#also its family day here in canada so i just wanted to say happy family day bc yall are my family 🫶🏻

[hrina]

hiiiii come talk to me i mith yall

[dreamonseems]

The man I am

Part 1

Joel Miller x Female Reader

Summary: Pre outbreak Joel and Tommy, move to a small town in Canada. After Joel's daughter Sarah dies from a tragic accident. Joel meets the reader and falls in love. She helps him move on from his grief. And he starts a new life with the reader.

Notes

◇ There is an age gap between the reader and Joel, the reader is 19 and Joel is 35.

◇ There will be an outbreak in this story but first I'll start pre-outbreak. Tess will also come in later in the story.

◇ HI, this is my first Joel fanfic. I feel like this will be bad, but I'm going to try to write this anyway. I had a dream about it so I kinda want to make it true lol. I'm also Canadian so that's why they are in Canada lol. But they will make their way back to the USA.

"Sarah, where are you?" I found myself back in my old house.

Sarah was giggling as she hid behind the curtains, and I could hear her tiny breaths as she tried to keep quiet.

"Are you here?" I asked looking behind the couch as I searched the room, pretending not to see her, but I knew exactly where she was hiding. Suddenly, Sarah jumped out from behind the curtains and yelled, "Boo!"

I jumped "Oh my you scared me!" I pretend to look terrified. "I'm sorry daddy!" She giggles. I laughed and scooped her up in my arms, spinning her around in the air. Her laughter filled the air I felt a deep sense of happiness and contentment. I had forgotten what it felt like to be so carefree and happy. I wanted the moment to last forever.

But then, everything starts to take a dark turn. Suddenly, there is blood everywhere I hear the sound of bullets whizzing past my head, and I knew I had to get my daughter to safety. But as I look down Sarah is laying in my arms dead. Her once happy eyes were full of life and were no longer. The emptiness was left in its place. I cry for help but there is no one just her and I.

"Joel."

"Joel?"

"Joel!"

I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding in my chest.

"You ok there? you dozed off, you were mumbling in your sleep." Tommy says as he pulls the truck over.

"I'm... I'm... OK." I say turning my head toward my brother. I start to feel a deep sadness wash over me as I remembered that Sarah was gone.

"Well, we are here brother, ready to start new beginnings," Tommy announced as put pats my arm. "Yeah," I mumble as I look out the window. Wishing I could go back to that moment in my dream where I was playing with Sarah and stay there forever, but I knew that it was just a dream and that I had to face the reality of the world I was living in now.

I had lost everything that mattered to me. My daughter Sarah had been taken from me in a tragic accident, and I had been left with nothing but grief and guilt. I became a mass, a monster. All the darkness was melting off me. I didn't work, I didn't eat, I didn't sleep. All I did was drink, fight, and fuck to get all my aggression out. But one day I woke up and decided I couldn't take it anymore and it would be my last day on this unfair earth. That's what I thought at least but that plan didn't work out so here I am. Still alive in this small town in God knows where Canada.

Tommy met a girl, Maria. He thought it would be a good idea to move to where she was living and he took me with him. He said he had a good feeling that I would find something worth living for again. I can't trust that would happen I'm just buying time for when the time comes for me to try again to be with my daughter once more.

"You are here finally!" A woman's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I see Maria run and jump in Tommy's arms.

"It was a long drive." Tommy laughs as he pulls back from the hug. Maria turns to me and extends her hand out for me to shake. "Joel it's finally nice to meet you in person." I shake her hand. "Likewise."

"Well let me show you guys your new home." She turns and smiles back at Tommy. We walk to this historic-looking building. Maria tells us her family owns the little apartment building it's been in her family for many years. "There are 10 complexes and everyone is very friendly and respectful. It's an amazing space for two people." She shows us around the home.

It was beautiful, with high ceilings and large windows that let in the sunlight. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living just enough space for the two of us. I could see Tommy was also amazed by the architecture and the history of the building.

"This is perfect trust me and Joel have lived in worse places." He says hugging her once more.

"Well, it's good for the time being after you meet my family and the house gets done being built I can steal you away." She kisses him.

And I take that as my cue to leave. "I'm going to take a look around town." I excuse myself to let them have some alone time. There is also a part of me that is stinging seeing them happy. As happy as I am for my brother I can't help but think back to my grief.

I walk out and I spot a dinner down the street I decided I could go for a cup of coffee. As I'm walking towards the dinner I feel myself accidentally bump into someone I quickly reach out to grab the much smaller person in front of me.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry I wasn't paying attention!" A female's voice rings out. "It's fine, are you ok are you hurt?" I ask as our eyes meet. "Not hurt I'm sorry again it was my fault I'm too clumsy." She says. But I could not focus. I feel like all the air left my body the minute I looked into her eyes. I was struck by her beauty and her warm smile.

Part 2

[allylikethecat]

Hi Ally!!! How are you? How’s your day been?

Girl I was STRUGGLING today I think I’ve built a caffeine tolerance because I had two energy drinks and was yawning ALL. DAY. Anyway, I think I’ll take a caffeine break and hopefully my celsius will work its magic again haha

ATKH: the update was wonderful I’m always rooting for Fictional!Matty and George in every fic but this fictional!Matty to not immediately forgive and/or beg for Fictional!George back.. I’m so sad for our sweet Matty because I’m sure he’s trying so so hard to not disappoint everyone and do good at the competition but the fact that he’s SELLING SALLY and MOVING BACK HOME??? I really hope we get to see how this is going down from Mattys pov and I need both George and Mattys reactions povs in the next chapter because GEORGE IS SURPRISING MATTY IN PERSON??? (I hope Matty punches him lol not really but maybe) 😭

MWFD: I’m also so sad for this fictional!Matty too :(. I’m happy he’s decided to work on self healing to be a good parent and I hope he can do it with George in his corner as well. I can’t wait for the other guys in the story to come back hopefully and everyone talks and everyone is happy (if that’s the path this story takes) I just wanna say again that I love this fic sm and I had never read mpreg before because I never thought it would be something I was into. Soooo infinite kudos to you for writing this I’m so glad I found it!!!

Talk shop Tuesday!

What’s does Infection!Verse George and Mattys wedding look like? Do they elope and have it be private and quick? Did they go all out and have a wedding? How would that work w the best man situation? Who asked Ross and who asked Adam to be their bestmans?

Which side of the bed do your George and Matties sleep on?

🥤

AHHH Hello My Dearest Smoothie Anon!! As always it is an absolute joy to hear from you!! I'm sorry to hear that today was a struggle 😭 I think I would actually cry if my Celsius stopped working... with how early I have to wake up to ride Pop before it gets too hot it is sometimes the only thing getting me through the day 😭 I hope tomorrow is better!!

ATKH: Poor Fictional!Matty he really tried his best and just couldn't get a break. He's trying SO HARD at the show, he doesn't want to disappoint anyone but he really is crumbling emotionally and physically. He's hit his breaking point and even though it's absolutely destroying him, horses are expensive and he doesn't know what else to do - Sally deserves more than he can provide at the moment and he needs to go crawl back to his father and regroup LOL sometimes I wonder if I should write a few one shots / a prequel of this universe from Fictional!Matty's POV but I know this fic is super niche so the fact that anyone is reading it in the first place is wild to me (and I feel like I can only have one super niche self indulgent fic at a time and em... I have another one of those in the works...) BUT AH Fictional!George is flying to Canada, we will see how Fictional!Matty feels about his arrival...

Ducklings: AHHH thank you so much for giving this fic a chance, especially if mpreg isn't your usual thing! Hey, Fictional!Matty might be really sad at the moment BUT at this point it can only go up from here right? Everyone knows now... which means Fictional!Matty (and everyone else...) can focus on healing! It's really gotten away form me and has turned into much more of a beast than anticipated and I'm so grateful for everyone that has stuck with it (and me!!) I hope you continue to enjoy how it all unfolds!

Talk Shop Tuesday: They have a small wedding, close friends and family (minus most of Fictional!George's family) only! It was very them. Fictional!Matty was slightly hungover after getting drunk the night before and showing up at Fictional!George's hotel room door sobbing that Fictional!George needs to leave while he still can, before it becomes official. Fictional!George obviously just tucks Fictional!Matty into bed because he's never leaving Fictional!Matty again if he can help it. Fictional!Hann originally stood with Fictional!Matty and Fictional!Ross originally stood with Fictional!George but because this is a fictional wedding and rules don't have to apply they switched halfway through. WOW this is making me really want to write the wedding oneshot...

I feel like I answered this already before a while ago but I can't find it or remember what I said 💀 BUT they don't necessarily have *sides* but rather Fictional!George sleeps closest to the door so that if someone where to break in he would be in the way to protect fictional!Matty. Fictional!Matty doesn't realize THAT'S why fictional!George always insists on sleeping closest to the door... he thought it was so he couldn't sneak out.

Thank you SO MUCH for sending me this ask, and for reading and for the continued support and being so all around wonderful!! I always smile so wide when I see you in my inbox!! I'm so grateful that you take the time out of your day to not only read my fics but to send me these kind of wonderful asks, just thank you SO MUCH. I hope the rest of your week goes better than today did, and that you're able to get some rest!

❤️Ally

[fadeouttowhispers]

hearts will be glowing when loved ones are near

A/N: see the ‘disclaimers’ in the first one. Same thing applies: unbetaed, imperfect, probably not their final-final form. Rewatching the show has meant getting lots of ideas, and I was able to write this one rather quickly. Let's chalk it up to being sick when I wrote it. It's a bit different from the others (and not just because it's over 500), but not less ridiculous. I think it's obvious but this is set between Arctic Radar and Holy Night, in S4. Enjoy ♥️

Christmastime was probably the best time of the year to be at the White House – it was joyful, with its colorful lights and lovely live music, and this year, after an overwhelming victory at the polls, the jubilation in every staffer’s face was palpable. Unfortunately, Katie knew this feeling wouldn’t last for very long... Which is why the words in the email sent by her former mentor sitting in her inbox didn’t really surprise her. In fact, the kept promise made her smile.

“Hey, Mark,” she called for the colleague sitting behind her, poking him on the shoulder playfully. When the redhead turned around, he followed her finger to the screen. Katie’s eyes begged him to keep it quiet as she whispered, “Danny’s coming back soon.”

“For good?” Mark sounded as surprised as she has been, but the email answered it all. “Oh, okay, just for a couple of days. So… For now.”

As the email read, the erstwhile senior correspondent was coming back for the holidays, making a brief pit stop in DC to say hello to his friends, and to make sure his apartment was still standing, before flying out to his family’s home in Michigan for the remainder of the holidays. But first, he was heading to Bermuda for a short vacation. “No doubt to drink some rum,” Katie quipped. “He could’ve left that part out, so we didn’t have to feel jealous.”

“Maybe he wants to get lost there, after spending so much time traveling around the other side of the Atlantic,” Mark joked back. “Maybe this is the proof of life we need in case he’s not back here on December twenty… something.”

“There’s also this…”

Katie realized she needed a bit more cloak and dagger, as C.J. had entered the room to get Steve about a quote from earlier, and they were now standing by the doorway. Her mouse highlighted a passage – the one with the special request.

I’m pretty sure my press credentials are still valid, but I’ll ask around to make sure. I say this because I’d love to drop by as a surprise just before everyone leaves for the break. Is there any way you could keep my return quiet? I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I’d love to see everyone again.

“Can we do this?”

Mark considered for a second, pondering the possibilities. Keeping it quiet should be relatively easy, especially if only the two of them knew about it. “You know what? He would make a pretty fun Press Santa.”

“You just want to get out of it,” Katie pointed out, biting back a smile. “You know C.J. will make a crack about Canada not having the same simple traditions as the US. Again.”

"Or how redheads are interchangeable," Mark smiled affably. “Think about it. Unless somebody else finds out and tattles, C.J. would have no idea who’s under the costume. He’s already cleared, so there shouldn’t be a problem there. And… You know she’s the person he wants to see the most.”

“She would be thrilled, too. So excited, actually. They’ve always had this…”

“Indescribable thing?” he completed.

“Yeah. She was happy to see Sawyer on his pit stop after Myanmar, but this…” Katie just raised her eyebrows, wordlessly conveying what she couldn’t say out loud. “It’ll be better.”

Mark nodded in agreement, looking discreetly at the Press Secretary. “I heard the other day that she brought our wayward friend up to Mitch… So I think his return would be a good present on its own.”

“You’re not wrong,” Katie said diplomatically, as she watched C.J. leave the Press Room. She had a front-row seat to their dynamic for months and knew better than to bet against Danny. “Let me find out about his travel plans, make sure he’ll be here that day. I’m sure he’ll be game with whatever we throw at him. We can discuss specifics as we get closer, but I think the Santa idea might do. We’ll get some laughs out of this Christmas miracle.”

[tenacious-minds]

Are you named after anyone?

No, not that I’m aware of, although I was supposed to be named Parker after Parker Posie and I’m still bitter about it.

When was the last time you cried?

Like fully sobbed, over Christmas. We had no eggs, I had a meltdown about it because I was halfway through making hash brown scrambler before I realized.

Like, kinda got teary/wanted to cry maybe a week or so ago?

Do you have kids?

No, I used to want at least three, but I’ve revised that recently and now I’m not sure. If I was ever going to I wouldn’t want to do it in a nuclear family unit though.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

I think? Three yes ago I would have said absolutely, but it’s come to my attention that I don’t actually pick up on sarcasm as well as I thought I did, and I’ve begun to question my entire existence.

What sports have you played?

I was a rhythmic gymnast for over a decade, if you want to call that a sport, and I did dance. Now my body hates me and in good days I can do a bit of stretching and my PT, anything else floors me. I definitely miss it.

