#if i was going to california i would be hitting this house every night guaranteed

[phone-in-the-attic]

y'all i'm so fucking jealous of universal hollywood rn this house looks fucking AMAZING, the energy from the scare actors is just Peak, gods why didn't we get this at orlando too?!

[ravynfyre]

I know firefighters work long shifts, but can they take double shifts? Are there a maximum they're allowed to work? Also, what happens if there's multiple fires at once? Is there a risk of running out of fire trucks?

It really depends upon the rules of the individual departments, but, for the most part, yes, absolutely they can take a double. With a typical one-day-on-two-days-off schedule, it's often a lot easier to trade shifts with someone to get enough time off in a row for a vacation than it is to try and request a vacation day, especially when 1) you're low on seniority, and 2) you want a day in the summer or during hunting season. So a lot of guys - myself included - would just trade a shift with someone and end up working a 48 hour shift to have five days off in a row.

Heck, there was a guy on a department in california back in the early 90's, if I recall correctly, who actually lived on Hawaii, and would trade shifts every month so that he would literally work 14 days in a row, and then be off for the rest of the month, fly home to Hawaii, and be there until he had to come back! The thing is, it HAS to be the individual firefighter's decision to do so. THEY can CHOOSE to set themselves up for a 48 hour shift, but the city CANNOT assign them a 48 hour shift. That is against US Labor law. They MUST allow at least 12 hours between assigned shifts, or face severe penalties.

And I really doubt that most municipalities would allow anyone to work more than 3-4 shifts in a row these days. You cannot guarantee enough rest when on duty for a stretch like that, and sleep deprivation is as detrimental to performance and decision making ability as alcohol intoxication.

As for what happens when there's multiple fires at once... yes, it is a very real possibility of running out of trucks. It has not happened to my knowledge in my town for FIRES, but I do recall at least one shift where there was not a single available rig left in the city because we had that many fires going. At that point, local surrounding volunteer departments were alerted to be prepared to cover municipal areas, in case another emergency popped up.

HOWEVER, there HAVE been events where we ran out of available rigs, and had no ability to request mutual aid, and rigs would clear one call just to head straight to the next for several hours in a row. My town has been hit by tornadoes more than once. When that happened, all the surrounding area had their own emergencies to deal with and could not help cover the town. So for five or six hours, it was head to a call, clear the call, head to the next call, lather, rinse, repeat until caught up. So, yeah, there were folks who were literally waiting for *hours* for a firetruck to come help them.

I was actually lucky in that I was not scheduled to be on duty that night... but I DID get called in with my FEMA Disaster SAR dog, as we had missing people in town, and more potential tornadoes on the way and could not risk guys being out in that searching leveled structures and rubble piles during that incoming weather... which was EXACTLY the kind of job my dog and I were trained for.

(Funny story - the first person we were called to search for was a recuse who NEVER left his home. His house was gone. Wiped down to the concrete slab, and the only thing left standing was the plumbing riser. Everything else was just GONE, and he had not sought shelter with any of his neighbors. We knew he HAD to be in the surrounding rubble somewhere, but it was a literal city block or more that needed searched, after dark, and power for the whole city had been wiped out, so no lights except what we brought. And because of the rubble and debris, getting large lighting trucks into the area was pretty much not going to happen that night. That was when one of the other women on the job poked the battalion chief and said, "yo, hey, isn't this exactly what Ravyn and her dog do?" So we got called in, and within the first five minutes, my dog Taeryn clearly indicated to me that there was no one living to find in the area. But I was paranoid, because if I tell these guys to walk away from this site... it's 100% on ME if this guy is here and he dies.

So I made Taeryn cover the area again, and then a third time. At that point, he's like, "mother, knock this shit off. ain't no one here, not even us chickens." So, heart in throat, I tell my scene officer that, yeah, there's no one here to find. IF the guy is here, he's dead in such a way that he doesn't even smell fresh anymore. [Taeryn was a Live Find dog. He might find a body that had only been dead an hour or so, but otherwise, he was actually trained to ignore dead bodies] Officer seemed surprised that it only took 15 minutes to determine that - I didn't tell him I'd known for 10 minutes already - and trusted my call and pulled everyone back. We left and headed for the next call. That was why when the next wave of the storm came through and tore the shit even more out of that block, none of my guys were there to get hurt. It made me feel good that I kept them safe, but I was still worried about having missed the missing guy... except-

The next morning, the story about the missing man was on the front page of the paper. His obituary was on the back page. He'd died of a heart attack three days before, and none of his neighbors knew. Talk about relief)

That has happened twice. The first time, it took several hours to catch up on all the calls. The city was hugely lucky to not have a fire during that disaster. The second time it happened was less a direct hit and more a sideswipe, and it only took about an hour or so to catch up. But yes, it happens that rigs have to clear a call to go to the next call and people just have to wait for a truck to be available to come and help them.

When that happens, who goes where may not necessarily be determined by where a rig is, or how long a caller has been waiting... but how serious the call is. At least one rig during the real bad night had to respond all the way across town to an area that was about as far from their assigned area as possible, because it was the next serious call, rather than wait for the rig that covered that area to clear and be able to respond. However, if all calls sound about the same level of seriousness, then it's generally whoever called first gets served next by the rig that covers that turf. But that's how calls are run even if we *don't* have every single rig in town on a call - I've personally run through two other rigs' areas to get to a call in a third rig's area to run a medical call because all three of the closest rigs were on a call at the time. That'd happened many times in my career.

And on the really bad tornado night, as soon as at least one local volunteer department had completed clearing their response area, they did come to assist and mutual aid to the outskirts of town near their turf. When things like that happen, Dispatch is always very careful to keep those rigs as close to their own response area as possible, because it isn't fair to their own towns to have to delay a response to them because they are covering OUR town.

In a larger town like New York or Chicago, mutual aid like that is the norm, so having a day where every rig is out on a fire is pretty much impossible.

Smaller departments, especially volunteer departments that cover mostly rural areas, however, it happens much more frequently. In that case, then Dispatch will send out a call to pretty much all the nearest other agencies around to come respond. When my own house burned down many years back, there were two different departments that came to put it out, since the one that covered the area my house was i couldn't get enough bodies to fill enough trucks to be safe. That's very common.

[artificialqueens]

Luck Be A Lady, Chapter Two (Anetra x Sasha) - Athena2

Summary: Anetra is forced to make a dangerous decision about her job.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback on chapter one!! It’s really blown me away and I appreciate it so much. I hope you enjoy this one too!! Thank you to Writ for betaing!!

Anetra barely sleeps for the whole week. She rolls from one side to the other, the red numbers on her alarm clock following her with every toss and turn.

She’s been doing this job for five years. She’s brought three people into the basement herself, has seen the others bring more. She’s always known it’s not right, exactly. But it was easier when the gambler was a guaranteed cheater composed of an ego and money; unlike Sasha, who hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s never gotten close to any of them, never known anything beyond their name and cheating methods. If you don’t know, you don’t have to care. If you don’t care, you do the job and stay safe.

But she knows Sasha.

In three days, she’s become closer to Sasha than she’s been to anyone in five years. Maybe even longer. She knows Sasha. She knows that she’ll run to the dance floor the instant she hears a Beyoncé song, but that she favors slow, sad songs when she’s alone. She knows that her house in California will have a pool and a big yard where she can plant a garden. And she let Sasha know her too, even if the details were just the barest traces of what she can share.

It’s shitty, she knows. To only suddenly care about what she’s done when she cares about someone involved in it. But for better or worse, it’s the situation she’s in. Does she just put her walls up, bring Sasha to the basement, and safely continue like she’s been doing? Or does she dangerously help Sasha, and maybe help herself in the process—try and get out of this job?

She’s still awake when the sun rises.

—-

Anetra is still rubbing sleep from her eyes when she steps into the basement Thursday night.

“She just walked in,” Tom says.

Anetra’s heart nearly stops, because she knows who Tom means. She must have come early to spend time here before the tournament Saturday night.

“She’s a pretty thing,” Tom says, with all the sharpness of a hunter watching prey. It makes Anetra’s fist twitch, wanting to hit him for talking about Sasha that way. “I just hope you don’t get any…ideas. That won’t end well.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out one of his rings, pretending to polish it against the lapel of his suit. It’s meant to look casual, but it’s a warning as pointed as a sword.

She has to do it tonight, or she’ll lose everything.

—–

If it were any other day, Anetra would be running over the casino’s golden floors to meet Sasha. Instead, she shuffles her feet, delaying every second before she has to ruin Sasha’s world and destroy her.

Sasha’s face lights up with a smile when she sees Anetra, and for the first time, Anetra takes a while to return it. “Hey, Sasha.”

“Hey. I came early, hoping you’d be here,” she says, and there’s a hint of a blush in her cheeks. “I thought maybe we could get dinner?”

Anetra couldn’t have gotten a better opening for things herself. But Sasha is so sincere, so hopeful, that Anetra hesitates before taking it.

“Can I show you something first?” Anetra asks, the words straining her throat.

“What is it?”

“There’s this exclusive poker and blackjack lounge in the basement,” Anetra says, voice hushed. Like it’s some prized secret she’s letting Sasha in on. She hates herself for it. “It’s for top players only, it has all kinds of perks you can’t get in the regular casino. Might even be a chance to size up the competition before the tournament.”

“Can you go too?”

It nearly breaks Anetra’s resolve. Of all the things she expected, she never thought Sasha would be concerned about whether Anetra could come with her. That she’d want Anetra there with her in the first place.

Anetra nods.

“Then let’s go. Just for a bit.”

“Okay.”

Anetra leads Sasha to the nearest elevator, noticing one of the other team members watching from around the corner. Tom wanted to have extra eyes on her, make sure the job is carried out.

Anetra’s chest tightens as she flips up the access panel under the rows of elevator floor buttons. There’s one marked B, and it only works when Anetra presses her carved ring into its imprint.

“Why do you have that ring?” Sasha asks.

Anetra doesn’t answer.

The elevator descends.

“Where are you taking me?” Sasha isn’t a panicker. She’s gone through tense games and kept her cool the entire time. But there’s a hint of suspicion in her voice, and the fingers twirling through her ponytail are growing faster, more frantic. She’s not just some cheating client; she did nothing to deserve this beyond being too good at some stupid game. She’s Sasha, and Anetra knows her. And now that she knows, she’s started to care.

Anetra can’t do this.

Sasha trusts her, and likes her, and cares about her more than anyone has in a long time. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s just the breaking point, the final crack that shatters a glass at long last, and Anetra can’t do this anymore. She can’t keep handing people over to Tom and pretending she doesn’t care. She can’t stay trapped in this job, this life.

Anetra sighs. She’s in too deep now, in a stream with water reaching her head. Tom is waiting for her to throw Sasha at his feet, a lamb to the lion, and he has the entire team watching to make sure she does. There’s no time for an escape plan, and they’re probably guarding the exits. There’s only time to get Sasha somewhere safe, before Tom and his team can get her.

Anetra turns to Sasha, meeting her concerned eyes. “I don’t have time to explain, but you’re in danger.”

“What do you—”

“They’re gonna bring you to the basement. You’ve won too much money, the casino doesn’t—they don’t allow that.” Anetra’s rambling, and she yanks her ring away, instead typing in a code she’s only used once. Anetra only knows about it because another guard told her; the code leads to a secret floor from the casino’s old days, with no surveillance. It was just a small hallway with an old dumbwaiter, dusty and long out of service. It’s just as dusty now, as Anetra leads Sasha to it. It’s smaller than she remembered, but she’s seen Sasha dance, she knows how flexible she is.

“Get in here,” Anetra says, prying the doors open with a creak.

Sasha looks at it warily, but steels herself and climbs in.

“Look, if you wait here, you might be able to get out if you move fast. They’re probably guarding the exits, but they should be distracted soon.” Distracted beating the shit out of me, she thinks but doesn’t say.

But Sasha shakes her head. “I don’t know this place like you. I have no idea how to get out if the exits are blocked.” Her jaw tightens. “And I’m not leaving you. You’re gonna need a way out too.”

“But–”

“I’ll get us a ride,” Sasha says. She takes Anetra’s hand. “Do you trust me?”

Anetra hesitates. It’s been a long time since she’s trusted anyone. But she could do worse than Sasha, and there’s not really a choice now. She nods.

“Okay, I’ll get us a ride, and you…do whatever you need to do and come back, okay?”

It sounds good, but the truth is, Anetra doesn’t know what she needs to do. Bringing Sasha here was only the barest hint of a plan, a split-second plan that’s about to crash and burn even faster. Does Anetra hide with her and wait things out? But at least one of the security team knows about this floor, and Tom won’t rest until they’re both—because Anetra is surely a target now too—in his hands. He’ll have every exit guarded, every door watched for when they’re forced to show themselves. She can take down maybe half the security team, one-on-one, if she were to fight their way out. But if Tom sends the whole team at once, she won’t be able to.

Or she goes to the basement herself. Maybe she confesses to getting too close to Sasha, in the hopes Tom will take mercy on her for turning herself in. No, he probably won’t do that. But maybe if she turns herself in, he’ll let Sasha go. Anetra’s no stranger to pain, she’ll get through whatever beating he gives her. She won’t ever be able to come back, but at least she would be alive.

If he leaves her alive.

“Hey.” There’s a warm touch on the back of her hand, a thumb rubbing gentle circles. It calms the thoughts racing through Anetra’s head, and she takes her first breath in what seems like hours. “If this is the best plan we have, we’ll do this, okay? I’ll wait for you to come back.”

Anetra nods shakily. “On the seventh floor, behind the aquarium, there’s a staircase that leads to a private maintenance entrance. If I’m not back by midnight, you should be able to pick the lock and get out.”

“Okay,” Sasha says. She’s an expert at bluffing when it comes to poker; it’s rare, and usually pure luck, that someone catches her in it. But Anetra can’t shake the feeling that she’s bluffing here, that she’s secretly working on something else.

But Anetra can’t do anything about that now. She shakes the thought away, runs back to the elevator, and heads to the seventh floor. She wants to draw the guards away from there, so Sasha can get out later. The door opens, and two members of the team stare at her. Tom knew, then. He knew she was wavering. He probably has someone at every elevator.

“It’ll be better if you cooperate,” the first one tells her, almost sympathetic. They both know what’s about to happen.

It’s two against one, if she wants to take them on. And she’s tempted; she really is. But the odds are against her, and even if she does succeed, it’ll take a while. By that time, Tom will have gotten suspicious at what’s taken so long and send more people to get her, and she’ll have wasted a lot of energy. No, it’s better to go with them, and save her energy and strength for Tom.

She lets them lead her into the elevator. The number at the top grows lower and lower, counting down to her doom, her heart dropping with each floor. It finally opens into the basement, the mouth of the beast, and one of them shoves her into Tom’s private area.

The stone floor is cold and unforgiving, and she shivers when dress shoes click against it.

“Leave us,” Tom tells them, and it’s a bad sign. He wants to destroy her and he wants to do it privately, personally.

He doesn’t use guns—too noisy, too messy. But it’s not much of a mercy when she looks up to see a ring hanging from each finger.

He hauls her up by the shoulder, and being on this end of things makes her realize just how big he is. He completely blocks her view of anything beyond his massive shoulders. It’s like standing in front of a dragon, and her heart is pounding.

“I had one rule for you. And you broke it.”

“Let Sasha go and you can have me.”

“I already have you,” he says, and Anetra realizes how pointless the offer was. The most important rule of bargaining is to offer the person something they want and don’t have. She’s already in his hands.

His first punch comes in a blink, her head flying back. One of his rings slices above her left eye, cutting down to her eyebrow in a lightning-strike of pain. Blood pours from it, blurring her vision with red streaks.

She slams into the floor like a ragdoll, gasping for air. Before she can even get one breath in, something crashes into her ribs. She knows it’s a tire iron—it’s been used on others before. She draws her knees to her chest on instinct, searching through the pain for Tom’s weaknesses. He’ll use weapons, but he’s a fists-only guy, old school. And no one ever fights back.

The tire iron clatters to the ground, and she glimpses him adjusting his rings for another punch. This is her only chance, and she bites out a curse as she forces herself up. While he’s fiddling with a ring, she throws her first punch. She realizes, almost in slow-motion, that her own ring is missing. The thought flies away when her fist connects with Tom’s jaw.

It doesn’t draw blood, but it sends him staggering. His growl makes her shudder, and then Anetra’s world is just punch after punch, the noise of each hit lost to a cloud of blood and adrenaline. She jumps and kicks, catching Tom off-guard, taking advantage of the skills he hired her for.

Blood and sweat pour off her, stinging in her eyes and staining her face so much she barely notices the room tilting when he throws her onto her back. She pants, each breath bitter and coppery, thick like it’s passing through mud. His foot settles over her chest, nudging the ribs she hopes aren’t broken.

“You were good at your job,” he says, pressing a little harder, and she holds in a whimper. “But I think you might have been too good. You know too many things.”

He kicks her side. Her world erupts into white-hot pain, and if this is it, at least she put up a fight first.

Except there’s a smacking sound from somewhere, then a groan Anetra didn’t make. The weight is suddenly gone off her chest, followed by a distant thud.

Anetra shifts her head with a wince. Hovering over Tom, holding the tire iron, is Sasha.

Anetra blinks twice, wondering if she’s hallucinating. If the blood is messing with her vision that much.

But no, it’s Sasha, dropping the iron and helping Anetra to her feet. Resting one hand on her hip and the other on her arm, her touch so careful, so gentle, and yet the only thing keeping Anetra upright.

How did she even get here, how—Anetra’s missing ring. Sasha must have taken it when she grabbed Anetra’s hand, and bet it would lead her back to Anetra. A risky bet, but a calculated one. Sasha’s favorite kind.

“Oh my god, did I kill him? I didn’t kill him, did I?”

Anetra makes out his chest rising.

“Are you okay?” Sasha asks, breaking through Anetra’s fog. “Shit, you’re bleeding everywhere.”

“Sasha?” It’s slurred from the blood in her mouth, but it’s all she can ask, all she can focus on. Sasha came for her. Sasha is holding her even though she’s bleeding everywhere.

Sasha mumbles a fuck under her breath, but quickly regains her composure, cool and calm. “Okay, let’s get out of here. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I—I can’t really see out of my left eye,” Anetra says, too weak to be embarrassed about the crack in her voice. She hopes the blurriness is just from the blood and swelling, not something wrong. Sasha grabs her hand before she can even ask for help.

“It’s okay. You tell me where to go, and I’ll get us out.” Her voice is calm, guiding Anetra to take her first wobbly step.

“This back area is his,” Anetra says, blood dribbling down her lips. “Keep going until you see a black door.”

“Got it.”

Sasha gently leads her by the hand. The vision in Anetra’s left eye is blurry, like when she’d open her eyes underwater as a kid, and she stumbles even with Sasha’s guidance. She wipes the blood, but it makes things worse; it smears it across her face, gets even more into her eye. It doesn’t matter anyway, because the flow doesn’t stop. She just lets that eye slide shut, because having no vision is only slightly worse than the blood-tinged blur.

Sasha’s grip is still there, steady and slick with the blood Anetra’s getting all over her hand. But she doesn’t let go. She doesn’t let go, and it’s almost a relief. To have her hand in someone else’s, let them lead the way.

“We’re at the door,” Sasha says.

They’re in one of the employee entrance halls now. “Turn left. Go to…the brown door. Then another brown door. Then we’re in the alley.”

Her feet drag as Sasha leads her, her head drooping. A door creaks open, and the burst of cool night air, tinged with garbage from the alley, wakes Anetra up a little, though her head is still too heavy to lift.

“I’ll have my friend meet us here,” Sasha says. She shifts subtly, and it’s not until standing becomes easier that Anetra realizes Sasha adjusted her position to take on more of her weight. Anetra’s leaning on her almost fully now, her blood dripping onto Sasha’s dress like rose petals.

“Sorry…your dress,” Anetra mumbles.

“I have a whole bottle of stain remover at home,” Sasha says, and Anetra gets in one laugh before the pain stops her.

A silver car pulls up the mouth of the alley, literal light at the end of the tunnel. She doesn’t know what’ll happen next, can’t think with the ringing in her head, but they’re safe for now.

Sasha helps her into the backseat, and instead of taking the passenger seat, slides in beside her. Anetra can’t hold in her sigh of relief.

Sasha produces a towel from somewhere, but Anetra would need more than that—and more hands—to put pressure on all the places she’s bleeding from. The one above her eye is heaviest, and she presses the towel there with a wince.

She collapses against the seat, and things blur after that, a different fragment each time her eyes open. The neon lights fading into the distance. An arm around her waist helping her out of the car. A light shining into her eyes, making her hiss. The sweet smell of Sasha’s perfume, even more intoxicating when it’s not masked by smoke and liquor in the casino. And then Sasha’s voice, soft and gentle, telling her that she can sleep if she wants.

Anetra listens.

—-

Anetra wakes slowly, cautiously blinking until she realizes she can see out of both eyes. Her left one burns a little, but she can see. The ceiling above her is white, with a shadow from the sun. It’s daytime, then—though she doesn’t know which day. The bed she’s in is warm and soft, a cloud underneath her.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Anetra turns to her side, and there’s Sasha, ginger hair aflame in the sun. She’s in leggings and a sweatshirt, soft yet still stunning.

“Wh–where am I?” Anetra asks, wincing at her scratchy throat.

“My spare bedroom.”

“I’m in your house?” Anetra’s face burns, and she wants to hide under the blanket, unsure what to do now that she’s in Sasha’s house.

“I didn’t think a hospital was safe,” Sasha says, and she’s probably right. “It’s Friday morning, by the way.”

Anetra nods.

“Take these.” Sasha hands her two painkillers and a glass of water. Anetra winces as she sits up, gratefully swallowing the pills and finally taking stock of her injuries. She feels like a truck hit her, which is better than she expected to feel, honestly. There’s a bandage around her right hand, covering knuckles that are surely bruised and swollen. Her ribs and back ache, and her face stings with bruises and cuts from Tom’s rings. She raises a tentative hand to her eyebrow, and meets a square of gauze.

“That one needed stitches,” Sasha says, apologetic. “The friend who picked us up—Loosey—is a nurse. She brought supplies with her. I had her do the stitches because I didn’t know how and was afraid I’d make it worse. I did the rest myself.”

“You did this?” Anetra gestures to the bandages.

Sasha nods. “Loosey didn’t think you had a concussion, but I’m supposed to watch for it just in case. You’re pretty bruised up, but nothing’s broken.”

Sasha did this. Sasha cleaned her up, bandaged her, changed her into the T-shirt and sweatpants she’s wearing. Even though her friend could have done it, she did some herself, with her own hands. It’s been a while since Anetra was around hands that aren’t dangerous. Hands that weren’t ready to hurt her. Like Anetra almost hurt Sasha.

She almost hurt Sasha, and a wave of guilt overpowers any lingering pain. Sasha rescued her and took care of her, even after Anetra almost turned her in. “You didn’t have to do this, I didn’t mean to trouble you, I…” I lied to you. I almost betrayed you. I almost got you hurt.

“Anetra,” Sasha says, quiet and firm at the same time, “I wanted to take care of you. I don’t know what happened back there, but I’m pretty sure you saved my life. So thank you,” she says, with more sincerity than Anetra can take, or deserve.

“But I…” Anetra doesn’t know how to say it, or where to begin.

Sasha rescues her. “I’m assuming that office job you told me about doesn’t exist.” She doesn’t sound mad. It must take a lot to make her mad, like in the basement. You can’t play a game like poker without having almost inhuman patience.

“No,” Anetra says quietly. “It doesn’t.”

“Whatever it is, you can trust me. I promise.”

Somehow, Anetra believes her. She starts at the beginning, the words big and strange, because she’s never told anyone. How she’d been scared and alone and desperate for the first job that would take her. How Tom hired her, got her out of the shady motel she’d been staying in and into an apartment that day. How she thought she’d be a bouncer at one of the clubs, or breaking up drunken fights. How she was thrust into the basement and instructed to do anything he told her, with the understanding that if she didn’t, she’d lose the job, her apartment, and probably her life. If she had anyone she cared about, she would have lost them too.

“I don’t know how to get out. I…I don’t think he’d let me leave,” Anetra finishes, head clear like poison has come out of her system. “But I’m really sorry I lied to you.”

Sasha is quiet, and the longer the silence grows, the more Anetra worries it’s too late, that the lies were too big. “I understand why you did it. That’s a shitty situation.” Sasha bites her lip. “I’m sorry too. I knew the risks of playing high stakes like that, maybe I should’ve stopped.”

“No,” Anetra says with the most strength she can manage. “This isn’t your fault, okay? Don’t apologize for being amazing.”

“Amazing, huh?” Sasha asks, smiling shyly.

Anetra blushes. “Well, yeah. You’re probably the best I’ve ever seen.” She pauses, wondering if she should ask. “I gotta ask though, do you cheat? At either game?”

“What do you think?” There’s a slight challenge in her question.

Anetra thinks. She’s seen every cheating method imaginable—palming cards and chips, counting cards, wearing a wire to communicate with a partner—and Sasha never showed a hint of any. Sasha’s good, but never mean or braggy. Good enough to stand on her own. “No. At blackjack, I think you’re lucky, and you know when to walk away. At poker, I think you’re good at reading people.”

Sasha leans back in her chair with a satisfied smile.

Anetra rests against the pillows and smiles too. It’s so peaceful here, so soft in this bed with Sasha at her side. They could just stay here all day, ignoring the world of trouble clawing at the door. A world Anetra has done her best to ignore until now. “What are we gonna do?” she asks.

“Well, you are gonna stay in this bed.”

“I mean—”

“I know,” Sasha says gently. “I’ve been trying to come up with ideas. He obviously knows where you live, so we can’t go there. We can stay here, but from what you’ve told me, he’ll find us eventually. He’ll probably find us if we run. Police won’t help, and I hate dealing with them.”

“Tom has most of the police in his pocket.” It hits Anetra again how much danger she’s put Sasha in, in the casino and now in her own home. Even if she ran to California, she’d constantly be looking over her shoulder, waiting for Tom to get her. “I’m sorry I got you involved in this.”

“We’re done with apologies,” Sasha says, not unkindly. “You didn’t cause this. He was after me anyway. We’re in this together, okay?”

“Okay.”

Things slip into silence, crumbling under the weight and danger in the room.

“This Tom,” Sasha says thoughtfully, “would he take a deal?”

“What kind of deal?” Anetra asks in confusion.

Sasha’s face morphs into the careful one Anetra recognizes from the casino. One where she’s thinking, weighing each option. Hit or stay, fold or play. “Let’s say we could get him a big-time gambler. One who’s taken lots of money. Would he take that person, in exchange for letting us go?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know who—”

“I can get him Ace.”

It takes Anetra a few seconds to process. Ace is an old gambler who’s notorious for counting cards and cheating casinos. He funds his winnings into organized crime rings and began running his own casino last year. He’s Tom’s nemesis, the man who won a million dollars in one night at the blackjack tournament. Tom’s been chasing him for six years.

“How do you…how…can you really get him Ace?” Anetra asks, her ribs aching with the breathless shock.

“He and I have…history,” Sasha sighs. “I was runner-up to him in a bunch of tournaments when I was starting out. In the last game we played, I beat him, and he’s wanted revenge since. If he hears I’m in the tournament, he’ll enter. He can’t resist the chance to beat me.”

Anetra considers it. Tom has spent six years chasing Ace. He might be the only person Tom hates more than Anetra and Sasha right now. Bringing him down would give Tom power over him, and make the Golden even more powerful.

For all its rules and varieties, poker really comes down to one thing: having a better hand than your opponent.

Sasha just might have given them a winning hand.

—-

The next hour is spent solidifying the plan.

Anetra will call Tom and tell him about the offer. If he takes it, Anetra and Sasha are guaranteed safe entry into the Golden Saturday night. Sasha will play in the tournament alongside Ace, who’ll be drawn in after it gets out to him that Sasha is playing. Tom will take him during the tournament, in exchange for leaving Anetra and Sasha alone for good.

It’s not as detailed as it should be, and it all hinges on Tom saying yes. If he doesn’t take the deal, they don’t have another option, and Anetra tries not to think about it.

She dials the phone, and Sasha takes her free hand while it rings. He has to answer, because if he doesn’t this is all for nothing, and—

He picks up, and Anetra takes a breath. “I want to make you a deal,” she says before he can speak, like she’s in some crime movie.

“And I want your blood all over my floor,” Tom growls. “When I find you—”

The most important rule of bargaining: to offer the person something they want and don’t have.

“The deal involves Ace.”

There’s a pause, one where Anetra’s heartbeat pounds in her ears. She squeezes Sasha’s hand, holding to her like an anchor.

“You have one minute to convince me.”

That’s all Anetra needs.

[mychemicalficrecs]

Do you have any fic where gerar/frank get back together as in dating? It can be AUs or based on real life

This took surprisingly long for how few fics I actually ended up putting on this list 🙈 They're not necessarily explicitly getting back together in all of these, but there's an at least hopeful ending guaranteed.

Frank/Gerard Making Up/Getting Back Together

Rock and Roll Never Looked so Beautiful by cedarbranch, 58k, Explicit. Gerard Way is a rising solo artist, set to become the next big thing in the alternative scene. Frank Iero is a trashy punk with a reputation of his own as the frontman of Pencey Prep. When their paths cross, a love story is born, only to come crashing down when Gerard hits it big. As Gerard ascends to the A-list, Frank adjusts to life on his own. He almost manages it - until two years later, when fate puts him face to face with Gerard once more. Everything has changed, but the connection between them is still there. Their story has ended once before, but if they're lucky, they just might make a new one.

the road not taken by metaleaterz, 22k, Mature. following a breakup, gerard goes home for the holidays for the first time in years to spend time with his brother's family. over the holiday weekend, he has to face the reality that a relationship that ended ten years ago still has a chokehold on him, and that maybe there's a reason why he can't completely let go of what could have been.

Slow Burn by orphan_account, 4k, Explicit. Frank was adamant that there would never be an official last time.

