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octalove · 4 years ago

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II: Blood and Ghosts

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: Reader tries getting a clue. part one

“Typically, they steer clear of the Village, but that doesn’t appear to be the case as of recent. Oracle found out about an operation out of a Hadley’s Deli there- standard money laundering, but it also could’ve been linked to the shipment of cocaine that we found at the Yacht Basin.”

“Right. So what changed?”

“A better question would be what didn’t?”

A beat. The contrasting silence that followed jarred me from my thoughts as I glanced over and realized that Bruce was prompting me for an answer. Tim looked expectant and inquisitive, but that was sort of his default expression.

“Oh. Sorry. What?” I said apologetically.

“Maroni.” He said simply. Nothing came to mind. He didn’t express verbal disappointment as he turned back to Tim, but I knew it was there.

“Red Hood has been operating out of The Bowery. Maroni and Falcone are stubborn, but they’re losing. He’s pushing them north.”

“So moving to the Village isn’t expansion. It’s desperation.” Tim muttered thoughtfully.

“I believe so.”

“May I be excused?” I asked. Bruce glanced back to me, studying a moment. Scrutinizing every detail; not deciding whether or not to let me leave- rather, deciding why I wanted to. Then, he nodded. Seems he wasn’t in the mood to ask.

I swept up my laptop and phone, and ascended the stairs from the cave to the manor quickly, trying to escape the eyes boring into my back. Only when the cool, lemon-scented air of the manor filled my lungs did I breathe a sigh of relief. Alone. All I needed was few minutes alone. I scaled the marble steps to my room and shut the door.

I hadn’t told anyone that I saw him three nights ago. That I watched him murder a man in retribution for me. My alter ego, anyway. I don’t know why. Maybe because it would mean having to tell them I snuck away. Having to walk through every detail again; sights, sounds, smells. What Red Hood was wearing and what he sounded like, what gun he was holding and how he held it, what prompted him to fire, how many shots and how he acted when he did.

But if ever there was a time to be high-strung and anxious, it was when you were keeping secrets from Batman. And Oracle. And Nightwing. And Red Robin. And Robin. Damian in particular could smell a lie like blood in the water, and he wasn’t too polite to hold your gaze until he was certain you weren’t hiding anything. That, and the art of solidarity was still foreign to him- even if I did tell him in confidence, he would take it right to Bruce. Possibly the police. Maybe a news outlet or two just because it soothed his vindictive nature. I’d been avoiding him.

Evening bled into night, and I was barred from masked business on school nights, so I couldn’t even patrol to ease the anxious energy. Still, that meant less opportunity for Bruce to analyze my musculoskeletal ticks or whatever the hell he did to tell when I was nervous, so I decided it was a worthy trade-off and resigned myself to independent research.

Who the hell was Red Hood, anyway? Half of Gotham was looking for him, the other half was running from him. I opened my laptop.

His debut was The Viper House, a strip club in Little Italy that also functioned as a human trafficking hub when the owner, Renaldo, needed to buy his wife (or handful of mistresses) a new Blue Nile diamond. By the end, the building had to be gutted. There’s only so much crime scene clean-up can do with carpet.

Next came the kingpins. Blowing open a trafficking operation had a short grace period if you didn’t cut out the source. Italian mobsters, the Romani families, the crews that had built empires on drug and sex trade dropped like flies until they found that their numbers dwindled for the first time since Joker finally bit it. The dozens of loyal men on their payroll decided that empty pockets were better than a full grave, and when it came to the business of death, Red Hood was very persuasive. It went on like that for six months; he amassed men, power, weapons, and tech. Most importantly, a potent reputation. This was due in no small part to his creative footwork; he liked to send messages. One file covered an incident where Alphonso Kuznetsov decided to write Gotham’s new player an open letter in the evening column suggesting that if he decided to bring his business to Port Adams, he might find himself in a ‘watery grave’. Kuznetsov was found a week later when a fishing vessel drug an entire coffin from the bottom of the harbor, padlocked and full of water. He was bound, drowned, and gagged with a copy of the very paper that featured his message. Red Hood must have been in touch with his artistic sensibilities; it was all very Shakespearean.

Of course, these were all just words. Rumors and hearsay. All I knew of the Red Hood from my intimate encounter was that he had a quick hand, an incendiary temper, and he didn’t fucking like creeps. All the makings of vigilante, if you chose to see it like that.

I sighed. Two hours and none of my research gave me any indication of why me. Why the hell should Red 57-kill-count Hood care if some goon told me he like the way I looked in my suit? I may has well have been the veiled threats of Kuznetsov’s evening column for all my inconsequence to him.

But it all kept running through my mind. Backwards and forwards. The vitriol in his voice preluding the barbarity of his reprimand. The way he said little Batgirl, like the crime was that I’d been engaged at all. More than the memory, something was telling me to keep digging. Something dragging me back to Crime Alley with the current of the running blood through Little Italy’s gutters.

I had to do something. And if that something wasn’t going to Bruce, then school tomorrow would have to wait.

The morning went along as per usual. I woke up at six, dawned my Gotham Academy uniform, grabbed a muffin and coffee, completed a complicated and well-practiced secret handshake with Tim (that Dick was secretly jealous of), and was out the door at 6:30, keys jingling in Alfred’s hand.

He dropped me off outside the ornate gothic academy, and I waved goodbye as I skipped backward along the cobblestone walkway. Once his black Mercedes was a pinpoint on the horizon, I promptly turned heel from the front doors, heading East toward the Narrows. Catching the subway there would take me as far as the Knight’s Stadium, and from there it was a short distance to the Alley. I wasn’t exactly inconspicuous in my academy uniform- anyone who gave a shit could pretty confidently deduce that school was in session at 8am on a Tuesday, and no student native to the Alley could afford a private education, so I was bound to draw eyes. I hadn’t packed an extra outfit incase Tim or Alfred got suspicious- that was paranoia puppeteering. I wasn’t used to skipping school. I’d have to make due.

Crime Alley in broad daylight was a brand new experience. At night, at least the smoke unfurling from the sewer grates hit the flickering streetlights and offered an unconventional charm. During the day, it was like shedding light on a foul sin. I was starkly out of place, and even the lapdog-sized rats seemed to know it, scurrying back across gritty concrete when I passed by. I looked for familiar things I’d seen the other night- a run-down apartment complex, a gated liquor shop, a meager but menacing corner-store, busy with glaring laymen reluctantly dragging out their wallets for a pack of cigarettes. I caught the eye of a woman sitting on the curb with a paper-bag bottle for company, and she scowled.

Spurned by the rats, and now by the people, I was running out of options. Sticking close to the buildings that perimetered the square, I moved in tandem with the motion of the locals, so as not to draw any eyes by looking lost. It was an unnerving scape; too quiet for my liking, but just empty enough to feel safely underseen. I made my way past familiar landmarks until I finally stood before the warehouse where I’d been.

I listened; no sound from inside. Even henchmen have day jobs. Jimmying the rusty padlock was just a matter of brandishing a bobby-pin from my hair, and the heavy metal door swung open without much resistance. I cautiously picked my way around crates and boxes, unsure of what I was looking for. Clues, maybe. Proof that he was here and dropped a body in my name, amen.

There was a dark, daunting stain on the floor where Hoffman’s body was. A phantom gunshot echoed in my ears, along with a nauseating sound of flat-back weight slapping concrete.

“Ain’t school in session?” I spun on my heel, meeting the red helm of a towering man draped in leather and armor. My mouth went dry. My right foot slipped back into a fighting stance before I remembered I was in cashmere and plaid, not kevlar. Not that I even stood a chance either way; but at least he seemed to harbor good will toward Batgirl. Wordlessly, I took a few steps back until I was standing over the blood and ghosts of Hoffman’s demise.

“P-please. Don’t- don’t hurt me.” I rasped.

I could play the rebellious, morose teenager and come up with something like it was a dare, or I could offer no explanation and simply cry.

Red Hood’s head tipped one way. His hands were empty- for now. Two heavy-looking glocks hung on his waist. I didn’t want to die on top of Hoffman’s blood stain. There was a level of symbolism there I was deeply unprepared to spend my final moments analyzing.

“Lookin’ for something, darlin’?” I swallowed- unable to say you.

“Wh-What do you want?” I asked.

He laughed, but it was humorless. Lacking whatever key component made laughs so appealing. As though the sound rung off the gravestones of uncanny valley before reaching my ears. “I think we’re both asking stupid questions.” He said. I was fucked. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds, and could out-draw me even if I had a weapon. I had no explanation for my being here that suited a civilian, and my phone was in my bag, meaning help was a world away.

But just as soon as he advanced a few paces, he stopped, and gestured to the crimson beneath my feet.

“Enjoy the show the other night?” He asked, before pulling something out of his jacket pocket and twirling it between his fingers with practiced ease. A batarang.

“You forgot somethin’.”

Cold, knife-like fear erupted in my spine, driven to the hilt. He knew. How did he know? What the hell was I supposed to do? My terror must have shown on my face, because he stopped fidgeting.

“It’s okay, babydoll. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“H-how-“

He moved again, slow, lazy strides until he was no more than an inch from me.

“Who are you?” I asked, figuring if I was gonna die, I should at least know that much.

His hands grabbed mine. The leather of his gloves was cool on my skin, but it barely registered for the closeness of him. I stared at the red bat symbol on his chest, jagged and angry looking. I blinked and looked down slowly as he closed my fingers around the cold metal of the batarang.

“Go home, little bird.” It was a cold, seething demand, his voice snagging on the scrambler to make it sound like a low growl.

“Tell Batman when he’s ready to stop sending his toy soldiers,” His hand went under my chin, tilting my head upward. My breath shook as I drew it, hitching, even though the man before me was faceless. Clean, red monochrome, glinting in the light.

“I’m getting impatient.” *

I walked through the manor door in a daze, the cold steel batarang searing my palm.

Bruce and Damian were in the living room, each invested in their own reading material. The grandfather clock ticked his steady tempo, and I inconspicuously adjusted the bag on my shoulder. Bruce had a steaming cup of coffee on the glass side table beside his leather chair.

“How was school?” He asked, not looking up. My paranoia convinced me it sounded rhetorical, but I shrugged anyway.

“Same old.” A glance, to see if my lie had landed.

Damian was the spitting image of his father. He, along with Tim, operated in the wake of being an only child, so he never did care about how I did in school, or much of anything else in my orbit. If at any point he did, he never thought to ask. Father and son looked like a matching set of dolls sitting there, cross-legged, with dark hair and gaunt eyes, both leanly muscular, and habitually poised; a consequence of being from the upper echelon of each of their respective backgrounds.

“Hey, um, are you going out tonight?” I asked.

“I am.”

“Can I come?”

“Are you certain you want to?” He still didn’t look up.

I blinked. “Um… yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been distracted since the last outing.”

Damian visibly tuned in.

“Oh. Sorry. I had a big paper I was worried about for school, but I turned it in today, so I’m good to go.” I threw him a thumbs up, even though he wasn’t looking.

A beat.

“Very well, then. Nine o’clock.”

I nodded, and headed toward the stairs.

“Y/N,” I stopped, and turned around. He was looking at me now, eyes blue and steady.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you did well?”

“…”

“On the paper.”

I threw him a smile. “The best.”

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haro-whumps · 4 years ago

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Group Whumpees 14: Headway

CW: slavery, multiple whumpees, aftermath of abuse, property destruction, migraine, actually a pretty fluffy chapter all things considered

Tag List: @bleeding-demon-teeth @theycomeinthrees‌ @redwingedwhump @whimperwoods @inpainandsuffering @whole-and-apart-and-between @whump-whump-whump-it-up @whumpingupastorm @newandfiguringitout @lonesome--hunter @looptheloup @icannotweave @deluxewhump @whumping-every-day @yeet-me-out-a-window @what-a-whumpy-world @burtlederp @swordkallya @finder-of-rings @fairybean101 @adventuresofacreesty @arlennil @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @lumpofwhump @thatsthewhump @pinkdiamondprince @shameless-whumper @whump-only @kiretto-laorentze @eatyourdamnpears @whumpzone @bluebadgerwhump @fanastywhump @jo-castle @muffindaddy @whumpsy-daisies

Please let me know if you were not alerted or if you asked to be added to the tag list and I missed you, tumblr’s been messing up badly lately.

Masterlist

Nyla was… conflicted.

But it didn’t do her any good to be conflicted, so she put on her smile, fastened her shoes, and got to work.

Master had been very generous the day before, giving them a truly absurd amount of time to just sit and relax--threat of ghosts notwithstanding. But now it was time for her to resume her routine, as much of it as she still had.

And, since they’d been preoccupied with ghosts, or non-ghosts, or whatever it was Greyson had seen and Master Galo had dealt with, that meant Master Galo’s “crash course on queerness” needed to happen this afternoon. Which, hm, well, it was rather unreasonable to be nervous about it, right? Master was kind, and the last gathering had been a net positive. Maybe it was just because it was something to look forward to, and Nyla was nervous about things to look forward to.

Also there was that dumpster out front and Nyla wasn’t sure what it was for (perhaps another volley with the art pieces?), but she would deal with that when Master ordered her to.

She was passing by the front door when it opened and her heart leapt into her throat. She whirled, stepping back, but a familiarly massive outline stepped in and she relaxed, smile turning a little less forced.

“Welcome home, Master,” she greeted, kneeling as she took his extended hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. He was damp with sweat and smelled like cut grass and warm air. “Did you enjoy your volunteer service?”

“Yeah; it’s gorgeous out. Partly cloudy and kinda hot, perfect early summer day.” Master Galo pushed his wet hair away from his face, Nyla watching the way his arms flexed and moved and observing her own lack of fear response.

Don’t think about it.

“I’m starving though; any idea when lunch is?”

“Apologies, Master, but it won’t be ready for another half-hour yet,” Nyla said, knowing Sasha had only just gotten it in the oven. Her smile tugged at the corners of her eyes, face tight.

“Sweet! Enough time for a shower then,” Master Galo said with a bright smile, loosening some of Nyla’s nerves.

Nyla gave a short bow, hands clasped in the folds of her apron skirt, and took a deep breath as she rose back up, watching Master Galo’s back as he climbed the steps two at a time. Alright then. (He really did have a nice back) Alright then.

Do your job, Nyla, focus.

It’d be easier if she had anything to focus on. She almost wished Master Galo would host something, bring over guests or Guests of his own. Something Nyla could be active for, something that would require planning and management and preparation.

But it wasn’t her place. Master Galo would do as Master Galo pleased and she would facilitate where she could and be good and patient and pleasant and useless if Master wanted her to be because it was fine, it was fine.

“You were right,” Nyla said, voice quiet and weirdly flat for her. Evan looked up at her inquisitively, a winter boot balanced on his good thigh and a polishing rag in hand. “We’re entirely out of things to do.”

Evan snorted. “Told you.” He waved the boot good-naturedly, though smug as a cat,” I mean, c’mon Nyla, it’s barely even summer.”

“I’m bored--I’m, stir-crazy,” she whispered, ridiculously daring but if she didn’t complain to somebody she was probably going to explode.

“I think Greyson is the only one who isn’t--or, well, I mean, there was that whole thing yesterday…” Evan trailed off, and Nyla chanced a small, barely-audible groan.

“What am I supposed to do?” she lamented, and Evan carefully scooted himself sideways, making room for her on the boot bench.

“Come sit and be bored with me. I’m always down to complain about things, and hearing you go at it is pretty new.” He patted next to him, and Nyla glowered at the clean, unassuming wood before plopping down next to him. She huffed, lifting up the hem of her dress and pulling a loose threat taut so she could snap it.

“I just wish he would give us tasks. I wish we’d had the… talk, this morning.”

“Yeah.” Evan handed her the matching boot to his own and she diligently started polishing, feeling instant relief at having something to do with her hands. “Waiting for it… sucks.”

Nyla felt a strange little curl of emotion in her and nudged him with her elbow. “Well, you would know better than I.”

“Hey!” Evan gasped, looking at her in honest shock before laughing, open mouthed and still surprised, and Nyla smiled. “So now little miss perfect is going to scorekeep?”

“Little Miss Perfect, I like the sound of that.”

“We should bore you shitless more often,” Evan said, leaning forward with playful curiosity dancing across his features.

“Don’t get used to this,” Nyla said, turning up her nose and deliberately sitting with pristine posture. “I’m just having a psychotic break real quick and then I’ll be back to normal.”

Evan laughed, and she smiled, a pang of pain shooting behind her eyes as she did but she was having a nice time, so she smothered any wince before she made it. “Well I better take advantage of it while I can, then.”

The sound of the water shutting off had both their heads snapping upwards, despite the fact that neither of them could see through the ceiling, and Nyla’s perfect smile was back in place, tension in her temples. “...It seems you may have to wait,” Nyla stated, setting down the boot and brushing out her apron, gathering herself. She quickly finger combed her hair, smoothed down her apron once again, and Evan caught her around the wrist.

“You okay?” he asked. Ah, she’d fiddled too much.

“Just nervous, I suppose. Nothing that won’t be resolved after lunch.”

Evan nodded slowly, letting her go, and she changed her perfect slave smile to her “don’t worry the family, I’m fine” smile. Like usual, he seemed to buy it, and Nyla slipped her perfect smile back in place with a whirl of skirts and went to serve Master Galo lunch.

He’d demanded that Grey ‘take it easy’ yet again, and Nyla decided, rather selfishly, that that meant she would take his duties as butler from him that day. But then, was it truly selfish, when Sasha would just as likely faint if she was asked to, and Evan couldn’t walk on that leg of his? Lilah was able to do it, sure, but old habits die hard and Nyla couldn’t help but want to keep their littlest as far away from their owner as often as possible. Even though this one was kind.

Then the five of them were crowded together on a couch, Master Galo standing with his laptop hooked up to the TV in front of them. Nyla subtly covered Sasha’s hand with her own, where it gripped her sleeve, and Lilah leaned against Greyson with her legs hooked over Evan’s good one.

“Alright, so, queer shit 101,” Master Galo said with a bright smile to the group, hands propped on his hips. “I am going to attempt to keep things basic while still covering the bases, but please ask questions if you have them. In the great words of someone older than me, I don’t know what you don’t know. And I also don’t know what misconceptions you might have, though given Auntie Bethany, I can make some more or less solid guesses. So, without further ado.”

Master Galo hit a key on his keyboard and the slide changed, “Queer! Our first term, the word used for the entire community of people who are neither cis nor straight. In recent years people who wish to gatekeep, meaning to exclude people from our community, have voiced backlash against the word ‘queer’ as being ‘too-inclusive’ and have recruited well-intentioned but ultimately inexperienced youths to cycle their rhetoric. That is bullshit. Queer is our word, it is a good word, just because ignorant and hateful people are bigoted against us does not mean it isn’t our word, and it’s an all-inclusive label for anyone and everyone who finds their home among us.”

Lilah tentatively leaned forward, hand extended, and Master Galo pointed to her with arched eyebrows. It wasn’t as threatening as Nyla might have once considered it. “What’s ‘cis,’ sir?”

“That is on my next slide, I promise. For right this current moment, just know that queer is the big main umbrella word for everyone. It covers all the bases, all your base are belong to us.” Lilah nodded as Master Galo chuckled at his own joke. Nyla didn’t get the reference, but she recognized that he’d made one.

“Cool, so, you will see many squares with lots of stripes throughout this presentation. You don’t have to memorize anything, I just think they spruce up the slides, but for reference this one is the queer flag. You may or may not be familiar with the rainbow flag, that one’s a little different, we’ll get to that.”

Master Galo flipped slides. “Transgender!” he announced happily, a blue, pink, and white flag on the TV behind him. “You have seen this flag on various articles of clothing and buttons I own. And stickers. In general I have this flag around a lot, but! That is because, I am trans. You know this,” he said, making a broad gesture towards their group.

“The word ‘transgender’ effectively means ‘anyone who isn’t cis,’ and yes I will explain. So! Say there is a little baby, and the midwife or doctor lifts the little newborn body up to examine, and says ‘she’s a girl!’ Now, say, years down the road, that person thinks of herself and says ‘yeah sure I’m a girl.’ That is what’s called ‘cisgender,’ when the gender you were assigned at birth matches up with your own sense of self. Now, say that same baby grows up, but says ‘actually, I’m not a girl.’ That would make that person transgender.

“I am what’s called ‘binary trans;’ I was assigned female at birth, grew up, discovered I was actually a dude, and here we are. Thus, I am called a transman. The same thing happens for transwomen, but in the opposite direction. Transmen are men, transwomen are women, but some people are neither a guy or a girl. They are what is called,” Master Galo switched the slide.

“Nonbinary!” Nyla squinted, tentatively raising her hand, which Evan and Lilah were also doing. “Okay wow, lots of questions, Nyla?”

“I… apologize, sir, but I’m not sure I understand. They’re not a man or a woman?”

“Correct.”

Nyla shared a quick, anxious glance with the rest of her family.

“Okay, don’t worry,” Master Galo said, holding up his hands with a small chuckle, “I will explain. First, Evan and Lilah, was that your question too? Yeah, figured as much, okay. So, I have found the easiest way to visualize nonbinary genders is like this: Say men are blue, and women are red. Or pink, but that’s just a light shade of red, so, anyway, color theory is not today’s presentation. Back on track! If you’re imagining gender like a color wheel, that means some people are gonna be purple, right?”

Nyla nodded slowly. Okay, that made sense. A combination of traits both male and female.

“But, on that same vein, not all other colors are purple. Sometimes colors are green, or yellow, or orange. Men and women do make up the majority of the human population, but not all of it. There’s lot of ways to have a gender, and none of them are wrong.” Lilah raised her hand again and Master Galo pointed.

“How does that--I mean, if you have a vagina or a penis, shouldn’t that be, I mean, hard? To…”

“Okay, okay, good point. Very good point Lilah, I jumped the gun a little. Backing up a bit!”

Master Galo clapped his hands lightly, no force or noise to the motion, and Nyla had the brief thought that the gesture made him look somewhat teacherly. Which made sense, given… everything happening, but there was something distinctive and pleasant about that thought. Hm.

She wasn’t gonna worry about that. Focus.

“So, biological sex and a person’s gender are two seperate things. Often, they go hand in hand. That’s where cis people come from. However, while biological sex is, y’know, biological, gender is a social construct. Which means, it has more to do with perception and sense of self, and nothing to do with your actual physical body. So, since this is the 100 level course, I could frame it as, gender’s in your head and sex is in your genitals, make sense?”

Another round of slow, wary nods.

“It’s technically a little more complicated than that, but we’re not gonna get into that today.”

Evan raised his hand again, and Master Galo pointed at him with a smile.

“So… Sir, do you, have a dick?”

Master Galo’s lips instantly folded in and he raised a hand to cover his mouth, his shoulders shaking a little, and Nyla felt a spike of anxiety, crown of her head feeling taut. But it was laughter, a wheezing chuckle escaping her master when he said, “Uhm.”

He took a deep breath, “So, no. I do not. I don’t really want or need bottom surgery and am comfortable with my genitals the way they are. Bottom surgery is not a necessary component of transitioning, and some people, like myself, don’t have it done. However,” Master Galo continued with a rush of air, “it is generally considered extremely rude to ask a trans person about their genital structure unless you have the explicit intention of sleeping with them. I am aware you meant nothing by it!” Master Galo rushed, hands held up as Evan began to flounder. “You weren’t intentionally being rude, it’s chill. Just, for future reference, if you ever meet another trans person, that’s on the list of questions you don’t ask.”

