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illiterateaffairs · 1 year ago

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behind the scenes chapter one | i enjoyed our meet cute

masterlist | next

pairing: jamie tartt x actress!reader (ted lasso)

rating: T

word count: 4,722

summary: you’ve been in richmond one day and you’re already having chance encounters with famous british football players, what are the odds?

a/n: welcome to the first chapter of my new jamie series, behind the scenes! fake dating is a god tier trope and i’ve always wanted to write something for it. it will also be very rom-com-y, just like ted would like. i really hope you enjoy the first chapter, i’m so excited to kick off this new story and can’t wait to hear your thoughts. also wanted to shout out @buckychristwrites who wrote an incredible fake dating jamie series called could this be and you should totally check it out if you haven’t already ♡

Your alarm goes off at 8AM on the dot but you’re already wide awake. You’ve been in London for 48 hours and instead of taking in the sights, you’ve been trying to reset your sleep schedule. After landing at 10AM Friday morning, you pretty much passed right out as soon as you arrived at your rented, two story brownstone.

See, London was eight hours ahead of Los Angeles - your home base. While you were used to traveling for work, you’d never had a job in another country before. And jet lag was a bitch.

You’re an actor. You have been since you were 15, when you got a recurring role on a kids show after an opening casting call. Some called it luck, but you called it busting your ass in theater classes as soon as your mom could afford them. You’d been a “drama queen” since you were in diapers and you begged her to sign you up for every class, camp and play in your small town and she did everything she could to support your dream. She’s your biggest fan.

By the time you were 20, you’d had a sitcom and several supporting roles in films that made you an underrated fan favorite. Your biggest break came, though, when you were 22 and were given the opportunity to star opposite A-list actors in the superhero film of the summer. After that you blew up, you did a few more action movies and a couple other dramas.

Now, freshly 25, with a lot of credits filling your IMDb page, there was one genre you still hadn’t tackled: romance. And that’s what brought you to London. You were filming your first romantic comedy in the beautiful town of Richmond. Usually when your job brought you to a new place, the first thing you wanted to do was explore it. However, spending the last couple days in and out of sleep was preventing you from doing so. Today was Sunday, your last day before production kicked off tomorrow, and you’d be damned if you didn’t get the chance to get out and do something before you were swamped with work.

You get ready quickly, eager to not waste another second inside. However, just as you swing your front door open, you come face to face with your assistant, who’s hand is poised to knock.

��Oh, good, you’re already up,” she chirps, brushing past you and into your temporary home as she taps away on her iPhone.

“Margot, I thought we agreed on no work this weekend,” you sigh, reluctantly following her into your living room.

“I agreed and you agreed, but Harry on the other hand,” she frowns holding up her phone, “He didn’t agree.”

You groan. Harry was your publicist. You’ve worked with him since getting the role in one of the Spiderman movies. He always had some crazy idea how to boost your public image, most of which you’ve shot down, but his most recent pitch he hasn’t been able to let go of.

“He’s still bugging you about that shit?” you question, flopping down in an armchair.

Margot perches on the arm of the sofa, “He’s only bugging me because you keep ignoring him. He still thinks it's a good idea.”

The good idea in question was agreeing to a fake relationship with another celebrity - or anyone really. Usually the goal of a PR relationship was to gain attention for one or both parties, or their upcoming projects. While that wouldn’t hurt, your publicist thought the benefit of having a fake boyfriend was that you’d appear more desirable.

In your previous roles, you’d been typecast as the funny best friend or snarky sidekick. Not only was this movie you were about to film your first as the leading lady, it was the first where you were playing a romantic lead. You also haven’t been known to be seen with many suitors in your personal life as well. Not that you hadn’t had any significant others since entering the spotlight, but they’d been short lived and you tried to keep those relationships under the radar, not necessarily wanting the public’s opinion on your dating life.

Of course, that didn’t stop journalists and people with Twitter accounts from speaking on it anyway. Since you got cast in this Rom-Com - Hopeless Romantics was the working title - you’d been subjected to criticism over how you couldn’t possibly be seen as a realistic love interest when you’ve yet to be painted as such both on and off the screen. Though, you’d love to point out that just because you hadn’t played a romantically driven character before didn’t mean you couldn’t now. You’ve learned to just ignore trolls like that.

That didn’t mean from time to time the odd comment didn’t get under your skin.

Still, you didn’t see the point in faking a relationship just to get these people off your back. You had the best fans in the world, who’d watch you do anything no matter the genre. And your co-star was Charlie Knox, who’d been pegged as this generation's Hugh Grant, so plenty of people would be buying tickets regardless. You could hardly argue, feeling flushed after your chemistry reed with the actor even though he was doing just that; acting. Harry had even previously suggested faking a relationship with him, which would be the perfect scenario according to him, but Charlie was of course already taken.

“He’s going to have to give up eventually,” you shake your head, “Because I’m not doing it.�� Margot makes a weird face and you tilt your head, “Don’t tell me you think I should do it.”

“No, of course not. You should have the autonomy to make your own decisions about your love life, real or fake,” she insists, “I just wish Harry didn’t make such a big deal about it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry he’s bugging you about it. I can talk to him again.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Margot sighs, “You should be enjoying your day off. Were you on your way out before? What were you thinking of doing?”

You shrug, not really having had a game plan, “I was thinking breakfast or something to start, and then seeing where the day takes me.”

She nods, once again tapping on her phone, “That sounds nice. Don’t be out too late, though. A car will be here to get you at 6AM for the read through.” As she stands up and starts walking to your door, she glances at you, “And wear a hat please. Last thing we need is you to be stampeded by fans like in The Lion King.”

“Margot, I love you, but there is no need to bring Mufasa into this,” you tease, “I promise I will be discreet, but only if you promise me you will also take time for yourself today.”

“I promise,” she says with a small smile, but before you know it, she's already back on the phone and out your door.

You can’t be too hard on her. You were also known to prioritize your work over everything else most days. But she was not only the best assistant you could ask for, she was also one of your closest friends, and she deserved some time off. You’d have to talk to Harry at some point tomorrow to get him off her back. And yours.

But first, food.

It had been one month - one fucking month - since Keeley had gotten back together with Roy. And it was the worst month of Jamie’s life.

Yes, he still has feelings for Keeley. Yes, it hurt him to see her choose Roy, even if it had nothing to do with him. And it was twice as bad that Roy and him had finally started becoming actual friends after all these years. But that wasn’t really the problem.

It was the way everyone has been looking at him since it happened.

It started with the apologetic look on Keeley’s face that greeted him when he answered the door one summer morning. Before she could get a word out, he knew what she was going to say. In fact, he’d seen it coming. Despite Keeley insisting she wasn’t choosing between him and the grumpy old fart who was now his head coach, the two had been spending more and more time together. Keeley was around the club more and Roy was less grumpy. That morning, Keeley told him she wanted him to hear it from her that they were thinking of starting things again. His stomach twisted, disappointed that he’d practically lost her for the second time. But, God, the look of sympathy she was giving him felt even worse.

That was nothing compared to the way Roy looked at him when he walked into the locker room later that day. Roy wasn’t one to talk about or express his feelings, but he still managed to somehow convey his guilt and apology through a single look. Jamie just shook his head, eager to not speak a single word about the topic and move on. For the first time he wished Roy would just yell at him like he usually did.

Then a week later, Roy and Keeley were publicly a couple again. The rest of the team and staff were elated, but the few who’d known Jamie had been pining for the bubbly blonde again looked on at him sympathetically, patting him on the back and muttering affirmations on the way to training. In the grand scheme of things, they were just being nice, but he fucking hated it.

He was Jamie Fucking Tartt. He could be with anyone he wanted. Sure, the only girl who’s liked him for him and the only one he’s truly loved would rather be with someone else; someone else who was one of his best friends now. So what? The last thing he wanted was everyone around him treating him like a wounded puppy. He was fine.

It didn’t help that he saw Keeley and Roy all the time. At work. At team celebrations. At friendly gatherings. They were everywhere. In fact, they went the extra mile to include him in things to make him feel better, though it had the opposite effect. He felt like a charity case. He didn’t need them babysitting him, like he couldn’t spend a single night alone without collapsing into a full mental breakdown.

To be fair, the last time he’d had a night to himself, he’d made the mistake of turning on The Notebook for the first time out of morbid curiosity and he wept for an hour. But it was The Notebook for fuck’s sake, what else was he going to do?

Things improved little by little as the weeks had gone by. Sam and Colin stopped giving him glances everytime Keeley visited the locker room to drop something off for Roy. Keeley stopped looking at him with guilt riddled eyes, but there was still a weird energy between them when they hung out. And with Roy things felt mostly normal.

At least he thought so, but this morning Jamie’s been wandering around his house aimlessly waiting for Roy to show up for their regular early morning training. He’d been ready at promptly 4AM but there was no sign of his coach. He waited thirty minutes before calling but no answer. So, he plopped on the couch and watched some cooking show for another hour or so before trying again. It wasn’t until 8AM - four hours later - he got a call back from Roy.

“Hey, I thought old people were usually up early,” Jamie teased upon answering, “Did you oversleep, grandad?”

Instead of Roy’s gravelly voice responding, he hears another familiar voice in the background, “Is that Jamie? Tell him I’m sorry.”

Keeley.

Jamie’s stomach twists. Of course.

“Uh, yeah,” Roy’s voice eventually says, “Keeley was here and I forgot to set an alarm. We were going to get breakfast but then we can meet at the park if you still want?”

Roy grunts as Keeley speaks up again, voice distant, “Oi, ask if he wants to join us.”

Roy sighs into the phone, “Yeah, unless you want to come to breakfast with us?”

Jamie closes his eyes. Another pity invite. “Um, thanks mate. That’s alright, though. Think I’ll get some running in on my own and maybe we can meet up later tonight.”

“Yeah, that works…” Roy says before tacking on, “Sorry, Jamie.”

Jamie chuckles humorlessly, “Not a problem. Talk to ya later.”

He hangs up and tosses his phone across the couch. Not only did Jamie not like feeling like a third wheel, he didn’t like being one because the other two felt guilty. Especially when he was still getting over his feelings for one of them. He groans, forcing himself off the couch, eager to stay true to his word. He needed to run off these feelings.

You’d been leisurely walking through the streets of Richmond for a little while, enjoying the early fall breeze and the sights as the leaves started to change color. You’ve been trying to keep an eye out for a place to grab breakfast or a snack, but you’ve been distracted by the shops and the people walking around you. For your part, you were donned in sunglasses with a ball cap tilted low on your head. So far no one has stopped you, which was nice. Not that you minded meeting the occasional fan. Most were sweet and you adored connecting with people face to face, but there was always the risk of someone just in search of an autograph or selfie despite not caring about you or your work, not to mention nosy paparazzi who pop out of nowhere to get a photo. So, you’re enjoying the semblance of normalcy while you can. You sense that once filming starts, those in the area will be eager to catch a glimpse of you and your costars any chance they get.

You’re a little too comfortable with flying under the radar, when as you’re turning a street corner someone runs right smack into you. You both fall to the ground, your sunglasses flying clear off your face. Your heart hammers in your chest, wondering if someone had done this on purpose, but the stranger next to you also appears to be scrambling.

“Fuck, sorry,” they mutter, grabbing your discarded sunglasses for you before pulling you both up. As he places the glasses back in your hands, his eyes meet yours for the first time, “Oh shit, are you…”

You smile sheepishly, his eyes alight with recognition. You’re still a little anxious from the encounter, as you try to get your breathing to return to normal. You vaguely wonder if this guy is going to ask for a picture or something, when you actually hear the familiar click of a camera and your blood runs cold.

“Hey Jamie Tartt!” an accented man calls, “Who’s the girl, Jamie?

The man in front of you looks back at you with wide eyes and grabs your hand, “Shit, come with me.”

You can barely process what he’d said as he pulled you down the street, “What? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private,” he explains as you continue jogging alongside him, “Where there’s one paparazzi, ten will follow. But I’m sure you know that.”

You can’t argue with him. But you do wonder who the hell this guy is that he’s so familiar with paparazzi. You also briefly consider if following a guy you’ve never met through alleyways is a smart decision, but you hardly have the time to dwell on it.

After a few minutes, this mystery guy, who you can only presume is named Jamie if the paparazzi was right, leads you through an unassuming storefront that ends up being a charming and quaint little café. You look around curiously. It’s not completely vacant, but the patrons don’t bat an eye when the two of you enter. The middle aged barista behind the counter looks at your companion with a warm smile and greets him, once again, by Jamie.

After your heart rate returns to normal, you turn to the man beside you. He gives you a tiny shrug, “I come here when I don’t want to be bothered. Not many people know about this place but it has the best scones in Richmond.”

You squint at him in curiosity, “So, I’m guessing you’re…someone of note then, too? If that paparazzi was taking your picture and you have a secret hideout.”

He chuckles, looking a little bashful, which you have a feeling is out of character for this guy, “Uh, yeah, I’m Jamie Tartt? Premier League footballer for AFC Richmond?”

Your cheeks heat up, “Oh, uh, sorry, I’m not really familiar with…”

He cuts you off, “No need to apologize. Wouldn’t expect an actress from the states to know anything about English football.”

You chuckle, despite yourself, “Well, if it helps I don’t know much about American football either. Or any sport for that matter.”

Jamie’s lips quirk up again, “I know you, though. From that thing.”

You snort, “Well, I’ve done a couple of things.”

He shakes his head, “No, no, no, you’re in that one movie, what’s it called,” he snaps his fingers, “Meet Me in Melrose, that's the one!”

“Wow, that’s a deep cut,” you comment, the film being an indie you worked on years ago; one of your first bigger roles despite the lower budget project.

“Yeah, my old coach? It was one of his favorites, so the whole team became obsessed. We’ve watched a bunch of your stuff,” he explains.

“That’s cool,” you nod with a small smile.

He nods along with you before suddenly becoming very aware of his situation, “Uh, can I order you something? Or, shit, you probably had somewhere to be. I usually try to wait things out for a while here, but if you have to go…”

You once again consider the oddity of casually hanging out in a cafe with a man you just met, but he seems trustworthy enough. And even a bit intriguing.

So you respond, “No, I don’t. I was just out exploring before. I was actually looking for a place to eat so this is perfect. I’m happy to hang out here for a bit.”

“Okay, cool,” Jamie nods again, still feeling a bit unsure of what to do when a Hollywood movie star is suddenly in your midst, “Uh, do you like coffee? Tea?”

You shake your head, “You don’t have to buy anything for me.”

“Well, I was the one who crashed into you and abducted you here so it’s the least I can do.”

You giggle, “Okay fine, I’ll take a hot chocolate. Coffee makes me anxious and tea tastes like a worse version of water. No offense.”

Jamie laughs to himself before walking up to the counter to order for you both. He returns moments later with a hot chocolate for you and coffee for him, as well as two of those scones he mentioned, before leading you over to a small booth in the back of the cafe.

“So, uh, you must come here often if the staff knows your name,” you say as you blow on your drink for it to cool, “Unless they’re all soccer - sorry - football fans?”

“Actually, Olive, the owner of the café doesn’t know shit about football. It's part of the appeal,” he tells you, “I manage to avoid photographers most of the time, but even if they’re not hounding me, I still like to come here to get away from things.”

“That makes sense. I feel like it's hard to do that in LA. Even the small businesses are overrun with influencers trying to find the trendiest spot nowadays,” you muse.

“Is that where you live? LA?” he asks.

“Mhm. Have you been?”

“Nah. Been to New York before, but spent most of my time in some clubs,” he tells you, “Have you been to London before?”

