#billy trying to pep white up about the ball

[grinchwrapsupreme]

being super normal about White calling Billy "a dreamer"after the events of Maybe No Go

[kafka-ish]

how to be a heartbreaker | b.d.

y/n wants to get her crush to notice her but she has no idea how. luckily, beverly comes to her with some valuable advice.

word count: 2,845

warnings: fem!reader

request: (from anonymous) “hiii! could i request a fic for bill denbrough where the reader is very flirty with everyone in the losers club and bill is flustered whenever she flirts with him? i was thinking that w/n could be like the female richie just more tame haha. ty!”

a/n: i was so excited to receive this request as it was my first one !! i hope i did it justice. 

-

y/n didn’t always wear tight tops and make cheeky comments. 

That’s why Bill was so surprised when she arrived at the quarry in a skirt so short, he could the lace peeking from her underwear when she bent down, and a smart mouth almost identical to Richie’s. But Bev smirked to herself as she watched the scene unfold, remembering how y/n had come to her last weekend, asking for help. 

“Who do you like?” Beverly’s question was innocent, yet somehow it managed to make y/n’s skin crawl and her throat turn to cotton. 

“What makes you think I like anyone?” y/n’s fingers absentmindedly began to pick at the purple comforter neatly draped across the twin sized bed she was perched on. 

“Can I guess?” Beverly ignored y/n’s previous statement and eagerly began listing names. “Is it Matt from gym? Or Cameron from chemistry? If you like Cameron I can see why... That blond hair and smirk can really do things to a girl.” 

“No.” y/n laughed at her friend’s guesses; more so at how far off she was. “It’s neither of them.”

“Then who is it?” Beverly turned around in the vanity chair she was sitting in, in order to get a better read on y/n’s features. That’s when y/n knew her friend was persistent on learning her crush. 

“It’s Bill.” The words left y/n’s mouth in a whisper, but Beverly didn’t need her friend to repeat herself to pick up on what she was saying. 

“Bill Denbrough?” Bev’s voice raised an octave. “Why haven’t you made a move yet? You see him practically everyday!”

“Well, I...” y/n took a moment to readjust herself. She stretched out on Beverly’s bed; each limb reaching each corner of the mattress. She stared at the ceiling which was covered in glow in the dark sticky stars. They’d been there since Beverly was five. She had intentions of removing them, but the adhesive stuck horribly. Beverly also didn’t want to risk ruining part of the building’s architecture since her family was renting it out. And if she did, her dad would do more things than just yell at her. 

“You what?” 

“How am I supposed to make a move?” y/n groaned. Beverly could tell this was something that upset her. “I freak out whenever I’m left alone with him. Hell, even when I’m just sitting next to him. I can’t find the right words to say... Or any words for that matter.”

“You and Bill have that in common,” Beverly said. It was a cheap shot at Bill’s stutter. But she should’ve known y/n was above laughing at something her crush couldn’t control. “Why don’t you just feign confidence?” Beverly’s helpful for once suggestion became of interest to y/n. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Richie does it all the time.” y/n heard a snort coming from the other side of the room. “Just... You know, pretend.” 

“How am I supposed to conjure up some alter ego if I can’t even conjure up some simple hello.” Of course y/n was a skeptic to the idea. But it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?

“That’s exactly why you need to do this!” Beverly countered. She couldn’t seem to contain her excitement at the thought of playing matchmaker with her friends. “We can start with a new wardrobe.” Beverly jumped into bed with y/n and her eyes trailed down to the girl’s figure. She was silently judging her friend’s outfit and y/n didn’t know if she should feel offended or uncomfortable. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow.” 

Their shopping haul consisted of mainly crop tops, skinny jeans, and some of the shortest skirts y/n’s ever seen. Beverly picked out a blue ruffled skirt that barely covered her butt when she leaned over and a plain white crop top to match. 

“You have to wear that when we all go to the quarry!” Beverly said over the phone (it was more of an order than a friendly opinion). 

Nonetheless, she did.

y/n was the last to show up at the quarry; wanting to make a big entrance. It was big alright. She greeted every one of the boys with a kiss on the cheek and a grin wide enough to stick an orange slice in.

“It’s been so long, you guys!” Only enthusiasm could be detected from her voice. y/n sat down on a rock next to Eddie and ruffled his hair which he quickly patted down afterwards. 

“It’s only been a day,” Stan deadpanned. But who was he to burst the bubble of newfound elation coming from his usually reserved friend? 

“A day that’s been far too long!” Her eyes playfully rolled to the back of her head and she leaned forward to boop Stan on the nose. “So, are we getting in the water or what?” She stood up, allowing for a showcase of her long legs and started to strip. 

“You got that right, doll.” Richie whistled as y/n’s shirt hit the ground. Off came his shirt, too; the rest of the Losers following suit. 

y/n was the first to make a splash. She cannon-balled into the water, giving the boys a full view. A second whistle was about to reach Richie’s lips, but Bill stopped him. 

“Yo-you know, in uh-other places th-that’d be illegal.” His tongue stuck on the “L” sound in illegal for a while. 

“Good zing we arrren’t in other places.” Richie had been trying out his new “comrade” accent for the past week but no one else in the group except him was impressed. Bill, especially, was not impressed and shoved Richie into the water. “I’ll get you for this!” He yelled immediately after being able to come up for air. Though Bill couldn’t hear him. He was already already making his debut into the water. 

“Hey cutie,” y/n said, swimming up from behind him as he landed. He was taken aback at the words that had left her mouth and frankly so was she. 

“H-hi, y/n.” Goosebumps materialized on his arms, legs, and chest, and Bill didn’t know if it was because of how cold the water felt, or the recent effect y/n had on him. 

y/n giggled at the sound of her name coming from his mouth. “Be my chicken partner? You’re the only one strong enough I can think of.” She purposely avoided his gaze. In fact, she looked everywhere but at him. 

“I-if yo-you wuh-want.” Bill’s stutter had gotten notably worse and he wanted to curse himself for it. Would he seriously let almost four years of speech therapy go to waste just because of a pretty girl?

“Oh, I definitely want.” y/n’s eyes thoughtfully roamed Bill’s bare chest which he suddenly grew conscious of. Her fingers traced his collarbone and traveled down to his bicep. “I just remembered.” Her hand pulled away and she met his eyes. His blue eyes that she could get lost in for all eternity if she weren’t careful. “I need to go.” y/n didn’t honestly have to go—rather, the advice Bev had given her earlier parroted itself in her head:

Don’t be afraid to go all in. But always leave him wanting more. 

Leave him wanting more. 

y/n gave him a half smile before making her way towards the rocks. 

Bill watched as she did. The sun’s light reflected against her slicked hair in the most alluring manner. She somehow managed to make walking through water graceful. Bill’s eyes stuck to her figure until it disappeared. His trance soon broken by the sound of Eddie’s cries and the feeling of cold water dousing his back. 

“You were great today!” y/n smiled at Beverly’s voice from over the phone. She was sitting on her bed. One hand was holding the phone to her ear while the other was twirling a finger around the cord connecting the receiver piece to the landline. 

“You really think so?” A new feeling had begun to rise in her chest. Cockiness? Pride? Accomplishment? Whatever it was, it felt good. 

“Well, Bill couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you, could he?” And y/n didn’t have to see Beverly’s face to know she was raising her eyebrows because the tone of her voice already gave it away. 

“I guess not..” 

“Why don’t we all meet for dinner tomorrow?” Bev suggested. It wasn’t really a suggestion, though. It was more like an ‘I’m-telling-you-this-now-and-I’ll-tell-the-losers-after-we’re-done-talking’ sort of thing. 

“Sure,” y/n agreed, because she knew it was useless to try and stop Beverly—she was too far ahead of herself.

“Great!” The busy tone then rung in y/n’s ear, indicating that Bev had hung up. 

Thus, allowing her to be the blame when y/n showed up to Derry’s local diner in a strappy plaid dress and enough attitude for the whole table. 

“Oh, baby!” Richie grinned at the sight of their friend finally coming out of her shell. “You didn’t get all purty for me, did ya?” 

“You wish, trashmouth,” y/n said, taking a seat next to a now shuddering Bill. “Hey, Billy!” Unexpectedly, the girl threw her arms around the boy, wrapping him in an embrace tighter than she was willing to admit. 

Bill opened his mouth, about to say something, only to close it again. The words were caught in the back of his throat and it didn’t help when the sweet scent of her floral perfume reached his nose, leaving him lost in any contagious thoughts of her that he’d unconsciously dreamed of before. 

She withdrew from him, prompting a harsh swallow from Bill. 

“Cat got your tongue?” No matter how much she wanted to, she didn’t let herself  wait long enough for an answer. Abruptly, she broke eye contact and settled on Ben for the time being. 

In a voice higher than normal, y/n had told him he was the best writer in their grade—something Bill found himself strangely jealous hearing. “My parents said I need an English tutor...” In one hand, she swirled her root beer with a straw. Her other hand was holding up her head that rested on it. “I was wondering if you’d be mine?” 

“Wow. Yeah, y/n, I’d love to help!” Ben said with a little too much pep in his step. 

“That’s awesome!” They'd settled on the library to meet up at the next day, but oddly enough Ben wasn’t there. 

Bill was. 

“What-what are you doing here?” It was hard for y/n to try and keep her cool. Especially when the boy whom she was harboring a crush for was standing right in front of her in place of her supposed-to-be English tutor. 

“I’m tuh-tutoring yo-you in En-engl-hish. Of cour-course.” He seriously needed to get a grip on that stutter of his. It was no use, as he could even feel his thoughts stammering against each other. 

“No, Ben’s my tutor,” y/n corrected as she sat her book bag down on the library desk. She riffled through the mess of folders stacked in her bag; an ‘aha’ noise inadvertently leaving her mouth once she found the red one marked ‘English’. “Where is Ben?” It became increasingly harder to keep up the act Beverly had helped her come up with. It grew much more apparent to y/n that it was easier to flirt with friends—not someone she had a full blown crush on. 