First thing you notice about people?

I have to assume you mean physical appearance here, so, nose, hair, eyes. In that order. I’m not sure how to rank anything else.

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

Scary movies I think. Our family bonding is usually horror, especially in marathon form in October. Anyone who knows me could probably tell you how much I love angst too.

8. Any special talents?

I too am a speed reader. But I also have non-functional collagen which makes for fun party tricks, or maybe finding things, which is a fun little family quirk we all have. We like to say its the fairies. 

9. Where were you born?

Canada, specifically in the prairies . 

10. What are your hobbies?

Reading. You could say writing and art, but I write for money, not just fun, and I also have a whole as degree in art. Calling it a hobby physically kicks me in the bank account. I don’t really do much else tbh.

11. Do you have any pets?

Benny, my beloved 90lbs boy, and Nyx, who has 27 toes. Please inquire, I would love to share pictures of the beans. 

12. How tall are you?

168 cm. Exactly.

Had that put on my licence as a teenager as a guess, and had a growth spurt at 22 that made it true. 

13. Fave subject in school?

... English I guess? Art? The real answer is university (which was art (photography) and is now linguistics (of the neuropsych variety)).

14. Dream job?

Author. Wanted that since I was just a lil bean, and while I think it’s likely to come true (or is true? I have a short story out and I’m working on a novel), it probably won’t ever be full time. I would love to do research and teach university classes in Linguistics as well. 

15. Eye colour?

Hazel, so, really, depends on the day. Sometimes brown/gold, sometimes green.

tags:... I remain hating to tag people, so, once again here’s your sign. If we’re friends, do the thing!

15 questions for 15 mutuals

❤️ Thanks for the tag, @descendantdragfi, @obscurus-noctem and @fluttereyes  ❤️

1. Are you named after anyone? Not directly, but my mother chosed a name of  a british singer she liked when she was living in UK, years before my birth. The singer was already completely forgotten when I was born though. :p

2. When was the last time you cried? Full tears, I don’t remember, but last week, I had really teary eyes reading a journalist I was follwing on Twitter was dead.

3. Do you have kids? No.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? To me, to life, quite often, though I’m probably more ironic than sarcastic, but  not to others, it can be hurting. Yep, I’m a soft heart. :p

5. What sports do you play/have you played? Gosh, none, I’ve always hated sport (and it’s mutual). I walk and do yoga alone, but I don’t consider that as sports.

6. What’s the first thing you notice about other people? Actually it depends on who are these people, where we are, and why I meet them!

7. Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings can quickly run on my nerves, so scary movies (but they can run on my nerves too! :D)

8. Any special talents? Nope, absolutley none. I can’t even move my eyebrows in a funny way or whatever useless talent, so let’s not talk about outstanding ones!

9. Where were you born? Paris, France.

10. What are your hobbies? Huuuuh, would you believe it if I’d say Sims and CC making? :D Also baking and gardening (though that last one is more something I do because I want to eat healthy vegetables, not because I have a passion for gardening). And reading!

11. Do you have any pets? No

12. How tall are you? 1,78 m

13. Fave subject in school? It used to be literature but it would be history nowadays.

14. Dream job? Not needing to work would be my dream life. Then, a dream job? :/ 15. Eye colour? Blue.

Tagging (I tried to pick people who haven’t replied already, sorry if you did in the meanwhile! ;D Also, feel free to ignore, as usual!): @tragicpixel, @treason-and-plot, @tsims, @camisulsul, @nessysims, @grandelama, @eisfee, @pixelbots, @lilidebergerac, @simlicious, @laurademelza, @simsaralove, @kimmiessimmies, @pancakebobs, @theplumdot

[onewithnomightypowers]

Old Habits

pairing: Tom Holland x fem!reader

summary: Old habits come back when you meet an ex lover after a long time. Conversations feel like you never stopped talking to them. Sometimes you have to see them one last time to say goodbye like you mean it but most of the time it doesn’t go as planned.

warning: drinking

words: 2.1k

a/n: could be read as part 2 of last kiss but is a stand alone. got a bit poetic at the end. hope you guys like it. and as always, love reading your opinions/reactions. also asks are open. (gif not mine)

masterlist 

'@tomholland2013 posted a story'

'@tomholland2013 posted a story'

 She picked up her phone to open Instagram. Yes, Y/N still had notifications on for his account even after they were broken up for months. Classic Tom. 

 He posted two of the same picture on his story. No one understood how that would happen almost every time, not even the people working at Instagram to whom they contacted about the glitch.

 Tom had his hair slicked back, standing in a white t-shirt next to Harry, his brother, giving a million-dollar smile. They were holding a clapperboard together. There was text on the picture too, 'day 1 let's go!!' She smiled to herself. Just because they weren't together doesn't mean that she wasn't allowed to feel happy for his achievements. Even though she wishes to know all these big things from Tom himself she is, unfortunately, left here, watching a small part of his life flash in front of her for less than thirty seconds.

 "Are you listening?" Hope, Y/N's date said.

 "Yeah, I'm sorry. You were saying?" Y/N placed the phone back where it was resting, next to the cold wine bottle.

 "You seem distant," they said.

 When she 'met' Hope (she only really met them 30 minutes ago), Y/N wasn't looking for love, just sex, and that is what online dating specializes in. She hoped Hope knew what they were signing up for, sexual intimacy and nothing else.

 "It doesn't matter does, does it? We both know what we are here for. Why not just cut the chase," Y/N replied.

--

It was early in the morning, the sun had yet to shine in its full glory. Y/N could only think of the first time she stayed over at Tom's old apartment but then she turned her head only to find Hope's naked body next to her. Her heartbeat accelerated with the realization that he was not hers anymore. Being in a foreign environment didn't help her growing anxiety, twisting and turning her intestines.

 It's been four months, her feelings for Tom refuse to quit on her because she knows she could never quit on them, on him, even if he has. He probably has already found someone else in Canada, she thought. She didn't want him anymore but she still needed him, one last time just to teach her stupid heart how to say goodbye.

 Y/N wore her clothes and picked up her shoes, going on a trail to find Hope's door to get out before they wake up. Climbing down the stairs, she took out her phone from the back pocket of her jeans.

 '5 new messages from Sam' 7 hours ago

Sam: hey

Sam: ik it's late

Sam: I am going for a run tmr morning @6

Sam: do you wanna come?

Sam: will go to the new coffee house near my house after that

 Y/N texted him back

Y/N: I'll meet you at the coffee place

Sam: come fast. already here

--

Sam and Y/N were standing in the queue to place their orders. “You look especially shitty today,” Sam said, running his right hand through his sweaty hair.

“I haven’t been home yet,” Y/N reasoned her appearance.

 His mouth formed an ‘o’ shape. The person in front of them left the queue, they moved towards the counter. “One hazelnut latte, double shot with skimmed milk,” Y/N gave her order.

 “And you?” the cashier’s question directed to Sam.

 “I’ll have a matcha latte with oat milk”

 Sam turned to Y/N, “Harrison got me on matcha, and now I can’t go back to coffee”

 They paid their dues and moved over to the barista counter to collect their order.

 “So, what were you doing last night?” Sam inquired.

 “I was on a date, it isn't a big deal though. Just had some needs to take care of”

 “Oh, was it any good?”

 “It was fine. I was distracted the whole time. Saw Tom’s story about halfway into the bottle of merlot. Couldn’t stop thinking about him”

 “Seems…sad. But you know Tom is coming back for the Christmas weekend, I think. He might attend Harrison’s Christmas eve party”

 “One hazelnut latte and one matcha latte,” someone behind the counter screamed.

 “That’s us,” Sam raised his voice.

--

Harrison had a bucket inside his house, under a sign that said 'drop your tracking devices here' with an arrow pointing to the bucket. Y/N dropped her phone on a pile of roughly fourteen others. Debating whether to see Tom's face was something she wanted or not made her late and not very fashionably.

 The house was decorated with empty liquor bottles along with red and green streamers from one wall to another. Everyone was drunk in their best dress. There were no signs of Tom yet. Y/N took a deep breath, walking towards the kitchen to get herself some liquid courage to help her socialize.

 The kitchen was rather scarcely populated. Empty glasses were lined up next to the sink. Are they clean or used? Bending down, Y/N opened the refrigerator to see if Harrison had any chilled wine. No luck. "Hey," a familiar voice was heard.

 She looked up at the familiar stranger.

 "Hey Tom," she smiled. The refrigerator light falling on Y/N made her blush visible.

She grabbed a half-cut lemon placed in the egg tray.

 “How have you been?" Tom asked leaning back on the kitchen counter, observing her movements.

 Y/N walked towards the sink to grab herself a crystal glass hoping for it to be clean. "Just busy with work these days"

 "I heard you got a job at Condé Nast, is that true?" he took a sip from his beer.

 "Well, you heard right. You are looking at their new senior brand manager for digital", she said proudly.

 Tom hugged her from the side she was holding a knife to cut the lemon for her gin and tonic. "That's great darling! You always wanted to work there"

 Darling. The butterflies in her stomach were fluttering like the first time she met Tom.

 "I saw your story the other day. You started filming your script, right?" she dropped the lemon in the glass.  

 "Yup, it was a long time coming," he grabbed the knife she was using and washed it without even knowing. He was so used to Y/N never washing utensils after using them and, he would always have to clean up after her.

 "Congrats on that babe!" The word 'babe' just slipped out of practice.

 Y/N grabbed a Bombay Sapphire standing still on the marble slab. The blue of the bottle shinning even in the dim-lit room.

 "I missed you," Y/N made eye contact, screwing the cap back on. A long, silent pause.

 I miss you too, so very much

 She cleared her throat, "so, how long are you staying?"

 "Going back Monday morning"

 She opened a can of tonic water.

 "Are you seeing someone?" Tom asked.

 "Wouldn't you wanna know" a smirk on her face grew. "I've been out on few dates, nothing serious. What about you?"

 "Met this girl online, dated for a bit but, she wanted something I couldn't give to her"

 Y/N scoffed, "did she have a foot fetish or something?"

 "No, Y/N. She wanted love, not my feet" they both laughed.

 "On that topic..." Tom calmed himself, "...I was listening to this song a few weeks ago and, there was this line, 'the smell of your hair reminds me of her feet' and it made me think of you"

 "I reckon," she took a sip of her gin and tonic.

 "No, seriously, I really related to that line. No matter how many people I hook up with, it will be hard to find the type of intimacy I shared with you. I still relate to it"

 "I hate going on walks alone and having faceless dreams," Y/N blurted, lacking a proper reaction.

 "You're still the face of all my fantasies," Tom confessed.

 None of them knew what to say next. Anything they thought of saying now included walking over the blurry line of exes to lovers.

 "You look pretty"

 "Classic me, had a glow up after getting my heartbroken"

 "You always looked this pretty. You are beautiful," Tom assured her. The 'heartbroken part did not sit well with him. He already felt guilty for taking a job across the pond which was a great opportunity for him to grow but was only possible by severing his ties with Y/N.  

 --

It had just started snowing on Boxing Day. Tom was alone in his cold home, boiling a pot of ramen noodles. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of the burning stove with the pot on top.

Tom: *attached photo*

Tom: I come back after months and my family leaves me alone with no food

Y/N: you should add a poached egg

Tom: Thanks. I shall.

Tom: I think I made too much ramen for me

Tom: do you wanna come over and share?

 Her indecision was visible by the coming and going of the gray dots. Then finally, Tom could tame his anxiety by her simple reply.

 Y/N: sure.

--

There was a loud knock on the door. Tom put two bowls of hot ramen on the dining table and went to open the door. Behind the door, Y/N was standing with her hands inside her brown checker coat. There was dust of snow sitting on her shoulders. Her braided hair was made by the most anxious hands in town.

 The door opened and, Tom’s hands flew to take Y/N in his arms. They hugged like little kids hug their parents after being away from each other, for them, an eternity. It did feel like an eternity to them too but, they hadn’t forgotten each other’s touch.

 “I parked my car at the church, couldn’t find any spot here ‘cause of the snow," she pulled out.

 “The snow seems to be gaining momentum.”

 Y/N hummed in agreement. She took off her coat and hung it in the Holland’s coat closet.

 “Come on, the ramen is getting cold,” she followed tom into the kitchen.

 They sat adjacent on the wooden table in comfortable silence. Tom used chopsticks and, Y/N used a fork. Only the occasional noodles falling in the broth were heard, along with the gushing of wind.

 “It’s really spicy for me,” Tom said.

 “Yeah, I can see your ears turning red.”

She still remembers 

 Y/N raised her hand to cover her mouth while yawning.

 “Since you made the food, I’ll do the dishes,” she got up, grabbed their bowls, and walked over to the sink.

 Wearing the gloves, she turned to Tom, “it was quite tasty”.

 Tom gave her a smile.

 She spread the soap on the dishes and turned the tap on. Tom pushed his chair back to get up.

 “Have you made any friends at your new job,” he jumped and sat on the counter next to Y/N.

 “Yeah, sort of. Kyara works there too so, I have just made her friends my friends,” she washed his chopsticks.

 “That’s good. Have you talked to Emily after the wedding? She told me they are planning on adopting.”

 “They invited me over for dinner when they got the approval from the agency. Kyara made this amazing Hyderabadi biryani, it was her mum’s recipe so, it was obviously better than the restaurant”

 “God! You and your love for Indian food”

 Y/N removed her gloves, “I should go. Thanks for the ramen, by the way”

 “Are you sure you can go out in this weather?”

 “Yeah I think," she started walking out of the kitchen.

 Tom grabbed her hand. “Stay”, his voice was like cotton.

 Y/N turned and made contact with his pleading eyes. She moved closer to him. “Please”, he said. They both were inching in to lock their desperate lips.

