#Rip Grip Santa Cruz

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

METAL PUNK ICONOGRAPHY IN AMERICAN SKATEBOARDING CULTURE.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on vintage sticker designs for SANTA CRUZ "RIP GRIP" skateboard deck grab for vert riding, c. mid 1980s, USA.

MINI-OVERVIEW: SANTA CRUZ "RIP GRIP" were self adhesive foam "stickers" originally introduced in the mid 80's, c. 1986/'87 by Santa Cruz Skateboards. The idea was you stuck them on the underside of your board where you were likely to grab when doing airs, they helped you grip a little better in theory.

Sources: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/24066179238266247 (Pinterest 2x) & eBay.

[hazzasgayvodka]

mister long term booty call chapter two “If I bust my ass, I’m gonna bust yours”

August 21st, 2011

Despite asking your new friend Jacob in your class for directions, you can’t seem to find your way around anywhere. You look down the row of classrooms and once again don’t see the room number you’re looking for. You huff in frustration before turning back the way you came and trying the other hallway, maybe you’ve just got it backwards, again. It’s hard enough starting middle school and being sorted into nearly all eighth-grade classes but doing so alone after moving to a new city was something else entirely.

You’re just about to duck into the nearest classroom and ask for some directions when suddenly two boys come barreling down the hallway. You try to dodge them against the wall but end up smacking straight into one of them, dropping all of your books to the ground in front of you and scraping your knees against the pavement. You look up to meet the face of the boy who nearly trampled you, expecting him to help you up and maybe even gather your books like in the movies.

“Dude, watch it.” He laughs, standing up and brushing himself off before taking back off after his friend down the hall.

You roll your eyes as you stack your books back up and pull yourself to your feet, wincing a little as you stand on your ankle. The teacher from the room in front of you steps out for a minute to ask if you’re okay and you have to withdraw from making a snide remark about how you’re doing just fucking peachy, instead electing to ask for directions so you can just get to your class already.  

After walking back down the rest of the hall and taking the first right as instructed, your eyes finally land on the room you’ve been looking for. You take a deep breath as you twist the handle of room D-145, preparing yourself to stalk to the back and pray no one notices you.

“Oh, tardy on the first day, are we?” Ms. Barger asks as soon as you step in the room.

“I um, couldn’t find the room, I’m new.” You say quietly, wishing you could crawl into a hole.

“Ah, you must be the sixth grader,” She nods, “Why don’t you go take a seat behind Harry.”

You look in the direction of her pointing finger and see none other than the unruly haired boy that knocked you to the ground in the hallway earlier. He’s giving you a giant lopsided grin now, pointing at the seat behind him. You inwardly groan, dragging your feet over to the empty desk and dropping your books at your feet. You slide into your seat and he immediately turns around as Ms. Barger goes on to take role.

“Hey, what’s your name?” He asks, fully leaning on your desk.

You don’t answer him, trying to wrap your head around why the hell he’s interested in talking to you now when he couldn’t even help you up off the pavement earlier.

“Alright nameless girl,” He sighs, visibly annoyed, “Do you play Pokémon?”

“Styles?” Ms. Barger asks, cutting him off with a certain tone to her voice.

“Yes, Winona?” He grins, clearly pleased with himself and you have to bite your lip to conceal your laugh.

“What have I said about calling me by my first name?” Ms. Barger scolds, “Do you really want to start off this school year with detention?”

“Personally, I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate the coming of a new year of bullshit in this ward.” He smirks, kicking his feet up on his desk in front of him to which Ms. Barger rolls her eyes and turns to the board to start teaching.

“So, as I was saying,” He grins, turning back around and taking out a deck of cards, “You play Pokémon?”

 Present Day

 “Harry, Harry! I’m falling!”

“You’re not falling, Jesus Christ,” He laughs, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you in place, “Besides you’re on a skateboard a few inches off the ground, not plummeting to your death.”

“Why did I allow you to put me on this death trap again?” You groan, wobbling slightly as he pulls you along by your hips.

“Because it’s a trade, we do something I want to do and then we do something you want to do.” He explains, helping you off the board.

As soon as your feet touch solid ground again you puff out a breath of relief. He laughs as he easily flips the board upside down and flips it back over with his feet, landing right on top of it and skating back around you in circle.

“Show off.” You scoff, trying to shove him off but he grabs your hands and pulls you on instead.

“What were you saying?” He smirks, hopping off the board and leaving you standing on it once again, holding onto his hand for dear life.

“Wait, Harry-“

“You got this,” He laughs, squeezing your hand and walking beside you, “Just try pushing off with your right foot.”

You give him a glare and he grins, reaching up to take his hat off and brush his hair out of his face before putting it back on backwards. He’s totally in his element here in his ridiculously skinny jeans and giant oversized t-shirt. You look back up to meet his face and he’s got his eyebrows raised waiting for you to push off by yourself.

“If I bust my ass, I’m gonna bust yours.” You say definitively, pointing your finger into his chest.

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” He laughs, “Now come on, just try.”

You bite your lip as you transfer all your weight to your left foot and lean over, pushing off on your right foot. He nearly trips to catch up with you as you push off and skate a good distance.

“See!” He grins, grabbing both your hands to stop you, “You did just fine.”

“Okay, okay,” You breathe, trying to catch your breath after holding it the whole time you were skating, “Let’s do it again.”

“Yeah?” He asks eagerly, positioning himself on your left side again, “Whenever you’re ready.”

You do it again, grabbing his right hand in a death grip as you push off and skate even further with him jogging beside you to keep up. You do it a couple more times, getting even more adventurous each time and skating even further across the pavement.

“Okay, now this time, when you get to the end of the pavement, don’t stop, try to turn.” He instructs.

“Try to turn?” You scoff, “How?”

“Here, hop off,” He says, getting on the board himself and pushing off with ease, skating to the end of the pavement, and then leaning on his back foot and jutting the board to the left before pushing off again and skating back over to you, “Did you see it?”

“Kinda?” You say but it comes out sounding more like a question.

“Come on, you got this.” He nods, getting back off the board and rolling it over to you.

You roll your eyes as you grab his hand again and carefully step back on the board. He’s holding your hand nice and tight as you lean over and push off once again, skating towards the end of the pavement.

“See you’ve got it down,” He chuckles, “Now just lean back on your right foot and turn.”

You try to do what you watched him do but the board beneath you is rocking side to side under your wobbly legs and suddenly you’re stumbling right off it and into his arms. He’s laughing his ass off as you nearly trip over your own feet and the board but grabs you in his arms, stabilizing you anyways. You finally allow yourself to laugh with him when you look up and see the giant grin on his face as you lean back in his arms.

“Wanna take a break?” He laughs, letting you go and snapping his board back up into his hand.

“Yeah, besides, it’s my turn.” You smirk, grabbing his hand and tugging him behind you.

In a matter of an hour before you’re both back at your apartment after he showed off a bit more around the skate park hitting the rails. You have no idea how he’s able to grind the board down the slope of the rail without hitting the pavement face first but he’s certainly good at it and likes to remind you of that.

“Y/N, it’s burning, is it supposed to be burning?” He winces, attempting to crane his neck to see his face in the mirror.

“Stop moving,” You giggle, grabbing him by the jaw and turning his face back to yours as he wiggles around on the lid of the toilet seat, “I’m almost done, and the burning means it’s working.”

“What is it supposed to be doing? Melting off my top layer of skin?” He groans as you scoop out more of the purple shimmery face mask and paint it on his chin.

“Yes, exactly.” You nod and the horrified look on his face makes you laugh so hard you bury your face in his chest before standing back up to admire your work.

His hair is pushed back off his forehead with a zebra print headband that perfectly matches the santa cruz t-shirt on his shoulders and his entire face is painted a bright shimmery purple to match my own. He finally stands up off the toilet lid when you tell him you’re finished, and he nearly jumps when he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror.

“Holy shit I look like a fucking alien,” He chuckles, leaning closer to the mirror, “How long till I can wash this shit off?”

“You don’t wash it off,” You explain, swatting his hands away from his face, “You peel it off in like twenty minutes.”

“Peel it?” He scoffs, turning around to face you, “I can’t peel it off! It’s gonna rip out my stubble!”

“What stubble,” You laugh, shoving him out of the way to walk back to the kitchen, “You have the facial hair of a prepubescent twelve-year-old.”

“Do not,” He huffs, following you to the pantry and grabbing the bag of chips right over your head, “I could totally grow a beard if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure.” You mock sarcastically, following him over to the couch and immediately shoving your feet in his lap.

“I could!” He huffs through a mouthful of chips, “This shit isn’t going to like dye my face purple is it; I’ve got to get to work in like an hour.”

“You work tonight?” You groan, leaning back against the couch and folding your arms over your chest.

“Five to ten,” He shrugs, cautiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to not smear purple everywhere, “Why? You wanna do something?”

“No, just thought we were hanging out tonight since you’re here.” You say nonchalantly, masking your disappointment.

He opens his mouth to speak just as his phone starts ringing in his pocket and he sits up quickly, digging it out of his jeans. He rolls his eyes when they land on the caller ID but he answers it anyways and presses his phone to his ear.

“What’s up?” He asks, sounding less than enthused, “Yeah, yeah I can, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He ends the call and you perk up a bit, waiting for him to fill you in but suddenly he’s shoving your feet off of him and jogging over to the door to slide on his Vans.

“Who was that?” You ask.

“Work,” He groans, “Austin never came in so now I have to go in early to cover him.”

“Oh no, whatever shall Zumiez do with one less salesperson on the floor.” You sigh dramatically to which he gives you a pointed look.

“Hey, I’ll have you know I happen to be the top salesperson on that floor.” He smirks, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’m sure you’re their pride and joy, H,” You laugh, pointing to the purple face mask smeared all over his face, “But aren’t you forgetting something.”

“Oh shit! Yeah, get it off.” He says, leaning down so his face is level with yours.