The Time We Have is Really Not So Bad by BasementVampire, 4k, Explicit. 2018. Five years after the breakup. Frank is visiting in California and pining after the man who used to be his lover. Gerard is desperate to have him back, as well. But with marriages and children to deal with, getting back together may be easier said than done. Is their love worth the heartache? Or is it better to just let a good thing be?

For Every Failing Sun There's A... by anariel_m, 4k, General. ‘It’s not,’ says Frank after what feels like ages and Gerard frowns at that, as if he already forgot what he’d finished with. ‘It’s not too late.’ They have a talk in Leeds in 2017.

how close is close enough? by acorpseinthisbed, 4k, Mature. Frank has been in love with Gerard for three years, four months, and 27 days. They've been broken up for about a year and two months of that time.

24 Frames Per Second - How (not) to be Friends by Leandra, 25k, Explicit. It's 1993 and Gerard runs into Frank at the movie theater – where else? - after Frank returns from his 4-year stint in Seattle. While everybody around Gerard turns out to be a traitor siding with the enemy, Gerard himself wants nothing more desperately than Frank back...

Honey, this bed is big enough for the two of us by 3cheers4sweet_romance, 11k, Teen And Up. It's the day before Mikey's wedding and the Way house is full with friends and family. It's been two years since Gerard and Frank broke up and they haven't spent any time together since that until this day, when they have to share a bed.

They by anariel_m, 6k, Mature. ‘Hey, you coming?’ Gerard looks slightly worried but mainly curious, standing not so far and being really fucking gorgeous. Even after a night in the van – that’s just not fair, Frank thinks. He beams at Gerard. ‘Yeah.’ And then he comes.

[lost-in-the-80s]

Merry Christmas

Pairing: Izzy Stradlin x (fem) reader

Words: 2,373k

Requested by: anon

Summary: It's your first Christmas with Izzy and he gives you the best gift ever. (smut + fluff)

A/N: I didn’t have intentions of doing the requests this year, but I had to do this one. I hope you guys like it! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! :)

Warnings: Mature content, swearing, some kinky stuff (handcuffs) and unprotected sex (use a condom, guys).

Tag list: @roger-taylors-car @ladieswttda​ @teasid @metalheartofgold @slashscowboyboots @ginny-rose-sixx @rumoured-whispers​ @metalupyourash​ add yourself to my tag list :)

It was the Christmas of 1986, even though there was no snow, the Christmas atmosphere had taken over Los Angeles.

Streets and shops had been decorated with countless lights and themed decorations. The houses had their Christmas trees, full of colored balls, among other ornaments.

Your apartment had not been left out of the Christmas spirit. You and your brother, Joey, had spent the month decorating every detail. The entrance carpet had been replaced by one with a reindeer-drawn, with the phrase "Merry Christmas" in red. In the living room, a huge Christmas tree was prepared, filled with red and white balls, your favorite colors, before being filled by countless bright lights.

You and Joey lived away from your family, so you almost always ended up spending Christmas just the two of you. It was simple, but it was almost a tradition, after all, you lived there for several years already.

But this year was different, Joey had been invited to spend Christmas in Northern California, at the home of his boyfriend's parents. He was afraid to leave you alone, but you assured him that Izzy, your boyfriend, would spend the night with you.

Izzy was never a Christmas guy, he found the celebration meaningless and celebrated only for the profits of the trade. Since moving to Los Angeles, he had never celebrated Christmas.

But he knew that you loved the date, you had talked about your plans for Christmas since the beginning of November and he already kind of expected you to invite him.

You were together for just over six months, you had met at the guitar store where you work and ended up dating right afterward.

When you mentioned that your brother would not be present and that you wanted him to come and have supper with you, he said he needed to think.

Izzy wanted to tell you that he saw no need to spend Christmas together and that he was just going to stay home with the boys. Or some of the boys, since Duff would return to Seattle and Slash would spend it with his mother.

It would just be him, Axl and Steven, drinking and using heroin while a tower of beer bottles made by Duff, graced the house in the absence of a Christmas tree.

But you were important to him, and Christmas was important to you. So he decided to put aside his dislike for the date and make an effort for you.

That same night he called you, saying he agreed with one condition: No expensive gifts. You quickly agreed, you were never one of the materialistic types, and to be honest, spending the date with Izzy was worth more than any gift he could buy you.

Izzy arrived at your apartment in the middle of the afternoon on the 24th, bringing a bottle of wine for dinner and placing his gifts under the Christmas tree.

You spent the rest of the afternoon watching Christmas movies, your favorite ones. Movies that you had seen hundreds of times and knew all the lines by heart.

You could see that Izzy was bored, but he never complained, mostly because he loved to see you laughing with those silly films, or the way you said "this is my favorite part" before some cliché scene goes on TV.

 When night came, you went to the kitchen, preparing pork with potatoes and rosemary and putting it in the oven for supper.

You positioned yourself in front of the sink, starting to wash the pieces that had been used during the day when Izzy hugged you from behind. His hands circled your body as he spoke next to your ear:

"I'll take care of the dishes. Why don't you take a shower?" He kissed your neck. "I know you want to change for supper."

He knew you so well, he knew you would wear something fancier, even if it was just the two of you, having dinner at home.

Following his advice, you went to the bathroom, staying in the bathtub for long minutes, feeling the warmth of the water against your skin as you murmured a song.

When the water cooled, you got up, wrapping the towel around your body and looking for what to wear in your closet. Your red strapless dress was the winner, choosing red lace panties to match, you got dressed quickly, before getting your hair done and putting on perfume.

Entering the kitchen, you could smell the pork, Izzy had already set the table and was waiting for you.

"You look beautiful." He kissed your cheek, guiding you to the table.

"Thank you, Iz."

The two of you ate calmly while you told him countless Christmas stories you had with your brother and from the time when you still spent Christmas with your family.

When you finished eating, you went to the living room, Izzy sat on the couch while you took his gift from under the tree.

"Open it." You said smiling.

Izzy took the package from your hand, opening it slowly, smiling when he saw it was a book.

"I know you wanted to read this one." You smiled.

"Thank you, sweetheart. I love it." He kissed your lips lightly, before getting up to pick up your gifts.

"I couldn't make up my mind so I bought two." He laughed lightly, as he sat beside you with two small boxes in his hand.

"Open this one first." He handed you a blue box with a white ribbon.

Gently opening the box, you smiled when you saw a gold necklace with your initial letter inside.

"Izzy, it's beautiful! I loved it!" You kissed his lips, but he pulled away before you could deepen the kiss.

"Don't forget that you have one more." He smiled, handing a red box, slightly larger than the previous one.

Smiling excitedly, you undid the golden bow and opened the box, your mouth parting when you saw what was inside.

Inside the box was a pair of handcuffs with a key.

"Izzy…" you looked at him and saw his smile become a smirk.

"I thought we could have some fun ... what do you think?"

"I…." You didn't know what to say, you had never used handcuffs before, and even though you and Izzy had had sex several times, you had never used anything like that.

"What do you say, Y/N? Would you let me handcuff you?" His voice was hoarse, as he ran his fingers down your face, running his thumb slowly over your lips.

Thinking for a few seconds you concluded that the idea seemed interesting.

So you nodded before saying. "Yes."

Getting up, Izzy offered his hand to help you do the same, he walked slowly, guiding you to your room before stopping for a second and looking you in the eye.

"If you don't feel comfortable anymore, say stop and I will stop and uncuff you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Izzy." His seriousness made your core start to get wet. You loved how serious he was when you did that.

He kissed you passionately, his hands held your face while you found the strands of his hair.

Walking away after a few minutes, Izzy instructed you to stay where you were as he walked around you.

Standing with your back to him, you felt his breath against your skin and you bit your lower lip in anticipation. He pulled your hair aside and slowly unzipped your dress, letting the garment fall to the floor.

Izzy kissed some spots on your back, before whispering in your ear. "Get on the bed, love."

Obeying, you walked slowly over to the bed, lying on your back while keeping your eyes fixed on his.

He climbed onto the bed, placing one knee on either side of your body, he gently grabbed your wrists, hooking the cuff on one and passing the chain through the headboard before securing the other.

Izzy slowly undid the buttons on his shirt, keeping his gaze fixed on you and smirking when he realized that your gaze was fixed on his abdomen.

"Do you like what you see, Y/N?"

You nodded, smiling when he leaned over to steal a kiss from you.

One hand held your face while the other traveled your body, feeling every inch of your skin. He lightly squeezed one of your nipples, making you let out a small moan, muffled by the kiss, which guaranteed the space he needed for his tongue to invade your mouth and start an aggressive dance against yours.

Izzy pulled away from your lips, kissing the full length of your chest until he reached the bottom of your panties. Kissing your core over the lace fabric. You tried to move your hands, but the handcuffs held you in place, making Izzy smile victoriously.

"In a hurry, Y/N?" He laughed lightly, running his cold fingers down the length of your leg, making a shiver take a hold of your body.

He slowly removed the piece from you, throwing it on the floor to keep your dress company.

Holding one of her legs, Izzy kissed the top of your foot, then your ankles, until he started to apply kisses on the inside of your thigh, making you try to move your hands again.

Licking your folds slowly, he found your clit, making alternating movements over it. His tongue was fast and precise, he certainly didn't want you to wait for his member to cum.

"Izzy." You whispered his name.

He then inserted a finger inside you, making a moan leave your lips.

"You’re a big girl already, I think you can take two." Izzy said smiling, before turning his lips to already clit and penetrating you with one more finger.

His fingers crossed inside you, hitting your G spot in just a few seconds, making a loud moan leave your lips as your back arched.

After a few minutes you were already a mess, your wrists started to hurt with the countless times you had tried to loosen up to tug at his hair, but the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure you were having. 

Izzy kept his head trapped against your core, making it his mission to see you cum like this, and if he continued like this, he would be able to complete his task quickly, as your moans were becoming disconnected and your legs retracted against him every few seconds.

And then you came, with one of Izzy's hands clasping your breast and the other partly inside of you, while his tongue acted deftly with circular movements on your clit.

"Oh my god!" You exclaimed loudly enough to fill the room and the corridor, your back arched and your eyes rolled as your legs pressed against him strongly.

"It's actually Izzy, but you can call me God too." He laughed, removing his head from between your legs and slowly removing his fingers from you, seeing your liquids drip slightly.

He brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them slowly. "Better than dessert." He whispered, kissing your lips once more, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

Getting up, Izzy quickly removed his pants and underwear, stroking his member a few times before getting on the bed and stopping between your legs.

“Now tell me, Y/N. Have you been a good girl?”

You nodded quickly.

"Very well, I believe you." He adjusted his member with your entrance, slowly penetrating you.

The present sensitivity thanks to your orgasm, making a small moan leave your lips.

Izzy started moving, in and out of you, keeping his eyes fixed on yours, while creating a slow, passionate rhythm. He leaned over, kissing your lips once more, as his hands traveled through your curves.

"Izzy." You whispered, closing your eyes, making a moan leave his lips.

"Ah, fuck."

Speeding up his movements, Izzy hit your so-called G-spot, again that night, his fingers tightened firmly on your waist, keeping your body still as he moved faster and faster into you.

"Ah, Izzy." Your moans were so loud that you were almost sure your next-door neighbor could hear them.

His thrusts were slowing down as sweat washed over his forehead and much of his body.

Lying in bed, you were experiencing a completely new sensation, seeing Izzy giving you so much pleasure and not being able to touch him, no matter how torturous it was, that turned you on even more.

Your hands gripped the headboard bars tightly while your head fell back with a loud moan.

Your walls were tightening, Izzy could tell, he was almost there too, you knew that because of the focused look on his face, which he always acquired when he was about to come and wanted to make sure that you did too.

"You are so fucking beautiful!" He groaned, moving his lips to your neck, kissing and biting your skin.

"Izzy... I'm going to…." You were unable to finish the sentence when a moan came out of your throat.

"I know, baby …. me too." He managed to speak between breaths.

A few seconds later your legs started to shake and your walls tightened even more, his name left your mouth over and over as you closed your eyes feeling the pleasure consuming you.

Seeing you in that state, released Izzy to his own climax, growling hoarsely as jets of his cum entered you, mixing themselves with your liquids.

"Holy shit." He collapsed on top of you, trying to catch his breath.

After a few seconds, he stood up, slowly removing his member from you while admiring the mess he had made.

"You know, I think I'm starting to like Christmas." He laughed before cleaning the two of you and putting on his underwear.

Getting on the bed again, he released one wrist at a time, kissing the place gently. "Are you alright?" He asked, putting a stir of your hair behind your ear.

"Yes." You managed to say it in a weak voice. You were tired.

"Come here." Lying on the bed, Izzy pulled you to lie on his chest, covering you both with a blanket and kissing your head lightly, stroking your hair until you fell asleep.

[ukeishin]

uncertain.

change is bound to occur.

hanamaki takahiro x gn!reader.

brief mention of intoxication, not quite fluff, but not angst either.

the overwhelming warmth of bodies squeezed into every nook and cranny of matsukawa’s house is too much for you to bear for much longer. the final straw is when one of your intoxicated acquaintances bumps into you, causing you to stumble, without apologizing. as you maneuver around your classmates, you sigh in relief when you finally manage to make it outside. the sharp chill of the wind is a welcome reprieve. you lower yourself down onto the stone steps of matsukawa’s door stoop and take a deep breath.

the tightness in your frame slowly unravels as the cool air of the night seeps into your skin and replaces the uncomfortable heat from being around too many people at once.

“thought i’d find you out here.”

you don’t startle upon hearing the voice. the sound of the door behind you opening and closing was enough to warn you that you were to be expecting company soon.

“too many people and not enough space.”

you offer as an explanation for why you weren’t inside the house where the party was happening. the explanation is unnecessary, though. the person taking a seat beside you is already familiar with the fact that crowds make you nervous.

you murmur your thanks when hanamaki drops his jacket onto your shoulders, prompting you to slip your arms through its sleeves. his shoulder knocks into yours when he takes a seat on the step beside you.

the muffled noises of the party seeps through the cracks of the closed door. after a while of sitting in comfortable silence, you lean your head to rest against hanamaki’s shoulder. he wraps a lazy arm around your frame and pulls you closer into his side.

“takahiro?”

you tear your eyes away from the stars to look up at hanamaki. his gaze remains on the night sky as he hums in acknowledgment.

“you think we’ll be alright?”

hanamaki turns his head to face you at the sound of apprehension in your voice.

things are going to be different now.

you guys have just graduated, hence the party thrown by matsukawa, and you all are going to be heading down new paths. iwaizumi’s flying off to california and oikawa’s going professional for volleyball, while matsukawa, hanamaki, and you are going to separate universities in japan. you won’t be seeing hanamaki everyday and a part of you is terrified by the drastic change that your life is about to take on.

“no clue.”

hanamaki nonchalantly remarks and shrugs his shoulders. you lift your head up to swat at his arm for his answer. he laughs and the slight tension in the air dissipates with it. he grabs your wrist, preventing you from landing another hit on him, and raises your hand to his lips to place a quick kiss to your skin.

“i have no clue if we’re going to be alright, but we’re alright right now.”

he pulls you closer to him until you’re nearly sitting on top of his lap and wraps his arms around you. you lean back into hanamaki’s chest and look up at the sky with him. the stars are exceptionally bright tonight. they softly twinkle against the dark blanket of the night sky. pretty, you think. (hanamaki thinks the same thing when his eyes flit over you.)

hanamaki’s answer isn’t exactly one that you wanted to hear. you wanted him to assure you that the two of you would always be okay and nothing would change between the two of you. but, that’s silly of you to think. nothing is guaranteed, especially since the two of you will soon be separated by so much distance and attending your respective universities.

things are going to change whether you like it or not. and though you still worry for the future, you snuggle a little more into your boyfriend — content to enjoy this moment with hanamaki where the two of you are alright for now.

tagging my beloved @babyworld

[crystxlclear]

sudden desire

chapter nine: how to run from the mess you’ve made!

part ten of sudden desire

synopsis: marcus meets the parents.

word count: you’re crying. this is long. this is so damn long. this is 12.2k words and you’re crying.

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, mentions of periods, alcohol consumption, strong language, angst, the briefest and barely noticeable references to sexy times

author’s note: i have nothing to say except jesus christ it’s so long (also i got hit with that text block limit, so couldn’t even add a gif???? don’t think anything got deleted but i can’t be sure! hopefully we’re okay!) also not beta’d because it’s so long and i’m lazy

“My parents are in town and they want to meet you.”

She breaks it to him over coffee in the early morning. It’s become practice for him to wake before her - her apartment or his, any day, any time - and have a mug of coffee waiting for her whenever she drags herself from the bed, seemingly too sprightly for 7:30, to greet him. It’s become their ritual, over the weeks, stealing moments over sunrise and coffee. Quiet mornings where caffeine and the quiet hum of the city lull them away from the precipice of dreamy delirium. Coraline hides herself behind the familiar mug like he hasn’t seen every part of her soul stripped bare. 

Judging by the look on Marcus’ face, it would have seemed as if Coraline had just told him one of them was dying. The colour has drained from his cheeks, pale, ghost-white and wide-eyed. He coughs, trying to play off his shock and utter bewilderment, and hide the way his jaw drops a little at the notion. “Erm... what?” His eyebrows raise in that almost playful, questioning way, like, reclining back on the sofa and trying to seem nonchalant about the entire situation, attempting to pull at some of his usually-cool demeanour to cover his worry. 

He knows Coraline can read him far too well to fall for it.

“I said-” There’s a small smirk that curves the corner of her lips. She can’t help it. “-my parents are in town-” Coraline leans forward and places her half-drunk mug of coffee on the cluttered coffee table. “-and they want to meet you.”

“They want to meet me? Why not Loren? You’ve known her longer.”

“They’ve known Loren for years and she dated my brother. You, on the other hand, they’ve never met.” Coraline chuckles and cocks her head to the side. She raises an eyebrow at him when his expression remains dumbfounded; or shocked or bewildered. Whatever it is, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. It’s unusual seeing him like this, without his usual air of confidence and poise. “Besides, you’re my best friend, dumbass.”

“I am?” There’s a swell of pride in his expression, now; it flickers there for a moment, before the uncertainty creeps back in. 

“Of course you are!” She tilts her head. Her hair falls over her shoulder, brushing against her collarbone and the skin of her shoulder where her sleep shirt has slipped down. “You already know that.”

He watches her for a moment. Warm eyes capture her gaze and she can’t tear herself away from him as he searches for something behind her eyes; she’s not sure what he’s looking for, and she’s not sure if she even offers up the answers. “Do they know about-” He motions between the two of them. He can’t find the right words to describe whatever it is between them. He’s not even sure there is a word to describe it. “-the agreement?”

“The baby stuff?” She questions, though she already knows what he means. Sometimes she has to remind herself, out loud, to assure herself that it’s not some kind of strange dream. “No, no. I don’t even know where to start with that.”

“What happens when you do get pregnant?”

“If I get pregnant-” she insists. She’s learnt not to get her hopes up; she’s part of a fickle industry, inevitable disappointment is familiar enough to her, now. “As far as they’re concerned, it was an accident. A very happy, not-entirely-accidental-or-unwelcome accident. That’s all they need to know.”

He exhales sharply and runs his hand over the stubble that covers his jaw. “And if they hate me?”

Coraline has to stifle a laugh against her coffee mug. Her lipstick leaves a half-moon of red against the ceramic. She’s sure she looks ridiculous; half dressed up, makeup done in only half an hour, in the dim morning light of her bedroom, hair still a tangled, pillow-tousled mess and in her pyjamas - or solely Marcus’ shirt and her underwear - from the night before. Still, when she’d entered the kitchen in search of caffeine, he’d looked at her like she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever laid eyes on. Sometimes, he makes her believe that she is. “Are you scared?” She smirks, wiggling her eyebrows. His expression is wavering and it just makes her grin even wider. “Like they could ever hate you.” She thinks that might be the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said. Besides, she’s pretty sure her father would like anyone who made Coraline happy. And, God knows, Marcus makes her the happiest she’s ever been. “You’re pretty damn great, aren’t you?”

He hums out a laugh at her reply. “I try.”

“Look, if they don’t like you- but they will, I guarantee they will- then that’s their loss, and it won’t change my mind about how much I adore you.” She almost cringes at her choice of words; perhaps saying that you adored your best friend - your best friend who you were committed to having a child with, wasn’t the most articulate of choices. Adore was spared for lovers, which they definitely were not. “But, if you really don’t want to meet them, that’s fine. I’m not going to force you. But I just think that- maybe- it would be nice if they knew you before- well, y’know-”

“And you would introduce me as…?”

“Marcus, stop deflecting.” She prods him in the side and his face breaks out into a great beaming smile. “My best friend, hopeful future father of my child, Agent Marcus James Pike.” She clarifies, half-jokingly, with amusement in her voice.

“I’m not sure how well that would go over, Cora.”

She raises her eyebrows quickly then drops them with a resigned sigh. “Best to leave out the baby stuff for now, huh?” 

Her father is her oldest friend. They’ve always been close, a true daddy’s girl since she was two-years-old. He was so damn supportive of her dreams, the one who believed in her all those years ago when it seemed like no one else did. He’s part of the industry; behind the scenes, more into the music that soundtracked her performances than being in front of the camera, and preferring to stick around in not-so-sunny Michigan than move his entire family to California, where the highest demand was. Rather than persuading her against acting, pushing her away from the fickle world that was Hollywood, he wanted her to succeed. He never gave her a leg up or helped, just watched in adoration as she carved her own path.

But this, this was one thing she wasn’t entirely sure he would support. Maybe, if they were lucky, they’d catch him in a good mood. Maybe they’d be able to bring him around to the idea. 

She figured, however, that it was better just to call it all an accident and pretend that a pregnancy wasn’t meant to happen.

“Can you help me with the food? I can’t cook.”

“You can’t cook?” 

Coraline hits him on the arm with the back of her hand, lightly, pouting at him as he chuckles at her half-hearted fake offence. “Shut up, Pike.” Her hand clasps over her heart. “Oh, I’m wounded, I’m wounded.”

He leans forward and drops a quick, fleeting kiss to her cheekbone. His plush lips barely brush gently over the bone yet it still sends coils of searing heat through her chest. A smile blooms across her lips like a flower unfurling its petals. “Sorry, Sunshine.” He grins again as he stands and maneuvers over towards the kitchen. “As much as I would love to watch your attempts at achieving culinary excellence, I’ve got to work all week,” he tells her as he drops his half-empty coffee mug into the sink. He checks the time on his watch - 8:35, just enough time to pull himself together and make it into work - and rolls down his pushed-up sleeves. 

“Take the day off today. Call in sick or something.” She pouts, peeking out over the sofa as he fixes his tie and tugs on his suit jacket. “Help me shop and then prep things and cook and-”

Marcus stops dead as he moves to pull on his suit jacket. “They’re coming today?”

“Did I not mention that?” She squeaks.

“It slipped your mind, Sunshine.”

Coraline sighs and slides back into the thick sofa cushions, letting them swallow her whole. “They’ll be here at six.”

He leans against the wooden kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and smiles at her with that soft smile that inspires so much comfort within her. “I’ll be here at five.”

“You will?” Her face lights up and she practically leaps from the couch. In Marcus’ eyes, she radiates sunshine. “I’m so, so sorry about this, it was all so last minute because my dad’s been ill, and they were meant to go to Daniel’s instead, but he has to work late and-”

“It’s no problem, Cora.”

She pauses, measuring his expression. “That’s a lie, but I appreciate the support and optimism.”

“Well, there has to be one optimist in this relationship.”

Relationship. Only a friendship.

“Thank you, again,” she exhales tightly, watching as he scoops up his briefcase and keys. After the first month, they’d had the foresight to leave their stuff at each other’s houses; there are three of Marcus’ shirts hung at the edge of her closet and a couple of Coraline’s dresses tucked inside his; spare toothbrushes by the bathroom sink, deodorant on the dresser, shampoo by the shower. There’s no need for a mad, early-morning dash across town, now. Just relaxed mornings with coffee that slowly lure them awake. Marcus is dressed and ready to go, looking as handsome as ever as he checks he’s ready, before he steps out for the day.

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, flashing her a dazzling, heartstopping smile. He drops a second fleeting and breathless kiss to her cheekbone before sweeping out of the front door.

Thank God for Marcus Pike.

...

He’s far more relaxed than he’d expected when he steps into Coraline’s apartment. His feet are aching and his back is rigid and tight with the weight of the day’s workload, but the comfort of her apartment is indescribable. The air in D.C. had been uncharacteristically hot; the city was thick with the cloying humidity of late-spring, the kind that sticks your clothes to your skin with an uncomfortable insistency. But Coraline’s apartment is a breath of fresh air; the AC is cranked up to ten and he sinks into comfort the moment he steps over the threshold. Perhaps it’s the low hum of music, whispering and slow and crackling gently as the vinyl spins in it’s customary circles, or the homely smell of the citrus and cotton candles she burns. Or, perhaps, it’s just her and the way she hums along to the crooning melody of Jeff Buckley. He wouldn’t mind returning home to this every day. The sight of her, living her life enraptured in bliss, carefree and happy, for the eyes of everyone else.

He knows this record is her favourite - a mismatch of songs that seem to have no reason to be on the same record, but somehow seem so utterly Coraline that he can’t help but think of her any time one graces the radio - but that she only plays it when she’s anxious. It’s one of her tells. And he wonders how long it’s taken for her to relax, how long it’s been since the tense set of her shoulders had finally relaxed and she’d melted into the mindless swaying of her body.

“Welcome home, honey,” her lilting voice calls over the music, in a mock sultry voice. It’s tipped with a carefree giggle and, though he can’t see his face, he knows she’s struggling to smother a wide smile. “Have a good day at work?” She asks without turning to look at him. She’s paying far more attention to what’s in front of her, meticulously chopping vegetables like doing it wrong would spell the end of the world.

“It was fine. Lot of paperwork.” Marcus shrugs off his suit jacket, rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and meanders through towards the kitchen where Coraline is. “What are we making?”

“Erm- well- chicken, I guess?” She can feel the weight of his amused gaze upon her face. “Don’t look at me like that. I bought chicken, I just don’t know what to make with it.”

“One of these days, I’m going to teach you how to cook. Save you from living on takeout and cold food.”

“At least I eat vegetables. Things could be a lot worse.”

He glances over at her, skeptical, as he takes over, surveying the groceries Coraline has lined up along the countertop. She’d bought stuff blindly at the store; stuff she knew Marcus liked, knew her parents liked, knew her nephews would actually eat, and had somehow ended up with two full bags of groceries, half of which she has no idea how to cook. The other half, she has no clue whether Marcus has any use for. Hindsight was a wonderful thing and she’d wished she’d called him at the office to ask what the hell she needed to buy at the store. It’s useful, she assumed, because at least she’s prepared. But there’s definitely such a thing as being over prepared, and it’s almost embarrassing to see the result of her panic buying.

“Cooking’s pretty easy,” he explains, cherry-picking ingredients from the far-too-neatly and meticulously stacked pile and examining them. “Just try not to burn anything.” 

“Okay, okay, Gordon Ramsay. What are we eating for dinner?”

...

Coraline has no idea what he’s made. She knows what’s in it, but what they make, what they taste like together, she’s hopelessly clueless. She’d helped out as much as she could, chopping vegetables, tucking away the things he didn’t need, but he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s always proclaimed he isn’t a cook - at least, he’s never claimed to be a bad one, or, at least, not as terrible as Coraline seems to be - and they always tend to settle on takeout and quick breakfasts, whenever they’re together, but the way he’d navigated things seems second nature to him. Still, whatever he’s made, it smells good - amazing, in fact - as it cooks slowly in the oven beside them.

Coraline sits atop the counter, legs swinging idly in front of her. She sips at her glass of merlot, restraining herself, wishing she could just down the damn thing and pour another, and another, and another. “Hmm, liquid courage,” she hums as she takes a sip of the crimson liquid. It’s more to herself than to Marcus, though he seems to hear and chuckle to himself, rolling his pushed-up shirt sleeves back down over his wrists and retying his tie that had been neatly folded over the back of a barstool since he came in. 

She feels a little guilty for drinking, though she’d just finished her period, their efforts of trying for a baby seemingly unsuccessful. But the cramps in her stomach are still overwhelming and her eyelids still feel endlessly heavy. Wine seems to be the best - and the only - solution to her situation. Wine and ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. “Want some?” She offers out the half-empty bottle for him when he notices her watching her, settling his tie against the hollow of his throat, neat and proper. 

“I’m good for now.” He refuses, crossing his arms over his chest. His shirt pulls over his back and shoulders when he moves and the curve of his muscles are visible beneath the white cotton of his shirt. “I’d rather be sober when I meet your parents.” 

He’d laughed earlier, laughed at him being so strung up over meeting them. That it wasn’t as if they were getting married, and they were his soon-to-be-in-laws. They weren’t the bearers of brutal bad news or the rulers of Coraline’s life, either. And he knows her well enough that she’s sure she’ll never forget him because her parents don’t like him. And that, if they don’t like him, it isn’t entirely the end of the world. At least, that’s what he’d told her. But it would be the end of the world, to him; she means the world to him, more than she even realises, and they would be the grandparents of their child, after all. They’d be important to them and to Coraline and, if they were anything like Marcus’ parents, they’d love that baby more than the air that they breathed, more than anything else in the world, and more than they ever thought possible. He’s an only child and the bearer of all that love and adoration they had to offer for so long. And he has no doubt that Coraline’s parents feel the same way about her.

“They’ll love you, Marcus,” she insists. Coraline sets her wineglass down beside her on the countertop and leans forward, hands braced either side of her thighs as she glares at him over the rim of her glasses. She wears them whenever she’s stressed; she rubs her eyes a lot - something about fidgeting and idle hands, an unconscious distraction - and contact lenses don’t tend to fare too well when the days drag on and the night arrives. She’s had sore eyes by 6pm far too many times. “You don’t have to worry about it. Just be the same brilliant man you always are and I’m sure you’ll all be best friends in no time.”

He snorts out a breathy laugh through his nose. “Maybe you’ll be bumped down to second place.”

