#if I never again have to listen to somebody who sounds like they’re imitating a sibling they dislike…

[aliosne]

In the hopefully likely event I am ever to have an audiobook version of something I wrote made, the one thing I would put my foot down about is “are they fucking normal about “opposite” gender voices”

[gureishi]

gold rush

✧ — Summary: A chance encounter at the bar where you work. But is anything ever really a coincidence?

✧ — Pairing: Saeyoung x Reader

✧ — Rating: T (light cursing, bar setting)

✧ — A/N: This is probably as close as I’ll get to writing an AU. The way the characters are meeting is a little bit different, but we all know where they’re going to end up. This fic is set two weeks before the start of Deep Story.

chapter one

It was the beginning of a summer sunset—all reds and pinks and white hot light streaming through the windows and making you dizzy—when you saw him.

You didn’t believe in love at first sight or even fortuitous encounters. You thought coincidences were nothing more than accidents and miracles were just funny little bursts of brain chemicals.

And you weren’t interested in meeting anyone new. Your feet ached and your eyes felt heavy; you wanted an ice cold beer or a hot shower or maybe just a nap. But time twisted that day: worlds collided and the sun shone extra bright and your weary mind lit up in a way you’d never be able to explain.

You were standing by the bar when it happened. You had a faded blue rag in your hand, with which you were halfheartedly polishing a wine glass. The bartender (a friend, sort of) was telling you a story and you were gazing longingly at the door. A few more hours, you thought, until you’d leave—till you’d walk down the street with its overflowing trash cans and broken sidewalk, around the corner with its group of old men blaring music through their speakers, and home.

And as you stared at the door, it swung open—almost as if you’d compelled it with your yearning. You sighed and looked down at the wine glass in your hand, because it was slow today and on slow days, customers always wanted to talk.

You didn’t want to talk to anyone. You had no patience for conversation about the heat or somebody’s kids or their upcoming vacation. You wanted to lie on the floor of your bedroom in your underwear and stare at the ceiling fan till you stopped thinking about anything at all.

“Hey,” the bartender said (and her voice was a little too loud, like always, but you put on your best listening face for her). “Look at him.”

You didn’t roll your eyes, though you wanted to. She was younger than you and still found everything interesting—and ultimately you appreciated that about her. Instead, you tilted your head and peered through your lashes at the man by the door.

Ah, you thought (wildly, without knowing why). There he is.

He looked like the sort of person who never quite belonged.

He stood a little bit stiffly, his hands in his pockets—and then he waved at one of your coworkers and smiled, and all at once he seemed to fit in, after all. You didn’t know what to make of it.

“Cute,” the bartender whispered (standing on tiptoe to lean over the bar). “Don’t you think?”

“Oh,” you said, keeping your voice level. “Is he?”

You were a terrible liar. Your skin was screaming and your heart was racing; you felt as though you’d had the wind knocked out of you. The man strode casually across the bar and slid into a chair at one of the high-top tables, and you studied him. The bartender had called him cute, and your unsteady heart seemed to agree—but you weren’t even sure if it was true.

He wasn’t necessarily traditionally attractive. He was neither tall nor well-dressed: he wore jeans and a t-shirt that were both several sizes too big for him, and he had oversized headphones dangling around his neck. 

But his hair was a striking shade of red that you’d never seen before—it made you think fleetingly of childhood days playing under a sizzling sun and the sweet taste of lemonade. He wore glasses that suited his soft features, and behind them his eyes were startlingly gold. He looked up and your thoughts scrambled; you felt, for a moment, like you were swimming through thick liquid.

The bartender sighed, stirring your strange vortex of feelings.

“He sat at a table,” she said. “So he’s yours, not mine.”

Yours, huh? You felt vaguely nauseous.

Without a word, you grabbed a big bottle of water from the bin by the bar. Something seemed to have shifted inside you: it was the feeling of seeing the bus pull up when you’ve waited forever—the feeling of an eternity of biding your time coming to an end.

You had no idea why you felt that way.

You paused to check on a couple sitting in a booth as you made your way across the bar, but they didn’t spare you so much as a glance; they were staring silently into each other’s eyes, hands clasped on top of the table. And the man in the corner wasn’t looking at you—he was typing something on his phone, fingers moving so fast you swore they were blurry.

“Hey,” you said when you reached him. His fingers didn’t stop moving when he looked up at you—but your eyes met, and he smiled.

“Hi,” he replied (still typing). His voice was not at all what you’d expected: much brighter and more musical. He cocked his head to the side as though he were drinking you in, and you had the eerie sensation that he was reading your mind.

“Been here before?” you asked (knowing he hadn’t). He set his phone down and drummed his fingers against the table like he couldn’t quite sit still.

“Yeah,” he said. “You don’t remember me?” 

Liar, you thought. You took in his earnest expression: trust me eyes and a proud sort of smile. He wanted you to play along.

“Right,” you said, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I kick you out of here before?”

His eyes widened: a remarkable imitation of innocence.

“Me?” he trilled, sounding only mildly curious. “Impossible.” 

A lock of his hair fell over his forehead and you felt a fleeting urge to brush it away.

“I could do it again,” you said instead, raising your eyebrows. He looked you up and down (the back of your neck burned), and then he grinned.

“You win!” he exclaimed, bouncing in his seat. It was weird, you thought, that he was so excited not to have fooled you—but there was something about his almost childlike exuberance that made you feel pleasantly squirmy.

“Obviously,” you said. “I wouldn’t have forgotten you.”

You hadn’t meant to be so honest, but the words slipped out on their own—and you watched, horrified and delighted, as he flushed a funny shade of fuchsia.

“Really?” he asked, giggling (actually giggling). “Me, specifically?”

It would have been easy to say something biting, but you found that you didn’t want to.

“You, specifically,” you said.

And for an instant, his boldness seemed to slip away: his eyes softened and his hands stilled, and you saw another person entirely. It was someone somber and small—someone who’d been waiting to be told you, specifically for a very long time.

Your heart contracted.

Oh, you thought. Me too.

But the moment had already passed. He was grinning again, his eyes glittering. He winked roguishly, leaning forward.

“Whatever you say, babe.”

Oh, what was happening to you?

You glanced around the room: two other tables seemed to have materialized while you were talking to him. In a voice you hoped was level, you asked him what he wanted (just a soda), and then you slipped away to greet the new groups of people. In your peripheral vision, you saw him pulling a laptop out of his bag.

The sun had mostly set by the time you made it back to the bar. You could hear him in the corner, typing away.

The bartender caught your eye and beamed.

“What was that?”

You tried to avoid her gaze. 

“What was what?” You put the drinks on a tray.

She rolled her eyes dramatically as though she thought you were being incredibly difficult (and perhaps you were).

“You,” she said, laughing away your attempted ignorance. “Leaning all over the table and making puppy dog eyes.”

“I didn’t do that.” Did you?

“I felt like a real voyeur, watching you just now,” she said. She tossed her hair and you knew that she was teasing, but you still felt a little bit anxious. There was clearly something wrong with you.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” you told her drily. She waved you away; the ice was already melting in the drinks—and her laughter mingled with the sound of muted pop music drumming over the speakers as you strode back into the bustle of the bar.

You dropped drinks at your new tables first, and then you checked in on the couple in the booth (they were making out now, her legs in his lap). You knew that you were stalling.

But you didn’t trust yourself to go back to his table: you didn’t know what you’d do or say. It had been a long, hot summer—a long, dreary year. These days, nothing made you nervous—but the redhead typing furiously in the corner knocked you off balance.

When there was truly nothing left to do but return to him, you made your way across the room (too fast; too slow). You arrived at his side and your heart fluttered. His eyes were trained on his screen.

“I’m back,” you said, and your voice came out perky and loud. He looked up, then, his eyes taking a moment to refocus. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to require a lot of concentration.

Curious, you tried to peek at his screen, but he’d angled it so you couldn’t see. You wondered if he’d done that on purpose.

“Thank god,” he said, grinning crookedly. “I was lost without you.”

You set the glass, which was wet with condensation, on the slightly sticky wooden table. You should’ve brought a napkin or something.

“Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?” you asked, arching your eyebrows. You didn’t say the next part—why come to a bar just to drink Dr. Pepper?—but his smile widened, and for the second time you got the sense that he knew just what you were thinking.

“I don’t drink alcohol,” he said, flicking the wrapper off the straw and taking a sip. He drank soda, you thought, the way college kids drank liquor: hungrily. “You wanna know why I’m here,” he added. His eyes were piercing.

You gestured at his laptop (wondering what sort of program he could possibly be running to make it hum like that).

“I could take a wild guess and say that you’re working.”

He laughed.

“You get me.”

“What are you working on?” Again, you tried to peek at his computer; this time he shut it with a firm snap. Then he leaned in conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling.

“If I told you,” he whispered in a voice that dripped with provocation, “then I’d have to kill you.”

God. You should have expected no less. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms; the Bond act did nothing for you.

“Sure,” you muttered. “That’s what they all say.” 

He paused, taking in your defensive posture—and then he burst out laughing. You'd gone from charmed to annoyed in a heartbeat—and now the ringing sound of his laugher was melting the tension from your shoulders. You weren’t sure what to make of it.

“Do you, uh…” he stammered breathlessly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Do you get that a lot?”

“It’s a vibe,” you told him. “Guys who think they’re cooler and more interesting than they really are.” Oh, you didn’t mean to antagonize him—but something about the way he was looking at you egged you on. He rested his chin on his hand and you couldn’t help noticing the thin white scars that dappled his fingers. Huh.

“So you think I think I think I’m interesting?” He was looking in your eyes again. Your knees felt weak.

“I think I…have other tables,” you said. And it was true: it was fully dark out now, and people were trickling in, looking around expectantly for someone to pay attention to them. You needed a break from him or you’d drown (oh, but there was a part of you that wanted to pull up a chair and stare at him till he looked away).

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but it sounded like a challenge.

You smiled because you didn’t know what to say. Talking to him was like skating on the surface of a pond that had just iced over: thrilling and precarious. You darted away (and by the time you’d made it to the other side of the bar, his eyes were back on his screen). It was louder in here now; you couldn’t hear him typing anymore.

You quickly checked on the couple in the corner (still ignoring you) and then greeted two large groups of people around your own age. One was friendly and probably already drunk (they ordered a round of shots); the other was stiff and rude. You suppressed a sigh as all eight of them ordered drinks that weren’t on the menu; as soon as they’d sent you away, they called you back to make several changes (because people like that always did).

Martini with a twist, not a gin fizz, you chanted in your mind as you shimmied through the crowd of people who’d gathered around the bar. Your mind was tired and hazy (and the man in the corner wasn’t helping; all your nerves seemed to be firing randomly, making your skin feel too tight).

You typed the order into the POS, trying to ignore the redhead in your peripheral vision; his table was just an arm’s length away. The bar was getting noisier now, and the familiar cacophony of music and voices soothed you and made you sleepy.

And then, in the midst of the sea of sounds: “Hey.”

You felt his eyes on you at the same time you heard his voice. You turned to see him watching you, your heart doing a little dance behind your ribs.

“What’s up?”

He smiled lazily and rested his chin on his hands.

“Don’t forget the martini,” he said.

For a moment, you stared at him—and then it dawned on you. Martini with a twist, not a gin fizz. You’d definitely just put the order in wrong.

“How’d you know that?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously. His face gave nothing away.

“How’d I know the order, or how’d I know you’d forget it?”

“Either,” you said (giving in, leaning on his table). “Both.”

“I’m a good listener.” His grin was too big (almost wicked): he was enjoying this. “I’m a good watcher, too.”

And that did seem to be the case. His penetrating eyes seemed to take in everything: a whisper of someone’s hair against their skin; a brush of fingertips beneath a table. You wondered what exactly he saw when he looked at you; you wondered what he’d say if you asked.

“Thanks,” you said. “Can you just hang out here all night and do my thinking for me?”

“I wish,” he muttered, sounding a little bit awkward. You got the sense that he meant it. You were starting to form a response when the bartender caught your eye—and you sighed, remembering that you needed to intercept her before she made the wrong drink.

“I’ve gotta—”

“Go,” he said.

You slipped from his side back into the crowd, but your thoughts seemed to have gotten stuck. You heard his voice in your mind as you spoke to the bartender; you imagined he was watching you as you ran some drinks (but you checked, and his eyes were glued to his screen).

The friendly drunk girls called you over and convinced you to do a shot with them (which wasn’t really allowed, but nobody followed that particular rule). The rude table complained that the music was too loud and the AC was too high. The couple in the booth finally asked for their bill.

Time—too much time—passed before you found yourself free again. You paid out the clingy couple and turned to face the dimly lit room, and your heart skipped a beat.

Your redhead was standing, tapping his fingers idly against the table.

“You’re leaving?” You darted to his side, relieved you’d caught him—anxious that he’d almost left without saying goodbye. “You gonna disappear into the night and never return or something?”

He grinned, but his cheeks were pink. He picked up on your sincerity whether you wanted him to or not.

“I’m going to the other side of the universe,” he said. He was slinging his bag over his shoulder, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’d left a wad of cash on the table (it looked like way too much). “If I don’t get lost in space, I’ll be back for you.”

The bottoms of your feet tingled. It felt strangely intimate to be standing face-to-face like this.

“What’s your name?” you asked. “So I don’t forget you this time.” You winked, because you wanted him to think you meant it lightly—but something dark passed across his expression anyway. That scared him, you thought. He’s afraid of being—

But he was already smiling wider; the moment of solemnity was gone before you could acknowledge it.

“If I told you,” he said, “I’d have to—”

“I’m leaving!” you declared, turning away from him with as much flair as you could muster. He cackled, and then his hand shot out and closed around your wrist.

Time had been moving in strange swirls and eddies all night; now, it stopped altogether.

“Oh,” he said. “Uh.”

His hand fell as you turned to face him. He hadn’t meant to touch you, you thought: he’d done it impulsively, instinctively—and something had snapped. A line had been crossed. His face was very red.

“Seven,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse and weak, like he’d just been burned. “You can call me Seven.”

“Like the number?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That way every time you count you’ll remember who I am.”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if anyone else had said something like that to you—but he stood so awkwardly and spoke so earnestly that you thought he might actually have meant it.

“I count a lot,” you told him. “I hope you’re prepared to be on my mind at least once an hour.”

He smiled and leaned forward and for a single, wild moment you thought he was going to kiss you.

Instead, he whispered in your ear. His breath gave you goosebumps.

“You’re the one who should be prepared,” he said. “Once I’m in your mind, you won’t be able to get rid of me.”

Before you could respond, he’d pulled back; he was retreating, lifting a hand and giving you an energetic wave.

“Bye, then,” he trilled. And then he said your name.

You were quite sure you’d never mentioned it.

“Oh—” you started to say—but the door chimed, and he was gone. 

It was over.

Rocking back on your heels, you looked wearily around the bar. Everything was normal: the chattering of people and the beat of a song that had already played three times that night. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

But you couldn’t forget.

You went through the motions, because you had to: you spoke to people and brought drinks and cleared tables and thought about bright golden eyes. More people gathered around the bar, but the tables cleared out quickly—and you dutifully wiped them down and blew out all the little candles and imagined you were anywhere but there. You counted money with stiff fingers and collected your cash tips and bid goodbye to the bartender and wondered if it was still hot out.

It turned out that it was.

You nudged open the door with your hip and the heat hit you like the big, dangerous ocean waves you’d only ever seen in pictures. It was late (early, even) and the street was nearly empty; another bar across the street buzzed vaguely and the air shimmered with late night summer wetness. Wishing you were already home, you ran a sticky hand through your hair and turned the corner onto a street that you knew was always empty.

Except it wasn’t. 

Someone was there.

Oh, you thought (frantically, irrationally). It’s him. 

You could barely make out the figure in the darkness, but he was the same general shape as your mysterious redhead. He was the right height, and his hair was wild, and—

Your heart raced. Had he waited for you after all?

But then the figure stepped forward and the streetlight shone in his eyes. They were the color of a clear sea after a storm.

You cursed yourself for hoping; you felt as though you’d been sucked dry. The stranger looked just enough like your redhead, but also altogether different: his hair was bright white and he stood perfectly still, like a predator lurking in the shadows.

And for no good reason, you had the sense that you were meant to be the prey.

The man smiled—almost a smile, one corner of his lips quirking upward. You wanted to say something (what?), but he was already turning away. He walked slowly, like he wasn’t in any hurry—but two steps were enough: he disappeared into the darkness on the other side of the streetlamp.

You were left alone with the tingling in your toes and the feeling that you had been caught.

A coincidence, you told yourself firmly (but you retraced your steps, deciding it would be safest to take another route home). Or maybe just my imagination.

You turned onto your block and unlocked the front door to your building and squinted against the fluorescent lighting. The people around you, you thought, believed in fate and miracles because these things made them feel better about their otherwise ordinary lives. But you didn’t agree: time marched endlessly forward, and there was nothing to be done about it.

Oh, and yet—

You pushed open the door to your apartment (dark and hot as always), kicking off your shoes and fumbling for the light. You knew better than to believe in the things that made your friends pretend that life was softer and sparklier than it really was. You did.

But the air tasted different now. You knew it—irrevocably, inexplicably—whether you wanted to believe it or not. 

Tonight, around sunset, everything had changed.

[repetitionsings]

Sorting Cabin Pressure

I return! Briefly, because tumblr still hates me, and yet triumphant, because I’ve spent the last week re-listening to Cabin Pressure, and I want to talk about sorting the MJN crew. So let’s do some Sorting Hat Chats!

As usual, my view on these characters may not be yours, and if you have different thoughts, I’d love to hear them. :D Discussion spans the entire 27 episodes, so let’s say spoilers just to be safe.

Martin

Despite probably having the biggest, best-defined character arc, I'm finding Martin the main character I'm least set on. 

Secondary-wise, I'd say he's definitely a built secondary; very little of Martin's improvisations seem to come comfortable to him. His insistence on doing things right and by-the-book feels fairly Badger, but his ability to be lured into shortcuts and moments of unprofessional behavior feels to me like a Bird who thinks that Badger hard word and toil is the best option. It also seems to fit with the way he becomes calm and confident once something works out for him, and then immediately loses it once things go wrong and he feels unprepared again. The few episodes where he really gets to be confident and succeed particularly feel Bird-y to me: relying on knowledge in Johannesburg especially stand out.

(That said, Badger also seems to ring consistently with the way he handles a lot of things -- his dedication to his job, his hard work, even the way half the time he does get confident, it's either because Douglas isn't there to bring him down, or he seems to be pretending to be him.)

Primary-wise, though, that's where I get tripped up. Not a Snake, I think; even his hesitancy to leave MJN is half about his own goals and issues, not fully founded in caring about others. Badger doesn't quite seem right either -- "being loyal and true to things or people that exist is more important than sticking to grander but more abstract ideals or concepts" does not sound like Martin at all. My first thought was Lion, just one that's still struggling to be as decisive as they usually are -- despite his hesitancy, and his instincts being 'follow the rules written by others', a lot of the Lion stuff seems to apply to him. "They are willing to sacrifice their safety, social harmony, and a certain amount of logic to do what they feel is right." "There is right and there is wrong. Things are black and white. Shades of gray are places where people go to play games, twist the truth, and to be cowards."

But... he does bend the rules, or sit back and let Douglas do so. If nobody who makes him feel like he has to put on the act is there -- see Newcastle and Qikiqtarjuaq -- he'll bend them pretty far. Trying to drop candy on a kids' birthday party (Johannesburg) and lying to a passenger about where they're flying (Timbuktu) levels of far.

So who's around seems to be a big part of it, which maybe could point back in a loyalist direction. I think in the end, though, I'm going to throw up my hands and say, maybe a Bird whose system is in progress from something fairly immature and black-and-white to something more complicated? Martin's devotion to his passion and his job above all else feels pretty Idealist to me, and this seems a little more fitting than him being an extremely malleable Lion.

Douglas

Douglas "at any given moment I never have fewer than seven ulterior motives" Richardson? Douglas "did something clever and now everything's fine" Richardson? Douglas "pretending very hard not to care about anything, actually cares very deeply, but only about specific things and specific people" Richardson? Is there even any point to considering an answer besides double Snake here? Douglas might as well be the model of it. Trickery is his first language. He schemes, charms, adapts, and lucks out in order to achieve anything in his sights, whether that's as small as a relief from boredom or as big as saving the day.

Motivation is trickier -- but it becomes clearer and clearer as time goes on how far Douglas is willing to go to save MJN, and outside his own desires to be the captain again, that seems like the biggest thing that ever drives him. Combine that with his hedonism, and the way he's happy to lie, cheat, and steal to accomplish most other things with no notable guilt or shame, I don't even see hints of a model or structure built over it; the things that matter to him are his own reputation and status (and even that in very specific, particular ways), and saving GERTI and her crew.

(That said, the more I think about it, I do think you could make a solid argument for Douglas as a rapid-fire Bird Secondary. Mostly built around Zurich -- his confession that his confidence started, not just as a mask, but wholesale imitating somebody else. There's also this excerpt from Finnemore's Farewell Bear Facts: "Douglas prefers to hang back, let other people make mistakes, work out the 'something clever' he's going to do in secret, and then present it with a flourish." While that could be Snake-y, I could see it as a Bird's planning working for someone whose very invested in his own reputation. That said, I still think Double Snake seems the most applicable overall.)

Carolyn

Carolyn's drives are a kind of mirror to Douglas', which is interesting to reflect back on. The two things she cares most about are how she's seen, and -- even if she sometimes shows it in her own strange way -- Arthur. Then Douglas and Martin start to rank in there over time, and eventually so does Herc. (Martin moreso than Douglas -- speculation, but I think it's probably because everyone knows Douglas will take care of himself first, so he doesn't need to be worried about so much.) Money matters to her of course, but several times it comes down to show that if money was the most important thing, she'd probably have given up GERTI a long time ago. We get it set out plainly as early as Douz: "Because I am the Chief Executive Officer of MJN Air. It’s a good thing to be. It’s better than... a little old lady."

I think it's possible to read Carolyn as an extremely burned Badger; there's something in how she reacts to her sister that makes me think I can see it. But in general, I'm more inclined to say Snake Primary. One that isn't fully burned -- Arthur's never really out of her circle, I think -- but does have a hell of a time opening up her circle to new people by the time of the series. Just look at the trial Herc goes through before he gets there.

Lion Secondary, I think. She's the immovable object to Douglas' unstoppable force, and Martin is the thing unfortunately trapped between them at times. She's stubborn and honest, hates playing at being nicer than she is and only does it when absolutely necessary, and cares about her rules being followed but not the rules in general so much. She's whip-smart, but she doesn't actually tend to be tricky or slippery in the same way as Douglas -- and in fact, the one time we really see her try to be actively tricky, in Timbuktu, she loses. She's more likely to ignore opposition or tell someone else to solve it, and even when she pulls something, it's usually pretty straight-forward. (For example, calling Hester's fans in Cremona -- it's an underhanded move against someone who's earned her ire, but not really a complicated scheme.)

Arthur 

I think Arthur shares his mother's Lion Secondary. He's a force in his own right as much as she is, even if he's more of a tornado to her steel barrier. He's honest to a fault and very much always himself, no matter what the situation, or how much better it might be to try and do something else.

As Primary goes, it's hard to tell if this is just Arthur's optimism shining against everyone else, but my first instinct is Badger. He wants to be helpful, oftentimes too much so, and he likes them so much it tends to be notable when he doesn't like somebody. His focus tends to be the people in front of him at the time, but that does extend to include other people when they're there -- it's not just the crew at all times. While I think it's possible to see him in other lights, Badger seems to make the most sense and work with what we see of his wants through the series.

Herc 

While most of the other minor or reoccurring characters don't show up enough for me to have even an idea, I think we do get enough of Herc to narrow it down some, if not make a completely secure conclusion.

My first instinct is that he's yet another Snake Primary in the mix. It works with his role as a foil for Douglas, and with his willingness to give up his position to be with Carolyn by the end of the series. (That said, I feel like his speech on why he's a vegetarian in Ottery St. Mary could point towards Bird Primary as well, and would make sense with everything we see of him.)

