#i was livid that they spent that much money on that song and even more mad that that scene was actually almost funny

[itllsetyoufree]

Imagine just imagine

A scene where Lena is talking with her mother, (how? Idk we had a gigiant cat so anything is possible)

And all we can see Katie doing half turns putting her wig on and off and doing an accent

good lord lol. they apparently can’t afford actors to play anyone’s mother but we have to hold onto our edit budget or it’ll just be like we’ve let a three year old loose with a camera and then given it to a c-grade vfx house to finish

alternatively, cut the whole budget so we can for some reason keep forcefully inserting queen songs for some reason

[cinebration]

Give Me Peace (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [Request]

I always had a vision of the witcher where reader is a siren (alternative, land walking type that can still enthrall ppl with her beauty) and her and Geralt always bump into each other over the years. Ppl are always hunting her since sirens are worth a lot of money so he decides to help her. Geralt refuses to admit his feelings are real for her until he figures out that witchers are immune to siren songs. Basically, lots of angst but a fluffy ending! — Requested by anon

I know this was supposed to have a fluffy ending, but it turned into something else, and I couldn’t bear to change it.

Tagged: @bichibibi​

Warnings: death

Gif Source: august-walker

Over the span of five decades, you and Geralt crossed paths more times than he had ever crossed anyone’s, Jaskier and Yennefer included. The hand of destiny seemed to be at work, nudging you both into each other’s path every ten years or so.

It started first by the ocean. You had spent much time there in that first decade, drawn to the sea and your marine cousins, the sirens of the water. You were a siren of the land, beautiful beyond measure but lacking the enchanting voice of your sea cousins. You did not call men to their deaths as they did. Instead, your beauty drove men to madness.

Perhaps you were the more dangerous breed.

For the first few years, your beauty kept you safe, as no man who laid eyes on you and met your gaze was safe from your spell. You could topple kingdoms if you so felt with that kind of power.

But there came men and women who coveted the prize of a slain siren, especially one poisoning the minds and hearts of their very best.

Thus came your first encounter with the witcher, Geralt. Hired by the townsfolk, he sought you out on the shores of the sea, where you sat on the rocks in low tide and gazed out over the choppy waters. Careful to avoid your gaze, he drew near, armed not with his sword but with his wits, ready to be enthralled.

Hearing his step on the sand, you glanced at him and paused, stricken by his rugged beauty. Never had you seen a man whose looks could entice you as you enticed others. Though he averted his eyes, you saw their vivid yellow irises glinting in the setting sun.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

He grunted.

“You would kill me for something I have no power over?”

“You’re driving the town mad.”

“They are driven mad by their own desire. I can’t hide myself.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“How do you see it?”

He cleared his throat, glanced over his shoulder to see if any of the townsfolk had followed him.

Slipping down off the rock, you approached him. He took a step back, shifting into a defensive stance. You ceased, bare feet digging into the cooling sand.

“If I paid you more than they did to protect me, would you?”

The muscle in his jaw flexed. “Only if you leave.”

With a sigh, you looked back over the ocean. You would miss it, but forests and mountains were your home; to them you would return.

~~

The following decade, Geralt heard news of a beautiful woman bewitching men near Brokilon. At first he thought she belonged to the druids that populated the dangerous forest, but as he heard report after report of men driven to madness, raving of beauty and unearthly eyes, he knew the woman to be a siren.

He knew it had to be you.

The villagers sent him forth to kill you. Traveling through the forest on the outskirts of Brokilon, careful not to trespass, he found a small hut near the road, partially obscured by the trees but by no means invisible.

Through a half-shuttered window, he glimpsed you brushing your hair. In the light from the fire burning within the hearth, he glimpsed the faint lines of sealed gills. He had heard that land sirens had come from the sea centuries before, but nothing had offered so much proof as the vestigial, malformed organs on your neck.

“Witcher,” you called, seeing him through the window, “have you come for me?”

He grunted.

“You would kill me for something I have no power over?”

“The villagers don’t see it that way.”

“What am I to do? I can’t hide myself.”

“You could do a better job.”

“Come into my home, witcher, and warm yourself.”

Shaking his head, he unsheathed his sword.

“If I pay you double what the villagers are paying, will you spare me again?”

He considered for a long moment. You stared at his face, but he refused to meet your gaze. Out of his peripherals, he saw something of your beauty. It was stellar, he would agree, but it stirred nothing more within him than he expected when seeing a beautiful woman.

It almost made him want to meet your enchanting gaze.

Discipline and strength won out, but not entirely.

“Yes,” he answered. “Just leave.”

Sighing, you put out the fire and gathered your things, amounting to nothing more than a small sack over one shoulder.

“Witcher,” you called, “I have been attacked twice now.”

He nearly met your eyes, so sharply did he turn back to you.

“Men shot arrows through my window, tried to set fire to my home.”

“You are a monster to them.”

“So are you, but you are allowed some peace.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Few men think they can kill you. Every man thinks they can kill me. There is peace in the former.”

Shouldering your sack, you struck off down the road, fixing your gaze on the mountains.

Geralt watched you go until even his enhanced vision no longer saw your figure, your words echoing in his mind.

~~

In the third decade, Geralt came upon you by chance. He passed a hunting party made of hardscrabble men practically frothing at the mouth with anticipation. They rained arrows down into the ravine from their position on the mountain face, arrows with fire burning at the ends. Geralt would have walked on if one of them had not cried, “Burn, enchantress!”

Geralt paused to look down into the ravine. A small shack leaned against the wall, situated by a thin stream. You stood in stark relief among the basalt, knocking away the arrows with a poor shield. One arrow caught in your thatch roof, caught fire.

Geralt hauled the nearest archer off his feet, slamming him against the cliff face. The other men spun, glimpsed his white hair and murderous glare. They fled, screaming obscenities in your direction.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

He didn’t answer, unsure how to.

Running into the burning shack, you stumbled out with your bag and watched the rest of your ramshackle home burn. By the time it had been reduced to a pile of ash and cinders, Geralt had made his way down into the ravine. He avoided your gaze but stared at the curve of your neck.

“They grow bolder every year,” you informed him. “See?” Slipping off the shoulder of your tunic, you presented a livid scar not many months old. “They will be the death of me—and I have not driven any of them mad.”

“Sirens have gone up in price.”

“I have no money to pay you, witcher, to spare me.”

He grunted. “I wasn’t hired to kill you. This time.”

“Until next time, then.”

“Wait.”

You obliged, dropping your gaze slightly so he could look on your face. Wary, he only glimpsed it before averting his eyes.

“They’ll keep coming,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What…will you do?”

“Nothing. We all die at the hands of men.”

Geralt felt something strange constrict his chest. “You can go to the Edge of the World.”

“The elves have no love for my kind. We are as dangerous to them as we are to humans. But thank you for the advice.”

Geralt watched you follow the river through the ravine and wondered why he wanted to tell you to stay.

~~

The fourth decade, he was hired yet again—by you. You tracked him for miles, following instructions given to you by a man in the town. No one had been bewitched therein, for you had bound your eyes with cloth, preventing them from being enthralled.

Only as you navigated the unused road did you remove the cloth. After a day of unceasing travel by foot, you approached Geralt’s campsite. Roach whinnied as you drew near, but she did not rear or cry out in alarm. Geralt sprang to his feet.

Having blinded yourself again with the cloth, you stood at the edge of his campsite.

“Witcher,” you called, “I have come for you.”

“Why?”

“I am being pursued.”

“By?”

“A group of armed men. They seek me out especially, not solely because I am a siren, but because I am the siren.”

Looking on your face, he saw weariness and fear lining your features. The tops of your eyebrows were drawn together, indicative of your distress.

“I have no coin,” you told him.

“You have to pay me.”

“I feared as much.” Pulling tight your threadbare coat, you asked, “May I at least share your fire? I have a penny to pay you for some food.”

Geralt hesitated. As much as he wished to help, felt compelled to—a feeling that worried him—he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a trap. A slip of his guard would be all you needed for you to enthrall him and make him do as you wished.

“I will wear the blindfold,” you assured him. “You won’t be afflicted.”

Grunting reluctantly, he tossed you a hank of meat from the spit roasting over the fire. You ate ravenously with less grace than he expected. Only then did he notice how frail you seemed beneath your coat, how few plentiful days you had seen since he last crossed your path.

A surge of feeling coursed through him, one he identified with an urge to protect. Protection wasn’t strictly in his purview, as he was more of an offensive weapon than a defensive one. Yet the urge remained as he watched you warm yourself in front of the fire, eerie with the blindfold covering nearly half your face.

“Have you found your peace?” you asked in the quiet.

“No.”

“A pity. But neither have I.”

“You don’t actually expect to find peace.”

You smiled thinly. “Surely I do. In death.”

Geralt nodded.

“There is a madness in driving men mad,” you said. “I can find no solace among people, and so, living alone in the most terrible of ways—among others—I know what it feels like to be driven mad.”

Geralt watched you as you spoke. The firelight flickered shadows across your beautiful face.

“Few sirens know it themselves. They live free in their youth, reveling in their power. Few make it beyond that. But those that do begin to run, and that marks their end.” You shook your head. “None of us choose this.”

Geralt tried to quell the emotions rising within him. He hadn’t chosen his path either, his life. Destiny had worked hard to bring him here, with all of life’s misery and suffering multiplied tenfold for his status as a witcher. If only the rumors of the elixirs and Grasses were true, that they could make him an emotionless monster.

Instead, he silently suffered beside a land siren who knew suffering intimately.

You disappeared by morning. The band of men pursuing you crossed paths with Geralt a few hours later. Choice words and a rough scuffle sent them back home.

~~

In the fifth decade, Geralt felt drawn to the sea. There was no work there by the ocean, but he drifted there anyway, away from the turmoil of the interior. Two miles away from a fishing port, the beach was unblemished, free of humans.

Only you were there, seated upon a rock at low tide, overlooking the serene waters.

“Witcher,” you called, “have you come for me?”

“I have.”

Geralt mounted the rock beside you, sat down on the rough and slimy surface. You stared out at the horizon, knees held against your chest.

He dutifully avoided your gaze.

“Witcher,” you said, “you shouldn’t fear me.”

He grunted.

“I do not affect your kind.”

Frowning, he glanced up, found himself staring directly into your eyes. They were gorgeous, truly enthralling—but though his heart rate spiked at being exposed to your naked gaze, he felt no different than he had upon arriving at the beach: pained and joyous. He couldn’t believe it.

“See? You are unaffected.”

“I…why didn’t you tell me?”

“What good would it have done? You needed something to fear to still consider me a monster.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re not a monster.”

“Neither are you.”

He wanted to say otherwise, but you were staring at him again. Fighting the feelings in his chest, he reached up and brushed away the hair from your eyes, curling the strands around your ear. The faint gills on your neck revealed themselves.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against yours. You kissed him back gently. You tasted salty, much to his surprise.

When he pulled back, he discovered it was because of the tears streaming down your face. He brushed them away, but you shook your head, holding his hand.

“Give me peace,” you whispered, “and return me to the sea. I was never meant for the land.”

Geralt avoided the ocean for five decades after, but the salty taste of your kiss never left him.

[lady-himbo]

In Your Shadow

sort of Javier Peña x reader, platonic!Steve Murphy x reader (she/her pronouns; no Y/N used)

Javi keeps getting the credit for work he didn’t do, and she’s pissed. Chaos ensues.

Word count: 2500+

Warnings: angst and frustration, lots of cursing, potentially horrid Spanish (I’m learning, I promise), smoking

A/N: This is based on the song Shadow by Unlike Pluto. You can find pieces of the lyrics in the dialogue. You can also find the translations of everything said in Spanish at the end! Feel free to correct me on anything; like I said, I’m learning Spanish, and I appreciate any advice. <3

“... and thank you again to Agente Peña for providing this invaluable intel.” As the meeting adjourned and several individuals voiced their praise, she charged out of the briefing room and into the office, seething, death-gripping her files to her chest. Hot on her heels, Steve attempted to pacify her.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to steal your thunder, honey. He’s just-”

“What? He’s just what, Steve? A senior agent? Running the show? A man? Tell me, what exactly justifies him getting credit for the shit I’ve worked months on?!” The files were starting to crumple in her grasp.

“Well, I don-”

“This isn’t even the first time he’s done it! He’s gotten recognition for my informants, my intel, my translations, my briefings, my goddamn livelihood!” Her voice was starting to raise in pitch and volume as tears gathered in her eyes. Steve held his hands up, trying to silently reason with her. “I can’t win, Steven! I work my ass off day and night for this fuckin’ job, only to have the rug pulled out from under me because I’m ‘not working as hard’ as holier-than-thou Javier goddamn Peña and his massive ego! I have to live under it and, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, it casts giant shadows!”

Unfortunately, the source of her rage had picked an inopportune time to waltz in. With only a second to register Steve’s panicked look, Javi might as well have wandered into the middle of a firing squad. The execution probably wouldn’t have been half as painful.

“You motherfucker!” she yelled, slamming the now torn and wrinkled papers onto her desk with a clatter. “You lying, power-hungry, manipulative bastard! You fuck every other woman you get the chance to, but you’ve decided to fuck my life instead! I’ve worked for fucking months; hundreds of hours and sleepless nights on this information, and you’ve taken all the credit! Again!”

Javi, oblivious to the full impact of this outburst, opted for the worst possible response. “Come on, sweetheart, we’re working as a team. Plus, you asked me to hand it in to Noonan. If you wanted to take credit for it so badly, you should’ve just talked to her yourself!” Steve visibly cringed and gestured for him to cut it out. Too late.

She stalked forward and, though Javi tried to back up, she had him backed into a corner. “You pompous ass! ¡Más tonto y no naces!” She’d broken out her Spanish. Oh boy. “I can’t even talk to Noonan because she always tells me to run my ideas by your incompetant ass! You cast a shadow over everything I try to do; it’s not like I can get anything worthwhile done when your massive ego’s towering over my ambitions!” She jabbed a finger into his chest, punctuating her words. “Nothing I’ve ever done here has ever mattered to the agency, because I live in your shadow and you’ve taken all of it from me! When will you move out of my way and stop treating me like a fucking doormat?!”

Javi was starting to get defensive, which was never a good sign, especially when Spanish started to get sprinkled in. “¡Oh, lo siento mucho!” he shot back sarcastically. “I wasn’t aware that all the work you get authorized by me to do was proprietary!”

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” she spat. “All you had to do was say the report was from me! It’s not proprietary, Peña, it’s my goddamn right to present the information that I spent my own money, overtime, health, and physical fucking safety to acquire! I’m sorry that I have a genuine interest in making sure this case gets handled right instead of spending my every waking moment getting my dick wet in my informants!”

A small group was starting to gather near the office, waiting to hear if Peña finally got his ass handed to him. This didn’t seem to bother either agent as they glared each other down. With Peña’s pride now on the line, no holds were barred, and he was ready to bust out personal attacks.

“Any competent agent would’ve just handed their shit in themselves, but no, you’ve gotta rely on someone else to do it for you.” He was livid; his pride had been damaged while he was riding the high of gloat and achievement, like getting laid and immediately being punched in the balls. She wasn’t letting this one go, and it was obvious he wasn’t either. “God! You’re like a cloud every time you walk in here, bitching about how little sleep you’re getting or how your work is piling up; a fuckin’ rain on my parade!” He stepped forward, crowding her, his posture more and more assertive with every word. “¡Madura de una vez! You’re an adult, a government agent, taking down a drug cartel run by Pablo fuckin’ Escobar! No one’s getting sleep, and it certainly doesn’t help when you’re whining about it! Maybe if you stopped, you’d have time to turn in your own reports and get the credit you don’t deserve!”

Escobar himself could’ve walked through the office and no one would’ve noticed. Javi’s mouth slammed shut the moment the words left, but they seemed to echo in the eerily silent office. Her shoulders sagged, and she stumbled back a few steps, trying to steady herself.

“Fuck, I-” Javi choked on his words. Her eyes were red, her cheeks stained, but her face was frighteningly level.

“Yeah, tienes razón.” Her voice was hollow, tired. “It’s always stormy lately. I guess I’m just under too much pressure; it’s driving me insane. There’s only one way to relieve it.” She slipped off her gun holster and unclipped her badge, pressing them into his chest. “I quit.” Without a second glance, she stormed out of the office.

Two weeks later, her desk was cleared out, her files and informants were on a list to be redistributed to the rest of the unit, and the office was uncomfortably heavy. Javi was smoking way more than usual, everyone avoided him like the plague, Steve was bored, the case was at a standstill, and the quiet was palpable. She was no longer a colorful presence flitting around the tables, leaving a rainbow of Post-it Notes in her wake, charting cell signals, calling out for advice, chatting on the phone in Spanglish, humming quietly or bobbing her head to the radio, popping up to refill her coffee cup and offering to refill everyone else’s every couple hours, then rushing off to the bathroom when she’d had too much. She was a constant presence the unit soon realized they’d taken advantage of.

The phone on Steve’s desk rang mid-morning, and he stifled a yawn as he picked it up. “Murphy,” he grunted.

“Hey, Stevie,” came a familiar voice. “¿Qué pasa?”

He brightened. “Hey, hon.” He felt some of the tension leave him, but it was still there. “We’re fuckin’ stuck. Nothing’s happening, everyone’s lifeless, and Javi’s still moping. Eso es lo que pasa.” He could hear her breathy laugh; she was always proud when he practiced his conversational Spanish with her. She’d told him she felt it was an honor he was comfortable enough to try it out around her. “What’s up with you?”

“Ahí vamos; he estado mejor. I’m sorry you have to deal with-” she stopped and huffed, then her words became muffled. “Tengo una cita con la embajadora, huevón. ¡Estoy al teléfono!” She yelped. “¡Tócame otra vez y te rompo la nariz!” There was a brief commotion, then a thump, and suddenly, her voice became clear again. “Sorry, I’m waiting on Noonan. I’m supposed to meet with her today to finalize my paperwork.”

Steve sighed. “You’re really going through with this, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Another voice called her name in the background, then spoke quietly for a moment. “What?! ¿Qué quiere decir ‘no está aquí’?” The voice spoke again, then there was a pause. “Okay… Si, todo bien… Está bien. Listo.” Then, back to Steve: “Noonan didn’t show. Some emergency meeting. Just great; I guess I’m rescheduling.”

“Maybe it’s fate!” Steve teased, only half joking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Javi trudge across the office to the coffee pot, give it a long, forlorn look, then trudge back towards his desk. His eyes were heavy, his shirt rumpled, even his mustache looked sad. As he plopped down amongst towers of papers, Steve cleared his throat and made a show of nestling the handset under his chin. “Well, whatever the case, that gives me time to convince you to stay with us. Your desk looks stupid empty.” Though he was deliberately looking away, he could see Javi’s head and shoulders snap up like he’d heard a gunshot. On the other end of the line, she laughed.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, Murphy. I’d welcome the company, though.”

“Of course!” he replied, making sure his smile was as cheesy as possible. “I’ll meet you outside in a little bit?” She agreed.

Steve busied himself with pretending to look busy for the next half hour, then announced he was going to talk to Carrillo. As soon as he turned the corner and was sure he was out of sight, he watched Javi scramble out of his seat and out the door.

Outside the building, she was sitting on a bench, her back turned. Lazy wisps of cigarette smoke danced in the wind in front of her figure, and Javi suddenly felt very insecure. He called her name, uncomfortable with the way his voice wavered. She jumped, then, after a beat, slowly turned towards him. “Come mierda, Javier.” He didn’t let her words deter him, approaching the side of the bench. She glared up at him. “No me joda. I’ll finish up in a second and leave.” He wrung his hands, feeling small under her stare.

“I’m going to sit with you,” he declared.

“Please go,” she said, softer this time. “I just wanna feel the wind one last time before I leave. Just wanna look at this shitty masterpiece of a city; really take it in.”

He ignored her plea and sat, far enough away that he didn’t feel like he was ganging up on her. They just sat, and she took long, deep drags of her cigarette. After she eventually ground the butt into the pavement, he took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry.” He left the declaration hanging in the wind for a moment, before plunging on. “I’m sorry for what I said, and what I’ve been doing to you. I’ve been a selfish asshole, and you were right to call me out on that. I’m not going to convince you to stay, because you don’t deserve to be dealing with my bullshit all the time. You’re talented and selfless and I never appreciated everything you sacrificed for us until it was gone. I just- fuck, I feel like such a piece of shit.”

“You are.” He blinked owlishly. “You’re a self-centered, impulsive manwhore with a weird mixture of self-hatred and a superiority complex. You’ve been a horrible coworker and I almost feel ashamed that I tried so hard to be your friend.” He ducked his head, trying to hide his mortification. “Almost.”

He peered back up at her, cocking his head in confusion. “That said, you’re a great agent, kind and sympathetic when you wanna be, passionate about the work we do, and, when you keep a level head, you’re fun to work with. I don’t know if I can forgive you right now for all the shit you did, but your apology goes a long way. I appreciate that.”

She took a deep breath, then stilled, staring out into the movement and noise of Medellín. He watched her for a few minutes, though it felt like hours. He watched the clenching and unclenching of her jaw, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes; all the details he’d been too busy to notice. “Penny for your thoughts?”

She looked over, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I’m just thinkin’ about life. What I want to do.”

“I know it doesn’t amount to much, but I’d like you to stay.”

“I can’t- I mean, I can, it’s just that- fuck, I don’t even know,” she mumbled, furrowing her brows to try to stop a tear from slipping down her cheek. “It’s just that, by all official records, I’m pretty much worthless here, y’know? All my abilities go unnoticed and it’s like I’m not even there. I know you don’t mean to stand above me, but you are, and the shadow I live under is killing me. It’s taken my job, my self worth, my… being. I can’t live like that anymore, constantly working at the precipice of death, of destruction, of failure, and the one thing I can do to help isn’t even appreciated as my own. It’s just… cold.”

Javi nodded. “After you left, I went up to Noonan and explained what’d happened; that I didn’t deserve any of the credit I’d been given.”

“Well, that’s not true! The things that you did you deserve credit for. You’re incredibly talented, Javi, just not with my intel.”

“But… you do deserve the credit I get. You deserve so much more than you‘ve ever gotten. What I said was so selfish.”

She grabbed his hand. “Javi, selfishness aside, I know you’re in a dark place. We all are. After all, we’re government agents ‘taking down a drug cartel run by Pablo fuckin’ Escobar’ and we don’t get any sleep.” She smiled at her usage of the words he’d berated her with weeks earlier. “I should’ve taken more initiative to turn in my own work; it was silly of me to put that on you. I know you’ve got your own mess going on. Plus, I said a lot of awful things right back. Most of them I meant, some of them I didn’t, but I could’ve handled it all a lot better. I’m sorry we didn’t work this out earlier.”

Javi squeezed her hand, feeling a little warm tingle in his stomach. “Me too.” He sighed, raking his other hand through his hair. “I- er, we really do need your help. You’re priceless.” She exhaled sharply, tilting her head back and forth as if weighing her options.

“Fine. I’ll talk to Noonan.” Javi’s face lit up. “But on two conditions.” He nodded. “One: I get recognition for my past and future work, and two: you promise to work with me and call on me if we have any issues. We can’t have these communication errors any longer if we’re gonna catch these bastards.” She paused, then smiled lightly. “Also, you owe me a lot of coffee.”

Just as Javi agreed, Steve came out of the building. He stopped a few paces from them, looking back and forth from Javi’s pink cheeks and goofy grin, her teary eyes, and their interlaced hands. “I’m sorry, what did I miss?”

She laughed as they pulled their hands apart and she wiped the tears away. “I’m keeping my job.”

“That’s amazing! …Peña, what did you dose her with?” Javi let out the fakest laugh he could, but smiled along with it. She sighed softly, the breeze dancing across her skin.

“All I want is to cast my own shadow.”

Translations:

¡Más tonto y no naces! - If you were any dumber, you wouldn’t have been born!)

¡Oh, lo siento mucho! -> Oh, I’m so sorry!

¡Madura de una vez! -> Grow up!

tienes razón -> you’re right

¿Qué pasa? -> What’s up?

Eso es lo que pasa. -> That’s what’s up.

Ahí vamos; he estado mejor. -> Fine, I guess; I’ve been better.

Tengo una cita con la embajadora, huevón. ¡Estoy al teléfono! -> I have an appointment with the ambassador, asshole. I’m on the phone!

¡Tócame otra vez y te rompo la nariz! -> Touch me again and I’ll break your nose!

¿Qué quiere decir ‘no está aquí’? -> What do you mean ‘she’s not here’?

Si, todo bien… Está bien. Listo. -> Yeah, all good… all right. Okay.

Come mierda -> Eat shit

No me joda. -> Don’t fuck with me.

[alleycat97]

Could you do a Veronica x MC where she spent the night at MC’s dorm and had to borrow one of MC’s old sweaters to sleep in. And MC secretly takes a pic of V while she’s still sleeping and posts it. And when V sees it she’s kinda pissed that there’s now a pic of her in this sweater online, but the caption from MC is super cute so she lets it slide 💙💙💙

Love it!

Veronica x MC (Bea)

...

There was advantages to dating a social media queen. The prestige, the power, the fame. Everyone who knew Veronica, knew her girlfriend Bea.

But with advantages, there was disadvantages. Like when Veronica had to cancel dates to shoot ads or spend nights away from Bea replying to fan mail. There was more to it than Bea realized. It was Veronica’s life, her career and it was booming.

Other than those few hurdles, Veronica was everything for Bea. She made it all up with you name it. She truly loved Bea but she had one rule, no pictures unless she approved it.