Master Galo cleared his throat, looking a little red, but in good humor about it. He turned back to his screen with a, “Now, Lilah, you bring up an interesting point.” Master Galo flipped forward a few slides, to a screen with a yellow square that had a purple circle in the middle of it.

“Intersex! Sex, like gender, is not actually straightforward. There are many ways to be intersex, ranging from genital structure to chromosomes to secondary sex characteristics. But ultimately sex, like gender, is on a spectrum. Just because the majority of people fall easily into little categories of, urg, ‘biologically male’ or ‘biologically female,’ which for the record are not phrases you should… use, but since this is an intro to queer shit I’m making this as understandable as I can. Anyway.” Master Galo seemed to gather his thoughts. “Right! People fall into one category or the other most of the time, but not all of the time! And the ‘not all of the time’ people are intersex. Some intersex people do not feel that their biology automatically makes them queer, and do not percieve themselves to be part of the queer community. Others take comfort and community among us, so it’s always up to the person.

“Anyway, flipping back a few slides, nonbinary! This is the umbrella term for everyone who does not fall completely into ‘100% a man’ or ‘100% a woman.’ There are many ways to be nonbinary, but for the record, many nonbinary people prefer to be referred to with they/them pronouns. Not all! But, like how men use he/him, or women use she/her, many nonbinary people are referred to with a singular ‘they.’ I am aware my aunt may have had grammar-based arguments complaining about nonbinary people and gender neutral language, but I promise the singular ‘they’ predates my aunt by multiple centuries.

“Genderqueer,” Master Galo said with another slide, “This one goes hand in hand with nonbinary. Effectively, it means ‘neither fully masculine nor fully feminine,’ and is, as the word ‘queer’ might suggest, an inclusive, broad term for people who don’t have a particularly hard line definition for their gender.

“Genderfluid, meaning that a person will shift between genders depending on the day. So like, some days this person would wake up and say ‘I’m a girl today,’ and other days ‘I’m a boy,’ and maybe some days they wouldn’t feel like either of those at all. Again, this varies from person to person, but the general idea is that they flow between genders.

“Agender, meaning they have no gender at all.”

Again, Nyla, Lilah, and Evan’s hands rose. Nyla was surprised to see that even Greyson’s hand lifted, if only a little, on that. Master Galo smiled with a huff, but Nyla didn’t feel threatened. “Let’s go with Greyson, yeah?”

“How would someone simply not have a gender, sir?”

“So, if we’re imagining genders as like a color wheel, agender would be like, white, blank. No color. No gender. People ask them ‘are you a guy or a girl’ and their answer is a flat out ‘no.’”

Nyla was struggling with that. Nyla was struggling with that one pretty hard. Her brain felt tight. She got the concept, but��

“Master?”

“Yes Nyla?”

“Would it be alright if we understood in theory but not in practice?”

“Yeah, this can be hard for people to wrap their heads around, mostly I just want to introduce you to the concepts. That’s perfectly reasonable Nyla.”

Nyla dipped her head in thanks, her family nodding as well. Master Galo flipped the slide.

“Neutrois. Hand in hand with agender, if we’re using the color thing then, like. If agender is white, then neutrois would be black. People who are neutrois might describe their gender as ‘null’ or ‘void’ and other descriptors of the like. Again, I just want to introduce you to the concept, you don’t need to be able to conceptualize it perfectly.

“Okay last one under the trans umbrella,” Master Galo said, “Bigender. Someone who is multiple genders simultaneously. So, for simplicity’s sake, you could say someone who is both a man and a woman at the same time.” Master Galo smiled at them. “There are many other genders people have, but again with this being the introductory course, I just wanted to hit the big ones. Any gender questions?”

Nyla tentatively raised her hand. Master Galo smiled at her, and his expression took the edge off her anxiety.

“So, we know you, had surgery on your chest, sir,” Nyla said, hoping she wasn’t being rude by bringing it up, “do nonbinary people also engage in,” she floundered, not sure what the word for it was, but she wasn’t going to ‘um’ or stutter (even if he’d said it was okay, she could do better, and she would).

“Some do,” Master Galo mercifully cut her off. “Some people are fine looking the way they do, or use cosmetics to accentuate certain features, and some receive surgeries. It all depends on personal comfort. And also sometimes to alter others’ perceptions, I knew someone who had no real issue with their chest but other people would assume they were a girl because of it and surgery was affirming and helpful with other people’s way of viewing them, which in turn lowered their discomfort.”

“And, sir?” Master nodded. “If a person’s name is, very feminine or masculine?”

“Most of us change our names!” he said brightly, “Like how I picked Galo for myself. Many nonbinary people will also change their names to something a little more ‘neutral.’ Again, not all though.”

Evan raised his hand that time. “You picked your own name, sir?”

“Yup! When I started to transition I changed my name. I should show you all the movie it came from sometime; it’s real fun you might enjoy it.”

“Sir?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“What was your name before Galo, sir?” Evan asked. Master Galo made an unidentifiable noise, but Nyla didn’t think that it was good. Her spine lengthened and her hand left Sasha’s on her arm to clench neatly in her lap.

“Sooo, you don’t get to know that,” Master Galo said, ducking his head with a slow gesture of his open palm towards Evan. “The name I had before Galo is what is called a ‘deadname,’ the name a trans person was assigned at birth that has since been put to rest. Again, I know you are being curious and I would definitely like to encourage you to continue asking questions, but, that’s another one of those questions you should not ask anyone who is not me. Asking for someone’s deadname is considered rude, and referring to someone by their deadname is extremely rude and actively malicious.”

“Sir, I wasn’t--”

“Easy, Evan, I know,” Master Galo said with a patient smile. “It’s good that you ask me these questions, and not someone else, because you’re learning, and I know you don’t mean any harm. But, in sum, the name I had before is not relevant, and it is not something to be shared. Any other questions at the moment? We’ve had good ones.”

A brief bout of silence, and Master Galo flipped the screen to the only flag Nyla did recognize.

“Onto sexual orientations! Sexualities, they’re called. You will probably recognize the gay flag, this is another one of those umbrella terms meaning ‘anyone who isn’t straight’ while also having the capacity to mean ‘someone who is exclusively attracted to their own gender.’ It is a term meant for everyone in the community, much the same way queer is. Yes, Evan?”

“Are you gay?”

“No, actually, I’m pretty much straight. I’m aware that men can be attractive but don’t really feel attraction to them.” Master Galo cocked his head. “You worded that kind of intensely there, you alright buddy?”

Evan was already stiff, and Nyla recognized the way his mouth twitched when he was biting down a snarl. “I’m fine.”

The lack of an honorific made the family tense, eyes on Evan because he was, like a moth to flame, doing something stupid again, but Master Galo either ignored it or didn’t notice.

“Cool. So, along with ‘queer community’ and ‘gay community,’ you may or may not have heard the phrase ‘LGBT.’ This stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender, and is sort of the most widely-in-use acronym for the queer community.

“Lesbians! What would the world do without them,” Master Galo said, flipping to a slide with lots of pinks and oranges. “Nowadays, lesbian is the word for women who are exclusively interested in other women, but historically it was used to describe any queer woman at all, back before bisexual really entered into people’s vocabularies. For the record: nonbinary people can be and often are lesbians. Anyone who has literally any ties to femininity and is attracted, more or less exclusively, to women and people with ties to femininity, counts as a lesbian.

“Bisexual! People who are attracted to 1. their own gender and 2. other genders. Sometimes it’s phrased as ‘attraction to men and women,’ which, for the record, is a fine way for you to conceptualize it here in the introductory course, but I want to be clear that bisexuality does and always has included nonbinary peeps.” Master Galo smiled. “Bixesual is a perfectly good and normal thing to be; there’s nothing wrong with it,” he said, and if Nyla had to guess she’d say he was deliberately not looking directly at any of them in particular.

“Pansexual! Hand in hand with bisexuality, pansexual people are attracted to others regardless of their gender. It can be difficult to distinguish between the two, but for some people the differences between sexualities are important. For some people, not so much, and they identify as bi and pan simultaneously. Again, we fall back on the ‘it all depends on the person’ idea. I will state that pansexuals are not attracted to everyone, they’re just attracted to every gender. Just because someone is of a certain gender doesn’t mean others won’t still find them ugly.

“Asexual! The umbrella term for people who don’t really feel attraction to other people, no matter the gender. We love respect cherish and support asexual people,” Master Galo said, oddly firm on that one. Lilah raised her hand.

“So, they just, don’t? Anybody? Sir?”

“Yeah, so, like, a straight man would only feel attraction towards women, and no attraction to men. A gay man would feel attraction to men, and no attraction to women. A bisexual man would feel attraction to men and women. And an asexual man would not feel attraction to either.”

Lilah nodded. “Okay, thank you sir.”

“However, ace--asexual--is an umbrella term. There are multiple ways to be asexual.”

Nyla frowned minutely, but then her smile was back in place. She wasn’t really sure how there could be multiple ways to not feel attraction to someone.

“There’s the spectrum of sex-positive, sex-neutral, and sex-repulsed asexuals. Sex-positive asexuals enjoy sex, the action, they just don’t think anybody’s hot. The activity is fun, but no one they look at hits that ‘oh hot I wanna have sex with them’ vibe. Sex-neutral asexuals don’t find anyone attractive, and don’t have any particularly strong feelings towards sex. It’s on par to like, going for a jog or having dinner together. Sort of a bland ‘whatever’ feeling. Sex-repulsed asexuals don’t find anyone attractive and do not, under any circumstances, want to have sex with anyone, ever. All of these are good and well! There’s no ‘wrong’ way to be asexual.”

“Next up we have grey-ace. 99% of the time, they don’t find anyone attractive, but every once in a blue moon they’ll see a person and go ‘oh hot.’ They are still asexual, they just have occassional feelings of attraction to seemingly random people. Or maybe they have a highly specific type! Again, depends on the person.”

“Last up for the ace umbrella, demisexual. Demisexual people are capable of feeling physical attraction, but only after a strong, meaningful, romantic bond has been formed. This is different than waiting in a relationship until you’re close. The person does not feel attraction, at all, until a committed bond has been formed.” Master Galo paused, letting them turn that over in their heads, but when no one asked any questions he flipped the slide once more.

“And wrapping up our crash-course on queer terminology, aromantic. Aromantic is similar to asexuality in all aspects, except that instead of talking about physical attraction, it’s about romance. Some people just do not feel the inclination to form romantic bonds with others. They still might, depending on the person, just like an asexual person still might engage in sexual activity, but the attraction isn’t there. They don’t see people and go ‘I’d like to see if this could work out as a romantic relationship’ they’re just in it for friends. Grey-romantic and demiromantic people are, again, much the same, but with romance, feeling that 99% or only gaining the capacity for a romantic relationship after a strong, meaningful, committed bond of friendship has been formed.”

Master Galo took a big breath. “Any questions?” he asked with a proud smile.

Nyla honestly felt like she had too much information rattling around in her brain to even begin formulating a question, but Evan raised his hand.

“I don’t mean to be rude, sir,” Evan said, sounding like he was struggling not to grit his teeth.

“I know. Go ahead.”

“So, since you’re a transman, and you’re straight, then you’re only attracted to women..?”

“Yep!”

“And then, if a woman is attracted to you..?” Evan trailed off.

“That would still be considered ‘straight’ attraction, yep. The woman in question might be straight, or bi, or pan, or maybe ace! It’s all up to her. But her attraction to me would be ‘opposite-sex attraction’ yeah.”

“Was that rude sir?”

“No, no, you’re good, bud. And now you know!”

“Thank you sir.”

“Of course! I’m glad you’re asking questions. Anyone else?”

Another beat of silence.

“Alright, cool, good talk team. To wrap it all up, there are all sorts of ways people can experience gender and attraction, and none of them are wrong. Everything I talked about today is good, natural, and worthy of respect. Go ahead and let me know if you ever have questions in the future, I’m perfectly willing to talk about it.”

He took in a deep breath.

“The queer community has long faced oppression on a global scale. However, many cultures saw queerness as natural and didn’t much question it until, ah, interlopers became involved, and rerouted the course of history. But regardless of acceptance or ostricization, all cultures have their own queer histories, their own words and perceptions.

“In recent years, and I mean really recent, queer people have started making great strides in changing legislation and public opinion of us towards the positive, though we still face a number of obstacles. You have probably noted that I am not fond of police. This is in no small part due to the fact that I am transgender. And then of course people like my aunt and various religious institutions will also condemn myself and my peers, due to malicious misconceptions or just straight up bigotry.

“So I understand why you all may… struggle, with this information, for a bit. But I assure you, nothing is as bad as my aunt made it out to be, and if you ever want to know more I’m happy to talk with you about it.” Master Galo beamed and propped his hands on his hips. “Which about wraps this up.”

The doorbell rang. Everyone, including Master Galo, tensed.

“I think I’ll answer that,” he said. “Uh, dismissed? No, wait, wait here, we’ve got a group project I wanna work on this afternoon.”

Nyla was not in a habit of thanking god for much of anything, but she thanked god for that. Finally, a task.

Master Galo made a pleased noise and a bit of chatter Nyla could identify as friendly, there was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, then the door swinging closed.

She was on her feet and smiling when he returned, leaning his big arm on the doorway and looking happy. “Sweet, so, the stuff we ordered has started to arrive, which leads me to another thing I wanted to talk about!”

Master Galo rounded back in front of the couch where he’d been, clapping his hands together and smiling. Nyla tentatively sat back down. ‘So! I would first like to establish that I am not suggesting you break up your current sleeping arrangement. However, you’re not gonna be able to fit all the stuff you collectively ordered into that one room without it turning into a nightmare, so I’ve thought about it and it’s my idea that you all should have rooms that are your own space. Not to sleep in, obviously, just rooms that you can use to store your stuff and you can decorate them to your own interests and you’ll have a private area you can go to if you need alone time. Sound good?” Master Galo asked, looking to Nyla, to Lilah, scanning over the group.

“You are quite generous, Master,” Nyla said, but no, no, that wasn’t quite right, for him. “Thank you,” she tried again, simpler, far too rude for Mistress, but for Master…

He smiled at her, pat her on the head far too briefly, and said, “You’re welcome. Let’s go check out what arrived, yeah?”

All of Nyla’s dresses, the skirts and top Sasha had ordered from that company, and a couple of Lilah’s things were in the first two boxes, and Evan’s t-shirts and jeans were in the third. “Sorry Greyson, looks like your stuff isn’t here yet.”

Greyson nodded, outwardly impassive, and given that it had barely been his idea to order anything at all that made sense. Nyla and the others followed Master Galo to the basement, their Master helping Evan down and hastening the process, and showed them the rooms he’d selected for them. Nyla hesitantly stepped into “hers.”

It felt wrong. She’d cleaned and examined this room countless times before, but now, standing inside it felt incorrect.

The bed had been folded up into a couch, which was standard for the beds housed in the series of apartments in the basement. The sitting area and kitchenette that existed in the middle of these rooms were indicative that these were for long-term guests, not, not slaves. The closet, filled with more hangars than she remembered, the dresser, the small desk, they were for people, not Nyla.

Except, apparently, they were for Nyla now.

“Oh, shoot, that lock is totally broken,” Master Galo’s voice came from elsewhere in the apartments, “Here, go for this room, then, sorry I totally hadn’t noticed that earlier.”

A broken lock? It was something Nyla had failed to notice, too. Her heart rate accelerated and her head felt tight; Mistress would cane her for missing something so obvious, but she deliberately swallowed and took a deep breath. Master Galo was not Mistress. She couldn’t keep expecting him to act like her.

He was so much kinder. Gentle, and careful, with a sweet voice and warm hands that only ever touched her--

Nyla yanked a hangar off the closet’s bar with far too much force, utterly graceless, and it caused all the other hangars to clatter together and make a right ruckus. Her heart picked back up again, because she was clumsy, noisy, a fumbling little blushing nuisance! She unfolded her first dress and willed herself to remember that making noise was okay, it was allowed now, she could make noise and still be perfect, no one was mad at her, no one was going to come hurt her.

And where was her smile!?

She really was falling to pieces, she thought to herself, pulling another hangar off the rod properly and fitting another dress onto it. Smiling. She was smiling, she was grateful for this unexpected and unasked for privilege (weren’t they supposed to ask for things? Why was this happening unprompted?!), she was graceful and perfect and, fine. She was fine. Her temples felt tight, but she was smiling and composed and fine.

It really was satisfying to see her dresses hung up all neatly, though. When her skirts and sweaters and undershirts arrived, she’d be able to finish filling the closet, and it would look so neat and it would be hers and it was selfish, to be so vain and materialistic, but maybe since Master Galo had ordered it, that meant it was okay?

She rubbed at her right eye and stroked her hand down the material of the first dress, admiring the ruffles around the neckline and the neat, black stripes of the sewn-in green vest. She would get to wear that. She would get to wear all of them, with their pretty patterns and their pleated skirts and their ruffles and lace and bows.

It felt far too pretty for the likes of her.

She wished she knew how to properly show her Master gratitude.

She wanted, she--wanted. She didn’t want to be caned or cut or bleed or cry, but she wanted to do something, something physical, something to show just how much she appreciated everything he was doing for them, to make him happy, like he’d made her happy.

But what did a slave have to give, except her body and her service? He’d already made it clear that he didn’t want either of those, aside from her now mind-numbing chores, and that was hardly something to make him happy. More of just an expected base behavior out of her, out of all of them.

She didn’t know his favorite foods; Greyson never reported any particular signs of delight no matter what Sasha tried, at least nothing that stood out from his regular compliments. She didn’t have any way to engage with his hobbies. She couldn’t kneel at his feet and beg him to hurt her with her lips on his shoe. His base state of friendly and cheery made it impossible to tell what he liked best. The only real, solid thing she knew he liked was when they asked him for things, and it was the receiving of things that Nyla wanted to express gratitude for!

It was the weirdest, strangest, most unfamiliar form of frustration she’d ever felt. Maybe--maybe it wouldn’t count as Attending him if she offered a massage? Greyson was better at it than her, and she hadn’t had much practice in the last decade and a half aside from occasionally working a knot out of Sasha’s shoulder or soothing the nerves out of Evan or Lilah. But she’d been trained properly, and she could quickly skim an internet article sometime to refresh herself.

Oh but if Master Galo figured out she was trying to Attend him, even just a little, he might get mad, and she wouldn’t be able to handle that. She would just have to be extra-perfect for him. Sit and not kneel, smile, be unobtrusive but able to fulfil his every whim or need, maybe ask him for things? But what else could she possibly want that he hadn’t already given her?

She brushed down her apron and left “her room,” walking primly to the family bedroom and pulling out all the clothes from her drawer, which were smaller in number now that her other dress had been sliced open. She went ahead and grabbed Evan’s clothes too, and Master Galo was in the sitting area in the middle of “their rooms” when she walked back. She nodded to him, and he smiled at her before tilting his head and gesturing at the clothes in her arms.

“What’s that?”

“My clothes, as well as Evan’s, sir, from the shared dresser.”

“Oh, good memory,” he praised before returning to his phone, and she couldn’t help but flush faintly under his casual approval. She went into “Evan’s room” and found him sitting on the couch, elbow on his good knee and hands pressed together in front of his face. He looked mad.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly, so faint ideally their Master would be unable to hear. He looked up at her, dark eyes glinting with what she just knew meant trouble, and hauled himself up onto his crutches. He made as though to walk past her, and Nyla turned in confused alarm, which morphed into full alarm when he closed the door.

“Evan! Master Galo is--”

“Right there, yeah I know,” Evan said, voice mercifully quiet even though he flipped the lock. Nyla could scream if she wasn’t rooted to the spot in shock. Evan took the clothes that were his and gave her a brief “thanks” before he threw them on the floor.

“Evan,” Nyla hissed in bubbling horror, staring at the rumpled fabric.

“Hey, it’s ‘my’ room, right?” Evan sneered as he sat back down with a heavy thump, wincing when he jostled his wound. “Which means I can make a mess of it if I want, right?!”

“Evan, these rooms are gifts--”

“That we didn’t fucking ask for. We’re supposed to ask, right?”

“He told us, it’s because we don’t have space in the main room for the things we did ask for!” Nyla hissed, “And keep your voice down!” She didn’t mention that she’d been having the same doubts. She was trembling, clutching her clothes to her chest. “I--I need to go. I need to finish putting my things away.”

She stepped away from him, needing to pause at the door to summon her smile, to suppress her wild shivers, to take a deep breath and gather herself, and when she flipped the lock she heard Evan call after her, “I’m sorry.”

She turned back again, carefully crafted smile slipping, and Evan had his face in his hand, the other clutching the edge of the cushion. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just--sorry. I’m sorry Nyla.” He ran his fingers back into his hair and gripped, hard, pulling at his roots. “I’m sorry.”

Her shoulders dropped, chest squeezing, and she swaned over to him, dropping to her knees in front of him. He startled, letting go of his hair, and she reached up her free hand to cup his face. He closed his eyes as she leaned up and kissed his cheek, and nuzzled his face against hers as he pet a hand down her hair.

“Just try to work through whatever this is before you leave the room, okay?” she asked softly, trying to be gentle with him, to not get scared and frustrated like she normally felt when he got like this. Master Galo wouldn’t hurt him like Mistress did; she didn’t need to be scared, didn’t need to be frustrated with Evan because he had more time now. “Master Galo’s in the sitting area.”

“Yeah,” Evan answered her, finger combing his bangs to the side. “Yeah. Sorry. I will.”

She kissed his forehead as she stood, and was able to summon her smile much easier this time. She rubbed at her right eye, brushed down her skirt, and went back to “her room” to finish hanging up her clothes and arranging her underthings in the drawers.

When she finished, she skimmed her fingers over the dustless wood of the dresser. “Her” dresser. Pink with floral designs, old fashioned and expensive, an ‘antique’ that was as good as new. It was… surreal. She left the room, crossed to her Master, and slipped to her knees, then rump, to sit next to his feet. Her hands folded neatly in her lap, and she blinked away the weird feeling in her eye.

“Thank you, Master,” she said again, wishing she could say it better, express it better.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he said gently, leaning forward in his seat and petting his fingers through her hair. She allowed herself to tilt her head, eyes slipping closed, and she savored the touch. His knee was right there, it would be all too easy for her to lean in and lay her head against it. But no, no, she was better than that. He hadn’t expressed a desire for her to submit to him in that way and she was going to be perfect for him.

“Master,” she started, reminding herself that he liked questions, that technically all times were good times and she couldn’t pester him with too many, “is there a way you would like to be thanked? I am grateful, and want to show it to you properly.”

“No, Nyla, you don’t need to,” he said gently, and he sounded almost sad. “Just saying ‘thank you’ is enough.”

She tried not to feel disappointed. At the very least, she wouldn’t show it. “As you like, sir.”

The others joined them, Sasha sitting as close to Nyla as she dared, Greyson kneeling at Master Galo’s other side, Lilah sitting on the couch in a way that made them all panic slightly but reaped no consequences. When Evan joined them, a noticeable stretch of time later, Master Galo made no comment on his late appearance, only smiled and put his phone away.

“Great, you’re all here. So, about the project I mentioned. You may have noticed the dumpster out front. I would like everyone to please work together and move all of my aunt’s canes, chains, whips, restraints, muzzles, cages, knives, and the like into the dumpster. Anything she used with the purpose of hurting or humiliating you, I would like to see go. I’ve got a power drill and I’m gonna work on her, uh, dungeon, and rip up those D rings in the den and music room, but just, like. Anything you can think of. Anything used with the purpose of you guys’ pain. Get rid of it, please.”