He seems straightforward in a way that doesn't line up with a Snake Secondary to me -- that could be a matter of the situations we see him in, but I still just don't see it in his conversations with Carolyn. I'd say maybe a Lion Secondary, in the way the two of them clash and he stands his ground. Bird Secondary also makes sense, but admittedly I'm having trouble pointing to anything specific that made me think so; there's just something in the way his manner bounces off the others, and in the way he seems to almost take on and off All-Knowing Air Captain mode.

In conclusion --

Martin: Double Bird with a Badger Secondary model Douglas: Double Snake Carolyn: Snake Primary/Lion Secondary Arthur: Badger Primary/Lion Secondary Herc: tentatively Snake Primary/Lion or Bird Secondary

or, as they say in Limerick... But for Arthur, they're all quite constructed With the Snakes bickering interrupted By a worrying Bird From the Captain's chair heard Til the newest of Snakes is inducted

Carolyn's Lion is strong and won't coddle Martin's Bird, leaning against his model Or the Lion she raised By the Snake she's unfazed And thank you all, for reading my twaddle

[ifuckinglovestvincent]

St Vincent: “Pour a Drink, Smoke a Joint... That’s the Vibe”

Ding dong! Daddy's Home

By Johnny Davis

19/03/2021

Annie Clark, known professionally as St Vincent, picked up a guitar aged 12 after being inspired by Jimi Hendrix. During her teens she worked as a roadie and later tour manager for her aunt and uncle, the jazz duo Tuck & Patti. Originally from Oklahoma, she moved to Dallas, Texas when she was seven and later attended the Berklee College of Music in Boston, Massachusetts for three years, before dropping out.

Clark worked as a touring musician with the Polyphonic Spree and Sufjan Stevens, before releasing Marry Me, her first album as St Vincent, in 2007. By her fifth album, 2017’s Masseduction, she had become one of the most celebrated artists in music, the first solo female artist to win a Grammy Award for Best Alternative Album in 20 years.

She became unlikely Daily Mail-fodder around the same time, thanks to an 18-month relationship with Cara Delevingne, and later Kristen Stewart. Her ever-changing music, dressing up-box image and head-spinning well of ideas have seen her compared to David Bowie, Kate Bush and Prince. To complete the notion of her being the "artist's artist", in 2012 she collaborated with David Byrne on the album Love This Giant.

Indeed, she is surely one of few performers today who could stand in for Kurt Cobain with what’s-left-of-Nirvana, performing “Lithium” at their induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2014, as well as cover “Controversy” at a Prince tribute concert in 2020, with such guitar-playing fireworks its author would surely have approved.

Following the glam-influenced pop of Masseduction, St Vincent has performed another stylistic handbrake turn. Complete with a new image – part-Warhol Superstar, part-Cassavetes heroine – she has mined the textures of the music she loved most as a kid: the virtuoso rock of Steely Dan, the clipped funk of Stevie Wonder and blue-eyed soul of mid-Seventies' David Bowie, on her upcoming album, Daddy’s Home.

The title refers to Clark's own father, locked up in Texas for 12 years in 2010, for money laundering in a stock manipulation scheme, one in which he and his co-conspirators cheated 17,000 investors out of £35m. It is also, in typical Clark style, a bit of saucy slang.

Back on the promotional trail, Clark Zoomed in from Los Angeles one morning recently – fully caffeinated and raring to go. “My vices?” she pondered. “Too much coffee, man…”

What question are you already bored of being asked?

There’s not one that’s popping out. There’s no question where I’m like “Oh God, if I ever hear that again, I’ll jump off a building.” I’m chill.

I mention it because prior to releasing your last record you put out a pre-recorded “press conference”, seemingly to pre-empt every inane question the media would throw at you.

It’s so funny. It didn’t really occur like that. Originally that was supposed to be a legit green screen conference. Like, “I’ll just answer these questions ‘cos when they need to have me on ‘The Morning Show’ in Belarus they can have this and put their own graphics behind it”. But then when my friend Carrie Brownstein [collaborator and Sleater-Kinney vocalist-guitarist] and I started writing it and it became very snarky. For some reason it didn’t occur to me that “Oh, that might be off-putting or intimidating to journalists” I just thought "This is silly”. So anyway… I understand.

We're curious about your dad and the American legal system.

I have had a lot of questions about that. For some reason it didn’t occur to me how much I would be answering questions about… my hilarious father!

How do you view his time in prison?

Just that life is long and people are complicated. And that, luckily, there’s a chance for redemption or reconciliation, even after a really crazy traumatic time. And also anybody that has any experience with the American justice system will know this... nobody comes out unscathed.

You recently presented an online MasterClass: "St. Vincent Teaches Creativity & Songwriting". One of the takeaways: “All you need are ears and ideas, and you can make anything happen”. Who’s had the best ideas in music?

Well, you’ve got to give credit to people who were genuinely creating a new style – like if you think of Charlie Parker, arguably he created a new style. This hard bop that was just absolutely impossible to play. It was, like, “Check me out – try to copy me!” So, that’s interesting. I think Brian Eno, for sure, has some great ideas about music – and obviously has made some of the best music. Joni Mitchell – completely singular. I mean: think about that. There are some people who are actually inimitable – like, you couldn’t possibly even try to imitate them.

It’s a brave soul who covers a Joni Mitchell song. Although, apologies if you actually have.

No, I have not. And there’s a reason why not. Come on – Bowie. Bowie never repeated himself. David Byrne also didn’t repeat himself. He took all of his influences of classic songs and the disco that was happening at the time, and the potpourri of downtown New York music from the mid- to late Seventies… and synthesised it into this completely new, other thing. I mean, that’s impressive. Those are the ones we remember.

How hard is it not to repeat yourself?

It’s whether people have the Narcissus thing or not. Like, it’s always got to be a balance where you’re, like, “Well, I need to believe in myself to make something and be liberated. But I can’t look at that pond of my previous work and go ‘Oh you! You’re gorgeous!’” So I don’t go back and listen to things I’ve done. I finished Daddy’s Home in the fall and it was, like, “This is done” and it felt great. I loved the record and it was so fun to make. But what I did immediately afterwards was to write something completely different. But then I don’t know, ‘cos there are people who do the thing that they do just great. And you just want to hear more songs, in the style of the thing that they do great.

Right. No one wants an experimental Ramones album.

Exactly. Or, like, or a Tom Petty record. I don’t want a tone poem from Tom Petty! I want a perfectly constructed, perfectly written completely singalongable three-chord song.

The new album has a very “live” Seventies feel. I’d read that some of the tracks are first takes. Can that be right? It all sounds very complicated.

That’s not right. I should say [rock voice] "Yeah, that’s right, we just jammed…" But, you know, I’ll be honest. There are some vocal takes in there that are first takes. But it really is just the sound of people playing. We get good drum takes. And good bass takes. And I play a bunch of guitar and sitar-guitar. And it’s the sound of a moment in time, certainly. And way more about looseness and groove and feel and vibe than anything else [I’ve done before].

Amazing live albums, virtuoso playing, jamming – those were staples of Seventies music. Have we lost some of that?

I mean, I can wax poetic on that idea for a minute. In the Seventies you had this tremendous sophistication in popular music. Stevie Wonder, Steely Dan and funk and soul and jazz and rock…. and all of the things rolled into one. That was tremendously sophisticated. It just was. There was harmony, there were chord progressions.

What else from that decade appealed to you for Daddy’s Home?

It reminds me of where we are now, I think. So, 1971-1976 in downtown New York, you’ve got the Summer of Love thing and flower children and all the hippy stuff and it’s, like, “Oh yeah, that didn’t work out that well. We’re still in Vietnam. There’s a crazy economic crisis, all kinds of social unrest”. People stood in the proverbial burned-out building. And it reminds me a lot of where we are today, in terms of social unrest, economic uncertainty. A groundswell wanting change... but where that’s headed is yet to be seen. We haven’t fully figured that out. We’re all picking up pieces of the rubble and going “Okay, what do we do with this one? Where do we go with that one?” Being a student of history, that was one of the reasons why I was drawn to that period in history.

Also: that’s the music I’ve listened to more than anything in my entire life. I mean, I was probably the youngest Steely Dan fan. It didn’t make me that popular at sleepovers. People were, like, “I want to listen to C+C Music Factory” and I was, like, “Yeah, but have you heard this solo on [Steely Dan’s] ‘Kid Charlemagne’”? That music is so in me. It’s so in my ears and I feel like I never really went there [making music before]. And I didn’t want to be a tourist about it. It’s just that particular style had a whole lot to teach me. So I wanted to just dig in and find out. Just play with it.

Is there a style of music you don’t like?

That I don’t like?

You're a jazz fan...

I love jazz. Are you kidding me? I was that annoying 14-year-old who was, like, “Yeah, but have you listened to Oliver Nelson’s The Blues and the Abstract Truth?”

I love jazz. Are you kidding me? I was that annoying 14-year-old who was, like, “Yeah, but have you listened to Oliver Nelson’s The Blues and the Abstract Truth?”

That does sound quite precocious for a 14-year-old.

It’s annoying. Just insufferable. [Thinking aloud] What music don’t I like….? Here’s what can happen. And I feel like it’s similar to when an actor has some lines in a script and they’re not very good – not very well-written – so they overcompensate by making it very dramatic and really overplaying it. I would say that is a style of music that I don’t really like. Where somebody has to really oversell it and it all feels… athletic. Instead of musical or touching.

Did you put your lockdown time to constructive use?

If you need any mediocre home renovations done, I’m your girl. It was fun. I did – let’s see now – plumbing, electrical, painting. Luckily there’s YouTube, so you can more or less figure it all out. I did a lot of that stuff and I have to say it was such a nice contrast to working on music all day. Because when you’re working on music you have to create the construct of everything. You’re, like, “I need to make this song. But what is this song?” Everything is this kind of elusive castle in the sky thing. But then, if you go and sand a deck, you’ve done something. It feels really good. And it’s not, like, “What is a deck? And who am I?” You’re just, like, “This is a task and I get to do it and I can see how the mechanism works I understand it it’s not esoteric – it’s simply mechanical". I can do something mechanical. I loved it.

Which bit of DIY are you most pleased with?

Painting the kitchen cabinets. That’s a real job. We’re talking sanding. We’re talking taking things off hinges. We’re talking multiple coats. The whole lacquer-y thing at the end. That. I’m, like, “That looks pretty pro”.

What colour did you go for?

Oh, you know, it’s just a sort of… teal. But classy teal.

Of course.

Yeah. The wallpapering wasn’t as successful. But, you know, that’s fine. So that was really fun. And then I also went down a history rabbit hole. I realised I had some gaps in my knowledge about the Russian Revolution and life under the Iron Curtain and the gulags and Stalin and Lenin. So, I went down that hole. And then I was like “Oh I forgot – I haven’t read any Dostoevsky”. So I have been working on his short stories – which are great. And then Solzhenitsyn I really liked – I mean liked is a strange word to use for The Gulag Archipelago. I read Cancer Ward… All of them. I recommend all of it. And then, before that, it was a big Stasi kick. I can’t remember the last time I had time to brush up on the Russian Revolution.

There’s a lyric on “The Laughing Man”, “If life’s a joke… then I’m dying laughing”. It’s also on your new merchandise. What do you think happens when we die?

Nothing.

This is it?

Yeah. I mean, I understand that it would be comforting to think otherwise. That there might be a special place. It would be nice! The thought’s never really been able to stick for me. I would say that we are made of carbon and then we get subsumed back into the Earth and then eventually we become life again – in the carbon part of our makeup.

Well, that sounds better than an endless void.

I don’t think it would be an endless void.

In what ways are you like your mum and dad?

Let’s see. Well, my mother is a precious angel who has unwavering optimism. She is incredibly intelligent and also very nonjudgmental and able and happy to explore all kinds of possibilities. Saying that, though… it’s sounding not like me at all. I’m like my father in that I think we have very similar tastes in books, films, music and a very similar sense of humour. My mother’s so kind that it’s hard for me to… Her level of kindness and decency is aspirational to me.

How famous are you, on a scale of one to 10?

God, I mean, like, “TikTok Famous” probably a one, right? I’m gonna say – I don’t know about the number system – but I’m going to say I-occasionally-get-a-free-appetiser-sent-over famous. Which is a great place to be.

What do you look for in a date?

It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. You know, I once read something, it might have been something cheesy on a card, but [it was]: if you don’t like someone, then the way they hold their fork will bother you. But, if you like someone – or love someone – they could spill an entire plate of spaghetti on your lap and you wouldn’t mind.

You play a zillion instruments. What’s the hardest instrument to play?

Well, I can’t play horns or anything like that. The French horn is supposed to be really hard. I don’t like to blag… but I’m an incredible whistler. Like, I can whistle Bach.

Is Bach a particularly tough whistle?

I think… yeah. It’s fast. And noodly.

What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we're out of lockdown?

I’m gonna get a manicure and a pedicure and a massage. Massage from a stranger. Any stranger.

What about a night on the tiles?

I will probably attend a dinner party.

That sounds quite restrained.

It sounds hella boring. Sorry.

Clubbing?

No, I don’t really go to clubs. I think in order to go to clubs you have to be a person who likes to publicly dance. And I don’t publicly dance. I mean I would feel too shy to dance at a wedding. But for some reason I will dance on stage in front of 10,000 people.

That’s why alcohol was invented.

Exactly! But I swear I would reach the point of alcohol sickness before I would be drunk enough to dance.

The effects of drugs on creativity: discuss.

Unreliable. Really unreliable. Sometimes after a day’s work in the studio you’re like, "I’m gonna have shot of tequila and then sing this a few more times, and then play". It’s okay but you peak sort-of quickly. You can’t sustain the level without getting tired. And then I would say that weed just makes me paranoid and useless. Every once in a while some combo of psychedelics can get you someplace. But, for the most part, you either come back to [the work] the next day and you’re, like, “This is garbage” or you get sleepy or hungry or distracted and you’re not really doing anything. I’ve never had opiates. Or coke or whatever. So I don’t know. I can’t speak to that. But with the slightly more G-Rated [American movie classification: All Ages Permitted] thing, it doesn’t really help.

What do you have too many of in your wardrobe?

I’m not a hoarder. I tend to have one thing that I get really obsessed with and then I wear it every day. Some people, having a whole lot of things gives them a sense of safety and security. It gives me anxiety. I can’t think if there’s too much visual noise. If there was a uniform that I could wear every day I would absolutely do that. And at certain times I have.

Like Steve Jobs?

Or, oh God, what’s her name? The Theranos lady… Elizabeth Holmes!

The blood-test-scam lady?

Well, I guess it was unclear how much of it was self-delusion and how much of it was, you know, actual fraud.

Another black turtleneck fan.

And – again, this is unconfirmed – she also adopted a very low voice like this in order to be taken seriously as a CEO.

Like Margaret Thatcher.

Did she have a low voice?

She made hers “less shrill”.

Oh yes. Yes!

What movie makes you cry?

The Lives of Others

That’s a good one.

Right. I rewatched that during my Stasi kick.

I’ll be honest, your lockdown sounds even less fun than everyone else’s.

I mean… Look, I had to educate myself. I went to a music college [Berklee College of Music] where I tried to take the philosophy class and the way that they would talk about it… it was taught by this professor who was from one of the neighbouring colleges in Boston. And it was very clear that he really disliked having to talk Kierkegaard to a bunch of music school kids. He was just so bummed by it. I’m trying to learn, “What’s the deal with Kant?” and he felt he had to explain everything only in musical terms [because he assumed it would be the only thing music students could relate to]. Like, “Well, you know, it’s like when Bob Marley…" I’m, like, “No, no, no! I don’t want that!” So I had to educate myself. This is where its led me.

Where should we ideally listen to Daddy’s Home?

Put it on a turntable. Pour yourself a glass of tequila or bourbon – whatever your favourite hooch is – and smoke a joint and listen to it. I think that’s the vibe.

Daddy’s Home is released on May 14

[moneymingyu]

Like in The Movies

summary: in which hoshi watches way too many romance movies and has too many friends who like to watch him suffer.

word count: 2.7k words

pairing: nonidol!hoshi x reader

genre: fluff, comedy

a/n: not very proof read bc i’m super exhausted and my eyes are barely opened atm.

master list

Hoshi has always had this romanticized version of himself playing in the back of his mind.

The cool dude next to the jukebox with a leather jacket who flips a coin then plays the soundtrack to his life. The guy who you spill coffee all over in a Seattle coffee shop then exchange numbers as a form of an apology. The best friend you ask to fake date before realizing he’s been the one for you since day one. The enemy to lover, the boy next door, the childhood best friend you reunite with after years of separation. He partly blames it on all of the movies he watched growing up. A guilty pleasure of his has always been romance movies that he’d watch deep into the night when everything was still and calm. His favorites were the kinds that had him struggling to keep his hiccup at bay, the kinds that made him cry so hard that he’d wake up the next day with swollen eyes and a headache.

“Aren’t you tired of these movies?” Jihoon, his long time best friend and roommate, would ask.

“Never,” Hoshi would reply, unashamed.

He’s seen them all. The Notebook, More Than Blue, The Names of Love, Love Actually. Hoshi can quote them line by line with the same blocking. His friends think it’s impressive but Jihoon is tired of walking into the kitchen at 2AM just to see a Broadway musical in place.

So you’d think that somebody who is basically a book smart Romeo would have a better dating history but...Not Hoshi.

Look. It’s not Hoshi’s fault he’s so awkward. He didn’t ask for the lonely life! The lonely life chose him! So what if romance movies are the only way that he can feel butterflies in his stomach. Whose business is it other than his own?

“Hey Hosh! Remember that time freshman year your crush asked you to the spring fling and you responded by doing a tiger growl at them?”

“Oh my god, I almost forgot about that!” Jun covers his face, bursting into giggles at Jihoon’s trip down memory lane. “He got called a furry for the rest of the year!”

“Oh yeah? And who sat and ate lunch with said furry for the rest of the year?” Hoshi crosses his arms. “Till the day, you’re still eating lunch with the said furry!” A few head turn their way, giving the table an incredulous look. Hoshi sinks in his chair, silently wishing that the floor open and swallow him hole.

“Well maybe that’s because said furry is paying today,” Wonwoo smirks, swiping a fry from Hoshi’s plate.

“Aw, not you too!” Hoshi pouts. “Wonwoo, I put all my faith into you and this is what I get? Slander like a salamander?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jun (who, in Hoshi’s opinion, has said way more questionable things) asks with raised eyebrows.

“Nevermind. It sounded better in my head.” Hoshi sighs, pressing his fingers to his temples.

“C’mon Hoshi,” Wonwoo leans his head on his shoulder. “You know I was kidding. I would sit with you even if you were a real furry.”

“Can we stop talking about furries?!”

“Yo. What do you got against furries? We don’t kink shame around here.”

“Jun, if you say one more thing, I’m going to do an eagle screech right here.”

“That’s not really helping with the furry situation,” Jun mumbles under his breath.

Hoshi decides right then and there that he needs to invest in new friends for the sake of his sanity.

-

“I’m sure somebody likes you, Soon!” Seungkwan offers. “What about the dance studio? Lots of potential there,” he shimmies his shoulders while Dokyeom nudged him from the other side of the couch.

These are his people, he thinks as they watch My Sassy Girl for the tenth time this week.

“He’s right! You’re always a ball of confidence there! Why not try to pick somebody up? Oh!” Dokyeom looks like a lightbulb has gone off inside his head. “What about the receptionist? They’re cute! I heard they’re single too and with Valentine’s Day coming up-“

“Dokyeom! Don’t talk about the V word!”

“Virginity?”

“The other V-word!”

“V-vagi-“

“VALENTINES DAY!” Seungkwan smacks his hand over his mouth like the saying had seared his tongue.

“Oh my god, Valentine’s Day is coming up!” Hoshi whines, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. “I’m going to be alone again!”

“Hey! You always spend Valentine’s Day with us!” Dokyeom frowns.

“We’re going to be alone again!” he moans out.

Seungkwan scoffs. “Speak for yourself. I have a date.”

This causes Soonyoung’s head to snap up. “Huh? A date?” Seungkwan nods, crossing his arms and turning his nose up. “Ah, c’mon! Who is it! You know you wanna tell us!”

“I would tell you if I knew who it was,” Seungkwan sighs, falling back into the couch. “Vernon and Dino set me up on a blind date. Wait? Should I ask them to set you up on one too? You know, Dino’s really good at using Tinder. He made me a profile and then swiped with matches for me and now I’m going on a blind date! Wait, should me and Dokyeom make you one? Quick Dokyeom, what would be the anthem to Hoshi’s life?”

Hoshi gawks at how quick his friends are to move. Seungkwan already has the dating app open while Dokyeom searches up the Les Misérable soundtrack. “Can you guys not?” Hoshi frowns.

But it’s too late. His words are unheard as Dokyeom starts to belt out the words to “Do You Hear the People Sing?” all while Seungkwan is editing pictures of Hoshi for his profile picture.

Hoshi decides right then and there that he needs to invest in new friends for the sake of his sanity.

-

“Thanks for inviting me out, Joshua! I needed some new shoes.”

Joshua is one of the sanest people Hoshi knows. Hoshi thinks it’s because he’s from LA and the people from LA in all the movies he’s watched are super carefree and accepting.

“Don’t mention it,” Joshua smiles while shoving his feet into a pair of slides. “Jeonghan broke my slides yesterday while taking out the trash and tried to pin it on Kkuma. Seungcheol then lectured us for two hours about how we shouldn’t blame things on his daughter then made Jeonghan transfer me the money.”

“Isn’t Kkuma a dog?..” Hoshi smiles from the bench across from him.

“You know Cheol,” Joshua chuckles. “Actually, I also invited you out because I have to ask you a favor! You can object, of course, and I won’t be mad.” Hoshi nods, signaling the older to go on. “Well, actually...The three of us are going away for the weekend. And we usually ask Mingyu and Myungho to watch Kkuma when we’re gone but Myungho has this giant art exhibition and Mingyu’s working double shifts at his bakery so-“ he shrugs. “I think you know where I’m going with this. Could you dog sit Kkuma for us? I’m sure Jihoon will be fine with it. But if you have plans for the Valentine’s Day weekend-“

“No!” Hoshi sighs in relief. “Please give me Kkuma. I’m begging at this point!” Joshua laughs, nodding his head. “You really saved my ass, hyung. The guys are trying to set me up on a blind date but I checked out Seungkwan’s phone while he was in the bathroom and none of them were my type.”

“Consider it a deal,” Joshua smiles, reaching across and ruffling his hair. “Knew I could count on you, Soonie.” Hoshi smiles. He’s so glad to have a friend like Joshua. He really keeps his sanity in tact.

-

Hoshi decides right then and there that he needs to invest new friends for the sake of his sanity.

Kkuma has been barking nonstop all night, whining and crying and even peed in Hoshi’s brand new pair of shoes.

Hoshi doesn’t even know why Kkuma hates him so much but the dog’s antics are enough to have Jihoon packing up and telling him he’ll be back Monday afternoon before leaving to Jun and Wonwoo’s apartment. To make matters worse, Joshua told Hoshi that their trip was technology free so that they could “become spiritually woke.” So any hopes of calling for advice is hopeless.

Hoshi doesn’t understand why Kkuma hates him. He’s a very likeable guy, in his opinion. Bobpul (Mingyu’s dog) would never treat him like this.

“Kkuma, please!” he whines. “I’m standing up a date for this! Please spare me some mercy!” he cries out. The dog jumps up and barks repeatedly. He rubs his eyes over his face. “I don’t understand how something so tiny can make so much noise!”

He rubs his temples. “Okay. If I were Seungcheol, what would I do? Think like Seungcheol. What would Seungcheol do?” Hoshi pouts his lips, puffs out his chest and lowers his voice. “Yah! Kim Mingyu! Watch where you’re walking!” he imitates him from the thousands of times the group has hung out.

He holds the position for a couple of seconds before deflating. “I can’t even hear myself think!” he groans over the barking. “You haven’t even slept yet! Aren’t you tired?” Suddenly an idea pops into his mind.

“I know! Let’s go to the park! Maybe that’ll tire you out! Would you like that? Let’s go!” And they’re off within ten minutes.

It’s a nice day out, thankfully. Warm but not too hot. And though Kkuma is jumping with joy to be at the park, Hoshi thinks he’d rather be at home listening to the dog’s endless whining when he sees the grassy area is packed with couples having a picnic.