Bea’s camera roll was thin of cute pics of her and Veronica. She had an image to keep and was very insecure with looking subpar. Especially to her millions of viewers and more importantly, Bea.

It was a rare occurrence that Veronica looked ‘natural’ but on nights like tonight, it happened.

Veronica was at Bea’s. It had begun snowing earlier so Bea insisited she just wait to return to the Zeta house tomorrow.

So they had a date night, the unplanned ones where the best ones. It was late anyway, nothing more than snuggles in bed and a movie.

“Can I borrow a sweater babe?” Veronica asked drooling over Bea’s collection of sweaters.

“Yeah sure. Anyone you like.”

“Do you have anything designer?”

Bea stopped channel searching to meet V’s gaze, “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Here, this one is super comfy.” Bea said finding one for Veronica.

“Winchester High Hog Calling Champ? God no Bea.”

“What!? It’s comfy, here feel.”

“Ok it is. But NO pictures.” Veronica slid the slightly oversized sweater on and was immediately satisfied. “Where are your wipes?”

Bea gave her some makeup wipes and she lightly wiped the makeup off her face before crawling into bed.

The day was obviously showing wear on V, she fell asleep rather quickly, snuggled tightly into a ball next to Bea.

Bea could not help herself. She had to capture the cuteness overload that was Veronica. She snapped a few pictures and found the best one to post. She was her girlfriend, she wouldn’t be punished that bad.

Veronica woke the next morning and did her usual stretches. She could hear Bea in the kitchen making breakfast, typical habit when she stayed over.

She grabbed her phone and was confused by the zillion notifications. She saw what the fuss was over when she saw a picture posted by Bea. She was drooling, with no makeup wearing a Hog Calling Champion sweater snuggled up beside Bea sleeping. She was livid.

She scanned the comments, not so bad except for the ones laughing at that gaudy sweater and her with no makeup.

“Bea!” She growled heading into the kitchen.

“Yes?”

“What the fuck Is this!!!!!”

“It’s a picture? You know the ones you take with a phone?”

“Yes smartass I know! I had one rule and you broke it! Look how awful I look! Delete it now!” Veronica protested.

“V calm down it’s ok.”

“No it’s not Bea. Everyone has seen it! I’m ruined! Read the comments!”

“Baby calm the hell down. You look incredible.”

“No I don’t. You know how I feel about being exposed like that.”

“I know V, but I think you look just as amazing like that.”

Veronica just sat depressed. Her imagine was everything.

“Did you even read the caption?” Bea sighed.

No she didn’t. She was too upset. “I don’t care. Just please delete it. Please.”

Man she sounded sad. Bea pulled up the photo ready to delete it, but instead she decided to make Veronica read the caption.

Veronica sighed and began to read the caption,

“You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car or money. You love them for the song they sing that only YOU can hear. I love you Veronica Lombardi ❤️ With my entire heart and soul.”

“Oh Bea...” Veronica began crying. “I’m so sorry...”

“Shhh shhh. It’s ok. I shouldn’t have broken your rule.”

“It’s ok. I just love you so much and I have issues being accepted and...”

She was cut off with a sweet kiss that rocked her to her core.

“I know. But I’m here and I’m going to help you get passed it.”

“I don’t deserve you Bea.”

“Oh yeah. You’d be lost without me.”

“Doubt it. Now let’s go eat. All these emotions are making me hungry.”

...

It was weeks since the picture had been posted and for someone who hated that sweater, she would not turn it loose.

Bea tried, she begged, she even bribed her to give it back. But Veronica would not let it go. It became Iconic with her, she even took pictures in it. Bea was so not getting her sweater back.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 6: Something Borrowed, Something Blue]

I’d like to give a very special shout out to @killer-queen-xo​ and the insightful prediction she left on Chapter 5 about Y/N and the camera...you were close! 😉

Chapter summary: Y/N breaks a promise; John gives a gift; Freddie has a request; Roger makes a scene.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, creepy male behavior.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“Welcome!” Mary chimes as she opens the door for you, then her eyes flick down to the gift bag decorated with Santa hats and sprigs of holly. “Oh, love, we said positively no presents!”

“It’s just something small, I promise. Very inexpensive.”

“She’s here!” Freddie announces with a flourish of his hands, leaping up from the couch. The apartment he shares with Mary is tiny and very cluttered, and absolutely none of the decorations match. The walls are a collage of Bohemian tapestries and family photos and prints of Rococo-style paintings and magazine cutouts of articles about Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Queen. Freddie pecks you on both cheeks; Blue Christmas is drifting from the record player. You’re suddenly aware that the apartment is brimming with the scent of baking cookies. In the living room, Roger, Brian, and John are hanging strings of popcorn and paper ornaments on a short, rather scruffy Christmas tree. There is a vast array of presents scattered around the tree stand; all are small, with the exception of one large square box swathed in silver and sapphire wrapping paper.

“I see no one else respected the no presents rule either.”

“You Bostonians and your insatiable need to rebel,” Freddie quips, shooing you towards the tree.

“Y/N, look at this,” Chrissie says from where she and Veronica are sitting on the couch threading popcorn. She’s frowning and holding up a piece of paper cut into the shape of a Pontiac Firebird. “Will you please inform Roger that this is not Christmas themed?”

“Awww!” You grin as she hands it to you. He’s even drawn on a windshield, headlights, and a smiley face floating behind the steering wheel. “Let him hang it, Chris. It’s the only car he’s going to be able to afford for a long time.”

Roger bounds over and embraces you, nearly knocking you over. “This is why you’re my favorite American in the entire world. Possibly my favorite person period. The love of my life.” He takes the paper Firebird and impales it on an ornament hook, then combs through the tree branches for an ideal location.

Brian points heatedly at Roger. “If he gets to hang the damned Firebird then I get to hang my Saturn!”

“Look what you’ve done,” Chrissie tells you, but she’s smiling. She’s wearing a gorgeous green velvet dress and pieces of mistletoe weaved into her long dark hair. Veronica is beside her in a chunky red sweater and denim skirt, not particularly flashy yet festive nonetheless; she waves to you as she pushes pieces of popcorn one by one down the string. She’s wearing makeup tonight, which is unusual. Her lace-white cheeks are tinged with rouge, her slate-blue eyes rimmed by lavender shadow. Freddie and Mary are removing a sheet of cookies from the oven and quibbling over whether they’ve browned enough.

Roger gestures to the gift bag as you place it under the tree. “You better not have spent your own money on that.”

“Oh, tons. It’s diamonds and gold and a dash of overpriced modern art, just to spice things up.”

Roger growls theatrically in his high, raspy voice. Brian stands back and admires the tree as John loops a strand of multicolored Christmas lights around it.

“It’s actually very modest,” you assure Roger. “Not impressive at all. Chris helped.”

“You enabled this behavior?!” Freddie scolds Chrissie as he traverses the room with an overflowing plate of chocolate chip cookies.

She sips cheap red wine impishly and shrugs. “I know a girl in fashion school, I can get their extra yarn if I buy her a cup of tea and pretend to care about her disastrous love life.”

You smirk. “Disastrous love life? I’ve got one of those.”

“You knitted something for us?!” Roger shouts, delighted.

You wiggle your fingers in the air. “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Roger groans. “Don’t tease me.”

“You certainly are,” Brian tells you. “That roadie who busted his forehead open got fixed up straightaway.”

“That was literally two stitches. Head wounds just bleed a lot, it looked way worse than it was.”

“Well,” Brian insists. “I was impressed.”

Freddie claps his hands, slick obsidian nail polish gleaming. “Ahhhh, I’m so excited! What have you made for me, love? Oh, I hope it’s a nice thong.”

“It’s probably not,” Chrissie says.  

Mary pours you a glass of wine and glances around the room. “Does everyone have enough cookies? Drinks? Veronica, dear?”

“I suppose I could use a refill.” She passes Mary her glass and smiles as John sits beside her on the couch. You’ve never quite been able to figure out Veronica; she’s cordial yet removed, kind yet wary, extremely dogmatic in her Catholicism and yet simultaneously socializing with rock stars who are unmistakably living in sin. Her most redeeming quality, as far as you’ve observed, is her steadfast devotion to John...or, perhaps, to the life she’s envisioned they could build together. She rests her hand on John’s thigh and glances coolly at you as you pretend not to notice.

Mary returns with a fresh glass of wine for Veronica. “Alright. Should we start with you, Y/N?”

“What, for the gift exchange we all promised wasn’t happening?” You grin. “Sure, I’ll start.”

You open your Christmasy bag and start doling out small boxes. It’s December 23rd, and Queen is enjoying three weeks off for the holidays before the Sheer Heart Attack Tour resumes. The next show is in Columbus, Ohio—not exactly a cultural mecca, it’s true—followed by a scattering of stops across the continental United States. Half of you is thrilled, especially for the night the band will spend in Boston; the other part of you is dreading it. You don’t talk to Roger about what he does with groupies on tour—or what Brian does, or what Freddie does—and Rog doesn’t mention it around you either. He asks you to join him after every show, for dinner or drinks or clubbing; and you tell him no (though it’s never easy to) and try not to think about the apparent eventualities of stardom. Then Roger goes one way, and you go another.  

“Let’s see, what do we have here...” Brian begins prying open his box with long careful fingers.

“You can’t judge me,” you plead. “I’ve only had the tour break to work on them, and I’m really not an expert knitter or anything, and I—”

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Freddie gushes, holding his black and white striped hat aloft for everyone to see. He pulls it on over his silky hair and turns to Mary. “What do you think? Am I dashing?”

She beams as she kisses him. “Overwhelmingly so.” And you think about how being on the road feels like one dimension, and being here in London another. Here, fidelity and domesticity; there, freedom from the familiar world and all its browbeating rules.

“Mittens!” Brian proclaims joyfully. They’re an olivey green, and just large enough for his hands. “They’re so comfy, feel these Chris...”

Roger whips his hat out of the box; it’s very fuzzy and a fiery red with flecks of burnt orange. “I’m obsessed! I adore it! I’ll never take it off!”

“I can’t believe you did all this,” John says. He’s sliding on his mittens, which are a soft greyish blue. “This must have taken you days.”

“It’s Christmas! You’re supposed to slave away for the people you love at Christmas. And you’ve all done so much for me, the scales will always be hopelessly lopsided, don’t you worry.”

“The color is beautiful,” Veronica observes as she touches John’s mittens, but perhaps guardedly.

“They match his eyes!” Freddie exclaims; and they do. “This is delightful, Nurse Nightingale. Truly. How can I ever repay you?”

A smile ripples across your face, full of serenity and relief. They really do like the presents. I didn’t stay up until 4 a.m. knitting for nothing. “The cookies and wine are more than sufficient. I’m so sorry I didn’t have time to make anything for the ladies, but hopefully your charming future husbands will share and there are chocolates in the bottom of the boxes for you—”

“Oh please,” Chrissie snaps. “You’ve already made the rest of us look thoughtless enough. Kindly shut up and drink your wine now. Thank you, obnoxious Bostonian.”

You laugh as Chrissie distributes her and Brian’s gifts for everyone. She decreed weeks ago that you’ll spend Christmas Eve and Day with her family in Dartford. You can help me keep Brian distracted and in good spirits, she’d told you. His father is livid about us living together without being married, and I’m petrified Bri will give himself another ulcer over it.

Inside the small boxes Chrissie passes out are fancy teabags that smell like pomegranate and peppermint. Freddie and Mary dispense pouches of little pink soaps shaped like dolphins and seashells. John and Veronica give everyone homemade candles, which are either ruby red or evergreen. Roger has picked out three novelty mugs: Led Zeppelin for Brian and Chrissie, cats for Freddie and Mary, and raining gold coins for John and Veronica.

“Well I hope that’s prophetic,” John jokes.

“I don’t get a mug?” You’re trying not to show it, but you are hurt that he forgot you.

“No, you don’t.” Roger rummages around under the tree and passes you the large square present wrapped in silver and blue paper. Chrissie and Mary whistle and clap.

“Oh, big spender!” Freddie chastises.

“Roger, no,” you breathe, horrified.

“Roger, yes!” He drums the coffee table eagerly. “Open it.”

“No real presents allowed! You don’t have the money—”

“Are we married?” Roger asks.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Are. We. Married?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then you don’t get to tell me what to do with my very tiny sliver of earnings that the record company doesn’t steal.” He grins. “Now open it.”

Slowly, cautiously, you tear through the wrapping paper as the others hover on the edges of their seats. John is squinting suspiciously. Roger balls up his fists and presses them to his smiling lips. You open the top flaps of the box.

“No.”

“What is it?!” Mary begs. “The anticipation is agony!”

“Yeah, love of my life,” Roger taunts, his blue eyes luminous. “What is it?”

Carefully, you lift it out of the box. It’s brand new and shiny and perfect.

“A camera!” Freddie cries.

“A Canon F-1, to be precise,” Roger says. “And a manual too. For our aspiring wildlife photographer. Us feral musicians being the wildlife, of course.”

“Roger...” You reach for him instinctively, and he rushes over to wrap you in a hug. “Thank you so much. I don’t know why you would do this for me.”

He laughs. “Because you’re the best gift I ever got, Boston babe!”

“Let’s give it a try!” Freddie plucks the camera from your hands and begins loading film. “Alright, click this...press that...oh fuck, how do I do this?! Deaky, come over here. You can fix anything.”

“Sure thing, Fred.” John readies the camera in just a minute or two, no longer than it takes Mary to refill glasses and send around another plate of cookies. He looks a little ashen to you, a little stunned; but when you ask him if he’s okay, John just smiles and nods.

Freddie snaps photos of Brian and Chrissie as they snuggle on the couch, of John posing sheepishly in front of the Christmas tree, of Veronica waving as she nibbles a chocolate chip cookie, of Roger in his flame-colored hat. Then Roger makes sure you get your camera back, and it’s your turn to take the pictures. You sit beside the tree, the kaleidoscopic glow of Christmas lights speckling the walls like stars, and collect still frames of memories like catching lightning bugs in jars, like it’s July instead of December, like it’s the heart of a year instead of the end. After a while Freddie comes over to sit next to you, to toast wine glasses with you, to make fun of your flushed cheeks. Then he watches as you gaze at Roger from across the room. Rog is trying on Brian’s mittens and clapping his hands like a seal, grinning hugely, flashing his pointy little canine teeth. And despite all those oh-so-rational promises you’ve made to yourself, you begin to wonder.

“Don’t do it,” Freddie says quietly.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you sling back, pleasantly tipsy. And then: “Why not?”

“Because I like having you around. And if you do this, eventually you won’t be around anymore.”

When you’re finally exhausted enough to drag yourself away from them and catch a taxi, John follows you out into the hallway of the apartment building.

“I have one more gift for you.”

“John, no, absolutely not, I am thoroughly unworthy—”

“Stop.” He pulls a thin, rectangular item from behind his back. It takes you a moment to recognize it.

“Your notebook...?”

“I know it’s not wrapped.” He’s anxious, you realize, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I kept trying to work up the nerve, and I still wasn’t sure about it when we came over here, and now, well...here I am.” He gives the notebook to you, and you open it, and you gasp in awe.

Inside are sketches from Rome: the concert, the temples, the museum, the beach on that cool breezy afternoon, and, best of all, the people you shared the city with. You and Roger laughing in front of a statue of Perseus. Brian and Chrissie contemplating ruins. Freddie hunched over a piano, his dexterous hands stretched across the keys. And you sitting in that sweltering, fire-lit corner of the Italian restaurant, smiling from behind a glass bottle of Coke. You trace your fingertips over your own face; it’s blissful and peaceful and beautiful in a way that you’ve never seen yourself. “John...”

“Because, you know, you said that you wanted to document the tour so you could remember it all, and I figured...since you didn’t have a camera...maybe this would be better than nothing.”

“It’s a lot better than nothing, John. It’s incredible.”

“They’ll do for now. You won’t need drawings anymore,” he notes, somewhat mournfully. “You can put them on your refrigerator until you have photos to replace them with.”

You shake your head, still staring. “The way you captured my face...”

He shrugs, smiling crookedly. “I just borrowed it.”

“Thank you.” You climb onto your tiptoes and wrap your arms around the back of his neck. He’s warm and gentle; his fluffy hair tickles the sensitive undersides of your wrists.

“Happy Christmas,” he whispers to you; happy, not merry, like a true Englishman. And he’s right. You can’t remember a time you’ve been happier.

~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings like a scream, like shattering glass. It wrenches you out of that fogged, heavy precursor to sleep and your hand fumbles from beneath the covers to grab the receiver. The cord bounces clumsily against your nightstand and nudges the blush-colored conch shell that lives there.

“Hello...?”

“Darling, there’s an emergency.”

You bolt upright in bed. “What happened? Are you okay? Is the band—?”

“There’s going to be a party on New Year’s Eve and you have to come.”

You groan and fall back into the embankment of pillows. “Fred, that’s not an emergency. Jesus christ. I thought someone died.”

“Then you should be overwhelmed with gratitude for your friends’ continued existence and delighted to join us!”

You glance at the calendar tacked to your wall. “That’s tomorrow, right?”

Freddie scoffs. “Of course it’s tomorrow! Some bloke from the record company is hosting and I need a date. Makes me more marketable or something. Mary can’t come, she’s got the flu. So you’ll have to take one for the team and play the adoring paramour. Shouldn’t be too heavy a lift. I’ve been informed that I’m very adorable.”

“Make Roger do it.”

There’s an edge to Freddie’s voice when he speaks. “They aren’t quite that progressive, dear.”

“I’m really more of a museums and restaurants person than a getting coerced into socializing with strangers person, if I’m being completely honest with you.”

“You’ll survive,” he replies brusquely. “Chrissie and Brian will be there. You’ll have fellow boring people to hide in a corner and eat biscuits with and discuss planetary movements or whatever the fuck.”

“Great. Roger and John are coming too?”

“Not Deaky. He already has plans with Veronica’s family and can’t weasel out of them. It’s not like he would schmooze anyone anyway.”

“Oh.” That disappoints you, more than you thought it could. “Maybe I have plans I can’t weasel out of, ever think of that?”

Now Freddie sounds amused. “You don’t.”

“How do you know?”

He laughs. “Because there’s no one you love in London more than us.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The paramour ruse doesn’t go very well; within twelve minutes Freddie has abandoned you and is guzzling martinis with Elton John and some record company guys you don’t recognize, pointy party hats on their heads and silver balloons bobbing against the ceiling. It’s not 1975 yet, but it will be soon. The mansion is decked with suits and ballgowns and expensive-looking vases perched precariously on end tables. Elegant white columns rim the vast living room. You, Brian, Chrissie, and Roger are chatting nervously by a massive punch bowl carved in ice, swiping appetizers off the waiters’ trays and trying not to break anything.

“I feel completely useless,” you say, nodding to Freddie.  

Chrissie chuckles. “I think he just wanted you to be here. He thinks you’re good luck, you know. All our fates turned around when you showed up.”

Roger points at you with his punch glass. “Your people specialize in witchcraft, don’t they?”

“Oh, so close. That’s Salem, about thirty minutes up the road. No witches in Boston.”

“Hmm. Sounds like something a secret witch would say.”

You brandish your hand through the air. “I summon more mini crab cakes.”

The others glance around. “It didn’t work,” Chrissie observes sadly.

Brian sips his punch, which is bubbling and a vivid red. “Maybe you have to invoke Satan first. I saw a toy poodle on the couch you could sacrifice.”

“Yes, yes,” Roger agrees. “Just toss it in the oven and see if anyone notices.”

You throw your head back and laugh. “Now that would make a fantastic impression.”

Roger grabs your empty glass, plops it on a passing waiter’s tray, and takes your hands in his. They’re rough and strong, and they feel a little too good. “Alright, are you going to dance with me now?”

“Roger...”

“Don’t harass her,” Chrissie warns. “She’s here, she’s working on conjuring more snacks, she’s under no obligation to dance with you on top of all that.”

He frowns at you, those intense blue eyes bright beneath shagging bangs. “Really?”

You smile, reaching up to straighten the collar of his sparking rainbow jacket. “If you’re still interested in 1975, you can ask me then.”

“Yes ma’am.” He grins triumphantly at Chrissie, and she smirks back. “Can someone kindly tell me what that clock over on the mantle says? Obviously I can’t see that far.”

“11:19,” Brian says.

“Fantastic. I’ll be back.” He winks at you, then looks to Brian. “Stay with her, will you?”

“Sure.”

Roger lights a cigarette and saunters away, smoke drifting around him. Several young women—escorts or daughters of producers or soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends of musicians—descend upon him and start asking about Killer Queen. Roger is radiant when he replies, enchanting, wearing charisma like a snake’s skin, climbing ever onwards up the rungs of the social ladder; and you think about how there’s Home Roger and Tour Roger—though he felt like home in Boston, and  though he feels so distant now—and how any woman who chooses him will have to spend her life watching him devour other people’s love from across the room, from across the world.

“Be careful,” Chrissie tells you softly.

“He won’t be back at midnight.” You pour yourself a fresh glass of punch, avoiding her eyes, hiding your disappointment...or, embarrassingly and infinitely worse, perhaps your hope. “They’ve been staring at him all night. And he’s noticed.”

“Oh, honey...” Chrissie rubs your bare shoulder, not knowing what else to say.

“It’s fine,” you tell her. And you plan to drink until it feels like it is.  

Some guitarist from Genesis appears to introduce himself to Brian, and Bri leaps into a fevered discussion of how much he admires the band’s work and how he built his Red Special and the merits of guitar techniques that sound like Russian or Japanese to you. Before you know it, the mysterious Genesis man is hauling Brian off to present him to someone equally important. Chrissie shoots a worried glimpse at you as she follows Bri away.

“Go!” you insist, forcing a smile. Just abandon me in this super intimidating mansion full of rich important strangers and breakable museum artifacts, that’s totally cool.

“We’ll be back in five minutes, I swear.”

You wave cheerfully. “Take your time!” You peer at the clock. Thirty minutes until midnight.

As you’re dishing yourself yet another glass of punch, a man in a posh white suit approaches from the other side of the table. “Are you hiding from people as well?”

“Not too successfully, apparently.”

He recoils and raises his eyebrows. “My apologies. Want me to disappear?”

You almost say yes—it wobbles on your lips like an unsteady toddler—then you reconsider. He’s tall and blond and polished; he looks a bit like Roger from an alternate universe where Rog went to boarding school and plays polo. More significantly, he could be someone important, someone the band needs, someone you don’t want to offend. “No, I’m sorry, that was so impolite. Please forgive me. My judgment is quite impaired, that’s my excuse, I blame the punch. Also I’m a New Englander and thus inclined to be uncooperative towards Brits.”

He laughs, a full genuine laugh; and it feels like a victory. See? I’m clever, I’m charming. Anyone would be lucky to have me. “I’m Eric.”

“Y/N.”

“It’s a resounding pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” He gestures towards the open area on the floor where buzzed men and giggling women are tripping over each other. “There’s no way I could interest you in that, is there?”

You ponder it, nursing your fourth punch. You aren’t much of a dancer, that’s true; and this handsome stranger of a man isn’t Roger. But he might be able to get your mind off him.

You sling back the rest of your punch and slam the glass down onto the table. “Okay. But only because there’s an Eagles record on.”

“Deal.”

He follows you to the dance floor, weaves his fingers through yours, sways easily with the music. Eric tells you that he’s from up north, in the Lake District; his family owns an estate that used to be the seat of an earldom or something. He describes endless emerald hills and castles and horse farms until your mind starts to swim, until the effects of the punch and scant appetizers roll over you like a wave.

“Okay,” you announce dreamily. “Thank you so much, Eric. This has been lovely. But I have to go sit down now.”

“Oh come on, one more song!”

“I’m flattered, but I have to pass. Maybe after midnight...” You move to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers are locked with yours. You try again. Eric’s still smiling, but his eyes have gone flinty. Oh no. You look around for Freddie or Brian, both of whom have vanished.

“One more, come on,” he presses. “I insist.”

“Eric, I’m really dizzy—”

“Don’t be rude. We’re having such a nice time, aren’t we?”

“Please let go of me.” You try to keep your voice level, try not to offend him. Everyone around you on the dance floor is laughing and drinking and smoking, not paying any attention at all.

“Look, you said you’d dance, so that’s what we’re doing. Am I suddenly not good enough for you?”

“Seriously, you need to let go.” You try to tug your hands away. Your heart is racing, blood rushing in your ears. The room is listing to the right, now the left. You realize that Eric is gradually leading you away from the center of the room and towards a quiet hallway. I can’t let this guy get me alone. I’m weak and I’m drunk, and I don’t know what he’ll do to me. You struggle harder, more visibly. His grip on your hands tightens. “Let go, Eric, let go of me!”

“Calm down, bloody hell lady, I’m just trying to—”

And then Eric is ripped away from you and his face smashed with vicious force into the nearest column. You scream, your hands covering your gaping mouth; the room goes silent. Eric crumples to the floor, unconscious. Blood pours from his broken nose and litters his white suit with crimson blotches and smears. Droplets drip crawlingly down the column. Roger stands over Eric, shirt completely unbuttoned, jacket rumpled, shadows of lipstick peppering his neck and chest. He wipes his own palms on his rainbow jacket, scowling, disgusted. Then he turns to you.

“Ready to go?”

“Roger, I...” You gaze in shock down at Eric. I hope he’s not dead. That might make things awkward with the record company. “I-I-I’m so sorry,” you manage finally. “I’m sorry, Roger, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything—”

“No, I’m ready to go.” He lays his hand on the small of your back and guides you towards the front door, grabbing both of your coats off the rack. “Let’s go.”