--

Y/N did not notice when she had fallen asleep talking to Tom. Their naked bodies were covered by the white comforter. Her eyes slowly opened to a boy with brown eyes and messy hair looking at her.

 “I like it when you sleep. I love watching you sleep”

 She chuckled. “That’s a bit creepy, don’t you think?” She had a sleepy voice.

 “You look so serene, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I could stare at you for eons”

 “But love, I'm only here till the snow settles,” she caressed his cheeks.

“Then the cold shall frost our limbs," he leaned in to kiss her.

tags: @elios-timotea​

[princessphilly]

All Bets Are Off Chapter 12

Word Count: 

Tag list:  @ohpuckyeah, @joelsfarabee, @besthockeyfics. @dreamer1430 @defiant-mouse​ @miracleonice87 @lovethepreds @linkingdolans @chicagostylehockey @heatherlcrosby87 @hockeywocs @shortstacks-blog @heatherawoowoo @newlibrary @markymarkstrom @iangiemae @puckbitchesgetmoney @missymore @himbos-on-ice @fiveholegoal @no-pucks-given @pagirl6866 @willieshakesqueer @nazdaddy @whatishockey @alphalib22 @romanseggy @laurenairay @konecny-s @cutiesara23 @myhockeyworld87 @extratragic @squidlywiddly87​ @stuff4me2do @allinangel93 @mydarkestsecretlol @t0xickisses2​

Join the tag list here!

CW: smut, filthy talk

This is a bit of a filler chapter, sorry. 

“Are you going to miss me?”

Nina didn’t even look up from her iPad. It was so annoying yet adorable at the same time, how Sidney was desperately trying to get her to tell him how much she was going to miss him. 

“Um, I think you’re going to miss me more than I’ll miss you,” Nina finally replied. She grinned as Sidney huffed. 

The first month of the new year had passed by pretty quickly to Nina. After being together for New Year’s Eve, Nina and Sid separated as the Pens had to finish off their road trip. Nina stayed in Miami for Jason’s game before taking an extra week just for herself. It was nice to have a bit of a vacation, especially when Lauren flew down. Nina basically enjoyed being on the beach, hanging out with a close friend, and shopping. 

The morning of New Year’s Day, after having their first breakfast together of the new year, Sid had given Nina a card. Nina was shocked to see a credit card with her name on it and she had tried to give it back but Sid had insisted. “You don’t treat yourself enough, pretty girl,” he had firmly stated. So Nina took advantage of it to treat herself a bit. 

By the time she came back to Pittsburgh, Sidney’s road trip was over but Nina’s semester had started. They had a couple of weeks where they spent time together as much as possible before the Pens had another short road trip. Now, Sidney was on his way to the Olympics in Beijing for their longest separation so far.

Sidney finally had his bag packed the way that he liked it. Glancing at Nina laying on their, um, his bed, he drawled, “Are you sure you aren’t going to miss me?”

Nina looked up and giggled. “You hog the sheets, Sidney. And you’re like a furnace when you sleep.”

Sidney walked over to the bed, crouching over Nina. “Hurting my feelings right before I have to take a long flight. Tsk tsk.”

“Your flight leaves tomorrow. You’re just making sure you are totally prepared tonight. Stop being so dramatic, Sidney Crosby.”

Sidney smirked as he brushed a hand down Nina’s front. She was clothed, wearing one of his t-shirts. “Still, Nina. 

“Still, Sidney.”

Nina stuck out her tongue at Sidney as he giggle-honked. Sidney brushed an errant strand of hair off of Nina’s forehead as he whispered, “I wish you were coming.”

“It was too short of a notice to take almost three weeks off, Sid,” Nina murmured. “Plus, hasn’t it always just been your family attending the Olympics?”

“Yes?”

Nina smiled. “Then, I would be breaking your tradition and your superstitions-”

Sidney opened his mouth to disagree but Nina put a finger over it. “Don’t even start, we both know how important ALL of your superstitions are. Even if you wouldn’t say it, if you lose without a gold medal and I'm there, part of you would be wondering. So quit the bullshit, Sidney.”

Sidney gave Nina a chagrined smile as she laughed at him. She was right, as always.

“Sid, it’ll be fine. You’re lucky I’m a morning person, you can call me crazy early here and I’ll pick up,” Nina reasoned. 

Sidney pouted a bit. “I finally got you to actually date me, I don’t want to be separated from you for that long.”

“How cute, Mr. Obsessed-with-Hockey has become soft in his old age.”

Nina squealed when Sidney tickled her, squirming. “Okay, okay, you’re allowed to become soft!”

Sidney gave Nina a soft smile and she gulped. Something shifted in that look and Nina felt like there was something new. 

Sidney bit his lip as Nina nervously laughed. In that moment, the pure joy on Nina’s face as she squealed while he tickled her, Sidney was sure that he loved her. He loved Nina. But this was the wrong time to admit that. So he chuckled and said, “If I’m soft, it’s only because of you.”

Nina stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

Sidney chose not to respond to that statement, instead choosing to slide his lips over hers. Soft and sweet, exploratory as they kissed, not their usual hungry kisses. Then Nina wrapped a leg around Sidney’s waist and the mood changed. 

Nina ended the kiss first, whispering, “I can feel that someone is going to really miss me.”

“Going to miss you so much,” Sidney replied, grinding his hips into Nina’s core. “Let me show you.”

Nina gasped as Sidney sucked along her neck, just light enough not to leave any marks. “Gonna give you something to remember while I’m gone,” Sidney promised as his hands went under her shirt before pulling it off. 

Nina grinned before moaning as Sidney began to do exactly what he promised to do.

**

Sidney sighed as he sent the text. Everything was going great, even after a couple of hiccups in their first group stage games. This year, it was obvious to Sidney that this was going to be the last Olympics for him. Except for him, Tazer, Bergy, Tanger, Webs, Price, and Giroux, all of the other players on the team were under 30. Sidney saw his job as captain this year to not just get one more gold, but get the younger guys ready to take over. 

Right now, they were getting ready to play against Germany, their first game after the group stage, the real games. It was before pregame; the players whose families had come to Beijing were giving well-wishes. At this moment, Sidney wished Nina was here with him instead of home in Pittsburgh.

His phone pinged and Sidney relaxed when he saw the message: its midnight here. Good luck. Im g2g2 sleep. Bye

That message was quickly followed by another one: why the hell did they schedule yall for so fucking late? figured canada would be primetime here

Sidney laughed when he saw Nina’s message. Giroux looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Must be the elusive girlfriend.”

Giroux’s wife elbowed him, causing him to say ow. Sidney snickered; they may be teammates for Team Canada but their truce was still a fragile truce. Ryanne Giroux said, “I heard Nina’s very sweet and kind.”

“Oh?”

Sidney was suddenly very curious. Blithely, Ryanne replied, “You know as well as I do it’s a small league. People only have the kindest things to say about her.”

Relaxing a bit, Sidney grinned. “Nina’s pretty fucking amazing. I’m lucky she likes me.”

“Oh God, he’s talking about Nina again.”

Sidney’s grin turned into a smile as Tanger clasped him on the back. Tanger continued, “It took five years-”

“Five years,” Giroux asked as Sidney groaned. “Stop giving him chirp material.”

Ryanne snickered as Sidney’s phone pinged again; kris says ur bragging about me again?

“Really, Tanger, really?”

Kris laughed as Sidney narrowed his eyes. “Calm down, Sid.” 

Before Sidney could reply, Nina sent him another text: score a hat trick

Sidney gave his phone a soft smile. It was time to get focused for the game, so Sidney put his phone away as soon as he went back into the locker room.

**

Nina cracked an eye open. The time difference was a motherfucker; it was 5:45 am but 5:45pm. Yawning, Nina sat up in her bed as she accepted the call from Sid. 

“Nina, really?”

“Good morning to you,” Nina yawned. 

Sid slightly frowned. Nina was wearing a team USA t-shirt. Her shorts were blue. Even her sleep bonnet was blue. 

“I’m not Canadian, Sid.”

“Stilll-“

Nina smirked as she shook her head. “No, I’m not rooting for you. Score as many goals as you want, I’m Team USA.”

Sidney scowled as Nina laughed. “It’s not even like the US made the gold medal game!”

Nina was disappointed in Team USA. She was hoping they would make it to the gold medal game but they were going to go against Finland for Bronze. Tomorrow, at 8am Beijing Time, 8pm EST, Canada was going against Sweden for gold. 

“Still, you should be rooting for me.”

“I am,” Nina reasoned. “I want you to score all the goals. But, I just cannot root for Canada, yet.”

“Yet.”

Nina looked up to the ceiling before yawning again. Sidney was in a snit. She felt a tiny bit bad for Sweden because they were going to get it. But that wasn’t her problem. “Seriously, good luck, Sidney.”

“Thank you, Nina.”

Nina blew Sidney a kiss and he pretended to catch it. Then he licked his lips. “How many days did you take off when I get back?”

“Three, Sidney. Just three.”

Nina couldn’t help the rush of heat in her center when Sidney drawled, “I don’t plan to let you out of my house then.”

“Win the damn gold then,” Nina snapped. 

Sidney chuckled, saying, “You’re ready to go back to sleep then. Sweet dreams, Nina.”

“Bye, Sid.”

**

Nina looked down at her phone. There were three messages, long messages, all from Sid. She took in a deep, fortifying breath. Canada had one gold and Sidney had two goals. From the highlights, it seemed like Sidney was on a mission the whole game. Sighing, Nina pressed play on the first one. It was just a noisy celebration, nothing big until Sidney started talking. His talking was garbled at first and Nina laughed when she realized that he was drunk off his ass when he called her. 

The second voicemail started just as garbled, then Nina heard Sidney clearly say, “I’m so happy we won, I still wish you were here, you’re my new lucky charm, pretty girl. Fuck, I love you so much, pretty girl, you make everything better now that you’re mine.”

The next one was just sappy as the second, but Sidney was definitely somewhere quieter with this one. But he was also just as drunk, as he ended by saying, “I wanna fuck you when I get back, with you wearing my gold, pretty girl. This gold is almost as pretty as you.”

Nina ruefully laughed, already expecting apologetic texts from Sidney when he was sober. But for the rest of the day, the thought lingered in her mind, the idea that Sidney loved her. However, her patients kept Nina busy and she didn’t get a moment to really ruminate on that. Then, Nina went over to Karesha’s house to babysit her play nephew, AJ, as Karesha went out with her boyfriend. 

Within an hour of leaving, Karesha came back in, heated as she slammed the door. AJ commented, “He must have made Mom mad again.”

“AJ, please go upstairs and play with your Legos, Mommy needs to talk to Aunt Nina,” Karesha asked, trying hard to control her voice. 

AJ quickly ran up the stairs, loudly closing the door to his room. Karesha flopped on the couch, kicking off her expensive heels. “Fuck men.”

Nina got up and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. Pour shots, she passed one to Karesha before sitting back down next to her friend. Karesha gratefully smiled before downing the shot. 

“I’m tired of this shit. I told him it was over through text. How dare he say he’s coming up to Pittsburgh before spring training and then text me after I get to the restaurant to say he’s not coming after all. I’m done. I can’t.”

Nina murmured sympathetically, “Fuck him.”

“I’m so glad I never brought him around AJ though,” Karesha stated. “He had the nerve to say I spent too much time with my kid when I told him it was over.”

Nina’s eyes widened at that statement. “What are you supposed to do? Parent him less?”

Thoughts about Sidney were forgotten as Nina consoled her friend. Deciding to sleep over, Nina woke up early in the morning on the couch, several texts from Sidney waiting for her. Nina quickly scanned over them, starting with a text telling Nina his flight was about to come in to the last one asking if everything was okay. Nina sent him a message: friend had a crisis, be over around 10

It was early, around 7am so Nina didn’t expect to get a response. But Sidney replied: everything ok?

As ok as it’s gonna be, don’t worry, Nina sent back before straightening up Karesha’s living room. She then slipped out, locking the door from the inside. 

**

“Gonna get you full with my cum, pretty girl. Fuck, look at you, your pussy already trying to milk my cum.”

Nina groaned as she watched Sid fuck her, claiming her. Her legs were over his shoulders, allowing Sidney to fuck her deep. “You missed me, pretty girl?”

“Uh huh,” Nina managed to say. He was fucking her so good, each stroke hitting her g-spot. It was like Sidney returned as a man on a mission. 

“I missed you. Dreamed of you every night, Nina,” Sidney rasped. 

“Mmmm.”

Nina no longer had words, she could feel her high coming. Then she felt Sidney’s fingers, just two fingers on her clit and it was enough to send her over the edge. Nina screamed, her nails digging into Sidney’s back. That was enough to get Sidney to reach his high as well, his grunts wordless as he came. 

Nina sighed as Sidney withdrew, already sad at feeling empty. Sidney sat back on his haunches, watching as his cum started to leak out of Nina’s pussy. “I’ll never get enough of seeing that,” he remarked as he played with Nina’s clit. “Just for me, pretty girl.”

Moaning, Nina closed her eyes. She was sensitive but she felt herself respond to Sidney’s fingers. Then his fingers were replaced with his tongue, his fingers fucking his cum deeper inside of her pussy and the time for rational thought was gone. 

**

Six weeks later

Nina sighed as she rifled through her bag for the keys to her apartment. Today was her thirty-first birthday and for some reason, she felt weird. ‘Maybe it’s because I’m now on the other side of thirty,’ Nina thought to herself. 