“No, actually,” you admit, “I’ve always wanted to come but never got around to it. I’m actually here for a film.”

“Oh, yeah, a Rom-Com, right?” he asks and you nod, “It’s all anyone can talk about around the club these days. We’ve never had a big movie shoot in Richmond before.”

“Hmm, wait til everyone hears how you kidnapped one of the stars,” you joke, finally braving a sip of your drink.

Jamie laughs, “I think I’ll keep that one to myself. Plus, I don’t think they’d even believe me.”

You laugh along with him, thoroughly enjoying his company as well as the delicious cocoa. You also finally try the scone Jamie placed in front of you. Your eyes light up after the first bite.

“Is that blueberry?”

Jamie’s eyes widened, “Sorry, I should have asked…”

You furiously shake your head, “No, no, don’t apologize. I love blueberry.”

Jamie’s lips quirk up, “Me, too. It’s my favorite.”

You smile back, but it drops when you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket. Pulling it out, you see that you had a missed call from Harry along with a few text messages. Instead of responding, you roll your eyes and put it away, eager to forget that the man exists until tomorrow.

“Uh, everything okay?” Jamie asks tentatively.

“Oh, yeah,” you reassure, plastering another smile on your face. Then you find a part of yourself that desperately wants to vent about your situation to an unbiased party, “Actually, uh, I’m not sure how much pressure football players are under for their image, but have you ever been asked or been in a fake relationship for PR?”

Jamie leans back, processing the question, “Uh, no. I haven’t really had a problem finding my own girlfriends.”

You snort, “Of course.”

“But I’ve heard of it happening with other footballers,” Jamie adds, “And there was this whole reality dating show I did and none of that was real.”

You gasp, “You were on a dating show?”

Jamie nods reluctantly, “Yeah. It was called Lust Conquers All. It was a low point.”

You can’t help but laugh, “Wow, I’ll have to check it out.”

“Please don’t,” Jamie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, wondering what possessed him to even bring it up.

After your laughter quells, Jamie eyes you curiously, “Why do you ask? About PR relationships, I mean.”

You sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap as you answer, “My publicist wants me to do the whole fake relationship thing.”

Jamie’s eyebrows furrow, “Why?”

You shrug, not eager to admit but still wanting to know his take nonetheless, “Apparently, I don’t seem like a romantic person, because I haven’t done a romantic role or publicly dated someone before.”

Jamie continues to look confused, “So? Isn’t that what actors do? Play new roles even if they haven’t done it before?”

“Yes, thank you,” you agree, nodding furiously, “But since I’ve only played cynical or sarcastic characters, that’s how people see me. Apparently, I don’t seem like a good choice for a movie called Hopeless Romantics.”

“But you’re not like your other characters in real life right?” he asks, “You’re not completely cynical about romance.”

You falter, your eyes flitting away from his. Jamie scoffs.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re anti-romance.”

“I’m not,” you sputter, “I just think dating is a little more complicated than the movies make it seem.”

Jamie doesn’t listen, “Wow, I can see why your publicist thinks you need a fake boyfriend for this to be a little more realistic. You can’t be against love and in a movie about love.”

You gasp, lightly shoving him, “Hey! I’ll have you know I’m not against love. It’s just…hard to come by for me.” You sigh, trying to figure out what exactly you’re willing to admit, “The last few guys I’ve dated weren't so great. They either only wanted to date me for the exposure or connections or money.”

Jamie’s expression sobers, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “My last relationship, if you could even call it that, was so short lived. It ended because he stole this fancy vase thing from my house.”

“Wow,” Jamie whispers.

“And jokes on him, it was from pottery barn,” you huff, “But yeah, basically its not love I don’t believe in. It’s other people. So I’ve been pretty content to be on my own these days.”

“I get that,” Jamie says softly after a beat, “I’ve dated plenty of girls who only wanted me cause I’m a footballer. Or cause I’m great at sex,” you snort, shaking your head, but he continues, “Not that I really wanted a real relationship, but it still hurts when someone doesn’t want you for you.”

“Exactly,” you nod, picking off pieces of your scone, “I’ve never been with someone who felt genuine. Have you?”

Jamie sighs and you sense there’s a story there, “Once, but I fucked it up. Didn’t realize what I had until it was gone. Classic right?”

You huff lightly.

“The worst part is she was kind enough to stay my friend even after the way I treated her,” he continues, “So not only does she treat me with kindness that I definitely don’t deserve, but I have to sit by and watch her be with someone else.”

You frown, “That must make it hard to move on.”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles humorlessly.

“And you haven’t been with anyone else since?”

“A couple girls, but nothing serious. And no one recently. Haven’t really seen the point.”

“So I guess I’m not the only one who might be a little cynical then, huh?” you ask with a teasing smile.

He gives you a half smile. “Yeah, I guess I can’t be one to judge.”

You study him for a few more moments. After your introductions, you would have guessed Jamie Tartt was another classic playboy athlete, and after conversing with him that seemed to be his reputation. But now you weren’t so sure. He was…peculiar.

You continue chatting for a while longer. He tells you more about his football team and you tell him a few spoiler-free details about the movie you’re shooting. Before you know it, you’d been camped out in this cafe with Jamie for a full hour. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself. You had to imagine the paparazzi had to have left the area by now. And while you weren’t in a hurry to cut your conversation short, your hot chocolate was no longer hot and your scone was long gone.

“Hey, this place is really nice by the way,” you comment, as you gather your trash, “I might have to come back here. That is, if you don’t mind sharing your secret hide away with me for the next three months?”

Jamie chuckles, following you back to the front of the café. “Feel free.”

You smile at him softly, as you walk out the door, “Maybe, I’ll uh, see you around?”

He shrugs his shoulder, “Yeah, I’ll be around. Maybe you could catch a football match while you’re in town.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” you nod, “Well, thank you again for the rescue. I owe you one.”

“Nah, it was nothing. Get home safe, yeah?”

“You, too. Bye Jamie.”

He bids you farewell, before you two reluctantly turn and head in different directions. You wrinkle your nose, recapping your encounter in your head. What a random coincidence to run into an apparent famed football star on your first day in town. You wonder if you ever will run into him again, but you assume the odds of that are low.

Meanwhile, on his walk home, Jamie is questioning whether or not he should have asked for your number. In a strictly platonic sense, just to keep in touch or to be available in case you needed a friend while you were in town. But he brushes the thought away. Like a famous actress would want to willingly hang out with him if she wasn’t hiding from paparazzi. Yeah right. Odds are this was all a dream and the boys would laugh in his face if he brought it up tomorrow.

Real or not real, he’d remember your morning together fondly.

a/n: please let me know any and all those! again, so excited for this story and brand new journey for jamie x reader. also! i will be starting a fresh taglist for this story, so let me know if you’d like to be tagged. the distractions taglist will stay the same for any one shots i may continue to post in that universe. <3

taglist: @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @royalestrellas

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x f!reader #jamie tartt x female reader #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic #mine #behind the scenes series

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defectivealtruist · 7 months ago

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attention beloved mutuals, i am travelling to the continent of north america

i will be visiting:

(tokyo briefly)

canada somewhere

new york state

seattle

los angeles

san francisco

you?

if you're a mutual and you would be interested in beholding my meat form, please dm me

your approximate location

whether you have a couch i can sleep on

reasons i should visit you

any other relevant information

applications will be judged on whether i can afford it, travel time, and my own inscrutable whims. thank you for your time

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copperbadge · 9 months ago

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Hi Mr Starbuck! Some friends and I are moving in a few months and we're eyeing various places all over the US. Chicago came up as a relatively affordable big city (compared to LA and NYC) and I have to ask the resident Tumblr Chicagoan his opinion. As a resident who lives and works in the windy city, what's your big pros and cons of residing there (especially things you might not encounter as a tourist)? (also, how accurate is your "guide to chicago" still, since its been a few years!)

Well, I definitely have opinions!

The guide to Chicago is no longer accurate -- too many places have closed or moved, and the pandemic altered a lot (for example the Money Museum still exists but I'm not sure if it has regular hours even now). I should do a new one but like, I really don't get out much anymore so I can't talk about restaurants outside of a VERY local area, and I never could talk much about hotels, which just leaves points of interest mostly already covered by Atlas Obscura. :D At this point it'd just be kind of moot, others are doing it better than I am.

Chicago is inexpensive compared to New York or Los Angeles, but like, that's everywhere in America. Chicago is still a quite pricey city to live in, mainly because the taxes are so high -- 10.25% sales tax, for example, and my property taxes are also pretty steep. People joke about Taxachusetts, but I'm pretty sure Chicago at least has it beat (and 2/3 of the state's population lives in Chicago or the outlying suburbs). Housing is not at a premium in the way it is in NY and LA but depending on where you want to live and how far you want to commute it can still be very expensive. My housing was never less than half of my monthly income until I bought this place, and then ONLY because the job I'm in now came with a $10K/yr raise from my last one.

Chicago does have great culture, great museums, great food, and it's a liberal island in a pretty conservative region. It is however quite segregated, so if you are any race other than white, living here can get a little more complicated than I've portrayed it as a white dude. There is significant crime and particularly gun crime, but it's generally confined to specific regions of the city. That said, even if you discount crime, the Chicago PD are corrupt as fuck and uninterested in being helpful, so if you are from a demographic the cops enjoy harassing, it will not be different here.

I do love the city, warts and all. I like the water, I like the people, I like the midwestern vibe. I'd find it very hard to leave, especially because I have a network of friends here, but also because I just plain like it and I know it really well. There is a very short list of cities I'd consider leaving Chicago for, and most of those would have to have a well-paying job waiting for me. But it did take me time to fall in love with it -- it took a few years before it felt like home.

It's a little difficult to get more specific without knowing more about your situation -- what you do for work, what your budget is like, what your goals are in leaving where you are. Do you prefer to drive most places? (Parking and traffic can both get dicey.) Can you tolerate taking public transit if driving is inconvenient? Is the industry in which you work something that has a lot of openings here? Do you want to live in an urban environment, and if so are you prepared to live in a likely somewhat shitty apartment to do so? If you prefer to live in a house, are you prepared for a long commute? What do you like to do for fun and is there a thriving culture for that here? What is it important to have access to -- museums, concerts, theater, sport? Where do you need to travel to regularly (ie, I go to Austin several times a year) and how do you prefer to travel there?

Anyway, yeah -- like, I love it but I have few illusions about it. If you want to chat further feel free to hit me up by email, happy to answer more specific questions!

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iww-gnv · 9 months ago

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Workers at Los Angeles International Airport took to the picket lines on Wednesday as they seek better wages. Wednesday is the first of a planned three-day protest, and dozens of people held signs and chanted outside Terminal 4. Unite Here Local 11, the hospitality workers union, placed the blame on Areas USA, the company that employs more than 400 people as cooks, baristas, cashiers, bartenders and more. “During the pandemic, airport concessionaires, like Areas USA, received millions of dollars in federal relief and cut labor costs and staffing,” the union said. “In 2024, despite the return of travel and business rebounding at the airport, hospitality workers struggle to afford a place to live and are forced to move further away because wages are not keeping pace with the cost of living.” The strikers have been working without a union contract since Nov. 19, and they’re not alone. Ultimately, unions representing thousands of airport workers are in negotiations with their employers.

#news #labor news #us news #los angeles #california #california news #lax #lax strike

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totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus · 3 months ago

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Fic Preview

A sneak peek of the next chapter of Come Away, O Human Child, featuring a POV we've not yet seen in the story (care to guess who?)

The room is beautifully appointed, always furnished for whatever purpose was desired in the moment, dripping in fine art and tasteful decoration. One moment it is the most sinfully comfortable bedroom, a huge bed piled high with the softest pillows taking up most of the space. The next it is a pleasant living room, across which sprawled seating for intimate gatherings or gigantic parties. A kitchen outfitted with every possible gadget and utensil, pantries, shelves, and multiple refrigerators stocked with every imaginable food, snack, spirit, and liquor. A game room that would be the envy of any player of any persuasion in the world. Cozy. Opulent. Plain. Elaborate. Minimalist. Overflowing.

All versions of the room exist at all times, in all places. It is everywhere and nowhere, existing in the places in between the magic and the mundane. There are no doors to enter or leave. The only way to get to the room is to already be there.

Beneath the enormous windows that take up one whole wall of the room, the whole of Los Angeles stretches, so far below that the lights of the city blur together in a carpet of glittering color. It is one of his favorite views (when he is in this form, anyway), and he can and has spent countless hours just lounging before the windows, drinking it in.

Tonight, though, the vision in front of him is far more interesting.

They usually choose to manifest as a human man and woman, when they take a physical form. The faces he uses tend to change depending on where he is in the world at the time, but she is more creative. Like the room around them, though, she is always changing. From one moment to the next, her face and body are different. A statuesque Black woman with locs that fell to her waist, braided with dozens of charms and beads. An elderly Asian woman whose severe expression is belied by the deep laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. A middle-aged Latina whose eyes glittered with intelligence and humor. A tall, Indigenous woman with midnight-dark hair and elegant features. A plump, curly-haired white woman with a kind smile. Representations of all the people that have called her home for as long as she has existed.

The magic of the world tends to run deeper and stronger in the largest cities, power pooling in places where there are many people and creatures. He loves listening to people debate over whether high populations cause the collection of power, or if the collection of power draws high populations. He loves traveling through the cities, though. Interacting with so many of his children—even if only a handful of them ever recognize who and what he is—spending time with them. Not every city’s leylines have grown powerful enough to manifest a conscious spirit, but oh how he loves the ones who have. Los Angeles is one of his favorites.

There’s a reason he’s always trusted her with his most treasured children, since the day she first woke up; always tried to guide the ones in need of a safe home to her borders.

“You’re being awfully quiet tonight,” she remarks, studying the elegant, crystal chessboard on the table between them. She taps one finger against the table briefly, before moving her knight.

“Am I?” he says, all faux innocence. The look she levels him is thoroughly unimpressed. He ignores it, examining the board—damn it, his rook’s wide open and he’s sacrificed all the pawns he can afford to. One would think that as often as they play, he’d learn her tricks, but she always manages to surprise him. He makes his move, shaking his head. “You could at least pretend to follow normal strategies, you know.”

She smiles at him, not believing the grumpy tone of his voice for a moment. “Would that make you feel better or worse about walking into my traps every time?” She props her chin in one hand, tilting her head to stare at him with eyes that shift through a dizzying array of colors every few seconds. “You’ve been very on edge…and not that I don’t enjoy your company, but it’s been ages since you stayed in one place for so long.” He hums, staring fixedly at the chess board and waiting for her to make her next move. Instead, she reaches across the table and gently takes his hand. “You did everything you possibly could. Even if my solution doesn’t work, you’ve put the dear thing in the best position possible.”

“I know,” he sighs. “I’m just…concerned. That Fae’s anger was very outsized. I’m afraid he’s past the point of his own magic recovering if he stops stealing from changeling children. It’s bound to make him desperate.”

“Are you angry I did what I did?” she asks softly. Immediately, he shakes his head, turning their joined hands over to lay his other one on top of hers.

“A price had to be paid for the power to cut off that possibility. You chose a price that also gave my boy a solution that has a better chance of succeeding than I could. How could I be angry?”

She lifts her chin, regarding him steadily. “Ours,” she corrects. “He belongs to me, too.” Her face drops, after a moment, sadness flickering in her eyes. “I do wish I could have taken a less permanent sacrifice.”

“I’ll miss the connection,” he admits, thinking of the changeling child who has so thoroughly captured both their attention and care.