He can’t hate, honestly. Picnics are cliché and Hoshi is all for clichés. But it does remind him that today is Valentine’s day and he’s the only one here without somebody to hold hands with.

“Kkuma, you’ll be my Valentine. Right?” he asks as he unclips her leash. But sadly, the dog has other plans as she runs off to play with another dog.

He sighs, plopping down in the grass and picking at the blades. He can’t believe that Kkuma ditched him. After Hoshi bought a new frisbee just for them to play with! He’s deeply offended and will not let Seungcheol live it down when he comes back.

He gives up trying to braid the grass and leans back on his hands, watching the other couples and making up stories about them in their head. He guesses how they met, what their plans are for the day and almost plays it out like a movie in his head.

He’s contemplating becoming a director but then decides that’s too hard and decides maybe he should try writing fanfiction on Archive of Our Own. He’s already picking out his favorite ships from Monsta X when he suddenly hears a shriek from behind him.

“Oh no!” the person whines. “I can’t believe I stepped in dog-“

“Shit!” Hoshi pops up as he sees Kkuma standing at the sidewalk. He sees the disgruntled look on your face then looks down at Kkmua, who looks the happiest she’s been since Hoshi got her. “Hi!” he says rather worriedly. “I’m so sorry! This is my fault! I wasn’t watching Kkuma and to be honest, this dog kind of hates me but here!” He shoves a packet of tissues he had in his back pocket into your hands. “You can have these! Wait I think I have wet wipes in my bag. Just give me a second and,” he drops to his knees, fumbling with his backpack, “Kkuma is just a baby but I promise she’s not usually like this! She’s so well behaved but I think she has some kind of hidden agenda against me because her dad took me out to eat pork belly the other week. Oh! Here they are! Here, do you want me to wipe it off for you? I don’t mind! It’s my fault and plus, I’ve been picking up Kkuma’s dog poop all day. For somebody so small, she sure does poop a lot! And-“ Hoshi suddenly freezes, a heat rising up from the back of his neck onto his cheeks and into his ears.

Seriously?! he thinks. You seriously went on a rant about dog poop! Just when I thought I had some hope in you, Soonyoung, you prove me wrong again! You’re gonna die alone! You hear me? ALONE!

Hoshi slowly brings himself up from his kneeling position. “I mean...” he awkwardly laughs. And to his surprise, you laugh back. But not in a mocking way like people usually do. You seem genuinely amused by his rant.

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m over it,” you giggle. “I just have to be dramatic about it first.” Hoshi nods slowly, too scared to say anything else. “My names YN.”

“Soonyoung,” he bows slightly. “But my friends call me Hoshi.”

“Oh! Like tiger gaze?” you ask, making claws at him for emphasis.

“Oh! Uh! Exactly, actually!” he grins.

You nod. “I think I’ve heard of you actually,” you explain. “My friend works at Seventeen Dance Company and he’s always talking about his funny friend Hoshi.”

“Oh? Who’s your friend? I must know them!”

“It’s Minghao,” you reply. “I was actually on my way to his art exhibition.” Hoshi nods his head, understanding. “Were you not going to go?”

“Myungho doesn’t like when our friend group goes to his art exhibitions. We got fired after Mingyu had one too many drinks and started to strip talking about some ‘life imitates art’ while standing next to a bust.” His face flushes an even deeper red. “I’m sorry! I don’t know when to shut up sometimes. I’m not good at this.”

You shrug, “I’m having fun.”

“Really?” Hoshi gasps.

You nod. “Yeah. Now c’mon, give me those wet wipes. You’re gonna come with me to Hao’s event. He told me I can bring a plus one and the venue is pet friendly!”

-

“And that’d how I met YN!” Hoshi grins at the round table of his friends.

“I can’t believe romance movie enthusiast met the person of his dreams over dog poop,” Jeonghan scoffs. “I’m taking full credit for this relationship, by the way. I call best man at the wedding.”

“What? Why do you get credit?!” Seungkwan rebuttals.

“Because the weekend get away was my idea,” he smirks.

“Yeah well Kkuma is my dog so I should be the best man!” Seungcheol argues.

“Hold up. If it weren’t for me and Seungkwan making Hoshi a tinder, who knows what would’ve happened this weekend while he was avoiding us,” Dokyeom points outs out, crossing his arms.

“But Vernon and I were the ones who taught Seungkwan how to even use tinder!” Dino retorts.

Jun scoffs, “You guys wouldn’t even know what tinder was if it weren’t for me and Wonwoo.”

“But I’m his roommate so I get automatic best man rights,” Jihoon says.

“Yeah but YN is my friend and she was heading to my exhibition so by default, I’m going to be the best man because I didn’t even kick Hoshi out when he showed up.”

“Yeah, still offended,” Mingyu rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say sorry until you accept my apology?!”

“Until I’m not known as the artist who had a quote unquote ‘model’ take his clothes off in the middle of my show so that I could prove that life can imitate art!”

Hoshi shakes his head and laughs as the argument wages on with you tucked under his chin.

“Are they always like that?” you whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Yeah but...I don’t think I’d trade them for the world,” Hoshi replies, smiling.

It’s right then and there that Hoshi decides that he has all the friends that he needs and for the sake of his sanity, he will have to keep them. They did, after all, lead them to you.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Hit Or Miss || Morgan & Bex

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @inbextween & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan tries to get to know Bex over a game of Battleship. Explosions may or may not ensue.

CONTAINS: brief references to transphobia

There were a few things that death couldn’t take away from Morgan: love, the view of a January day, and board games. She had never been much of a fan as a kid, they were bulky, hard to pack in a hurry, and as soon as you lost a couple pieces, all that mess became worthless. But at Karen’s house a lifetime ago, the novelty special editions of Monopoly and Life and the varnished wood sets of checkers and parcheesi had seemed like treasures from another world; one where the ground was steady beneath your feet and it never occurred to you that the nice things you loved would fall apart. Today, she ran her fingers over a battered edition of Battleship: Classic (was there a Battleship: passé somewhere?) and brought it down to the table by the window she was bogarting at Board to Death, grinning affectionately at the scuffed pegs and stained ships hiding under the lid. It was the only coffee shop in town that anything to offer besides food she couldn’t taste. Her triple espresso had a soothing bitter taste, but all the icing in the world on the danishes or dipped vegan scones couldn’t bring back her old sense of taste.

She sipped the just-below-boiling mixture and watched the living world shuffle by in their puffy coats and bright scarves. When she saw a nervous looking girl approach the window she smiled, nodding in case it was her. When she entered the cafe, Morgan held out her hand. “Hey, you’re Bex, right?”

The strangest part about being back in White Crest was that it felt so nice. There was something about this place that felt enough like home that Bex almost didn’t altogether mind her overbearing parents controlling her every move. Almost. They’d delighted in the fact that she was being scouted by a professor already, and she’d opted to not mention the part where said professor was gay and also recommended by someone who thought they were a witch. For some reason, Bex trusted Nell’s judgement, and Professor Beck seemed really nice. And, well, Bex couldn’t help but leap at the idea of meeting a real life queer person. Especially a woman. Who was out! And open! Even if she couldn’t really ask her about it today. The concept was novel. And so Bex really wanted this meeting to be good.

Therefore, she kept an excited demeanor about herself as she made her way to Board to Death, trying to push the anxiety away. Put on a smile when she opened the door, and glanced around for Professor Beck, seeing her through the window. She scooted herself over, taking her hand. “Hey! Hi, yes! That’s me! I’m Bex! That makes you Professor Beck, then! Unless you’re not, which would make this very awkward,” she chuckled, then stopped, clearing her throat. “S-sorry. Um, hi, thanks for meeting with me!” Glanced down to look at her refreshments on the table, then back up. “I never really knew Board to Death had food! I’ve only been here a few times. Do you come here a lot?”

“I am Professor Beck, yes, but you can just call me Morgan. Pretty much everyone does.” Morgan took another sip of her espresso and gestured for the girl to sit. It wasn’t every day she could tell someone she’d spoken with online just from their demeanor, but Bex was nearly vibrating out of her skin with anxiety. It was an excited kind of anxious, like her face might hurt from smiling so much, but it still gave Morgan some pause. This was a girl who had wrecked a whole computer lab with just the force of her emotions. Even if she couldn’t accept magic yet, some kind emotional release would probably be good for her. “I don’t come here much, no. Coffee tastes pretty much the same to me anywhere, and at least here it comes with something fun to do. You’ve played Battleship before, right? It’s only one of a couple of two player games I’m familiar with that doesn’t make you think too much.” Grinning at her, Morgan lifted the top from the game and started assembling her board.

“Oh, um--” Bex started, feeling that anxiousness already bubbling in her throat again, “-- I’ll try, but no promises. My parents sort of drilled it into me that it’s ‘Mister’ and ‘Misses’, or ‘Doctor’ and ‘Professor’ only!” Her face scrunched, as if she were trying to be angry and she lifted a finger to waggle. A poor imitation of her father. “You are a child, Odelia, and you will address your elders properly!” Not realizing she’d let slip her real name, she looked back across the table at Professor Be-- er, Morgan. “Oh, yeah, I’m much more of a tea person, myself. Coffee makes me jittery and anxious and I think I’m plenty of that all on my own, you know?” She watched as Morgan began assembling the game, not saying too much. Her father had made her play old strategy games like Risk and Chess for hours on end as a child, but Battleship had never seemed to reach their table. “Um, once, at school. You just kinda guess coordinates, right?”

Morgan couldn’t hide the arch in her brow as Bex gave a different name as she impersonated her parents. Did they not address her the way she asked to be? Did she keep the name she gave out to acquaintances as a secret? Still, she snorted kindly and finished setting up her board. “It’s good that you know yourself at least. I’m not sure if the world is ready for a caffeinated Bex just yet.” She finished setting up her board and started on her ships, keeping them mostly spread out from each other. “And yeah, it’s just a fun guessing game! If you know your opponent well, you can try and guess their methodology, but it’s, you know--” She held up the box lid, “Ages 6 and up.” With everything set aside on her end, she could lean back and relax. “So, I do hope you’ll take one of my seminars. My syllabus is way more fun than the other professors’, not to knock my colleagues, because they’re amazing, but I hand out movies and, occasionally, video games too. We look at what speculative and fantastical stories tell us about humanity, how we see ourselves and each other and why changes in those perceptions matter. And, you know, with all the writing homework, you’ll probably get a leg up on your fellow pre-law students. Anyone can have an idea or a feeling, but it takes work to give voice to it. But, that’s my one and only pitch. I’d much rather get to know you. Sometimes strangers can be easier to open up to than others.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not,” Bex agreed with a chuckle. She watched Morgan set up her side-- without peeking, of course!-- before working to set her own side up. She didn’t entirely know the best strategy for Battleship, but she decided she wanted to go for an out there one, sticking all of her ships right in a square in the middle of the map. “Well, I’m definitely six and up, so, I think we’re all good. Who goes first?” She looked across the table to Morgan as she continued to fuss with her pieces, wondering which formation was better, listening to her description of her course. “It sounds like a great class,” she said when the older woman was done speaking, but there was something vibrating inside of her. Something about the description, something about how free and open the course sounded, made her realize something else was going on here. Bex might have been closed off and insecure, but she was observant as well. It was one of the qualities that made her an actual decent law student. Her gaze dropped to her board and she pulled her hands away. “I’m ready to start, then,” she said, lifting her eyes just enough to gaze over the top of the board, the double meaning of her sentence not lost on either of them.

Morgan watched Bex thoughtfully, from the tightness in her shoulders to the shrill chirp of her voice. She was trying, eagerly, desperately, but for what? Morgan wanted to tell her to relax, there were no quizzes or grades handed out at the end of this meet-up. But having been that anxious herself more than once, she knew drawing attention directly didn’t always have the desired effect. “A-10?” She called. “Why don’t you tell me about why you like it here? I thought I saw you mention something about ‘coming back’ on main and I gotta say, I haven’t heard of too many people returning after they’d left. Well, not often by choice anyway.”

“Miss,” Bex said quietly, sticking a peg into A-10. “E-6?” she tried, waiting for the response. She chewed on her lip at the question, thinking a moment. It wasn’t that she really liked it here, but White Crest was home and she knew she had a place here. And even if she hadn’t gone to school here, or grown up with the other kids, or become a regular at all the diners-- she still felt like she fit in here. More so than at Penn State, where the kids looked at her with those eyes, and whispered behind their hands, and posted her private life online. “It just...feels like home, I guess. I went to private school as a kid, so it’s not like I really have any sort of connection to the town, but I just feel right here,” she explained softly, neither smiling nor frowning. She stuck a peg into the missed slot. “I came back because I had to.” Where she really wanted to be was far away from the East coast, maybe in Oregon or Washington or California. Somewhere she could start over brand new and be whoever she wanted to be. She cleared her throat. “How um-- how long have you been in White Crest?”

“Miss,” Morgan called. She let a round pass unremarked, taking in as much as she could. She was just bundled up so tight, it was no wonder she’d exploded in front of Nell. That much repression might do the same even to someone without magic. “Private school, huh? Like boarding school? I didn’t realize those were still a thing in this country.” She made another call, D-6, and took another sip of espresso. “I’ve been here for a year now. I’m starting to see how somebody could feel like they belonged here, even with all the terribleness. It’s not an easy fit, but I don’t think I could leave on a dime, not by myself anyway. But what--is it okay if I ask what made you have to come back? Or if not, maybe tell me about someplace else you dream of being. Those are good ideas to hold onto. The future, I mean.”

“Yep,” Bex said dismissively, “I went to a private boarding school. And they definitely still exist here.” And they suck, she wanted to add, but held her tongue. Uniforms and strict schedules and forced rules. Secrets and hush money and skirting around the fact that Bex was not born a girl. “My parents paid good money for it, it was a Jewish Orthodox school, a really good one, too,” she went on, swallowing down the hard feelings. They didn’t matter anymore. “The town certainly has a charm to it, doesn’t it?” She stuck a peg right between two of her ships as a miss. “Miss. Um...H-7?” She looked up again, contemplating which question she wanted to answer. They both would give away too much, and she was bad at lying. “There was an incident at my old school,” she finally said, the waver in her voice coming through, “my parents thought it best I come back home.”

“It’s okay, Bex,” Morgan said softly. “I want to know you, but you don’t have to talk about anything you don’t really want to. But I am sorry about whatever happened to you over there. It doesn’t seem like something easy.” She tilted her head, trying to meet the girl’s eyes. There was something there, something awful. Bullies, maybe? Did kids chase Bex and lock her in storage cabinets and call her names like they had Morgan? Or was there some kind of accident with her magic? “What do you want, Bex? However important your parents are to your life, however close you might be, your life is still yours. Your future should look like what you hope for. Why don’t you tell me more about that, huh? Or how the law firm fits into that idea.” Another sip of espresso. “Miss, by the way.” She scanned her grid and made a guess toward the middle. “F-6?”

Bexley swallowed hard, trying to make the worble that was building in her throat go away. “It’s okay, it’s kind of public information, anyway,” she stated matter of factly, moving away from the topic enough to not feel too overwhelmed, and thankful for Morgan’s offer. But the next question felt even harder, and Bex could feel the anxiety building in her stomach again. Her hand shook as she went to plug in the peg next to her ship, one hole away and she had to grip it with her other to make it stop. “I want to make my parents proud,” she stated, as if reading from a script, “I’m the sole heir to our business and fortune. That’s all there is to it. M-my future. That’s all I want. To be the perfect daughter for them.” And stop messing up. Since she couldn’t be their son. Since she couldn’t be the best. “Miss,” she said and her voice cracked. “F-5?”

“Miss,” Morgan replied. “And you don’t have to be perfect. No one is perfect. Perfect in terms of being flawless and incapable of improvement isn’t even a real thing. And your parents--” Morgan frowned. She had a lot of fairy tales about what parents should be like, but the more people she met, the more she wondered where she had cooked that one up. “The best way to love someone is to enable them to be the most themselves. The best, freest version of themself. And asking yourself those questions is the best way to find yourself loved better. I don’t know what your situation is, Bex, but you shouldn’t live to be an object in someone else’s story. You’re more than that. What is it that really excites you? What do you hope for?” Morgan waited, peering at this small glimpse of Bex’s pain with growing concern. Then, suddenly remembering that she had yet to call a move, she distractedly mumbled something a few spaces out from her last one. “E-5?”

Bex didn’t like this anymore. Morgan was saying things she already knew, but she also already knew that they were things she couldn’t have, so what was the point in thinking about them? In talking about them? She didn’t even bother putting a peg in this time. This was supposed to be a fun, easy meeting, not a deep dive into her extremely painful situation. “Please stop,” was all she said, hands folded tightly into her lap, “just...please?” Fingers began to pick at nail beds, still red and raw from every other time she’d done it. “All I hope for right now is to make it through each day without messing up or embarrassing someone,” she admitted quietly, but her voice was stern, an anger stewing inside of her that she rarely let to the surface, “And I just hope that I can make it through the week without some shit happening. And I hope that one day I’ll be able to look back on all this and put it behind me, but that’s not feasible right now so I really need to just not think about it and keep trying my best for my parents because they’re all I have.” And she owed them everything. Shakily, she lifted the peg and placed it on one of her ships. “Hit.” A loud whistle behind the cafe counter signaled steaming water and Bex startled. She let out a long sigh. “A-2.”

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said quickly. “I don’t mean to-- I am being sincere in what I am saying and whatever me or my life looks like to you or anyone else peeking on main apparently, it’s-- I do know what it’s like to feel like your life isn’t yours and what you want doesn’t matter and keeping your head down and being small and left alone is the best you’re gonna get. I am deeply, intimately familiar with that feeling. I can only imagine what kind of suffering you’ve been through, but you were meant for more than that, and I’m sorry. I’ll stop, okay? Do you--” Morgan stopped as another kettle trilled, glowing with sudden heat. She made a note of the hit, but didn’t put the red peg on the board. Flustered and desperate to recover the afternoon, she pawed her pockets for her phone. “I have cats. Three of them. Do you want to see pictures of the cats? Or ask me something? This isn’t an interview. If there’s something you want to know you can--” The phone clattered onto the table. Deirdre and Anya’s faces bloomed on the lock screen. “You can do whatever you want, Bex, you don’t even have to stay.”

Everything Morgan was saying just made Bex tense up more and more. Kettle’s started shouting, left and right, even the baristas were beginning to panic, running around and removing them, but finding them still screaming, louder and louder, despite the lack of heat. A crack formed in the window next to Bex as she screwed her eyes shut and clenched her entire body. She didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for her or tell her how much they understood or tell her how sad it was-- she wanted to pretend like how she was living was okay and fine and that one day she’d make it through and suddenly everything would feel okay. And just be okay. She unclenched and the whistles seemed to die down. Looked at the phone that had fallen to the table and saw the happy woman on it, smiling and beautiful. And the cat, so peaceful looking. Tears welled in her eyes. “I have to go,” she said suddenly, standing up. The chair scooted back and toppled over. People turned around to look at them. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat and the mug on the table shattered. “I’m sorry! I have to--” took a step back and all the teapots wailed again. Bex looked around frantically. “It-- It was nice to meet you, Professor Beck, but I--” she didn’t get to finish her sentence as one of the pistons on the espresso machine shot off and shattered a nearby tower of cups. Bex turned and ran before anyone had a chance to ask her anything.

“Bex, wait! You need to--!” Whatever half-assed plea Morgan was working on fizzled out under the crash of falling furniture and screaming machinery. Someone’s baby started wailing, the window buckled like it had been gut-punched, and the steam whirred louder. Morgan grabbed her coat and bag and phone. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen to downtown with Bex like this, if she could talk her down or if following would only make things worse. Shit, probably worse, right? But by the time she stumbled out the door, the girl was long gone and all Morgan had left were more questions. At least she would be able to tell Nell one thing for certain: Bexley was not okay, and under her nerves lay a sadness too deep for her to contain, especially in White Crest.

[dawniebb]

In which Queen Aanya validates Rayllum

HIII! <3

So, this is kind of a crack fic lmao because...idk i just wanted to have fun, guys agshja it's not that good but it's just an idea that popped up in my head and,if somebody reads this: I hope you liked it <3. Comments are appreciated, btw :3

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

Then, they are left alone.

Well, not alone.

They're sitting there, enjoying each other's company while surrounded by the remnants of the battle. Some people injured, the rest just tired or sleeping (Like Rayla, whose eyes are barely open). At least, Callum thinks, they're now under the protection of Queen Zubeia. All of them together, humans and elves, for the first time in a very long time.

With a sigh, he tries to go back to his sketchbook, just as Rayla's horns poke him in the face, very close to his eyes.

"Oh, sh..."

"Hey." Callum laughs. "There are children here."

"Did I hurt you?" She asks, very, very concerned, as she inspects Callum's face as if one of his eyes were now rolling by her feet.

"Rayla, you barely touched me. It's okay. Don't worry. Come on, you're falling asleep. You need to rest. “He smiles, while he takes her hand and places a tender kiss on her palm. “If something happens, I promise I'll wake you up.

But just when she looks convinced enough, through the corner of his eye, Callum can see aunt Amaya signing something at him, with a smile on her face. She's close to them, sitting next to Princess (Queen?) Janai, her new elf friend. And, of course, being the careful individual she is, Rayla follows the direction of his eyes.

"What's she saying?" She asks in a very discrete way. Callum doesn't notice he's blushing until he feels his cheeks burning.

“Oh, it's nothing... She just said that we... Uhm...”

"What?"

"That we make a…quite adorable couple." He laughs, as he signs back at aunt Amaya. "Thank you."

"...Oh." Rayla scratches her nose, as she tries to keep calm, even though Callum doesn’t know for sure why she’s so nervous in the first place. “Well, I guess she likes me now."

"Well.” Callum grabs her hand. "I guess you could say that."

"I'm glad." She smiles. To Callum's eyes, she looks adorable, all tired and barely awake.

"Yeah..." He says. "Me too.”

Suddenly, they're leaned into the other's face, close to their lips, paying little attention to the fact they've never really had an audience before (besides Ez, and that wasn't even on purpose). However, they're interrupted seconds before they can do anything, thanks to the sound of somebody clearing their throat.

When they turn to the side, there's Queen Aanya, standing like a monument even though she's not even a year older than Ez. Shocked, Callum scoots up as fast as he can, and even if Rayla's not really sure of what's happening, she imitates him, but when they try to reverence her, Queen Aanya straightens her back and says, in a very soothing voice:

"Please, do not kneel."

Still, Callum can't help it and ends up bowing at her in a very subtle way. A gesture that goes apparently unnoticed.

“I actually wanted to apologize. It appears that I might have interrupted something. “Queen Aanya folds her hands on her lap.

"Oh, no, no!" Callum says, nervously. “No, we were just...!”

“Nothing special, Your Majesty.” Rayla smiles. “Do you...?”

"Need...Request our help?"

Fortunately, Queen Aanya seems amused, as she laughs politely, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I will try to be as brief as possible, as I assume you need some time with each other to process the events.” She says. “You do happen to be in an established relationship. Am I correct?"

Callum feels Rayla's confusion and he doesn't blame her. Everyone is confused about Queen Aanya at some point, given the fact that, even if she's still a child, she's more mature than a lot of grown-up people. And, well, now she's questioning the nature of their relationship. What a convenient situation.  

"Yes." Rayla finally speaks, staring directly at Callum. “You are correct."

For a moment; a moment so brief it almost goes away in a blink, they can see a spark in Aanya's eyes as she smiles at them with something that reflects a lot of things, one of them being tenderness. Callum feels something warm deep in his heart.

“In that case, I would like to congratulate you first.” Aanya says. " It is... pretty noticeable, and I felt the need to express the feeling of respect I have grown towards both of you, for being able to create a relationship out of such circumstances and such strong cultural barriers. I must admit that I am very impressed."

Callum doesn't realize their heads are leaned against the other until he feels Rayla's skin so close their cheeks are touching.

"We appreciate your words, Your Majesty.” Callum says, as Aanya stares at the two of them more than she focuses on him, who happens to be the one talking to her. "We hope to grow stronger in our relationship.”

"Everyday. Like we have done it until now." Rayla says.

“It warms my heart to hear that.” Aanya says, placing a hand where said heart is located. "That is why, if you do not have somebody to do it, I would like to offer myself to officiate your marriage."

