#from coffee house to concert hall

[sherbertilluminated]

There are some issues and discourses that Stan Rogers returns to, or at least that's from multiple points of view. We have The Field Behind the Plow and Lies (the agricultural plight from the respective POVs of a husband and wife), The Idiot and Free in the Harbor (young men going west and the towns they leave behind) The Mary Ellen Carter and The Jeannie C (the woman boat I love is gone! What do I do?), and Bluenose and Man with Blue Dolphin (sister ships!). But the most interesting juxtaposition of songs in Stan Rogers' discography, I think, is Northwest Passage and its lesser-known counterpart Take it from Day to Day.

Northwest Passage is one of Stan's most famous songs, and deservedly so: with its rock-quaking harmonies, references to British-Canadian colonial history and meditation on the sublime purpose of Rogers' own career as a traveling musician, the work produces a sense of longing that would be epic if it weren't so futile. While Rogers is ambivalent-at-most about the colonialism inherent in his historical perspective (read: The House of Orange), his choice to focus on the psychological journeys of "the first men through this way" makes projects like the Franklin Expedition sound like exemplary iterations of a universal human journey—these explorers are Just Like You, and their longing for the Northwest Passage is the same, and so is their suffering, so the project itself doesn't sound like an act of colonial violence in Rogers' song. Even the choice to perform Northwest Passage a capella underscores (hehe) the sense of profound isolation that Rogers describes.

But Northwest Passage is a song about captains: men who recognized "the call" to leave their homes for the not-uninhabited Artic expanse and whose journeys make it into the history books. But Take it From Day to Day approaches the Northwest Passage from the opposite direction. Literally.

The song is from the perspective of a common sailor on the St. Roch, the first ship to travel the Northwest Passage west-to-east. And instead of of being overwhelmed by the natural beauty of the Artic or the symbolic resonance of the voyage, he's contemplates more prosaic themes: namely, how much he misses his lover.

It's a little silly to think, as Rogers belts out the chorus—"I'm as far North now as I want to come/but Larson's got us under his thumb/and I signed up for the whole damn run/I can't get off halfway!"—how disappointing this perspective on Artic voyages proves compared to the unfulfilled longing of Northwest Passage. Instead, the unfulfilled longing of the anonymous narrator makes Take if From Day to Day into one of Roger's most sexual songs. I beg you to listen to it, if only to count the sensual metaphors and double-entendres.

But whether you have heard Northwest Passage and love it, or you're interested in a more down-to-earth perspective on Ice, I think it's a song you might enjoy.

[plutoispurplw]

Mine

Summary: Spencer meeting your apartment for the first time because you avoided it because of the decoration

Words: 1.8K

Relationship: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Smut, fingering, fluff, creampie, praise.

A/N: Writing this because my room is the example of fangirl. Btw when I use taylor pics is more because they already have the gray filter and not because I picture Y/N to be like that.

Request are open.ᐟ

➜Masterlistᝰ.ᐟ

When you enter the BAU, you decided to act more serious and stop using a lot of colors like you usually did on your daily routine.

Your personality changed too and you stopped yourself from mentioning your likes and about being a big fan about certain things to not look childish.

That continue even after two years of being with the team and having trust in them, you still choosed to be close about your fanatic side and your love for concerts.

The only person that knew was Penelope and you two had went to concerts together and everything when you both had time.

After you started dating Spencer you had changed with him and decided to be more warm with him and open a lot more, when you two had a date you dressed up with a little more of color, clothes that actually reflected your real personality more.

Of all the things that you had been open about with him on late nights together after making love, there was one that you were scared of and it was your apartment.

Your apartment was colorful and was like the reflected of a teenage girl for most of the people who had been there in the past, past partners and situationships had told you that it was childish and that you should changed it.

You almost stayed at his apartment always, being asleep in each others arms was one of the best feeling in the world that both of you could have feel so being there was common for you.

He had asked you about seeing your apartment a couple of times through your relationship of less than a year but you always had an excuse to avoid that from happening.

For example, a month ago while the team was in a case, he had asked you if he could see your apartment.

"I was wondering if that when we're back, can I go to your apartment?"

"Sorry but one of my friend fought with his partner and now they're staying at my house while thinking about their relationship, maybe in another chance." You made your best effort to make your voice sound nonchalant and casual and not let him know about your lies.

Now, you were sat on your desk writing you reports when you amazing boyfriend brought you coffee. While you were tasting the coffee after not having too much sleep at night, you heard the voice of your boyfriend.

"I want to ask you if today I could go to your apartment, no more excuses so don't try to invent something, I had let it passed many times." He was serious when he said that statement, he had gotten tired from hearing all the excuses that fall from your lips.

In that moment you knew it was finally time to give up and let him see it. "I'm sorry for had been lying to you, in compensation I let you go tonight and I make dinner, what do you think?" Your voice was tired, you stared at his annoyed gaze waiting for his response to your proposition.

"You call me if you want me to brought your anything for the dinner." He said before going back to his desk letting you alone with your thoughts, drowing slowly in them fearing of him being the same as your previous partners

After work, you were back at your apartment cleaning everything until it was almost perfect. You had spent almost a hour choosing what to wear of your actually daily clothes.

When it was time, he was there at your door, with a small bouquet of your favorite flowers. "This are for you and your apartment."

You took them from his hands and gave him a kiss. "Before you see everything, please don't judge me." He denied with his head, and gave you another kiss on your forehead.

You let him enter and he could already notice your decorate style from the entrance hall, it had plants and a painting of a husky with her family.

"You have a dog?" Spencer asked you while seeing the painting of the dog and your family. He didn't ask you much about your family to avoid making you uncomfortable if you had any problem of trauma related to them.

"Yes, is a family dog and she is very cute, I wanted to take her with me but the job makes that impossible." You glanced at the painting again and nostalgia filled your mind, he notice that and gave you another kiss on your forehead.

Your apartment was very different from what he expected, it was the contrary of minimalist but in a good way, everything was at balance.

The living room was colorful, the couch with plants at the side that looked well taken care and a coffee table had a nice vase with flowers and candles with cute forms. The wall behind it was cover with vinyls of your favorite artists. Your television had led lights behind it to make it look cool while watching series.

The kitchen was also colorful, the electrodomestics were of pastel tones. The cabinets, drawers and the kitchen island were of a pistachio green tone.

"I know it too colorful and it looks childish but-" He didn't let you finish your nervous speech about defending your apartment.

"It's looks nice, you made a great job at decorating it, it isn’t overwhelming for me." His voice had an effect on you and you stopped, his hand went to your back and started to make relaxing circles to calm you down. "It's nice that you have vinyls and a record player, the quality is better only on the first play."

"That's why I liked them but I have more cds, they are more cheaper to collect." You went to put the flowers in the vase and when you were done he had already entered your gamer room.

That room had a setup gamer of a lilac color and had figures and a lot of things, posters of series and movies on the walls.

"This is how you spent your free time?" His tone didn't sound in mockery, it was actually curiosity.

"Yes, I like to play videogames normally when I have time, not bloody types or anything like that, more like Minecraft." You lay your head on his shoulder while he was seeing the room.

"What's Minecraft?" He was confused and he looked at you with his puppy eyes, those that had made you fall many times and still worked like the first time he had kissed you or hugged you.

For a moment you looked confused too until you remembered that your boyfriend didn't use technology if it wasn't necessary. "It's difficult to explain but it's a open world game, I show you later."

You two went back to the living room and sat on the couch and were cuddling while watching tv, it felt nice to be with him like this and forgetting about any preocupation or stress about the job, you wished it was always like this.

You move your head and gave him a innocent kiss that carried all the appreciation that you felt for him for not laughing at your apartment, he gave you another of his that had been more intense and that had let you breathless.

You felt how one of his hands travel from your thigh to under your lilac skirt, until the pad of his fingers made contact with the cotton fabric of your panties, he started to rub them feeling how you were getting wet.

You let out sighs at the feeling of him rubbing the wet fabric against your clit over and over again, slowly driving you crazy, you hid your head on the crook of his neck to avoid your neighbors from complaining about you.

"You lied to me for four months straight and you don't feel remorse, maybe I should stop and not give you relief." His voice sounded husky while he whispered against the shell of your ear, his voice making you shiver at the feeling of his breath.

He continued his teasing, your panties were soaked with your arousal and you where getting too worked up, your whole body was burning like a pile of old papers.

"Please Spencer, I want it." You whined against his ear hoping that he would take mercy on you and give you the release that you needed in that moment.

His pace was getting faster and harder with any moment, you were a mess of moans and whines, his lips against your forehead giving you kisses and whispering sweet nothings to you.

"You look beautiful like this, you wanted it too much, don't you?" His tone was half sweet and half teasing, he love to make you feel like this, to make you felt frustrated and then give you what you wanted.

He notice you were close to reaching your orgasm and stopped his fingers on his tracks, you whined and started to move your hips to tried to reach you peak alone but his hands grabbed your hips and stopped your motion.

You threw your head back in frustration until you heard the sound of the zipper of his pants, you open your eyes to see the bulge inside his boxers, you felt how you breath got faster again.

You straddled his lap and pulled his boxers down to let his member free, he helped you and entered you with one deep thrust making almost scream from the feeling of him being deep inside you.

His pace continue making you see stars and touching the sky, the living room filled with your moans and whines along with his groans of pure pleasure.

"You're too tight, so good my love, so fucking good." He said against your skin of your shoulder, his voice sounded breathless just like yours.

That's when the orgasm hit you both at the same time, you screamed his name and repeated like a mantra while he whisper praise against your collarbone while kissing it.

"I think is better if we order take out and take a break." You were trying to recover your breath and he just gave you a nod and caress your back under your cardigan and top.

He nodded and took you in his arms and carried you to your bedroom, in that instant you remember why you didn't let him. When he enter he found three plushies on your bed and doll on your desk.

When he saw that, he just lay you down on your bed and looked around. "I still don't see nothing bad, your room is nice and your entire apartment is nice too my love."

He gave you another kiss on your cheek this time making you giggle a little and pulling him for a hug.

Taglist: @bre99 @hiireadstuff @javierpenasredshirt @pleasantwitchgarden @iniyalovesall @caffine-queen @fab-notfat @khxna

[bratbarzal]

Let It Happen (LH43) 2/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

>PART ONE<

Turn me into something tragic, just for you I let it happen.

General Warnings: after the first part you're probably thinking how could there possibly be more snark? you're about to find out. same with idiotic shenanigans, they're not quite finished with those!! fluff, cursing, sexual references, and fade to black type smut!!

A/N: DON'T HATE ME FOR MAKING IT 3 PARTS I'M JUST AN ADHD GIRLY WHO CAN'T READ 30K IN ONE GO BUT APPARENTLY CAN WRITE IT??? part three will be tomorrow I pinky promise!! I was nervous about splitting this whole thing up bc I really did write a whole romcom lmao!! I know long fics aren't to everyone's taste but I know no way of life other than the art of yapping!! Sorry that this took a little longer than expected there were a couple of scenes I couldn't get right but I hope you guys like this half as much as you did the first part!! and again I'd love to hear any thoughts!! reading your messages and your reblogs and your tags made my month and ily a lot!! like I said, I promise part 3 will be tomorrow, I didn't want to force so much at you in comparison to the first part!!

“I’m bored.”

Luke hadn’t thought he would regret staying at home when he had told Jack he wasn’t feeling well enough to drive out to Detroit for the Zach Bryan concert - if anything, it was an effort to push him and Ellie a little closer. She took Luke’s place, roomed with Jack in their hotel and everything, and they seemed to be having the time of their lives in all the videos dispersed into the group chat. But that was all before he came downstairs, eyes on the pictures of the all-you-can-eat breakfast the group were partaking in before coming back, and opening the kitchen cupboards to see them bare, with a few protein bars and boxes of granola tossed in like they’d been ransacked for the apocalypse. 

He’d had fun last night, though.

Even after the movie had ended, when the two of you had stayed up on the couch, talking about life - about hockey, about school, about his brothers, about your mom - if he’s honest, it had been the closest he had felt to another person that wasn’t one of his brothers in a really long time.

He really felt like you were connecting.

So much so that he’d retired to his bed for the first time all summer with a big, dopey grin on his face. Had laid awake scrolling through astrological compatibility after the two of you had drifted onto that topic after the movie finished, talking for maybe two hours before you had yawned so big he thought you might swallow him whole.

He had thought he knew you, before.

Had thought that those brief observations made from back in college, about your coffee preferences, your perfume collection, your taste in music, had painted a somewhat blurry picture of who you were - of all the things that blended together to formulate you - but he had been so wrong. 

And he had laid in bed last night thinking much deeper about the girl who was laying only a couple rooms down the hall - a few walls away. 

The girl who had come downstairs, bare feet padding softly into the kitchen, and had poured out two glasses of juice and handed one over to him without even asking. 

“Hi Bored, I’m Luke,” he smiles as he accepts the drink from your hand, the expression deepening as you roll your eyes back at him, this time with a glimmer of fondness slipping through the surface of your facade. 

You reach past him into the cupboard for the box of granola, and he grabs one of the protein bars before closing it, your bodies moving around each other in tandem like a well choreographed routine - easy and effortless in a way that calms whatever nerves he might have had around this new development in your relationship being one-sided.

You had never seemed uncomfortable in the house, or around the rest of the guys, but you had never been like this. 

“I was thinking,” you drag out, voice sweet and alluring, like you even have to put it on to convince Luke of anything, “we could go out on the boat,” you glance back at him as you pour out your cereal, lashes fluttering to complete the act, “You have your license right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, settling himself down to lean at the kitchen island as you cross to the other side, taking one of the stools, “But I’m not really supposed to take it out on my own.”

You hum as if you’re thinking, crunching your food before asking, “Is that brotherly advice or is that the law?”

“Advice, I guess,” he shrugs, pushing forward ever so slightly onto his forearms, where he can feel the tense of his muscles, and can see the diversion of your attention. 

“And you always do what your brothers tell you?”

When you tilt your head, the sun shining through the kitchen window reflects on your irises, making them sparkle, and he can see all the different hues in there, as if you’re using the elements to try hypnotise him into compliance.

You’re so pretty, you don’t even need the special effects.

“I’m a good boy,” he smiles teasingly, with a tilt of his own head, driven by infatuation and admiration, keeping your gaze and trying not to shudder visibly when your eyes drop to his lips. 

“You wouldn’t be on your own, though,” you pout, “I’d be there. I was a lifeguard for the past three summers, you know.” Of course he knows. “I promise I’ll save you if you get thrown overboard.”

You don’t have to say the following sentiment that the two of you share - that if he were to be thrown overboard, it would undoubtedly be by your own hand. 

“Yeah, you’d give me mouth to mouth?”

You scoff, leaning down onto your forearms and mirroring his position, careful not to knock your bowl. “Unfortunately for you, Hughes, they don’t advise the use of that method, anymore.”

“And you always do what people tell you?”

It’s one of his favourite things to do with you, he’s noticed - turn the tables, use your own wit against you. It gets him a reaction, every time. A rush of something real that washes over you, has you fixing your shoulders and biting back a smile. 

Although you don’t bite this one back. Luke doesn’t think that you could, even if you tried. Your eyes even crinkle a little in the corners, and Luke doesn’t see the danger in it - too lost in the way they reflect the glorious sunshine back at him in dazzling sparkles - until one drops in a wink as you retort, “I’m a good girl.”

Touché.

He thinks his heart might have skipped a beat. He can all of a sudden feel every last crumb of the previous bite he took from his protein bar lodged in his throat, and he needs a drink, so he pushes himself up from the counter to try at least gain a height advantage over you, and forces down some gulps of his juice.

The look you’re giving him isn’t doing him any favours - the height difference working against him as your eyes look up to meet his, round and pleading despite the cunning genius he knows is buried within them. 

“Fine,” he huffs, rolling his eyes as your smile grows wider, “But we need to be back before my brothers so I don’t get a lecture.”

“Yes!” You squeal, pushing up from the stool, “I knew you weren’t as boring as you seem!”

He frowns, despite knowing you’re just teasing him for this exact reaction, and watches as you clean up your bowl, discarding of the mushy granola and rinsing it out. 

“I just need ten minutes to get ready and then we can go!”

“You have five.” He grumbles, watching as you rush out the room and listening for the stomp of your feet up the stairs. 

He’s probably going to regret this. 

—

The bikini had been your first strike - baby blue, the type that ties with strings around your neck and back - when you had come down the stairs, the slap of your slides echoing against the wood and diverting his attention from his phone to your emerging figure. Your t-shirt was clutched in your hand, your tote bag in the other, and he had just stood there, mouth agape, until you rolled your eyes and stormed straight past him, calling, “Thought we were on a time crunch, come on,” behind you.

Your second strike had been the way you had waited until you were on the boat to apply your sunscreen, sat next to Luke, who was trying to keep a steady hand on the wheel as he drove his way down to a clear spot further out on the lake. Luke who was biting his tongue from offering to help you, and could smell the sweet melon scent of the lotion as it sank into your skin. 

And the third had been the way you had been smiling down at your phone, distracting him with the pretty curve of your lips as he steered over the water. 

Three such minor infractions already had him regretting the decision to bring you out here alone.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” He asks, trying not to sound as jealous as he feels at the thought of it being another guy.

“It’s Cole,” you tell him, eyes still on your phone.

“You and Cole text?” The boat jolts slightly as his hands tremble, and he diverts his attention to you.

“No, he’s got Ellie’s phone.” You type something back before turning the device to show him a selfie Cole had taken in the hotel lobby, Jack asleep on one of the benches in the background and Ellie posing in front of his sleeping figure.

“Why’s Cole texting from Ellie’s phone?” Luke asks, eyes back on the water as he steers the boat, long fingers curled around the wheel and muscles flexing. 

“They’ve been hanging out,” you tell him, “They were together when we got back from the club the other night, he was in our room.”

“And you’re only just telling me this now, because?”

“Oh, my bad, control freak, didn’t realise you needed the whereabouts of everybody in the house,”

“Jack’s been off all week,” Luke mutters, remembering his brother’s reaction when he had told him he was staying at home instead of going to the concert. He had called him out on staying home just to be around you, saying he’d regret missing out on such a huge experience, like there won’t be a hundred other concerts in his lifetime, and that you wouldn’t even appreciate him doing it. “Making all these passive aggressive comments,”

“No way! Jack Hughes? Passive aggressive?” You gasp, shuffling in your seat to give him more of your attention, “What next, is he gonna start acting like the world revolves around him too?”

“Don’t get cute,” Luke rolls his eyes. It’s starting to make sense, him chewing his ear off like that - even though the two of you had literally caught him out on a date, if he feels like Ellie is moving on with his best friend, he’s bound to feel some sort of way about it. “If they were together when he came home from that date, maybe he saw them,”

“They were hardly getting it on with the door wide open, Luke, they were playing cards.” You scoff, “Plus, he has no right to be upset, he was literally on a date he told nobody about.”

“He gets in his head about stuff like this,” Luke reasons as he slows the boat, bringing it to a stop in the middle of the water so he can focus, “Talks himself in circles until it makes him so dizzy he does something stupid.”

“You think that’s what he’s doing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t like assuming the worst of my brother, though.”

“Alright, let’s say Jack is only being a dick because he thinks Ellie and Cole are hitting it off,” you stand up now that the boat is steady, kicking your slides off and ambling over to the benches at the back, out from under the cover of the roof. “What are we supposed to do about it, we can hardly keep them apart, keeping track of Jack and Ellie is hard enough without throwing Caufield into the mix. He's sneaky.”

“We’d only technically have to follow Ellie, still,” Luke says as he follows you to the back of the boat, thankful your back is to him when you start to push your skirt down your legs, and you can’t see the way his eyes go three times their usual size, he’s almost anticipating a swat to his chest for when you turn and notice. “They can still hang out, just not one-on-one, one of us could keep an eye on them, take it in turns.”

“That sounds an awful lot like hard work, Hughes,” you huff, taking a seat on the leather bench and stretching your legs out before lounging back, “Can’t your brother just grow a backbone and ask her out? It would save us both a lot of hassle.”

“I’m working on it,” he throws himself onto the bench opposite yours, thinking of all the times he’s tried to cut the conversation with his brother short by just telling him to grow a pair. “I guess you’re right, we can’t stop them being friends, it would be hypocritical.”

“Hypocritical?”

“Yeah, ‘cause we’re friends.”

“You think we’re friends?”

“You don’t?”

“We watch one movie together and now all of a sudden you think we’re besties?”

“I think we’re friends ‘cause you like my company, you wouldn’t have asked me to bring you out here if you didn’t like being around me.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re deluded.” You smile, pushing your sunglasses down from the top of your head to the bridge of your nose and relaxing back. “I like tanning and being on the water. You’re a glorified chauffeur at this point. Not a good one, either.”

“I got us out here no problems, didn’t I?”

“I had to hold on the whole way, you were throwing me around like a loose can in the trunk of your car.”

“Yeah, well the water was choppy,”

“A good workman never blames his tools, Hughes.” You smile over at him, and the innuendo makes his cheeks go hot. Definitely regretting bringing you out on the water with no escape about now.

“Did you really ask me to bring you out here just to lay out in the sun?” He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, watching as you angle your neck to face him. 

“Is that a problem?”

“It is if you’re gonna be a grouch about me being here.”

“I thought you’d be all quiet and brooding like you usually are.”

“Me?” He laughs, “Quiet and brooding?” He doesn’t think anyone has ever used the word quiet to describe him in his life. He knows you can’t be serious - all you’ve done for weeks is blast him for getting on your nerves.

“I’ve literally seen you talk once before this summer.”

What the hell do you mean by that? You barely knew who he was that day he approached you in the club. 

“That’s ‘cause you’d have to notice me to see me talk.”

“You’ve never talked to me.”

He did talk to you. Several times, in fact. That day outside your dorm with Ellie’s gift basket, a couple times in class - but they’re all insignificant, minor exchanges of words he would quite like to forget, if he’s honest. Mumbling and stuttering and, quite frankly, embarrassing, to say the least. A far cry from the confident man he’d like to think he has become. “Why would I talk to you?”

“That’s rude,” you pout, and he straightens up immediately.

“No, I just mean, like,” he waves his arms out in between the two of you, gesturing over and shaking his head. “You’re you. We were never really on the same level for me to be talking to you.”

You bring your glasses back onto the top of your head, pushing your hair out of your face and squinting against the sun to level him with a glare. “Aren’t you a big time athlete?”

“I am now. You wouldn’t have given me the time of day back then.”

“You never gave me a chance to.”

“You could have approached me.” He thinks you’re just biting back for argument’s sake, if he’s honest - there isn’t a chance in hell you ever spared a thought for talking to him or giving him the time of day. You barely even looked his way - and he definitely would have noticed. 

“So could you.” You frown. 

“I tried once.” He distinctly remembers the one time he did approach you, away from class and apart from the first time he met you, dialled up with liquid courage and driven by the way you were dressed as a sexy Patrick Bateman, and he finally felt like having the right conversation starter around his love for American Psycho might have helped him kick something off with you, or at least got you to acknowledge his existence. He would have even taken you calling him Lu again. “At a Halloween party in Freshman year. You blew me off. I barely got a word out before you were storming off.”

“When you were dressed as Scooby Doo?”

His lips part and close repeatedly like a fish bobbing it’s mouth, blinking slowly at you as he realised just what you even having that memory meant. “That’s a weird thing to remember for someone not interested.”

“A giant dork in a dog costume is a pretty hard thing to forget.” You grin satirically, “I never said I wasn’t interested, you just caught me at a bad time and never tried again,”

“You wanted me to try again?”

“I want you to be quiet. Aren’t you due a nap or something?”

“You can’t seriously tell me you asked me to bring you all the way out here just to lie out in the sun and do nothing,” he groans, watching you return back to your previous position, body bathing in the sunlight and sunglasses pushed back down onto your nose. 

“What, did you think we were gonna play mermaids?” He can’t see the roll of your eyes anymore, but he knows when it happens by now, just from your tone of voice. 

“You can do that back at the house, we have loungers out by the pool,”

“It’s not as peaceful as this.” You sigh, “Plus, the trees around the back block the sun this time of day. I’m getting pale cooped up in the club all week, I have catching up to do.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Lay back and relax,” you advise, nodding toward the bench he’s perched on the edge of, reaching your hand down into your tote and blindly tossing the bottle of sunscreen in his general direction, “You could use some sun, too. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you do my back later.”

Luke, surprisingly, folds - doing as he’s told and lounging back into the leather, and he begrudgingly thinks a little too much about how right you are. This is peaceful. The soft whoosh of water against the boat, clear blue skies, no yelling or arguing or people competing around him. Just you, and the sunshine, and the smell of melon-scented sun lotion seeping into his skin.

It isn’t long before he drifts off, his head resting on his folded arm, the heat of the sun warming him like a blanket, and the last thing he sees before his eyes close is your head turned his way, lips parted slightly as you sleep, yourself, skin glistening and your chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. 

When his eyes open again, you’re sat up, holding your hair up with one hand and fanning yourself with the other.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, voice thick with sleep as he sits up, his skin peeling uncomfortably off the leather. 

“I’m hot.” You whine, turning to him with a pout.