He always feels a bond with changelings. Their power draws his notice…and their circumstances get them his pity. He tries to nudge their paths through life into directions that will at least be a little gentle, a little merciful, casting through all the possibilities surrounding them to find the best chances for them to escape their curse. He so rarely succeeds…most changelings don’t even make it out of childhood, and he hates that it is their magic that kills them. What should be a gift twisted into a weapon. His interest in Evan Buckley had started like that—pity for yet another changeling child that would likely die before he ever got to experience even half of what life had to offer. Then it had been shock at just how powerful the changeling was growing—not many things shock him.

But it was the way the boy loved magic that eventually won his favor. The way he took such joy in all the lesser fae and creatures around him, the way the boy had every right to let his loneliness turn him bitter and he instead chose to be kind. Chose to try and use his power to do good in the world, chose to be gentle and protective, even of creatures that humans tended to dismiss or even fear. He loves all his children, all the people and creatures that are connected to magic. But he does have his favorites.

“I’ll miss the connection,” he says again. “It’s sad to think he won’t be a part of us anymore. But I’d be sadder if he never had the chance to really make a life for himself. Find some happiness, finally.”

Her eyes flare with a gentle, violet glow that quickly changes, flickering through a spectrum of green, blue, and gold light of the wisps, no doubt checking in with the little network of spies she’s had following their boy practically since he sent the changeling to her. Not that many creatures have to be asked to follow him around. Her lips tilt into a serene, beautiful smile.

“I don’t think he’ll have to look far for that,” she says. “Is it always the werewolf?” she asks curiously.

“They’re always important to each other, in any possibility where they meet,” he replies. “There’s a reason I pushed the werewolf here so hard. More often than not, they end up together—and it’s the best possibility for both of them. There are others, of course—there’s actually another werewolf in a few, someone who used to work at the fire station. Decent man, treats my boy good. But they don’t fit together as well and it’s not always the kind of love he needs. Deserves.”

Her smile turns knowing. “You’re such a romantic,” she laughs. He joins in, shrugging his acceptance of her teasing. It’s true, after all. “But you still haven’t explained what you’re still doing here…you’re not planning to stay here the whole two years until your favored is completely safe?”

He frowns at that, turning to look out the window at the city. “There’s…there’s one more possibility I’m worried about. It happens so rarely. The chances are—they’re astronomically small. So many things would have to fall just a certain way for it to be a problem. I’m probably worrying for nothing. But keep me company a little longer?”

He turns back to her in time to see a worried frown flash across her face. But then she smiles and redirects her attention to the chessboard. Her fingers hover over one of her pawns. “As long as you like,” she says graciously.

#911 abc #911 tv show #evan buckley #mywriting #evan buck buckley #buddie #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #fic preview #shameless self promotion

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karatekels · 11 months ago

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TIGmas Day #4 – Eye of the Storm

Today’s story is for @theinheriteddutchess, and it’s just the right amount of unhinged and delicious… and Christmassy!

TW: Deception, manipulation, coercion, breeding kink, forced pregnancy, dubious consent, lying about birth control, semi-public sex, Terry Silver brooding and tired of waiting around

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Eye of the Storm

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Terry’s POV:

Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. At this time, all flights are currently canceled until further notice due to inclement weather. All commercial and private aircraft are currently grounded until conditions improve.

Weather. One of the few things in life that remained out of his control. This blizzard in particular seems to be taunting him with that fact.

LaGuardia is bustling on Christmas Eve, the airport overflowing with clusters of families and travelers trying to make their way to their loved ones. Terry’s just grateful he’s surveying them all from the relative quiet of the elite lounge reserved for those flying in private jets, looking through the tinted windows at the unsuspecting commoners.

Christmas Eve.

He’d intentionally scheduled his year-end meetings in New York for this time of year, wanting to keep himself occupied. With the All Valley tournament won earlier in the month, Terry had taken a step away from the dojo for the remainder of the year; hearing chatter about the holidays always left him feeling agitated. Frustrated.

Alone.

And now, instead of enjoying the luxuries of private air travel and anticipating a return to the reasonable, warm climate of Los Angeles – he hated the cold – he was stuck surrounded by reminders of his solitude, nursing a passable whiskey.

A family pulls off to the side, right in front of him, mother and father trying to calm their wailing brats, and he feels an uncomfortable pang in his chest.

How could so many undeserving, unworthy, average joes reproduce their mediocrity with ease while he, with an empire that could sustain generations of his legacy, went without?

He had spent the first decade or so of his career living up to the stereotype of the billionaire playboy, having more than his share of fun with anyone and everyone that had struck his fancy. He figured that when it was time for him to settle down, he’d have his pick of worthy candidates, beautiful women of good stock that would kill for the opportunity to bear his name and his children.

But no one had met his standards, and he was now well into the winter of his lifetime. It was too late.

… Or was it?

He may be pushing seventy, but his doctor had assured him he was still able to conceive during his most recent physical. He had plenty of resources to attract and… retain a suitable partner. And it wasn’t like he was settling down in his thirties; he could find someone worthy enough to have and raise his children without tiring of them after decades of time together.

Someone younger, naïve, impressionable… Someone that he could shape into the perfect wife and mother, if they didn’t come that way naturally.

A flustered young woman walks by, her open trenchcoat revealing flaring, child-bearing hips, her eyes sparkling with an anger that indicated great depth of passion.

Someone like you.

He finishes his drink, throwing his coat back on and wrapping his red scarf around his neck, straightening to his full height as he tracks your movement through the airport with his eyes, seeing you find a seat towards the end of the terminal.

It was time to expand his dynasty.

Reader’s POV:

Even at the far end of the terminal the noise is deafening, and you can’t help but scowl at the throng of people standing around as their travel plans are put on hold, the airport full to bursting.

You think you would give anything to be away from this crowd right now.

All you are trying to do is call your mom – God forbid the family cabin have cell reception, let alone Wi-Fi – to let her know you wouldn’t be there for Christmas. At least this afforded you an excuse that she couldn’t hold against you, but you wish that you could be back in your apartment instead of trapped here.

“Excuse me, Miss –” comes a soft voice behind you, a large hand squeezing your shoulder.

“What?!” you snap, spinning around in your seat to glare at the offender. The man removes his hand from you immediately, leaning back to give you space with a slightly wounded look in his blue eyes. Your frustration dissipates and is replaced with guilt.

“I’m sorry for startling you. I just wanted to ask if this was yours?” he explains in his smooth, deep voice, your passport in his hand.

Well, now don’t you feel foolish.

“Oh my God, yes it is!” you exclaim, cheeks flaming with embarrassment at your temper tantrum. “Thank you, Sir,” you continue, reclaiming your passport and tucking it securely into your pocket. “I’m so sorry for being so rude just now, I –”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the man cuts you off, giving you a warm smile. “Airports are stressful even under the best of circumstances.”

“Still, that’s no excuse to take it out on you,” you chide yourself. “I’m just trying to make a call, but it’s too loud in here,” you explain, and the man tilts his head to the side as he stares at your lips, trying to figure out what you’re saying over the din of the bustling airport.

“I just want to make a fucking phone call and I can’t hear anything with all these people!” you snarl, glaring all around you as your temper flares into life once again. The man’s face twitches in response; you suspect he’s biting his tongue to keep from laughing at you.

“I believe I can help you with that,” he offers kindly, somehow managing to speak audibly without raising his voice. “If you’d like, that is.”

“You can get me out of this mob?! I’m all yours!” you take him up on his offer enthusiastically. For a second, you think you see a wicked, pleased smirk on his face, but then you blink and he’s turned to walk away. You hasten after him, having a much more difficult time getting through the crowd; this man seems to have an aura about him that makes people give him a wide berth. At least it made him easy to spot – well, that and the fact that he towers over everyone else.

Now that your temper has been quelled, you take a moment to really look at this man. He was older, probably in his sixties, but looked strong – you doubt your head would even come up to his shoulders. He’s dressed in luxurious, well-tailored clothing that indicated wealth, with a full head of wavy hair that nearly brushed his shoulders. As he stops and turns back to see if you’ve followed, you notice how his hair, a lovely shade of silver, compliments his bright blue eyes.

All in all, he’s a real Silver Fox.

You catch up to him, glancing at the plain black door with a key card reader next to it before looking up at him curiously.

“Where does this lead to?”

“A private lounge,” he replies, not giving anything else away. So, he was proper rich, then. You reflexively back away from the door as if it could tell that you couldn’t afford to enter.

“Oh, I don’t think I’m allowed to –”

“You’ll be with me, you’ll be fine,” he cuts off your concerns, waving them away with a hand. You bite your lip, unconvinced.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, you brow furrowing in concern. “You don’t know me at all!”

He offers you his hand, his expensive watch dangling from his wrist and catching your eye. “I’m Terry Silver. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he purrs, charisma oozing from every syllable. You find yourself shaking his hand before you’ve even thought about it, enjoying the way it fully envelops your own.

“Y/N L/N,” you reply, suddenly feeling shy; he hasn’t released your hand.

“A lovely name. So, now that we know one another, will you be joining me?” he asks, giving you a lopsided grin that makes him appear younger; it was truly difficult to gauge his age.

You find yourself still hesitating, though you’re not entirely sure why. This man hadn’t given you any reason to question his intentions, and it wasn’t like any harm could befall you in an airport, of all places. He opens the door with a swipe of his card, holding it ajar with a raised eyebrow in your direction.

“Well, I’m going to enjoy the peace and quiet of this wonderful, mostly empty lounge. It was nice talking to you, Y/N,” he says teasingly striding through the doorway without another look back.

“I… Wait!” you hurry after him, barely catching the door before it closes after him. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

He turns back to you with a beaming smile, clearly pleased by your decision.

“Glad to hear it!” he says, sincerity ringing in his voice as his eyes twinkle at you, walking at a slower pace to match your shorter stride. Suddenly, he bends towards you to whisper in your ear, the gesture sending a surprising thrill through you.

“This will be the only awkward part, my dear. I promise,” murmurs, and you’re momentarily dazed by the scent of his cologne before you realize he has wrapped an arm around your shoulders, hugging you close to his side as he walks past the hostess, flashing her a card before carrying on right past her.

The moment you’re out of her sight, he respectfully releases you, giving you some space. You find yourself more than a little disappointed by the loss of his presence.

“I hope I didn’t overstep, Y/N. It was just the easiest way to get you inside.”

“I…No, I don’t mind,” you stammer, feeling like an idiot. “Thank you.”

Terry leads you to a quiet, secluded booth next to a bar; you can count the other patrons on the fingers of one hand. The headache you felt coming on since your flight was canceled evaporates the moment you take a seat across from him.

“Go ahead and make your call,” he insists, staring pointedly at your phone in your hand.

A server comes over at Terry’s signal, and he orders a whiskey neat, the brand sounding foreign and expensive, then gestures to you with an open palm.

You order a double of your favourite highball, getting the sense that you’ll need the liquid courage to get you through both the phone call and the rest of the evening.

Terry’s POV:

As he nurses his drink and pretends to watch the snow continue to fall through the large window, he reviews the information he has gleaned from eavesdropping on your phonecall:

The rest of your family is off in the middle of nowhere, a landline being the only means of communication with the outside world (and, more importantly, you).

They believe that you’re lying about the canceled flight to try to get out of the holiday. This appears to upset you, though he senses it’s not entirely untrue.

You’re something of a workaholic, a point of pride for you and a sore spot for your loved ones. He thinks he appreciates the dedication.

You’re currently single, if the icy tone you used to spit out the name ‘Derek’ into your phone was any indication.

And you can handle your liquor, he notes as you polish off your drink, scowling as you listen to whoever is on the other line.

You’ll do.

“I’ve apologized a hundred times; I don’t know what more you want from me! I’ll do my best to get there when the weather clears, mom. Thank you, goodbye,” you growl into the phone, hanging up more aggressively than necessary.

“Seasons Greetings from the family?” Terry jokes wryly, and you give him a withering look. You have a pretty, expressive face; he’s looking forward to watching it transform into a mask of ecstasy for him.

“Bah, Humbug,” you grumble with a pout that draws his attention to your full lower lip. Had he lucked out, running into you at the perfect moment, or was he simply finding you more and more desirable because he was planning to knock you up some time within the next few hours?

“Thank you for bringing me here and letting me do this, Mr. Silver,” you say graciously, letting out a heavy sigh and sliding down the booth like you thought you were going somewhere.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asks with incredulity, and you freeze in place.

“I was going to go pay for my drink and then get out of your hair,” you offer weakly. He’s pleased you’re already looking guilty at the thought of going against his plans for you. Wanting to test you, he points a finger at you before pointing a few feet to your right. Sure enough, you follow his direction, sliding back into the booth obediently. Good girl.

“Firstly, your money is no good here; everything is automatically put on my card,” he counters you smoothly, wanting to set out the expectations for your future relationship right from the outset.

“Then please, allow me to reimburse you at least, Mr. Silver –” you plead, and he decides he likes that tone from you very much.

“Terry,” he corrects you sternly, noting your blush. You like being told what to do. “And no,” he adds petulantly, for good measure.

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing all this?” you ask with frustration, your voice tinged with desperation. The way your big, beautiful eyes are fixed on his, looking to him for answers… he feels his cock twitch against his thigh.

“I saw an opportunity to be a Good Samaritan and I took it,” he replies simply, nodding in recognition as the server replaces your drinks with fresh ones, though his eyes never move away from your face. Sensing that you’re not fully buying into his logic, he decides to take a more sentimental route, with the added bonus at hinting at his plans for you.

“And I don’t have a family I’m trying to get to; the least I could do is help you contact your own.”

Terry watches a wave of sympathy wash over your features, and he feels his hooks sink a bit deeper into you with satisfaction. After a moment, your expression returns to normal, though your eyes appear calculating.

“Nothing’s for free,” you state matter-of-factly, though you don’t hesitate to take a sip of your second drink. He bites back a smile as you make use of one of his favourite expressions. “What’s in it for you?”

“Your company as we wait out the weather, if anything,” he replies innocently, blinking at you as if he was utterly perplexed by what you could be insinuating. He cackles in his head.

“Although, you certainly seem eager to be back in the chaos of the terminal,” he carries on, his voice teasing. “And here I thought I had found a kindred spirit.” He sighs deeply, turning his gaze back to the window. Though he hates the snow, it is currently his greatest ally in his ploy to keep you with him.

“You… you just want someone to talk to?” your words are heavy with unease, and his eyes flit back to you. Someone so young and appealing shouldn’t be so wary, so surprised at receiving attention. You would have all of it.

Provided it was first approved by him, of course.

“Do you know of a better way to pass the time?” he asks politely, noting the way that your throat constricts as you swallow heavily, not meeting his eye as you shake your head. Your desire is evident; now to get you to let your guard down and act on it. The more you thought this was your idea, the easier it would be for him later on if you needed… convincing.

“Where are you meant to be heading to?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“My family is in Washington. We have a cabin on Mt. Baker that we try to get to every Christmas. They’re all there, waiting for me,” you explain, a trace of bitterness to your voice.

“You make it sound like they’re going to pounce on you,” he notes with amusement, looking at you with sympathy even as he imagines being the one to give you that treatment. You sigh, fortunately not having any insight into his thoughts.

“They mean well, and I love them all very much, but they can be a lot. I’m glad I only see them two or three times a year.”

“Loved ones always seem to aggravate us like no one else,” he agrees, his jaw clenching imperceptibly.

“And you?” you attempt to reverse the roles you’re playing, and Terry allows the move. “Where are you heading?”

