#'and what!?? put a shrimp on the barbie? get out already- ' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hiddentrails7 · 3 years ago

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I just finished p5r for the 7th time, here we go

Sojiro: Have you guys seen Ryuji and Futaba? They haven't finished their cocoa

Ren: No, haven’t seen them since the storm started

Sojiro: Since the sto- RYUJI NO!

Ryuji, standing in the middle of a thunderstorm with an shovel raised high: STRIKE ME DOWN ZEUS, YOU DON’T HAVE THE BALLS

Ren, completely serious: Sir, it has been reported lately that you do, in fact, have little paw-paws and a little button nose. Do you care to comment?

Morgana:

Ren: Riveting

Sojiro, walking in: Am I interrupting something?

Haru: I would die for you.

Makoto: I would die for you too.

Haru, suddenly very emotional: Please don’t

Futaba, in a high voice, holding Barbie: Hey Ken! I was thinking about going back to school and starting a career!

Ren, in a deep voice, holding Ken: Nonsense, Barbie. you’re staying home and having my kids

Sojiro: What the fuck are you guys doing?

Futaba: Playing systemic oppression

Ren: The next time Goro's angry with me, I'll drape him in a cape and say "now you're super angry"

Ren: Maybe he'll laugh, maybe I’ll die.

Ryuji: Why are you so pissed off all the time?

Akechi: *Polls out a scroll*

Akechi: Reason number one out of two thousand four hundred and—

Ryuji: Okay, okay! I get it, there’s a lot.

Akechi: *Smirks before proceeding to roll the scroll up and put it back in his bag*

Ryuji: You just carry that thing with you everywhere?

Akechi: I get asked a lot.

Akechi: Hey, do you like shrimp?

Sojiro: Not really..?

Akechi: Ramen?

Sojiro: Not much.

Akechi: Then you're not gonna like what I did.

Sojiro: What? You made shrimp ramen?

Akechi: No. I fucked your son.

Ryuji: Just before I die, I'm going to swallow a bag of popcorn kernels to make the cremation much more interesting.

Makoto: Okay, but consider this; What if you didn't.

Kidnapper, about Ryuji: We have your friend.

Akechi: Let me speak with him

Kidnapper: Go ahead you’re on speaker

Akechi: Dumbass.

Ren: Goro and Ryuji had a fight once and it went like this:

Ryuji: Anything that comes out of your mouth is fucking stupid!

Akechi: Ryuji Sakamoto.

Ren: To this day, I still laugh out loud in inappropriate settings because I randomly think about it.

Ren: Hostage or not, sometimes it's nice being held.

Some Shadow:

Shadow: Are you okay?

Sae: WHY IS THE BUILDING ON FIRE?

Yusuke: A dragon sneezed.

Ann: I tried to light a cigar with a flame thrower.

Ryuji: Dropped my latest mix tape.

Sae: Ren, please tell me what happened.

[Flashback to Ren and Futaba arguing that it was impossible to light a fire extinguisher on fire]

Ren: Um.

Ren: I don’t remember.

Maruki: On a scale from 1-10, rate your pain.

Akechi: Pi. A minimal but a never ending number.

Maruki: What in the actual-

Ryuji coming up with a frankly terrible idea: I think we should do this.

Yusuke, who somehow got stuck being the voice of reason: No, Futaba, tell him we can't.

Futaba, who was already running the logistics the moment Ryuji opened his mouth: I think your plan is dumb as bricks, but man, do I wanna see where it goes.

Ren, who just wants to see the world burn: If it fails, we'll just blame Ryuji.

Ryuji: Yusuke's in charge, though.

Futaba: Yusuke, then.

Akechi: Ren and I don't have pet names for each other.

Ryuji: What do bees make?

Akechi: ..Honey?

Ryuji:

Ruiji: Huh, really thought that would work

Akechi: Dumbass.

Ren, from another room: yeah?

Ren: What are Ryuji and Ann arguing about this time?

Morgana: They have a bet going about what Akechi is like in bed. Ann thinks she’s secretly really caring, but Ryuji thinks he’s kinky.

Ren: Yeah, he’s both.

Morgana:

Ryuji:

Ann:

Ren:

Ren: I MEAN-

Makoto: Did you seriously bring a butter knife to the Metaverse?!

Ren: You get angry so fast, it was the only weapon I could find on such short notice!

Yusuke: But you know, you have to admit it is BUTTER than nothing.

Makoto:

Ren:

Yusuke: I'm sorry.

Ren: Is it too much to ask to just have a quiet night in? Slippers, tea, a nice movie?

The shadow he's currently got in a headlock: Oh mooooood.

Makoto: For self defense reasons, I’m gonna pretend to be a burglar and you guys have to act wisely.

Yusuke: Okay

Akechi: Sure.

Makoto: If you want to live, give me all your money!

Yusuke: Bold of you to assume I have money.

Akechi: Bold of you to assume I want to live.

Makoto:

Makoto: Really?

Akechi: The path to inner peace begins with four words.

Akechi: NOT. MY. FUCKING. PROBLEM.

Ryuji: You've all heard of elf on the shelf, now get ready for-

Ryuji, placing a pot on Akechi's head: Thot in a pot

Akechi:

Akechi, getting up from his seat: Get ready for a bitch in a ditch because that's where you're gonna find your fucking body, you little-

Makoto: I need you to swear-

Haru: Fuck!

Makoto: Swear as in promise....

Sojiro: Why the hell are there bullet holes in Leblanc?!

Ren: There was a cockroach.

Sojiro: And...?

Futaba: It started flying towards Akechi.

Akechi: I hate you.

Ren: Well, according to this picture Yusuke painted of us having sex, that is untrue

Futaba, swinging from the chandelier: Makoto!!!! Look at me!!!!

Makoto, following Futaba in case she falls: I'm crying- I'm begging. Please, stop.

Futaba, after winning a fight in a palace: It’s like we just cleared a video game on easy.

Makoto: Real combat is NOT like a video game.

Ryuji, in the background: Hey, coins!

Sojiro, sighing tiredly: Futaba, I promise there are no monsters under your bed okay?

Futaba, scoffing: Not monster- MOBster. There is a mobster under my bed.

*Clicking is heard as gun safety is taken off*

Ryuji, pointing a model gun at Sojiro: Ya didn’t see shit.

Sojiro, exasperatedly: Ryuji you have your own house.

Morgana to Haru: Okay, now observe.

Morgana: EVERYONE, The floor is lava!

Ann: *Helps Makoto and Sumire onto the counter*

Futaba: *Pushes Ryuji off the sofa*

Morgana: As you can see, there are two types of people–

Akechi: *Collaspes onto the floor*

Morgana: ....Three-

Makoto: Sophia found out she could sneakily put post-its on people's backs without them knowing

Makoto: But she doesn't know they should say things like 'kick me', so they all just have smiley faces on them

Murderer: *Chasing Ren around Leblanc*

Ren: ALEXA! PLAY THE SCOOBY DOO THEME SONG!

Ryuji: Dude, why the hell is there blood everywhere!?

Yusuke: Well, you see, it's simple color theory-

Futaba: WHO ATE MY CURRY?

Ryuji: Don’t look at me

Futaba: INARI, WAS IT YOU?

Yusuke: *Looks at Sumire*

Sumire:

Yusuke: It was Sumire..

Sumire: YUSUKE YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN´T TELL-

Futaba: Oh, it was you, baby? Was it good? Want some more?

Ryuji: This motherf-

Ann: Would you kiss Yusuke for a million yen?

Ryuji: I guess..?

Ryuji: But, I mean, I don’t really have that kind of money..

Ren: Okay guys, meet your new teammate Hifumi. She gave me two dollars this morning for some reason, so I bought a jelly pouch with it.

Makoto, whispering: Why did you give him two dollars?

Hifumi, whispering back: I thought he was homeless

Morgana: You're losing blood. What's your type?

Ryuji, bleeding out: Blue hair, skinny, broke as fuck-

Morgana: Your blood type, Ryuji.

Ryuji: Oh-

Ryuji:

Ryuji: Red?

Ann: Aw, he's so cute.

Ren: Thanks, he's a rescue.

Akechi: Stop calling me that!

Ren: If I was a famous author, I would publish a book with ten different endings, each of which would print with varying degrees of rarity, but not tell the fans about it so that I could watch their confusion as they disagree over how the story ended. Then, when they figure it out, I would ‘come clean’, telling them that there were actually 11 different endings and watch them scramble to find the last ending.

Futaba: Are you Satan?

Ryuji: I’ll pay you $5 to do that right now.

Ryuji: Dude...

Yusuke: You had your tongue in my mouth 5 minutes ago. Don't you dare call me 'dude'.

Makoto: The game is two truths and one lie. Ren, you go first.

Ren: Okay, my hair is black, my eyes are brown, and last week my boyfriend was driving me to Chipotle and he asked if I wanted to see him drift and corner so I said yes and he drifted onto Angel street.

Makoto: Right idea Ren, but you really have to make it more challenging-

Ryuji: His eyes are black.

Makoto:

Makoto: Goro did what?!

Chihiya: May I read your tarot, sir?

Goro: A fortune teller? Very well, then.

Chihiya:

Chihiya: It just says "Yikes".

Sae: Don't be a smartass, Ren.

Ren: Dumbass it is then.

Ann: Would you rather be proposed to in private or in front of family and friends?

Ren: Private. Because when he gets off his knees, I’m getting on mine.

Akechi: *Chokes on his coffee*

Ren: I am a complex person with complex emotions, like “tired” and “food” and even the rarer third emotion, “gun”.

Makoto: I currently have 7 empty notebooks and I have no clue what to put in them. Suggestions?

Ryuji: Put spaghetti in it.

Makoto: I'm currently taking suggestions from literally anyone but you.

Ren: Put spaghetti in it.

Makoto: I'm currently taking suggestions from anyone but you two.

Futaba: Put spaghetti in it.

Makoto: I am no longer taking suggestions.

Ren: *Slowly reaches for a container at a grocery store labeled Forbidden Rice*

Sojiro, smacking his hand: Can’t you read?!

Sojiro: That’s not funny.

Futaba: I thought it was funny.

Sojiro: You don't count. You started laughing in the middle of a funeral because you started thinking of a meme you saw on Tumblr.

Akechi, to the theives: And if you have any suggestions, feel free to put them in the suggestion box.

Ryuji: But— that’s a trash can.

Akechi: It sure is.

Ren: What if the person who named Walkie Talkies named everything?

Futaba: Pregnancy tests are Maybe Babies

Haru: Socks are Feetie Heaties

Ann: Forks are Stabby Grabbies

Yusuke: Defibrillators are heartie starties

Ryuji: Stamps are lickie stickies

Sumire: Nightmares are Dreamy Screamies

Akechi: I hate it here.

Yusuke, at the hospital: I'm here to see my husband.

Receptionist: And your husband is...?

Yusuke: You must be new here.

Ryuji, down the hall on crutches: Yusuke! *Trips*

Yusuke: That would be the love of my life.

Haru: Every single person you know has something in their life and past that is probably worth collapsing to the ground in an uncontrollably sobbing heap over, so be nice to each other and tell good jokes!

Futaba: Sumire is my...

Ren: come on you can do it

Futaba: Sumire is my g...g...

Ren: You're so close.

Futaba: g-

Futaba: gir-.. g-

Futaba: G-GAY FRIEND

Ren, sighing: Close enough.

Yusuke: Oh, he's handsome.

Ryuji: *Blushes and trips over his own feet when they make eye contact*

Yusuke: A gorgeous loser.

Mishima, after meeting Shinya: Seven-year-olds are the meanest people in the world. They terrify me to this day.

Mishima: If I'm on the street on like, a Friday, at 3 PM and I see a group of elementary-schoolers on the side of the street, I will immediately cross to the other side of the street.

Kidnapper: We have him.

Ren: Who?

Kidnapper, about Akechi: We have your boyfriend.

Ren: Oh.

Kidnapper: "Oh"?

Ren: Yeah, you don't have him. He has you. Good luck

Makoto: You know, not every problem can be solved with a gun.

Akechi: That's why I carry two guns.

Ren, seductively taking off his glasses: Wow... You're... really blurry.

Akechi: Thanks.

Akechi: You really don’t get to choose who you love

Akechi, gesturing at Ren: I would know because I’m stuck liking this guy

Haru: What kind of woman doesn't have an axe?

Makoto: What’s something you guys are better than Akechi at?

Futaba: Mario Kart.

Ren: Cooking.

Haru: Emotional vulnerability.

Ren, trying to create a sense of calm by lighting incense, only to find out that the sticks were actually sparklers:

Ren: This is actually painfully on-brand for me.

Futaba: I wonder what butterflies taste like.

Ren: They taste bad.

Futaba: How do you know that?

Ren: I answered your question. That's all you're getting

Ryuji, trying to ask Yusuke out: Do you eat? I do. Want to do it in the same room sometime?

Ann: Elf on the shelf? How about *Pans to Yusuke in the sink* twink in the sink

#persona 5 #incorrect quotes #akeshu #ryukita #sumitaba #p5 #makoharu

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sammysdewysensitiveeyes · 2 years ago

Note

“Another drink just to pass the time?”

“Don’t mind if I do, Shaw!” Pyro reached out, and managed to clumsily wrap his hand around the glass that Sebastian offered. His hand-eye coordination was not the best at the moment. He and Sebastian were several glasses in to the bottle that Shaw had asked for Pyro’s help in “taste-testing.”

“I gotta say, I never thought we could have a good time together, but I guess the booze helps.” Pyro tossed back a hearty gulp, feeling the pleasant burn travel down his chest.

“We just had to find common ground, obviously,” Sebastian purred. “My tastes may be significantly more refined that yours, Allerdyce, but we both like whiskey. And this particular batch, I intend to sell to a lower economic class than usual. The common man. For that, I need to be sure that this beverage will have mass appeal. And you are the commonest man I know.”

“Well, it ain’t Pappy Van Winkle,” Pyro said, swirling the liquor around in the glass in a show of sophistication, and ignoring a bit that sloshed out onto his leg. “But it’s damn good for the price.” It was good whiskey, and Pyro was in an excellent mood, even in Sebastian’s presence.

“Mmm….perhaps you can write me a few slogans for the sales campaign in Australia.” Sebastian sipped thoughtfully.

“Absolutely! I’ll write you something that we Aussies actually say, none of that ‘Shrimp on the barbie’ nonsense, that – “

Pyro was going to explain the whole history of the phrase, which, in fairness, had actually been part of an Australian tourism campaign, using the word “shrimp” in place of the more authentic-Australian “prawn,” in order not not confuse the American audience. But he was interrupted by a loud crash, and a low, guttural grunt.

“Wha’ wuz that?”

“Nothing, nothing, don’t pay it any mind, Allerdyce. Probably just Shinobi…..playing some video game.”

The grunting was replaced by a shrill hiss, and there was some muffled shouting.

“Just one moment – “ Sebastian held up a finger, and turned away. He dialed a number, and began to speak in a terse undertone to whoever was on the other side.

“What’s goin’ here, Shaw?” Pyro staggered to his feet.

“Sit down, Allerdyce, you’ve had too much to drink. This doesn’t concern you!” Sebastian snapped. But even if Pyro had been inclined to listen (which he never was), he was already stumbling out the cabin door.

On deck, two workmen in coveralls were chasing around a very angry emu, attempting to shoo it back into a wooden crate. Two others were carrying a large piece of eucalyptus with a koala clinging to the branches off the boat and onto the dock.

“Wha’ the hell is going on here?!” Pyro demanded, already lighting up and letting a ball of fire whizz around the deck like an angry bee. It didn’t help with the emu situation at all.

“We’re just loading up the shipment, that’s all! Calm down, buddy!” One of the workers held his hands up pleadingly, while the other dove into the wooden crate to hide.

“What shipment? Those are my animals! You two, get that koala back up here, now!” All of them had been collected from dangerous situations – failing zoos, wild-life hoarders, etc. – and would be delivered to the animal refuge that Nature Girl had started on Krakoa.

“Are you Mr. Sebastian Shaw? Because these animals were sold to Stasis Labs by a Mr. Sebastian Shaw. We’re just picking them up, that’s all! Here’s the paperwork, right here!” The workman held the clipboard out in front of him like a shield.

Pyro didn’t even need to hear the name to know who was responsible, and the man himself appeared on deck behind him.

“Well, I’d hoped to make this easier by occupying your time for the afternoon, Allerdyce, but never mind about that. Oh, do grow up. We can’t support this menagerie onboard the Marauder, I thought we could at least put the animals to good use and make some profit on – “

“Shaaaaaaaw!” Pyro roared, charging towards Sebastian, now fully on fire.