He scoffs, resisting the urge to say something corny like, I know you are, before he points out over the side of the boat. “If you look to your right, there’s a large body of water you can cool down in.”

“I’m not getting in there!”

“Why not?”

“Lake monsters, for one,” you scoff, releasing your hair and he watches it fan out over your shoulders in soft waves.

“They’re only native to Scotland, I heard.” Luke stands, looking over the side and into the steady waters to gauge how safe it would be to go in without a vest. The water is still, he’s never had any problems in this part of the lake, and he’s confident the two of you could at least take a dip without there being any concerns - you were a lifeguard, after all, and he’s always been a strong swimmer. 

“Aren’t there fish in here?” You ask, beside him now as you peer over the edge yourself. 

“There’s actually a cool hack to check, do you want me to show you?”

You eye him sceptically but nod, anyway, and he holds his hand out to help you walk to the back of the boat, stepping down onto the stern where it’s easier to reach into the water. 

You’re careful not to let him fall behind you, clearly cautious of the fact that he could push you in. Instead, he stands beside you, squats to reach down over the edge and run his fingers through the ripples that form. He stands back to full height and you squint to look up at him, the sun blaring from over his shoulder and reflecting off his sweat-slicked skin. 

It makes your eyes sparkle again, and it’s almost enough to make him change his mind from what he’s about to do - only, before your powers of hypnosis can work on him for the second time in a matter of hours, he quickly grasps onto your hips and launches the two of you into the water. 

He has the same misguided confidence he had when he squirted you with that hose - a burst of energy that he immediately succumbed to before he could think rationally about it, and it’s the same energy that forces deep and hearty laughter to rumble from his chest as you squeal on your way into the lake. 

The two of you land with a big splash, and emerge simultaneously, you running your hands through your wet hair to push it back out of your face.

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“You said you were hot, I was trying to help!”

“You are so dead!” You exclaim, splashing him with a swat of your hand against the water.

“Oh, look, a fish!”

“Ew, no!” You yell, squirming forward to try and dodge it, unintentionally leaping right into Luke, the heat of his firm chest under your flattened palm, an arm curling over his shoulder to steady yourself. 

His arms curl around your body by instinct, wrapping around your waist and holding you against him until you realise his trick, and your hands press on the top of his head until you’re pushing him under the surface with a yell of, “So dead!”

Laughter ripples out of him, from the pits of his stomach to the parting of his lips, and comes out in bubbles against your skin as you hold him down, your body thrashing to get away from his until you break free from his hold, and he rises back from under the water.

“Get back here, you’re not getting away with that!” He calls after you, launching himself forward to catch you.

“No,” you squeal, trying to gain momentum as you leap away, only for his arm to curl around your waist, pulling your squirming body back against him with a splash. “Let me go, you brute!”

“Tell me you’re having fun or you’re getting dunked,” he commands, lips beside your ear as your back is held flush to his chest, your skin still warm from the sun and smooth against his. 

“You dunk me and I’ll leave your ass to the lake monsters,” you warn him, still squirming in his hold.

“Like you could drive the boat, you need me,” your body seems to still the lower his tone gets, succumbing to his hypnotising powers, and he can feel you square your shoulders against him. 

“Yeah right,” even Luke can tell how much your denial is forced from the shiver down your spine, “Jack can do it, how hard could it be?”

“You’d really hijack the boat just to avoid admitting you like my company?” He asks as he lets you go, and you turn immediately in the water to face him. He tilts his head when your gazes meet across the water, and your eyes flicker between his as if trying to read him like a book.

“Today’s been nice,” you admit, with a dramatic roll of your eyes, “Last night, too. Not specific to your company. Just being away from everybody else."

“So that’s the key?” He dares to swim a little closer, just enough that you won’t notice him reducing the proximity between the two of you. “You wanna get me on my own?”

“You-,”

“Wish,” he finishes, your eyes meeting in a steady gaze despite the bobbing of your heads to stay afloat. He’d like to think it’s more than the water that has brought you back this close to him, legs kicking beneath the surface, his hands itching to hold back on your waist to help, “Yeah, I do.”

If he has managed to stay more or less in place while treading water, then it can’t be the current drifting you toward him, and you’re so close now that he could hold you, if his brain could just link to his hands to give them the courage to do so. 

You like being alone with him - you’ve pretty much just admitted so - feel comfortable enough that you change your plans to fit him into them - just like you had last night - you wanted him to talk to you in college, you noticed him, even, enough to remember the fact that he never did. 

There has to be some base level of interest there for you to be this close, in the first place. To move into his house, to agree to spend your summer in his company, to spending more time with him than he’s noticed you spending with your supposed best friend. 

And just as he convinces himself of it, and his thoughts link to the movement of his hands underwater, inching closer to grip at your hips and pull you all the way toward him, a shrill ringing carries all the way from the boat to Luke’s ears, turning both of your attention back to the vehicle.

“Shit, that’s Jack’s ringtone.” He groans, “They’re probably back by now.”

The two of you swim back toward the boat, and he pulls himself up onto the stern before lending you a hand to get up, yourself. 

There are a bunch of texts from his brother.

Where are you at?

Did the demon get you in your sleep?

Where’s the boat?

Please tell me you’re dumping her body and she’s not dumping yours.

You’re dead either way when you get back!

“Shit, we better get back,” he grumbles, rushing to the front of the boat to get it started again. Before you sit beside him, he feels the draping of a towel across his shoulders, and his heart thuds at the small smile you give him when his eyes meet yours.

“Sorry if I got you in trouble.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, nonchalant despite the rampant beating in his chest, and the thought of his brother chewing his ear off when the two of you get back. “You’re worth the headache.”

He winks, teasingly, and his eyes go back to the water before he gets the chance to see your cheeks flush. You’d probably just blame it on sunburn, anyway.

You don’t speak much on the drive back, but Luke can feel your eyes on him, can practically hear your mind whirring with a million thoughts - only because his is doing the same. 

Why does he has to have a brother with the world’s worst timing?

He would have kissed you.

At least, he thinks he would have.

His hands were reaching out. He would have pulled you in by the hips, held you against him, raised so that your faces were finally level, and he would have made a move. He can feel it in his bones, still thrumming with almost-arrogance. A knowing, sure feeling that he can’t shake - one that tells him you would have kissed him back.

But he’ll never know, now.

When the two of you get back, Jack is waiting on the dock, and you gather your things before Luke helps you off the boat. He ushers you past his brother, knowing you’d be down to argue all afternoon, if necessary, but he can take this one on his own. He doesn’t want you hearing the sort of venom he knows his brother can spew out when he’s mad like this.

You brush past Jack on the edge of the dock, who thankfully waits until you’re back at the gate and out of earshot to start on Luke.

“What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“What, I’m not allowed to have fun when you’re not here?” Luke scoffs, rolling his eyes at his brother’s theatrics.

So he took the boat out, it’s really not that deep, he thinks. He’s an adult, he has his license, there really shouldn’t be a problem.

“I know you’ve seen Jennifer’s Body, you shouldn’t be out on the lake on your own with her,”

“Implying she’s a demonic serial killer might be a little over-dramatic, even for you,” Luke huffs as he starts to make his own way back.

 “Trust me, it’s not.” Jack stops him with a hand gripping at his elbow. “Whatever trick she’s pulling on you, Luke, you need to wise up,”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“She isn’t interested,” Jack tells him, “She’s using you to pass the time until someone better falls into her lap, and you’re falling straight for it. Letting her convince you to stay behind and miss hanging with the rest of us, taking the boat out on your own, don’t you think it’s weird how she never had any interest in talking to you before it started benefitting her? Before you made it to the big leagues?”

Luke narrows his eyes at his brother, shoulders slumping as the words seem to weigh on them, like a heavy towel draped across to dry him and rub away all the affections you had blessed him with over the past 24 hours.

But it isn’t Jack’s words that are ringing around his head, this time. It’s yours. 

You never talked to me.

You never gave me a chance.

You never tried again.

Maybe you did have some level of interest before. Maybe his intuitions earlier had been right. Maybe it’s still there. 

“It’s none of your business, Jack,” he grumbles, not allowing him a second to rain on this parade. “You don’t even know her.”

“Don’t come crying to me when she breaks your heart, then.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

If you’re thankful for any rule at the house, it’s the rule for knocking before you come into any bedroom. Quinn knocks most mornings to let you know breakfast is being prepared, or before he goes on a store run to ask if there’s anything you or Ellie need. Jack knocks for Ellie, and now Cole does too.

You can always tell when it’s Luke though.

Repeated and incessant, a constant rapping of knuckles against the wood until you answer, instead of any sort of pattern or rhythm.

“Can I come in?” He asks as soon as you open.

“No.” You tell him every time, but to no avail. 

“Thanks,” He swerves into the space beside you, careful not to shove past as he makes his way into the bedroom. “We have a problem.”

“Yeah, they’re called boundaries, Hughes.” You scoff, slamming the door and following him. “You can’t just waltz in here like you own the place.”

“I do.” He frowns, “Own the place. This is my house."

“Your brothers own it, actually.”

“What are you, Michigan Census Bureau?” You mimic the words back to him, your face scrunched tight and your voice as whiney and annoying as it can go, and he pushes his hand in your face, just light enough to cover it and not actually smack you because he doesn’t have a death wish. “The problem. You have to focus,” he clicks his fingers in front of you, and you swat his hand away with a frown.

“Click at me like a dog again and I’ll bite your fingers off.” The look on your face is one he should probably fear, but there’s a nagging instinct he can’t fight to keep pushing your buttons. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but it feels wrong to ignore.

“Is that supposed to turn me on?”

“The problem, Luke, get on with it.”

“Right.” He sighs, throwing himself down on the bed, “I can’t find Cole and Ellie anywhere. I think he took her out.”

“What?” You reach forward and push at his shoulder, “You had one job, Hughes!”

It had been his turn to take watch, as the two of you had agreed the other day out on the water, but it was really starting to get tiring, having to play third wheel to a situation he really didn’t understand, and he needed a recess. Five minutes just to recuperate, he didn’t expect them to make a break for it so quick. 

“I left to make a sandwich! I’m allowed to eat, you can’t expect me to starve it goes against my rights!”

“You’re such an idiot,” You scoff as you rush toward the closet to find something to wear, your plans of a self-care day now flushed down the toilet thanks to Luke’s insatiable appetite. “You couldn’t watch them for an hour without succumbing to malnutrition?”

“Why can’t you be on watch for once?”

“I was doing my nails,” You retort, wiggling your freshly painted fingernails in his face, crimson red to match your toes, and the colour Luke feels his cheeks turning at the sight of them. “Because thanks to someone the gel started lifting after spending my entire afternoon the other day with my hands in a soapy bucket.”

“You’re the one who took the detour to beat Jack home and got my car all dirty.”

“Whatever, turn around.” You’re already lifting your tank over your head before Luke gets the chance to comply, his mouth falling agape before he can control it at the sight of you stood in just your bra and pyjama shorts in front of him. The instruction only registers when your tank top hits him in the face, dropping into his lap so he can look up at your scowl and swivel in his place on the bed. “They’re probably at the mall, she was saying she wanted to go to the art supply store there.”

“So what, we’re gonna just bump into them? Won’t they think it’s weird we’re showing up there after we both said we were staying in today?” He tries not to look into the corner of the room, where he knows the mirror placed there will show him the reflection of you changing - although what’s the use in hiding anything, now? He’s already seen it.

He’s also seen you in your many different bikinis over the past few of weeks. Has been up close and personal, even, holding your body against his out in the lake. 

But your bathing suits aren’t slightly sheer and frilly around the edges, and don’t push up on anything - not that they really need to.

But thinking about that isn’t gonna do him any favours. 

Old men playing chess, animals in the shelter, getting slammed into the boards at high speeds - thinking of those should get his mind back on track.

“Nope, we’re gonna follow them.”

“I thought you said that spying on people is childish.”

“It is when you’re talking about lurking in bushes and hiding behind menus, Luke.”

When he sees you come around the front of the bed to grab your sneakers, he decides on his own terms he can turn back around, careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the expanse of your legs beneath the skirt you’ve now changed into. 

If it wasn’t for the other afternoon spent working together to wash his car, or the evening spent watching movies, sharing a bottle of wine and indulging in those sticky face masks or the way you had quite literally drifted into his arms in the lake the other day, he would probably feel like a creeper for the way his one track mind has persisted. But, despite your efforts to convince him otherwise, he isn’t deluded. 

There’s something brewing between the two of you. 

It’s in the twitch of your lips that now follows every time you roll your eyes, and the magnetised force in which your eyes track him whenever he enters the room, where you had been entirely indifferent before - you’re warming up to him, he can sense it.

“So what’s the plan?”

“I wanna see what it is they keep running off together for,” you shrug as you braid your hair into pigtails in the mirror, your gaze flickering back to him, “Every time we interrupt them, they just keep sneaking back off again. Maybe if we find out what it is they’re doing, we’ll be better at keeping them away from doing it.”

“And how are we supposed to stay hidden?”

“Easy, we have to wear something we usually wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

“I’ve seen you in that exact outfit like twelve times.” He gestures with a lazy hand to the outfit you have on - white t-shirt, navy skirt, socks that go just above your ankles and the same pair of sneakers he must have seen you in every day the last year you were both in college together. 

Not that he was paying that close attention.

“I know. Can I borrow that quarter zip you wore the other day? You know, the one that’s the colour of baby poop? Super hideous, really gross-,”

“Har har, real funny,” he whips the tank top he’s still, for whatever reason, clutching in his hands at you before throwing it onto the bed, and storming toward the door, calling out a, “Let’s go,” over his shoulder and not bothering to check if you’re coming when he starts to make his way downstairs - the echo of your giggling laughter following him down the hallway tells him as much.

—

“Are you sure she said the art supply store?”

Luke’s neck is starting to hurt from craning it above the shelves in search of Ellie’s curls, this being the second art store the two of you have checked. Somehow he’s the one looking out while you peruse the shop, now cooing at a section of crotchet animal kits and pointing them out until he mutters out some half-hearted cute, or nice.

“There aren’t many things I could have confused it for, Luke, unless you know of anything that rhymes with art supplies?” You pick up one of the kits, turning it to assess the difficulty by the pictures on the back before putting it back on the shelf.

“Maybe she said she had parts to buy?”

“Alright, smartass,” You scoff, shouldering past him to make your way toward the exit, clearly having no luck in finding them here. She definitely wouldn’t have parts to buy for anything, she’s hardly Fix-It Felix. “You can buy me lunch and we’ll see if she’s put anything on her story yet.”

“I’m starting to think they’re not even at the mall and you’ve lured me out of the house under false pretences for free food.” The diffidence he’s giving is entirely forced as he drags his feet behind you, following you out of the store. “If you wanted me to take you on a date, you could have just asked. It was probably the stop for a smoothie that had us missing them in the first place.”

You gasp, and before he has the opportunity to retort with something just as annoying, you grab his hand and tug him with you behind one of the giant plants that are beside the coffee stand, keeping a hold of him as you poke your head around the corner.

“There they are,” you whisper back, your fingers still clutching at his as he crowds into the same space to make sure he too is hidden behind the sprawling leaves.

“Oh so hiding behind bushes is alright if it’s your idea?”

“Shh,” you frown, your hand releasing his and pressing over his mouth, “They’ll hear you, Loud Mouth,” and his eyes follow the pointed finger on your other hand to where Ellie and Cole are walking together toward the store you and Luke just left - side by side, sodas in hand, smiling and laughing and nudging at each other. 

In better circumstances, he’d be thinking about how he’s pressed to your back, bending to accommodate for the height difference, your head tilted to make room for his to lean in for a better look, and your hand still resting on his face, not really covering his mouth but more caressing his jaw in an absentminded fashion as you watch the two of them. 

But all he can think about, disturbingly enough, is his brother - and how hurt he’d be to see what’s happening between his supposed best friends. 

“We’re following them, right?” He asks lowly, his face not too far from yours, and when you turn your head to the side to look at him, he feels like your gaze is softer than usual when it takes in how hardened and dark his is.

“Definitely,” you agree, stepping away from him and turning to face him properly. “If you saw me out of the corner of your eye, you wouldn’t know it was me, right?”

Wrong, Luke thinks, but that’s only because he’d be able to pick you out of a line up in a pitch black room by now - blind folded, spun around a few times for good measure and facing the wrong way.

When he had found a Mets jersey on the rack in the Goodwill you had dragged him to in search of a disguise, and your words from earlier about not being caught dead in something had rang in his head, he had thought it was perfect. And then you had waltzed over with the same jersey, and your eyes had lit up.

“We can’t wear the same thing,” he frowned, unable to hold the weight of the expression for too long when he saw just how excited you were getting. “That’s hardly blending in."

“No, it’s perfect!” You exclaimed, “Ellie would never expect me to match anyone!”

He had thought the shirts were too much before you threw in the identical orange baseball caps you had found, and at that point he was cursing whatever scorned woman it was that dumped all her ex’s shit into the thrift store.

The two of you look cute in your matching gear, he can’t deny that, he just wishes you could have found something that made him feel a little less dirty, maybe Wolverine blue and yellow, if you were gonna dress up as a couple.

Luke doesn’t like how you still make his throat dry in Mets gear.

He reaches out to adjust the cap on your head, pulling the bill down to cast more of a shadow over your face, and combining that with the way your braids, the ones you said you’d never usually wear but seem to suit you anyway, come out the bottom of either side of the cap, he figures anyone else would have a hard time immediately placing you. “Probably not,” he shrugs, making sure to keep an eye on the apparent lovebirds still hovering in the entrance of the art store. 

“Great.” You smile victoriously, “Put your arm around me.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” You scoff, “I’m hardly asking you to ravage me outside the Pretzel Peddler, Hughes, make haste,” you shoo him forward, taking control of the situation and forcing yourself under his arm as the two of you stumble back toward the art store. 

Remaining incognito isn’t entirely hard when the two of you are moving as one, you stuffed under his arm and him able to hide his face in the top of your head if he thinks either Cole or Ellie are likely to see you.

Following them is easy, able to maintain a short enough distance that you can both eavesdrop on their minimal conversation, and there isn’t really a problem until they break apart. 

Ellie goes toward the back of the store, Cole towards the front, and you whisper to Luke that it might be best for you to break apart, too - if you both follow one of them, the other is more likely to catch you - and so you drift after Cole, and he drifts after Ellie, and while the two of you can still see each other, there are a lot of unidentifiable hand gestures in place of where you can no longer talk. That is, until Cole heads further down the other end of the store, and you slip completely out of view.

It’s less fun, spying this way, watching as Ellie browses the shelves, looking over all the sketchbooks until she finds the right one - as if he hasn’t seen a stack of around 5 of them in their room back at the house - swerving so fast on her feet that Luke stumbles on his own to get away, rushing around the bend before she can see him. 

When he rounds the corner of the aisle and sees you heading straight for him, eyes wide and step rushed, he rushes, too, tripping forward until the two of you collide, your stance thankfully much sturdier than his. You grab him by his shirt to make sure he’s steady on his feet before you pull him with you as you fall against the shelf behind you, standing on your tip toes and tugging him down to meet your lips with a surprised grunt.

What the fuck?

Your hands move up to cup at either side of his face, holding him in place as you angle to slot the bill of your cap to the side of his so they don’t bump and fall off, and he loses himself in the warmth of your kiss before he even realises that he’s halfway gone. Your hands cover both of your profiles, and Luke thinks that if you are caught, there’s no way for them to identify the two of you unless Ellie has the orange-red colour and long, supposedly almond - or so you had told him - shape of your nails memorised. Because who would pay such close attention to something like that?

A hand falls to your hip, another to your waist, and he’s teasing your back into an arch with his touch, only distantly hearing surprised exclamations of oh fuck, and sorry, from either side of the aisle.

He pays no mind to the sound of rushed, retreating footsteps, trying to press his tongue between your lips for a further taste of very berry smoothie and sugary balm that he can feel the stickiness of, that he wants his lips to be coated in forever.

He savours the seconds after, where you drag out the show just to make sure Ellie and Cole have actually disappeared, and he pushes his luck one more time, deepening the kiss until you pull away, your hands on his chest shoving purposefully. 

“What was that for?” He asks, breathless and dazed as he takes in your appearance, lips swollen and wet by his doing, pupils dilated.

“PDA makes people uncomfortable, right?” you shrug, like it’s the most obvious explanation for the way you just kissed the life out of him. Like there was nothing else you possibly could have done to get out of that predicament. And his heart thumps as he remembers that those are his words, uttered in a tease way back in the restaurant at the club. “They were hardly gonna stick around and watch, I don’t have Caufield down as a voyeur.”

Luke watches as your eyes drop briefly to his lips, and he swears he sees the flicker of a smile twitch at the corners of your mouth. His fingers come up by instinct, pressing tentatively at the sticky residue that coats the outline of them.

“You tell anyone I did that and I’ll gut you like a fish, Hughes.”

He nods, still in a daze, if he’s honest, and stays in place while you nudge past him to follow in the direction where Ellie and Cole disappeared. 

When he does finally come to, shaking his head to pull himself out of the way his brain is trying to relive the last few minutes, he follows, too - maybe less discreet in his movements, this time, in the hopes that another close call might just gain him another kiss, too.

You’d like to think you have good intuition when it comes to others and their actions. You can see straight through people, a shift in their expression, a twitch in their smile, a glint in their eye - it makes you protective of the people you surround yourself with, keeping only a close-knit group of friends, and keeping everyone else at arms length. 

Friends who you know when they’re upset, or down, need someone around, or need space. It’s how you know Luke has been avoiding you all week, and how you know even more just to leave him to it. 

Not that you’re friends.

It started with long days at the rink - not that you lament his training, but you know he hadn’t been that deep into his regimen so far this summer. Quinn had been the one to drop you off at the club that last couple of days, and Luke hadn’t joined the group when they had played a round of golf and stopped by the bar for some refreshments after.

You’ve seen him around the house still, usually shooting off to God-knows-where, eyes locking in the hall as he passes you like a ship in the night, until he shifts his gaze with an awkward smile.

If he wants to be childish about one stupid, meaningless kiss, you have no choice but to let him.

You’d hardly forced yourself on him. He could have pushed you off if he didn’t want it. Instead, he’d pulled you even closer, even tried to slip you some tongue! And it had kind of been his suggestion in the first place.

You wouldn’t be so bothered about it if you had something to do with Ellie gone for the next week - her little sister’s birthday taking precedent over your summer plans, and the family taking a trip out of state. You can’t even go out, trapped inside due to the unforeseen storm - and you hate thunder, it reminds you too much of all those tumultuous nights locked in your room, listening to your parents fighting, the wind and rain doing little to drown it all out.

But all you have is the house, and with the house comes the movies - the ones he had promised to watch with you.

You had both written down your top ten, yours in his notes, and his in yours, and the damn page has been haunting you every time you unlock your phone. And that’s how you’ve given in so easily. It has nothing to do with the fact you miss him - it’s just pure boredom and curiosity that has you watching Happy Gilmore on your own on a Friday night.

You don’t miss him.

That would be ridiculous.

Luke Hughes is annoying. 

His taste of movies is annoying.

The fact that won’t talk to you is annoying.

“Hey, I thought we were gonna watch this together.”

Or not.

Luke leans against the doorway, possessing the kind of casual indifference that only a man could, frowning and pouting as if he’s not the sole reason you’re cooped up on your own watching a damn movie about golf of all things.

“Thought you were avoiding me,” you bite back, arms crossed over your chest and brows furrowed in frustration. 

“Why would I be avoiding you?” He asks as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him, your eyes darting straight to long, slender fingers wrapped around the handle. 

“Because you kissed me, and then all of a sudden started acting like I don’t exist to you.” You accuse with a pointed glare, figuring one of you has to have the guts to talk about it. 

“Actually, you kissed me,” he smirks, perching himself on the edge of your bed, “And then told me in graphic detail you’d pretty much murder me if I ever spoke about it again, so I,” he frowns, “Didn’t.”

You can’t help but scowl at how stupid that sounds. He can’t seriously think you would murder him. If you were the murdering type in the first place, you’d have done it long ago. You even tell him as much.

“I don’t know, you had this scary look in your eye, kind of didn’t want to test that theory,” he shrugs, reaching in the pocket of his hoodie and throwing a bag over to you. 

M&Ms. Your favourite.

“You gonna scoot over?” He asks, raising a brow and widening his eyes as if he’s pleading, as if you’ve been the one giving him the cold shoulder.

You roll your eyes and shuffle across the bed, making room for him beside you that he occupies way too quick, legs stretching out in front of him, all the way down the bed, as he gets comfortable.

You try to focus on the movie, as if you have any clue what’s been happening so far, anyway, but you can see him out of the corner of your eye, an arm tucked behind his head, his chest stretched out, and his jaw tensing as he chews on the candy he’s already stealing from you.

He’s had a haircut. Shorter on the sides, and it makes his face look a little more defined. Still curly - maybe even curlier - and softer than before, in a way that you’d want to run your hands through it, if you were a crazy person, of course.

And he smells good, too.

You’re starting to think this has been his plan all along - for distance to make your wretched heart grow fonder, or whatever - and you find yourself tensing your own jaw as you grind your teeth and try to tune back into whatever Adam Sandler is yapping about. 