It arrives like a clap in the face, and Callum goes cold, just like Rayla.

Then the room is hot again.

Very hot.

And they both were red. As a cherry, as an apple, and as all the red things that were coming to Callum's head right now.

So, not knowing what to do, they start rambling, like they always do.

"OH!"

“Your Majesty, that's very kind of you but right now... "

"I MEAN, WE DO WANT TO..."

"SOMEDAY BUT... BUT RIGHT NOW WE'RE KIND OF..."

"YOUNG."

"YES, YOUNG! VERY, VERY YOUNG!"

"AND DUMB! WE TAKE PRETTY DUMB DECISIONS WHEN WE'RE TOGETHER, YOUR MAJESTY! DIDN'T YOU SEE HOW...?"

And then a sound comes out of Aanya's mouth.

When they stare at her, she's laughing. And she keeps doing that until she notices the confusion in their faces.

"Do not worry.” She says. "I was just playing with you."

They just stay there, looking like idiots, with their mouths half-open.

Callum fills his cheeks with air, and then he lets it out in relief.

"...Oh.”

"That was...clever, Your Majesty."

"I know.” Aanya shrugs, completely conscious of how in a matter of seconds she managed to set the world on fire. "I am going to have to retire now, but congratulations again. You have all my best wishes."

Callum bites his lower lip as he watches her leave, and even if for a moment he feels weak, he realizes he does have the guts to ask what suddenly popped into his mind.

"Your Majesty?" He calls her.

Queen Aanya turns around in the very moment she hears her name. She's not annoyed, she's not mad. She's just there, staring and waiting, with a patience made of steel and that, somehow, helps Callum to feel safe.

"This means that... Well... given the fact that we're a human-elf relationship... we...we do have your blessing as one of the human kingdoms, right? "

Aanya stays in silence.

Then, she speaks, getting a little closer.

"Listen, Prince Callum. I want to clarify the type of Queen I am trying to be, and for that, I am going to need you to be aware of the fact that, for these types of issues you will not, ever, need my blessing."

Callum smiles, as a silent "thank you."

"I may be tough as a person, and some people may even say I have a really bad temper sometimes. And I am aware that is a truth, just as the fact of me having really strong opinions is also a truth. I believe there are bad humans in this world, and I believe there are bad elves as well… But above of that, I believe in my mothers’ legacy, and I believe in love. And when I first landed my eyes on you that is exactly what I saw.“  She says "I saw love. And trust. And hope, for you and for all of us, in this divided world we have gotten used to. "

In a very calm way, Aanya takes Rayla’s hand, and then she proceeds to carefully put it into Callum’s.

“…And I might have also seen four fingers that fit perfectly into five, just as if they were made for each other.” She chuckles.

There's that tender expression again, and somehow Callum believes they'll be okay.

Somehow, he manages to be almost sure that their relationship will be accepted and everyone will be willing to see them the way Aanya does. Not a human and an elf, just two living creatures who found each other and fell deeply, madly in love.

“I hope that answered your question, Prince Callum.” Aanya says, as she turns around again, only to stare at them one last time.

"Oh, and...Whenever you feel ready to take that step, in case somebody decides to question your decisions, remember that I am a Queen, and even if my statement was intended to be a joke, I do carry the authority to officiate weddings. I hope will not find yourselves in the need to ask for that kind of help. “She smiles in a way so pure she almost looks like she’s trying to act her age for once.

“An invitation is welcomed, though. I have never been to an elven wedding. It could be a really interesting experience for me and I would really appreciate it.”

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Unraveling at the Seams Pt 3

Genre: Fan Fiction Pairing: Alex Høgh Andersen/OFC, Henry Cavill/OFC Warnings: Language, Sexual Innuendo, Possible NSFW Rating: M Length: Multi Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Allow me to give you all a little something, for my birthday. 

thank you @flowers-in-your-hayr​ for the header :D

Catch Up Here

The weekend had been slower than usual, a welcoming relief from work for all who were involved. Jordan had casually asked Nell and Ivan over to watch a game on Sunday, only to be declined due to Ivan's own involvement in a local youth football league. They had a match Sunday morning and Nell wasn't confident that her son would be up for that much excitement for one day – not if she wanted him in bed at a decent hour for school the next morning.

“I thought they usually came over to watch the matches.” Alex tried his best not to look like a stalker, peering around the corner and out the window that looked into the courtyard at Jordan and Sophie's. On the stairs across the yard, Nell sat with her phone in hand, staring down at the screen.

“They do, but I think they're busy this afternoon.” Jordan replied ignoring the fact that Alex was spying on the neighbours. “Now come on, get over here and watch the fucking game.”

“Uh, in a second.”

“Dude, don't be that guy. Stop oogling the poor woman, you do enough of that at work.” Marco smirked and tossed a chip at Alex.

A middle finger extended in reply to Marco; Alex chuckled and left the window.

Would it look too desperate if he went for a smoke?

What would Nell think? He knew what Jordan and Marco would think and say.

Marco teased his friend relentlessly about the costume designer and his crush. Nell was lovely and fun to talk with, she made the long days less mundane and was always smiling, unless you were Alex. Marco had worked with her as long as Alex and Jordan, living with Alex gave him an edge on exactly how his friend saw the woman across the courtyard.

The crush had been on-the-spot.

They had walked in for their first fitting and Alex was slack jawed, nearly tripping over himself in her presence. Nell ignored him, a wise move Marco thought, though it caused Alex to be a bigger pest. Two years he had been admiring this woman and was still struggling to get a decent conversation in.

“Why don't you ask her out?” Sophie joined the conversation, glancing over her shoulder at the window to see Nell still sitting on the steps.

Nell was guarded, sure, and at the end of the day she was still a woman. On more than one occasion Nell had revealed how lonely she felt. Ivan and her job were the only things she had in Ireland, possibly the only two things she had regardless where she was.

“Don't torment him.” Jordan smirked. Nell would never agree to a date with Alex.

She didn't date actors, anymore, nor did she want somebody who was barely able to function around her. Alex was a great guy and a fantastic friend; Jordan had a few doubts about his abilities to truly woo and keep a woman. The other actor rarely went on dates and when he did, they never lasted longer than one night.

Marco snickered. “Can you even talk to her?”

“I can talk to her.” Alex defended. Quietly he took the ribbing. Sophie knew Nell the best out of the four people in the room, her suggestion had felt like less teasing and that had the wheels turning in Alex's mind.

He could casually ask her the next time he brought her a coffee at work. Or should he go big and grand? Send her a bouquet of flowers, asking her when they arrived?

He had saw a bouquet of peach roses on her work top one day, he remembered the dozen roses vividly. They were bright and cheery, they had everybody commenting on them. Nell would blush and say they were from a friend. Probably her boyfriend at the time.

Alex had heard through the grapevine that the costume designer hadn't dated anybody in a serious manner, in a long time. Men were fickle about women with children, a shame because Alex loved kids. Ivan, from what he could piece together, was comical. The little boy was smart and had no issue telling adults how it was.

“What's going on in that thick head?” Marco launched another chip at Alex. “Day dreaming about your girlfriend?”

“Fuck off.” Alex quipped, tossing half of the crumbled chip back at Marco. “She's not my girlfriend.”

“But you want her to be.” Marco winked at Jordan and Sophie, extending his arm around his body and turning his back to them. Imitating a couple making out. “Oh Alexxxxx.”

Laughter filled the room at Alex's expense. Cheers and whoops from Jordan enjoying Marco's performance.

“Cut it out, leave him be.” Sophie defended Alex's dignity against the other two. “Let him alone.” even she giggled at Marco's over the top theatrics.

“At least somebody in the room looks out for me,” Alex wasn't at all hurt or insulted by the joking.

“Why don't you ask her out?” Sophie's tone told him she was on a serious level now. “Ask her for coffee or something. Invite her to a nice brunch. She was telling me how much she misses getting dressed up and going out on Sundays.”

“Ask her, mate. Tell her we'll watch Ivan for the morning and go have fun.” Jordan's eyes never left the tv as he spoke.

“I don't know.”

What would he say? How would he do it? He couldn't simply walk up and ask her. Could he? Nell would likely laugh at him, shoot him down, and never speak to him again. Alex had a reputation of being able to talk and make friends with anyone, but women were sometimes his faltering point. Especially ones he had a particular interest in.

“What? Come on, you may as well ask. What is the worse that could happen? She says no and you have to pick up your pride? Shameful.” Marco was now changing his tune about this.

If Alex were to go out on a date, then maybe Marco wouldn't have to listen to him moan about how he had shit luck with women.  Alex needed to get laid, this could be the ticket to such things. Marco hated how his roommate became a whiny little bitch because he was getting sexually frustrated.

“I don't know. What would I say? What would we do? How would I ask?” Alex scratched the shaved part of his head. “Do I tell her she can bring Ivan? Will she think it's a joke? Do I bring her flowers? I don't know.”

“Calm down, is the first step.” Sophie coached. Placing a hand on Alex's arm, she tried to soothe his nerves. “I will help you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Help him with what? How not to get punched in the face?” Jordan teased. “Nell is proud, don't be cocky.”

Until now, Alex's only fear had been that she rejected him. Nell wouldn't physically harm him, would she? No, Jordan was being a dick nothing more.

“What do you even know about her?” Marco questioned, remembering he had a beer on the table. If they were going to plot this poor woman's nightmare, he wanted his excuse to be he was drunk.

“She has a son. She's from somewhere in Canada,” Alex thought for a moment. He didn't want help, despite Jordan looking as if he wanted to fill in all the blanks. “Uh. She's lived here before, but moved to...was it London?” Sophie nodded eagerly. “She has siblings? She likes scotch and peach roses.”

“Very good.” Sophie applauded lightly. “But don't bring up the roses. She hates that.”

“Really? She had a big bunch of them on her work station a few months ago.” Marco tipped his beer.

“It's a thing between her and Henry. You don't want to remind her of her ex on a first date.” Sophie carefully guided the wayward men.

“What kind of dickhead name is Henry?” Alex snorted.  Now he had the name of the guy who had hurt her.

Fuck you Henry!

“Henry of England. Henry Winkler, Henry Ford, Henry Cavill, Henry Thomas, Henry...” Marco thought hard for a moment. “No that is all I have. Needless to say, they all sound like douchebags.”

“Why do you know so many Henry's?” Jordan was puzzled. Marco shrugged, leaving the conversation at hand to explain he knew a lot of random shit. Launching him and Jordan into a new conversation, allowing Alex and Sophie to focus on the task at hand.

Tapping his fingers on the table top, Alex sat staring into space. He needed something to go on, a solid plan for asking. Something tactful, but classy. Walking into the design room wasn't going to cut it. Walking across the courtyard and knocking on her door was plain stalkerish.

“So, what now?” He turned to Sophie, needing all the help he could get.

On the front step, in the warm afternoon sun, Nell knew she was being watched. She couldn't see the person watching her from inside the townhouse, she could feel their stare. It was the same familiar stare that followed her at work.

Oh Alex.

“Are you with still with me, Janelle?” She focused on the screen at a sweaty man, eyes dancing, and dark curls smashed under a ball cap.

Fuck him and that blue tank top. Nell tried not to laugh, thinking of how his chest reminded her of the try hard harlots who would wear the push up bras in attempt to get their bosom to their throats.

The video call had come while Ivan was upstairs playing, which meant Nell would have time to take the call, getting any details she had yet to reveal to her son. If there was time, she would pass the phone off and let him talk with his father until one of them decided to run off and do something else.

“Copy that, Mr. Cavill.” She calmly replied,  glancing up. Her peeping Dane was gone. “You look a little out of breath. Hard run today?” It was no secret the man moved like a sloth while running.

“Don't want to discuss it.” Henry shook his head at her teasing. Nell could outrun him with a broken leg and took great joy in reminding him. “Are you outside?” Behind her head the front of a house loomed and there was a sliver of sky beyond that.

“I am. It's too nice to sit inside.”

She would never tell him that she didn't want Ivan to hear her, in case it was another disappointment call. More than once his father would say he wanted to visit and then have to cancel. Schedules changed, it was nature of the job, having to explain that to a child never got easier. Leaving the poor boy with disappointment for days.

“Is it still as lovely there in summer as I remember?”

“Humid, but beautiful as always.” Nell nodded.

“I can't wait. I think I may have you book a room. Put it under your name and I will cover the costs. Perhaps something that will be suited for Ivan to stay with me? Unless of course you would prefer he comes to stay with me at home?” Henry shrugged. “If you want some time to yourself.”

“What are you saying?”

“You need to get out more. Find a hobby? Have some fun.” She hardly left the house outside of work.

“I have fun.”  Nell blurted out. Henry, wisely, didn't say another word. Nell huffed. “And you can come here.” Ivan enjoyed London, but it wouldn't hurt for him to spend time with his father in his own environment for a change. If they were here, then Nell felt she could keep her wits about her.  “I mean, you can stay here. At my place.”

Nell spotted Sophie pass by and waved. Waving back, the peppy blonde smiled and disappeared. Later on, Nell would venture over with a bottle of Château Montus Madiran that she had picked up, when she'd got the first phone call to say her summer plans were being ruined. One drink gone and the rest of the bottle was glaring at her every time she passed it.

“Will you be comfortable with that?”

“I will stay in a hotel,” Nell offered without thinking. “My place is fairly quiet and this will give Ivan a chance to show you all of the things he's constantly talking about.”

Sending a handful of video games or action figures to London was simple enough. What they couldn't send was the park and the duck pond that Ivan was constantly telling his father about. Packing an entire youth football league would also be a challenge. Nell would love to watch as the upscale home was overrun with muddy children, maybe another time. Who was she trying to kid, Henry would love that. He'd be the ring leader.

Ireland would be a bigger challenge. Taking Henry out of his element. He would spend his time looking over his shoulder, worrying about not only his, but Ivan's privacy. In London he had a handle on who would be coming and going, in Dublin there would be an unknown and uncomfortable factor. Nell would enjoy that.

The one time there had been any issues, was when a debate sparked online. Was the boy a family friend? A God-Son? His own child? Eventually people grew bored of arguing with one another, settling the debacle when a wizard of a publicist asked for the child's privacy. Ivan was young and aware that he had to be mindful when he spoke to people or went places with his father, though he never seemed bothered when the odd person would stop Henry and ask for a moment of time. It was normal, in a strange way, to the boy. He would wait patiently often milling around close by. Henry's mammoth of a dog warning off any body who dare look at Ivan.

“And Kal?” Obviously Henry had to have a place for the bear masquerading as a dog.

“My place is pet friendly, no worries. Kal can come as well.”

“Excellent, I know how much he loves Ivan.”

The black and white dog  was the object of Ivan's affection as well.

Nell had vetoed the idea of having a pet, a child and an animal were too much for one person to wrangle and look after. When Ivan was older, if he still wanted a pet, then they would discuss it. Whatever they ended up with as a pet, would certainly not be a 100 and something pound dog. Kal was lovely and if he suited Henry, fine. Ivan could love on and play with the giant canine on his father's time.

“I have the dates, I was hoping that the end June until the second week of July would work? If they don't, then we can discuss and find something that works for both of us.” Henry wasted no time getting back to business. He had a limited time frame and wanted to chat with Ivan as well, before he had to go.

“I'm done the second week of June and don't have to be back until mid July. Send me the exact dates, I will make sure to set something up.”

“If I am putting you out in any way, you would tell me? I don't want to disturb your plans.” Of course he was diplomatic, too.

“You're not.” Lie. “It will be nice to have you here. Ivan will love it. Though, I'm not telling him until you're here. I want it to be a surprise.”

“Brilliant. I love that. I won't say a word, we can surprise him together.” Henry beamed. He understood that the surprise element was a matter of protection. Schedules were hectic at times, if he failed to make it, Ivan would be crushed. How did one boy get so lucky, having a mom like the one his son had. “Hopefully the wild boy finds dear ol' dad a good surprise.”

“I am sure he will find it a fantastic surprise.” Nell smiled softly. “And I am sure you want to talk to him?” Henry nodded. “He's upstairs, hold on I'll take you to him.”

Monday came fast and hard. Nell hadn't realized how little she managed to get done the previous day, until 3:30am hit and she was anything but prepared for work. Ivan's lunch was ready and his school uniform clean, the least she could do for Bridie who was coming over at the ass crack of dawn to take over the household for the day.

In an absolute state of disarray, having woke from a restless night tossing and turning – a pattern that was unavoidable whenever she spoke to or saw Henry – Nell drug herself out of the house and to set. It was going to be the longest day. Fingers crossed there would be a lull and she could steal on of the extra beds set out for the actors. Nobody would notice if she stepped away for a short cat nap.

Today was going to be...interesting to say the least.

“Morning, Nell.” Alex held out a take away cup from her favourite cafe. He was the first person Nell had saw since arriving. “I uh, Jordan told me how much you liked their coffee. It's my favourite, too.” he added fairly fast.

“Uh, thanks.” Nell accepted the coffee with a smile. How sweet of him. Deep down Nell could admit Alex wasn't that bad. “How was your weekend?”

“Same shit, different weekend.” Alex chuckled following Nell into the room. Holding the door open for her, like the gentleman his mother had raised. “And yours?”

“It was okay.”

“That's good.” He took a sip of coffee, hoping to find courage and words at the bottom of the hot, dark, liquid. “Busy week ahead.”

“Extremely, I'll be shocked it any of us leave here before next Monday.” Nell commented setting her coffee down on the nearest table, flipping on lights and checking stations as she went. “Are you here or one of the other sets this week?”

“I am all over.” Alex confirmed with a sigh. He loved his job. It was rewarding and more than he could have ever dreamed, like any job when you were this close to a break, each day drug on for an eternity. In a few short weeks, he could kick back with family and friends at home in Copenhagen.

“Keeps the days from ever being boring.” This morning talking with Alex had been easier than any other. Something about his lack of idle chatter was refreshing. Or maybe it was Nell's need for a distraction.

Coughing, he rubbed the back of his neck. Monday  morning, first thing, was an unlikely time and place to ask a girl on a date and yet Alex had to try it out. He'd stayed up almost all night going over this moment in his head. Laying awake, he'd almost gone into Marco's room to get some coaching from his friend. Thinking better of the rash decision, Alex had let Marco sleep.

“Nell.” He went suddenly shy. Nell hummed and tilted her head in his direction, a sign that he had her attention despite her looking over a set of notes from a previous shoot. “I uh, I have something to ask and if you say no, then I will never ask this again.” He bit his bottom lip. Asking somebody for coffee had never been so difficult. A sign he was into her more than he expected. Or so Sophie had told him.

“Would, I mean, if you want...” Alex stammered. “Do you want to get together and have coffee? Outside of work? Maybe? Sometime?”

“Are you asking me out?” Nell's reaction was calm and reined in. Lifting her head to look at Alex, she held his gaze.

Alex had expected her to burst out laughing or her to tell him to fuck right off. There was still time for either or both to happen.

“Kind of, but not on a date or anything. Unless you want it to be. It's more of two people hanging out and getting to know one another.”

“Hmm.”

“Sophie told me to.” He blurted out before he could engage his mind to mouth filter.

Nell held his gaze, uncertainty was settled and Alex knew he had been defeated. Time to quit his job, move away, and change his name never to be located again. He had royally fucked it up this time. What made him think she would ever want to speak to him outside of being polite at work? Damn it, Sophie filling his head with fantasy and fairy tales.

“What if you join me for that scotch, instead?” Nell dropped the ball as easily as breathing.

All the air that had been held up in Alex's lungs escaped.  A smile broke on his face. “I would like that. Yeah.”

“Good, what about Friday at eight?”

“Yeah. Yes. I will pick you up?”

“It's a date, then.” Nell held up her coffee, in a cheers manner. Where the hell had that come from? She should have put a stop to this, but...why? A harmless drink never hurt anybody.

“You need to get out more. Find a hobby? Have some fun.” Henry's words echoed in the moment.

A date. Nell had been the one to call it a date. Not him. No, not Alex. Wow Monday was going great and it was only 5:45am! Huh, Monday. Whoever said Monday sucks had never been in this position.

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[riverboundao3ff]

Riverbound, Chapter 3

You are THE GUARDIAN again, and you feel like a whole army of Chuck Norris clones used you as their punching bag.

This in itself is not out of the usual, given your lifestyle and who you are as a person, but when you try and move to get up a stabbing pain tears down your left side. You suck in a sharp breath, which also turns out to be a horrible idea as your broken ribs scream profanity into your soul. God damn it, what-

Everything comes back to you before you even finish that thought.

The cholerbear. Somebody saved you, and then… brought you somewhere?

You force your eyes open. The ceiling is spotted with bioluminescent fungi that fascinates you into almost ignoring your wounds. A blanket is draped over your body, which is nice because it’s kind of cold in here.

A jade green blanket.

Wait, is this…?

Something lifts from your lower shoulder, and you look over to see a familiar handsome face staring back. His slow smile lights up the whole room.

“Lanque,” you get out.

“The one and only. Welcome back to the land of the living, darling,” he says softly.

Despite the massive amount of pain you’re in you can’t help but grin right back. Lanque had been one of the last friends you had made on Alternia, and while you two weren’t best buddies or anything you’d ended up being his unofficial date every time he needed somebody to go with to a party. The first time was to make it up to him for snitching to Bronya, and then it just kind of snowballed from there. You needed somebody to show you how to have a good time, and he needed somebody to help drag his drunk ass back to the caverns in the morning. It was a perfect symbiotic relationship.

“I’d give you a hug, but I can’t really move right now. Did you save me?” you ask.

He shook his head. “No. Lynera found you nearby after a cholerbear threw you into a tree. You needed stitches so she came and got me.”

Stitches? Damn. Carefully, you reach over and feel your side. From the bottom of your armpit to about one-quarter of the way down your side was a bandage, and underneath the bandage you can feel something thick holding the broken skin together. It’s so sore to the touch you instantly regret moving at all.

Lanque scowls and bats your arm away. “Don’t, I worked hard on that. Two of your ribs are broken on the same side, too, so don’t even think about trying to run off again.”

“Yessir,” you snipe nasally, doing your best imitation of a freshly-recruited private responding to their drill sergeant. Lanque gives you a look that would have killed a lesser Guardian.

Something about what he just said finally gets processed in your brain. An extremely important question almost has you leaping off the couch in a panic as you fully turn to face him, wincing as you do so. “Oh, shit! Lanque, you were the last person I saw before I disappeared, right? How long have I been gone?”

Dark green eyes widen almost comically. “You mean you don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know, why would I ask if I don’t frickin’ know?” you snarl.

“It…” Lanque shakes his head. “Babe, it’s been nearly six perigees.”

Six perigees? That was over a full fucking year! “I what?! Please say sike, dude, I am begging you. Lanque, no.”

A large hand splays out across your chest and pushes you back down into the couch. “Stay. Down. It’s been six perigees, four weeks, and three nights since you disappeared. I know because Daraya keeps count.”

“Oh my God, I’m gonna go find a nice ray of sunshine and roast myself to death,” you moan. “I can’t believe I fucked up that bad.”

“Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but I know that whatever happened wasn’t your fault. I know you never would have left us on purpose,” Lanque insists.

You grab the pillow closest to you and scream into it for ten seconds straight. Then, you fluff it out and put it back where it was.

After you take a couple more deep breaths, you move on to the next most important thing. “You said Lynera saved me from the Cholerbear? She wasn’t injured, was she?”

Lanque snorts. “Of course not. Any animal with half a brain cell knows to not mess with us. Where there’s a jadeblood, there’s a cloister not too far away.”

“Good.” If somebody had gotten injured because you were being stupid you would have never been able to forgive yourself. “Thanks for stitching me up.”

“You’re more than welcome. Don’t make me have to do it again.”

“No promises.”

Lanque rolls his eyes, but there’s no exasperation behind it. He doesn’t meet your gaze, either, even when you turn your head to fully look at him.

“What?” you finally ask.

“... What happened to you?”

He’s being patient, and you appreciate that. Not just anybody got to see this side of Lanque.

You then begin to realize how badly all of your friends will want to know why the hell you up and dropped off the face of Alternia.

“Isn’t that the million dollar question?” you say, morbidly amused by your entire situation. “It’s a hell of a story. I want to tell it with everybody here, though, because I only want to have to tell it once. Some parts are going to be really bad and I will cry and make it awkward for everybody.”