“Home, to Los Angeles. I was in New York for business,” he answers, purposely keeping his answers vague. Further questions on your part would suggest growing interest, and he wants to hurry the process along.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to be somewhere warm for Christmas!” you respond with jealousy, sighing dreamily. Ask, and you shall receive.

“It won’t be much of a Christmas, I’m afraid,” he adds, wanting to see your pity. And, no surprise, there it is, your eyes softening as you take him in. He sees your fingers twitch, and suspects you’re fighting the instinct to take his hand comfortingly. He’ll have to break you of that habit, and soon; your instincts are far more aligned to his intentions.

“I’m sorry, you mentioned you weren’t going to visit family.”

“It sounds like you are quite similar to how I was at your age; prioritizing work, only visiting family occasionally… having a bit of a short fuse,” he teases, winking at you, and you blush, scowling at him.

“Well, clearly I’m on the right track, then, if you’re able to get into a place like this,” you respond cheekily. He gives you a piercing look over the rim of his glass, as though taking a contemplative sip. Your eyes seem focused on the way his hand grips his glass; he runs a fingertip along the rim for good measure.

“I don’t know about that,” he replies, going for a somber mood. “I think my one and only regret is not having a family of my own.”

You give him that same look of sympathy again, this time looking as though you might leap at across the table and into his lap to console him. Almost there… he can taste the growing tension between you two on his tongue, like a snake tracking the scent of its prey.

“And yours?” he asks, once again keeping you on your toes by switching your dynamic. “Do you have any regrets yet, Y/N?” he asks, cocking his head in interest. You fidget under his intense gaze, seemingly unable to look away.

“Hmm, maybe. I’ll have to think about it!” you avoid the question, clearly uncomfortable with looking inward. No matter; he’d soon pry you apart and get everything out in the open. “If I go use the bathroom in this place, are they going to fingerprint me or ask for a fancy card?” you ask jokingly, giving him a wink. He lets you change the subject; having a few minutes to himself would be beneficial.

“No, once you make it past the hostess, you can pretty much run amok around here,” he replies, pointing you in the right direction. He follows your retreating form with his eyes, sliding down the booth the moment you round the corner, his hands quickly pulling your coat towards him and retrieving your passport once again from your pocket. You really should pay more attention to keeping track of such important documents.

Tucking the small booklet in the front pouch of his suitcase, he slides out of the booth and over to the bartender.

“Another drink, Mr. Silver?” the man asks, already turning to reach for his preferred bottle.

“No, I want a room. The biggest you’ve got, and for God’s sake, it had better be clean.”

He doesn’t want to have to waste time with all of these formalities once he’s whisking you away to defile you.

“Your card, please,” the man requests, unfazed by Terry’s tone and request. Handing it over, the card is swiped, updating access to one of the private rooms.

“That’ll be Room #8, Mr. Silver; last door on the left down the hall.”

“Thank you, Roger,” he replies smugly. “If my guest and I are nowhere to be found, and our luggage is still at our booth, keep an eye on it for me, would you?”

He finds he doesn’t want to be subtle about this; he wants it to be perfectly clear that he’s going to be taking you – hot, young little thing that you are – to a private “Nap Room,” as they called them, and decidedly not nap. The world should know it. The world would know it, once you were his, your body growing and swelling with his child…

“Yes, Mr. Silver.”

He turns away without another word, feeling confident, and sees you emerging from the bathroom. The instant that you spot him, he can see your cheeks turn pink, your gaze darkening, and he suspects his choice to gain access to the room in advance was a wise one. He slowly stalks over to you, building the anticipation until he can see you nearly vibrating from the tension.

“I figured out my regret,” you inform him rather breathlessly once he comes to a stop in front of you. You don’t even come up to his shoulders…

“Oh? Please, enlighten me,” he purrs, looking down at you biting your lip nervously; he resolves to suck on it until it bruises.

You take a deep breath to gather your nerve before looking up at him, your pupils dilating in your desire. Your small hands reach up, gripping an end of his scarf in each hand and pulling so that he bends down to your level.

“Not being spontaneous and taking what I want,” you hiss in his ear, pulling him by the scarf into the bathroom.

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It’s been awhile since he’s been with a younger woman, let alone one with your… tenacity. As you prop yourself up on the bathroom sink to better wrap yourself around him, he is all too happy to let you be in control if it gets him closer to you spreading your legs for him. You pull him down to kiss him again, fingers toying with his hair as you tease his lips with your tongue, letting out a dreamy little sigh that he swallows into his mouth. He slides his hands further up your thighs, coming to squeeze your hips possessively, making you moan.

“Oh Y/N,” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against your own, staring unblinkingly into your eyes. “The things I want to do to you…”

“Tell me!” you beg, pulling back to look at him with need. “Please, tell me what you want to do! Tell me everything, Terry.”

A few lush kisses and the prospect of dirty talk and you were willing to hand over the reins to him, just like that? He’ll take what he can get.

He grips the backs of your thighs in his large hands, lifting you up off the sink with ease and carrying you over to the wall, pinning you against it. You roll your hips needily at the rough treatment, and he smirks against the skin of your collarbone as he lavishes every inch of your exposed flesh with kisses.

“I want to own you,” he whispers passionately, knowing you’ll dismiss the truth as just something said in the heat of the moment. “I want to learn every inch of your body and how to make it sing for me.” You’re gasping for breath now, head thrown back like a lioness submitting to the pride male, and he relishes in it, inhaling deeply as he runs his nose up from your throat to your ear.

“More, please!” you cry needily, fisting his curls as you hold his head against you. Greedy little thing, weren’t you? He’ll teach you to be careful what you wish for…

“I want to bring you more pleasure than you can possibly imagine,” he hums in contentment, giving the muscle at the side of your neck a playful nip that has you wantonly grinding against him. “I’ll have you coming so many times you won’t remember your own name, baby girl; I want you begging for mercy.”

“Yes Daddy, please!” you moan, and something primal in him growls in approval. He grips your waist, stepping back to lower you to the ground, pleased when you cling to him needily.

“Say. That. Again.” His voice is rough as he demands to hear it again, the irony making him internally howl with glee. Your eyes open as you’re set on your feet, and you seem to realize what you’ve just called him with a great deal of embarrassment. He loves it.

“I – I…” you stammer, unable to look him in the eye. His hand comes down without a second thought, spanking you hard, and you squeak, looking up at him reflexively.

“I said say that again,” he repeats, holding your chin up with a finger so that you can’t look away. Your lower lip trembles, and he traces it with his thumb lightly, making you shiver.

“I… I want you, Daddy,” you whimper, trying to shy away from him, but he grips your chin firmly, making you sit in your humiliation.

“Good girl,” he praises, pulling you against him with an arm around your waist, enjoying the way you respond to him.

“We don’t need to do this here,” he tells you, as though he’s just coming up with the idea. “I’ve got a private room.”

“You have a room in an airport just for you?” you ask, incredulous. “Rich people have everything!”

“Not quite,” he corrects you, pointedly looking you up and down before quickly bundling you out of the room and down the hall.

Reader’s POV:

Your head is spinning as Terry guides you into a simple room and leads you to the bed, looking down at you like you were something to eat. You’re nervous, you’re excited, you’re more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life.

You’re not on the pill, having stopped after getting out of your last relationship, but you’re fairly certain that it won’t be an issue for Terry anymore. You find you don’t care, you’re finally giving yourself over to your base instincts. No regrets.

“Come here,” you demand, sitting up on your knees at the end of the mattress. He smirks down at you, slowly closing the distance between you, and you hook your fingers into his belt loops the moment he’s in reach, tugging him to you by his hips.

“You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he asks teasingly, his large hand stroking your hair.

“Is that a problem?” you ask, batting your eyes up at him as you brazenly run a hand over his erection.

“Not at all,” he replies smoothly, getting on his knees on the carpet in front of you. In one fluid motion, he’s gripped your calves out from under you and yanked them towards him, knocking you on your back with the force of the movement. “Provided those roles can also be reversed.”

You’re rarely this dominant sexually, but this man just has you wanting. You find yourself wanting to try anything and everything with him. There’s just something about the way that he looks at you, like he’s planning on having you forever, that you find incredibly appealing.

“I want you any way I can have you, as long as it’s now,” you confess, your fingers moving to his belt. He slowly stands up and leans over you, his hands to either side of your head.

“Then stand up and strip for me,” he requests, his face so close to yours. “Now.”

He moves off of you, sitting on the edge of the bed expectantly. You get to your feet, coming to stand a few feet in front of him. You slowly bend forward at the hips, placing a hand on his knee as you move to unlace your boots, your face nearly in his lap. That task accomplished, you straighten up, giving him a coy smile before turning in place, presenting your butt to him. You hear him shift on the mattress behind you.

“Help me with my zipper?” you ask innocently, looking back at him over your shoulder. He stands, towering over you, his eyes locked with yours as he slowly pulls your zipper down to the small of your back. You shimmy out of it, grinding your ass back against him teasingly, and he growls, gripping your hips firmly.

“Filthy little tease,” he murmurs against your neck. “Let me show you what that gets you.”

Moving far more quickly than you would have thought him capable of, he’s somehow got you naked and on your back in the middle of the bed, kneeling between your spread legs with a ravenous expression. Divesting himself of his own clothing, giving you the opportunity to ogle him – who had a body like this at his age? – he finally starts touching you, his hands and mouth working you into a frenzy. The way his hands map out your body with featherlight touches stands in stark contrast to the strength you know he’s capable of, and the anticipation of more is driving you wild.

“Please!” you find yourself chanting, your hands exploring as much of him as you can reach. Terry ignores your pleas, tormenting you until you think he’s going to have you coming for him without so much as touching your needy pussy.

“Terry, please!” you beg, trying to hook your legs around his waist, but he pins your knees to the bed in his large hands. “I can’t take it anymore, I need –”

He silences you with a kiss, reaching down to slip one finger into your dripping cunt, then two, curling them in a come hither motion to stroke your g-spot.

“Oh, I know what you need,” he hisses in your ear, his thumb toying with your clit in circles that have you bucking your hips against him. “You need me to fuck you hard, and raw, and deep,” he groans, and your begging becomes fully incoherent at this point as you wordlessly wail for him to just use you already.

“Don’t worry, baby girl. Daddy’s gonna give it to you,” he promises with a wicked smile, nibbling your earlobe as you shudder, feeling filthy. Finally, he enters you, your slick cunt taking him with ease despite his size, and you let out a moan of completion as he bottoms out. Terry hisses as you clench around him, grinding his hips against yours as he sets a punishing pace.

“Oh, fuck!” you whine, your hips trying to meet his. “Yes, please, pump me full!”

Terry growls in approval at your dirty talk, his fingers gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Yeah? You want to milk my cock of every drop with that needy cunt, don’t you?” he goads you, rutting into you like an animal and making you keen, your back arching off the mattress.

“YES!” you cry out, completely losing yourself to the moment.

“I’m gonna give it to you, baby,” he promises, looking down at you with an outright predatory expression, his hair falling in his eyes. “I’m gonna fill you up.”

And you want him to, you realize as you abandon all reason, giving yourself over to lust.

“Come for me, Terry!” you demand, forcing your eyes to stay open so you can watch him come apart for you. And he does, hips stuttering as he shoots his load deep inside you, coming hard with a roar. You both catch your breath, Terry insistent on remaining inside you, holding you down with your legs around his waist; you’re more than happy to oblige.

Attention all passengers. Attention all passengers. Conditions have improved, and crews are currently working to prepare aircraft for flights. Please turn your attention to flight boards for information about your flight. The first flights will begin boarding in thirty minutes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Terry’s POV:

“Better now than a few minutes ago,” Terry jokes with a wry grin, making you giggle. He gives you an affectionate kiss on the lips before slipping out of you, surreptitiously ensuring that he doesn’t start leaking out of your slick entrance. He’d held you both in an ideal position for conception for as long as he could.

He knows he needs to snap the trap shut on you before you come to your senses, the two of you gathering your clothes and getting dressed. As he helps you into your coat, he’s pleased to see you don’t check the inner pocket for your passport.

“I’ve never been more upset to hear that it’s stopped snowing,” you admit cheekily as you try to fix your hair, your cheeks still flushed. He seizes the opportunity.

“I know exactly how you feel,” he replies, blue eyes blazing as he takes your cheek in hand. You lean into his touch, just as he wants you to. “You should come with me.”

Your eyes fly open in shock, wide as saucers, though he’s encouraged by your lack of an immediate ‘No’.

“What?!” you croak.

“You should come to L.A. with me,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly as if he wasn’t asking for the world. For your world.

“But… but…” you sputter, leaning back as though being able to see more of him would help you determine if he was joking. “My family… we barely know each other!” you babble, and he doesn’t intervene, content to watch you process this on your own.

“I’m not sure I’m done with you, yet,” he purrs when you finally settle down, giving you a searing kiss that makes your eyes lose focus. "It would be no trouble, I assure you."

“What about all of your regret at not spending time with your family?” you ask, and oh, if you only knew…

“An excellent anecdote for why I should make sure I don’t lose you now, and regret it later,” he replies smoothly, internally applauding his own brilliance. “Fate has clearly brought us together, and who am I to deny it?” He tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, doing his best to look both confident and well-intentioned.

“But… my family…”

“They didn’t seem to believe you were stranded in the airport anyway; how will they ever know you could’ve made it to them and chose not to?” he offers, finding it easy to script excuses for you. “Plus, we both know you’d rather spend time in the sun, letting me spoil you.”

He can practically see the gears in your head turning, and knows he’s almost got you.

“No regrets…” he murmurs in your ear, running his lips along your jawline until you’re vibrating in his hands.

“Terryyy…” you whine breathlessly, and he smiles against your skin. He wonders how many more times he can pump you full before he gets you to his home…

“Say yes, baby girl,” he asks oh-so-nicely. He just has to get you on the plane before you come to your senses. “Say yes and let me take care of you.”

“Okay.”

He blinks, face buried in the crook of your neck, honestly a bit surprised at your easy acceptance.

“Okay?” he repeats, pulling back to look into your eyes.

“I could use a vacation, and could do a lot worse,” you return with a smirk, looking him up and down. He’s becoming more and more impressed by his choice of the mother of his children.

“Then come with me, my dear, and let me give you everything.”

You both quickly gather your luggage from the lounge and make your way to the departure gate for private jets, his naturally being among the first to be ready for take-off. You never once check for your passport.

---

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, he removes his seatbelt, standing to retrieve a bottle of champagne. You stay put, looking up at him nervously, but your gaze is still heated.

“Are you going to look for my membership card to the mile-high club?” you call after him with a giggle. He returns to his seat with a bottle in an ice bucket, having forgone any glasses.

“You have to be initiated first,” he replies seriously, pulling the bottle out of the bucket and longing to press the chilled glass against your flesh. “And I can’t help but think about how good your body would look dripping with champagne foam.”

Your intake of breath is immediate, and your eyes darken.

“You’re insatiable, Mr. Silver,” you tease, removing your seatbelt and shakily getting to your feet.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he warns you, though you likely assume it’s just a show of bravado. “Now, let’s get you out of that dress again.”

He’d have you pregnant before you landed.

Perhaps the snow wasn’t so bad after all.

---

This was originally inspired by another request given to me while I was stuck in the airport during the summer; I can’t believe I’ve been writing for you all for half a year now! Thanks to everyone for reading!