“Hey!” She jabs a finger in his direction playfully and tilts her head, cocking an eyebrow as he smirks at her. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“No one could ever replace you, Sunshine.” His smirk melts into a fond smile, the kind that practically melts her whenever she sees the way his warm eyes revere her, as if she’s a long-thought-lost painting he’s laying eyes on for the first time. She’s quite fond of the way he makes her feel as if she actually means something in the world.

“They better not.” She fakes a pointed glare in his direction. “Good luck getting rid of me now.” She grins, beaming.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he insists, pushing off the counter opposite her to check the time on the oven. He settles back against the counter again, beside her this time. An embarrassing groan almost slips from her lips, involuntarily and likely painfully loud, when she smells his cologne. It blooms out in front of him when he moves, that gentle and familiar scent that she could recognise a mile away. It’s warm spice mixes with the soft scent of his shampoo and Coraline feels the last trickles of anxiety bleed from her as she takes it in. It relieves the terrible tension that holds stoic and unwavering in her shoulders.

“Used to play this song with my band.” He snaps her from her reverie with another revelation, the warmth of his voice only serving to help the winding down of the tension within her. At least with him here, things feel fine again. She’s sure that things will be fine. But she isn’t entirely sure her parents liked Scott too much - not right for her, too unenthusiastic and seemingly full of himself - but Marcus? Marcus is the opposite. There’s no reason why they won’t like him; he’s sweet and kind and considerate and wonderful, cares about her and everything that she does, cares about her happiness and sits to listen without complaint to all her problems and fears. He asks her how her day has been, unprompted. Her dad has only ever wanted that for her, even if this was only in the form of a friend, not in a lover.

“You did?” She raises an eyebrow. Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears plays quietly over the speakers. She doesn’t know what kind of music she’d expected Marcus to make in college, but somehow this isn’t it. When he’d told her about the short-lived tongue piercing and his self-proclaimed ‘punk’ phase, she’d pictured the Sex Pistols and the Ramones, not this soft pop rock that soundtracked her teenage years. It’s a sight she longs to see. now; she can’t imagine anything but sweet, gentlemanly Marcus and his suits, when the edgiest she’d seen him dress being a leather jacket and jeans on his days off.

Marcus has never been one to shy away from that part of his life - he jokes about it all more than she does, the edgy phase of college rebellion, those first years away from home - but she’s yet to see photographic evidence of such escapades. Every time she asks, pleads, eve, batting her eyelashes and smiling as sweetly as she can muster, his cheeks flush and he ducks his head, and brushes off her request with a joke or a second, more appealing suggestion. He has no reason to be embarrassed, though; he’s seen the worst of her, even her ‘goth’ phase in high school, which was really nothing more than her wearing black lipstick everyday for a couple of months. There’s a playful glint in her eyes as she reminds him of the lack of proof. “I’m still waiting on those videos, y’know.”

“I have to prepare before I show you them.”

“Oh, please. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You’ve seen that old horror movie I was in,” she reminds him. The horror movie in question, which ended in her soaked in blood and limping around with an axe trailing behind her, was not the cinematic masterpiece the director hoped it would be. It’s a shame, really, because Coraline watches far too many horror films in her spare time, even the cheesy ones that it’s fun to poke fun at. She’d at least like to be in a good one.

She reaches down to pour herself a second, probably unwise and ill-thought-out glass of wine. Some nights, it only takes a couple of glasses before she’s tipsy and talking shit she can’t seem to control. Marcus sideeyes her, cocking an eyebrow in silent question, but he doesn’t seem to stop her. He doesn’t blame her, and he’ll steal away the wine the second he notices the tell-tale blush of intoxication that blooms across her cheeks.

“I’m not worried about being embarrassed,” he remarks, “I’m worried about you having your mind blown. Have to think of a way to lessen the blow.”

“Oh, is that so?” She chuckles, tipping her head back against the kitchen cupboard behind her head. “Well, I look forward to having my mind blown.” Her face lights up in realisation; her head snaps towards Marcus and she grins. “Can you still play?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He hums. “

“I’m not worried about being embarrassed. I’m worried about you having your mind blown. Have to think of a way to lessen the blow.”

“Is that so?” She chuckles, tipping her head back against the kitchen cupboard behind her head. “Well, I look forward to it.” Her face lights up in realisation; her head snaps towards Marcus and she grins. “Can you still play?”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He hums. 

There’s a moment of pleasant silence when the music fills the sweet air. The song lulls to a close and the next begins, slow and melodic and easy. It’s one of Coraline’s favourites - Songbird by Fleetwood Mac - and her eyes pull closed as she listens to the mellow chorus of the piano. It tangles with the silence, dancing between the quiet, empty moments. “I love this song.” She sighs, eyes slipping closed.

“Dance with me.”

Coraline snorts out a jolt of laughter. “What?”

“Dance with me, Sunshine,” he repeats.

“Why?” She giggles. Her eyes are still closed as she hums along quietly to the lyrics.

“Because-” She feels him push away from the counter and settle in front of her. One hand curves around her knee, his thumb brushing short, small circles to the inside. “-it’ll take your mind off things,” he insists. 

Coraline cracks an eye open. He’s inches from her, brown eyes almost irresistible, so difficult to refuse when he looks at her like this. The candlelight flickers and turns his irises to pools of amber and gold. “I can’t dance.”

“I’ll teach you.” He states simply. 

She searches his expression for an ulterior motive. Not that she expects there to be one; there never is with Marcus. He never expects anything back in return for favours or good deeds, is just content with his acts of kindness as long as they make someone smile. He holds his hand out for her in expectation.

She takes it.

“Fine. But only one song.”

His face lights up. Like sunshine. “That’s all I want.”

His hands are gentle when they curve around her waist. He holds her close so gently, fingers pressing soft into the plush flesh of her hips, feather-light. Her heart almost stops when she feels his breath against her neck and she can’t help the sharp inhale that rips through her chest. She hopes he doesn’t hear, but she doesn’t think she’ll be that lucky. Her arms slip around his neck; she wants to hold him close, impossibly close, until the cold that always seems to plague her and all of her fear floats away, until they simply don’t exist anymore. 

“What do I do?” She whispers.

“You’ve never been slow dancing before?” He raises his eyebrows in surprise. 

“I did at my wedding but-” She chews on her lip as she ducks her head. His hands hold her hips a little tighter. “-I don’t think his heart was really in it.

Marcus watches her until she finally lifts her head again. Deft fingers the brush the brunette stands of her hair back from her forehead, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. The intoxicating scent of his cologne consumes her again; it’s rich and brilliant and she really isn’t sure why today, of all days, it’s inspiring some kind of wonderful delirium inside her. She figures it’s the alcohol, already too much before her parents arrived, just like she’d feared.

“Well, that’s his loss, Sunshine. Everyone should slow dance at least once in their life.”

He starts to sway along to the music, steady, in time to the dreamlike rhythm of Fleetwood Mac. She tries her best to follow his movements but she still feels like, somehow, she’s doing it wrong. She’s never been a good dancer, even despite the ballet lessons her mom had signed her up for when she was young, but it turns out she’s even worse than she’d thought. She’s not sure how she’s possibly able to get something as simple as slow dancing wrong. Her feet just don’t work in time with the rest of her body.

“Like this?” Her voice is small, almost a squeak.

Marcus’ hand slides into the small of her back, gently pushing her hips closer into him. It’s easier like this, with him closer, to keep in time with his movements. “Just like that.” He whispers against her ear. “You’ve got it.”

She can feel her heart beating at a mile a minute. It’s hammering right behind her ribcage and she’s sure that Marcus is close enough to feel its rapid thumping against his own chest. Still, she melts into his embrace and their movements become second nature. It’s lovely and it’s comfortable and, he’s right, it does take her mind off of her anxious jitters. The sporadic flickers of the candlelight illuminate the contours of his face when she finally drags her eyes up from their feet - she’d been watching their measured movements so she doesn’t put a foot wrong - and they highlight the fondness in his expression. 

“What?” She murmurs quietly, through the melodic silence. He doesn’t answer; his gaze maps out every curve of her face.

The intoxicating scent of his cologne consumes her; it’s rich and brilliant and she isn’t sure why today, of all days, it’s inspiring some kind of wonderful delirium inside her. She figures it’s the alcohol, already too much before her parents have even arrived, just like she’d feared. She fights against the fluttering of her own eyelids. 

“I like this dress,” he whispers, running his fingers over the soft silk material of her summer dress. He holds the strap between his thumb and forefinger and smiles. She’s pretty sure that this is his veiled attempt at trying to distract them both away from their fixed stares. “Is it new?” The soft pad of his thumb brushes against her collarbone; she has half the mind to pull away, step back from where he’s pressed flush against her, but every single shred of rational thought leaves her whenever he gets close enough. Coraline has to keep reminding herself that this isn’t how you’re meant to feel about your best friend, and she can usually manage to push those thoughts aside and remind herself how he feels about her; that he sees her as a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

She can only nod, words catching in her throat. It feels as if every inch of her body is closing in on itself, wrapping itself in thick tension that claws relentlessly from inside her chest. “Bought it last week.” She shakes her head clear the best that she can. Goddamn alcohol. Her throat is screaming out for water. Marcus continues running the thin strap of her dress though his fingers, digits unintentionally brushing against her skin. It’s entirely innocent, and he means nothing by it. She isn’t even sure he realises what he’s doing; his gaze is firmly set on her again, brown eyes almost transfixed by her bottle green stare. 

Coraline swallows through the thick lump that labours her breathing. “I-”

She has to admit that she’s more than a little relieved when there’s an insistent knock on the door. Half an hour earlier than there’s meant to be.

Coraline takes advantage of the distraction and untagles herself from Marcus’ featherlight grip, right as the song ends and bleeds into the next, feeling utterly pathetic for the feeling that has poured over her. “Buckle up!” She tries to sound enthusiastic, clapping her hands together, but it almost certainly falls flat. Marcus watches her as she drifts towards the door, like she’s floating on air, despite the awkward shuffling of her feet against the hardwood floors. She turns to flash him a sunshine smile as she reaches for the doorknob - a smile that calms his endlessly restless soul - before she pulls open her front door with an exaggerated grin to let her parents in.

“Dad!” Her sweet voice rings out in joy at the sight of her father, looking surprisingly healthy now and, finally, back on his feet. She’s been calling him everyday, since he’d first been in hospital, months and months of phone calls just to check that he was still okay. She’s immeasurably relieved to see him okay, and smiling back at her.

“Corrie.” He returns her grin - their resemblance is startling when they smile, Marcus notes - and they’re hugging each other tightly. They haven’t seen each other in six months, her parents too busy to visit her and Daniel in D.C. Marcus knows it’s difficult for Coraline, given how close she is to her dad - and her mom, too - and how long she’d battled with herself all those years ago before she’d even moved to California. “Oh, I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she insists as he releases her from his embrace, and she moves to greet her mom with an equally bright smile. “I missed you both, so much.”

The whole time Marcus is standing there, unsure what to do with his hands. He feels like a teenager again. With that near-debilitating awkwardness that came with meeting his first girlfriend’s parents all those years ago, it’s not too different, now. Sure, he’s much more confident than he was then and he’d grown into himself, much more practiced in meeting new people, talking to people. Hell, part of his job even included intimidating suspects, on occasion. But he feels as if he’d been reduced to the same love-sick, acne-ridden teen, sure that the girl he’d been dating for a week was the one for him. 

(They’d broken up two weeks later). 

“Marcus-” Her voice calling him - always like a song when she calls his name - lures him back to reality. “-this is my dad, Robert, and my mom, Celine. But- but you already know that.” She tells him so much about her childhood, high school, growing up, everything, that she’s sure it seems like he already knows them. He can tell she’s flustered and hiding it behind a vibrant smile. “-mom, dad, this is Marcus.”

“Marcus!” Robert grins at him and his resemblance to his daughter is even more apparent, beyond their smile; the same eyes, the same little creases at the corners when their faces light up, even down to the way their noses jut out a little at the ends, curving upwards, ever-so-slightly. “Glad to see Corrie hasn’t scared you away, yet.” He jibes lightheartedly. 

“Hey!” Coraline calls out in protest as she hugs her mom, swaying side-to-side a little as they greet each other for the first time in months. 

“My darling,” she coos as she holds Coraline close. “I missed you more than you know.”

“I missed you too, mom.”

Robert reaches out to shake Marcus’ hand, with a glint in his eyes at his playful jab at Coraline, and he gratefully accepts. “Glad you could come tonight, I know it was very last minute.”

“It’s not a problem at all, Sir,” he insists. He turns to Coraline’s mom as she approaches with an outstretched hand. She’s never been one for the ‘one-kiss-on-each-cheek’ kind of greeting with anyone but her kids. “Ma’am.” He nods her head a little in both of their directions. His Texan accent comes out far stronger than usual when he greets them. She wonders if it’s a nervous tick he has; she’s never seen him nervous before, he’s never had a reason to be nervous around her, not really. 

“Call me Robert,” he insists. 

Coraline watches on fondly as the three of them — Marcus, and her mother and father —melt into conversation. It comes so easy to him, conversation. He’s a natural with people. She doesn’t know why either of them were ever worried about their meeting; Marcus is great, as always, but sometimes her parents seem to come on a little too strong after a while (she knows Kimmy had been more than a little intimidated by them when she’d first met them). 

They’re already laughing and joking, her father’s hand on his shoulder fondly, like they’ve known each other for longer than a couple of minutes. Maybe it seems like they have; Cora is always annoyingly aware of how much time she spends talking about each of them, especially Marcus, to the other that it wouldn’t be surprising if they could each fill a book with stories she’s recounted to them with delight and fondness. 

“So, Corrie-“ Her father claps her hands together and it almost startles her. She’s been gazing at the three of them chatting for so long that it almost seems weird. She’s glad that it draws her out of it and back to reality. “-what delights are you serving us tonight?” Amusement glints in his eyes. 

“Oh, I see how it is.” She quirks an eyebrow, tilts her head and grins. Her hair falls over her shoulder, a waterfall of waves that brush soft against the curve of her neck. “Tell me, dad, whenever will the wonders of 2001’s Christmas casserole grace our tables again?”

“She’s feisty tonight.” He chuckles, stepping forward to kiss his daughter on the head.

“Actually-” Coraline glances fondly over at Marcus. He and her mom are half in conversation, half watching Cora and her dad’s playful little jabs towards each other. “-Marcus cooked.”

“Oh, thank God. Celine, we don’t have to order in at the hotel tonight,” he calls back over her shoulder and his wife grins at him in amusement, then over at her daughter with such a palpable fondness that it practically radiates from her.

Coraline pokes her dad sharply in the arm with the tip of her nail. “Hey!” She protests, shuffling off into the kitchen, but she can never bring herself to be mad at him. And she can quip back just as easy. “Don’t be rude, we have guests.” 

Marcus’ heart almost stops when she throws a bright smile over her shoulder, curls bouncing against her shoulders and down her back. It lights up the room in its sunshine glory. Though her smile mirrors that of her mother and father, there’s something about hers that reaches her eyes and is utterly brilliant.

He’s sure that it’s the favourite of all the smiles he’s ever seen.

Coraline reaches up to draw the plates from the cabinets. She knows that they have more than enough time to spare before the food is ready, but if she doesn’t keep her hands busy, she worries that she’ll end up panicking again. She’s only just shaken the worries, she’d hate for them to return and for her thoughts to carry on their racing, at a mile a minute.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Her father’s voice is low though it’s not like Marcus and her mom are listening; they’re laughing, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in that way that Coraline loves. She wouldn’t mind if either of them heard, though. She has nothing to hide.

“Better.” She sighs, a gentle blissful smile. She tries to stop herself from looking too manic, but she can feel a grin threatening to pull at her cheeks. “Much better, now.���

“I’m glad to hear it.” There’s relief in his eyes. It’s soft and endearing, and it seems as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders when he sees her smile so dazzling, so genuine. His voice drops a little, almost to a whisper. “Marcus seems nice.” 

“He’s great, isn’t he?” She sighs. “He’s really great.”

...

Daniel, Kimmy and the kids arrive right on time. 

Not that they needed them there. 

Marcus Pike is a natural. If even half of him was even the slightest bit nervous when he’d stepped into her apartment that evening, she can’t tell.  

He’d eased his way into conversation with everyone around him, like he’d known them all for years. He’d answered all their questions without issue, made them laugh with his stories and laughed at their jokes, even those of her father’s that made Daniel and Coraline roll their eyes. 

Cora’s apartment isn’t small, but it’s barely big enough to hold all of them, and chaos reigns as Elliot and Finley race around the apartment, tailed closely by their Grandfather. It’s great to see how close they are, close for two boys who see their grandparents over FaceTime more than they do in person. Celine keeps telling him to slow down as she sits with a sleeping and incredibly content Piper in her arms - he’s just got out of hospital, and his lungs weren’t exactly up to scratch before then - but even she can’t help but smile as the boys giggle gleefully when he grabs them and hauls them into his arms.

They’re all still smiling when they sit down to eat, the boys bouncing in their seats just being around their grandparents for the first time in months. Coraline thinks their delight sets Marcus at ease more than he already is; it dissolves any awkward tension, the kind that comes as custom with any first meeting, that may be lingering in the air, and it’s as if everyone around the table are family or old friends, not unfamiliar with the man sat next to her, and, If it weren’t for the worry stirring in the pit of her stomach, making her feel so sick that she feels like she might just throw up all over the floor of her dining room, she’d be smiling just as wide, too. 

But every time her father sees Marcus smile at her or brush past her with the smallest of whispered and sincere apologies, and a large hand splayed gentle across her small of her back, she knows he’s just itching to ask her for every single little detail about their relationship; if they’re more than friends, if they’re together, if anything ever could come of their friendship beyond that. He means well and he just wants her to be happy. But she’s been warning him off asking with his eyes - even insisted in between one quiet moment when Marcus was using the bathroom that they were just that, very close friends and nothing more - but the notion of their agreement has been hanging heavy within her chest. It’s been weighing her down and anxiety has been churning wild inside her stomach. Even the wine isn’t helping; that age-old idiom of ‘liquid courage’ turning out to be a fallacy. If anything, it was only stirring the worry up into a veritable cyclone of terror.

Attention turns back to Coraline, eventually. They’ve drawn all they can from Marcus - what he does for work, where he lives and where he grew up - and Daniel and Kimmy - how the art gallery is going, how the kids are finding their new school (both far too distracted to answer for themselves), how they’re finding their new home now they have Piper - so that left Coraline and the extremely tender and previously untouched topic of her personal life. She knows there’s certain questions that they won’t ask out loud, at least, not with Marcus and the kids around, but she can feel the terrible urge to spill all her secrets growing stronger with each well-meaning but incredibly loaded question that they ask. She smiles through it, answers casually, but eventually the tether snaps and her words come tumbling out before she has a chance to stop them.

“We’re having a baby,” Coraline blurts out. “Me and Marcus,” she adds, like it isn’t obvious who she means. Her words are quick and jumbled but obvious enough that the room falls into a stunned, stifling silence. Everyone seems to drop their cutlery, a chorus of metal against porcelain, to stare at her. “Well- I mean- not yet, we’re- I’m not pregnant, yet- but, I-” She rambles. She’s well aware that her face is burning the brightest red, raspberry flushed across her cheekbones.

Marcus can tell that she’s been practically bursting at the seams since they’d sat down. She’d been shifting uncomfortably, feet bushing along the old rug beneath their feet, bumping haphazardly into his, and he could hear her hands brushing over the soft material of her dress awkwardly. She’s been smiling the entire time, laughing at every joke and embarrassing story her mom tells, though he can tell that smile was beginning to wear thin after a while. When attention turned to her and away from him and Daniel, Kimmy and the kids. The revelation had finally burst out but - despite the momentary look of relief that had flashed upon her expression - she looks even more tense at the reaction of her parents.

“You’re what?” Her father questions, eyebrows raising, words coming out in some sort of awkward splutter. His green eyes dart between the pair of them, sitting across from him, side-by-side and frozen like deers in headlights, Coraline can’t help but notice the way his smile had dropped, immediately, the moment the words had left her lips. His indecisive scowl was stark, in comparison to how he’d seemed before.

“I just-” Coraline takes in a sharp breath. The force of it almost hurts her lungs. “-we’re having a baby together and I don’t know when but we are and I just want you to love Marcus like I do because he’s my best friend and he actually wanted to do this for me- for us- and how often would you find someone who would agree to this kind of thing-”

“Cora, you’re rambling,” Daniel cuts in, voice soothing and low, willing to help her as she panics and panics and panics.

Marcus’ hand finds her underneath the table. She grasps his tight in both hands, tugging it into her lap and clinging to his digits for dear life. His thumb runs those slow, reassuring circles across her skin - the ones that are so gentle they’re but a tickle against the back of her hand - and she finds herself easing into his touch. “Breathe.” His voice is just as comforting as the circles he brushes into her skin.

Neither of her parents talk, just stare, stunned, and the entire table falls back into that awkward, thickened and suffocating silence. Elliot and Finley blink around at them all, confused and not entirely registering what Coraline had said, now what any of this meant. For two boys usually so rambunctious, loud and exuberant, their silence has come at the most uncomfortable of times. Daniel seems to be searching for the right words to say but nothing seems to come close to being the right thing to say in this situation. 

She’s not sure what anyone can say in this situation.

She should have stuck to the whole ‘accidental pregnancy’ excuse, instead.

“It’s just-” Coraline looks over at Marcus for reassurance, though even his warm eyes don’t seem to offer much in the way of comfort. “I want a baby. I really want a baby. Even before the divorce,” she continues, “I just- I want to be a mom and I want a family of my own, so bad. So, me and Marcus are trying.”

“But you’re not together?” Robert Meyer’s finger draws an invisible string between the pair of them. 

“I- no?” Her voice rises high and she sounds ridiculous. She knows that isn’t what he wants to hear. “He’s my best friend-” She clarifies, “-but we’re not together, not like that.”

Marcus has no clue what to say, every word dies heavy on his tongue and nothing seems right. Everything he can think to say would surely only serve to make this a thousand times worse than they already are. The exchange is happening so fast, too, that he wouldn’t even be able to get a word in, otherwise.

“Well, that sounds… lovely,” Celine proclaims and claps her hands together. Coraline is sure that she doesn’t mean to sound insincere, but it still comes out sounding that way. A little sarcastic, almost. If she didn’t know her mother, she would surely be offended, but at least she understands that it was never intended that way. 

But Marcus doesn’t know her well enough to know that.

“And what do you think about this?” Robert’s questioning turns to Daniel. His eyebrows raise and he glowers at him expectantly.

He takes a deep breath, takes in a sharp breath through his nose and leans back in his seat. He manages a smile despite the tension that has settled thick throughout the room. Coraline’s hand tightens around Marcus’ - almost enough to be painful, but he doesn’t care, at this point - when Daniel smiles at his father. “I think it’s a great idea.”

“You do?” 

Marcus hears Coraline sigh at the sound of her father’s incredulity. It’s a resigned sigh, one of those truly gut wrenching and downtrodden sighs that breaks his heart. “I should go,” Marcus leans into her to whisper. “I think I might be making things worse-”

“No, please,” Coraline insists, tugging her hand into her lap so that he can’t leave. He knows, maybe, he should, because her father probably hates him by now. But he’s not sure he could leave her. That, if he were to leave, he’d just end up coming straight back, staying by her side for as long as she needs, until she’s smiling again. 

He loves to see her smile.

“She’s great with kids, why is it an issue?” Daniel questions. 

“And she won’t be doing this alone, I’m in this for the long haul,” Marcus insists. He notices Celine smile at her out of the corner of his eye. Coraline’s hand squeezes his and her breathing levels out, just ever so slightly.

“I have thought about this, dad. I haven’t just rushed into it-”

“We should go.” 

“No, dad, wait, please-“

“I’m not sitting around listening to you try and justify your ridiculous decisions, Cora,” he snaps and she flinches. She’s not sure she’s ever heard him angry before; she’s always been one of those stereotypical ‘daddy’s girls’, could never do anything wrong in her life in his eyes, but now he’s looking at her with so much disappointment and dismay that she just wants to curl up into herself and cry until she’s so exhausted she falls asleep. She hates it, she hates this.

Though she can’t bring herself to regret the decision she’s made with Marcus.

“I could talk to him.” Marcus proposes. It’s quiet in her ear so that only she can here, but no one else is paying attention; Robert is talking to Celine, trying to keep his voice level as she reprimands him for raising his voice in front of ‘a guest’, and Daniel is talking to Kimmy, though he can’t hear what they’re talking about. Coraline leans back into him a little, feeling comfortable with the weight of his shoulder pressed against hers, sturdy and steady and present, but shakes her head in refusal.

He doesn’t want to put his foot in it. He wants them to like him. He wants Coraline to like him.

“I-”

“Dad, come on,” Daniel insists, “Let’s talk about this.”

“Did you know about this? Before tonight?” 

“Robert.”

“Yes, I knew. And I’ll support her. I don’t see what the big deal is-”

“Wow, it’s 8pm already?” He glances up at the clock that ticks monotonous and regular on the wall. He formulates his excuse to leave; Coraline can see it click, it’s obvious in his eyes. “Celine, we have to go,” Robert grumbles as he stands. “Thank you for the meal, Marcus. It was nice to meet you.” Her father may not sound overly sincere - his voice is stiff and his face is unreadable - but at least she knows that he’s polite enough not to take his frustrations out on Marcus. Cora knows, in his eyes, he’s done nothing wrong, and that Coraline is surely the only one he’s mad at because he cares about her and the decisions that she makes that might be terrible for her.

“Boys-” Kimmy turns to her sons. “-why don’t we go and watch some TV, huh?”

They both spring from their seats immediately, charging towards Coraline’s couch, so fast that it’s as if they’re running for their lives. She doesn’t think they were even paying attention to the conversation; when Coraline was younger, she’d never paid much attention to what her parents and family and their friends were saying around the dinner table, more interested in her brothers than their conversations. Finley and Elliot always seemed to be in their own little worlds, too, unless they had questions for someone. In which case, there was no way to get a word in without them shouting their enquiries over you. Thankfully for them all, they’d seemed more interested in whatever they’d been ferociously giggling about than Coraline and Marcus’ agreement, and their grandfather’s sudden and stoic disapproval. They’re probably too young to understand, anyway, beyond the notion of what a baby is. 

“Come on, dad. Don’t be ridiculous,” Daniel speaks up.

“Dad, please.” Coraline stands to face her father but her hands shake and she shuffles uncomfortably. She’s not sure what to say or how to say it, or how the hell to make him stop hating her. 

“I should probably be the one to leave.” Marcus pushes his chair back, gently, in resignation. “You can talk, then-” 

“Oh, don’t leave on my behalf, Marcus.” Robert claps his hand on Marcus’ shoulder like he’s an old friend. “It’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave, anyway.” He turns and smiles at his wife. He holds out his hand to help her up; she takes his hand but drops his hand to cross her arms and quirk an eyebrow at him sceptically. 

“Robert, I think that we should stay and talk about this, rather than running away.” 

He gives a long, sharp exhale of breath. “I can’t. Not tonight. I just- I need to think about this.”

“Dad- I’m sorry.”

“Goodnight, Dan-” He nods at his eldest son. “Goodnight, Coraline, Marcus.”

No Corrie. No nickname. Just Coraline. He hasn’t called her that in a long time. Her full name, when it comes from him, always spells trouble. She’s heard so many jokes about how she can do no wrong in her father’s eyes - it was the same case with her mother and her brothers - but she’d never really believed anyone when they’d said that. Until now. It’s glaringly obvious when he calls out her full name, without the bright smile and sparkle in his eyes. 

Her heart sinks to her stomach and she’s not sure that she’ll ever be able to pick it back up again. 

He’s gone in a hurry. He ruffles his grandson’s hair and bids farewell to Kimmy, all the usual smiles he hadn’t wasted on Coraline and Daniel aimed at them, instead, and heads for his shoes and jacket, and then the door, with such haste it’s as if there’s a fire in the building and he needs to find his way out. The smile he turns to give them all before he opens the front door is barely a whisper of his usual and there’s an ice cold bolt of terrifying lightning that shoots through her, only alleviated by Marcus’ hand on her back. 

“Are you okay?” His lips drop close to her ear. His breath stirs the hair by her neck and cheek, and she can feel the brush of his stubble against her neck and behind her ear. She’s so close that it feels strange when there are so many people around, even if it feels so normal for him to be beside her, like this. She shudders a little at the tickle. She can’t help it. It’s like she’s intoxicated, lost in that haze of worry and fear and the comfort of Marcus as he stands so close behind her.

“I don’t know,” Cora admits. Her voice trembles, even as she tries to keep it steady. Marcus wants to take her into his arms and hold her tight until she’s okay again. He knows he can’t do anything to fix this, but he’d be damned if he didn’t want to at least try. 

“My darling, Coraline.” Her mother’s voice comes soft and soothing and, as she hurries towards her daughter, Coraline has to step away from Marcus. It comes reluctantly, and the cold flash of worry that had spilt over her - like being doused in a bucket of ice - finds its way back to her skin. “He will be okay, I promise you. You will be okay,” she insists. Her delicate hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing over her face reassuringly. “Think this through, talk it over with Marcus, and I will talk to your father tonight. Do not worry, darling, we will sort this out.”

Coraline sniffles, wrinkles her nose and brushes the freshly-fallen tears away from her damp cheeks. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until her mom brushed them away. “Thanks, mom.” She smiles the best she can but it’s weak and pathetic. At least she knows that her mom won’t judge her for her shaky half-smile and watery eyes. She’d been there for all her high school heartbreaks and then her divorce over FaceTime, but she’d also seen her cry over Hot Cheetos and mud on her shirt. Her mom could never make her feel embarrassed for crying over anything.

“Now, come here.” Celine holds her daughter close, brushes her fingers through her hair as it drops over her forehead and kisses her temple, delicate. “You’ll always be my little girl, you know that?” She taps her nose, inspiring a smile. “Think this through, really think all of this through, okay? I will call you tomorrow. Take care of yourself, please.” 

Celine turns to Marcus and smiles a bright smile. “Thank you, Marcus. It was so lovely to meet you.”

“It was lovely to meet you, too, ma’am. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name in Cora’s stories.”