The morning began with happy birthday texts from friends, birthday calls from Mom and Dad, and a facetime call with Jason. Sidney had sent her a funny meme birthday text but nothing else. Nina knew she shouldn’t feel too bad; the Pens were trying to solidify their playoff spot in the division and her birthday, April 5, fell right at the end of the season. As she opened the door, Nina hoped that Sid would at least do something once the playoffs were over. At the same time, it felt weird that she wasn’t going out with her parents either.

Just her luck that for the first time she was in a relationship around her birthday, her boyfriend had reasons not to take her out. Nina sniffled as she turned on the light.

“SURPRISE!!”

Nina gasped as Sidney, Kris, Geno, Anna, Catherine, Taylor, Alex, Victoria, Mario, Nathalie, Guentzy, Tristan, Hannah, Karesha, AJ, Lauren, her mom and dad, and Aryanna jumped out. Eyes wide, Nina burst into tears. 

“Oh no, what’s wrong pretty girl,” Sidney replied, folding Nina into his arms. 

Nina sniffled as she cried, “I thought everyone forgot my birthday!”

“I told you she wasn’t going to take it well,” Karesha muttered as Lauren kicked her. “Girl, be happy he did this all for you when he could be extra obsessive about the playoffs.”

Nina cut her eyes at Karesha before getting on her tiptoes to press a kiss to Sid’s cheek. “Thank you, Sid.”

**

The pictures of that night were put into a small scrapbook. Nina didn’t understand Sidney’s love for documenting memories in such a dramatic way but it was nice to look back at the memories in book form instead of having to scroll through her phone. Playoffs were now starting though so Nina was sure that would be the last carefree time until the playoffs were over, this time hopefully with another cup.

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent​ for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts. 

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say. 

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall. 

your nails tap against the counter. 

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts. 

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you. 

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested. 

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.   

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish​ @bluewillowmom​ @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof​ @six-bloodyminutes​

[praphit]

Shang-Chi! and the Rings of Daddy Murder Death!

When the trailer for this movie first came out, I was hyped! From the cast, to the bad ass bus scene, to Wong vs The Abomination,

 I was sold! 

Of course you had the people who came out saying "This is Marvel trying to be woke again. Hate crimes against Asian people on the rise, and here comes Marvel with Shang-Chi" We know this to be crazy, because Marvel already had this in the works, but certain people still reacted that way. But, even if that notion were true, would that be so bad?

It wouldn't absolve the ignorance, hatred, violence, and toxicity. But, if someone in Hollywood said "We've screwed over Asian people in films for like... ever. What if this time we choose a popular Asian character to base a movie on, and we DON'T do that?"

Now, (being that this movie supposedly leans on Chinese culture, with Shang-Chi being Chinese) China might argue that they still did them wrong (valid racist historical ptsd, cultural splicing, the whole martial arts thing, plus the main character is actually Canadian). It's not my place to weigh-in. But, I will say that making Shang-Chi Canadian, NOT a martial artist, but instead a hockey player, who loves Drake, and co-starring another Canadian, like Micheal Cera or someone 

probably wouldn't have worked as well for the MCU. Then, maybe Canada would have a problem with Marvel. I don’t envy movie-makers in this context. 

When I was a kid I was big into Black Belt Theater, Bruce Lee movies, 

Bruce Leroy, 

and within my love for martial arts and fighting entertainment was 

Shang-Frickin-Chi. 

I liked it, though I remember it being a lil racist. It's weird going back in time to see your fav childhood shows and books that wouldn't fly today:

I mean we've certainly been a lot more sensitive these days:

Regardless, Shang-Chi is here! (played by Canada's main man Simu Liu) He goes by the name of Shaun! 

Don't let that name fool you. Shaun will whup that ass! He says "Bleep all those super powers, and serums, a suits, and magic, and the rubber bones of Widow! That's some ol bullshit! All I need is my Wu-Tang style!" A style fueled by his daddy issues. And he's got some serious daddy issues. To be fair, his dad is the villain of the story. If your father was the active villain of your story, you'd also have issues.

Awkwafina is his sidekick

(much better than Michael Cera would be), she plays as Katy. That's fun. Every Katy I've ever known has been fun... and a heavy drinker:) This Katy is here to drive fast and crack jokes.

Ladies and Gentlemen, your new Marvel duo!

It's not just daddy issues for Shang-Chi, but mommy issues (she dead), avoidance issues, his sister kicks him in the balls. He didn't even seem shocked. I mean, his balls were shocked, for sure, but it seemed like she just did that all of the time. I'm imagining Christmas when they were kids. "Here's your gift, bro. KNEE TO THE NUTS Merry Christmas" What kind of relationship is that? And why?! - well, he did abandon her for like 10 years, but... you know, that's plenty of time for her to get over it, right?? So, we'll say sister issues, his daddy training him to be an assassin issues, and his friends have issues with him! - AND KATY! They don't respect Marvel's new duo. They think Shaun and Katy should be doing more with their lives.

They are both valets during the day, and at night they rock drunken karaoke. That seems like the perfect life to me.

But, Daddy and his power rings couldn't allow them to keep living the dream. I haven't mentioned the ten rings yet. 

They give him super-duper-magical martial arts powers, and make him eternal. AND made him an asshole.

To be fair, he was probably already an asshole before the powers. He's been killing a lot of people. You figure he's been around for 1000+ years. His wife is dead, and he has no hobbies. It's not like he kills a few people and then goes home to read a book, or play video games, or make TikTok videos. It's sunrise to sunset killing all day, every day for generations. Then, he forms an evil terrorist group called "Ten Rings" to amplify his killing.

"Murder Death Rings" are what they should be called.

"Daddy Death Punchy Time"

""Dead Doomy Rangs of Killer Dad"

"The Legendary Killer Rings of Deadly Death Death Murder Pops"

"The... " sorry, I've been drankin a lil bit while I write... I lost my place.

I like "Daddy Death" Where was I?

Right! He can't have Shaun being happy! We've gotta get this plot going, so he sends the only white dude he can find in this movie to start some trouble for them. I guess, there might have been a couple of more white people in the film, but they all got the snot beat out of them in that bus scene. This white dude's name is "Razor Fist", yep... "Razor Fist!". 

At least they didn't stick to the original design. 

Ridiculous. How does he use the bathroom?

He's played by Florian Munteanu, who is a former heavy weight boxer. Yeah! Was also in "Creed" his nickname is "The Big Nasty". Isn't that a drink? A bartender once offered me to sample a drink called "The Big Nasty". I chose to go with a drink that doesn't have "nasty" in its title. ... I think he was offering me a drink.

???

"Daddy Murder Death" and "Sharp Fisty Man" spark this thang. And Shaun becomes Shang-Chi, beater of ass!

The visuals in this movie are the best Marvel has done to date. The action is so good. I just got finished raving about the action in "Black Widow"; this surpasses that. I dug the cast. I know some people don't like Awkwafina, but... get over it. She was great in this; everybody was!

I loved the soundtrack! I'm not normally the "I loved the soundtrack guy" , but it was perfect. It begs to be mentioned.

No issues with the story. And the emotions that they're stirring in you. Whew!

One moment I'm enjoying the beater of ass, then Katy is making me laugh, then the slew of issues got me in my feelings, then the visuals wow me, then more swelling issues, back to ass beating - all the way through.

And the ending! True, Marvel has a formula (and this sticks to it), but if it ain't broken, why bleep with it?? The ending was Game of Thrones-ish, but with light so a brotha can see, and all the colors of the rainbow - like a Skittles commercial with martial arts.  Fun! - so not like GOT at all, I guess. The only fun they had was when there was torture or prostitution going on.

I don't have anything bad to say about the movie. They could have shaved 5-10 mins off, but I won't take off for that; there's just too much to love about this!

Grade: A+

Fun for the whole family! I can see the fam working through some issues after the watch.

Daughter: "You know, Dad. That asshole dad of Shang-Chi kinda reminds me of you."

Mom: "Daughter! You do NOT talk to your father that way!"

Daughter: “Just sayin...”

Dad: "That's interesting, cuz his ungrateful, bitch of a daughter reminds me of YOU!"

Mother and Daughter: *gasp

Son: *laughs

Dad: "All I want you to do is take your school work seriously and maybe date a guy who doesn't smell like weed!"

Daughter: "I'll have you know that's his natural smell! And maybe I'd focus more on school, if I didn't have to focus on YOU being such a BLEEPING ASSHOLE, DAD!"

See, that's healthy dialogue, right there. Maybe the family that watches this movie buys mommy a bunch of guns for protection, so she doesn't end up dead like the mommy in this movie. Like a ridiculous amount of guns!

And I could see brother and sister kicking each other in the crotch to resolve their differences. BUT, if they're close-by, fighting each other, then there's no time to abandon one another.

Marvel does it again!

Whichever of the Marvel films is your favorite, this one will probably be up there as well.

[living-with-pmd]

11 Women With PMDD Share What It's Really Like

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder is the evil cousin of PMS. They share the same types of symptoms—moodiness, increased hunger, cravings, fatigue, cramps, pain, brain fog, and depression, among others—but for PMDD sufferers, those symptoms get so bad they can cripple a woman's ability to lead a normal life.  

While up to 85 percent of women get PMS, according to the US Department of Health, only about 5 percent of women experience PMDD, according to the American Journal of Psychiatry.

We asked women with PMDD what it's really like living with the disorder. Here are their stories:

"I was diagnosed with PMDD last summer. Six months prior to my diagnosis, I started taking a certain birth control and soon every month I was experiencing severe PMS issues. I am a generally happy person, but during those few days I was someone entirely different. I was extremely depressed and anxious, having much more frequent panic attacks, and was super sensitive and lonely. I was even suicidal, which was terrifying. And the worst part was I was convinced that I had always been this miserable, and that I would always be this miserable, and it was never going to change. It felt as if someone had completely burned out the light in me and all happiness and joy and hope was gone. I didn't make the connection that it was related to my period but thankfully a close friend did. I have since switched birth control, which helped a lot, and increased the dosage of my anti-anxiety and anti-depressant meds. Most importantly, I am aware of the way I feel those few days so I know to expect it, and I can logically remind myself that I will stop feeling that way soon. Looking back, I realize that I've probably always had pretty bad PMS or PMDD. The birth control worsened it but it was also causing a lot of issues I wasn't aware of previously as well." —Katherine H., 22, Edmonds, WA

———————————

"PMDD is out of control. I cry really easily for about a week. My biggest issue is that I am convinced that I am failing at everything—being a wife, a mom, work projects, fitness, my whole life! And even though it feels so real I constantly have to question if my feelings are valid or if they are amplified by my cycle. I just set an alert in my phone to remind me to consider my hormones the next time I feel that way." —Krysten B., 32, Toronto, CA

———————————

"A week before my period, I become a complete psycho, completely unlike myself. I'm tearful, want to eat everything that's sweet or salty, have absolutely no tolerance for anything other than perfection, and prefer to be left completely alone. I already take an antidepressant but my PMDD was a complete nightmare so my doctor gave me Prozac to take for just 10 days a month. Basically, I start it when I start to get that irrational feeling and keeping taking it until my period starts. And that's just the emotional stuff. On the physical side, I have debilitating cramps, backaches, and headaches that last for days. Yep. I'm a peach." —Kristen L., 40, Knoxville, TN

———————————

"In the past, PMDD almost made me suicidal and totally broke my spirit. Yes it wasthat bad. Every month. Eventually I got tired of being a 'crazy PMS woman' and decided I needed to fix this. Since I don't like to take pharmaceuticals, I branched out to homeopathic remedies and I discovered St. John's Wort and essential oils, especially clary sage and Doterra Calm-Its. It's a lot better now but I still have my hard days." —Amy S., 43, Zebulon, NC

———————————

"My PMDD got so bad I had to go to a psychiatrist and be put on Prozac along with another antidepressant I was already taking. I was a mess—anxious, crying randomly over the smallest thing, and eating everything in sight. One example is someone made a YouTube mashup of the Age of Ultron trailers with Pinocchio footage and the 'I've got no strings on me' song and that wrecked me for weeks. Every time I thought about scenes from Pinocchio I would start panicking and crying at my work desk. It's been a few years and I'm better now. I'm off birth control and weening myself off the Prozac. I notice a week before my period I will sob during any sad part in a movie or book I'm reading, and a day or two before, I notice I'm more likely to be anxious." —Kate W., 36, Alaska

———————————

"This has impacted my ability to work effectively. My pet peeve is when people say 'it must be close to your time of the month' when they simply don't like what I'm saying. I have run into that problem a lot at previous jobs and it makes it really hard to be taken seriously. It's bullshit because my feelings are valid regardless and also PMDD is not a joke. I am so lucky now to have a male boss who understands but it wasn't always that way. I have also have found a lot of relief with naturopathic and herbal remedies." —Amalia F., 28, Vancouver, Canada

———————————

"My PMS was tolerable until my second child was born and then everything went off the rails. I'd be looking forward to plans with others, happy, and then about 10 to 14 days before my flow would start, my mood would turn on a dime. I'd be horrible—crying, screaming that ~nobody understands~, just so much emotional pain. I'd basically lock myself up in the bedroom for a full day to cry, get angry, and feel sorry for myself. It took three doctors before I finally found one who would listen to me before I was finally diagnosed with PMDD. I took Prozac for three years for it but it made me feel numb, like a zombie and not like myself. So I quit and my family just deals with me now. As I've gotten closer to menopause the PMDD is not as bad, but can be very unpredictable due to hormonal swings from perimenopause. The worst part now is I feel like my friendships have suffered. I always seem to have episodes around major holidays and events and I end up bumming everyone out if I do show up so I end up staying home a lot." —Colleen T., 50, St. Paul, MN

———————————

"I'm overly emotional for the week before my period. Saying that makes it sound like it's not that bad but I get so distraught that my fiance has actually scheduled it in his phone as 'blood sport' to remind himself what's coming. I'm thankful that he's patient because I also feel like everyone hates me that week, too." —Kenlie T., 36, New Orleans, LA

———————————

"All month long I'm fine and feel even and calm and then suddenly, the week before my period, I can't handle even the tiniest little thing. My irritability goes through the roof (which is not great since I have a 5-year-old) and I feel like I have no friends. It really makes me sad." —Jessica S., 28, Broomfield, CO

———————————

"I know my period is coming because all of a sudden all of my joints hurt, especially my knees and ankles. I also get crazy gnarly cramps and once I even had a cyst that ruptured while I was on a date and the guy had to take me to the hospital! It was so embarrassing. Thankfully my husband now is very understanding when this time rolls around each month. The worst part is people who just think I make this stuff up. Some months are better than others and sometimes the pain is completely debilitating! My emotions are also a rollercoaster. Anytime I see something cute or inspiring, I burst into tears." —Ivie C., 21, Rexburg, ID

———————————

"My PMDD manifests in both mental and physical symptoms. From the time I got my period at age 12, I've had extreme cramps and heavy bleeding. I'd leak at school through a super maxi pad every class so I'd tie sweatshirts around my waist and have to scrub my clothes when I got home. It was super humiliating. I'd have to take six to eight ibuprofen at a time to deal with cramps, and if I didn't I'd end up on the floor sweating like I had the flu. Sometimes I'd even throw up. This meant I ended up spending a lot of time sick in bathrooms and knew where every restroom was at all times. Birth control helped manage the PMDD and other issues, but as soon as I was done having kids, I had a hysterectomy. That was the best thing I've ever done." —Mandy P., 39, Mendon, UT

https://www.womenshealthmag.com/health/a19972132/premenstrual-dysphoric-disorder/

[giuls233]

So you like KoRn? So what makes you love Romione? Fav HP book? Creepiest thing ever happened to you? Fav fandom? Fav past time activity? Least fav thing about your life? Fav HP BROTP? HP NOTP? Fav anon??