Someday, Nyla would stop being surprised by all of Master Galo’s many surprises.

Even so, an order was an order, and like many of Master Galo’s commands she found this one easy enough to obey. Nyla rose with all her grace, curtsied, and walked a direct path up two flights of stairs to the fireplace in Mistress’s boudoir.

Mistress had never used the fire pokers on Nyla. Lilah, sure, Evan, occasionally, but Nyla had kept herself perfect, too perfect to burn. But the fear, the ever present knowledge that she could burn, at any moment, at her Mistress’s slightest whim, the moment she stopped being flawlessly, untouchably perfect, had kept her tense as a coiled wire. She stopped by the main floor’s fireplace and grabbed those pokers too, one set in each fist, and all too gleefully hoisted them into the dumpster out front.

She diligently visited every fireplace in the house, after that, removing everything that could and would have burned her, had she not kept herself perfectly poised on her self-made pedestal. Evan was in Mistress’s room, Lilah the den, Sasha the music room. Greyson, Nyla wasn’t sure where he’d gone, but wasn’t going to get bent out of shape over it. She rubbed her right eye, then temple, and returned to the basement.

Master Galo’s power drill was loud, making her wince and the space behind her eyes sting, but she entered the Punishment Room regardless. He’d collected a small pile near the door: the shackles he’d removed from their anchors in the wall, the thin mats Nyla was pretty sure were intended for yoga that had served as sleeping pallets to the two cells, the oil and wax sconces and dishes that had hung from the walls and ceiling. The wooden horse. All of the tools, the whips and floggers and knives. Nyla gathered up an armful, and Master Galo paused in his drilling to smile at her.

“Hey, thanks.”

“Of course, Master. Do you require any other assistance?”

“No, I think I’m good. Dismantling my evil aunt’s evil shit is kinda cathartic, really.”

Nyla bowed, and trotted back up the steps with her load of chains and whips and manacles. It was satisfying to hear them clatter down into the dumpster. She felt weird. Good?? Strange.

“Oh, are you hauling stuff for Master Galo?” Evan asked. Nyla nodded with an affirming noise. “Great, so he’ll stay down there. Lilah, hand me that cane, Grey, don’t throw that in yet.”

Nyla looked and saw that Greyson had brought the dog cages up from the utility room. Greyson cocked his head at Evan, but set them down on the drive. Evan, crutch under one arm and heavy, metal cane in his dominant hand, proceeded to beat the shit out of the cages.

The family mostly just stood there, and watched, as he reduced the cages to little more than messy heaps of broken wire. He was panting, hard, by the end of it, and tossed the cane into the dumpster.

“Did you reopen your--” Lilah asked, cut off by Evan’s, “I’m fine.”

“Okay, it just looks like you might’ve ripped a stitch out, from all’a that.”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t have done any differently,” Evan said, laughing a little and pulling Lilah in for a hug. “Fuck, that felt really good. You guys should try that.”

“I think th-that’s a y-you thing,” Sasha remarked, and Nyla chuckled. Then giggled. She rubbed at her eye, and headed back inside to grab another armload from the basement. She got the wooden horse up under her arm and shimmy-stepped her way up, the thing large and cumbersome but she couldn’t wait to get it out of the house. Greyson helped her lift it into the dumpster, and Nyla grabbed a third round.

It was on her way back down to grab a fourth armful that the pain struck her, right as her foot came down on the top step. She recognized it instantly for what it was. Ordinary pain was, in a rather hard to describe manner, very different from migraine pain. It was impossible to confuse the two.

A migraine. She was having a migraine. Oh of course, her head had felt tight all day! And her eye, that was her aura, oh, she was so stupid! How could she not have seen this coming?

Oh, god, the pain was settling in fast this time, too. It never set in all at once, but the speed was less gradual than usual, right then. She whimpered. The basement would be no good. Master Galo was using power tools down there, right across the hall from the family bedroom. Her normal migraine spot, under her nice, dark, quiet bed, wouldn’t work this time.

Think, she had a limited amount of time before the pain got bad. Where should she go? The butterfly room? That was nice and dark, no windows, but would it be quiet? She naturally gravitated towards the idea of a bathroom, where the tile would feel cool against her forehead and she could turn off the lights. Upstairs, probably, she went upstairs, hoping to escape the noise of things landing in the dumpster and her family moving and talking around her. Near the back of the house, not the front, not near the driveway. The bathroom off the lilac bedroom? She went straight for it, closing her right eye since she couldn’t really see all that well out of it.

God, it hurt so bad. She closed the door, plunging the bathroom into merciful blackness. It was quiet, just what she needed, her family and Master would be busy for a while yet, they wouldn’t need to come looking for her. She could just stay where she was, curled up against the bathroom floor, in the dark, in the silence.

God, god it hurt.

And she knew it was only going to get worse.

Galo had the bars unscrewed and the dungeon stripped down to nothing more than walls, the floor, and an archaic looking chandelier that he did not have the electrical expertise to deal with. He needed someone with, like, training to deal with that.

Nyla hadn’t come back for a while yet.

Which, okay, it was a big house and she probably had plenty of grudges to act out against inanimate objects, but it was weird that Nyla of all people would start helping haul away the stuff he piled up and then stop midway through. It wasn’t like her.

And when Galo’s brain told him to worry, he was starting to come to terms with the fact that it was usually right. Did it count as anxiety when it was true?

He hauled up a load after scanning the basement, and finding no one there. He got rid of the evil library books as he paced through the first floor, as well as the armchair from the den. He found Greyson and Evan, but no Nyla. Hrm. He asked if Greyson would please take care of the D rings in the den and Evan volunteered himself, which, whatever worked. Upstairs he ran into Sasha in the music room, and he pried up the D rings like he said he would since she didn’t exactly seem like the type for power tools, and was glad to hand the task over to Lilah when she gravitated towards him, leaving the drill in her capable hands.

But where was Nyla?

It was ridiculous to think that she’d been kidnapped by Barbra but Galo couldn’t help but jump to that conclusion. He stalked through the second floor, trying not to be visibly distressed lest he upset the other slaves, but running out of places to look. He opened the door of a guest bathroom, if only for the reason that it was closed, and his eyes widened with horror to see his girl lying in the fetal position on the floor.

“Nyla!” he shouted, rushing forward and dropping to his knees. She flinched, worse than he’d ever seen her jump, and curled in tighter, a muted scream passing her lips, and Galo’s panic bubbled over.

“Nyla, Nyla what’s wrong, what happened?!”

“Please!” she begged, sounding so small. “Please, please no, migraine, Master, please stop!”

Oh--oh. Oh, and his yelling would only have made it worse.

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, guilt consuming him as he bent and caught sight of her silent tears. “What do you need, what helps?”

Galo didn’t know anything about migraines, other than “head hurt.” He knew they were awful, horrible things, and Nyla deserved to never ever have one. But he didn’t know--would medicine help? Was this one of those things that nothing helped, and she’d just have to wait it out? How long did they last? An hour? Should he touch her?

“Painkillers. Dark. Quiet. W--” she choked on a sob, high and pained and Galo’s heart broke into a thousand pieces. “Water, please, cold.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll go get painkillers and a glass of ice water? Do you--is the bathroom good? Is this a good place for you to be?”

“My bed,” she whined, hands over her eyes and body trembling faintly.

“Okay,” Galo said, mindful of each word, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. “Can--can you walk? Should I carry you? Should I touch you at all?”

“Just, don’t rattle me, please, don’t--hit my head, please, Master--”

“Never,” Galo breathed, and his heart broke all over again, to know that she still feared him so much, that Nyla had so little trust that she thought he would ever hurt her, much less when she was like this. “Never, Nyla, please, please believe that. I will never hit you.”

Nyla’s breath hitched, a little gaspy inhale, and then she slowly reached one hand out, and gripped Galo by the pant leg. Galo froze, standing on the edge of a brand new precipice, and tried to make his brain work, tried to think fast for once in his goddamn life, but his brain continued its sloth impression and he couldn’t process what this meant, though he felt its importance.

“Help me,” she begged, though it felt more like an admission than a plea.

“Please, I don’t want the others to see me like this; I hate it when they see me like this,” she continued, and that felt closer to normal.

“Okay, okay, I can’t promise we’ll be able to avoid them but I’ll try my best. I’m going to pick you up now, alright?”

“Okay,” she whispered, barely moving her lips, but he understood why she wouldn’t want to nod her head, right then. Carefully, he gathered her up in his arms and stood. She curled in immediately, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, and he felt like he was holding the most breakable, easily-shattered entity in the universe. He felt a surge of protectiveness, a bone-deep need to take care of her, to make it better in any way he could.

When they passed by the music room, its door open and Lilah inside with the drill, Nyla whimpered and pressed her hands hard against her ears. She wasn’t just pressing her face into his shoulder at that point, it was like she was actively trying to burrow into him, curled up so tight and stiff against him he felt she might shatter. He moved away from there as fast as he could, wanting to spare her everything he was able to. He tried to keep his gait smooth as he walked, slow on the stairs, and he actually did manage to avoid running into any of the others slaves.

He settled her down onto the cool sheets of her bed, wishing the slaves had softer pillows and wondering if he could get them any without them freaking out about it, and settled a palm between her shoulderblades.

“I’m gonna get that glass of water and those painkillers. Do you need anything else?”

“The blinds,” Nyla gasped softly, and Galo shut the blinds of the tiny skylight tightly, angled up so practically no light filtered in at all. He moved quickly, giving Greyson a probably-unconvincing smile as he passed him, but Nyla had asked that the others not know, so Galo wasn’t going to say anything. When he returned, he helped her sit up and handed her the medicine and the cup. The cool water seemed to help.

Galo knelt by the bedside, elbows and forearms laid out in front of him on the mattress and his chin on the sheets. He stared worriedly at Nyla’s face, and wasn’t even thinking when he reached out and stroked a hand over her hair.

Realizing halfway through what he’d done, he snatched his hand back with a quietly hissed, “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to touch your head.”

“T--” Nyla swallowed, “Touch is fine, Master. Just, no… patting, or, percussion. Touch feels, good sir.”

“Yeah?” Galo whispered, no more than a breath. “Would you like me to stay with you?” he asked quietly, stroking a gentle palm down from the back of her head to mid-spine.

“...Yes,” she admitted tremulously. “But--they last a while, Master.”

“Shhh,” Galo hushed, “I’ll stay. The others are busy and they’ll be fine, just focus on you for a little while, shh.”

Galo pet gently at Nyla’s hair, her shoulders, her back, needing to reposition a couple different times as certain parts of his body got tired or sore or lost blood flow. By the end of the first hour, Galo’s anxious concern had burned itself out, and the mild worry that remained was going to bat pretty hard with his boredom. By the end of the second hour, he’d fallen into a light doze and had been there for a while, his hand covering Nyla’s much smaller one, his thumb stroking very, very slowly over the skin on the back of her hand. He was fully asleep by hour three, Nyla’s fingers curled around his tighter than she’d ever dared before, so what a shame that he was asleep for it.

His impromptu nap came to an abrupt end when Nyla shifted, eyes flicking open but otherwise staying exactly where he was. Oh his neck was gonna have a SERIOUS crick in it.

“Nyla?” he asked softly, “Do you need anything?”

She shook her head slowly, and he perked up to see her voluntarily moving it. “It’s mostly gone now, Master.” She sat up very, very slowly, rubbing at her neck, and Galo mirrored her from his spot on the floor.

“Okay, that’s good,” Galo said, still speaking quietly, “Is it like, a fade-out kind of thing?”

“Yes sir,” she said, slowly stretching out her legs and wincing a little.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Sore, sir. And hungry, and--exhausted.”

She sounded tired. Galo was pretty sure he’d never heard her sound quite this tired. Carefully, watching her face for any sign of a negative reaction, he reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’ll get you something to eat, yeah?” he offered softly. “You can stay here and rest.”

Nyla shook her head again.

“I can get up, sir. I don’t want to trouble you and the others will have noticed our absence and I need to walk out the stiffness and eating here would get crumbs in the bed, Master.”

Well, Galo could only really argue with one of those, but doubted Nyla would buy that she wasn’t causing him any trouble anyway. He stood, his own body protesting the movement, and stretched his arms up high above his head.

“Thank you.”

Galo glanced down, letting his arms drop, and smiled kindly when Nyla didn’t continue.

“Of course, Nyla, I’m here for you if you ever need me.” Then, because Galo was allergic to Emotional Moments, “Sooo, are we telling your friends we got abducted by aliens for the last,” he glanced at the time, “three and a half hours, or?”

Nyla giggled weakly, which, ten points to Gryffindor!

“I don’t mind them knowing, sir. It’s just when I have the migraine that I…”

“Okay, that makes sense,” Galo said. Not wanting to be seen while vulnerable.

So what does that mean that she let me? he thought with a flip in his stomach, but pushed the thought from his head.

Sasha seemed anxious when they entered the kitchen, but interestingly enough that anxiety did not seem to spike when she caught sight of Galo. Though that might have been because she simultaneously caught sight of Nyla, who was, as near as Galo could tell, Sasha’s main comfort in life. Best friend? Were they best friends? They might be best friends.

Galo wished he knew more about the lives of the people he Literally Lived With.

“Migraine,” Nyla said with a tight smile, by way of explanation, “Master Galo helped me.”

That did successfully key Sasha up, and Galo smiled, lips pressed thin. He should leave. His presence was an intrusion and would only make them feel like they couldn’t talk freely.

“I’ll leave you to it, then?” Galo offered, moving away from Nyla and sliding his hands into his pockets. Open. Nonthreatening. He knew when he wasn’t wanted.

“You don’t have to, Master.” Or maybe he didn’t. “I’m sure you’re hungry too, sir.”

Nyla sounded uncharacteristically nervous, but that also made sense. She was vulnerable, at the moment, fresh off a migraine and not at her absolute best.

So why was she asking him to stay, then? He wished he knew what she was thinking.

“Yeah?” he asked, searching her face and then Sasha’s, who seemed more shocked than anything. “Okay, cool. We can eat together.”

It was stiff.

Which, yeah, expected. Nyla apparently got peanut butter cravings post-migraine, which, huh! Who knew people got cravings after demon headaches, not Galo!

Sasha did not like that Galo was there. Galo did not fault her for that one bit. Nyla was coming down off a migraine and Galo was preventing Sasha from fussing over her, and Sasha really only seemed to know what to do about him in the mornings because they’d had their nice routine and Galo really didn’t hang out in the kitchen beyond that. He should, like, dedicate some time to Sasha. Lock himself in the bathroom and let her sniff him through the door, he thought with a private chuckle to himself.

He now understood why Lilah had asked for extra kitchen stools, since there was quite literally only the one. Galo had the closest thing to an argument that he’d had, with Nyla, firmly insisting that she be the one to seat herself, then awkwardly stooped over the counter with all his bulk and height.

“Ahaha,” Galo ‘laughed’ self-consciously with a rub to the back of his head. Maybe he should’a sat after all. “Sorry, don’t mean to loom imposingly. Really, I can just… head out.”

Sasha looked away, lips thin, but Nyla’s eyes remained on him.

“You, are not all that imposing. Sir.”

Galo blinked, and was peripherally aware that Sasha was now also looking at Nyla like she’d spouted a second head. Nyla was flushed, and staring at Galo’s shoulder rather than his face, but swallowed and continued.

“When you first arrived, the size of you was frightening, sir,” she said, her voice quiet but Galo was far too enraptured to have missed even a single word. “But you kept Barbara from stealing me, and rescued Evan, and yesterday you gave Greyson both comfort and lenience.”

Nyla reached out her hand and placed it, very delicately, on top of Galo’s on the counter, Galo’s eyes tracking the movement in a fashion that might be described as gobsmacked.

“You have always been kind to us, Master. Stay.”

“Oh,” he said, as something important clicked in place.

#whump #slavery #slave whump #gw #nyla #galo #greyson #evan #sasha #lilah #migraines #aftermath of torture #multiple whumpees #mine #writing #my friend and her husband both get migraines and let me pick them for research purposes #i'm so sick of looking at this #*flings it into the void of tumblr* take it

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ellewritesathing · 5 years ago

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Is It Love?

Summary: Demons don’t fall in love, do they? Especially not with pretty baristas that haven’t any interest in them ... right?

Word-count: 2.3k+

Masterlist

A/N: kinda crazy to think that Infernal is finished for now?? but you guys really love my fluffy clay boi so here’s some straight up fluff that is so sweet you might get a toothache tbh

Demons didn’t fall in love. Depending on who you ask, they didn’t feel emotions at all, but Caliban knew that wasn’t true. Demons felt everything so intensely that they became bored of it. They were volatile, oscillating between highs and lows at the blink of an eye. Demons were Molotov cocktails of emotion, just waiting for something to ignite them.

And then you fucked everything up.

No, you said, you wouldn’t go out with him because you had a strict policy against dating bad boys that had been in place since your first year of college. As if you knew anything about how bad he was. He took the rejection and his coffee with a smile, before walking out the door and stealing the first BMW he could find.

Was it cliche? Yes.

Did it make some very satisfying groans as the metal wrapped around a tree? Also yes.

At the time, he didn’t know why it bothered him so much that you’d said no to him. You were human. You weren’t even his type - just a pretty barista at the only cafe he could find that made his coffee strong enough without burning it. Maybe it was because the coffee only tasted right when you made it and he was just projecting.

Maybe he was just full of shit.

Other than giving you his order, he didn’t say anything else to you for weeks. He was a demon but he wasn’t a prick after all. But one night, he was there later than usual, lost in the pages of his latest book, when you set a large to-go cup on his table.

“Sorry, angel,” you said with a smile. It didn’t quite reach your tired eyes. “We’re closing now but here’s one to keep you warm out there.”

“I must have lost track of time,” Caliban said as he closed the book and started to dig the wallet out of his jeans.

“Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell my manager if you don’t,” you said, waving him off. Caliban tilted his head to the side and parted his lips to say something clever he had yet to come up with when you beat him to it. “You’re here all the time, Caliban. I think if we used punch cards you would’ve qualified for a free coffee a while ago.”

“Well,” Caliban said. He had a funny feeling in his chest, and the worst part was that it didn’t make him feel like committing acts of vandalism. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; almost anything made him feel like vandalism. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” This time your smile did reach your eyes and you laughed to yourself before adding, “Literally, I guess.”

The next time Caliban went to pick up his order, a little handmade punch card was waiting on top of his coffee for him, your handwriting scrawled over the top. Ten ridiculously overpriced cups of coffee later, and it was you and him alone in the coffee shop. He’d waited until the end of your shift, trying to get as close to that chance encounter of last week as he could.

He held the punchcard between his index and middle finger as he flashed you a devilish smile. Catching your eye, he lowered the card to the counter and slid it across to you. “So what do I win?”

“A free cup of closing shift coffee,” you said, turning to the machine and dipping your head to the side as you thought about something. “That you can drink here while I clean up, if you want.”

“A conversation with a pretty girl and a cup of coffee or the chilling walk back to my motorcycle.” Caliban pretended to think about it. “Whatever will I choose?”

You laughed from behind the counter and rolled your eyes. “Settle down there, James Dean.”

Instead of trying to say something witty, Caliban obediently pulled a chair up to the counter. He watched as you worked, not minding the attention he gave you as you did. Hands quick and nimble, relying more on muscle memory than active thought to work the machine.

Over one very strong, very black coffee, he learned that you’d never left Greendale but you were working at the coffee shop to save enough money to leave one day. You learned that he’d been all over, and your face lit up whenever he answered your questions the way you’d hoped. As you cleaned the machines and he swept the floor, he told you about his favorite books and you told him about yours. You talked about music and the best hypothetical name for an indie band that only wrote songs about caffeinated drinks.

(The Transient Coffee Beans was your best pick, The Bland Bastards was his.)

The tightening in his chest when you locked up the store made him want to set something on fire. He didn’t like these feelings - they were insufferably human - and he needed to do something explosive to get rid of them, or at least that’s what he told himself when you turned to give him another smile. You let him walk you to your car, cursing the cold but refusing to use the jacket he offered you.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you groaned, kneeling next to your car. You felt around the deflated-looking tire and pulled out your dust-covered hands after a few minutes. Looking ready to cry, you turned and sat on the parking lot floor, back against the tire and head tilted up to the night sky.

Caliban didn’t know what to say. Demons weren’t known for their empathetic listening skills, and it wasn’t like he’d ever tried to comfort anyone before. “Do you have a spare tire?” he asked when his horrible feelings started eating at his stomach in the silence.

“This is my spare tire.” Weeks, maybe months, of seeing you working with the most high-strung customers and borderline incompetent trainees and Caliban had never heard your voice sound so strained. You took a deep breath and looked over at him. “You don’t have to stay here, you know. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Caliban said, shooting you a smile that was very carefully lazy and mischievous. It made you laugh. It made him feel gut-punched. “If you want, my motorcycle’s right around the corner. I could take you home and you could fix all this out in the morning light.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly in a way he’d never seen in the coffee shop. He tried not to seem affected. “What’s in it for you?”

Caliban shrugged, looking around. “Another fifteen minutes with you.”

You thought about it for a second before shaking your head and holding your hands up to him to pull you up. You weren’t even a breath away now. “Don’t crash into anything or I’m going to start spitting in your coffee.”

“Deal.”

You absolutely obliterated Caliban with questions before you’d even take the helmet from him. Nervousness was a cute look on you, as was the slightly lopsided helmet on your head. Caliban’s fingers lingered slightly under your chin after tightening the strap for you, but all you did was smile before climbing on the seat behind him.

Your arms wrapped hesitantly around his waist, but your grip tightened as soon as he pulled off. Every time he sped up or took a turn, Caliban felt your arms snug around him. It was a dangerous line to drive between reckless enough to keep you close and so reckless that you’d let go and never come back.

It was pathetic.

At one of the lights, Caliban stole a moment to look down at your hands. His shirt was wrinkled into bunches around your deathly tight fingers. You consciously relaxed them and sighed behind him, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment. It made his heart skip a beat.

Like he was in a goddamned schoolboy fantasy.

You were shaky as you climbed off the bike, clumsily getting to your feet and fiddling with the strap under your chin. Caliban didn’t say a word as you handed the helmet back to him; he was too busy staring at your helmet hair. The word ‘adorable’ came to mind, as did ‘arson’ and ‘absinthe’.

“Well, thanks, James Dean,” you exhaled when he took the helmet from you, hands touching on the underside. “I might get flat tires more often.”

“I do have a name, you know,” Caliban said with a not so carefully crafted smile.

“I know. Quintuple shot espresso, no flavor shots or cream and, for the love of Mary, don’t ask if he’s sure,” you said, with a not so carefully crafted smile of your own. “At least, that’s what I tell the trainees.”

“Bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”

You laughed and rolled your eyes as you started taking steps back to your apartment building. “I’ll see you around, Caliban.”

Demons didn’t fall in love, that’s what everyone in Hell always said. But Caliban had left that life of torment and punishment behind for the mundane life of making art and committing crime. Any sort of thrill to dust off the familiar rush of adrenaline and ignite some sort of emotion.

And then you fucked everything up.

Okay, you said one day as you set his coffee in front of him, here was the deal: you’d go out with him, he’d pick you up at seven but if he was even a minute late then the whole thing was off. He said he understood, thanked you for the coffee, and jumped off the first bridge he could find (sure to teleport before crashing into the river below).