Lanque nods, staring off to somewhere far away.

“And once my ribs heal, we’ll go crash some rich fuck’s party like old times. I’ll introduce you to some of my other friends, too. I think you and Tagora would get along famously,” you add.

One corner of his lips twitches.

“He’s a lawyer and one of the slimiest bitches I know on this planet. One time at his hive, I put on this lotion that made my skin glow, because I could, and he took me outside so I could see the full effect. His black crush lives nearby and walks up to Tagora to antagonize him or whatever. He didn’t see me until I was like ten feet away because he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He, his name is Galekh, and he’s this huge indigo guy,” you start giggling like an idiot even though your ribs feel like they’re actively trying to escape your body. “He took off running and shrieking like a wiggler. That dumbass thought I was a rainbow drinker.”

That did it. Lanque fell over, muffling his laughter into a pillow.

The fact you got Lanque Bombyx to crack up over some stupid story was well worth the agony in your side, but you decided calming down was the best course of action before you passed out again. You still couldn’t stop smiling, though.

It’s a couple of minutes before the two of you can look at each other without losing it. God, you had missed this so much. Just… hanging out with somebody you cared about because you could, not because you were being the puppet of some god, or because you were a lonely little gremlin with nothing better to do.

Lanque chills out when he sees you flinch every time you snicker. “Alright, darling, you got me. It’s good to have you back; it’s all dreadfully boring when you’re not around.”

“Call me the mitochondria, because I’m the powerhouse of this cell,” you agree.

“I have no idea what that means, but sure. Listen, Lynera went to go get the others just before you woke up, so I think-”

A door slams in the distance, and by the sound of it it’s the one in the closest stairwell. The echo of swift pattering feet follows.

“Good timing,” you say, but your mouth is dry.

Lanque nods and squeezes your shoulder.

The lock on the study door turns. Lynera slips in, sees that you’re awake, and she covers her mouth as her pretty eyes fill with tears. She’s here, and right behind her are Bronya, Daraya, and Wanshi.

If it wasn’t for Lanque holding you back you know your stupid ass would have launched right off the couch to run to them. You must look like shit, sweaty and bloodstained and countless little scratches everywhere. There’s a new scar on your exposed right forearm from when Dirk tried to teach you how to swordfight. Your hair has grass in it, and you’re pretty sure you lost an alarming amount of weight during your travels. Whoops.

The first one to move is Bronya, who comes forward to stand beside Lynera, whispering your name like she can hardly believe what she’s seeing. She’s still regal and beautiful, and you smile when you notice her increasingly anxious gaze flit across the cuts, the bruises and blood.

Wanshi’s jaw is pretty much on the floor. Wait a damn minute, is she taller now? Is she… no way. She’s up to Daraya’s shoulders. Your baby grew up while you were gone.

She grew up, and you weren’t there, and fuck, you think you’re going to cry-

Lanque signals for her to come over, and she obeys while furiously blinking back tears. She grabs his outstretched hand first before taking yours. Delicately, with a cautiousness you’ve never seen in a kid that young, she climbs over your legs to curl up next to you on your good side. You wrap an arm around her and pull her close. Her hands form fists in your hoodie.

You look up, and Daraya is still staring at you.

Please come here, honey, please. I won’t leave you again.

“Daraya,” you rasp.

Abruptly, she stiffens, sucking in a shaky breath, and then she’s storming over to you with her fangs bared. She goes down on her knees with a thump that would have easily broken a human leg. The sound rattles in your jaw.

You reach out to her, and then she’s wrapping both arms around you and sobbing hysterically. Christ, you’ve never heard anybody cry like that before. It sends shards of cold metal raking through your chest. They hurt more than a broken rib ever could.

Your face is wet with tears, too, but it feels damn good to let it out.

:::

For a long while you just let these kids cry on you, and sometimes you’re awake and sometimes you’re in that gray area between consciousness and sleep. You hear Bronya and Lynera talking to themselves about something, but you’re too out of it to care, and if something juicy was going on you trusted Lanque to fill you in on the tea.

“Psst. Hey.”

You smile and crack open an eye. “Hey yourself.”

Wanshi stares at you in awe, her cheek squished up against your stomach. “I can’t believe we’re in Lynera’s study. Lanque always told me she kept dead bodies in here, but I don’t see any.”

You side-eye Lanque, who gives you his best disarmingly attractive grin. Unfortunately, it works.

Daraya raises her head and wipes away some smudged mascara. “No, that would be too obvious. She totally keeps the bodies in the empty seadweller pools.”

“Guys, come on,” you protest.

Wanshi sticks her tongue out at you, and Daraya snickers wetly into your hoodie.

“... Like, really? If I was a jadeblood, and I killed somebody, why would I keep the body in the caverns?” you ask as seriously as you can.

All three of them turn away to pretend to cough into their sleeves when Bronya and Lynera look over at the sound of Daraya letting out the most undignified snort you’ve ever heard. You accidentally giggle as well and let out a pained squeak when your side flares in response.

The two head jades are on you in a flash.

“Alright, you three, quit it,” Bronya orders, but she’s smiling, too. “The faster their ribs heal, the sooner they can rejoin us and their other friends. How are you feeling?”

“Like the time I met Nihkee Moolah at a muscular theatre event and she wiped the floor with my carcass,” you tell her cheerfully. “Actually, that hurt way worse, so I think I’m good.”

“... That sounds like you had a very interesting night.”

“Oh, it was.”

Lynera peered worriedly from around Bronya’s shoulder. “We’re so happy to have you back, but… why did you have to go?”

“I didn’t want to,” you sigh. “I was kidnapped.”

Five pairs of reflective yellow eyes snap to you in a heartbeat.

“You what?” Lynera shrieked. Lanque hisses at her to be quiet, and she glares at him before sitting down next to a wide-eyed Daraya.

Looking at your friends, you realize that in order to tell the entire story you would have to start from the end, not the beginning. “Look, what I’m about to tell you… it’s going to sound completely insane. But I swear on whatever trolls hold holy that I am telling the truth.”

Bronya’s lips part, like she wants to say something, but then she just nods.

So you tell them.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t bring yourself to tell them everything-- the fact that you’re now the First Guardian of this universe, or how you pulled it away from the rest of the universe to protect it, or the extent of Ultimate Dirk’s full power. You also don’t tell them about the rebellion they’re about to fight in, and how only fifteen sweeps in the future their names will be erased from history, only to be remembered in the most secretive of documents.

You do tell them about meeting your other friends on Earth, as well as your adventures on future Alternia. You tell them about how you saved both planets from playing a deadly game that would have destroyed both civilizations. You even manage to explain the extent of Doc Scratch’s manipulation, the abuse you endured at his hands, how you eventually escaped and lost your memory in the process.

This part totally fucks with the trolls. Wanshi dives under the blanket when you recall the mirrors on all of the hallway walls that watched you like eyes, no matter where you went in that hellish dimension. Bronya and Lynera look absolutely horrified. Daraya starts staring at a pillow resting on your leg like she wants to shred it to pieces. Lanque is stone-faced and still.

“... and so I finally get away from Ultimate Dirk, and then I go make sure Regular Dirk is okay, because he’s a good kid. Then I go make sure everybody else is okay. I was terrified that he or Scratch was going to come back and… hurt people.” You don’t mention how you then peaced back out to the void of space for who knew how long. “When I was certain that the kids were going to be okay I decided to see if I could still go back in time to see you guys. And I could.”

A long, long moment of silence follows that.

Daraya is, of course, the first one to break it. “... Holy fucking shit.”

“Daraya, language,” Bronya growls, but her eyes are haunted.

“Yeah, I’m going to need a drink after this,” Lanque mutters, viciously scrubbing his face with both hands. “You’re telling me that the multiverse theory is correct, gods are real, and you have near absolute control of time and space.”

“Uh-huh. Wait, trolls have the multiverse theory too? Wow.” You made a mental note to tell that to Rose so she could have another excuse to talk with Kanaya.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. If any of those two monsters try and show up, I’ll shove all of my knives through their throats,” Lynera snarls, tearing holes in the cushion she’s gripping with her claws.

Wanshi stirs from underneath the blankets, and one little hand shoots into the air to give you a thumbs-up.

You smile and pat her arm. “Don’t worry, I don’t think they’ll be coming for me again. They had their fun.”

Bronya sighs heavily and claps her hands together. “Well, it’s late morning, and I know Daraya and Wanshi have class tomorrow-”

Wanshi shrieks in protest and Daraya turns to face her leader with an ugly glare. “But-!”

“No buts! We’ll all take turns keeping an eye on our friend while they recover. I know we’re all very excited to have them back, and perhaps you can use that as motivation to work harder during schoolfeeding so you can come visit as soon as you can,” Bronya declared. Her tone left no room for arguments.

Reluctantly, Wanshi and Daraya disentangle themselves from you and gave you the longest hugs of your life.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” you promise. “Study hard, okay?”

Wanshi sniffles and nods, and you give her hand a squeeze before she shuffles away to wait for Daraya by the door.

You reach out for Daraya and pull her into another embrace. She squeaks, a little caught off guard, but you hold her tight and whisper in her ear.

“Text Tyzias.”

She freezes, finally understanding. “Got it.”

You watch her go, proud as hell when you see her hold herself a little higher than when she came in. Bronya clasps your hands and does the same. The strain of holding it together for everybody else must have exhausted her, you think guiltily. You vow to be as small of a burden on your friends as absolutely possible.

Lanque is the last to leave. He doesn’t say anything, but he does gently smooth the hair back from your face before heading out the door, turning the lights off as he goes. Your stomach flips around itself like a slinky.

You try really hard to not think about that, and also the fact that he was the one to cut away at your sports bra so he could stitch you up. Yes, you know about that. Yee-haw. Oh, hey, the ceiling has a crack in it.

Lynera calls your name from the other end of the study. “Do you need more blankets?”

“No, thank you, though!” You’re already falling back asleep. Everything that just happened over the course of the night hits you at once, leaving you utterly drained.

The sound of something big being dragged over stone catches your attention before you can fall asleep. You look back to see Lynera in her nightgown-- she must have changed in the bathroom-- hauling a recuperacoon over to the couch.With practiced ease, she hops up and slips into the hole at the top.

“Good morning,” she murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

In that moment, you knew that everything you went through to return to your friends was worth it. The injuries, the loneliness, the trauma. It was all worth it. You were sure of that.

You close your eyes and let yourself be happy, just for a little while. “Me too. Good morning, Lynera.”

[dutten-does-the-fanfic]

I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 5

Title:  I Want You Here With Me (Is It Too Much to Ask for Something Great) ch. 5 of 14 (ch. 1) Pairing: Isak Valtersen/Even Bech Næsheim Word count: 8450 Warnings: Language, mental illness, internalized homophobia

AO3

Summary:  The one where it’s been two years since Isak last saw or spoke with Even, and no one knows that Isak ever knew Even at all.

Present

Despite having attended classes with these same thirtyish people for two semesters, Isak never actually went through the effort of learning their names. He’d thought that was going to be a reason for anxiety when their tutor read out who was supposed to be working together, but turns out he was wrong about that.

Because the guy who looks too much like he just rolled out of bed and doesn’t give a flying fuck has paired him up with Sana. He is paired up with Sana. He is going to be doing experiments, group projects and study sessions with Sana.

Who, Isak is sure, is a lovely – or at the very least a good – person. She just so happens to scare the shit out of all of their classmates.

Isak will deny it till the day he dies, but the stereotype about boys who are getting a science major not being able to talk to girls like they’re actual human beings applies to about half of the guys in this room – not something Isak can relate to, but he has his own reasons for that. The rest of the people in here either find her completely unapproachable, don’t want to be on the receiving end of a backstabbing, gut punching comment Sana has become known for after a guy wouldn’t take no for an answer at some party, or they throw out xenophobic and religious discriminatory comments like nobody’s business.

Isak spent about 97% of his first year not caring about anything that didn’t end up with him being drunk out of his mind, so he’s never actually spoken to her. The only reason he knows her is because Eva, Jonas’ sort-of-half-the-time-more-so-a-fuck-buddy girlfriend, is friends with her, and by proxy Isak has heard about her.

She doesn’t seem as scary when he’s heard an account of how fiercely she’ll protect her friends and of the lengths she’ll go to to cheer one of them up. Then again, she is currently sending him death glares that makes Isak dig his toes into the ground.

“You probably already know each other,” the tutor says, makes himself comfortable behind the screen of his laptop, “but go on and sit with your partners, introduce yourselves, make nice, all that jazz.”

Isak sighs as he gathers his coat, laptop and backpack. Dammit, he’d gotten the best seat in the room as well, the first seat of the row right by the door so he could be in and out within seconds. But Sana isn’t moving by the looks of it, so Isak’s just going to have to bite the bullet.

“Hey,” he greets, trying to plaster on a smile even as Sana glowers at him. “I’m –“

“I know who you are,” she interrupts.

Isak has to bite his cheek to keep from giving a retort back of his own. It won’t amount to anything good, and despite how shit this year’s kick off has been, he’s determined that this is his year, and Ev- someone’s sudden appearance and Sana’s bad mood will not be deterring him from completing his goal.

“Alright, then,” Isak slumps onto his seat.

It’s fine. He doesn’t need to make new friends. He has Jonas, Magnus, and Mahdi and that’s more than fine, it’s pretty much more friends than he’s ever had before.

He looks up to see Sana glaring at him.

“What?” he snaps.

“You might be willing to slack off and practically waste away your life, but I’m here to get an education,” she bristles at him. Her eyes look darker with the heavy ring of eyeliner around them. “This is important to me and I will not be the only one doing all the work only for you to get credit as well, you got that?”

Isak’s mouth snaps shut after it had fallen open from the indignation of being spoken to like that.

It’s, he’s reluctant to admit fair enough that she believes this of him. His first year hadn’t exactly been productive, even if he had ended up passing he had spent way too long getting drunk and partying and trying to forget about everything. There hadn’t been room to focus on anything but, and that meant homework went unfinished if he even started on it, and he’s pretty sure he never actually spoke with his study group.

“I know I don’t have the best track record,” Isak hisses, magnanimously ignoring Sana’s amused huff, “but this is serious for me too. Okay?”

“’Okay’,” Sana imitates. It sounds more like a ‘prove it’ than an agreement.

Isak doesn’t call her out on it. So be it on her if she doesn’t believe him, or doesn’t want to believe him. Isak’s not going to let that hinder him from turning this year around.

They’re painfully silent and it’s only amplified by everyone else in class talking around them. It sounds a bit too cheerful and carefree for being about possible topics, but Isak isn’t bothered enough to start listening in on mindless chatter.

Still, he should probably say something to Sana. He’s going to be working with her for six months, and he isn’t going to let it bother him, but mutual animosity rarely rakes in the 6’s.

“So,” Isak clears his throat. Sana looks up at him, not in a glare, but not particularly friendly either. “Evolution and genetics. Is there… something in particular you like?”

Sana shrugs. Helpful, thy name is Sana.

“Depends,” she finally settles on when Isak is about to lose it – or he isn’t, because he isn’t bothered.

“On?”

Maybe he’s a little bit bothered.

“Well, we could always focus on evolutionary genetics,” Sana suggests. She opens up a blank document on her computer, “but I have a feeling most of the other groups are going to do that.”

Isak snorts. Understatement of the year. He might not know any of their names, but he can already tell just from looking that half of these people are just going to settle on a topic that’s a variation of the name of the class subject instead of examining all the other topics they have to review.

“Right,” Isak agrees. “So what’s left? We have genetic mutations, heritage, we could do something on evolutionary processes?”

“Maybe.” Another shrug. “I quite like topics like behavioral genetics, you know, the topics in that area.”

Isak’s heart skips a beat and bears his fingernail down on his the skin of his thumb to avoid just blurting out ‘No. No, no, no, absolutely not’.

He manages to utter a, “Cool,” instead, but it sounds too stiff and Sana picks up on it and raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him with a frown.

Isak winces. Fuck, so much for playing it cool.

“We don’t have to do that.”

“No, no, I know,” the tone feels foreign in his mouth. He’s not usually the one to placate somebody, that’s Jonas’ territory. “It’s a good idea. Write it down.”

Anything to get her to look away from him again. Behavioral genetics hits just a tiny bit too close to home, if Isak’s honest. Sure, he’s already done a ton of research on it in his spare time, even if it has been a couple of years by now, so they would have an advantage that wouldn’t go amiss.

Still, he isn’t sure if he can go through with it.

“We should consider some more evolution-heavy topics as well,” Isak suggest. He skims the table of contents in their main book. “Maybe something like patterns of human evolution or genetic databases. Those are quite alright as well.”

Sana nods as she dutifully types, but she doesn’t look enthused, so Isak tries to suggest something else closer to what she wanted to do.

“Maybe we could find some more within genetic heritage,”

“I’m hearing a lot of talking, yet not a whole lot about science!” A voice overpowers everyone in the room.

Isak’s and Sana’s heads snap to attention. Yeah, alright, they’ve only started brainstorming, surely he isn’t expecting them to have an outline ready just yet –

“I know it’s exciting to talk about whatever celebrity it is I can hear you talking about, but try to focus now!”

Wait – celebrity?

Please, let it be an actor, a singer, hell, a politician everyone is obsessed about and not –

“Honestly, it’s not like they don’t know Even Bech Næsheim is from Oslo,” Sana mutters as she turns back to her computer.

Oh, damn. This is not happening. This is not happening.

“You a fan then?” Isak’s tongue nearly trips over the words from how it feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth, but the garble of noises that comes out is at least intelligible enough that Sana answers.

With an infuriating shrug. “You’re not?”

No, Isak wants to bitterly snap, but he doesn’t.  Just shrugs back. “Don’t really care that much, to be honest. One of my roommates is crazy about him, though.”

That’s good, divert the attention away from himself. If only he could the topic away from Even at all.

He always feels like he’s being so goddamn obvious, like he’s practically screaming out ‘Even, Even, Even!’, always has felt like that no matter how hard he tried to make it stop. It’s stupid, because there’s no reason why anyone would even think about him and Even in any relation to each other, there’s no reason why he should be worried or suspicious, but every time his name mentioned, Isak’s mind goes off on a tangent of they know, they’ll find out, they’ll know.

“Oh, yeah – Magnus, right?”

Isak startles slightly, sliding down in his seat before he pushes against the edge of the table to stop it. God, that’s weird Sana knows that, but then again, Isak knew about Sana, so…

“Yeah,” he stutters. “Magnus.”

Sana doesn’t even look over at him, just writes down another topic and asks him what he thinks about that one.

OOOOO

It doesn’t get better the rest of the day.

Even during the lecture, people can’t seem to stop buzzing at the news. Every sentence either starts with ‘I was there’ or ‘my friend was there’ or ‘did you hear’ and Isak thinks all of it is not only overrated but entirely exaggerated because, sure, Even is famous, people love his movies and there aren’t a whole lot of people who haven’t at least heard of one of the titles, but still. He isn’t an actor, he’s a director, and Isak hasn’t really ever heard of any other director creating this sort of frantic commotion.

Just his luck, huh?

Yeah, alright, he gets it. Oslo isn’t LA, or New York, or, hell, even London. There aren’t a ton of celebrities just wandering around on the street, let alone showing up at a university party. It’s natural that some people would be talking about it. Not this amount, though.

Isak ends up slamming the door to the bathroom shut so harshly he can hear it echoing out in the hall, but he doesn’t stop moving until he’s locked up in a cubicle and has sat down on the closed toilet seat, ignoring the voice in his head talking about the amount of germs.

His skin feels too tight and he tries to alleviate the pressure by tugging harshly on chunks of his hair, grabbing onto one of the bigger curls to make it easier.

It doesn’t help. It just leaves him with a slight headache that was already too close to forming from stress and anxiety.

He turns on the sink too high. The water splatters onto the porcelain so forcefully it lands on his shirt. The cool water doesn’t even help, it just makes him too aware and he ends up dry heaving for a good ten minutes before he tries to take a sip of water and compose himself enough to go back to the world.

This wasn’t how he planned on his year starting out.

“What do you think he was doing there?” is the first thing he hears when he steps out of the bathroom.

Two girls are walking near the end of the hallway, but they’re talking loudly enough that he can still hear them.

“He used to go to UiO for film, didn’t he? Maybe he was just visiting some old friends.”

“Don’t think he was looking for a girlfriend, then?” the girl on the left playfully nudges her elbow into her friend’s side until she starts laughing and pushes her away.

“Pretty sure he already has a girlfriend.”

“Who, his PR or PA or management or whatever else she does? Sonja something?”

“Yeah, weren’t they –“

Isak runs to his right, away from the girl, and takes two steps up the staircase. If he doesn’t get away now, he’ll just have to go back into the bathroom until he really does throw up.

He can do this, he tries to convince himself even as he stumbles over the last step and nearly faceplants in front of a group of people. He ignores the snickering as he passes them and tries to focus on remembering the next auditorium he has to be in instead. He just has to focus on his coursework, on meticulously taking notes – more so than he already does, thank you very much – even when it’s boring or he’s already understood the subject.

He’s a good student, he knows that – has always been one apart from last year. Now he just needs to prove it to everyone else.

Isak sits through a lecture he doesn’t understand shit of. It doesn’t help that all the people around him are nodding and agreeing and acting like this is basic knowledge you should already know when applying for this program, and Isak is just sitting there, staring at the slides the professor runs through.

Everything being said goes in through one ear and out through the other, and Isak only manages to rile himself up even further at the thought of how many hours he’ll have to stay up tonight to read through the content until he understands it.

He tries to get out of the hall quickly, but he’s stuck behind a couple of stragglers blocking off his only exit, so he has to stand there awkwardly as they finish packing away their stuff. It’s just his luck that there’s a group two rows in front of him talking about Him, and then there are curious inquiries as to what is going on, what happened, who is it they’re talking about, and before Isak’s managed to get out of there, people are throwing around whatever bullshit they’ve heard.

Isak’s pushing his lips together in irritation to all the rumors as he bounds out of there, catching the tram right before it leaves. He’s winded and a bit sweaty, but the carriage is mostly empty, so he takes a seat the furthest away from the two teenage girls near the back.

He also shoves his ear buds in for good measure. The girls might be talking about some boy at their school right now, but before you know it, it’s all about the latest gossip and Isak can’t, he can’t handle hearing that stupid, goddamn name again today, he can’t.

Like that name hasn’t been floating around in his head for goddamn years, now it’s also being thrown at him from every single direction, and Isak feels like screaming. And crying. Isak feels like crying, can feel the lump in his throat grow so big he can’t breathe, can’t swallow his own spit, but much to his own surprise he doesn’t break down in tears. He doesn’t cry at all.

He feels so fucked up, so messed up and torn apart, like a tornado has gone through him, and it feels just as bad as when Even left in the first place, because back then he’d thought he’d gotten it right and he had finally started to think that again with his boys, that he could be someone’s friend and not fuck it all up, but he was wrong about Even and he’s apparently wrong about this as well, because he hasn’t gotten it right. Had he ever, or was this just something that had been waiting to happen?

He’s fucked up being a friend, has fucked things up with his boys, had nearly fucked up his entire first year of university, that’s two whole semesters worth of fucking up. The first one he’d spent most of simply black out drunk, and the next one he’d spent slightly more sober, but still unable to connect with anyone and not be a complete asshole. He hadn’t been able to focus on his classes at all, but had at least been able to spend his sleepless nights studying instead.

Jonas had tried so hard during their breakfast to pretend everything was normal, and Magnus and Mahdi had tried as well, but Mahdi had been more careful with his words than he has been since Isak first met him, and Magnus had constantly switched between not being able to stop staring at Isak like he’s never met him before and not being able to look at Isak at all.

It’s awkward and Isak feels awful about it even as he knows he shouldn’t. Or, partly, because part of it is his fault; he wouldn’t have worried them that badly if he hadn’t run off like that and stayed away for so long. He wouldn’t have been in this mess if he’d only –

Isak stops that thought by getting off the tram so quickly he nearly falls over when he trips over his feet going down the stairs.