The workman helped his coworker out of the wooden crate, and they locked eyes for a moment. The other two had already fled, leaving the koala contentedly munching leaves on the deck.

“Fuck this, we’re not getting paid enough.”

“There’s not enough money in the world.”

They both jumped off the ship and ran.

OOC: I have to laugh about Pyro talking about “how Australians really speak,” given that writers have given him some of the most ridiculous “Australian” dialogue over the years. Also, in this story, let’s just pretend Nature Girl established an animal sanctuary on Krakoa instead of murdering a bunch of oil workers.

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esterexpsito · 4 years ago

Note

rebelu & 11 + 14 👁👄👁 (also ilu)

11) things you said when you were drunk & 14) things you said after you kissed me // rebelu

Lu has no idea what the fuck she’s doing here. She just knows that she could have thrown a hell of a better party.

Don’t get her wrong, the other people here seem to be enjoying themselves enough. It’s just... off-brand potato chips, really? A keg? She isn’t sure if this is just a standard for college parties or American ones in general, but she has certainly put together something way more worthwhile than what’s going on in this cramped apartment at sixteen years old, and with less than a week’s notice, at that. Fuck, that Valentine’s Party she threw her last year at Las Encinas was classier than this shit, and that was truly a disaster. At least she’s in a penthouse and not one of the dorms on campus. She could shudder with just the thought.

Still. You’d figure someone who lives in a top-floor apartment in Manhattan could go for the brand-name chips—or actual food, honestly. She’s fucking starving.

This brings her back to the question of “what the fuck am I even doing here?” that she had asked herself two minutes ago. Because she could easily be sharing a veggie pizza with Nadia back in their own dorm, or maybe even splitting the leftovers from the meal Iman had made for them when she, Yusuf, and Omar came to visit last week. But no. She’s here. At this random party she’d heard about from a girl in her Economics class who heard about it from a frat boy she’s apparently screwing. And she doesn’t even have Nadia here with her, because Nadia has a quiz on Foreign Policy on Monday that she needs to study for, or else the world is going to end.

(It’s times like this where she misses Carla. Carla would’ve said fuck it, gone out with her tonight, and then probably would have gotten a passable grade, anyway. Not that she’s comparing them or anything. She loves Nadia, of course, she just—fuck. She misses Carla a lot, okay?)

Lu’s at least self-aware enough to not blame how she doesn’t know anybody here solely on Nadia, because even though Nadia was too busy, she decided to come anyway. She just needed a break from everything. From school, from the stupid fucking traumatic memories that still manage to creep in three years after the fact, from the occasional bout of missing her parents. So she decided to take an old page out of her brother’s book. What’s a better way to forget than to drink her problems away?

Of course, the old Valerio would also add in drugs and sex to that cocktail. The new Valerio would still throw in the latter, but substitute the weed and cocaine for self-help books and whatever other Eat-Pray-Love bullshit he’s been on lately. Possibly energy crystals. And incense.

Lu isn’t interested in any of that, though; not even the sex. That leaves her leaning against a wall with a Solo cup full of alcohol and sending intimidating glares to whatever men who have the audacity to approach her. The unimpressed, arched eyebrow and condescending curve to her lips is practiced, and it works.

For the most part.

��Hey, what’s your name?”

He’s bland. That’s what she immediately notes about him. Next, his after shave is way too overpowering, and the type that, in her experience, assholes prefer (Guzmán used to wear a similar scent before she passive aggressively bought him something far better, and the fact that this man instantly reminds her of those days is already a warning sign). After that, he is very, very drunk, which is why her glare hadn’t properly worked on him.

She tries for blatant disregard; gives him a little once over and scoffs. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s a long name,” he slurs with a grin. She rolls her eyes. He leans in closer, arm braced above her head on the wall. Even though she’s in heels, he’s still taller than her, and she hates the caged-in feeling crawling up her spine.

Lu scowls and pushes him away with two fingers against his chest, beginning to step past him. “Excuse me.”

“No, no, hey, wait,” he says, catching her by the wrist. His fingers are clammy. Tight. Hurting. “Where you going? Don’t leave.”

“Don’t fucking touch—”

As soon as she yanks her arm free from his grasp, a foreign one lands on her shoulders. Lu startles in indignation, but she’s also admittedly a little panicked—and then the new person speaks.

“I’ve been looking all over for you, baby.”

It takes Lu a second to register that that sentence is directed to her. And even though she knows exactly what’s going on, even though she’s more than a little thankful for the save, she still instinctively bristles, because she has never once liked the way this woman has called her baby.

Based on the way Rebe crookedly smirks back when Lu narrows her eyes at her, the taller girl remembers.

“Who’s this guy?” She goes on, and nods her head in indication at him. It’s definitely a rhetorical question, because she glances him over and scoffs a mocking laugh. “Get lost, dude. She’s not interested.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Her girlfriend.” Lu doesn’t twitch, but she does feel the skin around her eyes go tight. “So, like I said, beat it.”

“There’s no way a girl this hot is—”

Lu knows from experience what Rebe looks like when she wants to hit someone.

But Lu is not a damsel in distress, thank you very much. And neither is she that brutish.

“If it hasn’t been obvious since the moment you walked up to me, I want nothing to do with your little shrimp dick,” she replies, tone even and unaffected where her smile is deep-cutting and mean. For added measure, she leans into Rebe’s side and grasps the hand that’s hanging over her shoulder, pulling her arm tighter around her. “Now walk away unless you want to lose it.”

He’s drunk, and therefore, unpredictable. He could drop it and leave just as easily as he could get violent—which, considering he’s an intoxicated man who just had his penis insulted, is probably the more viable option. But before he can act, another guy claps his hand on the guy’s shoulder tight enough to unmistakably be a warning, and then shoulders his way between the three of them with a wide smile directed at both of the girls.

“Hey, don’t mind him, he’s trashed.” The guy behind him opens his mouth. The newcomer fixes him with a glare that clearly means shut up, then smiles at Rebe and Lu again. “Sorry. We’re all good here, yeah?”

Rebe looks to Lu for confirmation. When she nods, the taller girl nods too, and offers him a controlled smile of her own. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Without another word, the guy manhandles his friend away.

“I’m not gonna lie, I was kind of looking forward to beating his face in,” Rebe says as they watch them disappear into the crowd.

The words are said almost directly into Lu’s ear, and it’s then that she belatedly realizes how the other girl is still holding her. Lu makes a face before she can help it and sucks her teeth, shoving Rebe’s arm off of her and immediately putting space between them even though she was the one who had leaned further in. For show. Obviously.

She fights the urge to fix her dress—there’s nothing to fix.

Rebe just looks her over in that amused way she does. Or did, because it’s been three years since Lu last saw her.

“Well, fuck, you’re welcome,” Rebe continues unaffectedly.

“What are you even doing here?”

The girl shrugs. “It’s a Friday night, this is a party...”

“You know what I mean,” Lu counters, annoyed. Rebe is supposed to be in Spain. Or, at least, not in New York.

“I’m taking a gap year.”

Lu half-squints at her. “You graduated two years ago.”

“So, two gap years, whatever,” Rebe says. “I’ve been traveling on-and-off. I’d never been to America before. Los Angeles was first; kind of frilly. Vegas; fun for one night, then boring. New York’s my last stop before I head back home.”

Lu regards her for a moment. “Did Nadia send you here?”

If she did and didn’t even have the decency to tag along, Lu might have to reevaluate just how much she loves the other girl.

“Nadia doesn’t even know I’m in town yet.” It’s sort of driving Lu crazy how Rebe won’t stop eyeing her, even though she’s well-aware that looking at someone is typically what you do when you’re talking to them. But with Rebe, it’s always gotten a little under her skin. “Anyway. It was nice seeing you and all, Barbie.”

Rebe starts to turn away from her.

Before she even realizes it, Lu’s reaching out and touching her elbow.

“Wait.” She hates how unsure she sounds, so she raises her chin a little with her next words, even if they really don’t warrant the movement. “You’re the only person I know here.”

“And?” Rebe prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“And,” Lu continues, tone begrudging, “from what I remember, you’re not the worst person to party with.”

Rebe stares. Then a slow smirk spreads across her purple-painted lips, and she resignedly shakes her head at herself.

“Fucking hell, I’m definitely going to regret this. But,” and she steps closer again, close enough to peer down into the cup still clutched in Lu’s hand, and Lu hopes to God that she doesn’t see how her fingers tighten around the plastic, just a little bit, “What are you drinking?”

Almost four rum and cokes later, Lu is nearly as wasted as the shrimp-dick had been. Under any other circumstances, this would mean that her plan to forget is going off without a hitch—except she’s with Rebe. And Rebe is a fixture from her past, and all that entails.

Meaning, it’s impossible to avoid talking about at least some of it.

“You keep in contact with anyone? You know, besides the obvious.”

They’re in some random person’s bedroom; the first vacant one they could find after drunkenly stumbling their way down the hall, legs shaky from a combination of laughter and dancing for the past hour. The door they had opened before this one led to another bedroom occupied by two girls making out on the bed.

At Rebe’s question, Lu purses her lips at the ceiling.

“Carla, mostly. But through text or FaceTime, we haven’t really actually seen each other.”

“Ah. And how’s the little marchioness doing, these days?”

“Don’t you talk to Samu?”

“Do you ask Nadia about Guzmán?”

It’s not like she and Guzmán are on bad terms, or that she’s bitter about how him and her current best friend-slash-roommate are tentatively together. Definitely not. She just likes to forget the fact that she actually had dated him, hurt over him, and hurt others over him, too. However—

“Fair point,” she concedes. “Carla’s fine. Busy. Do you actually care?”

“I don’t hold grudges, you know?” Rebe shrugs against the mattress. “That’s your thing, babe.”

The pet names. They haven’t stopped at all, even though there’s no drunken asshole here to keep up pretenses for. She blames the fact that they aren’t irritating her as much as they normally (used to) do on the rum.

“If you think I haven’t changed at all over the years, you’re severely underestimating me.”

“I have never underestimated you,” Rebe scoffs. “Besides, you haven’t changed that much. You’re still fun—you know, in that bitchy sort of way.”

Lu resists the urge to playfully slap her on the shoulder. “You thought I was fun?”

“When you weren’t trying so hard to be stuck up, sure,” Rebe says. “You can’t be related to Valerio and be boring at the same time.”

“He could have gotten that from his mom’s side,” Lu says neutrally, eyeing her.

“Nah. There’s something in you that’s a little wild. And no matter how much time you spend taming it, you like when it gets out.”

The thing about rum is that it has always made Lu extremely reckless, which is why she has, in turn, always stayed away from it.

The thing about Rebe is that she’s right.

Lu has no idea what’s going on in her head as she curls her fingers against Rebe’s jawline and pulls at the same time as she leans forward and eliminates the gap between them. Maybe she’s still thinking about those two girls just one room over, maybe she’s remembering all the times in school when she would find herself both pissed off and weirdly turned on by her and Rebe’s little cat fights. Maybe she’s scratching an itch that part of her has known has always been there from the moment they met, buried beneath jealousy and so much fucking repression towards her own sexuality, it’s no wonder she never acted on it sooner.

The kiss is reminiscent of almost all of their previous interactions with one another. Aggressive, sly, vaguely mean. But there’s something different—there’s the softness of Rebe’s skin, the lingering taste of mint in her mouth even though she’s had just as much to drink as Lu has, the way she drags her hand down Lu’s side and flexes her fingers against the sequins of her dress.

All of that sort of freaks her out for a little bit, and Lu has half a mind to put them back on normal ground by biting her lip, but then Rebe pulls back. She’s looking at her in that infuriating way again, that way that Lu doesn’t really hate as much as she pretends she does.

Lu realizes it’s a look full of equal parts calculation and consideration. In spite of her background, the friends—Samu—she likes to keep, and everything Lu has ever said about her, Rebe isn’t actually stupid.

Stupid has never been Lu’s type. She likes...

Well, she likes brutish. The push-and-pull. And she and Rebe have always been great at that.

“Shit, maybe you have changed, after all,” Rebe comments, smirking at her, and Lu has no idea why the fuck she sounds so smug.

She kisses her again instead of trying to figure it out.

#I LOVE UUUUU HOPE YOU LIKE IT #answered

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vogelmeister · 5 years ago

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I am bored and I feel like making the fact that I am not from America a personality trait

So here is Buzzfeed’s 21 Questions America Has For Australia

Why is your money so colourful?

Why is yours green. I love looking in my wallet, seeing yellow and knowing I have $50

Also, why is it made out of plastic?

To make it harder to destroy and copy I think. I actually learnt why but it was in 2011 and god knows if i remember

Did you really put kangaroos on your coins?

YES! and it’s on our emblem too!

Wait, you eat them?

I have probably eaten it twice in my life but yes, you can eat it. I remember it being quite nice too, and apparently its good for you.

That being said, the one time we ate it was when we legit had a German exchange student so.....

And we also had PRAWNS as well, and explained no one here says shrimp on the barbie

Is ANYTHING available in your country?

No. Absolutely nothing. We are but a baron wasteland of non availability.

(of course stuff is available here)

You guys ever hear of shirts?

HAVE YOU SEEN HOW HOT IT GETS IN SUMMER!? But real talk aside yes, we have heard of shirts and we will wear them in winter. It gets cold here too. We do have snowy mountains. Further, my hometown reaches 50 in summer and 10 in winter so like...

How much bagged wine do you people drink?!

I have personally, never had a goon sack but like i know people who do drink it a bit. I don’t feel qualified to answer this tbh

Have you ever made it through a sentence without swearing?

On the regular.

What’s with the Celsius? Who do you think you are? England?

get the FUCK off your high horse America. You guys are LEGIT the only people that use Fahrenheit. And yes, we are still part of the commonwealth so it kinda makes sense that we have those British influences

Why are your pharmacies called chemists? And why don’t they sell beer?

I actually don’t know. But I think it would be irresponsible to sell beer with medicine, don’t you?

How are you this bad at baseball? (And why do you call it cricket?)

I am Australian. I have played baseball (well softball, which is the female version) for PSSA sport in primary school. I was bad at it. I have also played cricket. I sucked at it, too. They are two different sports. See how in Cricket there are stumps, which aren’t used in baseball, and the bat is long and flat unlike, well, the baseball bat. That should be a giveaway.

Why do you call ketchup “tomato sauce”? (And charge for it?)

We are straightforward people. It is tomato, as a sauce.

Why do you call Burger King “Hungry Jack’s”? (And breakfast “brekky”?)

About brekky- we shorten everything. Arvo, servo, Scomo- you name it. About Hungry Jacks, there was a lawsuit when they tried to open here because a tiny shop somewhere already was called burger king and refused to change it.

Why are your large pizzas the size of our personal pizzas?

Why are your large pizzas a feast for the entire nation? Thats what I wanna say.

Why are your pies filled with meat instead of fruit?

OK OK OK HOLD UP! MEAT PIES ARE A NATIONAL TREASURE

How is “high” your SECOND-LOWEST fire danger rating?

Lemme give you vogelmeister science from someone who dropped science in Year 10. When it is hot and dry, things are more likely to catch on fire. And guess what Australia is? A HOT AND DRY NATION.

THERE WAS LEGIT A DROUGHT. A PICTURE OF MY HOMETOWN IN 2019 vs 2020 ONLY PROVES HOW DRY AUSTRALIA CAN GET WHEN THERE IS NO RAIN.

We also have bushfire seasons most summer but ya’ll only seemed to care this year

Why is this something you’re proud of?! Get out of there! (the picture is saying there are 200 species of spider here btw)

*SHIVERS* let us have this one thing.

Why do your pigeons look like this? (picture of a bin chicken)

That is not a pigeon. Thats a bin chicken. And we hate them. (We have pigeons in Australia)

And how is the one creature that CAN’T kill you outlawed? (rabbits)

To protect our unique wildlife. Rabbits literally were introduced and are pests to the wildlife here and we wanna protect our natural wildlife.

And seriously, what’s the deal with Vegemite?

Ok. I don’t like vegemite. It’s not my favourite thing. And I will get kicked out of Australia for that.

But you’re eating it wrong. It should not be spooned out like nutella, but rather spread thinly as possible and you have it with butter.

i am actually feeling quite patriotic now.

#australia #australians of tumblr #australian memes

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calumcest · 5 years ago

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i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter two

[ao3]

here we are...look at me posting on a regular schedule who ever said i was chaotic!