“He, uh, he cou-couldn’t mm-muh-make it.” So what if Bill had lied? So what if Bill had told Ben that he didn’t need to go to the library anymore as he took his place instead? 

“Hey Bill!” Ben had just gotten done trading out his History book for his Pre-Calculus one.

Bill was standing right next to his friend’s locker—how Ben hadn’t seen him walking up remained a mystery. 

“What’s up?” 

“y/n tuh-told me that she-she didn’t need an English tutor an-any...anymore.” 

“Huh.” Ben chewed the dead skin on his lip before he continued. “y/n told you this?” 

“Ye-yeah.” Bill nodded his head in order to seem convincing. “Since sh-she doesn’t have any class-classes with you, she wuh-wanted mm-me to tell you.” 

It was a dirty trick and even Bill didn’t know what came over him when he decided to play the lying game. 

y/n didn’t say anything. She only sat down and begun to organize her pencils. 

“Is-s th-that okay?” A surge of nervousness pumped through his veins while he posed the question. He looked down at y/n who was still quiet. 

“Oh, so you think you’re good at English?” y/n raised her eyebrow. She’d finally plucked up enough courage to put on her alter ego and face Bill. 

“I nuh-know I’m guh-good at English. A-according to mm-my tuh-teachers. Str-straight A’s.” He eventually took a seat next to her. It gave y/n a case of the jitters she’d force herself to get over. 

“Well, if that’s the case...” y/n leaned closer into Bill’s side. Her shoulder brushed against his in a feather light touch. “Teach me everything you know.” 

Bill felt himself beginning to choke on his spit. Ever since that day at the quarry, y/n had started acting different.  For one, she actually talked to him. She also traded her regular mom jeans for skirts and graphic tees for tank tops; clothes that showed the most skin. It took him a solid minute before he could clear his throat and begin to explain the differences between a run-on sentence and a comma splice. 

“I have to ask you something.” y/n stopped him in the middle of his explanation of different clauses. 

Bill looked up from the paper he was using to demonstrate. His eyes dwelled into hers. He knew where this conversation was leading to, and for the record, he didn’t necessarily want to go there. “Wuh-what is i-it?” 

“Did Ben really call this off?” He knew at least some variation of those words were going to come out of her mouth. “It just seems unlike him. And we see each other at lunch—”

“Act-actually...” Bill heaved a sigh, unwilling to reveal what had really happened. But it would be for the best, right?

Bill missed how the perpetual softness of her features had developed into a sort of smug look that y/n wouldn’t usually sport. “Bill...” Her hand reached up to cup his face. “If you had something to do with it, I wouldn’t be mad.” He didn’t realize her delicate fingers were carding through his auburn hair up until she pulled away. 

At this point, so many sensations swept through his insides. If a butterfly had flown out rather than actual words, Bill would only try to find out what species it was. 

“What.” He stopped to exhale. “Wha-what muh-makes you thi-think I had... had something to-to do with—” 

“Just a girl’s intuition.” y/n seemed serious for a second and Bill couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I’m kidding, duh. I got a text halfway through our study sesh.” She took out her Nokia to show him. 

Bill told me about cancelling our sessiom. Good luck in engkish. 

A chuckle tumbled from his lips, noting the obvious typos. “Fo-for a guh-guy wh-who was goin-gonna tu-tutor you.. he ca-can’t spell for sh-sh-shit.” 

y/n’s head fell back and she lost control of her body momentarily as laughter consumed her. Bill could tell she gained control again when she turned to him once more. Silently, she waited for an answer. 

“So... so wuh-what i-if I de-did.” 

“If you did, then, I’d think you conned Haystack out of an opportunity to teach me,” she said, her voice all sing-songy. She instantly noticed Bill’s frown—how he looked down in a sort of shameful way. “I’d also say you were pretty good company.” 

“Really?” Bill’s incredulous mood had egged y/n on even further. 

“Obviously. Who wouldn’t want to hang out with a total dreamboat like you?” She jabbed at his stomach. Bill would normally flinch at this, but his mind was too busy analyzing what she just said. 

“Dr-dreamboat?” His thick eyebrows drew together. Suspect crossed his face. 

“You heard me, Denbrough.” y/n cocked her head to the side. She shifted closer to him- that is, if she could be any closer. 

He tried to speak but all that came out were a bunch of incoherent stutters.

“Shut up.” She thought of pressing her finger to his mouth, but an idea even better sparked in her mind. 

y/n forced a quick kiss onto his lips. She didn’t stay that long; not giving him the chance to kiss back. She was met with his eyes closed and his lips left in a gathered state after parting. 

“Wowo-woah.” Bill sighed, opening his eyes. His already pink lips were stained a slight red from the lipstick that colored y/n’s own. 

“Was I good?” y/n’s alter ego had completely left her body at this point. Her previously shy and hesitant self was now fleshed out perfectly for Bill to see. 

Bill shrugged before pulling her in for another kiss. This time it was long and slow. This time Bill had the chance to kiss back. 

“Ye-yeah.” His expression was kind. “Amazing.” 

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker- Anger

very loosely based on Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington from Stranger things. 

TW: Please be careful! Explicit abuse, parental abuse (tony’s dad, Peter’s step dad), violence, Tony punches Peter in the face once, both peter and tony are being abused by their parents, unhealthy coping mechanisms, brief mentions of homophobic slurs, somehow a happy ending, high school au, just- be careful, my lovelies! 

Tony’s known pretty boys like Peter Parker his whole life.

They aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, and they are printed on paper: stick thin and flimsy. Two dimensional, boring, shallow, materialistic. They’re a dime a dozen back in Phoenix, and frankly, Tony wasn’t impressed with them there, so here, in this dreary little town where school spirit and pep leaks outside of the school’s hallways and into the streets, where popularity matters deep in the suburbs the same way it does in the classroom, Tony really isn’t impressed.

Pretty boys like Peter Parker are pretty, and that’s all they’re good for. A bit of eye-candy.

The bubbly-blonde, cotton-candy cheerleader who’s been assigned to showing him around the school, does so with an enthusiasm that’s borderline revolting. “There are loads of school clubs, you should totally join, like, all of them! Peter’s on the committee, and he’s so open to new ideas, if you think of a club just run it by him! He’d be so happy to! He also hosts these, like, killer parties! And it’s always open invitation, Peter’s house is totally lush, he has this huge pool and his parents are like, never home-“

Jesus Christ, it’s all so inane. Tony reaches for his cigarettes and the girl stutters to a halt as she watches him light it up right there in the hall. Her eyes are wide with awe- rimmed with arousal and wrongness. Tony resists the urge to smirk. It’s all so easy. Cookie-cutter town like this, where the most popular guy in school is on fuckin’ committees for school clubs, he’s not surprised that dark, slicked back hair, black-rimmed eyes and a cigarette will be enough to rework the social structure.

In fact, he’s sort of banking on it.

“Y-you’re not allowed to smoke in here,” she breathes in amazement, and Tony chuckles, fumes curling around his jaw.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He says around his cigarette, giving her a wink. “You gonna tell on me?”

She shakes her head, hair swishing with her promise, and when the tour ends- she races off, no doubt, to tell the food chain of the cafeteria what she’s witnessed.

* *

Maria cries that night, when Howard kicks Tony’s face so hard he can feel his eye bulge a little.

Tony wants to tell her not to cry. He wants to gather her into his arms and spit blood and say I told you he wouldn’t change just because we’ve moved states. He can’t change, mom. He won’t change.

He loves her for loving him. He hates her for not saving him.

He swallows down putrid blood and sleeps in his car.

When he wakes up, there’s fresh bandages tucked into his glove compartment, a packed lunch, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a post-it note that says (in handwriting that trembles) that maybe he shouldn’t come inside for breakfast. I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Mom xx

* *

The rumour mill has been churning, and when he walks into school with his shiner, it just spins even faster.

People gape, a few, braver ones, flutter over, hovering, but not quite speaking.

Tony feels pretty damn good. It’s nice to feel handsome. Powerful. Nice to know that somewhere, he can exude a little control.

But to be King, there has to be a de-throning.

“You,” he drawls, slamming a locker shut and narrowly missing a freshman’s fingers. “Peter Parker, where is he?”

The freshmen swallows hard, shrinking into his neck. “Uh-uh- p-probably in the a-art rooms, T-Tony.”

Tony grins, and pats him on the cheek. The boy already knows his name. Everyone must.

Without another word, he turns and heads for the art rooms.

When he gets there, his breath catches in his throat.

Dappled in sunlight, twisting spirals of cedar hair, amber eyes and practically drenched in a golden aura, is Peter Parker.

He’s frowning at a canvas, and it makes Tony seethe.

Pretty boys like that are all the same. Oh, is his biggest fucking problem the fact he can’t decide what to paint? He certainly doesn’t have any money issues, not if the expensive shoes are anything to go by. The designer jeans, the pink sweater with the ruffled lace collar.

Tony hates him. Fucking envies him. The sight of him- so beautiful, so serene- so troubleless, he has everything. He has everything. No doubt two parents who adore him, a nice house, money, talent, beauty- a future. And everyone here adores him, fuckin’ thinks he hung the moon in the sky.

“You think you’re worth anything?” Howard sneers, jabbing Tony’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. “You ain’t worth a damn thing, sport. You’re worth shit.”

“Well,” Tony smiles, all mean and sharp at the edges, and feels a vicious sort of victory in the way Peter jumps.

Like he’s not used to be snuck up on. Like he’s not used to being scared. “Oh, you scared me,” the boy laughs, a blush on his cheeks, “you must be Tony-“

“You’re as pretty as they said you were.” Tony continues, because he doesn’t want to hear Peter’s sweet voice. Doesn’t want to hear another word out of his mouth. “Prettier, even. They don’t do you justice.” He trails his fingers across still-wet canvases drying on easels, smudging and ruining the paintings.