He knew full well why the jumps and petty crime didn’t make him feel better. For one, they were shit coping mechanisms, but, more importantly, the feelings he had for you couldn’t be extinguished like a kitchen fire.

His feelings were gasoline and you were a raging fire.

They burnt bright and hot when you held his hand. Red-hot and violent when you kissed him. Sickeningly electric when your fingers traced his scars and told him he was beautiful. If demons didn’t fall in love, then what the fuck was happening to him?

What was happening when you held him at night when he couldn’t sleep? (Butterflies. Or a heart attack, more likely). What was happening when you hid your face away every time he asked to paint you? (Stubbornness. He painted you anyway). What was happening when you drank a cup of coffee he made you and tried not to spit it up so as not to hurt his feelings? (Laughter. Also a promise to never, ever make another cup of coffee again).

And what, if you excuse his language, the absolute fuck was happening to him now that you were away, visiting your family for a few days?

He’d never been this restless in Hell.

In Hell, he’d build a sandcastle just to smash it to bits if he got riled up. He’d find some poor soul to torment. He would never, ever cut the sleeves off his shirts just to burn the leftover scraps. He wouldn’t spend hours molding the perfect pottery piece just to break it back down to a lump of clay. And he sure as anything would never, ever drink this much coffee and eat this much takeout.

It was embarrassing. It was unsightly. It was so very human.

And yet none of the dumb yet legal things he did got his mind off missing you - the only solace he got was the nightly video-chat you shared. He was absolutely disgusting. No better than the foolish lovers that washed up on his shores, joined at the wrists and praying for eternity.

Not that he was thinking about eternity.

Not that he was thinking about much of anything when he heard the door click open and a duffel bag drag across the floor of your joint apartment.

Caliban tossed the book to the side as he threw his legs over the sides of the couch. You were complaining as you made your way to him - could he believe the amount of traffic at this time of day? Jesus, he’d think it was the Second Coming with all the fleeing out of the city - but Caliban didn’t care. Messy hair, wrinkled clothes, snarky upper lip; you were perfect.

And you were home.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and twirled you around the tiny apartment, accidentally knocking the table that marked the entryway in the process. Your arms tightened around his neck as you pressed a kiss to his temple before turning to check that it was only the keys that landed on the floor in his frantic need to be held.

“Woah, calm down, James Dean,” you laughed when he eased you back down to your feet. “I wasn’t even gone for a full week.” You ran a hand through his matted curls and Caliban could swear he’d never felt more at peace. “Miss me that much, huh?”

“Hard to find a decent cup of coffee when you’re not around,” Caliban mumbled, lips grazing yours as he leaned his forehead on yours.

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics but didn’t pull away. Instead, you moved your hands to either side of his neck and pulled him closer. “I missed you too,” you admitted after giving him the kiss he’d spent days thinking about. You took his hand in yours and led him to the kitchen. “Let’s make you that cup of coffee before the world ends.”

No, Caliban thought to himself as he watched your tired hands work a machine of a job you’d long-ago quit, demons didn’t fall in love.

Luckily for him, when he was with you, he was something else entirely.

Tag List: @caliban-is-my-girl @t-a-i-l-o-r-m-a-d-e @music-movies @miss--moose @marrypuffsstuff @harryscarolinaa @igorsbby @foji2000 @mschfavngz @artaxerxesthegreat @thxmagic @luquincy @strawberriesandknives @xealia @hotmessindisguise @olivia-west-allen @sweetrogers @reheated-coffee @shelby-x @perseny-blog @millie-753 @luneerius @shizzybarnaclee @lettherebelovex

#caliban #caliban imagine #caliban x reader #caos #chilling adventures of sabrina #is it love?

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suntrastar · 4 years ago

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abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. ��Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

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gayenerd · 4 years ago

Text

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie

by Tom Lanham

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not).

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids.

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true.

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake.

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!"

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers.

* * *

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not?

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time.

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves.

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job.

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living.

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead.

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right?

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly.

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs.

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so...

TC: Sickening!

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too?

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10?

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music.

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls.

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]?

MD: At work, doing their own thing.

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her.

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school.

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable.

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs.

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky.

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food.

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen.

Why name your disc Dookie?

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer."

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine.

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"?

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland!

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night.

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie?

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you.

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label.

Is Green Day angry?

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry.

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible.

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently?

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie?

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building!

* * *

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract.

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set.

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude.

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura.

* * *

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless.

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed.

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids?

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want.

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways?

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything.

=Was this something you went through personally?

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything.

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show.

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week!

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move?

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

=I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you...

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

=OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction...

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?"

=And you let just anybody touch it?

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced.

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut.

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89.

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones.

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it.

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too?

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time.

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"?

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!"

=As they say, you can never go home again.

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?"

=And if that teacher could see you now!

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself.

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own?

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give.

* * *

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham

#article #interview #articles #billie joe armstrong

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mxsinistir · 5 years ago

Note

May I request a Good Omens Gabriel x Human! Reader please?

Pairing: Gabriel x [y/n]

Warnings: n/a besides the fact that the bad writing ™ becomes worse writing ™ towards the end bc it’s 2 am while I’m writing this.

Summary: Freelance London Photographer [y/n] is friends with the bookshop owner Aziraphale, and happens to be sitting in one day when a mysterious stranger enters to have a meeting with her friend. Suspicious, this artist is ready to find out as much as she can about the man.

Word Count: 2390

(tried to keep this gender-neutral but tell me if I screwed this up anywhere bc I probably did)

Hope you enjoy!

***

The first time you met him was whenever you were inside A.Z. Fell & Co., discussing a book you’d just read and returned (since you were aware he despised the permanent purchasing of his collection) over two cups of hot chocolate.

The moment he entered, you were intrigued. You turned your head to watch him saunter in, and some part of you screamed deafeningly that whatever he was, he did not belong here. That was saying something since unusual people were not uncommon in the little London bookshop. You’d known Aziraphale’s eccentric friend Crowley for quite some time now.

“Aziraphale,” His voice was hearty, one you should have taken comfort in hearing. But in addition to his picture-perfect, incredibly fake smile, it set your nerves on end. “May I have a word?” Part of you decided this was your chance to run from the off-setting visitor, but that would leave your friend alone with him.

“Hi, I’m [Y/n],” You shoved a hand into space between you, “I don’t believe we’ve met before.” He looked you up and down, your eyes unwavering until he met your stare. His eyes - your stomach flipped, oh god his eyes - bore into yours, and you nearly recoiled when you noticed the color. A glassy purple with no signs of contacts. Just unexplainably rich violet that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

“Gabriel,” He said, shaking your hand with a grip that was just a little too strong. You were too proud to coddle your sore hand, though. “I need a moment with Aziraphale.”

“Sorry, can’t,” You couldn’t leave Aziraphale with him! What if something happened? You’d picked up that Aziraphale had been involved with some sketchy people before, and what if this guy happened to be a well-dressed gang member? Well . . . well dressed wasn’t exactly the way to put it. You didn’t know what look Gabriel was going for, but it just added to his overall wrongness.

Besides, Aziraphale and Crowley had always remarked on your excellent intuition. Warning Aziraphale about bad customers, giving Crowley advice on problems he hadn’t explicitly explained, knowing that both your friends were thinking at a given time - and at this time, Aziraphale felt very, very anxious about Gabriel waltzing into his shop.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” He half-snarled, his fake smile faltering.

“My bike got stolen earlier,” You explained, casually turning to drink the rest of your cocoa before it went cold. You also needed something to hide your growing smile. “I told the police to drop it off here when they found it.”“Are you sure you didn’t miss them during your chat?” He said, “I swore I saw a bike parked in the front.” You stepped past him, putting your nose against Aziraphale’s window. Sure enough, a blue bike was leaned against the glass pane.

“Well, silly me - Guess they just left it and had better things to do.” You laughed, turning back to smile at Aziraphale and Gabriel. “See you later, Zira!”

You walked outside, planning on walking home. You weren’t going to take some random bike from in front of the bookshop just because some guy had snapped and made it appear for you.

You didn’t own a bike.

***

The next morning, before you even had the chance to ask questions about the purple-eyed man, Crowley had come into your studio, mentioning that he was bored, due to Aziraphale’s sudden occupation with work. Aziraphale had never been truly busy since you’d known him.

“Crowley, do you know a Gabriel?” You asked, not looking up from the photo you were currently editing the lighting of, trying to decide if you could amend the conflict between the clashing color palettes. If anything, Crowley just hoped that you were too occupied with your work to even notice that you opened your mouth to ask the question. A few seconds ticked by, and then you stared up at the redhead.

“Yeah, I know him.” He said under his breath, “He’s a friend of Aziraphale’s. Definitely not a friend fo mine. I’d keep your distance.”

“What does he do?” Even without being able to see his eyes through the glasses, you sensed the panic in them as he proceeded to mumble out an answer.

“Paperwork,” He steadied himself, easing into the lie now. “Some company Aziraphale used to work for. I think he’s kind of a jerk, but he and Zira go way back, so I don’t intrude.”

“Funny, I thought the bookshop had been family owned for a hundred years?”

“Part-time job, maybe?” Crowley stammered out. You just rolled your eyes.

“Is Aziraphale in . . . is he in any danger with this guy?”“What? No, no, [Y/n], you’re just being paranoid.” You weren’t so sure. You’d never heard Crowley so nervous about the subject of someone, and you’d certainly never heard of him willing staying out of Aziraphale’s affairs. It was common knowledge that he was the nosiest man in London, especially when it came to his friends. “Seriously, Just stay out of his way and it should be fine.” He had a certain voice he used when he wanted you to believe things were fine, even if they weren’t.

“I’ll just ask Aziraphale since apparently, you won’t explain.” That little taunt was usually enough to make Crowley spill everything. Not for this, apparently. “He listens to you, Crowley. Just make sure he doesn’t get hurt.”

Just because he didn’t say the promise doesn’t mean she didn’t see him make it.

***

The second time you saw Gabriel wasn’t at the bookshop, but on a bench in St. James’ Park. You were currently looking over some pictures you’d taken of the vibrant area, the photographs dotted with jogging passersby and fluffy ducks that reminded you of Aziraphale. You stood up to walk by, snapping a few more when your camera focused in on a not-quite-familiar face.

“Gabriel,” You said, curiously approaching the benched man. “Fancy seeing you here,”

“[Y/n], is it? Aziraphale’s . . . acquaintance.” Who the hell used the word acquaintance anymore? You thought. “Is there something you need?”

“Just came to clear my eyes - I’ve been staring at this one picture I took for Aziraphale last week.” You briefly explained how one of the customers had split their coffee on one of Aziraphale’s old wall paintings, which he had sat on the table to clean the walls behind it. He had been furious, and though you knew you couldn’t possibly replace the expertly preserved painting - ruined by only human clumsiness - you’d offered to gift a photograph to him. Though he was obviously still disgruntled over the lost air, he did say that even something modern would eventually become history. You’d gotten to work. “I’m supposed to bring it to him this evening.”

“I was planning to speak with him this evening as well, actually.” The man remarked.

“Well, if you wanted, you could com toe hang out at my studio for a while.” You had a feeling that no matter what, this man would try to keep up appearances. Meaning he would accept your offer, even if only not to appear rude. Thanks to some information you’d gotten out of Crowley, you now knew that you wouldn’t be in any real danger as a human inviting him to your studio. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t be expecting the onslaught of questions you had for him.

“That sounds great,” He said with clenched teeth, and so you just smiled and packed up your laptop and camera equipment, making sure to walk beside him all the way back to your flat.

The square footage wasn’t much - you were honestly surprised you could manage to fit two people inside at once. Beyond that, every inch of the place was stacked high with frames and camera equipment and printed portraits. Your bed was usually just the couch by the window, and even then, you more often than not just fell asleep at your work desk, head draped over crossed arms.

“I’m gonna be a little bit - I’ve gotta play with some finishing touches, and then I’ve got to print it.” You explained - Aziraphale had given you a faux-gold 18 x 21 frame, nearly identical to the one bordering the ruined painting. “You can sit on the couch if you still want to hang out. You okay with music?” You asked casually, bringing him a glass of water. You may be suspicious of him, but your mother had always stressed the importance of hospitality.

“Do you like music?” He thought for a moment, staring blankly before nodding as if he’d been assessing whether or not it was the correct response to say so. “Queen?” He looked even more confused but nodded again. You synced your Spotify to a small speaker and set it to shuffle, sliding into your chair as We Are the Champions began to play. You snuck a glance over at Gabriel while mouthing the words and concluded he was possibly the only person in the world who didn’t know the lyrics. If anything, that just confirmed your suspicions of the man.

Gabriel, on the other hand, was just as confused by you as you were by him. When you’d first met, he hadn’t known how to react to you. You’d stood up to him with no background knowledge, purely because you thought he had ill intentions towards your friend. Humans were always willing to throw themselves at things for no reason, but you were different - you had a reason, and that reason was nothing more than intuition to protect those you care about.

And now, you’d carelessly brought him into your apartment - if he could even call it that. It was a glorified storage closet, filled to the brim with art and junk and beauty. He’d never been exposed to such a mess; heaven would have never tolerated it. He couldn’t even imagine that Hell was this chaotically organized.

He could barely focus on that. How could he anymore, when there was you to look at? Smiling truly and losing yourself in the music blaring, snapping your fingers with bad timing, singing the guitar riffs, and constantly standing up just to pace around while mouthing the lyrics.

You walked around him more than a few times, asking him random questions while leaning far back to see what your photo looked like from afar. He eventually saw that it was of an eggshell white duck in St. James, curiously floating alongside a dark goose that had landed in the waters. He could have scoffed at the symbolism, wondering if you understood the irony of it all yourself.

Gabriel had never seen so much life in one plac.e It radiated from you, from your camera, from your fingers. It felt raw and unexplainably human, and not in the way that disgusted him with its mediocrity. There was nothing mediocre about you. You oozed with some sort of high that no angel could ever dream of finding themselves on. Angels were too flawless for something as uncontained as the day-to-day life you lead.

During the middle of one of your lyrical outbursts, you glanced over at Gabriel. He was drinking tea now, staring out into London from your window, sunbeams casting over his dusty hair and stunning eyes. Without a word, you pulled your camera in front of you and stepped towards him, snapping photos of him a quick succession. He whipped around at the sound, just quick enough to see you smiling.

“Stay where you are - the lighting’s amazing.” You said, steadily walking closer to the man. He truly was a vision in an element like this. You leaned back to observe the picture he’d found himself in. “Do you think you could give me one with your wings?”

And just like that, you watched the Archangel Gabriel freeze to the core as you shuttered a few more photographs.

“Come on, everyone knows Aziraphale isn’t human.” And of course, there was no way Crowley could keep a secret like that once he was sufficiently drunk. “And besides, humans don’t usually make this pretty of muses.”

He unfurled his wings gently, being careful not to knock over anything. All three pairs appeared in pristine, white condition, though when the window light scattered them, they reflected a spectrum of glistening violet.

He nearly asked to confirm that you were human, though he knew the answer. No one but a human could accomplish this - a demon nor an angel could live in such harmonious chaos with their own little world, dancing to the raw beauty of it all and flourishing in the flaws you did not perceive as such.

Gabriel had never felt love - a sort of ‘love for all humanity’, of course, but not the thrumming in his heart he felt now, looking at you in your element, high on the artistry of what you saw in him. On what no one else had ever seen in him.

“I could have a photoshoot with you, you know.” You said, looking at your camera screen. “You look great on camera.”

“There’s still a few hours before I need to meet with Aziraphale,” He lied - he was two hours behind schedule, not that that mattered. “He’d told me about this bakery beside his bookshop that he apparently adores.” He didn’t even like food. It didn’t matter - he figured you would.

“Am I being asked out by the Archangel Gabriel?”“That’s strong wording-”“I’m famished,” You smiled, and as you walked over to your computer, he expected you to print and frame your imperfect perfection. Instead, you just saved the photo and eased your computer shut. “I can make something here, though. I don’t want to leave. Does the Archangel Gabriel want to watch a movie?”

He was about to make a snarky comment about your sarcastically calling him that, but he paused as you did the unexpected. You settled down on your couch right next to him and smiled. That was enough for him to decide that his meeting with Aziraphale could wait till morning. To hell with Heaven questioning him - him of all people - being off schedule. He would deal with that in time.

Right now, all that mattered was that he was sharing in on an artist’s high, and he wasn’t ever coming off.

#good omens #good omens gabriel #archangels #archangel gabriel #gabriel good omens #gabriel #good omens x reader #gabriel x reader #goom #i love artists x gabriel #gabriel x human #good omens imagines #gabriel imagines #archangels gabriel imagines

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wildlyminiaturesandwich · 5 years ago

Note

I'm curious to hear your thoughts on the announcements from Maxis Monthly? Did the Game Changers know about or have any say in the rebrand?

Ok so I’m gonna answer your last question first lol

The title “Game Changer” is definitely a little confusing because it implies that we actually change the game in some way, but we don’t. Well, most of us don’t. I think some of the bigger Game Changers have a little sway because they know the team personally and have been to the Sims Headquarters and stuff, but for the most part all we do is get early access so that we can provide our individual communities with a glimpse of the pack that goes a little more in depth than just trailers, that way people can see what’s included and decide if they want to buy it, and hopefully bring more people to the franchise in the process. And we definitely didn’t have anything to do with the rebrand, we heard about it at the same time everyone else did.

As for your first question, I’m gonna put it under a cut for a couple reasons: [a] Listen, I have opinions lol and [b] for anyone that is like me and is sensitive to colour contrast, I don’t want anyone getting a nasty headache or sore eyes if they don’t have to. Let’s do this!

So first off, LOVE that they’re adding over 1000+ decorative world objects! There have been so many things over the years in different packs that I’m sure we’ve all seen and been like “Why didn’t you let us use that!?”, and now we’ll be able to! Sucks that some creators spent so much time liberating those things for us only to now have their work be obsolete though 😕

I also think the Create-A-Sim Story Mode looks interesting. I don’t like the idea that you can’t change the sims aspiration and traits though; they’re locked in once you’ve finished answering the questions. I’m not sure how much use I’ll get out of it, as I tend to either pick specific traits based on my sim’s backstory or randomise them, but it’s nice to know the option is there and answering the questions might be fun to see what kind of sim you get!

Now, onto the rebrand.

I just don’t understand it!

Listen, I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t like change; I don’t do well with big changes at all. But this isn’t about that, this is about trying to understand why EA felt the need to rebrand The Sims 4 (which I can’t work out) and why they chose those colours, and I just… don’t understand.

I mean I understand, they’re trying to attract a younger audience with bright shiny things. But I don’t UNDERSTAND, you know? I don’t understand what prompted them to do it now, after almost five years?! Why did they feel the need to change something that didn’t need to be fixed at all? And why they went with this particular colour scheme! It’s so unnecessarily bright! As a graphic designer I’m genuinely horrified by the colours they chose and as a consumer of their product, I’m a little annoyed that they spent time and money on this when there are other things that are more important (like things that are actually broken) that keep getting the “We don’t have the resources” excuse or just flat out ignored.

Here’s the difference between the original box arts and the rebranded ones:

That blue is GOD AWFUL! It’s like Tumblr’s new blue background; I literally have a headache from looking at it! It doesn’t fit with the style of the rest of the game at all. And they claimed in the stream that the new box art designs really make the render sims “pop”… they really don’t. The backgrounds of the DLC packs are way too busy. I just I don’t understand why they couldn’t just stick with the nice clean, minimalist look they had before; it was truly a timeless design. A design that actually made the render sims pop and didn’t detract from them at all with busy backgrounds and headache-inducing colours!

Oh and can we just talk about the new base game box art render for a second? I love it, I really do. It looks cool and I’m excited to get to learn more about these new sims that are being added and according to the Gurus in the stream, all of the stuff on those sims is being added to base game (the stuff that’s not already base game that is). I’m excited about that pink hair BUT take a good look at all the other stuff… look familiar? That’s because most of us have already paid for that stuff. The jacket on the pink haired sim is from Get Famous, the beanie on the sim next to her is from Get to Work, the hair under the beanie is from Dine Out, the bracelet on the sim with the camera is from Seasons, the chef uniform in the middle is from Get to Work, the jacked on the sim up the back with the phone is from Get Together, and the sleeveless hoodie on the sim to the left of that is from Fitness Stuff. They’re all recolours of stuff from other packs. I’m all for free content, because hey it’s free, but I really wish they wouldn’t make things from other packs base game; people paid for that stuff.

Side note: I feel sorry for the people who collect the psychical copies of the games, because unless they can afford to buy new copies of all the packs, any new packs aren’t going to match their old ones now. And also the people who got tattoos of the old plumbob 😕

Which brings me to the plumbob, and yet another before and after:

The new plumbob is whatever; I don’t hate it, I just prefer the original. It matched the one in game and suited the artstyle of the whole game really well, whereas the new one looks too much like The Sims 3 and doesn’t suit The Sims 4 at all. It’s also not going to match the plumbob in-game anymore as for some reason they decided not to change that one? I mean it wouldn’t matter to me if it did because I always have my default file edited to get rid of it, but it just makes no sense to leave the original in there if you’re changing everything else.

New box art, plumbob and stuff aside, the thing that probably annoys me the most about this rebrand is that the pack icons and colours are changing. I get that they probably ran out of colours to choose from for each pack, but the fact that it’s so hard to tell the difference between the colours for the game and stuff packs is gonna be a problem for anyone who has difficulty distinguishing between different colour tones. Mr Sandwich, for example, couldn’t tell that there was a difference between the two, even after I pointed it out to him. Why didn’t they make one of them yellow?!

I personally used to find things from expansions in the catalogue by looking for the colour of each pack icon. “I know the thing I’m looking for is from Get Famous, so I’ll just keep scrolling until I see a pink icon”… well, not anymore:

All expansion packs are now teal, all game packs are now blue (a different blue than the box art blue I might add 😩), and all stuff packs are green; the only difference is the icon on them. And yes, I’m aware you can filter things by pack, that’s what I used to do for stuff and game packs because they were always the same colour, but if I’m just scrolling through say the curtains category, it’s a lot quicker to just scroll once or twice looking for an icon colour than it is to go into the little menu, click on “packs”, scroll down to the pack I want and choose it.

The new pack icons and colours also look awful on the main menu. Here’s a little before and after again:

Urgh that blue! There as nothing wrong with the original menu but now we’re gonna have the god awful blue again… not the point, sorry. Look at those icons! They’re too… saturated? busy? both? I dunno what but they look awful, especially on the blue background! At the very least they should have just made them one solid colour instead of trying to carry over the crystallized look.

And lastly the loading screen….

Again with the gross colour combinations and the background is just plain boring. The old one is much nicer and easier on the eyes.

Maybe it’s because I’m old and not the target audience for this new look but honestly I JUST DON’T GET IT! I understand that EA are trying to attract more people to the game, obviously younger people, but I really don’t think alienating and confusing the people who currently play your game in favour of luring in new people is this is the way to go about it.

Thankfully I’ve already seen a couple of the amazingly talented modders in the community say they’ll do everything they can to either give us back the original menus and loading screens or make a less obnoxious version as soon as they can, so I’m just gonna keep my fingers crossed that it won’t be too difficult for them to do and look forward to downloading those mods so I can play without getting a headache every time I have to look at the main menu and loading screen 😅

NOTE: Before anyone starts shouting at me for “being negative about a free update” just note that anon asked for my thoughts on it; these are my thoughts. If you like the new look that’s great, I’m really happy for you! But anon wanted my honest opinion and I’ve given it. Will this rebrand stop me playing the game? Of course not! The game is still the same no matter what the box art and menus look like, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them and it doesn’t mean I can’t express my disappointment about it all, especially if a follower asks for my opinion about it.