@tirednotflirting i will not stop thanking you on every single chapter get ready to get incredibly bored of hearing me thank you and say how nice it is to have you on the doc because i’m saying it twice for every chapter once here and once on ao3 which actually has just reminded me to put the ao3 link on this chapter see it’s actually super useful. ao3 link inserted i love you i adore you and i cannot thank you enough for the amount of bullshit you put up with from me both generally and regarding this fic especially

me posting this fic is just please enjoy my downwards spiral (and listen to britpop)

Predictably, Noel doesn’t piss himself. He also doesn’t aim a punch at Calum when he finds out about the bet, though, which is his way of saying hope you’re alright. Instead, he just cuffs Liam upside the head, calls all of them pricks, and announces he’s going to bed. Liam rolls his eyes and calls him a boring cunt, which earns him another clip around the ear, but not two minutes after Noel and Bonehead have filed out of the room, Liam’s yawning and saying that he might turn in too. Calum, not wanting to be left in the living room on his own during a comedown, follows him out, listening to Liam mutter something about Tony and firing him because he’s almost as much of a boring cunt as Noel all the way up to their room.

Liam crashes almost as soon as they get in, passing out fully-clothed on his bed, and, as Calum’s trying to carefully pick his way through the debris littering the floor from his bed to the ensuite to brush his teeth, he trips over something that makes him stub his toe against the wardrobe and swear under his breath. He winces, gripping his toe as he looks for the offending object on the floor to give it an angry kick, and finds-

The magazine.

The magazine. The one he’d nicked from the dental surgery, the one Liam had nearly got in a fight over, all because of one tiny, glossy picture of Michael Clifford. He hasn’t looked at it since that day, too sober and too busy being yelled at every single minute of the day by Noel for playing too rough, or playing too clean, or playing at all. He hasn’t wanted to, either, hasn’t wanted to be confronted with the evidence that Michael’s carried on living without him, that he’s not that same seventeen year old boy that Calum had left behind in Sydney Airport half a decade ago.

That’s not to say he’s forgotten about it, though. Far from it - even in his pretty-much-permanently inebriated state, the little picture of Michael, stubble and all, has been playing around in the background of most of his thoughts. It’s easier to ignore when he’s with the others, when Noel’s snapping at him or screaming at Liam, when Bonehead’s rolling his eyes and passing him another joint, when Tony’s muttering about how Noel expects far too much of him, when Mark’s chivvying all of them to get up and get in the fucking studio, don’t they know they’re paying two thousand quid a day for this shit? It’s easier to focus on snapping at Noel, on stepping back from the brothers and leaving them to it, on taking a long toke from the joint, on ignoring Tony while whole-heartedly agreeing with him, on rolling his eyes as he shuffles into the live room and picks up his bass. He doesn’t have to think too hard, then, doesn’t have to let his thoughts stray from the here and now back to being seventeen and sun-kissed and in love.

Now, though, on his own, teetering on the brink of a comedown but still pleasantly drunk, Liam passed out and snoring gently on the bed a few feet away, Calum’s got nothing tying him down. There’s nothing for him to ground himself in, no stern, suspiciously-Noel-sounding voice in his mind telling him to stay fucking focused, or he’ll get a clip round the ear.

So, before he’s even really thought about it, Calum leans down and picks the magazine up, flipping straight to the page with the little picture of Michael on.

Even though he’s prepared this time, even though he knows he’s going to see Michael, older and broader and taller, his stomach still starts its best impersonation of a fucking Olympics tryout when his eyes find Michael at the bottom of the page. Christ. It’s like looking at someone Calum had seen every day for years at a train station, or maybe in a dream; he’s instantly recognisable but doesn’t quite match up to the mental image Calum’s got of him, lips a little plumper and eyes a little darker than Calum had expected. He looks like a mixture of someone so fucking familiar to Calum - the way he’s got his hands tucked in his pockets and his head tilted back a little - and someone Calum’s never met before, with the way his eyes are dark and almost hungry, the way his lashes are lowered slightly, the way he’s holding himself with such an air of confidence.

Calum sits down on the edge of his bed, disgusting taste in his mouth forgotten as he flips back to the first page of the article and starts to read. Mike, the singer calls him. Mike Clifford. It’s fucking ridiculous. Michael had always hated being called Mike, would always use his last vestiges of energy to lift his head from the toilet and protest weakly whenever Calum called him Mikey. The only time Calum had ever actually got away with calling him Mikey was when he was stroking his hair and Michael was crying into his chest, drunk and stoned and fucking miserable about Calum moving to the UK.

Mike’s our secret weapon, the singer (Damon, as Calum’s reminded) says, with an ‘air of confidence’, apparently. Calum briefly wonders what he means by that as his eyes flit to the next paragraph, mind lagging a few seconds behind. What kind of a war does he think they’re fighting?

Of course we’re a British band, Damon comments later on. We sing about British life, British experiences. Mike’s not penning songs about kangaroos and shrimps on barbies, is he? And anyway, he can outdrink the lot of us, which is what really matters. Are these really the best questions NME can come up with? Calum can’t help the way his lips twitch at that. That, at least, sounds like Michael.

It was serendipity, I think, Damon ‘muses’ a few paragraphs later, according to the journalist. We were looking for a second guitarist, and Mike had just moved over. He was living with Graham - he knew him through a friend from Sydney - and when Graham mentioned that he thought his band might need a second guitarist, Mike mentioned he could play.

It never came up in conversation before? the journalist asks, and Damon apparently ‘smiles wryly’.

That’s Mike for you, he allegedly says, with a shrug, and Calum feels a strange, hollow tug at his heart. Yeah. That is Michael. Anyway, he came along to a practice session and gelled perfectly with the rest of us. In fact, he brought some new ideas, a breath of fresh air that I think we needed. You know, the rest of us are four lads from the south who all grew up in similar circumstances and listened to similar music. I think we needed the different perspective.

That’s all Damon says about Michael. It leaves a sort of sour taste in Calum’s mouth - although, in fairness, that might just be the aftertaste of vomit - because this ‘Mike’ doesn’t sound like Michael, doesn’t feel like Calum’s- well. Whatever Michael ever was to him.

They’d never actually spoken about it. There had never been a conversation, an are you my boyfriend now, then, or what? They’d just both known - I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s all that matters. It had made it easier, Calum thinks, for him to justify it to himself when he got caught up in his new life, when Liam’s bright blue eyes started swimming in front of Michael’s sea-green ones, when harsh cackles were dubbed over soft laughter, when loud and brash northern accents started taking up more of his thoughts than gentle Australian twangs. We weren’t actually together, he’d told himself, every time he saw a letter in the post and his stomach twisted with guilt. You don’t owe him anything.

In fairness, it hadn’t just been him. Michael’s letters had stopped coming once a week, started coming once a fortnight, and then once a month. But it was Calum’s responses that got ever shorter, from pages and pages to a few half-hearted sentences, because Liam would often barge in halfway through and demand he comes down to the Boardwalk with him right fucking now, and it got harder and harder to justify to himself why he was giving up spending time with one of his best mates to write letters to a boy whose middle name he’d already started to forget. And it was Calum who had seen one last letter from Michael, tossed it on his desk to read later, and then forgotten about it until it was too late and his mum had already thrown it out. He’d barely cared, at the time, because Liam had crashed into his room, Calum’s mum tutting loudly at him from downstairs, and announced that he’d joined a band and they were the best band in the fucking world, and Calum should fucking join, and when Noel got back from tour he’d definitely join too, and they’d be the fucking second coming of the Beatles.

The guy staring at him from the picture, older and more confident, doesn’t seem like the same guy who’d sent Calum all those letters, telling him I miss you. I’m saving up to fly over to the UK. We’ll be together again, in a year or two. Don’t forget about me. It feels like there are two of him - Calum’s version, Michael, the boy who’d blink at Calum through dark, inky lashes and press soft kisses along his jawline, and this Blur version, Mike, the guy who stares back at Calum almost defiantly, like he’s daring him to keep looking.

Calum’s not sure whether it’s the drink or the drugs or whether it really is Michael, five years older and having grown into himself and built up a life without Calum, that’s making his stomach twist and turn and his heart sink like this. Or maybe it’s the guilt, all the love and regrets that Calum’s pushed down over the years and paved over with bricks of Liam and Noel and music, that’s stopping him from being able to tear his gaze away from the little Michael on the page, looking like he knows Calum’s eyes are glued to him.

Calum shifts, and in the near-silence of the room he hears something crinkle in his back pocket, and he frowns, lifting his hips up and fishing a messily-folded piece of paper out. He unfolds it, wondering whether he’s left a receipt or something in there, and finds two scrawled lines of text.

Noel’s lyrics.

It was serendipity, I think, the singer had said in the article, and Calum finds himself thinking the same thing as he stares down at the mostly-empty sheet of paper. Maybe this is supposed to mean something, he thinks. Probably just that his jeans are in desperate need of a wash.

There’s a guitar propped up next to Liam’s bed, one he’s been messing around on in what he says is boredom but Calum knows is an attempt to write something that Noel will throw a kind word or two at, and Calum’s grabbing it and setting it on his lap before he’s even really thought about it. He’s not a songwriter, never has been - he’s always wondered how the fuck Noel can retreat into a back room and come out half an hour later with a song like Supersonic - but right now, lyrics on one thigh, picture of Michael on the other, the words and the notes feel like they’re bursting to get out of his mind and down on paper.

Not for the first time, Calum’s glad Liam’s a deep sleeper, so he doesn’t have to lock himself in the too-big, too-empty living room to write. There’s something comforting about Liam’s presence, something that reminds Calum that he’s not alone, his deep breathing the thin line that ties Calum’s old life to his new life. Calum breathes along with him for a moment, a little drunkenly, like he’s trying to let as much of Liam as possible seep into his veins, maybe hoping he can absorb Liam’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and brash courage enough to get the words out without buckling under their weight.

There’s a pen on his bedside table, and he reaches over for it, uncaps it, holds it in his teeth, and starts to strum, humming along to the melody he’s had in his head since reading Noel’s lyrics. It only takes him a few minutes to find the right chord sequence, shifting into a key he knows Liam’ll be able to sing, because Calum knows he won’t be able to sing this himself. It needs a layer of removal, something that Calum can place between himself and the song and look at without having to look any further.

There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me There we were now here we are All this confusion nothing’s the same to me

I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear What I heard is not what I hear I can see the signs but they’re not very clear

So I can’t tell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me I can’t sell you the way I feel Because the way I feel is oh so new to me

This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, am I confusing you? This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you

The words almost seem to write themselves, ink on the page before Calum’s inebriated mind has even had time to think. Noel’s words slot in flawlessly as a chorus, the perfect contrast to Calum’s muddled, drunken musings, and it only takes about twenty minutes before the whole song’s done, every chord written, every word penned. And, to Calum’s surprise, it sounds really fucking good.

He sits back, fingers stilling on the strings, and stares down at the sheet of paper. The words look hasty, rushed, a little crooked, and Noel’s going to have questions about the shakiness of the letters, but that’s a problem for a later Calum.

He reads over it again while he’s still drunk enough to allow himself to, knowing he’ll hate it in the morning, and then puts the pen down to the paper again to write a title.

Confusion. No, that doesn’t sound right. It’s too vague, too impersonal. New to me. No, that’s a cop-out. Then and Now. No, that won’t be obvious enough.

And that’s it, Calum thinks, swallowing thickly. He wants it to be obvious. He wants Michael, and only Michael, to know that it’s about him, for him.

(“How will you know it’s me?” Calum remembers asking urgently one night, standing in the hallway on the phone to Michael, who had just called to mutter that he’s grounded, not allowed out, Calum needs to sneak in and make sure he makes it obvious that it’s him and not Luke or Ashton or else Michael won’t open his window. Apparently Luke, the sly little bastard, has taken to telling Michael it's Calum so Michael opens up for him.

“Say it’s- um-” Michael’s breaking up, and Calum clutches the phone closer to his ear like it’s going to make him any more audible.

“Say what?”

“Column-”

“Say it’s Column?” Calum’s incensed. “Michael, d’you fucking know how to pronounce my name?”

“Fucking- Columbia,” he makes out, and then the line goes dead.)

Calum only hesitates for a split second, enough for the tiny scrap of him that’s still sober tell him this is a terrible idea, and then the alcohol in his blood barges in, shouldering the remnant of his rational side out of the way and telling him do it, what the fuck have you got to lose? It’s a fucking great idea.

Yeah, Calum thinks wildly, as his pen touches the paper again. Fuck it. Michael probably won’t hear it, anyway.

Columbia.

-------

Calum plans to keep the song to himself, to sit on it and tell himself he’s agonising over whether or not to show Noel when he knows full well he’s got absolutely no intention of doing so, but, as though he can read Calum’s fucking mind, Noel corners him at lunchtime the next day.

“So,” he says, blocking Calum’s path out of the kitchen as Liam trails after Tony in the direction of the live room, complaining loudly that if he has to eat one more fucking ham and cheese sandwich he’s going to burn the fucking kitchen down. “That song. What’d you do to it?”

“What song?” Calum says, momentarily stumped. They’ve just been recording Slide Away, and Calum’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked anything up so far. In fact, he’s absolutely fucking certain he hasn’t, because if Noel’s stopping them mid-recording to shout at Tony to tighten his floor tom then he’d definitely have thrown a fit over Calum playing a wrong note, or a fraction of a second too fast, or whatever.

“You know,” Noel says. “The one. From the other night.” He’s acting a little sketchy about it, a little guarded, and that’s what makes it click - oh. That song. The one Noel had been writing on his own in the kitchen at fucking five in the morning, and Calum had finished off at about three last night, drunk out of his mind.

“Oh,” Calum says, and he feels his expression shift into something just as evasive as Noel’s. “Uh. Yeah. I wrote something.”

“Well, let’s fucking hear it, then,” Noel says. Calum hesitates.

“Not in front of everyone else,” he says, because he knows the guitars are all in the live room, and by the time it’s cleared out Noel might have forgotten about the song altogether. Noel raises an eyebrow, but nods.

“My room,” he says.

“Now?” Calum says, looking down at his sandwich. “Can’t I fucking eat?”

“Now,” Noel confirms. “We’re on a tight fucking schedule, Cal.”

“Didn’t stop you spending half of Tuesday fucking off your head,” Calum shoots back. Noel just flips him off, like that’s a fucking answer, and walks out of the kitchen, presumably to fetch a guitar. Calum sighs, stomach sinking, because he hasn’t looked at the lyrics since he wrote them but he has a slightly hazy memory of knowing he’d hate them sober. He’s far too fucking hungover to stomach the fight that’s going to ensue if he refuses to play it to Noel, though, so he just sighs again, deep and resigned, shoves half the sandwich in his mouth and heads up to his room to pick up the sheet of paper with the lyrics and chords on.

Noel’s already in his room when Calum pushes the door open a little too roughly, perched on the edge of his bed, and he holds out his second-favourite acoustic guitar by the neck for Calum to take. Calum does, yanks it out of his hands to tell him I don’t fucking like that you’re making me do this without having to say it - not that Noel will care either way - and sits down on Bonehead’s bed, pulling the guitar into his lap and smoothing the sheet of paper in front of him so he won’t have to look at Noel.

“Right,” he says, and he can hear the nervousness in his own voice. “Don’t fucking laugh.”

“Won’t if it’s not worth laughing at,” Noel promises, which is as good as Calum’s going to get from him. He swallows, positions his fingers, and starts to play.

It sounds horrible, he thinks, as he’s playing. He has to try not to wince, because his voice cracks on the words as they drip with the kind of raw honesty that only a song written about his sort-of ex at three in the fucking morning, drunk and halfway between a high and a comedown, can summon. It’s too much for him, hearing his own voice sing the words that he doesn’t want to admit that he means, overwhelms him with the way it makes his heart clench in his chest to hear himself say nothing’s the same to me, and he has to stop before he can reach the end, stilling the strings and shrugging at Noel a little tensely.

“You get the gist,” he says. Noel blinks at him. He’s not laughing.

“That’s going on the album,” he says. Calum stares at him.

“You’re taking the piss,” he says flatly.

“D’you think I’d fucking take the piss about kicking one of my songs off the album to make room for yours? ” Noel says, and, yeah, that’s a good point.

“Well, I’m not singing it,” Calum says, before Noel gets any ideas. He’s not putting that out there, him singing a fucking half-love song for Michael. He'd have to be on every drug in the world to even get all the way through it.

“Why not?” Noel says.

“Can’t.”

“You fucking can. Just did.”