“I sort of was avoiding you,” he admits, and you can still see him out of the corner of your eye, looking down at you, now, although you don’t look back.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, shifting a little to face you more, “I thought you might have felt weird about kissing me.”

“I didn’t.” 

“Okay then.”

“Alright.”

“We can talk about it, if you want?” He suggests, and that’s finally when you look at him, with his lips twisted nervously and his brow raised, anticipating your response. 

What’s there to even talk about? You kissed him as a distraction. He knows that. You know that. 

“I’m good.” You tell him, a short, forced smile to ease the tension before he smiles back.

“I know something we can talk about,” he leans in, “Considering how little you care about this movie.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“How you had a big fat crush on me in college,” he smirks, eyes darting between yours, the flash from the tv screen highlighting all the different hues of blues and greens in his irises.

He’s not gonna catch you out, though.

“You’re delusional.” You tell him, your own eyes narrowing, almost like a defence mechanism. He seems to be quite good at reading you, and you’re not letting him in that easy.

“So you keep saying,” he pouts, pensively, “But then it’s you never talked to me, Luke, and I remember small random details about you, Luke!”

“I don’t sound like that,” you frown, taking slight offence to the squeaky voice he puts on, more than likely to distract you from the closing distance. He speaks again before you can realise you really should be putting more effort into denying such ridiculous accusations, before he completely slanders your good name. 

“You’ve been avoiding me all week and I missed you, Luke-,”

You don’t know why your mouth is all of a sudden on his, but if you take a second to think about it, you’ll spiral out. His lips are soft, and your noses slot perfectly beside each other - no painful bumps or clumsy collisions. Just a plain, normal kiss between two people who tolerate each other. That’s all.

When you part, his eyes drift open softly, his lashes - infuriatingly long as they are - flutter open, and his irises glaze over as if he’s under a spell. 

“That was-,”

“To shut you up,” you mutter, rolling your own eyes and forcing a scowl. “You were starting to give me a headache.”

He nods, that dumb look still in his eyes, and you feel your jaw clenching almost achingly at how it makes you feel.

“And I care very deeply about Gilmore’s happiness, so if you could cut it out with your yapping, I’d really appreciate it.”

“His name is Happy-,”

“I didn’t ask.”

When Luke is on the ice, most of the noise around him usually tunes itself out. Aside from the scrape of his skates, and the thudding of his heart, he can usually dial out the crowd, the chanting, the booing, the chirping, whatever it may be - all distractions to the end goal.

The one noise he never can ignore, though, is that of the goal horn, blearing throughout the arena, bouncing off of every corner until it hits him like a freight train, and he thinks they ring a little louder when it’s him that scores.

And with that horn, he can fine tune himself back into his surroundings. To shouts and cheers and applause, a sea of red and white jerseys jumping up, the Devils logo brandished across their chests, and his work being praised by the masses.

He somehow has the power to zero in on you, too. Arms raised, up a little in the stands, not too far that you’re just a speck, but not too close that you’d be a distraction.

A wide smile on your face, adoration in your eyes, and 43 on your arm. 

“Luke!” Your lips read, drowned out by the crowd, but he can still make it out, calling out to him like you’re the only other person in the room. “C’mon, Luke!” 

He smiles, as big as he ever has before, and points straight at you, dropping a wink like you could possibly catch it from out in the stands, and taking a bow.

“Hughes, you big lump, wake up!”

He groans as he’s shaken from his sleep, soft hands gripping at his arms and jolting him awake.

“What?” He doesn’t open his eyes, not yet, but he thinks it’s the weight of his furrowed eyebrows keeping them closed. 

“I need a favour,” you whisper.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s 2am. I don’t do favours before 9.”

“C’mon, please?” He opens one eye to your pleading face, and then another, when he catches the teary reflection of the moonlight in your eyes.

“What is it?” He straightens up, rubbing the sleep from his eyelids and straining to make the rest of you out in the dark. 

“I need you to look at the window in my room, it’s whistling.”

“It’s just the storm, it gets like that when it’s windy,” he sighs, sinking back down a little into his pillows. He had thought you were in danger, or something.

“Can’t you fix it?” You plead, soft fingers still squeezing a little at his bicep, and his chest starts to feel heavy just from the tone of your voice - but it’s 2am. You had him up until midnight watching Wall-E, and he has a morning skate with his dad at 6am. 

“Do I look like a handyman?” He huffs, also a little aggrieved at the fact you had disrupted his rather nice dream. “Just go to sleep and ignore it.”

“I can’t.” You whine, “I can’t sleep if there’s a storm, they freak me out. And I can’t ignore it when it’s literally screaming at me through a broken window. And I’m on my own in there, it’s scary.”

Luke presses his palm firm into the socket of his closed eyes, trying to rub away the exhaustion that is urging every fibre of his being to fall straight back asleep. 

He can’t fix the window. It’s been like that for as long as him and his brothers have lived here - always the dud room left to whoever rocks up last to the house - and even if he could, he’s comfortable, and warm, and if his bare feet touch the cold, hardwood floor, he won’t be able to get himself to drift back off. 

He sighs, shuffling beneath the sheets before grasping them and flipping them over, making room beside him and muttering a grumpy, demanding, “Get in.”

“Luke,” you whine, and he can see your pout even through his closed eyes - lips plump and plush and if he gets even a glimpse he’s going to start thinking about kissing them, again. “You’re really not gonna help me?”

“I don’t offer my super comfy bed up to just anybody,” he reasons, making a little more room, “C’mon, you can barely hear the rain in here, it’s this or the couch downstairs.”

“Can’t you take the couch and I take your comfy bed?”

Luke opens one eye to look at you, eyes glimmering nervously in the crack of moonlight that sneaks through the curtains, lip tugged between your teeth, and relents, immediately. “Do you want me to take the couch?”

He could probably go sleep in your bed, if you’re really that bothered. He doesn’t do too well with noises while he sleeps, but he will if he has to - if that’s what makes you feel better. But you had just said it was scary being alone, and he’s counting on that to make a case for himself to keep his super comfy bed in his whistle-less bedroom.

“No,” you grumble, shoving at his arm, “Move over a little more.”

He relents, making as much room as he can for you to crawl into his bed before he flips the sheets back over on top of you, waiting for you to get comfortable before he melts back into place.

His legs extending into yours is purely accidental, but he doesn’t move them when you don’t flinch away, taking a second to adjust his positioning until he realises something. 

“You’re not wearing pants.”

“Neither are you.” You mumble back straight away, turning to face him, the bare skin of your calves brushing his as you move.

“It’s my bed,” he shrugs, his body on its side and his arm beneath his pillow, the space cramped now that you’re both squeezed in, and he’s trying to give you room, but he swears you have space on the other side. “I don’t wear pants to bed.”

“I don’t either.” 

“What if there’s a fire?”

“I think I’d rather succumb to the flames than let your brothers see me in my panties.”

He just hums, sleepily, trying not to overthink how you wouldn’t mind him seeing you in them. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the press of your skin to his. 

“Do you want me to go put pants on, Luke, would that make you happy?”

“Don’t ask such a ridiculous question.” He huffs, sinking into his pillows and getting himself back into the right position to drop back off into a deep slumber. “Go to sleep.”

The soft patter of rain against the window lulls him, and he slowly feels you relax beside him, a few minutes of silence settling between the two of you - comforting and still - before you break it. 

“Luke?” You whisper, this time barely audible, like you don’t even want to be heard - and it’s that thought that has him ignoring you, sleep clutching his eyes closed anyway, so close to drifting back off. 

He feels your body shuffle against the mattress, still not enough to lure him back into full consciousness, but he’s aware enough to know your every move.

And he’d like to think he can predict them, imagining you shuffling to get comfy and hoping he’s too deep in his sleep to care if you nudge him while doing so.

But he could never predict the soft press of your lips to the corner of his mouth, and the gentle, almost non-existent muttering of a thank you against his skin. 

He only lets himself smile when he can feel you settle back into the bed, body laid beside him, bare legs brushing against his under the sheets.

You are so welcome, he thinks, that soft smile curving into something much deeper as he succumbs to sleep, body melting into an oozy, gooey, consuming mess beside your own. 

Luke should have known you’d get your own back on him for the whole avoiding thing.

The two of you had been sweet for a solid week, movie nights every other night, especially after you had shared his bed, you’d even made him lunch to come back to the day after. And he had started driving you to and from work, again.

And it’s the drive home from work one day that he sees something in you switch.

“It’s just gonna be a couple people, you’ll probably even know some of the girls from college.”

“It’s your house, Luke, you don’t have to explain your parties to me.” You shift your knees back to face the dash, where they had just been angled toward him, and you cross your arms against your chest. 

“We can pick back up on movie night tomorrow, I don’t have any training all day so we can do a marathon, if you want.”

“Ellie’s back today, so I don’t know.”

He frowns, tightening his fingers around the wheel as he watches you retreat all of a sudden, like you’re annoyed with him, or something.

And then as soon as he pulls up outside the house, you’re climbing out of the car before he even has a chance to come around and open the door for you, storming up the driveway and disappearing inside.

He tries not to let it get to him. Tries to lose himself in the festivities of the night - a house party thrown on whim at the discovery that most of the brothers’ mutual friends were in town. He was excited to see his boys from Michigan, Ethan, Dylan, Luca and Jacob, who all climb out of Ethan’s truck with a 6-pack in hand, and crowd around Luke, embracing him with brotherly pats on his back and ushering him into the kitchen to partake in their pre game ritual - a round of shots to line their stomachs. 

He still keeps a close eye on you once the party is underway. Watches you and Ellie, watches when Cole joins the two of you, and you laugh at whatever dumb jokes he’s trying to tell you. Watches your gaze flicker his way throughout the night, and leave just as quickly, and he has to shrug off the chirps of his friends when they notice, too.

He later watches you catch up with a couple of the girls coming from your sorority, and that’s around the time he loses you, lost in a round of beer pong that fills his bladder quicker than he could have anticipated.

He excuses himself up to his room, the music dying down the further upstairs he gets, and relieves himself with an inebriated bop of his head to whatever melody he can still hear blasting through the floorboards. 

He zips his jeans back up, and ambles over to the sink, washing his hands under the faucet until the sound of his door opening has his heart falling into the pit of his stomach. 

“Jesus,” he gasps, shutting off the water and turning to face where you’re stepping into the room and closing the door behind yourself. “You ever heard of knocking? What are you doing upstairs?”

“Was just checking you weren’t like jerking off in here or something,”

“What if I was, were you planning on watching?”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, pulling a face to feign some sort of offence, but Luke watches as you fidget, tucking your hair behind your ears and shuffling on your feet. 

“Like you’ve been watching me all night,” he smirks, tossing the towel he had used to dry his hands back onto the hook and taking a step into your space, backing you against the counter, your shoes no longer shuffling along the floor. It feels like it’s been days now that you’ve been off with him, even though it’s been a mere few hours, but in those hours, he’s had a lot of time to think about your relationship, or lack thereof.  “Think I haven’t seen you? Can’t take those pretty eyes off of me, can you?”

He’d first noticed when you came downstairs with Ellie, earlier, pinned to her side and gossiping about something, no doubt catching up on her week away. You kept glancing his way, subtly at first, eyes darting over and shifting back just as quick to your best friend, faking interest and nodding along until you looked back over. Your efforts were more noticeable as the two of you moved around different corners of the room, interacting with different groups and still meeting eyes across the expanse of space between you and him. 

His heart jumped every time.

And then Victoria had arrived, just before he had been recruited to play beer pong - an old hookup from his college days. She had always been more of a friend than anything else, and Luke had no interest in reigniting whatever dampened spark they once had, she has a boyfriend now, anyway, but when her hand grazed his arm, and he looked over to see your glare zeroed in on the exact spot she was touching him, he thought he’d have a little fun with it.

Nothing too extreme, a few loud laughs, a little longer spent with her than initially anticipated, but she had been more than happy to regale him with stories about her new relationship, so pretending to pay attention didn’t seem like such a bad idea if it was going to make you do something.

He had a sneaking suspicion as to what had turned your mood, earlier, and he was about to have fun testing his theory - that you had been jealous at the mere mention of other girls being at the house.

He didn’t think it would culminate in you following him all the way up to his room, confronting him in his bathroom with nobody else around, but he’s hardly mad about it, now.

“Shut up,” you scowl, but your tone is weak, and Luke knows he’s got you. Chin tilted up to meet his eyes in defiance, gaze locked on his as he moves closer, and he’s thankful, for the first time tonight, that the boys had forced him to take those shots when the party started.

He wouldn’t have the courage to challenge you like this, otherwise - an inebriated cockiness taking over, puffing out his chest and filling him with the same sort of misplaced bravado he’s been convincing himself to muster all week.

“You already know how to make me.” He mutters, lowly, the proximity of your face to his giving his tone a breathiness that he hopes comes across more seductive than slurred. His mind is stuck on that kiss from the other night, when he had apparently irritated you so much that you felt that was your only option. 

You blink slow, eyes dropping to his lips, and before he can blink, himself, you close the distance.

This is different to before - incomparable to a kiss given just to hide your faces, one just to stop him from talking and another when you had thought he wasn’t conscious. 

This is heated, and intentional, and intense. 

Dainty fingers clutch at the front of his shirt, pinching slightly at his skin before taking a hold of the fabric, and there’s no possible way for you to play this off as something less.

Your lips are firm, slotted against his, and moving before he knows it - his tongue licking at the seams until they part, and you grant him access to the sweet taste of fruity liquor inside your mouth. 

Large hands take residence on your hips, sliding daringly backward until he’s gripping at your ass, long fingers stretching down to trace the hem of your skirt, denim thick but not immune to his absentminded efforts to chase the feeling of more. 

He’s expecting you to come to your senses, anticipating the grip of your hands to turn into a shove, and the sweetness of your taste to turn sour when you start to yell at him, fire in your eyes and venom on your tongue - but all he hears is you moaning into his mouth, all he feels is the press of your torso against his as your back arches into his touch, his fingertips grazing the top of your thigh as your skirt moves in his hold.

He’s greedy with the way he touches you after that, hands cupping, fingers kneading, nails scratching even just to leave his mark, and he barely notices yours slipping down, down, down until the cold press of your fingertips grazes his abdomen, stomach tensing at your touch. 

He groans a little, his movements halting as you manage to distract him from his ministrations, using the leverage you have on his body to press and push until your lips part - swollen and wet with his spit.

His heart thuds in his chest, thump thump thump echoing in his head as he watches you - holds his breath and stares at you with his own lips parted, the taste of you lingering in a way he doesn’t want to swallow too soon. 

He waits for your face to turn, for that hypnotised look in your eyes to turn into a glare, the distance between you bringing some much needed clarity - but the shift never comes.

Instead, you push yourself away from the counter, and he finds himself looking straight down as your hands make their way back to the hard ridges of his stomach.

“What are you doing?” He stutters as your fingers start to tickle lower.

“I wanna give you a hand.”

“Give me-,” he splutters, his own hand stopping yours in its tracks. “Am I dreaming right now? Is this a trick?”

“No,” you persist, pushing your hands despite his weak, half-hearted efforts to stop them. “You did me a favour, why can’t I do one back?” 

“Because that’s not-,” He can’t believe he’s trying to turn this down, the lump in his throat protesting the words that try to come up. You just kissed him. You just let him hike your skirt up and push you against the bathroom counter, let his fingers go so far beyond the realm of reality that he thinks he’s still lost in a dream - and he can’t figure out why he’s even questioning it, anymore. “There’s a pretty big difference between me letting you sleep in my bed and you jerking me off,”

“It’s only a big deal if you make it one, Luke.” You shrug, pausing at the waistband of his pants. Every nerve from his ribs to his toes tingles, the teasing touch of the tips of your fingers sparking something unshakable within him. “Do you want me to help you out or not?”

“Are you high or something?”

“No,” you chuckle, meeting his eyes again - sparkling and beautiful, a hidden vulnerability flashing across them at the insistence of his hesitant rejection. “Are you? You’re really gonna turn me down to just jack yourself off in here on your own?”

“Please don’t call it that.” He pleads, the last thing he needs right now is any sort of reminder of his brother. Not when you have your hands on him. Not when you could conceivably get on your knees right before him. Not when his deepest darkest fantasies could play out after so many years of pining after you. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” He lets out a panicked stammer. “Not no. I meant no, like no to your question, not no period.” 

“What?” You step back with a frustrated huff, taking your hands away, close enough still that he can reach out and grab them, holding them between the both of you.

“I want-,” Good lord, he wants a lot. He can still taste you on his tongue, still feel the press of your kiss on his own swollen lips, and his head is spinning so far out of control he doesn’t think he’ll be able to knock any sense back into it any time soon. “Are you sure?”

“Oh my God, Hughes, just pull your pants down and let’s get on with it.”

Luke pulls you in for one more kiss before he relinquishes all control, and hums and whines as you work his zipper down, the sound bouncing off the tiles and reverberating around his skull.

He doesn’t know how you can so easily go back to normal after. 

He can’t understand how you could just lift yourself back onto your feet when the two of you were finished, adjust your skirt around your hips, and leave him alone in the bathroom, panting, flushed and barely coherent, all evidence of your tryst swallowed down like the moans you had forced him to suppress - all except the faint bruises on the lowest part of his stomach that you had sucked into his skin, the ones he hopes grow darker as the days go on, the ones he feels pulsing as he rejoins his friends in the kitchen. 

He had once again promised not to utter a word to anyone - but it doesn’t stop the thousands of them that swirl around his brain after, the ones that linger there all through the night, resurface through the week, and etch themselves into the very core of his being. 

Thousands of words in hundreds of languages, mixing to form romanticised poems he might never understand.

All he does understand, is that he’s so far gone for you now, it isn’t even funny. 

Far gone is starting to seem like the understatement of the century.

Luke can’t get enough of being around you, and it’s so detached now from the two of you only ever hanging out to scheme about Jack and Ellie that he can’t even remember the last efforts you made to do anything about their relationship.

He’s now just focused on whatever relationship the two of you are building between yourselves.

Watching movies in his bed, comparing commentary on your favourites, asking for his opinion, and him asking for yours. And he likes how gentle you are with the things he loves. Movies are kind of his thing, and sharing them with someone else - sitting and watching them and waiting for some kind of reaction, good or bad - could be intimidating with anyone else. 

But you’re so attentive. You ask questions, you remember things, and you try to understand why he might love a film, and try to see things from his perspective, rather than stamping your own opinion over his and ruling anything out.

You’re open-minded, even though you pretend not to be. You’d given Happy Gilmore a second chance, even, and Luke never had you pegged as the second chance type.

You talk a lot more to him on your drives to and from work - not that you didn’t talk before, but this is different, entirely. You have actual discussions, around more than just what’s happening at the house, or what’s happening at work. 

The two of you talk about college, about your major, your plans for after school. You talk about hockey, about Jersey, about his friends and teammates back there, and the life he’s built away from the one you pretend you never knew. 

And the way he feels about you starts to consume him in ways he never thought possible. In ways that make him sort of understand where Jack had been coming from all those years, when he’d never shut up about his feelings for Ellie, and how he thought about her all the time, and wanted to be with her 24/7.

It’s what has him hovering around at the club after he and Quinn had played a round of golf, waiting outside for Quinn to give the keys back for their caddy, and spotting you chatting to Cara at the side door to the restaurant.

He waves as soon as you see him, and his heart jumps when you immediately excuse yourself to skip over, a bright smile on your face that he never thought could be directed his way.

“Hey!” You greet him, cheerily, ponytail swaying behind you as you come to a stop in front of him. 

“What time are you getting off?” He asks, foregoing any small talk and cutting straight to the chase. 

“I’m on the lunch shift today, so 3,” you pout, checking the watch on your wrist that he knows reads just past 1. “You don’t have to wait around though, I can catch a ride from somebody else,”

“No, I’ll take you home.” He assures you, “I need to go to the mall, I’ve got to get a present for a baby shower, I was hoping you’d help me.”

“I don’t know how much help I’d be, babies give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Yeah, same,” he chuckles, “Maybe we could grab dinner or something, instead?”

“I was gonna pick up a dress for the party next week, so maybe we could do that first?”

“And then dinner?” He asks, a hopeful raise of his eyebrows that is spurred on by the way you’re biting back a smile.

“Yes, Luke, then dinner.” You chuckle, beaming up at him when his face breaks out into a full-blown grin.

“Sick,” he replies, “Yeah, cool,” he nods as he watches you step away, amusement gleaming in your eyes, “I’ll be out here at 3.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Luke watches as you make your way back to the side door of the restaurant, meeting your eye when you look back at him and relishing in the way he can catch the flush of your cheeks all the way from the fountain. 

He smiles to himself as he turns on one foot, light in his step and light in his head, nodding to the guy who is painting the railings leading up to the club foyer and swinging on his feet as he waits for his brother.

If he had a little less self-awareness, he thinks he could start leaping and swinging from the nearest lamp post like a scene straight out of Singing In The Rain.

He hasn’t felt elation like this in a long time.

He hadn’t uttered the word, exactly, but this is as close to a date as he might get, and his entire body is buzzing at the thought of it. 

“Are you coming?” Quinn calls out as he descends the steps at the front of the club, keys in one hand and a water bottle in the other.

“Uhh,” Luke drags out as he not-so-subtly looks back to where you and Cara are talking by the side door. “I think I’m gonna check out the gym.”

“You know it’s just a bunch of old guys on machines in there, right? Plus, I thought we were going in the morning with the rest of the guys?”

“Right,” he mutters absentmindedly, “I meant the pool.”

“You hate indoor pools.”

“The sauna?”

“Your little crush is getting out of hand, huh?” Quinn chuckles, elbowing at Luke’s side to get his attention back.

“It’s not a crush.” Luke huffs, lips pouted as he tears his eyes away from you with great effort. 

“I think we’re past the point of you denying it, Luke,” his older brother gestures to the wall Luke had been staring at when he came outside, “You’re literally watching paint dry to pass the time until she finishes work-,”

“No, I mean like I had a crush on her,” Luke sighs, “Before this summer, when I just thought she was pretty and hot and I could never pluck up the courage to do anything about it. It doesn’t feel like a crush anymore. Or maybe it does, I don’t know, I kinda feel like she’s crushing me, to be honest.”

He gives a nervous laugh when he says it, but it’s not enough to cover up the way he really feels - not when it comes to his big brother, who puts his keys back in his pocket just so he can spare a hand to reach out and pinch at Luke’s cheeks, teasing, “Lukey’s in love,” before he swats him away.

“Hardly,” he scoffs in denial, although he doesn’t really understand why he’s fighting the thought of it so hard.

It’s not exactly a preposterous idea. Love might be an overestimation - you haven’t exactly let him all the way in - but like seems like an understatement. Obsessed seems dramatic. Infatuated?

“I don’t know, I like spending time with her, like talking to her, is all,” he shrugs. He likes a lot more than that, but confiding in Quinn after how his last encounter with Jack about the whole thing had gone has his back up, a little. “I feel like she might like me too.”

It’s the first time he’s said it aloud to anyone else. He’s chirped you about it enough - taken note of the various shades of pink he can flush your cheeks when he does, darker and darker as the days go on - but he’s been abiding by your request of staying quiet about any of the specifics.

And it’s been hard. Oversharing is kind of his thing, usually, and keeping information from his brothers isn’t exactly something he loves doing, not when he’s been cursing Jack all summer for doing the same.

“Jack thinks she’s using me. He doesn’t like her.”

“Jack doesn’t like that he can’t beat her. Like he can fire a thousand shots at her and nothing goes in, he isn’t used to that.”

“Oh, but I am?” Luke scoffs, although he isn’t entirely sure if he is offended. “Are you calling me a loser?”

“No, Luke, I’m not calling you a loser.” He chuckles. “It’s like hockey, right, you and me, we chase people down. Don’t give in until we’re caught up and we can disarm someone. That isn’t Jack’s game. He’s usually the one being chased, you know? Usually the one ahead.”

“He’s not that bad on the other side of the blue line,” Luke scoffs, although he gets where his eldest brother is coming from. He hasn’t really thought about it in that context - that you and Jack don’t get along because you’re alike - but it makes sense now that he thinks about it.

“He’s not like you, though. You get some weird thrill out of going after people you have no business going after, you have since you were younger, taking down kids 4 or 5 years older than you and twice the size for fun. Makes sense you’d want someone so far out of your league.”

Luke looks back over to where you’re still stood with Cara, and just manages to catch your eye before you look away, pretending he hadn’t caught you. The smile erupts slowly onto his features, close-lipped and soft, but he feels the joy of it all throughout his body. 

“I think I’m wearing her down.”

Stolen glances across whatever room the two of you happen to be in, smiles that you’ve only ever sent his way, feather-light but purposeful kisses on the corner of his mouth when you think he’s asleep, seeking him out in his bathroom after seeing him with someone else - yeah, he’s getting there.

“Good for you, Luke,” Quinn chuckles, patting his brother on the back, “As long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

He does. At least he thinks so. 

You feel weird.

It’s the only word you can think to describe the mood you’ve been in for the past week.

Well, weird and off.

You can’t quite put your finger on it, either, but it’s throwing you off your game. 