#sandwichasks #Anonymous #saviourhide

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localinferiorgood · 5 years ago

Text

BNHA Modern Gang AU

*I got bored on a car ride and kind of got overexcited imagining and planning out this AU inside my head so uh, yeah. I should also note that I ultimately decided they would not have quirks in this AU*

General Stuff: - I’ll be referring to the gang as Gang X for now - The kids would go to school and everything like normal kids but after school would have gang training (physical and in weapon use (instead of having quirks) - I want all of the major events of the show to still be incorporated in the AU, in some way - And I want all the kids to have the same personalities and relationships, because its not a BNHA AU if all the characters have different personalities (also I love my babies so) - Everyones “Hero Names” in the show are now their gang names - Instead of striving to become the #1 hero, they’re striving to eventually take over and become the head boss of the gang (at least Bakugo, Deku, and Todoroki are)

School: - So I was imagining the kids would go to a nice private school paid for by the gang - Also a major sports school - It would have mostly normal kids but have 2 classes (in each grade level) filled specifically with the gang kids (like the hero course; the normal kids would be based off the general track in UA) - There are rumors that the school may have gang ties, but no ones ever really been able to prove it - The school nurse (they call her Recovery Girl because it seems like she can take any injury in 15 minutes flat; she even takes care of broken bones and major injuries) and the principal (Nezu; not sure what would be unique about him yet, as he obviously can’t be a mouse in this one) and the gang-class teachers are all aware of the ties to the gang and are in it - So to properly encompass and justify Class 1-A and Class 1-B’s relationship, I was thinking both classes could also be in sports(maybe volleyball,baseball or basketball(require a lot of teamwork) but anything would probably work)?(it would be mandatory as physical training and to strengthen their bonds) - I can’t decide whether I would have Class 1-A be varsity and class 1-b be JV of the same sport or both varsity of different sports.

Support Course/items: - So.... this wouldn’t be an extra class physically in school, but the kids training to work on support items would go to the same private school - Hatsume is still the prodigy - Support tailors weapons and sometimes clothing/other stuff to fit specific people - Like they can tailor a specific gun to fit your hand, and can lower how much the gun kicks. They can do the same for knives, tailoring them to be the perfect length and weight for the user, as well as fitting perfectly in their hands. This goes for all weapons as well

“Gang Training”: - This is basically training to be able to be a competent gang member (most kids that get into the private school end up being higher ups) - They do basic physical training (I mean in hand-to-hand combat it helps to be strong, but also to handle the kick from any gun) but also with basic weaponry - The guns they use for training look, feel and have the actual kick of the gun they’re using but only actually shoot paintballs (Mr. Aizawa is a tough teacher but it’s not very rational to kill off all of your students lmao) - They train with all kinds of guns and ammunition, to get a feel for what each one is like and what they like. Aizawa requires them to train with all anyway though, as he believes you should be able to pick any random gun off the ground and shoot it with perfect efficiency and aim. - There’s safety measures for swords and knives too, but I haven’t trained with those so idk what those would be lol

All Might: - I was imagining he would be the boss, or head of the organization, since he’s #1 hero (at least in the beginning) - Like in the beginning of the show, he is secretly sick from an old injury and can only fight for so long before he starts coughing up blood. - He’s still revered as not only the best gang leader ever but also one of the most amazing fighters the underworld has ever seen - But, as he gets older he still needs to find a worthy successor, as he’s definitely not immortal - Believes the boss should still be actively involved in the gang, fighting alongside his men and while some people think it’s foolish, everyone respects and likes him more for it

All Might & Deku: - Obviously, Deku is still his secret chosen successor (or the one he wants to succeed him anyway but it will, in the end, go to the best candidate no matter what) - Deku was (distantly), probably through his father who’s in America, related to Gang X. His grandpa told him about it before he died, and all about All Might, the most impressive man in all the underworld, and has wanted to be just like him ever since - Soooo......I’m not entirely sure about how this part should play out, but I’m thinking maybe Deku was sick? And just couldn’t afford the really expensive procedure? (I’m pretty sure in the show Deku is middle class? So we’d keep it that way) - He by chance meets All Might and asks if he could ever be like him, even with his sickness, and All Might says no - Not sure what would go on to change his mind, but something happens, and All Might decides to pay for Deku’s hospital bills, heal whatever was going on, and personally start physically training him. Probably would make him clean up the whole ass beach still lmao - After the “entrance exam” (the physical part which happens after the standard school written at a secret location), Deku gets in by the skin of his teeth

Endeavor&Todofam: - uhhhhhhhhhhh........ - So he’s always wanted to be gang leader, but has always been behind All Might - He’s even tried duking it out with the boss a couple times but never wins - Not sure if I would make him head of the second most powerful branch of the gang or second in command - Either way he still not-so-secretly hates All Might, although he does grudgingly respect him - Wanted to become better than All Might, not get the top spot from All Might weakening, so he’s still pissed when All Might has to retire and he’s technically the boss now - So, I haven’t been able to decide what Rei had that Endeavor wanted(since no quirks) but I still want it to be a fucked arranged marriage. Maybe she came from “good bloodlines” (like notoriously strong and smart /or people, whether her family was arranged in gang stuff or not) or maybe she was just very pretty and when she refused him, he literally bought off her parents? - Still raised Touya and Shouto specifically to be All Might’s successor - Touya still wasn’t good enough for some reason and something happened to him (weak bones maybe?) and he’s still dead in this AU (or is Dabi whatever the truth really is) - Rei still had a psychotic break and burned Shouto’s eye with boiling water and is in a hospital

Top 10 Heroes: - So I want the top 10 heroes to either be the leaders of the 10 branches of the gang, or the top 10 members of the gang (they have a council or something)

Work Studies: - So in my old high school we were allowed to have a work study class, where we left campus for that hour and worked somewhere of our choosing, - Work studies were a big part of character development in the show so I’d like to keep those if possible - To make things less suspicious, work studies are required for all students (I mean let’s face it of entire classes all had work studies and others didn’t it would be weird). Also, since it’s a nice private school, I can totally see where they’d want the kids to go out and have “real world experience” before leaving high school - I would probably keep the fact that first years typically don’t have work studies (our school didn’t let freshman have them) but they’re trying something different this year - Of course the gang classes would be sent to various gang members (I think they’d still get to choose who, but idk maybe it would be more interesting if the teachers chose for them? - The general classes would go to whatever work study of their choosing, probably based on the careers they want to go into

Sports Festival: - Literal school sports festival - Limited only to those school students, i think - Gang members interested in work studies would come watch and scout - Would it be as internationally famous as the UA sports festival? i dont know tbh

Summer Camp & The Wild Wild Pussycats: - Not sure if here they would be purely working on physical ability and maybe martial arts or on weapons and stuff too - It would depend whether or not the Pussycats knew about the whole gang thing(or if they were involved in it) or were just regular physical trainers with no connection or idea about the gang thing - Kota......I think I would have his parents die in a gang-related accident and, obviously, hate anything to do with gang activity (which is normal anyway). If the Pussycats were not gang-related I’m not sure how the whole Deku-saving-him thing would go down but oh well - The League of Villains would be attacking still, to kidnap Bakugo (for whatever reason)

League of Villains (Gang Y) & All for One: - In a world where there are no “heroes” and “villians”, they obviously can’t go by that name (I mean I guess they can but I feel like that would be kind of stupid and odd) so we’ll go with Gang Y, for now - All for One can’t be immortal in this one, so maybe the gang name just keeps getting passed on from successor to successor? Or he’s just stupidly old(like 100 years old and still kicking ass)? - So, in the underworld, obviously no one is really “good” so to speak, I assume Gang X would still be involved in basic drug deals and stuff like that, but think Gang Y would be involved in some really fucked up shit. Like slave trade stuff maybe? Blood money? - Gang X and Gang Y have been top rivals since both of them started (around the same time) - Gang startup story would be the same as the beginning of the AFO and OFA rivalry in the show (2 brothers with different ideals) - AFO still ends up in jail after the legendary battle in Kamino Ward - So......I’m having trouble with Shigaraki’s backstory since quirks aren’t a thing. Like obviously it would still be a horrific accident but.....yeah you get the point (haha it sucks trying not to spill manga spoilers) - Toga’s backstory would pretty much be the same I think - Spinner would have some deformity or something (since he can’t be a lizard) justifying his backstory - Twice is hard for the backstory thing.....but I would still have some traumatic event that caused him to do the contradicting voices thing - Nomu’s would maybe be like, brainless humans? Still look like flesh and blood humans but essentially be brain dead and only do what AFO tells them to do? Not sure but I’d still like them to be the result of human experimentation. - In Kurogiri’s case.........not sure tbh we’ll work on it - Speaking of Kurogiri, he is like, get away driver/escape artist of the millennia. It’s like him and the rest of Gang Y just disappear into thin air. Even the police have tried to track him but? he’s just....gone? He’s still team mom, by the way, and really the only reason the Gang Y survives tbh (Credit to @tears-of-an-otaku )

Stain: - Goes after and kills gang members (especially higher-ups) that he deems “corrupt” (ones that sit back and make underlings do all the work; rapers; betrayers; ones that are only really in it for the money; etc) - Puts chemicals on his weapons that immobilize his victims; The blood-type thing is still the same (works longer/better on specific blood-types) - Iida still goes after him for disabling his brother, and Deku finds and follows him, and Todoroki ends up coming as back up. - They still don’t get the credit for defeating him “for safety reasons”

Chisaki & Eri: - From a rivaling gang - Not sure how they find out whats going on but they do - Eri, at the very least, is still severely abused, but it would be cool to be able to incorporate using her blood to make some kind of drug - Not really sure about much in this story arc tbh it’s so quirk-based it’s kind of hard to incorporate without them :/

The Licensing Exam: - Another sports festival, but this time with other major sports schools - Gang members come to scout as well - In this one though, the other kids are just competing in a sports festival, but the teachers of the “gang classes” are also watching to determine whether or not their kids are ready to take on more “hardcore”/serious work studies (or even internships), where they would be able to experience what it’s actually like to be in a gang a little more in depth and practice real world fighting (and of course their special skills) - Special thanks to @tears-of-an-otaku for helping me figure this one out!

The Kids: - Like I said I want all the kids personalities and relationships to be the same - Jiro is still super into music and can still play (at least a little bit) a bunch of instruments; She has unnaturally good hearing too. - Bakugo obviously can’t explode things with his hands anymore but has a dangerous interest in explosives (he was actually recommended to join the Support team but he rudely declined); still tells everyone to die on the (way too) regular; also still has the best reflexes in the class - Deku is super strong. Our sweet boy doesn’t look it but is strong af - Koda, still quiet as ever, is super good with animals (but afraid of bugs) - Momo is super good at designing and creating stuff and is very inventive(can always find a solution to a problem); She was also recommended to help in support but she (politely) declined; Still team mom - Iida’s a great runner (probably best at long distance but good at jump about anything)! Back in middle school, he was an absolute track star, but now-a-days with school, his class sports, and gang training, he doesn’t have time for track as well :( ;Still class president and team dad - Kaminari is still our lovable dumbass but is really good with electronics and wiring anything. - Shinsou obviously can’t actually mind control, but he’s a super smooth talker and can convince almost anybody to do anything for him, so it can kind of seem like he controls people. - Kirishima is an icon when it comes to defense training, he can block almost anything. He also never seems to get bruises. The rest of the class lowkey hates him for it because while, at the end of the day, they’re covered in bruises, Kirishima’s got maybe one (but usually not even that). He dyed his hair because he thought it made him took tougher and less boring - Aoyama is still into the ridiculously shiny, which is horrible for stealth practice, but he has this trick where he (maybe with a bracelet or something? Or a belt bc of his iconic belt in the show) can blind his opponent with the light reflecting off the metal and go in for an attack in that moment. It’s surprisingly effective. - Oijiro may not have a tail, but he still excels at martial arts.He even rivals Bakugo (he might be able to win if Bakugo played by the actual martial arts rules that Oijiro was taught but he won’t) - Sugar makes Sato really energetic really quickly! (and for some reason makes him focus better). He’s still a super good cook and baker - Shouji still wears a mask all the time (he has a medical condition with his mouth that’s kind of gross and tends to scare people). He “talks with his hands” using sign language! He’s been teaching the rest of the class, as Aizawa said it was a very useful skill to have, especially in a situation where they need to be quiet but still communicate. - Hagakure, for whatever reason, is amazing a stealth missions! She’s somehow really good at blending into the background and even Jiro can’t hear her when she walks (unless she’s really focusing on it). Top of her class in it, actually. - Mineta still isn’t that good in actual battle but is really good at simple immobilization (sorry the only thing I could think of for him even a little bit related to his quirk). - Ururaka (while not as strong as Deku), is surprisingly, incredibly strong. She can pick almost anything up and make it seem like the thing’s totally weightless (even when she’s actually struggling, something Deku can’t do) - Sero is the master of Duck tape really good at fixing stuff! It seems like he can fix almost anything; Him and Momo team up a lot when something breaks (which, in Class 1-A, is surprisingly often *cough* Bakugo *cough*); (Sorry, couldn’t really think of anything for him either but tape=fixing things? maybe?) - Mina is really into chemistry, specifically corrosives and hazardous mixtures. Her and Bakugo once teamed up after school and tried to make something - Aizawa said if they ever teamed up to do anything in the chemistry lab again they were going to be banned from it; Mina still has pink hair - Tokoyami has a pet raven that follows him everywhere-literally everywhere. It was a problem at first, but the school eventually decided to let Tokoyami keep it as long as it wasn’t making a mess anywhere and not attacking students (everyone else is lowkey mad about it like why does he get to keep a pet? Nezu tries to pass it off as an “emotional support bird” but everyone knows that’s bullshit); The bird (whom Tokoyami’s emo ass named Dark Shadow for some reason) can actually attack on cue! Actually, he kind of constantly has to be watched otherwise he might attack someone on the random (it’s happened; he seems to pick up on Tokoyami’s emotions somehow and if Tokoyami gets mad well.....; He has in particular had trouble Aoyama and all his sparkly things); The bird can actually send messages too! Tokoyami refuses to say how or why he trained his bird to do this but since no one expects such an old fashioned way of sending a message, it’s extremely useful for high secrecy messages (and packages; actually the actual gang has used it a time or two, a fact Tokoyami is secretly proud of). (Credit to @agaxso) - Todoroki is, not quite an expert, but has a weird amount of knowledge on arson and burning things (not sure why a gang would really need a skill like this except to burn bodies beyond recognition but Endeavor specializes in it so it must be useful somewhere); He also has an extensive knowledge of using polyoxacyclobutane mixtures(liquid nitrogen definitely and maybe some other things?) to freeze things at whatever temperature (I think he’d probably shoot bullet-like things out of a modified gun; Freezing the target when it hits. Here’s a link explaining basically how polyoxacyclobutane works); He has practice with the modified gun from training with his father, but his mom was the one that originally taught him how to make and use the bullets properly.(Credit to @agaxso) - Monoma can do anything almost perfectly after watching someone else do it once. Unfortunately, he has a really horrible memory so he only retains the information for like an hour then has to watch them do it again. Still an annoying asshole - Kendo is tough as hell! Specifically has really tough hands/knuckles. The One Punch Man of class 1-B, she is literally known for being able to knock people out in only a punch or two. She once smacked Monoma and he had a wicked bruise on his cheek for 2 weeks. She still maintains that she “didn’t even hit him that hard” - Awase is an amazing welder! He was another candidate for the support team, but after some consideration he declined - Tetsutetsu, like Kirishima, has ridiculously tough skin that never bruises, and has amazing defense - I don’t really know enough about class 1-B to finish this unfortunately - Aizawa and Vlad actually put special time aside for the kids to practice and hone their specific skills and learn how to put them to use in battle. After all, you should use everything you have in your arsenal in real battle, and unique/special “skills” can be extremely useful in battle and often pack the element of surprise and can easily but you above whoever your fighting, (especially if they don’t have any special attacks)

Soooo......if anybody would like to write out this AU for me and help fill in the blanks I would love you forever and also probably owe you my life because I have absolutely fallen in love with this AU. Also let me know if I missed anything or you have ideas for the stuff I couldn’t fill in and I’ll put it in (and credit you of course lol) @todorokitops I know you’re a pretty well known Tumblr fanfic writer so......know anybody who might be up for the challenge?

#bnha #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bnha au #bnha gang au #gang au #mha gang au #modern gang au

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sockparade · 5 years ago

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tips for surviving the pandemic: things i learned from my immigrant parents

It’s hard to believe that it’s only been a little over a week since the WHO announced that the coronavirus (COVID-19) was officially a pandemic. This has been a long, challenging week for a lot of people and it is nothing short of terrifying to read reports of what is happening in Asia and Europe as many predict that we’ll likely endure a similar fate here in the United States. In the midst of all of this chaos and uncertainty, I’ve been reminded of so many lessons that my Taiwanese immigrant parents taught me. I’m sharing them here so that others might also benefit. Thanks Ma. Thanks Daddy.

你昨天已經��去了.

“You already went out yesterday.“

1. Learn how to stay home. Our family is eight days into self-isolating at home and Tony asked me this morning if I had cabin fever. And strangely, the answer is no. I’m not. Not to downplay the difficulty of this moment but my experience with this “shelter-in-place” ordinance reminds of pretty much all my summers between kindergarten and 8th grade. Both of my parents worked full-time so summer was just three blissful months of nothing. No structure, no plans, no camps, no playdates, and no responsibilities. My parents never made me feel like I was missing a thing by staying home and I don’t remember ever feeling bored. There were always library books to read, stories to write, and thoughts to journal. Hours were spent playing school with my big sister (now a first grade teacher!), making up random games like who can avoid touching the carpet longest, learning Kim Zmeskal’s latest gymnastics floor routine, writing lyrics to Kenny G saxophone solos, and rehearsing for our variety show that we would perform to our tired parents at the end of the day. And that’s not even including the hours we spent watching The Price is Right, CHIPS, Knight Rider, and Airwolf (yep, no cable).

As a teenager I carefully plotted all my hangouts with friends so that I didn’t have too many consecutive days when I was out of the house. Whenever I asked my parents if I could hang out with friends, they would always say, “But you already went out yesterday. What’s wrong with staying home? Why do you always have to go out?” It was as if having too much fun two days in a row was off limits. If there was a big party on Friday, I would purposely make sure I stayed home Wednesday and Thursday just to increase the chances of being able to go out on Friday. I know a lot of people talk about how awful their high school years were but I was one of those lucky kids who had a really great group of friends that made me feel seen, loved, and cared for. The downside was that I couldn’t get enough of it. I was always thinking about the next hangout, the next event, the next thing. It took me all the way until my late twenties to fully appreciate the fine art of staying home and to finish my unexpected transformation into the expert homebody that I am today.

I’m reminded of that old quote by Blaise Pascal, “All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."

It’s great to be out and about, but it’s also really important to learn how to stay home.

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晚上要吃什麼？清冰箱.

“What are we eating for dinner?” “Cleaning the fridge.”

2. Be creative with what you have. I love food. Not in a foodie sense, but I get a lot of pleasure out of eating. I’m not a food snob by any stretch of the imagination. I thoroughly enjoy a Stouffer’s frozen lasagna or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as much as I enjoy a fancy, inventive, Michelin-starred meal at Commis. What’s hard for me is when food is eaten as sustenance rather than with delight. But my parents taught me that you can always take pride in preparing a meal. No matter your ingredients.

My mom is an excellent cook. I know a lot of people think their mom is a good cook but my mom is legitimately skilled in the kitchen. There were some nights when I’d ask what was for dinner and my mom would just reply, “Cleaning the fridge.”

Now for some, this might sound terrifying. But my mom could honestly make something out of nothing. I still crave my dad’s simple egg and garlic fried rice. My parents raised me to be able to make an tasty meal just from rummaging in the pantry and fridge for random leftover things. There were plenty of summers where lunches and snacks were an individual culinary adventure for each of us kids. I still remember the day I witnessed my baby sister add a Kraft single on top of her onion ramen noodles. She saw my confusion, shrugged and said, “You should try it, it’s good.”

With all the hoarding folks have been doing during this pandemic, I’ve found myself feeling quite anxious. Trying to calculate if we have enough food. Estimating how many more meals we can eat at home before we need to make another grocery run. As someone who struggles with a scarcity mentality it has been hard not to panic. But then I keep reminding myself that I know how to make good food using just whatever’s available.

You know, I was pretty disappointed with Mary H.K. Choi’s second novel, Permanent Record, given how much I enjoyed her debut novel, Emergency Contact. But I was absolutely thrilled with the shine she gave to what her protagonist calls “Hot Snacks”.

Here’s an excerpt from Permanent Record that is a beautiful ode to creative food mashups and immigrant kids everywhere:

“I edit and post a Shin Ramyun Black video set to music. My favorite instant noodles with three flavor packets and so much garlic. It’s a classic Korean HotSnack, especially when you throw in cut-up hot dogs, frozen dumplings, extra kimchi - and this is where the artistry comes in- eggs, cheese, corn from a can, and a drizzle of sesame oil on top. And furikake if you’re feeling wealthy. The next night I put up a bacon, egg, and cheese not in a bagel but in a glazed honey bun. Laced with sriracha and pan fried on the outside. Then it’s chilaquiles with Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos and chorizo. Jamaican beef patty casserole disrespected with a smothering of Japanese curry and broiled. With Crystal Hot Sauce over the top and pickled banana peppers. I’m trolling with that one but the controversy is berserk. When I run out of old videos, I make saag paneer naanchos with Trader Joe’s frozen Indian food, and it’s a hit. Especially when I add yogurt and a thick layer of crushed-up Takis on top.”

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看連續劇.

“Watch soap operas.”

3. Find a way to escape. I’m generally pro technology but I’ll admit I’m a little bummed at the way iPhones and iPads have made TV viewing such an individual activity. I like how Disney+ has gotten some families back to watching TV together again. Although I will say, we really coddle our kids these days. I grew up in a time when movie ratings only applied in the theaters and we watched movies with our families like Alien, The Fly, and Gremlins. We were scared out of our minds and sometimes could only watch through the cracks between our fingers covering our eyes because it was so scary. Okay, this also might be why I can’t watch horror movies as an adult.

From a young age, my parents taught me that watching other people’s drama unfold on screen is one of the best way to escape your own drama. Some people say binge watching became a thing when the TV networks started releasing shows on DVD. Others give credit to Netflix releasing their original content a whole season at a time. But truth be told, I first learned how to binge watch from my parents.

We would rent 30-40 VHS cassette tapes from that random spot in Bellaire Chinatown. Can you picture it? You needed multiple plastic bags to transport that many VHS tapes.

Do you remember the one about the dying mother who needed to find homes for each of her 7 children? I don’t think it’s normal for a 10 year old to cry so much but you better believe it’s made me learn the true value of a soap opera escape hatch.

Are you in a pandemic? Now’s the perfect time to pick up that YA novel, binge that reality show, start that kdrama, or rewatch all six seasons of The Sopranos again.

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下個禮拜會下雨.

“It’s going to rain next week.”