“I’m not fucking singing it, Noel.” Noel purses his lips, looking like he’s weighing up starting a fight with both Calum, who’s very clearly chosen this hill to die on, and Liam, who can’t stand feeling like a spare part, versus relenting and getting something he might not like as much musically but won’t potentially end in a trip to the hospital.

“It won’t sound as good,” he says, sounding annoyed, but that’s a concession from him.

“I’m arsed,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, hard, eyes flitting across every crevice of Calum’s face like he’s trying to find the weak link, and then he leans back with a sigh.

“You sound dead fucking British,” is all he says, a little too calmly for the conversation they've just had, and Calum feels like there’s something more to it that he should be able to pick out but can’t quite discern from the careful guardedness that fronts it.

“Been here five years, haven’t I?” he shoots back, feeling like he’s on the back foot, somehow.

“Wouldn’t even know you were Australian if you weren’t such a lightweight,” Noel says, and Calum rolls his eyes.

“Fuck off,” he says. “I could outdrink all five-two of you any day, Irish blood and all.” Noel flips him off, but his eyes still look far too calculating for Calum’s liking.

“You know Blur have an Australian guitarist?” he says, and Calum can see from the shrewd look in Noel’s eyes that that’s it, that’s what he’s been leading up to, and Calum’s stomach bottoms out.

“Oh?” he says, trying to straddle the line between interested enough and uninterested enough. There’s no way Noel can know, he tells himself, as his heart rate picks up. Calum’s never mentioned any of his mates back home to Noel before, let alone mentioned Michael. And even if he did, there’s no reason to make that assumption. Noel doesn’t even know Calum dates guys, and only knows he fucks them because of one night three years ago that neither of them speak about.

“Mm,” Noel hums. “He’s from Sydney.” He doesn’t say anything else, states it like it’s just an interesting tidbit of information, but the implication is clear. Maybe you know him. A challenge, or maybe a test.

“So’s a quarter of Australia,” Calum says, pleased with how cool and collected he sounds. Noel cocks his head.

“Weird, though, isn’t it?” he says. “What’re the odds?”

“Since when are you all fucking superstitious?” Calum asks. Noel shrugs.

“Just think it’s a strange coincidence,” he says lightly. “Two British bands with Australian members, fighting to be number one.”

“Who’s fighting to be number one?” Calum says. “We haven’t even released a single.”

“Yeah, but anything we release’ll be better than their shite,” Noel says derisively, eyes narrowing, and Calum exhales quietly, because it means the moment’s passed. “Girls who like boys who do boys, or whatever. Fucking shite.” Calum rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, like ‘I’m feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic’ is any better,” he says, and Noel scowls and kicks at Calum’s shin.

“Just you fucking wait,” Noel says, and it sounds like a fucking threat, like Calum’s going to be held personally responsible if Supersonic doesn’t go to number one. Which, knowing Noel, is a distinct possibility.

“I’ll fucking wait,” Calum tells him, setting the guitar aside.

“Eeyar, what d’you think you’re doing with that?” Noel says, nodding at the guitar. “If you don’t want to sing it, you’ll have to play it to our kid.” The thought makes Calum’s stomach clench. He never wants to sing the fucking song ever again. In fact, he wishes he'd never sung it to Noel in the first place, wishes he'd just dealt with the taunts and jeers that would have come from Noel if he'd thought Calum hadn't been able to get a song down. It'd still be more bearable than having to listen to his own drunken, honest thoughts spilling from his sober lips.

“You really want to put it on the fucking album?” he says, and he can’t help the note of doubt that creeps into his tone. It's a good song, yeah - really fucking good, actually - but is it as good as Noel's?

“It’s good,” Noel says, which, from Noel, might as well be a declaration that it belonged on the White Album.

“Not as good as yours,” Calum says. Noel fixes him with a stare, a really, don’t you fucking dare make me say it’s better than one of mine kind of stare, and Calum sighs. It is a good song - it’s definitely better than Cloudburst, might even be better than Sad Song - but he’s not sure he can go through playing it to Liam, Bonehead and Tony. Playing it to Noel was fucking bad enough.

“Play it to our kid,” Noel says again, like he can read the exact thoughts behind Calum’s stricken expression. “I’ll sort out parts for Tony and Bonehead.”

Calum loves him.

-------

(Liam frowns at him when he trails off halfway through the bridge.

“That’s fucking mega, that is,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match his words.

“Cheers,” Calum says, and swallows thickly. Liam doesn’t say anything else, even though Calum can tell from the way his fingers are twitching that he wants to, just hesitates and then sighs and pulls Calum into a tight hug.)

-------

They finish recording the album in mid-March. It’s their second attempt, and it still sounds wrong, so their record label, in one last-ditch attempt to save it, send it off to Owen Morris for mixing.

Noel’s progressed beyond irate and lashing out at any and all of them for fucking up his precious album to complete despondence, retreating into himself, sitting staring silently out of the car window as they get driven back up to Manchester, not even rising to the bait when Bonehead threatens to steal his Sergeant Pepper vinyl. In the strange, symbiotic way that the brothers have - or maybe just because they’d shared a room for sixteen years and Liam had been at the receiving end of enough of Noel’s tantrums to know how to cope with them - Liam seems to know exactly what Noel needs. He sits close to him, throws an arm around him, pulls him in so Noel’s head is resting on Liam’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything, carries on normal conversation with the rest of them with a slight edge to his tone, like he’s challenging any of them to fucking comment on the state Noel’s in. They all know better than that, of course. Anyone who’s spent more than thirty seconds in either of the Gallaghers’ presence would know better than that.

When they get back to Manchester, predictably dull and drizzling slightly, they all head off in their separate directions; Liam and Noel to Noel’s flat, Bonehead to the flat he shares with his girlfriend, Tony back to his parents’ house. Calum, too, heads back to the boring little two-up two-down he’s spent the past five years in.

“You look a state,” is how his mum greets him when he drags his bags out of the car and up the garden path. She holds her arms out for a hug and Calum hesitates for a moment - he knows he reeks of last night’s alcohol with maybe a pinch of stale weed added to the mix - but she gives him a stern look and he relents, wrapping his arms around her and inhaling the familiar scent of home-cooking and books.

“You smell terrible,” she says disapprovingly, when he pulls away. Calum shrugs.

“I’ll shower when I get in,” he says.

“You’ll fix the wall first,” she says, and Calum sighs. Not the fucking wall.

“Not the fucking wall,” he mutters, and his mum tuts at him, but steps aside to let him into the house.

“Your dad’s outside already,” she says, as Calum drops his bags next to the stairs.

“He’s not tried to do anything to the wall, has he?” Calum says, because if his dad’s had anything to do with it, Calum’s going to have his work cut out for him.

“He said he was just going to take a look,” his mum says, and Calum swears under his breath and heads for the back door. His dad has never quite grasped that ‘just taking a look’ doesn’t require prodding and poking and, on one memorable occasion, a blowtorch.

As Calum had expected, his dad is frowning at a section of collapsed wall, a mortar board piled high with badly-mixed mortar in one hand and a brick trowel in the other.

“Fucking hell, dad,” Calum says, jogging up and snatching the mortar board out of his hands, making his dad whip around in surprise.

“Hello to you too,” he says mildly. “How was Cornwall?”

“Great,” Calum says, and takes a step back so his dad won’t smell the booze on him. “What the fuck are you doing to the wall?”

“I saved the bricks that fell out,” his dad, gesturing at a haphazard pile a few metres away. “I was going to use those to fix it.”

“Not with this, you weren’t,” Calum says, brandishing the mortar. “I’ll mix some more tomorrow. And you can’t be laying bricks in the rain.” His dad looks up at the sky.

“It’s just drizzle,” he says.

“It’s enough,” Calum says. His dad looks at him for a moment, wavering between son, if I say the wall needs fixing the wall needs fixing and you do actually know what you’re doing, before sighing and holding his hands up in defeat.

“Fine,” he says. “But your mum will have my balls if it’s not done first thing tomorrow.”

“She’ll have your balls if you do it in the rain and it falls apart again in three weeks, too,” Calum tells him.

“At least I’ll get three extra weeks with my balls, then,” his dad says as they make their way back inside, and Calum snorts.

“That was quick,” he hears his mum shout from the kitchen, a little reprovingly, as Calum sets the mortar board down on the table. He’ll deal with it later.

“It’s raining,” Calum shouts back.

“It’s what?” his mum calls, turning down the upbeat, almost disco song playing on the radio.

“It’s raining,” Calum repeats. “Can’t lay bricks in the rain.”

“It’s only drizzling.”

“D’you want to go and fucking do it, then?” Calum says, exasperated, and his mum pops her head out of the kitchen with a frown.

“Calum,” she reprimands, and he sighs. He needs to fucking shower, and then sleep for about seven years until his liver’s had a chance to process at least half of the shit he’s ingested over the past few weeks.

“Sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m going to go and shower.” His mum nods, and her head disappears again, and he hears the radio turn up again. The song’s finishing up, something about how it always should be someone you really love, and Calum finds himself nodding along as he heads for the stairs and picks up his bags. It’s catchy, he thinks, and not like anything he’s heard in a while. Maybe he should recommend it to Noel; he could do with nicking ideas off someone other than Paul McCartney once in a while.

“And that was Blur, with Girls and Boys,” the radio host announces as the song starts to fade out, and Calum’s fingers slip in the handle of the bag in his right hand, causing it to fall on his foot. He curses under his breath, trying to think about the pain rather than the way his heart’s skipped a beat.

“Calum?” his mum calls from the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, mum, sorry,” he shouts back, wincing and flexing his foot, steadying himself on the banister with his now-free hand as he tries to listen to the radio over the pounding in his ears. Another song’s started now, though, and Calum shakes himself out of it, picking up the bag and heading up the stairs to have an excuse for his racing heart and heavy breathing.

It feels fucking weird, he thinks, dumping his bags on the floor of his room and throwing himself down on the bed, to have heard Michael without hearing him. He would have paid more attention to the song if he’d known he was listening to Michael’s fingers pick out those notes. He can still hear the riff in his mind, bouncing around as it tries to find its way out but enclosed in a bubble of Michael like a good portion of Calum’s thoughts have been for the past few weeks. It doesn’t feel quite right, though, Michael’s guitar playing on Calum’s radio in Manchester. It feels like Mike, not Michael, and the thought makes him feel a little queasy.

He rolls over, staring at the blank wall in front of him as he waits for his heart to slow down. Always should be someone you really love, the guy - what was it, Damon? - had sung. It feels like a fucking joke, now, leaves a bitter taste in Calum’s mouth that that line is the first he’s heard of Michael in five fucking years. It’s like the universe is just having its way with him and laughing about it.

(It was serendipity, I think, Damon had said in the article, but Calum tries not to let the idea cross his mind.)

-------

Supersonic is, in fact, as Liam and Noel crow at least five times a day, fucking mega.

The single comes out in early April, when they’re in Middlesbrough, or maybe Stoke, or maybe Leeds - somewhere northern, cold, wet, and miserable. It’s played on the radio a few times, and it makes something warm spread from Calum’s heart to his toes every time he can pick out his own bass, every time he hears Noel’s lazy solo, Liam’s gravelly drawl, Bonehead’s overdriven chords. Even Tony’s drumming makes him grin, giddy on the high that’s him, them, him and his three best mates (and Tony) coming together to create something that, fuck whatever the charts say, sounds fucking good. It’s raw and it’s rough around the edges and it’s melodic and it’s dirty, and it’s ‘fucking rock ‘n’ roll’ if Liam ever gets half a second to comment on it, but, more than all of that, it’s them and Calum loves it.

It doesn’t do amazingly, but none of them even care, because they know it’s good. Noel’s already busy arguing with Marcus at the record label about whether Shakermaker or Live Forever should be the next single, shouting at him on the phone whenever they get somewhere with a payphone. The tour’s going well, too; there’s not been a venue they haven’t sold out yet, and the crowd actually know all the songs, now, screaming out the words whenever Liam takes a break for a swig of beer.

They’re playing Glastonbury in June, which Noel seems to think is the fucking be all and end all of their entire career despite the fact that they’ve released one album. He’s taken it upon himself to ensure that every waking minute that they’re not playing shows or off their heads on whatever substances they’ve been able to put up their noses is spent with him telling them in minute detail exactly how he’s going to skin them alive if they miss one more beat or hit the wrong string one more time. Even Liam isn’t safe, despite his lack of a proper instrument, after missing one of the higher notes in Supersonic one night in Liverpool. Calum’s never believed in God, but he thinks the fact that he was rooming with Tony and the brothers were rooming with each other that night, screaming at each other out of Calum's earshot, might be evidence of divine intervention.

Further potential evidence for the existence of God comes in the form of an invitation to an awards show to be held in early June, which is the only thing that could possibly have appeased Noel. It doesn’t stop him shouting at Liam for fucking breathing, or whatever it happens to be that hour, but it placates him enough to keep the band together, which is what matters. He starts writing like crazy, and by late May already has six songs that he claims are good enough for their second album, and Calum’s floored when Noel rips the curtain to his bunk open one night and shoves an unfinished song at him with a look on his face that says if you fucking tell anyone about this, I’ll have your balls. I’ll fucking have them.

(“D’you think me growing up in Australia brings a different perspective to the band?” Calum had asked the previous day, thinking of the interview he’d read with Damon, and Noel had snorted, not even looking up from his guitar.

“Do I fuck,” he’d said. “I’m the fucking genius here. Why, ‘s someone been telling you you’re important? Do I need to remind you that you barely even play an instrument?” Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, but it settles his stomach a little to know that Noel's not giving him the songs because of some abstract musical perspective, but because of his talent. And, maybe, because Noel might just be a little fond of him.)

The awards show isn’t anything huge, not NME or anyone that Liam thinks matters, but Noel tells them that it’s the principle, that the fact that they’re being nominated for awards is what counts, and that they’ll fucking well show up. Liam still looks like he’s going to argue about it, probably just because his instinct to do the opposite of whatever Noel tells him overrides even his survival instinct, but he grudgingly agrees to go when Calum reminds him about all the free alcohol that’s sure to be there.

The ceremony’s much bigger than Calum had expected, held in a theatre that’s had the stalls cleared out to make room for tables for artists and their teams to sit at. They’re shown to a table on the far right of the room, and Calum sees names like Elastica and Björk on the tables they pass on their way, which makes him think that this might actually be a bigger deal than they’d thought it was. Their table is tucked away in a corner, which Calum thinks probably isn’t a good sign, but can’t bring himself to care that much about when he sees the three bottles of champagne waiting for them.

They’re tipsy before the show’s even begun, barely even noticing the room filling behind them as they call for more champagne, grinning and yelling at each other across the table as they all think fuck me, we’re really doing this, then? Even Noel somehow manages to dislodge the stick from his arse and laugh along when Liam starts heckling every single act that wins an award. It’s just fucking fun, Calum thinks, watching Noel and Liam put their arms around each other and yell the lyrics to Creep as Radiohead win an award, changing out half of the words for increasingly creative variants of words for certain parts of the male anatomy. It’s just a good fucking time with his best mates.

Liam’s so caught up in the heckling, yelling rubbish! Fucking rubbish! before the winners have even been announced, and they’re all so caught up in laughing at him that they don’t even realise they’ve won an award until Marcus glares at them pointedly, and they realise that the reason they suddenly can’t see properly is because there’s a spotlight on them.

“Best live act!” Noel shouts, grinning, and Calum shoots up and out of his seat and is hugging Noel and Bonehead, jumping up and down, before he can even think about it. Best live act, fucking hell.

“Rubbish!” Liam’s yelling, sounding absolutely irate. “Fucking rubbi- oh, that’s us.” He stands up calmly, flashing Marcus a winning smile as he walks past on his way to the stage, and the rest of them follow in his wake.

“Best fucking live act,” Noel repeats, like he can’t quite believe it. Their first fucking award. "That's all me, that is."

“You wanker, you’re rubbish,” Liam tells him, as they jog up the stairs onto the stage. “You can’t even play the guitar.” Noel cuffs him upside the head, but he’s still grinning, and Liam grins back at him as they walk over to accept their awards, shake a lot of sweaty hands, and make their acceptance speech.