The thing is, even though Isak hasn’t told them about – not even about Even, about himself – he considers those three guys his best friends. He doesn’t think he’s ever had friends as close as those three, not counting Eskild and Even, because Eskild had always been a bit of the older ‘guru’ despite only being four years older than him, and Even, well Even was just in an entirely different league of his own, so he shouldn’t, doesn’t, count either.

Isak hates how much he’s still like that fifteen, then sixteen, then seventeen, then eighteen, then nineteen year old who didn’t want to tell anyone that he doesn’t like girls. Sometimes it feels like he’s supposed to have had some type of character growth that the movies always make out to be so important, but he’s just been stuck for five years in the same mindset, with the same fears and worries, and he still doesn’t want to tell anyone.

There’s a small voice in the back of his head whispering to him how good it is that he hasn’t come out, because if he had, wouldn’t the boys have come to the conclusion that the reason Even knows him was because he ‘knows’ him? Isak tries to convince himself that he doesn’t hear that voice, even as it’s the only thing filling his head.

It’s not something he’s deliberately keeping away from them and only them, it’s everyone Isak doesn’t want to know that personal fact about him, and that’s fine. He’s allowed to not want to share everything, even if this is a bit bigger than taking the last bit of milk and forgetting to buy a new carton.

They had all moved in together because they wanted to move in together, the four of them, ‘Just how it should be,’ Magnus had crowed into their ears as he’d folded his arms over their shoulders and drawn them into a hug that smelled too much of beer and sweat to be as pleasant as it was in Isak’s memory.

But ‘just how it should be’ most certainly isn’t this. It isn’t Jonas biting his lips before saying something, it isn’t Magnus acting oddly around Isak, and it isn’t Mahdi being so goddamn reserved. It’s putting Isak on edge, more than he already is, which at this point is quite a lot, actually, and he shouldn’t be walking around feeling like this in his home.

He has tried so hard. He has been trying for so many years now, and for just a moment in time, he thought he had it. He had friends, he had a home, he had a home with his friends, and it had finally felt like life was turning around for him, and now he’s left with tension and more difficulties and Isak doesn’t know what to do.

There are pictures of them together scattered around the living room, originating back from when Eva had come around and scolded them and said this place needed to feel less like a pigsty and more like a home, that they were grown-ups and their house should ‘reflect that’.

The most grown-up things they’d been able to think of buying were pictures and sofa cushions, so now their grey sofa has yellow and orange cushions, and there are pictures hung up on the walls and scattered around on whatever flat surfaces were left. They’d gone to IKEA and gotten the frames and then printed the pictures off of their Instagrams on the university’s printer.

There are the stupid pictures of them fooling around, then there are the sweet group pictures where they’re all smiling. There’s one of Isak studying in their kitchen, the sun behind him, there’s one of Jonas and Mahdi shouting at the camera and holding up bottles of beer, and there’s one with Magnus smiling dopily at an out-of-frame Vilde. Isak’s picture is the only one with no smiles to be seen. Isak tries desperately not to reflect on that.

Just like how he doesn’t reflect on how in each of their individual rooms the others have put up pictures of their families, their current friends, the friends they don’t see as often because of life. Jonas has pictures of him and Eva and Eva alone, and Isak has nothing. Not a single picture.

He doesn’t think about the shoebox, whose contents feel forbidden, that he has hidden away in the top back of his closet, on the only shelf there. It’s stuffed underneath a pile of clothes and behind stacks of books from his previous semesters that he’ll probably never use ever again. It’s the perfect hiding place, because even if the boys decide to brave the contents of his closet, there’s no way they’d even think of going up there.

Isak’s doing a lot of that lately, of carefully strategizing, of hiding, of faking, of pretending – all of which he hates and has berated whoever was close enough to hear after a few too many drinks about, and here he is, doing the same shit as always.

It feels like he’s always doing it, never stopping. He never gets a reprieve and he hates that he desperately wants to blame Even for it, but he can’t. First of all, it’s not fair – this particular case excluded, because Even showing up in Oslo after having been away for so long has certainly been the catalyst in Isak’s rapidly declining wellbeing, but other than that, it’s all Isak’s doing.

That just makes him feel worse. The fact that it’s himself who is causing all of this pain makes Isak feel dizzy, his stomach swooping uncomfortably.

Stepping in through his front door makes his stomach curl in on itself instead. For a moment, Isak seriously contemplates just not walking in, just walking back out onto the street and never coming back. Would it be easier? Would it be better?

It wouldn’t. He can already tell himself that, at least. It wouldn’t be better, even if things are so incredibly shitty right now, leaving would do no good for Isak.

So he steps inside. His keys rattle in the lock, but not so loudly that the guys hear him before the door slams shut behind and he yells out the customary “Hello?” they always do to check who is home.

Fifteen minutes. He’d gotten a fifteen minute break between leaving the university and arriving home, and now he’s right back to pretending that everything is alright, that there isn’t a giant fucking pink tutu-wearing elephant dancing around in the room that Isak put there.

Isak’s pretending when he tries to smile at the boys. He’s pretending when he’s listening to them talking about their day, about whatever parties are coming up, about the girls they want to get with. He’s pretending when he’s in school and he’s pretending when he’s at home and he’s pretending with the people he’s supposed to call his closest friends, the people he considers his closest friends, even if they might not consider the same about him.

He’s pretending that the boys aren’t all pretending as well when they skirt around topics, when even Magnus refrains from talking about movies or his coursework, because media studies and Even might be too closely related to each other for Isak not to freak out again.

He only stops pretending when he closes his bedroom door behind him quietly, but only so much that he isn’t putting on a fake smile for everyone, because in truth he never really stops pretending, even around himself. He pretends, because maybe if he keeps on doing it for long enough, it’ll be so engrained in him it’ll be the truth, the only truth.

He slumps down against his door, sliding all the way down until his bum hits the ground with a too loud bump. He puts his head in his hands.

He still can’t breathe.

 Past

Moving into the Kollektiv goes surprisingly seamlessly.

Isak can chalk it up to how everything leading up to it, how it’s been his dad leaving, the tirades of religious zeal, his mom being sick enough to being moved into a facility care, the constant worries and self-destructive behaviors Isak has picked up on over time, has been so much more difficult than anything Isak has ever experienced before, that the process of moving that everyone usually complains about just doesn’t really compare.

A lot of it is also because of Even – lovely, lovely Even who is spread out on his bed, laptop open on his stomach as he’s typing away. Isak doesn’t know whether it’s homework or ideas or an actual script, but they’re nearing midterms and Even is a senior, so Isak hopes it’s homework he’s working on.

Isak doubts it, but there’s a first for everything.

He can’t tell if it is schoolwork or not Even’s working on. They don’t attend the same high school and they don’t follow the same study line. Even goes to Bakka while Isak goes to Nissen, because he for sure won’t be going to any of those pretentious-ass schools – he’s not an obnoxious hipster and he isn’t rolling in wealth. Still, he’s looked over Even’s shoulder enough that at this point, he probably knows enough to be able to do Even’s program at Bakka, but beyond Even, Isak’s not interested in movies or media in the slightest, so Nissen will have to do.

It also helps that Elias and his crew of tormentors don’t go there, so it not only physically but also mentally felt like a new beginning, a fresh start.

Isak chances a look at Even’s screen, but Even’s flying through documents and tabs and browsers and videos faster than Isak manages to grasp. Honestly, Even can’t possibly be taking any of it in, either. Then he’s back to a document, typing away for a second before he repeats the process.

It’s… quite a bit more than what Even usually is, but Isak has only been living in the Kollektiv for nearly a week now, everything is still new and a bit exciting, so it’s understandable why Even is more wired than Isak has previously seen. It’s not like it’s a lot, just more in some way.

Plus, there’s also the extra added factor of nervousness at Eskild catching Even in his room. They already have a cover in case it happens – friends from school – but that excuse doesn’t really work if Eskild catches them during the night and asks why they’re cuddled up to each other half-naked.

Not exactly what ‘just friends’ do.

“What are you working on?” Isak asks as he turns off the lamp at his desk. His Norwegian essay can wait until tomorrow.

The joints in his back pop when he stretches back to look at Even, who is already watching him, smiling coyly as he lets his eyes linger over the length of his torso, his arms. Isak flushes, which only makes Even’s grin widen, but he lets it lie and looks back at his computer instead.

“Hmm?” Isak tries again when Even still hasn’t answered.

Isak’s twisted around on his desk chair – or, Noora’s desk chair. It still feels weird that he’s essentially using someone else’s furniture, someone else’s belongings, but Noora hadn’t been able to bring anything with her to Spain, and it’s not like Isak had a lot of his own that he wanted to bring instead – so he can look at Even, his arms resting over the back on the dark blue padding.

“Is it a secret?”

Even’s smile takes over his face, like that in itself is a much better story than whatever he’s working on. Isak can see the thoughts flying around in his head as his mind comes up with endless possibilities, but Isak isn’t really interested in all of those for a change.

It’s causality; Even smiles so Isak smiles, no question of correlation here. It makes something in Isak’s stomach twirl happily as he rests his cheek on his folded up arms.

Even hums noncommittally. “The most secret of secrets.”

The sun is hanging low on the sky, just barely shining in through Isak’s windows. It makes the white walls look golden with white patches in the shape of the window frame. Gold and red leaves frame the glass and all of it is positioned just so perfectly that the sun shines directly on Even while his face is blocked off. It makes his hair a lot more golden than it really is and Isak thinks he looks ethereal.

“So not your homework, then,” Isak teases and hides his smile in his arms when Even leans his head back up against the wall and groans dramatically.

“What are you, my mother?” Even groans.

No, Isak thinks to himself as he gets up off of his chair. I’m your boyfriend.

It’s not as difficult to say in his mind anymore, but actually saying the words out loud? Yeah, that’s not going to happen, no thank you.

It’s like Even hears him anyway, because his eyes go soft and he gets that look on his face Isak always endlessly teases him about, even if it means Even gets to tease him right back for the similar look Isak gets whenever he sees Even.

Isak vehemently denies he looks at Even with anything that could be described as ‘fondness’. He is a rock, a cold, hard rock – none of that mushy stuff for him.

Isak pads across the distance between the desk and the bed on socked feet until he can knee his way up the mattress, up over Even’s body. Even accommodates him by pushing the laptop off of his stomach and onto the bed. His breath leaves his body in a harsh ‘umph’ when Isak drops his torso onto Even’s legs so his face is pressed into Even’s stomach.

“You comfy?” Even wheezes, but Isak can feel him breathing so he knows it’s pretend.

Isak hums and nuzzles his face into Even’s stomach, following the flat planes and the dip of his bellybutton. Even’s hand reaches into his hair, twirls around a few strands to tug. It makes Isak’s toes curl and he looks up to smile shyly at Even.

Who looks at Isak like he’s pretty sure he’s actually a mirage. And then reaches over and starts typing something onto his computer.

“Sudden inspiration?” Isak teases. He presses a kiss on Even’s stomach through his t-shirt. The click-clacks of the keyboard pause for a second before Even continues.

It’s been less than five hours since Even had poured out a soliloquy about why he was showing up right now, because Isak seemed to be his muse and it was of utmost importance he was around him to work properly. He’d promised Isak he would dedicate odes to his entire being, to which Isak had reminded him he wrote manuscripts, he wasn’t a poet. Even had tutted at him and talked about artists and working in different art forms, and Isak had silenced him by kissing him until Even started talking about what he’d come over to do.

Honestly, it was more down to luck than knowledge that Even had showed up exactly when he did. Usually, they work off of precise time schedules that calculate when Eskild will be either a) busy – doing what, Isak does not care nor does he particularly want to know – or b) out of the building entirely and Linn is a) out or b) asleep so that Isak can get Even in and out without either of them noticing Isak has someone over to visit.

“Absolutely,” Even agrees, typing some more. “So if you could just stay there and be absolutely adorable, that’d be a real help, dear.”

Isak’s nose scrunches up in disdain. “’Adorable’,” he huffs, sinks his teeth into Even’s shirt just hard enough Even will be able to feel the scrape on his skin. “Piss off. I’m not adorable in the slightest.”

Even’s hum tries to be placating, but Isak isn’t fooled into believing him for even a second, so he presses another bite further up on Even’s ribs.

“Hey,” Even shudders, reaches out to grab onto Isak’s hair again. He tugs once a bit harshly, but he doesn’t direct Isak’s head away from his torso. “Menace.” And then he launches into a ramble about plot points and key elements and Isak doesn’t actually know which story he’s working on, so it all flies over his head.

Even’s also talking so quickly it’s difficult to keep up with, even if Isak had known the thoughts and theories behind it.

Isak grins as he rolls off of Even to land heavily on the free bit of mattress along Even’s side. It’s cool to the touch and it feels nice again his cheek, but it’s quite like the same temperature as the rest of the room in general. Isak should really get to asking Eskild about the heating situation before it’s dire or he’s already gotten ill for the first time this season.

Still, it feels nicer when Even curls his arm around Isak’s shoulder and pulls him in close until he’s more so lying on Even than on the bed.

It’s so easy to let his body relax completely, something Isak rarely lets himself do. It’s so easy to just close his eyes and breathe, because Even is warm underneath him and is happily rambling at him and it just feels so easy.

It’s definitely easy enough that he’s about to fall asleep.

Even must be able to feel it, some type of extra heaviness on his chest from Isak, can probably feel his breathing evening out to these deep in- and exhalations.

He doesn’t let him, though. Instead, Even sits up, forcing Isak to sit up along with him, and he doesn’t stop no matter how much Isak groans and tries to shuffle his nose into the crook of Even’s neck, right against his collarbone. Even just presses a kiss to his forehead and starts tugging at Isak’s sweatshirt, helping him get his arms in order so he can pull it off of him.

With enough persuasion, Even gets Isak to stumble onto his feet and go to the bathroom and brush his teeth for the night. The tiles in the shower are still wet, so either Eskild just left or Linn is home and probably asleep by now. Either way, they’re not going to be disturbed.

When he gets back to his room, Even is still lying on the bed, gazing out of the window like there’s something more important out there, something that should have his focus other than Isak, and Isak obviously can’t allow that, so he flops face-first sideways onto the bed. His stomach ends up over Even’s thighs, and he more so knocks out his own breath than amounts to have any impact on Even.

Even just laughs and scoots up the bed until he can pull his legs free and roll Isak over onto his back.

Isak’s limbs already feel sleep heavy, despite the brief pause to the bathroom that usually would’ve had his brain and body awake and ready to go again for at least two hours. He’s lethargic when Even pulls him up to sit so he can slide his t-shirt off of him in a similar manner as he’d done with the hoodie.

Next goes his jeans, once Isak has flopped back onto the bed, bouncing twice before he settles. Even presses a kiss to his bare stomach, right above the hem of Isak’s jeans. It feels nice, so Isak make sure to hum his appreciation as he scratches his nails along the nape of Even’s neck.

The bed is still warm underneath him from where they’d just been lying and where Even has been for the past couple of hours. That makes it so much easier to just sink into it, even as Even starts tutting at him to cooperate.

Isak doesn’t do much more than lie there, but Even still manages to work his jeans down his legs and discard them. The button clangs slightly against the floor, but Isak only just hears it over Even getting him to shuffle up to the pillows and under the covers.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Even cards his hand through Isak’s hair. It feels nice and Isak is quite fond of this bubble that’s seemingly formed around the two of them where they’re safely tucked away in his room.

“Lay down next to me, then,” Isak counters.

Even rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling and complies with Isak’s wishes without a single protest.

Isak falls asleep to the feeling of Even getting up again.

There are times where Isak wants to shout out that he likes Even, that Even likes him back, that Even is his boyfriend, and just as quickly as the impulse comes, it dissipates and Isak is left with the urge to huddle up in his room with Even behind closed doors.

He doesn’t know if that makes him a coward or if it makes him smart. There’s no one around for him to ask, no one to get a second opinion from, and that’s fine, really, it is. For every second that Isak gets the urge to just say it, he has hours and days where he’s so inexplicably relieved that no one knows yet he still gets to go home and be with Even.

It’s a system that works for them. It’s no one’s business but their own, anyway.

Isak falls in and out of consciousness for the couple of hours the night lasts. He wakes up whenever Even starts moving around, going from the bed to the floor to the desk, whenever Even gets so excited about whatever his mind has managed to conjure up that he can’t keep the laughter in or he just has to say that line out loud.

When he wakes up for longer than just a few seconds, the sun has started to peek in, and Isak can feel that it is way too early to be up, even if it wasn’t the weekend.

Isak stretches lazily as he turns over on his side so he can look over at Even who is sitting by the desk, laptop open and fingers flying over the keys. There’s nothing that tells him Even knows he’s awake.

“Even,” Isak whines, pushes his bottom lip out a bit in a pout to exaggerate but also entice. “Come and lie with me.”

Even twists around on the desk chair and Isak can see it forming on his lips, the rejection, the explanation that he just has to finish this next bit, Isak, and Isak’s already bracing himself for it.

But then, when Even really looks at him, it’s like something in his eyes softens and he kind of slumps a bit in his seat. Exhaustion is probably catching up to him, Isak thinks, and he stretches backwards to scoot his body further back, leaving a warm spot on the bed open for Even to curl up next to him in.

“Alright,” Even agrees – he’s rolling his eyes at Isak’s theatrics when Isak can’t help but grin widely at having gotten his way, but Isak has gotten his way, so he doesn’t feel the need to call him out on it. “I’ll lie with you until you fall asleep.”

Isak’s pout returns. He knows Even hasn’t slept the entire night, but there is something about him, some restless energy buzzing around in him that just won’t settle.

Even raises his arm so Isak can curl in close up against him, his own left arm curls around Even’s chest as his head comes to rest on Even’s shoulder. Isak’s still sleep warm and Even’s slightly cooler temperature feels nice against him, like a fresh change that makes his eyelids fall heavy as it becomes a struggle to keep his eyes open.

“Noooo,” Isak sighs, nuzzles his face against the hard line of Even’s shoulder. “Tell me about what you’re writing.”

Isak doesn’t have to be looking at Even to know how he looks right now; that fond look that simultaneously makes Isak both want to curl up in bed with him and look around nervously to see if anyone’s paying attention to them. Still, it makes him feel warm and safe and Isak might, might, be falling too hard too fast.

“I’m not telling you if you’re going to fall asleep halfway through,” Even pushes gently at Isak’s body, making him rock back and forth a couple times before he settles again.

“I won’t,” Isak protests, but he knows he will. He’s already struggling to stay awake, and having Even’s voice almost narrating what’s going on in his head will set him off even quicker.

“You will,” Even tells him matter of factly, but he still launches into the story he’s working on.

Isak stays awake halfway through. He gets out a murmur of, “You still owe me a beach story,” before he’s out like a light.

He wakes up again in the middle of the day. Even’s still being a busy bee, but now it’s from beside Isak on the bed and he’s scribbling something on a notepad so he wouldn’t have to move to get the laptop still perched open, screen dark from inactivity or maybe lack of battery, on the desk.

It’s so late that Isak can hear both Eskild and Linn bumbling around in the flat, and it makes his heart pick up a beat too fast. Even notices he’s awake.

“Yeah,” Even says in lieu of a good morning. He does bend down to press a kiss to the top of Isak’s head. “Didn’t want to wake you up before them. You’re too beautiful when you sleep.”

It’s risky doing this – any of it, really, but not getting up before Eskild and Linn are stumbling around the flat is almost like asking to be caught. Isak knows this, Even knows this, and Isak can feel his stomach starting to twist up in anxiety already. Any thoughts he’d had yesterday about his room being a bubble for just the two of them has popped at the prospect of other people’s proximity to them.

Isak doesn’t tell him it’s fine, because he isn’t sure if it is. It’s Sunday, probably around midday judging by the light, and Isak knows Even has plans with his parents this afternoon. Plus, it’s not like they’re able to just hide Even away in Isak’s room for an entire day, as nice as the thought is.

Isak does tilt his head back until Even appeasingly bends down to press a lazy kiss to his lips.

As uncomfortable that Isak is that Even has stayed, he’s also incredibly pleased that he got to wake up to this.

Even presses another kiss to his forehead and then turns back to whatever he was doodling on the pad of paper. When Isak turns to look at it he can see it’s some type of storyboard, but it’s too doodle-y for him to see what the story is actually about. It could be aliens, it could be penguins, Isak can’t tell.

He can the leftover strips of ripped papers see by the edge of the pad, revealing just how large an amount of papers that have hastily been torn out while Isak was sleeping.

Glancing over his room, it’s quite easy to see that Even hasn’t been sleeping next to him this entire time.

It looks a little bit like a very small hurricane has swept through while Isak was asleep. There are scrunched up paper balls littered all over the ground, discarded ideas of Even’s, but some of them look like they’ve deliberately been placed there, with Isak’s school books set up like walls of a mini-set, and every single blue article of clothing Isak owns strewn out on the middle of the floor in something that could vaguely resemble waves.

Isak doesn’t really know what to do with any of this.

“Did you get some sleep?” Isak asks even as he’s 100% certain of the answer being negative.

Even doesn’t even give him a proper answer. He grins like he’s just let Isak in on a funny secret and kisses him until he has to go.

The next ten minutes pass with Even humming theme music for spy movies under his breath, grinning whenever Isak hisses for him to stay quiet as he goes into the hallway to figure out where Eskild and Linn are in the guise of going to the bathroom.

They’re both in the kitchen which means Isak hasn’t got a chance of sneaking Even out of the front door or the backdoor. Shit.

“Alright,” Isak whispers when he ducks back into his room. His hear is pounding and he tries to convince himself it’s just from Even and nothing else in order to calm down. “I’ll have to go keep their attention on me. Then you can sneak out the front door.”

“Proper Romeo and Juliet, don’t you think?” Even kisses Isak again before Isak can protest that now may not be the time to do anything but focus on getting out without bringing attention onto themselves.

Still, it works and Isak feels his body slump down a bit in relief of being so near Even. They can do this, they have to.

Isak sneaks out into the hallway, but he has to pause before he enters the kitchen to suck in a deep breath. He can do this.

“Hey.”

Eskild jumps from where he’d had his back to Isak, one hand flying out to clutch the kitchen counter, the other to grab onto his chest over his heart like the dramatic ass he is.

“Jesus,” Eskild whines. “You’re going to end up giving me a heart attack! Make some noise when you enter a room, why don’t you?”

Isak snorts and doesn’t apologize as he goes over to get a cup of water. His heart is pounding as he simultaneously tries to think of something to say and to listen out for if he can hear Even get out safely.

“Don’t need to when you make enough noise for two,” Isak teases, chugs the water and opens the fridge to see if they have any juice as well. God, does this count as a tell that he’s hiding something? Drinking a lot?

Linn snorts, but she turns away from the sink to look over at Isak, finally facing away from the entrance to the kitchen. “Fucking hypocrite, you are. What, have you been redecorating your room? You look a bit too well-rested to have spent all of it awake.”

Isak tilts his head to the side in confusion. What on earth is she talking about?

“Oh,” Isak breathes out. Shit, had Even been making so much noise? Not enough that Isak woke up from it, but enough that Linn would? “Shit, sorry.”

He should probably tell her to come knock on his door the next time it happens, so he won’t keep her up again – he probably would’ve had it only been him in his room. The problem is it’s not just Isak in his room.

Linn huffs loudly enough the sound of the front door closing isn’t audible.

Isak’s heart doesn’t stop pounding until he has finished grabbing a bite to eat with his housemates and has checked the entire apartment for Even, just in case.

OOOOO

Two days later, Even shows up at Isak’s front door.

It’s too early. Isak knows Even’s class only finished ten minutes ago and the tram doesn’t leave for another five minutes after that. He looks at him questioningly, but Even doesn’t say anything, even as he probably knows that Isak’s realized he has played hooky.

Even’s swaddled in a winter coat that looks too warm for the just chilly air outside, and he looks tired.

He still smiles sweetly at Isak and kisses him hello, but afterwards he falls into bed and sleeps for eleven hours straight, barely tossing and turning like usual. Four times, Isak curls in close to him for no other reason than to check he’s still breathing.

When he wakes up the next morning, Isak jokes that he must’ve been tired, teasing him that he shouldn’t spend so many nights awake just so he can write. Even gets a distant look in his eyes at that and his smile seems more like he’s putting on a mask.

Isak can’t help but feel like he’s missed something, a bigger part of the story, the clue that foreshadows the climax, exactly what Even always berates him about needing to be the most advanced and difficult thing to write, to perfect.