4. Be informed about what’s ahead. If you ask either of my parents about the weather at any given time they can reliably tell you the daily percent chance of precipitation and humidity for at least seven days out. They’ve always been this way. They would inform me of the weather at various points throughout the week. They planned their yard work and car washes around the weather forecast. There’s something about the way the weather forecast is available to everyone. And it feels like it’s just a matter of making the small extra effort to access it and gain a slight advantage. I feel like so much of the immigrant mentality is to be diligent in making the right choices to not screw yourself over and seizing opportunities whenever you can. And it wasn’t just weather but this is such an obvious example of it.

I remember my dad saying to me once, "Can you imagine if someone decided to read every book in their local library? If they just went shelf by shelf and systematically read all the books? You could do it, you know. It’s free, it doesn’t cost any money to check out a book from the library. But no one really does it.”

I think immigrant parents get a bad reputation for forwarding chain letters and health/science hoaxes they get on email, WeChat and Line. And in a pandemic, yes, they are definitely susceptible to misinformation, rumors and flat out untruths. But the thought behind it seems right.

The mistrust of government leadership is actually quite relevant right now in this pandemic. Many immigrants left countries with governments that were overtly corrupt, oppressive, and used propaganda to influence its citizens. And while many Americans still take pride in living in a country that verbally champions freedom and democracy, the truth is that our government has already failed us and lied to us in many ways. During this pandemic, we cannot wait on leaders to tell us what to do. We must be diligent in reading for ourselves, seeking experts, using our critical thinking skills, and making preparations accordingly.

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會不會冷?

“Are you cold?”

5. Check in with yourself. Check in with others. I have so many memories of my parents walking through the living room and asking me and my sisters if we were cold. It felt like they couldn’t walk past the thermostat without asking us if they needed to raise it or lower it. As if they couldn’t hear us sneeze and wonder if they needed to turn off the ceiling fan. They couldn’t see us sitting in a dim room without turning on a light for us. There are so many times I fell asleep reading on the couch and woke up with a blanket over me. Or sometimes I was fully awake doing something random, like playing Egyptian Rat Screw with my sisters (a cardgame for the uninitiated), and my mom would walk by and wordlessly drop a warm, heavy blanket over my shoulders. That’s care, y’all. Consistent, immediate action, and often without words.

The tip here is to pay attention to your discomfort during a pandemic. There’s this immigrant stereotype of stoicism and that’s true to some degree but maybe the resilience is made possible not because of unnatural toughness but largely because immigrant parents can also be so incredibly perceptive and tender in some very tangible ways.

When everything is chaotic around you and you’re busy multitasking these next few months, don’t ignore your needs. Notice how you’re feeling. Physically and emotionally. Where are you carrying your stress and tension in your body? You don’t have to tough it out. Oh and remember to check in with your people on how they’re feeling. Is there a light switch you can turn on for someone?

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笑死人.

“Laugh to death.”

6. Laugh to survive. Look, we didn’t have the perfect family or anything like that. We’ve definitely had our share of difficult times, financial stress, health issues, arguments, and pain. But my parents also really knew how to laugh and taught us to laugh with abandon. Like, bent over, tears running out of your eyes, can’t breathe kind of laughing. Our dinner table was kind of like a writer’s room. It was difficult to tell a mediocre story. You had better come prepared with a punchline or a point. It was a tough crowd, every night. On many occasions I stopped myself halfway through a story upon the self-realization that there was no real way to land the plane. Polite laughs were nowhere to be found, except perhaps a charitable smile from my baby sister. But it didn’t stop us from trying. I think my sisters and I are all probably better storytellers for it and we definitely have learned to try to bring humor into difficult times.

I know that this pandemic is so incredibly dark and depressing that it can sometimes feel disrespectful, inappropriate, or childish to laugh at anything. But my parents taught me that you laugh to survive. Nothing is ever so dark that you can’t find a reason to laugh. And sometimes you really need to find something to laugh about.

I’ve been taking long breaks each day from major media news outlets but I have been finding such joy and laughter from the meme creators on IG and the comedic geniuses on Twitter. In Taiwanese when something’s really funny, people will say a phrase that is imperfectly translated as laugh to death. Like you killed a person it was so funny. Now’s the time to find that content or those people who will get you to laugh to death.

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我要去挪車.

“I’m going to go re-park the cars.”

7. Go to bed with a plan for the next morning. I grew up in a suburb of Houston, Texas where one property developer built the entire neighborhood and used the same eight or nine floor plans for all the houses but changed up the brick and trim color to keep things interesting. Most homes have a long driveway that connects a garage set near the backdoor of a home to the street. By the time I was driving, we had four cars in total -- two in the garage and two on the driveway. At the end of the day when everyone was home for the night and my dad was getting ready to go to bed, he’d announce, “I’m going to go re-park the cars.” Then we’d all kind of stop what we were doing and rearrange the order of the cars to match our morning departure schedules. This meant figuring out who was leaving when in the morning and sometimes also prompted brief check-in conversations about any changes in our usual routine.

In a pandemic it can sometimes feel like there are a million different things to attend to and large conceptual concerns that demand your attention. But there’s something calming and centering about spending a few minutes each night thinking through specifically what needs to happen just tomorrow. Not the day after or next week. Get super tactical and specific about what tomorrow morning looks like. Check-in with your partner about any aberrations to your schedule (e.g. I have a super important conference call at 7am tomorrow) to minimize any unnecessary surprises. There’s something magical about setting up your morning that helps you rest just a little easier at night.

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星期三我們有禱告會.

“On Wednesdays we have prayer meeting.”

8. Make time for your spirituality. Growing up my parents both had physically demanding jobs. My mom was a seamstress for many years, providing alterations at my aunt and uncle’s dry cleaners. She later worked in an elementary school cafeteria and then eventually became a classroom aide for special needs students. My dad worked at that same dry cleaners for years until he got a job at the post office. He then became a letter carrier, delivering mail on foot. The summer months were especially grueling, carrying a heavy sack of mail in 100 degree, humid weather, and walking until sweat soaked his shirts and blisters formed on his feet. They had every excuse to skip weeknight events. But unless they were sick in bed, I can’t remember a time when they missed their weekly prayer meeting with their friends from church.

Pandemics have an unsettling way of forcing us to confront our mortality and can trigger a bunch of unresolved shit that has been bubbling underneath the surface. We’ve lost some of our usual coping mechanisms and it can be super hard to quiet the anxieties, fears, and other demons that we usually try to keep under control. This isn’t a lecture about a particular faith or belief system. It’s just a reminder to prioritize your existential questions, your interior life, and your connection to things much bigger than yourself -- whether that’s a community, a yoga practice, a faith group, a tradition, or something else.

I have a fledgling meditation practice that I’ve been trying to strengthen since last year. When I say fledgling I mean that sometimes I bail before the ten minutes is up and check my phone. Even though I’m not very good at it yet, I can really tell the difference on the days that I make time for it. Our church started hosting its weekly Sunday service online and that’s challenging for me because a church service feels like it’s designed to be so much about the physical rhythm of going to a place, seeing faces of people I love, hearing their voices co-mingling with mine in song and in prayer, and tasting the bread and wine in my mouth. The online service was short, and just for viewing through a zoom conference call, but there was still something meaningful about setting aside that time Sunday morning, asking our wiggly kids to be present, and saying the liturgy out loud knowing that in homes all across the country, other people are doing the same.

If things are really going to get as bad as some are predicting, we’ll need the spiritual strength to make it to the other side. Those habits are hard to form overnight. My parents taught me that you really have to make the time for your spirituality non-negotiable, so that you won’t abandon it when it’s inconvenient or when you are too tired.

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沒辦法.

“What choice do we have?”

9. Rise to the occasion. Whenever my parents are telling old war stories about things they had to do to get to where they are today, inevitably one of us will say, “Man that’s crazy, how did you manage to do it?” And instead of pointing to some super personality trait of theirs or some complex self-help principle, they always say, “We had no choice.” It’s not said in a defeated way, but in a posture of accepting that life can be cruel, unfair, and capricious. And that it’s not helpful to dwell too long on the why’s and how’s. My parents taught me that you can’t stay in despair mode. You eventually have to push yourself into problem solving mode and you do whatever it takes to move forward.

This coronavirus is so unlike anything we’ve ever experienced in our lifetime. It is so unprecedented for me that my brain is having a hard time processing the reality of what’s happening right now and the rest of my lived experience. I spent the first few days of this week just being overwhelmed, anxious, angry, and irritable. At this point though, I’m in go mode. I’m doing what needs to be done for our family and taking care of business. What choice do we have? I can hear my parents saying it. One day, if we’re lucky, we’ll say it to our kids too.

#coronavirus #immigrants #immigrant parents #survival tips #advice #covid-19 #pandemic #childhood #lifelessons

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elistariel · 4 years ago

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I'm bored off my ass, so here's what going on in my life as of Sunday, September 27, 2020 at 11:44 pm.

- Still working from "home." (Grandparents' house, but close enough 🤷🏻‍♀️).

- work finally picked back up, I had been working one to two days (3-6 hours) a week due to cancellations and whatever else. I managed to get 20 hours this week.

- Herman, my cat has been less than helpful. Nothing like being tethered to your laptop by your headset and your cat decides to start clawing the furniture and you cannot reach him. I'm pretty sure they call monitors that still have to listen to us are getting a great kick of me yelling at my cat between phone calls. "Stop licking the floor you weirdo!" must be a favorite by now. I'm still waiting for him to loudly MEOW right into the microphone as I'm doing a survey.

- one of my great aunts (in her 90s) passed away. She had been declining for a while for a while. Not to be Debbie Downer, but her husband and one of her sisters don't seem far behind. (Maybe a few years at best 🤷🏻‍♀️). It's weird, in a a way, to see people you saw as the grown-ups, those who knew how to handle everything and knew what was what - get OLD. It puts a certain perspective on where you and those closest to you are in life. One day, everyone you looked up to, everyone you looked to for advice, will be gone. (Not literally, there will technically be experts the same age and younger, but hopefully you get my meaning there).

- We had been cleaning out my great grandma's house. (She's still around, just old, nearly blind, dementia and in facility.) Still have a metric fuckton to go through. So. Many. Photos and cards and clothes and pens and buttons and porn and scarves and coat hangers and obituaries and notes in phone books from 1997...

- No, you didn't need to do the double take on that list. I said porn. Nothing like finding your great grandpa's VHS porn stash. I loved how he had his porn in the living room TV cabinet, but had the box of home movies (birthdays, beach trips and Christmas under the bed.) My Pa was a WWII vet who died in 2005.

- Been trying to finally organize Christmas photos from at least 1995 on up into albums. I have earlier, but with the amount of photos I have and the types of photo albums I have the 1995 ones were just a good place to start.

- Wasn't exactly sure what year some of the Christmas photos were taken, so I figured out some tricks to use when trying to date photos. Just so we are clear, this is for actual paper photos. I mean I guess this could work for digital photos too, but with this I was working with the actual paper photos like from the 35mm film that we used to use way back in the day. Also I have a large extended family.

1.) Babies. My older cousins had their babies between 1996 and 2003. I was looking to see which of my younger cousins were in the photos. One baby? 1996 or 1997. Two babies? 1998, 1999 or 2000, etc. 2.) Outfits / Pick one person, and pull out all of the photos of that one person in that particular outfit. Then look at a photo where they are in a group and pick another person, repeat. Soon you'll have a stack from that particular day. 3.) Presents can help date a photo. You aren't going to get the 1999 Christmas Barbie in 1997.

- Been binge watching Haven on Tubi TV. I watched it on Syfy when it originally came on back in 2010, but I didn't really keep up with it back then and I wasn't sure what was going on with the show entirely and I'm pretty sure I never finished it. While I moved into the house I'm in now in 2008, 2010 feels so long ago that it feels like I should have watched the show when I was in my last place I lived in (2006-2008).

- that last bit where it feels like it should have been longer ago than it was, is probably due to some like inadvertent furniture arranging. I've gotten newer couches over the years and I've also kind of moved from my living room to my like office area over the years. Basically, I sort of inherited a large iMac desktop and the only place it would go is in my living room or my old TV was. Then I got rid of cable and just started using my Roku. Because I had the Roku I was using it in my office, as that's where my flat screen TV was now. In a way (slightly), it's almost like I "moved", so it just feels different now than back in 2010? Does that make a lick of sense, I know what I mean, but I'm not sure how to word it exactly. Lol

- I honestly, can barely remember what it was like having to choose what I watch based on what's currently on TV, at this very moment. Bless streaming TV.

- This is random, but I don't even remember what month I started binge watching Time Trax to keep me entertained during the pandemic, but it feels so, SO long ago.

- A cousin had her third son this past Thursday. Had no clue she was expecting. Neither did anyone else at my great aunt's funeral. FYI she and baby did not come. We found out from her aunt. Many, many people did not come, which of course is understandable.

- Shit. I still need to write someone a thank you card for the birthday gift they actually took time to make me. My birthday was in August. 🤦🏻‍♀️

- Been cutting up really old gel pens and using them to make inkblot art. When I say old, I mean like from 2001 to 2003ish. Using a embroidery? needle to get the ink out and smear on the paper. if you're wondering why I've kept gel pens, from nearly 20 years that don't work ... Because hoarder. Actually I've just had them so long and that I've just gotten used to them being around and normally don't even think about them.

- Can masks still be a thing after the pandemic? I don't mean a required thing, but like we should be able to wear masks in public if we have the flu, just don't feel like doing makeup or whatever. I want to be able to voluntarily wear a mask and not get flack for it. Make it like a fashion accessory. Just so we're clear, this is coming from a person who wears glasses and can't see shit with her mask on.

-claimed (won for 75¢) a couch slipcover on Geek. I have absolutely no idea how to properly put it on the couch and my grandparents house, but my cat has claimed The wanted fabric as a bed. So, I'm calling it a win. I also claimed a pet bed through the limited quantity deal, I didn't think my cat would pay any attention to it, but he actually loves it. Epic win. Oh, and I b also claimed a cat tree. I did have to leave the little cat house off of the top of it as it was WAAAAAY too small for my cat.

#life update #thought dump #whats going on #i think this covers it

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rogersmeadows · 6 years ago

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study date

Pairing: Roger x Reader (unspecified gender)

Summary: When you complain about your troubles with your biology course to your best friend Freddie he knows just the man to tutor you. Unfortunately for you, that man is his insanely hot drummer who you can’t seem to form coherent sentences around.

Warnings: like one swear word, this one’s pretty clean

Words: 2.5k

A/N: This is set in the very early days of Queen and also I have no idea how post secondary works in England so I’m just going off what I know from Canada, but I imagine it’s not that different.

“This is it. I’m finally gonna do it. I’m dropping out of school.” You slammed your textbook shut and dropped your head down onto it. Tears of frustration prickled at your eyes, but you fought them back as you hated crying in front of people and your best friend happened to be sitting across the coffee table from you.

“Darling, stop being so dramatic. It’s a first year biology course. You could pass it in your sleep,” Freddie's blunt response cut your pity party short, he never was one to let you wallow in your own misery.

“I can’t just pass Freddie. I need at least a B to keep my GPA where it needs to be.” You attempted to open the book again, but gave up almost immediately, “Fuck! I’m an arts student! Why are they making me take science anyway!” It wasn’t that you didn’t like science, quite the opposite in fact, it was endlessly interesting to you which only made it that much more frustrating that you couldn’t seem to grasp the concepts.

Freddie knew this about you without you ever having to tell him. He knew you were too proud to admit it, but he could see how your eyes lit up when you actually took your time to read the material and he loved how you would spout off any and all interesting facts you learned from the day’s lecture once you got home to your shared flat. He also knew you were serious about needing to keep your grades up and wanted to do everything he could to help which is why he got so excited when he made the connection, “Roger!”

Your ears pricked up immediately. Roger Taylor. Your best friend’s ridiculously hot bandmate. The one you had had a crush on since the first time you came home early from school to find him sprawled out on your living room couch, tired, sweaty, and shirtless, having just come from a particularly intense band practice.

“Um. Hi.” How exactly does one greet a shirtless stranger sitting on their couch?

“Oh hi,” the blond stood and made a move like he was going to shake your hand before deciding to cross his arms over his chest instead, suddenly feeling very exposed, “you must be Y/N.” He quickly realized how confused you must be and chuckled at the situation. “Sorry, Fred said you wouldn’t be back until later tonight.” He gestured to the bathroom door where you could now hear the sound of the shower running.

“Yeah well my later class got cancelled,” at the mention of Freddie you immediately let your guard down before realizing you still had no idea who this man was, “and you are?”

“Right, I guess I should explain that. I’m Roger, I’m in the band with Fred. The drummer.” He had the slightest smirk on his face when he said that as if he knew how much hotter he just became to you. He wasn’t wrong. You had always had a thing for drummers. And it definitely didn’t help that this particular drummer was standing two feet away from you, sans shirt, staring into your eyes with his own impossibly blue ones.

“Oh, right on!” You cringed at your cheesy words that you knew you said with a little too much forced enthusiasm, but Roger didn’t seem to notice. He was too focused on the cute way you kept nervously playing with your hair.

“You should come hear us play someday, we’re just starting out so we’re a little rough around the edges,” a confident smile crept onto his face, “but who knows, maybe one day we’ll make it big and then you can say you’ve supported us from the start,” he added a wink at the end and your heart just about melted.

“I’ll make sure Freddie let’s me know when you boys play next,” you said with a nod. “Well, even though my class was cancelled my prof is going to be expecting us to know this material for the exam so I better get studying, it was nice meeting you.” You had never been good at flirting, but you decided to try your luck in a subtle way, adding, “Can’t wait to see you play, make sure to remember me when you’re famous.” As you turned to leave the living room though, you smacked your elbow on the wall which sent all of your textbooks and papers tumbling to the floor. You quickly refused Roger’s offer to help you gather your books and, mortified, scrambled to your room and shut the door behind you. “Smooth,” you exhaled to yourself as you sat down at your desk and tried not to play that moment over and over again in your mind.

That was the longest conversation you had ever had with Roger. Anytime you were around him after that you were so worried about embarrassing yourself again that you just avoided talking to him altogether.

“What about Roger?” You tried not to let your nerves show, but your heart was already racing at the mere mention of his name.

“Roger’s getting his degree in biology. He’s quite good at it too. He would be the perfect tutor!” The more he thought about it, the more proud Freddie became with himself for coming up with the idea.

“Freddie I cannot ask Roger to tutor me,” you said in a warning tone.

“Why not?” Genuine puzzlement took over Freddie’s expression.

Your mind went blank. The real answer was you found Roger intimidatingly hot and didn’t want him to think you were an idiot for not understanding the most basic level of the subject he was majoring in, but you couldn’t very well say that to Freddie. Not that he would have a problem with you crushing on his bandmate, the opposite in fact. If Freddie knew about your infatuation with Roger he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from trying to set you two up which would only embarrass you when Roger inevitably turned you down because why would someone like him want to be with someone like you?

“See. You can’t think of a reason. That settles it. I’ll talk to Roger about it tonight at our rehearsal. You’re welcome for saving you from dropping out,” he stood and took a bow and then retired to his room to get ready for his rehearsal, you could hear him begin his vocal warmups as he closed his door.

Roger set your first study date for three days after Freddie first mentioned the idea to him. The first two days he had classes of his own to attend to, but the third day he was “All yours,” as Freddie had put it when you eagerly asked him that night what he had said. That was three days ago. You were now sitting at your coffee table in the living room trying not to obsessively run through exactly how you wanted the night to go in your mind. You were pulled from your thoughts by the buzzer to your flat going off. You buzzed Roger in and nervously awaited his ascent to your fourth floor apartment. In your head you were already running through what you would say when you opened the door for him to make sure you didn’t trip over your words, but instead of knocking he let himself right in, a tray with two coffee cups in one hand, quickly causing you to rewrite the script you were just preparing.

He took your stunned silence as annoyance and quickly got to apologizing, “Sorry for barging in, Fred always tells me just to let myself in when I come over,” he was rambling at this point, afraid he had offended you, “but he’s not here and we don’t know each other all that well so I suppose it was rude of me to do that. Bad habit,” he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding in, “sorry.”

“No no don’t be sorry, I just,” you shook your head as if you could shake loose a rationalization for your silence that didn’t include how nervous you felt at this very moment, “got thrown a little off guard. Sorry.” Apparently it was your turn to ramble now, “I just haven’t been getting a ton of sleep recently with finals coming up and I think I’m just a bit tired,” you finished, hoping he didn’t take that as you not wanting to do this.

“Ah, well, that’s what these are for,” he lifted up the hand holding the coffees and gave you a comforting smile. “Fred said you liked vanilla lattes with extra espresso. I’m more of a black coffee drinker myself, but whatever gets the job done I suppose.”

“Oh you really didn’t have to,” you said as you gratefully took the cup he held out to you, “thank you,” you tried to keep your voice even, but the simple act of kindness sent butterflies right to your stomach. You immediately lifted the cup to your lips to try and hide the huge grin on your face.

“It’s no problem love. Just making sure I don’t bore you to sleep when I start talking about cell division or the circulatory system,” he chuckled.

Bored was the last word you would use to describe how you felt listening to Roger tutor you. Amazed was a more fitting descriptor. He would skim over the chapter to ensure he knew how in depth to go and then explain each concept to you in his own words in a way that actually made sense and kept you engaged in the material. At the end of each chapter you went over he would quiz you with questions he knew would be similar to the ones on your exam. He never made you feel stupid about the questions you didn’t get right, he would just try to explain it again in a different way until you fully understood. He was endlessly patient and as the night went on all of your fears about him judging you melted away as you two got more and more comfortable with each other.

It was easily past midnight when he silently looked up from the textbook and let his eyes drift over all the features of your face, pausing for a second on your lips before he cleared his throat and looked back down, “Y/N?”

“Yeah Rog?”

“Do you like me?”

“What,” you gulped, wondering if you had been that obvious, “what do you mean?”

“Like, as a person, do you like me?”

Your panic was quickly replaced with confusion, “Of course I do, why do you ask?”

“It’s just that, you’ve barely said two words to me since we first met. And whenever you do, you just always seemed kind of cold towards me. Not in a bad way, God, I don’t mean anything against you, it’s just... this isn’t coming out right...I just, well, I was worried that I had done something to upset you,” his eyes flitted up to meet yours and you could see that he was trying to read your facial expression for any clues as to how you were reacting to his concern.

“No you’ve never done anything to upset me Roger. I just,” your stomach felt like it was doing somersaults. You definitely didn’t want Roger to think you didn’t like him, but at the same time you weren’t about to tell him the reason you avoid him is because you have a stupid, childish crush on him and get too nervous to speak around him. You felt deflecting was your best bet to avoid having to explain yourself, “Why do you care what I think of you?” You decided to throw in some humour for good measure, “I’m sure you’ve got more than enough adoring fans that are all crazy about Roger Taylor, The Rockstar to bolster your ego.”

You could tell from his expression your attempt at a joke didn’t make him feel better in the slightest. His voice dropped to just above a whisper as he looked down at his hands, “I wasn’t talking about Roger Taylor the rockstar. I was talking about me. The Roger sitting next to you on this couch right now.” With that he once again looked up into your eyes. Your eyes which were now searching his expression frantically trying to decipher what he wanted from you in this moment.

“You didn’t answer my question,” you said softly, “why do you care about my opinion of you?”

He opened his mouth like he was going to answer you, but then shut it again before taking in a long breath. “Forget it. I’m sorry. It’s getting late, I should probably go. We can finish up the remaining chapters next week,” he made a move like he was about to stand up, but something in you told you not to let him leave like this so you put a hand on his knee and took a deep breath before the words began spilling out of your mouth.