“Right, then, who’s first then?” Liam says, leaning into the microphone and pulling his sunglasses down to survey the crowd. “It’s gotta be you there with that weird haircut. How many haircuts you got there, four?” He leans back as the crowd laughs, looking deadpan, but Calum can see the way his lips twitch as he soaks up the laughter and smattering of applause. Calum shakes his head, grinning, and looks out at the sea of faces looking back at him, trying to really absorb the moment, anchor himself so he’ll remember it tomorrow despite the champagne. There are a few people he recognises, which feels fucking insane - that’s fucking Robbie Williams, over there, presumably sat with the rest of the blokes from Take That whose names he doesn’t know, and he thinks he can make out the singer of Radiohead in the corner, and there’s the frontwoman of Elastica, and next to her is that Damon guy from Blur, and-

Oh, fuck.

Noel’s moved on to speaking now, a little more seriously than Liam - which isn’t saying much given that he’s currently in the middle of thanking himself for being such a genius and writing such impeccable songs - but the words are washing over Calum as his eyes flit to Damon’s left, taking in the moody-looking dark-haired guy and the ginger guy, and then to his right, a dark-haired guy in glasses and-

And Michael.

Calum thinks his legs might fucking give out. Staring back at him, eyes wide and jaw clenched, is Michael. Michael Clifford. His Michael. Fucking hell.

In the bright lights, Calum can see the tension in Michael’s shoulders, the way he’s sort of hunched into himself, sort of sat up straight, like he’s ready for a fight. He can see the shock on Michael’s face, the underlying hurt and pain in the twist of his lips, the way his fist is clenched on the table. He looks nothing like Calum had ever envisioned when imagining them reuniting, no carefree laughter and bright, joyful eyes. Calum’s sure he doesn’t look much better, lips slightly parted in surprise, pure horror written all over his face, but he can’t bring himself to care when Michael’s right there, in front of him, five years older and five years prettier, making Calum’s heart skip and race like it’s singlehandedly trying to win the fucking World Acrobatics Championship of 1994.

Liam’s taken the mic back off Noel to add a quick thank you to the people who voted for them, and then Noel’s clapping him on the back as they walk offstage, but Calum’s rooted to the fucking spot, can’t take his eyes off Michael. Neither of them are blinking, and as the lights sweep from the audience to them Calum almost loses Michael in the darkness, just sees the slight gleaming of his eyes, still fixed on Calum.

“Fucking come on,” Noel nigh-on shouts in his ear, startling Calum out of it, and his feet unstick themselves as Noel puts his hand on the small of Calum’s back, guiding him off the stage. Calum tears his gaze away, looks down at his feet so he won’t trip down the stairs, and by the time he’s got to the bottom and is looking out into the sea of faces again, he’s lost Michael. He searches in vain all the way back to their table, trying to map out just how far to the right the Blur table is from the Oasis one based on where it had been in relation to the stage, but then Liam’s in front of him, waving an award in his face and grinning inanely, and Calum’s line of sight is blocked by Bonehead jumping on Liam’s back, and Noel’s shouting something at the three of them through a smile, and Calum’s being forced into his seat.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Liam carries on heckling every act that gets up on stage, waving his award around over his head like it’ll somehow further his point, and Noel almost cries laughing at the sight of him until Liam’s fingers slip and the trophy goes flying and hits Noel smack in the face. Even that isn’t enough to get more than the ghost of a smile out of Calum, whose stomach is still twisting, eyes still flitting across the crowd, breath still catching every time a new award is announced just in case Michael will have to walk past their table, traipse up the stairs to their right, look down at Calum from the stage. Blur don’t win anything, though, much to the brothers’ delight, and as soon as they realise it’s winding down Liam’s saying something about an afterparty and trying to get up and leave before the ceremony’s officially ended. Tony grabs his arm and pulls him back down, mutters something about taking photos that both Noel and Liam scoff at, but one look from their management is enough to keep the two of them in their seats, albeit with glowers and grumbles.

The hosts close the awards in the most long-winded way Calum’s ever seen, and then they’re being ushered into some back room to take photos along with all the other acts. Noel and Liam are drunker than Calum’s seen them in months, shouting and laughing and throwing their arms around each other and pressing kisses to anyone who dares walk within five metres of them, and, seeing how irritated the rest of the acts and the photographer are at their antics, they ramp it up, yelling and screaming and singing until everyone’s shooting them filthy looks and Calum’s almost managing a proper smile. His eyes have been roaming the room since they got in, looking past the miserable looking bloke from Radiohead because he thought he’d seen a flash of blonde that had turned out to be Robbie Williams’ terrible haircut, but either Blur have already been and gone or they’re still hanging around outside.

“Cal,” Liam shouts, and then Calum’s being pulled into a headlock - quite a fucking feat, actually, because it’s Noel doing the headlocking, and he’s a good half-foot shorter than Calum. “What d'you reckon, eh? Best band on the fucking planet!”

“Don’t think that was quite what they said,” Calum says, and Noel ruffles his hair before letting him go, just enough that Calum can stand up straight, and wrapping an arm around Calum’s waist. Calum leans into it, a little unsteady from the alcohol and Michael, relishing the comfort of a steady anchor to counter the way he feels so fucking unbalanced from seeing Michael in the flesh again after five years.

“You’ve got to read between the lines , Cal,” Liam says earnestly. “They might not’ve said it, but it’s what they meant.”

“Eeyar,” Noel says suddenly, grinning wickedly. “Is that who I think it is?” Liam twists, following Noel’s gaze, and Calum does the same, turning to the door and finding-

“‘S fucking Dermot All-bran!” Liam crows, cackling gleefully as Damon’s eyes flit to the three of them. He smiles, pretty and polite, and heads in their direction, and as he comes through the door with the woman from Elastica in tow, four more people file in behind him - ginger guy, moody guy, glasses guy, and, to the detriment of Calum’s heartbeat, Michael.

“Congratulations,” Damon calls, nodding at the award in Liam’s hand. He’s almost reached them, and the rest of his band are trailing behind him, and Calum’s heart is beating so fucking fast and loud that he can barely hear Liam screaming next to him over the pounding in his ears as he watches Michael get closer and closer, carefully avoiding Calum’s burning gaze.

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Fucking best band in the world, we are. Real rock ‘n’ roll stars. Not like you posh fucking wankers.” The guy in glasses behind Damon rolls his eyes, and something that looks like irritation flashes across Damon’s face, but Calum barely cares.

Michael’s still not looking at him, all of three feet away, and Calum’s skin is fucking crawling, itching with the desire to reach out and touch him, to force him to look at Calum, to slot their fingers and their legs and their lips together again, just to see if they still fit. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk all that champagne.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” the tall guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Alex. This is Graham-” glasses guy, who nods tightly, “-and Dave-” ginger guy, who holds up a hand in an awkward wave, “-and you know Damon. And our resident Australian, Mike.”

“Looks like a cunt,” Liam remarks, and Calum vaguely registers Noel and Bonehead laughing next to him, loud and giddy and a little spiteful.

“Ours is better than yours, anyway,” Noel says, arm tightening around Calum, somewhere between defensive and proud. Damon raises an eyebrow, a definite challenge in his eyes now.

“Is that so?” he says, and in the two years since Calum last heard him speak he’s forgotten how different his speaking voice is to how he sings, eloquent and deep and rich. It’s a secondary thought, though, because Calum’s still staring at Michael, willing him to take his eyes off Damon and look at Calum for just one fucking second, but Michael’s face remains carefully blank, and the closest he gets to looking at Calum is sending Liam a scornful glance.

“Aye, ‘course it is, you prick,” Liam says, brash and careless, and Damon turns to Calum.

“Calum, isn’t it?” he says. Calum tears his gaze away from Michael for a moment, enough to see the way Damon’s holding himself, and that whatever Calum says next is going to form Damon’s entire opinion of him.

“Yeah,” Calum says, aiming for bold and confident to match Liam, because that’s where his loyalties lie now, and hopes no one else can hear how dry his throat is.

“Didn’t you have a mate in Sydney called Calum?” Damon says, almost idly, turning to Michael. “Was he the one that moved to the UK?” Calum watches the line of Michael’s throat as he swallows, and tries not to superimpose the bruises his lips had left there the night before he’d left Australia for the first and last time on top of it.

“Yeah,” he says, and Calum’s heart fucking splinters at the sound of his voice. Even in that one syllable, he can hear his Michael, the same tone and sound and depth, but there’s a new edge to it, something slower and more controlled than the wild seventeen-year-old Calum had left behind. The years without Calum have added a gloss to him, a new confidence in his voice and his expression and how he holds himself, and Calum just wants Michael to fucking look at him.

Fuck it, he thinks - or maybe the champagne thinks for him - and he swallows.

“Hey, Michael,” he says quietly, and all hell breaks loose.

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chapter three

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #i actually have some TIME tonight to chat i will be back #thats a threat i will be returning #my laptop is like freaking out at the number of tabs i have open right now but what am i supposed to do close them?#absolutely not #theres also a huge insect in my room and i have to wait for it to leave the door or i'm trapped in my room #none of these tags are antyhing to do with the fic i'm sorry i'm just stream of consciousness in here #ignore me my brain is malfunctioning #i hope everyone is doing well i miss being active here i'm so fucking BUSY atm #but come friday i will be back for good #Back for good by take that is a banger #okay i'm seriously going to shut up now please read my breakdown

13 notes · View notes

mynachopaper · 4 years ago

Note

Heyo...I’d like you to answer all of the weird questions that say a lot please...😇🖤

That’s very naughty of you. I expect payment when I’m done...

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Wine glasses. I love their shape

2. chocolate bars or lollipops?

Chocolate

3. bubblegum or cotton candy?

Bubble gum, I like the oral fixation

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you?

Wierd, creepy, creative. “He needs to find an outlet or have a beating”- My arabic teacher

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

Glass bottles

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?

Tomboy

7. earbuds or headphones?

Headphones

8. movies or tv shows?

Both

9. favorite smell in the summer?

river in the cedar forest

10. game you were best at in p.e.?

Fencing

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day?

Nothing (sometimes fruit if I need to)

12. name of your favorite playlist?

SHmood

13. lanyard or key ring?

key ring

14. favorite non-chocolate candy?

Turkish delights

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

Simon versus the Homosapien agenda

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

Legs to my chest on a chair

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

My trainers

18. ideal weather?

Thunder and rain

19. sleeping position?

Curled up on my side

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

Notebook but laptops are great for convenience

21. obsession from childhood?

Horror stories and or occult (Yes I cringe too)

22. role model?

Don’t have one

23. strange habits?

I like to practice voices and movements (mostly for DnD) anywhere. Shopping, cooking, with the cat. normally I’m on my own but I’ve been caught a few times.

24. favorite crystal?

Obsidian

25. first song you remember hearing?

Wide, wide as the ocean- My dad sang it to me as a kid

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather?

Swimming

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather?

Bonfire jumping (used to do it with the scout kids)

28. five songs to describe you?

Fall into me- Alev Lenz

Rush- I am waiting for you last summer

Smile- Nat King Cole

Limb to limb- Fatal

Kiss breakdown- Micheal Brook (Perks of being a wallflower soundtrack)

29. best way to bond with you?

Discuss your passions and your fears. Other than that, play silly games with me.

30. places that you find sacred?

Anywhere that is deemed so.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names?

My pajamas (honestly no idea)

32. top five favorite vines?

Don’t have favourites.

33. most used phrase in your phone?

I love you to the moon and back.

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

I have adblock so I don’t hear enough for them to get stuck. Maybe the old spice commercial.

35. average time you fall asleep?

12-1am

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing?

The orly owl

37. suitcase or duffel bag?

Duffel bag

38. lemonade or tea?

lemonade

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie?

Lemon meringue pie (obviously)

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

Nothing too weird. We did have a slew of dead birds that were killed and placed in weird positions. They were claimed to be omens.

The culprit was never caught. But I did have an old journal where I kept notes on them. I lost it in the move though..

41. last person you texted?

My online friend in the uk

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets?

Jacket pockets

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket?

Hoodie, I need the soft

44. favorite scent for soap?

sandalwood

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero?

Fantasy, DnD for life

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in?

Shirt and underwear

47. favorite type of cheese?

Brie

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

Orange

49. what saying or quote do you live by?

Already answered

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have?

When my friend and I got stuck in traffic so we listened to the John Mulaney story about the salt and pepper diner. Afterward we actually made the playlist and listened to it. We died, the song got to us and we lost our minds.

51. current stresses?

My Father being ok back home. Me not finishing uni. Breaking my promise to my friends back home of making something of myself.

52. favorite font?

Bree Serif

53. what is the current state of your hands?

Their ok, quite dexterous. My nails have grown out too

54. what did you learn from your first job?

People take production for granted. The public opinion of a show means little. The entertainment industry is weaker than everyone treats it.

55. favorite fairy tale?

The Bloody Chamber

Book by Angela Carter

56. favorite tradition?

Our family does breakfast in bed for the birthday person

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome?

Self harm, the invasion of my country, getting out of my old life.

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

I improvise well, I remain calm in an emergency, and am often the first to act. I have good emotional skills. I will always find a way, though it often comes at great cost.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be?

After someone tells me I can’t do something “HAVE YOU MET ME?!”

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

Probably Shonen. Love me some JoJoBA

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.?

Yeah, I stayed. I stayed, because every time you threw a brick at my head, or said I smelled, it *hurt*; but it could never hurt more than every day of my life just being *me*! I *stayed* because I thought, if anyone can change me, can make me... *not* me, it was you! - Kung Fu Panda

62. seven characters you relate to?

Tarzan-Stich-Quisimodo-Ginger (From Chicken run)- Po (Kung fu Panda)- Mulan (Yes really)- Charlie (Perks of being a wallflower)

63. five songs that would play in your club?

Shut up and dance with me- Walk the moon

Suzy- Caravan Palace

Rocket Fuel feat. De La Soul - DJ Shadow

Come with me now - KONGOS

Dance with me tonight - Olly Murs

64. favorite website from your childhood?

Miniclip

65. any permanent scars?

Some on my arms and a large one on my forearm

66. favorite flower(s)?

I’m a cliche, I love roses

67. good luck charms?

My Celtic ring and my pride pin

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

It was chocolate shrimp in Sanfrancisco. Fad food with an abhorrent mixture.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned?

Spiders don’t kill every prey that falls into their web. Sometimes they just wrap them up and let them squirm helpessly.

70. left or right handed?

Right, unless eating

71. least favorite pattern?

Uh... not sure

72. worst subject?

Maths

73. favorite weird flavor combo?

Fries and Icecream

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen?

75. when did you lose your first tooth?

I was 5

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)?

Baked potatoes, especially with Sour cream and garlic

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill?

A succulent?

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store?

Sushi from grocery

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver��s license photo?

School Id (not by much though)

80. earth tones or jewel tones?

Jewel tones

81. fireflies or lightning bugs?

Fireflies

82. pc or console?

83. writing or drawing?

Writing, though I wish I could draw

84. podcasts or talk radio?

Podcasts

84. barbie or polly pocket?

Neither

85. fairy tales or mythology?

Mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes?

87. your greatest fear?

That I had no impact on anything

88. your greatest wish?

To gain the power to change the world

89. who would you put before everyone else?

The one I love. A partner (If we had a child then it falls to them)

90. luckiest mistake?

When I had an accident at work over my selfharm wounds. Some metal staging scraped against my arm.

91. boxes or bags?

Bags

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights?

Fairylights

93. nicknames?

Teddy, Monster, Quis

94. favorite season?

Winter

95. favorite app on your phone?

Reddit is fun

96. desktop background?

My current Pfp

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized?

2 My parents

98. favorite historical era?

Don’t really have a favourite

9 notes · View notes

prettyboy-parker · 6 years ago

Photo

come with me and escape

words: 4k

warnings: cheating, underage drinking, fem!peter, daddy kink (always), semi degradation, unprotected sex

author’s note: happy summer! I’m feeling really summer-y right now, so this was the perfect way to get those vibes out! as with most dark/taboo themes that I write about, I do not condone cheating in real life. It is used as a plot device/conflict in the story. Happy reading!

listen to while reading:

Escape (The Piña Colada Song)- Rupert Holmes

Does Your Mother Know- ABBA

Santeria- Sublime

Doin’ Time (Cover)- Lana Del Rey

Tony has a hard time relaxing.

Pepper tells him this constantly. They’ll be sitting outside, sipping on some cucumber water, watching Morgan put on her own one-woman play, and Pepper will point out how hard he’s holding his glass. His dentist tells him that he grinds and clenches his teeth in his sleep, he’s getting sick more easily, and he’s lashing out at Pepper.

He assumes the stress is from work, since the launch of the new Stark Phone X is coming up. Or, it could be how his marriage is falling apart. He’s definitely fallen out of love with Pepper. She’s still his best friend, of course, but they don’t romantically love each other anymore. Tony would file for divorce, but his company would take a huge hit.