HEYY!!

AYYEE, I do have a few songs from KoRn!!! Looks at chu🙌👍

Also to answer your questions:

Growing up, I’ve always had a thing for opposites attract. I’ve noticed a trend in all my otps or ships I’ve loved throughout my life so far.

Even platonically, this kind If relationship is my fav💗💗

And Ron and Hermione are one of the best characters I’ve read so far with this type of dynamic. You can see that yes, they are opposites, but they’re also so clearly a like, do you get what I mean?

The creepiest thing that’s ever happened to me was actually a few days ago. I went to an arcade in a city near my university, but I wanted to go to the supermarket first to get snacks, and this dude was following my friend and I. He even slowed his  pace to match ours and both of us just grabbed onto each other without saying anything and left. Sssuuppeerrr creeeppyyy.

I don’t think I have a fav fandom since I don’t really obsess over things, I just like a lot of stuff. So, I can’t really be like “OH YEAH! THATS MA SHIT!!” Like, I do that with too many fandoms to have a fav, lol.

My fav past time activity depends on my mood. If I’m tired, reading or going on my phone is cool. If I’m happy, doing anything artistic or calling/hanging out with my friends is awesome. If I’m stressed, cleaning or working out (like, walking or running a bit, I’m not very athletic, lmao) are my top choices. So, I guess I don’t really have one of those either😅 I get bored of stuff easily, but I’m always doing something.

I think the least fav thing about my life would be how majority of my family lives in Italy, while I’m here in Canada. I’ve only met them in person twice cause money is tough and all, so I didn’t get to experience much with them, especially my grandparents.

MY FAV BROTP???!! BRO, YOU KNOW ITS GOTTA BE HARRY AND RON🙌🙌

Notp? Anything ILLEGAL, WEIRD, or just plain “Wtf?? Why??”.

And finally, I DO NOT HAVE A FAV ANON!! HOW COULD I EVER CHOOSE?!!!

Also, I wouldn’t know if the same person was messaging me, so lol, kinda impossible to choose.

But yeah, nah, YOU’RE ALL TOO AMAZING FOR ME TO JUST PICK ONE!!

Thank you for asking!!!

[docholligay]

Divided by Four: Thirty-Six

 I AM DONE WITH THIS YOU ARE FREE OF HAVING TO SEE IT

Lena Oxton would never have another birthday, and this was an odd thing to think about. 

It was one thing, for Tracer, to know that she was dying--she had known that for what seemed like an age now--but quite another for her to know that there were some things she would never do again. The early ones, she hadn’t known, really. The last time she would get on her motorcycle. When she would last trust herself to fly. That final walk down the hall without help from anyone or anything. These lasts had come without announcing themselves, and so Tracer had not gotten the chance to savor them appropriately. It was a mistake she was trying not to repeat, as she felt the sand slip through the hourglass now. 

So it was comforting, in a way, to know that this would be her last birthday, even if it felt strange to admit. Tracer had resolved to drink in every instant of it. 

She’d told everyone that it was silly and a little wasteful to bring her gifts, given the reality of the situation, and really all she wanted was to be around her people and drink a beer or two, have a few laughs, and for no one to get too misty-eyed. There were a number of things about dying that Tracer didn’t particularly care for, but one topping the list was the way people mourned her before she was gone, when all she wanted to do was enjoy whatever she had left without sadness. There was no point, so she thought, in being so sad over the last bits of something lovely that you ruined it for yourself. It was rather like a child whimpering while eating the last squares of a chocolate bar. So the only gift she had asked for, was for no one to cry in her view, and on that they had delivered. 

But also, people had brought gifts. Nothing fancy, really, mostly soft pajamas and blankets, a nice lotion, a particularly plush backrest pillow she was already making use of, things that spoke to both the reality of the situation and the inability of the people who loved her to let it pass by without making the most of it. Her uncle had made her a coconut strawberry cream cake, and she’d even managed to eat some of it. Pharah had made sure to tell her she had better live long enough to use the thick flannel pajamas she’d bought, as she’d had her father send them from Canada. 

“Or you’ll do what, exactly?” Tracer had grinned as she said it, “Piss on me grave? Well, I’m being cremated, so even that’ll feel a bit ‘ollow, now won’t it?” 

Everyone had laughed, even Winston, who seemed to taking the whole thing rather hard, however much Tracer joked that he’d been taking care of her for the last ten years and really should enjoy his retirement. But mostly, it had been a good day for her, and if she was feeling a little misty herself, it was nothing but the idea that she was so deeply loved, and that not everyone got to experience that in their lives.

She was born under a lucky star, and the last year or so was only a bump in that road near the end of it, a bit like the jar before you leave the pavement. And even that was only her health, wasn’t it? 

Moira could take her life--and as happy as she was knowing Moira died never knowing how badly she had hurt Tracer, it did sting a bit to know that was how it would go down in the books--but Moira had never managed to take anything more dear to her. Her family. Her friends. The general sense that she was loved and cared for. Even her mind was sharp and busy as ever, which admittedly made her body’s disobedience a bit more annoying, but she was grateful to have her wits. People would remember her as herself. That was important. 

If anything, the relative frustration and pain of the last few months had made her feel all the more loved. Had showed that it must be true.

So nothing was all bad, really. 

Night had fallen over London, and as tired as she was, Tracer still could not bring herself to go to bed. Winston had asked gently if she was ready, and she had just shook her head and told him she wanted to stay up awhile. It was nice, this deck she and Winston had put together on the roof of the place. He’d doubted her, when she’d suggested the project, and wondered how he would ever possibly use it, and told her there was no need to put the work in. Sometimes Winston had to be talked into having nice things for himself. He probably would have approved the project so much earlier if he’d known how much time Tracer would spend up here. 

The smell of London filled her lungs. She should be more afraid of death, she supposed, but she could never quite let go of the idea that even when she was gone, she wouldn’t be. Not that she believed in an afterlife, really, but she also didn’t not believe in an afterlife, and she’d seen London built on its own ashes so many times, that she had to imagine that even when she was gone, the bombed out wall of what was left of her would be built around, become part of a Pret or a pub or even just a ruin where the pigeons nested. 

What was tough was knowing when the building needed to come down, which she hadn’t yet quite figured out for herself. It was one thing to be gone in an instant, a bomb dropped, a moment and then just the rubble. It was another to sway into disrepair, to try and pinpoint the day you had to tell those who had lived in your heart that there were homes elsewhere, and it was time to seek them. When the little joys of being were outweighed by the reality of decay. 

“Lena?” 

The lightness she felt at hearing her name in that soft brogue was enough to tell her that day had not yet come, and she would keep on for awhile yet. Tracer thought she might live one hundred years, and never tire of hearing Emily’s voice. It was impossible. 

“It’s grown late. You’ll tire yourself.” A kiss on the top of her head, and then Emily sat down on the edge of the daybed where Tracer found herself spending much of her time lately. 

Tracer chuckled. “Too late. Doesn’t take much anymore, it’s just,” she shook her head, “a bit aggravating, right? There’s so much I’d like to do in a day, not that I can do much of it anyway, but I’d like to at least imagine it. I get frustrated so--” 

Emily nodded kindly as she rubbed Tracer’s shoulder, tight with the constancy of spasms that ran through it, but as Tracer’s eyes flicked upwards, she saw the tears on the edge of Emily’s eyes. Not the time to talk about it. Never seemed to be.

Emily would miss her, and there was no real getting around that, no matter how she tried. Tracer had already spent plenty of time writing and rewriting a letter to be published when she was gone, Pharah sitting alongside her on her small laptop, to try and let Emily know in the most public way that she’d like her to move on, and wasn’t only saying it, that she meant it, nagging over the words until Pharah had offered to remove the burden of waiting for death from her. 

Pharah joked like that, more than most, because Pharah was kind, in her way, and knew Tracer needed someone to be able to joke with. It was a favor to her. When Tracer had told her, she had asked to be treated the same as ever, and to Pharah’s eternal credit, she came very close. 

“Never mind me.” she grinned “Tired and rambling, right? It was a wonderful birthday, Em. Marvelous, really. Been thinking back on me birthdays---I’ve been so lucky. I am so lucky. Thank you, for everything you’ve done, for it.” 

She was tired, and her body jerked and shook, but she was still, in this moment, the master of a failing plane, and managed to but her hand on Emily’s leg. Emily curled up next to her and rested her head on Tracer’s shoulder, letting out a little sniffle as she drew her arm around her.

“It’s not fair for you.” 

“Me?” Tracer kissed her forehead “Oh, none of that now. Not for me. What’s fair, any’ow? Should ‘ave been killed a thousand times over, love, but I wasn’t, Was I? Plenty were,” she muttered, half to herself, “And I noone in whole of me life ‘as ever wanted to ‘ear it but I’ve ‘ad the sense for years that I wasn’t precisely meant to get me pension. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy if you like but I--really, who it isn’t fair to is you. Life’s been more than fair to me.” 

Emily said nothing, but wiped her eyes and took Tracer’s hand in hers. 

“I mean really, think about it. Not a bad life at all, on balance. Pilot. Top Flight Instructor. Commander. Bloody ‘ero of London. I lived more in thirty-six years than most people would if they ‘ad twice the time. So it’s all right. I made it all count. Course I want more, but, I do tend to rush through things, don’t I? Just me way, don’t stop to admire the view much. Some people are like that, like fireworks, or, oh I don’t know, a stick of gum. And,and at the fag end of it all, I get to be in London, taken care of instead of sent away, when by rights I should have been shot down, or shot through, or lost forever. To be sitting on a London roof in a pile of pillows? Not precisely the gulag, love, and I won’t be greedy. Em, look at me, please.” 

Emily sat up and looked at her, and Tracer squeezed her hand. 

“I lived long enough to find you, and to love you.That’s all that matters. I ‘ave led a bloody charmed life. I ‘ave. Truly. I could not possibly ask for more.” she grinned, “That’s a lie actually,  would ‘ave loved to get all the way through to the King so as I could watch his bloody face when I refused the knighthood publicly, but,” she chuckled, “We can’t ‘ave everything.” 

Emily gave a little chuckle and shook her head. “You’re awful, Lena. Happy Birthday. My prince charming.” 

“And it really was, Em. It is! What do you say,” she winced as she tried to sit up a little, her body jerking her back against the back of the daybed, until Emily balanced her, “What do you say, we ‘ave Win come up with that last bottle of champagne? Toast to ourselves till midnight? Just the three of us?” 

Emily nodded, the teeth poking thought on her smile. 

“That’s what I’d like to see, tonight. Thank you love. Just us three, and your smile.” 

The clouds and fog and too much light of London parted for a moment, just a few stars peeking through the grey and haze. They sparkled down on Tracer, who sparkled back a bit, the diamonds of the natural world. Bright against the night. 

Bit of light in everything.

[swanlake1998]

Article: Ashton Edwards Is Breaking Down Gender Barriers in Ballet

Date: July 1, 2021

By: Marcie Sillman

When Ashton Edwards was 3 years old, the Edwards family went to see a holiday production of The Nutcracker in their hometown, Flint, MI.

For the young child, it was love at first sight.

"I saw a beautiful, black Clara," Ashton says, "and I wanted to be just like her."

Ashton has dedicated 14 years of ballet training in pursuit of that childhood dream. But all the technical prowess in the world can't help Ashton surmount the biggest hurdle—this aspiring dancer was born male, and for the vast majority of boys and men, performing in pointe shoes hasn't been a career option. But Ashton Edwards, who uses the pronouns "he" and "they," says it's high time to break down ballet's gender barrier, and their teachers and mentors believe this passionate dancer is just the person to lead the charge.