“Hey, I think- you’re not supposed to touch those,” Peter points out worriedly, pearly teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “You might accidentally-“

Tony moves so quickly it must look like he’s teleported. He backhands Peter so fucking hard, it’s so fucking satisfying, and the boy topples to the ground gracelessly.

There’s no movement for a long moment, before the boy lets out a strangled gasp, wrenches himself away.

Not far enough. Goddamn, he’s so weak. How can anyone be this weak? Tony knows to cover his head, to curl up in a ball, but Peter’s splayed out and defenceless.

Tony reaches down to grab him by the designer sweater, lifting him clear off the ground as Peter winces and recoils. The mark on his cheek is darkening rapidly, an ugly scarlet. “You run this school, Parker? You their precious king?”

“What? No! I…” there are tears sparkling in his eyes, he even cries like a Disney character. “I don’t- I don’t understand, please don’t-“

Begging never stops anything. Tony drops him and punches down in one swift motion, right onto Peter’s stomach- forcing all the air out of him, along with a pitiful whimper. “You ain’t king of shit, you get that, Parker?”

He doesn’t stick around for an answer, not that Peter could give one, with the way he’s wheezing, and he strides out; fingers streaked with paint and blood.

* * Peter doesn’t come into school the next day, and all eyes are stuck on Tony.

They’re not all as admiring anymore, but they are intimidated, and that’ll do. The girls still flock to him, the younger students still flee.

It’s easy to dethrone. History makes it look hard, but it isn’t.

“Liam’s throwing a party next week,” Cindy says over lunch. Tony’s sitting at the “popular” table. It looks like all the others, but the people there are substantially more attractive. He’s sitting where Peter usually sits, that much he can gather, and the students (his subjects) whisper with nervous fear. “You should totally come.”

“Maybe,” Tony murmurs, but he will go. Anywhere that isn’t home in the evenings. Anywhere else.

*** Tony feels good on Friday.

His dad is out of town on business, and he and his mom ate take out in front of the tv and didn’t have to worry when they spilt some on the rug.

He parks his beat up car in one of the teacher’s spots, and his entourage rush to greet him and update him on the gossip and prattle on about things he doesn’t give a shit about.

That is, until one of them says-

“Peter’s back in today.”

And that, Tony has to see.

He’s not technically in AP english, but he winks at the receptionist and she buckles like everyone does.

Peter sits at the front of the class, scribbling notes furiously, and looks entirely put together in a white chiffon blouse and green slacks. The bruise along his cheekbone is horrific. Darker and splotchier- there’s a tiny little cut above his left eyebrow- Tony doesn’t remember doing that, but that happens sometimes. He hits a little harder than he means to.

Seeing it is a weird feeling. It makes disgust well up inside him, something horrible and tortured screeches to be let out, and on the other hand-

He’s a king looking down on the enemy wounded.

Peter doesn’t look up at him once during the class, even though he goes out of his way to be annoying and aggravating.

The teacher kicks him out eventually, and when the bell rings, he waits by Peter’s locker.

The boy approaches cautiously. He’s alone. All alone. High school fans, so fickle, Tony tuts.

“Parker,” he grins, watching as Peter twists open the combination lock. “Finally decided to come back.”

“I guess so,” the boy says quietly, demurely, changing out his books. He has hard copies of everything, all brand new and shiny. They don’t look like the torn up, hand-down charity shop copies Tony uses.

Tony waits, but Peter offers nothing else. He feels too sharp around the edges, he feels like he’s shattering. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell on me or some shit? I haven’t heard a word.”

“You want me to tell someone you attacked me?” Peter clarifies curiously, looking at him with huge, honey eyes. It’s like someone bottled sunlight. Tony’s winded by the sight of them.

“I-“

“What would that achieve?” Peter asks, blatant with honesty and genuine inquisitiveness. “It wouldn’t make you stop. It might get you suspended, maybe expelled, but then what? Not like you couldn’t come and find me outside of school. Then I call the police? Try to get you arrested for assault? You’d be released in a year anyway, and then what?”

Tony snarls, banging his fist against the lockers so loudly the entire hallway falls silent. He leans in and spits into Peter’s face: “How about some fuckin’ gratitude that I didn’t leave a mark, huh, pretty boy? Where’s my thanks?”

Peter doesn’t step away. He looks up and juts out his chin in a way that’s meant to be intimidating but is more endearing than anything. “Thank you.” He whispers. His lower lip shakes. “Thank you for what you did to me.”

“Don’t fuckin- stop cryin- get up! Get up!” Howard yells, hauling Tony to his feet. He stumbles, unable to stand, and Howard shoves him against the wall. “Fuckin’ ingrate, say thank you- thank me for taking the time to fuckin’ teach you!”

“Thank you,” Tony manages around a sob, sliding to the floor and bursting into tears.

Tony staggers back hard.

He’s not-

He’s not.

*** Pretty boy Peter is a bug under his skin.

Tony can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop wondering where he is, how he is.

Jefferson High is a huge school, but the fields and playgrounds are bigger, and that’s where students spend their time.

Tony finds Peter every lunch time, curled up in the big chairs in the library, buried in a book.

Sometimes he’s wearing oversized cream sweaters, sometimes when it’s hot, he’s in some fancy lace get up, and Tony eyes the smooth, soft skin on display. Sometimes he’s almost asleep, looks so peaceful and cosy (Tony wants to reach out and gently, gently touch) sometimes his eyes are moving so rapidly, his lips parted in exhilaration, fingers clumsy as they hurriedly turn the page that Tony would give anything to know what he was reading.

For Peter to tell him what interested him so much.

As it is, he doesn’t approach. Just watches from the shadows for as long as he can, before slipping out undetected.

He’s particularly good at that, thank years of practising.

The swarms that once worshipped the boy never hang out with Peter anymore, but oddly enough, Peter doesn’t seem to care, or even notice.

Tony can relate to that. Losing Cindy the air-head might actually be a relief. He’s tried to shake her off, but she latches like a leech.

Instead, Peter spends his time with a dreary-eyed girl. A girl Tony knows gets called dyke by the guys in the shower-room.

Tony doesn’t join in their bantering over jokes like that.

She’s cool, though, and clearly doesn’t give a shit. She’ll be something big when she’s out of here, and Tony wants to her see her succeed. Wants to flip on his television set one day in a few years and see her face.

When he gets home that night, he has the book Peter was reading at lunch tucked under his arm (the librarian too, is a sucker for his eyes).

Howard glares at him, kicks at him when he walks past like he’s a mangy mutt, but he makes it to bed and he flips on the switch, snuggled into threadbare sheets, and he reads.

*** Amidst the thrum of music, the boozy smell of alcohol, and lipstick on the back of playing cards, Peter Parker shows up to Liam’s party.

Tony’s halfway through a keg, but he’s not feeling the effects (so what? He’s built up a bit of a tolerance) and people are chanting King Tony! when he spots wavy brown hair and pretty pink lips.

He follows without even meaning to.

Peter’s face is healed now, back to as beautiful as ever. Tony heals fast too.

“Parker,” he greets, when Peter helps himself to punch. “You showin’ your face here?”

Peter smiles. “I was invited.”

That surprises him. “Really? Who’d wanna be seen with a nobody like you?”

“Liam and I go back.”

Well damn, not as fickle as he’d thought then. Anyway, the sight of Peter is thrilling. It’s troubling. “Get the fuck out,” Tony orders, because a rather large part of him wants to- wants to kiss-

“I was just leaving.” The boy corrects, turning away.

There’s a welt on his back.

It peaks out behind the strappy, vintage style blazer. But only just. It’s been cleverly covered up, if Tony wasn’t so familiar with the sight he’d never have spotted it and-

He reaches out, calls for Peter to stop- wait-

But he’s already gone.

*

It’s an obsession.

But it keeps him from the house. He drives around town slowly, cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, arm hanging out the window of his car, and he coasts through fancy neighbourhoods, sees wholesome families praying before eating their dinner in their grand dining rooms.

He hates them.

He spots Peter’s pretty red Camaro parked in the driveway of an enormous house.

He parks around the block, comes back, and lingers.

It’s totally normal. The curtains are shut, but Tony can see enough. They have neat hedgerows, cultivated fox gloves, and a bird feeder out front. There are three cars parked neatly, Peter’s, a blue beetle, and a large jeep, all lovingly taken care of and gleaming in the evening light.

The kitchen curtains have charming little frogs on them, the mat out front says welcome.

He can’t have seen a welt on Peter’s back, because that doesn’t fit.

It fits Tony. With his beaten down house, lack of kitchen curtains, lack of prayers, his scratched up, junkyard piece of crap, his bruised knuckles and his split lip.

He’s wrong.

*** His mom’s been saying that Howard’s getting worse.

Tony zones her out. She says stuff like this all the time. Other times she says he’s getting better, then he’s getting worse, but she never does a fuckin’ thing about it.

When he staggers out of the house at three am, bleeding bad, throbbing all over, and he falls into his car- can hear his mother screaming, can hear Howard demanding him to get back inside, he steps on the gas and tails it.

He’s driving to the hospital, hardly able to see through the blood and the pain and the black spots dancing across his vision, when he crashes into a street lamp.

It’s not a bad crash. Another dent in many, he thinks, but he suddenly feels warm all over.

He’s cosy. He could fall asleep.

*** When he wakes up, he’s on a cloud. He’s floating on air.

He blinks and there’s a warm, gold light, and two, beautiful honey eyes.

He’s in heaven.

But that can’t be right, he’s a piece of shit.

“You got that right,” comes a chiding, slightly teasing tone, and he squints against the dimness to see Peter Parker above him, dabbing at him with white cotton buds.

Feeling seems to come back all at once. First, an ache that drags through his whole body, then the blinding sting of whatever hell fire Peter’s putting on his face, third, that Peter’s straddling hm, and it’s a really rather nice hot, weight.