And he doesn’t want to do that to Morgan.

So, when Pepper announces that they’re taking a family trip to an all-inclusive resort somewhere in Bali, Tony knows he’s not going to be able to relax. He’ll most likely be worrying about his own work while worrying about Pepper’s work the entire time. Also, a 5 year old and a day long plane ride sound like a recipe for disaster.

Tony fully expects his stress levels to multiply by 10.

Tony was wrong.

When he stepped off that god-damned plane, it was like all his worries were brushed off of his shoulders. Pepper definitely looked happy, the salty Bali air raising her mood. Morgan was just ecstatic to be off the plane.

Pepper is in such a good mood that she actually is letting him drink.

“I’ll get a strawberry daiquiri,” Tony tells the bartender, a young woman with dark skin who looks a little too enthusiastic for her job. She hustles off to make the drink, when,

“Everything sucks. I can’t tan. I only burn.”

There’s a gorgeous young man leaning over the bar, plump, pink lips formed in a pout. His damp, chestnut brown hair is pushed back by the Ray Bans perched on his head. His long eyelashes flutter as he looks at Tony, big, brown, doe eyes peering at him as he cocks his head to the side. His pert ass is sticking out, contained in the shortest red bathing suit bottoms Tony has ever seen. A sheer red coverup is draped over his long, milky arms, leaving little to the imagination.

“Why don’t you just get a spray tan?” Tony manages to stutter out, pushing his own sunglasses on top of his head. He wishes he lived in a world where his biggest problem was that he couldn’t tan.

The boy bites his lip and lets out a little giggle.

Tony wishes hecould bite those lips.

“As if!” He exclaims, “I don’t want to look like an orange.” The boy hoists himself up onto one of the bar stools.

The bartender puts Tony’s drink down in front of him and he gives her his resort card.

“That’s fair. Don’t lay in the sun all day, though, if you know you burn.” Tony tell him, taking a sip of his drink.

“That’s very thoughtful,” The boy says, then turns to the bartender.

“Could I get a Shirley Temple, please?” He asks, tapping his fucking French manicurednails on the countertop.

“Not old enough to drink?” Tony asks teasingly.

He rolls his eyes.

“Not legally,” He winks, “Will be in a year.”

Tony smirks at the boy.

“You’re 20?”

“On the nose. It kind of sucks, because I’m not really into guys my age.”

Tony only gets a moment to process what the boy said because Morgan comes bounding up to the two.

“Daddy! Mommy said you’d come watch me on the slide.” She squeals, pulling on the bottom of his swim shorts.

His chances with the boy are totally gone.

On the slim chance the boy didn’t know who Tony was, he definitely doesn’t want to get with someone who’s married and has a kid.

“Did she? She’s crazy.” Tony jokes, leaning down to put Morgan on his lap. He brushes a wet strand of hair out of her face, trying to avoid poking her eye.

“Hi!” Morgan exclaims, waving her pudgy hand wildly at the boy. Tony should be a good dad and tell her not to talk to strangers, but he wants any excuse to keep talking to the boy.

“Hi!” The boy says, waving back at her.

“What’s your name?” Morgan giggles, swinging her little legs donned with pink crocs.

“Peter.” Peter responds, taking a sip of his drink.

Being the child she is, Morgan doesn’t respond.

“Daddy, can you come watch me on the slide now?” She asks, reaching up to tug on Tony’s ear.

“Ouch! And yes, I’ll come watch you.” Tony tells her, putting her on the ground gently. Tony stands up and takes her tiny hand in his, which is already outstretched.

“Bye Peter!”

Peter waves goodbye and winks at Tony.

Yeah, he has to see the kid again.

***

The next time he, or should he say they, see Peter again is at dinner.

Pepper is exhausted because Morgan is complaining about the smell of the seafood and how yucky shrimp is. Tony just wants to go to the bar alone.

While Tony and Pepper try to eat their food, Morgan’s head snaps up from where she’s sulking.

“Peter!” She shrieks, Pepper promptly shushing her. Tony turns around and there’s his boy, swiftly approaching. He’s dressed in tiny, high waisted black shorts and a red Hawaiian shirt that has the top 4 buttons undone. Peter’s face is practically glowing and as he gets closer Tony can see that his shirt has dogs riding fucking surfboards on it.

“Hey Morgan!” He says as he stops at the edge of their table, curls bouncing from his stride over.

Pepper gives Tony a look that says who the fuck is this kid and why does he know my daughter?

“Pepper, this is Peter. We talked for a bit at the bar earlier. Morgan introduced herself.” Tony tells her with a forced smile, wanting to look at the boy instead.

“Oh, you made a friend, Morgan?” Pepper turns to their daughter, who nods furiously, whipping her unruly brown hair around.

“You have a very polite daughter, Mrs. Stark.” Peter says, practically beaming.

What a charmer.

Pepper takes a breath, surprised.

“Why thank you. We try to raise her well.”

Peter giggles and bites his lip.

“You’re definitely doing something right! I have to go eat now, I’ll see you all later!” Peter waves goodbye and trots off to the other side of the restaurant, hips swaying.

“Sweet boy.” Pepper mutters through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah. Sweet boy.”

***

If there is a god out there, he must like Tony.

Because Pepper ends up with food poisoning.

She starts throwing up around 2 in the morning. Google tells Tony that she’s going to be bedridden for a couple of days.

Perfect.

After breakfast, Tony promises Morgan that they’ll spend all day at the pool. She’s ecstatic, jumping up and down. Tony shushes her and helps her get ready for the day.

Peter finds him relaxing on one of the pool chairs, watching Morgan play with her mermaid Barbie doll.

“Tony,” Peter purrs, the older man almost dropping his drink in surprise.

“Peter, hey,” Tony responds, adjusting himself in his chair.

Peter perches himself at the edge of the lounge chair, extending his long legs and crossing his ankles. He’s chosen black swim shorts today, paired with a sheer black coverup embroidered with roses.

“You’ve got your sunscreen on?” Peter asks, hand resting very close to Tony’s leg.

Tony chuckles at the thoughtfulness.

“No, I’ve got this umbrella.” He says, gesturing to the big tan umbrella over them.

Peter gasps, reaching for the spray can of sunscreen next to the chair.

“You still need sunscreen, silly goose.” Peter scolds, spraying Tony’s legs. He can only swallow thickly as Peter takes his dainty hands and rubs the sunscreen in. Tony tries to tear his eyes away as the boy’s hands rub up his thighs. Peter sprays more on his chest and arms, hands massaging the liquid into his skin. He quickly pushes Tony’s sunglasses onto the top of his head, spraying the sunscreen directly into his hands. Tony almost loses it when he starts putting sunscreen on his face, ridiculously soft hands cupping his rough cheek.

“There.” Peter says, wiping his hands on his on thighs.

“Thanks.” Tony manages to choke out, adjusting his swim trunks.

“Anytime,” Peter giggles, standing up.

“Hey, why don’t you sit down? Hang out for a little bit?” Tony offers, gesturing to the empty lounge chair next to him.

Peter rolls his eyes and smiles, climbing onto the chair. He sighs as he leans back, closing his eyes.

“This is my favorite spot.” He tells Tony, keeping his eyes closed.

“What, you come here often?” Tony laughs, shaking his head.

Peter opens his eyes and turns his head, grinning.

“My dad owns the place.”

“Shit, really?” Tony says, surprised.

Peter lets out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah. I’m down here quite a bit in the summer.” He says nonchalantly, picking at the bed of his nail.

“Where are you usually?” Tony asks, taking a sip of his water.

“Massachusetts. I go to MIT.”

Tony smiles.

“No way! That’s where I went.”

Peter cocks his head to the side.

“I know.” He says. He bites his lip and brushes stray curl out of his face. His cheeks are dusted with red, most likely due to the sun, and his sunglasses block his honey brown eyes.

“Do you want to have a drink with me tonight?” Tony blurts out without thinking, too caught up in the boy’s beauty.

His heart sinks when Peter stays silent, eyebrows rising.

“The misses has food poisoning, so,” Tony trails off, face heating up in embarrassment.

“I’d love to.” Peter says softly, pink lips stretched in a genuine smile.

“Really?” Tony asks in disbelief, like a teenager.

“Of course. But I’m going to need your number.”

***

Tony can’t remember being this nervous about a date in a very long time.

He doesn’t even know if it is a date, but he like to think it is. He feels like he has butterflies in his stomach as he waits at one of the bars near the end of the resort. There’s not too many people around, which is nice.

“Hey, Tony.”

The older man turns around, coming face to face with a literal angel.

Peter stands before him, smiling softly. He’s wearing a very skimpy outfit (not that Tony’s complaining) for drinks at 8 at night. He’s wearing tiny white shorts over what looks like a very light pink chiffon teddy. Dusty rose colored silk drapes over his shoulders, wound tightly around his forearms. The cutest pink ballet flats encase his feet, silk ribbon tied into a bow around his ankles. There’s blush dusting his cheeks and clear lip gloss slathered on those plump lips.

“Oh, Pete, Hey,” Tony manages to say, clearing his throat. Peter giggles and bounds up to Tony, stands on his tippy toes, and presses a kiss to the man’s cheek. Tony’s at a lost for words as Peter sits down, leaving lipgloss on his stubble ridden cheek. He’s glad Pepper made sure to find a very private resort, because if there were crowds of people he’d be screwed.

“You look nice.” Peter compliments, thin fingers grazing over the rolled-up sleeve of his gray dress shirt. Tony swallows as he tries to get his shit together.

“Thanks, you do too. Gorgeous, actually.” He blubbers, losing years worth of smooth talking experience

Peter giggles and looks at one of the purple coasters on the countertop.

“Thanks,” He says softly. He brushes a stray curl out of his face, tucking it behind his ear.

“You want a drink?” Tony asks, fiddling with his Rolex.

Peter blinks a couple of times.

“I’m not old enough to drink. You know that,” He teases, swatting at Tony’s arm.

Tony leans in close, lips brushing against the top of Peter’s ear. He hears the boy’s breath hitch. His fluffy brown locks tickle the older man’s nose.

“We can indulge for one night. Isn’t that right sweetheart?” He mumbles, nipping on his ear before pulling away.

Peter’s blush has darkened and his mouth is parted slightly.

He nods wordlessly.

Life Lesson #254: Never give kids alcohol.

Peter’s not really a kid, but he is really fucking light weight.

He’s tipsy after his first drink and Tony would like to avoid a complete blackout, so he denies either of them more drinks around 10.

“Let’s do something fun,” Peter insists as the leave the bar.

“Yeah? Like what?” Tony asks as they enter the near empty hallway, the smell of disinfectant in the air.

“Mini golf,” Peter whispers, bouncing on his feet slightly in excitement.

Tony can’t help but laugh at the boy, wrapping his arm around Peter’s dainty waist.

“Show me the way, princess.” Tony says, not registering the pet name that slipped out. Luckily, Peter just grins wider.

The make their way through the resort, through hallways that all look the same. They eventually reach the outside, the humid air hitting their bodies.

“Here we are!” Peter exclaims, dragging him to a nice looking shed.

“Shit baby, it’s closed.” Tony says, noting the “We Open at 8 A.M” sign perched on the front counter.

“I told you, I know my way around.” Peter giggles as he punches in a code on the keypad that’s connected to the door. It opens and Peter slips inside.

“Hello, sir. Mini Golf is 7 dollars per game, but I think I’ll give you the handsome customer discount,” Peter jokes, wiggling his perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“Oh hush, you.” Tony scolds jokingly, leaning on the top of the counter.

Peter just winks and disappears under the counter.

“What color do you want?” He asks, voice muffled. “You can have anything but pink. I always get pink.”

Tony rolls his eyes and smiles.

“You have red down there?”

Peter pops back up, a red club and a pink club in hand.

“Sure do.” He says, waving the clubs around. He places the clubs on the counter, disappears again, then reappears with two golf balls in his hands, each their respective colors.

“You ready?” He asks, swinging over the counter.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Tony responds, taking both his golf club and ball in one hand.

Peter takes his free hand and they walk to hole number one.

“I’m absolutely atrocious at mini-golf, by the way. I miss every single time.” Peter huffs, bending over to place his ball on the ground.

Tony tries to tear his eyes away from that ass, but he’s unsuccessful.

“I guess I’ll have to give you a private lesson, then.” Tony smirks, poking Peter in the stomach.

“You’re funny. But I wouldn’t mind,” The boy purrs, looking up at Tony and fluttering his mascara coated lashes.

“Let’s get started, then.” Tony grins and places his hands on Peter’s tiny waist, his own club forgotten on the ground.

“Spread your legs a little more. You need a proper stance.” He says huskily, turning Peter so he’s standing to the side. The boy obeys, then sticks his ass out a little more.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, like that.” Tony growls, his arousal almost clouding his brain.

“Now you need a good grip on your club. Right hand under the left.” He instructs, placing his own hands over Peter’s.

“There you go. Good boy.” He praises.

Peter shudders against Tony, heavy breaths falling from those perfect lips.

“Then you just swing back,” Tony swings the boy’s arms back, “And hit it.” The club hits the ball, narrowly missing the hole.

“Damn. Nearly got it in the hole.” He mutters in the boy’s ear. He slowly moves his lips right down under Peter’s ear, right under his jaw. He sucks the skin into his mouth, biting hard enough to leave a mark. A high pitched whine leaves Peter’s throat as he drops the club onto the ground.

“Kiss me already, god dammit.”

At that, Tony grabs the boy by his shoulders and pulls him in, pressing his chapped lips to the glossy ones. Peter moans immediately, hands flying up to grip Tony’s salt and pepper hair. Tony cups his lower back, dipping Peter down slightly. His tongue eventually slips into Peter’s mouth, the younger much less experienced than Tony.

“Fuck, Tony, we need to get to my room now.” Peter whines once they pull apart, gripping at Tony’s broad shoulders.

“Roger that.” Tony quips, guiding Peter off the mini golf course, clubs and balls long forgotten. Peter leads them to one of the lesser known elevators, kneading Tony’s growing bulge the ride up to his room.

“Damn, baby. So spoiled, a suite all for yourself?” Tony teases as Peter tries to swipe his room key. The boy moans at the older man’s words, pushing open the door weakly.

“Daddy-“ Peter moans, but immediately cuts himself off in embarrassment. Tony can only let out a deep moan, throwing his head back.

“Fuck, such a needy princess.”

Peter falls to his knees, massaging Tony’s cock through his slacks.

“Only for you, daddy.” Peter responds, mouthing over the fabric of the pants.

Tony groans and starts to unbutton his slacks, but his thick fingers are pushed out of the way by Peter’s dainty ones. The younger pushes down the black slacks, then gives Tony’s very visible bulge a squeeze through the fabric. Tony’s hand flies up to grasp Peter’s pretty brown locks tightly. Peter’s long nails scrape against his thighs as he pulls Tony’s boxers down. He moans when Tony’s thick cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. Peter wastes no time, one hand cupping Tony’s heavy balls as the other starts stroking his cock slowly. Tony groans and tightens his grip on Peter’s hair when he sees that the kid is drooling. Peter leans down to wrap his lips around the head of his cock.

“Fucking hell, baby,” Tony moans, Peter lips slipping further down his length. He hollows out his cheeks and sucks.

“Peter, honey, we need to move this to the bed now if you want daddy to last.” He managed to grunt out. Peter pulls off his dick with a satisfying pop, saliva covered lips formed in a pout.

“Poor baby. Daddy will give you what you need.” Tony coos, thumb running over Peter’s bottom lip.

“Take everything off except for your underwear.” Tony orders, kicking off his pants and moving to unbutton his shirt.

Peter nods vicariously and drops his shawl on the ground. He bends over to untie the bows on his shoes, placing them neatly next to the bed. Dexterous fingers unbutton his shorts. His shorts slide down his milky legs and he’s left standing in the chiffon teddy, small cock hard and leaking, covered by the fabric.

“Fuck, you naughty boy.” Tony growls, giving his dick a few strokes.

Peter giggles and hops up onto the king bed, immediately going on his hands and knees.

“Good boy,” Tony praises, making his way to the edge of the bed. He gives Peter’s ass a little slap, pushing the fabric covering his skin away. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind Peter.

“Lube?” Tony asks, gently running his hand over Peter’s red cheek.

“Drawer,” He croaks out, pressing his ass against Tony’s cock. The older man leans to the side, sifting through the drawer until his hands hit a familiar bottle. Tony uncaps the lube, squirting some on his fingers.