“Okay.” And relief floods through you. Okay.

Brian pushes his way out of the stunned crowd as Roger swings the door open. Frigid air skates over your cheeks. “Rog, what happened?!”

Roger glares savagely. “When I tell you to stay with someone, you fucking stay with them.” And then he steps with you out into the bitterly cold, nearly-January night.

“It’s not his fault,” you explain as you and Roger hurry down the sidewalk, your words spinning mist into the air. “Some guy from Genesis showed up and you know how Bri is about them, and I told him and Chris to go, please don’t be mad—”

“Are you alright?” He’s scrutinizing you closely; you can still see the rosy lipstick stains on his skin as you pass beneath each streetlight.

“I’m fine, I’m completely fine. Please don’t be mad.”

He narrows his eyes. “Well obviously I’m not mad at you, babe.”

“Oh god, I hope this doesn’t hurt the band. I don’t know who that guy was with. You broke his nose, you know.”

“Good.”

You shake your head, trying to chase away those ghosts of lipstick and the girls who left them there. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. “I know you were busy, I know the party was important, I know I ruined midnight for you—”

“You didn’t ruin it. We still have a few more minutes. We’ll duck into a pub somewhere and have a pint to welcome in the new year, it’ll be grand. Maybe get you some food. You look like you could use it.”

“I just...” You bury your numb, shaking hands in your coat pockets and brace yourself against the cold. “You left the girls. Left the party. I just don’t understand why you would do that.”

“Are you serious? Obviously I’m going to drop everything if you need me. I’m always going to do that.” He pulls his fiery red, hand-knit hat out of his coat pocket and slips it over your wild, windswept hair. “You’re still on my list, you know.”

You sigh. “You’re a smart man, Roger Taylor, but that’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.”

“What,” he says, a tad bitingly. “Because I can’t promise you a picket fence and precisely two well-mannered, unremarkable children and a golden retriever? You’re right, I’m not going to promise you that. Because that’s not who I am. That’s not who you are either, by the way. But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?”

And that stops you, here in the cold dark heart of London, here beneath a cascading streetlight on the opening page of 1975. Because Roger’s right.

He takes your left hand and lifts it to his lips, and you know exactly what he’s going to do even before he oh-so-feather-lightly bites your goosebumped knuckles. “Look, forget about it. Don’t worry. Don’t freak yourself out. We’ll get a drink, we’ll watch the fireworks, and then I’ll walk you home. No questions, no answers. You just let me know if you ever change your mind, okay?”

You watch Roger, his cheeks ruddy from the wind, halos of streetlights reflected in his eyes. And you echo: “Okay.”

[vfenrirsv]

She left her books, her car, her clothes, and a note

But all she wrote was, “Tonight I'm leaving on a train,”

She said she's headed west, to make it right, for one more night

And, well, I don't blame her if she is

They say it isn’t stupid to stay and fight for a relationship, because love is complicated and messy and people are more than just the sum of their quirks and dirty laundry or bad habits. They say it isn’t stupid to put your all into your relationship, to go all in, to open your heart and love with all of it; knowing that you might get hurt as well. They say there is no limit to love, that there is no mountain high enough or river deep enough…but I guess love only truly lives in song and sonnet, because if love were real then wouldn’t you be in as much pain as I am?

Wouldn’t you be suffering under the knowledge that the person you swore to love with all of yourself for the rest of your life didn’t even act like they want you anymore?

But he thinks it's just one more sunset

And after all, it's her fault if she hasn't caught on yet

So why'd you have to go?

Would you even miss me if I were gone? Would you walk the halls and cry for me? Would you stay awake at night and look to the stars, wondering where I was and how things could have gotten so twisted and turned around? Would you even notice that I wasn’t there? Would something in your soul feel missing or dark? Would you run down the drive and look for me the morning after you realized that I wasn’t coming back? Would you scream and demand that the heavens answer your question of why, why, why?

Or would you sit in front of your television or play on your phone, and mutinously stew in your own silence? Would you go to work every day, nary a disturbance to your life of work-grocery-home-shit-shower-sleep-repeat, going on and on like every other day? Would you look around and continue to ‘have nothing to say?’ Would you even look around at all?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

I’m already gone, even if I’m still here. I battle with myself about how much more to bend or struggle or argue. When we argue I am the one spilling my guts, crying and emoting and being rung dry while you sit in silence with a quick joke or flirty comment. “You’re so pretty.” You say it’s to make me feel better, but all it does is chip away at what little of my feelings I have left. Do you even care? Have you even realized that I’m leaving, that I’m out the door, that I’m disappearing right in front of you? I’m disappearing from this life, this relationship, from the friendship I thought we had, inch by inch by painful fucking inch.

Have you even realized that I’ve stopped arguing with you, stopped asking you to talk to me; have you noticed yet that I’ve simply stopped?

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

If you were fighting for this relationship, if you were determined to stitch it back together; failures and all, would you argue with me more? Would you get overwhelmed and angry and loud? Would you throw things or slam doors? Would you demand answers and dedication and a second, or third, or tenth chance? Would you get desperate and panic, thinking that everything was your fault, like I do? Would you turn your mind over and over, trying to find a solution to problems that you know aren’t even fixable anymore? Would you lose sleep like I do? Would you forget to take care of yourself? Would you get sick to your stomach like I do?

Would you dread the thought that you’ve become a complete and utter failure, like I do?

Try as I might, I just can't handle this

I lost myself inside a drunken kiss, and I

All that I wanted was to walk you home

Save a sad song for the sing-along

Would you even recognize rejection anymore?

When I say “You haven’t kissed me today,” and you kiss me on the cheek, do you even understand how sad that makes me; how utterly low it brings me? Instead of dragging me close and laying claim to my lips and stealing the breath from my lungs, you skim my cheek for a millisecond before pulling away. If my love language were affection, you’d be speaking loud and clear. It doesn’t matter that you follow it up with a peck on the lips. “I’m just not good enough for you anymore, am I?” you ask. Truthfully? No, I don’t think so anymore. I am not going to apologize for outgrowing a relationship or a person who had the option to grow with me but stubbornly refused to.

When I tell you “I need you,” and throw myself at you, change my clothes and my under things and my actions, when I come on to you and give you every opportunity to have me in the way that a man wants a woman; you smile at me, call me cute, and feed me an excuse. Do you know how that makes me feel? To know that the only man I want to crave couldn’t care less for a taste of me? Have you even realized that I’ve stopped propositioning you? Your excuses taste like ash in my mouth and sound like static in my ears.

Do you even know the last time you touched me? No? I do. I am intimately familiar with all of the times you’ve left me wanting.

In sixteen days it will be a year. A fucking year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds, each an opportunity denied. Do you have any idea how the fuck that makes me feel? Do you even fucking care what you’ve done by doing nothing? Are you even aware of the neglect that I feel? That is YOUR fault. I am livid. I have spent money needlessly on lingerie and waxing and short dresses and makeup and have watched more than my fair share of tasteless x-rated cinema to get ideas on how to fucking please you and for what? FOR WHAT? For. Absolutely. Nothing. A fucking year? Are you fucking serious?!

We’ve been married a year and four months, and it seems like I don’t mean anything to you at all.

Oh excuse me, my bad, I pay my share of the bills – so I guess I’m good for something.

And what she'd give for one more smile

And how she hoped he missed her

'Cause, God, she missed how he would kiss her

You know, I lay awake at night and I wonder; would we have been better if we had waited to get married – would we even be married at all? If we had catered to everyone else’s needs, delayed everything, if I had been witness to all of this earlier, would I have been able to foresee how much you don’t respond to me anymore? If I had slowed down and kept a part of my heart to myself, would I be better off? If I had stayed with my job up north, would things have progressed as they have? If I put my foot down about moving down here, was more vocal against moving into this oversized house, more resistant about sacrificing my preferences and wants; would anything be different?

If I didn’t love you as much as I do, would I be better off? If I didn’t believe that sometimes love isn’t enough, would we be better than we are now? What if, what if, what if…

So why'd you have to go?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

'Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Who have I even become in this relationship? I can’t stand the person that I have become, and if I don’t love myself anymore how in the world can I expect you to? I’ve stopped taking care of myself, and I’ve stopped taking care of you – but jesuseverlovingchrist it isn’t my responsibility to take care of you. I am not your mother, your maid, or even your mistress. You refuse to take care of yourself? Fine. Then don’t.

And if you won’t love me, then I will just have to love myself instead.

I used to be vivacious, exciting, and adventurous. I would go out to drink and flirt on New Year’s Eve. I’d kiss a stranger, and have fun doing it! I’d dress and make myself up just to turn someone’s head, to catch someone’s eye, to feel coveted. I would pack a bag and go hiking or camping on a whim. I’d get on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle and hold them close and feel the thrill of speed and power beneath me on the highway. I’d swim naked in the sea and sleep in my car on three-day weekends. I’d stay up past midnight to watch the stars disappear and the sun rise over the ocean. I’d make friends of friends, chat up strangers in coffee shops and bookstores. I used to try things for the sake of trying them. There was always the thrill of the unknown.

Now? I stay at home, holed up in a bedroom with paint on the walls and carpet on the floor that I can’t stand. I fucking hatehatehate the color. Who thought that beige-everything was a good idea? I spend all my time reading books and avoiding the world. I can’t even live well in the shadow of my unhappiness. I just eat, and eat, and eat and grow fat and sick of the shade that I cast. I can’t do this anymore.

I’m leaving, and even if you tried to stop me, I don’t know that I’d even believe that you meant it.

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Yeah, you're walking down a road that I can't go

You're walking down a road that I can't…

Disappearing By Inches, by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

Champagnes For Celebrating, by Mayday Parade

[mcllysr]

{ cis woman, she/her } ❝ Quietly while you were asleep, The moon and I were talking. I asked that she always keep you protected ❞ huh, who’s JESSICA LANGE? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually MOLLY WEASLEY. she is a 79 year old PUREBLOOD witch who is A HOMEMAKER. she is known for being OVER PROTECTIVE, SHORT TEMPERED, EASILY WORRIED, and BOSSY but also FIERCE, HUMOROUS, FULL OF LOVE, LOYAL, and GENEROUS, so that must be why she always reminds me of the song I HOPE YOU DANCE BY LEE ANN WOMACK  and SAVING PENNIES FOR A RAINY DAY, A ONCE BUSTLING FAMILY HOME NOW SCARILY QUIET, BAKING IN THE KITCHEN WITH MESSY GRANDCHILDREN, HAND KNITTED JUMPERS, THOUGHTFUL GIFTS PROBABLY OUT OF HER BUDGET, EARLY MORNINGS DRINKING TEA IN A BLOOMING GARDEN. i hear she is aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX, so be sure to keep an eye on her. { charlotte, 23, gmt, she/her }

- Molly Prewett was born in October 1950 to William and Patricia Prewett. The youngest of three children and the only daughter. 

- She didn’t come from money, but her family had enough to not want for much. She grew up in a modest house in Barnton, Cheshire. Her childhood was spent playing hide and seek by the Canal, running amok in the pub playground as her father drank with his work colleges, and watching her brothers compete in amateur quidditch teams on Saturday mornings. 

- When Molly was six, she was playing by the Canal with her brother and slipped in. It was a windy day and she was swept under by the current. Gideon, who was barely nine at the time, jumped in to get her and saved her life. It left Molly with an intense fear of water that she has carried with her to this day. Up until she was eighteen, she was sure it was the most terrifying thing she would ever experience. 

- At eleven, Molly joined her elder brothers at Hogwarts and was unsurprisingly sorted into Gryffindor. She was far from a model student during her time at the school, in fact, in later years she would cringe at the idea of her own children behaving the way she had. 

- Molly was a bit of a wild card, she would sneak out of the dormitory at all hours, she would deal drugs on the school grounds, she would steal her parents liquor during the holidays and keep a stash in the common room for all to enjoy. In her fourth year, she was voted least likely to settle down and start a family. She was voted most likely to become an international drug lord. 

- When a love affair started between her and Arthur, you couldn’t help but pray for the rest of Gryffindor who had to put up with the constant bed creaking. 

- Much to everyone’s surprise, Molly fell hard for Arthur. In fact, after their first kiss, she went and told her friends she was going to marry him one day. 

- In 1968, Molly graduated from Hogwarts and not long after married Arthur Weasley. Whispers of a war were already beginning, it was hardly an appropriate time for a wedding. 

- two years later, they welcomed Bill into a messy and dark world. Molly Weasley, once voted least likely to have a family, swore she would end the war herself to keep him safe. The love was instant, electrifying. While Molly wanted to fight alongside the order of the phoenix, she was vetoed out by her elder brothers. They needed her alive, they needed the baby to stay alive. They understood the risks in joining an organisation like an order, the reality of families being wiped out, they couldn’t risk her growing family being harmed in what would be a bloodbath.

- So Molly stayed home, she shut out the growing darkness, she bore more children. She had three miscarriages that almost broke her, mostly because she didn’t tell anyone, not even Arthur. to mourn the loss of an unborn child during the midst of a war seemed inappropriate (it wasn’t).

- Six years into the war, Molly received an owl saying her brothers had been killed. She had never felt such grief, her heart bled and continues to do so to this day. 

-  By the time the war ended, Molly had 7 tiny children, and that fact alone made the death of Lily and James potter all the harder. On the 1st November 1981, the wizarding world celebrated. but not molly, all she could think about was Harry, that poor baby. Her mother’s heart ached and she went to visit Albus Dumbledore. She begged him to remove the baby from the Dursley’s care, to allow him to live with her. She had been friends with Lily, she knew the relationship she had with her sister. Harry needed to be enveloped in love, and she feared he would not get it at the Dursley’s home. Dumbledore refused, he explained his reasoning, but she didn’t accept it. 

- The following years were calm. after almost 10 years of war, Molly allowed herself to devote her entire being to her family, to her children. They didn’t have much money, the war had caused a recession across the wizarding world and with so many young children, Molly wasn’t able to work. Still, they never complained. She never wanted for anything (except the knowledge that Lily’s son was OK, but Albus never shared information on his wellbeing with her).

- On the 1st September 1991, Molly finally got to see Harry Potter for the first time since he was just a baby. She instantly adored him, like she knew she would. But she was also furious. She had gone home and, despite Arthur’s best attempts to stop her, sent a howler to Dumbledore, fuming over the fact that Hagrid hadn’t accompanied Harry further, livid that the Dursley’s hadn’t brought him themselves. 

- Molly spent her children’s entire Hogwarts careers in a state of constant anxiety. it seemed to be one thing after another. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, and yet somehow Ginny had ended up in the chamber of secrets. How had that been allowed to happen? She knew at that moment that things were not peaceful, unrest was brewing, a war would be upon them soon. She expressed her fears to the minister directly, to her friends, to ex order members, but no one was ready to accept it at that moment. 

- The second wizarding war was as bloody as the first. But molly had older children now, and she wasn’t going to allow anyone to stop her fighting. and heck, did she fight. The build up to the war had already almost lost her so much ; Ginny, Arthur, Sirus. She needed to show that she wasn’t going to put up with any of their shit. 

- Good triumphs for a second time, and once again, Molly allows herself to believe it is finally over. Years pass, children grow older, weddings take place left, right and centre, grey hairs start to show and the hair dye comes out, Grandchildren fill the home with new life, bones start to ache when standing for too long, old friends die, and she mourns for them. The unavoidable effects of old age creep in. Life moves on. 

- And then it starts again .. deaths, disappearances, and Molly knows. Molly knows it is happening again and a heaviness grows in her chest. haven’t both sides lost enough? Kingsley is murdered in a way that shakes molly to the core. and then Harry dies, and the pain is unimaginable. it takes over her entire body, the loss of a child. how does one overcome that pain? Harry was her son, she saw him as such. She loved him as such. But Ginny needed her, so she pulled herself together and kept her grief private. She spoke at the funeral, she held her daughter’s hand. She promised that together they would win this war, they would ensure Harry did not die in vain. She would burn the world down to avenge his death, for herself, for her daughter, for her grandchildren. Molly will fight. 

[sexyshakespeare]

bkdk k-pop (BTS) AU: Chapter 1- Kacchan

Bakugou was stressed. Then again, he was always stressed. But today was an especially stressful day- he had an audition to go to. This company was great, but they only really hired the best dancers. The problem was.. he had heard that they were looking for singers too. Logically speaking, anyone who could do both would be the clear pick, but that wasn’t going to put him down. This is Bakugou Katsuki- he works ten times as hard as any dancer out there, and is at least twice as athletic. So what if he can’t sing for shit. SO WHAT- he can learn and replicate any choreography they throw at him, and he’s willing to bet his ass he can do it better than any candidate they have. 

Katsuki took a deep breath and walked into the studio. Man, if they could afford to have their auditions at this studio.. what kind of money were they talking exactly. He was greeted by a woman who led him to the auditions room. White walls, white floors, huge mirrored wall on one side- this was how it’s done- not some half-assed practice session on a basket ball court like he was used to. He put his bag down by the wall and watched the others who had come before him give their auditions. Being Katsuki, he tried to point out every mistake they made to himself, not just to gloat over it- but to make sure he doesn’t repeat it. He really was more stressed than usual today, it was a wonder he hadn’t snapped already. When it was finally his turn, he came out to the center of the room. His scarlet hued eyes focused on the three judging the audition. They must be big wigs- he had to impress them. Their choreographer was watching from the other side of the room. He had the floor to himself.

The blond took in a deep breath and waited for his music to come on. He had picked a loose polyester shirt to wear over sweats- his most comfortable dance-wear. When the song started up, he immediately went into action. He’d gone over his routine hundreds- no- thousands of times before this audition. And he was nailing every move- every breath he took was calculated, pre-planned. If this company was as good as everyone said they were, they’d recognize his talent and hard work- all the hours he put into this would not go unnoticed. But Katsuki didn’t settle for just that. Any seasoned performer would be able to put in this kind of effort. 

His real selling point was the aggression. Every move, no matter how many thousands of times he’d done it- he replicated it with as much force and passion he’d put into it when he first learned it. Katsuki felt like his muscles were on fire by the end of it, but that only fuelled him more. At the end of his song, he stood up from his crouch and looked at the judges for any good signs. They were busy talking amongst themselves, looking excited. The blond stood there, panting, wiping the sweat out of his eyes- refusing the bottle of water offered to him- he watched the three of them by their table impatiently. What the hell was taking so long. He knew he was better than the chumps that came before him- so they ought to have something to say about it. Fuck this. “So?? Can I expect to hear something??”, he couldn’t stop himself before he shot out the words. The entire room seemed to quieten down. He frowned a bit, trying to correct himself. “..can I have some feedback- please??” One of the three at the table piped up, “We’ll get back to you on that- we still have more auditions before we can decide-“ Of course. He felt stupid to have asked. Shit- his friends had warned him to be more respectful, smile some more or whatever. Katsuki huffed and walked to where his bag was and flopped down next to it. Wiping his face and neck with his towel and squeezing the Gatorade into his mouth, he lay there, panting and glaring at all the other candidates.

Who the fuck cares if I smile- it’s skill that counts. That’s when the next candidate walked in. He was apparently the last one they had, and he was late for auditions- dumbass- that was the first mistake he made today as far as Katsuki was concerned. He watched him carefully, the floppy green hair, freckles on his face.. the doe eyes he made at everybody as he stuttered apologies. Please- what could this guy do to change the verdict. “Hello I’m Izuku Midoriya- I’M SO VERY SORRY AGAIN FOR BEING SO LATE- IT WAS THE TRAFFIC.”, the young man bowed low. The company people were more than understanding. “Don’t worry about it Midoriya- go ahead and perform what you’ve prepared for us-“ Bakugou watched Izuku to see what he could do. But it seemed like he hadn’t heard them yet- the green haired candidate was deeply concentrating on something.. His low voice sounded all over the room, “-I did calculate the time it would take me to get here- IF I took a bus- and it was clearly not worth it considering the time and money spent to get here, couple that with not getting seats on the bus anyway-“ “Uh- Izuku it’s alright! You can go ne-“ “-but that’s exactly why I took a taxi! It was prepaid and everything- I checked the routes on maps to make sure we picked the one with the highest rate of traffic clearance- but even that didn’t seem to work cause the detours on road weren’t updated on the map yet- maybe they need a better system in place for things like this- because clearly-“ “IZUKU MIDORIYA?” “YES!??”, he suddenly looked up to see the man looking at him sternly. “You can perform for us now- you’re the last one and we’re waiting-“ Katsuki could barely hold in the giggles at this point. This guy- THIS was the guy he’d been worried about taking his spot. Not a chance- not happening. He watched the greenet take to the center of the room after putting his things down by the wall and handing his memory stick to the sound person. Then the music started up. He danced in time, his moves were sharp, and subtle. As the beat got faster, he kept time without losing his pace or any of his grace. In stark contrast to the blond that had gone before him- there seemed to be no aggression accompanying his energy. Well, for a first- he smiled. And his eyes seemed to find his target easily- he aimed to please- to impress. And that is exactly why he did. There seemed to be an almost palpable change in the atmosphere in the studio. Everyone had their attention fixed on Izuku Midoriya. Katsuki Bakugou did too. He watched him glide across the floor, dynamic and free in his movements. And as a dancer himself, he knew how many hours it took to make it look this effortless. But even after all this, Bakugou was relaxed. Even if he could dance this beautifully- if anything- maybe they’d be matched in skill. Maybe they’d give this Midoriya fellow a second glance before giving the spot to Katsuki. That was when the cunt started to sing. Izuku’s track changed to instrumental as he sang along with the background accompaniment- he hit his notes high as he danced his routine. His pitch didn’t falter once through all the movement. How the fuck- Then he finished on a low note, his voice rumbling deeper than should’ve been possible. So he had a wide range too. What couldn’t this man do? When he was done, he bowed low again and smiled sweetly at the panel. Bringing his hand up to his hair awkwardly he said, “I hope you liked it! It wasn’t the best I could do- and the song I picked wasn’t the most complicated to choreograph but-“ “It was perfect- we loved it! Don’t be so hard on yourself.”, the company man spoke. He was the real deal- one of the main producers. He looked like he meant business, and even he was smiling at Midoriya. Midoriya got the feedback- he got the smiles- he got the excited chattering amongst the panel. Bakugou was livid. He suddenly stood up from his spot, causing the others in the room to turn towards the sound. Gathering up his things, he stomped out of the room and into the hallway leading back out to the elevator. Fuck ‘em. Fuck Midoriya. Fuck that producer. He walked into the elevator, angry with himself. He was angry for a lot of reasons- for not being able to sing- that was the first. At best, he used to rap a little as a hobby when he was younger. Would that help?? They hadn’t mentioned rapping at the auditions. He stood in the back, absolutely seething. It’s not like he could go back and rap for them now- that would make him look like a clown.

As the doors of the elevator closed, he found himself immediately regretting his outburst. Holding his head in his hand, he tried to not scream. He couldn’t do this here- they might still call him after today- he still had a chance.

He looked up suddenly to see his messy mop of green hair pushing through the doors. His eyes looked large and apologetic. Pathetic. “Come to gloat?”, he shot at him gruffly. Midoriya seemed to be taken aback as he shuffled into the lift- bag in hand. “N-No?? G-gloat about what- exactly..”, his voice sounded, unsure. This was the guy who would get his job. Right in front of him. What the hell did he have that Katsuki didn’t?? He glared at him before looking up. The elevator was making its way down to the ground floor- where he’d be taking a bus back to his shitty rented apartment that he could barely afford- yes, a bus- because he couldn’t afford a damn taxi like this freckled prodigy. He hated his guts- pushing his way into the elevator like that to hang around the loser of the day. “You got the job- idiot- so act like it.” Bakugou preferred it that way. At least if he gloated, he’d be able to put it all behind him- chalk it up to be a bad week and start again. But instead, Izuku tilted his head at him like a confused puppy. “..Bakugou right? They mentioned something about your stunts- said they’d be contacting some of us for choreography next week- but uhh- they figured maybe you don’t want the job anymore cause you-“ The blond snapped his head towards him instantly. “WHAT? THEY SAID WHAT?-“ He was already pressing the buttons to go back up- he pressed the wrong floor a couple of times before getting the right one. His face was sweating again. “Hey! I was on my way down- you could’ve waited..”, the other man’s voice was soft and undemanding as he watched the blond look panicked. Katsuki suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, just as the doors opened on the right floor. “Tell them the truth- they seem like nice people. They were really impressed by you” The blond turned to look at him, dumbfounded. He was only met with a smile, not anywhere close to malicious- just a genuine look of happiness on this stranger’s face at the prospect of his adversary getting the job in his place. Fuckin’ weirdo. Bakugou walked through the hallway and into the studio, embarrassed that all eyes were on him. Many of the dancers seemed to have left already- the others were packing up. A few were speaking to the producers and the choreographer and standing around having coffee. As the spiky haired blond approached the group, he bowed his head slightly in apology. The producer took his hand and shook it. “Did Midoriya catch up to you then? We were going to call you too of course- so I take it you will come to the choreography round next week?” “Yes- of course I will- thank you so much for the opportunity sir-“, the otherwise prideful young man was severely humbled by the offer. This could just be his big break- if he could keep his emotions in check before this was all over. He felt like this was his chance to explain himself before things got out of hand. “I- I have some anger management issues- which I’m working on of course- that’s not going to be something that’ll hinder our work flow- I’m very sorry about walking out like that-“ It had to be done. He had to make the best impression on them if was going to be considered at all. He couldn’t smile and make doe eyes like him, but at the very least, he could be sincere if he tried. The producer looked at him with kind eyes, but cancelled out the gesture in a rather assertive tone, “Bakugou- we expect great things from you- and we also expect that you’ll be professional about keeping your emotions appropriate to the work setting-“ He sighed before continuing to sip on his coffee. “We’re not exactly sure what kind of arrangement we have for you, but only time and working together will tell-“ Before he could contain himself, he was speaking, “So another round of testing? That’s when you’ll decide you want me in the company?” The choreographer was listening before, but now he grinned wide. “This fish is ready to jump ah- PD?” He laughed and slapped the man on his shoulder. PD looked at Katsuki again, and spoke in a measured tone. “You’re assuming you’ll get the spot and nobody else? Isn’t that a little too confident- even if you are talented, that isn’t something we like in this company-“ At that, the blond fixed his scarlet gaze on his, his eyes hard like steel.  “Sir- respectfully- I know I’ve worked hard enough to get in- I know I’ll work harder than anybody here to make you see that- I will show you why I deserve this job-“ He took a deep breath and bowed low. When he straightened up, he saw that PD was smiling- a small, knowing look on his face. “I look forward to that Katsuki-“ Bakugou breathed a sigh of relief before taking a cup of coffee himself. He needed his nerves to settle already. “But to be completely honest? Since you do seem to want that from me-“, the producer smiled some more before sprinkling some sweetener in his cup, “Midoriya seems to be showing us why he deserves this job- maybe you ought to ask him for tips-“ Katsuki breathed in sharply and directed his glare at the door, willing the green haired wonder to walk in.