You lift up the mask around his mouth and he winces all the while as you drag it off his skin little by little. You can’t help but laugh as he sucks in a breath when you rip the last bit off his tiny bit of mustache.

“Jesus Y/N, just do it like a Band-Aid this shit hurts.” He whines and you roll your eyes as you do as he requested and peel the rest off in one swift motion.

He scrunches his face up as you do so, gasping as you rip the last bit off his nose and toss the discarded mask in the trash. He opens his eyes once again and runs a hand over his face feeling his skin.

“Am I purple?”  He laughs.

“You’re absolutely glowing.” You tease as he leans down and grabs his skateboard.

“Awesome, I’m never doing that shit again,” He jokes, “I gotta go, I’ll text you.”

You’re surprised when he opens the door and just before walking through it turns back around and lands a quick peck to your lips. You hardly have any time to react before he’s pulling away, dropping his board onto the sidewalk, and skating off.

You close the door almost hesitantly, waiting for him to look back over his shoulder or something but you know he’s not going to. What the hell was that? A kiss goodbye? Whatever it was for some reason it managed to make your knees weak.

You pull yourself away from leaning your back against the door and into the confines of your bedroom, plopping yourself right down at your desk. It’s about an hour later that you’re still mind-numbingly reading through your calculus book and imagining where that goodbye kiss could have headed if he didn’t have to go to work when your phone buzzes beside you and you’re surprised to see his name pop up on your screen.

H: wyd

Y/N: calc reading

H: rough

Y/N: tell me about it

H: finals coming up yeah?

Y/N: next week, super stressed

H: you know there’s a pretty easy way to destress

H: only requires like two fingers

Y/N: omg shut up

H: just stating some facts

Y/N: didn’t ask for your “facts”

H: fine but don’t say I didn’t try to help

H: brb gotta work

You set your phone back down and sigh, inadvertently clenching your thighs together as your mind goes to the last place you want it to. If he wants to make jokes about you getting off maybe he should have offered to help while he was here. You huff in frustration as you get up out of your chair and retreat to your bathroom instead, turning the water on as cold as you think you can take it and stepping in behind the curtain. You try to clear your head as you stand under the freezing water and suds yourself up with vanilla scented body wash. You rinse yourself off one more time before escaping the cold and wrapping up in a warm towel before walking back into your bedroom to hear your phone buzzing on your desk.

H: I’m back

H: wow love it when you don’t text back

H: it turns me on

H: ignore me harder

Y/N: well if you insist

H: kidding

H: come back

Y/N: that’s what I thought

H: where did you go

Y/N: shower

H: ah someone took my advice

Y/N: no dipshit, someone took a shower

H: oh good

H: I was worried you only lasted fifteen minutes

Y/N: oh shut up

H: you shut up

Y/N: make me loser

H: I definitely can

H: but you might moan a little

Y/N: HARRY

H: see, told you

Y/N: the only moaning you’re getting out of me is in sheer annoyance dumbass

H: there we go

H: who needs flirting and affection when you can just have blind hatred

Y/N: you’re such an idiot

H: mmmmm say it again

Y/N: oh shut up

H: are we really going down that road again

Y/N: I don’t know

Y/N: I quite liked where we were headed before

H: you did?

Y/N: are you really going to make me spell it out for you?

H: fucking hell

H: I’m at work woman

Y/N: and now that’s an issue?

Y/N: you were talking pretty big game there Styles

H: okay fine

H: you have exactly three minutes to be naked on your bed while I get to the storage closet

H: and don’t you dare start without me

Your heart is absolutely hammering in your chest when your eyes read over the words as they pop up on your screen. Are you really doing this? While he’s at work? What the hell are you thinking? You know you should stop this right here before things get carried away but something else has already come over you and before you can think straight, you’re stripped of all your clothing, lying back against your headboard. The cold air oscillating from your ceiling fan has you covered in goosebumps nearly instantly, every hair on your body standing up and your jittering hands reaching for your phone to see if he’s texted back just as it starts to ring in your hand.

“Shit, shit, shit,” You swear under your breath, staring at your ceiling as your phone rings in your hand and you try to force yourself to answer it, “Fuck it.”

You answer the call and immediately want to slap yourself for doing so, trying to regulate your breathing as your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

“You naked, sweetheart?” He breathes through the phone, instantly making your thighs clench together.

“Maybe.” You say, your voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, come on,” He laughs, “Don’t start with that shy shit now, Y/N.”

“Who said I’m being shy?” You smirk, trying to be just as equally witty as he always is, “Perhaps I’m teasing.”

“And we all know just how good you are at that.” He chuckles, trying to break through the awkward tension between the two of you.

What is it about talking dirty to each other over the phone rather than in person that makes it so much harder?

“Surely I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You sigh sarcastically, adjusting the pillows underneath you to get comfortable.

“This innocent act isn’t gonna last sweetheart.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” You giggle, “What makes you so sure?”

“Well we could start with the soaking spot I’m sure you have in your underwear,” He says and you picture the proud smirk on his face when you let your eyes flutter closed, “And end with the fact that you’re on your bed naked for me right now if you’d like.”

“Now come on Styles,” You muse, sounding a lot braver than you feel, “I think we both know I’m the one running the show here, I’ve got you in a supply closet after all.”

“That you do babygirl,” He laughs, and you just know he’s shaking his head at you, “Now sit up against your headboard and spread your legs for me.”

“Way ahead of you.” You smirk, balancing the phone between your ear and your shoulder as you let your fingers lightly circle your opening, making your thighs clench.

“Fuck, of course you are,” He breathes, and you hear the clink of his belt buckle as he undoes it, “Do you have music playing?”

“Mhm,” You hum, “Brockhampton.”

“Jesus,” He pants, “I wanna fuck you to so many songs.”

“Oh yeah?” You hum once again, trying to not let your moans sound too pornstar as you slip your fingers past your entrance, “Like what?”

“I’ll tell you later, promise,” He grunts, “But right now I need you to move your hips as sinfully as you can and imagine it’s my face you’re riding instead of your fingers.”

“Ahead of you again,” You grin, trying to keep your panting in check as your fingers speed up, “You have really got to learn to catch up, H.”

“Fuck off.” He chuckles.

“Tell me what you want to do to me.” You breathe, shocking yourself as the words fall past your lips.

“Christ,” He hisses, and you can picture him biting his lip purple, “I want to tie you down and make you beg, fuck you till you can’t walk straight,” He pants, moans spilling out of his mouth in between every word, “Fuck, please tell me you’re touching yourself cause god knows I am.”

“Way past touching, Harry.” You laugh, your left hand reaching to your chest to tweak your nipples.

“What are you thinking about right now?” He asks.

“You.”

“What about me?” He inquires further.

“Riding you,” You gasp, nearly choking on the end of the word as you hit that perfect spot, “Pushing you down against my bed and climbing on top of you, sliding onto you, marking up your neck with my mouth.”

“Holy fuck,” He groans in the back of his throat, “I want to bend you over my bed and smack your ass so hard you can’t sit for two days.”

“But you’ll handcuff me first of course,” You tease, trying to get a rise out of him, “Right, Harry?”

“Fuck, I’ll chain you to the bed if you want.” He chuckles.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” You bait him, whimpering as your left hand moves from your nipples back to your clit.

“Sweetheart, it can be whatever the hell you want it to be.”

Your stomach does a series of backflips when the words come out of his mouth in that deep gravelly tone and you find yourself beaming ear to ear as your head relaxes against the pillow behind you.

“You still stressed about calculus?” He teases.

“Funny,” You pant, “Can’t say calculus is necessarily in the forefront of my mind at the current moment, no.”

“Then I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job, huh?”

“Do you think you could get over here and put your mouth to better use than patting yourself on the back?” You suggest, biting your lip as you await his response.

“Don’t tease a weak man, Y/N,” He groans, a small chuckle escaping his mouth, “I don’t get off for another three hours.”

“It’ll be a lot sooner than that if I have anything to do with it.” You grin, an idea coming to fruition in your head.

“What? Y/N?”

You don’t answer any of his questions or respond to your name. Instead, you hang up hastily and climb off your bed, shimmying your underwear back up your legs followed by a pair of jeans and his plain yellow hoodie hanging in your closet.

You slip your phone in your back pocket as you shove your feet into a pair of sneakers and grab your keys, rushing out your bedroom door and nearly coming face to face with your roommate Matt. He has an all assuming smirk on his face as he takes a sip of the can of mountain dew in his hand, eyeing your haphazard outfit and messy hair.

“Heading out?” He laughs.

“Something like that,” You say quickly, heading for the front door, “How long have you uh, been home exactly?”

“Not long,” He shrugs, taking a seat on the couch as you open the door, “Of course it was long enough to hear you screaming, Oh Harry! Harry!”

You turn around with a start, shooting daggers at him as he moans obnoxiously loud, mocking the sounds you were undoubtedly making only minutes ago.

“Fuck off!” You shout, your face burning as you close the door behind you and collapse in the front seat of your car.

You start your car, swearing under your breath as you back out of your parking spot, your hands shaking nervously as you reluctantly make good on your promise, he’ll surely be getting off in a lot sooner than three hours.

 HARRY

 The call drops and he’s swearing under his breath as he fumbles with his phone trying to call you back, but it just rings over and over, angering him further. What kind of game are you trying to play? Getting him this worked up at work and then vanishing right when he’s at the edge.

He takes out his earbuds and tosses his phone back in his pocket with a huff of frustration, rubbing the back of his hand over his now sweaty forehead and lifting his damp hair out of his eyes. He grabs himself in his other hand once again, pumping his hand over his throbbing cock but without your breathy moans surrounding him through his headphones he just ends up frustrating himself even further.

“Fucking hell.” He pants under his breath, finally giving up and leaning against the storage room wall behind him.

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine your picture perfect chest right in front of him, your eyes rolled back in your head as you bounce on him, biting your lip to stifle your moans before he grabs your jaw and reminds you to be loud for him. The images running through his head are tantalizing for sure, but they’re nothing compared to the whimpers and mewls and filthy words you were spewing straight into his ears only a few minutes ago.