She smiles and squeezes his arm gently. “Please, call me Celine. I’m sorry for tonight, things aren’t usually so tense.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insists. “I’ll look out for her tonight.”

“I know you will.” Her smile is so genuine and sympathetic, thankful and relieved. “Goodnight, my darling.” She hums as she kisses Coraline’s forehead, with the intention of comfort. It seems to work; the rigid set of her shoulders gives way for just a moment, until she watches her leave with about as enthusiastic goodbye as she can muster for her grandkids; even Piper, who’d managed to sleep in her travel seat almost the entire time. Coraline sinks back into him the moment her mom’s figure disappears behind the front door.

She turns to him the moment the door clicks closed. She can’t seem to face looking him in the eyes. Her cheeks feel hot, bright red, and her eyes burn with a thousand unshed tears that she’d stoically been holding in until her mom had taken her in her arms and brushed a hand over her cheek. “I- I- fuck, Marcus- I’m so sorry. This is not how I wanted things to work out-”

“Hey, hey, hey-” She settles into his arms like she belongs there. His arms pull around her tight, keeping her close to his chest. Something about the measured, rhythmic set of his breathing helps to settle her running mind. “-you have nothing to apologise for, Sunshine.” 

She practically crumbles when he holds her. Her hands clutch at him tightly and she tries to stop her shoulders from shuddering. His hand runs up and down her back, fingers brushing delicate against the silk fabric of her dress, soothing the terrible cold that shoots through her at her father’s hostility and the aching weakness that tugs at her chest. He almost kisses the shell of her ear as he whispers his comforting words, but stops himself once he remembers they have an audience. 

Anyone else might misinterpret their actions as more than they are. As more than purely platonic. 

“You’re trembling,” Marcus whispers. He can feel her shoulders shaking against him. It comes and goes, as if she’s trying to hold it in. 

“I am?” She whispers but it’s muffled by his shirt. 

She can only tell that he nods when his chin brushes against the top of head a couple of times. 

“‘m sorry.”

Truth is, she’s freezing cold again. Has been since her father’s disapproval. She hasn’t felt a cold like it since her divorce, the night she and Scott had said their goodbyes for good, and she’d known that it was well and truly over. It had lingered upon her, like a taunting spectre. And it’s a chill that clings to her, holding on for dear life, with the ferocity of a blizzard, and just as unforgiving. His arms hold her close and inspire warmth within her, even for the few moments that he keeps her close. 

...

The night seemed to stretch on for longer than it surely was. Minutes turned into hours, darkness had consumed the streets and everyone had left Coraline’s apartment, save for Marcus and Daniel. 

Celine had texted Daniel to ask if everyone was okay once she and her husband had reached their hotel and delivered the reassuring news that Robert wasn’t really angry, just wasn’t sure where to place his emotions, in response to hearing his daughter was having a child with a man he’d only just met. He didn’t entirely blame him. He’s not sure he would be best pleased, either. Kimmy had left with the boys and Piper a little while later; the kids had somehow worn themselves out watching the TV, so they’d bundled them all down the stairs and into the car as best they could, as they grumbled and groaned out tired protests.

Daniel had stayed behind a little while to make sure that his sister was okay.

Marcus was an only child; he’d always wanted siblings growing up, but his parents never wanted more kids. He’d never felt lonely, when he was a kid - he had great friends, and his mom and dad were his heroes; he owed a lot to them for making him the man he was today - though he’d always wished he had someone to chase around the garden, to complain about the petty things his parents did that no one else would understand. To have someone to look out for, someone to look out for him. He wonders what it would feel like to have someone like that, someone always on his side. He’s always wanted a big family because he never wants his kids to miss out on something that they might want.

He thinks it gives her comfort to know that someone close to her actually supports her, rather than thinking it’s wrong that she’s even considering it. Even as she shuffles, trembling, into her bathroom, to try and wash away the chill, there’s no longer a ten tonne weight on her shoulders, bearing down angry on top of her. 

It won’t help, the hot water. Not in the long run, at least. A temporary solution to a persistent problem. 

She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to shake it.

“You think she’ll be okay?” Daniel questions as he leans back against the sofa, arms crossed tight over his chest, brows furrowed.

Marcus hums. There’s a wistful smile on his face. “I hope so.” He sighs and runs a hand over his jaw, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. “This is my fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault, Marcus. My dad just worries, but he’ll calm down sooner or later.” Daniel tells him. “Did she ever tell you about her first boyfriend?” Marcus vaguely remembers her mentioning him over takeout one night; Kevin or Kyle, some name like that. That they’d dated for barely two months and that he was an asshole, and she’d never really found him attractive. She’d never really given him a reason as to why she’d even dated him in the first place, though. Daniel continues at the sight of Marcus’ acknowledgement. “Our dad hated him. Wouldn’t even let him in the house, said he was trouble and would lead her astray. She was in her rebellious phase so, of course, stubborn as she is, she didn’t listen.”

“Huh, sounds like Cora.” It made a lot of sense. He’s surprised he never even put two and two together when she’d told him the first time.

“He was right though- guy was a total asshole.” He chuckles, short and indistinct. It still doesn’t seem like the time to be laughing, not with the weight of Coraline’s sorrow looming over them. “My dad got over it the next day. But Cora? Found her crying in her bedroom at 3am, worried he’d hate her for the rest of her life. But this- this seems bigger.” It’s like he’s struck down with the realisation. “Maybe she should sleep at ours tonight.” He wonders out loud.

“I’ll stay on the couch tonight, make sure she’s okay,” Marcus insists.

“Are you sure?” Daniel raises his eyebrows, surprised. And it almost surprises Marcus just how ready he is to sleep on the sofa, for Coraline’s sake - albeit, a very plush and snug sofa that he’d napped on before (and, ultimately, faced the butt of Coraline’s ‘old man’ jokes when he woke) - but then, when he really thinks about it, it’s not entirely a shock to anyone that he would be willing to do this. He’s done far more for her in the past. He’s not even sure just how far he’ll go just to make sure that Coraline is okay. Daniel glances back at the sofa he’s leant against and offers Marcus an out. “She can take the guest room at our place, it’s no problem.” 

Marcus shakes his head and smiles. He’s never been so sure of himself. “It’s fine, I’m here for her.”

Daniel tilts his head the same way Coraline does when she’s thinking. The corners of his mouth pick up. “I’m glad she has you.” He sighs and pushes himself up from the sofa. “Thank you for this, Marcus. I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this. We’re not usually so… argumentative.” He huffs out a laugh and holds his hand out for Marcus to shake.

He shakes his head. Families are hard, sometimes. He’s witnessed that himself, first hand. “It’s no problem,” he insists. Marcus reaches for the blanket Coraline keeps folded over the back of the couch, ready to tuck himself under when she’s okay, again. “She needs someone tonight.”

He smiles gratefully. “Well, I best get going. Kim won’t forgive me if she has to do bedtime alone.” He chuckles and reaches out to shake Marcus’ hand again. “Nice to see you again, Marcus. Sorry about all of this.”

He bids Daniel farewell and locks the door. He finishes the last of the washing up, tucking each plate and piece of cutlery away into their designated place, so familiar with Coraline’s kitchen that he doesn’t even need to ask anymore. 

He hears the shower shut off and, a little while later, the shuffling of slippered feet against the tiled floor. Coraline emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped tight around her frame, catching the drips of water that cascade down her back and shoulders, far too exhausted to care about him seeing her half-naked, wet-haired and fresh out of the shower. It makes her head spin to realise that he’s already seen more than that, anyway. The blush that creeps up at the thought almost burns her cheeks. She ducks into her bedroom and emerges a few seconds later in her stripey sleep shorts and a well-worn t-shirt with ‘Radiohead’ emblazoned across the chest. “You should get going,” she reminds him. Even her voice is exhausted and he wouldn’t be surprised if the second she tucked herself up in bed, she’d be asleep and dead to the world until morning.. “It’s getting late and I’m sure you have work early tomorrow.”

“I’m staying right here tonight.” He tells her. “If that’s okay?”

“You don’t have to,” she urges. “Not for me. I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t have to be alone when you’re upset. I’m half of this, too”

There’s a beat of silence. It’s a lot heavier when it isn’t filled with quiet music. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice breaks when she speaks and he can tell that she’s close to tears again.

“Hey, hey-” He takes the few steps closer over to Coraline and takes her face in his hands. He tilts her head back a little, ever so gentle, and smiles at her. “-stop apologising. Not your fault.”

“I- fuck-” She tips her cheek into one of his hands and sinks into his embrace. She closes her eyes and the breath she takes is deep and rattling. “Dinner was great,” she whispers and they’re both grinning at the sudden burst of compliment she utters. 

“My mom’s recipe.”

“Yeah? I’ll have to thank her someday.”

His smile is blissful. “You want to meet her?”

Her head tilts back as she laughs, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I need to meet the woman who raised such a wonderful human being. She must be pretty great.” She can’t help the yawn that crawls out of her mouth; she tries to smother it with her hands.

“You need to sleep.”

“Oh, pfft, I’m fine.” She brushes off his concern.

He raises his eyebrows and smirks. “Don’t make me call your mom.”

“Is that a threat?”

“As an FBI agent, I’m required to say no because threatening civilians is frowned upon.”

Coraline scoffs and rolls her eyes, and finally surrenders to Marcus’ suggestion. “Fine.”

Marcus trails her when she wanders into her bedroom. She sets herself down on the edge of her comforter and her shoulders slump again, sinking into herself. He can see that she’s exhausted, tears tearing away at the last saps of her energy, and the shower she’d had does nothing to lessen the puffiness that has settled beneath her eyes. The flush that decorates her cheeks whenever she’s embarrassed paints her eyes, now. 

“I’m sorry again,” she whispers, quiet. 

“Goodnight, Sunshine.” He turns to leave, feet stuttering across the floor and he pauses the moment she calls out for him again. It’s quiet, but in the silence of her apartment, he can’t help but hear her welcoming voice. 

“Marcus-” Her voice is thick in her throat and she struggles to find her words. They seem to die in her throat. “-will you stay?” She manages to ask, finally.

He nods, smooths back her dishevelled hair from her face and leans down to kiss her forehead, a sweet and simple gesture that she appreciates beyond belief. “I am. I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

“No. Marcus.” She reaches for him. His arms, his wrist, his fingers. She finds purchase at his fingers and entwines the digits together. She’s peering up at him through her lashes, looking at him with expectation. “I mean- will you stay, please? Here- I need you here-” Coraline’s voice is small and quiet, timid and unsure. It’s a request that seems to terrify her, but all she wants is him to be here and to hold her, and to make her feel like things might actually be okay, even if right now she’s struggling to see how anything positive could come out of her dad - the first person to ever make her believe she could do anything she set her heart on - likely hating her, right now.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispers as she presses her and Marcus’ clasped hands against her cheek. He feels the gentle curve of her nose brush against the inside of his wrist when she nuzzles herself closer into his touch. “Please.”

He moves to unlace their fingers and her hand drops into her lap. She’s about ready to cry, convinced that - after hearing her father’s reaction to their agreement - he’d been scared away, well and truly. She can feel the tears burning behind her eyes, threatening to spill over her lashes and down her face, and she’s sure she’d look utterly pathetic, with hot tears carving a scorching path down her cheeks. But his hand finds her cheek again, soft and tender and without the obstruction of her hand, this time. Brown eyes gaze down at her and warm her soul. His thumb brushes delicate over her cheekbone; she only realises she’s crying, then, when the rough pad of his thumb swipes wet across her skin. 

“I could never leave you.” His voice is low, smooth like honey. He leans down again, to press the most fleeting of kisses to her forehead, before he’s holding her close. Marcus lays her down beside him, chests pressed firm together. He can feel each shaky breath she exhales as her hands bunch into his shirt. She tugs him closer, somehow.

Coraline tilts her head up towards him. “Thank you,” she whispers, unbunching one fist from his shirt to reach up for this cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. They spend a moment gazing at each other; merely a heartbeat that seems to stretch on for a lifetime. But, in reality, it doesn’t last long before she ducks her head again, presses her cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt - surely terribly uncomfortable to sleep in, though, at least he doesn’t have his tie on - and thanks God that he’s here, holding her so close and so gently. She’s not sure she could deal with this alone, without him here to hold her. She feels the lingering couple of kisses that he leaves against the top of her head.

Her breathing evens out and she settles comfortable against him, and her dreams have taken over before she can hear the ‘I love you’ that he can’t contain any longer. He’s never said that out loud, never even admitted to himself that maybe that’s how he feels. And he knows he’s in too deep, deeper than he ever thought he would be again, deeper than he ever thought he’d let himself get again, and he reconciles his feelings as he lets sleep and the gentle tangle of her limbs around his consume him.

[ilovefandoms102]

Part 3-Shape of My Heart

Pairing: Rudy Pankow x Plus Size Reader

Summary: Falling in love with someone you can never have is the worst feeling in the world...

Taglist:

@jeyramarie @drewswannabegirl @teamnick @jiaraendgame @agirlwholovescoffee @outerbongs @jaxandcomet @velyssaraptor @baby-pogue @they-write-once-in-a-blue-moon @must-be-a-weasley-92 @kaitieskidmore1 @ma10427 @ifilwtmfc @lasnaro @justcallmesams @judayyyw @lonely-kermit @gviosca @iamaunicorn4704 @jellyfishbeansontoast @fernweh-fangirl​ @runway-to-my-aid​ @eb15​ @hurricane-abigail​ @tangledinsparkles​ @fandom-phaser​ @sunwardsss​ @http-cherries​

Part 2 Part 4

Note: We’re almost at 400 new friends!!!! I just want to say THANK YOU to each and every one who has taken time to read even just one of my stories. I truly from the bottom of my heart appreciate it. I love seeing the comments, messages, and reblogs from everyone who has taken the time to do so! It inspires me to put out even more for you guys, and I have so many ideas I want to share with you all! Hope you guys enjoy and don’t forget to let me know what you think!

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LAX’s airport was bigger than I could have ever imagined...

I rolled my suitcases along to where Rudy had told me they would be waiting, a duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Hey, I was staying for almost a month in California, I had necessities to bring. I heard my name being called, whipping my head in the direction it came from. I beamed when I saw everyone, making my way towards them. 

Both Maddie’s made it to me first, taking me into a group hug. They squealed and jumped around, saying how excited they were to see me. Chase ruffled my hair, taking me into a side hug. I spotted Rudy last, a sly smirk on his face. He was more handsome than I remembered, despite seeing his face almost everyday. It was different now that I saw him standing before me, the slight beard he was growing made him look older. He pulled me into a bear hug, inhaling my scent. I did the same, loving the feeling of his arms around me. 

“I missed you guys so much.” I admitted, pulling away from Rudy.

“We can’t wait to show you around!” Maddie C exclaimed.

Rudy took my duffel bag while Chase got one of my suitcases, leading the way to the car. He grunted when I handed him my bag, slinging it over his shoulder. 

“Jesus woman, what’s in here?” Rudy asked, using both hands to haul my bag.

“Makeup, shoes, ya know...girl stuff.” I shrugged, turning to wink at him over my shoulder. 

“There’s gotta be some cement blocks in here or something.” he grumbled, slinging into the back of the car. 

“Careful! There’s some expensive shit in there!” I gasped, earning an eye roll from the blonde. 

The girls and Chase piled into the back, leaving me to sit up front with Rudy driving. I glared at the three devils in the back, knowing what they were up to. Once we got out of the airport, we jammed out to some 80′s rock. Although, Chase, Rudy, and I were the only ones that knew any of the songs. 

I was an old soul, I loved old music. I listened mostly to anything from the 80′s to the early 2000′s, from pop to rock n roll. My mom always liked to tell me that I was born in the wrong era, and I guarantee she’s right. I think that’s also why Rudy and I got along so well, both of us having the taste for old music. The Maddie’s sat back and enjoyed our concert, videoing us at points when Rudy would go crazy. 

I loved that I could be myself around them, not feeling the need to hide. Scream singing in the car while dancing with my best friends, this is what I needed after a stressful 4 months. I breathed in the Los Angeles air, feeling the sun beating down on my arm that hung out the window. I watched as the palm trees passed, the salty air feeling inviting. 

====================================

Once we arrived at Chase’s house, everyone pitched in to lug my shit up the stairs. It was a real struggle since Chase had to pick a house with millions of steep steps. We were all huffing and puffing by the time we made it to my room I’d be living in for the next month, all of us crashing to the bed. Rudy crashed on top of me, a giggle erupting from my lips. 

“You’re comfy,” he sighed, squeezing his arms around me.

It was odd feeling small in his arms despite being bigger than most girls, he was a lot more buff than I remember him being. We didn’t move for a while, just shifting so that Rudy was laying with his head on my stomach so he wouldn’t be crushing me. I spotted Maddie C pulling her phone out.

“Don’t you dare Madelyn,” I chuckled, knowing she was doing it anyways.

“You guys look pretty comfy.” she giggled, moving her finger to zoom.

“That makes one of us,” I commented, playing along for wherever she was about to post. Rudy looked at me offended, his lips pouting out. 

Hysterical laughter came from all of us except Rudy who was still pouting, getting up to lay beside of me instead. I poked his lip, my stomach hurting from laughing so hard. He shoved my hand away, turning his back to me. 

“Oh come on Ru, it was for the video.” I scoffed, tugging his huge bicep.

“I’m mad at you.” he huffed, but I could see the slight smirk on his face. 

“Who decided to have a sleepover and not invite me?” a girl asked, walking in the room. 

From Instagram I could tell this was Elaine, her beauty even more striking in person. She made me feel intimidated, her eyes lingered on where Rudy and I sat. I could see the jealousy in her eyes, making me scoot away from him. 

“Hey El, this is y/n. Y/n, this is Elaine.” Maddie C introduced, gesturing to both of us. 

“So this is the famous y/n...” she said, raising her brows. I felt her gaze burning over me, making me even more self conscious. 

“That’s me, um I’ve heard all about your amazing photography.” I laughed nervously. 

“Yeah, Rudy and I just had a shoot actually.” she revealed.

Maddie B seemed to be the only one to notice the tension in the room, Rudy hadn’t even looked up from his phone yet. I looked at her and she arched her brow at me, clearly not used to Elaine being so passive aggressive.

“Are we going to eat guys? I’m starving.” Chase groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. 

“I haven’t ate at all today, what’s good around here?” I asked excitedly.

“Why haven’t you ate today?” Rudy inquired, his eyes full of worry.

“I’ve been on a plane for hours, I didn’t exactly want airport food.” I informed, rolling my eyes. 

“You shouldn’t do that babe, how are you not sick?” he questioned. Everyone’s eyes widened when he said ‘babe’, my cheeks flushed. 

“Stop lecturing me Ru,” I huffed.

==================================

“I’ve never seen her act like that before...” Maddie B confessed. We were sat in my room as everyone else departed to get ready for dinner. 

“I thought you said she had a thing for Drew?” I said confusedly. 

“The past few times we have all hung out together, they seemed more than friendly.” Maddie B declared, shrugging her shoulders.

“No matter, it’s not like there’s any competition.” I sighed, finishing up my makeup.

“You right because that boy is GONE for you!” she cheered.

“No Mads, because she is the Instagram photographer and I’m the DUFF of our friend group.” I rolled my eyes.

“Excuse you, but if anyone is the DUFF it’s Chase. Look at his hair y/n.” she scoffed. A knock on the door startled the both of us, Rudy poked his head in.

“Sorry to interrupt ladies, but we are all starving to death.” he stated, his eyes looking between us. 

===================================

Dinner was super awkward, starting with when we went to sit down. I stayed behind to let everyone else pick their seats first, leaving Elaine to rush to sit beside Rudy. He quirked a brow at her, obviously confused why she wanted to sit by him so bad. Rudy patted the spot across from him, my cheeks blushing again as I sat down. 

The conversations were hit and miss...anytime one of us tried to tell a story about the time we spent together, Elaine would interject about something her and Rudy did. She would subtly eye me, engaging my reaction. I felt so uncomfortable, that was until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Drew, my brother from another mother. 

“Long time no see buddy!” he beamed. I rose up from my spot to hug him, ruffling his hair.

“I figured it was time to see what LA is all about, and as I’ve been told, my presence was long missed.” I teased, everyone laughed except Elaine. 

Drew said hello to everyone, leaning to kiss Elaine’s cheek. I looked at Maddie B who was beside me, furrowing my brows in confusion. She shrugged her shoulders, waving as Austin joined our table. He leaned down to hug me, patting my head as he passed to take his seat. Rudy reached across the table to tap my hand, he smiled when I turned my attention to him. 

“What are you getting? Do you want to share an appetizer with me?” he questioned.

“I’m really thinking of just getting chicken fingers, they look yummy.” I grinned. He gave me a ‘really’ look.

“Get whatever you want, you aren’t paying anyways.” he smirked, knowing this would rile me up.

“Rudy, no.” I groaned.

“No arguing, pick something that you really want babe.” he demanded.

“Wait are they dating?”  I heard Drew whisper to Maddie C and Chase, not doing a very good job of not wanting me to hear.

“No, I wish they would though.” Maddie C replied.

The night got better, laughter filling the restaurant. It felt so good to be with my people again, my heart was full of joy. Rudy and Drew spent half our time shooting paper spit balls at each other, one even accidentally hitting Austin square in the face. 

“Who’s up for clubbing tonight?!” Drew asked, earning cheers from a few of us.

“I don’t know if I’ll make it, I’m seriously jet lagged.” I yawned.

“Come on y/n, once you get a few shots in you’ll be good to go!” he insisted.

“I’ll take you back to the house if you really don’t want to go.” Rudy offered.

 “Please y/n!” Maddie C begged, Maddie B joining in as well.

I looked at Rudy who just smiled at me, waiting for my response. I made a split second decision without really thinking about it. 

“Ok, I’ll go.” I sighed.

What am I getting myself into?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 12: The Mirror]

A/N: Hi y’all!! Please enjoy, this is a long one. We’re getting into the exciting stuff now, so I’ll be putting all my creative energy into BYCNL and will hopefully finish up the series within the next month. Thank you so much for your love and support! Each and every reblog/message/comment makes me smile and means the absolute world to me! 💜

Chapter summary: John gets a rap sheet, Roger gets defensive, Y/N gets suspicious, News Of The World gets a headline.

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

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, drugs, babies, drama, angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​

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

You’re not late. You’re never late.

And at first that’s okay, it’s more than okay, it’s a relief; because it was too soon to have a baby anyway, less than a year into a supposedly meaningless marriage, a marriage you and Roger never even speak of, a marriage that might have never happened at all—might only exist as a particularly vivid and pleasant dream—if it wasn’t for your freshly-minted British citizenship. At first you greeted each dark, fruitless stain of blood with a casual ruefulness—oh well, one more month of freedom, you would think, smiling a little, worrying not very much at all—content to let that milestone trophy of womanhood, of life, lay undusted and unclaimed in the cluttered pit of your mental oak trunk with a tarnished gold latch shaped like a lion’s jaw.

After four months, you start to notice things. You notice the way Chrissie’s twins have small willow-green eyes that turn down in the corners, just like Brian does; you notice how John’s children have his downy hair and that innate sort of reticence that some people mistake for banality; you notice all those pretty, anonymous young women pushing strollers through the blossoming summer foliage of Hyde Park. You notice the way Roger grins and waves at babies when you see them in airports or hotel lobbies, dazzles them like he dazzles very nearly everybody, like he still dazzles you. You notice a longing buried in your bones that you hadn’t known existed.

After six months, you are no longer casually rueful. You start ignoring the calendar, as if not noticing you’re due could stop the bleeding from coming at all, like how you’re not supposed to stare at the clock if you want time to pass faster. You start watching what you’re eating, trying to get more sleep, opening all the windows when Roger smokes as he flips through fashion and music magazines with crafty little snickers, flashing those pointy canine teeth you once assumed your children would have.

And now, after nine months—as the world hurtles towards the conclusion of the brisk October of 1977—you have begun to worry; because maybe this thing, this thing that everyone accepts as a guaranteed feature of the all-inclusive package of the human experience, isn’t something you get to have at all. Roger doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you about it. He is as he always is: sunlight and joy and heat and raw kinetic energy. But sometimes Roger’s huge blue eyes—those eyes you fell in love with, those eyes that convinced you to follow Queen to London, to stardom, to thunderous stadiums all over the world—go vacant as he gazes out into the horizon, as the sun sets over the garden of the Surrey house, as his face is lit up in gold and amber and celestial fury like the wildfire his soul is made of.

And you’ve begun to worry about him, too.

~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings from the nightstand. The shrill clanging, like hail on glass, makes you wince beneath the tangle of blankets. Your hand fumbles out into cool night air, which pours in from the open bedroom window.

Where’s Roger?

Then you remember his hushed voice, his bleached hair tickling your cheek, his lips pressed to your temple: Hey baby. I gotta go jam with some people. Grab a drink or two. You sleep, I’ll be back by morning.

Sure, okay, fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. One of those infinite casualties of fame.

You haul the phone to your ear. “Hello...?”

“Hello darling, are you busy?”

“Well, it’s 2:39 a.m., Fred. So not very.”

“Perfect. I need you to go post bail for John.”

You wrench yourself upright, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. “What?!”

“He was drunk driving and backed into a cop car, pure genius. I’m rather indisposed myself at the moment, and of course Veronica can’t know. And you’re so good with him, dear.”

Your feet have already swung off the bed and onto the plush white carpet. You wonder what Freddie is ‘indisposed’ with; there are so many possibilities these days. “And you know about this...because...?”

“He used his phone call on me, darling. I don’t think he wanted to bother you. I suspect he’s a bit mortified.”

“Yeah, well, he should be.” You sigh and start pawing through the safe in the bedroom closet, the spiraled phone cord pulled taunt. Hundred-pound notes shuffle weightlessly between your fingers. You remember when Queen had no money at all, when you and Roger shared a pitiful—dodgy, you amend—one-bedroom flat, when you had to assemble each bouquet and tie each ribbon for John’s wedding by hand; and you’re shocked by the nostalgia that hits you in the gut like brass knuckles. “Sure, I’ll go get him. Just tell me where he is and how much he’ll owe me.”

John is slumped on the floor of the jail cell, alone and sweated and miserable. His hair is in complete disarray. He peers up at you through the iron bars with red, swollen, unfocused eyes.

“Hey,” you say quietly, smiling although you know you shouldn’t be.

He covers his face with both hands and moans. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Too late. Freddie asked me to come get you, he was drunk or high or in the middle of an orgy or something. You are the worst drunk driver in the world, just so you’re aware. You are obviously not cut out for a life of crime.”

“So I’ve gathered.” He swipes at the strands of hair stuck to his forehead with the back of his hand, bites his lower lip, shakes his head with that thousand-yard stare that says: How the fuck did I get here?

You drop down to your knees to meet him at his level. The concrete floor is filthy, spotted with grime and dust and crushed insects and smears of what might be blood. “What’s going on, John?” you ask gently.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs. “It’s okay when we’re on tour. When we’re on tour I’m preoccupied and exhausted and too high on the rush to think about it too much. I’m numb. Mostly. But then I come home and it’s...” He glowers, balls his hands into fists, beats them clumsily against his thighs. “It’s this relentless fucking cycle of feeling dissatisfied and guilty and inadequate. A disappointment of a husband. A failure of a father. And it’s inescapable.”

“Well, the constant pregnancy situation probably doesn’t help.” Veronica is expecting their third child in February.

He waves a hand dismissively, rolls his eyes. “It’s part of the thing. The ‘being a good husband’ thing. I can’t fix that. Birth control is a sin or whatever. Jesus is too busy pissing himself over that to care about starving kids in the Soviet Union, I guess.”

“That’s a cheerful prospect.”

“Sorry.”

“No, please, by all means. Throw off all your baggage, I can take it.”

Now he smirks, just faintly. “That’s what we’ve always done for each other, right?”

“We’ll be back on tour in a few weeks, John.” And that was true; the News Of The World Tour was scheduled to begin on November 11th in Portland, Maine. The band would spend the 12th in Boston and join your parents for dinner at the Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia that you grew up in.

He whispers forlornly: “I can’t run from this forever.”

“You might have to. I’d love to know what Slavic Jesus has to say about divorce.”

John coughs out a surprised laugh. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Come on. I posted your bail. I won’t tell Roger if you won’t. You can put the extra five thousand pounds in your ‘fake my own death and go live on a tropical island’ fund instead of paying us back.” You’re not serious, and John knows that; he would never abandon his children, even if they weren’t old enough to really remember him yet. But it has the desired effect, which of course is lifting the mood, making John divulge that rare and beautiful smile.

“I’m a wreck. I can’t go home like this. It’d be worse than not coming home at all.”

“I’m happy to offer you one of our five superfluous bedrooms.”

“Okay,” John sighs, clutching the bars of his jail cell and dragging himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I owe you for this, I really do.”

“No,” you reply, grinning. “Just find a way to send me the coordinates so I can visit you on your secret tropical island once in a while.”

You drive John home to the Surrey house, get him set up in the spare bedroom with the blue-grey wallpaper and blankets patterned with seahorses, give him a stack of Roger’s clean clothes, lay out fresh towels and a tray of water and cookies—biscuits, you reprimand yourself—for him. He’s mostly sober now, which makes you feel somewhat better; still, you are aware that you hate the thought of leaving him alone, even if he’s only a few walls away.

“Thank you,” he says as you stand in the doorway, his face meditative, his hands in the pockets of his leather coat.

“Of course.”

“You’re a good friend. The best, actually.”

“You’re a good man. You don’t always know it, but you are.”

John just stares at you with an expression you can’t read. Like the ocean: always mysterious, always profound. “Goodnight,” he says after a while.

“Goodnight, John.”

As you pull the bedroom door shut, you hear erratic thumps coming up the staircase. Roger stumbles into the upstairs hallway, singing under his breath and drumming the air with invisible drumsticks, and holds out his arms when he sees you. He’s wearing his dark green suit, an unraveling tie, one sparkling pink Converse, his prescription sunglasses tangled in his hair and forgotten. His eyes are effervescent, flighty, almost manic.

“Hey, love of my life!” he cries, comically loud. “What are you doing up?!”