There had been a second the other day where you had thought you might have gotten to the bottom of things - when you’d come inside from sunbathing with Ellie and had found Luke in his room, packing a bag for his trip to Vegas for some award ceremony he and Quinn were nominated for. 

Clarity had hit you like a brick to the head, panic swirling in your chest at the thought of him being gone for a whole week, but then he’d looked up from where he was perched on the ground, had given you a lopsided grin, and had ushered you over to help - and the speed in which you had started to feel normal again quickly diminished any thoughts of Luke being the cause of your weirdness.

But it has been hard to shake, even as unidentifiable as it may be, and the longer you feel this way, the worse it gets, bubbling up like anxiety that keeps your jaw tight, and your lips pressed together.

It culminates the night of the boys’ party - a celebration of Quinn and Luke’s nominations, and a good luck send-off of sorts that Jack had wanted to throw before they left. 

You had started the night off fine - kind of attached at Luke’s hip, him muttering teasing remarks into your ear about you clinging to him ‘cause you’re gonna miss him when he’s gone, and catching up with a couple of the guys from Michigan. You might have even been having fun at one point, smiling into the red cup Luke had placed in your hand at the beginning of the night that you still hadn’t drained, as you watched him shoot pool and he kept smirking up at you as he leant over the table.

You shouldn’t be feeling anxious when he looks at you like that, but God, do you feel something.

And then your phone starts to buzz in your pocket, and assuming it’s Ellie, who, once again, is away with her family - this time in Europe for a couple of weeks - you pull it out.

But it isn’t Ellie.

It’s your dad.

And the heart that had been thudding in your chest at the mere capture of Luke’s attention just moments ago, is now dropping out of your ass.

It isn’t a call, thank God - you don’t think you could handle that, feeling the way you currently feel - but an email.

Your dad hasn’t called in a while. He rarely texts, either.

This is how it is, now. Emails and Facebook posts you happen to come across, like you’re some distant co-worker or an old family friend.

Not his only daughter. Not the kid he abandoned in search of a better life.

When you open it up, there’s no subject, no body either to the email, just an attachment. 

A family photo, him, his new wife, and their two boys, stood in front of the Eiffel Tower, edited into a postcard that reads, Wish You Were Here!

And resentment bubbles within you.

I could have been, if you’d have invited me.

You shove your phone back into your pocket and do a quick glance around the room to check if anyone might have noticed the tears welling in your eyes, but you’re safe. 

Luke’s attention is on the table, the rest of the boys’ attention is on him, and you slip away before he has the chance to meet your eye - to see straight through you in the way only he knows how, and make your way to the kitchen in the search of something stronger.

When you push your way through the door, whatever weird feeling that has been consuming you for the past week culminates into something bigger.

Something darker, and heavier, and angrier, like a tornado of emotions tearing through your very core, picking up every last bit of restraint on it’s way as your eyes narrow onto it’s next target.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Jack pulls back in a daze from the blonde who’s face he was just suctioned to, brows furrowed as his intoxicated gaze zeroes in on you.

He slurs out your name, glaring like he’s trying to get his eyes to focus before they roll dramatically, and he runs a hand through his messy hair.

“Jesus, what do you want?”

“Maybe for you to have some respect, or is that a little too much to ask?”

“Could you give us a minute?” He asks the girl in front of him, who scowls at you before walking off, shouldering past you to exit the kitchen as you stare Jack down. “Why are you being such a psycho?”

“I’m sick of you messing Ellie around, Hughes, I’m not gonna just stand around and let you play with her heart like she means nothing to you anymore.”

“She’s not even here,” he scoffs, “She won’t find out unless you tell her.”

“And you think I won’t? She’s my friend, Jack, we tell each other everything.”

“Yeah? She tell you how she’s into Cole?”

“No. Because she isn’t.” You’d cleared that up with her a while ago, asking her straight up if something was going on - and she had said no. She wouldn’t lie to you.

“Then why do I keep getting told that she is? Why is everyone seeing them out together all the time? Why is she texting him tonight and not me?”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re making it your mission to stick your tongue down other girls throats all the time. This entire summer, you’ve done nothing but avoid your feelings so much that maybe she thinks you’re not into her. Maybe you need to pull your head out of your ass and talk to her like a grown fucking adult and stop playing stupid games with her heart.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“And you should be fucking listening. If you keep messing her around, you’ll lose her for good,” you threaten, with a jab of a pointed finger into his chest.

Jack looks flushed, cheeks pink, lips puffy, eyes red-rimmed and hair a mess as he looks back at you - and it’s like he’s functioning in slow motion, you can practically see the cogs turning in his inebriated brain as he comes up with some way to jab back, some way to make you hurt the way the thought of Ellie leaving does to him, just to avoid admitting you’re right.

“What, like how you keep messing my brother around?” 

“Excuse me?” You scoff, stepping back when he jabs a finger at you.

“You heard me,” he snarls, “Leading him on like some lovesick puppy while you couldn’t care less about him.”

“Is that what he said?”

“No, funnily enough he won’t even talk to me about you,” Jack’s glare sends a shiver down your spine, one that overrides the buzz of pride at him following your instruction - you know this level of animosity comes from the swirling of intoxication and frustration, he doesn’t actually hate you, the two of you have gotten on somewhat in the past couple of weeks, despite him making out otherwise, but this is different. This makes you feel small, like a speck of something fragile, ready to be stomped and crushed under his irate foot. And it’s not the kind of small you usually like. The kind of small where you compare yourself to the bigger picture. No, this hurts. Aches. Itches in a way that you need to relieve, immediately. “But I bet that’s your doing, because that’s how toxic you are, making it so he can’t even confide in his brother about his feelings. Feelings that you just want to stampede all over like they’re nothing. Break his heart like it’s some kind of sport.”

That isn’t true. 

That’s not who you are.

That’s not what you’re doing, not what you want.

You know how it feels to have someone break your heart like that, you’d never do that to Luke.

“Go fuck yourself, Jack.” Is all you can mutter out in defence of yourself before you’re shouldering past him, barging through the uninterested crowd and stomping out of the kitchen.

You think it’s the need to feel bigger that has you poking your head into every room in search of him - the person who had ingrained the notion of needing to feel bigger to feel better to your memory - only able to find comfort in a mop of messy curls that sits on top of a head higher than the rest. It’s what has you grasping at his hand when you do find him outside on the deck, dragging him wordlessly - and thankfully enough, without protest - back through the rest of his house, and to his room before you push him down onto the bed, instructing him to move up and sit against the headboard before you straddle his lap.

You kiss away his questions, fingers clumsily working at the buttons of his shirt until you can tear it off, swallowing down his confusion into your own mouth as he shrinks into your advances.

When you start to grind down into him is when he gains back some level of consciousness, large hands grasping at your waist and pushing until your lips part with a loud smack. And you’re both breathless, panting against each others mouths as he tries to figure you out, looking up at you with a furrowed brow and swollen lips.

“What’s going on?” He asks, eyes darting around you in concern.

Concern that makes you feel larger than life - makes your chest expand and your heart swell and your lungs fill with so much air that you feel like you might float away. To have someone look at you like that, care about you like that, want you for more than what bare bones you’re offering to him, what everyone else wants you for, it makes you feel gigantic.

Like a hot air balloon, carried to far away lands by the flames of his affections.

And if they shut off, you’ll drop into oblivion. Breaking suddenly from the airy mechanics that keep you afloat, plunging at great speeds until you inevitably hit the earth with an almighty, painful splat.

You never did like falling.

“I want you.”

His face scrunches a little as he thinks - thinks a little too hard for someone who’s been pursuing you all summer - and before he can question it, you reach for the hem of your top, pulling it off until you’re left in just your lacy bra, your skirt riding up as your legs fall to either side of his hips.

It’s the most you’ve ever given him aside from being around him in your bikini and the one time you had changed and he hadn’t turned around quick enough, and before you can feel self conscious about it, you feel his eyes rake down the long expanse of your bare skin.

And the way he looks at you now makes you feel even bigger - a hunger in his eyes that tells you he could spend the rest of his time on earth working his way through every inch of you, savouring whatever parts of you that you’ll let him get a taste of, and he’ll never let you go.

“Please?” You’re already technically on your knees, what harm can begging do if it just makes him do something?

You don’t want to talk about it like you know he’s about to ask, don’t want to have to explain why you sought him out, why, for once, you didn’t care that people might see the two of you holding hands, you marching him to his bedroom and him following like exactly what Jack had said - a lovesick puppy.

You just want him. Want to feel bigger. Want to feel wanted. 

Want to give in to the part of you that has been dying to fold to him all summer, to let him close that gap, to break down the barriers you’ve been desperately guarding.

He cranes his neck to press a sweet kiss to your lips - one lacking the intensity from before, but not the adoration he always manages to pack in there - the kind that twists at your gut until you can’t take it anymore.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him again. “Give me something to hold onto when you’re gone.”

You figure if you use his own words against him - words uttered teasingly, but truthfully, earlier - he’ll give in.

The thought of losing this, of him leaving and finding something better, of distance being wedged between you for the first time all summer and finally giving him clarity, making him see you for what everyone else thinks you are.

Maybe if you give him what he really wants he’ll hold on a little longer.

It’s not like you don’t want it, too.

“You only had the one drink?” He asks, responding with fervour, the pressure of his kiss starting to build. “The one I got you?”

“Didn’t even finish it,” you kiss him again, “Stone cold sober,” and again, fingers trailing between you to work at the button on his jeans, “Want you now.”

“Yeah,” he lifts his hips and helps you pull his pants down, a clumsy shuffle to temporarily part while he wriggles them off, “Want you, too.” He mutters before leaning in to kiss at the corner of your mouth, “Wanted you for so long.”

There’s a voice inside that itches to tell him, I know, but it’s quickly shut up by another - a voice that’s louder, a voice you can’t ignore anymore when it comes to Luke.

A voice that tells you, you know nothing.

>PART THREE<

[gunsandspaceships]

MCU Timeline: Iron Man. Part 4 (May 2008, after Afghanistan)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

May 4:

10 am - Pepper helps Tony change the reactor.

~12:30 - Tony goes to Edwards Air Force Base to offer Rhodey the chance to become the armor test pilot. Having been refused to be heard, he decides to become the pilot himself.

May 5 - Tony begins the Mark II project.

May 14 - Board of Directors meeting in New York. Stane came back with pizza to inform that "they" are filing an injunction against Tony. Pepper brought the "Proof that Tony Stark has a Heart" reactor to Tony's lab along with a mug of coffee.

May 15 (Day 11 of "Mark II" project):

Morning/afternoon - after 36 tests, Tony has a successful 37th. However, he does not immediately go on a full test flight.

Evening - he puts together Mark II and goes for a full flight test in LA.

Night - Tony finally notices that poor coffee mug and Pepper's gift.

May 15/16 - photos of the Jericho and other SI weapons in the hands of the Ten Rings were taken. Which means that Obadiah supplied the terrorists with a new batch of weapons, including this missile system, sometime between April and May 15. Around this time, the Ten Rings attacked Gulmira.

May 16:

Before 22:09 - Tony rests from the test flight and his injuries, makes notes for suit upgrades, gives Jarvis instructions for Mark III.

Night (May 16-17), (2 weeks after the press conference) - 3rd Annual Charity Ball. Tony is there after 11:00 pm, May 16 (his watch shows 10:09 pm, add the time it takes him to get ready and change, plus the drive from his house to Disney Concert Hall takes about an hour, but this time he's driving, so the drive takes less time). Coulson is there and asks him for an appointment on May 24th. Tony spends some time with Pepper.

May 17:

~12 am - Christine Everhart informs Tony of a new arms shipment to terrorists from SI. Tony asks Stane about the under the table deals, and Stane tells him that he's behind the attempts to lock Tony out.

3 am - Mark III is ready. Tony returns from the Charity Ball, takes off his jacket and shirt, and while finishing his glove watches the report from Gulmira.

Evening/Night (~8 pm) - Tony gets into Mark III and flies to Afghanistan. It probably takes him about 3-4 hours to get there with his speed of about 2000 mph.

May 18:

~10:30 am (Afghanistan) - he attacks the Ten Rings in Gulmira, saves the villagers, and destroys the Jericho.

~11 am (Afghanistan)/11:30 pm (LA) - Air Force spots him in the no-fly zone and tries to shoot him down. Tony saves the pilot and escapes.

~6 am (LA) - Tony is back home. Pepper finds out about his adventures.

Marvel forgot about the time difference and forced Rhodes and Major Allen to work at night.

Afternoon/Evening - Rhodey gives a press conference about the "unfortunate training exercise involving F-22 Raptor". Stane watches this on tv.

May 19 - Stane in Afghanistan. He meets with Raza, takes Mark I and kills the terrorists. He orders SI engineers to begin work on the Iron Monger suit.

May 19-24 - Tony repairs his armor and recovers from his injuries. Stane and SI engineers build the Iron Monger suit.

May 24:

~4 pm - Tony sends Pepper to retrieve the shipping manifests from the SI mainframe.

~6 pm - Pepper at SI. She gets the data and learns that Stane was behind the assassination attempt on Tony. Stane finds out about this.

On the computer in Tony's office we see the time 13:46. But throughout the whole scene with Pepper it remains the same. It also doesn't make much sense if Coulson just sat there all day knowing his appointment at 7 pm. Thus I assume this time is incorrect.

7 pm - time of Coulson's appointment with Tony at SI. He and Pepper go to the S.H.I.E.L.D. office. Stane rushes to his engineers, demanding an update on the arc reactor. After receiving bad news, he decides to take it from Tony.

Coulson tried to catch Tony for a debriefing from May 2nd to May 16th, and then waited for his scheduled appointment on May 24. He wasn't hanging around there for 6 months (until October 24th), as stated in some timelines. It's simply ridiculous.

~9 pm - Pepper calls Tony from the S.H.I.E.L.D. office. Stane paralyzes Tony and pulls the reactor out of his chest, leaving him to die.

In 10-15 minutes - the paralysis begins to subside and Tony goes to get his first reactor. He barely makes it in time due to arrhythmia (but Dum-E saves him) and loses consciousness after inserting it.

~ 10 pm - Pepper calls Rhodey and he rushes to Tony's house.

~10:30-11 pm - back at SI Stane inserts Tony's reactor into his armor. Rhodes finds Tony unconscious in his lab.

~11:30 pm-12 am - The Battle with Iron Monger.

Remember that the time required to get from Malibu to the SI headquarters by car is approximately 1.5 hours, and from Malibu to Edwards AFB is almost 2 hours. Let's make allowance for the fact that Rhodey had to drive like crazy in Tony's Audi to get there ASAP, so it took him about an hour to get there.

May 25:

Afternoon - "I am Iron Man" press conference.

Evening/Night - Tony meets Fury, who broke into his house.

The Incredible Hulk (2008) Timeline

Iron Man 2 (2010) Timeline

Thor (2011) Timeline

Captain America: The First Avenger (2011) Timeline

The Avengers (2012) Timeline

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Polaroids & Promises

When your mother had first met your boyfriend, she had made two very astute observations: He was incredibly distinguished (read: much older than she’d expected) and he was definitely a heartbreaker. At the time she’d meant the latter as a testament to his devilishly good looks, but her statement had turned out to be true in a much more literal sense.

Letting out a sigh as you toed your shoes off by the front door, you settled your winter gear and house keys on their respective hooks before making your way to the kitchen. The contents of your fridge left much to be desired, a box of Chinese takeout and an unfinished bottle of wine sitting pretty on the second shelf, a sad cast of recurring characters in your post-breakup misery. Pointing at the Merlot, you declared, “I’ll be back for you soon.”

Although you wanted nothing more than to curl up with a trashy romance novel and the cheap wine, your career didn’t care how sad you were; work needed doing and therefore laundry needed washing. After shedding your work attire and scrubbing the day from your body with a hot shower, you carried the sizable buildup of clothes down the hall to the laundry room. You began sorting the delicates from your regular wash, pausing mid-squat at an unfamiliar shade of red peeking out from the bottom of the hamper. Tossing t-shirts and work pants aside, a traitorous prickle of hot tears momentarily blurred the stark white USMC before you. Releasing a ragged breath, you pulled the hoodie to your face and inhaled deeply, the fabric muffling your sob as the smell that you had come to think of as home overwhelmed your senses. Seven months of memories played in your head in the span of mere seconds, quiet nights on the couch, steaks cooked by the fire, the scraping of a sander against wood.

You missed Jethro more than words could describe. You missed his warmth, his touch, his teasing remarks. You missed visiting him at work, and sharing entire conversations with Tony consisting only of movie quotes, and nerding out with Tim over the latest Game of Thrones episode, and bonding with Ziva over a few hours at the range, and going to concerts with Abby, and trading interesting cases with Jimmy. You missed insightful talks with Ducky about life and opera and the enigma that is his friend and your lover. You missed the sight of matching keys on the hook next to yours and work boots in the hallway. You missed trading sections of the paper over morning coffee. You missed the quiet protest of the bed when he slipped in beside you well past midnight.

You missed having someone to come home to.

Swiping at your eyes, you abandoned the task at hand in lieu of moping in your bedroom, but first doubling back to enlist the company of your trusty red. You settled down on the floor at the foot of your bed and eased the cork out of the mouth of the bottle, taking a hearty swig as you pulled your wooden memory box into your lap. Running your fingers over the intricate pattern on top, you recalled the day Jethro had gifted you the handcrafted piece for all of those pictures you force me to be in, he had admitted with a begrudging smile. You took out the stack of Polaroids, spreading them out on the floor before you as you gulped down another mouthful of wine. Although the dates were printed at the bottom of each photo, you could easily track the progression of your relationship by the way Jethro’s visage grew less grumpy and more smiley over time. A teardrop splattered across the shiny surface of one of your pictures, and you were quick to wipe it off without smudging the writing on the bottom. You finished off the last dregs of red wine and with it, your crumbling resolve, and you dialed ten digits on your cellphone purely via muscle memory.

Jethro’s voice in your ear made your heart twinge, even if it was just to tell you to leave a message. Taking in a shuddering breath, you opened with a brilliant, “Hey, it’s me.” Cringing, you soldiered on. “You’re probably still at work, because that’s- that’s what you do, isn’t it? Work yourself to the bone, people who care about you be damned. Sorry,” you sighed, immediately reneging on the snarky comment. “That’s not fair of me to say. I admire you and the work you do, you know that, right? It’s just that, well, Ducky had warned me this would happen, that you have a hard time separating yourself from the job. I guess I thought I could stop it or delay it or something, but I couldn’t. And now it’s-” You paused to squint at the digital clock on your nightstand. “-a quarter after ten on a Wednesday night, and I’m wine drunk, and I miss you so much that I called just to hear your voice on a goddamn answering machine. I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days? Christ, this is fucking pathetic. Maybe I should get a cat or some-” The phone beeped at you, indicating that you’d reached the time limit on the machine. Dropping your head into your hands, you groaned out, “Oh my god.”

You heaved a sigh, then delicately returned your treasured memories to their keepsake box before replacing it on the desk. Deciding that the crisp winter air would do you good, you slipped into your coat and boots, locked up, and headed outside for a late night walk.

_______

“I mean, c’mon, Jet, who still has a landline these days?” Jethro chuckled softly at the incredulity in your tone, tuning back in to your message just as it got cut off. He poured himself another splash of bourbon, then downed it in one go, finger already itching to replay the rambling message for the third time in as many minutes just to bask in the sound of your voice for a few more precious moments. He heard the stairs creak and emptied out a mug of miscellaneous screws and fasteners under the assumption that Tobias was joining him to discuss their progress on the case. Instead, the voice he was so desperately craving to hear floated downstairs to him.

“You really should lock your doors. Never know what sort of unsavory character could wander in off the street.”

Turning to face you as you reached the bottom step, he rumbled out, “So that’s where my favorite hoodie’s been hiding.” There was a distinct edge to his voice as he silently took in your bleary eyes and slightly disheveled appearance.

“I took a cab,” you said softly, immediately recognizing the heat in his glare as concern at the thought of you driving in your current state. “Can I come in?”

“You’re already in,” he responded, not quite curt, but not exactly warm either. Still, he hooked his ankle around the stool beside him and pulled it out, simultaneously pouring two fingers of his signature bourbon into the awaiting mug on the workbench. You took that as an invitation to join him, closing the remainder of the space between you and accepting the amber liquid as you perched on the seat. Gathering your courage, you took a sip and offered, “I missed this gasoline with a side of tetanus.”

“I missed your unparalleled wit,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth lifting with mirth.

“Hey, so, random question,” you forced out through a laugh, “have you checked your messages yet today? Just wondering cause I-” Your words caught in your throat when Jethro suddenly framed your face with his hand, the familiar ridges of his callouses pressing against your skin as he molded his mouth to yours. He pulled back just as abruptly, eyes wide with the realization of the wounds he had reopened and muttered, “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” you whispered, entwining your fingers with his on the workbench. Not yet able to meet his gaze, you clarified, “Don’t apologize. Not for that, at least.”

“Y/N-”

“No, actually, you know what?” You finally dared to look up at him, taking in the scruff dotting his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his lower lids that no doubt mirrored your own. Hot tears brimmed at your water line as you continued with a ferocity, “You don’t get to turn those pretty blue eyes on me and kiss me and make me forget about the terrible month I’ve had without you. I’m so mad at you. So mad.” You punctuated this thought with a sharp prod to his firm chest. “I wanted you to fight for me. For us. But no! You decided the best course of action was inaction, and I had to be the bad guy. And you know what the worst fucking part about all this is?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head before pulling you into his arms. You melted into his embrace, all of the fight draining out of you as you confessed, “I’m not really mad at you. I’m mad at myself for being so naive.”

“Oh, my love,” he breathed out, squeezing you tight until your tears subsided. “You deserve so much better.”

Pulling back so you could look into his shiny eyes, you huffed, “That’s just it, you idiot. I want you to be better.” Lifting your joined hands to your lips, you pressed kisses to his knuckles before whispering, “I need you to choose me, just like I choose you every day. I want to build a life with you, to grow old with you-”

“One of us is already old,” he cut in with a cheeky grin, forcing a laugh out of you.

“Fine,” you amended, “I want to grow older with you, grumpy.”

“I want that, too,” he confessed quietly, the intensity in his eyes stealing your breath away. “The thing is, angel, I did choose you. I just thought you would be better off without me, and that if you left you’d be angry instead of hurt.”

“You- what?” you spluttered. “I should smack you upside the head for that, you stupid, infuriating man. What kind of dumb reverse psychology is that, Jethro? I just thought you would be better off without me,” you mimicked in a deep voice. Jabbing your finger into his chest again, you repeated, “Stupid.”

Grabbing your outraged finger as leverage, he pulled you closer and pressed his lips against yours once more, hands coming up to cup your cheeks and thumbs rubbing soothingly against your skin until your righteous anger boiled down to a controlled simmer. You let out a sigh as his mouth left yours, then beckoned him forward again. “One more.” He placed a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Another.” This time, the opposite side. “Keep ‘em coming.” He chuckled warmly before dotting gentle kisses all over your face until you graced him with a smile.

“Honey, listen,” Jethro said, growing serious as he guided you back down to sit across from him but keeping a firm grip on your hand, “I know I went about this in entirely the wrong way, and I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life making up for it.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” you grumbled playfully, squeezing his hand.

“And you know I’m not big on moon phases and star signs and all that-”

“We’ll work on it.”

Fixing you with a look and tweaking your nose affectionately, he continued, “But I’m pretty sure most people don’t get lucky enough to find two soulmates in one lifetime. Shannon would never let me hear the end of it if I let you get away again.”

“Oh, Jet,” you sighed, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. “The day I realized I was in love with you, I made your girls a promise that I would take care of you. Help me keep that promise, okay?”

“I will,” he whispered, two simple words, a solemn pledge. “Now let’s go upstairs so you can tell me what I’ve missed and call me stupid a bunch more times.”

“Deal,” you laughed, taking his hand so he could help you up. “Can I just check the answering machine real quick before we-”

“Nope,” Jethro cut you off, pulling you into his side and squeezing your hip as you ascended the stairs together. “I’m keeping that message forever. Maybe even quote it in my vows one day.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Can you do a euronymous x guitarist reader where she is in slipknot and mayhem keeps playing the same gigs and euronymous sees her playing and falls in love

Guitar and Bands

Warning : falling/being in love, kinda fluff

Info : So here its is for you @iminlovewithmycarrrr hope you like it and I hope I did Slipknot some justice since I did not listen to them. Everyone have fun reading ;)

masterlist , rory culkins - masterlist

Disclaimer : I don't want to glorify anything, it's about the actors who play a role, not the real events.

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

He knew the band, he knew every single damn one of the members, knew their names, where they were born, old hell even what they all ate and drank.

He admired the band that had only existed a few years longer than they had, but was just as well known. The masks were what fascinated them all, especially the band's founder. They could have been the riders of the apocalypse.

As if this evil force had come out of the dark, putrid depths of hell. But the biggest mystery of all was the mysterious guitar player with the cat-like mask as if they had taken a werecat and put the skin off her mask and given her power like Satan himself.

She was incredible he listened to every gig on radio and TV with his band even the beginnings of the internet helped the band find some tours for the band and get tickets.