A Childhood in Motion

Ashton's mother, Latisha Edwards, says for as long as she can remember, Ashton, the sixth of seven Edwards siblings, has been in constant motion, dancing on any flat surface in the house. "He'd crash into plates in the kitchen," she laughs. She knew she had to find something to focus all that energy.

The year after the family trip to Nutcracker, when Ashton was just 4 years old, Latisha signed them up for a dance class offered through Flint's Head Start program. Karen Jennings, now chair of the dance division at the Flint School of Performing Arts, ran the Saturday program at the time.

"There was this little guy out in the hallway," Jennings remembers. It was Ashton, and Jennings saw the child was copying the students in her intermediate class.

"I was afraid he was going to fall and crack his head open," she says. "So, I invited him into the studio."

Jennings recognized Ashton's natural flexibility, rotation and body proportions, the physical assets that often propel a hopeful ballet dancer to success. Beyond these gifts, Ashton had what Jennings calls a "spark": the enthusiasm and self-discipline to devote to regular ballet classes. Once the Edwards family decided Ashton would continue ballet training, Jennings was happy to place them in her classes with the more advanced students. She kept a close eye on the aspiring dancer throughout their 12 years in the Flint School of Performing Arts program—though Ashton's journey there wasn't always easy.

Ashton was one of only a handful of boys in the school, and one of very few Black students. And though Ashton never felt treated differently, their keen awareness of being Black in a room full of white dancers created a pressure to excel.

"I've had to be 12 times better than everyone else my whole life," Ashton says. "We have no choice but to be the best if we want to be treated equally."

Finding a Dance Home in Seattle

By the time Ashton was 11 or 12, it became clear they had the raw skills to pursue ballet seriously, and Jennings met with the Edwards family to spell out what that would mean: leaving Flint for more rigorous pre-professional training. Latisha Edwards worried about sending her child out of town, but she supported their decision to enroll in summer classes at both Chicago's Joffrey Ballet and then at Houston Ballet.

Although Jennings believed the Joffrey would be a good long-term fit, at age 16 Ashton decided to audition for Pacific Northwest Ballet's summer intensive. They traveled to Chicago where the Seattle-based dance company was holding a large, regional audition. PNB artistic director Peter Boal says managing director Denise Bolstad spotted Ashton before he did.

"Her eyes got bigger, then she pointed to the name and audition number on the card." Boal immediately saw what Bolstad had noticed in Ashton. "His lines, his energy, his placement."

But something even more special struck Boal: This teenager had the kind of stage presence that's difficult to teach. "There are dancers that you just look at them, and they have their own special spotlight."

Boal offered Ashton a summer spot; despite their mother's qualms about the distance from Flint to Seattle, she let her son travel west, where they fell in love with both PNB and Seattle. After the summer, Boal accepted Ashton into the company's Professional Division training program.

Chasing the Dream of Dancing On Pointe

While the move to PNB made sense in terms of preparation for a professional ballet career, it didn't ensure that Ashton could immediately pursue gender-blind ballet training. In fact, the teenager didn't even consider it at first.

"Growing up I always knew all the choreography for the female roles," Ashton says. "I learned everything, but those were unreachable dreams, just insane fantasies." So, when Ashton first arrived at PNB, they focused on traditional men's classes, and on building strength, to develop into what they call a "man's man."

But the pandemic hit midway through Ashton's first year at PNB. When the ballet school shut down, Ashton had time to reflect on their efforts to fit the male ballet dancer stereotype. At 5' 6" with long, slender limbs and androgynous facial features, they didn't necessarily resemble a Romeo or an Albrecht. And deep down, they still harbored the dream of dancing Juliet or Giselle.

So, during quarantine in the spring and summer of 2020, Ashton embarked on a rigorous self-directed training program. They sought out online pointe technique videos, studying them carefully. A friend gave Ashton her old pointe shoes, and every day they'd go outside to the patio to practice what they'd seen in the videos.

"I was out there for six hours a day, as soon as the sun came out," says Ashton. "And I realized, maybe this dream is possible."

So, last fall Ashton approached Boal and Bolstad with a proposition: The dancer would continue with the official men's curriculum if the school would allow them to pursue pointe classes, as well. And they showed the teachers what they'd learned over the summer.

"I had no hesitation," Boal remembers. "If anyone had said to me 'This student has danced on pointe for just nine months and this is what they're able to do,' I wouldn't believe it!"

The Lewis and Clark of the Ballet World

Since classes resumed last September, Ashton has juggled a rigorous schedule: two days a week they take pointe class with their Professional Division female colleagues; the other three days they're working with the male students, although sometimes they take that class in pointe shoes as well.

Former PNB principal dancer Jonathan Porretta, one of Ashton's instructors, says he never knew his student wanted to dance on pointe until last fall, when Ashton started posting photos to their Instagram account.

Porretta says he has always approached teaching his classes outside male and female roles. For him, ballet is about working toward technique and developing the artist.

For his part, Porretta calls Ashton a "star," someone he believes can help pave a new future for men, and women, in ballet. Porretta says it's time for the art form to loosen its hide-bound gender roles.

"There will be some companies very ready to be thrust into the future of dance, while others are more set in their ways," Porretta says. "But art is here to push boundaries and possibilities."

PNB soloist Joshua Grant agrees. Years ago, when he was a young student, Grant's ballet teacher suggested he take pointe classes to help strengthen his ankles. He loved dancing on pointe, but professionally it didn't seem like an option for him. In 2006, after stints with both PNB and National Ballet of Canada, Grant auditioned for, and was hired by, Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo, the all-male troupe known for its campy send-ups of classic ballets.

"I was told it would be career suicide," Grant recalls, because "men on pointe? That's either drag or comedy."

After five years as a principal dancer with the Trocks, Grant returned to PNB, where he's back to performing traditional male roles and developing his own choreographic career. He's currently creating a dance for Ashton and some of their fellow students, for Next Step, PNB's choreographers' showcase. Ashton will be on pointe. Like Porretta, Grant is excited that a young dancer like Ashton is eager to push to transform a centuries-old art form.

"I told Ashton, 'You're like Lewis and Clark, making your own path,'" Grant says. "'There's no precedent, so do what you want to do.'"

Looking Ahead

Ashton is hoping to embark on a career dancing with companies that will cast them not only in gender-blind contemporary work, but in the traditional roles from ballet's classical canon, everything from Odette/Odile in Swan Lake to the long-coveted Clara in The Nutcracker.

"I want to be part of changing, evolving those traditions to modern day life," says Ashton. "We can preserve those ballets, those classic works, but also make them reflect our modern world."

Boal believes in Ashton's ability to be a ballet change-maker; more than that, he's convinced that ballet has to welcome gender-blind casting and men performing on pointe as more than a novelty act.

"We're not going to laugh at this or point at it," Boal says. "We're going to admire it, and eventually we're not even going to talk about it as something out of the ordinary, as it continues to evolve."

Despite the support Ashton has received in their quest to be a nonbinary professional dancer, landing a job is tough for any ballet student, let alone for a Black dancer. But Ashton professes faith that they can make their dreams come true.

"I just decided, my entire life, this is what I'm going to do. This makes me happy, so I have to do it," Ashton says. "There is no other way I can exist."

[wild-aloof-rebel]

In a candid conversation with the Star, Manji said “Schitt’s Creek” producers did not instruct him as to how Ray should sound.

“It is a very slight Indian accent — somebody who was probably raised in Canada, but probably was born in India or Pakistan,” he said from his home in Los Angeles.

“I don’t regret that because I think it actually works for Ray. He wasn’t like everybody else in that town. He was from somewhere else.”

Manji said he’s OK with viewers questioning his choices, but rather than focus on accents, he said, critics could ask why his character didn’t have a more fully developed story, like a relationship or a family.

“If you want to criticize something, do that,” he said. “We need to have three-dimensional characters.”

[full article text below the cut]

At the start of Rizwan Manji’s acting career in the 1990s, the only roles available to him were those playing convenience store clerks and cab drivers. The parts usually required him to fake an Indian accent — just for laughs.

“We would joke about it. ‘This is so offensive, this is so offensive,’” recalls the Toronto native. “It’s not like we didn’t know.”

More than two decades later, Manji’s grin-and-bear-it perseverance has paid off. At 46, Manji now boasts a long — and diverse — list of TV and film credits. In September, he joined castmates from the hit CBC comedy series “Schitt’s Creek” in celebration as the show nabbed a record-breaking nine Emmy Awards.

That doesn’t mean, however, he still doesn’t grapple with questions about his acting choices.

While “Schitt’s Creek,” about a wealthy family that loses its fortune and is forced to move to a backwater town, won raves for its messages of inclusivity and positive queer representation, a segment of viewers took to social media to criticize Manji’s character, Ray Butani, the town’s bumbling jack of all trades — who speaks with an accent.

What irked them was that Ray, one of the few recurring people of colour on the show, seemed like a caricature — a rehash of the stereotypical, emasculated South Asian male. They also complained that Manji’s accent came across as “cringey.”

“Why go to the effort of writing in a character with an Indian name, played by an Indian actor, whose main personality trait is that he is stupid and has an accent?” Rishi Maharaj, a Port Hardy, B.C., engineer and avid TV viewer, wrote on Twitter days after the show’s Emmy sweep.

Across North America’s TV and film industry, there is broad consensus about the need to fight stereotypes and offensive tropes in casting. But the debate among actors of colour over whether they should fake accents remains fraught.

Some Hollywood actors, such as Aziz Ansari and John Cho, have reportedly turned down roles, citing the history of Hollywood playing up accents for laughs. (Think Mickey Rooney’s portrayal of Mr. Yunioshi in the 1961 romantic comedy “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” complete with taped eyelids, buck teeth and cartoonish accent).

They worry that parts requiring them to speak with accents do nothing to help the cause of minority actors who are often typecast in secondary roles or as sidekicks, and who continue to be under-represented on TV and film.

Others say it’s important to represent linguistic diversity and see no harm portraying characters who speak in broken English, as long as their accent is not the butt of a joke and in keeping with a character’s backstory.

In a candid conversation with the Star, Manji said “Schitt’s Creek” producers did not instruct him as to how Ray should sound.

“It is a very slight Indian accent — somebody who was probably raised in Canada, but probably was born in India or Pakistan,” he said from his home in Los Angeles.

“I don’t regret that because I think it actually works for Ray. He wasn’t like everybody else in that town. He was from somewhere else.”

Manji said he’s OK with viewers questioning his choices, but rather than focus on accents, he said, critics could ask why his character didn’t have a more fully developed story, like a relationship or a family.

“If you want to criticize something, do that,” he said. “We need to have three-dimensional characters.”

The character that has generated one of the most heated debates in recent years when it comes to accents is Apu, the Indian-American shopkeeper on the long-running animated series “The Simpsons.” Until recently, the thick-accented character was voiced by actor Hank Azaria, who is white.

In 2017, American comedian Hari Kondabolu came out with a documentary, “The Problem With Apu,” in which he pressed the case that the show fomented racial stereotypes about Indian people.

In interviews at the time, Kondabolu shared that, as a kid, Apu was “the only Indian we had on TV” and that he was happy for “any representation.” But then on the playground, he had to deal with kids mimicking Apu’s accent.

In the documentary, he gets Dana Gould, a former writer on the show, to admit, “There are accents, that by their nature, to white Americans, sound funny. Period.”

With criticism mounting, Azaria, who had voiced Apu for three decades, announced he was stepping away from the role, telling the New York Times earlier this year: “Once I realized that that was the way this character was thought of, I just didn’t want to participate in it anymore.”

There is growing sensitivity among artists, writers, directors and producers to avoid stereotypes and invest in “fully humanized, realized characters,” Steven Eng, an actor and voice and speech instructor at New York University, told the Star.

“There’s certainly been a whole history — that I don’t think any of us can deny — in film and television and the theatre where characters were stereotyped,” he said. “I think there’s so much more awareness, so much more determination to not go that route.”

But even “groundbreaking” shows, such as “Kim’s Convenience” and the recently cancelled “Fresh Off the Boat,” which were heralded for elevating Asian-Canadian and Asian-American visibility and immigrant experiences, have not escaped criticism, accused by some viewers of employing storylines and accents that do not ring true.

Cast members, in turn, leapt to the defence of their shows — and their accents.

“Some people are like, ‘Oh, stereotypical accent!’” Constance Wu, lead actress on “Fresh Off the Boat,” told Time magazine regarding her character’s Taiwanese accent. “An accent is an accent. If there were jokes written about the accent, then that would certainly be harmful. But there aren’t jokes written about it. It’s not even talked about. It’s just a fact of life: immigrants have accents.”

Paul Sun-Hyung Lee, the lead actor in “Kim’s Convenience” told Maclean’s his character’s Korean accent is “part of who he is, but it isn’t the joke.”

“Yes, we’re in the entertainment field, and we will mine some of that because it is situational humour. You will get a point where we’ll say, ‘Here’s where some fun can be made, playing with the accent, and his inability and people mishearing what he says.’ But at the same time, that’s not all it is,” he said.

Jimmy O. Yang, who starred in the HBO series “Silicon Valley” and whose character spoke with a heavy Chinese accent, told Huffington Post the key is to portray immigrants with humanity.

“It’s maybe a better thought to change the perception of an accent than to avoid it all together,” he said. “I take offence (when people don’t go for parts with accents) ― it’s like saying, ‘I’m better than my immigrant brother with an accent.’”

Yang added he drew inspiration from his mom and relatives in Shanghai to develop his accent for the show. “It’s not just a (lousy) impression of a Cantonese Bruce Lee accent.”

Still, some actors have declared outright they will not do it.

“For me, personally, any time I’ve been asked to do that, I feel like — it feels like it’s making fun of people that have that accent if I do it and don’t have that voice,” comedian Aziz Ansari told NPR in 2015, years before he faced a public allegation of sexual misconduct.