“Shhhhh! Your bassist partied a little too hard and needed a place to crash that wasn’t overrun with kids. He’s in the blue room.”

“Deaks? Deaks is sleeping over?!” Roger exclaims, beaming. “All my favorite people are here!”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t bother him. He’s pretty messed up, he needs the rest. I’ll make everyone pancakes in the morning or something. Come over here, let’s get you—” But the words die in your throat as you try to tug off Roger’s suit jacket. Fine white powder sheds off the emerald velvet fabric and onto your palm. You blink at it, at the residue like crushed aspirin, like the salt they scatter on Boston roads the night before a snowfall. “What is this?”

He rips his sleeve away, conjures up a smile to throw you off the trail. To dazzle his way out of this. “Nothing.” But he knows. And he knows you know too.

“You were...snorting coke...?”

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that...” He tries to embrace you; you shove him back.

“Roger, no, this is...this is...” You shake your head, shrugging off the shock, searching for the words. You’re confused, you’re exhausted, your mind is whirling. “We’re home, Roger,” you plead, like it means something.

Has he done this before? When? How often? With who?

You should know the answers. It’s not a good sign that you don’t.

“So?” Now he’s indignant.

“So it’s not like being on tour, you’re supposed to take it easy at home, you’re supposed to be, I don’t know, relaxed and recovering and, and, and content...”

You’re not supposed to have an excuse to do all those things that destroy people.

He laughs bitterly. “What, ‘happy at home’?! When has that ever been me?”

“Rog, please, I’m not saying you can’t work all the time or drink or smoke, I’m not even saying you can’t get wasted, I’m just drawing the line at cocaine and I don’t think that’s a terribly despotic place to draw a line.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I must have missed it, when did you become too moralistic for drugs?”

“Acid is different than coke and you know it. Acid doesn’t kill people.”

He glares at you, savage, almost hateful. “You don’t get to put me in a cage.”

“I’m not being controlling or self-righteous, I’m being concerned—”

“You’re being a fucking cop, that’s what you’re being,” Roger snaps.

“What do you want me to say?! I’m a registered nurse, Roger, I’m a medical professional, it’s literally my job to keep you alive—”

“No, it’s your job to make sure we can record and tour and I need it, I can’t play without it, don’t you get that?! I fucking need it!”

Instantly, John is between you, still fully dressed and sweating Manhattans out of his pores and seething. He’s taller than Roger; surely you must have noticed that before. But if you had, you’ve since forgotten. “Roger,” he threatens in a low, unyielding voice. “Go to bed.”

Roger recoils, disoriented, then opens his mouth to protest.

“Go!” John roars, pointing towards the main bedroom. He wants to say more, you can tell, he has rage burning in him like dragonfire; and if it had been Brian or even Freddie, John would have said it. But this is Roger. And you can’t remember a time John has ever raised his voice to Roger before now.

Roger can’t wrap his brain around it either, particularly in his present condition. His eyelids flutter a few times, then he scoffs—a dismissive, derisive sound, a sound that says I don’t know what to do with this information—and staggers away. He slams the bedroom door behind him as he disappears inside.

You collapse against the nearest wall and hiss in ragged breaths through your teeth, your eyes wet and stinging, your hands trembling as you press your knuckles to your lips.

“I-I-I’m so sorry about that,” you whisper, avoiding John’s eyes.

He’s going to say something, something harsh and terrible but true. He’s finally going to tell me how stupid I was for ever thinking this could work, just like Chrissie and Freddie and Brian. He’s going to tell me I deserve it.

Instead, John offers only this, his words flat and hollow: “Yeah. I’m sorry everyone is disappointing you tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning—early afternoon, really—Roger doesn’t remember; or at least he feigns convincingly that he doesn’t. He props his feet up on the kitchen table and shovels down six pancakes and theatrically relays to you all the scandalous celebrity gossip in the News Of The World magazine with his prescription sunglasses perched bookishly on his nose. He asks you three times if you’re alright, trying to read the hesitance in your eyes, to unearth all those questions that are taking up a permanent residence there. You smile and nod, sip your tea, watch the sharp autumn sunshine as it streams in through the windows and bathes Roger in luminescence that seems so benignly interminable in the light of day. And when you peer into the bedroom with seahorse-patterned blankets and walls the color of cold rain, John has vanished; but the air is heavy with the scent of a litany of cigarettes and there’s a handwritten note left on one pillow.

Thanks for everything. Hang tough, as the Yanks say. An island getaway awaits you.

~ World’s Worst Drunk Driver

At 3 p.m., John calls and asks if the Taylors would be interested in an outing to the park while he gives Veronica a few hours alone to catch up on housework without the kids. His tone is light, casual, harmless; but you suspect he’s checking in on you.

“Of course we’re interested!” Roger says, snatching his ostentatious fur coat off the back of his chair. “Baby, love of my life, go get some cash from the safe so we can buy the kids ice cream.”

Incidentally, there’s not much cash left in the safe; but you find a ten-pound note in your wallet for the ice cream man and make a mental note to run to the bank on Monday.

Hyde Park in October isn’t so different than Boston. The leaves above are a kaleidoscope of sunstone and rubies and jasper and jade, crisping and curling around their serrated edges, drifting listlessly onto pavement paths to be crushed beneath rushing feet; the roots of the trees are centuries deep. Chrissie is walking laps around the pond as she pushes the twins’ stroller; Evelyn is a fairly good sleeper, but Theodore—Teddy to his closest confidants, of which you are one—is an anxious baby and prone to whining. He’s definitely Brian’s son, you often find yourself thinking with an affectionate smirk. John’s ten-month-old daughter Anna is nestled in your arms in a semi-conscious state, having thoroughly exhausted herself by painting her face with chocolate ice cream and thereafter enduring an impromptu bath and wardrobe change in a public restroom.

Laszlo, two years old and with a mop of auburn curls, trots by the edge of the pond as Roger grips his tiny hand, periodically crouches down beside him, grins hugely and points out swans and fish darting through the dark rippling water. Laszlo shrieks with laughter and tries to steal Roger’s sunglasses, which glint in the sunlight like black mirrors.

“So your kid’s a convict too,” you say to John.

“Gotta train them when they’re still small and good for shimmying through dog doors and such.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Extremely hungover, but I’m trying not to show it.”

“You’re doing a good job, I wouldn’t have known.”

“Excellent. I don’t think Veronica noticed. She was very curious about how I ended up in a pair of Roger’s skintight leopard-print pants, though.”

You chuckle, glimpsing down at Anna, rocking her a little as her eyes flitter open and then close again. You and John are on opposite ends of a wooden park bench, your ankles crossed and resting in his lap, your hair rustling in the breeze. John peers over at you periodically, studies you like an ancient statue of Aphrodite or Perseus under a spotlight in an echoing museum, then resumes his sketching. Your smile dies as you watch Roger giggle with Laszlo, lift him high into the cool autumn air, trumpet mock airplane noises in that high, raspy voice.

“Come on,” John prompts, nudging your boots. “I’ll take the baggage if you’ll let me.”

No, I think I’ll keep this one to myself. But you don’t. “It’s my fault,” you say softly. It’s my fault we can’t have children.

John lifts his pencil from the page, his greyish eyes gentle. “You don’t know that.”

“Statistically, it is most likely my fault.”

“It hasn’t been that long, has it? Definitely less than a year. Sometimes these things take time.”

“They didn’t for you and Veronica.”

“Yes, well...” John frowns uneasily. “That’s not always such a blessing.”

“How helpful. You should write newspaper columns for depressed housewives. ‘Don’t worry about that infertility dear, you could have it worse, you could have a life sentence with someone you can’t fucking stand.’”

That was unkind, you think, immediately regretting it. That might have been too far.

But John doesn’t seem offended. His pencil flies over the paper as he glances over at you again. “Is that all? Please continue. I’m riveted to learn more about my alternative career path.”

“No, I think I’m done.”

“Okay. What’s your favorite flower?”

You consider that. “Roger always gets me carnations or roses...and I like them, don’t get me wrong...but I don’t know if I’d call either of those my favorite.”

“It’s not that deep a question, Miss Nightingale.”

“I’ll defer to the artist’s expertise. Surprise me.”

“I’m no artist,” John warns, but he returns to his sketching nonetheless. “I’m really sorry about last night, by the way. I was being stupid and dramatic and immature and self-pitying. ‘Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost,’ etcetera etcetera.”

You’re no great connoisseur of Italian literature, but you recognize those famous opening lines of the Inferno. “Can I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

“What is this fascination you have with Dante?”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles pensively with his eyes cast out over the pond. “I like that his story has a happy ending. That someone can start in hell and sweat out all their sins in purgatory and end up among the stars.”

You raise your eyebrows, taken back, impressed. “That’s awfully poetic.”

“It’s strange, probably,” John says, scrutinizing his drawing.

“No, really. I love it.”

“Yeah?” He’s doubtful, but he’ll allow himself to believe you if you insist.

“Yeah. And no more drunk driving or other acts of self-destruction, okay? Queen would crumble without you, John. And so would I.”

In reply, he rips the page out of his notebook and hands it over. The image is of you: so infinitely more lovely and at peace than you feel, eyes wise and contented and reflecting halos of sunlight, John’s daughter dozing in your arms.

Tucked behind your ear, etched in graphite shadows, is a calla lily.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Darling, what do I look like?” Freddie bats his eyelashes flirtatiously.

“A raccoon.”

His face screws into a grimace. “I’m supposed to be a cat.”

“Yes, I’m cognizant of that. But you look like a raccoon. Which is why people keep assuming you’re a raccoon, which is why you’re asking me now if you look like one.”

“Bloody hell,” he groans, puffs on a cigarette, fluffs his hair irritably, slurps a drink that is fizzy and sapphire blue.

“The problem is that you went with black and white. You should have dressed as a calico or something. Or a grey cat, oh, I love the chubby grey ones!”

“I’m a musician, darling, not a fucking zoologist.” He exhales a ring of smoke and meanders away.

Queen, the band’s associates, and various music industry figures are all milling around the night-draped mansion. It’s half a Halloween celebration and half a launch party for News Of The World, an album named for the tabloid that Roger both loathes and yet refuses to stop having delivered to the Surrey house. He can’t stand the thought of not being clued into the latest gossip, trends, fashion, awards, of missing any piece of what stardom has to offer. In the spirit of Halloween, Roger is dressed as a tiger, his sleeveless sequined shirt striped with orange and black. You are a veterinarian (not so far a cry from a nurse that you can’t repurpose your old uniform), John a shark (he’s taped a cardboard triangle to his back like a fin), Veronica a sea turtle in a teal dress and with a shell painted over her sizable baby bump, Brian and Chrissie both bright green aliens with antennae bobbing from their headbands. Mary is here as well—outfitted (quite appropriately) like an Enlightenment-era queen—but so is Freddie’s new boyfriend, a shy man named Anthony who is young and handsome and compliant and dressed as a mouse. Mary beams dutifully whenever Freddie is speaking to her, but her expression clouds over when he turns away. She no longer has a gold ring gleaming on her wedding finger, although she did gain an athletic blond date whom she seems largely indifferent to.

As Roger wanders through the crowd shaking hands and howling at jokes, you sip champagne by the snack table and devour an obscene amount of crab puffs. John and Veronica are chatting—unenthusiastically, from what you can tell—nearby with lamb kabobs in their grasps. John passes you a smirk every once in a while, an I’m so over this party and I know you are too smirk of commiseration, and nurses a Manhattan. Chrissie nibbles on disks of cucumber and baby carrots and not much else, which is very unlike her.

“You alright?” you ask worriedly. “You aren’t sick, are you? These crab puff things are incredible, I can’t stop eating them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had three dinners so far tonight, I’ve become a monster.”

Chrissie’s lips are a tight, humorless line. “I’m perfectly healthy, I’m just a cow.”

“Chris, honey, don’t!” You pat her shoulder reassuringly with one hand, pop another crab puff into your mouth with the other. “You’re gorgeous, and most women’s bodies change once they have babies, it’s natural!”

“Yeah, well most women aren’t married to men with infinite opportunities to upgrade.”

“Chrissie, no,” you murmur, pained; but you aren’t sure what else to say. She’s not wrong. I wish she was, but she isn’t. And she already knows that.

Dreams by Fleetwood Mac is playing from the reverberating stereo, Stevie Nicks’ sensuous, nasally voice climbing through air choked with strangers and cigarette smoke.

“Now here you go again

You say you want your freedom

Well, who am I to keep you down?”

Brian bids farewell to some record company executive he was talking to across the room and slips out onto the back porch of the house, and after a moment Chrissie follows him. You resist the temptation to eavesdrop until you can clearly hear their voices, raised and combative, through the sliding glass door. You glance to John, apprehensive.

You better go out there, he mouths, and so you do.

“Thunder only happens when it's rainin'

Players only love you when they're playin'

Say women, they will come and they will go

When the rain washes you clean, you'll know...”

Under cold October stars, Chrissie has trapped her horrified-looking husband, backed him into a fountain of a dolphin spewing an endless stream of water from its snout. “Did you think I wouldn’t listen to your own fucking album, Brian?!” She shrieks. “Who is she, huh? Who the fuck is she?!”

You grip her arm and try to lead her away. “Chrissie, babe, not here—”

“It’s Late, Brian? Yeah, it’s real fucking late in your life to still be chasing whores over in America while I’m building your family here, isn’t it?!”

“Love, please, it’s not true,” Brian attempts anemically, reaching for her.

“It is!” Chrissie rages. “It is and it always has been and I was too busy being some blind stupid idiot who loved you to see it!”

She breaks down in tears and you shove Brian away, shoo him back inside. You pitch him a fierce glare as he leaves, retreating like a kicked dog. There’s nothing you can do to fix this, you coward. Because everything she’s saying is true. Chrissie clings to you like a life raft, sobbing into your shoulder, asking what she did wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, over and over again; because that’s all there is to say.

Eventually Chrissie quiets, goes still and resigned and numb, and you help her fix her makeup and lead her back inside. You stand with her beside the snack table and swear not to leave her side until the party’s over, until the men are done celebrating yet another triumph that will take them further and further from home. Brian is nowhere to be found.

“That goddamn broodmare,” Chrissie hisses, gulping straight vodka, staring venomously at Veronica.

“Why do you hate her so much? I mean she can be dull, yeah. She’s sanctimonious and naïve and dresses like a freaking Mennonite. But she’s not horrible or anything.” And her life isn’t so perfect either.

“It’s not obvious?” Chrissie asks, her voice like a blade.

“No...?”

Chrissie’s eyes are scorching, although you’re not the person she’s furious with. You just happen to be standing in the path of the storm. “Because she’s the only one of us who’s never going to have to find out what this feels like.”

Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

You try to spot Roger in the teeming room. He’s over by a crackling fireplace, telling stories with dramatic sweeps of his hands, bleeding charisma like sweat, and none of that is unusual at all. One of the people he’s talking to is Dominique Beyrand, and that’s not so unusual either; Richard Branson ends up at a lot of industry events, and Dom trails him around like a shadow, nodding politely and contributing little chirps of conversation in that posh French accent.

But here’s the strange part; here’s the part you’ve never seen before.

When Roger flashes that dazzling smile of his, Dominique smiles back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, you’re steeping in a sweltering bubble bath as the phone rings downstairs. You ignore it at first, because the hot water is unraveling all the tension in your muscles and the lurking shadows in your mind, and also because the calendar is hanging right beside the phone in the kitchen and you’re quite committed to ignoring it this morning. But the phone rings again, and again, and you’re aware that it could be something serious; Roger is working on some non-Queen collaboration at a studio in downtown London, and something could have happened to him.

Especially considering his recreational preferences lately.

You scramble out of the tub, pull on a robe that sticks uncomfortably to your dripping skin, leave a path of bathwater footprints down the hallway and steps—slipping twice and clinging to the banister for dear life—before finally careening into the kitchen to snatch the phone off the wall.

“Hello?” you gasp, winded.

It’s not Roger, nor someone calling to inform you that Roger has overdosed or disappeared or vaulted down a staircase or been hit by a bus. It’s Chrissie.

“Have you seen the News Of The World yet?” she demands.

“Ummm, the album...?” Of course I’ve listened to the album. About a million times. You have a particular affinity for Spread Your Wings.

“No, not the album,” she snaps impatiently, although she kindly leaves out the you idiot addition that her tone implicates. “The magazine. Have you seen it today?”

“I was mid-bubble bath and almost broke my neck sprinting for the phone. So no.”

“Good. Don’t read a word. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m coming over. I’m gonna grab John and come right over.”

“Chris, what—?”

“Do not touch that fucking magazine!” she screams, and hangs up.

Naturally, you don’t listen.

You go to the main door of the Surrey mansion and open it. Sure enough, the new issue of News Of The World is waiting on the porch for you. You pluck it up with damp hands; the whirlpools of your fingerprints stick to the parchment.

On the front page is a photo of Roger, but he’s not alone. He’s scowling at the paparazzo snapping the picture, his face lit up by the flash, painfully and unmistakably stunning. He’s in some sort of alley or side entrance to a restaurant or club. He’s somewhere he’s trying not to be seen, which anyone could tell you is remarkable for Roger Taylor. Beside him is a woman you recognize; and although she’s looking down and trying to hide behind her shock of lustrous black hair, you can see her lips are smiling.

The headline reads: “Queen Drummer Spends Royally on London Love Nest for French Mistress.”

[buzzdixonwriter]

Duty Now For The Future (part three)

(When last we left our intrepid scrivener, he was spitballing ideas on what he thought the post coronavirus pandemic world would look like…)

Creative Breakthroughs

A lot of people are going to be doing things that interest them during the lockdown, and we’ll see the benefits of that very soon.

Ideas will collide and new ideas will emerge from that.

The high ticket items that our capitalist system kept saying was what we wanted will be supplanted by smaller scale, more personal ideas.

In my phone right now is a free app that enables me to make movies of any length.

There’s a music making app as well.

People are going to create and they’re going to create with the resources they have on hand.

The big movie theaters are taking a hit.  There will not be enough audiences to sustain them.  They’ll be rapidly repurposed.

Once a vaccine is developed for the coronavirus, live venues will flourish.

Pop up theaters and clubs along the times cited above for stores and restaurants will also flourish.

Some of those big empty shopping centers will see crowds return since every week will have a new batch of stores and food stalls and live entertainment to offer.

There are going to be some remarkable media projects created by this, and that will be the artistic wave of the future, and out of necessity it’s not going to be the bloated big budget blockbuster.

If you can tell an interesting story shot in your house using family members as cast, you’ll be able to craft other small scale dramas.

(The only movie theaters likely to flourish will be drive-ins, and for pretty much the reasons they flourished in the past:  They’re cheaper than motels.)

Also, if you thought my incel prediction was scary, try this on for size:  iPhones + senior citizens X trapped at home X several weeks or months confinement = epic granny porn.  (Right now a bunch of you are rolling your eyes and saying “there goes Buzz, making up weird stuff again” and to that I say “you wish!”)

. . .

Print Takes A Hit

Disposable printing (i.e., cheap magazines, books, comics, and newspapers) may not be wiped out, but it’s gonna get rocked back on its heels.

There will always be a small and identifiable market for quality printed works (and here I’m talking about the physical package, not the contents), but the days of buying a magazine knowing full well you’ll throw it away in a few days or weeks will end.

Disposable printing will remain for specific local events (conventions programs, conference brochures, etc.) but mass market printing will go.  (And expect more and more conventions and conferences to make their programs and brochures available online only.)

That’s going to be quite a block to several overlapping industries and creative disciplines.  There are new venues springing up digitally and online, but the transition over will not be an easy one for older consumers.

. . .

Collecting & Crafting

Bad news for all you folks holding onto “collectables” that were cranked out by the shitte-tonne.  The only people who value them are folks like you, who bought ‘em hoping to sell ‘em to some other sucker.  Real 21st century collectibles will be precious because of their scarcity and their craftsmanship, in particular the fame and reputation of the crafter making it.

. . .

DIY Culture

This is going to overlap with a resurgence in home crafting, making items by hand that become desirable because they were made by hand.  Smart tailors and jewelers and other crafters will operate on margins too thin for large scale production but will do quite nicely since they’ll eliminate mid-level distribution by selling direction online.  Already Etsy and similar sites are making this possible.

Couple it with 3D printers becoming cheaper and more reliable, and a lot of small household items are going to actually be made in the house they’re intended for.

We should also see people creating automated looms, knitting machines, woodworking lathes, etc., that eliminate or at least drastically reduce the skill set required to turn out serviceable goods.  

Not everyone will own one (much less all) of these devices, but in neighborhoods and among family and friends we should find people we know and trust who can make things for us.

. . .

Pop Up Stores And Restaurants

The worst business to be in is the restaurant business.  

An estimated 20% of all new businesses fail in their first year, and 50% fail by their fifth year, but for restaurants it’s a staggering 60% in year one, 80% by year five.

Who would want to get in any new business?

No, what we’ll want to do is get our new business out.

What kills most new businesses is a tug of war between financing (never enough) and real estate / hardware (always unexpected costs there).

A restaurateur needs to find an affordable location, make sure it is outfitted with a suitable kitchen, assemble a staff, then open at set times in a fixed location and hope enough people come to make the venture profitable.

Why?

Look at food trucks.  They go everywhere and they do good business.  Of course, there’s no fine dining establishment, you just grab your grub and go, so it’s not the wort of thing that appeals to people who wish to socialize or do a business lunch.

But a pop-up restaurant could offer that.  Find an empty venue, either take over its kitchen if it has one or truck in your own if needed, open only during the hours you wish to be open, then cart everything off when finished.

There are night clubs and raves that do this sort of thing already on a much lower scale.  And it doesn’t have to be confined to entertainment style businesses.

A small shop could easily open up for a few weeks in a specific location, sell products, then close and move on / wait till the next opportunity.  (This already happens in the form of Halloween and Christmas shops that pop up for a few weeks then disappear around those holidays.)

Returns could be handled in a centralized location; the business need not generate what it sells but could be the storefront for a manufacturer.

It will mean a change in the way we shop and the way we market what we shop, but with most durable goods purchased online, and with smaller items either made at home or by a local crafter one knows, this might be a viable market for items and services that might otherwise fall through the cracks.

. . .

The Knowns, The Known Unknowns, And The Unknown Unknowns

The above are what I think is going to result from this current coronavirus outbreak.

Frankly, there are still so many wild cards in play that there’s no guarantee any of the above will come about. 

Consider: The tragic polio outbreaks of the 1920s / 30s / 50s were rightly or wrongly associated with public swimming pools.

A great many families, once they rose high enough into the middle class, bought a backyard pool -- either an inground or a temporary seasonal above ground model -- to keep their family safe.

It became a status symbol to show how well you looked after your kids.

Even when polio was finally defeated, it remained a status symbol.

There’s no reason for everybody to have a backyard pool, and in places like Southern California they’re actually counterproductive, contributing to climate change (you’re better off filling ‘em in and planting trees instead).

Nobody anticipated that in the 1950s when building pools became more and more common for middle class families around America.

You’ll notice I’ve avoid discussing contemporary politics.

That’s because this crisis is ultimately one of a political nature, both in the US and around the world, and it’s going to be solved (hopefully) through politics.

Or violence.

Which is why I’m rooting for politics.

Whatever happens, it’s going to be change in a big, big way.

It may not be good change.

We may not like it.

We may have to fight to change to something else.

But we’re never going back to where we once were.

. . .

Bottom Line: We’re going to get through this, but we’re not going to be the same on the other side.

 © Buzz Dixon

[johnnusz]

‘I’m going to say my piece’ on pandemic spring break

Udonis Haslem

❮❯

Miami Heat forward and Liberty City native Udonis Haslem discusses the coronavirus pandemic, what it was like growing up hungry in South Florida, and why spring breakers needed to stay home to avoid COVID-19.

BY UDONIS HASLEM

This article by Miami Heat veteran Udonis Haslem was originally published by The Players’ Tribune and contains explicit language.

You see that video going around of these silly ass college kids down in South Florida on spring break? Talking about, “If I get corona, I get corona, bro,” and all that nonsense?

Man, I’ll tell you one thing for sure.

Those kids have never been hungry a day in their life.

They never had to worry about nothing more serious than a pop quiz. But they’re still coming down here — coming to our state — in the middle of a pandemic, acting like nothing’s going on??

I’m not usually the kind of guy who does this sort of thing … . I don’t write a lot of articles. But if you f--- with my city, I’m going to speak on it.

So I’m going to take a second here and say my piece.

It’s funny — these kids fly down to places like South Beach for a couple days to party, and they think that’s Miami. But they’ve never seen the real Miami. They’ve never been to Liberty City. They’ve never seen the side of this city that’s living check to check. The side of this city that’s surviving meal to meal.

And let me just tell you something, man — there’s a Liberty City in every city. It’s regular people, with regular struggles. And I don’t know how I can get everyone to listen, but I say this from the bottom of my heart: The people growing up in the real Miami? They’re as vulnerable during this crisis as anybody.

And I’ll tell you one more thing — this idea about those people, that because of this coronavirus they’re going to go hungry? They were already hungry. Way before all this. They were already worrying about where their next meal was gonna come from, or where they’re gonna sleep tonight, or how they’re going to get their next dollar.

And that’s what I need to get off my chest right here. Because it’s been eating me up — to see all this coverage of our city, from all these people who don’t even know what they’re talking about, that’s just focused on a bunch of kids acting stupid.

This ain’t your f---ing beach, bruh.

This is not your spring break.

This shit is real life — and come to think of it, it’s more than even that.

This shit is life and death.

But how do I know, right? I hear y’all already, with your comments. I’m just some rich basketball player. How can I relate to that? What do I know?

Man, I grew up in Liberty City.

I had never even been to South Beach until my rookie year in the NBA.

We were living a whole different life across the bridge.

We saw things no kids should see. Drug addiction was all around us. Homelessness was all around us. My mother, God bless her soul, struggled with addiction and was homeless for years until she turned her life around.

I was that kid getting those free school lunches you read about on your Twitter timeline. Matter of fact, most of us in my elementary school had lunch cards. We went to school to eat, you know what I’m saying?? Those fish sticks were everything. That little carton of chocolate milk was everything. If you skipped school to f--- around in the streets, you might go hungry that day.

I didn’t know anything different. To me, that was just the norm. Like if you had three dollars to buy some chips and a sandwich for lunch? Man, I was looking at you like you were the weird one, you know what I’m saying?

And so while I might not be a doctor or a congressman or anything like that, I do know one thing — just as someone who grew up where I grew up: If our schools have to close down for a long time because this corona thing gets out of control, millions of kids are going home to empty refrigerators.

The worse this pandemic gets, the worse it’s going to be for those kids.

Really think about that.

And also ask yourself this question: Have you ever been hungry before?

I mean really hungry? Not just, like, “Damn, bro, I gotta get on Grubhub right now” hungry.

No, I’m talking hungry.

Because here’s something that only those who’ve really struggled will ever know: Everything changes when you’re hungry. Everything, man. Your whole entire perspective changes.

I’ll tell you a true story. Any time I see a bowl of raisins? Mannnnnnnn. Listen. To this very day, if I see raisins, it’s like I get triggered. I mean it — if I saw a bowl of them on the table right now, I might go apeshit. I might damn near flip the table over. Can’t see ’em, bro. Can’t smell ’em. Makes me sick.

It’s because when I was growing up, we had too many nights where the only thing we had for dinner were those little red boxes of raisins. Nothing else, no lie. That was the main motherf---ing course. Man … you know that smell I’m talking about? The smell of that California Raisin-ass cardboard? You’d be sitting there thinking, “Alright, it’s only about 15 hours till I get to school tomorrow so I can get some fish sticks.”

And that was the reality for lots of kids before all this coronavirus stuff and all this economic pain, you know what I’m saying? That’s just life. Kids going hungry, that’s our normal, right?

If this crisis doesn’t wake us up and make us change as a country, I don’t know what will.

When the average person in Middle America thinks about this virus, and this “social distancing” talk and all that, maybe they picture a bunch of schools shutting down and then these kids going home to a bunch of nice houses and chilling for a couple months. Eating snacks, playing video games. Mom’s working from home, doing conference calls. And I’m glad that’s a reality for so many kids.

But for a lot of kids, for the other half of America, it’s not reality.

For them, home might not be the safest place.

Maybe there’s a reason these kids don’t go home until it’s time to sleep, you know what I’m saying? Maybe there’s a reason they stay out at the basketball court or at the Y until they lock the gates at night.

Might be violent in that household, you feel me?

If this situation gets out of control, and we have to keep everybody off the streets? That house they’re holed up in might start to feel more like a prison.

For a lot of kids, the truth is that school is the only structure they got. It’s the only food they can count on. It’s the only safety that’s guaranteed.

You take that all away? You better be prepared to protect them.

And that’s really the thing about this crisis that we’re living through right now. This moment we’re in … it’s not about you. It’s not about your spring break, or the way you wanna live your life. It’s like, yeah, trust me, bro — I wanna chill, too. I wanna work out at the gym, too. I wanna be on the court again, grooming these young bucks.

So hell yeah, I want my old life back, too.

But this ain’t about me. It ain’t about you.

This thing is about us.

This virus is going to affect everybody, especially the most vulnerable.

So if you got a nice, stable environment? Keep your ass home.

If you got a roof over your head? Keep your ass home.

If you got a crib with Netflix and a refrigerator full of food? Keep your ass home.

I can’t tell you what’s going to happen with the coronavirus. I’m not a public health expert. But I am a certified O.G., and I’m definitely qualified to tell you about what’s going to happen in these streets with so much of the economy shut down. If people don’t take this situation seriously and pull together as a nation, millions of kids are going to suffer.

They didn’t ask for this life. They got dealt this hand when they came out the womb. It’s our responsibility as a nation to protect these kids. You don’t have to be rich to do your part. You don’t have to be a saint, neither.

You know, I tell people all the time, I was raised on the wings of the O.G.’s.

If it wasn’t for other people reaching out their hand to me, I never would’ve made it out of my situation. I never would’ve lived my dreams. And listen, you didn’t have to be Mother Teresa to help a kid out, you know what I’m saying? You didn’t have to be working for the Red Cross to catch me on the corner where I wasn’t supposed to be, and hand me five dollars, like, “Take your ass to the store and get some food. You’re not supposed to be here.”