But Midoriya was already in a bus on his way home- to his own shitty little apartment. He just had to get this job- even if he had to fight that pretty blond for it. Izuku sighed, his breath fogged up the window as he looked out into the streets passing by him. He chuckled to himself. This Bakugou person had tried hard to make an enemy out of him- but it didn’t work. Izuku knew a good man when he saw one. This one just seemed to want to push people away- even if he was harmless. Well- maybe he’d scratch a little.. like a cat. “Katsuki- Katsuki-chan – Katchan “, the greenet mumbled to himself as he settled his head down on his bunched-up scarf. A three-hour long bus ride called for a nap after all. Izuku smiled suddenly, a pinkness in his cheeks. “Kacchan..”

[21stcenturyhope]

BTS Imagine // Royalty!AU with Taehyung

Kim Taehyung

summary: your husband felt trapped in a loveless marriage but you would give up all your worldly possessions to change his mind

genre: slight angst, fluff ending

length: 2k words

other members:  Jin | Yoongi | Hoseok | Namjoon | Jimin | Jungkook

It was no secret how your husband really felt about you.

The only child of a prominent nobleman, your parents had secured you a marriage to the youngest of three princes. You had known from the start that this was no love match but you had hoped that you and your husband would grow to love each other as your parents had done.

But your husband, Kim Taehyung, seemed to hate you with every fibre in his body.

At first, you believed Taehyung felt trapped by your arrangement and that he was resentful towards you for taking away his freedom. But as he continued to show his distaste, his behaviour clearly demonstrated that his detest for you ran deeper than you could ever imagine.

Taehyung was never one to hide his thoughts and feelings. You knew he believed you were vain, spoiled and uncultured. You were hurt that he thought so little of you without giving you a chance to get to know each other.

But what hurt most were the nights he came to your chambers, clearly intoxicated.

On those nights, he whispered such beautiful words into your ears as his hands softly caressed your body. You knew his words held no sincerity but you were desperate to feel some form of affection from the man who you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with. So, you continued to let him into your bed, falling for his deceitful touch and hoping that maybe this time he would finally change his mind about you.

It was only when you woke up the next morning to an empty bed yet again that you allowed the tears to fall.

~

“You need to start treating your Y/N better, Taehyung.”

Taehyung was currently playing a game of chess with Namjoon in his private study. The two had settled into a peaceful silence when Namjoon suddenly spoke up. Taehyung was shocked at his older brother’s outburst.

“Our parents didn’t raise you this way. And I can see that this is starting to weigh heavily on Seokjin’s mind. He has enough stress with ruling the kingdom, Taehyung. Will you really add your own personal problems to hyung’s plate?”

“It’s exactly because of how our parents raised us that I behave this way, hyung! I can’t help myself. Every time I see Y/N’s face, I become so livid. Y/N was spoiled as a child and her vanity seems to be unending.”

“What makes you think that, Taehyung? Because you and I seem to know two very different Y/Ns.”

“I know she’s constantly asking Seokjin hyung to increase her monthly allowance. Do you know what she spends it on? Every time she returns from the market, she’s spent nearly all of her money. She buys so many clothes yet I only see her wearing the same few dresses. She buys so many hand-crafted instruments yet I have never heard her play one song. I thought that maybe she was well-educated with all the books she purchases but I have never seen her with a book in hand. She spends too frivolously.”

Namjoon let out a bitter laugh at Taehyung’s revelations.

“Do you have such little faith in our older brother, Taehyung? Do you think he would be so reckless to continue increasing Y/N’s allowance if she really were such a frivolous spender? You know as well as I do that Seokjin hyung takes his responsibility towards the kingdom very seriously.

Let me leave you with one last piece of advice, Taehyung. Speak to your wife and ask her where she really spends her money. Do it before you lose Y/N.”  

Reaching over the chessboard, Namjoon moved his Queen to knock over Taehyung’s King.

“Checkmate.”

~

You nervously clenched the fabric of your dress underneath the table as you dined with your brother-in-law and his wife.

You had met Seokjin shortly after he had become king after the untimely death of his parents. Your father was a very trusted advisor to the late king and Seokjin had come to seek your hand for his youngest brother. Unlike their youngest brother, you got along splendidly with your brothers-in-law and you had come to love them like family.

Seokjin had been especially excited to finally have a little sister and he tended to overindulge you. You often had radical ideas which you were surprised to find out he fully supported, both morally and financially. The two of you grew close and you knew that you could ask him for anything.

Tonight, you had asked to dine with him and your sister-in-law, Hye Na, privately.

“Your Majesty?”

“Y/N, how many times do I have to tell you? We can drop the formalities when there’s no one around. Just call me oppa.”

“Oppa… do you remember the promise you made me a year ago?”

“What promise?” Hye Na was confused but judging by the way Seokjin stiffened, he remembered exactly what promise you were speaking of.

“Last year… last year, you promised me that things between Taehyung and I would change. And that if they didn’t, you would finally grant me an annulment.”

“And tell me, Y/N, where would you go if I did grant you an annulment? Do you think everyone would be so accepting of your situation? That your life would be so easy?”

You could tell by his tone of voice that Seokjin was getting angry but you didn’t take it personally or let it deter you.

“My father left behind a small property in the countryside for me. It will be nice to have a change of pace.”

“I promised your father before he passed away that I would take care of you, Y/N!”

Hye Na grabbed Seokjin’s hand in hers, trying to soothe his anger as his voice cracked.

“Oppa, please don’t worry for me any longer. You have a whole kingdom to take care of. I can take care of myself.”  

“Y/N, can you try giving Taehyung a little more time? You know he’s stubborn but I really do think he’ll start coming around.” Hye Na spoke up as her husband tried to gather his thoughts.

“I don’t know how much time I have left to give him…” you trailed off.

“Just until the end of the year. And if he still hasn’t changed by then, I promise you that I will do everything in my power to get my equally as stubborn husband to grant you the annulment.”

“Really?” You looked over at Seokjin, doubtful he would agree to such terms. Finally, he let out a defeated sigh and reached over to pat your hand comfortingly.

“I just want you to be happy, Y/N, even if it means you need to leave. I’ll agree to these terms. Just don’t be in such a rush to leave oppa behind, okay?”

~

The truth was, Taehyung was drawn to you from the moment he met you. But the timing was terrible and his judgement was clouded by grief after the death of his parents. He wanted nothing to do with you, only wanting to wallow in his own misery.

Pained and afraid to open up his heart again, it was easy for him to assume the worst of you. It was at his lowest points when he was completely drunk that he allowed his true feelings to surface. He craved your touch and your attention which seemed to fill the void inside him that his grief had left behind.

He knew that Namjoon’s words were reasonable; he had always been the wisest brother of the three. And so, Taehyung finally squashed his pride and approached you.

“May I accompany you to the market today?”

You were speechless, to say the least. Not once in your entire marriage had Taehyung ever shown interest in spending time with you outside of your chambers, completely sober. You could only nod and allow him to escort you to the awaiting carriage.

You tried not to let your husband’s presence affect your routine. You made the usual stops at the stores you frequented. Stopping first at the tailor’s, you picked up a chest of clothing that you had ordered ahead of time. Your next stop was the bookstore where your packages were already waiting, neatly wrapped up. Stopping at the bakery, you also picked up several dozen sweet treats.

The whole time, Taehyung wordlessly followed you from store to store, only speaking to greet the shop owners and citizens passing by.

“Your Highness?” It felt too uncomfortable to address your husband so intimately by name in broad daylight. “Should I have the carriage escort you back to the palace first? I have one last place to visit before I return.”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

You informed the coachman to continue on to your last destination. When the carriage finally stopped, Taehyung was astounded to see that you had arrived at the orphanage. You had already exited the carriage yourself, too excited to wait for the coachman to give you a helping hand. Hoards of children ran out the front door to greet you excitedly, almost as if they had been waiting for your arrival.

“Your Highness! You’re here!”

“I’m so happy to see you again, Princess Y/N!”

The children all clamoured towards you, their giggles echoing through the front yard as they eagerly waited to be on the receiving end of your hugs. They were clearly on very familiar terms with you.

“Settle down, settle down!” You laughed, a bright smile lighting up your entire face. “Or else I can’t give you your presents!”

You gestured for the driver to bring out all the packages you had picked up earlier in the day as the children lined up obediently. You began to hand out the gifts according to what each child has asked for the last time you had visited.

“A new dress for Ye Seo’s doll… let’s see, a new calligraphy book for our studious Soobin…”

As you turned around to reach behind you for the next gift, you felt a small tug at your hand.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Your Highness,” the cute little girl pointed towards the carriage. “Who’s that?”

You had completely forgotten that Taehyung had accompanied you today. Hearing the child’s question, Taehyung came next to you in a few quick strides. Bending down so that he was eye-level with her, Taehyung answered her question.

“I’m her Prince Charming,” he winked.

All the children oohed and giggled at his remark causing your face to flush completely red.

“Alright,” Taehyung called out while grabbing the box of desserts from behind you. “Who would like some cake?”

He was instantly smothered by a hoard of children.

~

After a well-spent afternoon playing with the children, you and Taehyung were finally on your way back to the palace. No words had been exchanged so far as you and your husband silently sat side by side. Without a warning, Taehyung reached for your hand and brought it up to his lips.

“Y/N, words cannot describe how painfully sorry I am to you for misunderstanding you this whole time. I am going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you. You’ve shown me today what a caring and beautiful individual you are. I cannot believe how blind I was to have never seen this before.”

Tears filled your eyes and disbelief flooded your thoughts. Was this really happening? Was this really the moment you had been dreaming of all those lonely nights? It seemed like your husband was finally ready to open his heart and give your marriage a chance.

“Will you give me a chance to be a better husband, Y/N?”

Finally letting go of all self-restrain, you eagerly nodded before flinging your arms around Taehyung’s neck and pulling him in for a long-awaited kiss.

~

A year later, you and Taehyung announced that you were expecting your first child.

Seokjin and Namjoon silently exchanged smirks. The eldest was grateful for the well-timed lecture that finally brought Taehyung to his senses and keeping you in the family.

[prorevenge]

Racist mom tries to bribe son to dump me, I gain power over everything she cares about.

This is gonna be a LONG post lol, may have gotten exact timing sequences out of order.

Met a guy that we had mutual friends with and invited him to hang out with my friends and do fun stuff. Later learned he was not even allowed to hang out with my crowd cuz his mother was the very strict and hypocritical sort who thought everyone else was inferior to her precious kids. Guy was telling them he was doing work or something. Eventually he told them he wanted to date me and they flipped. The dad doesn’t have much say in the house and the mom (EM) was livid.

You know how Amish people don’t like rock and “sinful” music? Or females that wear shorts and tanks? Yuuup basically her. She went through my social medias and literally compiled and printed out giant lists of every country song I’d ever posted or concert I’d been to or clothing she thought was too provocative along and gave it to the pastors at both of our churches. EP called MY mom at 2am a couple times to rant and rave about “how could she let her daughter do such sinful things and flirt with boys yada yada yada”. She made racist remarks to Guy (I’m a super cute half Asian half messican, and all of his family is pale white golden haired angels) and even asked him if I’d molested him (I’m 5’ 2” and he’s literally a foot taller than me) and if that’s why he wanted to date and marry me. He was still at home and they went on a family trip to Colorado. Or as it turned out to be an exorcism style prayer meeting over Guy because EM just knows there must be a demon or something wrong with him. Oh and this was only within a span of a few months while he saved up to move the hell out.

Nope not over yet. EM then was harassing his work, his new church pastors (mine), his friends, got one of his business partners to leave him with lies that Guy is “bipolar” and “Schizophrenic”, thankfully most of the people had our back and we had some good laughs over what outrageous things they told us. Even driving an hour and a half to his apartment (I know dumb move to let them know where he moved to), in the middle of the night a couple times to harass and berate him and blubber about how everyone would judge her and how her reputation was going to suffer and church standing, she even dragged his two younger siblings into it all and told him they were heartbroken that he moved out and all the reasons he needed to move back home. Cue even more fun, one night he was just done so when they showed up to again try and bully him into moving back home or at least dumping me, he just up and left. Got in his mini and drove away. AND THEY FOLLOWED HIM. Unbelievable right? He used to race his mini so he lost them pretty quickly and booked it over to where I lived and spent the night there. I know, why not call the cops right? Well there was no physical damage or threats thereof. Yes she’s been verbally and borderline physically abusive to him growing up, think patriarchy super conservatives but it’s a matriarchy. At one point EM asked Guy what it would take for him to dump me, what amount of money could she pay him (Guys dad makes buttloads of moola, yeah those kind of people) to get me out of his life and for him to move back home. SHE TRIED TO BRIBE HIM TO LEAVE ME. She’d threatened to disown him and all the typical rich EP stuff before and knew he didn’t care. EM even called all his guy friends and asked if Guy has ever had any “homosexual” tendencies etc. Next month Guy proposed, and EM was SO MAD that she heard about it for the first time from a mutual friend congratulating her on the upcoming wedding! So of course she calls all the pastors and REEEEs about how we’ve been living in sin (kicker, we hadn’t even done the dirty dance but she didn’t bother asking) and telling everyone that they shouldn’t attend the wedding etc. Yea call us prudes :p EM also printed out all the reasons why I wasn’t good enough for her son and handed those out like candy to church leaders. Then when that had no effect she switched tactics and did the same thing with all her reasons why he was immature and shouldn’t get married and should move back home and be parented. Still no effect, except my dad at a huge meeting where she tried to distribute those, gathered them all back up and handed them to her and told her to stop slandering us and said how ungodly that was. And she stood there baffled and all the other people present agreed with my dad and told her to put those papers away. EMs exact words “but but I thought the very reason everyone is here is to show Guy why he needs to leave that girl and move back home!” I couldn’t help a giggle and a few other people couldn’t either. That meeting is a whole nother story, it was hilarious.

Where is the revenge you ask? Well all that was just the tip of the iceberg of course, but the revenge has been pretty simple. Spend a few obvious nights (SLEEPING ONLY) at his place, just to trigger her, but ofc our pastors and friends knew we’d committed to abstinence our entire lives up to the wedding (hella yea wedding night was killer) and other things like that to get under her skin but nothing that anyone else thought was bad. Very publicly plan and execute a HUGE wedding (over 500 people) and tell everyone about how our relationship is so beautiful and holy and how Gods destiny brought us together yada yada. She made a couple extra hoops for our pastors but we jumped through them with flying colors and everyone except her thought we were the cutest most Christian kosher thing. So basically to save face she had to fake smile and accept all the congratulations and be secretly embarrassed that we didn’t invite her to the wedding showers (she said she never wanted to see me and wouldn’t go to the wedding) and made excuses as to why she hadn’t gone, EM couldn’t tell her friends that we hadn’t invited her now could she? She went after the best man too and he almost decided against being the best man she was such a hassle and he was a pushover, but I told him the best passive way to deal with her is tell her that he wants to be there for his friend and how could she argue with that? She didn’t. But of course, what’s better than forcing her to attend the wedding but not allowing her to ruin it? Extremely petty I know, but I’m a drama llama and have enjoyed 98% of all this. I of course get ahold of EMs own mom and get to know her and she’s very sweet and loves me to death, along with Guys siblings and his dad, as many of EMs own friends and their families etc. So everyone loves me and when we invite them all to the wedding, they strong arm her into coming. I have my cop friends who have been having a heyday hearing about all this drama coming in for the wedding, one of them I make my MC so if she tried anything, not only would they take care of her swiftly, but she would also deeply embarrass herself because there was no denying that there were 500+ people there who loved Guy and I, including a lot of her friends. The ceremony was great, went off without a hitch, oh wait... I am not a bridezilla so if anything went wrong it was fine and the drama was cracking me up, I was a little disappointed she didn’t try anything drastic, but I could see on her face the entire time that EMs smile was sooo fake, and I got reports that she was seen crying outside later. Watching people congratulate her was priceless. When my own friends congratulated her a few of them later told me that she seemed surprised that I had any “respectable” friends (her literal words) who thought well of me. And no I’d arranged her to be only in one photo so she couldn’t ruin any others.

Oh and our wedding day was only the 3rd time she’d ever set eyes on me. She was against me from the start for almost a year without ever having spoken a word or ever seen me in person. Take that EM. To this day I have no idea what was her real beef with me. Happy ending: now that I provided the first grandkids, to my chagrin they’re like baby Targaryens they’re so white, and of course she’s too “young” to be a grandma so she’s called “nana”, but we laid down ground rules and she knows we will ostracize her at the drop of a hat, and she has kissed butt so hard and to her credit done her best to mend everything without ever really actually mentioning any of it. It’s great. We have holidays and fun visits in between and she showers us with super expensive gifts and will drop everything possible to help if we need anything. I think we’re friends now. One day I think she might bring it all up and try and play the victim, idk, but she’ll be hit with a carefully detailed account of everything that went down, in case her memory “fails” her. I can forgive but I’ll never forget, after all, I got my delicious revenge. Power over everything she holds dear and the evidence to expose whatever she hasn’t already done by her own dumb self and absolutely ruin her reputation and community and church standing. I feel really good right now

TLDR entitles mom wants to be petty about me dating her son so I take petty to another universe levels and crush her with epicc facts and logic and hold all the cards to ruin her life now

(source) story by (/u/cyborgurl)

[panda-noosh]

Melody {Songwriter!Pidge x Reader}

  Words: 7k

  Genre: fluff – songwriter!pidge

  Summary: You come to Pidge's music shop every day and play the piano. Pidge knows she should kick you out since you never actually buy anything, but she instead finds herself listening to the sweet tunes you provide for her. One day, you ask her to help you with lyric writing, and she finds herself unable to refuse.

  Notes: masterlist – pidge!

---

    Pidge heard the notes ringing through the shop, and her eyes immediately closed.

   You were here again.

   The pen went still in her hand, the lyric book in front of her going discarded as she lost herself to the soft symphony you had decided to play today. A beautiful sound, one that made a shiver course down Pidge's spine, one that made her heart feel heavy, made her almost want to cry-

   She slammed her pen down on the desk and groaned, causing Lance to flinch behind her. “She's here again!”

    Lance placed a hand over his chest, ignoring the un-tuned guitar in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Pidge. Would you warn me next time?”

   “This is getting ridiculous,” the smaller girl growled, standing up from behind the desk and leaning over it to get a better look at the culprit – you. The girl who had the nerve to walk in every day and play a little tune on the grand piano which you knew damn well you shouldn't have been touching – it was for sale. Sure, testing it out was all well and good, but coming in everyday for the past three weeks to simply play a tune and leave was simply milking it.

    “Oh, leave her be,” Lance scoffed, swatting the back of Pidge's hair as a signal for her to sit down. “Until Sam walks in and hears her, we don't have to spoil her fun.”

   “Her fun?” Pidge exclaimed. “She walks in here everyday, plays a little jig for us and then leaves. I don't think she's spent a penny in here since the first time she walked in.”

   “She bought a water off me one time.”

   Pidge snarled, slumping back down in her chair and folding her arms over her chest – whenever her father returned from his business trip and saw the behaviour Lance and herself were ignoring, he would be livid. There was a strict rule against people using the instruments for their own personal reasons. They needed to buy something, or else they were just taking up space.

   And yet Pidge was doing absolutely nothing about it.

   She watched you. Her lyric book lay sprawled out in front of her, the unfinished songs glaring at her. She wanted to finish them, had the lyrics ready in her mind, but whenever you started playing your songs, the words failed her. Her attention was no longer on the songs she had planned to create, but on the tune that was flowing through the music shop.

     Lance chuckled at the pout on Pidge's face, going back to idly tuning the guitar he had been working on for the past ten minutes. “You can't tell me you don't like her sound. She's good at what she does.”

   “Doesn't change the fact that my dad's going to kill me when he finds out we're letting her get away with this.”

   “Sam isn't an asshole,” Lance assured. “He might listen to what she's playing and decide to offer her a job or something like that.”

   Pidge highly doubted such a thing would happen. Her father loved music, yes, but he also needed to pay rent. He also had a family of four to feed and shelter, clothes to buy, a music shop to keep open; people who walked in and expected free use of the instruments were people she knew he would not take too kindly to.

   “Maybe the two of you should collab,” Lance said suddenly.

   Pidge's head whipped around to look at him. She expected him to be grinning, some proof on his face that he had been joking, but his expression had barely shifted from what it was when she had last looked at him – his eyes glaring down the pegs of his guitar, his tongue peaking out of his mouth with concentration.

    “Collab?” she parroted. “What do you even-”

   “You know,” he cut her off, motioning towards her open lyrics book. She slammed it closed. “You give her a song and then she does the melody to it. You sit here and write all these lyrics, but they never actually go anywhere. Maybe she'll be the perfect person to join up with to make something out of whatever it is you spend hours writing.”

    Pidge flushed, looking away from Lance and back towards you. You had stopped playing, were merely tracing your fingertips over the keys with that lazy smile on your face, as if appreciating the feel of them. It was no secret that you loved music – anyone with eyes and ears would be able to pick up on that much. It didn't change the fact that you were breaking the rules, but perhaps that was why Pidge was yet to do anything about it – she enjoyed listening to the tunes you played, and she had never denied that to herself. She knew you were good – beyond good. For the age you looked to be, you certainly played exceptionally well, and there was no point in trying to deny that.

   But would your style really work with the style Pidge worked with?

   Pidge liked complex. She liked lyrics that spoke volumes all on their own, liked abstract wording and hidden messages to be sprinkled upon her creations, leaving her readers – or her listeners, if she ever decided to actually make a song out of any of them – wondering what was going through her head during the time of writing such meaningful things.

   You played slower songs. At least, that was all Pidge had heard during the three weeks you had been playing in the shop.

   She frowned to herself, wondering why she was even contemplating such a thing in the first place. There was no point in getting herself worked up over a suggestion Lance had made – Lance didn't know what he was talking about. He was a vocal coach, for crying out loud. He wouldn't know production if it hit him in the face and yelled at him.

   And once again, Pidge had to forcefully remind herself that you were breaking the rules, and this streak of playing on the piano everyday with no intention of buying it was going to have to come to an end eventually – sooner rather than later.

   ---

   The words weren't sounding right, and it was bothering you.

   How could nothing – not a single sentence in the English language sound right going against the melody you had been working on? How had you been sitting in your room for hours on end trying to come up with something that would work with your melody, and come up with nothing more than a million or so crumbled up pieces of paper thrown to the side?

   How?

   How did anyone write lyrics? You had only been dipping your toes in, trying to make more out of the music you were creating, and you were already on the verge of ripping every strand of hair from your head.

   You groaned to yourself, destroying yet another piece of paper and tossing it behind your shoulder, hoping and praying that the words you had just written would never be read by another human being. You weren't sure you could cope with the embarrassment of somebody else witnessing your failed attempts at pouring your heart out.

   You did that through music, through melody. You let out your emotions by playing the piano, strumming the strings of a guitar – it soothed you, calmed you down. But you wanted to be able to go the full way. You wanted to be able to write lyrics, add them to the melodies you worked so hard to create, but it was seeming more and more like an impossible task the longer you kept to it.

   Perhaps you just weren't meant for lyric writing, which was a sad thought for somebody who wanted nothing more than to make music. Perhaps you were just made for the piano, and that was as far as your musical ability would ever go. Some days, you couldn't even do that properly. You couldn't afford a piano of your own, meaning you were left to use the music shops piano – it wouldn't be long until they kicked you out, though.

   You had heard their whisperings – especially the girl. She always sounded angry, complaining about how you never spent a penny, about how she couldn't believe the nerve of you for thinking you could waltz in and use the instruments for free whenever everybody else was demanded to pay.

   The first time you had heard the complaining, you were half tempted to get up and scatter, perhaps leave a polite apology letter in your wake just to let them know that milking them out of money was not your intention, and you didn't see yourself as some overly-privilaged human being who had a right to free instruments when everybody else didn't – you just truly couldn't afford it, and the only way to practise your hand at your own passion was by using their equipment.