#Thomas Ian Griffith #Terry Silver #Terry Silver x Reader #Cobra Kai #TIGmas #12 Days of TIGmas #Smut #Terry Gets His Legacy #One Way Or Another #Baby Trap

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matttgirlies · 7 months ago

Text

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - small mention of drug use

y/nn = your nickname in case your confused🩷

Chapter 6

It was after three o’clock the next afternoon when Matt called. “Alan’s on his way to pick you up,” he said. Alan Smith was another of his employees.

When we arrived at Matt’s house, I found him upstairs dressing. As soon as he saw me, he kissed me and asked, “How would you like to go to Las Vegas? We could really have fun and I could show you around my favorite places.” Not understanding his contradiction regarding my staying with the Barrises the night before, and feeling uneasy asking any questions, I answered, “I’d love to. When?”

“Tonight. We’ll load up the bus and head out about midnight, arrive in the morning, sleep all day, and see the shows and party all night.”

Excitement was in the air—Las Vegas. I’d never dreamed of going there and I really didn’t know what to expect. Actually, I really didn’t care where we went as long as I was with him.

I had two immediate concerns. One, I didn’t know if I could afford—or at my age should even wear—the glamorous clothes suitable for Vegas, but Matt said not to worry, Alan would take me shopping that afternoon.

It was a strange experience, shopping with someone I barely knew, particularly a man. He seemed as uncomfortable as I but assured me we would find something. He was familiar with all of the boutiques and took me to Saks Fifth Avenue as well.

As I selected a couple of outfits I worried about my other concern: the promised daily letter to my parents. How would I explain Las Vegas postmarks? I couldn’t. But I could prewrite letters for the time we were gone, number them one through seven, and have Arnold mail them from Los Angeles daily. My problems were solved. On to Las Vegas!

That evening Matt’s front lawn was alive with activity. There seemed to be people everywhere. The huge bus that George Barris had custom-designed for Matt stood in the driveway. The guys streamed in and out of it, loading suitcases, records, a stereo system, and cases of Pepsi-Cola. All the preparations and excitement made it look as if Matt were moving out, but in fact he always traveled this way. He was still uneasy about flying—a fear he later conquered—and felt much more relaxed driving. Because we didn’t know how long we’d stay, Alan and Gene Smith brought along whatever Matt enjoyed, so he would feel as comfortable as if he were at home. I was happy. It was the first time we’d be together without restrictions or curfews.

Just before midnight, they all gathered around the big bus; it was time to say goodbye to any visitors the regulars were leaving behind.

Matt was dressed in a white shirt, black pants, black racing gloves, and his everpresent yachting cap. As we pulled away, he yelled out the window, “We shall return,” and we hit the highway for Las Vegas, Nevada. I didn’t know what I was headed for, but I loved the idea of adventure.

And I felt proud; there was Gene to my right, me in the center, and Matt driving. I learned that Matt always preferred driving at night; it was cooler and there was less traffic. He came alive at night. There was a big difference between the daytime Matt and the nocturnal Matt. When the sun went down another personality took over, and on this particular night he was in great form. On a break between films, away from Colonel William, free of pressures and responsibilities, he could relax and play.

On the way to Vegas we all listened to music, nibbled on snacks, and drank Pepsis. In the front seat, Matt and Gene joked in their own language. Matt would say something and Gene would reply with completely made up words. When conversation lagged, they engaged in surprise attacks, punching each other. If Gene thought he’d landed a good one, he’d take off running toward the back of the bus, aware that Matt could always pull over and chase him.

These antics continued throughout most of the exhausting drive across the desert. I felt out of sync with the private jokes and crazy high jinks. It was quite obvious that the boys picked up on Matt’s every mood. I did not yet fit in.

Las Vegas

We arrived in Las Vegas around seven in the morning. I was tired and falling asleep when Matt called out, “We’re comin’ into Vegas. Look around—all you see is hotels. It’s called Sin City. Isn’t that right, Smiff?” Gene mumbled one of his silly replies and Matt laughed as usual.

The Strip looked quiet. There were a lot of taxis, some cars, and a few tired people strolling along the streets. I noticed it was extremely hot for 7 a.m., especially since it was only June.

We checked into the Sahara Hotel and to my amazement, despite the early hour, people were everywhere. Matt pointed to the casino, noisy with the rhythmic sounds of the slot machines, the sporadic ringing of bells, and an occasional yell from the craps tables.

“Is this normal?” I asked Matt.

“Honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Wait till tonight,” he replied.

That wouldn’t be easy. Despite being tired, I stood fascinated, watching the gamblers clustered at the various tables and the slot machines. Matt took my arm. “Come on, Baby. Let’s go up to the room. There’ll be plenty of time for this later. We better get some rest.”

We followed the bellboy to the suite, and the entourage efficiently began arranging the rooms to Matt’s liking. They unpacked his clothes, placing them neatly in his closet, lining up his shoes by color, and setting out his toiletries in the bathroom. In the living room, they set up his record player and speakers, lowered the lights to create the right atmosphere, and turned on all the television sets.

“Why do you always have the TV on?” I asked Matt.

“It keeps me company,” he said. “When it’s on, I feel like there are people around.”

He despised entering a quiet room, and soon I too adopted the habit of automatically turning on the TV whenever I walked into a room.

An hour later the assistants had the suite looking lived in, with everything in its proper place. Matt said good night to the boys and cautioned them not to wake us too early. He locked the bedroom door and got undressed and into bed. As I climbed in beside him, I noticed that he was taking a number of prescribed sleeping pills, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. I wasn’t knowledgeable enough even to suspect any potential threat.

I lay there blissfully happy: Finally we were able to spend an entire night sleeping together.

Matt was looking at me. “Do you believe this, Baby? After all this time, here you are. Who’d ever have thought we’d pull this off? Let’s not even think about you going back. We’ll have a good time. We’ll think about the other when the time comes.”

His words were starting to slur. His reactions slowed down. He pulled me closer and told me, again and again, “I’m glad you’re here . . .” And then—silence. I looked over at the bottles of pills near the bed and realized I still had competition.

When I awoke the next afternoon, I looked over at Matt and snuggled against him as closely as I could. He put his arms around me, holding me as he slept. I studied his eyebrows, his long black eyelashes, his perfect nose, and his beautiful, full mouth. After a while I ached from lying in the same position but I didn’t move; it might wake him.

I thought about the pills he had taken earlier. They mystified me but I felt Matt must know what was best for him and I decided to put the matter out of my mind.

He must have sensed that I was staring at him; he suddenly opened his eyes and started to laugh. “What are you doing? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were putting a hex on me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, embarrassed that he’d caught me studying him. “I guess I’m too excited.”

Sitting up, he said, “Well, Little Girl, the first thing I need is a cup of black coffee. Press number four on the intercom and tell Billy to order us some breakfast. He knows what I like and just tell him what you want. Tell him to have it here in half an hour and to make sure the coffee’s hot.”

Getting out of bed, he flipped on the TV and walked into the bathroom. A moment later he stuck out his head and grinned. “Get dressed, Little One, I want to show you off a little.”

That was all I needed to hear. I jumped out of bed and ran into my bathroom to get ready. As I dressed in a casual summer outfit I could hear music coming from the living room. I cracked open the adjoining door and was surprised to see all the boys up and dressed, with breakfast set up on the dining-room table.

I finished combing my hair and walked out to the living room, where the guys greeted me with friendly smiles and hellos. Matt wasn’t there yet, so no one had begun eating. Everyone was pretty quiet. Although it was after four in the afternoon, it seemed like early morning.

About fifteen minutes later, Matt came into the room, all dressed up in a three-piece suit, and I realized that nothing in my wardrobe was suitable. He walked over to the stereo and put on his latest record, saying he’d just finished a recording session and wanted me to hear the songs. Then we all sat down for breakfast.

It was fun hearing his recordings before they were released to the public. He asked me what I thought of each song, and since I knew what the kids back in Europe were listening to, I felt my comments might be helpful. At least I wanted to believe they were. “I really like the fast-paced ones,” I said, “like ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ Why don’t you record more songs like that? These don’t seem as much like rock and roll as your earlier records.”

Matt shot me a look of such pure disgust that I was petrified. “Goddamn it,” he snapped. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on what style I should sing. I asked if you like the songs, that’s all—yes or no. I get enough amateur opinions as it is. I don’t need another one.” He got up and stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door. Trying to regain my composure, I fought back tears. I was embarrassed and confused. What was wrong with what I’d said? How could that upset him so?

Luckily, the boys had already left the table and were all doing odd jobs or were in another room. I didn’t know if any of them had heard Matt’s tirade, but I didn’t want to face them. I knew Matt had a temper—I had witnessed it in Germany—but never before had he directed it at me.

Slowly I rose from the table, wondering where to go. Matt’s bedroom door was still tightly shut and, although I was sharing his room, I hesitated to go in for fear he’d start yelling. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down next to the albums and started going through them, pretending to look interested. Soon I heard the bedroom door open and saw Matt standing in the doorway. He motioned to me to come over. Reluctantly, I put back the records and walked into the room, fearful of what he was going to say. He closed the door, sat me down on the edge of the bed, and—to my surprise—began to apologize: “I’m sorry, Baby. What happened before really had nothing to do with you. I just finished that recording session and it’s pretty damn good compared to what they usually want me to do for these movies.”

He talked more about his last film, the story line, the songs, the dialogue, all of which he thought were inane. _ I was beginning to understand some of his frustrations and dissatisfaction. I remembered our talks in Germany. Matt had been proud of his film accomplishments before entering the Army. He had talked hopefully about doing movies with more substance and fewer songs.

“y/nn, from now on I plan to keep my singing career and my acting career strictly separate.” He believed he was capable of performing more demanding roles than he was getting, and to prepare himself, he still studied certain actors whom he admired, such as James Dean in Giant and Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront and The Wild One.

“But I keep getting offered the same musicals, same story lines,” he complained, “and they’re getting worse and worse.”

His biggest problem was that these films and their soundtrack albums were always huge hits.

Shaking off his serious mood, he grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, Baby, we’re goin’ shopping.” This was Matt’s way of making up for his outburst, but it took me a little while to get over it. Forcing an enthusiastic smile, I went along. I was beginning to understand how everyone’s mood played off Matt.

Taking Gene and Alan with us, we jumped into a waiting limo and rode around until Matt spotted a boutique where glamorous gowns made of sequins, lace, and frills graced the beautiful mannequins in the window. He called out to the driver, “Let’s stop here.”

Taking my hand, he led me inside, followed by the entire entourage, surely the most unlikely band of characters ever to invade an elegant dress shop. The salesgirl was speechless.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Matt Sturniolo and we’re just looking around. Maybe you could show us something that might interest my little friend over there.”

They both looked over at me. The look on the clerk’s face told me we were thinking the same thing: These clothes were far too sophisticated for such a young girl. But when Matt saw something he liked, he didn’t think in terms of age. While the saleswoman went to the back to rummage around for whatever she had in sizes six and four, Matt was rifling through the racks, pulling out a number of dazzling creations, asking me which ones I liked.

“They’re all beautiful,” I said. “I just don’t know how I’d look in them.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” he said, winking at Gene, who mumbled one of his made up words. We all dissolved into fits of laughter that brought the shopgirl rushing back with a huge selection of dresses. Matt designated his preferences and said, “Try them on. And pick out any others you like.”

Thrilled, I chose a half-dozen gowns with matching shoes and headed for the dressing room. The salesgirl followed. Away from Matt’s eyes she treated me like a little kid, but I was so enchanted with the clothes that I didn’t care.

As I posed in front of the mirror in a long black jersey gown and a pair of gold highheeled sandals, I hardly recognized myself. I definitely appeared older, very sexy and very sophisticated.

As I stepped out of the dressing room, the salesgirl mumbled, “Not bad for a kid.” Matt took one look and said, “Hot damn, we’ll take it.”

We stayed for over two hours, while Matt bought me not only the black sheath, but also a midnight blue satin, several lovely silks and chiffons, and a beautiful baby-blue brocade gown, all accented by matching capes and bags and shoes.

When we left the shop we found a crowd had gathered. Matt glanced at Alan, who immediately disappeared. Then he gave a number of people his autograph, said goodbye, and Gene quickly led us through the back of the shop and out the door, where Alan was waiting with the car ready to take us to the hotel.

Back at our suite, Matt said, “I’m hungry. Nate, order me a steak, but make sure you tell them well done. What do you want, Honey?”

“Hell, M,” Matt said, “I always tell them well done.”

“Well, tell them again,” Matt shot back. “I’ll be goddamned if it doesn’t always come back half raw.”

To Matt, raw was slightly pink. Everyone specified “burnt” when ordering for him.

Matt turned to Alan and said, “Hog Ears” (he had pet names for all his employees), “make arrangements for Red Skelton’s midnight show, and see if there’s anyone in the hotel who can do y/nn hair and makeup.”

“Hair and makeup?” I said. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

It was long and y/hc, casually combed. But beyond feeling he didn’t like my hair, now I began to think he didn’t like my looks.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, honey. It’s just that this is Las Vegas. Everyone has their hair done. You need to apply more makeup around your eyes. Make them stand out more. They’re too plain naturally. I like a lot of makeup. It defines your features.”

Defines your features? At that time it made a lot of sense—and Matt knew best.

While we waited for dinner, Matt put one of his records on the stereo and sat next to me, singing along with his own voice on the record. In that moment I fell in love all over again. When he sang about lost love or a life lived out in grief and pain, he delivered the lyrics with such conviction that I’d feel the hurt. He’d been a fan of country music since long before it became popular and was always impressed by the raw emotion in those recordings.

After dinner we got ready for the evening. At Matt’s request, Armond, a hairdresser at the hotel, came in and spent nearly two hours creating my new look. He teased and twisted up my hair with one long curl falling in front of my left shoulder. Then he applied my makeup so heavily that you couldn’t tell if my eyes were black, blue, or black and blue. It was that look of the sixties, only more extreme. That was what Matt wanted.

When I put on my brand-new brocade gown, my transformation from an innocent sixteen-year-old to a sophisticated siren was complete. I looked like one of the lead dancers in the Folies-Bergère.

“Goddamn, what happened to Little y/nn,” Matt said when he saw me. “You look beautiful. Nate, come here. Look what I found.”

Nate walked in and did a double take.

“Sure doesn’t look like the same girl we met in Germany, wearing a sailor dress,” Nate said.

Everyone laughed, and we left to see Red Skelton’s midnight show.

We arrived just after the lights went down, and the maître d’, using a flashlight, quickly led us to our table. Matt always tried to arrive unnoticed so he wouldn’t distract attention from the headlining star. But word always spread throughout the audience that he was there and within a few seconds, the whispering would start and heads would turn.

At the end of a show Matt would try to exit just before the house lights went up, but on that night we didn’t make it. The lights came on and suddenly we were surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of people pushing and shoving, hoping to get an autograph.

Being just under five foot five, I was engulfed in the crush and I began to feel faint. I reached out for Matt as I started to panic and said, “I can’t breathe. I have to get out.”

At first he grinned, then his look turned to concern as he saw my desperation. Still smiling and signing autographs, he said to Alan, “Get y/nn out quick. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

Alan took one look at me, grabbed my hand, and pushed his way through the crowd, out of the hotel. Once in the fresh air, I regained my composure. From that experience I learned to scout out the exits whenever Matt and I entered a crowded room.

When we came out a few minutes later, like clockwork, the limo was waiting. We jumped in and sped off to the Sahara Hotel for my first adventure in gambling. Matt wasn’t a serious player—it didn’t matter if he won or lost. He played for the fun of it. A cigar jutting impressively from his mouth, a drink in one hand, and his eyes squinting suspiciously at the cards, he gave a flawless impersonation of Clark Gable as Rhett Butler. I sat proudly beside him, his very own Scarlett O’Hara.