“Fuck it.” He huffs, standing back up straight and stuffing himself in his boxers.

When he buttons his jeans and does up his zipper, he’s thankful for the baggy t-shirt he decided to wear today. He adjusts himself another three times trying to get comfortable with his rock-hard cock straining against the confines of his clothes but once again he gives up and decides to just try and get through the rest of his shift already.

He unlocks the storage room door and emerges quietly, hoping he doesn’t raise any red flags with his other associate considering he was in there at least twenty minutes.

“Oh, there you are man,” Cody laughs, straightening the shirts on the front table, “Thought you might have went to get some food or something.”

“Nope,” He chuckles nervously, “Just uh, straightening all the shoes back there, it was a mess.” He explains, mentally slapping himself when he realizes he’s actually going to have to do that later now.

Cody goes on to complain about some other aspect of the store that’s equally messy but Harry doesn’t hear a word he says as his gaze lands on none other than Y/N, walking hurriedly down the aisle of stores and making a b-line for him as soon as they lock eyes.

“Hey um,” Harry speaks up, cutting Cody off, “Did you want to get out of here early tonight? I can close up myself, we’ve had like three people all night.”

“Serious dude?” Cody grins, “That would be awesome.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” He shrugs, sending you a very pointed look warning you to stay outside, “Grab your stuff and clock out.”

“Thanks, Harry.” He smiles, patting him on the back as he passes him to the back room.

Harry beckons you over quickly, shushing you when you start to speak and nearly dragging you over to the door to the small storage closet.

“Stay in here and don’t make a fucking sound,” He says, his voice pure gravel, “You better be ready for me when I get back.”

Your legs clench on their own accord at the needy tone of his voice before he opens the door and shoves you inside, closing it once again. His head is a clouded, fuzzy mess as he drags his feet back over to the computer at the register and manually clocks Cody out so he can fucking get out of here already.

“Alright, I’m out of here man-“

“Already clocked you out, you’re all good dude.” Harry grins nearly painfully, leaning back against the counter.

“Oh, awesome, thanks,” Cody nods, hiking his skateboard up under his arm and walking towards the front of the store, “See you later.”

Harry lets out the biggest sigh of relief when Cody finally turns the corner and he runs to the entrance of the store, jumping up to grab the gate and pull it down to the floor, kicking the lock closed and nearly running back to the storage room where you’re waiting for him.

He throws the door open roughly and instantly grabs your face in his hands, smashing his lips onto yours as you reach out to grab the door handle and yank it closed. Your hands immediately reach for his belt buckle under his t-shirt, followed by the button and the zipper on his pants. You start to sink down to your knees, but he grabs your arms and stands you back up, lifting his hoodie up off you and biting back a moan as your full chest he was trying to picture earlier is now right in front of him.

“Wanna fuck you,” He grinds out, undoing your jeans as well, “Not gonna last if you try to blow me.”

You try not to laugh at how needy he is, already teetering on the edge. He sucks in a breath as you untuck him from his boxers, just barely pumping your hand over him while his cup your chest, making you whimper.

“You’re not gonna last either, huh?” He smirks proudly, giving your right nipple a pinch and making your knees wobble.

“Well I’m assuming we should be rather quick about this,” You breathe, stepping out of your jeans, “Can’t hide in here all night.”

“Fucking wish we could,” He pants, pressing his thumb against your center, “Lot more fun than folding t-shirts.”

You’re nearly doubling over in pleasure as he rubs his thumb against your clit over your soaking panties. He���s got that cocky smirk on his face as he eases them out of your slit and eases a finger inside you, making you gasp. He circles your clit, spreading your arousal before delving back inside you and making you lean against the wall behind you.

“Harry,” You breathe, “I could have fingered myself at home.”

You let your eyes flutter back open to catch the look on his face as he gives you a teasing glare, withdrawing his fingers from you once again and pushing them past his lips instead, hollowing his cheeks and sucking them clean.

“As you wish, princess.” He mocks, grabbing you in his arms roughly and pressing you against the wall with your legs wrapped around his waist.

You don’t even have time to worry about if you’re too heavy for him to be holding you up like this before he’s sliding into you and filling you to the hilt. You both gasp at the sudden contact, his head instantly falling to your shoulder, his lips messily sponging kisses down your jaw.

“Fuck how are you always,” He pants, pulling out and rutting into you again, “So tight.”

You can’t even comprehend the words coming out of his mouth as your hands thread through his hair, your head leaning back against the wall behind you as your back arches further with every thrust. He’s already so close, desperately thrusting into you at a punishing pace that has you moaning carelessly, nearly screaming his name despite the two of you being locked in a thin-walled closet.

“Please tell me you’re close.” He begs, his nails threatening to dig into the underside of your thighs as he grips you even tighter.

“So close, H,” You pant, grabbing desperately at his back and hardly noticing as you rake your nails across his skin, “Fuck, so close.”

“Cum with me then,” He groans, his moans purely guttural, “Come on Y/N, cum with me babygirl.”

His words are just enough to push you over the edge, squeezing your walls around him as your head rolls back against the wall behind you. Your eyes threaten to flutter closed as your orgasm washes over you, but you force yourself to watch him, relishing in the way his swollen pink lips part perfectly, his eyes screwing shut, and a colorful string of swears falling past his trembling lips. You feel him release inside you, making you clench around him again earning you a gravelly moan from the back of his throat.

He carefully sets you back on the ground, pulling out of you and the empty aching feeling between your thighs returns. He lifts up his t-shirt to wipe his forehead and you want to slap yourself when you feel your thighs still clenching together when you get a quick look at his hardened stomach, his jutting hips and very visible v-line making your mouth water. He pulls his shirt back down, snapping you out of your daze as he pulls his jeans back up and you stumble over yourself as you realize you should be doing the same.

“So, what are your plans for the rest of tonight?” He asks, running a hand through his thoroughly fucked out hair.

“Um,” You think aloud, “Not sure, might have a date with my couch and the ice cream in my freezer.”

“You want to organize some shoes instead?” He laughs, gesturing to the wall of shoe boxes beside you, “After I’ll take you out for all the ice cream you can eat.”

[whattimeisitintokyo]

Somos Familia Chapter 34: PART 1

So I’ve been writing the next chapter to Somos Familia and it’s become clear to me that this chapter is going to be... longer than usual. Like it’s already 4000 words and it’s not even half done. But since it’s been so long since I last updated I decided to post the first part here and then post it on AO3 and FF,Net when it’s actually done. So enjoy the first part of the new chapter.

Chapter 34: No Me Dejas

 Julio tenderly held onto Coco as she wept brokenly into his arms. Despite his firm grip on her he was unable to stop the terrified trembling that shook her entire body. Probably because he could not stop shaking himself. He had been there in the audience when it had all happened. Sitting next to his mother-in-law, both in elegant formal wear, he leaned his cheek onto his hand as he dreamily watched Coco dance and sing with her godfather. However, when the final song came on his brow had furrowed with confusion. Having seen the previous rehearsals, he had fully expected Coco to join Ernesto in Remember Me, only to watch Coco slink in between the other dancers and join them as Ernesto sung by himself.

What he didn’t expect was for the giant bell prop to snap from the overhead fixture and crash down on top of the escalator, right where Ernesto had been standing and belting out the last triumphant note, leaving behind a giant crater underneath the bell and a fluttering blue sombrero.

While Mamá Imelda had gasped and was frozen in horrified shock, Julio was up and out of his seat immediately dashing for the stage, barely making it past the heavy curtains as they hurriedly slid close to hide the grisly site. Passing screaming, hysterical dancers he made his way to his wife and grabbed her by her shoulders as she sank to the ground in horror. Frantically he asked her if she was all right, flinching back as Coco let out a piercing scream as she stared up to the top of the escalator. Following her gaze he saw several stage hands crowd around the bell hesitantly, unsure of what to do or even how to begin to move the giant obstacle from the celebrity.

All except Héctor.

Julio watched open-mouthed as his father-in-law flung himself across the bell and fruitlessly try to push and then pull the bell off of Ernesto, with Vicente right behind him trying to pull him off the bell. On top of all the frantic screaming and shouting coming from the people backstage, Héctor’s rang the loudest at a blood-curdling level. But not the clearest. Besides of few cries of ‘Ernesto!’ Julio was able to pick up, Héctor’s words were an indecipherable mess of wails and screams. His face was horrifying as he strained against the bell and screamed as loud as he could, tears streaming down from his wild and crazed eyes.

Héctor looked like he had lost his mind.

“Papá!” Coco cried out, snapping Julio’s attention back at her and trying to pull her away from ascending the escalator. “Papá! Tio Nesto!”

“Coco, no!” Julio pulled his wife to his feet and tried to drag her away. “Don’t go up there!”

“Papá-!”

“Coco, go with Julio now!”

The young couple were startled to see Imelda marching over to them with her skirts hiked up and a dangerous, no-nonsense look in her eyes. Julio was amazed that Imelda had managed to force her way through the thick curtains with no issue, but not really surprised. Mamá Imelda was a force to be reckoned with even in the most peaceful of times.

“Julio, take her backstage and away from all of this. I’ll deal with Héctor.”

Julio didn’t need to be told twice. He easily led Coco away from the stage, barely glimpsing as Imelda started to race up the ruined escalator towards her husband and hearing the anguished cries of Héctor fade away as they wove their way back to Coco’s dressing room. That was where they had been for the last half hour, with Julio gently holding his wife as she wept as much as she could until she was finally able to find her words again.

“Oh Julio!” she hiccupped and buried her face into his shoulder. “I can’t believe it! Poor Tio Nesto!”

Julio gave a sweet kiss against Coco’s hot, wet cheek and whispered to her in a soothing manner. “I know, I know. It’ll be alright.”

“He could be alright, right?! He could just be inside the bell, right?!”

“I don’t know, Coco.”