“Mm, baby,” he groans, sliding his coarse hands up Peter’s bare, smooth thighs, “this is a pleasant surprise.” He bucks his hip a little, feels his clothed dick nestle between two plump cheeks. He gets a little burst of pleasure that’s such a fucking relief from the pain that he grinds upwards again.

Peter’s hand is firm on his chest, pressing him down into the bed, not cloud. “You’re hurt, Tony. One problem at a time please.”

Problems. Damn. He has a lot of those.

“Tell me about it,” Peter sighs. “I’ve parked your car at the drive-thru theatre. I left a note at the lamppost. I hope no one minds.”

Tony blinks, dazed, and watches as Peter tends to him. It reminds him of that film his mom used to watch all the time, the fuckin horrible one with the dancing and the singing and the monster.

Beauty and the Beast, his mind supplies.

Peter’s face isn’t pretty. It’s beautiful. Dimples and prominent cheekbones, lovely eyebrows and long lashes. He has freckles and a beauty mark on his jaw, perfect for kissing. His forehead is creased in concentration as he works on Tony’s face, his tongue resting on his lips.

Tony may not be in heaven, but he is looking at an angel.

“Do you really…” he whispers, reaching up a clumsy hand to stroke tenderly at Peter’s face. The boy doesn’t even flinch. “Did you really have a…a belt mark on you…”

Those eyes snap to him, a vulnerability come to light, a hidden truth revealed.

Then they darken, and look away. “You need to get your rest.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tony croaks, eyes burning, “you’re perfect. It’s not meant to- not meant to happen to perfect people, only- only broken ones, like-“

“Nobody’s perfect,” Peter whispers wisely, dabbing cream onto his fingers, and then onto Tony’s face.

“Who does it to you?”

“Step dad,” Peter shrugs, “he never hits her, though. I think he misses his own son.”

“I’ll kill him for hurtin’ you, I swear,” he slurs, filled with righteous ire. Who could hurt such an angel-

“That’d be hypocritical.” Peter muses, opening a pack of antiseptic wipes and swiping at Tony’s temple. He’s good at this. He must be well-practised.

Tony drowns in self-loathing. “I’m a shit.” He hisses, “I’m a shit, I’m sorry, but my dad-“

“I understand.” Peter nods, fingers stroking through Tony’s hair. “I empathise. I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

“You might, though?” Tony urges, craning into every touch. “Maybe?”

Peter grinds down once, making Tony’s dick jolt with arousal. “Maybe.” He whispers.

*** Tony hates his anger management counsellor so fucking much.

But Howard hates him going, so Tony always shows up on time.

Peggy is patient and understanding, but no-nonsense.

When he shows up with bleeding knuckles and a jagged cut on his arm, she offers him a lemon sucker and shakes her head.

“He started it.” Tony hisses, taking a sherbet and sucking on it.

She doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t Peter, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would never hurt Pe- I haven’t ever hit Peter again.”

She’s silent.

He feels like a kid. He hangs his head on his chest. “I get so angry.” He whispers.

“And does violence make the anger go away?”

He nods, looking at her through tears. He cries so much nowadays. Peggy says it’s a good thing. “It turns it into power.”

Peggy looks at him, urging him to get there on his own.

“It’s not power,” he mumbles, lemon on his tongue, “I feel helpless.”

“We all do sometimes, Tony,” she smiles, and offers him another lemon drop. “I want to talk about your mom today. About the things you think she likes best about you.”

Tony wants to run and hide, but instead he sits and listens.

* Sometimes, when Peter reaches over to hold Tony’s hand, Tony yanks it away, his whole mood sours, and he storms out.

He always comes back though. Shame-faced, small, and he reaches out for a hug and Peter gives it to him.

He yells sometimes too. When he’s trying really hard not to, it slips out. Horrible things, things he doesn’t mean, things he wishes he could take back but he fears are going to hang there in the air forever.

He always cries afterwards, and calls Peggy.

Peter yells too, from time to time, when he’s fracturing a little, when Kurt presses where it hurts.

Tony holds Peter tight when that happens, kisses his hair all soft and gentle in the ways he never thought he could be, and promises that they’ll both do better. They’ll both be better.

Peter sees Stephen Strange, a counsellor on the other side of town.

Peggy thinks it’s a good idea for Peter and Tony to heal independently of each other, just in case they become a support system for one being, rather than two people.

Strange says you shouldn’t feel guilty for lashing out. Peggy says you should apologise if you’re sorry.

Peter kisses the hollow of Tony’s throat and says: “I want to tell you all the things I love about you.”

By the end of the forty-minute list, Tony has to cut Peter off, because he can’t hear him over his own sobs.

After a month of no violence, Tony’s greeted to Peter covered in flour and icing, holding a poorly shaped cake that says one month of peace is groovy baby.

They eat it in an old tent, camped out on the edge of town. The cake is disgusting, and Tony’s new favourite. 

They have sex in the grass and Tony kisses Peter’s new welt, and says that he deserves so much more than this.

That, if he likes, Tony will try to give it to him.

**

They have a modest house in a modest town. They have curtains with kangaroos on them, and no dining table- just a coffee table with bean bags in front of the television.

They have one nice car that they share.

They have friends.

They meet each other in the drive way, both on their way home from work, and Peter blushes when Tony holds out the bouquet of tulips. “Pretty boy,” Tony grins, as Peter buries his face in the petals. “I heard from a little birdie that it was your wedding anniversary.”

“Mm,” Peter giggles, “that’s weird. Me and my husband promised each other no presents.”

“Ah,” Tony sighs, drawing Peter into his arms, kissing him silly for the whole neighbourhood to see (not that they haven’t seen it before. It’s stupid and reckless but it’s a good town). “So, if we go inside, there’ll be no freshly baked cake on the counter, right? You didn’t sneak home on your lunch break to bake me something?”

Peter sighs. “Who told?”

“Becky. She can’t keep a secret, Pete.”

Peter laughs, and they thread their fingers together and head inside.

It’s not a perfect ending, but it’s happy. They fight, sometimes. They tremble. They remember things they wish they could forget. They break down on the side of the road. They spend nights in motels.

But those are fewer and farther between. And in the end, they always come home- to each other.

The cake is terrible. It always is. But Tony eats every single bite.

It’s the same recipe as the one Peter made all those years ago, after one month of no fights.

It’s stale and it brings back so many memories.

“Is it good?” Peter asks worriedly, putting the tulips in water.

Tony takes a huge bite, and shakes his head in wonder. “Yeah, baby,” he whispers, “even after all this time, it’s still really, really good.”

He thinks it always will be. 

[cleighwrites]

Branching Out pt7

SPN Fanfic

Characters - Dean, Stacey and Vinny and Billy (OMCs) mentioned.

Summary - Dean leaves Stacey's and can't stop thinking about what he'd just done

Word Count - 1,725

A/N -  Since this is a prequel to my Wincest Big Bang there will be some wincestual feelings. Dean's working at a garage and Sam is in his junior year of high school. Beta/editing by @mrswhozeewhatsis and @deanwinchesterswitch

Warnings - SMUT, anal (first time: fingering and sex), self examination

Part 6 - Series Master List

Dean stared at his steering wheel for what seemed like hours when he got into his car. He held his hands up in front of his face and studied them. Remembering what it had felt like to wrap them around another man’s cock, how tight and hot it had felt being knuckles deep in his ass. More importantly, Dean remembered how none of it felt wrong or dirty; it felt different, but in a good way.

Dean turned the key and felt the familiar rumble of Baby’s engine turning over; at the same time, he felt his dick twitch at the memory of Stacey wrapped tight around him, how his muscles had gripped him even tighter when he came. It wasn’t the same as being with a woman, for obvious reasons, but it was similar enough that Dean had gained his confidence fairly quickly once things had picked up. 

The entire drive back through town, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened. He replayed it over and over again, trying to figure out how he really felt about it.

Stacey tugged on Dean’s bottom lip as he broke the kiss. He searched Dean’s face before sliding his fingers over the bulge growing behind the borrowed slacks. Dean groaned at the firm touch of the man’s long fingers and arched his back to get more friction. Stacey smirked at him, gave his cockhead a gentle squeeze, then backed away. 

A whine slipped from the back of Dean’s throat, but any further protest was quelled by Stacey’s outstretched hand. Dean let Stacey lead him out of the closet and back into his massive bedroom. They stopped at the foot of the bed where Stacey took his time undressing Dean. He paid special attention to Dean’s nipples and hip bones, Stacey seemed to also enjoy feeling up Dean’s ass. 

It wasn’t like Dean had never had his ass played with before, but there was something about the strength and size of Stacey’s hands that had Dean almost begging for more. More of what, Dean couldn’t really say; just more. Stacey gave Dean the choice, top or bottom; Dean still wasn’t sure exactly how things worked, but he knew he was good at fucking women, and how different could it really be to fuck a man? So, he chose top.

After removing his own clothes, Stacey sat on the corner of the bed and pulled Dean down beside him. They kissed again until Dean’s body relaxed, then they laid down, and Dean let his hands roam. Stacey was hard between them and Dean felt the wet tip brush against his fingers as he moved his hand to grab Stacey’s hip. Stacey hummed and bucked his hips, rubbing his length into Dean’s hand.

Dean only thought about what he should do for a split second before letting his instincts take over. He wrapped his fingers around the other man’s cock and began to stroke him. He alternated pressure and twisted his wrist until he found the exact way to stroke him that had him moaning and gasping. Stacey returned the favor, and Dean could swear that he had never been jerked off as good by anyone else before, not even himself. 

It wasn’t too much longer before Stacey lubed up three of Dean’s fingers and guided them to his ass. He was laying flat on his back and had his legs spread, knees tucked up toward his shoulders. Dean had never seen a man spread out for him like this. He could see everything. Stacey’s dick, heavy and leaking on his belly, his bare balls hanging down leading to his clean-shaven asshole. 