The reason why his fingers, no, his whole body, was tingling, his heart was beating faster. He wanted to finally see her under the mask and see who she really was. She was a beast on stage a figure of the devil along with the band that was different in a different way than Mayhem.

His band was dark, satanic, boundary testing, offensive and wanted to blow up. Their band, on the other hand, seemed to be doing their own thing, living a life without rules, doing what they wanted to do and not trying to build a new Satanic power.

He drove faster to the concert hall, it was his biggest concert, but only as an opening act for Slipknot. ,,If you drive like that anymore you'll kill us" Necrobutcher mekcertge behind him and held the instruments and requisitions with Hellhammer and fist.

While the blond of the band took care of the dead animals and things, he did not take part in the conversation. ,,If I don't drive like this, we'll be late... besides, I have to see the band," Euronymous nagged back and pressed the clutch to drive even faster.

They were already late anyway, the party they had because of the gig had escalated a little too much and they all had to sip a few cups of coffee and throw painkillers to get out of the house and into the car.

But they still managed to get a place in the parking lot of an endless labyrinth. Sprinting into the hall with their instruments, they pushed past the masses of people and he could just see her with the guitar in her hand and, as always, the mask on her face. ,,Get everything ready, I'll have a look around!" he called out to Hellhammer and quickly threw his guitar to him, who almost collapsed and cursed at his friend.

But it didn't matter, he was there to see them play, he almost got lost in the masses of security men and technicians, but he saw the band was on stage, all that was left was for the fog to clear. Listening to the crowds of fans, he felt his fingers itching to play with her.

The way she played the guitar with such confidence, it was something that drew him in, she drew him in. ,,Amazing" came from his lips as the band gave it their all, playing one song after another until what he hadn't thought possible happened.

She took off her mask, threw the cat mask into the crowd and seemed to have been made better by all the music gods. Gods of music.

Her playing trumped her beauty a goddess of music and the determined look in her eyes as she shuffled through the crowd and suddenly looked at him.

His heart pierced and winked at him, he knew he had lost himself, that he was itching to play guitar with her, kiss her and be with her in a wave of music.

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

[rougeaerie]

Outfit Rundown: JSK, Headdress: Atelier Pierrot Blouse: Random Taobao Shop That's Gone I Can't Remember Now AAAAAA Jacket: 69th Department Jewellery and Accessories: Mill Foundry, Omnia Oddities, Bloodmilk, Fire & Bone, Atelier Crow/Lillith House, Maine & Mara, Marchen Maiden Shoes: Windsor-Smith

Went to see Tubular Bells at the State Theatre tonight and got dressed up for the occasion! I wanted to wear my Atelier Pierrot heels, but realised we'd probably be walking a lot, and decided against it. I think I made the right choice, we walked over 12k steps while in the city, including a trek from Town Hall down to Circular Quay after the concert to get pancakes and coffee.

It was a really lovely evening.

[cazzyf1]

Some of my favourite quotes from David Benson's 'Hunt v Lauda'

'He was nursing a toy yellow-eyed gorilla which made alarming noises and clapped a pair of cymbals attached to its hand.

"Whats with the gorilla?"

James looked tired. "It's called smiler. Alistair and Teddy gave it to me to celebrate my championship."

Teddy smiled benignly: "The gorilla was not very popular in first-class lounge I'm afraid."

"No," said James, "and they wouldn't let me blow my whistle either." He produced a police whistle and blew it.' - p7

"When we boarded the plane, he (James Hunt) insisted on joining mechanics in touring class until the lights were turned down for passengers to sleep." - p8

"Niki had always wanted to marry Mariella but she had refused to do so until he had become world champion." - p21

"The unsuspecting young actress Marlene Knaus was going to endure a trial that few women, even with a tremendously experienced and well-founded background, could have endured." - p21

"I telephoned James Hunt in Johannesburg where he is preparing for the South African Grand Prix. He told me, "I have been in daily contact with Susy and am fully informed about what is going on. I wouldn't stop her getting a divorce. I am trying to help her as much as I can so that she makes the right decisions. Obviously if she wanted to come back to me, I would help her do that." - p40

"I walked out of the dinning-room to an annexe alongside it, and sitting in the corner with a lady I didn't know was Niki Lauda; he smiled and asked a Carol and me to join him for a cup of coffee. He introduced the girl alongside him very simply, "This is my lady," She was, of course, Marlene Knaus, a very beautiful girl, with her hair in a rather severe style, brushed back, and a bun on the top of her head. We had a long chat about seat belts - both were empathetically in favour (that evening the house of commons in the UK were debating on making seatbelts in cars compulsory) - but the important thing was that I established a friendly relationship with Marlene when other people on the racing circuit cold-shouldered her, thinking she was merely some local pick-up. In fact, she and Niki were planning to get married as soon as they flew back from South Africa." - p44

"The main topic of conversation was the break-up of the long relationship between Niki Lauda and Mariella. Helen (Stewart) offered, with the best possible intentions, to get in touch with both Mariella and Niki is necessary to heal the breach. Having seen how close Niki and Marlene were in South Africa, I doubted if this were possible. As it turned out, a day after we had our discussion in Nina's home, Niki went quietly to a register office near Vienna and married Marlene." - p47

"He tried awfully hard not to hurt me." - (Susy about James) - p58

"James was standing right alongside me. Tears welling in his eyes. "It's stupid," he said, "It does not affect the performance of the car or make it any faster. Not even the Ferrari team protested and they were the ones who have the most to win..." - p62

"It was in triumph, therefore, that Hunt, six weeks before his 29th birthday, left for Britain in preparation for the John Player Grand Prix at Brands Hatch. With good humour and in high spirits, he took part in an event before the race and revealed another facet in his talents. It was at the Albert Hall at the Grand Prix Night of the Stars, a concert in aid of the Graham Hill Memorial Fund. The hall was packed with evening-suited celebrities who had paid up to £500 for a private box. Hunt was introduced by astronomer Patrick Moore who had just done a soft-shoe shuffle. Suddenly, Moore reached for a trumpet left behind on the bandstand by Chris Barber, who had done an earlier turn. "You're supposed to be good at blowing your own trumpet," he said, "so try this one." The audience dutifully laughed expecting a knockabout comedy turn. But Hunt took the trumpet, the studio band started to play and Hunt's clear, clean notes echoed through the vast auditorium. It was a memorable moment. When the audience realised that Hunt was playing for real, they roared their approval and then sat in silence as James plaved like a professional. Hunt's brother, Peter told me later: "I had a hell of a job convincing the BBC, who were recording the show, that James really was a good enough trumpet player to perform on TV. He learned to play at about 12 or 13 when he was at Wellington. He was in the school orchestra and the school band and played solo at concerts. Stuart Turner, Public Affairs Director of Ford of Britain, had a box at the Albert Hall. He turned to me after Hunt had finished his solo and said: "Now I have seen everything: James Hunt playing the trumpet at the Albert Hall we'll have Niki Lauda doing a comedy act next." - p73-4

"Niki himself, having almost killed himself in a first-lap accident there in 1974, has always campaigned against the Nurenburgring. He argued that the 1976 German Grand Prix should be switched to the Hockenheim Ring, a purpose-built circuit with outstanding safety facilities installed after the death there of Jim Clark in 1968. But Lauda was reviled by the Germans for his attempt. In practise at Nürburgring spectators displayed a huge poster of Lauda and his car. Across it was written, 'Lauda 20 kilometres per hour. Aus.' Ring bystanders are hard on anyone threatening the thrill of the race." - p80

"Sunday's race day was altogether depressing from the start. The young American driver Brett Lunger had heard the night before that his father had died unexpectedly in the United States and Brett decided to stay and go on with the race before returning home. It was to be a vital decision in the saving of Niki Lauda's life." - p81

"Jackie had a remarkable story to tell that Niki's agents had telephoned him soon after the crash and asked him to appear at a promotion for a new line of jeans which were being marketed in Niki's name. Jackie refused, saying he would only appear with Niki's permission. Niki was telephoned and they were told that he was determined to be there himself." - p86-7

"What would the situation be if Niki was fit to drive and Ferrari still wouldn't come to the track?" I asked Alastair, without hesitation he replied: "We will lend him a car so he and James can fight it out." - p89

"Then Niki arrived in his Jaguar with Marlene and Willi Dungl, his masseur/confidant, the man responsible for building Niki up physically in preparation for the race. There was a last-minute panic when it was discovered that Dungl had left his passport back at the house but he had an identity card and Niki knew that with Ferrari influence we would have no trouble getting Willi into Italy. Niki insisted on carrying out all the check-out procedures himself and we made a beautiful take off from Salzburg Airport." - p95

"At one point I was asked if I wanted to see a priest. So I said: "OK." He came in, and gave me my last rites - crossed my shoulder - and said "Goodbye My friend". I nearly had a heart attack! I wanted someone to help me live in this world, and not pass into the next." - p98

"I was watching his wife Marlene's eyes as she protectively, solicitously, studied her husband. She seemed almost proud of his scarred features." - p101

"A beautiful elegant grey/green-eyed young woman by the name of Marlene Knaus enjoyed life of a promising screen actress and model. A member of one of the most respected families in Austria she fitted easily into the jet set world of show business. She moved easily too in the rarefield world of medicine in which her grandfather was a renowned gynaecologist and in the artistic circles into which she was born as the daughter of a famous painter." - p101

"I used to smoke maybe one or two cigarettes a day, but from the time of the accident I have become a chain smoker. I know that this is not good for my health but it helps me through the crisis." Niki does not smoke and he says that this fact helped him recover from his lung injuries, but he does not reprove Marlene for smoking." - p102

"Marlene is a delightfully warm person. Her handshake is firm. Her eyes are steady and constant. They are the eyes of a woman who could inspire a man to great things, and she likes to touch the person that she is talking to. She looks at her husbands scarred face and gently strokes it." - p103

"Hunt, who had trotted through the driving rain along the length of the pits to salute the supreme courage of his world title rival Niki Lauda." - p104

"I just wish there bad been no accident, no disqualifications, no aggrevation, and Niki and I were fighting it out fair and square on the track. After what Niki has achieved, he deserves that at least. What Ferrari have done is to devalue the world championship and to cloud Niki's brave recovery. His recovery is absolutely amazing and he really is fit again." - p125

"His wife Marlene was happy with his decision. She had said earlier; "When he got into the car and drove away, I wanted to throw myself in front of it and stop him." - p140

"All Hunt knew was that he had to pass everything in sight. It took him two laps to catch and pass Alan Jones in the Surtees. Now he was fourth. Almost on the same bend he came upon Regazzoni in the Ferrari. Would the Swiss Italian let him through or hold him back? Ostentatiously Rega moved over and waved Hunt through ar a point where the Ferrari pit could clearly see his manoeuvre. As Rega passed his pit he gave them the two finger sign to show his disapproval that he had been dropped from the team for 1977." - p142

[kidstemplatte]

one step more

summary: terzo catches his daughter sneaking out of the house.

it is stated that violetta has a mother (presumably reader). more notes at the end. i hope you enjoy <3

“One step at a time, Violetta.” The drunken teenage girl thought to herself, walking down the dark hallway to your section of the abbey. The hall had never felt this long before. Sure, she complained like a bitch every time she left something in the commons after just getting comfortable in bed, having to walk through the lengthy corridor in her pajamas to retrieve it, but it was never this bad. With every step she took, it seemed as if the corridor seemed to stretch just one step more.

She inched down the hall, her jet-black hair dirty and tangled, the makeup she spent hours perfecting beginning to melt away, her platform boots in hand. Those stupid fucking boots. So cute but so damn inconvenient. She almost bust her face open twice on the walk home, drunkenly stumbling on the sidewalk before taking them off. She knew it was stupid, sneaking out to go to concerts and parties instead of studying or spending time with her family. But recently, she hadn’t been feeling like herself. She couldn’t explain it, she just felt… off. And if taking a few too many shots and jumping around to the sound of ear-splitting screams with a bunch of strangers let her forget about it for a moment, she was willing to do so.

She blinked, and she made it to the entrance. A large black door containing elaborate engravings around the frame and the name “Emeritus” carved on the top stood before her. Slowly and carefully, she turned the door knob and pushed gently. Damn it, this door was old and creaky. If anyone asked what the noise was about in the morning, she would just say she left her headphones in the commons, which was a common occurrence. She opened her phone to check the time. 1:56 am.

She tiptoed her way in, turned around, shut the door slowly until she heard the satisfying click, and let go. Setting her boots down by the door, she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh of relief.

Phew.

“How was the party, Violetta?”

And as she lifted her gaze from the floor, there sat her father, Terzo, in the large recliner by the fire, swirling a glass of wine in his hand.

Shit.

Violetta stood by the door dumbfounded , painted lips agape yet not able to produce any words.

“And the one before that?”

The silence was deafening. The only thing audible was the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock, typically gone unnoticed during the day.

“And the one before that?” he continued.

He took an extended sip from the glass, pretending to wait for a response, knowing damn well he wasn’t going to get one.

“There was even one on a Tuesday. Who goes to the club on a Tuesday?” he remarked.

Like this man hadn’t been to the club on a Tuesday.

“I’m sorry.” was all she managed to get out, staring at a singular spot on the carpet rather than into his eyes, trying to maintain her balance.

“Sit.” He said, gesturing to the couch across from him.

Violetta dragged herself over to the couch, putting a concerning amount of thought into each step. While she sat down, Terzo placed the glass onto the coffee table as she attempted not to look at it. She’d rather stare into her father’s disappointed eyes than look at any kind of alcohol right now. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn.

“Are you drunk?” Terzo asked, leaning forward, his tone eerily indistinguishable.

“Uh…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

There was no point in trying to hide it.

“Violetta…” her father said, rubbing his face with his hands.

He then started rambling, going off on what was presumably some sort of lecture about sneaking out. But as he kept talking, he kept getting quieter, and everything else got louder. A sickly feeling in her stomach began to grow, and a dull ache in her head was becoming more and more noticeable.

“Give me one moment.” Terzo said, standing up and exiting the room.

Fuck, he was gonna tell Mom.

Violetta shut her eyes, focusing on her breathing as the fatigue grew by the second with each tick of the clock. Her body was heating up, a tingling feeling spreading throughout her body. She was so embarrassed, caught by her dad while she was shitfaced out of her mind. She wanted to go to bed and wake up and feel better, and pretend this was all a bad dream.

When she opened her eyes, she was not faced with her mother, rather than her father, kneeling in front of her, wiping off the smudged black and white paint on her face. She really was her father’s daughter.

Terzo looked down at his daughter’s face, his heart growing with each swipe of the makeup wipe, as more and more of her was revealed. It had been so long since he’d seen her. His daughter. After he was done taking off her makeup, he tossed the wipe on the table.

The walls were spinning. Her stomach was churning. Her head was pounding.

“I think I’m gonna-“

Terzo quickly grabbed a large plastic bowl he had set on the table, previously gone unnoticed, and handed it to his daughter.

Just as the discomfort reached its climax, she retched into the bowl, emptying the contents of her stomach. When she was finally done, she set the bowl on the side of the table.

Much better.

“Better?” Terzo asked, sitting beside Violetta on the couch.

“Yeah.” She said, shooting him a weary thumbs up. Her headache was fading away, her stomach settled, and her body began to cool down.

“Good.” he replied.

And just moments after she felt the relief from the physical pain, another pain started to settle in: emotional pain. She didn’t know why it happened. It just did. Her chest started to ache, her throat tightened up, and her vision started to blur with tears.

“Are you mad at me?” she squeaked timidly, voice cracking.

“No.” he replied.

“You promise?”

“I promise.” he confirmed with a brief nod.

“Being a parent is weird, even after all this time. Of course when I see you leaving the house and partying I at first want to get upset. You know, I did the same things when I was your age. Worse. I was a party animal. Maybe ‘was’ is not the proper word. But I settled down after we had you. But nobody ever talked to me about it. I was scolded before I even understood the consequences of what I was doing. So I want to ask, how are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” she replied, somewhat honestly.

The tears welling up finally escaped her eyes, uncontrollably streaming down her face as she let out soft gasps and hiccups.

“Oh, la mia stellina, do not cry… It’s okay.” He reassured her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly.

It had been so long since they had hugged like this, since they had had a moment, just the two of them together. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long to check in on you.” He said as the two pulled away from their embrace.

“No, it’s okay, I’m sorry I’ve been sneaking out.” Violetta apologized, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Maybe we are both sorry. That’s okay.” He reassured her.

“Yeah.” She sniffed.

“I mean, honestly, it’s not all because I’m feeling weird. Going out is… fun.” She admitted.

“Trust me, I know. You are a teenager. You will go out and do teenage things. I cannot stop that. You are growing up. But I also want to make sure you’re being safe. That is my greatest concern. No taking anything from strangers, no walking alone at night, you know. You know this. You are smart, Violetta. That is why this is worrying me that something else is going on.”

“I’ve just been feeling weird. Different. I don’t know if depressed is the right word-“

“You have not been thinking of hurting yourself, have you?” Terzo interrupted, his facial expression morphing into one of panic as he collected both her hands in his.

“No.” she replied.

“You promise?” He said, voice dropping into a low whisper.

“Yes.”

“You promise me?”

“Yes, Papa. I promise.” she reiterated, looking into his eyes.

Papa.

He missed that word.

“Okay.”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really feel like myself. Just different. Like I’m watching my life go by and I’m just… inside my body.” she explained.

“Violetta, you can tell me these things. I am always here for you. I want to be a part of your life. I have no idea what an ideal father looks like. But I try my hardest to be one. I miss talking to you. The longest conversations we have are when we’re arguing. I do not want it to be this way. But that is how it has become.”

A looming silence spread throughout the room, leaving nothing but the faint sound of ticking until Terzo let in a shaky breath.

“Tell me, Violetta, what can I do to change this?”

And in a newly adopted, weaker tone, Terzo muttered,

“What can I do to be a part of your life again?”

“You will always be a part of my life, Papa. Even if you aren’t always with me. You don’t have to do anything else. This is all I needed. A reminder.” She reassured him.

“I will always do more. Take the extra mile. Even just one step more. Always for you.” Terzo professed.

“Thank you, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too, Violetta. La mia stellina.” He said, pulling her in and holding her tightly.

“Tomorrow we can go for a car ride and listen to music, like we used to? Sound good?” he asked as the two pulled away from each other.

“Only if you let me have the aux.”

“An ox? That’s an odd pet, no?”

“No, Papa, like the- the aux cord.” She explained through laughter, mimicking plugging in the cord.

“Oh. I see. Sure, you can have the aux.” Terzo laughed, waving his hand.

“Oh, and now that we’re being open with each other, can you please tell me about the time you showed up drunk to mass and started freestyle rapping?”

“The time I- how?”

“Mom told me about it.”

Per l’amor del cielo.

☪︎ ִ ࣪𖤐 𐦍 ☾𖤓

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!

this one was so fun and challenging to write but so worth it!!! i’m obsessed with their relationship. 😭

i really hope you enjoyed!!

more violetta content is coming soon!! and maybe another child as well 🤭

❤️, alice

[dingoat]

Peeking inside Ahuska's bedside table drawer, “junk” drawer, five most recent in google search history, amazon shopping cart. Five's amazon shopping cart, google search history, phone home screen, pockets. Crow's calendar for this month, google search history, frequently used emojis, “secret” hiding spot.

Ok so, when Ahuska was actually able to live in a house for a little while, she might have had a bedside table and the drawer might have been home to a few little items. A smooth, round, blue-ish river stone. A pressed snowdrop with a bent stem. An old snapped collar. Another stone, much smaller, beautifully polished and glowing a subtle sky blue with gold veins- but wrapped up tightly in a scarf, layer upon layer, never to be touched. If the room she's currently, technically boarding in has a bedside table it would be empty.

Junk drawer, again, is something she doesn't currently have; she travels so light, she's picked up and relocated enough times, that there's just not a lot of space for 'junk' in her life. Perhaps when she returns to Tython from her current sojourn there's a handful of things she might stash away in a place she doesn't really want anyone to go rummaging, though...

Her amazon shopping cart (you mean her Zeltros Direct most recent purchases, right?), though, definitely saw very good use recently. There's a few sets of earrings. Hair care products. Some assorted body lotions suited for various species. A type of flour that is really hard to get outside of Rishi. A spectacularly expensive pair of gloves. At least ten different blocks of artisan chocolate. Instant coffee. Coffee beans. A grinder. A percolator. The list goes on.

And her HoloNet search history? Hmmm, she was probably most recently idly browsing when she was feeling very down and spiralling through contingency plans, so something like: - ilum map - ilum spaceport market open times - drugs to make you drowsy - muzzle anooba fenwolf strong - large animal holding cage transport crate xtra strong

Five's recent HoloNet search history, by contrast, would be something more like: - ptsd criteria imperial space vs republic space - thundershirt calming vest reviews - highbridge rumours - kaas city concert hall currently showing - history of nonhuman citizenship rights sith empire

His Kaas Plus shopping cart has an overwhelmingly large list of items in it, many of which will sit there indefinitely while he makes up his mind, waits for sales, or just to remind himself that he was interested in a particular item. There's clothing; a huge amount of clothing, and certainly not all for him. Lots of suits and elegant jackets and embroidered vests. Endless accessories; rings and ties and cufflinks and tie bars and pocket squares. Perhaps a very small handful of very select spices of brands that he trusts, though generally he prefers to select any sort of food or ingredients personally by hand. Kitchen equipment, though... knives, for sure. So many knives, made from metals and alloys from all across the galaxy, multiple versions of every possible style. A couple of hunting rifles, more like bookmarks for items he wants to hold in his hands and test out before making any sort of commitment to. Should I go on?

His personal comm home screen currently has a monochrome photo from the night he and Thirteen were wed; a closeup of his hands clasping Thirteen's. (Usually it would be a hawkbat photo, or some stupid selfie Thirteen took while briefly 'borrowing' the comm.)

Inside Five's pockets you'd find his wallet, his comm, and probably some sort of security device that lets him remotely lock, unlock and view various things he owns. For some outings, there might be a little bag of Hawkbat Snacks; for others, he might have a stack of any number of business cards on hand. And sometimes some 'loose change', ie credit chips valued at tens, hundreds or thousands of credits. Just casually.

Crow's calendar for the month is probably currently filled with a rather intensive new training regime that has been very specifically designed to give him as little downtime as possible. I don't think he's coping well with being micromanaged to this degree, but he's gritting his teeth and forcing himself to believe it's only temporary. Everything's going to go back to normal before long.

His HoloNet search history is wiped clean and untraceable. He has zero trust in his current supervisor and is confident she has even less respect for privacy than Five ever did.

His list of frequently used emojis might be something like:

And in his 'secret hiding spot', no doubt somewhere stashed in Five's stupidly giant manor house, there's a curious little collection. A fox mask and a lock of pale hair wrapped in a monogrammed silk handkerchief; he's not even really sure why he hangs onto them, but can't seem to bear the idea of getting rid of them. A couple of sheets of flimsi, tattered and torn, recovered from the grounds of the estate, with his sketched out plans for a small set of cybernetic wing enhancements.

And a pair of blasters. His old favourites, that he now can't bring himself to touch, after a rogue Sith forced him to turn them on himself, all while wearing a smile and telling Thirteen that everything was just fine.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

Falling In Love (3) Masterlist

part one, part two

Advent Calendar 2021 (ao3) - Phantje

Summary: Phil lives and works in a town in the North called Lylchester. Well, 'works'. He does charitable things in the name of being nice and his (adoptive) parents. Things are fine. Yeah. Fine. Meeting Dan who has strong opinions about peculiar things shakes up Phil's life and he is falling before he can help it.

Dan lives and works somewhere, or anywhere really. By fate, or call it the British Railway train running times, he ends up in Lylchester. Before he can help himself, he has made the first real best friend he has ever had - Beatrix. And suddenly, life does not seem so difficult anymore. Dan appreciates the work he can do, even if it has him interact with the rich idiot Phil more often that he would personally choose.

All My Friends Are Falling In Love (ao3) - expiredlove

Summary: All Phil's friends are falling in love and he just can't seem to understand what exactly the feeling that they are talking about is, until he experiences it himself.

Set in 2009.

baby just take the chance to love me (ao3) - gotnobodytolove

Summary: falling in love with your best friend isn’t easy.

Carpets, Pokemon and hugs (These are a few of my favorite things) (ao3) - DownDownFangirl

Summary: "Is everything ok?" The tall guy stops. The elevator starts to close. The guy reaches for the door and it opens again. He looks into Phil's eyes and it’s strong and focused and confusing.

-

Phil works at a motel and Dan is a guest who comes and goes. There are many thoughts to think and many delicate conversations to have... And it can get confusing, especially when you live hundreds of kilometers away from each other.

Deceit and Devotion (ao3) - Thatonefunhun

Summary: Phil Lester has it all. A successful career doing what he loves, a “bestie” who's always got his back, and a can-do attitude! He’s living the life! But what goes on beyond the camera? And is everything as it seems…

Electronics and the Phil’s that break them (ao3) - Fictropes

Summary: The first time’s an accident, a proper accident— a Phil forgot how to hold his cup and now he’s watching his coffee seep into his keyboard type accident.