“Oh, Julio!” Coco’s face shot up and she stared wild-eyed at her husband. “I was supposed to be up there with him!”

“But you weren’t-”

“Only because I changed my mind at the last second!” she screeched and dissolved into another wave of hysterical sobbing. “I’m so sorry Julio! I could have died and you would have seen it! And Mamá and Papá! And Victoria would have lost her mamá forever! I’m sorry! So sorry!”

Julio couldn’t help the shudder that went down his spine nor the sick clenching of his stomach. With a hard shake of the head he dashed away the image of his wife’s lifeless body from his mind and held her closer, as if the reaffirm that she was well and truly safe in his arms. “Don’t worry about that, mi amor. I’ve got you… I’m here.”

“I quit.”

The whisper was so soft and broken by her trembling voice that Julio almost didn’t register it. With a slow blink his brain paused to register what Coco had said and what she had truly meant. “Que?”

“I quit, Julio.” With a trembling breath she pulled away from his embrace to look him square in the face. “Acting. Show business. I can’t take it anymore.” With each word she said Coco looked like she was gaining more strength and confidence. He shoulders squared and she nodded to herself in slow affirmation. “I just wanted to dance, but… It’s not worth it. I’ve wanted to quit for a long time! It has brought me nothing but trouble with the public and estrangement from my family. I’m becoming a stranger to my own daughter! I’ve neglected you as a wife! And now this! I could have-!... I want to come home to you and Victoria. To Santa Cecilia! Perdonome, mi amor! Por favor…”

This was not the time to be smiling. Coco had just possibly seen her godfather get crushed to death. She was reeling from a near death experience herself. It was selfish of him to feel the euphoric triumph of his wife finally deciding that even though she was an international star, she was just not made for the spotlight after all. But he couldn’t help it. As the terrible weight of the past year finally lifted from his chest and seeing his Coco looking at him with those large, watery eyes full of love, his face split into a huge grin.

He cupped her face and kissed her gently on the lips, both of their eyes closing and tears spilling down their cheeks. “Mi Coco. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to do what you loved. What made you happy.”

Coco looked down at her lap, ashamed. “I thought that dancing would make me happy on the big screen… But it’s nothing compared to dancing with you in Mariachi Plaza.”

They sat there hugging for a few more minutes, Julio kissing his wife and letting her cry out a few more tears as he whispered sweet words to her. Wiping underneath her eyes and sighing deeply to get a hold of her emotions, she nodded determinedly to Julio. “It’s done then. As of right now, I quit.”

“I think not.”

A harsh, no-nonsense voice broke through and startled Julio and Coco from their moment of peace. Theresa stood there with arms crossed and a raised brow as she smugly smiled at her client. At her prey. “You signed a three-year contract with Rivera de la Cruz Productions. You’ve still got two years to go. And besides that, no one will let you leave without resigning. You are in too high demand.”

“The hell with that!” Julio shot to his feet and glared at the pompous woman who had been the bane of his existence for the past year. Never in his life did he ever feel like he could hate someone so much, much less a woman significantly shorter than even his admittedly small stature. But tonight was the last straw, and he was not holding back anymore. “You have a lot of nerve coming here, to face my wife, after what could have happened under your suggestion! She would have been under that bell and you would have been to blame!”

Theresa merely rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “There’s was no way that I could foresee a stage mishap, Señor Magallanes.” Dismissing him with a wave of her hand she walked towards Coco and gave a simpering smile. “But I can foresee a great opportunity in this, Coco. You can be the star witness in the tell-all story of the death of Señor de la Cruz.”

Coco gasped and her eyes filled with tears again. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, she whispered. “So, he really is dead?”

Theresa paused a little, and if Julio didn’t know any better it looked like she was deliberately trying to build up the tension of the situation. “Unfortunately. The bell was raised just a short while ago. Señor Rivera saw the whole thing and collapsed. He’s being taking to the hospital right now.”

Coco gasped again with fright. “Dios mio, Papá!” Frantically she began ripping off the elaborate decorations in her hair and flung them to the ground. “Julio, we need to go to the hospital now! Papá has been so sick lately! I need to be there for him! Help me get out of this costume!”

Before she could start to take off her jewelry, Theresa roughly grabbed her wrists and commanded her attention. “That can wait, the doctors will take care of him. Coco, we need to take advantage of this! The world needs to hear your statement while the moment is still new and raw. Your exact feelings at this exact moment!”

Coco gaped and sputtered, her mind in turmoil. “How?!... I can’t possibly!- Not now!”

“Get your hands off of her!” Julio growled and drew Coco towards him and away from the shrew. “Her godfather just died and her father is sick and in shock! The world can wait for her pinche statement any other day!”

Theresa scoffed. “You have no idea how show business works! The news will be stale by tomorrow morning! I need her statement to give to press and I need it now!”

“Well then why don’t you write it?”

The three of them turned their heads to the new voice. Vicente stood there like a towering figure, a welcome presence in this toxic atmosphere. His face was drawn and tight as well as slightly pale with a slight sheen of sweat. He had been there when the bell had finally managed to be lifted from the top of the escalator. He had seen... what was left of the most famous singer in all of Mexico. He was the one who had caught Héctor as he collapsed towards the ground, screaming until his eyes had rolled over white and he became silent.

It seemed like time had slowed down as he had tried to shake Héctor awake. His employers’ breathing was slow and stuttering, his lungs trying to hack up fluid even in his unconscienced state. When he was finally whisked away by a medical team with his wife hovering by his side, his brain finally started to work again, and his first thought was to get away from the gory site before he ended up fainting too. His second thought had been to see if Coco was alright.

He wasn’t sure why he sought out the room he knew that Theresa had been using as a makeshift office instead of Coco’s dressing room. Maybe he figured that Theresa would have managed to snatch her talons on her as soon as possible in order to capitalize on the excitement. He knew now that her husband had gotten to her first, but he was glad he went to that room anyway. For he had seen on the desk something that had been very interesting to him for the past few months now: Theresa’s ever-present clipboard with a thick, bulging packet of notes that she was always scribbling into. How sloppy of her to leave something so precious lying around. Despite the horrible circumstances, Vicente Calles was not about to leave a golden opportunity like this to be let go.

So he had picked it up and quickly read through it. And oh, what a prize it had been.

“I mean after all,” Vicente said as he held up the clipboard and waved it for them to see. “You’ve seen to have plenty of practice doing that anyway.”

Theresa’s smug expression faded into panicked horror and her face drained to a sickly gray color as she saw what he was holding. “Where did you get?!-”

“Coco, remember that interview you don’t recall ever giving to that magazine two months ago. You know, where you describe your dream man and what you look for in a relationship that was the exact opposite of your own husband and marriage?” Vicente flipped through a few pages and stopped at a certain spot. “Well either Theresa has taken up the habit of copying your interviews word for word, or this is the rough draft of the whole thing. And when I flip the page here’s the revision. And drafts of several other of your other interviews that you never did that made it to print.”

“Give that back!” Theresa roared as she lunged for the clipboard. But Vicente used his height to his advantage and easily sidestepped out of the way.

“And you know your stalker Emilio Aguado?”

“He;s not a stalker! He’s the President of the Coco Fan Club!” Theresa screamed.

“… Your stalker Emilio Aquado? Well here several listings in her agenda to set up meetings with a certain Emilio A. Along with several other well-known paparazzo with money signs next to their names. Dating back several months! Theresa has been milking you for all your worth, Coco.”

It would have been comical to see Vicente leaping and hopping all over the furniture as he dodged the irate manager whilst reading undisturbed through the clipboard, but Coco was staring in jaw-dropped shock as her trust in her manager was well and truly broken and destroyed with every word that came out of Vicente’s mouth. And Julio was slowly seeing red.

“Theresa…” Coco whispered in horror. “Is that true?”

Theresa gave up her fight for the clipboard, especially when she discovered that not even her feeble punches could knock Vincente nor the board down, and drew back up straight after catching her breath. Smoothing back her disheveled hair, she tried to muster up any amount of dignity and sway that she might still have. “Coco… I was only trying to increase your star appeal. That’s what a manager does.”

“But Emilio…” Coco said with a shudder. “And the paparazzi… They chased us so often. Even in places that were supposed to be safe… Victoria scraped her knee…”

“Fired…”

The growled out word shook Coco to her core. She had never heard her husband speak in such a threatening and intimidating way, nor did she ever see such intense hatred in his eyes. But even if she was a little scared seeing her normally timid, gentle husband look so savagely angry, a part of her couldn’t help but feel a little… titillated.

Theresa blinked in perplexed astonishment as the word finally registered to her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Fired…” Julio strained out the word again through tightly clenched teeth and slowly walked towards the woman with fire in his eyes.

Theresa huffed haughtily and crossed her arms. “You have no authority to fire me, Señor Magallanes.”

Vicente chuckled. “Oh, I think it safe to say that you are without a doubt fired from not only being Coco’s manager, but also from Rivera de la Cruz once Héctor learns what you’ve been up to. I hope you made a pretty peso selling out your client, your going to need every bit of it once we take you to court.”

“You can’t!”

“The only reason…” Julio said as he stuck a finger in Theresa’s pale face. “… That I don’t throttle you on the spot is because I promised my Mamá on her deathbed that I would never hurt a woman.”

“I don’t mind, querido.” Coco piped in.

Vicente nodded. “Si, knock yourself out amigo.”

Julio paid them no mind. As he bore down on the detestable woman, he pointed out the door and snarled into her pug-nosed face, “Get…. OUT!”

Theresa backed away like a cornered animal, nervously glancing at all three of them, before bolting out of the room and down the hall like the coward that she was. Julio went out into the hall to make sure she was out of their sights and huffed out a harsh sigh of relief. It wouldn’t be the last time he would see her, because Vicente was right. There was no doubt that she would go to court to face what she had done. But for now, the toxic harpy that had been preying on his wife for a year was gone, and his family was safe for good.

Letting his heart rate get back down to normal and his breathing under control, he walked back into the dressing room… And did not like what he saw.