My O.G.’s did that for me. They looked out for me, even though I wasn’t their blood. True story — I never had a real NBA jersey growing up. My O.G. Buckwheat gave me one straight off his back. Literally took it off, handed it to me. For nothing.

You know whose jersey it was?

Alonzo Mourning.

Ain’t that crazy? Imagine telling Zo, “Couple years from now, this broke-ass kid from Liberty City is coming for your rebounding record, bro!!!!!!!”

And you know, Buckwheat … let’s just say he didn’t have a regular job. But he always made sure I was good. All around me, I had people like that. In the middle of the struggle, we had each other’s back. Sometimes people look at the inner city like it’s all crabs in a bucket, like it’s every man for himself, but that’s not the full picture.

We survived because there was always somebody willing to come pick you up at four o’clock in the morning, no questions asked. There was always somebody willing to give you the shirt off their back, or the basketball shoes off their feet, or the last five dollars in their pocket.

Can we really say we got that same feeling of solidarity right now, as a country?

I look around on social media, in the middle of this disaster, and I see a lot of people talking about “me,” you know what I’m saying?

My way of life. My vacation.

If we don’t start talking about us, then a lot of people are going to suffer.

You know how many kids would hit me up in my DMs every day, before all this went down, talking about, “Hey UD, you got a job for me? I know you own some Subways. I’m just trying to get some money for my family.”

Every day.

I’m no doctor, or no politician, or no public health expert. But I know one thing, man. We all got a responsibility to those kids.

So where my O.G.’s at? Who gonna step up for them? I got two ideas for you.

If you can afford to donate some money to support meals for the kids who really need it, help out the people at Feeding South Florida.

Every $1 provides about six meals for people who really need our help right now.

If you can’t? (And believe me, I understand if you can’t.) If you can’t, you can do something real simple. If you got a roof over your head and some food in your fridge and you don’t have to go to work to feed your family, just do the easiest thing in the world, man.

F--- your spring break.

Just keep your ass at home.

[iridescentanachronism]

when one night only turns into two

hello folks, i have never written fanfiction and never used this blog! i guess i’m diving in headfirst LMAO!!! 

this is a lil blurb i thought of when y/n is a singer (not super big but for sure up and coming) and she covers kiwi at one of her shows and it goes viral and harry notices and decides to just SHOW UP at her show the balls on this guy!! anyways this is my first fic so please be kind! constructive criticism is always welcome 

“thank you for coming out tonight! your presence gives me the ability to do my job- i will always be grateful for each and every single one of you. drive safely and love one another, los angeles. thanks again for having me, you have been wonderful.” 

as you walked off the small stage at the house of blues your heart swelled with pride. this was your first show out of state, and from what the audience sounded like, you had crushed it. performing in LA had always been a dream of yours, but a daunting one, considering that their crowds were used to big names and powerful stage presences. you were intimidated by the city- yet you walked off their stage with an indescribable feeling of pride, adrenaline, and confidence. this was the start of something new and you could feel it.  

feeling someone’s eyes on you, you made a sharp turn and ran into your tour manager, rosco. “hello! hey, hey, hey, that was amazing wasn’t it? the energy felt absolutely maddening! god, i could do that everyday for the rest of my life. what do you think? was it too much, did we do too many covers?” the words seemed to flow right out of you, even though you gave LA your all, it was still LA, and rosco had always been your best critic. he quickly responded to let you know it was as amazing as you’d originally thought, and that if this show was any indication, you would have plenty more shows in LA. 

what you didn’t expect, however, was the ruckus that one of the aforementioned covers would cause on twitter. you had always loved harry styles, and after taking quite some time to look into the legalities on the matter, decided to cover kiwi for the first time last night. logging into your account, you noticed the song title trending- and after clicking on it you were led to a video of your show, hair being shaken around you, throwing yourself around the stage with the heavy music, and the scene was completed with a boisterous crowd jumping around and singing every word along with you. a smile covered your face- this is your favorite part of performing, losing yourself entirely in the stage, and in this video you were doing just that. however excited you had become at the potential this showed for your career, you immediately had so many questions. why had this blown up so much? you covered four songs last night, why is this one such a big deal? after looking through the tag, chuckling at some memes, and being freaked out by some responses, you had found the tweet that made you lose your shit. the tweet itself wasn’t even the raunchiest you had found this morning, it simply stated: “@y/t/n: fuck my shit up, babe. literally, whatever you want to do to me, do it” with the linked video of you singing kiwi. however, one thing in particular stood out to you. the part that said “liked by harry styles”. 

you immediately dialed rosco, not only is he your tour manager, but basically your entire support system. a musicians life gets lonely, and he is the only one who has stuck by you throughout the entire tumultuous journey. 

“sweetheart! perfect timing, i actually was just about to call-”

“harrystylessawthekiwivideoandlikedatweetaboutitholyfuckingshit-” you started to ramble, your most prominent nervous trait, in the highest pitch rosco thought he had ever heard from you. 

“sweets, first of all, where was that pitch when we recorded the album? second, take a breath and tell me again, i can’t understand a damn thing you said”

you took a deep breath and told him of the tweets you saw, and when you told him about harry’s interaction he simply told you to chill out. he had favorited a tweet, and he may not have even been the one to do it. with an odd sting you realized he was correct, while it was exciting to have your idol recognize you, you could not overthink it: it was simply recognition for a job well done. 

“it seems as though the people you needed to impress are just as proud of you as i am, lovey, your ‘one night only’ in los angeles has been extended to two, you interested in doing it all over again tomorrow night?”

you must have looked like a goldfish in your kitchen, jaw slack and eyes wide open, you struggled to come to your senses. you had asked for the chance to prove yourself in a city known for music, and good music at that, and were apparently being gifted with a second chance. 

“oh! um, yes, of course, why wouldn’t i? holy shit, this is amazing, holy shit!” you began to squeal and run in circles around your house. whilst giggling with elation, the seriousness of this event hit you: two nights of rocking out with the liveliest crowd you have ever played for, in the city you’ve dreamt of doing this in for years. drops began to form in your eyes as you managed to spit out a quick thank you to rosco, who knew you would cry. he, quite frankly, did not want to hear your tears, so he hung up after telling you what to tweet. 

after logging on you realized you had gone from a respectable 10k followers to an overwhelming 30k, you almost squealed again, composing yourself enough to type, you wrote: 

@y/t/n: wow. in absolute awe of you la. thank you for supporting me, and thank you for letting me do what i do. and thanks to you all, i have been gifted another night here (-: night two at the hob! tickets on sale at 6pm california time, come see me tomorrow night, peeps! i’ll be sure to make it worth your while <3 

with the click of your fingers and the ping of your phone, the announcement had been sent, and the stage had been sent. the pressure was on, and you had never felt more in your element. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

everything that could have gone wrong on the morning of your fateful second show, had. you had woken up late (something minor, but was an omen for your bad day), gotten a flat tire, been hit on by the man sent to fix said flat tire, and had been late to soundcheck. after arriving at soundcheck you had found that everything was wrong, the stage wasn’t set up correctly, the duct-taped x’s from the previous show had been removed, and you had to all but start from the beginning. 

you had planned to change things up from your previous gig, but had no time to practice the changes. you spoke to your band and hoped that was enough, you drank some coffee, did some jumping jacks, warmed up your vocals, and put on your game face. this is your second show in LA, and you weren’t going to let anything ruin it; hearing the sounds of a sold out bar in front of you, feeling your heart began to flutter in your chest, and knowing that in a few minutes you would be putting on the best show of your goddamn life had set you up well. you were ready. with your shoulders back and head up high, you walked onto stage and, unknowingly, commanded the attention of the room. 

about twenty minutes into your set you decided to take a quick breather. taking a long sip of water and leaning into the microphone, you decided to do a quick little check in, “hey folks, hows everyone doing out there?” your southern drawl had just slipped in towards the end, and you felt so at ease on stage that you hadn’t even noticed. someone else did notice. 

harry styles had decided to surprise you at your show, he had favorited that tweet because he agreed- you could do whatever you wanted to him, but he would rather do whatever you wanted to you. he had his signature smirk on as he stood backstage, listening to rosco ramble about how surprized you would be when you realized he had come, and how much you adored his album. as you continued to banter back in forth with the sold out bar, harry had taken note of how peaceful you looked. you stood proudly on stage, with messy hair, and a sick body you looked comfortable; the stage had seemed like your home. 

luckily, you hadn’t noticed harry the entire show, hadn’t even noticed how his eyes hadn’t left your body while you passionately belted out every word to his song, completely losing yourself in the melody, and delivering another breathtaking performance. he watched you take your final bow, and heard your last expression of gratitude, before watching you run off stage and into the arms of your tour manager. harry quickly noticed the tears in your eyes and the smile so large that it looked painful, he heard your rambling and the joy in your voice, it had reminded him of when this was all new, when nothing was guaranteed, and the only thing keeping him in this trying industry was the feeling you were experiencing right now. 

his moment of nostalgia passed as you had unraveled yourself from rosco’s arms and did a double take. harry styles was standing in front of you. you heard a deep chuckle coming from him, likely due to your wide eyes and gaping mouth, he heard a quiet “no fucking way” come from you, and decided he had waited long enough. as cocky as usual, he rasped out, “hello love, your show was amazing. it’s a pleasure to meet you, i’m harry, as i think you may know” he didn’t bother waiting for a response from the gobsmacked young woman before continuing, “y’know, i’ve seen plenty of covers of kiwi, but none have been as genuine as yours. you captured the song for what it is, you blew it away, blew me away in fact, so i knew i had to come out and see ya tonight.” his accent grew thicker as he became more bemused with your state of shock.

your breath eventually caught up to you as you nervously chuckled, “holy shit, thank you so much. you have no idea how much that means coming from you. thank you for coming out, oh my god, i have so much to say to you but nothing is coming to mind other than thank you, so thank you, again” 

“of course, darling, i loved it. i’ll be sure to pass along my number so whatever comes to mind can be said. unfortunately, i have to run, but i’ll be seeing you around kiddo, keep up the good work” harry said with a sly wink, leaving you flushed at the pet name, and yearning for more time with him. while you let out a soft thank you and goodnight, you began to think of what the future held for you. praise from harry styles was not to be taken lightly, and his impromptu visit had only fanned the flame in your soul, his visit meant you were doing something right, and this had been the fuel you needed to continue putting in long hours at the studio, and spending evenings alone, writing in your shitty and overpriced apartment.  

while you had been thinking of what this visit meant for your career. harry had thoughts of you headlining arenas swimming around in his head. as he walked away he thought of you; thought of how immensely talented you were, how charismatic you were, and how far you had to go. he also thought of your grace, the presence you carried as you pranced around on stage, and the charming beauty that you seemed unaware of. harry styles knew you were talented, but he also knew you were breathtaking, and he could see absolutely nothing stopping you. 

as he walked away and you listened to rosco’s compliments, you allowed your own mind to wander. maybe, just maybe, things were going to look up for you. and you couldn’t help but sigh happily at the thought. 

A/N: hello peeps! sorry this was super long hmm i’m torn between cutting it or not, because not much harry but also the buildup is important to me, please let me know what you prefer! constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome and apprecited! thanks for reading this far if you did, you mean the world to me! let me know if y’all would want a part two (-:

[i-prefer-the-term-antihero]

My 2018 in Review (Long Post Incoming!)

I know everyone’s been making new years posts, and that I’m late, but I’ve been thinking about what I’d say for this post for months, so…

Once again, VERY long post incoming! (I put a “keep reading” bar, but it doesn’t always show up on my posts…) Also...please forgive any typos...I’m writing this at midnight. 

I don't know if anyone will be interested in this, or read the whole thing...but here goes. 

To begin: 

Last year, during December ,I wrote my Pandora Hearts fic “The Things We Say Aloud.” During the fic, it’s been raining all month, and it finally snows on Christmas Eve. I lived in Seattle, where it does snow, but white christmases are rare. Last year, after writing that fic, it snowed at my house on christmas eve. It felt like a christmas gift that my fic came true in my own life.

But there was this little voice in the back of my head that said “What if this is your gift for your last year in Seattle?”

My response was “What the heck?! Why would you even think that?! Why would we leave Seattle?!"

When this year started, I was doing just fine. I was starting my (*cough cough* second...) gap year, happy in my house in Seattle, writing, and soon I started cat sitting, which was kind of the perfect job for me. 

But things were stagnant, I wasn’t really sure what the year would hold, or if I was doing what I was meant to do—or simply what I was meant to do in general. I wasn’t making much progress in my original novel, and I wondered what I was supposed to be doing, if I was making the right choice in still not going to college. (A lot like the feeling Thomas Sanders described in “Learning New Things About Ourselves”)

By far the highlight of my year is that I got to go to a bunch of conventions (which, while I always wanted to do before, I never did for some reason), and meet my three most favorite celebrities in the entire world: David Tennant, Tom Hiddleston, and Jacksepticeye. (I got to briefly meet Summer Glau, Sean Maher, and Tom Holland as well, which was also AWESOME, but I didn’t actually get to talk to them...).  I’m not going to go into a ton of detail about that right now, (but I would love to make a post about my experiences meeting them, and/or going to cons in general, but I fear it’ll sound like bragging…so let me know if any of you are interested!), but that was absolutely AMAZING.

I couldn’t believe that I met even one of them, and the fact that I met all three of them, in the span of a single year is…beyond mind-blowing. I feel so incredibly lucky. I never thought I could possibly meet David Tennant in my life, and had already bought my ticket to Emerald City Comic Con ahead of time, so when his name came up on the roster of Emerald City Comic Con…I think I may have screamed. After meeting him my mom said, “the only thing that could make this year better would be meeting Tom Hiddleston, am I right?” And I smiled and shrugged as if to say “yeah, but that’s never gonna happen.” Then….somehow….it did. And, if that wasn’t enough, I had been watching Jack going on tour, and desperately wanted him to come to Seattle, (and didn’t realize the plan for the different legs). Then he said he was coming to Seattle!! I had barely heard of PAX, so when I learned that not only was he coming to Seattle, but I might have the chance to meet him before the tour, I had to go for it. I was only able to get Friday tickets, and it was a complete gamble as to which day he would be autographing. And once again…it somehow happened.

After those experiences, the sheer luck of all three of them coming to Seattle in the same year, I was once again greeted with the idea that “Maybe this is Seattle’s way of saying goodbye to you.” And once again my immediate thought was “What the heck?!”

Now, I had heard of tumblr for many years before now. I’ve never been big on social media, but when I got a pinterest, I would see all the funny tumblr posts secondhand there. They always made me laugh out loud, but tumblr also always seemed like this… vulgar place. I had heard terrible stories from my real-life friends who were on tumblr about how unkindly they were treated here. I’m a very sensitive person, so after hearing all that I decided that joining tumblr was out of the question.

Still, as the years went by, and I learned more about it…it was one of the few social media sites that interested me. It seemed much more fandom-centric than anything else, and I was really interested in it. But also sad about how I didn't think i would be treated well here. 

Back to meeting Jack; had become a fan of Jack fairly recently, and didn’t have any memorabilia from him for him to sign at PAX. So when I found out that the day I was going WAS his autographing session, (after containing my joy) I had to scramble to find something for him to sign.

That’s how I met @jacksoopticboop. I went on etsy and found an art piece that made me cry the first time I looked at it. I had to get it. To have him sign it—(don’t worry Boop, I still plan on sending you a copy of the signed version…I’m so sorry it’s been taking me so long!!) I contacted her to make sure it would reach me in time and from then…we hit it off. We kept on talking through etsy, and email. Boop was the first person to tell me that she had NEVER received negativity on tumblr—at least, not the kind I was worried about. That, plus wanting to talk to her more, and already having been thinking joining tumblr for a while, I decided to finally take the plunge and join at the beginning of October this year.

When Boop was convincing me to join, she said that if I made a post saying I was new to the JSE community, she could guarantee I would get a positive response. And I honestly thought “That’s great but…can you really guarantee that??”

She could. I smiled more that first day on tumblr, when I made that post, and got lovely messages, than I had in a very long time.

However, as this was going on, it so happened that October was also when my dad found a new job…in Dallas Texas.

I won’t go into the details of the move as a whole, but we decided to take a motorhome trip down to Texas…which may well have been the worst decision of our lives.

Part of the reason we decided to do that was so we could make a bunch of fun stops on the way—brighten our stressful time.

1) ALL those stops were wiped out, because of timing, and fires in California.

2) We got in a car accident the day before thanksgiving.

3) The exact moment we arrived at our temporary housing, certain events led to my cat—my one hope, my best friend—dying.

I was completely lost. Still am, for the most part.

But I had you guys.

I firmly believe that my joining tumblr at the exact same time the move came was part of a plan from a higher source.

My friends were all at college, so I didn’t get to see them often anyways in my first gap year. But i knew that feeling alone was weighing on me, and if I didn’t have you during the move, as I am truly leaving everything I know behind…I honestly wonder if I would have made it. Those first few nights in Texas, after Granita’s (my cat) death….I honestly didn’t feel like life was worth living.

But I wasn’t alone. I could still talk to all of you.

When I first got into Jack’s videos was actually when I watched him play Getting Over It. I had already watched him play Undertale, and enjoyed it greatly, but I didn’t get into his channel just yet. I watched Dan and Phil play Getting Over It, and for some reason was interested in watching more, since they didn’t get far. I watched Mark throw a chair in rage….Then I watched Jack play it and…he was so different from everyone else. He smiled and laughed—and he made me laugh too. It can be somewhat difficult to get me to laugh out loud at things, but I knew his videos would continue to make me laugh, so I didn’t stop there, and I’m SO glad I didn’t.

Recently, in a “What is My Life?” style, my life has felt a lot like Getting Over It. But you guys have felt like Jack’s commentary in my life; you have given me reason to continue to laugh and smile, despite how much of a struggle the simplest things have become for me.

When I found out about the @jsecardexchange for December, I was so happy. I knew I desperately needed a little extra joy in a christmas where I wouldn’t get to see my grandparents, or snow, and I wish I could thank each and every one of you personally for your cards on here, but that would fill up the post…but please know that your cards saved me from so much sorrow.

I am so grateful to everyone in the JSE Community, you’ve become a family to me that I can turn to when I’m sad.

Some short-but-sweet personalized thank you’s for friends in the community:

@bucklethefckleup I’m so grateful we started talking. Our conversations have brightened my days!!

@jacksinsanity Once again, I will never forget how you were the first person to message me on here. I couldn’t believe that someone would message me directly, just to welcome me. You showed me the community's kindness in its purest form, and I so enjoyed getting to know you more recently, and would love to continue chatting with you!

@r-a-i-n-y-d-a-z-e Thank you so much for organizing the card exchange, and your personalized card was one of the highlights of my entire Christmas season!! I hope we can get to know each other better!!

I’m so glad that the PMA movement started this year, because I needed it this year more than ever. And you guys have embodied the movement for me in my everyday life. That first post I made when you all welcomed me was the start of something wonderful. So all I can say, is thank you.

Now, so far I’ve only talked about the JSE community…I haven’t forgotten about my friends from other communities!!

First of all, my real life friend @opheliaeee!! We’ve been through so much together. You’re one of the few people from high school i continue to talk to on a regular basis, and I’m so grateful. It’s been so helpful to be able to talk to someone who’s going through similar things that I am, and reading your writing continues to be such a delight!! 

Tangled has always been one of my all-time favorite disney movies. It was the kind of movie I never got tired of, and watched when I was sad (…speaking of, I should watch it again, it’s been a while…) I didn’t expect the series to be that good…then when it was…there was no going back.

I saw @kaede02mangaka ’s art all the time on pinterest, and loved it, but the fact that on here I could see your art right as it was posted, and not only talk to you, but have you tag me in your own posts, (like your new years one), just makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside. On pinterest I could never hear from artist’s directly, or tell them how much I loved their art. You’re one of my favorites!! <3

While I’ve always written fanfiction, I was too scared of the internet’s negativity to post. This, and the fact I’m a bit of a stickler for canon, also meant that I didn’t really read fanfiction. But my friend @ophelieaeee convinced me to start posting at last…which also meant that I started reading. I looked up Tangled and one of the top fics that came up was one that had more kudos, comments, and hits than I had ever seen…this was, of course, @izadreamer ‘s Labyrinths of the Heart. Having just started out on Ao3, I couldn’t believe how someone could get so much publicity. I was skeptical a fic could be that good. Then I started reading…my jaw was on the floor. The characterization was perfect. The writing was phenomenal—so much so there were quotes that both stuck with me, and made me cry, in a way that happens with only the best of novels. I still have to catch up, and I’m sure there’s more amazingness to come, but whenever I think about the ending of chapter 5, I kind of have to sit there for a moment in silent reverence and be like…."that was one of the best things I’ve ever read in my life, let alone in just fanfiction.” Needless to say, I’m glad I found you. And reading your fics, and seeing that you were on tumblr certainly helped me to join tumblr too, and gave me positivity!! 

I am in a lot of fandoms, and I had to make sure I found blogs from all my favorite fandoms. Which meant that finding good Loki blog was important. It was surprisingly difficult for me to find a Loki blog that had what I wanted. (While I love Tom and Loki, most of the blogs I found were simply pictures of them, and I wasn’t super satisfied with that). But I came across one that was focused on theories an mythologies that I was deeply intrigued by…and it was @mylokabrennauniverse‘s. I forget what exactly got us directly talking, but I’ll never forget how on one of the nights I was in the motorhome crying, I got a mention from you…that you had given me a virtual hug. It’s such a small, almost silly thing, but I needed it so much. I was amazed that from the first moment of saying something to you, you were then willing to send me such positivity. If you told me by simply talking to you, I’d be able to join a Loki theory blog with you, and discuss in-depth theories with you and everyone there, I’m not sure I would have believed you, but I’m so glad that’s what happened. <3

And last, but certainly not least, Pandora Hearts.

It was a few years ago when I saw a little post about on pinterest about a show called Pandora Hearts, and decided to watch the anime. From then my life has never been the same. This was one of the first mangas I ever read, and some of the best memories of my life are from the first time I read it. I fell in love with the story, almost every single one of characters, but especially a man named Xerxes Break, whose struggles helped me understand and make it through my own.

But I had no one to talk to about the series.

And when I say no one, I mean no one.

I forced my friends to watch it, but even now, I still haven’t gotten them to finish the anime, or read it.

@xerxesbreakisbadass I’m sure you can attest to just how desperate I was to talk to someone when I first joined tumblr XD I’ll be forever grateful that you were willing to be my friend, and talk to me about the series!! 

@maddyisenough I’m so grateful that you contacted me a few months ago, and organized the phmonth18 and phsecretsanta events! I’ve written more in a single month because of these events than I have in a long time, and it helped me so much!! Feeling productive and creating things I’m proud of kept me from my sadness. Not just that, I have so enjoyed our conversations in general, reading each others fics, and coming up with fic ideas together!!! Here’s to a year filled with more fics and friendship!! 

@doodlesrune I love how you’re in so many of the same fandoms as me, and I enjoy talking with you—we should talk more!!

@almaadst Similar to what happened with Kaede, I saw your art on pinterest and I was like “My favorite boys together in one picture? UMM YES PLEASE” but I didn’t realize so much of the Break and Undertaker and Mephisto art I saw was all drawn by one person, or who that person was!! I was so happy when I found your blog , and then to have you thank me personally for the reblogs….once again, I’m blown away by the kindness of everyone on here. I still love your art, and have enjoyed chatting with you, and am so very excited to continue to work with you!!

@sanhatipal It’s been so fun discuss PH, Celtic Woman, and Fate—(let me tell you, I did not understand as much about the series as I thought I did before I met you XD)—with you, as well as see all the wonderful arts and crafts you make!!

@emily-cheshire Though we haven’t talked a whole lot, I always love seeing you interact with my posts, and I’ve enjoyed getting to know you!!

@the-twisted-otaku Your ask was the first I ever received! I was so happy to hear someone liked my username, and its so cool that we love all the same characters! Im excited to continue to get to know you better, and read each other’s pics!!

@tabinotochuu We’re just starting to get to know each other, but chatting with you is lovely, and your secret santa gift has certainly been one of the highlights of my year!!

And last, but certainly not least, @song-of-amethyst. As you know, I’m the kind of person who is very detailed, and likes to overanalyze, and look in-depth into things. And no series do I currently do that more than my favorite: PH. As I said, I spent years with no one to talk to. I didn’t realize how much that weighed on me until joining tumblr. But even with fellow fans, finding someone who’s willing to have lengthly conversations about the series is difficult. Our conversations have been like a breath of fresh air for me; letting me talk as much, and as in-depth as I want, without fearing that my long responses are a burden to the other person, and receiving equally long and in-depth responses that make me think even MORE deeply about the series!!! Not only that, but, as I’m sure you know, getting people to read and comment on your fics is difficult. I’ve been so grateful for everyone who’s been willing to do that. But you have been reading my fics right as I post, and giving me nice lengthly comments that I cherish and look forward to so much!! So, once again, all I can say is thank you.

Thank you. Each and every one of you has brightened my life in some way, in one of the lowest points of my entire life. I cannot thank you enough. I am so beyond grateful that i joined tumblr, and met all you lovely people. It’s been the opposite of everything i thought it would be all those years ago. 

So this me saying farewell to a 2018 that was both one of the best years of my life, and the worst, and a welcome to 2019. Here’s hoping that it holds more of the better half!!

A very happy new year to each and every one of you!!!

[prettyboiiharringrove]

Imaginary Friends

Witches && Prey i // read part two here // read on ao3

warnings: mentions of blood, suicidal ideation, actual suicide, major character death, child abuse, addiction, forced drug use, this shit is like emo as hell i’m not going to lie to you. this part does not have a happy ending i’m sorry fam, witchy steve, my sad boiis. I’m so sorry this took so long, I hope you guys love it. the rest are on the way

Harringrove Halloween Countdown — October 12

Demons like to prey on the weak, things are just easier that way. Maybe a little messier, but sometimes vulnerable kids and drug addicts are more convenient, more simple, more breakable; sad to say Billy Hargrove is both and that makes him easy prey, no matter how rabid he pretends to be.

Billy lost his mother young, hardly knew her, and Neil Hargrove, the closest to a monster a human can get, soul already rotten and deteriorating, finds that a small lonely boy with mommy issues and a bad habit of poor judgement and misplaced loyalty will do whatever is asked of him if it guarantees him his father’s approval.

Billy used to be able to fall asleep if Neil promised him chocolate chip waffles and tucked him in at night, but then Neil got lonely and angry, and he noticed that all he had to do was promise not to hit Billy and to hold him while he cried and Billy would fall asleep. Billy grew, Neil’s arms got tired, and his restraint deteriorated. The thought of having to promise Billy he wouldn’t hit him just made him want to hurt him more, so instead he would sit with his bloody son, help him wash up, and crush up some pain pills in his dinner, sneak some sleeping meds into his water.

When Neil starts dating Susan and going out for dinner instead of staying in with Billy, Billy can’t understand why he shakes and vomits, why everything hurts despite Neil not being home to lay a finger on him, not until he hears his mother’s voice urging him to wipe the sick off his face and crawl to his father’s room. He finds the pills in his father’s bedside table. What hurts the most is that he isn’t surprised; his father has been drugging him every damn night to the point of addiction, and he’s only fifteen.

“How long?” he’s unsure why he’s speaking, knows that hearing his mother’s voice must have been a hallucination, a product of his drug addled brain coming down from withdrawal.

“Does it matter?” she whispers, and Billy can feel her sit down next to him even though he can’t quite see her, just notices that where he’s looking through her, the picture is a bit distorted; then again, that could be his own tears obstructing his vision.

“Guess not,” he whispers, pouring a few of the pills in his hands and gagging a bit as he swallows them dry. He feels disappointment in the air, maybe even a little anger, but he hears nothing more. He doesn’t hear from his mother until the weekend when Neil goes out to dinner with Max and Susan and leaves Billy to clean up the house.

——————

This goes on for eight months until Billy finally realizes why he senses disappointment every time he pops those pills. She wants him to take more, wants him to down both bottles in one go.

“I’m so lonely baby. Come on, you don’t want to be with him anymore. Don’t you remember how good I was to you ??” it sends chills down his spine, but he finds himself inclined to listen. Even so, he denies her, he decides to live, even if just a little longer.

——————

Neil marries Susan after ten months, and packs everyone up and moves them to Hawkins after eighteen. Billy has no one. No more friends, not a loving father, and he thinks he’s leaving his mother behind, even worse his dealer. Neil’s supply was weak and dwindling, and Billy could put on a good show with his protein shakes and ridiculous workouts, but without his pills, he’d turn into a sad sack of shit. His theory is that it’s probably a lot harder to score prescription drugs in Indiana than California; for whatever fucking reason though, Neil refuses to leave him behind.

He’s angry, and lonely, and when his mother shows up a few days later he’s so relieved to see her, to have someone by his side, that he almost takes her up on her invitation. He doesn’t though, because tomorrow’s Halloween and maybe he can get in one good fuck before he says goodbye to his shithead father and small town Hawkins.

He doesn’t expect to be so enamored with Steve though. Steve Harrington seems like the type of guy worth moving to some place as shitty as Hawkins for; if he was less rich kid asshole and his snooty little girlfriend were to get hit by a car, King Steve would be his fucking dream.

He can’t get Steve out of his head, and the more enamored he becomes with the fucking princess, the less his mom comes around, and when she is around she seems angry. Billy hates having her upset with him, especially since she’s the only thing that makes him feel safe anymore. He downs a few extra pills when he sees her; not enough to do serious damage, but enough to signify a promise. Some day he’ll say yes; it seems to appease her for a while.

——————

The night of the fight, Billy barely makes it home. It makes sense that whatever was in that syringe took a little while to put him on the ground considering it practically takes horse tranquilizers to get him to sleep these days; if he was willing to go anywhere close to Max any time soon, he might think to ask her where the hell she got it, since it seemed to be the good stuff.