   But you had decided to wait it out for the time being. You continued playing, expecting for somebody to tap you on your shoulder and scold you at any given moment, but that moment never came.

   And you weren't sure why, but you risked it the next day, as well. You came back, expected to be told off, but the scolding never came. And then the next day, and then the next, and then the next, until it got to the point where the man who also sat behind the counter was complimenting you as you left.

   The girl never spoke to you. She sometimes even glared at you, her brown eyes shooting daggers at you as you left the building with nothing but your bag on your back – having not spent a penny, yet again.

   Of course, a part of you felt bad. You felt as if you were scamming them, almost, but you didn't want to leave. You had nowhere else to practise, and if you couldn't play the piano, then how on earth were you going to make a living off of making music? Especially whenever the task of writing lyrics was already difficult enough.

   You sighed and leaned back in your desk chair. It creaked beneath you – it was getting old, and you most definitely needed a new one, but that was something you also couldn't afford. There were a lot of things you couldn't afford.

   That was just how things were nowadays. You wouldn't get yourself worked up over them; you were scraping by, and that was all that mattered.

   With that thought in mind, you inhaled deeply, leaned forward, took another piece of blank paper from the stack, and continued on trying to write the lyrics to the abandoned melody.

   ---

   “Okay, I think I've finally figured it out,” Lance said, storming up to Pidge as she ate her lunch at the front desk.

   She looked up, mayonnaise pooling out of the corner of her mouth that she dabbed with a napkin. Lance seemed ecstatic, though that was nothing new. He approached her in quick, large steps, one headphone dangling from his ear and his iPod in the other.

   “Are you not meant to be working with a student right now?” Pidge asked.

   Lance shook his head, not once looking up from the iPod in his hand. “That's not important. We have all day,” he replied. “Listen to this.”

   Before Pidge could object, Lance had yanked his headphones out of his iPod, and a soft melody began to play – one that reminded Pidge of the song you played.

    She raised a brow, listening intently. Pidge was aware that Lance's curiosity over what it was you had been playing for all these weeks had been gnawing at him to the point where he was spending his lunch break searching for the song in question, and for the past three weeks, he had come up short.

   “Close,” Pidge said, nodding. “But it's definitely not the same.” And it wasn't. She wasn't just saying that to dishearten her friend – she had been listening to the same melody for the past three weeks, and although the tune Lance had just showed her definitely had similar elements, the creation you played was different. It was unique, unlike anything Pidge had ever heard before.

    Lance groaned, throwing his head back. “Are you serious? Listen to it again.” He replayed the song. “These parts are almost identical! Just listen!”

   “I am listening,” Pidge hissed, swatting his overexcited demeanour away. “They don't sound identical. Listen to what she plays when she comes back in and you'll see that they're two completely different songs.”

  Lance grumbled, plugging his headphones back in. “I give up then. She must be making some kind of original song – yet another reason for you to slide in and get her to hook you up with one of her melodies. One that would suit your lyrics.”

   “Can you stop bringing that up?” Pidge grumbled, flushing once again. “Me and her are not making a song together. I don't even know her name. I wouldn't even class her as a customer.”

   “Bit harsh.”

   “She isn't! She comes in here and plays the piano for free – well, I've had enough of it. I'm not putting my entire job on the line just so she can get her daily practising in. It's not worth it, and it's about time somebody put their foot down.”

   Lance rolled his eyes, an amused smirk pulling onto his features. “Look at you. The three-feet-tall menace.”

   “If you say that one more time-”

   Pidge's words were cut off by the sound of the bell tingling over the door. Her eyes shot towards the opening door, her stomach curling at the sight of you walking in, hair drenched with the rain pelting outside. You glanced in Lance and Pidge's direction, and Lance was decent enough to give you a small smile and a nod, leaning over the desk as if prepared to hold Pidge back if things went south.

   Pidge simply watched you. You stamped your feet against the rug, clearing them of any dirt before you hauled your bag further up your shoulders and made your way over to the far side of the shop – the place you seemed to have claimed as your own over the past three weeks.

   Lance turned back to Pidge, a small smile still on his face. “Well, Big Bad Boss. You gonna go over there and tell her off?”

   Pidge opened her mouth to say yes – she should have. As an employee, as the daughter of the man who owned this place, she should have been walking over to you and telling you to stop, perhaps even scolded you for how often you had come in here and done this very thing, even though you knew you shouldn't have. It was common knowledge that you weren't supposed to play the instruments before you had bought them.

   And yet her words fell short, sinking back into her throat as the sound of your humble, soft tune started playing again. Such a smooth melody, oddly quiet for the instrument it was being presented on. The notes ran through Pidge's body, sending goosebumps to track up her arms, and she hated it. She hated that your skills were able to make her pause, that she wanted to hear more from you so badly that she was willing to put her entire career on the line just to let you play on.

   Lance chuckled, noticing Pidge's change in demeanour.

   Pidge scowled, shoving her co-workers arm. “I will. I'll get her to stop – eventually. Let me just – let me just finish my sandwich first.”

   Lance continued to laugh. “Right. I see you like dinner and a show?”

   “Go to hell.”

   Lance's laughter was heard even over the sound of your piano playing, and Pidge had the sudden urge to tell her friend to be quiet just so she could enjoy the soft melody being conducted by your fingertips.

   ---

   Todays practise lasted a little bit longer than you had originally expected it to.

   It had been raining outside, meaning you were in absolutely no rush to be leaving the warmth of the small shop you had cooped yourself up in. Also, the melody you had been creating was being perfected, and it had never sounded better to you than it did today; you often did this. Lost yourself in the notes, lost track of time until somebody was genuinely having to drag you away from the instrument just to get you to come back to the real world.

   The tune was finally becoming something, and you could hear it straightening itself out. The tweaks that had been bothering you for weeks now finally seemed to be flattening, sinking into the song until everything was beginning to sound smooth.

   It gave you goosebumps. That feeling whenever everything was beginning to fall into place, when weeks of hard work seemed to be finally going somewhere – god it was the best feeling in the world, and you basked in it. You lived for it, grinning to yourself even though you were aware of the people around you staring at you as if you were demented, no doubt wondering what you were doing that was making you this joyous.

   They didn't know how long you had been slaving over these notes for. They didn't know how many tears you had shed, how many times you had curled up in bed and told yourself you weren't good enough just because this one part of the song wasn't adding up with everything else – the notes weren't right, the tempo was off and you had no idea how to slot it in to make it look natural.

   But today, things had been working out, and time was no longer a worry for you.

   You looked up after what only felt like five minutes, was startled to see the street lights outside flashing on, the sky going a navy blue. It wouldn't be long until the shop was closing – had you been here all day? You had arrived at lunch – it had been daylight when you sat down, and you were fairly certain it should have been daylight now.

   You frowned to yourself, glancing over at the clock which hung on the far wall – 5:00pm. You had nearly been here for five hours, and not one person had thought to tell you off.

   You nearly choked, standing up so fast that the stool you were sitting on toppled. You grabbed for it, aware of the eyes on you, no doubt people judging you for the mess you were surely looking like in this moment. You didn't care.

   Five hours. Sure, you knew you had been in the zone, but that was ridiculous, even for you. Your parents would be worrying. You had told them you would only be gone for a few hours.

    You grabbed your bag, hauled it onto your bag and made for the exit, refusing to look at the woman behind the desk as you did so – she didn't like you very much. You had caught on to that attitude long ago.

    You reached out, inches away from the door handle -

   “Ma'am?”

   The voice stopped you. Your head snapped around, half expecting the woman to have been speaking to somebody else, but her brown eyes were trained firmly on you.

   You froze, mouth opening. All you could do was point at yourself, asking for confirmation that it was, indeed, you she was addressing.

   She nodded. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

   Your stomach reeled. Oh God, here it was. This was the moment you knew would be inevitable eventually – you were going to be told you weren't allowed back here. Spending five hours seated in the shop without buying anything had been the final straw, and you couldn't blame them for kicking you out, telling you to never return. It was obvious you could afford very little from this place. It was obvious you didn't come here with the intention of buying stuff.

   Slowly, you pulled away from the door and approached the front desk. The lady behind it was short, her brown hair flicking out around her head with large spectacles covering those brown eyes of hers that were gazing at you now with an odd sense of sternness. It was the type of stern that looked like it was forced – she was only looking at you in this way because she believed she had to be, because it was her job to look intimidating whilst telling off a customer.

    “Yes?” you croaked out.

    “I couldn't help but notice that you seem to have taken an interest in that grand piano over there,” the girl said, nodding towards the very piano you had just evacuated in a hurry.

   You nodded in reply, swallowing your nerves.

  The girl continued. “I don't want to be the spoiler of your fun, but that piano is four hundred dollars and will be very, very expensive to replace. We would appreciate it if you could refrain from playing it whilst it's still on sale.”

   You had expected this, but it still didn't stop your face from paling or your hands from clenching at your sides. The girl almost seemed to sound guilty at the scolding she was giving to you – as if she didn't want to tell you to stop. It was a warm thought, but one you were aware was most likely far-fetched – she probably hated you. She probably thought you were trying to squeeze her of money, trying to get some special treatment.

    You nodded slowly. It was the only thing you really could do. Words were failing you. You wouldn't be able to play the piano – after finally figuring out the tweaks to your melody, you were now being denied access to an instrument to play it on.

    You weren't entirely sure why you felt like crying.

   The girl noticed your obvious distress, as her brown eyes widened. She leaned forward, and it was then that your own eyes flicked down to the desk. Sprawled out in front of her was a leather bound, beat-up notebook, the page opened to reveal prettily written poetry-

   No, not poetry.

   Lyrics.

   Song lyrics. The very thing you had been trying to work on for the past three weeks, the very thing you couldn't seem to latch onto.

    Your eyes bulged out of your head, and you weren't entirely sure where the sudden burst of confidence came from, but it slammed into your chest at a million miles per hour and you were suddenly lurching forward, pointing at the page in front of you.

   The girls eyes widened at your sudden movements. “What? What is it?”

   “You write lyrics?” you said.

   The girl flushed, immediately slamming closed the leather bound book and tucking it under the desk. “I don't – They're not that good. Nothing special. Now, do you understand what I was telling you earlier?”

    “Do you think I could read some?” you asked, knowing full well you were overstepping your boundaries with this woman, but your interest had been peaked. You had been coming here for three weeks, and not once did you realise that the girl who had been complaining about your presence the entire time was actually a lyricist.

   You wondered if she was good at them, if that leather-bound notebook held words that would suit the melody she had been playing.

    The girl reeled back. “No! They're personal.”

   “Even better!” you exclaimed, excitement bubbling in your veins. “I've been trying to write lyrics for weeks now, but that's not exactly where my expertise lie.”

   “Do your expertise lie in illegally using a piano at your local music shop?”

   You winced, feeling that familiar feeling of your stomach reeling once again. You shoved it down, clenched your fists at your side. “I'm sorry about that. I'll stop. I didn't realise it was that bad.”  

   “Yeah, well, it is. Come back here tomorrow with four hundred dollars and we'll see what we can offer you, but until then, you need to stay away from it. You've played it enough times to know it works.”

    You frowned. I wish it were that easy. You wished you could just walk in those doors and pay up four hundred dollars, hand it over like it was nothing – but you couldn't, and you knew that.

   “Do you think-” You faltered, swallowing your nerves. If you couldn't play the piano, you could still make music another way. You could learn, and here you had a person who could very easily be the teacher you so desperately needed. “Do you think if I came back tomorrow, you could help me with my own lyric writing?”

    It was such a long shot, and you knew that. God, you knew that, but you were desperate. You didn't want to let go of music – music was your everything. Music was the reason you smiled, the reason why you woke up in the morning with an ounce of passion that could drive you throughout the day. Letting go of that would be like cutting off a limb. You had to have some attachment to music, and if it wasn't through the piano, then lyric writing could be the next best thing for you.

   The girl narrowed her eyes at you, observing you for any sign of falsehoods, any sign that you were joking – you hadn't even read her work, and yet there you were, asking for her assistance. If this stranger couldn't pick up on your desperation by now, you weren't entirely sure how else to show her just how badly you wanted her to agree.

    Her throat bobbed. “My lunch break starts at 12. I'm sure I could give you an hour of my time if you really want it.”

    ---

   Pidge cursed herself. Over and over and over again as she paraded up and down the music shop at 11am the next day.

   Why had she agreed? What demon had possessed her to say yes to the offer you had given to her – it wasn't even an offer. She was gaining absolutely nothing from it – nothing but a wasted lunch break helping out a complete stranger with something she wasn't even sure she was qualified to teach.

   She had been stupid. First, she had let that girl – Y/N, she had later learned was her name – play the piano for five hours straight the previous day. Five hours! That was five hours of constant playing, of watching her get lost in the music, of genuinely watching somebody break the rules right in front of her. She could no longer use the excuse that she hadn't noticed you there – not when you had been sat right in front of her for five hours straight.

   Pidge had finally gained the courage to remind you of the rules, had felt pretty good about it, but then you had asked her about her lyrics, and she had cracked all over again.

   She had said yes. She had agreed, as if it you two had known each other your whole lives.

    “You're gonna put a dent in the floor if you keep pacing back and forth like that,” Lance called. He had been, once again, tuning the guitars all morning.

   “Maybe I can tell her I'm too busy to help her,” Pidge replied. “That's a good excuse, isn't it? The work load got too much so I can't free up my schedule to help her.”

   “You're gonna make her haul ass all the way over here just so you can send her back home because you're too nervous to help her out?” Lance scoffed. “Honestly, that's just cruel. Not the Pidge Gunderson I know.”

    Pidge groaned, well aware that Lance was right – he was always right.

   She had gotten herself into this mess, and she would have to make up for it. One hour with you would do no harm, and Lance would be in the back room anyway. If things got too awkward, or Pidge froze up, it wouldn't take much to signal for Lance to come and help her if need be.

   Right. She would be fine. Everything would be fine if she just let herself breathe.

   An hour passed in what felt like ten minutes.

   The bell above the door jingled, and you stepped inside. You shoved your hood off of your head, and for the first time in a month, you walked directly to the front desk instead of heading straight towards the grand piano. It was a pleasant feeling, and Pidge found herself nervously smiling as you stood before her.

   It was obvious you were also nervous, your smile wavering as you nodded a greeting to Lance before turning back to Pidge.

   “Sorry if I'm a little early. I'm eager.”

   And suddenly, Pidge didn't feel so nervous any more.

   ---

   Pidge sat beside you, a pen in her hand and her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She had just talked you through the structure of a song, had made you copy out the lyrics to famous, existing songs just so you could study the format a song possessed.

   Whenever Pidge had started writing lyrics, this had been the most boring part to her – the structure. She wanted to dive head first into the real stuff, wanted to start writing as soon as possible. That was what she fully expected to hear from you.

   But you seemed so absorbed in such a simple thing, your eyes widening as Pidge explained the reason behind a bridge, how many times a chorus worked, how you could make each verse link up to make one big message at the end of it all.

   And you had asked questions. Again, not something Pidge had expected. From the little conversation she had had with you, you didn't seem to be a confident person. You huddled beneath the hood of your coat for the majority of the time, responded to people with one word answers or simple nods of your head – yet here you were, asking question after question with genuine interest sparking on your features.

   It made Pidge feel oddly happy, and before she knew it, the hour was up and Lance was calling her back to the front desk, but she didn't want it to end. She wanted to sit beside you and discuss music for as long as possible, wanted to hear more about your experience with how you had handled music over the past few years – but time seemed to be against her, and sooner than she would have liked, you were exiting the shop.

   Having not once touched the piano.

   Lance eyed Pidge when she emerged from the back room after saying her goodbyes to you. He raised a brow, leaning over the counter with that stupid amused grin on his face that Pidge had very obvious expected to see as soon as she showed her face.

   “So, when am I gonna hear the song?” he asked, nudging Pidge with his hip.

   Pidge rolled her eyes, but the denial she had become so used to replying with didn't seem as natural any more. She found herself glancing out of the window, watching you exit from the front of the shop before you started jogging down the street.

    The shop seemed eerily quiet without the sound of your melody ringing off the walls.

   ---

   It was another two days before Pidge realised just how bad you were at writing lyrics.

   She must have picked up on it, you knew. There was no way in hell she could sit beside you now and read over what you had written and not realise just how awful you were at the task that was as easy as breathing to her.

   You held your breath as she read over your work. The paper rustled in her hand. You wanted her to rip it up. You wanted her to scrunch it up and throw it in the bin, just like you had done with every other piece of music you had made in the past – it only seemed right.

   But she read until the final line, and then she nodded and set the page down.

   “I definitely got a glimpse of the style you work in,” was all she said, and you felt like you had deflated.

   You sighed, slumping back in your chair after hesitantly tossing the pen onto the stack of pages in front of you. “I told you I was awful.”

   “You're not awful,” Pidge insisted. “Nobody is awful. You've got your main premise down in the first draft, and now we just have to tweak some things to make them work together. That's the easiest way to do it.”

   “What? I have to work in drafts?”

   “Most beginners have to go through multiple drafts before anything good can come out of their work,” she assured. “Is it not the same whenever you're working with the production side of things?”

   You shrugged. “It's not exactly drafting. I don't edit anything – I kind of just pick away at the main basis until things sound even.”

   Pidge frowned. “Is that what you were doing with the melody you were working on before?”

   You flushed – she had picked up on that? Sure, you were aware that it was impossible for her to not notice the music flooding through her shop, but you truly hadn't believed she had paid that much attention to any of it – she had been the one complaining. Part of you had truly believed she may have just popped her headphones in and blocked out the noise you were making.

    “I guess so,” you replied, shyly messing with your fingers. “I've been wanting to put lyrics to it for a while now, but I just can't get it right. Nothing is working. Nothing is-”

   “Wait.”

  You paused.

   “You want to put lyrics to the melody you were working on?”

  You turned to her and nodded slowly, unsure as to why she sounded so shocked right now.

   She gaped then, eyes widening. “If I'd have known that-” She hadn't even finished her sentence before she was grabbing for the pages upon pages of ideas the two of you had racked up over the last hour and scrunched them all up between her two hands.

   Your eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

  She tossed them into the bin, the ball of pages exploding, but she didn't care. She suddenly seemed ecstatic, a grin forming on her face that sparked with the creativity that was obviously raking through her entire body right now. You could only watch her in absolute shock, unsure of what to say or do, unsure as to why she was acting this way all of a sudden.

    She grabbed for another piece of paper off of the pile, placed her pen against it and started writing.

   You leaned over, but the words were covered by her arm. “What are you writing?”

  “Lyrics,” she replied. “If I'd have known you wanted to put lyrics to that specific melody, I would have shared my ideas immediately. I've been listening to you play that same tune for nearly a month now – I couldn't help but get some ideas as to what I think would fit with it.”

   Butterflies erupted in your stomach. You pushed them down at the same time you tried to hide your grin, placing your hand over your mouth and leaning back in your chair so you were no longer in Pidge's peripheral vision.

   The thought of somebody paying so much attention to your music that they even had an idea as to what lyrics they would put over it flattered you beyond words.

   In no time, Pidge was slapping her pen against the desk and sliding the sheet of paper over to you. You gawked at it – almost an entire song. Bits and pieces were missing, and she had left notes for herself such as 'Fix the chorus' and 'This verse is shit' but it was the skeleton of the song any way.

   She grinned at you, flashing a set of pearly whites. “Do you like it?”

   It was a love song. Far from what you had imagined, but it worked. It worked. It worked so damn well, and the excitement that ran through you in that moment felt almost paralysing. You couldn't stop the grin from forming on your features. You looked up at Pidge and nodded – words had failed you.

   Pidge smiled even brighter. “Then let's go and see what we can make of it. Let's go!”

   ---

   Pidge knew she was breaking the rules, but she no longer cared.

   Her creativity had been unleashed, and nothing was stopping her from hearing this song be played – absolutely nothing.

   She dragged you by the hand over to the piano she had previously banned you from using. You raised a brow at her, but she brushed you off and pushed you lightly on the bench in front of it before taking her seat beside you.

   She placed the lyrics in front of you, nudged your elbow. Words were not needed. You knew what she was asking, and she knew you were just as excited to hear this song form as she was.

   And so you started playing the melody Pidge had become so familiar with, and Pidge tapped her foot along to it. She nudged you whenever she wanted you to start singing, and it was then that everything seemed to click into place.

   It was a creatives thing. Whenever everything just seemed to click. It was a moment of adrenaline, a moment of bliss. For a writer, it could be when they hit the climax of a story and their fingers don't stop working on the keyboard until the early hours of the morning. For a musician, it could be the moment they hear their lyrics applied to a melody, sung by a beautiful voice for the first time – and it sounded perfect.

   The lyrics were off, and Pidge knew that. She was aware that she would go home tonight and slave over her desk for hours until the lyrics were perfected. But right now, hearing your voice sing to what little she had, Pidge was positive she had never felt happier.

   Her grin was giddy. She bounced her knee along to the soft tune, swaying her body back and forth as you sang – for such a shy person, you certainly didn't hold back when it came to singing. Whenever Pidge looked over at you, your eyes were trained purely on the lyric sheet in front of you, hands doing their own thing on the piano keys. You looked truly at bliss.

   You looked like a musician.

  The end of the song came, and the melody faded away, and Pidge had no words. She was stunned. She looked over at you, raised a brow in any attempt to pry some words from you just to fill in the silence that had settled, but you seemed to be just as stunned as her.

   It was Lance who spoke first, his words mingled with the sound of his clapping. “That. Was. Incredible.”

  ---

   You curled your knees into your chest, the TV playing in front of you. The volume was too low. You were too tired to reach forward and turn it up.

   You had spent yet another weekend at Pidge's house, this time meeting her family. You had been working on yet another song, and this was the third week in a row that you had been forced to spend the weekend at her home. Whenever that happened, it was rare the two of you got a lot of sleep, refusing to close your eyes until the songs you were working on were finished.

   You had gotten home only a day before, and you had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

   You could still hardly believe it had been a year since you and Pidge had partnered up together to create the music you were currently creating – could hardly believe that the girl who had once talked shit about you behind the desk at the music shop was now the girl who you were living out your dreams alongside.

  And sure, there may be more to it than that, but Pidge was unaware of any of those complications, and you didn't enjoy the thought of throwing a spanner in the system you two currently had going on just so you could feel a little less pressure on your shoulders – a stupid crush could be kept hidden if it meant your life wouldn't be completely ripped apart by confessing, because there was no way in hell Pidge would stay by your side if she knew how you felt about her.

   Your eyes were beginning to feel heavy when the knock sounded on the door.

   You grimaced, looking up past the covers you had pulled up just below your eyes. Perhaps if you just stayed silent they would go-

    Another fierce knock. “I know you're in there!” Pidge exclaimed. “Come out, come out, Y/N! I come bearing gifts!”

   You groaned loud enough for her to hear, just to let her know that you didn't particularly like the idea of getting out of bed. You heard her laughing as you approached the door and yanked it open, fully ready to scold her for being here whenever she knew full well you needed at least two days to recover from the work you had been doing.

   But the words died on your tongue when you saw what she had meant by 'come bearing gifts.'

   It was not an unknown fact between the two of you that you struggled with money. Since you and Pidge had partnered up, your financial situation had been a lot better, and you were stable. You were paying your rent with little worry, was even able to move out of your parents home. You could treat yourself now and then to the things you wanted, and it was a nice feeling.

   But you had never spent money on a piano. That was still too much – even for you in your most stable of circumstances.

   So it took everything in you not to completely break down whenever you saw the van parked behind Pidge, the grand piano strapped firmly to the trailer on the back of it, glistening in the sunlight.

   The prettiest sight you had ever seen.

   Your eyes fell to Pidge who was standing in front of you, a smug smile on her face as she gouged your reaction, the exact moment your knees were about to give out. You slumped against the door frame, and she chuckled, reaching forward and grabbing your hands.

   “I thought it was about time we finally got you your own,” she said. “We'll miss you visiting the shop every day, but I thought you deserved this. More than anyone.”

    The first tear fell before you could stop it. Your chest tightened, and you weren't sure where the adrenaline came from, or when it kicked in, but it did and you refused to hold back. Not right now. Not whenever she had done this for you – made your biggest dream come true just because she could.

   So before you could talk yourself out of it, you were wrapping your arms around her neck and tugging her into you, your lips crashing against hers in a way that could only be described as desperate.

   And it was such a risk, and could have very well been the most stupid and idiotic decision you had ever made in your life, but nothing had ever felt more right or more appropriate than what you were doing right now.

   Especially not whenever one of Pidge's arms wound around your waist, resting on your hip and gripping it just slightly. Her other hand came up, brushed your hair behind your shoulder so she could rest her palm upon your cheek. You could feel the cool metal from her rings grazing your cheek, causing you to shiver. Said shiver made Pidge chuckle against your lips.

   You pulled away, panting. Pidge gazed up at you in shock, and the look on her face made you flush; her lips were swollen, her hair a slight mess from where you had tangled your fingers within the flicks.

   She didn't seem to care. Not as she said, “All I expected was a thank you,” before she was slamming her lips to yours again, whispering, “You're welcome,” continuously against them.

[gutterdreams]

Blindside PT 1 [R.M.]

An anon requested the prompt ‘you’re always late’ and @stylesdempsey put in their own Reggie request, so this is a combo of the two. Title from the song Drive by Oh Wonder.

Sometimes Reggie could be an absolute child. For a seventeen year old boy, he could throw a tantrum that would rival any toddler in any drugstore across the country. Sighing as you laid down, you let Reggie release his frustration through the phone that you were lazily holding to your ear. For him to stop texting you and actually call meant that he was past annoyed and well into unpleased.