The pink, fleshy pucker was flexing, waiting for Dean’s touch. He knew the mechanics well enough, just like getting a girl ready for him, he’d have to work on the muscles, get them loose and pliant so Dean could get his cock in there. Of course, Dean also knew about a man’s prostate; not that he’d ever gone searching for one before, but he knew that would feel good for Stacey. 

“Just start with one finger,” Stacey instructed. “You’ll feel how tight it is, when I loosen up, add another, then scissor your fingers.” Stacey wiggled his fingers in demonstration. “Don’t worry about doing anything else.”

Dean licked his lips nervously as he looked away from Stacey’s face and back down to where his fingers were hovering over his entrance. Stacey hissed in a breath when Dean finally applied pressure to his hole, the tip of his middle finger barely pressing in. He found his rhythm quickly, and before too long was fucking him with three fingers down to the knuckle. 

One particular flick of his wrist and Dean felt a little bundle brush against one of his fingers, Stacey’s hips bucked and he moaned, fisting the sheets. Dean found the bundle again and rubbed against it deliberately, making Stacey arch off the bed and start to fuck himself on Dean’s hand. He couldn’t help the self-confident smirk that had spread across his face. 

“Mmm, Dean!” Stacey yelled. Dean worked his fingers harder. “Oh, god! Dean, fuck me!”

Dean’s dick twitched and Stacey threw a condom at him when he eased up his ministrations. Stacey stroked himself while Dean slid his condom on and lubed up his cock. He had a moment's hesitation when he lined himself up, he looked to Stacey, who smiled and nodded at him to continue. Dean pushed but was met with such resistance he was sure he hadn’t prepped him enough.

Stacey put his hand over Dean’s on his thigh and squeezed it. “It’s going to feel very tight at first. Keep going, once you get the head through, everything else will work out. It’ll fit, I promise.”

Dean had never had a pep talk during sex before, but it was kind of hot. It was almost painful on his tender head to shove against the tight ring of muscle so hard, but Stacey was right, once he got his head all the way in, and he felt that tight heat open up around him, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. He slid slowly all the way in, for the first time. Dean wasn’t one to brag, but he was rather large and no woman he had ever been with had been able to take all of him. 

Having those hot, tight muscles flutter around his entire length was almost enough to make Dean come right away. He held his breath and focused on his hands on Stacey’s legs. Once he was sure he could handle it, he pulled out a little, the stretch and pull of skin around him was mind-blowing. Dean settled for short thrusts until he couldn’t stand it anymore and began to fuck into Stacey like his very life depended on it. Long, hard, deep thrusts that had his balls slapping against Stacey’s ass.

Stacey was trying to meet Dean’s thrusts but gave up and just laid there while Dean fucked into him. Sometimes he would grab at Dean’s hands or his ass, sometimes his hands would run through and pull his own hair; Dean liked it best when his fists were white-knuckled into the comforter. His husky breaths and deep moans of pleasure drove Dean wild with want. 

Women didn’t sound like that when he fucked them; Dean wanted to hear this man come apart beneath him. He knew when he found Stacey’s prostate and made sure to thrust at that same angle as often as possible. When Stacey started to squeeze even tighter around him, Dean saw his balls drawing up, so he wrapped his hand around Stacey’s cock and held it tight. On a deep thrust, Dean jerked him once, flicking his wrist just under his head, and Stacey came with a strained grunt. 

The velvety constriction pulsing around him as Stacey came had Dean thrusting erratically until he finally shoved in deep and emptied his own release into the condom. Sweat was running down his face and his knees were shaking as he held the condom and pulled out. Stacey’s legs fell flat onto the mattress and his arms were covering his face. Stacey laughed.

Dean’s heart sank for a moment until Stacey moved his arms and looked him in the eye. “There’s no way… you’ve never… fucked before, Dean. No one’s… that good… their first time.” He was breathing heavily and laughed again when he finished talking.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” Dean sat somewhat awkwardly on the end of the bed as he pulled the condom off. “Um, where-”

“There’s a trash can right here.” Stacey’s arm flung haphazardly toward the edge of the bed pointing vaguely beside the nightstand.

Dean got up, walked over, and threw the condom into the decorative metal bin. As he turned to face the bed, Stacey gripped his hip and pulled him down to lay beside him. Dean had only ever snuggled like this with Sam when they had shared a bed when they were younger, and on more than one occasion as they got older, when there was no heat in the house. But it hadn’t been like this. 

Dean had a fleeting thought about how nice it would have been if it had been. He shook the thought from his head and let Stacey burrow into his shoulder. Neither Lisa nor Anna had wanted anything to do with him after they had gotten off, so Dean wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He figured that Stacey was the one paying for it, so he’d let him drive. 

They laid there until their breathing was steady, and just as Dean’s arm was starting to go numb Stacey stirred and sat up.

Dean shook his head and realized that he was parked down the alleyway where he’d met Billy and Vinny earlier that night. He took the wad of cash that Stacey had slid in his back pocket as he kissed him goodbye and shoved it into the glove box. Dean had given him a look and Stacey had just winked and told Dean he’d earned it, then he handed him the envelope for Vinny. He grabbed the other two envelopes of cash, locked the doors, and knocked on the door where he had met Vinny previously that night.

Part 8

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Familiar Mark

Pairings: Tom x Reader

Request: congrats!!!!! i have a request (sorry if my english sucks) when the reader was little she used to be debbie in billy elliot with tom and she had a big crush on him but he liked this girl megan jossa ?) but anyways she grew up and now she's an incredible singer,dancer and actress for musical theatre and tom went to see a show one day and he saw her and he has this feeling that he knows her so he goes to find her something like that:)

Warnings: I don’t even think I cursed in this? Go me??

Words: 2k

A/N: So I reallllly love this idea and I would totally do a mini series of like tom and the reader being in the theatre and it’d be like an au if you’d like?? Just let me know if you’d read it and I’ll do it!!

Disclaimers: The gif is a Hamilton gif but the musical doesn’t have to be Hamilton, it can be anything. However, I thought of this song for the reader’s balled.

Masterlist // Marvel Masterlist

The auditorium before you is empty as you stand on the familiar mark. Silently, your eyes loom over every seat, knowing that in just a few hours, each one will be filled with a cheering stranger. You take a seat on the dusty stage, still not being swept from whatever performance took place yesterday, no doubt leaving a ring of grey on your black leggings.

You’re not nervous this time, instead, an intense pang of longing nags at your gut, remembering clear as day the event from so many years ago.

As much as you remember the happy faces, the cheers when you finished your first solo, the ‘ooos’ and ‘ahhs’ when you landed stunts. You also remember him. The boy you swore up and down you were in love with even at such a young age, the way his hand felt warm against the clammy palms of your own, and how after that, you never saw him again.

Everything here reminded you of Tom.

Your heart raced as you listen to the murmuring just beyond the thick, red curtain. Automatically, you knew over a thousand people were seated in the audience waiting for the show to begin. You pictured it, strangers of all ages skimming over their playbills waiting anxiously for the lights to dim.

It excited you. It terrified you.

You mumbled line after line, hoping you wouldn’t forget the rehearsed words once you stepped onto the stage. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your shirt trying to distract your hands from their shaking. Even though you should’ve been used to performing, panic still bubbled within you before shows.

A hand covered your trembling fingers causing the frayed shirt strings to fall from your grasp. When you raised your eyes, Tom stood before you with a friendly smile. “You’re going to do great, Y/N.” He promised, offering the pep talk you needed and replaced your nervousness with butterflies.

Same mark on the stage, same theatre, same curtain. Although the beautiful space around you seemed like it hasn’t changed, you certainly have. Different musical, different costumes, different cast, different you.

You stand beside the two women who have easily become your best friends over the musical’s tour. Your hands grip around theirs, squeezing softly, it was how the three of you say, “Break a leg” without uttering a sound.

“Break a leg, Y/N.” Tom whispered, letting your hand fall from his grasp and back to your side. With a final smile, he raced away from you and to his own designated mark. You couldn’t help but watch as he scurried away, a fond smile tugged at your lips.

Tom shook his arms and torso, ridding his nerves, something you caught onto before every show. It was comforting to know he was nervous, even if he refused to show it. Megan approached him with a cheerful smile and Tom’s face lit up in her presence. You knew that look, that was the look you gave him.

Shaking your head, you clear your mind and ignore the shattering of your heart. You took one last deep breath, plastered your award-winning smile, and awaited your cue.

The crowd cheers when the velvet peels back, finding its rightful place in the wings, refusing to shut until intermission. Your legs gracefully carry you to your second position, singing and smiling. Your voice fills the room through the speakers hidden within the walls, the mic taped to your forehead only irritates your skin for a moment before you become accustomed to the itch.

Your fingers lace with Daniel’s, a fellow performer, waltzing around the stage in your choreographed dance with ease. Excitement pulses through your veins as he lifts you off the grounds, spinning effortlessly through other dancing bodies. Your dress fans around your legs, only focusing on the young man before you.

You twirl out of your friend’s arms, taking your place center stage just as the casts falls silent, the instruments ghostly quiet. Your eyes gaze over the audience, each face smiling as you begin your short solo, one of many throughout the night, already forgetting about the boy whose long forgotten about you.

Screams bounce off the walls as the last few notes are sung and you twirl back into the arms of Daniel, never missing a beat, never missing a step, no matter how much you wanted to bask in the attention strangers are willing to give.

Tom stares at your dancing figure with awe, goosebumps still present on his arms, his toes still recuperating from chills. His mouth hangs agape as he stares at his long-lost friend, mesmerized by your talents. He lazily taps Haz’s shoulder, not daring to remove his eyes from the stage. “Hand me the playbill, will ya mate?” Tom whispers, voice almost lost in the music.

He flips through the neat pages after you floated off the stage and into the wings. His eyes scour over meaningless names until he lands on yours. Y/N Y/L/N. It’s been far too long since he’s last spoken to you, your connection frayed between busy lives and the unexchanged phone numbers.