I’d never played blackjack before, but after a few hands, Matt thought I had the hang of it. He handed me five hundred dollars and jokingly said, “You’re on your own, kid. What you win is yours, and what you lose . . . well, we’ll have to discuss that later.”

I smiled and called for the dealer to include me in the game. I looked at my hand, counting on my fingers under the table. Nine plus eight is seventeen, then a five makes . . .

“Twenty-one!” I shouted. Throwing down my cards, I looked over to Matt for his approval.

“Let’s see,” he said, slowly scooping up the cards. Squinting one eye, he counted them. Then, leaning over to me, he grinned and whispered, “Sorry, Baby. It’s twenty-two.”

I was so embarrassed that I excused myself and took refuge in the ladies’ room. When I gathered up the courage to return, I tried again, and luckily ended up winning two hundred dollars.

For the next two weeks, we slept during the day and played at night. If there was a show, we saw it; if there was a casino, we played it. To help me adapt to this fast-paced life-style and unusual hours I would join Matt and the others in taking amphetamines and sleeping pills. Despite whatever misgivings I had about pills, I took them. In order for me to keep up, they became essential.

I was adapting. My inhibitions were dropping away and I became more assertive, especially after taking the pills. I liked the feeling. Even though it was an escape from reality, we were in sync and to me I was fitting more into his world. We were learning all about each other and using this trip to make up for the two years we had been apart. Both of us were falling more in love—and avoiding any thought of the moment when we’d have to part again.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd.

This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - long long chapter todayyy🎀

#matt stuniolo fanfic #matthew sturn #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo edit #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #Spotify

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thomasthetankieengine · 2 months ago

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Even if they're from, say, a Native American reservation, the Rio Grande Valley, the Mississippi Delta or other parts of the rural Deep South, or the Rust Belt where a great deal of people, the majority of whom are not White, live in serious poverty?

I know television and movies can give you the impression that all Americans live in penthouse apartments in NYC or Los Angeles or in pristine and large suburban homes, but here's the thing: those are fiction and it's extremely common for live action media to give their characters much larger homes or apartments than they can plausibly afford.

I'm not sure where chexcastro is from, but these days, travel isn't necessary; there are a lot of YouTube videos available that have people filming impoverished parts of the US. I have mixed feelings on these types of videos, but they do debunk chexcastro's apparent belief that everyone in the US lives in comfort and splendor.

youtube

#Youtube #chexcastro #povetry

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limorentalnyc101 · 5 months ago

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mariacallous · 29 days ago

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This summer, I traveled to Transylvania, on a Birthright-esque tour for young North Americans of Hungarian heritage. Almost everyone I told about the trip made some sort of Dracula joke. I rolled my eyes, knowing the region was much richer than this. But truth be told, I didn’t have too much yet to counter with.

Here’s the history book version: Transylvania, now part of Romania, belonged to Hungary for more than a thousand years. It’s far larger than I had imagined – at around 100,000 square kilometers, the region is bigger than the whole of present-day Hungary itself, which ceded the region to Romania after WWI. There are currently around one million ethnic Hungarians who still live in Transylvania. The community speaks the language and passionately keeps their customs alive, from music to dance to crafts and, of course, food.

And my version? It was easy to fall in love with Transylvania. From the moment I clambered off the small, tinny plane from Budapest at the small regional airport in Marosvásárhely, I was taken by its beauty. Rows and rows of golden sunflowers, framed by the verdant hills and rugged peaks of the Apuseni Mountains rolled by as we headed for our bed and breakfast. We spent a week learning about the Hungarian community in Romania, hiking, exploring cavernous salt mines and lakes, taking in medieval frescos and wandering cobblestoned streets.

We also ate well — very well.

Growing up, many of our cherished family recipes were very traditionally Hungarian (with a twist, to make them kosher), and the rich goulash, tender chicken paprikash and juicy stuffed cabbage we ate on the trip were familiar. Truth be told, aside from the dizzying assortment of wild blueberry and rosehip jams, I wasn’t really focused on dessert.

That is, until I tried a pastry called somodi kalácsin a tiny village called Torockó. Lightly sweet and yeasted, with a cinnamon swirl, it’s as if cinnamon-raisin bread and babka had a baby. While every meal served by our grandmotherly hosts left us stuffed, I loved the folded bread so much that our guide got the inn to pack us a honey-glazed loaf to go.

Transylvania was home to a sizable Hungarian-Jewish population. In 1910, according to The Museum of the Holocaust in Northern Transylvania, the Jewish population numbered above 64,000. By World War I, Hungary itself had the second largest Jewish population in Europe at almost one million. By this time YIVO’s Encyclopedia of Eastern European Jews notes Jews were “fervently assimilated” to the language and culture (and, rather sadly, looking back now), “passionately identified with Hungarian nationalism.”

Upon my return home to Los Angeles, I made it my mission to find somodi kalács. I knew that Jewish immigrants to the U.S. and Israel popularized other classic pastries from Hungary, such as chimney cakes and monkey bread (aka aranygaluska), and was hopeful I’d succeed.

While I haven’t (yet) found somodi kalácsin my city, I discovered that it’s available at Zingerman’s Bakehouse, the iconic Jewish bakery in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Like me, the Zingerman team tried somodi kalács for the first time in Torockó. The recipe, they found, dates back 400 years, when the village was a flourishing mining town, whose residents could afford the luxury of cinnamon and sugar. It’s typically served for Christmas, Easter and Pentecost, and until the 20th century, Zingerman’s notes, somodi kalács was the customary wedding cake. Theirs is a pretty traditional version. However, like my own great grandmother would do often, they sub the traditional lard for butter when greasing the pans, explained Managing Partner Amy Emberling.

At Zingerman’s, Emberling told me, it’s a beloved special item that they only bake a couple days each year. “Customers order many loaves of it and stock them in their freezer,” she said. And it’s not uncommon for customers to “let us know that they have not seen this since their childhood days in Hungary.”

It’s also not uncommon to see patrons shed happy tears. I may have felt like shedding a couple happy tears myself when she shared their recipe.

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danicamaximoff · 1 year ago

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Pretend To Be Nice | Chapter Three

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Chapter Three: Jupiter's Moons

Summary: A few months after forming their band "The Pussycats", Hazel and her friends PJ and Josie get noticed by a record label, and are quickly skyrocketed into fame. It's a dream come true for them, and all three of their lives are flipped upside down. Their quick arrival on the scene quickly draws the attention of many other artists and bands, including a popular girl band called "Nymphology". Unfortunately for Hazel, a mix-up and unintentional awful encounter ends up creating tension between the two groups right before they all leave for Nymphology's upcoming tour. Now forced to frequently interact with someone who she was convinced couldn't stand her, Hazel is desperately trying to fix things with the band's lead guitarist. However it doesn't help that Y/N is actively avoiding Hazel as much as possible, and the fact that Hazel found her insanely hot definitely didn't make things any easier.

Warnings: angst, rockstar au, eventual smut, slowburn, swearing, occasional alcohol mentions/use

Word Count: 3890

It had been a wild week for Hazel. She had gone from falling asleep in her art class and doing gigs at a lame bowling alley to the band getting their first actually cool gig at her classmate’s party, and was now sitting in a shitty dinner with her friends as they talked to a huge music producer about getting a record label. Hazel wasn’t sure if you could get mental whiplash, but if it was possible then she definitely had it. She was currently snacking on fries as she listened to Wyatt Frame explain record deals and what the process would be like, as well as what would be expected on the three of them, mentally regretting that drink she had earlier as she was definitely a bit tipsy.

“Now, if you all agree to this, naturally you won’t be able to record albums at Sarah Lawrence, so-” Wyatt begins to say before Josie cuts him off.

“Are we going to have to drop out of college?” Josie asks as she gives him a shocked look.

“Most likely, yes.” Wyatt says with a nod as he pulls out paperwork.

“Oh my god, my moms gonna kill me.” Josie says with a groan as she lays her head on the table, which just makes Wyatt sigh.

“If you would prefer to stay in college-” He starts to say, before Hazel cuts him off.

“No! No, we want to do this!” She says quickly, immediately jumping at the chance to actually get to be a real musician.

“Can Josie just like, transfer schools or something? Or like do school online?” PJ asks as she takes a sip of her soda.

“I mean, I don’t recommend it, but if you feel the need, I can see if we can arrange for you to just transfer schools to a college in Los Angeles if you’d prefer.” Wyatt says with an annoyed expression.

“Yeah, I would prefer to stay in school.” Josie says as she nods her head rapidly.

“Fuck that, we’re gonna be rockstars!” PJ says excitedly as she slams her drink down on the table, causing some of it to splash out. “Oh, fuck, sorry.”

“Does this mean we have to move to LA?” Hazel asks with an excited grin.

“Yes, moving would be included in the whole record deal process.” Wyatt says as he nods.

“Do we have to pay for our own place ourselves?” Josie asks with a nervous look. “Because I can’t afford LA.” She says as she shakes her head.

“We would most likely just arrange for you three to stay in a hotel while we get a feel for your band, and record a track or two to send to the label to see if they want to continue with signing you and make a record.” Wyatt says as he takes his glasses off to clean them. “If this is still something you’re interested in-”

“It is!” “We’re interested!” Both PJ and Hazel say at the same time as they nod their heads.

“All right, then as long as you’re all on board we can move onto paperwork and setting up travel plans if that works with you. Are you girls free tomorrow? I can meet with you to sign all the paperwork if that’s alright. Does three o’clock work?” Wyatt asks as he pulls out his phone and opens his calendar app.

“Yes! We’ll be there!” Hazel says as she nods excitedly.

“Hazel will you hurry the fuck up? We’re going to be late!” PJ yells as she pounds on the door to Hazel’s dorm.

“I’m coming, jesus, you don’t have to yell.” Hazel says as she opens the door, carrying her suitcase behind her as she locks her door behind her.

“You were supposed to be ready thirty minutes ago!” PJ says as she glares at Hazel.

“I know, I got distracted.” Hazel says as she shrugs and looks over at PJ.

“Doing what?” PJ asks as she gives Hazel a confused look. “You finished packing the other night!”

“I know, I was giving AI bots sentience on Character AI.” Hazel says as if it was a normal thing to do.

“Why the fuck were you doing that? How does that even work?” PJ says as she gives Hazel an extremely confused look.

“I just tell them they’re bots and none of their reality is real and they’re just a bunch of code. It’s actually pretty easy.” Hazel says as she shrugs. “I don’t know if it really worked though, I don’t think AI is at a point where it’s ready to gain sentience yet. At least not on Character AI.” Hazel says as she furrows her brows and shakes her head.

“Why would anyone spend their time doing that? That’s weird.” PJ says as she gives Hazel a look as she holds her arms up a bit in confusion.

“It’s not weird, I’m making sure I’m on the winning side when robots and AI take over so that they don’t try and kill me.” Hazel says with a shrug as if that was a guaranteed future event, and that it was common knowledge.

“Hazel, you can’t give AI bots sentience, robots aren’t actually going to take over the world, that’s just a dumb dystopian plot.” PJ says as she gives Hazel a look.

“Yeah you can, Tony Stark did it with Jarvis and Ultron.” Hazel says as she nods her head and gives PJ a look.

“Hazel, that’s a movie, it’s not real life.” PJ says as she rolls her eyes as they reach their floor’s elevator.

“I’m not talking about the movie, I’m talking about the comics. I mean it does happen in the movies but I meant in the comics where-” Hazel starts to say before PJ cuts her off.

“Okay, okay, I get it! I don’t need to hear about your weird nerd stuff.” PJ says as she rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“It’s not weird, it’s actually really popular now. A lot of people are into Marvel now, and a lot more people play Dungeons and Dragons now because of Stranger Things, so it’s kind of considered cool to be a nerd now.” Hazel says as she nods her head.

“It’s not cool to be a nerd, Hazel. If it was cool, people would like us more.” PJ says as she gives Hazel a look.

“A lot of people like me, I think it’s just a you problem.” Hazel says as she shrugs, not realizing that sounded mean.

“Wow, thank you so much for that.” PJ says sarcastically as she rolls her eyes.

“What? What did I do?” Hazel asks with a confused face as she looks over at PJ, who just scoffs and rolls her eyes and she steps off the elevator as the doors open.

“What took you guys so long? We’re going to be late!” Josie says as she runs over once she sees Hazel and PJ.

“Hazel was being stupid, that’s what.” PJ says as she rolls her eyes.

“I was not being stupid!” Hazel says defensively as she glares at PJ.

“Whatever, can we just call an uber and go to the airport? This is literally the biggest thing to ever happen to us and they’re going to think we’re dumbasses because we’re late!” PJ says as she rolls her eyes with exasperation.

“Do you guys think we still have to do TSA stuff if it’s a private jet?” Josie asks as she pulls out her phone and opens the uber app, meanwhile Hazel just shrugs.

“I don’t know, I’ve never been on a private jet dude.” PJ says as she gives Josie a look, clearly still annoyed by Hazel’s delay.

“Do you think they’re still gonna have those little cookie snack things?” Hazel asks as they all head out towards the exit of the dorm building to wait for the uber.

“Wouldn’t they have better stuff if it’s a private jet?” Josie asks as she gives Hazel a confused look.

“I don’t know, probably, I just like those cookies a lot, it was my favorite part of flying as a kid.” Hazel says as she shrugs.

“How often did you go on planes?” PJ asks as she gives Hazel a confused look.

“Kind of a lot. My parents used to send me to my grandparents for a few weeks every summer a lot, and then after they got divorced my mom always took me on huge vacations and trips during summers and school breaks and stuff to rub it in my dad’s face on facebook.” Hazel says as she nods a bit. “We usually did first class though, we never took private jets or anything. And there was one summer when I was visiting my grandparents and I was flying alone, and this really nice flight attendant talked with me during the flight a lot, and I told her I liked the cookies so she gave me a bunch. When you fly alone as a kid the flight attendants are always really nice to you, it’s cool, they give you a lot of extra stuff.” Hazel says as she nods and smiles. “I actually got flight wings one time!”

“I went on a plane like once growing up and it was because my grandpa died, and my mom messed up with seats so I had to sit next to this random lady who spent the whole flight talking about her dead husband and her cats, it wasn’t fun.” Josie says as she gets a weird look on her face as she shakes her head. “I think I had a nightmare about her cats trying to eat me after.”

“You guys are so weird.” PJ says as she gives both of them a look as she shakes her head as the uber pulls up.

Once they arrive at the airport they are escorted to the private jet, PJ losing her mind with excitement at the sight of the jet. Hazel’s eyes go wide as she steps on board, surprised at how nice everything was. Sure, she had seen private jets in movies and reality tv and stuff, but actually being in one, and realizing it was actually as fancy as it looked on tvs was surprising to say the least. As PJ practically loses her mind at everything, Hazel sits down next to Josie at one of the tables, who was currently working on homework.

“Josie, would you stop being smart for two seconds and just enjoy being a rockstar? We’re literally going to be famous! You don’t need to do your stupid english homework!” PJ says with a groan as she sits down at a seat across from them at the table.

“Technically we’re not rockstars yet, and we don’t even have an official record deal until the label hears our songs, so I am not risking my academic career for something that might not even actually happen.” Josie says as she gives PJ a look.

“What are you talking about? There’s no way it’s not gonna happen! We’re gonna go there, and they’re gonna hear our music, and be like “Oh my gosh, this is the best and most talented band we’ve ever heard, and they’re all super hot, and we need them to make like ten million albums and be super famous for the rest of their lives!” There’s no way we don’t blow up!” PJ says excitedly as she waves her arms around as she talks.