“You're always late.” He groaned through the phone. It had been cute, at first, when you two started dating and you would fly into class at the same time as the second bell, or you would make it to his house a few minutes after you said you would show up. However, it didn't leave Reggie amused any more. It had turned into a habit that irritated him. “What is so hard about being on time?” Reggie was flawed, but was punctual.

“I will be there as soon as I can be there. The quicker we end this phone call, the quicker I can head back to Riverdale.” It wasn't as if you were on the other side of the state, you were just visiting your grandparents in Greendale. Of course, you had told Reggie that you would be back by five o'clock on Sunday and it was already ten to seven and you were still in the spare bedroom of your grandparents petite bungalow that they had lived in for the last decade. “I will make it up to you.”

“Don't bother.” Reggie scoffed. You could hear the sound of something being kicked through the phone, his feet hastily shoving at the gravel under his feet in the parking lot of Pop's where you had said you would meet up for dinner after spending the entire weekend apart. His response wasn't at all what you expected. Stunned, you stayed silent. “I'm going home.” He was embarrassed after waiting around the diner for over an hour, looking like a loner – one of Reggie's bigger fears. “Do you know how lucky you are to be with me? You don't act like it, [Y/N].”

Eyebrows raised, you shot up at the waist on the neatly made bed and shook your head. The arguments always went one of two ways with Reggie. He either began to tease you lightly, insinuating sexual innuendos in a cheeky manner, or he grew mean. Clearly, he was taking the latter route this time. It wasn't common that he chose that when it came to you. He usually reserved his cruel and unkind route for the likes of Betty Cooper or Jughead Jones,  but today was your unlucky day. You assumed there was a deeper issue going on, but since he was already worked up, you weren't interested in asking why he was making mountains out of molehills.

“If you're asking if I am glad we are together, the answer is 'yes'...” Cautiously, you chose your words. “If you're insinuating that doing me a favor by being with me then I'm sorry I don't understand...”

“Maybe, I am!” He wasn't thinking. Reggie was letting his anger take over his mouth. “You're not Josie or Cheryl, you know? What's so special about you outside of being my girlfriend, huh?” Reggie knew where to hurl his insults. Everyone had a weakness. When you two first started spending time together, you were outside of his circle. You weren't a cheerleader or a fancy family friend with endless money. If you hadn't been paired up for a history assignment, you weren't sure you two would have ever exchanged numbers or spent any time together.

“I don't know, Reggie!” It was your turn to snap at him and let your words snarl in an unflattering manner. He felt so free to be so vicious that you decided to not hold back either. “I will spend the whole drive back to Riverdale trying to come up with reasons I am good enough to be with motherfucking starboy Reginald Mantle,” He tried to interrupt you, a verbal eye roll ready in his throat, but you didn't let him get another word in. “but if I can come up with one reason to stay your girlfriend after this conversation, that will be a miracle.”

“Josie's been texting me all day. I can move on in a second.” It was a lie even if he felt he meant it in the moment. Truthfully, he just wanted you to sting like he had hunched over a booth at Pop's alone, checking his phone to see another excuse as to why you hadn't left yet, being nervous that it was too dark out to drive a route you didn't confidentially know.

“That's not nice, Reg.” Sighing, you felt the burn he cast over you. Your body deflated as you closed your eyes and imagined his hands all over the Pussycat. Everyone knew he found her attractive, but you always told yourself that they were just friends and he was human. You found other people good looking, too. “I am going to leave now. I'll make it up to you.”

“Whatever. I don't care.” Before you could say 'goodbye' or apologize again, he had hung up, leaving you to run your fingers down your hair from the front and search your grandparents place for the keys to your car.

* * * * * * * *

Reggie wasn't exactly surprised to fall asleep without a text from you saying that you were home. He couldn't even say that he was that bothered when he didn't wake up to any message from you at all, though he had privately hoped for a sexy photo of you tucked into your double bed as some kind of attempt at an apology for not showing up for your Sunday date. It occurred to him since he had calmed down after a late night work out that he probably owed you an apology as well. He had said things that were uncalled for, being mean for the sake of being mean. Archie Andrews was right, even if he would  never admit it, Reggie was a hothead and it was probably his worst trait. He typed out the five letter word only to delete it quickly. For the way he spoke to you and the way he taunted to cheat with Josie, Reggie knew you deserved a face to face apology, a grander gesture than an easy text that he didn't even have to leave his comfortable bed to send. He let Vader lick his face over and over before throwing off the covers and heading to his kitchen breakfast, trying to come up with a way to apologize to you before first period.

On the way to school, he made a stop at the bakery and grabbed a vanilla cupcake with strawberry icing. As much as he planned to steal a fingertip of the sugary topping for himself, he figured that an apology partnered with a sweet treat would increase his chances at forgiveness. Reggie slid the small brown box onto the top shelf of his locker and looked to his left to see if you were coming down the hallway. Even if you were still livid with him, you would have to pass by him in order to get to your own locker and that gave him ample opportunity to pull you in and woo you with his smoulder and pout combination.

Instead of being greeted by your glossed lips and sleepy eyes, Reggie's view was blocked by his best friend's chest. Moose had turned the corner sharply and leaned into the locker beside Reggie's, Midge sliding between them while playing with the ends of her short hair.

“Hey, I can't talk. I got to see [Y/N] before class.” Reggie grumbled. He was annoyed at himself more than anything. He was the one who created the mess he was currently in.

“You think you'll make it there and back in seven minutes?” Midge asked after checking her phone that she had tucked into the pocket of her tight leather jacket.

Reggie only tightened his brows over his eyes, unsure of what Moose's girlfriend meant. Your locker was only a grand total of sixteen steps away from his. It was just the other end of the hallway. He was a star football player. He could run yards in seconds.

“I thought you'd skip this morning. Is [Y/N] fine?” Moose continued, earning his own perplexed stare from Reggie. While Reggie had a habit of running his mouth when he was fired up, he had no recollection of mentioning his fight with you to Moose. He hadn't texted anyone after the argument. He just worked out until sweat was pouring from his chiseled chin and then watched TV in bed with his dog until he fell asleep.

“Probably. She never stays mad at me.” Reggie shrugged and reached up onto the top shelf again, taking the cupcake box out with one hand. He made sure not to accidentally crush it with his grip.

“Did Ethel not tell you?” Midge had heard the news from Veronica who had only heard from Ethel because she was standing behind Betty when she was being told. Ethel Muggs had been your neighbor since pre-school which made you close friends by proxy.

“Tell me what? [Y/N] wants to break up? I was a dick last night, I'm going to apologize - “

“No.” Midge cut him off, eyes wide while Moose rubbed his head behind her. They both knew to brace themselves for Hurricane Reginald. “She got into an accident in Greendale last night.”

His face was pale. A shade of white that Midge had only seen in feathers from the fancy pillows in hotel rooms. Reggie always had a healthy glow from working out, expensive moisturizer, or his greedy glass of orange juice every morning. His eyes widened on Moose's chest and the cupcake box fell between his Nike shoes.

“We just...thought...you knew....” Not sure what else to say, Moose murmured to fill the stiff silence that was holding Reggie still.

The bell rang signalling that class was to begin in minutes, that everyone should start heading to their respective seats, but like a gun shot warned a wild animal to run, Reg slammed his locker and raced down the hallway, past your locker, jumping over the small staircase, and flying out the door. It wasn't until he was fumbling with his keys in his shaking hands that he realized he didn't know where he was going. He had to run back inside and figure out what class Ethel was in first so he could ask her where to go to find you. Were you at the hospital in Riverdale? Were you at home resting? Were you dead on the road in Greendale? Reggie was spinning and he concentrated on looking in every door window on the first floor of the high school for Ethel in order to not throw up his nerves all over his black sweatshirt and new jeans. This was his fault. He knew he shouldn't have pressured you to come home when he knew you were scared to drive on the highway at night. He kept hearing his own voice, mocking him, reminding him how the last thing he said was that he didn't care. Now he knew for certain what everyone else figured to be true, he did care. He cared so much.  

[muselin]

After Dark Part 1

Writer’s Tree wish from: @justjen523​

Prompt: MC is hiding a secret from the gods. She has a second job as an exotic dancer! Suspicious when she starts acting a little differently, the gods find out she has a night job and unexpectedly show up at her work! Yup, all twelve!

Rating: M for Part 1, E for Part 2 (coming soon)

Warnings: manipulation, extremely dubious concent, Dark!Zyglavis (in this part)

Notes: This is by far the hardest thing I’ve had to write in terms of circumstances. This fic was written while I was battling illness, travelled for 2 days straight, it was written on a bus, on a train, in a hotel and on a plane. It got away from me completely and I had to split it into two. So enjoy!

First song: Policy of Truth by Depeche Mode: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBw6Kmieehc

Second song: Black Mambo by Glass Animals: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0IOYcKgfJQ

It was ridiculous, really, but I had long since stopped thinking about it.

In the dim neon lights of the backstage space, I was hastily shrugging off the button-down shirt of my uniform from the planetarium and adding a lot more eyeshadow to my light makeup that I'd worn during the day. I rummaged through the hangers and I pulled out a black strappy number with a matched set of panties and a bra. Sometimes I spiced it up but this was my go-to outfit for my second job most nights.

What's a girl to do? Juggling rent in downtown Tokyo, a starting-salary job and a master's degree in astronomy just didn't leave much choice. All the bartending jobs seemed to be taken and waitressing, making coffee or tending shop really wasn't going to cut it. If anyone back home knew what my dance background was coming in handy for, they'd be picking up their jaws from the floor.

In Shinjuku, where the city never slept and the neon lights were always on, I danced for money. And yeah, I also took my clothes off. That had been the reality of my Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights since last year.

And the gods always wondered why I never stayed for dinner on the weekends...

They didn't know, of course. I felt safe in that knowledge as I queued with the other girls behind the curtain waiting for the music to start. The beat started pumping in my ears and I set my inhibitions aside for the rest of the night. I did my job, performed my routine, the men cheered and whistled and put money in my little belt which rested on my hips.

It was a decent night, I made a good amount, I thought as I headed backstage at the end of the night. Little did I know, a tall male figure dressed in white had been watching me the whole night. Could have been the lights or a dye job, but his hair seemed pink.

 ***

 "Partheno. Parthenoooo!"

"Oi, asshole, wake the fuck up!"

"Aww, be nice, maybe he's dreaming about our goddess, right, Partheno?"

Partheno had been a thousand miles away but at the mention of the goddess his head snapped back up.

"Hmm? Oh sorry, you were saying something about me and Ichthys working on Earth tomorrow," he said, trying to seem like he was in the loop.

"Partheno, that was nine minutes ago. Good to know that for the short time that you were actually listening you retained something," Zyglavis commented, his brows furrowed in annoyance. "It isn't like you to be so distracted during meetings, is there anything you wish to share?"

Partheno thought for a second.

"No, nothing at all. I apologise. Please, carry on."

The meeting continued and Partheno paid careful attention to not letting his thoughts drift back to last night again. He'd never ever thought he'd see their beloved goddess the way he'd seen her last night except in his dreams, but it seemed to be reality. He felt an unusual flutter in his chest when he thought about her upcoming visit to the mansion tonight for the monthly get-together.

 ***

 It was a pleasant evening spent eating and drinking, laughing and talking. I loved being around all the gods and I always made an effort to bring a big basket with their favourite goodies whenever we got together like this: taiyaki for Ichthys, home-made cherry pie for Dui, a pot of curry for Karno and a plate of meatballs in tomato sauce for Leon, rabbit apples for Scorpio (he  never said thanks but he always blushed), some chocolate ganache cake for Zyglavis, milk and cookies for Teorus and Partheno, vanilla ice cream with marshmallows for Krioff and Aigo and a bottle of a good vintage wine for Huedhaut and Tauxolouve.

As the evening wound down, I tried to push down the uneasiness that came over me whenever I met Partheno's eyes. Something was off with him tonight. He was always flirtatious and chatty, winking and smiling at me, but tonight he was quiet and the look in his eyes was different. It was serious, intense, and he'd barely spoken two words to me. I didn't have time to linger on this as I needed to get home early tonight. I was facing a busy Friday shift at the planetarium and at my second job. How ironic that the club I worked at was called "Gate to Heaven"... Ugh. As if.

 ***

 After the reincarnated goddess of fate bid all the gods goodnight, Partheno quietly pulled Tauxolouve aside. While the rest of the gods were tidying up from their feast, the gods of Virgo and Sagittarius spoke in hushed tones, both of their usual charming and smiling expressions replaced by serious and brooding ones.

"We should tell them," Partheno said to Tauxolouve in the end.

"You think so? You know how badly some of them will react... When you and I were born these things weren't considered disreputable, but everyone else knows humans as far more closed-minded. Zyglavis will be the worst, he was born in the human Dark Ages," Tauxolouve looked up at him, hesitant.

"I know but they're not stupid, they know something's up," Partheno sighed. "This was never such a problem way back in Egypt, remember? Where did we go wrong," he chuckled bitterly.

"Yeah, I know," Tauxolouve also smiled crookedly. "Alright, we'll tell them. I'll arrange everything with Wishes, you take care of Punishments."

Partheno nodded, a quiet determination shining in his rose-coloured eyes.

 ***

 I was on stage, in my white flowy dress tonight. Our routine was tame until 11 at night, when the dresses dropped and by midnight - everything else. The song changed, signifying 11 o'clock, and I made my way to the central area where the poles were mounted. I grabbed the middle one and spun effortlessly, my dress flowing behind me.

 I turned my back to the crowd, swaying my hips to the rhythm. I tried not to think of anything as I reached for the zipper at the back of my dress. I made a show of pulling it down, going slowly and revealing every inch of skin sensually, aiming to entice. Eventually my dress dropped to the floor and I finished the rest of the song. It changed again after and they announced the portion of the evening where the booths could be booked for private dances.

 No sooner had I got off the stage than my manager found me.

"Sweetie, you already have your first booking for the night. You have a big party of twelve in the VIP booths. Actually they booked it out until closing time, so be nice to them. They look a bit odd, not sure if they're doing a bachelor party or if they're military or whatever, but they're all really good-looking. Try not to fall for any of 'em, okay?"

My manager laughed at the end and I thanked him. I headed towards the bar to pick up two bottles of champagne, as was customary to bring to an all-night booking. Two in one hand and a tray of twelve small champagne glasses in the other, I carefully balanced them on my way to the VIP rooms. I knocked on the door with my stiletto since my hands were busy and I waited. When the door opened, I nearly dropped the tray.

"P-Partheno?! Lou?! What the hell are you doing here?? This isn't funny!"

I was livid and mortified at the same time, my face going bright red as I stood in nothing but a sparkly red  set of underwear and bra, unable to cover myself with the champagne and glasses in both my hands.

"Please, hear us out. It isn't what you think. All twelve of us are here," Partheno said, sounding serious for once.

"All of you?? How? Why?!"

"Partheno was here for work last night. Apparently one of the patrons was getting far too touchy with one of your co-workers here and he had a punishment coming. That's how Partheno found out you work here."

Tauxolouve's smooth, matter-of-fact tone calmed me down somewhat.

"We decided to tell the others. We wanted to bring them here so you would get a chance to explain and we can help you. The others would have found out eventually. As the former goddess ofof fate you tend to attract people who need divine intervention, so it would have been just a matter of time," Partheno explained.

I was looking at the floor in embarrassment but I knew Partheno was right. I looked up at him and Tauxolouve pleadingly.

"What am I going to do? I can barely face you two, let alone everyone else..."

"Listen, we aren't judging you," Tauxolouve said gently, taking the bottles of champagne from me. "Partheno and I were born in the times where what you do here was considered an art form of the highest esteem and women like you were among the most adored and respected."

"Yes, Lou and I have nothing but respect for you, despite the fact that you lied to all of us and hid this second occupation of yours from us. Please, come in with us and let us do most of the talking."

Partheno's urging made me seriously consider their offer. He took the tray of glasses from me as I stared at the floor, biting my lip.

"Partheno... I'm scared," I said, looking up at him. I felt like I could trust him and Lou for once, they were both being incredibly mature and not at all lewd about this. Even though I was dressed like a trained seductress, I felt like a frightened little girl inside. Lou put his hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his fingers soothing me as he caressed me comfortingly.

"We won't let anyone say anything hurtful to you, I promise you'll be okay."

Partheno took my chin in his elegant fingers and turned my face delicately towards him.

"If it helps, you look absolutely stunning. If anything, they'll be smitten if you keep doing what you do. Leave your worries behind and play the role like you do each night."

I straightened up then and took a deep breath. This was something I knew how to do. I didn't hate my job, after all. I put a lot of effort into crafting this image of grace and allure that I wore when I worked. I put a small but confident smile on my face and nodded to the two gods, then we opened the doors to the VIP room and walked in together.

Sure enough, all the gods were there, scattered in the various plush chairs around the room. I scanned them one by one.

They all wore different expressions. Dui and Aigo seemed relaxed enough, but were warily glancing towards the other gods in room, as if checking on them. Ichthys and Teorus sat next to each other, with Teorus beaming his princely smile at me when I walked in and Ichthys giving me his own small smile as well. Scorpio and Krioff sat together, mirroring each other in their cross-armed, closed off postures. They had both been frowning, but Scorpio blushed and looked away when I walked in whereas Krioff's face was the picture of surprise. His arms unfolded to rest in his lap as he looked at me, eyes scanning my form quickly before they came back to my face and lingered there. Hue sat at the far end of the room, hands clasped in front of him. His face was unreadable as usual but he met my eyes briefly, seeming curious more than anything. Karno sat nearby, legs crossed and his foot tapped lightly. He seemed nervous somehow but he made an effort to acknowledge me, nodding at me quickly before looking away nervously.

If I wasn't blushing before, I sure was when I finally saw Leon and Zyglavis. They were the only ones not sitting. Leon was leaning against the wall cross-armed, his face seeming displeased. Close to him stood Zyglavis, hands clenched at his sides and an equally displeased expression on his face. Leon looked me in the eyes, his frown unchanged, but Zyglavis didn't even acknowledge me.

Lou spoke first.

"Alright, now that we're all here, let's--"

"What I want to know is, goldfish, how you thought you could lie to us and get away with it," Leon interrupted harshly.

"So much for one at a time..." Partheno sighed.

I swallowed thickly and tried to speak as calmly as possible.

"I didn't want to lie to you all but I suppose I felt ashamed. I didn't want you all to see me in this light." I looked at Partheno and Lou for reassurance."And also, in this time, women with jobs like mine aren't very respected."

"She has a point," Huedhaut spoke. "She may have lied, but her work is her own business and she does not owe us a full report on every single detail of her life. We can't blame her for wanting to protect herself from judgment."

"I can see that. I may not get why she's doin' this type of work but I get not wanting to be judged," Krioff said to my surprise.

"You all seem to forget that her life and all of ours are intertwined! She can't be out presenting herself to men and risking being groped or raped or worse!" Leon's booming voice filled the room, the anger in it startling me.

"Not that I agree with that stupid lion, but she's riskin' too much like this," Scorpio grumbled.

"Look, I get that you guys are concerned, but we do have security here...", I said quietly.

"Oh? Is this why Partheno had to intervene in this very place but a mere night ago?"

Zyglavis's voice was like ice when he finally spoke. The room was silent, the tension unpleasantly palpable. Who would have thought that he and Leon would be on the same page about this...

"That's true, which is exactly why we don't need to make a big deal out of this," Tauxolouve broached carefully, "Her life is linked to ours, that's why we'll always know if there's any danger. Partheno and I didn't tell you all so you would judge her. He and I are the oldest ones here. The rest of you may not remember, but it wasn't always like this for female exotic dancers."

"That's right. Their craft was revered in ancient times and there were none of the prejudices these performers face today," Partheno added. "We ask you to find the beauty in this, and not to worry about her safety," he smirked in his usual way, finally. "If you still have concerns, Lou and I would be more than happy to take turns watching over our goddess when she's performing."

"It is a very appealing performance," Karno spoke sweetly.

"Absolutely, she does look magnificent like this," Teorus agreed.

"Yeah, I'd sooo hate it if you had to quit just 'cause Zig and Leon don't approve," Ichthys said. "If you stay, we have a reasom to come visit you at work!"

"That could be quite fun," Dui's sweet voice added to the mix, his face innocently smiling as his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"These chairs are really comfy. I wouldn't mind coming here again, especially if you're around," Aigo said lazily, resting his head against the back of the chair as he looked at me.

"Tch... Whatever."

Scorpio appeared annoyed but I knew by now that this was his reluctant way of agreeing.

Zyglavis and Leon, however, still wore their stormy expressions, seemingly not swayed by the approval of their subordinates.

"I cannot believe that all of you are condoning this," Zyglavis said in the end and turned on his heel, storming out of the VIP room.

My heart sank. If the Ministers were so opposed to this, I knew that there was a chance they'd force me to quit this job.

Leon seemed somewhat taken aback by Zyglavis's exit and his face was an unreadable canvas of emotions.

"I've heard enough. All of you, leave. I want a word with the goldfish," he said, his tone not tolerating objection.

The gods looked amongst themselves and slowly stood up, filtering out of the room one by one. Partheno and Tauxolouve nodded at me reassuringly before they exited as well.

Left in an uncomfortable silence alone with Leon, I occupied myself with the only thing I could. I popped open the bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. I offered one to Leon wordlessly and he grimaced but accepted.

"Cheap and tasteless," his verdict was when he took a sip.

"Sorry, I don't have anything else," I said, feeling a need to apologise.

"Never mind that. Tell me the real reason you're working here," he said, his eyes piercing me.

"The truth? I need the money. The planetarium isn't enough yet, I couldn't find anything else, and I danced for a long time when I was younger, so this was an easy option."

"So you're used to performing?"

"Yes. It's easy for me to create an illusion for an audience," I said.

"Hm." Leon left his spot by the wall and came up to me. Glass of champagne in one hand, he caressed my shoulder with the other, fingers slipping under one of my sparkly bra straps.

"You'd look better in a gown befitting a goddess. Or in nothing at all."

Was that a compliment? If it was it didn't sound that way.

"Are you happy doing this? Would you not accept any help from us?", he asked, even though he knew what my answer would be.

"I'm okay with this. I don't have long before I finish my studies and can have a higher position at the planetarium but I want to do it on my own. If I'm going to be curator one day, I want to know that it was something I achieved for myself."

I looked into Leon's eyes, urging him to understand. I knew what he'd gone through as he'd risen through the ranks to become Minister.

"I understand, goldfish," he said softly, leaning in a bit closer as his hand went to stroke my cheek gently. "I don't like other men looking at you like this but I can see that you're determined enough to even lie to us in order to get to where you want to be by yourself."

"What about Zyglavis," I asked anxiously.

"Just give him time," Leon sighed, rolling his eyes. He leaned in closer and placed a kiss on my forehead. He drew back, eyes shining with something I couldn't place. I was suprised and said nothing, waiting for him to provide clarity. But he didn't. Instead he kissed my temple, my cheek, my jaw and then his head dipped lower as he kissed my neck.

Tingles of pleasure started coursing through me but I knew he wasn't using his power. His scent, refined and alluring, enveloped me and drew me in.

"Leon...what are you..."

"Shh, just let me have this," he whispered in my ear, then kissing just underneath. His tender kisses made me feel warm all over and my arms embraced him on their own.

But he didn't go any further. He drew back and looked at me again, a gentleness in his eyes that I hadn't seen before.

"You're beautiful. Don't let anyone take advantage of you," he said, then reached and took my arms from around his neck. He didn't say anything more, he just turned and left quietly through the door, pausing only to leave his glass on the tray.

I stood frozen in place, my mind racing with excitement and worry over  everything that happened. I considered just going home since I knew the gods had paid off the rest of my time for the night, but I didn't get to dwell on that because the door to the room opened again.

I whipped around and my eyes met stern silver ones.

"Zyglavis... I thought you left..."

Zyglavis made his way to one of the chairs and sat down without a word. When he did, he made a theatrical gesture with his hand.

"What.." my voice trailed off.

"Go ahead," he said.

When I kept looking at him puzzled, he spoke again.

"Go ahead. Show me what you do. I want to see it for myself."

"What?! I.. I can't do that," I stuttered awkwardly. Surely he didn't expect me to dance for him??

"You can and you will. I want to see it for myself. I want to understand what it is I'm missing. So show me."

Holy shit, he was really serious about this. I fidgeted nervously.

"Are you sure?"

"I believe I made myself perfectly clear. Show me what you do. I want to see what a patron here would see."

"Alright...," I cleared my throat. "Then I guess I have to tell you the rules."

"I'm listening."

He definitely was, his silver eyes fixed on mine.

"You get two songs. When the songs are over I leave. I'm allowed to touch you but you can't touch me unless I allow it. If you touch me without my permission I will ask you to stop. If you do it again, I will leave the room and call security."

"Understood."

"Do you have any specific song requests? If we have it we could play it for you."

"No. I will leave the choice of song up to you."

"Alright. Then I'll just... get everything started I guess."

Holy shit, this was really happening. I was about to give a freaking lap dance to the Minister of Punishments... I took deep breaths, trying to steady myself. It's okay, it's gonna be fine... He may be the Minister out there, but in here, he had to follow my rules. Here, I was the goddess and he was the commoner.