He’s just out of it enough to forget how fucking stupid he’ll be if he walks through that door without Max by his side. His first thought is to crawl into his warm bed, his second thought was that he didn’t have the time or energy to run or fight. He’s on the ground fast and he tastes his own blood. He doesn’t know why, but it somehow tastes differently than when Steve had hit him. It doesn’t take long for Neil to back off. He hears Susan get out of the bathroom after her shower and shoves Billy in his room before he can even think.

His mother comes. He says yes. Suddenly he’s pressing the pill bottle to his lips, and for the first time he notices the name on the bottle, the person it was actually prescribed to. Vivian Harrington. Billy can’t help but laugh, the fucking pretty boy probably sold his mom’s sleeping pills for a pretty penny just to piss her off because god knows he didn’t need the money. Somehow he gets it in his head that he needs to see Steve one last time before he goes, that he needs to apologize otherwise he’s no better than Neil.

“Not yet,” he whispers, setting the bottle on the floor; it falls to its side, a few spilling out. Billy’s used to the disappointment his mother feels by now, but he’s burned by a flash of her rage. She calms herself quickly; Billy’s terrified.

“Soon though, right Billy?? We’ll be together soon ??” Billy nods, makes sure to never break a promise to her again, otherwise she might take matters into her own hands.

——————

The concept of seeing Steve’s face one last time takes a while. It starts out with two major problems ; one — the face Billy wants to see isn’t the one that’s all battered and bruised thanks to his fists. Billy wants to see those dimples, and that smooth skin, that award winning smile, the way he rolls his eyes and scrunches his nose up. Steve doesn’t fully heal for at least three weeks. Two — Billy doesn’t actually know how to apologize for shit like this. Neil hasn’t apologized for beating his ass since he was eleven. It takes him almost two months to muster up the courage, and Steve is apparently over it by then, so he forgives him, thank fuck.

He thinks that should be it, time to go home, down a few pills, and actually be with his mother, to see her with his own eyes, to hold her in his arms, for his spirit to feel whole again even as his corpse lies lifeless on the floor. He thinks that’s going to be the case, until Steve awkwardly asks him if he’s going to that party tonight, like he feels obligated to make conversation even though he owes Billy nothing.

Billy feels butterflies but he smirks, stops thinking about what’ll happen after he dies and more about how nice it’ll be to kiss those plush lips before he goes.

“Only if you are pretty boy,” he doesn’t miss the way Steve blushes; he thinks getting to see that is worth dying for. He’ll be happy, so long as his last night on earth is with Steve.

——————

Billy’s last night on earth turns into five months of Steve rearranging his fucking guts with what Billy has affectionately come to call ‘the real king Steve’, and falling in love in with each other in the meantime. Billy’s mother turns dark and angry, and some nights as she sings Billy old lullabies, he can feel himself choking on thin air. He’s being punished, he knows he is in the same way he knows he somehow deserves every injury Neil gifts him, but he can’t let go of Steve.

His mother hates Steve, even though she’s never actually met him. Apparently he smells odd, which sure the Farrah Faucet hairspray has a unique fragrance, and yeah he smells like a lot of spices which is weird for someone who doesn’t actually bake, but Billy likes how Steve smells and his mom doesn’t have to like him. It doesn’t help that Steve has been slowly helping him come off the pills; she doesn’t want him to get better, not when she’s so so lonely, and Billy gets it, he does, because he used to be lonely too. His mother says Steve has stolen her baby away from her and really, she’s not wrong. Billy hopes she never tries to punish Steve should he enter the house.

On their sixth month anniversary, Steve sneaks over to Billy’s house because Billy’s supposed to watch Max, and he can’t exactly ask his dad to let him go out because then he’d have to come up with some bullshit lie that Neil would definitely look into, or admit he turned bitch for Steve Harrington, which probably would result in a very painful death. He isn’t ready to die anymore, not with Steve and certainly not at the hands of either of his parents. So, Steve being the entitled brat that he is decides to make his way over to Billy’s, and Billy is excited, he really truly is, but he’s also scared his mother will suffocate him and he’ll be all alone again.

Neil and Susan aren’t supposed to be back until morning, so they let Max fuck off to her friend’s house, mostly because it’s Hopper’s house too and he’s way more reliable when it comes to keeping kids alive; Steve just got lucky last year, so it’s probably better that way. That, and this way they get to fuck and then fall asleep curled on the couch.

He wakes up to feel a phantom hand around his throat, chokes out “Mom, please, m-mom,” as he tries to gasp for air.

“You promised !!” she growls, and Steve jolts awake. Billy hears Steve mumble something under his breath and then suddenly the woman — his supposed mother — he’s been talking to all these years comes to life, her skin a charcoal black, her eyes hollow. Billy can breathe again, but he almost forgets to.

“Get away from him !!” Steve barks and Billy thinks he sees sparks fly from Steve’s fingertips, but he’s also still dizzy from the lack of oxygen and he’s kind of seeing stars. He barely has time to react before she’s lunging at Steve. He wants to beg for mercy, swear to go with her if she’ll just leave Steve alone, but the words won’t come out. Even more shocking, as she hurdles herself towards Steve, the bright light that originally seemed like small static sparks grows, flowing from Steve’s fingertips without warning, preventing her from touching him. Each time she tries to touch the light, she hisses, until she becomes too weak to keep fighting and retreats; Billy knows she’ll be back, she always comes back.

The first thing Steve does is pull Billy into his lap and check him for any injuries that weren’t already there from Neil. There’s some new bruising around his neck but that’s it. Billy notices that his fingertips are still hot, but they don’t burn, they seem to sooth him, to offer up some relief. After a few moments Steve grabs the blanket they had been sharing, wraps it around Billy, and drags him to the kitchen.

Steve gets to work the second he finds out where Susan keeps all the spices, and Billy moves to sit on the counter and watch him. Billy’s either exhausted, in shock, or far too used to trauma, because he isn’t freaking out like he probably should be.

Ten minutes later Steve is shoving a mug in his face. It smells weird, and if he didn’t just watch Steve make it, he would assume it was that fancy French tea Steve’s mom buys that he always makes him drink after a particularly rough night with Neil. He’s starting to wonder if it’s ever actually been tea. He gets this sick feeling in his stomach, similar to when he found out Neil had been drugging him, except he trusts Steve. He chugs it down, ignores how his fingers twitch when he stops himself from going to grab the bottle of pills he keeps hidden for the really bad nights. After a few moments, the soreness around his throat and in his muscles starts to ease up, the itch for his fix starts to fade and now all he craves is Steve. He doesn’t have to ignore that need for long, not when Steve steps between his legs and holds Billy’s face in his hands, looking concerned.

“How you feeling baby?” Steve questions nervously, and Billy shrugs like he always does, because he feels sad, and scared, and betrayed but nothing hurts anymore, and nothing’s ever going to change, so it’s whatever.

“Baby, I need you to answer me. Creatures like that, they’re really dark and really powerful. I need to know you’re okay,” his thumb brushes gently against Billy’s cheek and normally that would sooth him, but this time Steve’s said something that’s got him worried.

“Creature?”

“Yeah, a shadow beast, a demon. That monster, you saw it right ?”

“She’s not a monster,” Billy argues sadly, because she had just tried to kill him, and it was all too similar to Neil, but this was different, Billy broke his promise.

“Billy it was choking you, of course it’s a monster,” Steve looks concerned but also extremely confused, which sucks because if they both don’t know what the hell is going on, they might be here for a while.

“I told her I would go with her, I told her soon, but I chose you. She’s not a monster, she’s just hurt.”

“What?!” Steve sounds angry then, and Billy jumps at the noise, still on edge from his mother’s hand gripping around his throat less than thirty minutes ago, still skittish from when Neil kicked him in the shin and then the ribs the day before. Steve can’t yell, not when Billy’s still so scared and he knows that, but he’s worried and it’s hard to keep his cool at a time like this. Still, he takes a few moments to steel himself. He looks at Billy with soft eyes, noting that he’s still a bit shaken up, whether he’ll admit that or even notices being a completely different issue, and realizes that he has to be the voice of reason in this situation. “Baby, why would you make that promise? If things have gotten bad again, you can tell me…”

Bad again Steve says and they both hate how it sounds, because if Steve isn’t with Billy, caging him in his arms and keeping him safe, things are never good, but if Billy was feeling suicidal again, that’s something they need to discuss.

“It’s not like that,” and well, that’s not really a lie because most nights the only thing that makes Billy want to give up is sensing his mother’s frustration or feeling Neil’s knuckles kneed and mark his skin. He doesn’t want to die, not if it means leaving Steve behind, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped considering it completely. He swallows hard, pulls Steve closer to him using his ankles that are loosely wrapped around his legs just above his knees, and rests his head on Steve’s chest. “She’s my mom,” he admits, and the whisper is nearly as faint as the breeze creeping in through the open kitchen window.

“No she’s not,” as soon as the words leave Steve’s mouth, tears brim in Billy’s eyes. He didn’t think it would hurt this much, Steve assuming he’s crazy. He saw her though, he knows she’s real, so this isn’t fair. He’s supposed to feel safe with Steve, but now he just feels stupid and small.

“I’m not crazy,” he whines where his head is rested on Steve’s right pectoral. Steve feels the fresh tears dripping down his skin. He hates how it makes Billy tremble. He hushes Billy, kisses the top of his head, and sighs. This night just keeps getting longer and longer.

“No one said you were.”

“But you said…you said she’s not —” Billy cuts himself off, trying to keep from sobbing. If Steve is going to judge him, he’s not going to make it worse by being a cry baby.

“I’m sure she said she was your mom. I’m sure she played her game well, said all the right things, but that thing is not your mother. She’s a leech. She preys on those who are hurting, and she found you when you were at your worst.”

Billy wants to argue, but he clings to Steve, shakes his head because he doesn’t want to believe him, but after what he had just seen, the pieces of this puzzle are starting to come together and it’s scaring him.

“No, y-you’re wrong, I know my own mom Steve, I know her,” he doesn’t though. He can barely remember what she looks like. He simply knows what he wants her to be, and this woman or monster that he’s been talking to was good enough. Three years she’s been whispering in his ear, telling him he was loved and wanted. It was so easy to fall for her.

Steve shakes his head. If the circumstances were different, he might just let Billy lives in blissed out ignorance, but Billy was nearly killed tonight, and he can’t sit idly by and let him believe the woman trying to steal him away is someone worthy of his love. He may not be able to stop Neil, not yet anyways, but he can protect Billy from this bit of darkness. If he were the type to pray, he would be begging God that it’s not too late.

“Listen to me, I don’t know who she is and I don’t care, but she tried to kill you tonight Billy. I’ll bet she’s been trying to for a long time,” he doesn’t miss how Billy whimpers; facing the truth hurts almost as much as a harsh blow from Neil. If he thinks too much he can still feel fingernails digging crescent moons into his flesh, both from his father and this mystery phantom. Steve knows by the way Billy tries to hide himself further in Steve’s bare skin that he’s not wrong. “You trust me right ?? You know me. I’m always going to be here for you, I’m gonna protect you.”

Billy finds comfort in the promise, mostly because it’s always been Steve that he chose above everyone else, and now he’s starting to see why. Steve is the only good decision he’s ever made.

——————

It’s a week later when he’s laying in Steve’s bed and he feels the bed dip with weight. At first he’s relieved; he doesn’t like being alone, especially not in a house as big and lifeless as Steve’s. All relief fades when he doesn’t feel Steve’s familiar warmth washing over him. He begins to shiver and when he rolls over to reach for Steve he is met by a cold black gaze. She’s back, his not-mom is back and she followed him to Steve’s house.

He knows what she wants, but he can’t give it to her, not when he knows she’s nothing to him but a liar, an omen of pain, his own sadistic, impatient reaper. He has no idea where Steve is and he can’t go with her without knowing that Steve is safe.

“Go away,” he tries to sound forceful and angry, but it’s clear to see he’s terrified. The figure beside him smirks.

“Don’t be like that sweetie, I’m just here to collect what’s mine,” she whispers, her tongue practically dripping with sugar, her sickeningly sweet disposition making Billy shrink away.

“I’m not yours, I’m nothing to you,” he knows it’s not smart to mouth off to her, but he’s so hurt and angry, and Steve isn’t there to protect him or talk him down, so he’s just going to shoot off at the mouth until she leaves or kills him.

“Don’t say that,” she growls, grabbing him by the jaw. “I’m more of a mother to you than yours ever was. She’s dead William, she’s rotten flesh, dirty bones in the ground somewhere. And your father ?? He’s nothing, he’s a beast. I’m the one who’s been here !! I’m the one who has looked after you all this time. Me, no one else, not even that pretty little thing. He’ll leave too you know, he’ll realize you’re not worth it. I’m the only one who stays with you, haven’t you learned that by now ?!”

“That’s not true !!” maybe, somewhere deep down, Billy actually believes that, but the words coming out of her mouth aren’t exactly new and original ideas. Billy’s last boyfriend was some thirty year old who beat his ass for ‘breaking in’ when his wife caught Billy asleep in their bed. He hasn’t heard from a single friend from California since he left. Neil might not even come down to the morgue to identify his body if he was found dead in a ditch somewhere. Tommy and Carol might miss him, but they have each other, and short attention spans; they’ll move on fast. Steve is too good for him; he’s been eerily awaiting the day he decides Billy isn’t worth his time anymore.

“You know it’s true, don’t deny it. You made me a promise, and you need to keep it. Maybe they’ll miss you at first, but eventually you’ll just be another sad small town tragedy, like that Barb girl. You don’t matter, not to them, only to me. So come with me, stop playing games.”

“Not here, I can’t do it here.”

“That pretty boy of yours is taking a shower. I’m sure we can sneak out before he’s done. He won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“You’re probably right,” Billy sighs, but it doesn’t stop him from leaving a goodbye letter. She doesn’t seem to mind; she’s too giddy from having finally won their game.

——————

He’s in the kitchen, hands trembling as he faces the options he’s given. There’s the all too familiar pills, a block of kitchen knives, and Neil’s gun.

The pills feel like a betrayal; Steve has worked so hard to help Billy be a better, stronger person, he can’t go out like that.

The gun is messy, and although he knows Neil will get satisfaction out of his death no matter what, he feels like using his father’s bullets gives him too much power.

The knife is messy too, and as much as he loves the idea of being one last inconvenience, one big ugly red stain in Neil Hargrove’s reputation as well as his kitchen tile, he knows it’s going to be Hopper, or Susan, or god forbid Steve, cleaning up his mess.

“I can’t do this,” he bites down on his now bloodied lip as tears spill down his cheeks. “I can’t do this without him, I can’t leave him.”

“Then don’t. Billy, baby, please,” Billy jumps; he hadn’t noticed Steve walk into the house.

Billy hears his demon scoff, but soon she’s chuckling, something thick and dirty, like she knows something he doesn’t. This time Steve can’t hear her. His eyes stay locked on Steve. Billy wishes he could say this was the first time Steve has caught him in a situation like this, but it’s not. This time it’s different though. Billy is closer to death than he’s ever been.

“You know,” she begins, smooth tone wrapping around Billy like velvet. “We could take him too pet. This world, it’s no good for people like you, and we could have a little witch on our team. It could be so much fun, and neither of you will ever be alone again,” she nudges the knives towards him  as a gentle hint.

“No, no, not him, please, he’s good,” Billy begs; he won’t mind if his last words, his dying breath are used to protect Steve.

“I know he’s good sweetheart, you’re both so good. Come on, don’t you want him, forever??” She’s always known just what to say. Billy wants him so desperately; he wants to hold Steve and never let go, but more than anything he wants Steve to be safe and happy.

He nods, swallows hard and turns away from Steve.

“Billy, come on, it’s gonna be okay,” Steve’s tone is gentle, cautious, like he’s approaching a scared, caged animal. He’s always known the best way to talk to Billy.

He picks up the butcher knife and turns to Steve. Steve steps back, and Billy can’t blame him. He knows how this looks. Billy’s thought about killing on more than one occasion, but even when he was pummeling Steve with his fists, he was never really the target of his aggression.

“If I do this, you promise it’ll be over?? It won’t hurt anymore ??”

“Yes,” they both whisper, tones soft and patient. Yes, the pain will stop once you shed blood, she means. Yes, the pain will stop if you put the knife down and come to me, Steve means. He wants to believe Steve, but there has always only ever been one clear ending for Billy, and he decides to stop putting it off.

He raises the knife to his throat, and Steve looks more scared than he did when the knife was aimed at him. Steve tries to move quick and stop him, but that just rushes Billy’s shaking hand. The cut is rough and he tastes blood within an instant. It burns and he’s having trouble keeping himself up.

“You’re such a good boy,” the demon finally shows herself to the world, and Steve isn’t surprised, just angry. It’s the last Billy sees of her, because she’s smart enough to leave before getting into another fight with Steve.

The last thing he sees is Steve’s face, so soft and loving. He wishes he weren’t crying, but beggars can’t be choosers. The last thing he feels is Steve cradling and shaking his cold aching body in his warm arms. The last thing he hears is “Baby please, don’t leave me, please. I love you.”

His final thought is one of both guilt and appreciation. There’s no better way to die than by Steve Harrington’s side.

[melchixr]

At Seventeen

Not requested but I spent so long writing this. 

In which Hanschen and his group of outcasts laugh at the in-crowd and Hanschen falls in love with one of them.

A song fic based off of this song. Which is both emo and relatable

Word Count: 7553

I learned the truth at seventeen That love was meant for beauty queens And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles Who married young and then retired

He hadn’t thought of what it would be like after that night. He just assumed that Bobby would fall into his arms. Instead of pestering him and his friends during lunch, maybe he would come sit with them. Maybe he would start holding conversations with Hanschen instead of glancing at him as they passed in the hallway. Maybe he’d actually speak to Hanschen at school instead of calling his name in the parking lot after class.

But he really wasn’t all that shocked to look across the quad at Bobby’s table to see his sharing a seat with Greta. He was leaning close to the tall, blond girl with one arm around her waist, the other propping himself up on the table among the tater tots and textbooks from a decade ago.

No. Hanschen didn’t feel anything. Or at least he forced himself not to feel anything. He didn’t want to. Kids always make mistakes at prom. That’s just what happens. Sometimes kids end up drinking or making fools of themselves or coming home high.

Or they hand off their virginity to the class president in the backseat of your car.

So Hanschen kept his eyes locked on Bobby, remembering that night only a few days ago. But Saturday night felt like years away from Monday lunch.

“Hey, Hansi,” Ilse’s voice broke through the white noise. “Are you alright?”

His blue eyes moved to her gaze. She had been there that night and knew full well what had happened in the aftermath. So her gaze was sympathetic and warmed Hanschen to the very core.

He nodded and looked back down to the carton of milk sat in front of him. He used his bitten down fingernails to pick at the paperboard layers. He’d much rather look down at that then look up at his friends glaring back at him.

Melchior was the first to break the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the table since Hanschen turned back to the group. “So...Who got the Chemistry homework?”

The valentines I never knew The Friday night charades of youth Were spent on one more beautiful At seventeen I learned the truth

The honking didn’t top, long after Hanschen had already waved out his window, signalling to Melchior that he was coming downstairs. He was laying on the horn from the moment Hanschen closed his window and grabbed his backpack to the moment he opened his front door with Melitta and Thea glaring at him.

“Hey, fuck off!” Hanschen shouted running over to bang his fist on the roof of the Volkswagen. “You’re gonna wake up the whole block.”

Melchior finally stopped honking and watched his newest companion throw open the back door and climb into the seat beside Wendla and Moritz. In the front, Ilse peered over the back of her seat. “You look hot, who are you trying to impress?”

Hanschen looked over the outfit he had worn to school. Not much more than the tee shirt and jeans he wore every day. But Ilse’s hand reached out to tilt his chin back up. “No. it’s your hair. You look smoking, Hansi.” She smiled with her wide, shining white smile. “You do something new?”

“Cut the shit,” Moritz hit her hand away playfully. “Let’s talk about what matters. You bring the Uno, Hanschen?”

The blonde nodded, pulling the deck of cards wrapped in a rubber band from the front pocket of his cheap bag. Ilse cheered much louder than she should have as the small car peeled out of Hanschen suburban street.

Their spot was empty, as it always was. The field seemed to stretch out forever and ever, so far that they couldn’t tell where the grass stopped and the sky started. It was all dark for as far as the eye could see. But they knew they were only ten minutes out of town and on the other side of the field was the power plant, so Melchior knew not to drive too far off the road.

The only light was from the the three of four electric lanterns they had brought along, sat on top of a blanket Ilse had brought along. Their dim lights made the cards hard to read, but the five still played blindly and fumbling with the rules.  

But when Wendla reached into her purse and pulled out a mostly full bottle of wine, they decided to forgo the game completely.

“How the hell did you get this?” Moritz asked, lounging on his back before taking a big sip.

Wendla shrugged, tugging her cardigan closer around her small body. “My parents think I’m the good kid compared to my sister. They don’t suspect a thing.”

Melchior took the sip from the bottle Moritz handed him. “God,” he mused, looking at them all with huge, blissful eyes. The dim light made his eyes look like two black holes “This is so just classically teenage of us.”

“Classic teenagers don’t play Uno,” Ilse corrected and stuck her foot out into the pile of cards. She had ditched the shoes a while ago, now had her toes poking through her white socks. She had always loved the feeling of grass.  “They get wasted at parties and have sex and….they’re cool.”

After a moment of two of silence, Hanschen sighed, “We’re cool. I think we’re cool.”

And those of us with ravaged faces Lacking in the social graces Desperately remained at home Inventing lovers on the phone

If the phone had rang once that night, he would have jumped out of his skin. But it didn’t. From when he had woken up that morning to now, closing in on midnight. How many Sundays would be spent like this, he wondered. Laying on his front on his floor with his eyes locked on the phone his parents were cautious to put in his room. They had been afraid that he was going to stay up all night talking on it.

How wrong they were.

The novels that normally attracted him felt meaningless. He had the volumes of Edgar Allan Poe before him. He had War and Peace. He had everything he could ever want on those pages. But he didn’t want to even look at them. He instead chose to sit there in his own brain, wallowing.

Maybe Ilse would call.

No, she and Moritz were going to a movie tonight to celebrate his first A in English.

Maybe Melchior would call.

No, he studied on Sunday nights.

Maybe Wendla would call.

No, he should just stop hoping.

So the room remained silent, save for the dreamy sighs coming from Hanschen every few minutes and the absent minded turn of pages of the books he had already read a dozen times.

But suddenly, through the deafening white noise, broke the sound of the ring he thought he’d never hear.

As Hanschen stood his mind was flooded with all his friends what they might be offering. Then, he hit the jackpot. He recalled how he had written his phone number in wobbly marker script on Bobby’s hand. It had been right before they had crawled into the back of his car, telling the dashing teenager in a tight tux that he ‘needs to call’ soon.

Two weeks is soon, right?

He ran to the phone, praying that the smears he saw on Bobby’s hand at the end of the night were still legible. Maybe he had gotten lonely and Hanschen needed to hop on his bike and ride it across town to Bobby’s house. Maybe he’d be waiting for him with open arms, smiling his big, movie star smile. Then he’d chuckle the chuckle that was still burning Hanschen’s eardrums since that night in the back of the car.

“Hello?”

“Hi, can I speak to Nancy?”

He felt his heart hit the ground as soon as the woman’s voice came through the receiver.

“You have the wrong number.”

Who called to say, "Come dance with me" And murmured vague obscenities It isn't all it seems At seventeen

Hanschen wished he would have known you had to reserve seats to graduation when he first suggested they go.  “I’m so sorry,” He muttered to the others leaning against the chain link fence. Below them, the football field was filled with supportive parents in the bleachers cheering for their kids on the portable white stage. They looked so small from where they were. “I thought we could just...I dunno...get in.”

With a sigh, Wendla reached over to lovingly touch Hanschen’s shoulder. “It’s ok, Hansi, none of us really know any of the seniors.”

The echoing voice of their principal was barely audible as he listed off names of the students taking their diplomas.

“Ya know. We’re technically seniors now,” Melchior muttered, keeping his wide eyes on the crowd below. The thought made a shiver run down Hanschen’s spine. He looked from Melchior and Moritz, the pair he had known since first grade, to Ilse, who moved there halfway through their sophomore year, to Wendla who transferred across town at the beginning of middle school.

Then, he couldn’t help but think one year ahead.  To when Ilse left to the West coast for art school. Or when Moritz and Wendla would move up to New York to chase their dreams of being an iconic actress/ techie duo. Or when Melchior was going to be basically guaranteed into any law school he wanted.

And Hanschen was here. And that’s where he’d stay.

He wasn’t creative or talented like the girls. Or smart like Melchior. Or a technical mastermind like Moritz. He was just Hanschen. Hanschen who planned to go to Graduation without invites.

“Hey, who wants to go to Joe’s and get a milkshake?” He let the suggestion break his mental downward spiral. The others all looked to one another, nodding eagerly. “Cause this is boring as hell.”

Wendla turned on her heel, gesturing for the others to follow her to her minivan.

A brown-eyed girl in hand-me-downs Whose name I never could pronounce Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve They only get what they deserve"

The whispers had been heard all around their town. They all said she was coming back, the queen of the streets. His mother knew her as the class president/ valedictorian/cheerleader who ended up marrying her prom king boyfriend and moving to California. Wendla’s mom recalled her as the wife of a politician who went from a rich daddy to a rich husband.  The Gabor’s had known her as a resident of their church and the most talented member of their choir.

Ilse knew her as the out of date prom queen of suburbia. And she repeated this sentiment between puffs of her skinny cigarette.

“How do you get a whole town so far up your ass that you can leave for twenty years and still have parents telling your kids about how cool you were!” She rolled her eyes and stretched out among the soft grass and vibrant poppies. She offered the cigarette to Hanschen, who took it graciously. “I mean. The whole reason she’s moving back is because her husband ran for senator and lost miserably.”

The blond boy rolled his eyes after blowing out a puff of grey smoke. “That’s tragic. That she has to be back here. I’d hate that.”

“That’s what she gets. She’s allowed to get out of here because she’s pretty,” Ilse explained as if she were a professor. “Look at all of our parents. They all had to stay behind. This town really sucks you in.”

“Well if she’s too beautiful then why is she coming back? If your theory is correct then she should be off living the highlife?” He leaned over the girl, blocking the sunlight from her freckled face. Dark and wavy hair laid out around her like a pillow.

She shrugged up at her companion. “I dunno. Maybe because she finally got what was coming to her.”

“What did she do wrong, Ilse?”

There was a pause. Ilse sucked in the nicotine and exhaled like it was her life course. “She was beautiful, Hanschen. Haven’t you heard?”

And the rich relationed hometown queen Marries into what she needs With a guarantee of company And haven for the elderly

The new Robel house was a hot spot that week. They would drive by in their cars or on their bikes, looking around as they whizzed by. Some were even bold enough to walk by, staring at the home as they went.

It was huge and brick with a well groomed garden out front. They lived at the end of a cul-de-sac which they probably thought was the busiest in town.

So they felt no anxiety when they went to drive past, like everyone else had that boring summer. That is, except Hanschen, who stood outside of Melchior’s car nervously while his friends climbed in.

“I dunno...I just don’t want to look crazy,” He explained for the thousandth time, but the others rolled their eyes. This was the most exciting thing to have happened in the last month, since a fire broke out in the field next to the cemetery.  “They must think the people here are crazy.”

“No not at all, they must just think they live on a very busy cul-de-sac,” Moritz was quick to defend.

Still, he let them go on without him, leaving him stranded in his driveway. He went back in, but still came out only hours later as the sun was setting and curiosity got the best of him. He couldn’t drive, his parents were too strict to let him get his licence. So he had his old bike, a little bit too small for him with yellow paint chipping off to reveal the rust beneath. But, it was still trusty enough to get him to the big, fancy houses only five minutes away.

It’s not that he didn’t like in a nice house. Hell, his dad was an accountant and his mom was a nurse. They weren’t exactly struggling. But this house looked like the word ‘struggle’ wasn’t in their vocabulary. This whole neighborhood didn’t have people with silver spoons, they were made of silver spoons.

The house in question was at the very end, the stained glass windows beside the grand door were lit up, like some family inside were enjoying some sort of Hallmark movie bullshit dinner.

But as he slowed down to gaze  at the mini mansion, he noticed the garage was open. Inside it were stacks and stacks of moving boxes and two fairly expensive looking new cars. A long, thin figure was bent over one of the stacks. The starling shock of red he wore is what caught Hanschen’s eye, making him come to a stop almost subconsciously.

The figure was a male, maybe around the same age as Hanschen himself. But he could only tell that because the kid was tall. If he weren’t, he would look like thirteen, with freckled cheeks that were the only part of his lanky body that still had baby fat on them. Draped over his scrawny torso was a bright red tee shirt that matched the red bandana that he had tied across his head, keeping his brown hair out of his face.

Hanschen could look at him forever. And he had planned to, or at least until the boy looked up so he could make out what his eyes looked like.

But when he did look up, fear struck Hanschen, as those eyes were looking right at him.

Fumbling, he tried his hardest to get his bike moving again. He could feel his face turn reds as he heard a high, lilting voice cry out to him. “Hey! You live around here?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck gotta go gotta go.

Finally, when hanschen managed to get his spastic feet onto the pedals, he took off like a very shay bullet. He took his second to look over his shoulder, as the boy who had wandered closer to Hanschen at the end of his driveway, watching the stranger rush away like a burglar.

Then, he watched Hanschen faceplant into his mailbox and topple over it.

Remember those who win the game Lose the love they sought to gain In debentures of quality And dubious integrity

Hanschen usually didn’t like parties. Everytime he  had been invited to one in the past, he declined, instead opting to spend the night with his actual friends or alone in his room instead of in a crowded room filled with acquaintances.

But when he had been invited to Bobby’s going-away party, he knew better than to decline. He had actually never accepted in invitation faster in his life, even if it was through Bobby telling Thea to invite him when they ran into each other at the movies.

He didn’t dare tell his friends. They had all told him for the last two months that he needed to forget all about Bobby. So he had to take his beaten up boke over to Bobby’s house.

It wasn't like those cheesy graduation barbeques that white people put on for their kids. In fact, Bobby’s parents weren’t even there. It was just a crowd of high schoolers in their upper-middle class two-story, all slightly intoxicated and flirting with anything that walked. Most probably didn’t even know it was for Bobby before he moved a few hours away for college.