Isak bites his tongue, looks at Even sleeping in his bed and reminds himself that his life isn’t a movie and that he shouldn’t think of it as plot points that perfectly fits into the Narrative Arc.

Next part

[motleycrueimagine]

This Ain’t a Love Song - Part Eight - Nikki Sixx Fan Fiction

Words: 1477

Warnings: Language, alcol, drugs, soft smut

N/A: I know it took ages for me to update, but I'm really struggling through my first semester as a University student and time flew by like nothing. I hope you like it, feedback is appreciated as always <3

Huge thanks to @blonde-shamrock

Summary: Maya Prescott has done anything possible to fix her life. It was 1977 when she left her groupie life: no more parties, no more concerts, no more drugs, alcohol or casual sex, just to achieve a full standard life. Now it’s 1981 and after a four years disappearance  Maya Prescott unexpectedly shows up to the party of one of the most promising emerging bands of the LA’s rock’n roll scene: Motley Crue. But what should be her last ride is destined to change her life in so many unexpected ways.  

TagList: @motleycrueee  @babygal-babygal@unknownoblivion @sweetshutter​ @sparxx27​ @bandaid-rainbow​

Masterlist

Nikki’s POV

She was walking a few steps in front of me, the sound of her black heels on the sidewalk was all I could hear. We had taken a secondary road in order to avoid the mass of people that every night gathered down the Sunset Strip. Here the music was only a light background noise.

“Why are you running?” I asked as my lazy ass struggled to keep up with her. Maya stopped, waiting for me.

“You’re as slow as a sloth, and you’re not even wearing heels,” she mocked me, sliding her arm on the low side of my back, taking possession of my personal space; not that it bothered me anyways. I did the same embracing her shoulder, despite the height difference provoked by her pumps.

“I was afraid you were running from me,” I jokingly said, or at least I tried to make it seem like a joke. It had been almost a week since our ‘almost fuck’ and she had literally disappeared from our place. We had barely talked after that and she was making it pretty clear that she was not really into the idea of doing it, at least in the near future.

“I would never run away from you, Sixx!” her fake outraged voice was enough to make me laugh.

“Oh yeah? As if you hadn’t run away the other morning…” I liked to poke the bear every now and then. In the meantime, we were getting closer to the liquor store, the neon sign illuminating our path.

She rolled her eyes while a light, kinda bitter smile grew on her lips; it seemed like she was trying to find the correct reply to my words. It never took her too long to collect sarcasm.

“Well, to be fair… I wasn’t running away from you, but from the situation. I told you I don’t want to have sex with you that’s it.” She let go my hip trying to deviate towards the entrance of the store. I did the same with her shoulders, but I couldn’t help but hold her wrist preventing her from entering. She stopped, looking back at me, and lifted a brow “What?”

I gently pulled her closer, she didn’t bother to resist. “Well, to be fair,” I imitated her with a smirk “You asked me to fuck you.”

Her big blue eyes wandered around my face with an annoyed frown. She didn’t like to be contradicted.

“You were naked and you were touching me,” she pointed out, “I never denied that you’re attractive, I’m just trying to be a good girl; not sleep with every fucking human being that turns me on, and buy some fucking alcohol. Do you think I’ll get through all these tasks at least for tonight?” she listed with a straight face. I didn’t let go her arm; my curiosity was having the best of me.

“I think I’m gonna let you go through the last one if you tell me what is preventing you from having the most memorable night of your life with me.” I was not expecting an answer I just enjoyed too much messing with her.

“Well I don’t wanna risk you getting a crush on me for how well I ride your dick. That would be a problem.” She tried to hide a smirk by biting her lower lip. My imagination flew toward the picture of her getting wild on top of me. How come that I always ended up with a boner when I was around her?

“I bet It would be the opposite.”

She shook her head, “I’m not gonna bet with you, course then we’ll have to try and see and that is not gonna happen.” We looked at each other silently for a while; studying each other’s profiles as if we were both unsure whether to say something else or not, for a split second I almost considered pushing her to the wall and fuck her in the middle of the street.

“Let’s go buy some booze, Sixx,” she whispered, taking my hand, finally entering the shop.

We wondered the store buying as many bottles as we could, and dragged them on the way home.

-

Maya’s POV

The day of the shooting Vince had offered to drive me to the studio. There I met the photographer: his name was Robert Greiner and surprisingly he was not as creepy as the previous ones that I had met. He was pretty young, I wouldn’t have put him at more than thirty years old - definitely good looking, very caring too and interested in knowing what I was comfortable doing and what not. For the whole afternoon we shoot different photos under Vince’s watchful eyes, at times way too watchful.

“They’re gonna be amazing,” Robert reassured me for the tenth time after we were done. “If not, that means we’re gonna do them again, okay?” I nodded moving my hair to the side.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that is very important for me,” I apologised while with the eyes I followed his hands as he was storing the lensed he had used for the photoshoot.

“Your boyfriend is gonna love ‘em too,” he added with a playful but discrete smirk, I looked back at my blonde escort, I cleared my throat.

“Uhm, Vince is just a friend… but yeah I’m sure he will.” I smiled back. An awkward moment of silence stepped in as he was processing that new information.

“Well,” he zipped up his bag, “I’m gonna call you as soon as they’re ready.”

“I want a copy of each one of them!” was the first thing Vince told me once we headed out of the building towards the car. I lightly laughed shaking my head in disbelief.

“Do you think they were good?“

“I don’t think they were good, I know they were good! I mean if those pictures were the cover of magazine I would definitely buy it.”

I playfully pushed his shoulder and then took him by his arm and reached the car. The ride home didn’t take too long. When we arrived, we were still debating about the supposed interest that, in Vince’s opinion, Robert had shown for me.

“Well if that smile didn’t make him hard then the guy has a problem,” he was trying to make a point, failing miserably. We stepped into the apartment not even bothering to acknowledge the presents in the living room.

“Vince, darling you are not a very good term of comparison, you’re always hard.”

“That’s just because I’m always available to satisfy a lady in need. My dick is donated to society.”

“They used to call him the master at the grand entrance,” Beth’s voice didn’t seemed too pleased, while Vince looked pretty surprised to see her at the Motley house.

“Babe, I thought you were at your mom’s place.” I frowned, my eyes following Vinnie as he started arguing with the love of his life, till they moved towards a more private space.

“Why does she have to freak out every single time?” I asked the two boys that were sitting on the couch, but none of them answered. Instead Nikki studied me for a few seconds before questioning me.

“By the way… what were you two doing you together?” he wondered nonchalantly.

“C’mon she babbled all morning about this fucking shoot, man…” Mick, stiffly seated on the couch, intervened. It surprised me that he had actually listened. I pointed my finger at him nodding.

“See? Somebody actually cares about what I say!” I exclaimed while arranging the table for dinner.

“As if I had any choice,” the guitarist scoffed in his classic stoic way. He fixed his sunglasses up his nose and went back in silence. Nikki rolled his eyes before approaching the table to pick inside the In-N-Out Burger bag that me and Vinnie had brought. I slapped his hand as he tried to pick up a French fry.

“Hey!” I protested trying a second time and I slapped him again. His hazel eyes, unusually uncovered from his hair, widened, “Do that again and I swear you won’t be able to sit for the entire dinner!” he warned me.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” I jokingly teased, moving the bag away from his clutches.

“Both,” he replied with a douche-like smirk.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Mick intervened again. I turned towards him ready to gift him with a sarcastic answer.

“Whoo French fries!” Tommy, who had appeared form the hallway stole a pack from the bag, interrupting me.

“What’s wrong with you guys!” I pushed both hands through my hair. “Vince! Beth! C’mon they’re gonna eat everything!” I called out to them, as I let the bag go, allowing the hungry animals, known as Motley Crue to start devouring the burgers.

[loplainlointhemorning]

people frequently get asked about who’s influenced them as musicians, but are there artists out there that you’ve heard and your response is like “I never ever want to sound anything like this”

There are plenty because, though I’m pretty easy to please musically, I’m not very good as a genre person and I tend to cherrypick the best artists and then throw away the rest as imitators. For example, there’s plenty of punk bands that I think are just regurgitations of better/more interesting bands, and I’m always afraid that I’ll sound like them instead of clearly being influenced by bands that I like. For example, I would never attempt to write anything that sounded like The Sex Pistols, The Dead Boys, Flipper, The Dead Kennedys(whose politics I respect but whose music isn’t anything I haven’t heard before), etc., I don’t want to write anything that sounds like three washed out chords and a slimy masculine voice complaining wanting to kill himself or hating the government- I like both of those topics as songwriting topics(huge fan of The Stooges and Nirvana obviously) but there’s a particular ineffectiveness in the way those bands deliver them that just leaves me cold, and especially in the case of the Pistols, just kind of embarrasses me. You have to have some level of charm or originality when you say the same thing over again and the problem with a genre like punk is that you can easily bend its DIY no talent necessary charm into something that excuses laziness instead of encouraging ingenuity, therefore I only actually like a handful of bands that fall under the punk umbrella as opposed to every obscure Real Punk Band™️ that ever existed. I wouldn’t have done well on the Olympia scene lmao.

Also, there are plenty of artists I look up to who do shit musically that I would never want to repeat even if I like their work. I like Nick Cave a lot but let’s be honest, his ego is 90% of his music and he’s more of a writer than he is a songwriter. I understand he’s following in the footsteps of artists like Cohen and Dylan, and I think arguably even Tom Waits, but all three of those artists could respect when they were doing page-writing and when they were writing a song. Nick doesn’t seem to have that filter....And I’m not even opposed to doing spoken word songwriting myself, but once again, I’d want to do it more in the style of Harry Partch because that’s more interesting to me than like....Moody piano. He can make his own particular style work for him obvi but when that happens it’s because his emotion overrides his naturally deadpan tone, so something like Skeleton Tree is an honest to God masterpiece that I couldn’t touch in my lifetime, while The Boatman’s Call is painful to listen to unless it’s the right day. Regarding my own music I’m working the best I can to have an actual Singing Voice, because I think it’s easier to convey emotion if you’ve got more than three notes, and when I sing something and it sounds like Nick Cave I basically never want to sing again.

Iggy also does plenty of stuff I wouldn’t want to repeat- I think he’s a very passionate, excitable person without a whole lot of musical talent, so he does his best work when he has a musical force behind him that can actually give him a platform for his natural abilities(i.e., spontaneous lyric writing). However, when he doesn’t have a musical force to bounce himself off of he seems to be sort of stuck when it comes to what he’s able to accomplish. Despite him denying it I think he’s Very aware of his own image/what’s expected of him, and I think it’s a little bit hard for him to divorce himself from that, so in terms of ‘trying new things’ it takes him three albums to break into something interesting instead of someone like Bowie, where it was two at most ever in his career. Not a single good, well respected artist from the 70’s was able to handle the 80’s(because of how nasty and wealth-oriented they were, look at what mainstream rock music turned into) and Iggy gave it his best shot and got some decent work out of it- However there was a lot of backwash from that period that I wouldn’t ever want to sound like. This remains true throughout the 90’s as well, though once again there ARE some good songs, they come from him being able to break away from who Iggy Pop is supposed to be into what he wants as an artist. I that if I manage to have a career in music I would want to A) never have a solid image or expectation from a crowd and B) I would want to have a good enough grasp on music to be able to support myself without needing somebody behind me.

Beyond all of that analytical shit, there’s also bands that I just fucking hate, which I’m sure are more along the lines of the answer you expected instead of 3 paragraphs that took me an hour altogether.

THE MOST IRREDEEMABLE BANDS IN MUSIC HISTORY

- The New York Dolls. You know who likes the New York Dolls? People who like every single Cool Obscure Punk Band, and all of the hair metal icons who also don’t have anything original to say, any musical talent, or any creative power whatsoever. The New York Dolls paved the way for straight men in the 80’s to dress up in terrible drag and continue the grand rock n roll tradition of fucking pubescent girls. They are not glam rock and they barely qualify as punk. They’re proto glitter metal. The New York Dolls are not fun because they’re trashy, they’re just kind of sickening to be around.

- Dave Matthews Band

It’s a running joke in my household that I, and my drum prodigy brother(therefore placing him on a high enough pedestal to have musical opinions), hate this fucking band so much it’s unreal.

- The Rolling Stones

I don’t actually hate the Stones I just hate that I’m supposed to like them for doing essentially Rock, the cornflakes kind. They’re a late 60’s rock band. That’s all they are. They wrote You Can’t Always Get What You Want and it began my history with depression. Thanks Mick Jagger.

- The Melvins

Obviously bitter because they’re less popular than Nirvana despite pioneering the grunge genre, I’d be way more willing to hold them up as underappreciated geniuses if A) I found their music anymore interesting than any other early/proto grunge(I don’t because I’m not a cisgendered hegerosexual man), and B) Buzz Osbourne wasn’t so insufferable. I really can’t even judge them musicially because I just don’t like Buzz that much.

- The Smashing Pumpkins

The Smashing Pumpkins can actually write tunes and I’m actually very curious/eager myself to test out their version of dream pop(Less Mazzy Star, more My Bloody Valentine), but oh my God Billy Corgan’s singing voice. I mean, Billy Corgan himself, but holy shit. I know I ragged on Iggy and Nick but they’re tolerable as artists because they’ll openly admit to not being particularly good vocally(which I think Iggy is honestly too hard on himself for but that’s a different paragraph altogether). Billy Corgan can’t admit that he’s just not that talented, and I know Courtney praised him for writing hooks when everybody else was writing noise because the rich college kids didn’t have to worry about making money, and that’s fine, but once he started Making money he could’ve afforded to experiment more(and I’ve only heard the band’s first two albums but like. Oh Mellon Collie and the infinite hit factory) but I don’t think there was ever somebody willing to divorce themselves from the norm inside Billy Corgan. And obviously I hate him for being a fuckhead. So there’s that.

- The White Stripes

Meg White is cute and cool and has anxiety issues like mine but good lord I don’t like Jack White, and worse than him I don’t like their music. I don’t like the incredibly derivative ‘pop blues’ riffs, I don’t like their senseless half-worded lyrics, I don’t like their ‘we listened to the Stooges so we can play three notes forever and that’s valid creatively’ attitude. To be fair, I think that’s all more Jack than Meg, but however the chips fall I experience their music with slightly more interest than I experience a commercial.

Thank you for this ask!

[purplesurveys]

931

Any cool small businesses in your area? So many. Metro Manila is generally quite a small area so it opens up a lot of room for small businesses to thrive and not be eaten up by bigger companies. People in my age group are also more likely to check out small businesses, so it’s served as fuel for more and more to pop up. My favorite would be the bar that my college friends and I regularly went to before lockdown, it’s called Tomato Kick but we all call it TK. I also used to go to this shop called The Common Room that sold all sorts of stickers, stationery, knickknacks, plants, oils, etc. but unfortunately they’ve permanently closed due to the pandemic :(

If you use libraries, what is the largest overdue fine you've ever had? Something like ₱300-₱400. The overdue fine in my school was like ₱2/day though, so do the math and you’ll figure out just how long I didn’t return my books loooool, it was pretty much unreturned for the entire school year. I’ll never forget how surprised the librarian looked when she computed my total fees lol.

Do you ever borrow things other than books from the library? I don’t think so. I definitely should have made the most of our college’s library though - they let us borrow old and classic films, and I just never availed of those services.

Are there still any movie rental places left where you live? No, pretty sure everyone here is all over Netflix now.

Do you ever buy secondhand books (or DVDs, video games, CDs)? Or do you prefer them to be brand new? Of course. The smell of a brand new book is always nice, but it’s SO satisfying to see something you really like at a secondhand goods shop and see that it costs 1/3 or 1/4 its original price. I’ve had awesome finds at used book stores.

Have you seen the version of The Addams Family with Tim Curry as Gomez? No, I’ve never seen any versions of it.

What was the last TV show you were hooked on? THE CROWNNNNN. I haven’t been able to continue it for around a month now because I’ve been stressed and depressed, but goddamn is it a good show.

Have you ever started a book and never finished it? So many times. I have more unfinished books than ones I was able to read all the way through.

Do you have a favorite drummer? Who? I don’t have a favorite but watching Whiplash did get me so amazed by Buddy Rich.

What about a favorite guitarist? Who? No favorite either, but I’m biased towards Lita Ford’s guitar work with The Runaways. 

Do you ever write fanfic? Of what? I used to write them when I was 12...they were all very bad. I’m cringing just thinking back to it lmao. That was the one venture I needed to try to know I wasn’t cut out for fiction writing.

Do you ever READ fanfic? Of what? Tons. I mostly read ones of my wrestling ships, especially CM Punk and AJ Lee back when they were a couple on-screen.

Do you have a favorite poet? Not into poetry, so I don’t have a favorite. I do love my girlfriend’s poems though. She gets poetry bursts very rarely but when she pens one, they are always very nice to read.

How many members are in the last band you listened to? Three at the moment. They used to have five, then three, then two, then one, then now three.

Do you have a favorite classical composer? I do not.

Do you ever accidentally clip your toenails too short and they hurt? Just a couple of times, but it’s a big reason why I stopped trying to cut them too short.

Have you ever had multicolored/rainbow hair? If not, would you ever want it? No, and no. I’m okay with dyeing my hair but I really prefer to have it in just one color.

What kind of hats, if any, do you like to wear? Beanies, caps, and sun hats.

Have you ever thought somebody was cute but no longer found them attractive once you got to know them better? What specifically about them turned you off? This is gonna be such a mean thing to say now considering the circumstances lol but I remember when my friends and I were all still new applicants for our org, we found Nacho super attractive (he really was, objectively speaking) but he was always too awkward when at a table with us and initially came off as a lousy conversation-er. I specifically remember how that turned me and Jo off. Now I miss him a lot and would do anything to see that mug again.

Have you ever thought somebody was plain-looking, but found them attractive once you got to know them better? What specifically about them made them so beautiful? It’s happened here and there. A common trait of them all is that they’re all very good speakers and are able to speak their mind eloquently and intelligently, especially when standing up for their opinion or beliefs.

What is your #1 dealbreaker with friendships? (Why you wouldn't be friends) Betrayal of trust.

Who is your favorite character on Bob's Burgers and why? (If you watch it) I don’t watch it.

What songs do you never get tired of? Paramore’s ;)

Have you ever had a retro celebrity crush? Like a crush on an "old" celebrity who was most famous a long time ago or is long dead? Lol yes, a bunch of them...anyone who’s followed me for a while would know. I’m really into Audrey Hepburn, Vivien Leigh, Grace Kelly, Joan Crawford, Olivia de Havilland, Greta Garbo, Cary Grant, and Gregory Peck.

Before buying something in a store, do you look online to see if you can get it cheaper there? Not usually. I don’t shop online, so.

What type of things do you prefer to purchase online? It’s not a question of the type of thing I’m buying, but if I’m purchasing something online it’s largely because I don’t have anyone to buy it with at a physical store at the moment, and I hate going to the mall by myself.

Are you interested in fashion? Not so much. I keep up with the trends in my age group and like being updated with new shoe lines from my favorite brands and such, but I don’t watch fashion shows or know the name of all models.

Do you prefer beef or chicken tacos? I don’t really like tacos, period. I don’t even know what’s the standard meat in them...I guess I’ll go with beef, I know I love them in my burritos.

Have you ever tried fish tacos? How were they? I haven’t. I dunno how to feel about it honestly; my Filipino palate’s only ever had fish in stews, with rice, or in sushi. But I know it’s popular in other parts of the world so I guess fish tacos are good too.

Have you ever worn leather (or imitation leather) pants? No. That sounds highly uncomfortable, and I’m just reminded of that episode of Friends where Ross wore leather pants as part of his new year’s resolution lol.

What part of your body seems to get cold the most? I normally don’t feel cold in certain parts of my body. If I’m cold, my entire body is.

What do you like better, pants or shorts? Shorts. Pants are only nice if they’re high-waisted mom jeans, but in this climate I mostly find them uncomfortable covering my entire legs.

Have you ever wished you had a different eye color? Sometimes, but through the years I’ve learned to embrace my dark brown eyes.

Do you know anybody with two different colored eyes? Yes.

[inthegroundontime]

Title: Scar Tissue On My Heart Rating: K+ Pairings: Rudyard/Victor, Rudyard/Cordelia Summary: Calliope asks her father about love and gets more of an answer than she ever anticipated.

“Dad,” Calliope asks, sitting cross-legged on Rudyard’s bed without invitation. “How d’you know if you’re in love?”

Rudyard lowers his book and crosses his outstretched legs, staring at his daughter’s big, dark eyes. She looks more and more like him every day, which really means she looks more and more like Antigone, which is utterly unnerving. Twenty-five years ago, he remembers asking Antigone the same question in this same room. He’d invited her in, secret-like, and looked around.

“I’m sure you wonder why I’ve gathered you all here,” he’d said very seriously, hands behind his back, surveying the small crowd he’d gathered.

“It’s me and a couple of house mice,” Antigone said. “Hardly a gathering.”

Rudyard ignored her. 

“The reason I’ve gathered you all here is this: how do you know if you’re in love?”

“Is this a philosophical question or is this because that Trevor boy smiled at you this morning?”

“Possibly both.” A pause. “He does have a nice smile, doesn’t he?”

Rudyard sighs and Calliope snaps her fingers in his face. He blinks and realizes that he is no longer ten, not talking to his sister, and as of yet, hasn’t answered his daughter’s question. Hesitating, he decides to try his favorite parenting trick: answering a question with a question.

“Why do you want to know? Are you in love?”

Calliope shrugs. 

“I raided Aunt Antigone’s library again.”

“Now, look here, young lady-”

“I don’t think her books have it right,” she continues. “I don’t think you just know by just looking at somebody that they’re right for you. Aunt Antigone says it’s ‘escapism’, whatever that means.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you love Mum very much?”

“Yes, of course, I did.”

“You never talk about her.”

“I do!”

“Do not!”

“Do too!”

There had been another time Rudyard asked his sister’s advice about love, fifteen years after he’d fallen in love with Victor Trevor. Cordelia Roach had moved to Piffling to open a music shop after their previous music seller was crushed to death by a bass drum. Rudyard had reluctantly gone to her to fix a broken mandolin string. He’d been restringing the instrument himself for some years since being evicted from the old music shop and it was only at Antigone’s insistence that he approached Cordelia.

“This mandolin is in excellent condition,” Cordelia had marveled. “Eighteenth-century?” 

“Early nineteenth,” Rudyard corrected. “It’s been in my family since 1810.”

“What do you do to keep it so playable?”

Rudyard had regaled her with stories of mandolin care. Most people wouldn’t have even feigned interest in such things - especially as said by Rudyard Funn - but Cordelia had listened as she restrung his mandolin with careful, precise hands. When she smiled at him, Rudyard had paid her as quickly as he could before running out of her shop and calling another meeting.

“Am I allowed to fall in love again?” he’d asked, throwing the mortuary door open. “Antigone-”

His voice broke and he talked about the precision with which Cordelia worked and the gentle slope of her shoulders and the smile on her face that wasn’t at all forced and Antigone set down the hand of the corpse whose nails she was painting to grip Rudyard’s shoulders.

“I wouldn’t call that ‘love’, Rudyard,” she said. “But you should ask her out.”

“I could never.”

He didn’t have to. After hanging around the music shop for three weeks and six days, Cordelia asked him out. A year later, when he was sure he could call that “love”, they got married. Calliope had been a very planned, very wanted child, who arrived punctually. The only thing about his second love that hadn’t gone to plan was Cordelia’s death. It made it difficult to reflect on the good times without pain - especially since those good times had been all too brief. What he remembered most was not performing the service nor his own grief, but the reverent awe with which Calliope, solemn-eyed and far too young, treated the entire funeral with and her following fascination with the family business. It was easier to focus on that.

It is easier to know for certain that he loves his daughter and is loved by her. 

“Now, look here, I loved your mother very much,” he says quietly. “You’re about as stubborn as she was - and as kind.”

“I think you’re the stubborn one,” Calliope says. 

“She would have said the same thing.” 

“Was she your first love?” 

Rudyard lays his book flat on his stomach. He wants to answer this question carefully. He can’t afford to shatter Calliope’s vision of her mother or of love. He has to answer carefully. And yet, before he can stop himself, his voice grows soft and wistful -

“No,” he says. 