Golden Boy (ao3) - hygge

Summary: Phil takes a drawing class in university and needs a subject for his drawing final.

good night bear (ao3) - loveforlester

Summary: “good night bear i love you”

dan howell loves phil lester. phil lester loves dan howell. you know the story two soulmates who met on the internet. just something is different.

dan can’t sleep without watching phil’s videos. oh and phil stopped filming videos

home renovations (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Phil is a new homeowner with a knack for getting himself into awkward situations around cute guys. Dan is a builder who's always working on renovations around Phil's house. What could go wrong?

(An alternate meeting YouTuber Phil/builder Dan AU.)

How Far We’ve Come (ao3) - angelszn (artbabe)

Summary: Phil asks Dan to move in with him.

i will never know a sunday (how slow the moments go) (ao3) - beaniebopbaby

Summary: Phil was mesmerized. He had no idea how anyone in the room was talking. How could they not listen to this beautiful piece?

Phil continued to sit, listening, overcome by the joy of the music - a smile plastered on his face. He did not realize when the others began to leave. If anyone walked by him, he did not see. But soon, he was the only one left in the concert hall. He had no idea how long he sat there and listened.

Somewhere midway through the piece, the notes began to change. The pianist began slowing his notes, and their progressions were no longer full of joy. The song became sad, melancholy. It took Phil’s breath away. He felt cold all of a sudden, like the pianist was further away somehow isolated.

The man hunched over the piano, and Phil felt like he couldn’t breath. He looked around the room, to see if anyone else noticed this shift, when he finally realized they were alone. The notes grew slower and slower as Phil stood, drifting closer to the man playing the piano. The pianist looked as mesmerized as Phil, absorbed in his playing.

Learning Curves (ao3) - winstonlives

Summary: Dan, a youtuber, sees an old A levels teacher in a gay bar years after he left school. That same teacher is Phil Lester, the hunkiest teach Dan ever did see. He makes a plan to subtly bump into him and reintroduce himself as a successful adult. While the reintroduction doesn’t go quite as planned, the two end up in bed together, much to Dan’s delight. Phil on the other hand has some reservations about the whole thing, throwing a wrench into Dan’s lustful plans.

names of collision in the dark (ao3) - Anonymous

Summary: Of enemy kingdoms, Prince Dan and Prince Phil meet one fateful night, leading to a surprising friendship that evolves into something more. As the looming threat of a major battle grows stronger, both princes grapple with their roles and the burdens of leadership, all while their growing bond forces them to confront their own kingdoms’ expectations and the possibility of peace in the chaos.

(aka the dan and phil royal au fic they wrote for the gaming channel but taken seriously)

nine years of love (ao3) - natigail

Summary: There are a hundred ways to say I love you and a dozen of word for love. It might not even require words. Actions can speak louder than words, so every little touch, every shared glance, every joyful laugh, every tear shed and every seemingly normal moment.

It should be the most fun you’ve ever had and for two boys it had been exactly that. Nine years of love. Shared struggles and successes. They had shared ten 19th of October in each other’s company with no sight of stopping yet.

Phan Funeral Meet-Cute (ao3) - bogdaddy_owns_my_ass

Summary: Dan Howell meets a tall, mysterious man at the funeral of a dear friend of his who had died under mysterious circumstances. What Dan doesn't know is that this man is who he is destined to be with for all eternity.

Purposeful Permanence (ao3) - artbabe

Summary: Dan hates doing his laundry at the university laundromat, so he takes his dirty laundry to Phil's place.

the man of my dreams (ao3) - mel_m_a_o

Summary: He first dreamed about this man maybe two months ago. The dream wasn’t really something out of the ordinary and Dan didn’t really remember what it was about, but it stuck out to him, because he wasn’t usually someone who remembered his dreams. He often thought he just doesn’t dream at all, but that certainly changed. He keeps dreaming about the same pale, black haired man and his bright eyes that make Dan wake up in a sweat. He starts to see the face everywhere all the time until he actually does.

would it be a sin if I can't help falling in love with you?(ao3) - resurrectdead

Summary: “Hey.”

Phil reaches over the counter. Leaning one elbow on it, he puts a finger underneath Dan’s chin, gently tilts his head back up. Dan tries not to tremble. He darts his eyes up and they catch at his lips, stay there as he speaks. (He wants to taste them so bad.)

“I don’t know what kind of people you’re friends with,” he starts, “but if they aren’t nice to you, maybe you should consider switching them out for some that are.”

or: it's 1978, everything is a bad influence, catholicism makes you a bit sad sometimes and dan finds the answer to all his questions

you bewitched me (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: dan is a waiter at a restaurant that often serves a regular customer, phil. as their flirty exchanges continue and become more steamy, dan shoots his shot through a post it inviting phil to a nearby cafe.

little does phil know dan works at that cafe as well.

You Send Me (ao3) - Portia331

Summary: A reflection on relationship growth and how it feels.

[sherbertilluminated]

Chappell Roan cover when

[littlescaryinternetguy]

He woke up.

Every morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed for a while.

He would move his fingers ever so slightly, feeling his sheets, feeling the bedwarmth, feeling where it grew cooler at the edge. He would move his foot to feel the weight of the blankets, to feel the weight of his cat curled up down there. He would listen to the apartment he lived in alone. Sometimes his upstairs neighbor would be awake if they had to open at the diner. Sometimes the next door neighbor would be saying something to their kid. He would smell the coffee already being made by the coffee maker, and he would smell the last traces of last night’s dinner, if he actually cooked it and didn’t microwave it.

He would lie there taking it all in, wanting something he couldn’t have. He tried to be grateful for what  he did have. Usually he could be. Some days the only thing that got him out of bed was spite and the inertia of routine.

In short, he was no-one special, and that was fine. But he did want to be special. He wanted to be held, completely. Totally held. Held in such a way that he was erased from everything but the hand he was held in. He wanted to be small, very small, so small that he could disappear under someone’s curled fingers. And he wanted so to be something he could not be, he would lie there taking it all in: the voices of neighbors, the dimensions of his life and how they were too much.

Every morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed for a while and this morning he woke up and kept his eyes closed. For a while.

He moved his fingers, and the sheets were not his sheets.

They were coarser, and they tented oddly. Normally the weight of them spilling over the side of the bed kept them flat, but now they were somewhat stiff. The pillow felt scratchy on his ears, and his head was sunken into it.

The cat was not there, but that wasn’t unusual.

Last night he had cooked, braised cod with garlic, lots of garlic. The scent was a comfort to him, something his grandmother had cooked in her years living with his family. It was a smell that pervaded everything. He would have found it a bit unpleasant if he hadn’t done the cooking himself. But the smell wasn’t there this morning. Nor was the smell of coffee.

In its place: a clean smell, totally foreign to his home. Not that he let his place grow filthy by any means, but deep cleaning was a thing that only happened once a year at most. People didn’t tend to visit, so he didn’t see the point. And anyone who did, he reasoned, knows me and would understand. His house smelled human.

This morning, the room he was in smelled lived in, but clean. Cleaned. An effort had been made.

He couldn’t hear anything much at all. Not a neighbor, nor the shudder and weary sigh of the air conditioning, nor a semi on the interstate a few blocks over. He heard humming, light humming. A song he thought he might know. It sounded wrong. It sounded like it was coming over a stadium loudspeaker a mile away. Not tinny, just the size of the sound. A whisper that could fill a concert hall.

He recognized the song at last, after lying with his eyes closed for what seemed like forever. Lefty Frizell. “Saginaw, Michigan”. It made him smile as he remembered all the crazy rhymes in it.

He opened his eyes.

It wasn’t his room but he knew it wouldn’t be. The sheets were as coarse, no, coarser than he had felt them to be. He could almost poke a finger through the weave of them. The walls were covered with a riot of printed words and huge pictures. A string of lights, the size of watermelons and dark, around the top of the wall at the ceiling. A chintzy plastic chair, all molded as one piece, sat in the corner looking as if it would buckle under the weight of nothing.

My dad was a poor, hard-working Saginaw fisherman Too many times he came home with too little pay.

He swung his legs out. The floor, too, was plastic, and instead of the slight chill of his floor at home this one seemed to be perfectly room temperature.

He heard a rising noise that became a whine, then a cry, then a shriek as a tea kettle came to a boil. But again, it was from so far away, but sounded so close.

He stood up and looked around. One door. The window, as it turned out, was a sticker. It showed a nice scene of a grassy hillside. It occurred to him that he ought to be terrified, but he wasn’t. He felt that he was on the edge of something. He reached up distractedly and felt his pulse in his throat.

The doorknob was the color of the trim around the door, and did not turn.

And you can tell your dad I'm coming back a richer man I hit the biggest strike in Klondike history

He smiled. Saginaw, Michigan. Young ambitious man. Saginaw fisherman. All those rhymes that Lefty Frizell knew were a reach. He thought of him laughing as he wrote them down.

His hand was on the doorknob. The humming had stopped, he realized. It had grown quiet. His hand was on the doorknob. He tried to be grateful for what he did have. He tried not to want what he didn’t have. He couldn’t. He wanted it.

And now a thumping, not heavy but large, as if the weight of several thousand pounds were being gently placed on the ground. Over and over, in a regular rhythm, and louder and louder. His hand was on the doorknob. He thought to turn around to look at the bed but what if he turned back and his hand was on his own door?

He opened the door. She was sitting cross-legged in front of it, maybe a hundred feet away. The rest of the house had been swung away, he could see the stairs with no railings going up to a second floor. He looked back at her, looming sweetly, holding a mug the size of a cistern with both hands. She wore a fuzzy housecoat and was two hundred feet tall if she was anything. A room larger than anything he could describe stretched out behind her, filled with everyday life, of a size that dwarfed him. In front of him, on the ground, was a dimpled metal can full of something brown and clear and steaming. Tea. A life he could disappear into but not disappear. A star in a night sky that loved him.

“I didn’t know if you would ever wake up,” she said softly, but the size of her voice filled him. “But I didn’t expect to be asleep so long myself.”

[friendly-neighborhood-boricua]

Strings [2]

Summary: Sirius disappeared a long while ago. As a child, you resented him for it, though the feeling dulled over time. But when he started appearing on the front covers of popular magazines, nearly a decade after he’d left your life, the ache in your chest showed itself again. Though, it seems he hadn’t forgotten about you as you had thought.

Notes: rockstar!Sirius Black x conductor!reader. The first part was only really meant as a sort of preview for this part, so this one’s quite a bit longer than the last, but I think I like this one quite a lot! 

Sirius was in a meeting when he spotted her name. James had got a call from Lily (who was slowly reciprocating the boy’s advances much to his delight), and the Marauders soon found themselves in her office, going over the logistics of their new album. Peter and Remus were leaning over Lily’s desk, pouring over the paperwork and hastily-scribbled notes that laid there, and James tried to do the same, though he kept getting distracted every couple minutes and staring at Lily with a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes.

Lily rented two rooms in a tall building in central London to run her small music production agency: one for her office space and the other as a sort of waiting area. She had insisted they meet in the waiting area in this particular instance—her office was apparently quite the mess—so James and Sirius sat on one couch while Lily, Peter, and Remus sat on the other, a low coffee table with a small stack of magazines separating them.

As Sirius’s eyes wandered, he recognized one of the magazines—a high-society lifestyle one that his mother would have loved—and, on a whim, began to flip through it, nodding or shaking his head or humming absent-mindedly when his opinion was asked for by his bandmates. And then, on page thirty-six, there she was.

Y/N Y/LN’s debut performance with Royal Opera House Symphony on 12 July, 1984

Sirius didn’t pay any attention for the rest of the meeting. As soon as he got back to his flat (magazine from Lily’s in tow, of course), he’d called the number in the article and bought himself a ticket. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to come out of this symphony trip, but he’d be damned if he missed the opportunity to see Y/N again

Two weeks later, Sirius had donned his best symphony attire—black slacks borrowed from James, a wrinkled white button-down, and grey Converse because he forgot to ask to borrow James’s fancy loafers as well—and took the bus to London’s Royal Opera House. He had stopped at a florist’s shop on the way, choosing a delicate bouquet of crimson roses and baby’s breath. Finally seated, Sirius checked his watch and sighed, blushing lightly—forty-seven minutes before the start of the show. 

Surprisingly enough, Sirius wasn’t the earliest; there were plenty of people closer than he to the stage, and several dozen children on what seemed to be a school trip were chattering and giggling excitedly towards the very front. He was suddenly glad for his decision to sit in the second level of balconies; if he had sat in the very front, a kid from the school trip was sure to recognize him, and Sirius wasn’t really in the mood to sign autographs or take photos. 

His knee bounced anxiously as London’s elite filed into the seats around him. He received more than a few strange looks from the men and women, all in their tailcoats and gowns, but, for the first time in his life, his mother had trained him well, and he simply sent aggressively polite smiles to anyone who dared look at him funny until finally, the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to tune. 

Sirius had chosen a seat right at the edge of the balcony, hoping for the best view possible of the musicians below, but as much as he squinted and scoped out the cluster of cellos, he couldn’t find Y/N anywhere. After a minute or so, the orchestra had finished tuning, and it seemed that the entire concert hall held its breath for the conductor to appear.

And appear she did. 

The breath Sirius didn’t realize he was holding completely left his lungs as Y/N herself graced the stage, waving to the audience with a stunning smile as she made for the podium. Her dress was made completely of black tulle and satin, broad, layered ruffles flowing around her with effortless elegance that nearly made Sirius swoon. 

It hit him like a truck. Sirius hadn’t thought much about why a principal cellist would be featured in a magazine when he first saw her name, but it was miles more reasonable for a conductor to be written about. But—Christ—she was a year younger than he, and he was only twenty-four himself. She must’ve been the youngest conductor to perform at the Royal Opera House in decades—centuries, maybe even—

Sirius’s whirlwind of thoughts fell to an abrupt silence as the orchestra began to play. Even when he was old and grey, Sirius wouldn’t be able to recall a more enjoyable night full of Russian waltzes than that one. The muted horns and lulling strings sent him into a trance. All he could do was simply watch Y/N’s movements, graceful and emotive all at once, and let himself imagine that it was just he and she, that they were waltzing in an empty ballroom in one of those period pieces on the BBC channel that James’s mother loved so much. 

Sirius was overjoyed and terribly disappointed at the same time when the concert came to an end. As soon as Y/N turned to the audience and bowed, one hand over her heart as she motioned to her orchestra with the other, he was on his feet, bouquet under his arm as he clapped furiously. The concert hall was filled with applause even as she left the stage, and after a couple seconds, she returned, bowing once again with her orchestra. This happened three more times before the audience was sated, and the lights rose once again as everyone began to file out. 

Too impatient to mope along behind the elderly symphony-goers, Sirius squeezed through the throngs of people and, after little thought, snuck through a door labeled “Staff Only”. Behind it lay exactly what he was hoping: a completely empty staircase. Sirius bounded down it, bouquet clutched tightly in his left hand as his right tracked along the railing to keep him from falling, until he reached the first floor. 

The stairwell emptied into a staff corridor that led towards the stage, tall and lit with blinding fluorescents. Sirius could hear muffled chatter from the stage, which echoed off of the cement floors and cinder block walls. Through a door a dozen feet down the hall, someone bid farewell to someone else and, with a laugh, departed. Sirius began walking towards the voices. Just as he reached the door, it swung open, and he stepped back to avoid being smacked in the face. 

If Sirius was asked to imagine the moment he saw Y/N again after nearly a decade apart, he was sure he wouldn’t have imagined what actually happened. Y/N was smiling over her shoulder as she opened the door, facing away from Sirius until she stepped fully into the hallway. And of course, she was even more beautiful up close. Her black dress hugged her torso just perfectly, the skirt dancing around her legs as if it were alive. Her hair lay perfectly in its natural form, her skin clear and soft-looking, and Sirius was met with a waft of jasmine flower that nearly sent him to his knees. But when she finally turned and met Sirius’s excited gaze, the smile that spread across her lips dipped slightly.

“Oh,” she said. Sirius couldn’t tell if she was surprised in a good way or a bad one. “Um … hello, Sirius.”

The door fell shut behind her.

“Hello,” Sirius said and nearly cringed; he sounded like a blushing schoolboy. The pair stared at each other for a long moment until Sirius finally came to his senses. 

“Here,” he said and thrusted the bouquet out at her. “For you.”

“Oh. Thank you,” she said quietly, taking the flowers in one hand and adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder with the other. “They’re … beautiful.”

Sirius’s smile broadened, and the two once again stared at each other. 

“Um … are you alright?” Y/N finally asked, brows furrowed. Sirius blinked dumbly, and then nodded. 

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good. Great, even.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay … and, um …,” she scratched the back of her neck, “why are you here?”

Suddenly, Sirius felt incredibly awkward. Here he was, standing in front of a girl—a woman, now—whom he hadn’t seen in years. It was unfair of him to expect them to resume being the best of friends as if nothing had happened. 

“Uh, I just—I just heard you were performing and thought I might as well, um, come watch,” Sirius said. “Thought maybe we could catch up or hang out … or something.” The end of the sentence turned upwards like a question, but Sirius nearly gasped in relief when Y/N smiled mildly. 

“Um, sure, we can talk for a bit,” she said and began walking down the corridor towards the ticket booths. Sirius followed at her side like a lost puppy as the two walked in slightly-more-comfortable silence, passing through a door that led into the Royal Opera House’s atrium, then exiting into the warm summer night. 

“So,” Y/N began, “how’ve you been?”

“Good, I’ve been good!” Sirius said, walking between her and the empty street with his hands behind his back, fiddling nervously. “And you? Seems you’ve been doing well for yourself.” She laughed lightly, and Sirius beamed. 

“I’m doing well,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’m resident conductor for the Royal Opera House in London. I could do a lot worse.” They both chuckled. 

“Very true, you’re doing brilliantly,” Sirius said, and Y/N smiled up at him. Fucking hell. His heart was going to leap out of his mouth at this rate.

“I mean, you’re doing alright for yourself as well,” Y/N said. “You’ve got your own band and everything.”

Sirius blushed a little, embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

Y/N scoffed humorously. “Goodness, Sirius, I don’t live under a rock. I see you on the cover of every magazine when I do my shopping.”

“I know you don’t live under a rock,” he said with a little laugh. “But still, I don’t like to assume.”

She shrugged. “Fair enough.”

The pair turned right and crossed a street.

“How’d you find out we were performing tonight anyway?” Y/N asked, looking up at Sirius. Her brows furrowed lightly, and a thin crease appeared between them. 

“Saw it in a magazine,” Sirius said. “Called in that night to order my ticket. You really think I was about to miss my childhood best friend’s debut performance?”

Y/N let out a scoff that was a little less than humorous. “You mean the girl you disappeared on in Year 11.”

Sirius’s smile fell. Of course.

Sirius couldn’t remember much of the time he spent at home before he ran away to James’s. His best memories were the ones with Y/N when they were children, sneaking out of their respective houses in the night to meet on the streets of Paris and have fun or talk or simply walk together in silence. After he ran away, Sirius didn’t think about her until the first summer he spent at the Potters’, when he realized he didn’t really have a way to get back to her. His parents had paid for him to be a part of the Youth Symphony, and he had stayed at their family house to attend. But Sirius refused to ask Mr. and Mrs. Potter for anything more than they had already done for him, even if it meant never seeing Y/N again. Still, he was a sixteen-year-old boy. He mourned the loss of his best friend, but he hadn’t thought of what she would think when he seemingly fell off the face of the planet.

“I’m really sorry for—”

“It’s fine,” Y/N interrupted. “Truly. I know you wouldn’t have stopped attending without a reason.”

“You deserve to know why,” Sirius countered. 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I don’t deserve to know anything you don’t want to tell me, Sirius.”

He frowned. “And if I do want to tell you?”

Y/N stopped walking, and Sirius stopped too. She was looking up at him with a look that sent a wave of nostalgia through his mind. She’d often look at him like that when he showed her his bruises and cuts after a particularly rough evening with his parents. She’d tend to them in silence, using the iodine wipes, antiseptic, and colorful band aids with stars on them that she’d begun to carry around for him, before sitting in front of him and watching him with that soft look of concern. 

With a small huff, Y/N switched the bouquet to the hand furthest from Sirius and took his hand and dragged him to the street, barely looking both ways before crossing.

“Um—where’re we going?” Sirius asked, trying his best to ignore how her hand pulled him along so firmly yet gently. He hoped his palms wouldn’t get sweaty. 

“You’ll see,” she said and dragged him into a small corner shop. 

A small bronze bell tinkled to life as the odd pair entered the small shop, and a small child popped up behind the counter. 

“Welcome to the Last Stop Corner Shop! Here, you’ll find all your last minute needs! Nail polish? We’ve got some! Beer in a bottle? Absolutely! Garlic salt? Aisle two, on your left! Beer in a can? Right next to the beer in a bottle! Hotdogs?—”

“Amir, you don’t have to do that every time I stop by,” Y/N chided, pulling Sirius further into the shop. 

“Oh, Y/N! It’s good to see you! Who’s this? Is he—”

“He’s a friend of mine. Sirius,” Y/N introduced. 

“Sirius?” Amir peered up at Sirius with the widest, most curious eyes the man had ever seen. “Hey, you’re that guy from TV! My sister reeeally likes you. She said the other day that she thinks you’re—”

“Amir!” came another voice from the back room, and a girl around sixteen rushed behind the counter. “Stop telling everyone that, you little—” As soon as she noticed Sirius’s presence, the girl froze. Her dark eyes widened to the size of tea saucers, and her eyes flicked from him to the tabloid magazines with his picture on the racks behind him, then back. Once she’d confirmed it was indeed Sirius Black standing in front of her, she simply stood, arms hanging at her sizes, and gaped. 

“Er …” Sirius glanced at Y/N for help, “hi there.”

“C’mon,” Y/N said quietly, quickly pushing him into the forest of aisles and out of the girl’s view. “Sorry about that,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. 

“S’alright,” Sirius said with a chuckle. “I'm getting it a lot more and more now-a-days.”

“I can imagine,” Y/N said, maneuvering them towards the back of the shop. “Fasha’s obsessed with the Marauders. Can’t get enough, truly. It’s all she plays whenever I stop by.”

Sirius smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind if ever the boys and I need, uh, nail polish, garlic salt, hotdogs, or beer in a can or a bottle.” Y/N laughed, nudging his hip with hers. Sirius blushed. Goodness, what was she doing to him?

“Don’t tease her. She idolizes you.”

“Oh she idolizes me, does she?”

Y/N glared up at him, and he snickered. The two came to a stop in front of a section of shelves full of wine, bottles glimmering in the shop’s flickering light. “Pick your poison,” she said, motioning to the shelves. Sirius considered for a moment before taking two and holding them up towards Y/N.

“Cabernet or Muscadelle?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed in thought for just a moment before she took the Cabernet, and the two made their way back towards the counter.Thankfully, Fasha had recovered enough from her shock that she was able to check them out (eyeing Sirius in poorly-veiled awe the entire time), and in no time, Sirius was dragged outside once again. Y/N led him a block or two further down the road, then across an empty intersection diagonally and into a small park. Once she decided they were deep enough into the park, she withdrew a Swiss army knife from her purse and extended the corkscrew attachment. 

“You drink bottles of wine in the park so often that you’ve got a Swiss army knife for it?” Sirius teased as Y/N opened the bottle, and she chuckled lightly. “This is the first time I’ve used the corkscrew bit,” she admitted, passing him the bottle. Sirius took a swig. “I usually only use the nail file.”

Sirius nodded in understanding, passing the bottle back. Y/N took a sip and sighed.

“So,” she said.

“So,” Sirius parroted back. The two walked in silence, passing the bottle back and forth leisurely as he tried to decide what to say. There was so much he wanted to tell her: how much he enjoyed singing and playing the guitar, how much he loved his friends, how he regretted leaving her so abruptly. Y/N looked up at him gently, and he took a slow breath. Even if they hadn’t seen each other in years, Sirius knew her. She wouldn’t press for more information than he was comfortable with giving or sell him out to the tabloids. She would simply listen. “Um, you … you know how my parents were.” Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I really liked going back to school because I didn’t have to … deal with them there. I could just live without having to watch my every move, y’know?” Again, she nodded, but Sirius didn’t really wait for a response, taking a quick gulp of wine before he continued. “My best mate, James—he’s our guitarist, but sometimes he does drums—he was always offering for me to stay with him over school holidays so I wouldn’t have to go home. His parents are lovely—seriously, some of the best people I’ve ever met—but I never wanted to bother them, y’know? So I didn’t ever take him up on it.

“So, one Christmas, I went back to my parents’, and they were awful—what’s new?” Y/N smiled a little sadly. “I … honestly, I don’t remember much, but I ended up at James’s doorstep one night, and Mrs. Potter wouldn’t let me go back home—not that I wanted to go, of course—for the rest of winter holiday, and then summer holiday as well, and the winter one after that, and …” Sirius sighed slightly. “I haven’t gone back to my parents’ house since. And honestly, I couldn’t care less about what they’re up to now.” Sirius swallowed thickly before plastering on a smile and looking down at Y/N. “Fuck ‘em, y’know?” She barely smiled.