“I do like you Roger. That’s the problem. I really like you, but I can’t seem to stop myself from acting like an idiot around you so my solution to that was to just, not be around you. It’s just that you’re you and I’m me and I just get so nervous and I know that if I open my mouth I’ll just keep going on and on and on just like I am right now and-” your speech was cut short by Roger gently pressing his lips against yours.

It was the sweetest kiss you had ever gotten. His one hand rested on your cheek as the other was placed tenderly over your own that was still on his knee. After a period that was much too short for your liking he pulled back to check your reaction, "Was that okay?”

You were at a loss for words. All you could think to do was to nod your head before pulling him back in, this kiss much more passionate than the first. Your hand wove its way into his long, blond hair as you pulled him against you even more, deepening the kiss.

When the kiss finally ended you two were left leaning your foreheads together, eyes still closed. Roger broke the silence first, “I’ve been wanting to do that from the moment I met you. I just never thought you would feel the same about me.”

You looked into his eyes with complete adoration, still not believing what just happened, “Well I think what we can take away from tonight is that we both need to be more honest about our feelings.”

He leaned in for another quick kiss before letting out a soft laugh, “You didn’t take away anything about biology?”

“Oh definitely not after that,” you said with a sly smile.

“Well,” he brought your face in so it was just inches from his, “guess we’ll just have to schedule a few more study dates.”

#my writing #roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen fanfiction #roger x reader #queen

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stormtrprinstilettos · 6 years ago

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Chameleon - Chapter 6

Summary: Reader (that’s you!) moves to London, hoping to leave her past behind and find happiness. She makes friends with her new neighbors. (Guess who?) - So far we’ve established that Reader & Freddie are BFF, Reader & Brian are absolutely into each other (but he has a GF that Reader just had a pretty big argument with last chapter) and Reader & Roger have a bit of sexual tension that may be turning out to be a bit more than just that. (If you’re new to the story – there really is no proper summary. I have no idea where this is going and am always taking suggestions as to where you’d like to see it go.) 18+ please!

Words: ~6.7K+ || AO3 | Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3(1)(2), Ch 4*, Ch 5 (* = smut)

[A/N: Want to thank everyone again for reading! I’m posting this one today and I’ll probably be posting the next one in a few days. I don’t like to sit on chapters for too long because I end up changing them constantly. This one is fluffy as hell, until stuff happens. (Next one, not so much. *wink wink*) Time warping ahead a few weeks from the last chapter. I know y’all want some Deaky in here - I’m going to be making him more prominent. Just need to work out how. Also, sorry for the formatting. #MobileAppProblems]

Tagging: @chocolatealmondmilkshake & @thisjustfantasy (let me know if you want to be tagged)

The place was a complete disaster area when you woke up the next morning after your argument with Jane. You stepped over empty bottles and other assorted trash to get to the kitchen to make some coffee. You had no idea what the guys got up to after Brian and Jane left and you locked yourself in your room, but clearly it involved a lot of drinking after they quit trying to talk to you. The three of them were passed out, John on the sofa, Freddie in the chair and Roger on the floor. The kitchen was a disaster too, but you didn’t even bother cleaning up. You didn’t care. You just wanted your coffee. And after that night and seeing the state of the flat, you wanted to run away, so that’s what you did, just for the day, of course.

You wandered around the National Gallery, getting lost in the endless collection of art. It was the first time since you arrived in London you had nothing on your mind. You had no worries, no stresses, no one else to worry about – nothing. The colors and intricacies of the paintings brought your mind to another plane, gifting you with serenity. That’s all you wanted, for however long you could have it. You stayed there for hours, completely losing track of time. That day you made a promise to yourself that you would take a day at least once a week to get lost, either figuratively or literally. A new kind of therapy – self-care instead of self-destruction was a lot better.

Brian didn’t realize that he was inadvertently pushing you closer to Roger. Whenever Jane would be around, Roger would come over. Sometimes the night – or day, depending on when she was there – would end with sex, but most of the time it wouldn’t. Things may have started out to be just about sex with the two of you, but it wasn’t like that anymore. He was your safe space now. You’d usually end up cuddled together, giving you a feeling of comfort, which he was always more than happy to provide. It didn’t matter if you were watching television, listening to an album, discussing a book or the weather or anything of unimportance – you’d more than likely end up cuddled together. You enjoyed his company, and he yours, and the connection the two of you had shared started to become stronger. Freddie even had to joke about how wrong he was before. “I always thought that one would be the one to fuck you up,” he told you one afternoon after Roger left the flat. “But apparently, he’s the one that’s good for you.” Perhaps he was right, but you weren’t planning on opening your heart to feeling again, at least not any time soon.

Wanting to do something different today, you decide to visit the planetarium to see the stars – well, the fake stars, but they’ll suffice to help you do one of your favorite things. The show was boring, really. You already knew the constellations, but you stayed anyway, choosing to tune out the sound and pretend you were laying under the real night sky. As soon as you get comfortable, someone starts talking to you.

“Do you see her?” a voice whispers in your ear, startling you until you realized who it was.

You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You don’t want to, hoping that if you ignore him, he’ll go away. But he won’t. You can hear his breathing. “Yeah, I see her.” You point up to her – Andromeda.

“She looks like she’s had better days,” the voice whispers.

“Yeah,” you reply. “She’s a little dim.”

“It’s a shame, really. She deserves to shine bright.” Brian crawls over the seat next to you, knowing very well his presence is probably unwanted, but he knew you wouldn’t cause a scene in front of everyone who was around. “Hey there,” he greets you, a smile on his face, genuinely happy to see you.

“Are you stalking me, Mr. May?” you somewhat jokingly ask, while raising an eyebrow. You want to ignore him. You want to be mad. You want to never speak to him again, but one look at him changes all of that. You can’t stay mad at him no matter how much you want to.

“Shhhhh!” the woman in front of you fusses. “Go outside if you want to talk!” You and Brian look at each other, make mocking facial expressions behind the woman’s back, and giggle as you walk outside.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to make him think you’re mad with the sound of your voice, but failing miserably.

“I could ask you the same,” he replies, searching your face for any sign of upset, but finding none. He’s nervous. He was fully prepared for you to lash out at him, was even expecting it, or he thought you’d walk away, run away – anything to get away from him.

You sigh, slide down the wall and lean back against it. “I needed to get away.” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, unsure if you should tell him that he’s the reason your brain has been so cloudy these last few weeks.

“Me too.” He takes a seat next to you, not sure if you want to talk, but he wants to set the record straight. “Look, about the other night…”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “It’s not a big deal.” You’re lying. It is a big deal. You trusted him, and you feel like he betrayed you.

“That’s not true.” He starts to chuckle, which irritates you because this isn’t exactly a funny matter. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” you try to convince him, and yourself. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself, you didn’t believe it. Neither did he.

“Then why are you doing that thing where you play with your fingernail when you’re not telling the truth?” He smirked and points down to your hand, bringing it to your attention that you’re running your thumbnail between two of your fingers, something you never noticed you did before – but he clearly did.

You raise an eyebrow and stop fidgeting but let the comment you want to make about him paying that much attention to you pass. “It’s no big deal.”

“You’re doing it again. The fingernail thing.” He keeps smirking.

“Jane will have me guillotined if she finds out I’m talking to you right now.” You missed him. You really missed him and sitting here with him at this very moment felt so comfortable, but so wrong.

He starts to look around. “Jane isn’t here. And I’m not going to tell her.” He leans over and pretends to be suspicious with a whisper. “Are you?” You don’t answer, opting instead to give him a look, begging for him to drop it, but he can’t. “I hate this. I want it to go back to how it was before…” His voice trails off.

“It never had to be this way, Brian. But it is.” You start to stand up and walk away, but he pulls you back down.

“Talk to me, please.” You can see in his eyes that he’s sorry for whatever wrong he’s done and that he genuinely doesn’t know what he’s done to make you upset. It’s tearing him up inside.

You can’t let it go anymore. You’re upset, he’s upset and the only way to fix this is to talk to him. “You told Jane about my past, Brian. Really? Things I’ve told you about all of that was in confidence. I’ve told you things I never even told Freddie. If I wanted people to know about the bullshit I’ve done or been through I’d tell them myself.”

“I did not!” His voice is pleading for your forgiveness. “I told her you had it rough, and that you needed to get away from there for your own sake. I never gave her details. She wanted to know how you ended up here and that’s all I’ve ever told her.”

You want to believe him, and part of you does, but you can’t forget what she said. You can’t forget that she told you Brian said you were “a mess,” as she put it. That’s the part of the entire exchange that stood out to you. “She said you told her that I…”

He interrupts, quickly. “I never said a single negative thing about you to her or to anyone for that matter.” He grabs your hand and looks into your eyes, his tone lowering. “I don’t even know anything negative about you.”

No, you told yourself, don’t get locked in his gaze. “Just let me know when she’s going to be around so I don’t have to be there, okay?” You pull your hand away, stand up and grab your things. “I’m going home.”

“No, don’t.” He jumps up and stands in front of you, blocking your path. “The weather is nice for a change. Let’s go enjoy it.” He grabs your upper arms, trying to get you to look at him.

“Brian…” You sigh and throw your head back, trying to come across as annoyed, hoping that would get him to leave you alone.

“Come on,” he pleads. “Will you at least walk home with me?” You look at him, completely defeated in this battle, smile a half smile and start walking home.

Everything seemed to be back to normal between the two of you. You made small talk, chatted about random things, had some laughs – just like you always would. Instead of taking the sidewalks, you guided him through a small park area for a change of scenery. The sun was at a perfect angle to give a beautiful, scenic view that you insisted on stopping to sketch out. He sat in amazement, watching you intently take it all in, finding it fascinating how you put every little detail on the paper, taking great care not to miss a single thing. You didn’t realize how close he was sitting to you until he sneezed, causing you to fall out of the zone you were in.

“Bless you,” you giggle. He starts to put his hand to the back of his neck and you hurry and move it down. “Stop that, silly.”

“Sorry. I distracted you.”

“You’re sitting pretty close. Maybe you’re allergic to me.”

“Impossible. You’re the only remedy to my ailment…” His voice went lower as he finished the last word, staring deep into your eyes, wanting so bad to take you into his arms, kiss you, and forget about the world.

You feel yourself getting sucked back in, so you hurry and clear your throat, breaking the trance and turning back to your sketchbook. “I’m almost done, then we can go.” You both pretend that nothing had just happened and stay quiet, him continuing to watch you.

“What are you doing tonight? Anything planned?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Nope. Nothing going on.” You answer him, but your eyes don’t move from your book.

He adjusts his position, feeling a little bit anxious. “Come with me down to Headley,” he blurts out.

You start laughing. “Why in the world are you going there?” You had been there before and there was no reason you ever wanted to go back. “That is possibly the most boring place on the entire planet.”

“It’s a surprise.” You look over at him and he’s smiling mischievously.

You give a slight grin and look back to your drawing. “I never said I was going,” you tease.

“Come…” he pleads.

You give him a side-eyed glare. “I’m not really keen on being a third-wheel, Brian.”

“You won’t be. Jane isn’t coming. She’s visiting her mum for the week,” he shrugs. He can see in your eyes that you’re considering it. “It’ll be our secret. Come on.”

You give in. You can’t resist him, no matter how hard you try. “This better be a good surprise.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ The car ride was about an hour. It didn't seem that long, not that you cared. You and Brian shared stories, cracked jokes, sang whatever was on the radio – pretty badly, on your part – enjoying every single second. It had been far too long since the two of you hung out together, and you missed it. Brian soon pulled over on the side of the road. There was nothing around but empty fields and the powerful light of the full moon.

“Well, here we are." He flashes you excited smile before rushing out of the car and opening the trunk.

You walk around to see what was going on, unsure of what was going on and why he was so excited about being in the middle of nowhere. "Do you need help?"

He hands you a couple of blankets with a huge smile on his face. "Carry these. I'll get the rest..." he pulls out his telescope. "Come on!” He tilts his head to the side, beckoning you to follow him, which you do somewhat hesitantly.

When you stop walking, you lay out the blankets, take a seat and start watching Brian fiddle around with the telescope. "Ah, there you are," you hear him eventually say, and you start giggling. He realizes he said that out loud and pulled his eye away from the telescope with a shy grin. "Well, come see." He motioned his hands and you crawl over. "Here - look through there." He put his hand on the small of your back as you bend over to look through the telescope.

"Oh my god, Brian, that's... Wow!" It was very small, but there it was. Saturn. "Look at that..." He remembered you telling him you had never seen it.

He moves over to the blanket and lays on his side, propped up on his arm. He watches you as you look through the lens and he can’t help but wonder if you are feeling the exact awe that he was feeling as he looked at you. When you looked up and saw him staring at you, you felt fluttering in your stomach. "Amazing, isn't it?" he asks as you looked back through the lens.

"I can't believe I'm seeing this. Thank you so much for showing me.” After looking for another minute or so, you crawl back on the blanket before laying down to gaze up to the sky. "First you show me Saturn and now I get to do one of my favorite things. You sure do know how to woo a girl,” you teased.

"Only when she deserves it." He lays down next to you, his arm touching yours. “Good thing we came when we did. It’s getting cloudy.” He kept making subtle moves so he could get closer to you, or touch you – anything to try to get your attention off of the sky and on to him, but you were resisting.

You laid there in silence for a long time, neither one of you sure what to talk about, or if you should talk at all. You couldn’t handle the quiet another second longer. “Are you happy with Jane?” you spit out. You don’t know why you asked him. It wasn’t your place to ask him.

He took a deep breath before answering. “Honestly? She’s… comfortable. Does that make sense?” You gave him a questioning look. “She’s not forever, though,” he quickly popped back. “I know she’s not.”

You thought about telling him about how incredibly stupid that reasoning was, in your opinion at least, but decided not to. You didn’t want to cause another argument. Instead, you offered apologies. “I’m sorry if my mouth caused you problems.”

“Absolutely not,” he told you. “You have nothing to apologize for. She shouldn’t have…” He took another deep breath, unsure if he should have offered up more information. “She’s intimidated by you.”

“Does she have any reason to be?” It was an innocent enough question, you thought, and, if anything, it would help you better understand where his mind was.

He chuffed. “It’s Friday night and I’m laying here with you and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be and no one else I’d rather be with. You tell me.”

You forget about the stars you were just looking at. You forget about Saturn. You forget about everything. You probably couldn’t even remember your name at this point. The way he was looking at you – he never looked at you like this before. You prop yourself up on your elbows, never taking your eyes off his that are looking at you with such an intensity that it makes your insides burn. You want to pounce, and you can tell he does too. No one is around, you think to yourself. No one would know except for us. … and it starts to rain. Fucking typical. You and Brian start to laugh. “Wow, this is almost as good as our first date when you made me work.”

“I tried to make our second date better. I’m sorry.” He’s a bit annoyed, but he can’t help but find the humor in the whole situation.

“No need to apologize,” you tell him. This one is pretty great.”

“Yeah, but what color?” he asks you, still finding your choices both intriguing and humorous.

“Hmm,” you thought for a moment. “Right now? Silver.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Out of the blue on the way back home, during an odd moment of quiet, he started talking about Jane. “It’s true. Everything you told her. She is a bitch and I can’t stand to be around her sometimes. She’s not always bad, Y/N, but she has her moments.”

“No. She’s always bad,” you sneer. “You can defend her all you want, but she’s the worst kind of person. All nice and sweet but really a raging bitch. That’s what Jane is.” He didn’t like what you were saying, but he understood why you feel the way you do. “I’m sorry, but she is. She’s horrible.”

He grabs the back of his neck with his hand. He’s embarrassed. Again. And his words start to stumble. “As I said, everything you told her was true.” He looks at you, hoping you understand what he’s trying to say, but you don’t. “Your name. I said your name one time.” He looks over at you, shame all over his face, hoping you understand what he’s saying so he doesn’t have to say more before hurrying to look away. You’re stunned. You said his name, too, that first night with Roger. Part of you wanted to tell him, but you didn’t dare. “That’s why she got so upset with you. She tried to keep it in, but she couldn’t help it. And when you told her what you did, about me saying your name, she thought I had told you about that.” You look at him and see the agony in his face, only you don’t know what he’s exactly agonizing about. You try to speak, but he won’t let you. “No! No talking. I probably shouldn’t have told you.” He sighed. “I’m just not happy with her right now.”

“Then why are you with her?” You want an actual answer, but he’s not giving you one. He’s not saying anything at all. “Right, because she’s comfortable.” You quickly decide to cut the seriousness of the conversation, not wanting to become frustrated and ruin the last few minutes of the ride, so you opt to start picking on him. “You’re afraid of change, aren’t you?”

He shrugs. “I like to have everything in order.”

“You will stay in a relationship just because if you don’t it would change things up a little?”

He rolls his eyes, feeling a bit embarrassed by the topic. “You make me sound so boring.”

“Come on, Brian. Break the monotony,” you try to encourage him, half teasing, half serious. “Do something spontaneous,” you crack.

He decided to start picking back at you. “What, like move to another country?”

“No don’t do that. That’s stupid.” You give him a sarcastic grin.

“Am I really that boring?” His question is genuine.

“You are not boring.” You can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t believe you. “You’re not! Have you ever had a conversation with yourself? You’re not boring at all.”

He still doesn’t believe you, and he’s obviously in need of some encouragement. “But I act boring. I don’t do… spontaneous things.”

“We went to Headley.”

“That wasn’t spontaneous. That was planned.”

You have to laugh at his meticulousness. “Do you really plan everything?”

You can tell by the look on his face that he’s almost ashamed to answer that and starts to try to hold back a smile. “See? Boring.”

“I wish I had that kind of stability,” you sigh as you lean your head back on the seat.

“From the stories you’ve told me, you’ve had an exciting life so far. For you, stability would be… boring,” he smirks.

“Oh please, Brian, half of the shit I did was so stupid, not exciting. Do you really think it was smart for a 16-year-old girl to leave home with a 25-year-old who took her to San Francisco?” You look at each other for a second before the laughter catches up to you. “See? I need stability.”

“And maybe I need spontaneity.”

He starts to turn the car down the street to go home. “No!” you yell, startling him, which causes you to giggle. “Don’t go home yet.”

He stopped the car in the middle of the street, looking at you with an almost panic-stricken face. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t know. Be spontaneous!” He can see that you’re serious, but he has absolutely no idea where you want him to go. “Our clothes are dry. Our hair may be a mess but who cares. Be… spontaneous.” You give him an encouraging smile, so he doesn’t continue to the route back to the flat.

You spend the next couple of hours driving around, stopping at random places, grabbing a quick bite to eat, even ducking in to a club to listen to a band play. Everything was going great until he started running into people he knew. “This is my friend, Y/N,” he would introduce you as, which was fine – that’s all you were – until he saw Jane’s roommate. That’s when he introduced you as his “neighbor” who just so happened to be at the same place he was, and you didn’t appreciate that one bit. You understood why, but inside you were getting emotional, wishing that the two of you didn’t have to hide the fact that you were enjoying this night together from anyone.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” you tell the roommate, “but I must be going home now.” You stand and glare at Brian. “Guess I’ll see you around, neighbor,” you told him with a sigh of irritation. You walk out the door and Brian runs after you.

“Y/N! Wait!” he calls out before you stop and turn around waiting for him to catch up. “Where are you going?”

Your brows furrow, wondering why he doesn’t understand what just happened. “I’m going home.” You turned to walk away but he grabbed your arm and pulled you back. “Brian, if you can’t be honest about who I am…”

“I said you’re my friend. What’s dishonest about that?”

“Your neighbor. I’m just your neighbor. After everything, I’m your neighbor who you happened to run into.” You don’t know why it stung when you heard him introduce you like that, but it did, and as you thought about it again, the stinging came back. “If you must hide me, your friend, then maybe…”

“Don’t say it. Do not.” The worry started to grow on his face. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want to cause problems with…”

“With Jane, yeah, I get it,” you whispered as your eyes started to well up. “You’re not the first person who’s afraid to be seen with me.”

He grabs you into a hug, trying to console you, but you don’t hug him back. “I’m not afraid to be seen with you, Y/N.”

You push yourself away and speak through tears. “If you weren’t, then I wouldn’t just be your neighbor.” You wipe your eyes, clear your throat and look back at Brian. “I’ll see you around, Bri.” You flash a small smile and go home.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ “Where the hell have you been?” Freddie yells at you when you walk in the door about an hour later, opting to take the long way back home. “I was worried about you!” He ran to you, grabbing you in his arms and picking you up as he hugged you like he hasn’t seen you in years.

“He was about to gather a search team to go look for you,” Roger joked from the sofa.

“I was with Brian,” you told them. Freddie looked relieved, but Roger’s smile fell off his face into a slightly heartbroken expression. “I ran into him at the planetarium earlier today.” You walk to the kitchen and they both follow you. “I thought it was time to end the tension,” you started to explain as you began to make a pot of coffee. “I think everything will be okay now. I’m sorry if any of the crap between Brian and I bothered you.” Your attention fell to Roger who was standing across the room, unsure how to register the look he’s giving you.

Freddie dramatically clears his throat to get your attention, so you turn to face him now that he’s standing next to you. “Well now that you’re home, I’m going to bed.” He grabs your face and gets close. “Don’t do that to me again.” He kisses your nose and goes off to his room. “No funny business in there, you two,” he yells out as he walks away. “And please, keep it down tonight. I’m exhausted!”

You roll your eyes and grin as you turn back look at Roger who still has the same look on his face. You walk over to him and tug on his jacket. “What’s wrong?” you quietly ask, searching his face for any sort of hint as to why he looks so upset.

He rests his arms on your shoulders, his expression not changing. “Nothing,” he whispered. “Did you have a good time?” He tried to sound interested, but you can tell that he’s a tiny bit jealous.

You wrap your arms around his waist and pull yourself into a hug, which he reciprocates, and rest your head on his chest. “I took a ride with him down to Headley to see Saturn. I thought it would give us a chance to talk through everything.” You don’t want to let him go, and you don’t want him to let you go. This hug is exactly what you needed and from exactly who you needed to give it to you. Your body relaxed, releasing a tension you didn’t even know you had. He felt it, and he pulled you in tighter.

“Did you get to see it?” he asked, quietly, feeling his jealousy leave.

“Yeah, I did,” you tell him as you lift your head to rest your chin on his chest so you could look up at him. “It was pretty neat.” You smiled, and he smiled back at you. “And I think things with Brian and I will be better. Not perfect, and not where they were, but better.”

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered as his smile grew bigger, his ocean blue eyes sparkling as they study every intricate detail of yours. He pushes your hair behind your ears. “I can’t figure you out,” he says quietly before he leans down and gives you a soft, gentle, sweet kiss, unlike any other kiss he’s ever given you while he runs a strand of your hair between his fingers.

“I’m not that complicated, Rog,” you giggle.

“No, you’re not. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He leans down and gives you another gentle kiss. “You put it all out there. You never hid who you are, and I’ve never felt like I had to hide who I am with you.” He holds his palm to your cheek. “You make it all so easy.” His smile has never left his face.

“That’s because it is easy, at least when I’m with you,” you whisper, recognizing that the two of you may be feeling a little bit more than just friends. He leans down to kiss you again, but the two of you are interrupted by someone clearing his throat.

“Oh, hey Bri,” Roger greets him. “Heard you two had a fun night.” The two of you separated from each other and tried to act like nothing was going on before you were interrupted. Freddie must have let him in before he went to bed.