“Aunt Antigone says your first love was scheduling,”  Calliope says. 

“Yes,” Rudyard murmurs. “Wait. What?”

“You know, you’ve always loved a good schedule…”

“Scheduling wasn’t my first love,” Rudyard says. “Scheduling is a way of life.”

“Right. But… it wasn’t Mum?”

“Er - ah - no, as a matter of fact. Does that disappoint you?”

Calliope shrugged and shifted to lay on her stomach. Scooting up by Rudyard, she looks at him without a trace of heartbreak. Rudyard holds his breath anyway. He drums his fingers on his book and rolls over to face his daughter. 

“Tell me about her,” Calliope says.

“His name was Victor,” Rudyard says. Calliope nods approvingly as if that sentence alone explained several unasked questions. Relaxing into a smile, Rudyard sets his book aside and nestles against his pillow. “Victor Trevor. He was… He was my best friend when we were children. His family used to hire your grandparents for funerals and they would come to Piffling every couple years and he and I would spend a few days exploring the island and making memories and when we were older, we used to write to each other. He was such a kind soul, cleverer than me by far, and he used to look at me like he needed me and until, well, you, no one ever looked at me like they needed me. He had a knack for making me feel special, even when everyone else thought I was simply weird. He used to make me laugh and he was the only person I could trust with anything - Aunt Antigone included.” 

“You say ‘was’ like something happened. Where is he buried?”

“Oh… Oh, no, I don’t know- I mean, that is, he was very much alive when we last spoke. He… We had to move on with our lives. People grow apart and all that…”

“Dad…”

“We were teenagers and you have to understand, his parents weren’t the accepting sort. They encouraged him to get engaged and that was the end of that. I didn’t meet your mother for another, oh, eight years or so? It took that long to be able to love someone again.”

“But how did you know you loved him?” Calliope wheedles. 

“A hundred ways. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, for one. Whenever something happened - good or bad - he was the first person I wanted to tell. And when he- when he left me, even though I was angry and hurt, I knew what I wanted mattered less than his safety. I think that’s really when you know you love somebody: when their needs are more important than your own.”

Silence descends upon father and daughter. Though neither is the physically affectionate sort, Calliope scrunches nearer to her father, wrapping her arms around his middle and hugging him tightly. He stifles a sob. There are only a handful of people he loves these days. The person he loves best clings to him now and he cards his fingers through her fine, black hair. His chest aches like it might explode. 

“You still love him, don’t you?” Calliope mumbles into his shirt. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“You have to understand, I still loved - love - your mother, too. It’s just… different.” A pause. “I know this won’t make you happy to hear, but you never recover from your first love. It’s like scar tissue in your heart.”

“Scar tissue is beautiful,” Calliope says. “It adds character.”

“I should really stop letting you spend so much time in the mortuary,” Rudyard says with a grimace. “But, yes, exactly. It adds character. I wouldn’t be me without Victor. I wouldn’t have been able to love your mother and you wouldn’t be here. And that would be the real tragedy. Even more than losing…”

“Him? Her?”

“Them both.” Rudyard sighs. “Can we please talk about your crush now?” 

“Oh,” Calliope says, pulling away. “It’s just Evelyn from Bassoon Patrol. She plays the third bassoon and she has the cutest freckles, but it’s nothing like that, so I don’t suppose it’s love. I’m actually relieved. It sounds miserable when you describe it.”

Rudyard laughs wetly. It is miserable, isn’t it? Love, in his limited experience always ends in losses. He doesn’t want Calliope to lose anyone or anything she holds dear. He wants to protect her from everything that might scar her tender heart. But then again, she is tougher than he ever was - something she gets from her mother or perhaps from imitating Antigone so studiously. She’s a marvel.

And, really, even though he loved Cordelia and will never stop loving Victor, isn’t it wonderful that of all the loves of his life, the one that stays is his daughter? 

“When you do fall in love,” Rudyard says, “tell me all about it. Falling in love is miserable, but misery does love company…”

“Yeah, but shouldn’t I ask Aunt Antigone or Georgie? You know, girl stuff and all that?”

“Maybe,” Rudyard concedes. “I just don’t want you to go through it alone. Going through a first love alone is torture.” 

“You’re not really selling the concept,” Calliope says, sliding off the bed. She walks towards the door and then, pausing, says, “When you aren’t feeling so weepy, you should tell me more about them both - about Mum and about Victor. They must have been amazing people for you to love them.”

Rudyard props himself up on the bed, nodding. 

“They were,” he promises. “And, I will.”

Satisfied, Calliope slips out the door and Rudyard watches the space she’s vacated for a long, quiet moment before laying back down. He hopes that Calliope won’t hold him to his promise, but knows his daughter well enough to keep from hoping too much. She is his daughter, after all. She will hold him to every promise and demand answers soon enough. For now, Rudyard shuts his eyes and revisits favorite haunts in his mind’s eye, imagining Cordelia’s hand in his left hand and VIctor’s in his right.

[canadian-riddler]

Borderlands: Cat-trap

By Indiana

Synopsis: Claptrap has some special, special friends.  With credit to @hugsforvillains 

 Claptrap had, at some point in time, acquired a great deal of kittens.

  … or perhaps he only had two or three (or maybe four), and it simply seemed as though he had a great deal of them.  The furry little things seemed to be everywhere.  When Claptrap was around, you were guaranteed to find a kitten someplace you didn’t want one. Or, at least, a great deal of cat hair. And pee.  There was a lot of that too.

Yes, those kittens seemed to think Claptrap was some sort of metallic and very thoughtlessly shaped cat tree.  Not that he made any indication he cared.  No, Claptrap was apparently quite content to stand there with his arms out, letting the cats crawl all over him like some sort of massive, noisy caterpillars.  The upside was that when he was talking, he was talking mostly to the cats.  The downside was that he didn’t see proceeding with life as usual covered in cats as a problem.  Whenever somebody brought it up, his go-to response was, “But they’re so cuuuuuute!”, which he said whilst holding out a squirming cat, following it up with, “C’mon, pet him!”

Well, the goal of getting rid of them was just a lost cause when there was a double handful of soft and tiny kitty in front of one’s face.

There was honestly no getting away from those cats.  They were underfoot, over-foot, and on-top-of-lap.  Claptrap, having no grasp of any kind of boundaries himself, had obviously not attempted to curb their behaviour in any way whatsoever.  “Claptrap,” asked Moxxi rhetorically, removing a kitten from the beer pitcher she had found it in, “is this yours?”

“Captain Sexyboy!” crowed Claptrap, throwing his arms in the air whilst simultaneously not moving to accept the cat.  “I have been looking all over for you!”

“You named your cat Captain Sexyboy?” Moxxi asked, squinting into the pitcher, taking note of the voluminous collection of cat hair, and then electing to pour the draft into it anyway.

“Well, duh,” Claptrap said, ignoring the animal as it jumped off the bar and onto the counter holding the moderately impressive collection of mismatched glasses and tumblers. “Look at how sexy he is! He’s gonna have so many kids when he grows up.”

All Moxxi saw was a cat enthusiastically making a mess of her clean(ish) glasses, but she obviously didn’t know anything, as Captain Sexyboy was indeed very handsome.

Eventually (to everyone’s immense relief) the cats gradually tagged along with Claptrap less and less. Which meant (to everyone’s immense chagrin) that Claptrap went back to talking to them instead of the cats. And that, if you didn’t know, is one of the most unacceptable forms of torture listed in the Geneva Convention, right up there with waterboarding and sensory deprivation.  The latter, of course, being far preferable to whatever noise Claptrap happened to be making on any given day.

At some point he had acquired a very deep gouge in his chassis (which had conveniently managed not to sever anything important (if there was indeed anything important in there to sever)), but nobody knew where he’d gotten it from or when.  Not because he hadn’t told them all several times each, but because nobody cared.  Until Hammerlock, damn his insatiable curiosity about the beasts of Pandora, actually did ask him about it.  Everyone in their vicinity knew that was a terrible, terrible mistake and immediately chugged whatever drink they had in front of them in the hopes of ushering in the blanks of memory infallibly produced by excessive amounts of alcohol.

“It’s those cats,” Claptrap lamented unnecessarily loudly, waving one hand over what he thought was a drink but what was actually a cup of whatever was dripping out from under the dishwasher.  “They just do not understand they’re too big to climb on me!”

“Oh, my dear boy,” Hammerlock said, too polite to withhold a response even though he really should have at least tried, “they understand. But if you thought they would care, well, that’s where you’re gravely mistaken.”

“They just are not good listeners!” continued Claptrap ironically.  

“I see,” said Hammerlock, wishing fervently he had not started this conversation.  This wish followed him for the rest of the day.  Mostly because Claptrap followed him for the rest of the day.

Claptrap continued telling outrageous stories about the cats, from things such as, “They keep thinking I’m some kinda toy!  Who would think that, right?” to, “One ‘a them ruined Brick’s garden, but you guys’ll keep that to yourselves, right?” and concluding with, “They ran off into the desert to live their lives without meeee!”  This last one was accompanied by hysterical sobbing, which might have garnered him more sympathy if he hadn’t done the same thing the day before when someone changed the song on the jukebox before his had ended.

“Moxxi!” Claptrap hollered as he entered the bar one afternoon, causing several patrons to scramble for the exit complete with chair-tossing, drink-spilling, and table-overturning. At least one of them was skipping out on his bill, for which he would probably be catching a bullet in the head for. “The things I have seen today!”

Moxxi rolled her eyes and, because she was out of dishwasher juice, provided him with the sludge that was coming out of the bottom of the sink.  What she gave him turned out not to matter, because as soon as he got up on the barstool he waved his hand dramatically and it flung the foul mixture across the bar, which of course hit some poor bastard in the face. Unfortunately, he was far bigger and stronger than Claptrap.  Fortunately, he had fallen fast asleep in a puddle of his lite beer some time ago. That’s what happens when your bartender doesn’t cut people off.

“I couldn’t believe my eye!” Claptrap shouted to no one in particular.  “They ate him!”

“What?” asked the man next to him, merely because he was drunk enough he couldn’t shut up.  Claptrap immediately turned to face him.

“Phantom of the Opera!” he explained, leaning over far enough a few people began to hope he’d fall off the barstool.  It wouldn’t stop him talking, but it would be funny.  “They just tore inta him!  Ripped him apart like he was an imitation condom!  It was… it was… well, it was pretty cool, actually.  I was gonna say I was horrified, and I was, while it was happening, but now I’m thinkin’ about it… yeah!  It was pretty lit!”

“You named – you know the Phantom of the Opera had a name, right?” the man asked in exasperation, as he happened to be a massive theatre snob and had memorised everything about every Phantom production that had ever been made.  And if you thought there were a lot where you come from, well, you haven’t seen Phantom performed solely with live skags, have you?

“Of course I do!” Claptrap somehow snorted, because he, too, happened to be a massive theatre snob who had memorised everything about every Phantom production that had ever been made, including the one that was performed solely with live skags. “I just liked the name Phantom of the Opera better!”

If Claptrap had been any other person, the man would have smashed his glass over Claptrap’s head and left.  Since that would have absolutely no effect, he smashed it over the head of the person on his other side instead.  That was how Claptrap started his eighty-ninth bar fight, despite not actually fighting anybody.  That got Claptrap kicked out of Moxxi’s for the hundred and seventy-fourth time, despite his protests that he’d done nothing wrong.  Surprisingly, he hadn’t, but that had never mattered before and so it absolutely wouldn’t now nor any other time in the future.

As they often did, a bandit spotted Claptrap rolling obliviously along through the dust by himself.  And again, as they often did, he decided now was a good time to put the robot out of his misery.  Wait, no.  To put everyone else out of their misery.  From having to put up with him.  Because he’s – yes.  Moving on.

The bandit sauntered across the dirt, both hands holding a shotgun that was mostly built out of other, discarded, crappier shotguns, and thought about what he might like to do with Claptrap once he’d caught up with him.  The bandit was both too stupid and too ignorant (mostly ignorant) to know quite why the little robot reacted to even extremely unpleasant experiences such as being set on fire and electrocuted with exuberant good cheer, but he didn’t really need to know.  All he needed to know was that it was pretty funny.  He was cool with just knowing that.

As he ambled along he pondered just how he would do it.  He could always shoot him, of course, but then there was the risk that he would ruin something important and then Claptrap would die, and that wouldn’t be worth his time.  He could try demanding the robot turn himself off, which he would probably agree to do, but then the bandit would have to drag what looked to be a very heavy robot back to camp, and that just didn’t sound like fun.  He decided that his best bet would be simply to ask him to come along.  From what he’d heard, the stupid thing would probably do it, too.  And he’d heard right, unfortunately.  

“Hello, Claptrap,” the bandit announced, in a voice that he probably thought sounded friendly and welcoming, but really sounded like that obnoxious stranger who opens their screen door on Halloween and thinks it’s clever to hand out boxes containing about eight sour raisins or pint-sized toothbrushes with bristles that make it feel like you’re sucking on a soggy, fuzzy hairbrush.  “Where are you headed?”

“Good day, gentle sir!” returned Claptrap, who had never been trick-or-treating and so had no idea what voice the bandit was using.  “I’m searching for my friend!  He’s around here somewhere, but you know how friends are.  Always running off on you!”

The bandit stifled a laugh and a gleeful smile.  Or at least, he thought he did.  He actually looked mildly like he had been holding his breath for a very long time in a strange attempt to impress someone.  A woman, probably.  Or perhaps a man.  Or possibly himself in the mirror.  “Friends?” the bandit said, in a way that conjured up visions of screaming doormats and someone sitting in a rocking chair on their porch breathing very slowly into a Darth Vader mask in the minds of everyone within a one-hundred kilometre radius, excluding Claptrap.  “Why, what a coincidence!  I got lots of friends back where I’m going!”

“Really?” Claptrap asked, jumping and spinning around about ninety degrees which, if you didn’t know, is very impressive for a robot that clumsy.  “Lots of friends, you say?”

“Oh yes,” the bandit nodded. “If lots were a number, that’s how many friends I’d have waiting!”

“Ooh!”  Claptrap rubbed his flat little hands together, which produced the exact noise a violin makes when someone who has never played it before believes they are in fact in the beginnings of the next great concerto. “Hey, if we’re all getting our friends together, mind if I bring my friend along?  It won’t take long!  He’ll be here any minute!”

“Of course,” the bandit replied, because he did not for one second believe Claptrap had a single friend in all the universe.  Even rust seemed to be avoiding him, somehow.  Even the organic process of oxidising metal couldn’t stand Claptrap!  The bandit thought he was clever for knowing this information, which he was, but only because of the company he was with at the moment.  The company in question raised himself as high as possible, cupped his hands around the mouth he didn’t have, and hollered so loudly he disturbed a nest of rakks about two hundred kilometres away, “Mrs Fluffers!”

Yeah.  The friend definitely did not exist.

That was when the eclipse happened.

The reason I didn’t tell you there was an impending eclipse was because it didn’t make it into the weather forecast.  It hadn’t been predicted by any satellites, or meteorologists, and even the prerequisite crazy-haired man with the apocalypse sign was pretty sure the end of the world wasn’t nigh until at least next week.  And that was because it wasn’t really an eclipse.

The bandit looked toward the shadow blocking out the sun, and then he looked up.  And up.  And up farther.  So far that his jaw kind of fell open without his permission.  He honestly wished that the predicted fire and brimstone would happen right now, or at least that there really had been an unexpected eclipse, because Claptrap did have a friend.  The very worst kind of friend, in fact.

This friend was some massive, unholy beast.  It was covered head to whip-like tail in mangy orange fur, sported ears that resembled Swiss cheese, had four-foot fangs bordered by an expansive tangle of eight-foot whiskers, and eyes that were definitely being used by the soul of some hellspawn to scare the everloving shit out of him.

It worked.  Both literally and figuratively.  

Most bandits, this one included, prided themselves on being tough-as-nails badasses that would go up against a Vault Hunter with their bare hands.  A high percentage of them would even actually do that.  So when I tell you that this beast was terrifying enough to make this man turn around, hitch up his freshly soiled pants, and run screaming back to the hive of scum and villainy from whence he came, you know it was pretty darn scary.

“Oh, Mrs Fluffers,” lamented Claptrap, looking sadly at the tire tracks he’d made in the dirt, “I just don’t understand it!  Every time I bring someone to meet you, they piss themselves and run away!  They don’t even try to get to know you. Rude!”

Mrs Fluffers purred quietly, which only caused one or two minor rockslides.  Claptrap petted an area on his leg approximately the size of the cat’s toe and held his other hand up thoughtfully beneath his eye.  He had a surprisingly wide range of facial expressions given that he didn’t have a face.  “Well,” he said finally, straightening, “I guess he’s just gonna have to come to your place!”

Mrs Fluffers licked his shoulder, which would make it a good time to mention said shoulder was matted down with a thick layer of some dark, hardened substance.  Blood.  It was blood.

“Mrs Fluffers!” Claptrap shouted up in the direction of the cat’s very distant ear.  “Invite him over already, willya!?”

Mrs Fluffers gave a meow that would have only been about seventy-five decibels if anyone had been measuring (which no one was) and looked over in the direction of the fleeing bandit with mild interest. He didn’t care very much for the bandit, but he was holding something that glinted temptingly in the blazing sun…

“Finally,” groused Claptrap as the cat ambled to his feet and collected the bandit, who had not even managed to run the length of the animal.  Mrs Fluffers contained the hapless idiot inside of his teeth with remarkable gentility and turned to face his beloved master again.

“Hooray!” Claptrap shouted, jumping up and down with his arms in the air.  He actually had impressive height for someone with a suspension that old.  “Oh boy!  Mrs Fluffers, try an’ take care of him until we get back, huh?  You always wreck ‘em before Jerry gets to meet ‘em.”

“Who’s Jerry?” sobbed the bandit, whose bladder tried and failed to empty itself a second time. Claptrap spun around and continued rolling forward.  But backward. Forward but backward.  Like his life as a whole.

“Oh, you’ll like Jerry,” Claptrap said enthusiastically.  “He loves playing.  But he’s shy! So we gotta bring him people to play with!  Or we would,” and the robot paused here to fold his arms indignantly, “if Mrs Fluffers here didn’t hog all the friends.”

“I don’t want to play with Jerry!”

“Oh, you,” scoffed Claptrap, waving one hand in airy dismissal, “you haven’t even met him yet!  You really should get to meet people before you write ‘em off, y’know.”  And he hopped in an attempt to spin himself front-facing again, which he was very successful at doing.  What he was also very successful at doing was falling down.  “Gingersnaps!” he yelled into the dirt, because he was only allowed to use K-rated profanity (and even that was pushing it), and Mrs Fluffers immediately dropped the bandit, to his immense relief.  That was, until about five seconds later when he hit the ground and broke his leg in at least three places.  At least.

He was too busy screaming and staring with comically bulging eyes at the brand-new configuration his leg was now in to look over and see that Mrs Fluffers had ‘helped’ Claptrap by batting at his chassis as though he were some tiny prey to be joyfully toyed with. “Now, now,” Claptrap was saying (which the bandit also wasn’t listening to, since he was screaming so loudly).  “We have talked about this, young man!”

Mrs Fluffers proceeded to drag his tongue, the size of which rivalled a full-sized van, up Claptrap’s chassis so hard it actually stood him back up again.  It also removed an impressively-sized stripe of years-old dirt, which revealed that Claptrap had once been quite a different, but still obnoxious, shade of yellow.  “Thanks bunches!” Claptrap said.  “Now, you wanna help our – oh, crap.  You broke him!  It’s gonna be real hard for Jerry to play with him now.”

The cat retrieved the sobbing bandit and deposited him in front of Claptrap, who smacked himself in the eye with the palm of his hand solely because he didn’t have a forehead to smack.  “No!  I don’t want him!  He’s for Jerry!”

Mrs Fluffers looked expectantly down at Claptrap, bony tail sweeping the dirt in such great swaths he was probably unburying some long-forgotten skeletons.  Claptrap sighed and turned around.

“Come on,” he said, rolling onward.  “I don’t wanna hang out here all day.  There’s scary monsters around, y’know?”

Mrs Fluffers purred.

  Author’s note

hugsforvillains suggested that the cats of Pandora grow up to be vicious beasts. Usually I just said cats didn’t exist on Pandora anymore.  

One of the people I know from work came up with the name Captain Sexyboy.  For himself.  He calls himself that.

This is also on AO3 and FFN, but no linkies allowed.

[chnsfairy]

chan imitating a siren passing by is the cutest thing ever like i'm busting uwus left and right for this kid i never new my chest would be bursting just because of this tiny thing he does

he's the softest boy ever and needs protection at all costs no exceptions i will fight for him and die for him, and at this point i think i'll live for him

i'll live for those weekly livestreams, i'll wait all week and i'll look forward to that hour i get to spend with him, if anything they're the reason why i'm actually pushing through the week anymore, because i now have something to look forward to at the end. even though i may spent it with a hundred thousand people it always just feels like the two of us, just me and him, sitting in the studio listening to music as he talks about whatever is on his mind and vise versa. who knows maybe a mindset like that is selfish idk and i don't care

but it's my little "good job gryphon, you made it again." at the end of the week, and then, sometimes, i hear him say at the end in my head "just one more time ok ?" a reminder for myself that i do have something to look forward to now, even though it may not seem that big of a deal for others it really is for me. and sometimes i think he scheduled them to be at the end of the week so we, so i, have something to look forward to and push through those 6 awful days to get to

i think this post was originally just going to me gushing about chan saying wee oo wee oo wee oo for five seconds but it's taking another turn so if you stick and read this it's probably going to get a bit personal so sorry about that oof but thank you if you do read i guess, and this is going to be so unstructured i'm sorry for that as well

i tried therapy for the first time last week, and i didn't really take to it. i know everyone's going to be like " it doesn't click immediately you gotta go a couple more times " and i see your point ok, i do and it makes sense but...i cant see myself doing that anytime soon, maybe it's because i literally just CANT be bothered to try anything anymore or because i know that it probably won't help at all. maybe it was the therapist herself, whatever it was i just don't wanna go back which is pROBABLY bad but here we are

chans weekly lives have felt more welcoming and warm than anything else i've felt before, in that moment and that moment only i want to pour my feelings out to him because despite the fact this kid is SO young he's sitting there with this look on his face that he wears that seems like he's lived and seen so many things, so many stories. and then he smiles. with these such old eyes. as he then too pours his emotions and stories back into us, the stories of an old soul; and somebody who somehow always knows what to say when things are bad.

he'll suddenly read a comment that says "chan i'm sad :((" and he always tries to comfort that person, he'll tell them not to worry cause he's there, skz are there for them and they can come to him whenever they need to.

he'll hug the freaking camera because we all need a hug once in a while, and he knows it, he sings songs for stays telling us that we do have someone, and if anything we have him to count on no matter what

and my favorite thing is when he sings, even if it's just the chorus, even if he only knows some words, and especially when he basically sings the whole song. it honestly brings me to tears almost everytime. in the end i release all my pent up stress and anxiety from school and just life shut and just listen to his angelic voice singing whatever he wants to show us or we wanted to show him. his voice ; in which is a sound that's actually saved my life before and i'll never ever forget that, i'm forever in his debt and forever grateful.

he even gives us advice on things sometimes, advice on life and that we should live it and learn to love being alive, that we should express ourselves because quote "you never know what could happen" now while i still have a very long way to go before even reaching that point he's definitely helped me start to try. which i don't think any therapist, no strong the bond, could help me do and work towards. i think i trust chan more than anybody in this world, apart from one other person (you know who you are), and well... maybe it's unhealthy but these one hour live streams are extremely therapeutic for me and that's just how i've always treated them

i don't like talking to a stranger about my life problems, i'm bad at talking and i hate leading the conversation more than anything, so if i can just let chan talk for an hour while i comment and hope he reads just one i'm completely contempt with that. honestly it's how i am irl and probably why if you meet me irl i'll surpise you cause i'm either dead silent or ramble because i'm anxious and scared.

anyway this started about me uwuing over the five year old in him, he's really aged nothing yet he's the wisest person i know, if that makes sense. sorry if this is a bit messy but thanks for reading

so, after all that

i'll get through the week one more time ok ?

just for you chan