“So, there’s nothing that can be done about my contract?” Coco looked up at Vicente helplessly with both of her hands in his.

Vicente hummed thoughtfully. “Well you did sign a three-year contract, and despite what your father might say in your defense there are several teams of lawyers who will make sure that you stay for the full term…” Looking down at Coco’s stricken face he paused and then smiled warmly. “But I don’t see why you can’t fulfill your obligations by just making a few short films for the war effort with several, very long vacations in between. I think you’ve earned some rest and relaxation, especially after what’s happened tonight.”

Coco smiled brightly and gratefully hugged Vicente. “Gracias Vicente! For everything you’ve done, with Papá and with Theresa. You are so kind.”

Vicente smiled softly and returned the hug. “Well, it’s my job to help the Rivera’s. And even if it wasn’t, I would always try to help you Coco. With anything.”

That’s it!

“Ahem, Coco.” Julio gritted out, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. “We should really head for the hospital now. You should get dressed into your regular clothes.”

“Ah, si!” Coco stepped out of the embrace and wiped her eyes. “I’ll get changed and then we’ll leave at once.”

“We’ll wait outside.” Vicente said and left the room to step out into the hall with Julio. With a long, exhausted moan he ran his hand through his hair and leaned against the wall. “Ay Dios mio…I cannot wait for this night to be over. I feel like I aged twenty years just within the last hour… But you really showed that puta what for, eh amigo? I’m really impressed-”

“I’m only going to say this once, cabrón.”

Vicente’s good natured-grin froze on his face with a little twitch and his brow furrowed. “… Que?”

“Coco is my wife, Señor Calles.” Julio snapped out. “And it was not an easy task to get her to marry me, let me assure you. I am not a handsome man. I am not tall. I do not bring in enough money to even compete with the enormous wealth that the Riveras make. And for the longest time Coco didn’t even like being in the same room with me. I had to earn her love through literal blood, sweat and tears. And I’m not about to let some dashing pendejo come in and take her away from me. I will fight anyone who tries to.”

Vicente’s eyes widened in comprehension, and a weak chuckle escaped his throat. “Señor Magallanes, I can assure you that I-”

“I know that in this business, in this city even, that the sanctity of marriage means nothing to big shots like you.” Julio said. “But it does to me. It does in Santa Cecilia. And you can ask any person living there that despite all the money, glitz and glamor you can try to entice Coco with… It pales in comparison to the love that I feel for her… I love her, Vicente... Please tell me you understand… that you and her will never, ever be.”

For several moments the two men stared at each other: Julio with bold determination, Vicente with wide-eyed astonishment. Just as Julio was certain he would have to try to convince him further that his sights on his acquiring Coco was fruitless, Vicente sighed deeply and nodded sadly.

“Si… You are right, Señor Magallanes. I understand.” He placed his hand over his heart and Julio was just a little saddened to see the pain flit over Vicente’s face. “Coco loves you… despite my valiant efforts to prove myself to her. Your love is truly one of a kind and from now on… I will respect that and keep my relationship with her purely professional.”

Julio sighed in relief and nodded: The man sounded truly genuine. He let his tense frame relax finally and held out a hand towards the poor suitor. “Gracias… No hard feelings?”

Vicente smiled a little and took the offered hand. “Never. All that matters is that Coco is happy and well loved. I wish you and your family all the best.”

It wasn’t long before Coco finally came out of the dressing room and changed into her street clothes. “I’m ready, mi amor. Let’s go… And gracias again for everything, Chente.”

“De nada, Coco. Go on down to the hospital. I’ll be down there as soon as I can.” Vicente kept the soft smile on his face as he watched Coco and Julio hurry down the hallway arm-in arm. It was only when they rounded the corner and were out of earshot that he let himself collapse against the wall, slowly slide down it until he was crumpled on the floor, and break out into hysterical, barely suppressed…

Laughter.

“AY DIOS MIO! HA HA HA!... Pinche idiota!”

Maybe it was the shock and the stress of the day that had finally broken him, as normally he would have never let himself dissolve into such maniacal tittering. But the whole situation was just too funny, and he had played the part of the heartbroken, lovesick fool extremely well if he didn’t say so himself. Maybe he should have been and actor instead of getting into business!

Julio actually believed that he was in love with Coco!

No, scratch that!

He believed he was in love with a woman!

“Ay, joder!” Vicente giggled as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Gracias, Señor Magallanes! I really needed that!” Panting as his laughing spell finally passed he slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, his smile slowly fading as the more tragic aspects of the day came back into mind.

Ernesto de la Cruz was dead.

Héctor Rivera was in the hospital probably fighting for both his life and his sanity.

And the fate of the whole company was anybody’s guess at this point, with hundreds of jobs on the line.

As he sat in the hallway pondering all these dreadful things that had been thrown at him within the last hour, all Vicente wanted to do was curl up in his bed with a bottle of tequila and in the arms of his beloved Javier.

THAT’S PART 1. The next part will focus on Héctor. Hopefully I’ll get to to it soon.

[rainyrowan]

Sunkissed - Chapter 1

description: Wedding of the century rolls around as the previous college clique, along with the rest of their family members, stay in preparation for it. During this time, Riley meets Lucas, a gorgeous, green-eyed wallflower who happens to be immediately taken by her. Little did she know, he has a deep secret. One that will either change her views on him forever or make her feel closer to his world.

word count: 2,626

pairings: riley x lucas

Song: Annabelle’s Homework by Alec Benjamin

chapter one; riley

Sparkley Farkley: Did you know that the slowest marathon time ever is 54 years, eight months, six days, eight hours, 32 minutes, and 20.3 seconds? Yeah, in 1912, an Olympic marathoner from Japan supposedly disappeared during the middle of a race. Some say that he stopped to get a drink from an outdoor party, but ended up staying longer than he should have. Risque, if you ask me. Anyways, he was too embarrassed to finish the race, so he flew back to Japan instead. Years later, he decided to finish what he started by running the whole marathon himself. What I'm trying to say is WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? Riley, you're seriously taking much longer to get to the boardwalk than this Japanese marathon guy. Hurry!!

I looked at the horrifically long paragraph Farkle had sent me and sighed. Being best friends with him also meant being best friends with your very own encyclopedia, which can be extremely useful at times. Although, it really isn't when your phone is constantly being bombarded with numerous texts about everything and nothing.

Gentle reminder that I live farther from the beach than you do. I'll be there soon! Don't miss me too much :)

I quickly text back. I gripped onto my camera strap, which is draped over my shoulder, as I start quickening my pace.

When we became closer over the years, Farkle and I both created a tradition of spending almost every Saturday down at the boardwalk. In regards to this, the main rule that we've agreed upon would be that if one of us couldn't make it, we would have to have an extremely valid excuse. Me being the more "laid back" friend, I've been pretty lenient on Farkle if he couldn't make it. Wish I could say the same about him, though.

Last night, I had to stay up till two in the morning helping my mother out at the flower shop. Arranging flowers isn't as easy as one may think. In result, I woke up later than usual, causing me to be about 30 minutes late. So far, I've received a fact text from him for every minute I ran late. It truly amazes me how he could just drop these facts off the top of his head.

I'm practically already running when I see Farkle by the entrance, arms crossed.

"I'm sorry!" I pant. I take a second to breathe before I continue speaking. "I.. I woke.. Wow, I'm not cut out to be.. an athlete, huh?" I joke.

He rolls his eyes as a grin forms on his face. "Where were you?"

"I was up all night helping my mom with the flowers. I woke up super late. I'm so sorry."

He nods in approval of my excuse. "That's okay. However, I don't think we could go to the diner now. Brooklyn and her minions are there. Seated in our spots too!"

The thought of Brooklyn made me sick to my stomach. Brooklyn was the Regina George of Harbor High School, and basically all of Santa Cruz. Like your typical teen cliche, she was the popular girl who also the prettiest. Brooklyn also had her own entourage, as she always had two minions following her. With her bitchy personality, you may say that it's surprising that she gets all the guys. With her body, though, it really isn't. It's probably how she had my crush of four years and counting, Charlie Gardner, falling for her.

"Well, I guess we would have to postpone our meal then," I say, linking my arms with his. We enter the boardwalk and head straight for the arcade. We're surrounded by all the games you could never ever get tired of. From Dance Dance Revolution to laser tag to racing games, the Santa Cruz Boardwalk Casino Arcade has you covered. Farkle and I have our common favorite, air hockey.

He let go of my arm, dashing straight to the air hockey table. "You ready to get your ass beat?"

He asks, slipping in a token. We love each other very much, but when it comes to air hockey, it's like we're two different people.

"You should be asking yourself that, Minkus." As air starts to shoot through the tiny holes from the table, we both grabbed our paddles. Suddenly, the puck falls through my pocket instead of Farkle's. "Well, that's a first! I guess I'm starting."

I hit the puck as hard as I can towards his goal. Hoping that this time my first hit would make it, he blocks the puck in a swift move and smiles. "Not today." This goes on for quite a bit. I concentrate on the puck as it glides across the table back and forth. That is, until a distraction came my way. Charlie.

I offer him a double take before actually realizing that it was him. He probably didn't even notice me, which was a good thing on my part. I didn't want him to know that I was here. Out of impulsive thinking, I ducked down to hide behind my side of the table. This wasn't really the best decision, though. Farkle managed to make a goal and yell on behalf of his victory. I don't even have to see what's happening to know that attention was surely brought towards us.

"Farkle!" I call out in a whisper. He walks around the table and takes a seat next to me.

"So, explain to me why we're hiding behind- "

"Riley!" Charlie exclaims. Mortified, I lift my head up to find him standing right in front of us.

"Hi, Charlie." I saw awkwardly. Thankfully, Farkle gets up off the ground and pulls me up, as I was too scared to even move.

Farkle clenches is jaw subtly enough that no one could notice, except for me. It's safe to say that he never liked Charlie. I don't blame him. Most of the time, he can be a total jackass.