“Relax, sweetheart,” He coos, brushing his slick fingers over Peter’s tight whole. The boy shudders, back arching at the contact.

“Be good.” Tony orders as he slips his index finger into him. Peter moans, hips desperately rutting into the bedsheets.

“Daddy,” Peter whines as Tony pushes in a second finger, than a third. The older man chuckles as he purposely avoids his prostate.

“Just fuck me already!” Peter cries, trying to fuck himself on Tony’s fingers.

“Needy slut.” Tony grunts, pulling out his fingers and slapping Peter’s ass again. He snatches up the lube, squirting more into his hands and stroking his cock.

“Ready Baby?” Tony asks Peter, gently pushing him over so he’s on his back.

“Yes, daddy.” Peter responds, eyes glistening with tears.

Tony groans and grips the base of his cock, positioning it on Peter’s hole. The boys hips jerk upwards, pretty pink cock slapping against the silk of his lingerie. Tony can’t take it, so he pushes in. Both of them moan, Peter’s high and breathy, Tony’s deep and full.

“So fucking tight,” Tony grunts through gritted teeth once he’s all the way in.

Peter doesn’t respond, just breaths harder.

“So full,” He mumbles, manicured nails scraping at Tony’s biceps. Peter is a vision, brown curls all tousled and cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

“M’ gonna move, that okay, princess?” Tony asks, tightening his grip on the boy’s unblemished hips.

Peter nods and Tony gets to work. He starts his thrust slowly, burying himself in Peter’s tight, wet heat. But when Peter cries out for him to move, how could he deny it?

“Fuck, daddy, harder!” Peter wails, body moving back and forth from the force of Tony’s thrusts.

“Yeah baby,” Tony grunts, hips snapping at a ridiculously delicious pace.

“Gonna come,” Peter moans, squeezing his eyes shut, a tear rolling down his cheek. His lips shine with his own saliva, parted enough to let out another moan.

“Do it baby, come on daddy’s cock,” Tony coaxes. Peter’s body tenses and he’s coming, eyes screwed shut as he paints his chest white. His walls tighten around Tony’s member and with a shout he spills his release inside of Peter.

The older man collapses on top of the younger. Peter lets out a giggle as Tony slips out of him.

“You did such a good job. You were gorgeous. Perfect. Beautiful.”

Tony peppers kisses down Peter’s torso, the boy’s eyes screwed shut, smiling softly at the praise. Tony adjusts the two so their heads are on the pillows and wrapping his arms around Peter’s thin body. He nuzzles into the crook of Peter’s neck, inhaling his scent of sweat, sex, and perfume.

“Stay?” Peter squeaks, pulling Tony’s arms closer to him.

“Of course.”

***

“I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

Tony sighs heavily, running a hand through his messy sex hair.

“You know I don’t want to.” He tells the boy, looking at where he’s seated.

All he’s wearing is Tony’s dress shirt from last night. He’s sitting criss-cross on a wicker chair, staring off over the balcony railing. There’s hickeys down his neck and chest, proof of their slower morning session.

“I always get caught up in this.” Peter says, not looking at Tony. “Fall head over heels for some rich guy that vacations here with his wife, then become forgotten after his trip.”

Tony swallows thickly.

“You know I won’t forget you.” He says, staring at the glass in his hands.

“I don’t think you can promise me that.” Peter says sadly, picking at his ring finger nail.

“I sure can. You’re an angel, Peter.” Tony says truthfully.

Peter smiles sadly.

“I’ll come visit you. At MIT.”

Peter laughs bitterly and shakes his head.

“I will. I don’t particularly want to have dorm sex again, but I can make an exception.”

Peter lets out a genuine laugh this time. He rubs his face with one hand.

“How are you going to explain that to your wife?”

Ah, there’s the dreaded question.

“We don’t talk much anymore. I don’t think she’ll even ask.” Tony says sadly, eyes drifting to the crisp blue ocean in the distance. Long arms wrap around his bare torso. Peter rests his head on Tony’s shoulder, breathing in deeply.

“You know, in an alternate universe, we’re probably together.” He mumbles, squeezing Tony tighter.

“Alternate universes. Funny.” Tony says dryly.

“There’s a reason why we found each other.”

Tony smiles.

“Yeah. There’s a reason.”

#starker #starker fic #starker moodboard

722 notes · View notes

purple-moonlights-blog · 7 years ago

Text

STRAY KIDS 10th MEMBER AU

Hello there loves 🌸

This shorter Scenario is more like a squeal to MOVING IN, I guess? Well, I intended it to be but it’s not really, to be honest. Anyway, as always feel free to send in your requests and ideas or whatever you guys have on your mind! I hope you all had a good day!! :) xx

☾☼

btw. coming at you with my awful titles

▸ Check out the Profile HERE

▸ Request for the AU HERE

▸ MASTERLIST

Words: 872

Warnings: Swearing ⎮ As always weird grammar and spelling mistakes, English is not my native language⎮

Summary: Stray Kids not washing up their dirty dishes, Nova still being awkward around Chan and Felix doing something too ?? idk

II. IV.〈DIRTY DISHES〉

(gif not mine)

„This is disgusting,“ Nova said to herself, as she frowned that the dirty dishes, that have been pilling up for the past days. Since nobody in the dorm seemed to feel responsible to do the dishes and instead of immediately washing up if they use something, the dishes were carelessly dumped in the sink and never looked back at.

Nova was guilty of doing that too. As Stray Kids have been working hard for their debut, understandably nobody wanted to do the cleaning in the dorm after hour-long practice. None of them got more than five hours of sleep a day, despite the physical exhausting dance practice. Chan slept even less than the rest of them, always working into the early morning. Nova admired his dedication and it also made her realized that she needs to put a lot more work into this if she wanted to prove herself to be worth debuting in Stray Kids. She thought, compared to the others, she is still lacking in many areas.

Nova was neither obsessed with cleaning nor super organized - in fact, keeping her things organized was really not her strongest point, especially her Universities stuff - however, the sight of the pile of dirty dishes and the light smell coming from the food residues made her gag.

„This is disgusting,“ she repeated, shaking her head.

„What’s disgusting?“ Felix stepped into the kitchen, his hair messily since he just got out of bed. He grabbed the cereal box from the counter and opened the cupboard to look for a bowl. „There are no bowls.“ Felix declared as he looked through the other cupboards too .„Because all of them are dirty, like the rest of our dishes. It’s honestly getting disgusting.“ Nova pointed at the sink.

„Yeah, it’s kinda nasty. We really should clean that,“ Felix said, as he eyed the dishes the in disgust. „Or,“ he continued, „we could just throw them away and buy new ones.“ He grinned, putting the cereal back and taking an apple instead.

„Is that what you guys do down there in Australia? Throw the dishes out of the window if they are dirty.“ Nova snorted.

„No, we, in general, don’t use dishes at all. We just put the shrimp on the barbie all season long.“ Felix joked in an exaggerated Australian accent.

„I actually never heard an Australia saying „shrimp on the barbie“ in a serious manner!“ She laughed loudly.

„Because we actually don’t talk like that,“ Chan spoke, who was leaning unnoticeable against the counters behind them, watching the younger two, and then making them abruptly turn around.

„Morning mate,“ Felix said. Chan mumbled a quick morning back, took a water bottle from the fridge and he instantly drank half of it. Nova noticed that he looked extremely exhausted, more than usual, as he hadn’t slept at all.

It was only seven in the morning and while Felix and the other younger ones had to go school, and she to an early lecture, Chan usually didn’t wake before 10 o’clock, mainly because he worked until five in the morning.

That he was already awake seemed concerning, yet, Nova didn’t dare to ask why he’s already wake since she still felt awkward around him.

„The dishes…“ Felix began, Nova, however, quickly interrupted him. „I will do it, it’s fine. I still have time until I have to leave for Uni.“

„Are sure about that? It’s a lot though.“ Felix asked, glazing once again at the pile in the sink. „Really, it’s okay. You and the others have to leave soon anyway,“ she said, giving him slight smile.

Nova’s class started at 8:45 a.m., while they had to be in school at eight. It only seemed reasonable to her that she would do it.

„Ah yeah school, I almost forgot! It’s my turn to wake Hyunjin.“ Felix called out, facepalming himself, before storming out of the kitchen.

Amused Nova looked after him,“Waking up Hyunjin is quite a task, innit?“ She quietly said, as she put the rubber gloves on and taking the first plate from the pile.

You gotta start somewhere, she thought, sighing to herself.

„Hyunjin’s alarm is so loud that I can hear it in from the other side of the wall. And he still doesn’t wake!“ Chan laughed, grabbing a kitchen towel, intending to help her.

„Oh no, you don’t have to…“, she quickly said as she noticed it.

„Ah what, it’s faster if we do it together,“ Chan stopped her with a wave of his hand, giving her a tired smile.

„It’s really fine, you already have done enough.“ She refused, her voice sounding harsher than she intended too. By no means, she meant to be rude. Nova solely thought that Chan, who has been working so hard for their debut and hardly getting any sleep, didn’t need to do the cleaning in the dorm too. It just seemed too much to ask for.

„Alright then,“ he finally said after an awkward silence and left the kitchen. Her anxiety creeping up as she realized that she should have apologized instead of just quietly staring at the plate in her hand like a dumbass.

„Well shit,“ she sighed. At that moment she could have slapped herself.

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the-firebird69 · 3 years ago

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Current events are making Max very arrogant and they're trying to have my son turn on people and it's not working so good they're in trouble too they have a similar psychosis that Trump has and they're going to fall for it and foreigners keep pushing it and I think we have nothing without trying we polished off Trump but they don't know what to make of it they think it might be Mac so they're going after Max too they should anyways but heck

Trump is on his knees now and doesn't seem to know it we're going to push him around to make him do stuff all day and all night until we get what we need and want and our son has stuff also going to run them around and get rid of the remnants of his idiot race. There's going to be frequent attacks until they're nothing in the until they're nothing in the Midwest on the mega bases our son predicts it's already begun one octillion here two septillion there they take a smaller group with a special that looks like us can get by the security and so forth they've been trying the whole time but now they're going to keep trying it over and over and over and they keep saying it's because of that group of stopping us and they look behind them and they pass it on so far today 10 octillion died doing that and groups ranging from two septillion to one Octillion. It's true of all the other areas and things they're trying to go after they keep sending these groups out to the iron thinking that they're hidden cuz they're smaller and they try and infiltrate others and they can't and they get wiped out then another one goes and says it was our own and they keep doing it there is about 200 octillion have died this morning after the major chunk of them left and it's going on solidly

Here in Florida 300 octillion an hour are dying trying to get here and mostly the whole place is empty of Trump no they keep filling it up somehow they're getting in and people are not blocking it it's a problem and it should be solved and we're going to have to handle it he says cuz I don't want people getting the goodies which are at the end of the line of theirs and we get that too I'm going to put the order out now

In Washington DC they're losing about 100 octillion an hour and Trump doesn't realize he's almost gone and our son says we should show people that he's weaker at least and have us to pay flipping up and down when I was talking and him not paying attention to people and getting angry at them for trying to mention the toupee things like that work actually I'm going to try it but really 100 octillion an hour is a lot but some thinks it'll increase and we do too I think it's going to go up to about 500 and by the afternoon it's going to start going down 200-300 and then rapidly because there are no more big groups and they won't be able to get ships and he'll think they just can't get chips when they try to get chips they'll be dead so I'm going to try for small fast ones and spaceships and they're going to be getting killed rapidly this afternoon is is their end and the timing is right this week so we'll not see you next Tuesday Trump

Thor Freya

Zues Hera

Olympus

Goodbye Trump farewell and good riddance I wish you were never born you're so bad at it

Bja

We don't need you Trump get lost oh you already are and don't know it we know it we see all of you dying do you know why well we're the ones killing you

Without captured yet you stupid a****** Trump you're such a dumb prick you fall for everything do a massive search for me you're an idiot you hardly know who he is all the time you don't know what he's made of or what he does we need to die actually do

Jason and I know where my stuff is you took Trump and I'm going to take it back now tons of people are but doing so we're going to throw another shrimp on the barbie

I guess we're checking out and no one cares we wrecked the hotel is why I got to tell you it just keeps happening we say stuff we think it's a good idea and we go ahead and do it and then it's done and we can't stop it you say it's my name you didn't change the name and you're hooky piece of s*** I tried to cancel out the character it didn't work and you're right that's what John Candy is and it's the max you all better watch out for that BG and bja the initials mean stuff

Trump

We know you're right we know you tried to take a big chunk out of us and that's the problem he's trying to fight the max with you and it was working you turned on us and it ruined you and us that's why we don't care and we know the max are having to do it but we still don't care because you did it

Yes we're wrong and where the wigger here and we apologize for that but we tried to get stronger and it didn't work

Trump

We're watching all this wondering what's going on now we saw you do all this Trump and you're a loser a fact I'm going to get my stuff now

Garth

I'm tired of you people using the n word and forcing my son to use it all the time but that's what you people are you explained it to me that you don't listen to wigger and he doesn't want to call you the n word but really you have a response to it that's unique and it motivates me and he knows it I keep stopping him so he's tried not to use it for quite a while but you people are horrible you're nasty nasty people and you need to really feel the pain and you need to leave you too Mac Daddy you ruined our son's personal life and you don't think it's any business of yours or his or ours or whatever you're nuts okay you're stupid you need to check out and you're going to very soon

Gu Oya

You're going to die many times over and over your brain Mac Daddy fully we don't care about your transplant you don't know anything anymore you gave it all up we had to get the Intel you're just a piece of sopping s*** and you're ruining our son's life and we don't appreciate it so we're going to walk all over you he's got so much money and so many things and he can't get any of it because of you and your assini and cronies who wrecked your entire realm you're a p**** okay you let these people do it to you and you're ruined we don't respect you at all

Olympus

I don't give a darn no this Trump guy's got to go if I'm going down these people have to get out and know that they failed and they failed the entire realm

Mac

I do understand something if we keep them around they're going to ruin stuff they're over here trying to take ships some people just kind of f*** around with them and they end up dying

Claudia

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sarahsilverdog-blog-blog · 7 years ago

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One Problem At A Time Ch. 4

So, it looks like this is gonna go for a while, so I am tagging it #OneProblem. Thank you!

FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

I’m not big on social graces,

Think I'll slip on down to the oasis.

-Garth Brooks

One hour and thirty minutes left.

Clementine stayed in the lab with Sam but everyone else surrounded the plane’s main door, guns raised and ready for their visitor. The man who stepped through the plane's hatch could have been anywhere from forty to seventy, iron gray hair peeked out from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat but there were few lines on his face. he was big and burly like a bear but lean and hard, no fat anywhere on him. He wore jeans with leather chaps, intricately stitched cowboy boots, a plain blue workshirt covered with a worn denim jacket...and a fancy, pearl-handled six shooter hung from his hip, Flanked by two men in an eclectic mix of military and western clothing, he didn't seem disconcerted at all to be greeted by six people bristling with loaded weapons all pointed at him and he raised his hands cooperatively and grinned, showing even, white teeth. "G'day folks,” he said in a thick Australian accent, inclining his head to Mitch who was the closest one to him. "Morris Brown, formerly of the Royal Australian Regiment, 4th Battalion, currently of the SoCal Extract/Evac Company, at your service." He got a good look at Jamie, covered in blood and filth, and Jackson, whose eye had blackened magnificently and whose throat was ringed with darkening bruises. "Looks like you folks had a bit of a scrap.”

Jamie snorted. “That's an understatement.”

Jackson eyed Morris Brown closely and said in his gravelly, injured voice, “I’ve heard of you. Your company did the San Diego job a couple of years ago. That was some nice work." He lowered his gun, and the others did too, the tension easing in the room and Brown dropped his hands to sides.

Tessa said, "Impressive work, you mean." She explained to the others. “They evacuated five thousand people in one group, walked them 350 miles through hybrid infested desert and only lost one person- to appendicitis. That's the stuff of legends.”

Brown looked pleased at the praise and rocked back on his heels. "Yeah, that was one bugger of a run. Took two months to get ‘em to the safe zone, razorbacks attacking every few days." He turned to Jackson. "But you're a bit of a celebrity yourself, mate. I know who you are, Dylan Green. Number one evac specialist north of San Francisco, though I think your pet lions give you a bit of an advantage.” He glanced around the interior of the plane with delighted curiosity. “I don’t suppose they are with you now?"