Keeping his glaring eyes on you, Brian replies to him, “Yeah. We did. Just wanted to make sure she got home okay.” The look on his face was a mixture of dejection and anger and you can tell by his slurring he’s drunk.

“Coffee’s almost done. Would you like some?” you ask him, trying to break the awkwardness that’s permeating through the air. Brian’s face is turning angrier and you’re starting to get concerned. “Brian? What’s wrong?”

He starts to laugh, confusing you and Roger. “Nothing’s wrong, Y/N,” he says through his laughter. “It’s just amazing how you can go from crying with me earlier to this.” His laughter continues and you’re starting to feel the anger build up inside of you. “How do you do it, Y/N? How do you move on so easily?” He lowers his voice to almost a whisper as his eyes start to glare at you again and his laughter stops. “Must be something you’ve learned with all of those others you… you know. All the guys you’ve had.”

“It’s always easy to forget the assholes,” you say through gritted teeth, not sure if you’re furious or seriously hurt by what he’s saying. He starts to laugh again, harder than before and Roger is moving closer to him, getting inches away before you stop him from getting closer. “Go home, Brian. You’re drunk and don’t mean anything you’re saying.”

“You want me to go home so you can fuck him again,” Brian slurs out as he points to Roger. “You know Rog, the only reason you get to fuck her is because I didn’t…”

“That’s it,” Roger interrupts. “Let’s go home.” He grabs Brian’s arm, but can’t stop Brian’s mouth from moving.

“Did Y/N ever tell you about that threesome she had?” Brian asked Roger. “Maybe you can get her to do that again for you.” His laughter is uncontrollable at this point and you’re trying not to take any of this to heart, but you can’t help it. Your eyes start to tear up for the second time tonight because of Brian’s mouth. “What, you didn’t tell him?” Brian asks you. “And why are you crying again? I hate when you cry.” He tries to touch you consolingly, but you knock his hand away.

“Get him away from me. Please,” you calmly say as you walk out. You hear the front door close as you walk into your bedroom. There’s a million and one thoughts swimming in your head and you know it’s going to be a long, long night if you’re left alone with them. You know he’s tired, but you know there’s no way he’s sleeping yet, so you tap on Freddie’s door.

“Come on,” he mumbled from behind the closed door. “I was waiting for you.” When you opened the door, he was sitting on his bed, patting next to him for you to come sit next to him. “Aww,” he says with a chuckle as he sits next to you and wraps his arm around you. “Tell me all about it.”

You take a deep breath and sigh. “Brian. It’s always Brian,” you say as you look at Freddie with an annoyed glare. “We had a great day together. We went to the park. Then we went to Headley – he brought his telescope. We looked at the stars, we went get a bite to eat, heard some music. Everything was perfect. We were getting along so good and then we ran into Jane’s roommate.” You grunt and lay down, putting your head on his lap as he starts to play with your hair. “Then he comes here, drunk, sees me with Roger, and starts being a complete dick.”

“You need to do is stop letting men control you.” Your head pops up and you give him a look of befuddlement. “Come on, what do you think Brian is doing? He’s not doing it on purpose. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He’s so confused about his own feelings and he wants you to stick around while he figures them out and he found a way to keep you hanging on.” You lay your head back down on his lap. “Judging by stories you told me about your ex, you let him control you too. And your dad – he controlled you so much he got you thinking you deserved nothing good out of life.”

“You’re right,” you confessed.

“Of course I’m fucking right,” he said with mock astonishment. You both chuckled before he continued. “You can’t hide shit from me.”

“Since you know so much, how do I get him to stop controlling me?”

“Well, you need to stop being confused about your feelings. Once you accept them for what they really are then it’ll be impossible for him to control you.”

“Easier said than done…”

“Everything is, but if you pay attention, you already know exactly where you want to be, and it’s with blondie over there.” You pop up and look at Freddie with a raised eyebrow, which makes him start laughing. “Don’t even deny it.” He shoves you and you chuckle and playfully shove him back. “I’m just an outside observer here, but…” You start to talk but he covers your mouth with his hand. “I know what I see! You have that boy wrapped around your cute little finger, Princess, which is shocking because I’ve never seen him act this way with anyone else. And whether you want to admit it or not, he’s got you wrapped around his.”

You give Freddie a blank, unamused stare. “Two months ago, you just knew I was madly in love with Brian because of how we supposedly looked at each other, and now I’ve tamed the elusive lion you kept telling me was bad news and have him in a puddle at my feet.”

“Oh, darling, your feelings for Brian are clearly fleeting,” Freddie laughs as you continue to give him the unamused look. “Let him go, Y/N. You both need to let each other go. He’s not going to do it until you let him go.” You realize Freddie is right, at least about Brian. “If he really wanted you, he’d be with you and not that wretched beast.”

You lay your head on Freddie’s shoulder and he lays his on top of yours. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d fall apart.”

“I’d have lost my mind a long time ago and probably would probably be somewhere else.”

“Ooh does this make me your guru?”

“Goodnight, Freddie,” you giggle. You kiss him on the cheek and walk out. “Love you.”

“Love you, Princess.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰ The next morning you decide to take your sketchbook and have your coffee outside in the garden. The weather was nice again, the sun peeking through the trees, and you even heard some birds chirping. You were enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and became irritated when you heard footsteps approaching. You look up from your book and slam it shut. “Don’t talk to me right now, Brian.” He’s standing in front of you, looking like crap, probably because he was feeling a little hungover. He was the absolute last person you wanted to see right now.

He pulled out a chair from the small café table you were sitting at and invited himself to join you. Your jaw clinched, and you frowned, hoping he would get the hint and leave, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry about last night,” he said with sorrow in his voice, the same tone he would always give you when he was apologizing for being a complete jerk.

You snap. How dare he think this is going to make everything okay, you growled to yourself. “You’re always sorry. I’m tired of ‘I’m sorry.’ Please, go be happy with Jane and just…”

“Y/N…” He tries to interrupt you, but you turn it back around on him.

“No, Brian,” you grunt with force before turning your tone calmer, but still upset. “You know, last night, when you stood in my kitchen and basically called me a tramp, I think that told me exactly how you feel.”

“I didn’t mean any of that. I was drunk.” His words were falling over themselves and his face turned apologetic, and afraid of what you were going to tell him next.

“Alcohol tends to make the truth come out,” you inform him as you stand up from the table to get away from him. “So it’s clear to me you see me as some promiscuous bimbo, and that’s okay. I was at one time. But not anymore. Other people can let it go but you can’t.”

“You’re not a bimbo. At least you’re keeping it to just one guy now.”

“See? No matter how hard you try, that’s what you think about me!” You are absolutely furious. “I came here so I wouldn’t be judged anymore, and so people would stop looking at me like I was some kind of waste, and that’s what you do, every single time you look at me.” You are trying your hardest to hide the heartache. You don’t want him to know how much he’s hurting you. You want him to think you’re angry, which you are, but you think showing any kind of sensitivity right now is showing weakness.

“I’m not judging you, Y/N. I just…”

“You can’t help it. I get it.” He tries to say something, but you cut him off before the words can even vocalize. “Stop trying to make it better. Every time you try you just make it worse.” You turn and walk away, but you aren’t finished lashing out, so you turn back around and walk to where he’s seated. “Freddie never judged me. Neither has Roger. You… I didn’t expect you to.” Your eyes start to water, and it pisses you off because he’s the only one who has made you cry since you’ve been here and he’s the last person you ever thought would. “Of everyone, I didn’t expect it from you. Not the way you listened to me and seemed to understand everything I’ve ever told you about the shit I’ve been through.”

You turn and walk away, but he yells out to you. “You’re making a mistake!” His voice has a hint of concern, and you consider ignoring him, but your curiosity gets the best of you.

You roll your eyes, wipe your tears, and turn back around. “A mistake with what?”

“Roger…” he begins. “I know him. I know how he is!”

You walk up to Brian, who is still sitting down, and get in his face. “He’s never done anything or said anything to me to make me feel like a piece of shit, unlike someone else,” you seethe.

“You don’t think he’s just using you for what he wants?” He seethes at you in return.

“No, I don’t think that at all.” You calm your tone. “What I do think is that you don’t want me to be with him – or anyone else.” You start to walk away again.

“I want you to be happy, Y/N,” Brian mumbles, just loud enough for you to hear it, which makes you turn back around one more time.

“So then let me be happy. Please,” you plead with him. His eyes look down to the ground, and an expression of loss draws upon his face. Tears start to fall down your cheeks, a mixture of sadness and exasperation. “Goodbye, Brian,” you tell him as you walk away.

#brian may #roger taylor #brian may fic #queen fic #roger taylor fic #brian may x reader #brian may fanfiction #brian may fanfic #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor fanfiction #roger taylor fanfic #roger taylor smut #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction #chameleon story #my stuff #my story

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star-nova · 5 years ago

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The Lives of the RiffRaff: Sophia Bolshevik-Elsie’s Boyfriend

We Are the RiffRaff Rickie Johnson-The Art of War Vera Sherwood-Little Sister Kali Muburu-Hair Tracy Kwan-Vergil Franz Fawke-Hecklers James Weaver-The Preacher Mamoru Hayagawa-Three Weddings Charmain Dekker-Frankfort Talia Santiago-Queen of the City

(WARNING: Depictions of rape/sexual assault)

In a town like Tanager, your business is everyone else's business. It's because there aren't enough people, and therefore not enough businesses, to mind only your own. The only way to keep your neighbors' watchful eyes away from you was to do everything by their specific codes; follow the pack, never take the road less traveled, and never do anything that may be considered “against the grain.” Small-towners are so starved for difference because it's so rare, yet at the same time, they're afraid of it. If you stood out at all, you were the subject of both fascination and horror, and therefore you were labeled a troublemaker.

In Tanager, I stood out because I tried too hard not to stand out. I've always been quiet, preferring not to speak or have others speak to me, and if somebody did speak to me, I tended to lock up because I had no idea what to say. To not know what to say was considered a crime in Tanager, where everyone always had something to say. Not only that, but they thought I was childish. At twenty-three, I still played with dolls and chased butterflies and jumped rope in the park with my sister and Ellia. I didn't understand why you were expected to stop having fun for fun's sake once you reached the age of adulthood. If anything, your sense of wonder should increase as you're more and more able to see the world for what it is.

In Frankfort, we could jump rope in the park and watch the people pass by without so much as a glance in our direction. We could start up games of tag and hop along the stepping stones in the brook, and no one asked why we were darting around “like we ain't got nowhere to go,” as our neighbors would put it. I could catch all of the butterflies I wanted and no one paid me any mind. In such a big city with so many businesses blended together, you don't have the time or energy to mind anybody's but your own.

Frankfort was a magical place, where the unwritten rules and regulations of Tanager did not apply. In Tanager, I was often side-eyed and whispered about because of my quiet nature and my childishness. I once overheard a neighbor say, “Sophia's like a six-year-old. She just goes along with whatever you say and doesn't have anything to say for herself.” My appearance didn't help matters; though I'm three years older than Elsie, I'm also several inches shorter. A cherub-like face with apple cheeks isn't cute anymore when you're twenty-three. Elsie and I were both born with the typical blonde heads of Appalachia, but mine had darkened to brown by the time I was fifteen. Elsie's would have stayed blonde if she hadn't dyed it dark red. The Hecklers went around calling her Ronald McDonald. I think she looks more like Angela Chase.

Our appearances don't matter in Frankfort either, except when they do. The guys at the bar at Clarke's Tavern make eyes at us, and on our second night in the city, we went to a club where men wanted to dance with us and told us we were “a couple of real beauties.” Elsie and I had never in our lives been called beauties. Charmain Dekker's nose and harelip, the subjects of real contention in Tanager, were entirely ignored in Frankfort in favor of her curly dark hair and her soft hazel eyes—uncommon in Tanager. Nobody called Ellia “lanky,” and her hair was compared to sunshine rather than straw. And in the magical city of Frankfort, my sister, largely ignored by the male population of our hometown, had managed to attract a boyfriend.

Elsie and I slept in the same room in the rental house in Frankfort; we didn't mind, as we had shared a bedroom until I entered high school. As we were on our way to sleep one night, Elsie told me that she'd met somebody when we went out to the arcade the other day, and she was planning to see him again.

“Met somebody?” I asked, just for clarification. “As in...somebody somebody?”

“He's pretty cute,” Elsie said. “His name's Kyle.”

“How'd you meet?” I asked her. I was tired from a day spent shopping and streetcar-touring, but this new development was far too interesting to sleep on.

“I was waiting for the NeoGeo machine,” Elsie told me, “and he was on it. I was watching him play for a while. We started talking about the games, then we started talking about other games, then we started talking about other stuff. Then he said I was pretty cute, and he asked me for my number. I gave it to him, and, well, the rest is history.”

“Well,” I said through a yawn, “good for you.” I was too tired to say much else. Elsie gave me a mischevious little smile and turned out her light. Truly, we were in a different world if my sister, ignored by guys for most of her life, was able to find somebody. A part of me envied her, which wasn't anything new. It was just another thing she had an advantage over me in: she was taller, she was prettier, she was much more confident, and even her name—Elissandra--was longer than mine. Now she had a date before I did. There were guys in the city who talked to me and asked me for my number, but they never followed up. Oh well, I looked forward to meeting him either way.

Kyle was tall and thin as a rail. He was clean shaven, with blonde hair that went everywhere, and he wore glasses that made him look sort of like a young Bill Gates. My first thought was that he looked like a noodle, or like Napoleon Dynamite. I shouldn't have been judging him on his appearance, since I had my own appearance judged more times than I could count. But the truth was that there wasn't much else about this guy besides the fact that he did look like Napoleon Dynamite. He didn't say anything when Elsie told him, “This is my big sister, Sophia.” When I said hi to him, he said “Hey” back, but his voice was dry and uninterested. When Charmain offered him some of the tea she'd bought in a shop down the street, he just shook his head and sat himself down on the couch, his legs spread wide apart. “He's a shy boy,” Elsie said, patting his shoulder. “He was probably in the middle of a game when I called him up.”

“I wasn't,” Kyle told her.

“Ray lets us use his PS4,” Elsie said. “We'll play a few games. Sounds good?”

“Sure it does,” Kyle said. He was looking at the wall, not at her.

Elsie left to go and fetch the games. Charmain, who always preferred outdoors games to videogames, left us alone. Talia was out in the city, surely causing trouble, and I figured Ellia was in her room watching Netflix. I went to work setting up the PS4. I had nothing to say to Kyle, and he had nothing to say to me. I felt bad that he seemed so uneasy around us. I fumbled in my head for a conversation-starter, but I knew how hopeless it would be. It would come out as nothing but stutter and babble, and he would feel even more uncomfortable than he already was.

It was only after I had connected the last of the cables that I noticed Kyle was staring at me.

“H...hi,” I managed to stammer. I tried to smile. I wasn't sure if I'd succeeded, until I saw him smile back at me. When he smiled, I finally knew what Elsie saw in him.

“Hey, Sophia,” he said, his voice still flat and dry, “c'mere, will ya?”

“You...you need something?” His eyes followed me as I made my way across the room and sat down on the arm of the couch. He started to scoot in closer to me, and I stood up. “I...what do you...what do you n-n-need?” I asked. Suddenly, I longed for Elsie or Charmain. I would have even felt okay with Talia walking in right at that moment.

“Nevermind,” he told me suddenly. “It's nothing.” Elsie had returned with a stack of games and a bag of Fritos, and I realized I'd been holding my breath.

Kyle was just as boring the next time he came around, and I was starting to wonder just what was the appeal of dating a human two-by-four, even if he had a pretty smile. But Elsie seemed happy with him, so it wasn't my place to judge. She brought him around to watch Guardians of the Galaxy with us, and he continued to be the most uninteresting person I had ever met in my life.

Charmain and Talia had gone out to see Talia's aunt, “Baroness” Maven, and Elsie and Ellia were going to go pick up the pizza. I wasn't too thrilled to be left alone with Kyle, but if I had objected, I would've had to tell Elsie what happened the other day. I couldn't think of any positives that would result from that. Besides, it was probably nothing at all and I was just overthinking; I had a tendency to see things that weren't really there. When the girls walked out the door, I got up from the couch and told Kyle that I had to get something out of my room.

“Whatcha gotta get?” he asked me in monotone.

“My phone,” I told him. It was charging in the socket next to Elsie's bed.

“I'll go get it for you,” Kyle said. “Where's your room at?”

I didn't like him asking that question. “N-no,” I stuttered. “I'll...I'll get it, it's fine.” I fled to my room before he could say anything else. I unhooked my phone from the charger and sat down on my bed to browse the web for a while. I figured Kyle wouldn't care if I stayed here until the girls came back.

I heard the room door open and close. I looked up to find Kyle standing there. He was smiling again, and I hated how much I liked it.

I got up from the bed, slipping the phone into my pocket. “What...what do you w-w-want?” I asked.

“Just checkin' up on you,” Kyle said. He sat down on Elsie's bed and pretended to be very interested in the generic lavender-colored sheets.

“I'm fine,” I told him, “just checking Facebook.” I headed for the door, but then he grabbed my arm and pulled me down onto the bed beside him. I found myself looking right into his big Bill Gates glasses. He smelled like Old Spice.

I tried to move off of the bed, but he put his hand between my legs and made his way up my shorts. I jumped up and hit him as hard as I could. He recoiled, placing his hand—the one he'd just touched me with—on the spot where I'd hit. I ran for the door, and he sprung off the bed and grabbed me by my hair. “Don't be so difficult, Sophia,” he said. “You don't seem like a difficult girl. And if you get difficult with me then I might have to get difficult with you, and neither one of us wants that, do we, Sophia?”

I went to hit him again. He dodged it. I turned to flee, and he grabbed me again. His hand was right at my waistline. I never wanted to smell Old Spice again.

“Sophia,” he said, “ you care about Elsie, right?”

I knew that if I spoke, it would come out as nothing but blather. I might even cry, and there was no way I was letting him see that.

“I care a lot abut Elsie,” Kyle assured me. “She's a real great girl. You think your sister's a great girl, Sophia?” I was going to throw up. When I did, I'd make sure it was in his mouth.

“I wouldn't want anything to happen to her,” Kyle went on. “But if you tell anyone what went down today, I just might have to do something to Elsie. I wouldn't want that. I know you wouldn't want that either.”

He wasn't a man. He was a beast, a creature, the most vile thing that had ever crawled up out of the ninth level of hell to curse us with his evil presence. I finally managed to break free of the spell he had me under and I elbowed him in the gut. I ran, without really knowing where I was going or what I was doing. Elsie and Ellia are back now, I told myself. It was only wishful thinking; I was alone in the house with this demon. He slithered his way into the den and pinned me against the door with his gaze. He was a basilisk. Don't look into his eyes or you'll die in seven days...

It was like a nightmare where I couldn't move. He was coming closer to me. “Sophiaaa,” he sang, like he was playing a game with a child. “Think of your sister now, Sophia.” I backed away. I wondered where Talia kept all her knives. “I don't wanna see Elsie get hurt.” He was two inches away from me now and his hand was going down my shorts. Now I kicked and got him right in his erect dick. Now he was angry.

“If you do that to me again,” he said with his hot breath that smelled like A&W, “we'll both see what happens to Elsie.” He pinned me to the floor with his knee. His basilisk eyes bored into me and I was done...

I have no idea what happened. I must have fainted from the pain. My god, it hurt like hell, and even now it was hardly any better.

I was lying on my bed. I tried to move, and I felt something burn. I screamed. Someone put their hand on the back of my head and I slapped them.

“It's me, honey,” Charmain said. I felt her pull my blanket up to my chin. I tried to roll over, but I was burning. Rolling over meant rolling into an open flame. Charmain sat down on Elsie's bed, and Talia came round and stood beside her. I had never in my life been comforted by the sight of Talia Santiago until now.

Charmain reached out to touch my shoulder, hesitating for a moment as if she had to be careful not to break me. “Are you all right?”

I wasn't all right and I'd never be all right again. If you tell anyone what went down today, I just might have to do something to Elsie. If I opened my mouth at all, I would sign my sister's death warrant. I remained silent, and my whole body started to shudder.

“Should we go to the hospital?” Charmain asked. Did she know? How had she found out? I screamed at the top of my lungs for Elsie. Some horrible thing told me she was dead, that between now and the moment I had passed out, they had found her body tossed in some back alley somewhere. “Elsieeeeeeee! Elsieeeeeeee!” Talia raised a hand to slap me, but Charmain said, “Don't you dare!” and grabbed her wrist. She held me as I fell apart.

But then there was Elsie in the doorway, and it was all right, everything could be all right again. I made a move to fling myself out of the bed and go running for her, but the fire in my body quickly called me back to reality. I screamed, and in a moment Elsie was at my side. I held on to her. I'd never let her go, not ever.

“Oh, Sophia...” Elsie patted my head, which she did quite a lot even though she was the little sister. I could see Ellia standing in the hallway, listening.

“Where's Kyle?” I asked. Just the mention of his name made me feel cold.

“He left when you got sick,” Elsie said.

“Sick?”

“Yeah, sick,” Elsie said, patting me again. “Do you remember anything, Soph?”

Did I remember anything? I remembered that my mouth now had the power to end my sister's life, and it was all that monster's fault. He'd laid a curse on me. I started to cry.

Elsie kissed my head and turned me on the pillow. The pain was still there, but it wasn't quite so bad in the face of her gentle attentions. “Kyle said you threw up and pissed all over yourself. You couldn't even move to go to the bathroom.” She shook her head and regarded me with genuine sympathy. “What in the world did you catch, Sophia? You poor kid.” Usually I hated when she called me “kid,” but in the face of everything else, it wasn't a problem. The sticky wet feeling in my shorts was nothing at all like piss.

“How...how did I...how did I get in h-here?” I asked Elsie, but I felt like I already knew the answer. My body tensed up.

“Kyle took you to bed,” Elsie said. “Ellia and I came in with the pizza maybe five minutes after, and he told us you'd gotten really sick and he had to go. He told us everything.”

Kyle took you to bed. He told us everything. An electric jolt went through my body. My head spun around like it had the day Ellia and I went on the swing ride at the county fair. I willed myself not to think about it, but my will wasn't strong enough. I threw up.

“Ew!” Talia moved a full two feet away from my bed. Charmain said, “Poor thing” and shook her head. Elsie went to pull the blankets away. Without a thought, I slapped her.

“Yikes!” Elsie took a few steps back. “Sophia, what was that for?” Her eyes were wide with disbelief, as if perhaps I was an impostor in place of the real Sophia. Maybe I was. Maybe that creature had the real Sophia with him. Still, if she pulled the blankets back she would see everything and know everything. That vomit-covered blanket was my only shield. I held it close to me with a Herculean grip.

Ellia said, “We gotta get her to the hospital.” Charmain knelt down on the edge of the bed, reached for my blanket—my shield—and said, “Come on, let's get this nasty thing cleaned up.”

I screamed. I screamed so loud that I was sure I could be heard all over the world. Charmain jumped up off the bed. Ellia cried, “Sophia! Sophia!” She said something else, but I couldn't hear it. All I could hear were my own screams, which must have rested dormant inside of me for my whole life, waiting to escape. I couldn't turn them off. I couldn't make them stop. Elsie had her arms around me and my head was pressed into her shoulder. Talia ripped the blanket away and tossed it to the floor. I couldn't stop her.

My bloody, stained shorts were right there in front of everybody.

#The Lives of the RiffRaff #Fiction by Me #writing #work in progress

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