I'm not too sure how or why I've liked him for so long, and still currently do. I like to think it's because of the fact that I'm always seeking the best in people. I don't necessarily like making assumptions out of people based on looks or first encounters. For Charlie, I realized how much of a good person he is, deep down, whilst working on a school project with him in the public library. My father, who so happened to be my teacher, assigned both of us as partners for a project that we had to turn in a matter of three days. Within those three days, we'd head to the library at night to work, but we were never productive. All we did was talk. Well, all Charlie did was talk. About himself, of course. I would just sit and listen. It was kind of odd not taking part in the conversation, but I mostly did not mind. As a matter of fact, I remember feeling like it was for the best since I would most likely say something stupid. Plus, I got to learn more about him and who he truly was. The downside of it was that I had to take our project home and finish it myself, but I thought that it was worth it. From that moment on, I couldn't help but keep thinking about him, about us.

Charlie extends his hand out to Farkle, expecting a shake, but he steps back. "I'll wait for you outside." He tells me. No, no. Please don't leave me alone with him.

"Well, that was awkward." He laughs. "But anyways, I am so glad I caught you. I was wondering if you're free like right now? I was hoping that you could help me out with something."

Crap. As much as I would love to help him, I promised Farke that I would spend the day with him. However, as I was looking up at Charlie's mesmerizing brown eyes, I seem to have ignored that fact. "Um, sure." I squeaked. I clear my throat and try again. "What would I be helping you with exactly?"

"You see, we're doing headshots in drama, and you're kind of known to be a really talented photographer," I blush as he says so.  Along with the fact that his words make me swoon, another thing about Charlie that I liked was the fact that he is a performing arts fanatic. I'm presuming that it's something that he would like to achieve in the future. He's actually really talented if I'm being honest.

"So, would it be alright if you got a couple of portrait shots of me by the beach?" Charlie asks.

"Maybe in return, I can buy you a milkshake afterward."

Farkle is so going to kill me after this.  "Er, okay."

"Great! C'mon, let's go." He starts heading towards the exit as I trail behind him. Hoping that he was the gentleman I thought he'd be, I expected him to open the door for me. Instead, he ends up leaving it to close behind him. I sigh, disappointed for getting ahead with my thoughts. Once I've exited the arcade, I immediately scan my surroundings in search for Farkle.

"I'm here." He calls out from behind me. I turn to find him leaning against a wall.

"You're going to hate me," I confess.

A smirk creeps up on his face. "Not gonna lie, I was already kind of assuming."

"You're not mad?"

"No," Farkle says softly. "I still hate that bastard, though. But I mean if you like him that much-"

I pull him into a hug. "Thank you," I whisper.

"Yeah, okay." He wraps his arms around my back and chuckles lightly.

"Riley?" Charlie yells.

I pull away from Farkle and adjust my outfit. This would technically be the first time I get to hang out with Charlie alone, so I obviously want to look presentable. However, that's clearly not the case since I'm currently in my maroon Harvard sweater that Farkle had actually bought me from when he visited last year, along with a pair of faded ripped jeans.

"Do I look okay?" I ask.

He holds two thumbs up. "Can't say no to a girl in Ivy League gear."

"I love you, and thanks a bunch!" I plant a quick kiss on his cheek before running towards Charlie.

Once I've caught up to him, we both head to the beach together.

I truly do love the beach. I love the ambiance of waves crashing against the shore, along with the wailing of seagulls as they soar across the sky. Not to mention, the smell of the ocean beach as well. Everything about the beach is so captivating and peaceful, especially since it's a little early and not a lot of people are here. The afternoon is the absolute worst time to visit the beach. The fact that there are so many people who usually come on a day to day basis, makes me a little anxious to go.

Charlie leads me to where the dock is located. Farkle and I would usually come to take pictures underneath the dock. This area is quite aesthetically pleasing.

"I think this is a great spot." He says, placing his bag down as I begin to adjust the settings of my camera. I let him know that I'm ready once everything's all set. Charlie then runs towards the shoreline and starts posing of a shot. Since I'll be capturing portrait shots, I made sure that my camera is set so all my photos can have a shallow depth of field. This way, Charlie will be in focus as the background will be a bit blurry. After taking a few photos here and there, I stop to look at them. Charlie was perfectly centered, the lighting was on point, and all shots have great composition. Perfect. I think to myself. However, Charlie apparently doesn't exactly think so when he sees them.

"Yeah, this situation just isn't working for me. Let's try something different." He looks around for a moment. "Here, why don't you get some bird-eye shots of me laying on the sand."

I was a little offended that he didn't like the photos I originally took. I spoke out, irritated. "I thought we were taking portraits?"

"I'm just trying to think outside of the box here, Riles. Maybe the photos will turn out better." I scoff at what he had just said. What difference does it make? You're just going to be lying down. And I thought all headshots were portraits. There he goes acting like a douche, but here I am, still taking interest in him.

Charlie lies down on the sand and places his hand behind his head. From the looks of it, he could pass for a Hollister or Abercombie & Fitch model.  I stand directly on top of him to get good shots. If I'm being honest, this isn't the ideal position I'd want to be in. It's a little uncomfortable and weird, really.

Suddenly, water hits the shore and Charlie attempts to save his khaki pants by jerking straight up. Instead, jerking straight up somehow caused me to tumble forward, allowing both of us to fall back down. I also end up dropping my camera on the sand. Water continues to run beneath Charlie, which caused his whole outfit to be soaked. "Shit!"

The water still kept going around us. I panic as I watch it slowly ooze towards my camera. Miraculously, the water stopped before it could reach it. I graciously let out a sigh of relief. "Will you get the fuck off of me now?!" He yells in annoyance. I flinched when he does so and realize that what was happening: I was on top of Charlie Gardener. Because I was on top of him, I didn't get hit by the water at all. I quickly scurried to my feet and grabbed my camera.  I turned to Charlie, who was still really angry that he was drenched. He got up from the ground and gathered his stuff. "Thanks to you," He snaps. "I am soaking wet, and I have rehearsals for the musical after this!"

I feel a familiar tightness gripping my throat. As Charlie continues to curse at me, a burning heat rushes through my body and I can hardly breathe. The DJ over by the boardwalk starts blasting music that seems to be ten times louder than usual. My surroundings then become too horrifically bright. My hands become clammy as I start to lose control of my body. My vision starts to get blurry and my heartbeat begins to speed up to the point where I could hear it.

Once Charlie finishes grabbing his stuff, he walks over to me. He stops and takes a deep breath. "Just email me the photos whenever you can." And with that, he walks away. When I've lost sight of him, I walk towards the pebbles near the ocean. I stare out to sea, trying to take big breaths. I stay until I've finally coaxed my heartbeat back to normal.

[im-fairly-whitty]

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Ernesto Strikes Back: A Coco Fan Fiction

[Part 1: Fallen]  [Part 2: Anger]  [Part 3:Cursed]  

[Part 4: Doubt]  [Part 5: Remembering]

Part 6: Empty

The house where Ernesto had grown up looked...smaller than he remembered.

He stood on the street across from the courtyard entrance. Everything was so old and worn looking, but the brooding sense of doom he remembered so well was gone.

Two parents followed a little boy who came prancing out from the gate with an armful of long-stemmed marigolds. A chuckling pair of dead relatives followed the young family as they set off in the direction of the Santa Cecilia cemetery.

“Why are we at the Santiago’s house?” Miguel asked.

“You know this place?” Ernesto looked down at him. So it still belonged to the family.

“Well not really, but my papá knows Luis, he delivers our leather for the shop.” Miguel pointed at the father of the receding family as they walked away.

“This is where I grew up.” Ernesto pushed Miguel forward now that the family was gone.

“But, you’re a De la cruz.” Miguel said in confusion.

“Only because I didn’t want to be a Santiago.” Ernesto said coldly. “My father threw me out when I told him I was going to be a musician. After he broke my arm.”

“He what?” Miguel eyes were wide as they walked through the archway.

“My family rejected me. That is why the world was my family.” Ernesto said, lingering on the word was .

He'd found a last kernel of anger to hold onto, a last shred of identity. Ernesto not Santiago. He hadn’t realized how close to his core that anger was until everything else had been stripped away. He gladly held onto it, the very last thin ledge over the abyss that he could still cling to.

The courtyard was empty of any of the dead who might see them, a few living people were gathering up baskets of food and candles, apparently also on their way to the cemetery. Just as well, seeing smiling people in this dark place was jarring. Recognizing familiar facial features, a tia’s smile here, a papá’s nose there, was starting to shake him.

The strewn marigold petals underfoot painted a bright path across the courtyard to an open doorway. An ofrenda room. Ernesto looked over to see that Miguel was starting to fumble with the tin box, losing his grip as the last of the curse descended on him.

“Go.” Ernesto ordered, pushing him to the open doorway. As long as he was here to end everything he might as well do it in the absolute center of irony.

The marigolds underfoot felt like they were pulling him forward, but it was probably just the vertigo of impending damnation as he walked into the room.

He ducked into the room and was greeted by the sight of an ofrenda being straightened by a mother and young daughter. It was a smaller ofrenda than the Rivera’s and had more purples and blues with striped cloth hanging under and around it. There were the same candles though, and a small collection of framed portraits. It looked familiar for some reason, despite looking nothing like the small ofrenda he remembered his mother putting up every year.

At the very top sat a large, framed black-and-white photo of his parents, looking quite grim together and much older than the day he’d been thrown out. He’d never even tried coming back.

Beside him Miguel gently set down the tin box, his fingers passing through it at the last second, causing it to clink against the tile. The two living people didn’t seem to notice though.

“But why is Alejandro on the ofrenda, Mamá?” The little girl asked, she was pointing to a small framed photo on the side.

“Don’t be silly, that’s not your cousin, it’s just one of our ancestors who looks like him.” The mother picked up the girl so that she could look closer. ��You know how pictures of Abuelita when she was my age kind of look like me? It’s like that. We’re all connected because we’re family."