Hanschen knew, though. In fact that was the first thing he did when he arrived and hid his bike in the bushes. Bobby didn’t answer the door, it was some sophomore girl he half-recognized. When he asked her where Bobby was, she just shrugged and offered him a beer.

He took it of course, but it didn’t deter him.

A few minutes were spent scouring the house. It would have been faster if he hadn’t been stopped every other second to be asked about his eye. When he did find Bobby in the kitchen, the first thing out of his mouth was: “Hey, Hanschen, what happened to your eye?”

The blond hurriedly looked down at his shoes, trying to avoid the hazel eyes staring down at him. “Yeah I uh… Hit it on a side-table when I uh… Fell out of bed.”  He couldn’t possibly think say that he was riding his bike and got distracted by a very cute boy. “But good job getting uh...accepted to college. Good luck.”

Bobby just shrugged aimlessly, taking a long sip of the cup of random liquor in his hand. “Thanks, dude. And thanks for coming. What have you been up to? It’s been a while.”

No mention of it. Not one. The first time since that night that they had spoken. But he didn’t think to bring up that the last time they were together, they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other.

“Yeah, it has been…” Hanschen muttered in response, feeling his anger bubble up inside of him. It was like he was being hit in the gut over and over by Bobby’s apathetic gaze. Maybe he didn’t remember Hanschen, so he looked back up in the hope that he’d suddenly recognize his face and didn’t before.

“So…” He muttered, his soft smile breaking his chiseled features. It warmed Hanschen to the core. He wanted to reach out and wrap his arms around Bobby, pulling him closer like before. And maybe, Bobby wanted that too. “Your blackeye….Did it hurt?”

Hanschen hadn’t ever felt like a deflated balloon until that moment. Like Bobby had be blowing him up and finally just let it go, watching it was it shrank into a latex raisin.

So he nodded, casting his eyes away and taking a final chug or beer, draining the can. “Yeah. It hurt like a bitch. I gotta go.”

Bobby looked like he might have followed, but instead of chasing after Hanschen, he leaned back on the counter and shrugged to his companions on how weird that guy was acting.

So, once again, the party was like any other, miserable. After 30 minutes of being asked about the bruise by a variety of strangers,  they had learned to leave him alone. So he sat there, on the back porch of the Maler household along with all the other miserable kids smoking and wathcing the girls play in the large, unnaturally blue pool.

God, he thought to himself for the thousandth time that night, men are pigs.

“Hey, how’d you get that black eye?”

Before even turning around, he was through with it. He shook his head, almost yelling back at the voice behind him, “I fucking hit my face isn’t that obvious, you dumb fucking-”

When he turned, his gaze was met by a pair of long legs in a pair of shorts decorated by lobsters. Looking up from where he was sitting, Hanschen’s eyes moved up to a familiar, warm face. His features radiated with warm, like he was made of sunshine. Tan skin met with perfectly brown eyes shrouded by eyelashes too long for a boy.

Oh shit, he was the boy.

“Oh….Hey,” He cursed himself under his breath before nervously introducing himself. “I’m Hanschen. Have we uh...met?”

“You tumbled face-first into my mailbox then ran away.”

“Oh.”

Their small town eyes will gape at you In dull surprise when payment due Exceeds accounts received At seventeen

Maybe it’s weird to see two guys enjoying each other’s company. By the looks of the guests, it must’ve been. But Hanschen glared back at them, as if challenging them to try and tell him what he could or couldn’t do.

“Hanschen,” Ernst’s voice softly called to him. “Maybe they’re staring because we’re both wet.”

Suddenly, as if it had all been an out of body experience, Hanschen look down to see he was still dripping with pool water reeking of chlorine and had on only a pair of boxers clinging to his body for dear life. All his other clothes had been neatly folded by Ernst and were now tucked under his arm. At least Ernst had the dignity to keep on his lobster shorts.

“Well thank God most of them are asleep,” He gave a passing glance to the stoner on the couch staring at them and made quick work to jump over the sleeping teenagers on the living room floor.  Looking over his shoulder, Hanschen ushered Ernst to follow him. Ernst followed, a bit more shakily even though he was easily the more sober of the two. “Come on, Ernest.”

The smaller of the two chuckled, not bothering to correct him as the two crept almost silently down the hallway. He only tripped over one person, but he didn’t even wake up. For a second Hanschen was afraid the kid was dead, but saw a slight movement of the chest and saw he wasn’t dead, just in a comatose like state brought on by shitty weed.

The bathroom they had been venturing too was guarded by a couple that were widely known as the weird couple that all they did was sit together in silence and make out in the wierdest way. They didn’t say anything, just watched with heavily lidded eyes. They didn’t stop glaring until the Hanschen closed the bathroom door behind them.

“People don’t know how to keep to themselves,” The blond muttered, sitting on the edge of the shower. “Don’t they know staring is rude?”  

“We also wandered through the house dripping wet with your dick practically out,” Ernst chuckled.

Hanschen shrugged, looking over himself to see the fabric clinging to him in ways he definitely didn’t want. Maybe at another time, he would be embarrassed, but instead he set to work hanging out his damp clothes over the shower rod. That’s just what he gets when he jumps into the pool fully clothed.

“You think Bobby will be mad if I dry off my shorts with with his hairdryer,” Ernst’s light voice piped up from where he was sitting, digging through a plastic bin of curling irons and hair brushes he assumed was Bobby’s sister’s.

Hanschen shook his head, sitting on the counter across from his companion for the night. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

Ernst plugged in the bright pink blow dryer and almost immediately turned around to point it at Hanschen’s chest. “Put your hands up, sucker.”

Hanschen laughed louder than he should have, “What are you gonna do? Dry me?”

Not hesitating, Ernst turned on the dryer and blew hot air directly into Hanschen’s face, giggling as he watched strands of blonde hair fly in all sorts of directions.  Hanschen continued to laugh, relishing in the heat. Ernst smiled softly, feeling giddy like a fourth grader with his first crush. Maybe it was because the person behind the dryer was so close he could see the freckles on his cheeks and the little moles on his neck and hands.

Only when it looked like Hanschen was having too much fun, did he turn the dryer away and pointed it down to dry off his wet shorts. It took a moment of so for the other to stifle his giggles, but he did eventually, watching Ernst diligently work on his shorts.

“How do you know Bobby, Ernest?” He asked after some time of silence.

Ernst rolled his eyes, speaking up over the whir of the dryer. “I don’t know him, really. Just met him uh….just once last month. Yeah, when I first moved here. I dunno if you know Max…?” He looked up to see Hanschen nod. Max was pretty nice. He was well known for always pulling out all the stops at the big game and leading pep rallies with all his energy. “Well, he lives down my block and invited me to hang out for a couple ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ drinks.”

“But you don’t drink,” Hanschen muttered, restating the fact he had been told earlier that night when he offered Ernst a sip of beer.

Ernst shuddered, as if remembering something that he didn’t want to. “Well, I did then. And I met Bobby.”

There was more to the story, but Hanschen didn’t push it. He just nodded, “Yeah. He’s alright.”

Ernst turned the blower on Hanschen’s pair of jeans and tee shirt, dripping with chlorinated water. He seemed content with his work, humming as he went. “What made you think it would be smart to jump in fully clothed?” He mused.

If there was any reason behind his actions, even Hanschen didn’t know it, he just remained sat on the edge of the tub, watching diligently. “I dunno, Ernest. But it was fun,” He extended a hand to Ernst, requesting the dryer. “Can I see that?”

“Sure,” He handed over the dryer and went digging thought his pile of dry clothes to find the calculator watch he had gotten for Hanukkah last year. Hanschen pointed the dryer towards his crotch to dry out the boxers. “It’s uhh, twelve thirty, we probably shouldn’t be so loud people are trying to sleep-”

“It’s what?”

“Twelve thirty.”

Throwing the dryer to the floor, Hanschen began frantically moving around, yanking his damp clothes from of the shower rod, “Shit, shit, shit!” He hissed, struggling to put on jeans that rubbed his skin in the worst way. “My curfew is eleven holy fuck.”

Ernst chuckled and turned off the dryer, thankful it didn’t break when it hit the tile. “Oh, sorry about that Hanschen.”

Not responding, he continued to desperately tug on his clothing.  By the time he got the shirt on and the pants mostly on, he rushed out of the bathroom and towards the front door. Following, Ernst watche dhim trip repeatedly over the sleeping. “Bye, Ernest, had a good time!” He called back, some dumb part of his brain still thinking to impress the pretty boy standing in the doorway as he ran barefoot from the house.

“It’s ERNST. No second E!”

To those of us who knew the pain Of valentines that never came And those whose names were never called When choosing sides for basketball

Hanschen had never been super into sports. Not extremely at least, but enough to be able to hold his own and have some fun. He expected Ernst to be able to hold his own as well, what why he invited him over to play two-on-two with him, Melchior, and Moritz. But the second Ernst arrived at Melchior’s house, that was proven wrong.

“You doing alright, Ernst?” Hanschen asked his teammate after he had called the third water break. Ernst was doubled over, drinking from a water bottle Hansche had filled up for him. “You wanna step out and Melchi and I can play one on one?”

Ernst shook his head, looking over at the other two, chatting and passing the ball between them and discussing whether or not they wanted to order a pizza. “I’m good, Hansi. I’m fine. I’m great.” He panted out.

Ernst was never going to stop being stubborn, so Hanschen shrugged and called out to the other two. “Okay, guys, let’s play!”

Two minutes in and Ernst sounded like he was going to cough up a lung he was breathing so heavily. But he refused to call a timeout. And he would come to regret that when, while trying to steal the ball away from Moritz, he was knocked on his ass. And pretty hard too.

“Holy shit, Ernst,” Melchior called, walking over to help his new friend up. They had only hung out once or twice before, but he had already been getting along so well. Maybe just because Moritz liked him so damn much. “You alright, buddy?”

Ernst groaned, probably damning himself under his breath. “I’m good,”

The other three looked to one another with sympathetic eyes,knowing that he was lying. “Come on, Ernst,” Moritz groaned and helped Ernst to his feet with a grunt. The skinner of the two was holding his back and hissing in pain. “Me and Melchior was gonna shoot some hoops, you and Hanschen wanna go inside for a bit?”

With a wink, Moritz showed that he knew exactly what he was doing. This is what Hanschen gets for ranting to Moritz for hours about how pretty Ernst was. So Hanschen patted Ernst’s sore back, making him cringe. “Come on, Ernie. Let’s get some lemonade, alright?”

Thank God for Mrs Gabor for always keeping them stocked full of snacks like they were being shipped off to little league any moment with their capri suns and celery. Today, it was a tall pitcher of lemonade, mini raisin boxes, and a chocolate chip cookies. Ernst took an exhausted seat a the breakfast bar, slumped over the counter.

“You doing alright?” He asked the top of Ernst’s brown hair, because that was all he could see. A thumb popped up from the pile of boy on the table, signaling that he was alright but didn’t want to do much more than a slight movement. “You want some lemonade, Ernst?”

A muffled voice came from under Ernst’s folded arms. “No I’m good.”

Hanschen still poured him a drink and set the glass in front of him. A moment or two later, Ernst sat up a and revealed his bright red face. From his big ears to the tip of his nose looked were so red he practically became a cherry. He avoided looking at Hanschen, or even anywhere besides the glass right in front of him.

“What’s up, Ernst?” Hanschen asked after a pause filled with just Ernst sipping his lemonade. “You don’t seem alright.”

After a long sigh, Ernst could finally look up at Hanschen with sad eyes. “I just… I feel like an idiot.” He muttered. Hanschen now noticed the exact shade of brown his eyes were. They reminded him of the color of the bugs encased in amber that he saw on a museum field trip in fifth grade. He didn’t know what to do when Ernst suddenly looked away. “You just.... I feel like….” He sighed again.

Hanschen extended his hand to lay over Ernst’s. He felt his thin fingers and bulging knuckled underneath his fingertips, sending electric shocks through them both. “Hey. Just breath, Ernst. If you don’t want to tell me then-”

“You’re all so much better than me.”

There was a pause, like Hanschen didn’t know what to say. But in reality, all he could do was laugh at such a ridiculous concept. Ernst looked at him like he was crazy, not just for holding his hand but also for laughing in his face.

“What’s so funny?” He said in a small voice, like he was trying to shrink away. He tried to even shrink away from Hanschen’s touch and pull his hand away. But then he felt Hanschen tighten his previously loose grip.

“Ernst Robel,” He chuckled, “You are literally the embodiment of talent and grace and creativity. Don’t try to feed my anymore bullshit.”

It was long ago and far away The world was younger than today When dreams were all they gave for free To ugly duckling girls like me

“Hey, are you asleep?”

He wished he could’ve been. The sun hurt his eyes a lot, but damn it all if he was going to turn away from the warmth. He stayed leaned against the tree, not bothering to move a foot of so to the shade that Ernst was sat under.

“Not yet, I wish I was,” He gazed down at the cop of War of the Worlds he intended to read, but instead decided to soak up the rays like a sunflower.  Ernst was beginning to notice that freckles he didn’t had when they first met were starting to pop out thought normally pale porcelain skin.  “It’s too bright.”

Ernst nodded, taking off his pair of aviators and handing them to his companion. Hanschen didn’t see at first, then suddenly noticed the hand extended to him. “Thanks, Ernie,” He muttered and put on the shades, placing a golden glow over the field. Now the sun wasn’t sending pulsing pain into his eyes, he could lean back against the bark.

But now, it wasn’t the sun keeping him up, it was the hum coming from Ernst’s lips.

For a minute or so, he listened. Listened to the sound of pages flipping, Ernst’s humming, and the very light breeze.

Across the field, their might have been kids making out at the powerplant in the distance. He used to want to be there, with them, imaging he was making out with Bobby or any random guy he made eye contact with at the mall or sometimes Melchior on a really bad day. Today, he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.

Or with anyone else.

“How’s your book, Ernst?”

“Good,” He replied. Although Hanschen couldn’t see him, he could hear him. “It’s a bit long winded but I love Wilde.”

Hanschen slid lower, father down to the base of the tree. “Wilde? Wasn’t he like….queer?”

The word fell from his mouth out of fear. He had realized what he saying halfway through his question but knew he couldn’t turn back. So he just kept his eyes closed and hoped Ernst wasn’t staring at him, questioning if the teenager lying next to him was the neighborhood “fag”. Only Ilse knew that he was.

Silence hung between them. No pages flipping or humming. Not even a breeze.

“Yeah. I think he was.”

“Weird, huh?”

“Yeah. Weird.”

The next silence was much less tense. Hanschen only then noticed that he had been holding his breath until that moment. He relaxed, his head now on the grass at the base of the oak. He then suddenly heard Ernst shift, perhaps even moving closer. The next thing he knew, a soft hand was laid on his head, fingers playing with the stands of dirty blond hair that had become brighter over the past two months.

His fingers span in circles with the tips rubbing across his scalp. This sent Hanschen’s head into a tizzy, sending shivers up and down his spine and making his mind melt into the ground. His breathing had become slower and heavier until Ernst finally noticed he had fallen asleep.

This gave Ernst the chance to look away from the book he had been pretending to read and allow himself more than a glance. He gazed at Hanschen’s chest, slowly moving up and down with his now relaxed muscles straining against his plain white tee shirt. He wished he could just see his eyes, which were covered by his own sunglasses. Something in his chest and brain made him want to see the peaceful expression on his face.

His movement to Hanschen was slow, but successful. As he had managed to lean over and pull the glasses from his face as gently as possible. He had spent what felt like five minutes and turned out to be half an hour glancing between the green grass the handsome boy asleep in it. And now, he could see the long eyelashes resting on Hanschen’s cheekbones and the soft expression his relaxed brows made.

“ Ernst,” His serene mouth moved, suddenly shaking Ernst from his trance. “Can you put those back? The sun hurts my eyes.”

We all play the game and when we dare To cheat ourselves at solitaire Inventing lovers on the phone Repenting other lives unknown

“Hey, Hanschen?”

“Yeah?”

“Are they all asleep?

There was a pause when Hanschen sat up and looked around the tent to see if anyone was awake. Even though it was pitch black out, the still burning fire outside silhouetted the lumps that were Ilse, Melchior, Moritz, and Wendla all laying down asleep in their sleeping bags. On the other side of the large tent, Ernst’s head popped up above them all. “Yeah, I think so, “He replied.

Almost immediately, Ernst got up out of his sleeping bag and moved towards the doorway, crouching to avoid hitting his head on the top of the tent. “Come on,” He whispered and unzipped the entrance after unzipping the tent.

Hanschen followed closely, slipping on his flip-flops that were waiting at the entrance. He watched Ernst for a moment of too, wearing Hanschen’s hoodie and a pair of Spiderman pajama pants. He stoked the flames, throwing another log on to let it grow larger and looking over his shoulder at the boy waiting for him. “Are you cold, Hansi?”

“A bit,” He replied and approached the fire. He sat on the tree stump he was sitting on only an hour ago, when the whole group was sat around singing along to Melchior’s guitar and telling cheesy scary stories. His hands were extended, trying to warm his palms against the fire.

Ernst sat beside him only a moment later on a twin stump. He sighed, watching the fire with tired eyes. “I don’t want summer to be over.”

“Why?” Asked Hanschen. “You said this morning that you miss having structure.”

Ernst nodded, as if he had been caught. “It’s hard to be new your senior year, ya know? I don’t wanna spend what’s supposed to be my best year in high school trying to figure things out like a dumb freshman.”

“You’re smart, Ernst,” He said as if he was explaining it to a first grader. “You’ll have it figured out in a day or two.”

He shrugged and kept his amber eyes on the flames. “At least I have you guys. And you’re all pretty cool.”

Hanschen laughed again, this time much more quiet than before. His hand reached out to hold onto Ernst’s shoulder as he whispered so he wouldn’t wake the others. “We’re not cool. None of us are cool.”

Ernst looked away from the fire for the first time and at Hanschen instead. His eyes were lit up, shining with the reflection of the full moon. These eyes moved around Hasnschen’s face, spending fleeting moments looking from his cheeks to his lips to his eyes to his nose to his lips to his hair to his lips to his lips to his lips.

“I think you’re all pretty cool,” He replied, eyes finally finding Hanschen’s which normally looked light the summer sky, cloudless and clear, but currently looked stormy. It was like a little hurricane was going on inside of Hanschen. And it was coming closer and closer but the second.

Then, Ernst realized that his face was only an inch from Hanschen’s.

“No,” Hanschen muttered, his hot breath hitting Ernst’s face and sending all his senses into a tizzy. “We’re lame. You’ll realize that eventually.”

“Then I’d rather stay blissfully ignorant,” Was all Ernst could say before he felt Hanschen’s lips touch his.

If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was drunk. Hanschen’s lips were soft, with his hand clasped on the back of Ernst’s head, fingers tangled in his hair. His own hands moved up to the sides of Hanschen’s face, palms firmly planted on the chiseled jaw he had been admiring for a few months now.

The kiss was only a few seconds long. At least the actual kissing was. The rest of the time was spent just sitting there, clinging to one another with their lips still pressed together.

They would rather do anything else than let go.

But when they did, both boys immediately broke into their own dumb grins. Ernst looked away, preferring to look anywhere besides Hanschen, who was his first real kiss if he didn’t count the weird peck Bobby gave him when they met up at the park much later than they should have been.

But Hanschen kept his eyes locked on Ernst, holding the boy as close as possible.

“Nice dimples, Ernie.”

They call and say, "Come dance with me" And murmur vague obscenities At ugly girls like me At seventeen

“Hanschen, you got a call!” Melitta called from the screen door as Hanschen threw down into the front lawn.

The blond pushed his hair from his face, sweat making it stick to his forehead. “From who?”

“From I don’t know!” She called back, and slammed the screen closed just a moment before he got to it. What an amazing sister, he thought and threw his backpack onto the floor of the entrance hall.

He just nodded at his mother and walked straight up to the landline sitting on the hall table. Beside it was written on a post-it note in Melitta’s frilly cursive, ‘Ernst called for Hans’.

And so the ritual began. The almost daily ritual of Hanschen running up to his room as soon as he got home to call up Ernst. His family had stopped asking for Ernst’s number, knowing that his ‘best friend’ Hanschen had it memorized.

“Hey, Robel residence?” Ernst’s voice said only moments after the phone began ringing. Like he had been waiting.

Hanschen giggled like a little girl, grinning like an idiot even though no one was there, “Hi, Ernst. It’s Hanschen.”

There was a pause, where Hanschen was assuming Ernst was looking around his kitchen to make sure none of his family were around. Then, he whispered back into the receiver. “Hanschen, I miss you.”

Hanschen recalled how he had only seen Ernst a few hours ago. He had been there to awkwardly walk Hanschen to his rehearsal before heading off to tennis practice. But now that it was six o’clock and they were both officially home, Hanschen felt fine responding  with : “I miss you too, Ernst. How was tennis?”

“God, I wish I found this sport sooner, Hansi,” He sighed. “We’re gonna whoop some ass at the first game, babe. You should come watch.”

“Of course I will,” Hanschen replied, his cheeks blushing at the phrase Ernst whispered into the phone. “If you come and see the show, I’ll come to every game I can.”

Ernst scoffed as if Hanschen was an idiot for asking. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Romeo.”

“And Wendla’s such a good Juliet. She’s gonna be famous, Ernst. Bet ten dollars on it.”

“You could be famous too, Hansi,” He replied happily, “I can’t believe you didn’t know you were this good.”

Hanschen, now laying on his bed staring at the ceiling like a love sick teen in a movie, giggled like one too. “Shut up!” He snickered before taking a long breath, listening to his companion over the phone. Ernst was breathing heavily, like he had just had the thrill of his life. Maybe his mom just walked by or he heard someone coming down the stairs. So Hanschen continued, “So, are we trying to meet up tonight?”

“I’d love to,” Ernst whispered back, “The field?”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then, babe.”

Ernst’s breath hitched at the word, “See you then. I’ll love that.”

Then he hung up, leaving Hanschen grinning and brimming with joy, because he knew what ‘I’ll love that’ meant. He knew it meant that someone else was in the room with Ernst really wanted to say ‘I love you’.

Hanschen couldn’t help but reply, speaking into the dial tone.  “I love you too.”

[jdmainman123]

Line boys are like teaching the girls in church OH YEAH I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR CITIES THE GIRLS KEPT COMING UP TO ME AND TELLING ME GOD'S A MAN

Just throwing it out there because auntie seated and integration energies tricked by black hair white son standing next to a black skin man and the homophobic energy

That's right one of them would have a goofy look on his face probably be looking for gold Sun stick instead of the other one

You know what I think a girl getting hit by a car would do less damage in these two homophobic boys than the next to each other outside. And then you look over at the father. Which one's the satellite maker?

Just three retards and a dead baby girl at their foot feet

LYING BOYS ARE YOU KIDDING ME HOW ABOUT BOYS WITH DREAMS AND HOPES. No because they know better than me what are you guys explain that what's the f****** button man I got to learn these I know they have a word for every one of these. Black shirt and green hat and white shorts. Explanations

But hey if blacks are quitting at English it's a good day for us you have the dead daughter I promise

I don't give a f*** what beat you go to if you quit learning other languages and you're hiding behind his dead white trash family word I promise you the Spanish and Latin Black Mass Justice call wasn't for no reason

And if that black hair white son dies without a sister for not turning white hair white skin ring. Then we don't give a s***. If a tree falls down in the middle of the woods and no one's around to hear it. Does anyone give a s***? No f*** no who the f*** cares if it's three falls down and no one's around

So bye-bye black mccullo McClellan dancing on your own maybe you shouldn't have taken this baby killing thing and I hate airplane staying a little too serious other than black and white son hates black skin girls

That that was almost funnier than him dying without a daughter YEAH I KILLED HER MYSELF I GAVE HER $100 AT NIGHT AND THEN I WAKE UP OPEN MY EYES AND SHE'S REACHING IN MY WALLET. SO I GRAB THE SMALL FOOT LONG STEEL BAT AND I BASH HER HEAD IN. AND I DRAG HER DOWNSTAIRS HEADLESS AND PUT IT IN FRONT OF HER SISTERS THE NEXT ONE OF YOU B****** THAT LIE TO ME. THIS IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO YOU

That's right you sent an example the first one lies you beat the s*** out of that one worse than you'll ever in your entire life and then you have all the rest of the kids watch. And then when you're done you say anybody want to f****** lie now

Anybody? Anybody else?

YES SO MURDER WORKED MORE IMPORTANTLY WE'RE VERY EXCITED ABOUT THE HE DOESN'T KNOW

And I don't know let's say why would Phoenix know a bigger downtown when I just got out of Dallas no problem Kansas no problem I guarantee it's the anti-seed and integration energy of these f****** n****** in california. It just feels like a s***** day in Las Vegas where we should be outside I don't know killing all the white skin boys. Just for just a humor my f****** dick since you got a hundred f****** men escort in this one white-haired girl and it's really making me sick how you been have been compromised how you broke down how every white skin black hair boy is saying white hair girls. To me it's I wouldn't have done the same thing. I would have been murdered at like one of those premature babies

Oh yeah as clockwork they come and defend the premature babies other than the girls born sick hey listen any girls born sick on my staff the Black White House staff socialism we can go ahead and let him go I don't think I heard telling you about her daddy

Yeah he just drove the bicycle up and slapped the white hair girl in the face

I KNOW WHAT SHE WANTS WE NEED THEM DEAD

No I'm here babysitting this time the girls and total control all I have to do is watch over this little boy it's easiest job I've ever had

I REALLY WISH THEY WOULD FORCE ME TO BLEED YOU KNOW WHAT BLEEDING DOES IT MAKES ME MORE ALERT LIKE I WOULDN'T SAY HAVE TO S*** AND YOU KNOW WHAT I'D STILL BE WALKING I THINK NATURAL LIBRE START STRIKES AGAIN

No I swear to God when New York stole my wallet they showed me something I would have continued walking. If I was bleeding if it's just a natural science like yeah in a way I would be walking to the next store for another drink. But this s*** whole city only has one 7-Eleven I got to drive on the other side of the city you know because I'm not allowed at circle k

You'll never be a real 7-Eleven f*** your pizza hot flashlight holder? Now I'm just kidding but it sounds like a good idea?

SO SO 1711 ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS F****** PIECE OF S*** WHOLE CITY IS F****** TINY ASS TRAIN. That you guys wanted me here to roast your City all right that's what I'm doing

BUT NOT TO LIBRE STRIKES AGAIN BY ALLOWING ME TO KNOW YOU GUYS DON'T WANT ME BLEEDING BECAUSE I'LL CONTINUE WALKING IT'S COMMON SENSE I'LL FIGURE THE ONE F****** ROAD IN BETWEEN THIS MOUNTAIN TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN

Nacho libre strikes again okay I can't tell you anything more I took the vein from my ball sack right back into my stomach

Wow that's specific yeah we need his wife and daughter dead they're just sitting around me you know to filibuster

Oh is that what the white hair girls in Kansas paid for I noticed that s*** very specifically. No way why do you strikes again BLACK PEOPLE DON'T DIE HEROES THEN THAT'S GREAT NO CUZ WHAT HE DID IS FORCED THEM TO DIE FOR SOCIALISM

Filibusters what they would do was to trick one of the boys and men knew me outside they would have to fill in space for the integration to keep me talking AND THE ANTECEDENT WOULD RELEASE PERSONAL INFORMATION OF MINE FOR AN EXAMPLE BARE MIDDLE SCHOOL WAS ONE OF THE FIRST TIMES I SNAPPED ON SOMEONE AND SAID LISTEN DON'T YOU SAY THAT NAME AROUND HERE SOMEONE'S GOING TO GET IDEAS AND BUILDING A TINY 34 CITY AROUND THE BARE MIDDLE SCHOOL

What are you trying to put 500 more black n****** on my payroll

YEAH SO THE FILIBUSTERS OF THE DATA BREACH ARE TO PRETEND THEY HAVE A MIND BEFORE THE BEACH. I'M WAY PAST THIS BECAUSE I LINKED UP WITH CALIFORNIA. AND YOU KNOW HOW MUCH FAVORS THIS IS GOING TO BUY ME DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES THAT PACIFIC ISLANDER GIRL SHOWED UP TO MY RESCUE REMEMBER DOG THE BOUNTY HUNTER I THINK SHE SENT THEM KELLY WITH A WHITE HAIR BABY GIRL COP. I'M SORRY THE WHITE HAIR LADY COP

Yeah but we can't we got to continue calling a desert city because remember they're still trailers are in Reno NO THEY STOLE MY PIPE DREAM I GO TO RENO TO BUY A STEEL TRAILER AND GET MARRIED TO A CAT A CAT THAT I MET ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AND MY HOMELESS CITY yeah it's a girl it's a woman just her name is cat

Can I get the papers did I say you know what I'm going to make another dream come true we're going to move to Reno and get a steel trailer OF COURSE THE ANTIDOTE AND THEN SOON AS I GET EVERYTHING SET UP I'M GOING TO KICK MY WIFE OUT I'm just kidding I'm just kidding

YEAH SO NEXT THING I KNOW LAS VEGAS IS BARKING ON MY DOOR I WANT TO MAKE YOU ANY MAN I WANT TO SEND YOU TO A 3/4 FACILITY WE DON'T SELL STEEL TRAILER SO THE BOYS CAN STAY WITH THE GIRLS WE WANT THEM IN CONCRETE HOUSES. AND I SAID YOU KNOW WHAT GET YOUR CARDBOARD BOX OFF MY F****** SIDE OF THE ROAD OKAY THIS IS MY SIDE OF THE ROAD

Oh I hate Las Vegas you know what Las Vegas is to me it's like having 500 million black skin boys and girls that we don't f****** need. And said they all come over one night the entire see Las Vegas leaves their City all the planes flying to my city and they all men they don't want girls AND FOOD AND CARS AND PLACES TO STAY. AND THEN I SAY WHY SHOULD I DO THIS. AND ONE OF THEM STEPS UP AND SAYS BECAUSE I'M A SATELLITE MAKER

Here we go again?