He grins upon seeing your name at the top of the flimsy paper. Leading Role. Something you most definitely deserved, especially with a voice and moves like that. Tom stuffs the booklet in his jacket pocket, ignoring his friends’ confused stares as he averts his attention once more to the stage where you enter yet again.

Words tumble out of your lips and fill the theatre as you interact with props and friends. The lights overhead warm your skin as you move beneath them, lifting the hem of your dress to maneuver between your marks without toppling over.

The hour and a half mark arrives all too soon. Your veins pulse from either side of your neck as you scream your script to Daniel, who’s broken your heart on paper but never had the chance to hold it in reality.

The audience gasps at plot twist nobody saw coming. A few women in the front row dab their eyes as they switch between you and your costar, awaiting for what happens next. You turn away from the man just as he reaches for your arm, but you wrench your hand away from his gentle grasp sputtering fake sobs left and right as you dart backstage.

The curtains fall shut.

Z, Haz, Jacob, and Laura all stare ahead at the closed curtains, not wanting to wait through intermission to see what happens next. None of them could say anything, too shocked to utter any form of a sentence.

Tom grins ahead, proud to see how far you’ve come from just playing Debbie, a supporting character, to landing your own spotlight. He feels nothing but joy and is humbled by the thought. He always knew you’d go far in whatever you set your mind to, he’s just happy he can see it too.

The next thirty minutes are full of dress changes, makeup fixing, running lines, and voice warmups. Your friends rub the energy stone, a good luck charm and tradition, before heading backstage.

You sit in your dressing room, staring at the reflection. Your skin glows with the light coming from the lightbulbs littering your mirror’s edge, almost blinding you, but you ignore it. You think of the girl who you once were all those years ago, too afraid to audition for a lead or to even admit her feelings to a boy. “This is for you, I hope I made you proud.” With one last fond smile, you rise from the comfortable chair and join your friends, ready for your next number.

The audience is dead silent as the curtains reel open, exposing only you on the stage, seated on a posh looking couch. You stare ahead, character taking over your persona as the piano plays somewhere in the pit.

This is your moment. The moment to bring everyone to tears, your moment to really shine. The stage is yours.

You sing through the first verse of the balled, already seeing fingers quickly sweeping under eyes to rid streams of water. Some people place their hands over their hearts, touched by your singing. You stand slowly, heels clicking against the stage as you walk towards the center, belting out the chorus.

Your arms wave around you, portraying how much agony your character is in. You fall to your knees, as if the pain was too much, even though you feel nothing. Tears freely fall from your eyes as you finish your solo, purposely breathing heavy for the mic to catch.

Through watery eyes, you see people stand one by one, cheering loudly, whistling, screaming. You desperately wish you could show a smile, offer a wave, something to show your gratitude. But you know the Headmaster would have your head on a stick if you break out of character. Instead, you slowly stand, pretending to have shaky legs and wobble off stage.

When the end has finally come, you stand beside your castmates, gripping their hands with a smile stretched wide across your face. Your heart races as the crowd cheers for everyone, cheering for you. Some even throw roses that fall onto the stage, littering the wood with red, white, and pink flower petals.

Tom swears he’s the loudest clapper in the room as he watches from his seat. His friends cheer beside him, Haz and Jacob holler as Z and Laura scream in satisfaction, tears they gave up trying to wipe away inching towards the napes of their necks.

Tom doesn’t follow his friends as they leave the theatre, he stays behind, scouring the sea of faces for you or at least someone who knows where you might be.

After the auditorium is clear of people, you emerge from the back, finally able to breathe being out of the bustier and form-fitting dress. Your face is now bare of makeup, feet free of heels, the auditorium ridden of people. Or so you think. Your sneakers scuff against the dirty floor as you pick up misplaced props and set them in their designated area. You hum your balled to yourself, never being able to get the bloody song out of your mind.

As you move across the stage, you feel eyes piercing holes through your hoodie. Cautiously, you turn, knowing nobody’s supposed to be here after the show has ended.

To your surprise, you’re met with the brown eyes you’d never thought you’d see again. Tom and you stand, frozen in place, both of you unsure where to go from here or even how to start a conversation. Tom moves first, moving through the rows of empty chairs, stepping over discarded popcorn bowls until he reaches you.

Your arms are around his neck within seconds, hugging the friend you’ve longed ages for. You chuckle to yourself pulling away, eyes finding the ground, heat creeping up your neck.

You don’t notice the tattered ‘X’ hidden beneath the toe of your sneaker. The familiar mark where the two of you stood all those years ago, where your crush on the boy in your arms began and ended and is now the same place where all those feelings came rushing back.

 Forever Tags: @superfrankie111 @rueinn

[mancitynoise]

The conclusion of Monday night’s thoroughly underwhelming yet incredibly revealing fixture wrapped up another weekend of football.

From the Madrid derby to Charlton’s defiant victory over Leeds United, Football FanCast have had their eyes firmly gripped to the action across England and La Liga.

Our team of regional correspondents at FFC have been busy dissecting the themes to emerge during the weekend fixtures, and they’ve provided a brief insight into the emerging talking points…

Pathetic fallacy was in full swing on Monday night as the relentless rain that has become synonymous with the city of Manchester pelted down at Old Trafford.

The drenched pairing of Unai Emery and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer watched on while their respective teams scrapped, slid and scurried around in a desperate bid to establish anything remotely resembling genuine control of the game.

But both sides were frantic and lacked composure from back to front. Perhaps the only shining light to emerge from proceedings was 18-year-old Bukayo Saka, who was enterprising and fearless in his endeavour to unsettle Man United’s defensive unit.

That he was the only player – with the notable exception of Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang – to take it upon himself to inject any quality into the game spoke volumes about how deep both sides have plummeted.

Two squashed behemoths who have long been considered top dogs in the Premier League were reduced to nothing more than top-six contenders at the very best, leaving fans of both clubs with a dejected outlook of what the future may hold.

Saka could well be in the star in the making, but both Arsenal and United will need more than a handful of outstanding teenagers to put them on a playing field close to pace-setters Manchester City and Liverpool.

Jack Saville – Assistant Editor 

Everton away has always been a notoriously difficult fixture in the Premier League. Goodison Park is home to a set of passionate supporters who can lift the roof off the place when they have something to shout about.

And on Saturday, their was slim hope that they could secure an impressive result against the champions. Having seen table-toppers Liverpool scrape a 1-0 win at Sheffield United earlier in the afternoon to extend the gap to eight points, Manchester City desperately needed a win. Enter stage left, Riyad Mahrez.

With less than 20 minutes remaining, and the scores locked level at 1-1, the Algerian curled home a sumptuous free-kick to restore City’s lead and hand Pep Guardiola’s side the initiative. Last season, the former Leicester star managed just 14 starts in the Premier League, and was playing second-fiddle to the likes of Raheem Sterling and Leroy Sane.

But with the latter now injured, Mahrez appears to be embracing the responsibility of being one of the Citizens’ leading lights. And boy do they need him.

Vijievan Jeevathayalan – Manchester correspondent

Leeds suffered their first away defeat this season after previously looking unbeatable on the road. Coming up against a Charlton side without Lyle Taylor, it may have been a surprise to see the Addicks scrape over the line but it was courtesy of yet more catastrophic defending from a set-piece for the west Yorkshire side.

Conceding from dead-ball scenarios are following the Whites around like a bad smell at the moment. Of the five goals Marcelo Bielsa’s men have conceded in the Championship, three of them have been from those types of situations. Losing Pontus Jansson has been a blow in this regard and that’s regardless of how well the PFA Fans’ Player of the Month Ben White is performing.

If Leeds want to get promoted they’ll have to cut out this aspect of their game.

Matt Dawson – Leeds correspondent

Charlton managed to get back to winning ways with an eye-catching result against promotion hopefuls Leeds on Saturday, a match that saw the Addicks’ woes without Lyle Taylor ease up slightly.

Macauley Bonne, a summer signing from Leyton Orient, netted his first goal for the club after a somewhat fortuitous moment from a personal aspect – Tom Lockyer’s effort bobbled around in the area before going in off Bonne.

The 23-year-old was making his first Championship start of the season – having had to bide his time behind Tomer Hemed, who is yet to score in four appearances and Chuks Aneke, who has just one in seven – and managed to better their recent efforts by finding the net.

Taylor is the club’s talisman and is also not an easy man to replace, but Bonne’s showing should give supporters some encouragement.

Billy Meyers – South London and South Coast correspondent

Aston Villa suffered yet again this weekend. It is the third time this season that they have thrown away a match when leading – the other two coming against Tottenham Hotspur, who won with a late flurry of goals, and against Arsenal, who had ten men for a good 50 minutes.

It’s hard to put a finger on exactly where it has gone wrong this season, but a lack of clear depth in their attack seems to one focal point having scored just seven goals before Saturday’s match. Their club-record signing Wesley failed to even register a shot…

Some may be quick to blame VAR after they chalked off another goal, but the problem is that of Dean Smith’s rather than technology. He signed 12 new players for approximately £144.5m – he deserves time but he should rightly be questioned after just one win this season.

Lewis Blain – Midlands correspondent

The Baggies put the rest of the Championship on notice ahead of a top-of-table clash with Leeds United on Tuesday night.

Slaven Bilic’s boys made it a ninth straight game without defeat, which in turn saw them rise to the league’s summit by the end of play on Saturday.

Surprisingly, their 2-0 victory over QPR was their first clean sheet of the season and that will be something they’ll be looking to build upon as Sir Alex Ferguson once said: ‘attack wins you games, defence wins you titles.’

The scary prospect is that the defence have only just managed that accolade for the first time while the formerly prolific Championship striker Charlie Austin is yet to bag his first league goal – they should only get better from here.

Lewis Blain – Midlands correspondent

Tottenham Hotspur’s decision to sell Kieran Trippier looked to have been somewhat vindicated following Serge Aurier’s brilliant display against Crystal Palace at the beginning of September, in which he assisted one and saw another of his crosses diverted into his own net by Patrick van Aanholt.