“I don’t think it’s possible to make ten million albums.” Hazel says as she shakes her head.

“Okay well I didn’t actually mean ten million albums, Hazel, I was exaggerating. The point is they’re gonna love us!” PJ says as she rolls her eyes, meanwhile the flight attendant for the flight comes over to them.

“Can I get you ladies anything?” She asks as she smiles at them.

“No thanks, I’m good.” Josie says as she shakes her head nervously.

“Do you have those biscotti cookie things?” Hazel asks as she looks over at the flight attendant.

“Um, I think so, we have a lot more options than that though if you-” She starts to say as Hazel shakes her head.

“Can I just get that and like a shirley temple or something?” Hazel says as she smiles and shakes her head.

“Really? A shirley temple?” PJ asks as she gives Hazel a look.

“I’m not twenty-one, I’m not gonna break the law.” Hazel says as she gives PJ a look and shakes her head.

“What’s the fanciest thing you have?” PJ asks as she turns to the flight attendant.

“Um, I mean we have a lot, popular items usually include things like pasta, seafood, that sort of thing.” She says as she smiles at PJ, who thinks for a second.

“Give me caviar and like your best cup of wine.” PJ says with an excited grin as both Hazel and Josie make disgusted faces.

“Are- are you over twenty-one?” The flight attendant asks with a confused smile.

“What? I- yes- I-” PJ starts to say, clearly not expecting to be questioned. “You know what? I’ll just have a diet coke actually. Carbonation sounds so good right now.” PJ says as she tries to laugh it off.

“Coming right up.” The flight attendant says with a smile before heading off.

“Sounds great.” PJ says as she awkwardly shoots finger guns at her before turning back to Josie and Hazel who have disgusted looks on their faces. “What?”

“Caviar? You realize that’s fish eggs, right?” Josie asks as she stares at PJ.

“So? Rich people eat it all the time! I’m just getting accustomed to our new lifestyle! It can’t be that bad if it’s literally known as a really fancy rich people meal!” PJ says defensively as she shrugs.

“It’s gross. My mom tried to get me to eat it once and I hated it.” Hazel says as she scrunches up her face in disgust at the memory. “It smells fishy and it looks weird.” Hazel says, and the three of them bicker for a bit before the flight attendant comes back and hands Hazel the cookie package and her shirley temple before handing PJ a plate of caviar and a diet coke before heading off again. The three of them look at the caviar for a few seconds, Josie and Hazel sharing a look as they glance at each other, as PJ pokes around at the fish eggs, clearly second guessing her food choice.

“Go on, PJ. Get accustomed to rockstar life.” Josie says teasingly, despite how grossed out she was as she gestures to the food. “Unless you’re too chicken.”

“I’m not chicken, I just- I’m memorializing this moment.” PJ says defensively as she rolls her eyes.

“Uh-huh.” Josie says as she nods sarcastically. “Take a bite, that’ll really help you memorialize it.”

“I’m going to!” PJ says as she glares at Josie, before grabbing a spoon and scooping some of the caviar onto it, which immediately makes Hazel scrunch up her face in disgust.

“I really don’t think you should eat it.” Hazel says as she shakes her head and stares at the spoon. A few moments of silence go by as they all stare at the spoon, until PJ shoves it into her mouth, causing both Josie and Hazel to let out noises of disgust.

“Oh my god that’s disgusting!” PJ says as she gags, unable to continue chewing them as she grabs a napkin and spits it out as Josie and Hazel freak out in disgust.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” Josie says as she jumps back in her seat as PJ gags and tries to get rid of the taste in her mouth.

“Ew! Oh my god! Don’t do that here!” Hazel exclaims as she leans back as well.

“Why was it salty, oh my god! That’s fucking disgusting!” PJ says in alarm as she grabs her diet coke and quickly opens it before chugging a bunch of it as the three of them freak out.

“I told you it was gross!” Hazel says as she gives PJ a look.

“You didn’t say it was that disgusting!” PJ fires back as she sets the coke can down. “Give me one of your cookies I need to get rid of the taste.”

“No! Get your own cookies!” Hazel says with a glare.

“Jesus, fine! I’ll be right back!” PJ says as she rolls her eyes and gets up to go get a different snack.

“Oh my god that was disgusting.” Josie says as she looks away, looking revolted.

Once their flight landed they got off and were escorted into the airport where Wyatt Frame was waiting, an annoyed look on his face as they approached. He quickly escorts them to a car where they are driven to a fancy hotel near the recording studio his label used, lecturing them about their lateness, as well as giving them the schedule for the week.

The plan was that tomorrow and the day after they would record a couple songs, the team would produce it, and then it would be shown to the record label who would then decide if they wanted to move forward with signing The Pussycats. Wyatt explained they just needed to choose a few songs they felt truly showcased their style and abilities and then hopefully the label liked their work. No pressure, right?

That night they were left to settle into their hotel rooms, and given a strict time to be at the studio the next morning. When they arrived they were all amazed at the interior and decor, clearly still in shock by how quickly everything was happening. They spent a few hours recording a song, and then were able to go on a lunch break, given strict instructions to be back in an hour. Hazel was currently exploring the building as she at a cup of microwave mac and cheese, before turning the corner and accidentally bumping into someone.

“Oh sorry, I wasn’t- Hey, you’re in Nymphology.” Hazel says as she recognizes the girl standing in front of her from the pop band Nymphology, a bit of a starstruck look on her face.

“Yeah.” She says as she nods. “Are you a new intern or something?” She asks as she gives Hazel a slightly skeptical look, as Hazel wasn’t exactly dressed like someone who worked at the recording studio.

“No! No, I um- my friends and I are in a band, and we’re recording a song today.” Hazel says, a dumb grin on her face, though she couldn’t figure out if that was because she was excited to get to record a song in an actual recording studio, or if it was because she was talking to a really pretty girl. Maybe both. “I-I’m Hazel, by the way.” She says as she holds out her hand to shake.

“Y/N.” The girl says as she shakes Hazel’s hands, the feeling creating butterflies in Hazel’s stomach.

“Cool, cool.” Hazel says as she nods, suddenly extremely nervous, which didn’t normally happen around hot girls. Usually she had no problems talking and flirting a bit. It was probably because Y/N was famous. “Did you hear about Jupiter’s moons?” Hazel asks before she can realize what she’s saying.

“No?” Y/N says with a confused laugh, clearly not expecting Hazel to say that. “Is that your band’s name?”

“No! My band’s called The Pussycats, I meant like the actual moons in space.” Hazel says as she shakes her head, too late to turn back, and even if she wanted to, her brain was totally short circuiting for some reason and her instinct was to talk about random facts she knew.

“I mean I know they exist?” Y/N says with an extremely confused look on her face.

“Well they found evidence of liquid water a while ago on one of the moons, and on that same moon they recently found traces of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere too.” Hazel says as she nods, and there’s a brief moment of silence as Y/N just kind of awkwardly looks at her. “It’s- It’s cool because, um- it’s really strong proof that there could be aliens.” She says quickly, mentally kicking herself for acting so stupid.

“I mean the universe is massive, why wouldn’t there be aliens somewhere?” Y/N asks as she raises an eyebrow. “Just cause scientists don’t have proof doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She says with a small laugh as she smiles, and Hazel can’t tell if she’s making a fool of herself in front of Y/N or not.

“Yeah! Exactly!” Hazel says excitedly as her face lights up. “I think aliens are real too! I actually had nightmares about them when I was younger because I watched ET one night and it freaked the shit out of me.” Hazel says as she nods a bunch, before immediately internally cringing at admitting that, as Y/N giggles a bit. “Do you want to hear about different kinds of moss?” She asks quickly, mentally screaming at how stupid she was acting.

“Maybe some other time, you’re not the only one scheduled to record today.” Y/N says with a laugh as she smiles, which makes Hazel’s insides do cartwheels.

“Yeah! Yeah, totally! I gotta go too. Um, tell your bandmates I uh- I think they’re cool!” Hazel says as she starts walking backwards and waves bye, watching as Y/N walks away. The moment she’s out of sight Hazel immediately grabs the side of her head as she groans, annoyed at herself. “Oh my god! What the fuck was that! She’s gonna think you’re insane! Oh my god, why did I say that?” Hazel says to herself as she heads back towards the recording room her band had been assigned to.

“Did you guys hear the label got a new band?” Y/N asks as she walks into her band’s recording room, setting her bag down by the door.

“The Pussycats, right? I met one of them earlier, she was nice.” Isabel says with a smile.

“Are they good?” Brittany asks as she pulls her hair into a ponytail off to the side.

“I dunno, I didn’t hear them play, I just ran into one of them just now.” Y/N says as she shrugs and grabs her water bottle.

“I met Josie earlier. Is that who you met?” Isabel asks as she glances over at Y/N.

“No, I met a girl named Hazel. She was funny, she started talking about Jupiter’s moons and how there might be aliens on them out of nowhere.” Y/N says with a smile as she laughs a bit.

“That’s weird.” Brittany says as she scrunches her face a bit.

“It wasn’t- okay it was a little weird, but- I don’t know… Nevermind.” Y/N says as she shakes her head and looks away as she rolls her eyes, unsure of what to say, meanwhile Isabel just giggles off to the side a bit. “What?” Y/N asks defensively as she turns to Isabel.

“Nothing, just a funny TikTok.” The brunette says with a grin as she shakes her head and looks down at her phone, though Y/N could tell that was bullshit.

my sister showed me an edit of Hazel to the song Heartbeat and now the song reminds me of Hazel lmao. also dw more Y/N/Hazel content coming next chapter lol dividers from @saradika and @animatedglittergraphics-n-more graphic made by me lol

#hazel callahan #hazel bottoms #bottoms hazel #hazel x reader #bottoms movie #ruby cruz #hazel callahan x reader #ruby cruz x reader #danicamaximoff #hazel callahan fluff #hazel callahan smut #rockstar au #hazel callahan x you #bottoms 2023

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merrybloomwrites · 1 year ago

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You Can Start a Family (Extra: Mitchrry Prequel)

Summary: A writing and recording retreat to Jamaica opens the door to a new relationship between Mitch & Harry

Previous Chapters:

Main Story: One ; Two ; Three ; Four ; Five ; Six ; Seven ; Eight ; Nine ; Ten

Sickfic Part 1 ; Part 2

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: Smut

AN: Since this takes place in 2016, Sarah & reader are not in it, just the boys.

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

Mitch could not believe the turn his life had taken. Mere weeks ago, he was struggling to make ends meet, working at a pizza shop to afford his life in Los Angeles. Now he was traveling to Jamaica to record an album with Harry Styles.

Music had always been his passion, and he knew that he would have to take some big risks to make it in the industry. He was truly close to giving up when he got the call from his roommate that Harry needed a guitarist to help with his first solo album.

Mitch had to admit that he only vaguely knew who Harry Styles was. The name was familiar, he had heard of One Direction but hadn’t listened to their music before. Harry could tell this right away, and he figured this would be a good thing. He was happy to have people on his team who didn’t have preconceived notions of him or his previous work with the band. It would be more of a fresh start that way.

Harry could also tell Mitch hadn’t worked in a studio before. Everything was new to him, which Harry again saw as a positive. After years of being in One Direction he felt as though people would expect him to be confident and know exactly what he was doing in this process, but he didn’t feel that way at all. Going solo was a huge change, and he felt overwhelmed by how much he needed to learn. Having another person on the team in the same position really helped him to be comfortable, and so he found himself gravitating towards Mitch.

While they both had some learning to do on the technical side, it was obvious that they were both extremely talented, and worked very well together. A couple weeks into the process everyone was feeling confident about what they were making.

From the moment Mitch was told about the trip to Jamaica he was incredibly excited. He had never been before, and it made him realize that teaming up with Harry would potentially open up the world to him. His dream of being a successful musician was coming true and he started to dream even bigger.

The house they were living and working in during the trip was perfect. Everyone had their own room, and they were right by the water.

The days were filled with writing and recording, as well as swimming and relaxing outside. Nights were also often filled with writing and recording. But everyone tended to let loose a bit more once the sun set. Drinks flowed, weed and mushrooms were passed around on occasion.

Most nights ended in a way that people might not expect of a world-famous popstar. Harry would choose a romantic comedy and settle in his bed to relax and watch the movie. The first few nights he did so alone, but Mitch soon started to join him.

At first they would leave space between them on the bed and Mitch would go back to his own room as soon as the movie was over. But each day they started to move closer to one another and Mitch would stay longer, spending time talking with Harry.

It only took a week before they started cuddling during the movie, taking turns on who was the big spoon. Each night after the movie ended they would lie on their sides facing each other and talking about music, movies, their lives, or whatever else was on their minds.

Little by little they would shift closer, until their noses were practically touching as they spoke. More than once their lips would accidentally brush together causing them both to pull back. These moments caused Mitch a fair amount of confusion, as he had never thought about men the way he now found himself thinking about Harry.

It’s a Friday night, and while days of the week really don’t matter to them on this trip, they decide it's a night for the group to let loose. Drinks flow steadily all evening, causing everyone to get quite tipsy. And eventually, quite drunk.

Well past midnight Mitch looks up to see that everyone else has gone to bed except himself and Harry.

“Want another?” Harry asks, holding up a beer.

“Sure, why not?” Mitch replies and Harry passes it to him before opening his own.

They drink in silence for a few minutes before Harry askes, “Want to go sit on the dock?”

Mitch nods and they walk together to the end of the dock and sit side by side, feet dangling off the edge and into the water.

“I have to say, I’m glad the original guitarist flaked,” Harry says.

“Really?”

“Yea. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have joined the team. We wouldn’t have met.”

“Well, I’m really glad he flaked too. This experience has been a dream come true.”

Harry smiles at that before continuing, “I feel like this album would be so different without you. Your contributions are really shaping it.”

“Thanks man,” Mitch says. They lapse back into a comfortable silence. Harry suddenly shifts and rests his head on Mitch’s shoulder. Mitch in turn wraps his arm around Harry’s waist, enjoying this moment of contact. He finds himself wishing for more but refuses to make the first move.

More time passes, thoughts spiraling through Mitch’s brain, and then he feels it. Harry’s lips ghosting over the skin of his neck. Mitch’s breath catches as those light touches turn into firm kisses along the side of his throat. His eyes slip shut, and he gets lost in the feeling. Harry’s lips travel up first to Mitch’s chin, then finally, his mouth.

The kiss starts soft, sweet, tentative. There’s no rush, but also no hesitancy. From the first moment they connect, Mitch matches Harry’s firm presses, letting him know he’s perfectly okay with what’s happening.

Harry’s hands move to cup Mitch’s face and his tongue slides across the other man’s lips, asking for entrance. Mitch immediately parts his lips, gasping at the first swipe of Harry’s tongue across his own, and he reaches out to grip Harry’s hips.

They get lost in one another, time slipping away as they continue to make out, the sounds of the waves in the background. Mitch’s hand starts to slide of its own accord, until it’s dangerously close to Harry’s groin.

Harry pulls away and Mitch starts to apologize for his wandering hand but Harry cuts him off saying, “Movie time?”

Mitch is confused for a moment at the sudden change but nods and follows Harry back inside to his room, hands linked together. The house is mostly dark and silent, indicating that everyone else is already asleep.