With those thoughts in mind, I switched on the music and took my position in front of him. I cleared my mind as best as I could, focusing only on the rhythm of the music and on the movements of my muscles. It was an old electronic beat but it filled the room and it all seemed to merge together into one singular feeling. The black and dark red leather of the seats and the walls, the hazy lights, the smooth sounds of the song, Zyglavis sitting and watching me, his expression impossible to read, my heart pumping steadily in my chest, my heels being cushioned silently by the carpet, softening my step...

You had something to hide

Should have hidden it, shouldn't you

Now you're not satisfied

With what you're being put through...

I'd picked a tame song that still had a good rhythm I could dance to. I wanted Zyglavis to see the beauty of what I did, not the degradation. I moved smoothly in front of him, my practiced look already in place. It was working, he wasn't the scary Minister anymore in my mind.

Things could be so different now

It used to be so civilised

You will always wonder how

It could have been if you'd only lied...

I swayed my hips to the rhythm in seductive figure 8s as my hands went to my hair on instinct. I walked around Zyglavis, an extra swing in my step, one foot after the other on each beat. As I passed behind him, I dragged my fingers across the back of the chair, brushing against his ponytail with the faintest touch. It was softer than I thought it would be. I smiled to myself while he couldn't see me, my confident expression back in place when I circled back in front of him.

It's too late to change events

It's time to face the consequence

For delivering the proof

In the policy of truth...

My hips continued to follow their curved paths as I ran my hands along my body. I watched his eyes waver and follow my hands, dropping rom my face to my chest, along my stomach, to my hips, down my thighs... There was no hiding it, I'd shaken him. A shiver of excitement ran through me and I put extra effort into my performance. Deeper curve to my spine, pushed out my chest and let my head fall back as I moved my body like a wave, making a wide circle with my hips at the end.

Now you're standing there tongue tied

You'd better learn your lesson well

Hide what you have to hide

And tell what you have to tell...

Zyglavis's lips had set into a clenched line, his eyes following my every move. I looked back, teasing him, showing him what he was missing. It was all a game, to get him to imagine it was his hands touching my skin instead of my own, to get him to imagine how soft my body would be, how it would feel pressed against him. Even though I didn't think of myself that way, in that moment I had to believe what I was selling, that I was the sexiest woman in the whole building. The more I watched Zyglavis lose control over his facade, the more I believed it. In a surge of confidence, I walked up closer to him, my hips following an inverted figure 8 as I dropped slowly down onto my knees in front of him.

Never again

Is what you swore

The time before...

I gently placed my hands on his crossed legs and he uncrossed them for me without being asked. I didn't have to push as I guided him to spread them apart enough for me to fit between them. I didn't know why, but while his face remained stoic, his body wasn't so tight anymore. Supporting myself with my hands on his knees, I rose up, arching my body towards him invitingly before I made a show of turning with my back to him, arching my back and edging my hips out.

The lightest touch, but I felt it. His fingers ghosting along the curve of my waist.

"Can I touch you?"

His deep voice was nearly a whisper, sending a jolt of heat through my body. He'd given in to curiosity which was exactly what I wanted.

"Yes," I answered, my voice rasping as it caught in my throat.

The song drew to a close, the end of it merging with the beginning of the next one. Slower, softer, more intimate. I hadn't planned it that way but I suppose it worked out better like this.

Slow down

It's a science

He's been waiting

To bring you down...

I let his fingers caress me, light as a feather, and I ignored how good they felt. I wasn't finished yet but he was definitely making it hard to keep my cool. I lowered myself down, reaching behind me to grasp the chair for support as I allowed my body to glide along the front of his. His face was so close... It was exhilarating to be this close to him. I was used to Leon's closeness and overpowering presence but this was different. Zyglavis never let anyone this close.

Snake-eyed

With a sly smile

He can hold you

And shake you, child...

Zyglavis's grip suddenly became tight on my hips and he forced me to sit down on his thigh, his other hand reaching up to wind in my hair and he pulled roughly, bringing my body flush with his.

"Can you still dance now?"

What? I didn't know what he wanted from me but I planted my heels firmly on the floor and surged upward, standing upright and out of his hands.

Wanna play cheat now, says the sloth

A domino flush to his nose...

I looked at him, not quite concealing the anger in my eyes. My movements took on a sharp edge, no longer the smooth, sinuous dance from before. If he wanted rough, I would give him rough. I walked back up to him and put my heel in between his legs, resting in on the chair. Compromised. Better not make me angry if you don't want to get kicked just there. I reached for his ponytail, winding it around my hand and I pulled, his body rolling forward to follow, and I reached behind me with my other hand. I undid the clasp to my bra, my embarrassment long forgotten. He wanted to see what a patron would see.

I released him when his face was in front of my chest. His eyes held an even more dangerous glint than before but I felt safe. He knew the rules, he wasn't going to break them. I brought one of his hands up to my shoulder and hooked his finger in the loosened bra strap. Would he have the guts?

Tickle that cheek

And take your throne

Pump your veins

With gushing gold...

I'd read him wrong... He ripped my bra off me with a sharp motion. I took a step back, barely concealing my shock. But he didn't stop there. He grabbed me by my hips and suddenly I was straddling  his lap.

"That's against the rules," I said, my voice a timid whisper.

"Rules matter little in a place like this," he replied, a cruel smirk forming on his lips. I was scared but he was so frustratingly distracting and gorgeous up close that I couldn't bring myself to leave.

"Zyglavis..."

His lips attacked my neck, teeth nipping at my skin and his tongue soothing the bites afterward. What I lie it would have been to say I hated it...

Slow down it's a science

He's been waiting

To bring you down...

His lips suckled up  to my ear, his breath tickling as he whispered to me, "So this is what you do here? Playing with desire, stoking and teasing weak-willed men until they're putty in your hands?"

"Ahh... No one's ever dared to touch me like you're doing now," I breathed.

"Damned right," he growled and pulled me roughly to him, his lips crashing against mine. His hand palmed my bared breasts, squeezing one and then the other. My mind was drawing a blank. My body was betraying me, yielding to him while my mind couldn't fathom how or why this was happening. Was this why Zyglavis was so uptight all the time? Was temptation his weakness? Or was it that for all his discipline he actually lacked self-control?

"This is your last night here," he said when his lips parted from mine. "From now on you will only dance for me."

I didn't get a chance to object because his lips claimed mine again, his tongue slipping between my lips and forcing mine into submission. He was the Minister of Punishments again and now I had it coming.

"But first, I'll have to punish you. I don't appreciate being lied to," he said, his dangerous smile widening. I was at his mercy now...

He pushed me to my knees on the floor between his spread legs and reached for his belt.

"Partheno mentioned that some of the dancers here provide additional services which overlap another profession, for a higher fee."

Indignation bubbled in my chest. Is that what he took me for??

"How dare you?! I've never done that! I will never have sex for money!"

"Exactly," he smirked. "You'll do it for free. And in return I'll waive your punishment for lying to the entire pantheon of Zodiac gods."

[aleatoryalarmalligator]

Life Story Part 86

As my mother was driving through Clarkston, we looked out the window, and there we saw a clearly strung out woman walking down the road, walking sloppily and screaming into a phone. She didn't look all there. Her eyes were both dead and livid with rage. It was my sister Roxanne. My mother stopped by the road and we let her in to the back of the van. Roxanne didn't stop to say anything, just got in, continuing her phone babble as if nothing had changed and we weren't there. I am not entirely sure she even knew who's van it was she was getting into. It was getting to a point where we couldn't ignore it. We were all worried. Wes was put back into the hospital at this point and Roxanne, being that she was destitute, came to stay for a few weeks in the small upstairs bedroom – under the conditions that she had to stay clean. Nobody trusted her though – but she was supposed to be getting some help at some point.

Shortly after losing her daughter Meliah, she had been caught shoplifting from K-Mart and was awaiting charges for it. Her emotions were unstable. A lot had gone wrong. I had gone to the store one day, and upon my return I found that she had let herself in. Inside, I found her babbling on the phone again (this seemed to be a habit), with no breaks in her sentences, no indication to me entirely that she was even talking to anyone. I struggled to imagine who would subject themselves to this kind of phone call? Who would listen to this babbling? I had never seen her this frantic or frenzied in my entire life as I did this evening. I thought about calling the police, but I knew it wouldn't help. In her hysteria, she was going between manic laughing and sobbing. She strung along this way no coherent thoughts or sentences but a word salad of paranoia, unstable emotions and rageful vengeance against whoever it was she had chosen to hate in that one instance, only to move on to the next a moment later. I was a little bit afraid of her.

The house was set up in a way so that you could go in circles upstairs between three rooms, the living room, kitchen and dining room area, and as she was yelling into the phone, racing between these three rooms in circles. She seemed to believe someone was out to get her. When she finally got off the phone, I asked her what I could. She believed there was a biker gang that was looking for her. She believed Jeremy Frye had a gun and was driving around our house. After ending the conversation, she continued on, only to herself. Her eyes were wild, and turned her conversation towards me. She seemed to have no idea that she was acting strange – and almost seemed to think that it was all me. She believed in a conspiracy against her, that there were people waiting for her all around the house. I knew better than to tell her otherwise, so instead I listened.

After Roxanne began screaming in a blood curdling red scream, I swiftly looked out, only to see that despite her insistence, there was no ax welding hell's angel in the back yard. I told her I could see nothing, but she told me he had ran off somewhere. I asked her how. We looked all around the house.  I decided and hoped that giving her paranoia some consideration might make her less paranoid – I might be able to take her through the steps to understand and feel safer. I looked around for the supposed clad leather biker with the bloody ax outside the house and down the street, but he was nowhere to be seen out there – as I sort of predicted, only the distant sound of a lawn mower – that I had to try and convince her wasn't Jeremy feeding body parts into like Fargo.

I was mildly concerned that there could be something to her paranoia. Jeremy would stalk her if he knew where she was. She might have stolen from the wrong people. The house was at the dead end of a very slummy area of Lewiston. Our house itself wasn't bad, but there was a home for elderly mentally unstable and violence prone tenants next door, and the area looked very run down. If we went into our own backyard, one woman who lived there would begin to shout at us delusionally, claiming that the home we were living in was hers and to get off the property. We learned to ignore her and she never followed through with her statements. Down the road there was a house that cooked meth. But honestly most of these people were alright – some of the houses were even fixed up and quaint in their own way – with elderly couples. I felt comfortable in this kind of neighborhood despite the problems it may have had. I looked out onto the cold rainy winter roads, hearing water splash under the tires as people drove down the main road. There were no biker gangs out there, no Jeremy. Only the big old world that I rarely stepped out to see.

She hadn't slept in three days and she had been doing drugs for days and had lost her mind. Sleep deprivation is a part of the methamphetamines ordeal – it can create all kinds of delusions and hallucinations. Eventually she passed out from exhaustion. But then she woke up in the morning and one of her 'friends' came to get her and she was off again looking for another hit. She threw this unnecessary fit before she left that came from the house. She couldn't find her shoe and it made her mad. Out of the complete blue – as my mother was sitting and playing Mahjong Champion on the computer and drinking her morning coffee and my siblings and myself were all still half asleep – peaking through the blankets at her confused, she began shouting and ranting wildly that all of us that we were on drugs. Then she was out the door with a hard slam. A few days later and she was arrested again, this time with Sagen, for shoplifting together Daughter mother duo. Sagen was sent down to Boise to some all girls teen drug addiction recovery camp, and Roxanne was sent to rehab in Wenatchee Washington for a  month. We all hoped it would make a difference.

In the mean time, my Uncle Rick's hard work of remodeling the basement took place, and we all had to sleep in very uncomfortable places upstairs. The house was relatively small, so it was hard to not be in his way. When my uncle Rick worked, he always seemed angry and terse, and soon he came to realize, like we had, that my mom was actually going to sort of try to create problems with him doing the job he was supposed to get done – just for the sake of being a problem. I remember these days for the dreary uncertain times that they were – but there was some validation in seeing the look on an older person's face as he recognized fully the state of our well being. I also remember waking up one morning and finding out that Captain Beefheart died. I always associated the days of his death as if the times we were dealing with were mutually tied to his passing. I don't believe it, but the two ideas seem connected in the lucid plausibility of my psyche.

Allison wrote more songs when she could, locking herself away in a room when she could. But then there was some kind of ghost in the house, or at least she believed there was. When she went into rooms by herself the ghost would try to grab her. David remained quiet and angsty – sometimes in a terrible mood, sometimes not. I lost myself further in waves of euphoria and terror and confusion – waiting for the end of whatever this was to pass, for something new to swallow me up for better or worse. I had started this year off like a new ship ready to sail across a great ocean to explore new worlds. Now it felt like I had lost course, and was headed straight into no-man's land, perhaps getting ready to fall off the edge of the world completely.

Uncle Rick was staying in a cheap hotel at the end of Clarkston. After my mother refused to let him walk down some steps to get to the basement as she was sitting on those steps and in the middle of some farmville related activity and didn't want to let him get down with some heavy stuff he was bringing down for the job, and when a myriad of things about how we were struggling became apparent, that we were all lacking in basic goods – our diets weren't exactly nutritious, our ability to bathe was limited, we barely saw any sunlight, we were stuck with this crazy lady, and when we had to use the bathroom we had to travel to do it, he felt terrible, and he let us stay in his hotel for a few days. He also gave us money to eat at the nearby Subway. Given how truly minimalist we had been living, I remember all three of us, sitting in our appointed places, taking turns picking out old movies to watch, as well as history channel series and feeling like pampered royalty. I have always loved hotel rooms.

Rick thought it was best that we go up to our grandma's to stay until he could get the remodeling done. It was all very spur of the moment. I didn't get to bring very much as we left. I didn't have a book to read, only a few changes of clothing I could find, and my cheap mp3 players. Grandma Marie came and got us from our mothers and from there we headed back to her place, where we spent a very mindbogglingly boring three weeks – the most boring weeks of my life. There were only about three movies, The first being Conan the Barbarian, this sort of obscure TV Movie called The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns that had O'Brien from Star Trek in it, and District Nine. Since we all deemed Conan the Barbarian the best of the lot, not that it was saying much, I feel like we probably watched this movie twenty times in a row. I can still remember the more memorable scenes with a distinct nauseating clarity – particularly the scene where Arnold is having sex with the witch and she like, starts screaming and explodes or something. There was no cable else we would have watched that instead – my grandmother had gotten angry after Obama won and had ended it, and she rarely let us use the internet because she believed that since we were young we were going to fill her computer with viruses.

If we could have left the house it might have helped, but there was three feet of snow outside and rising. It wasn't easy for her to get into or out of the driveway. I had no money, and none of us had decent winter wear either so roughing it was out of the question. We were trapped in the house only with each other – and our grandma overlooking our conversations which limited our ability to speak freely. Most of the books I could find to read were either Hindu related or religious texts – which I wasn't feeling religious texts at the time, and books about how to 'harness your psychic potential', which didn't appeal very much. Mostly I just pet the dogs and slept. I would listen through my entire Nick Cave discography, only to listen to it again once it was over. I did this until I got mercifully tired enough to finally pass out. We were all given about forty minutes a day to be on the computer each and we had to make the best of it. I used this time to talk to Sarah and tell her what was happening – to boost my own morale, and to not give up. I felt this need to give up. She was still trying desperately to get me a job at Zany's as a dishwasher though. She wanted me to look for more work just as soon as I could get back into Lewiston.

On Christmas, my mother called and let us know that my father had come by Wes's and left Christmas gifts. According to her, he was a sobbing wreck. I didn't look forward to receiving the gifts – I knew they were soaked in his self pity. I knew him too well. Wes was also back home from the hospital and wanted to have another Christmas at the house in celebration of his return. The roads were just clear enough to drive miraculously so we all got into my grandma's car and drove the three slow hours back to the house. To all three of us Sanborn children, that ride back to my mother's was the grossest car trip we had ever taken. The heater was turned way up. She drove very slowly and took the most windiest way there. Just thinking back to that trip makes all of our stomachs hurt. She put on this loud cheesy Christmas music that was on the radio. I don't like Christmas music, and this was the worst. A lot of it were these horrific 80's ballads, which would have been something worth a chuckle in the store if I heard them while shopping, but quite another thing when we all felt acute carsickness and had barely any room in the hot car to breath and it went on and on.

And w were only there for about four hours before we got back into the car again. The main gift for all three of us that our dear old dad wanted us to have were these gold plated rings. Personally, this tied into the fact that he has a ring he generally always wore that came from his great grandfather. He had passed it down to David as a male heirloom for Christmas. It was his way of creating some kind of symbolic significance that we shared the same blood – that we could run but we could not hide. That this was the final Christmas gift. It was morbid. He was in a bad place. Then he had bought these other two somewhat cheap gold plated rings for Allison and I. This whole ring business was just a way to remind us all that it was 'he' who created us, maybe a way to make us feel guilty. And it did linger in my thoughts, which only really created a deeper bridge. I resented having to feel ashamed of myself. A reminder that, by all of us leaving him, we were forsaking our bloodline and we would be sorry when he died. I knew him too well, and I knew how he felt about his ring on his finger. The rings in and of themselves were fine enough gifts, though helping us get shoes that didn't have holes at the bottom might have been more thoughtful. It was the context of that gift that was miserable.

Wes gave us fifty dollars each and a lot of candy, which was nice. Manny, just like many a Christmas before was drunk and asleep on the same chair. There weren't any bikers over this year, though a few questionable sorts showed up at the house here and there asking Wes for money. Wes gave a lot of weird unsavory sorts money sometimes, I think because it made him feel needed when his health was otherwise deteriorating and nobody wanted to be around him. They made him feel valid. There was this one dude, Fast Eddie as he was called – who would always stop at the house, and start looking through Wes's cupboards looking for pills. You had to make sure you were subtly in the room with him at all times. When stuff went missing, we often times blamed Fast Eddie, though to be fair there was a chance Roxanne had stopped by too. There was also this other lady – whom we don't remember the name of. She was an old barfly, and we all suspected that she did loosely sexual favors for Wes for money, though we could never be sure and didn't want to be. One time she was walking in front of David as they were both outside, and she flew around with a coy seductive smile on her face accused David of having the hots for her, saying something along the lines 'you can looky but don't touchy' or something equally as cringeworthy, as she wagged her finger at him like he was naughty. David obviously hadn't been looking at her – was baffled and grossed out.

We drove back and suffered for two more weeks at my grandma's in utter boredom. My grandma found out Allison wanted to be a musician and singer and she started pressuring Allison that she needed to play something for her. She was skeptical and limited in her understanding of music, and we all knew she wasn't going to get it. My grandma Marie has this archaic idea about how music is supposed to be. She like two kinds of music – Enya and country western. She still believed that you made it big by sending your demo tapes to local radio stations in hopes they would play it like how it was done in the 40's. And she believed that new musicians used 'robotics' to make their voices sound different then there speaking voices. She couldn't tell the difference between techno rave music and neutral milk hotel. She accused heavily acoustic Wilco songs of being made by pushing buttons, not believing even that Jeff Tweedy's voice could be real and assumed he was generated via computers. She claimed songs weren't 'really' songs.

Allison eventually got brave one evening and performed in front of our grandma. To me, Allison's voice was lovely and haunting. I thought she was getting a lot better and had come a long way, she wrote most of her songs herself. There was so much good to be said for what she was doing. But surely enough, our bitter old grandma wasn't enthused at all. As Allison sang self consciously, my grandma literally scowled at Allison judgmentally for the whole thing – making everyone in the room uncomfortable, and when the song was over, she said something half-handedly insulting about the song and about Allison's voice and about how she shouldn't even want to make music or art ever again. She couldn't even pretend to be nice. I think I love my grandma most of the time – she  helped me when I needed it. But I kind of didn't. How can you afford to love people who drag you down? We had so very little to look forward to. Allison's music was such a special thing – maybe one of only things she had to hold on to that was hers alone. And somehow this caused a very hostile reaction in the people around us.

My grandma had gone to bed, and I had sneakily hopped on facebook one night, and I noticed that Zack was on. Sarah was on as well. For whatever reason, out of all the times that we had seen but not particularly cared, we took note of it enough to mention him together in our conversation. Sarah expressed the wish that we could have him as a friend still. I told Sarah that we should try to reach out to him again. It suddenly made sense to the both of us. Maybe it was due to the guilt that when Jason had died, we hadn't really known him by that time and now he was dead and gone forever. Sarah then sort of told me that, according to her cousin – Zack was on meth in a very big way. Privately, I had misgivings about this, though Sarah didn't seem to grasp the whole addiction thing. Given what Roxanne was going through at the time, I felt a pang of regret in my heart though, and perhaps this is why I didn't try to explain much to Sarah. I felt maybe that perhaps I had failed him by not being his friend – and now look at him. He was on drugs – because he was alone. I wasn't in love with him anymore – and I felt pretty confident about that, but aside from everything that had gone on – I felt a strong nostalgic kinship with him still, and the idea of him being on meth made me very sad, it sat awkwardly with me, like a bowl of food just about to fall off a counter that you know will fall with the slightest breeze so you want to push it back in place. If I ignored him, if we ignored him I would always think about it for the rest of my life. I wondered if there was anything Sarah or I could have done.

We came to some conclusions that night. We were going to try again, at least halfheartedly, and by unconventional means to bring him back to us. We were like two witches concocting some kind of slow working spell that would bind us to him and what we mostly intended on was to get his attention subconsciously. We couldn't trap him – we knew that. If we set up a meeting he wasn't going to show up for it. I wanted to see if we could draw him in using some strange consciousness trick if we tried it together. Maybe this is what the universe was trying to tell me. Sarah and I both felt we could draw things and ideas towards us. I had had huge strides in my ability to shift the world around me – and I saw my having lost sixty pounds in a year a manifestation of that much deeper shift. And with every surreal factor that was happening to me emotionally/psychologically/philosophically, I wanted to see what it might be able to do for me other than make me feel crazy. I wanted to know if he would react organically without any kind of direct communication or physical contact. Perhaps he wouldn't. But perhaps he would.

And perhaps I was distracting myself because I felt lost. I was now realizing that goals were hard. Goals are hard to keep when your mind changes a lot. Goals are hard to maintain the clarity of. Goals are hard to remember when something new comes along.  It's hard for a goal not to change when you are changing. It's hard to even have a goal to begin with. And when you meet a goal, what next? There is a sad after affect, a realization that death is creeping up on you. And with how uncomfortable my life had become, with the psychological shifts, everything was off balance. I needed a goal to center myself. It tied me closer to Sarah. I needed something to think about that wasn't my life at the moment.

And if we could make this happen, if he did come to us, then Sarah and I together were a force and I could know I wasn't crazy, and we could take that energy and manifest other things for ourselves. If I could just keep  lofty goals coming I would never again have to feel the acceptance that one thing was over without another even bigger idea taking hold. Getting a job, though it was the goal in my life at that point by default and something Sarah seemed to focus on more than even me, didn't interest me or make me want to be alive. Getting a job was for me, more of a means to avoid the pain of living with my parents any longer – certainly a motivational goal, but what then and to what end would this really help me spiritually? It didn't give my heart something to reach out to. But there was something pleasing about Sarah and I being able to use our connection to manipulate someone into our lives, like Zack, and that seemed intriguing to me and exciting. It had mystery to it, and was a compelling enough distraction.

We set everything up as soon as we got back to my mother's. The basement was now completely remodeled, though all in all nothing really changed. My mother was talking to this young guy in India named Jaz who was eighteen, and according to what she told us, he became obsessed with her and wanted to fly out to our house and meet her in person. My mother never used an honest picture of herself as her profile picture – though he knew she was fifty, so in some level I had to either wonder if this was some kind of scam, or if this guy wasn't totally nuts. Jaz believed him and my mother were soulmates who had been together in a past life, and my mother went right along with this narrative wholeheartedly, recalling memories of them together on Himalayan peaks, a tear welling up in the corner of her eye as she remembered it all in vivid detail, but out of fear of having her fantasies dashed, she refused to give him her address as hard as he tried to get it from her.

According to what I was told, Jaz was betrothed to someone his parents had picked for him to marry, and he didn't want to marry her. This was a big deal for him, and it was some kind of bizarre retelling of Romeo and Juliette for the both of them. For about three weeks, all my mother could talk or think about. She wasn't sleeping. She just sat there at the computer playing farmville, waiting for Jaz to get on. She told us all that she fucking hated us. She swore that as soon as she lost the weight and got surgery to look young again, she was going to fly out to India to be with Jaz, and 'our free ride was over'. She said it as a threat to all of us, as though being born had all been our idea to begin with.

Then, Jaz's mother got involved and wrote my mom telling her that she had found out about the affair Jaz was having and to leave her son alone, you sick old lady - essentially. My mother, stricken with embarrassment and maybe some level of self realization and immediately ceased speaking with Jaz, like his mother had demanded. Conveniently, those memories of her previous life with Jaz began to slip away, only for her to be taken in and smitten with some other guy from India whom she remembered sharing a past life with. I didn't bother to remember these guys names. Some of them were more like sons to her, and she never tried to convince herself she was in love with any of the young ones. She continued sending money though. And on and on it went for several years. It was sort of like my father's experience dating online, only far weirder.

I couldn't wait forever to get a job, so I began putting out other applications. All in all, I ended up with four interviews that late winter. The first one was a call back from Jack in the Box which wasn't far from where Wes's house was at. I didn't want to work at Jack in the Box at all. This one in particular was trashed and dingy. The people always got your order wrong, were hostile, probably underpaid and in a bad place. Sarah and I had gone there one morning for a cheap coffee to talk and stay grounded – a way for me to escape the bleakness in and among bleakness of the place we were having coffee, as well as to look out at the bleak mindless rush of cars on the highway as they headed out to work.