It is unclear whether Spurs wanted to keep the Ivory Coast international after he hinted that they did, or whether they had to do that because they couldn’t find a replacement for the former Paris Saint-Germain player before the summer window slammed shut.

Anyhow, his recklessness with two quick-fire first-half bookings against Southampton on Saturday could easily have cost his side, and just showed again how much of a liability the 26-year-old can be.

Meanwhile, England international Trippier continues to be praised for how he is adapting to life in Spain with Atletico Madrid.

Given the lack of quality in depth Tottenham have at right-back now, Mauricio Pochettino may have peaked too soon by moving the 29-year-old on in the summer.

James Beavis – Editor

The Joe Gomez vs Joel Matip debate raged all summer, as Liverpool fans found it almost impossible to decide which player they would rather have partnering Virgil van Dijk.

Gomez stole the show at the beginning of last season, but lost his place after picking up an injury at Burnley, with Matip proving undroppable in the run to the Champions League final.

This weekend’s win at Bramall Lane however felt like a true statement performance from the Cameroonian, following on from his man of the match display at Stamford Bridge last week.

In a game where the Reds were struggling to create, the 28 year-old shouldered the responsibility and forced the issue, carrying the ball forward and searching for incisive passes to the front three, ignoring the easier options that would simply recycle possession and make life easy for Sheffield United.

It’s one thing to be defensively sound in a difficult atmosphere, but Matip looks confident, assured and now the unquestionable first-choice alongside van Dijk.

Ben Goodwin – Editor

While the week before the underdogs had their time in the sun, Barcelona, Atletico Madrid and Real Madrid have taken the spotlight now. Of course, the main event of the weekend was held in the capital as Diego Simeone’s men welcomed Zinedine Zidane’s troops to the Wanda Metropolitano stadium.

Even though the game had its moments, the night ended in a goalless draw and the giants sharing the spoils of war. Real Madrid thus retain their top spot in La Liga and have put their third consecutive clean sheet in the books. But that draw also benefited Barcelona, in particular.

After weeks of trying and failing, the Catalans finally recorded a clean sheet of their own and managed to tally a victory on the road for the first time this season.

And with both of their other direct rivals dropping points in the Madrid derby, Blaugrana are knocking on the upper table’s doors quite loudly.

Domagoj Kostanjsak – La Liga correspondent

Chelsea finally grabbed their first home league win and first clean sheet of the season against Brighton on Saturday.

It was exactly what Frank Lampard and his players needed. After a mixed start to the campaign, the Blues finally seem to be settling, and they have now won their past two matches in all competitions.

Not only that, but Lampard handled the penalty situation at the club particularly well in another boost for his young career. It had appeared that Ross Barkley was the team’s first-choice spot-kick taker, even despite his penalty miss against Valencia, but following Jorginho’s strike from 12 yards against the Seagulls, the former Derby County boss confirmed that the Italy international will now take the responsibility.

Lampard has sorted the situation out with the minimum bother or drama, and he has ended up taking the best decision for his team. It is proof of his credentials, and shows that he is able to manage a potentially tricky situation very easily. It puts Chelsea in good stead for the rest of what will likely be a gruelling campaign.

Jon Radcliffe – London correspondent

[autofoebia]

this is a big ol mess but i love delving into how depression affects people. noah is very much based off of my own inability to handle strong emotions, so his depression is very much a reflection of me. also i wanted to write kissing. this vignette is a huge mess but i kind of like it

.・゜゜・.・゜゜volatile

Noah was depressed. Usually he found time to work and distract himself from the constant calls back to bed. Usually he could ignore his overbearingly dark thoughts. Usually he had Billy or Bea or someone to talk to or listen to, someone to drown out the white noise. Usually. Right now, Noah had a bed that smelled too much like himself and his arms wrapped tightly around a teddy bear that was half his size. Billy Jr., unlike the regular Billy, was cold from the freezing air of the apartment and unable to hug back. The sentiment of the bear, though, the meaning behind it— that was enough to keep him in bed instead of on the pavement ten stories down in a puddle of his own gore.

The bed squeaked as Noah wiggled to peer out of his half-shuddered window. New York City stared back, an ever present voyeur for his sorry excuse for a life. Billy Jr., still unmoving, said “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Noah.” and Noah grunted his reply and buried his face deep into the stuffed animal’s stomach. He didn’t need a pep talk from something that couldn’t actually talk. He needed a cigarette and a beer and a long, long fall.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Noah.”

“Shut up.” He replied, voice cracked and raw, as if he hadn’t spoken for weeks or months or years, “Shut up, shut up.” At the end of the day, he wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking to. The thoughts, so deceptively casual, played on repeat no matter how desperate his cries became, and the voice of his oversized stuffed animal came at inopportune moments, when he was off guard and rubbed raw by bouts of anger and bone-numbing sadness. The most catching thing about the voice was that it was Billy’s, accent and warmth included. Such small details was how Noah knew he was fucked relationship wise; he’d never been snared so fully by someone else, and seeking comfort in Billy’s voice scared him senseless. Noah swallowed his fright in favor of cool apathy but, in weak moments like this, he was too tired to even control his quivering lips. Tears threatened to spill, so he squeezed his eyes shut. His throat threatened to close, so he swallowed repeatedly and said, again, “Shut up.” He fought and fought and fought the urge to cry until, suddenly, he heard the click of his front door unlocking.

“Hey, Noah? You home?” Billy called from the hall. Noah lifted his head and looked blankly at the door to his bedroom. Just beyond, he could hear the shuffle of Billy removing his jacket, dropping his bags, already so comfortable despite being away for nearly two weeks. Oh, how domestic, how normal, how so very Billy. Noah wanted to scream out in anger and tear apart his pillow as his brain simmered in rage over Billy’s nonchalance. Mad, he was mad, and then suddenly he was so upset he could barely move or think. He barely even registered the sound of his bedroom door creaking open and Billy’s voice calling out his name again, now even more concerned. Noah hid his face in Billy Jr.’s chest and shuddered as he felt the bed dip under Billy’s added weight.

“Noah?” Billy said, “Noah? Hey? You alright? Wanna get up?” Noah didn’t respond at first. He still didn’t feel put together enough to move. He squeezed Billy Jr. tightly and sighed, trying to cough up all the bad feeling into the soft, fake fur that he was inhaling. All he managed to do was choke on the thickness in his throat.

“Noah?” Billy said and his hand clutched Noah’s shoulder.

“Sorry.” Noah choked out, curling up more, tightening himself into a literal ball of anxiety, “I’m sorry. Give me a second.” He felt Billy release him, lean back, the bed creaked as if Billy were getting ready to stand up, and Noah snapped his arm back to grab Billy’s arm. “Don’t go. Just, I just need a second.” He was lying.

“Alright.” Billy said. His fingers loosened Noah’s grip and held his hand, all warmth and gentle energy. Noah sucked in another low groan, head shifting slowly against Billy Jr.’s soft stomach until, finally, he could school his expression enough to turn and stare blankly at Billy’s back. He didn’t look back and seemed infinitely content to just lace his fingers with Noah’s and sit in silence. Noah, however, was sick of all this quiet. He pulled Billy’s arm slightly and shifted in bed until he was facing him. Billy turned and smiled, and Noah’s heart settled just a smidge. Rage, though. Rage still churned in the corners of his brain like embers.

“Hey.” Billy said. He pulled himself further onto the bed, just barely settling against Noah’s curled legs. When Noah didn’t complain Billy gladly threw all his weight against him.

“Hey.” Noah repeated. He felt utterly drained still, but his words were concise and clear and real enough, “Sorry. I’ve been sick lately.” Lying felt as easy as breathing in this state, but lying to Billy felt synonymous with sin somehow. “Not… Not cold sick. Like. Like, uh,”

“Mental stuff?” Billy offered with an ever curious smile and Noah nodded, pulling Billy’s head closer to press against his forehead, “Was it because I went--”

“It’s not your fault, at all.” Noah said tightly, “Not at all.” He allowed the shadow of a frown to curl his lips downward, and all those sharp edges that he usually possessed when he was good and busy and unapproachable wilted like dead flowers. Billy wasn’t allowed to feel bad for Noah’s state of mind, not at all. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t good, wasn’t fair. Noah pressed his lips to the back of Billy’s hand and struggled around a breath. Billy looked on with that horrible pity that usually appeared whenever he felt bad for someone other than himself. Some of those sharp edges filed themselves to poisonous points again, viper fangs hidden among his cover flesh, on the defense and poised to strike.

“It’s just-- I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this way, bud. ‘S kind of freaky.”

“Well, usually I’m too busy to get this way, bud,” Noah snapped, “But the diner fired me and the director for the new show needs more time without me in the theater. I don’t like sitting still. I don’t like the quiet..”

“Obviously.” Billy huffed and pulled Noah’s hand back, staring intently as the loose, long-sleeved shirt slipped down his wrist to reveal a pale swath of unmarked skin. Noah ripped his hand away, quick as a bullet, and Billy’s hands rose in a half-second plea for mercy. Venom bubbled.

“Quit that-- that nosy shit. Don’t be so fucking soft either, hick. I know you’re dying to ask some stupid fucking questions.” Noah sat up quickly and attempted to stand, but the combination of vaulting over Billy Jr.’s relatively large body and a day without food and water resulted in his knees giving out. He fell to the hardwood floor like a bag of bricks, loud and explosive and clattering.

“Noah?” Billy called. He rushed around the bed to kneel beside him, “Jesus, have you even eaten since I left? You look like a fuckin zombie.”