“It feels like you’re doing it so white people can laugh at Indian people,” he said at the time.

That’s kind of how Maharaj felt watching Ray on “Schitt’s Creek.”

“I did find it cringey. The first thought that came to mind was it reminded me of Apu in ‘The Simpsons,’” he told the Star.

In The Problem With Apu, South Asian-American comedian Hari Kondabolu confronts his long-standing “nemesis” Apu Nahasapeemapetilon – better known as the Indian convenience store owner on The Simpsons. Creator and star Kondabolu discusses how this controversial caricature was created, burrowed its way into the hearts and minds of Americans, and continues to exist – intact – nearly three decades later. Featuring interviews with Aziz Ansari, Kal Penn, Whoopi Goldberg, W. Kamau Bell, Aasif Mandvi, Hasan Minhaj, Utkarsh Ambudkar, Aparna Nancherla

“To me what it sounds like is what a person from Saskatoon thinks a person from India sounds like. ... I’m sure he could’ve been a funny part of that show without an accent.”

Maharaj wasn’t alone. Arif Silverman, an actor and playwright in New York, posted a lengthy Facebook post in October sharing his conflicted feelings about the show.

“Schitt’s Creek has become one of my all-time favourite shows. But they did their South Asian characters dirty,” he wrote.

“Especially Ray, who plays directly into the racist South Asian trope of being an emasculated, goofy buffoon who no one takes seriously, not least in part because of his accent.”

Silverman told the Star Ray’s accent seemed “part of the joke” and struck him as a “betrayal” from a show that preached inclusivity and whose main romance was a gay love story.

“I’m half South Asian — my mother is from Bangladesh. … And so I think a lot about representation of South Asians in the media,” he said. “If you’re really going to talk about inclusivity it can’t be at anyone’s expense.”

Manji says he faced a lot of struggles as a brown actor at the start of his career.

Back then, he was often pigeonholed into narrow roles, such as the cabbie or 7-Eleven store clerk. One hundred per cent of his roles required him to fake a South Asian accent.

“It was very strictly, like, the joke was on the accent,” he said.

But he accepted the parts because he needed the work.

He did draw a line with one type of role.

“I’m Muslim, so I was more the guy who was like, ‘I’m not being the terrorist.’”

There was one time, however, when he auditioned to play an Islamic Studies professor on the show “24.” He was given limited information about the character. It turned out he was a bomb maker.

But the money was too good to pass up. He took the part.

“I rationalized it in my head, ‘Oh, it’s season 8, and they have good Muslim characters. … I don’t know if I made the right decision,” he said.

“To be clear, I’m OK with being the bad guy. I’d love to play the bad guy. It’s just when it’s this kind of thing where you’re screaming ‘Allahu akbar’ and bombing people.”

In 2010, Manji was cast in the short-lived NBC sitcom “Outsourced” set in an Indian call centre. He and his castmates employed accents, which some critics derided for lack of authenticity.

It’s fine if people want to criticize the quality of the accents, he said, but it wouldn’t have made sense for these characters not to have accents.

“The show was shooting in America about living in India. I don’t know what the other option was,” he said, adding that he channelled his father in developing the accent for that show.

Another thing to keep in mind is that accents have to be understandable to North American audiences, Manji said. For instance, during the filming of the movie “Charlie Wilson’s War,” Manji, who played a Pakistani colonel, said he settled on a “sweet spot” where his accent “sounds foreign” but is “not so thick that it becomes comedic or unintelligible.”

Manji said he did not have to audition for “Schitt’s Creek” but was offered the role of Ray, the town’s real estate agent, travel agent, photographer and Christmas tree salesman.

When he went for his first table read in Toronto, he’d had no prior discussion with the show’s writers or producers about what Ray would sound like.

Because most of his demo tape consisted of his work on “Outsourced,” Manji assumed that was the kind of voice producers were looking for. He went with a slightly toned-down version.

“Afterwards, I went up to Dan (Levy, the show’s co-creator) and said, ‘Hey just want to check in.’ He said, ‘I love what you did. It was funny.’ That ended up being the character for six years.”

Maharaj says he can’t help but feel Manji was selling himself short — playing to what he thought “a white audience might expect or respond more favourably to” to get the job. He likens it to job applicants of Asian descent who anglicize their names on resumes.

“I’m encouraged to hear he had agency, that they weren’t like, ‘We need you to do the accent,’” he said.

“I’d feel better if they were asking him to do a British accent or Brooklyn accent because if you’re doing this Indian accent and the character is comedic, it is nonetheless playing into that trope.”

Levy, who is also from Toronto, declined an interview request. Instead, he released a statement through his publicist.

“Ray was conceived as a character of Indian decent which we cast with Canadian-born actor Rizwan Manji, who is of Indian decent. No accent was called for in the casting or specified in the scripts,” it said.

“The thoughtful choices that Rizwan made in his portrayal in the audition room perfectly encapsulated the warmth and the energy of Ray. All characters on our show were created with love, respect and humanity. It has been gratifying to have these intentions reflected through the overwhelming audience support for these characters. That said, I welcome any perspectives that encourage conversations about diversity, especially in entertainment.”

Despite what critics might think, Manji said he has felt more empowered in recent years to make creative decisions about his characters.

Manji, who had a role in NBC’s musical comedy “Perfect Harmony,” which was cancelled this year, said when he was approached about playing the part of a pastor, he was the one who initiated the idea of giving the character a foreign accent.

Because the character was raised by missionaries, it wouldn’t have made sense for him to not have one.

Conversely, when he was asked a couple years ago to read for a pilot for a dramatic series in which his character was a Muslim father he told the casting director he didn’t want to do an accent.

“I said, ‘You know what? I’d rather not. That’s not going to excite me about this part,’” he said.

“I ended up getting the job. I found my voice.” (The pilot never made it to series).

Manji, who guesses about 60 per cent of his roles in more recent years have involved accent work, says remarks by actors who refuse to do accents are “dangerous” because they could end up limiting the types of roles available to minority actors.

His worry is casting directors will go to India in search of authentic accents, overlooking North American-born actors, like him.

“I’m already marginalized.”

Nobody fusses when Meryl Streep performs with an accent, he adds.

Ishani Nath, a freelance entertainment and lifestyle journalist in Toronto, says anytime she sees an accented character who also provides comedic relief, it raises a bit of a red flag.

But she’s hesitant to criticize actors for taking those roles, knowing that opportunities are not easy to come by.

“I’m way more interested in criticizing writers, producers, (and asking): Why are you asking for these roles to be accented? … Is there an actual reason and backstory?”

Nath says she is starting to notice deeper conversations about how different cultures are represented on screen and what nuances can be added to make characters more complex.

She says a good example of this is the hit movie “Crazy Rich Asians,” whose actors exhibited a range of regional Asian accents.

“It’s important to note that the problem with accent roles isn’t the accents themselves — plenty of characters in ‘Crazy Rich Asians’ have accents, but no one has the exaggerated or generic ‘Asian’ accent that has historically been played for laughs in Hollywood,” she wrote in a 2018 article in Flare.

Jhanik Bullard, a writer and member of BIPOC TV & Film, a collective of Black, Indigenous and people of colour working in Canada’s entertainment industry, says it is no longer acceptable for characters to have accents “just because.”

“It should actually have an authentic origin as to why this character sounds the way they sound,” he said.

Audiences are also not as forgiving as they may have been in the 1990s if the accent sounds botched or inauthentic.

What is encouraging, he says, is that more doors are being opened for people of colour to tell their stories and there are more platforms for those stories to be to told.

To that end, Manji says he and his partners have initiated a handful of projects that are in various stages of development. One is a show about a Muslim guy who becomes mayor of a major city. Another is a sitcom about a “normal Muslim family” — something that “resembles me more.”

Does the character he envision for himself speak with an accent?

“Since I want it to be closer to me, then I would say not.”

[mickstart]

what do you think are some iconic/memorable schumi moments? i just got into f1 and would like to know more about him bc somehow i can’t really find anything like that about him.... just stats which are incredibly impressive but i can’t find anything about how he behaved or just anything about his personality..... thanks <3

:) Hi anon, thank you for unleashing the beast.

Ok I love you for asking me this thank you SO MUCH. Welcome to the circus I’m glad you’re here! Also yeah, Schumi is often talked about in terms of statistics and not as a human, Which is a shame bc like! Schumi is fascinating and the dynamics on the grid in late 90s F1 is so much fun! Also, this is mainly going to be late 90s -> early 2010s stuff bc I was born in 98 so uhhh I didn’t properly witness ANY 90s stuff and had to learn about it.

OK so I got super carried away but I’ve divided this into 3 sections: Drives/races that I think showcase some of his talents, human moments we need to talk about more, and Chaotic Little Bitch moments. The key thing to remember w/ Schumi is that he personally tends to be nice but as soon as you put him in a competition, Bastard Mode activates like a cat’s pupils going wide.

I am so sorry for the following short essay. Also some crashes are briefly mentioned but only ones with absolutely no injuries and there’s no details.

Chaotic Little Bitch Moments

Schumi debuted as a SUBSTITUTE driver for Jordan when one of their drivers was in police custody (yes. really.) The highest a Jordan had qualified all year was 10th and in his DEBUT at SPA, one of the toughest tracks, in the middle of the season, Schumi qualified that Jordan 7th! THEN his clutch failed before the first lap was even complete, but Benetton and Jordan WENT TO COURT to fight each other to sign him for their team before the next race in Monza. He couldn’t debut normally he HAD to cause a scene and set the tone.

The Red Strings of Fate: He qualified 7th, his iconic 7 starred helmet, his first victory next year was ALSO at Spa - his first complete race would be at Monza, Ferrari Holy Ground, and he finished 5th which 👀 1) he was immediately racing with The Greats. 2) Mr 5 Championships With Ferrari.

Winning a race by taking a stop and go penalty on the last lap, crossing the finish line in the pits, and making such a complicated argument about said penalty that in a hearing that was SUPPOSED to be Mclaren protesting the race result the stewards scrapped the entire penalty and the 3 who awarded it handed in their licenses??? Iconic.

Austria 2002 where Rubens was ordered to give the win to Michael. And then Michael fucking made him stand on the top step on the podium like “oh no no no RUBENS deserves this” and made a big SHOW out of it and its like “Michael stop you’re not making it heartwarming you’re making it WORSE Michael STOP” The Tension of germany 2010 podium VS the theatricality of THIS podium.

Team orders were banned because of this which also makes this indirectly responsible for Fernando Is Faster Than You having to be a coded message. You can’t escape him,

Blocking Alonso in Monaco qualifying and then, years later in 2010, overtaking Alonso technically illegally at Monaco (the race was ending under safety car, but the safety car doesn’t lead them over the line it pits and they’d crossed the safety car line and the regulations were NOT specific about the rules) and getting a 20 second penalty bc Damon Hill was a steward. Haunting FERNANDO specifically at Monaco like the ghost of christmas past? Getting a harsh penalty because ANOTHER driver he’d fucked over was a steward? Forcing the FIA to rewrite the rulebook to account for his nonsense when he was in his FOURTIES? I don’t know another chaos king.

Winning the 1995 championship by crashing into Damon Hill, getting AWAY with it for some reason, and then trying to do the same thing in 1997 to Villeneuve, failing to do so and simply rebounding off of him harmlessly, almost COMICALLY, and beaching his own car in a gravel trap at which point the FIA said “I have had ENOUGH of you Wacky Races Man!” and disqualified him from the entire championship

Forcing Mika off the track so bad at Spa 2000 that Mika realized the only way he was gonna be able to get past him was to re-invent the overtake and go for it whilst they were passing a backmarker. (The overtake itself is at 2:05 in the video but the build up to it is Important bc the key part it’s not just badass, it only happened bc Mika knew who he was dealing with.)

Spa 1998 was a Ridiculously Chaotic race it truly was the Mugello 2020 of its year, and after a crash at the start that took out almost the entire grid Schumi accidentally collided with Coulthard later in the race. (The teams used to have a spare car at every race then, so the race was able to continue after a restart.) This wasn’t a racing thing, Coulthard was getting lapped. So something in Schumi SNAPS, and he storms down the pitlane and tries to fight Coulthard while the mclaren and ferrari mechanics both hold him back and finally drag him away. He projected into the future, saw Coulthard was gonna talk non-stop shit about Seb, and acted accordingly.

Monaco 2012 Pole don’t talk to me about this I still can’t believe the audacity of this man to get the only pole of his comeback, at MONACO, at the ONE RACE where he had a 5 place grid penalty to take!!

In general, I know Cheating Bad but. I HAVE to admire the brainpower it must take to have the rulebook so memorized that whilst driving an F1 car Schumi could spot a loophole the size of the eye of a needle and then dance through it, forcing the FIA to add ANOTHER page to the rule book specially for him bc nobody else even REALISED that loophole existed.

Human Moments

A quick rant about Mika and Schumi’s entire friendship. After Spa 2000 Mika goes up to Michael, says something like “Don’t ever do that again” then they’re friends again. They had this mutual understanding that Racing was not Reality. This goes all the way back to their F3 days they were rivals AND friends for their entire career. They truly were the Sewis of the era if Sebastian was like 50% more evil. Their entire dynamic is “You’re the only motherfucker in this pit lane who can handle me”. Schumi would do some bullshit and every other driver would throw up their hands in frustration and Mika would just go “Okay” and drive better to put him in his place bc he was the only one who could keep up, and Schumi very visibly LOVED that he’s grinning after Mika owns his entire ass with that overtake at Spa. They were unstoppable force meets immovable object and I’m so sad their rivalry isn’t more talked about bc the way Mika is the only driver who can get him to behave like a normal human being is SO entertaining.