"The lions didn't have enough frequent flier miles," Mitch interjected impatiently. "Not to be rude, but we are kind of on a tight schedule, soo…”

“Oh, right,” Brown said, not seeming offended in the least. He turned and nodded to one of his men, who disappeared back out of the plane. "We're on our way back from a run and well, there's strange things going on in the hybrid zone." He scratched up under his hat at his cropped gray hair. “I maybe saw the most bizarre of all a few hours ago...anyhow it's something we need to look into but we picked up a, uh, passenger that isn’t suited to fast, hard travel in a truck caravan. I was hoping we could leave it with you folks...” he trailed off as the man reappeared, holding a tiny bundle that suddenly let out a squalling scream.

There was stunned silence for a second. then Mitch handed Jamie his rifle and with a happy sob took his grandson in his arms. Relief swept like a wave over them all, suddenly they surrounded baby Sam, laughing and smiling with the utter joy of his unbelievable presence. Clementine came racing down the staircase from the lab, having heard her son's cries; everyone fell back and let her take her son from his grandfather in her trembling hands, hugging him tightly as Mitch held them both in a protective embrace. Jamie sidled away but one of Mitch's hands caught hers and pulled her into their family circle, though she resisted slightly he was insistent and she gave in, letting his arms encircle her too as she hugged Clem and smiled over baby Sam.

Morris Brown was taking in this scene with keen interest, and he waggled his bushy eyebrows at Jackson and said, "I guess you lot don't find a baby as strange as we do.”

Jackson was smiling happily, tears in his eyes and he shook his head at Brown and said hoarsely, “We suddenly don't have such a tight schedule. How about a drink and you tell us how you ended up with the baby?”

***

Brown set one of his five men on guard, to watch out for hybrids- or other things- and the rest of them retired to the bar for a drink. Jamie excused herself after one; Clem had taken Baby Sam to be with his father in the lab after Mitch examined him (and after Abe administered the sterility cure injection); Jackson/Dylan and Tessa were discussing evacuation runs and other business she didn't particularly care about too much with their visitors, though Abe and Dariela were extremely interested as they discussed tactics and various plans that worked, or didn’t. The sticky dinosaur blood that covered her was getting unbearable, itchy and crackling against her skin and when she moved her right arm there was a worrisome tugging sensation that she was afraid was a deep cut that her clothes had dried to. She was brutally sore and wanted nothing more than to peel the filthy clothes off and climb into a steaming hot shower. Mitch started down the hall after her and she almost told him to stay put but then she realized he didn’t particularly want to listen to tactical Evac stories, and he didn’t want to intrude on his daughter's newly reunited family- he wanted to be with her. She waited for him to catch up and teased, “Time for my private exam, doctor?”

He smiled but his eyes were serious. "Actually, Miss Campbell, it is. I’ve noticed the way you’ve been moving your right arm and favoring your right side. I know am just a vet,” she snickered at that, "but I think I am qualified to check you out.”

They needed to talk, she knew, needed to work out some of the events of the last 72 hours; Max, and Logan, and discuss some things that had been said, or maybe hadn't been said, but now wasn't the time. She was tired, sore, and they were still both too warm with the residual happiness of baby Sam to start dissecting the darkness between them.

Mitch saw her hesitation and guessed the reason behind it truthfully, he didn’t really want to hash it out now either, he was too confused, too amazed, too unsettled… just too much. “I don’t –“ he started, then took her hand and said, “I just want to make sure you’re okay, Jamie.”

Taking it as a promise, she opened the door to her room and let him in.

***

Mitch rejoined the others in the bar a short while later. Jamie hadn't had any serious injuries, the worst was the laceration she had feared, a deep cut in her shoulder from the dagger sharp talons of the dinosaur. Adrenaline had kept her from feeling it, but she had felt it well enough when Mitch pulled the clotted, matted cloth from it with a sickening ripping sound, making her pale as fresh blood seeped from the gash. She also had a darkening bruise from her right armpit to her hip, where she had landed when the dino attacked her but otherwise she seemed fine and as promised, when he had determined that she didn't need any serious doctoring, he left her to it with a kiss and a promise to let him disinfect the gash after her shower.

The conversation in the bar had shifted to different hybrids they had seen recently, and the talk had turned from somewhat jovial to something more subdued and tense. Apparently there were more terrible creatures out there than they had already dealt with, and Mitch blanched at the mention of spider hybrids the size of golden retrievers, massive eight foot tall goats that had five foot long horns and razor sharp hooves, and at least one woolly mammoth, which had used its massive tusks to knock a locomotive off of the tracks outside of Los Angeles. It was somewhat frightening to consider that six-foot tall, vicious Cretaceous dinosaurs weren’t the worst they were going to face as Abigail’s creatures roamed freely into North America.

Once he had poured himself a drink and taken a seat with the others, the conversation changed as Mitch said. "So, Crocodile Dundee, tell me how you figured out country music scares the monsters away.”

Brown just laughed. "Crocodile Dundee. You Americans are so unoriginal. 'Throw another shrimp on the barbie’ and all that.” He squinted hard at Mitch, then shrugged. “To be honest, Dr. Morgan, we have no idea how it works. We just happened to luck into the discovery.” He took a deep swallow of the golden amber liquid in his glass and settled back into his seat. “We don't only do evac work, though that is our main focus. We also, eh," he searched for a delicate term, “clean up after the survivors have been evacuated.”

“Loot, you mean.” Dariela snapped. Brown only shrugged again. “If that's what you like to call it, mate. One man's trash is another man's treasure. Anyway, about a week ago we were cleaning a cabin we found in Nevada outside some desert town called Rachel. Wasn't much in it, but Chuck here," he motioned to one of his men, “found some little ipod type thing and snagged it, thinking there might be some good music on it. Turns out there wasn’t, just that terrible song on a loop, over and over and over." He shook his fist at the sky and said, “I’ve got friends in low places too, mate! Such a bloody come down. We were in one of the trucks and we came on a herd of those goat hybrids and Chuck was so mad at the song he was about to throw the damn thing out when all of a sudden the goats started to run. Away. Now, in our experience those stubborn, canty headed bastards will charge every time, but while that bloody awful music was playing, they ran.

“We experimented. Cut the song off, they charged us, turned it on, they stopped in their tracks and skedaddled the other way. So we tried it on the next hybrid we met, a razorback. Ran. Vulture, flew away." He grinned, his hatless gray head shining in the plane's soft light. "It's a terrible price to pay, but for those we love, we sacrifice!" He guffawed and gulped the rest of his drink down, motioning to Mitch to refill it.

Mitch took his glass, rose and went to the bar, but he stopped short of pouring the whisky. “I owe you,” he said, inclining his head gratefully towards Brown, “for bringing the baby back to us -and l still want to know how that came about - but I think if you let me study that device with the song on it, I can figure out why it repels the hybrids and maybe you won't ever have to hear that song again,” he shrugged, “Or at the least, maybe I can change the song.”

“That in itself would be a relief, my friend." Brown said, and Mitch smiled as he handed him his drink.

***

They moved the party to the lab, after Mitch saw Clem and Sam into his bedroom with the baby. Sam was still in rough shape but seeing his son and spending some quiet time with Clementine had done wonders for him, and the lab was too cold and uncomfortable for someone trying to rest. Jamie rejoined them, clean and fresh and creamy white in the glow of the lab's lights and Mitch was gratified to see her in somewhat casual clothing - in his mind he characterized it as ‘Early Jamie', faded jeans and a cute t-shirt and a light sweater -and she hadn't done her hair, it was tousled and curled and Mitch wanted nothing more in the world than to twist one of those curls in his fingers, pull it down and let his hand graze her cheek...but his imagination was cut off as Morris Brown whistled slowly at Jamie and said, "Well, we are officially a part of the jet set! Pun intended, of course! Jamie Campbell, of one of my favorite authors of one of my favorite novels.” He was quite a few drinks in, and he gave Jamie a friendly leer as he said, “I didn’t recognize you before when you were so...dirty," and winked, taking her hand, bending low and kissing her knuckles softly.

Mitch rolled his eyes loudly and Jamie withdrew her hand firmly with her ‘celebrity smile', the one she always used on talk shows and interviews and with overbearing fans. Mitch recognized it at once, how many times had he seen her use it when weaseling information out of someone or dealing with idiot officials who couldn't be handled by anyone else? lt was another glimpse of the old Jamie, and Mitch found himself feeling grateful that she was still...her.

"Thank You," she said to Brown, then pointedly joined Mitch at his computer and took his hand, looking down at what he was working on.

Morris Brown chuckled and took another drink. “Aye, you're a lucky man, Dr. Morgan," he said, slapping his hand on his thigh. "No offense meant Miss Campbell. And you’re still my favorite author." He leaned sharply forward and said to Jackson/Dylan, "She may be the writer, but now I want you to tell me a story.”

Jamie stayed next to Mitch as he worked on the device Brown had given them. It was connected to one of their diagnostic computers and he ran a variety of different tests on it as Morris Brown listened to Jackson/Dylan and Abe take turns telling him about Abigail and the hybrids, New York, the volcano, Clem's miracle baby and the cure for sterility, and the breach in the barrier and their escape, though they left out Jackson's involvement both as her brother and as the one who drove the plane through the wall.

Well," Brown said, his deep Aussie accent broadened by alcohol, "I told you I had seen some strange things. About four hours before we found you, we came across the herd of rhino hybrids you folks acquainted yourselves with earlier. They were acting fairly bizarre, all standing in one place, looking the same direction. No panic, no snorting, no bellowing, not even when we started to drive around them, Then we saw a jeep parked at the edge of the herd, and a sheila, right up close, using some kind of hand signals and be damned if the rhinos weren't behaving as if they knew what she was saying!”

The crew all exchanged looks as Morris continued, "Well, we got up to the jeep before she noticed us, close enough for me to notice a baby seat in the back. Funny how baby seats never caught my eye before but I guess after you haven’t seen an ankle biter in a decade those kind of things look out of place. Anyway, she finally saw us and she didn’t bat an eye as she waved her hands and those damn monsters came charging at us so fast Chuck almost didn't hit play." He paused and threw a toothy grin at Chuck, who answered. "But l did, and those sumbitches wheeled around so quick they almost trampled the lady where she stood.”

Morris Brown took over. "Seemed like the music was hurting her too, she grabbed her head like it was about to bust but then again, maybe she just doesn’t like country music. But here's where the craziest part comes in. She was too far from her jeep, and she seemed pretty surprised that the beasties were running away such a hurry. She got a look at our arsenal bearing down on her so she made some kind of sign and one of those big bastards came back to her, let her climb on it and she rode away on it!” He shook his head as if he still couldn't believe what his own eyes had seen. "Craziest damn thing I’ve ever seen. We did a quick go over of the jeep and didn't find anything but well, the baby. We had figured on taking it to the Barrier and leaving it, but since you say they’ve evacuated –“ he shrugged and took another swallow of whisky.

Suddenly Mitch broke in. "Hey, Ja- uh, Dylan, could you come over here for a sec?" Brown didn't miss Mitch's mistake and his keen eyes suddenly narrowed as Jackson rose and joined Mitch at his computer. He had a screen up and Jamie peered over their shoulders as he pointed to two parallel, wavy lines that intersected at uniform points, "This look familiar to you?”

Jackson looked up at him incredulously. "That looks just like the combination of frequencies Abigail used to make the beacons, hers and mine, but opposite ranges, So instead of drawing the hybrids-“

“They repel them." Mitch finished, halfway between triumph and jealousy. “It’s genius, l don’t know why think of it before.” He beamed at Jamie, who squeezed his hand as he said, "I can isolate the frequencies and we can play it from anything that can broadcast. Looks like we may have a new line of defense.”

***

Everyone had gone to bed except the two of them; Morris Brown and his men were sprawled on various couches throughout the plane and the others had gone to their rooms. Mitch had isolated the repellant frequency from the music and had it on a loop that was silent to the human ear but would hopefully keep hybrids away and Jamie had set proximity alarms on every entrance to the plane so everyone felt reasonably secure. Having six extra, heavily armed people on board for the night made it feel a little less worrisome too. They sat close together at the bar, nursing what was left of a bottle of vodka. Other than the impersonal exam earlier, and his quick, post-shower dressing of her wound, it was the first time they had been alone together in what felt like weeks, though it had only been little more than a day.

Jamie could feel him steeling himself up to say something and she was pretty sure she knew what it was going to be. As much as he had tried to make her feel better before, trying to claim darkness for himself, she knew he really wasn't accustomed to ruthless Jamie. Single-minded Jamie, yes, she'd always been that, but his brilliant brain was having trouble processing what ten years of bleak disappointment and pain had done to her. For years revenge had been her only motivating factor, in truth, years before she even met Mitch revenge had been her motivator but she'd had hope then, hope that things would work out in the end, hope that the little guy would win, and even hope that she and Mitch could make some kind of life together after the animal apocalypse. Then Mitch was gone, and she had hope that she could take care of Clementine the way he had wanted, hope that she could keep some part of him alive in herself through his daughter. Then Max took Clem and she had nothing. Logan hadn’t been, would never have been enough for her, so vengeance had filled that hole in her heart and she didnt know if she could make room in it again for something so weak and fickle as hope.

“So what was that out there?” He finally asked, his hand cupping her cheek, gently but firmly, she wasn’t going to look away.

She did anyway. and he let his hand fall, picking up his drink instead as she answered innocently, "What was what?"

He wasn’t going to deal with her bullshit tonight, and he rolled his eyes as if to say, really? "Didnt we just have a whole conversation about darkness? I think kicking Jackson in the face and threatening to burn him alive is a bit dark, even for you.”

“I wasn’t going to burn Jackson," she scoffed, though she couldn't deny the kick in the face so she took the easy one first. “l was threatening to burn the zombie because they are afraid of fire, which worked by the way.”

“No, it didn't. What worked was the flaming Thanksgiving turkey smashing into it." He had her there, and she leaned slightly away in irritation, pursing her lips and rearranging her socked feet on the barstool railing. Mitch didn't miss her reaction, and he pressed his advantage. “And what made you think fire would work on a zombie?”

Already annoyed at him, she rolled her eyes so hard she was afraid she'd strained her optic nerve. "Hello? I grew up in Louisiana? Bayous?Voodoo? Zombies? Didn't you spend a year there?”

"Studying giant river rats, not the undead.” He finished his drink, poured himself another and topped Jamie's off with the remainder of the bottle, plopping it loudly on the back of the bar. "Need to get some more of this." He sighed, swirling his drink in the bottom of his glass and deciding to let her off the hook for now said instead, "l could be studying the undead right now, but we left them in the compound. Not that I could do much with the soldier, since I think he's been barbecued beyond use,” he looked emphatically at Jamie, eliciting a snort of laughter she tried to suppress, "but l could still learn something from the dog.”

She swallowed the last of her drink in one gulp, jumped up from the barstool and said, "Well, lets go get it then." He looked at her blankly and she said, "The dog. It's still there in the compound, right? I mean, where would it go?"

He took another sip and looked sideways at her, then down at her feet. "Uh huh. You going in your socks or are you gonna put on some fuzzy slippers first?”

The laugh was real, warm and honeyed and rich and it sent shivers down his spine as the mood subtly shifted between them. "Maybe we can wait until tomorrow," she said, her voice suddenly husky and low, stepping between his knees she leaned into him as he bent to meet her lips with his. Electricity surged between them, fusing them together, all sparking neurons and melding molecules; her hands burned against his thighs, through the thick material of his jeans and in the desperate reaches of his lizard brain he wondered vaguely if she planned on burning him alive, though at the moment he didn't really care if she did. He buried his hands in her hair, pulling her closer, needing her closer and she responded, tightening her body against his because she needed him too.

They finally surfaced for air, and Mitch stood. holding her to him and brushing tousled tendrils of her hair away from her face. "Uh, my room is currently being used as a nursery ..sooo, think maybe l can crash with you tonight?" he asked gruffly.

She answered him breathlessly, running her fingers over his stubbly cheek, “I think that can be arranged.”

"Afterwards you can tell me all about zombies," he said, lowering his head to nibble sharp kisses at the soft skin of her throat. “We have to keep up our reputation for lively pillow talk.”

***

Here, darkness was good. Here, darkness kept them safe, hidden from the outside world and its monsters; it hid their scars in shadows, even as they bared themselves completely. Here, in the darkness, it was just the two of them, together.

***

#oneproblem #zoo #renew zoo #zoo cbs #tumblr fanfiction #mitch x jamie #jamitch #mitch morgan #jamie campbell #jackson oz #billyburke #kristen connolly #clementine lewis #cbs zoo #otp

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