The odd pair continued down the path, taking turns with the wine as the both of them began to stumble slightly.

“Thank you for telling me, Sirius,” Y/N said. She was beginning to grip onto his arm to keep steady, and Sirius didn’t think the warm feeling in his chest was only from the alcohol. 

“I’m still sorry I never tried to find you again,” Sirius mumbled, but Y/N just shrugged.

“I’d rather you keep me in the dark and get away from them than stay just to see me,” she reasoned. Sirius giggled, buzzed. “What?” she whined. “‘Get away from them,’” Sirius repeated, voice high and exaggerated, before giggling again. “You say ‘them’ like they’re the scum of the earth.” “They are,” Y/N said indignantly. “Horrible people. They’re the worst. If I ever see your mother or father in person, I’d be happy to punch them in the thr—oh look, a little gazebo!” Before Sirius’s addled brain could catch up, she was already running for the little wooden structure next to a large lake. He stumbled after her, blinking very hard to get the world to stop spinning, and finally leaned against one of the wood pillars, watching as Y/N examined the benches inside with drunken interest. A giddy smile made its way onto his face without his knowing, and she turned to him with a childishly excited look. “It’s like in The Sound of Music. Y’know, when Liesl dances with that one guy in the glass pavilion while it’s raining?” Her face fell into a more thoughtful look. “Liesl actually quite annoyed me in that movie. She needed to find a hobby or something.”

Sirius laughed, setting the now only half-full wine bottle down on a bench and bowing dramatically at Y/N, hand extended.

“May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked in his worst old-timey posh accent. Y/N snorted but played along, taking his hand delicately.

“Of course, my darling,” she said in an equally ridiculous voice. Sirius grinned and stood straight once he’d moved the bouquet safely onto the bench beside the wine. He held her close to his chest with one arm and held her right arm out to the side as he led them in a very messy waltz, humming an odd mix of the waltzes she had conducted an hour or two earlier. Y/N resorted to simply standing on his feet as he moved them both, her arms curling round the back of his neck and his hands coming to rest at the small of her back. Eventually, Sirius’s voice subsided, and the two were left swaying in the center of the gazebo in silence.

“Y’know,” said Y/N into Sirius’s chest, and he dipped his head to hear her better, “I really hated you when you left.” Sirius let out a long, quiet breath, and he pressed his frowning lips to the top of her head. “I hated that I wouldn’t be able to talk to anyone about my parents. I hated that you didn’t call or write to explain what happened. I … I hated that my life would be so much more unbearable without you.” She shifted to look up at him. “I missed you terribly, Sirius.”

Sirius smoothed Y/N’s hair out of her face, his hand moving to rest at the nape of her neck. “I missed you too, lovely. I’m sorry I never called or wrote.”

“I forgive you,” Y/N whispered. 

Despite his swimming vision, Sirius could see Y/N perfectly. Even in the dark, the moon shone on her soft skin, in her slightly glossy eyes … and Sirius couldn’t bring himself to look away. He couldn’t think of anything else he wanted to look at, be it in that moment or ever again. 

“Did I ever tell you how … beautiful you are?” When he was drunk, Sirius’s mouth tended to speak without his brain’s permission, but in this instance, he didn’t quite mind. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her full cheeks pushing upward in a beaming smile. Sirius couldn’t get enough. 

“Truly, Y/N. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

“Oh goodness.” Y/N buried her head back into Sirius’s chest, and he laughed slightly, lightly pulling her back into his sight. 

“Just …” 

He hesitated. Was this a good idea? 

Again, his mouth spoke for him.

“Tell me if you want me to stop. Okay?”

Y/N nodded. Sirius smiled slightly, and his eyes fluttered from her glassy ones to her lips and back. Very slowly, his head dipped down, and he gently pressed his lips into hers. 

In the moment between when Sirius kissed Y/N and when Y/N kissed him back, Sirius was afraid he had made a terrible mistake. She didn’t move a muscle for one second, then two, and he was prepared to pull back when finally, her soft lips pushed gently back into his. The two stood sheltered under the gazebo for a long while, tasting the Cabernet on each other’s lips and leaving the questions for their future selves to deal with. 

What were they? Would this work with Sirius and the tabloids? Where would they go from here?

But those were all questions for tomorrow …

[mariacallous]

Like many non-Austrians, I first discovered Vienna’s winter ball season through German-language tabloids. The celebrity-studded Opernball (Opera Ball), the season highlight, is widely covered in the German-speaking world, where it is streamed live on TV and culled for clickbait online. Glittering details are consumed with a mix of aspiration and resentment: debutantes, tiaras, and pricey opera boxes (starting cost: $14,000)! The only sign of the 21st century is a name-drop such as Kim Kardashian, who attended in 2014.

The Opera Ball, I have since learned, is only the tip of the iceberg.

More than 400 formal balls are held in Vienna each winter carnival season. This February, I visited three. The tradition combines the public festivities of the medieval carnival with the legacy of the “Waltzing Congress” of 1814, better known as the Congress of Vienna. Held just a year before Napoleon’s final defeat at the Battle of Waterloo, the Congress—a series of diplomatic meetings between leaders of various powers opposing France—aimed to reinstate Europe’s monarchies and hash out the continent’s post-Napoleonic order.

Its more immediate effect, however, was to transform Vienna into a giant ballroom.

With representatives from Prussia, Austria, Great Britain, Russia, and France, as well as assorted royalty and nobility from across Europe gathered at the imperial Hofburg Palace, the prevailing atmosphere was that of a permanent “house party,” observed historian Dorothy McGuigan in her book The Habsburgs. The dance halls were packed, and the streets were filled with music and fireworks; to lubricate negotiations, Emperor Francis hosted evening balls and musical entertainment, including a concert featuring 100 pianos. The enduring epithet of the so-called Waltzing Congress stems from a quip by the rakish Prince Charles-Joseph de Ligne of Belgium, who proclaimed that “[t]he Congress doesn’t work; it dances.”

The Viennese ball season has been celebrated almost continually since 1814, breaking only for the two world wars and recent pandemic. In a country of only 9 million people, it draws more than 500,000 ordinary people out to waltz. Nearly every profession in Austria hosts its own celebration: A nonexhaustive season program includes the Police Ball, the Firefighters’ Ball, the Engineers’ Ball, the Doctors’ Ball, multiple farmers’ union balls, and the Lawyers’ Ball. Some of these dances, such as the Coffee Brewers’ Ball or the Hunters’ Ball, have outlived the imperial-era professions that they were created to celebrate. Others, such as the Ball of the International Atomic Energy Agency or the recently retired Life Ball—founded to raise awareness during the height of the AIDS crisis—are decidedly contemporary.

It was the improbable continuity of 19th-century traditions, however, that drew my attention. The frenzy of the waltz—still performed in the same ballrooms as in the imperial era—echoes a persistent anxiety for Europe’s over-touristed, economically uneasy, and politically pessimistic capitals: On a continent that relishes golden-era traditions yet finds itself slipping in the geopolitical world order, how do you face the future without romanticizing the past?

Viewed through this lens, the ball season refracts the flamboyant anachronisms of a region in transition. Dozens of guests and former debutantes—most balls include a debutante ceremony—described the events to me in terms of glorious contradiction. The balls, I was told, are elegant, tacky, rarified, intimidating, democratic, elite, ironic, gorgeous, decadent, tiresome, astonishing; they are both political and apolitical, accessible and inaccessible, international and decidedly Viennese.

This cacophony carried over to my own impressions. I saw tiaras and hoop skirts and a tattoo of the Sistine Chapel fresco framed in the V-line of a backless ballgown. Orphaned evening gloves and ostrich feathers drifted across the parquet floors of the Hofburg Palace; hair fixtures nested in updos like Fabergé eggs. I witnessed government ministers dance the disco and saw at least six debutantes faint.

I was told by veteran ball journalists that the publications I write for sound “serious and political,” and that a Viennese ball is neither a serious nor political event. A ball is frivolous, they said; a ball is for fun. I don’t disagree. But I also believe that a society’s attitude toward tradition shapes its expectations for the future—and how much that future should resemble the past.

Maryam Yeganehfar, the creative director of the Opera Ball, emphasized the balls’ capacity for rejuvenation and even escape. The carnival festivities were originally founded, she said, to give people “hope, life, enjoyment” in the weeks leading up to Lent, the 40-day period before the Christian celebration of Easter.

“[W]hy is enjoyment always framed as decadence?” Yeganehfar asked.

At a time when Europe’s post-COVID-19 pandemic headlines—on immigration, war, inflation, right-wing extremism, climate change, energy crises, and strained trans-Atlantic relations—often give reason for pessimism, the balls are a testament both to the temptations of nostalgia and to the resilience to party on.

The Science Ball

The first ball I attended was the Ball der Wissenschaften (Science Ball). Oliver Lehmann, who has served as the event’s director since 2014, is aware of the season’s appeal for foreigners: “For a lot of our friends and guests from the U.K. and the U.S., but also from Switzerland and Germany,” he said over a Zoom call before I arrived, “a ball sounds like a sugar fairy tale from a Walt Disney movie.”

Lehmann admitted that there is some truth to that image. But the balls might be better understood as the “Austrian version of a huge networking event,” he said. Even socialists once held balls; in the 1860s, party members at the Workers’ Ball waltzed wearing bright red ties, attracting attention from political censors.

The Science Ball, for its part, brings together representatives from Vienna’s nine public universities, its expansive network of private and vocational colleges, and numerous research institutions to celebrate—and boost—the city’s reputation as a center of innovation.

The Science Ball also has a unique, quasi-political agenda. It was first held in 2015 in part to undercut the claim of the far-right Akademikerball, or Scholars’ Ball, to “scholarship,” Lehmann said. The gathering of right-wing fraternities is organized by the nativist Freedom Party of Austria (FPÖ). In 2014, the annual protest against the Scholars’ Ball turned violent, resulting in injuries and damaged property.

Today, the Vienna government offers the Science Ball its palatial city hall free of charge, signaling its continued support for the ball’s mission and helping to lower ticket prices for attendees. Regular entry is 100 euros, or $107, while students can attend for $43. It’s a win-win arrangement: Scientists celebrate field achievements; students attend on the cheap; local government discredits nativist misinformation; and a city whose reputation for innovation is often overshadowed by its cultural-historical attractions gets to advertise its technical heft.

To Lehmann, the Science Ball’s focus on contemporary Vienna is evidence that the balls have “nothing to do with nostalgia.” When I asked if the recent rise of right-wing nativism in Austria (the nativist FPÖ came in first in Austria’s elections for the EU Parliament this month and is currently polling at more than 30 percent ahead of elections this fall) has begun to politicize the balls, he replied, “Only counterintuitively, because we’ve never sold out so fast.”

When I arrived, the Science Ball proved to be many balls in one. The dancing unfolded through a series of rooms across three floors of the city hall, each with its own band and musical style. The main ballroom, lined with chandeliers and debutante couples in tuxedos and white gloves, opened onto a grand stairwell decked out with flowers. Beyond this lay the sultry tango room, followed by a baroque cloister where a cover band played “Que Será, Será,” and a ground-floor disco crowded with younger guests. The latter venue is where I spotted Austria’s federal climate minister briefly boogying to “Stayin’ Alive.”

This year’s ball was dedicated to promoting more effective strategies for communicating the threats posed by climate change. There were leaflets floating around with a carbon-emissions logic puzzle, plus a cryptic exhibit devoted to whales that featured a fog machine. In the flagstone courtyard, an 8-by-8 meter inflated cube (about 25 feet across), reminiscent of a giant bouncy house, offered a visual representation of one metric ton of carbon emissions; the average European Union citizen emits between 7 and 8 metric tons of carbon dioxide each year.

The importance of these issues to the Austrian government’s agenda was underscored by the presence of Vienna Mayor Michael Ludwig and Leonore Gewessler, the federal minister of climate action, environment, energy, mobility, innovation and technology. On the main stairwell, the politicians posed for selfies with students, many of whom expressed interest in climate-related issues. The balls can facilitate this sort of direct constituency engagement. But Gewessler also warned against overstating the events’ political importance: “A lot has changed since the Congress of Vienna,” she said. “As it should in an open democracy.”

She is right: Things have changed. Many young women—including the president of the Vienna student union—took advantage of the gender-neutral dress code, donning smart tuxedos and white ties. The organizers “don’t give a damn” about who wears what, Lehmann said, as long it’s evening attire. A couple of biologists I spoke to with roots in India, who now work at a Viennese research outlet, appeared in a tux and emerald sari repurposed from Mumbai’s wedding season. (The fact that I, too, had worn my wedding dress became a bonding moment.)

A group of American exchange students from St. Olaf College in Minnesota had bought their outfits at a budget shop in nearby Bratislava, Slovakia, about an hour away by train. They were starstruck. “It’s amazing,” one said. Another chimed in: “But the drinks are really expensive.”

The balls’ class dynamics are the subject of much local scrutiny. Open any Austrian newspaper in January and you will find an announcement about the average cost that each guest spends per visit: $371. About a third of that is paid for entry, and the rest on attire, taxis, styling, and infamously exorbitant concessions. Local headlines decry $15.50 pints and $17 Wiener sausages. In 2022, an Austrian state governor went viral for her tone-deaf tip that constituents restrict themselves to owning three—rather than 10—ballgowns.

The considerable spending associated with the balls is also a source of revenue that working-class Viennese—taxi drivers, caterers, dance instructors, and hairdressers—depend on. Norbert Kettner, the CEO of the Vienna Tourism Board, an independently run organization that also receives funds from the city, pointed out that the hundreds of millions of euros that this year’s 540,000 guests spent on the balls filter back into the local economy. At a “styling corner” at the Science Ball, where guests can stop by for touch-ups, one freelance makeup artist estimated that she makes more than half her annual income during the ball season.

Later that evening, my taxi driver explained that he organizes his night shifts around the ball schedule, which he pulled up on his phone; there were five events that night alone. When I asked whether he’d ever attended a ball himself, he laughed: “Just outside!” That is, at the taxi stand.

It’s natural to wonder whether the 19th-century aura does more to promote or impede democratic norms, especially when far-right nostalgia—such as that channeled through the FPÖ-sponsored Scholars’ Ball—is on the rise. The object of that nostalgia is pre-globalization Europe. There is a perception that the continent’s status has declined since then: The eurozone’s respective share of the global GDP, for example, has fallen by more than a third since 1960. On the other hand, Europe remains comparatively wealthy; Austria’s per capita GDP is the 14th-highest in the world, according to International Monetary Fund estimates.

Meanwhile, as war rages on in Ukraine, Sudan, and the Middle East, the EU Agency for Asylum predicts that 2024 could bring the highest number of asylum-seekers to the bloc since 2015, when 1.3 million refugees arrived in Europe, about half of them from Syria, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Just before this year’s carnival season, the 35-year old Austrian right-wing extremist Martin Sellner presented a bone-chilling “remigration” plan for migrants, asylum-seekers, and “unassimilated citizens” at a November conference of far-right actors near Berlin. He has since been banned from entering Germany.

The balls appear to offer a welcome respite from these thorny challenges—if they don’t feed back into the well of nostalgia from which these troubling political headlines are sourced.

Around midnight at the Science Ball, a psychology master’s student from Bavaria took a break from her heels on the red-carpeted stairs. She told me that this was her second time attending the event; she and a friend visited last year as well to celebrate the conclusion of a dreaded statistics exam.

“We love it,” she said, gesturing at the glittering crowd of young people posing for pictures behind us, “but we also hate it.” In her view, ball culture is elite and exclusive, reserved for the rich—but more so at other events than at this one. All the same, she conceded, “Why not feel super special? For 40 euros, look what you get.”

The Coffee Brewers’ Ball

Hosted by the Club of Viennese Coffeehouse Owners, the Kaffeesiederball, or Coffee Brewers’ Ball, is another of the season’s most-anticipated events. It celebrates and promotes the history of Vienna’s famous coffeehouse culture, which was inducted into the UNESCO list of intangible world heritage practices in 2011. Were there a people’s choice award for balls, the Coffee Brewers’ Ball would likely win; multiple guests, none of them coffee brewers, told me that it’s the most beautiful ball of the season.

The stately Hofburg Palace, where the ball was held, took on the atmosphere of a black-tie nightclub. Attendees—whose ages spanned from 18 to 80—had traveled from Munich to celebrate a 40th birthday; from Dubai, for the glamour; from Austria’s southern Carinthia region to see the scheduled performance by the Vienna State Ballet; and from northern Austria, to see a disco cover band (called the Bad Powells). Most were from Vienna itself. They had come to see the Hofburg, whose status as the former imperial palace lends the events held there a particular lure and elegance.

The guests were there, above all, to dance: the polka, the quadrille, the polonaise, and the tricky Viennese “left waltz,” in which couples follow a double rotation, revolving on their own axes while simultaneously orbiting the room, like planets hurtling around the sun. The dancing spilled from the main ballroom into gold-trimmed apartments leading deeper and deeper into the palace; I finally reached a dead end at the storied Redouten Rooms, which ball-enthusiast Empress Maria Theresa renovated in 1748 to better accommodate waltzes and masquerades. That evening, they had been furnished with neon lights, a gin bar, and a DJ spinning techno.

The balls have long dramatized a broader European tug-of-war between democratization and aristocratic control. From the 16th to 18th centuries, the monarchy strove to regulate, then ban, public masquerades and dances in the weeks leading up to Lent. The prohibitions were issued on the grounds of mischief (murders were known to be committed from behind the anonymity of carnival masks) and the threat of popular uprising.

Meanwhile, the nobility began to host their own masquerades in private ballrooms such as the Redouten Rooms. When Emperor Joseph II opened these rooms to the nontitled public in 1772, the nobility retreated once again to exclusive spaces, where they could better monitor the guest list (and, by extension, the marriage market). The same trend followed the rise of public dance halls at the turn of the century, when every profession began to hold its own celebrations.

Today’s balls are also increasingly international and cross-cultural. “Twenty years ago,” a 40-year-old Viennese guest told me, “you wouldn’t see so many international guests.” This year, he had brought two friends from Paris. As the night wore on, I also met a fashion journalist from Switzerland, a reporter from South Korea, and a correspondent from Munich. In one of the palace’s many golden bars, a local journalist pointed a camera at two models posing in a black tuxedo and a frothy pink gown. When I asked what the photoshoot was intended to advertise, he gave a cheerful answer: “Vienna!” The staged images will run in an international travel magazine.

For European states, the continent’s golden era is readily monetizable through foreign tourism. In cities such as Barcelona and Amsterdam, the annual total of visitors outnumbers locals by more than 10 to 1, prompting some local governments to dissuade further travelers from coming. Today, tourism makes up almost 10 percent of Austria’s economy, the same share as for the eurozone as a whole, which also claims more than 60 percent of the world’s international leisure travel.

There are many reasons to be drawn to the continent; Vienna itself is frequently ranked as the world’s most livable city. Yet among locals, the pandemic, climate change, and geographic proximity to Russia’s war in Ukraine can contribute to a mood of perceived domestic decline.

One former debutante reflected on her experience with a contagious nihilism: “Europe is lost,” she said. There’s “Ukraine,” and “nobody has money. Everything is fucked, basically, so why not party?”

It is not the kind of sentiment that will make the travel magazine spread.

Despite signs of disillusionment, Kettner—the Vienna Tourism Board CEO—said that young people such as the former debutante have “rescued” the balls. The discotheques and increasingly gender-neutral dress codes are part of a concerted effort to appeal to younger generations.

It’s been successful: Debutante classes ahead of the balls, which draw from the under-30 crowd, are full at the city’s top dance schools. Post-pandemic participation across all ages has risen from 520,000 in 2019 to an estimated 540,000 in 2023. The challenge of keeping the ball season relevant is a microcosm for Europe’s overall challenge: How to protect proud cultural traditions while also making sure that they can keep up with the times.

The Opera Ball

This official state ball, the “ball of all balls”—Austria’s most beautiful, decadent, and exclusive event—arrived on the scene in the year 1935. It is a fundraiser, with revenues flowing to the Vienna State Opera, in whose building the dance is also held. In 2019, the event raised  the equivalent of more than $1.1 million for the national opera and ballet.

In recent years, the Opera Ball has also developed a side reputation for celebrity antics. This is in large part thanks to Austrian reality TV star and businessman Richard Lugner; the reveal of his date is an annual tabloid event. In 2005, Lugner was accompanied by former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, who, headlines gleefully reported, refused to dance with him. His other previous companions have included Pamela Anderson, Kim Kardashian, and Grace Jones. This year, he took Priscilla Presley.

A livestream broadcast of the ball is popular with viewers at home. This winter, more than 1.6 million Austrians and 1 million Germans tuned in.

The Opera Ball, with its outsized media footprint, also attracts dissenters. An annual demonstration that has been held on the same day as the ball since the late 1980s has become as much a part of the tradition as the waltz itself. Organized by the Communist Youth of Austria, this year, 400 to 600 people marched to the slogan “Eat the Rich.” More specific demands included a nationalized housing policy, the reinstatement of a national inheritance tax, and wage increases to keep pace with inflation.

The group’s media relations manager, Johannes Lutz, said that the protest stands against the inequity that the Opera Ball “symbolizes” rather than the ball itself. The minimum entry price of about $426 ($38 of which is earmarked for charity) is a point of contention; basic tickets for the season’s other exclusive balls range from $107 to $208.

Yeganehfar, who has served as the creative director of the Opera Ball since 2023 and also runs a successful local event production company, conceded that the ball “has its price.” She compared it to a major sporting event: Some fans will save up to attend, but many more will watch from home. (By comparison, the average ticket price to attend an NFL football game in the United States was $377 in 2023.) It is precisely because ordinary people “save up to be in this room” that Yeganehfar said she aims to make the Opera Ball so memorable.

“This is the most beautiful event in the entire country,” she said. “We should put it on a pedestal.”

The ball unfurled throughout the entire opera house—onstage, in the wings, in the basement, and in the many gilded bars and cafes—lending a night-at-the-museum giddiness to the evening. From a lobby erupting with Pink Floyd roses, arriving parties filtered through linoleum hallways and past dressing rooms usually reserved for singers and ballerinas. The dancing took place on the stage itself, which had been extended over the orchestra pit.

To debut at the Opera Ball, one breathless young debutante told me, is to occupy the same stage where the “the greatest singers in history” have performed.

The idea that the Opera Ball is something “you should see once in your life” is a sentiment that I heard from guests again and again. A couple from Berlin—a retired secretary and the manager of a hydrogen firm—said they were in attendance because Vienna is “the city of music.” Eight middle-aged women from Kyrgyzstan had arrived in matching pastel gowns after discovering the Opera Ball on the internet. Two Austrian students—a couple studying education and social anthropology, whose gelled hair and all-black palette gave the requisite dress code a punk twist—told me that they are usually at the leftist demonstration outside. This year, they’d saved up to attend the ball itself, saying, “[o]nce at the Opera Ball, the rest of the time at the protest!”

Onstage, I was asked to participate in a disastrous waltz. A ball veteran leading me through the polka, a step I do not know, insisted that the point of the Opera Ball is to escape reality. “For one night,” he said, “you don’t think about war or poverty. You just celebrate.”

But we were thinking about these issues—he mentioned them without my prompting. Awareness of the world outside was inscribed in the price of concessions, 10 percent of whose revenues were earmarked for an Austrian charity initiative in addition to the $38 earmarked from the ticket price. I saw three young men pass around a flask of liquor, a common workaround to the exorbitantly priced drinks. Exiting the stage, I dodged waiters rushing into private opera boxes with trays of petits fours and canapés.

This is about “tradition,” guests told me. It’s about prestige. It’s about attending the same ball as celebrities. (Later, I discovered that Italian actor Franco Nero was also in attendance.) It’s about “seeing and being seen.” It is, above all, about the illicit, dreamworld feeling of being where we’re not supposed to be: backstage at the Vienna Opera House and also, possibly, in the 19th century.

In the lobby, VIPs were being interviewed on live television. The sense that I’d fallen through the looking glass became more overwhelming when I stumbled into the basement, which had been transformed into a club. On a velvet sofa adjacent to the writhing dance floor lay a tulle hoopskirt, evidence of someone’s late-night costume change.

Like a hypnotist’s signal, it was my cue to head out and catch my early morning train.

Out in the real world, Yeganehfar’s comment lingered with me the most: “Why is enjoyment always framed as decadence?”

The taxi driver who picked me up outside of the opera house was originally from Poland. Our conversation drifted to the rise of right-wing politics in his native country. “History is turning back on itself,” he concluded, a reference to the ascendence of the far-right Law and Justice party in Poland and the accompanying decline in German-Polish relations. The observation compounded my sense of being drawn through multiple timelines at once.

By the time we arrived at the hostel apartment where I was staying, it was dawn. I exited onto the sidewalk and tipped my driver everything I had. Teetering in the sunrise in a pair of borrowed heels, I wondered if ball critics’ hand-wringing over decadence speaks less to a distrust of pleasure than to a profound sense of dissonance. Europeans still enjoy a quality of life that is the envy of much of the world, yet populists have managed to create—and spread—a narrative of a continent in imminent decline.

“Let us hope the future will be better!” the taxi driver said in parting. I found myself a little too eager to agree.