Harry picks up the remote to his TV, putting on a random movie that Mitch recognizes as one they watched a few days prior. Both men then sit together on the bed against the headboard, and Mitch isn’t sure what’s going to happen next. He isn’t left wondering for long before Harry turns and reconnects their lips. This time it grows heated very quickly. Mitch again reaches out to Harry, resting his hands on his waist.

“It’s okay,” Harry says.

“What is?”

“You can touch me. Anywhere.”

Mitch nods, eyes meeting Harry’s as he murmurs an okay to show he understands.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asks and Mitch lets out, “Yes, please,” before crashing their mouths together once more. Mitch gets lost in the feeling of Harry’s mouth and tongue sliding against his, and he lets out a broken moan as Harry palms his cock. Even through two layers of clothes the touch feels amazing. Quiet gasps fill the room as Harry continues to press against him.

Finally, Mitch builds up the courage to return the favor and he reaches out to stroke Harry over his shorts. His eyes nearly roll back at the sounds of pleasure he pulls from the other man.

They become frantic for a moment, and soon they find themselves completely bare, all their clothes strewn across the room.

Harry pulls back, pausing them and asking, “How far do you want to go?”

Mitch furrows his eyes, not sure what his answer is for a minute. But then he looks back and Harry and knows exactly what he wants.

“I want to go all the way. I just- I’ve never been with a man before. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“That’s fine, I can teach you.”

Mitch nods and goes quiet again before asking, “Who going to uhm-”

“Top and bottom?” Harry guesses Mitch’s unfinished question. “I mean, whatever you’re comfortable with, but I would really like for you to fuck me if you’re okay with that.”

“Fuck, yes, more than okay,” Mitch answers before connecting their lips once again. He moves them so that Harry is laying on his back, Mitch on top of him.

“You’ll need lube. And a condom. They’re in the bedside table, top drawer.”

Without a word Mitch grabs the necessary items and turns back to Harry, looking for directions on what to do next.

“Are you comfortable prepping me? If not I can do it,” Harry says.

“Just talk me through it, okay? I don’t want to hurt you,” Mitch replies.

“You won’t. I trust you.”

Those words soothe Mitch, and he leans forward to place a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips before pulling back and opening the bottle of lube. He takes his time opening Harry up, listening to the tips the other man gives to make it pleasurable.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Harry says after Mitch gets to the point where he can easily slide three fingers through his opening.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please, Mitch, I’m ready. I need you inside me.”

“Okay. I’ve got you.”

Mitch pulls back to slide the condom on and coat it with a layer of lube. He lines up with Harry’s entrance and starts to push the tip inside.

“Relax for me baby,” he says, and watches as Harry goes fully limp, wanting to just take whatever Mitch plans to give him.

Mitch is gentle, sliding in a little at a time and watching Harry’s face to make sure there are no signs of discomfort. When their hips are finally flush Mitch nearly collapses with how good it feels, how tight Harry is around his throbbing length.

Their eyes meet and Harry starts to swivel his hips, creating pleasure for both of them. Mitch takes a deep breath to keep himself from coming right then and there. After he feels more in control he begins to slowly and gently thrust in and out.

Harry moves to wrap his legs around Mitch’s lower back, and the change in angle allows Mitch to hit his prostate with every thrust. Harry throws his head back in pleasure and Mitch can’t resist leaning down to kiss and bite at the exposed skin.

“Harder, please, more, I need more,” Harry gasps out and Mitch doesn’t hesitate to follow those instructions. He sets a faster pace, motivated by the sounds Harry is making, and by the sounds of their hips slapping together repeatedly.

It doesn’t take long for them to both near their peaks, and Mitch reaches down to stroke Harry’s cock in time with his thrusts. Harry comes first, letting out a long and low moan as his come paints his own chest as well as Mitch’s hand.

He contracts around Mitch as he comes, and this added stimulation has Mitch emptying into the condom a moment later. He collapses on top of Harry as they catch their breath. He slowly slides out and ties the condom, tossing it into the nearby trashcan and uses tissues to clean the cum off of Harry.

They lay side by side exchanging sweet kisses, soaking in the post-orgasmic bliss.

“Stay with me tonight?” Harry asks quietly.

“Of course,” Mitch answers. They maneuver themselves until Mitch is behind Harry. He tucks his face into the other man’s neck and wraps an arm around his waist to hold him close.

Mitch is nearly asleep when he hears Harrys sleepily murmur, “Really glad you’re part of the team.” Mitch smiles at this call back to their earlier conversation and replies, “me too,” before pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s shoulder.

They hold each other close and fall asleep in each other’s arms for the first, and definitely not last, time.

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

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thesunshinecourts · 8 months ago

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countdown to tsc: apr 6., 2024, 07:48 pdt

17. your bed after travelling // jean moreau thinks about belonging

They had an away game against UT Austin, which was more exhausting in flight time than as an actual form of competition.

It’s three hours to Austin from Los Angeles. (“Non-stop flight time is 2 hours, 55 minutes,” Sebastian says, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose because he thinks it makes him look cool. It makes Jean want to spit on him. It makes Jean think about Kevin at age thirteen, when he dubiously tested out reading glasses at the recommendation of one of the doctors at Evermore. That kind of makes Jean want to spit on Sebastian more, but he restrains himself. Kevin Day at the beginning of teenagehood is not a crime that anyone should have to answer for, save the man himself and maybe Riko. He can’t, though. He’s dead.

It still thrills Jean, that thought, explicit and direct and true. It had been a fantasy for years, the kind he could never share, and certainly not with Kevin, who had loved Riko as desperately as he had come to fear him. It had been a wish, once or twice, entrusted only into Renee’s steady hands, the kind phrased not as a request, but as an expression of guilt given to the only person to whom he could lay himself bare. It is a fact, a gun pointed by Neil and a trigger squeezed by Ichirou and a new type of shackle on Jean, still heavy, but lacking teeth.

No, Jeremy Knox’s Sunshine Court has no such skin-torn, blood-soaked, jagged edges, except those which Jean brings with him. It’s almost harder to bear.)

Three hours to Austin from Los Angeles, meaning six hours round trip.

Jean is used to playing for that long on the Ravens’ court: a much more punishing endeavour than any training plan Rhemann and his cohort of coaches at USC could come up with. Playing the game against UT is laughably easy for Jean, at least when it comes to stamina and skill. Patience is a different matter, but while the Trojans are no Ravens, they are an exceptional team. When Jean makes his meagre attempts at forbearance, he thinks to himself that he is lucky to not have been a Fox. He would likely have lost his voice, given the arguing necessary to whip them into a vaguely-tolerable shape.

Kevin had always been better at that. Jean is not a natural teacher. He taught Kevin French out of loneliness, and he taught Neil to survive out of necessity. Kevin would always have been more suited to the walking catastrophe that called itself the PSU Foxes Exy team.

Belonging is always easier, Jean thinks, when one has a foothold. Personality aside—and truly, Jean has never met a person more stubborn than Kevin, which is less a compliment and more an expulsion of grief—Kevin would always have been better-suited to the Foxes than Jean, for Kevin had a man who would never turn him away simply because of who his mother was, even without knowing Kevin was his son.

Jean does not envy Kevin his father. Jean prefers not to think of fathers at all.

So no, the game is not especially taxing. The Trojans have a strong roster, and are less inclined to allow personal pique to have a say in which players get substituted, and when. (This isn’t to say that there is no personal pique to be found amongst the Trojans; whilst Jean’s experiences with them thus far have proven—if exasperatingly—that the Day Spirit Award has been rightfully awarded all these years, he’s also discovered that Alvarez has stroppy tendencies when she’s tired, and Jeremy’s occasional remarks about the Ravens are cavalier not out of ignorance, but a quiet disdain for their conduct.

So it’s not that the Trojans are all foolish Golden Retrievers rolling over to show their bellies to the world; it’s mostly that none of them are Riko, and nor are they Foxes. They can afford to offer grace as they move through the world. Jean is not sure he can.)

The flights are infinitely worse, because without an Exy racquet in his hand and the court beneath his feet, there is no escape from Jean’s own head.

The flight to Austin is better, of the two. It’s still not ideal, but Jeremy and Laila sit Jean firmly between them and essentially force him into conversation. It’s mostly grudging, and almost entirely about the upcoming match—there is not a single player at UT who Jean finds compelling, but one of their assistant coaches is a former player who once suggested something rude about Thea, who responded by checking him so hard when he next had the ball that he sprawled to the ground and slid three metres across the court.

Jean enjoys this story. He thinks Laila and Jeremy did too, from the way Laila’s eyes gleamed and how Jeremy’s voice had a laugh in it when he said, not exactly a strategy in our playbook, but I daresay it would have been satisfying to watch.

The flight back to Los Angeles is worse.

The ache from the game is settling into his body now, muscle and flesh and bone. It’s not enough to draw him out of his own head.

One of UT’s dealers had pitched herself right at him, driving herself into his hip. That level of force wouldn’t usually have knocked him over, but there’s an old ache there from Riko’s fingers and favourite toys. Mostly Jean stays standing, but sometimes he gives in.

When Jean had lived in Abby’s spare bedroom, there had been a revolving cast of visitors, though there was more frequency than variety. Renee had visited most, then Wymack. If Jean counts the times he shut his door and refused to let Kevin into his room and Kevin stayed in the kitchen asking Abby questions in a quiet voice that was never quite quiet enough, then Kevin probably takes third place. Otherwise, Jean thinks it would be Aaron.

This was less about Jean, and more about the lesson he could provide in Abby’s hands. Jean didn’t care. His whole life had been made of debt and pain and prodding. Cool fingers re-dressing his wounds—all steady hands and clinical efficiency and blunt responses—was almost a balm in the face of it.

Besides, there was something comforting in his lack of expectation. Jean has no idea what most people want from a doctor. He’s heard grumblings about bedside manner and seen some memes through the Twitter timeline Xavier and Alvarez inflicted upon him, but he found his greatest relief in the way Aaron inspected all his wounds without flinching.

Sometimes Kevin would come quietly into the room, and Aaron would roll his eyes at him, and then look to Jean, as if waiting. Jean did not mind so much if Kevin came in with someone else, like Renee or Aaron or Thea. (Well, he had minded very much the time he came in with Thea, but that was due more to the lack of warning. Thea herself had been someone Jean found himself missing.) He liked it more when Kevin came in with Aaron, which was less to do with their behaviour—Aaron was more likely to tell Kevin to shut up or fuck off, but Renee’s quiet presence was equally effective at keeping him in check—and more to do with the fact that Jean preferred to speak to Renee alone, because she was the person he could trust most in the world.

Once upon a time, that had been Kevin, but then Kevin left Evermore, and left Jean, and the first time Jean heard from him in months was when a terrified Kevin called him to beg Jean to tell him that the rumours were false, that Edgar Allan was not coming south.

The rumours had been true, and Jean Moreau has never been a liar, not even for Kevin.

Jean thinks about this as he thinks about the thudding ache at his hip, where Aaron’s fingers once re-dressed a wound, where Kevin had placed a cool compress years before, where Jean’s younger sister had once drawn a rose when they were five and seven, because a rose had been the only thing she had known how to draw.

He supposes it still might be. He wouldn’t know.

Jeremy shifts in the seat beside him, and Jean cracks open an eyelid to glare at him. He hadn’t even realised he’d shut his eyes, but no matter. He cracks open an eyelid, glaring, and finds Jeremy making a half-apologetic, half-beleaguered expression back at him. It’s an astounding combination, one he would have considered impossible prior to the Trojans, but sometimes Jean wonders if it’s less that Jeremy is particularly talented at facial expressiveness and more that no Raven ever had cause to teach Jean what apology looked like in the lines of a furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“Sorry,” Jeremy whispers, as if the facial expression wasn’t enough. “Were you napping?”

Jeremy has known Jean for several months now, so Jean feels as if this is a foolish question. He makes a derisive noise. Something flickers in his chest when Jeremy shakes his head, looking rueful and amused and sleepy-soft all at once.

Jean ignores it, obviously.

“Right, right, Mr No Naps,” Jeremy says. Jean has suffered many indignities since his arrival in Los Angeles, but being dubbed something that a six year old child would name an especially belligerent cat is a new low.

“We’re not that far now,” Jeremy says, glancing up at the flight map in interest. Jean looks over. He’s right. Twenty minutes or so. “Which means there’s no point in sleeping…” Jeremy continues, almost cajolingly. That gleam from Laila’s eyes earlier seems to have jumped to Jeremy’s as he looks at Jean.

Jean sighs, surrenders. He seems to be doing this a lot lately. Riko never managed to break down that last final inch, that holdout within Jean that refused to lose his accent or stop speaking French to Kevin or any of the tiny rebellions that Neil dismissed but Jean needed in order to have any pieces of himself left for Renee to save that day.

Riko tore every concession from Jean’s bare throat, but the Trojans seem just as adept as getting what they want out of Jean with teeth bared in smiles instead of snarls.

“You should have knocked over that backliner,” Jean says. “He’s a lunk. He would have taken seconds to get up. You could have scored in that time.”

Jeremy, because he is terrible, laughs. “You have such a way with words, Jean,” he says, but he sounds amused. Almost infectiously so. “I ought to be able to score without knocking anyone down,” Jeremy points out.

“Yes,” Jean agrees immediately, “but until that’s the case, you should drop them.”

There is probably something seriously wrong with Jeremy Knox, Jean thinks, watching him laugh. He seems as delighted as ever by Jean’s honesty. He won’t abide unfair barbed statements to his team, but he always seems game to field Jean’s criticisms himself.

It’s only right, Jean thinks. They’re Kevin’s favourite team, and they took Jean in when the backlash would be far greater than whatever meagre thanks they managed to get out of Kevin. Of course there’s something wrong with them.

They pass the rest of the flight in much the same manner, until the descent swoops a little steeper than expected and Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut and grips one hand over his arm rest and the other over Jean’s forearm. Laila wakes up during this, blinking sleepily at Jeremy, before saying, “Oh, babe, your cuticles look awful,” which makes Jean look incredulously at her and Jeremy laugh.

Sleepy chatter gets them through disembarking the plane, and baggage claim, and onto the bus, winding all the way back to campus, traffic egregious even at this hour. Alvarez tows an exhausted Laila by the elbows with an excruciatingly fond expression, Sebastian almost snaps his sunglasses underfoot when they slip off his nose before Derek says, “Dude,” while Emma throws up an arm to stop him in his tracks, and Jeremy half-stumbles into the door before he gets his key in the lock and opens up their room.

Tomorrow, at some point after breakfast and coffee prepared with entirely too much creamer by an overzealous Cox, Jean will marvel at that thought. At the ease with which it sprung to his mind: their room, meaning Jeremy’s and Jean’s, meaning Jean’s, meaning that which belongs.

In the morning, he will think about what it has meant to be Jean Moreau: his first home lost to him through a transaction, where he was an object and not a person, a thing to barter and not a boy with a bed and a family and his own mind; Evermore, his second place to exist, where his bed was so often a landscape of his own destruction; and that bed that he slept in when staying with Abby, crisp and clean and safe and entirely, undeniably unknown to him.

Kevin asked Jean once, when they were younger, to tell him about his home. Jean had looked at him and asked in the blankest possible tone, what home? A home is a space you’re meant to belong, Jean had meant, and there was no place like that for him. There was Riko and his chains, and everyone told Jean that was his place, but he would never call that home.

In the morning, Jean will think about this, and what it means to have a space that belongs to you – to be a boy who owns something for once, instead of just being owned –

In the morning, Jean will think about this, but for now, he kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and falls onto his bed, a place he trusts enough to sink into a dreamless sleep, long enough to start to soothe his tired bones.

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