the Wellington’s, the family with the biggest house at the top of the highest hill. For a minute, Will thinks, maybe that’d give her more reason to run.

But it doesn’t sit right, even with him.

He turns over the ignition and heads off to the edge of town.

…

It isn’t what he expected.

For all the clamor surrounding it, the carnival itself–if it can be called that–is decidedly mundane, despite the lavish decor, golds and blacks adorning the tents and displays, the scent of funnel cake smoothing away the unseasonable chill of the night breeze, the sounds of trilling laughter and shrill screams from the ferris wheel carrying through the night air.

Will heads to the booth at the front of the carnival, the ticket seller, and shows his badge in the window. The gi seems unimpressed.

Until he explains what he’s there for.

She comes to her feet quickly, flipping the open signed to read “closed”, eliciting a small chorus of groans from a line Will cut into. Wordlessly, she begins off through the fanfare, and Will understands that he’s to follow her. She stops at a big tent, closed, but illuminated by strings of lights inside, and pushes the cloth to the side to allow her and Will’s entrance; he’s surprised to find the tent nearly completely empty, aside from a desk, some paperwork, a radio, and a cot.

Someone has been living here.

Will feels a familiar prickle trickle it’s way down his arms and legs, adrenaline surging inside him. This is it, he finds himself thinking. This is something.

“Listen,” the woman bites-she is a woman, will can see now, despite the glow of her wide eyes and way she braids her silken hair in a single plait to the side of her face–“I don’t know who you are. And I don’t know what you think you’re doing–”

“I am the sheriff of the chief of police of this town,” he warns her, his voice sharp. “A girl is missing. And if you know something about that–”

The woman interjects just as quickly as Will can take a breath. “I know a hell of a lot about missing girls, Sheriff.”

Her voice is rueful, even wounded. Will’s stomach sinks as she continues: “But this girl isn’t one of them.”

“And I’m not supposed to find that suspicious?”

“find it however you want,” the woman jabs. “I am telling you, I am giving you my word: she isn’t here.”

A stranger’s word, Will has learned, isn’t worth all that much.

But a warrant is.

…

When he returns, she’s awaiting him. Her hand even seems outstretched, as thought she could anticipate what he’d come bearing. They come during the day, when the carnival is closed, and in the light of the early morning, the silken blonde of the woman’s hair is brighter than should be normal, nearly glowing in the fresh sun.

She looks tired.

They find nothing.

…

Still, he returns the next night, and the one after. He watches from his car, exhausted and angry, helpless and hopeless, knowing the girl is somewhere else but unwilling to admit where that somewhere might be. From the ticket booth, the woman watches him, occasionally offering a small wave when patrons aren’t lined up and she can indulge in a moment’s rest. Will, politely, nods.

And so they goes their dance, for weeks.

While the rest of the station scours the town on Will’s command, stakes out the popular teen Hangouts, makes the Wellington’s uncomfortable with the pressure of insistence–are they sure they don’t remember anything? Are they sure she didn’t tell anyone where she might be going?–Will sits, watching the woman in the ticket booth, watching her smile at children and nod politely at adults, and he knows, for what is probably the first time, that her word rings true: the girl isn’t there.

But something is.

…

One evening, she closes the ticket booth to bring him a bag of kettle corn, his favorite, despite her having know ability of knowing. He rolls down the window to the cruiser and she hands it to him wordlessly.

“This could be considered a bribe.” Will admonishes, though a bite of playfulness nips at the edges of his words.

“I don’t need to bribe you,” she murmurs, leaning down. Their eyes are level, now, and Will swallows. “You already trust me.”

Another impossible thing about him that she could own. Another truth he doesn’t want to admit.

He watches her for a moment and, then, she closes the gap between them, entering the small space of the cruiser, her scent filling it as her lips graze Will’s own–frankinscense and lavender, the smell of fire, the crispness of a chilled autumn night. Things that shouldn’t be. Just like this.

…

In the soft glow of the morning light, he watches her breathe, her form moving gently on top of his with the rise and fall of ease, and after what seems like an eternity, she speaks.

“I never wanted to have to keep this up,” she mumbles, her breath soft and hot, ghosting across Will’s chest. “It was my father’s. And his father’s before him. And it’s supposed to be the sons’. The sons run the show.”

Will lowers his nose into her hair. “And what about the daughters?”

Tabitha inhales shakily, and Will tightens his grip around her.

“The daughters run it, now.”

…

All things must come to an end: the investigation, with Jessica Wellington in nearby Biloxi with her boyfriend whose been moved there on leave from the army. The month, the childish euphoria of October giving way to the sensible and soft maturity of the month of November. And, despite Will’s surprise, the carnival, too.

It’s the finality that gets him–one evening, the woods are full, children screaming and laughing, adults chortling at their own low inhibitions, how easy it is to be scared, to feel safe. The next evening, the tents are gone. In their place a single truck. Will hurries from the cruiser to the truck to find a man behind the wheel, one he’s never seen, and when he asks for Tabitha, he is met with only a shrug.