Ernesto couldn’t help scoffing. What an appallingly sweet sentiment. Yes, you were all connected, until someone severed the connection. They probably also thought that everyone on the ofrenda were good people. Dying didn’t make you perfect, it just blurred out the bad memories if you waited long enough.

“Then who is he?” The girl leaned forward to squint at the picture.

“Oh, let’s see, I think his name was...” She frowned and took the portrait off the ofrenda to check the back. She smiled and nodded, carefully replacing the portrait. “That’s right, this is your great-great-tio Ernesto, that’s who your papá is named after.”

Ernesto’s breath caught with a sick, jagged feeling. Everything suddenly felt very fragile and brittle, like if he moved or even thought too quickly the entire world would shatter.

“But he’s not old.” The little girl said, looking at the other pictures to compare.

“Yes mija, he and his papá didn’t get along very well, so he ended up leaving when he was young. This was probably the last photo of him they had. His papá was very angry with him, but his mamá still loved him very much. She always made everyone promise to keep his photo on the ofrenda after the papá died because she wanted so much for him to come someday.”

“Did he come back?” The little girl asked.

“I don’t know mija.” The mother said, gazing at the picture. “I think he probably did, his mamá loved him so much.”

“I would come back.” The little girl wrapped her chubby arms around her mother’s neck.

“Oh, good.” The mother smiled and hugged her. “Let’s go help Abuelita carry some flowers alright?”

“Yes!” The little girl cheered as they walked out of the room, leaving Ernesto and Miguel alone with the flickering light of the candles.

After a long moment Ernesto walked forward, pushing through something that felt very solid, but that might have just been overwhelming pain.

There on the side of the ofrenda, an ofrenda he'd recognized from clicking past it earlier that night in Carlos’ office, was an old sepia photograph of a smiling young man. Of himself. Only months before leaving town with Hector, a few weeks before being thrown out by his father.

He dropped to his knees.

He had never come back.

He had never even tried.

The last foothold, the last kernel of identity inside him blew away into dust. After all this time there had been a home waiting for him, his family had gone on being family, he’d been the one to remove himself.

His mother, his quiet and shy mother had held out for him for years, even after she'd heard of his death. Had she followed his career? Had she known that he’d become famous? His father wouldn’t have cared, but she might have. His name had changed, but his face hadn’t. Had she seen it one day on a poster or in a newspaper or in a movie and realized where her runaway son had been all those years?

He had still been part of her family. He’d been part of these living Santiago’s family too, never ever realizing it, his partial story passed down for generations. The story of the son that had disappeared, that had never come back.

How had he ever believed in his own glowing facade, “De la Cruz,” a name he’d chosen as a boy under a pine tree for the future impressive man he dreamed of someday being. It had been such a sweet-tasting lie, a stolen identity, a cover-up. He’d never let himself think about the gaping hole in his soul, instead heaping layers of justification into it for literal generations as it slowly ate away at him year by year, until he was the kind of person who would sacrifice anything, anyone, to feed the growing emptiness inside.

And after all that effort, all those lies and self-deceptions, here he was, in his old home. Feeling even smaller and more broken than he ever had as a child.

And it was all his fault.

“You can go.”

“What?” Miguel asked, still standing frozen behind him.

“Go.”

There was a dashing scuffle towards the door and the boy was gone. Back to his family. Where he should be.

A long moment of flickering candles passed, the soft light reflecting across the glass of the picture frames.

Ernesto reached around behind him and picked up the tin box, the object blurring into two, leaving him with a spirit copy of it to hold. He stared at the corroded metal, then made himself open it, prying the rusted lid off.

Inside was the journal. The journal with so much pain woven into its pages that he’d never wanted to see it again, but with so much of himself in it that he hadn’t been able to destroy it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced them open and forced his hand to open the journal as well. He flipped through it deliberately, slowly, letting each page inflict every bit of pain that it contained, letting it gut him, line by line.

Childlike scrawl in the beginning, words of songs no one had ever heard. After all, Papá had always said every song he wrote was trash. Then there were pages and pages of teenage lists of dreams, big dreams that someone else could someday accomplish, someone larger than life, an imaginary man called De la Cruz.

And far at the back was the final, the damning entry. The one that had made the book too dangerous to handle, too terrible to keep, too raw to discard. The entry that had been Ernesto ripping out his own heart to bury under a pine.

It had to be done.

A shaky and hurried pen had scrawled the words a hundred years ago.

Everything was falling apart and it just, happened. Hector is gone, he’s gone and there’s nothing I can do now, if I look back I’ll burn up. I can still feel him in the room with me and it’s This has to be a beginning, I’ve gone too far, I have to be De La Cruz now. This is my moment.

And there it was.

This last bit of poison dripped into Ernesto and he let the book drop to the floor.

His younger self had feverishly returned to Santa Cecilia only a week later to bury the book during the night, then disappear before anyone even knew he’d been there. Maybe he had foolishly hoped that it if he kept it far away that it would somehow wither and die on its own, taking what he’d done with it.

Ernesto was no one. Not De la Cruz, not Santiago.

No last name, no fame, no fortune, no friends, no family. He’d had bright counterfeits of many of those thing for a long time, but only because he’d become a fake himself.

This invisible and terrible weight bent him forward. He put his hands on the tile, trying to brace himself, but he continued to bend, collapsing until his fractured skull touched his hands, clasped together in an empty prayer, alone at the foot of the ofrenda.

A long moment of silence stretched through the emptiness inside him. Even the passage of time felt heavy, pressing down on the empty shell that was left of him.

He was nothing, and even that was too much.

He had forgotten himself more than a hundred years ago, and that was why he had always felt dead inside.

[Read Part 7]

----------------------

Recommended listening for this chapter is "I took a pill in Ibiza" by Mike Posner [clean edit] for maximum Ernesto regret feels:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYSIK4jpyVA

You're welcome. ;)

----------------------

@nerdy-emo-royal-dad @elecmon @memberofthatonefandom @smileyphantomstar @tamlins-stories-and-poems

[flattireco-blog]

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[gracezheng31-blog]

Knife-wielding stabbing machine could help solve violent crimes

How do forensic scientists use the rips on the victim’s clothing to solve cases? The answer is, by examining the rips, they determine the knife type, the stabbing technique that is used and the angle that the attack is carried out. However, one problem with the method is the patterns of the rips have always been hard to use because researchers could only manually stab their experiments by hand which would cause unavoidable errors.

Fortunately, the stabbing machine invented by a group of forensic scientists and engineers could solve this problem. At the University of Technology Sydney and the University of Santa Cruz do Sul in Brazil, researchers invented the stabbing machine with a pneumatic arm that can grip all kinds of a knife and can stab from different angles with different forces.

The researchers tested its effectiveness with four knife designs and blue cotton fabric. After carrying out the stabbing test process from different angles, primary patterns were identified.

With a straight spine, tip and a smooth cutting edge, the first knife left a clean-cut mark in the fabric. The only difference between the first and second knife was that the second knife had a spine that gradually thickened from the tip to the base. The mark made by the third knife proved the serrated blade that the third knife had. With a rounded spine, knife four produced a clean-cut with fraying at the top. The shapes that knife three and four had provided evidence for the angle of attack. The test proved the effectiveness of the machine.

Nonetheless, the stabbing machine needs improvements to strengthen its accuracy, power, and constancy. Eventually, this device, with tests and improvements, would be put into use for aiding forensic scientists.

The stabbing machine sounds very effective as it can grip all kinds of knife and can stab from different angles. Nevertheless, my questions are: Would the stabbing machines be affordable to forensic scientists once they are on the market? Would the stabbing machines make forensic scientists lose focus on other important scientific evidence? Are rips a strong evidence to help catch an attacker? These are some questions that need time to be answered.

MLA Citation:

Coldewey, Devin. "About This Stabbing machine." TechCrunch. TechCrunch, 07 Apr. 2017. Web. 08 Apr. 2017.

Fecht, Sarah. "Knife-wielding Stabbing Machine Could Help Solve Violent Crimes." Popular Science. Bonnier Corporation, 06 Apr. 2017. Web. 08 Apr. 2017.

Liberatore, Stacy. "The Knife-wielding Robot That Can STAB in 60 Positions and Could Help Solve Grisly Murders." Daily Mail Online. Associated Newspapers, 07 Apr. 2017. Web. 08 Apr. 2017.

[tattoosandporcelain-blog]

Coree Marx Memphis, Tennessee Tuesday, January 10, 2017

The trip to Memphis from New York City was never one that Coree looked forward to.  It never went smoothly and there was always tension in the air.  The destination was Graceland where her boyfriend’s family would gather every year to celebrate the birthday of a man known to the world as Elvis, but known as someone else entirely to those within the room.  Coree had a place at the table just as she always had, though she was not a Presley.  She had grown up with these people, taken in as one of their own when her mother gained employment with them.  When she and Barron became closer, eventually in a committed relationship in fall of 2011, it solidified her seat at the table, though she was truly on there for Barron.

That night would be rough, continuing into the next day as emotions ran high throughout the family.  Coree and Barron chose not to stay with the others, but to stay in a hotel on the other side of the city, keeping their distance, yet remaining close by all at once.  The morning of January 10, the two were out together when Coree saw a flyer for an open mic night that night.  She jotted down the number in private, deciding to call and just see if they had openings.  It didn’t mean she’d go.  It simply meant she was calling for information.  But a call for information turned into a slot being filled in which she’d have an eight minute set.  

Although the woman was already a known songwriter under the pen name ‘Memphis’, she was virtually unknown as her stage name of Coree Marx.  Putting her songs to her face and her voice terrified her, but the label needed to get her touring before they could make any money off of her and they had about had it with her freezing on stage.  In the studio, she was fine.  She could record an album without the slightest issue.  But to go in front of people, it made her feel like she was naked and for the super private, shy type, that didn’t work.