[asacredthebread]

The Music Is You

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Josh Kiszka x Reader 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜, 𝙹𝚘𝚜𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛? Warnings/Themes: Dad Josh, Guitar Josh, Jake Uncle. WC; 6388

You’ve always loved singing, haven’t you, Josh? It’s more than just a passion—it's an essential part of who you are. From the early days when you were just a kid with a dream to now, as the frontman of a band that’s taken the world by storm, music has been your constant companion. Every stage you’ve graced, every note you’ve hit, they’ve all led you to this moment. But nothing could have prepared you for the most life-changing melody you’re about to hear—the first cry of your newborn daughter.

It’s early morning, and the shower has become your refuge once again. Hot water cascades over you as steam fills the small bathroom, a cloud that both soothes and envelops. You can’t help but hum a familiar tune, something that’s been stuck in your head all night. The acoustics in here are perfect, amplifying your voice, making it feel like you're in a grand concert hall rather than a humble bathroom. It’s your time to think, to reflect, and to lose yourself in the melodies that seem to come from somewhere deep within you.

But today, there’s something different in the air. The usual calm is tinged with anticipation, a nervous excitement that dances on the edge of your thoughts. Today could be the day. The day your life changes forever.

You’ve been waiting for this moment for months, ever since that night when your partner told you the news. You remember it vividly—the way her eyes sparkled, the way your heart seemed to stop before beating faster than ever. You were going to be a dad. It was as if everything else faded away, leaving only the realization that your world was about to expand in the most incredible way.

From that moment on, the idea of fatherhood has consumed you, but in the best possible way. You’ve spent countless hours reading books, watching videos, and talking to other dads, trying to prepare yourself for what’s to come. But deep down, you know that nothing can truly prepare you for the reality of it.

As you finish your shower and step out, toweling off your hair—still damp from the water—you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The brown mullet that you’ve kept for so long hangs around your shoulders, a reminder of the rebellious, carefree spirit you’ve always had. But there’s something new in your eyes, those dark brown eyes that have seen so much of the world already. There’s a depth now, a seriousness that wasn’t there before. You’re about to embark on the most important journey of your life.

And as you step out of the bathroom and into the quiet of the early morning, you can’t help but wonder: what will it be like to meet her for the first time? Will she have your eyes? Will she love music the way you do? Will you be a good dad?

These questions swirl in your mind as you walk through the house, heading toward the kitchen where your partner is already up, making coffee. She looks up as you enter, a soft smile playing on her lips. There’s a calmness about her, a quiet strength that you’ve always admired.

“Morning,” she says, her voice gentle.

“Morning,” you reply, crossing the room to press a kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Excited,” she admits, her hand resting on her belly. “A little nervous, but mostly excited.”

You nod, understanding exactly how she feels. It’s a strange mix of emotions, this waiting game. The due date is so close, and every moment feels like it could be the one. You’ve both packed your bags, gone over the plan a hundred times, but there’s still that sense of the unknown, the unpredictability of it all.

“I was thinking,” you say, leaning against the counter, “maybe I could sing to her today. Before she arrives. You know, give her a little preview of what she can expect.”

Your partner laughs softly, a sound that fills you with warmth. “I think she’d love that. She’s already so used to hearing your voice.”

You smile, the thought of your daughter already recognizing your voice filling you with a sense of pride and wonder. It’s something you’ve done throughout the pregnancy—singing to her, whether she’s in the womb or not. It’s your way of connecting with her, of sharing a part of yourself with the little life you’ve helped create.

Jake had taken the time to teach you a few things on the guitar - you had asked him to show you just the basic chords. It had given you something to do in order to take your mind off of the anxiety. As you grab your guitar and settle into the living room, you begin to strum a few chords, your fingers finding the familiar patterns with ease. The melody is soft, gentle, something you’ve been working on for a while now. It’s not finished—nothing ever really is when it comes to music—but it feels right. It feels like something she would like.

You close your eyes and begin to sing, letting the words flow from your heart. It’s a song about love, about hope, about the future you want for her. It’s a song that’s filled with all the things you want to tell her, all the things you want her to know.

And as you sing, you can feel her there, just beneath the surface, waiting to make her entrance into the world. It’s a moment of connection, of pure, unfiltered emotion, and you can’t help but smile.

You don’t know when she’ll arrive, but you do know one thing: when she does, you’ll be ready. Ready to hold her, to love her, to be the best dad you can be. And you’ll have music—always music—to guide you both along the way.

The months leading up to this moment have been a whirlwind, a journey unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. From the first ultrasound to the late-night cravings, every step of the way has brought you closer to this day. And through it all, music has been your anchor, the thing that’s kept you grounded when everything else seemed overwhelming.

You remember the first time you heard her heartbeat. It was at one of those early appointments, the room dimly lit as the doctor moved the wand over your partner’s belly. And then, there it was—steady, strong, a rhythm that was all her own, Danny had bragged that she got her sense of rhythm from him. You couldn’t believe it. This tiny, incredible being was growing inside her, and you were going to be her dad.

From that day on, you made it a point to sing to her as often as you could. It didn’t matter where you were—in the car, at home, or even backstage before a show—you would find a moment to connect with her through music. Sometimes it was a lullaby, soft and soothing, other times it was something more upbeat, a song filled with the energy and excitement you felt.

Your partner would often laugh, telling you that the baby was going to come out humming before she even cried. But you didn’t care. To you, it was important. It was your way of bonding with her before she even entered the world.

As the months passed, the reality of becoming a father began to sink in. There were moments of pure joy, like when you felt her kick for the first time, a tiny flutter that made your heart skip a beat. But there were also moments of doubt, of wondering if you were truly ready for this. Being a musician, your life was anything but ordinary. You traveled, performed, and lived in the spotlight. How would that fit into your new role as a dad?

You talked about it with your partner, late at night when the world was quiet, and it was just the two of you. She was your rock, always reassuring, always understanding. She reminded you that you didn’t have to have all the answers right now, that you would figure it out together.

And so, you began to prepare. You turned the spare room into a nursery, painting the walls a soft, calming color, Sam had his own ideas of ‘calming’, and it had been a mission to convince him that a nursery didn’t need to be quite so filled with random trinkets. You picked out a crib, a rocking chair, and a mobile that played a gentle melody. You found yourself imagining what it would be like to hold her in your arms, to sing her to sleep in the quiet hours of the night. You imagined the sound of her little breaths, the warmth of her tiny body nestled against yours, and the soft rise and fall of her chest as she drifted off to sleep to the sound of your voice. Every little detail felt like a step closer to meeting her, like building a bridge between the present and the future that awaited your growing family.

Your days filled with more than just anticipation. There was an endless list of things to do—doctor’s appointments, shopping for baby clothes, assembling furniture—and yet, you found time to connect with her in the only way you knew how: through song. Sometimes, your partner would sit beside you as you played your guitar, the two of you imagining the kind of life you wanted to create for your daughter. Other times, you would find yourself alone, the house quiet, as you strummed a lullaby or hummed a melody you had just created. These moments became sacred, a way to express all the love and hopes you held for the life inside her.

There was something magical about these months, something that felt both fleeting and eternal at the same time. You knew that this period of waiting wouldn’t last forever, that soon your lives would change in ways you could hardly comprehend. But there was also a part of you that wanted to capture every moment, to hold onto the feelings and the experiences that came with this journey, Jake, of course, had helped with this - taking pictures of everything that he could.

And as much as you focused on the future, you couldn’t help but reflect on your past. Your childhood, your family, the experiences that shaped you into who you are today—all of these memories seemed to surface as you prepared to welcome your daughter into the world. You found yourself wondering what kind of father you would be, what lessons you would teach her, and how you would guide her through the challenges of life. The thought of it filled you with both excitement and trepidation.

Your partner often noticed your moments of quiet reflection. She would reach out to you, her hand finding yours, and the two of you would sit in comfortable silence, sharing the weight of the unspoken thoughts between you. She understood your worries, your hopes, and your dreams because she shared them too. You weren’t alone in this journey; you had each other, and that was all you needed to face whatever lay ahead.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with shades of pink and orange, you found yourself in the nursery, strumming your guitar. The room was bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun, and as you looked around, you felt a deep sense of peace. The nursery was almost ready—just a few final touches remained—and soon, it would be filled with the sounds of your daughter’s laughter and cries.

You began to play a melody, something new that had been forming in your mind over the past few days. It was a simple tune, gentle and soothing, but it carried with it all the emotions you had been feeling—the love, the hope, the anticipation. As you played, you imagined your daughter hearing this melody for the first time, and the thought brought a smile to your face.

Your partner entered the room, her presence as calming as the music you played. She leaned against the doorframe, watching you with a soft expression on her face. “That’s beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

You looked up at her, your fingers still moving over the strings. “I was thinking... maybe this could be her song. Something just for her.”

She crossed the room and sat down beside you, her hand resting on her belly. “I think she would love that. You’ve been singing to her all this time, and I know she already knows your voice. It’s like you’re giving her a gift before she’s even here.”

You nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. It felt right, this connection you were building with your daughter before she even arrived. It was as if you were laying the foundation for a relationship that would last a lifetime.

As the evening turned into night, the two of you sat in the nursery, playing and singing, your voices blending together in harmony. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, a moment that you knew you would carry with you for the rest of your life.

And as you sang, you could feel her there, just beneath the surface, waiting to meet you. It was only a matter of time now, and you couldn’t wait to hold her in your arms, to sing to her in person, to begin this new chapter of your life.

The day finally arrived when everything changed. It began like any other day, with you and your partner going about your usual routine. But there was a feeling in the air, an electric charge that hinted something extraordinary was about to happen. It was as if the world itself knew that today was the day you would meet your daughter.

It started with a contraction, just a small one, but enough to make your partner pause and place her hand on her belly. You were in the middle of making breakfast, flipping pancakes on the stove, when she looked up at you with wide eyes.

“I think it’s happening,” she said, her voice tinged with both excitement and nerves.

You froze, the spatula in your hand hovering over the pan. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her breath coming a little quicker now. “Yeah, I think so.”

You dropped the spatula and rushed to her side, your heart pounding in your chest. This was it—the moment you had been waiting for, the moment that would change your life forever.

The next few hours were a blur of activity. You called the doctor, grabbed the hospital bags you had packed weeks ago, and helped your partner into the car. The drive to the hospital felt surreal, the streets whizzing by in a blur as your mind raced with thoughts of what was to come. Your partner remained calm, her hand gripping yours tightly as she breathed through the contractions. Her strength amazed you, her resolve steady even as the pain intensified.

When you arrived at the hospital, everything moved quickly. Nurses ushered you into a room, and soon your partner was settled into a bed, surrounded by medical staff. The room buzzed with activity, monitors beeping and people moving in and out, but all you could focus on was her—the woman who was about to bring your daughter into the world.

The hours that followed were a test of endurance, both for you and your partner. She labored with determination, her face etched with concentration as she worked through each contraction. You were by her side the entire time, holding her hand, whispering words of encouragement, and doing everything you could to support her. You felt helpless in many ways, knowing that there was only so much you could do, but you were determined to be there for her in any way you could.

As the hours stretched on, the intensity of the labor increased. Your partner’s grip on your hand tightened, her breaths coming in short, labored gasps. You could see the exhaustion in her eyes, but there was also a fierce determination, a strength that took your breath away. She was incredible, and you couldn’t have been prouder to be by her side.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the doctor announced that it was time to push. You felt a surge of adrenaline, your heart racing as you realized that you were moments away from meeting your daughter. You held your partner’s hand tightly, your voice trembling with emotion as you encouraged her to keep going.

And then, with one final, powerful push, she was here. Your daughter entered the world with a strong, healthy cry, her tiny body covered in a sheen of new life. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the world pausing to take in this miraculous event.

The doctor placed your daughter on your partner’s chest, and the two of you looked down at her in awe. She was perfect—tiny fingers, tiny toes, a head full of dark hair that matched yours. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she wailed, her little lungs filling with the air of this world for the first time.

You couldn’t speak. The sight of her, the sound of her cries, it was all too much. Tears filled your eyes as you reached out to touch her, your hand trembling as you brushed your fingers against her soft, warm skin. This was your daughter. The little life you had been singing to for months was finally here, and she was more beautiful than you could have ever imagined.

Your partner looked up at you, her eyes filled with tears of joy and exhaustion. “We did it,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to find the words. All you could do was lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, your heart overflowing with love for both of them. You had never felt anything like this before—a love so powerful, so all-encompassing, that it took your breath away.

As you stood there, your daughter in your arms for the first time, you knew that everything had changed. Your life, your priorities, your very being—all of it had shifted to make room for this tiny, perfect human. She was the center of your world now, and you would do anything to protect her, to love her, to give her the best life possible.

The first time you held your daughter, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you. Everything else—the hospital room, the doctors and nurses, even your partner—seemed to fade into the background as you focused on the little bundle in your arms. She was so small, so fragile, and yet so incredibly real. Her cries had quieted now, replaced by soft, contented coos as she nestled against your chest.

You looked down at her, taking in every detail—the tiny fingers curled into delicate fists, the flutter of her eyelids as she slowly opened them for the first time, revealing deep, dark brown eyes that mirrored your own. It was like looking into a part of yourself, a connection that went beyond anything you had ever felt before. This little person was a part of you, a living, breathing piece of your heart outside of your body.

You were overwhelmed with emotion—joy, love, awe, and a little bit of fear. What if you weren’t good enough? What if you made mistakes? But as you held her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her chest against yours, those fears melted away. You didn’t have to be perfect; you just had to be there. To love her with everything you had. And that, you realized, was something you were more than ready to do.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you looked up at your partner. She was watching you, her eyes filled with tears and a smile on her lips that mirrored the love you felt in your own heart.

“She really is,” she agreed, her hand resting on your arm as she leaned in to look at your daughter. “She’s perfect.”

You nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from the tiny miracle in your arms. You had spent months imagining what this moment would be like, but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of it. This was your daughter, your child, and the depth of your love for her was something you hadn’t fully understood until this very moment.

You could feel the music inside you, a melody that had been building over the past nine months now bursting forth, uncontainable. You wanted to sing to her, to let her know that she was safe, that she was loved. So you began to hum, a soft, soothing tune that you had been working on just for her.

Your partner smiled as she listened, recognizing the melody. “Her song,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth.

You nodded, continuing to hum as you rocked your daughter gently. The sound seemed to calm her, her tiny fists unclenching as she settled more comfortably against your chest. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing evening out as she began to drift off to sleep.

The room around you was quiet, the only sounds the soft beeping of monitors and the gentle murmur of nurses in the hallway. But in that moment, it felt like the whole world had gone silent, as if it were holding its breath, allowing you this precious, private moment with your new family.

You sang to her, the words coming naturally now, flowing from your heart as if they had always been there, just waiting for this moment. The song was simple, a lullaby filled with promises of love, protection, and hope for the future. You wanted her to know that no matter what, you would always be there for her, that she would never have to face the world alone.

As you sang, you felt a shift within yourself. The man you were before—the musician, the performer, the dreamer—was still there, but he had been transformed by this new role, this new identity as a father. It was as if everything you had ever done, every note you had ever sung, had been leading you to this moment, to this connection with your daughter.

Your partner leaned her head against your shoulder, her eyes closed as she listened to you sing. The three of you were wrapped in a cocoon of love, a bond that was stronger than anything you had ever known. It was in this moment that you realized just how much your life had changed, how much your heart had expanded to make room for this little girl.

You could see the future stretching out before you, a future filled with laughter, tears, challenges, and triumphs. There would be late nights and early mornings, scraped knees and school plays, first steps and first words. There would be moments of joy so intense they would take your breath away, and moments of fear and doubt that would make you question everything. But through it all, there would be love—unconditional, unwavering love that would guide you through whatever came your way.

You imagined teaching her about music, sharing with her the thing that had always been such a huge part of your life. Would she inherit your love for it? Would she sing along with you, or would she find her own passion, something that lit up her world the way music had always lit up yours?

Perhaps she would follow Jake, in his unwavering passion for strings, or Sam with his concoction of talents, managing to pick up any instrument he laid a finger on. Or maybe she would follow in Danny’s footsteps, living to be the heart of the band, the heartbeat that kept the music flowing. Whatever path she chose, you knew you would be there to support her, to encourage her, to cheer her on every step of the way.

As you looked down at your sleeping daughter, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. You were grateful for this moment, for the chance to be her father, for the incredible journey that lay ahead. You knew it wouldn’t always be easy, but you also knew that it would be worth it—every single moment of it.

You pressed a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead, your heart swelling with love for her. She stirred slightly, her tiny hand reaching out to grasp your finger. The connection was instant, a bond that felt as though it had always existed, waiting for this moment to be realized.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room. “I love you so much.”

Your partner squeezed your arm, her own tears spilling over as she watched the two of you together. “We’re going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice filled with certainty. “We’re going to figure this out, together.”

You nodded, knowing she was right. You didn’t have all the answers, and there would be times when you would stumble, when you would doubt yourself. But you had each other, and you had your daughter. That was enough. That was everything.

As you sat there, holding your daughter and feeling the weight of her tiny body in your arms, you knew that this was just the beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, a new life, filled with love, laughter, and endless possibilities.

And as you continued to hum her lullaby, the gentle melody filling the room, you made a silent promise to yourself and to her: you would be the best father you could be. You would love her with everything you had, and you would make sure she always knew just how much she was cherished.

This was your new song, the melody of your life as a father. And it was the most beautiful, most meaningful song you had ever sung.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of new experiences and emotions, each one more intense and transformative than the last. The sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the quiet moments spent just staring at your daughter as she slept—all of it felt like a dream, one you never wanted to wake from.

You and your partner navigated this new world together, learning as you went, supporting each other through the highs and lows. There were moments of pure joy, like the first time your daughter smiled at you, a tiny, toothless grin that melted your heart. And there were moments of exhaustion, when the reality of caring for a newborn left you both feeling overwhelmed and uncertain.

But through it all, the bond between you and your daughter grew stronger every day. She became the center of your universe, her needs and her happiness more important than anything else. You found yourself changing in ways you hadn’t expected, becoming more patient, more focused, more aware of the world around you. You wanted to be the best father you could be, to give her the best life possible.

You often found yourself thinking about the future, imagining the kind of person your daughter would become. Would she be quiet and introspective, or outgoing and adventurous? Would she share your love for music, or would she find her own passion, something that would light up her world the way music had always lit up yours?

One day, as you were sitting in the nursery, watching your daughter sleep, you began to think about the kind of father you wanted to be. You knew that you couldn’t control everything, that there would be challenges and obstacles along the way. But there were certain things you could promise her, certain values you could instill in her from the very beginning.

You wanted her to know that she was loved, unconditionally, no matter what. You wanted her to feel safe and secure, knowing that you would always be there to protect her, to guide her through the ups and downs of life. You wanted her to be kind, to treat others with respect and compassion, and to always stand up for what she believed in.

And most of all, you wanted her to be happy. You wanted her to find joy in the little things, to chase after her dreams with all the passion and determination she could muster. You wanted her to know that she could be anything she wanted to be, that the world was hers to explore and conquer.

As you watched her sleep, you began to sing softly, a new melody forming in your mind. It was a song for the future, a song filled with hope and love and all the dreams you had for her. The words came easily, flowing from your heart as you imagined the life she would lead, the person she would become.

You sang about the beauty of the world, the wonders that awaited her, the love that would always surround her. You sang about the strength she would find within herself, the courage to face whatever challenges came her way. You sang about the joy of living, of laughing, of loving with all her heart.

And as you sang, you made a promise to your daughter, a promise that you would always be there for her, no matter what. You would be her rock, her guide, her biggest cheerleader. You would love her with everything you had, and you would make sure she always knew just how much she was cherished.

This new song, this lullaby for her future, was more than just a melody—it was a vow. Each note carried with it a promise, each word a hope for the life she would lead. You sang softly, careful not to wake her, but with every ounce of love you had, you poured your heart into the music.

As you finished the song, your daughter stirred slightly, her tiny hand curling around your finger. It was such a small gesture, but it filled you with a profound sense of connection and purpose. This little life you held in your arms was yours to nurture, to guide, and to love. The responsibility felt immense, but also incredibly fulfilling.

Your partner, who had been watching from the doorway, stepped quietly into the room and sat beside you. She rested her head on your shoulder, her presence warm and comforting. The two of you sat there in silence for a few moments, simply basking in the beauty of the life you had created together.

“She’s so lucky to have you,” your partner whispered, her voice soft and full of emotion.

You shook your head slightly, still staring down at your daughter. “No,” you murmured. “I’m the lucky one. She’s everything I never knew I needed.”

Your partner smiled, her eyes misty as she watched the love between you and your daughter. “We’re going to do this together,” she said, squeezing your hand. “We’re going to make sure she has the best life possible.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude for the family you had. “Together,” you agreed. “Always together.”

The weeks turned into months, and slowly, the chaos of new parenthood began to find its rhythm. Each day brought new challenges, but also new joys. The first time your daughter laughed, it was like music to your ears, a melody you knew you’d never forget. The way she looked at you with those big, dark eyes, so full of trust and love, made every sleepless night worth it.

As she grew, you found yourself cherishing the quiet moments even more—the early morning feedings when the rest of the world was still asleep, the peaceful walks through the park as you introduced her to the beauty of nature, the nights when you would cradle her in your arms and sing her to sleep with the lullabies you had created just for her.

Music became an even more integral part of your lives. You would play your guitar while she babbled along, her little voice trying to mimic the sounds you made. Sometimes, your partner would join in, the three of you creating a harmony that was uniquely yours. Those were the moments when you felt most connected, most complete—when the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just your little family and the music that bound you together.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the nursery, you found yourself sitting in the sun-room, with Jake, and your daughter. She was older now, her curiosity about the world around her growing with each passing day. Her tiny fingers reached out to pluck at the strings of his guitar, a look of pure delight on her face as she discovered the magic of making sound.

You watched her, a smile playing on your lips as she explored this new world of music. There was a part of you that hoped she would share your love for it, that she would find the same joy in creating melodies that you did. But more than that, you wanted her to discover her own passions, to find the things that made her heart sing, whatever they might be.

You had never seen him smile quite so big in your life.

As he played a simple tune, your daughter’s laughter filled the room, the sound so pure and full of life that it brought tears to your eyes. This was what it was all about—the little moments, the simple joys that made every challenge, every hardship, worth it.

Your partner walked into the room, drawn by the sound of your music and your daughter’s laughter. She leaned against the doorway, watching the three of you with a look of pure love and contentment on her face.

“You two make quite the duo,” she said, her voice filled with warmth.

He looked up at her, his smile widening. “She’s a natural,” he replied, while your heart was swelling with pride as your daughter continued to strum the strings, her face alight with wonder.

Your partner crossed the room and sat beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as she kissed your temple. The four of you sat there, basking in the warmth of the setting sun, the music, and the love that filled the room.

As the years passed, your daughter grew and changed, becoming her own person with her own thoughts, dreams, and aspirations. But the bond you had formed in those early days remained strong. You were there for her first words, her first steps, her first day of school. And through it all, you continued to sing to her, to play music for her, to remind her that no matter how much the world changed, the love you had for her would always be constant.

There were challenges, of course—times when you doubted yourself, when you worried that you weren’t doing enough, that you weren’t getting it right. But every time those doubts crept in, you would look at your daughter—at the way she smiled, the way she laughed, the way she looked at you with so much trust and love—and you would know that you were doing just fine.

Music remained a constant in your lives, a thread that wove through the fabric of your family, connecting you in ways that words couldn’t. Whether it was singing her to sleep at night, playing guitar together on lazy Sunday afternoons, or dancing around the living room to her favorite songs, music was the language of your love.

And as your daughter grew into a young woman, you watched with pride as she began to find her own voice—both literally and figuratively. She discovered her own passions, her own dreams, and you were there to support her every step of the way, just as you had promised all those years ago.

One day, as you sat together in the living room, your daughter now a teenager with a guitar of her own, she began to play a familiar melody. It was the lullaby you had written for her before she was born, the one you had sung to her countless times over the years. But this time, she played it differently—adding her own flourishes, her own interpretation, making it her own.

You listened, your heart swelling with pride and love as you realized that she had taken something you had given her and made it into something uniquely hers. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy, a culmination of all the love, all the music, all the years you had shared.

As the last note faded away, your daughter looked up at you, a smile on her lips, her dark brown eyes—so much like yours—shining with pride.

“Dad,” she said softly, “thank you for always being there. For teaching me, for loving me, for believing in me. I wouldn’t be who I am today without you.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, your eyes misting with tears as you looked at the incredible young woman your daughter had become.

“I’m the one who’s grateful,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “You’ve given me more joy, more love, than I ever could have imagined. I’m so proud of you.”

She smiled, a soft, knowing smile that spoke volumes. And in that moment, you knew that you had fulfilled the promise you made to her on the day she was born—the promise to love her, to guide her, to always be there for her.

As the two of you sat there, guitars in hand, the sun setting outside the window, you began to play together—a new melody, one that was just beginning to take shape. It was the song of your lives, a song that would continue to grow and change, just as you had. And as you played, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would always have each other, always have the music, always have the love that had brought you to this moment.

And that, you realized, was the most beautiful song of all.