“Shut up.” Noah growled and an honest-to-god sneer split his usually expressionless face in two, “Shut up, shut up. Don’t-- don’t even think about feeling bad for me.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

“You look it, you fucking bleeding heart. God, Billy,” Noah dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and sucked in a shaky, hot gasp. He was on the edge again, teetering dangerously into territories he could only imagine skimming passed. Tears and anger were one in the same, all salt and fire and fear, but crying was impossible. Impossible in front of Billy, in front of Billy Jr., in front of anyone--

“Noah, come on.” Billy said, soft as can be, and suddenly the heat that was within Noah was all around him, encompassing him, except it didn't burn away his flesh like it did his brain. It nurtured, it scared away the cold, it reminded Noah that, yes, there was someone else here now to help chase away the static. Noah’s head fell onto Billy’s shoulder and he leaned heavily into the hug and he shook. And he thought about it. He thought about crying here, sobbing his fucking heart out. And then that thought just was, words formed into action formed into existence. Noah sniffled and pulled Billy closer, seeking to impale himself on all of the other man’s volatile edges and just become something other than himself, just for a few minutes. And he cried, really, truly, honestly cried. It was the most honest he’d ever felt.

Whatever garbled apologies he tried to pass on were shushed incessantly, and Billy’s hand worked through the small knots at the nap of Noah’s neck as he rocked him back and forth. Noah cried, and cried, and cried, until finally he felt the soaked wool of Billy’s sweater stick to his cheek and he was forced to pull his skin free.

“Feeling better, kid?” Billy said. His hand caught Noah’s chin again, tilting his face up. Noah stared owlishly into Billy’s pretty eyes, his handsome face, and he sniffled again because he just felt like such a tool for absolutely everything that just happened. All he could manage to say, though, was:

“Sorry about your sweater.”

Billy chuckled, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not gonna let you get off easy just because you cried, you know. I don’t ask stupid questions all the time.” He hummed, pressing a quick kiss to Noah’s cheek, and then his forehead, “I do need you to know that you’re allowed to feel bad, Noah. Just try not to take it all out on little old me.”

“I didn’t mean to.” Noah said and he felt as if the world wa sos small then, and so gray and cold. “I didn’t mean to, Billy. I’m sorry.” He curled an arm around Billy’s neck and pulled him in close, trying to hide the wavering childishness that infected his voice as he mumbled, “I missed you.”

“Noah.” Billy smiled wide and turned to press fleeting, warm kisses against his cheek and jaw and ear. Noah moved in tandem and turned to catch his lips. It wasn’t an excuse, or a bribe, just another silent apology. He kissed Billy like the world was about to end, like everything he was started and stopped at his lips, like he loved him so purely and sweetly that he could just say those words without issue. Noah’s hand slipped through Billy’s unruly hair and pulled him in closer, clutching at all of him as if he were another unhealthy vice he was indulging himself in, and perhaps he was. Kissing Billy was better than most drugs, after all.

Billy adjusted and pressed forward, forcing Noah to release Billy and hold himself up instead. The kissing grew a bit more desperate, a bit more unruly. Noah groaned weakly and scrambled to stay upright as Billy leaned further into him, but all those years carrying around stage equipment did nothing to prepare Noah for the massive monster that was William Halford. He fell back without warning and both of them collided with the dark wood nightstand that sat beside Noah’s bed. For a moment he saw stars or, maybe, hearts.

“Ow, shit.” Billy sat up, rubbing his forehead as he also pull a stunned Noah back into his chest, “Bump your head?”

“What the hell do you think, idiot?” Noah grumbled, holding the sore spot with all the tenderness he could muster and still it wasn’t enough, “God. No more kissing for now. I need to eat something.” “Yeah you do.” Billy said and he pulled Noah to his feet, “Let's order some Chinese food or something. I’ll buy. And we can just… Cool down.”

“Sounds good, Billy.”

[christopherrichardpoir-blog]

25 Years Ago, Jay Leno Sold Out and Cheapened Late Night TV

On May 25th, 1992, a chipper Jay Leno, prominent chin thrust forward and 1000-watt smile affixed to his face, emerged from within a set of purple curtains for his first appearance as full-time host of The Tonight Show. The fourth person to take on this role following the gold-embossed run by Steve Allen, Jack Paar, and Johnny Carson (icons all), he was well aware of the media glare that was on him when he hit his mark in the Burbank studio.

The behind-the scenes firestorm that placed the then-42-year-old on America's TV screens at 11:35 p.m. made national news and once the smoke finally cleared in the summer of 1993, his former friend and NBC compatriot David Letterman was off to compete for the same viewers over at CBS. But as the months wore on, Leno's every appearance was pushing him further and further away from the person he once was just as his white-knuckle grip on the spotlight got tighter and tighter. Neither he, nor late night TV talk shows, have been the same since.

As significant as the bullshit that he and his handlers shoveled out on the way to installing him behind The Tonight Show desk is, what's potentially more important is the dramatic shift that happened within Leno on his way there. Just ask any comic or comedy fan over the age of 45 about him and they'll still marvel about how revered he used to be as a stand up.

Well before he became the denim clad dad of NBC Entertainment, Leno was a mainstay at the Comedy Store in L.A., the famous club that helped turn Freddie Prinze and Robin Williams into sitcom superstars. The clips available of his act from the '70s make clear just why he was so beloved. While his material is pretty standard observational fare akin to his buddy Jerry Seinfeld, there's an undeniable swagger to it all. It borders on cocky but never quite gets that extreme. You lean into his jokes even if you see the punchlines coming from a mile off. According to Bill Carter's 1992 book The Late Shift, which chronicled the battle for Carson's throne, even his future on-air rival Letterman was so impressed by Leno's ability as a stand-up that he told himself he ought to go back to Indianapolis, 'because he was doing it the way I wanted to, and I thought I'd probably never do it as well.'

Network executives saw exactly the same thing. That led to multiple appearances as a guest on The Tonight Show and multiple small parts on sitcoms and films. He was being groomed for bigger things. Perhaps the strangest wrinkle of the story is that it was, in part, Letterman who helped abet Leno's career in television. As Late Night with David Letterman was finding its feet after its debut in February of 1982, Leno came along to do standup and engage in some friendly banter with the host. It went so well that, every six to eight weeks for the next few years, he would pop over to Late Night and have some fun.

With that leverage, Leno's notoriously ball-busting manager Helen Kushnick worked the phones and got her client a dream job as one of the substitute hosts for The Tonight Show. Already a favorite of Carson's, it seemed like a natural fit even if he was a little visibly unsure of himself whenever he sat behind that famous desk. And the network was beyond pleased as he also brought with him a younger demographic of viewers. So with other guest host Garry Shandling bowing out to concentrate his efforts on his Showtime series It's Garry Shandling's Show, NBC gleefully announced at a big network event at Carnegie Hall in 1991 that Leno would have the job permanently. What then head of programming Warren Littlefield didn't anticipate was that shortly afterward, Carson would let the world know that he would be retiring from The Tonight Show next May.

The shit storm that ensued has been well documented in Carter's book and beyond, and isn't worth rehashing in detail here. The most important detail to take away from it all, though, is how the bigger paychecks and larger exposure turned Leno into a simpering company man. And that's evident from the second that announcer Ed Hall says, And nowJaaaayyyy Leno!

The edges of his standup persona had already been mostly sanded away, but this first episode was the final buff and polish job. He's gregarious and engaging, yet every bit is toothless and self-satisfied. He mocks Vice President Dan Quayle, tells a strange joke that uses the L.A. riots as a punchline, and shares the first of a million funnies about the sexual proclivities of then-presidential candidate Bill Clinton.

By the time he gets behind the desk, it's clear that, even though his name is in the title of the show, he was still trying to live up to the legacy of the man he replaced. Even the appearance of Billy Crystal, a fellow Comedy Store vet and a buddy of Leno's, as the first guest wasn't enough to ease his discomfort. Things only got worse when he attempted small talk with the musical guest Shanice and tried to follow along with the simplified discussion of economic policy by CBS correspondent Robert Krulwich (not exactly a murderer's row of talent for Leno's first night on air). Leno looks physically relieved when the hour comes to a close and he's able to announce his guests for the next show.

And so began over two decades worth of strained mediocrity with thousands upon thousands of obtuse jokes told and an equal amount of plodding conversations with famous people from around the world. Small flare ups would arise like his softball grilling of post-blowjob arrest Hugh Grant or Howard Stern being Howard Stern, or promotional stunts like swapping places for a day with Today Show co-host Katie Couric or filming an episode lit only by candles. Beyond that, it was a quick slide into a kind of cultural irrelevance that was post-nightly news comfort food for the Baby Boomer generation.

That's why Leno remained king of the ratings mountain for nearly his entire tenure as Tonight Show host: he was the safe choice. He pandered and strove for the easy laugh. But most importantly, he never made himself look like the buffoon in any of the comedy segments that appeared in any of the 4,600 episodes of the show that aired. Every other late night host-even his cartoonish replacement Jimmy Fallon, who has turned the show into a clubhouse for the pop culture pep squad-gladly threw themselves under the bus on the regular. Once Leno realized he had a brand, a reputation, and an airplane hangar full of cars to protect, he wasn't going to take any chances.

All of his contemporaries proved just how bland the easy road was in the long run. Letterman tamped down his surrealist aesthetic for CBS audiences, but also dared to expose his frailty and fallibility. Conan O'Brien and his murderer's row of writers (including Louis C.K., Robert Smigel, and Bob Odenkirk) brought real comedic daring to the scene. The Comedy Central crowd highlighted political hypocrisy and challenged the intellect of its audience. Arsenio Hall proved daring in his bookings, with everyone from Louis Farrakhan to Bill Clinton showing up during his show's initial run.

Think of this way: If you had the choice of checking out a re-run of any of the above shows, which would you choose? There was no there there and there never really was. All of the folks that have wandered into the late-night talk show field in Leno's wake keep proving that, night after night. The current crop, which spans the TV universe from ABC (Jimmy Kimmel) to Netflix (Chelsea Handler) and beyond (Chris Gethard, whose wooly and weird talk show returns soon on TruTV), have an infinite amount of entertainment options to compete with and they're stepping up their collective games as a result. As for Leno, he'll be in his garage, chuckling to himself as he writes another Monica Lewinsky joke in his mind, and slowly fading away.