This is a sad one so I won’t link it but he started crying in the 2000 Monza press-conference with his brother and Mika when he equaled one of Senna’s records. The press kept trying to ask questions about it and Mika just has this death grip on his shoulder and tries to get them to stop or let them take a break and it’s so sad but also important to know about.

Once said he didn’t want Mick to race in F1 bc the pressure of his name would put Mick under so much stress and he wanted his son to be happy. (He fully supported Mick in his endeavors! But only after making absolutely sure it was what Mick wanted, and making sure he knew he could just race for fun if he wanted and it didn’t have to be F1)

This whole interview just after Mick was born with the Schumacher family. Special shout out to Gina on his head the entire video and also Corinna talking to the press while Michael is captivated by Mick. Me too Michael.

Once allegedly pleaded to take a stray kitten home from the track?

I reblogged this yesterday but. Sticking like glue to Sebastian at an F1 test and immediately being like “This is my new son he’s gonna go far”. There’s a lot of pictures out there also of Michael being a guest at the karting races Seb went to as a kid and baby Seb visibly losing his fucking mind at being given a trophy by his idol. Every day of my life I think about him trying to ruffle Seb’s hair through his helmet at Brazil 2012

WInning the championship in 2000. Him thanking the entire team individually and pausing mid-celebration to kiss his wife Corinna so tenderly it’s in the F1 opening. Also, the way it literally cuts from the rest of McLaren looking like they’re attending a funeral to Mika grinning at him and hugging him fucking SENDSSSSS me.

Schumi was a little shit in all the 2010-12 press conferences like, lowering Lewis’ chair, playing with a microphone wire, but ESPECIALLY corrupting baby Seb and getting him to mess with Nico Rosberg.

He’s just GOOFY! Like I refuse to let him be remembered as a terrifying force of nature he was so goofy kind of similarly to Seb. PLEASE watch this incredibly awkward interview he did with Coulthard on a golf buggy where they both had to pretend they hadn’t thought about murdering each other at least once. I think Sky F1 should force Brocedes to do this when covid’s over. “Do you mind if I drive?” “Yes.”

EDIT: I CANNOT BELIEVE I forgot the 1999 Canada press conference where Eddie Irvine and Mika Hakkinen get into a water fight and Schumi immediately grabs a towel and hides behind it and is like “I had NOTHING to do with it” 🥺 adorable, actually

A lot of people at Ferrari, including Rob Smedley (who was on the other side of the garage with Felipe Massa so not in his inner circle) have said that a lot of the success of the team came from Schumi’s LEADERSHIP more than anything, that he’d make the team get together to bond all the time. When Schumi moved to Ferrari in 1996 they were NOT dominant. He did the same thing Lewis did - went to a team that everybody said would be a huge mistake and helped build them up behind the scenes.

THIS bit of the Canada 2011 Rewind where his engineer gives him the strategy and he’s like “... OkaAaAaAay?” and then when it turns out to be the wrong strategy he cheerfully tells them it’s too late. Little shit.

Speaking of Mercedes I also wanna say that like. They were a MESS in 2012 and his car DNF’d because of a failing on their part MULTIPLE times. (In Canada qualifying his DRS was stuck open and they couldn’t close it.) He did not say a single bad word about them EVER even though the press used this to attack him non-stop as washed-up and bad without Ferrari to cheat for him. At Ferrari he was the exact same with the team, any bastard antics Schumi had for his rivals did not extend to the engineers and crew.

OK this one is soured bc Top Gear is trash BUT if you were like, a kid in England who followed motorsports? Schumi’s fake reveal as The Stig on Top Gear was like the coolest, sickest thing,

Please view this image of Schumi and Mika when they were young and stupid

Iconic Races

ok so I have limited myself to a few races that show off some of his key strengths!

Hungary 1998 / France 2004 - STRATEGY/SPEED - Schumi switched to a 3 stop strategy in 98 and a FOUR STOP strategy in 04 and won both races. In order for the strategy call to work he’d have to basically make every single lap a qualifying style ‘flying lap’ and you best fucking believe he DID THAT. God I fucking miss when Ferrari was the king of strategy.

Argentina 1998 -  has it all. Talent, battling Mika, pit lane mind games with mclaren, and bullying coulthard xxx

Spain 1996 / a majority of the wet races - RAIN - One of Schumi’s nicknames was Rain Master bc he was so fucking good in the wet. If it started raining and you were a Schumi stan you were cackling evilly before the red lights even went out. I single out 1996 bc it was his first win for Ferrari and it was unexpected but in most wet races, even Canada 2011 post comeback, you can see Schumi thriving.

Malaysia 1999 - Schumi missed pretty much the entire second half of the season with a broken leg, came back for the last 2 races with everybody murmuring about whether he would struggle, and immediately put the Ferrari on pole. Also worth noting is that he was the number 2 driver for these 2 races bc his teammate Irvine was fighting Mika for the championship and he went along with that without complaint, allowing Ferrari to win the constructor’s championship if not the driver’s.

Monza 2002, 03, 04, or 06 just because it has the energy of the tifosi kneeling at the feet of an idol to their red god.

Brazil 2006 - Fuck All Y’all - Schumi’s last race for Ferrari. He got a puncture and ended up almost lapped, and then drove his way back from that to 4th bc he couldn’t go out without reminding us he’s a bad bitch.

Monza 2012 - Defending - Don’t tell F1 Twitter that there’s actual footage of Lewis and Michael having a genuine lengthy battle on track but DO watch Michael defending like a motherfucker and Lewis breathing down his neck for half the race we need to talk about this more.

Valencia 2012 - This isn’t necessarily anything special but I cried in my living room over the only podium of his comeback so it goes on here. It doesn’t have the same impact if you haven’t been watching him struggle with the car for years, DNF-ing from car failure most of 2012, and having BBC F1 telling you he’s washed up every single weekend, but you can just enjoy one of the best drives of FERNANDO’S entire career as he DRAGS that Ferrari by its hair to a home grand prix win and then watch the crowds embrace him like jesus and also Schumi being happy on the podium. Also, the very start of this clip from the press conference: him forgetting what language he’s supposed to be speaking 

Basically, Schumi was a hyper-competitive ambitious bitch who turned into a goofball as soon as he switched the engine off. This is by NO MEANS everything if I was making an exhaustive best races guide I’d do more research and another post but I hope this is what you were looking for?? THANK YOU SO MUCH for letting me go MAXIMUM SPECIAL INTEREST and I apologize.

[rumor-imbris]

Hello, Lady Connor! I want to ask out of unbearable, suffocating curiosity in my heart, even though in the previous post you already said to not mention "that certain comic". Could you please enlighten me about your view on that comic and what you despise about it? I would love to read your detailed thoughts about it even if just once. But if this is too triggering for you, I'm truly sorry for your discomfort and you don't need to answer it.

Hello, dear Anon and welcome ^-^ It's weird you naturally called me Lady Connor, as usually only my little fairy @giuliettaluce does. Well, I guess her magic put a spell on everybody here!!

If you really care to know, I'll answer, but brace yourself, it's going to be very long, almost an essay, because I can be very detailed about that comic being a failure in its every part. There's so much to say. You're right, as I mentioned before, it can trigger me, but I have attentively analized it and I know it makes not a single atom of sense. So nothing can actually bother me that much, don't worry ^_-

First of all, my general consideration of the AC Reflections comic issue #4, (yeah, that thing -.-) is that of a mere attempt to desperately make Bayek's remote vision through Senu's eyes a canon feature. It was created and published in 2017, the same year AC Origins was released and yes, they needed an excuse to make believe Connor's alleged daughter inherited a skill someone (who isn't even their direct ancestor!!) that lived 1700 years ago in ancient Egypt had! OMG, this should be funny enough, but I'll go on. Also, I think it was likely a carelessly arranged way to satisfy those AC3 fans demanding a "happy ending" for unlucky Connor (quite 5 years later, of course).

I'll better go step by step to figure out where to start from, seriously.

1) In the comic, when Otso Berg opens the file related to Connor, the scene is set in "1796: Upstate New York." Now this is chronologically and spacially incoherent and illogical. We see Connor still wears his assassin outfit in it, right? According to AC Initiates (2012) in 1804 Connor invites the Dominican assassin Eseosa at the Davenport homestead to provide him some advices and further training as he's involved in the leading of the Haitian Revolution. That's a really cool character, read about him, if you want!

So, until then Connor is still an assassin, probably the mentor (by now) of the Colonial Brotherhood. He still runs the homestead and he still commands the Aquila, I guess, he's the captain still. I calculated the distance between the homestead and the then upper NY frontier territories is approximately 260 miles (quite far nowadays with cars and planes as well). Then, why the hell should he have a family located in the forest upstate NY? It sounds very unconfortable to run back and forth to reach them and go back to take care of all the Brotherhood matters, doesn't it? Unless he knew about teleportation!!! Also, wow, he lives all alone in a nice massive villa with all the comforts of that time while his children and wife still live in a Native village constantly menaced by settlers wanting to steal their land? Beside the fact that Connor, at least in my point of view, seemed at last very familiar with european way of living by the end of the game, this leads us to the next point.

2) By the time the game and the comic are set (second half of 18th century), most of the East Coast Native tribes were facing the tragic and forced migration to western and northern territories (mostly towards Canada, protected by the British) because of all the consequences of the Revolutionary War (lost territories, failed alliances, settlers advancing and buying their lands and so on). So tells us history, unfortunately. It's a fact. And this is wisely showed to us in the AC3 main game when, after all the Kanien'kehá:ka tribes had left the territory around Connor's village (yes, even those near New York, to be clear) even Connor's own tribe at last migrates west, leaving an empty ghost village. They had remained all along to protect the secret temple, but in the end they as well were forced to leave. So, to me it's highly improbable that in upstate NY, one could still find a tribe and even if so, that Connor would let his family live there and risk their safety everyday.

3) The whole comic plot revolves around the fact that Io:nhiòte has a "special gift"... She inexplicably knows how to read the ground and find animal traces, she also can perform a perfect twisted acrobatic flip in the air and land unharmed to the ground. Do we know why? No, don't ask! xD She simply knows U.U, even if right after the next scene she slips and falls miserably down a cliff xD, but... ok!! Beside that, when Connor is far away to search for some water and is about to be attacked by a wolf hidden in the grass nearby, she sees the whole scene from the eyes of an eagle flying in the sky above her. As I said before, this reminds us of Bayek's (never clearly explained) ability to see through his eagle Senu's eyes and spot dangers and enemies. Now can you tell me why the hell this little girl has super powers and a skill Bayek had? As I said, they are not even directely related, as Bayek is not one of Desmond Miles' ancestor, we know him simply because Layla's new Animus is magical and can inexplicably read fragmented DNA from people who died a thousand years ago (it can also prepair coffee, I think!). So, where did she get that from? Magic? Mysteries of life? Convenient improbable connections for marketing's sake? We'll never know and you should simply accept that and ask no question!

4) From her height, way of speaking/moving/running, I assume Io:nhiòte is at least 8 years old, 8 - 9 minimum. She's the youngest of three siblings, who must be at least two years older than her and than each other (according to a human woman pregnancy timing!). If the comic events are set 12 years after the main game ending (1784, when Connor also starts to train the young ex-slave Patience Gibbs, arriving at the Davenport homestead with Aveline De Grandpré, according to AC IV Black Flag bonus mission with Aveline), so, this means that in that same year Connor must have found hastily the love of his life in a Native village (as if he was easy to open himself with other people after all he's been through), married her, impregnated her and seen her give birth to their first child, all in the same year when (let's not foget! xD) he still is the leader of the Colonial Assassin Brotherhood at the Davenport homestead training novices. Now, this may even be possible humanly speaking, (well, if you force the things a bit and hurry up!) but highly unlikely to happen!! xD

These are the main problems affecting the logic of the comic in my opinion, the points making its foundations crumble apart. Though I'm sure there are many little others to point out, such as Otso Berg "opening" Connor's files... like what? Where did those data come out from? I remember playing AC IV Black Flag and uncovering a file where Abstergo researchers themselves closed access to his memories as there was "nothing appealing to this character anymore"! So, if no more researches were conducted on him since 2013, where did Mr Berg magically or conveniently discovered such data in 2017?

Or... do we want to talk about the cover? It shows Connor in the spirit outfit from the Tyranny of King Washington DLC, which has apparently nothing to do with the comic, since it is set in his present day and he wears his assassin standard robe. Now, I think that can be either a simple marketing choice to make the comic more appealing, as... well, that cover is so cool, let's admit that, or maybe the subtle suggestion that the events told in it are just a parallel Disney-like reality and are not to be considered true at all! xD i don't know, maybe both explanations are right.

I'm sure that the deeper i dig, the more nothing rational I'll find!

If you played the old games, if you know well the franchise and its lore, the true, good, old AC lore, you definitely realize by yourself how that comic is useless and senseless.

This doesn't mean I do not wish an "happy ending" for Connor. But I'd rather accept something coherent with the main game events and AC chronology. Also, it doesn't necessarily needs to be a "happy" ending, as they conveniently created to please complaining fans. I wished for something real... coherent with his personality, acquired life-style and endless sense of duty and values.

Maybe that's what pushed me to write my FanFic novel in the first place, after all... To give him MY OWN cohesive ending, including my love, for love is always needed, I guess.

I'm so sorry if the answer took this long in time and words, but you were warned! ^w^

Though, thank you... Seriously, thank you so much for asking. You made me reflect once more about this matter.

Come visit me again, if you want. Take care

- Rumor Imbris 🦋

P.S. Oh, and if you're interested, this is my "jelousy song", for when things like this trigger my inner witch!! xD