Sarah and I overheard a manager walking around complaining that someone hadn't shown up for a shift and they would have to look into the new applications. Sarah gave me a look, kicked me and had to psychically pry me out of my seat with her eyes to go up to this manager and ask if there were any positions open. He was impressed and told me to get an application and be sure to come in that Sunday night for an interview.

I was nervous. This was sort of my first real interview with anyone (I really just don't count that experience at McDonald's).  I made sure to straighten my hair – as people tended to trust me less with curls. I found a black dress jacket, wore a decent shirt, decent pants and shoes. I was nervous but ready to take on this interview for whatever it was worth. My mother pulled  her van out and waited for me in the parking lot. Everyone wished me the best of luck, as I anxiously wormed up to the door. There is nothing more ugly to me then walking in for an interview. I hate interviews. The feeling I get when walking into an interview is on par with being sick with the flu, and no matter if I practice or not, I have no idea what I am going to say to the interviewer when they ask me stuff. I've come to the conclusion that there is no true way to prepare and calibrate yourself for a new experience. I try to remind myself as I enter those business doors that life is one big game, and that I could just as easily have been born in some war torn part of the world, I could be dead. I could have been born in the middle ages. I try to remind myself that even if I went in dressed like a clown and danced about the room theatrically, in the end life would be what it was. And life just wasn't that long. There aren't rules to life. Mercury is on fire right now. I am a fragment of a fragment of a fragment of a fragment. And nothing helps. I still feel like I have to manually remind myself to breath. I am still drowning in mysterious turmoil I don't understand.

I walked in, and the building was empty, which might be totally predictable on a Sunday night. There was this blonde pudgy man at the counter – not the one I had talked to earlier that week. He asked me what I wanted to eat, and I told him I was there for an interview. He didn't know anything about the interview but reluctantly agreed to conduct one. We sat down at the table, and he began asking me questions about, 'why I wanted to work at Jack in the Box.' I tried to be honest – because I wanted a job. Because I liked having a grounded sense of purpose. Because I needed money.' He looked at me and said nothing. And then he began explaining to me that he wasn't looking for someone who was 'looking for 'a job'' he was looking for someone who was passionate about food service. I smiled politely, though I was melting inside.

He didn't just explain this to me though, he went on a five minute explanation as to why my answer was wrong. He asked me to pick between quality and quantity, and I picked one (don't remember which), and he then smiled at me and began explaining how I was wrong again. After three or four questions, the interview was beginning to go on for twenty minutes, and every time he asked me something, I would meekly try to assert a sensible response, but he would shoot me down. Then he started talking about my appearance. He told me I looked like someone who would do better if I went to art school' instead of working at a fast food joint. He meant it as an insult. I was frustrated. Because of course I would love to go to art school, but I wasn't in any position to be going to art school and it was really none of his business. I knew he was breaking really weird boundaries by talking like this to me, but I felt like I had to give in to his assessment of me, and I was really beginning to internally crumble. It's true, I didn't want this job, I just needed it terribly. To go into this place and ask for work was already putting me in a situation where I felt like I was whoring myself as a product, and now I was being told I wasn't a good enough for even Jack in the Box.

He finally began to explain to me, that they were only looking for the perfect person, someone who would go 'above and beyond'. It was here where the interview got weirder. He started asking me if I would do any 'favors' for him in order to get the job. I looked at him blankly, not understanding. He explained that he didn't waste his time with employees who didn't give him special incentive to hire them. I blinked confused. Eventually, he told me we were done. I didn't even turn around to shake his hand. I was shaking too hard by this time. He had been essentially mentally fucking with me for half an hour, putting me down in these clever professional ways, and I had to just sit there and take it. I felt used and worthless. And as soon as I got to the van, I started to cry. It was hard to explain to everyone what he had been doing to me. I felt even more ashamed of myself for crying at all. Sarah wouldn't ever cry. How many cool people did I know that would cry over a bad interview?

I learned years later that this same guy, Ben – was hiring women based on if they would let him touch their breasts and go down on him and stuff. He had been putting me down so that I would feel vulnerable and weak and would do what he wanted. And, he had thoroughly enjoyed just making me feel terrible and confused. He had spent his merry time breaking me down till I didn't know up from down. He was high on his power in that Jack in the Box. Two weeks after that interview, he was fired for sexual misconduct with one of his employees. It was an ugly experience, but I guess if I could say I took anything from the interview, it was that this is extremely common. I walked into that building having no skin at all, and what he had thrown at me was far more than I could deal with. I would have walked out now. I would rather be homeless than blow some gross supervisor for a fucking job serving bad meat to people. I would be meeting Ben again a few years ahead.

The second one was at a successful bar/Italian dining restaurant owned by the same chain that owned Zany's, the Happy Day Corporation. My mother was being impossible to us that morning, and ended up bothering me and being so horrendous that on the way to the interview I snapped and started crying and called her a bitch. It was a very poor choice for me to let her get to me, but I was feeling extremely vulnerable and antsy. She might have been hoping to sabotage my interview, not for any reason other than she could. We were almost there, and it was almost time for me to go in. I didn't want to now at all. My emotions were off balance. My make up had smeared. I was angry and feeling nihilistic about doing anything after that. But I looked at myself in the mirror, wiped away the make up that had smeared, and I decided that I would go in anyway. Yes, I might look crazy. It might all be one big joke. But what was life anyway but one big joke?

Strangely enough, I suddenly felt, in my more emotionally unstable position – more confident to go in to the interview. I don't know why that was. I walked in, which still killed me, and I met with and sat down with the manager to have an interview. He could absolutely not believe I was twenty-one. He looked me over with disbelief, and kept saying I didn't look a day over fifteen. He probably meant that. I have always been confused with being six or more years younger than I am. It might be the round face. I look in my eyes and I see a two hundred year old forest hag, but apparently it isn't as noticeable if you aren't me.

His questions made a bit more sense than Ben's had, but at the end of the interview he told me that even though he really wanted to hire me, he wasn't going to because I was from Kendrick, and people who come from those little towns often times move back to the towns because the big ol' town of Lewiston is just too big for them and they have boyfriends and stuff in their hometowns and small town inertia always brings them back. I politely tried to explain that I didn't have anything holding me there, no family or friends to speak of (which was a  half-lie, but I was learning that apparently you are supposed to lie for some reason – and besides I was never going to Kendrick). He still didn't want to give me the opportunity though, and it was fine. I walked out slightly recovering from the ordeal at Jack in the Box. At least he had been respectful to me, and had accepted my answers. Also, I had gone in mentally unbalanced, and it had actually worked for me rather than against me for some reason. That seemed counter intuitive, but I guess turmoil brought out the best in me. Which was a strange and confusing thing to realize about myself.

It felt weird to be rejected. I had come such a long way from that previous year. While Sarah walked me through some of it, she really didn't for most of it, and couldn't have had she wanted to. I had lost so much weight, had pulled myself from some apathetic fatalistic fog, had reached for goals and considering what an introverted nervous and at times antiperson I could be, I had reached out to the world and decided to try and live in it despite all odds, despite having severe anxiety and self doubt. It was all a lot. And yet, I still went out into the world and got rejected on these arbitrary merits and standards that didn't quite make sense to me at all. It was at times disheartening to know I had worked this far out of my cocoon only to discover that the world didn't want to see my wings and at times I wasn't sure I wanted to spread them in this world. The world couldn't see my strengths and I wasn't socially charming (or phony) enough to present myself in a fashion that seemed to work. And yet, I just had to pull myself through this mud. It was hard to remind myself why – but it was too late to turn back now.

PART 85 - https://tinyurl.com/y73j3s9z

PART 84 - https://tinyurl.com/y8chr6hw

PART 83 - https://tinyurl.com/yasrxfkj

PART 82 - https://tinyurl.com/y9wvecz3

PART 81 - https://tinyurl.com/yc7bm62r

My Life Story in Chapters, PARTS 1-80 (this link below will lead you to a list of all the chapters i have written thus far).

http://aleatoryalarmalligator.tumblr.com/post/168782771574/life-story-sections-1-8

[jordmac]

The Reality of My Senior Year

As I write this, I recall the feeling of summer 2019. Care free, doing what I could to make money for the dances that were coming this next school year, excited for what senior year had to offer. You know that feeling, that starts at the top of your head and goes down to the tip of your toes, stretching throughout your body, while also sitting in your stomach, that what was coming was going to be truly amazing?

And then when that feeling comes crashing down.

AUGUST 10th, 2019

I had it all planned out. Senior year was going to start in T-10 days. I was going to hang out with my “boyfriend” tonight. Last night I was at my first and last Friday Night Lights of my high school career. That feeling was rushing through my body. In T-10 days I would start the best year of high school. In T-17 days, I would become the official girlfriend to the boy I had been with since November of my junior year. The feeling was sitting in my gut, and at this point I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or nerves, but knowing me, it was both.

As he got into my car, he gave me the same smile he always did. He held my hand as we drove off, and he kissed my thumb like he always did. Things were just the same as they had always been. It was the first time we had really been able to spend time together in four months, as we both had summer vacations. Everything was the same, I thought, and in T-17 days I will be this boy’s girlfriend, and my senior year was going to be amazing. The energy wasn’t the same, which is stupid to say, but it was true. Something was off, but I wanted to ignore it, because as much as I felt like I knew what was coming, I didn’t want it to be real, I didn’t want it to be true.

He asked if we could talk. I froze. I anticipated the words. And then it happened. My plan for senior year, and what felt like the plan for the rest of my life, crashed in the words “I’m not in love with you anymore”. And then I had to drive him home.

I don’t know why, but this is where I start my senior year. It didn’t start on August 20th, it started the night of August 10th. I felt myself break as he left, not looking back with the same smile he always did. He had just broke my heart, and we both knew what he did. So why did I have to pretend to not be hurt just so he wouldn’t feel bad? He said we’d still be best friends, he gave me a pinky promise on that...how long do you think that lasted?

I called up one of my bestest friends, Savannah Stacey. If I was alone that night, it would not have gone well. I picked her up, and we picked up Amy, and I told them what happened. I didn’t cry in front of this boy, and this was the first time I had broke down about this, the ending of it all only an hour prior.

They did what they could to help cheer me up, but it was going to take a lot more than ice cream, Zupas chocolate cake and blasting Truth Hurts to make me feel better. We all knew that.

The next morning, I woke up really late. I got into the shower, and the only memory I have was how empty I felt. The fact that I didn’t wake up to a good morning text from him, telling me that he loved me. I remember I got out of the shower and I screamed and dropped to the floor. But I had to do what I had been doing for many years of heartbreaks. I had to pick myself back up.

We did continue to be friends as the summer came to a close. I had my final high school stomp. I worked my last night of summer at a job that I should have gotten out of. And although my plans seemed frayed and lost, I knew that some of them could come together. I still had hope of that. I had hope for this boy to come back and tell me he regretted everything that he had done. Some hopes come true...some are just hopes and dreams, and that’s how they should stay.

AUGUST 20th, 2019

The first day of senior year. I still had hope for this day, it was still going to be an amazing day, even if I didn’t have this boy by my side. I had my best friends by my side, and they were going to stick there and help me through. I sat through my classes, and went to seminary, and there he was. He didn’t notice me, and so I went and talked to him during lunch. It was a short conversation, but his energy was there: he didn’t care about me. I turned around and went to my friends, my heart sinking in my chest, and I couldn’t help it. I just broke and cried. And then I had friends who cried with me, for other reasons, but it was nice to have people with me having mental breakdowns on the first day of school. This was how I started my senior year.

AUGUST 2019-MARCH 2020

The next months were just going through the motions, not really trying to be spontaneous and have fun with my senior year. I auditioned for the school musical, Les Miserables. Theater was one of the things that had been a constant in my life since eighth grade, how I had made all of my friends. I went to homecoming, and honestly, I kind of popped off. I went to the Halloween dance with one of my best friends, Isaac Gates. I had my last performance of theatre on the BHS stage, doing a musical I had loved for 10 years. I had an “on-and-off” friendship with the boy, and we went to Winters together, which may have been dumb on my part, but it was honestly one of the most fun dances I had been to, and I don’t regret going. I had 6 choir concerts, as well as some extra performances at Temple Square and at elementary schools. I had my last musical revue, where for the first time, I felt like I had let go. I went to UTA and honor choir, and made new friends with people I had never really talked to before. I went to Sweethearts stag with my best friend, Courtney. And that night, my heart broke. He moved on, with my best friend, but I think it truly helped me to let go. I went to my Senate with the coolest Jew, Carter Page, and that night, after I dropped him off, and I checked my phone, it seemed as if the world had shifted into a different place. This is where things started to change.

I had been so sad for such a long time, and finally at my day activity for Senate, I felt genuine happiness, and I was like “it took me 7 months, but I really need to live up the rest of my senior year”. So I did what I could, while also getting a new job.

The text was from him, after I had gotten closure and apologized. He was trying to be clear, saying he only apologized because he would have felt bad if he ghosted me, and said he wasn’t trying to lead me on. I was livid, because I apologized because I just apologized because there were things and misunderstandings that needed to be apologized for...not because I wanted to get back together.

The rest of the week felt like a dream. Monday was nothing special, and neither was Tuesday. Tuesday I spent four hours baking and frosting cupcakes, because the next day was special. Wednesday, March 11th, I turned eighteen. I bought a fish. His name was Brahms. That night, it was announced that Utah Jazz player, Rudy Golbert, had been diagnosed with Covid-19.

Now you see, up until this point, Covid-19 was just seen as a little virus going around, at least that’s how I saw it. I didn’t think it would become that big of a deal. And then that happened.

MARCH 12th, 2020

You know that feeling, that starts at the top of your head and goes down to the tip of your toes, stretching throughout your body, while also sitting in your stomach, that something is coming, and you’re not ready for it.

That is what sat throughout my body as I sat through seminary, English, and choir. I was sick of hearing about Covid-19. In my head, nothing was going to happen. I was going to finish off school at Bountiful High. Covid-19 wasn’t going to affect me.

My voice was gone, and I had solo & ensemble that night. As I sat in choir, we sang the song “O Love”, a beautiful song, one that had helped me through the past months, telling me that I would not be let go. I didn’t sing, but as I listened to everyone else, I sobbed. Something about this day felt off. I watched my best friends sing their songs for their festival performance. I sobbed. We held each other and cried. I think we all knew, that whatever was going to happen, it probably wouldn’t be good.

As I watched them perform at Festival, I cried again and again. I cried as I watched them sing their solo & ensemble pieces. And then I was left alone, as they went home and I still had to perform.

My dad picked me up. On the way home, we cancelled our upcoming trip to Arizona, the trip we were going to go on the next day. Monique came over and we ate chips and queso, unsure of what was to come. We helped Amy and Savannah answer to prom, and we all were unsure.

I didn’t go to my first three periods the next day. I went to theatre, that was it. I took my cousin to pick some toys out from Target for his birthday. And that’s when I got the news: school was closed for the next two weeks. Plans, much like the beginning of this school year, started to shatter. What about the choir concerts next week, and the theatre competitions?

MY SENIOR YEAR:

From the start of my senior year, I couldn’t tell how this year was going to end up. I just had hopes it would be good. And then we got the announcement that we weren’t going to go to school for about three weeks. I felt robbed. I had two choir concerts and two theatre competitions in those weeks. What was going to happen next? The choir’s trip to San Diego being cancelled?

News flash: it got cancelled...

Everything was going to be fine. I just knew that we’d go to school after those weeks, and it would be just fine.

And then they announced that the soft closure of school would go until May 1st. And that was fine to me still. We’d still have our final concert. I’d still be able to watch my best friends perform in their production of The Diary of Anne Frank. Everything was going to be fine.

APRIL 14th, 2020:

It was a blur. I couldn’t tell you what day it was. I was just talking to my friends and then they said “this can’t be true”, and I was confused. But that feeling, the one that stretched throughout your body and sat in your stomach, it was back. And I knew. I think I always knew.

I wasn’t going to be able to finish my senior year at a school. My heart broke. I got out, bought a Red Bull and drove around. My senior year. My senior prom. My last choir concerts. Graduation. Getting closure with everything that has happened the last twelve years. Ribbed from my grasp. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. I just drank my Red Bull and drove.

THE TRUTH OF IT ALL:

Don’t take things for granted. Live up your senior year. Live up every year of high school. That’s what I’ve learned.

As much as all of this does suck, I think back: would I appreciate my friends for sticking by me as much as they have if I still were able to see them in person every day? Would I so desperately wish and be grateful for those Target runs I had, if I weren’t allowed to have them anymore. Would I want to hug people as much as I do right now if they weren’t somewhat dangerous, if I hadn’t felt deprived of those simple hugs between my friends and I. Will I go bowling as much as I have with my new friends after this is all done? Am I going to crave adventure as much as I do right now, now that I can go after it all?

It is true, that the end of high school isn’t the end of life. It’s the end of an amazing chapter to look back on, the start of a whole new adventure. Am I going to take advantage of this whole new adventure? Am I going to fill it up with memories to tell my kids, telling them to “full send” and do stupid crap, just like I did when I was their age?

I don’t want to blame that silly boy that had more control over a year of my life than he or I wished he had control of for the fact that my senior year sucked. I’m not going to blame Covid-19? What’s it going to do? There is no one to blame. In fact, if that silly boy is reading this: Hi...it’s been a while. I forgive you for all the crap you put me through, and I hope you forgive me too. Life is too short to hold grudges. And high school is too short to hold a grudge on someone you might never see again.

Life is short. Senior year is just a small small portion of my life, and as much bad that went into it, I wouldn’t change it for the world. I mean, I probably would change the whole Covid-19 thing, but I can’t, so all I can do is take advantage of the time, and take advantage of the fact that I will be adventuring as soon as this ends.

CLASS OF 2020:

This may sound cheesy, but despite all the struggles we’ve been through, heartbreaks, bad test grades, friendship struggles, and the cancellation of school with Covid-19, I know that the class of 2020 will come out on top, resilient as ever. We are the future, and we will become some of the best leaders, teachers, actors, newscasters, scientists, musicians, etc that this world has ever seen. We will take everything further than it’s been before. New discoveries, new ways to help our nations, ways to help and serve others, new music, and teaching the future that comes after us. That is what we will be known for. We are far from weak. We are stronger than any generation has ever been, and that is what we will be known for.

Senior Year Video:

[thesearebobsthoughts]

March 29, 2020

I don’t know how much longer paramedics can keep this up. Via The New York Times:

One New York City paramedic described responding to a suicide attempt of a woman who had drank a liter of vodka after her cancer treatments had been delayed, in part because hospitals were clearing their beds for coronavirus patients.

Another paramedic said she responded to so many cardiac arrests in one shift that the battery on her defibrillator died.

“It does not matter where you are. It doesn’t matter how much money you have. This virus is treating everyone equally,” the Brooklyn paramedic said

***

Three weeks ago, the paramedics said, most coronavirus calls were for respiratory distress or fever. Now the same types of patients, after having been sent home from the hospital, are experiencing organ failure and cardiac arrest.

“We’re getting them at the point where they’re starting to decompensate,” said the Brooklyn paramedic, who is employed by the Fire Department. “The way that it wreaks havoc in the body is almost flying in the face of everything that we know.”

In the same way that the city’s hospitals are clawing for manpower and resources, the virus has flipped traditional Emergency Medical Services procedures at a dizzying speed. Paramedics who once transported people with even the most mild medical maladies to hospitals are now encouraging anyone who is not critically ill to stay home. When older adults call with a medical issue, paramedics fear taking them to the emergency room, where they could be exposed to the virus.

***

The husband frantically explained that he had tried to stay home and tend to his ill wife, but his employer had asked him to work because their facility was overrun with coronavirus patients.

Grudgingly, the man told the medics, he went to work. When he returned home after his shift that day, he found her unconscious in their bed. For 35 minutes, Mr. Almojera’s team tried to revive the woman, but she could not be saved.

Usually, Mr. Almojera said, he tries to console family members who have lost a loved one by putting his arm around them or giving them a hug.

But because the husband was also thought to be infected with the coronavirus, Mr. Almojera delivered the bad news from six feet away. He watched the man pound on his car with his fist and then crumble to the ground.

“I’m sitting there, beside myself, and I can’t do anything except be at this distance with him,” Mr. Almojera said. “So, we left him.”

Speaking of poor, non-white people getting the toxic end of this lollipop: 

The numbers in the above map represent positive tests. The next one, showing the differences in deaths from COVID is going to be truly grim and absolutely divided along race and class lines, because America. Specifically, because poorer, browner New Yorkers have less access to well, everything: heath care, information, jobs that can’t be performed from home. All those people working in supermarkets and making deliveries, the “essential workers” are disproportionately poor. Social distancing? Sure, try that when you’re living on the streets or still trapped in Riker’s or even a huge public housing project with one or two goddamn working elevators. 

Even those who do have insurance are about to be royally screwed. “No insurer, no state, planned and put money away for something of this significance,” Peter V. Lee, the executive director of Covered California, an state exchange that’s part of the ACA, said. Well then, maybe the insurance providers shouldn’t have eaten so much avocado toast at brunch. Ha ha. Just kidding. The current admin has decimated the ACA, which was a laughable excuse for a healthcare system to begin with, and has only grown worse since. 2010

Here’s a fun/funny story. I was running low on Juul pods and with the next shipment not scheduled to arrive till Monday I had to do something. So, scribbed my hands raw, I put on clothes that I’d feel comfortable incinerating if need be, strapped on a pair of brown leather gloves, and tied a scarf around the entirety of my face as if I were a Black Bloc anarchist. And then I stepped outside the front door for the first time in... ten days? I’m going to say ten days. It was stressful and enraging with some light terror tossed in for variety’s sake.

I scoped out the block for people like I was on a goddamn recon mission, and let me tell you, wealthy-ass Brooklyn Heights residents were not maintaining social distancing. Dads breezily lazily walking their dogs, unconcerned (somehow) if someone trotted right by them. Gaggles of people, laughing, chatting, shooting the shit as if nothing had changed. On more than one occasion, I had to sprint across the street to maintain proper spacing. At my local bodega—the only bodega anywhere within walking distance of my apartment which sells pods—a hand-drawn sign had been taped to the shelves containing cigs and e-cigs. “Please make your selection and leave as quickly as possible,” the sign read. 

I did so, bolting back out, ticking off the seconds till I was back at 108 Pierrepont. My neighbor was idling at the front gate, trying to coax her large labrador retreiver up the steps. I waited till she’d gotten to the front door and asked how she was feeling. 

My neighbor said “better.” Which, sure. The dry cough of hers seemed to echo through our shared (thin) wall less frequently now. Oh and her sense of taste and smell was slowly returning. 

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I tried to gently explain that she fucking has it without flipping my shit at her for not immediately telling everyone in the building. I sent out a mass email the instant I started feeling under the weather and unlike her, I’ve never had two of the most common fucking symptoms. Standing outside the building, paralyzed, unsure how long I needed to wait to sprint into the building and up the spiral staircase. She wasn’t even wearing a scarf, let alone a mask. Every exhale was flooding the lobby with infection but somehow using a Clorox wipe to open and close the door was enough of a preventative measure in her mind. 

So grabbed all the packages that were waiting for me and galloped up the staircase. (Stalling for two days before going downstairs to pick up my deliveries accomplished nothing, what with the co-op’s own personal Typhoid Mary going outside twice a day to walk the dog. I’m still livid, two days after the fact. It’s insanely irresponsible of her. ) l kicked off my shoes outside the door, then stripped naked and deposited every item in a plastic garbage bag, tying it as tightly as possible. After scrubbing down my hands like Hawkeye Pierce, I then scoured the packages themselves with a wipe, followed hard upon by every surface they’d touched. I washed my hands a second time, belting out two consecutive particularly antic versions of the Happy Birthday song. Then I opened the packages, wiped down the contents, and washed my hands for a third time before jumping in the shower. 

70 percent of the tests run by Northwell Health are coming back positive, and thousands of people will likely die. "I don't see how you look at those numbers and conclude anything less than thousands of people will pass away," the Governor said on Sunday. Vulnerable parts of the population will be hit particularly hard. "I hope its wrong, but..."

This is the Jacob K. Javits Center now. Soon, the beds will all be full: 

In the hopefully not-too-distant future, someone’s going to write a book detailing the ongoing failures at every level of the Federal government. (Who am I kidding? Everyone is going to write that book.) At least one will probably toss in a bit of color about the Javits Center: It’s where Hillary Clinton was on the night of November 8, 2016, getting ready to deliver her victory speech. The one that never came. Once the election was called, she sent John goddamned Podesta out instead. Ha ha. 

On Wednesday, I spent a frantic afternoon getting epidemiologists on the blower to talk about ballplayers going under the knife and feeeling generally flu-ish and tired while doing so. [Editor’s note: stop trying to sound like you’re not incredibly fucking privileged and have less shit to deal with than the vast bulk of people in this city alone. You blogged whilst sick. Hero-type stuff, truly.] 

It’s not in the article, but yeah. All these high-paid orthopedic specialists should be barreling toward the front lines and turning their top-shelf sports medicine facilities into something fucking useful. 

Per Mom, on Facebook:

It doesn't just "look like" special privileges for the rich and powerful, it is just that. Doctors, nurses, technicians, and other healthcare resources are currently being diverted to parts of hospitals and other locations where they are needed. They are being called back from retirement to help fill the need. These resources could be used with urgency elsewhere and are not when such elective procedures are being done instead. Excellent article, Bob.

Thanks, Mom. 

Mike Francesa has been radicalized. Back afta this.