She offered her name to the man on the other end of the phone, locking in her spot, telling her there was no cancellations permitted.  In truth, that would probably be for the best, for if there were, she knew she would wind up backing out.  A short time later, she told Barron of the booking, to which she received nothing but support from the man.  The two would arrive to the bar together and upon checking in, they were permitted backstage.  She leaned against the wall in a white lace dress, her eyes closed as Barron’s hands took to either side of her face.  His forehead pressed to his as he spoke softly to her, attempting to keep her focus for as long as he could before he’d have to go out and take his seat.

When he was with her, she was alright.  If only there was some way she wouldn’t see anyone else in the crowd but him.  She could sing for him.  She could even perform for him.  But to do it in front of strangers, had the girl clamming up at every turn.  Her skin was already pale, and yet it seemed to drop even a shade further as a man with a clipboard came by, informing her that she had about five minutes.  She nodded her head, closing her eyes again when she felt it setting on her all at once.  Five minutes.  In five minutes, she’d be facing a crowd of people with nothing more than her guitar to protect her.  She had a bad track record of falling apart on stage.  Opening her mouth and nothing would come out.  Staring blankly until she’d whisper a single apology and make her way off the stage as quickly as possible.  Barron had assured her that he would be sitting to the front, but what if he wasn’t able to?

A series of worst case scenarios cycled through her head that had her all at once opening her eyes to find the same man with a clipboard there before her, a bucket in his hand.  ‘Do us a favor.  Do it before you go out there.  Three minutes.’  All at once, the room felt as though it were spinning and there was nothing to hold onto.  She gripped the strap of her guitar, digging her nails against it, yet it wouldn’t stop the room from spinning in the slightest.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular, pulling the guitar strap from behind her neck, making quick steps for the door.

Dean Priestly Santa Cruz, California Monday, January 9th, 2017

Priestly’s flight into Memphis was scheduled to land somewhere around 10 pm on Monday, January 9th, giving him time to check into a hotel and get some damn sleep before he had to make an appearance at his friends show. There was supposed to be an open mic session before the show and he knew that despite all his best efforts he’d end up trapped in the front row. He set to packing the morning before his flight would take off, tossing in everything he needed and a few things he didn’t. He always wanted to come prepared no matter the situation. He made sure to bring his anti anxiety medication along with an inhaler he hadn’t needed since he was twelve yet still toted around just in case. He bit his lip and looked at the clock, realizing he had another few hours till the cab would be there.

He decided to distract himself by writing a few chords down for a song he’d been writing. He had only intended to do the first verse but instead ended up going all the way through the song and even revising. By the time he was done he got a notification on his phone telling him the cab was there to get him. He grabbed his guitar case, duffle bag and suitcase, making his way out of his apartment and down to street level. After about three minutes of looking around he finally spotted the cab idling on the side of the road. He popped the trunk, placing his things inside before he got in the cab and tapped the glass twice, signaling he was ready to go. The ride to the airport was quiet and gave him time to think about how the hell he could get out of the after party for his friend. He was a wallflower and never liked to be around other people he didn’t know for longer than he physically had to.

He hadn’t realized how long he had been spacing out until the cab driver opened the glass to tell him they were at his destination. The San Francisco airport was a massive building and it loomed over his head as he got out of the cab. After unloading his bags and guitar case he headed into the building, anxiety starting to swallow him whole. He bit his lip and proceeded to locate his airline before presenting his ticket and boarding pass. The lady put his suitcase on a scale then placed it on a conveyer belt behind her. The man watched it disappear into the distance as she checked him in and scanned his ID.  Priestly looked around the airport as he made his way down to his gate.

He soon was in line for security and went through it without an issue. In around an hour he was finally on his flight and buckling up as the flight attendant gave emergency safety instructions to everyone on board. He put in his earbuds to drown out the anxiety building in his chest as it created a lump in his throat. Being afraid of heights mixed with claustrophobia made for a very intense hatred of being in the giant metal tubes of death as he called them. He nearly ripped the fabric off the armrest while they took off, white knuckling it hard enough that the woman next to him leaned over to ask him if he was alright. He gave her a curt nod and proceeded to hum AC/DC, trying his best to relax. Once his ipod finally decided to start working he was soothed by the sound of “Back in black”. He relaxed just enough for his anti anxiety pill to kick in and allow him to sleep.

His flight landed a bit ahead of time and one of the attendants woke him up to tell him they were back on the ground. He breathed a sigh of relief. The rest of the night was a blur as he grabbed his things and made his way to the hotel. Before he knew it he was sleeping soundly on a rather soft hotel bed. His face pressed into the pillows. He woke up the next morning to his best friend standing over him and grinning, saying rather loudly, “Rise and shine sleeping beauty, it’s a beautiful day and you look like the damn Crypt Keeper.” The man patted his back and said, “Go get ready MacGyver, time to greet the day.” Priestly grudgingly peeled himself out of bed and got himself ready.

The day was passed backstage where the show would be, helping set up equipment and do sound check after sound check for the people who for some damn reason were too good to tune their own guitar. By the time the open mic session rolled around he was sitting in the front row, trying not to chug the whiskey in front of him. He was on his fourth double and was doing his best to stay focused as a blonde woman walked on stage, clutching her guitar. The announcer introduced her as Coree Marx. He sat up a bit, thinking to himself, ‘ Hu, she might be good.’

Coree Marx Memphis, Tennessee Tuesday, January 10, 2017, 9:09 p.m.

All at once, the room felt as though it were spinning and there was nothing to hold onto.  She gripped the strap of her guitar, digging her nails against it, yet it wouldn’t stop the room from spinning in the slightest.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one in particular, pulling the guitar strap from behind her neck, making quick steps for the door.

‘Coree Marx, you’re up.’  There was a pause with no answer from anyone as the producer of the open mic night looked around, not finding the blonde he had just offered a trash can to a moment before.  ‘Coree Marx, you’re up!’ he called a little louder before someone finally spoke up.  ‘I think she hauled it, Boss.’  ‘Mother fucker,’ he exhaled as he made a sweep of his eyes to find the blonde at the stage exit door that led to a back alley.  Grasping the girl by the back of the shoulder he turned her around.  Glaring into her eyes, he made himself clear.  ‘Strings were pulled to get your ass on this line up.  You’re on it and goddammit you’re gonna get that little ass out there and you’re gonna put on one helluva ten minute set and then you can go and freak the fuck out on some else’s time.  I don’t have time for this shit and neither do they.  So get out there, sing your fucking songs, or you owe me three hundred for the inconvenience.’

Never quite having heard it laid out for her quite like that, she stared at him like a deer in the headlights.  This man was seasoned with young women like herself that would bail in the moments before a set.  He knew those jitters and he knew there was absolutely no way to actually get through them other than to just take the bull by the horns and do it.  ‘You good?’ he asked, prompting a quick nod of her head though she was not sure of it at all.  “I’m good,” she promised, nodding her head still as she committed to it.  ‘They’re calling you up now,’ he stated, giving a tiny shove to her frame a moment later in the right direction of the stage before he was running his hands over his face in absolute annoyance that he had to do it at all and there was no guarantee the girl would be any good.

“Ladies and Gentleman, put your hands together for Miss Coree Marx.”  The announcer stood in the center of the dimly lit stage, announcing her name before he was slipping off to the opposite side as she was to come out.  In a white lace halter dress that fell mid-thigh, she took those steps out, grasping at the neck of her guitar for support, praying it would be enough to both arm her and protect her all at once.  Approaching the microphone, all she saw were people.  The room was dark with tables around, but then at the front of the stage were two lines of chairs.  There, she’d find her boyfriend sitting front and center, just as he’d promised he would be.  Meeting his eyes, she’d offer him a nervous smile where he’d offer one of reassurance, knowing she could do this.  She drew a breath as she kept her eyes to him for a moment before she heard the stage producer clearing his throat for her to get on with it.

Where most of the other singer/songwriters had stated their name and said a brief introduction, her nerves wouldn’t allow for such.  Instead, she simply drew her guitar up and would play a few chords against it instead.  Repeating the intro twice before she’d open her lips to sing, unable to get the first word out.  She froze.  Closing her eyes tight, someone in the back screamed for her to get on with it.  Another called out that she needed to do something or get off the stage.  Just as she was about to turn around and leave, relinquishing her three hundred dollars to the producer, she gripped the neck of the guitar with her hand splayed out against the strings.  It was now or never and she knew it.  These venues had been good to her in the past and had always felt more comfortable.  Her record label was on her ass to get a few of these under her belt so they could get her playing festivals to get her name out there.  She had to do this or she was going to lose the only shot she had.

Finally, she began the song again, only this time, she used her fingers to tap against the wood of the guitar as she let her eyes fall closed, allowing herself to block out the crowd that waited to hear if the girl could actually sing or not.  Speaking those initial lines, slowly, keeping her voice low and breathy.  “I knew you were trouble when you walked… in.  So shame on me now.  Flew me to places I’ve never… been.  Until you put me down.  I knew you were trouble when you walked… in.  So shame on me now.  Flew me to places I’ve never… been.  Now I’m lying on the cold, hard ground.”  Hitting the guitar intro there, she began, and it was enough to let loose.  Carrying on through, she’d elongate that one song to last nearly seven minutes of the ten minute set, not bothering to keep time as she allowed herself to truly get lost in the music.  Keeping an eery sound to her guitar throughout, she’d alter the song from its original version that had yet to be released, she saw it through to completion at which point she realized her eyes had been opening and somewhere in the middle of it all, she’d loosened up as the lyrics required her to cry out in the midst of them which could not be done while singing quietly.  On the real verge of personality showing through, she completed the song at which point the crowd erupted.  There in the wings of the stage, the production manager stood with his mouth wide open as no one quite expected that sound to come out of that young woman, but as she walked off, she was back to the shy roots that ran deep within her, lowering her chin slightly as she had no idea what she had just done.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NvfiXveAazI

//Listen to the full version if you don’t mind as it is truly incredible if you’ve never heard this rendition before.  This is the actual way she played it for this performance.  I hope you enjoy it!!

-February 18, 2017