#my mans was vomiting backstage and then coming back on and singing

[boots-and-dagger]

they way some people talk on here is wild like just admit you hate harry? you don’t have to pretend to like him, literally no one is making you. but if you seriously believe it was only him who wanted to end the band and he did it in a spiteful way that hurt louis, you’re as delusional as people who believe in holivia

[kerwritesthings]

The Heartbeat of Inspiration

Summary: Musicians find magic within the simplest sounds, especially when it’s laced with love

Word Count: just shy of 1.5k

Warnings: silly and sweet with some fluff and a slight dip into cheeky fucker

Author Notes: I had been lamenting earlier Saturday that I wanted to write, opened a few things I have going (which I HATE having multiple things started let alone started and just hanging) none sparked joy at the moment, prompts I’m sitting on were doing the same. Was about to close down for the night when Bre @fallinallincurls decided to blog THIS and then all of a sudden, a word doc was opened and I vomited 250 words in like 10 minutes. I had about 1k done in an hour, then it took a turn. All in all, 2 hours to bang out this whole thing start to finish. CRAZY. Miss muse, she has a mind of her own.

This falls earlier in the verse than I’ve been writing lately, like somewhere between Sharing a Look and Because I Need You. Totally can be a stand-alone but as always, verse knowledge helps. Full masterlist can be found here.

“Can I play you something?” he asks earnestly, guitar slung on his back as he reaches for your hand.

“Of course, always. But why not here?” you question as he pulls you through the maze of people, cases and wires, down a random hallway you don’t remember seeing before. He peeks around the corner and ducks you both into a dimly lit room.

“Because,” he smiles, swinging his guitar around before hopping up on the counter in the small space he’s found.

“Because is so not an answer my dear. What are you up to Shawn?” you knit your eyebrows as you pop down cross legged on the floor across from him.

“When you were on that call before, after sound check? I didn’t want to sit or anything. Too much rolling through me,” he explains strumming lightly. “I felt something bubbling. I needed to play and write and just be you know? Bus wouldn’t do it or my room cause everyone would be popping in and out. I went to wander, it got quieter. Found this. Not sure why we’re not using it considering everyone’s on top of each other in this place.”

“I thought you went to nap, I know the bus and all the extra stuff hasn’t been the best for you for sleep,” you start before he jumps back in.

“Nope. Was in here. Remember that progression that’s been eating at me? The one I made you record on your phone the other morning?” he plays it, and eases into it further, looping back to the original. “Music’s done. Or I think it is.”

He goes head down, focusing solely on the guitar and the sounds coming from it. You love all facets of this man of yours, but seeing him in his element, creating, in love with the music. The way you get to see him, the way he allows you to see him this way; it’s nothing short of special. Towards the end he’s bopping his head along as he strums, smile creeping across his lips.

“And so yeah, it’s that,” he shrugs, bashful and flushing all of a sudden.

“Can you play it for me again?” you request. “Please?”

He turns a few shades pinker, deeper. “Really?”

You nod, looking him straight in the eye, lips quirking up on one side.

He slides back into music mode, this time a little surer of the chords and the strings underneath his fingers. He looks up at you more this go, cheeky little grin as he progresses. Head bops a little more towards the end of this go, the newness still there but something with it settling underneath his skin and into his bones.

“I think I’ve got the start of lyrics too,” he mumbles, fingers drumming against the front of the light washed wood. “If all goes well, wanna get this down, mixed. Done. Drop it when we get back from all this. A surprise, a thank you, an end note to this bit of running if you will.”

“What brought this all on all of a sudden? What’s the inspiration?” you question, head tilting to the side just enjoying the scene folding out in front of you. He’s always pretty in your eyes, but when he gets deep into his music, he’s ethereal with a whole other glow.

“You,” he says so matter of factly, not looking up from his fingers fidgeting across the frets now. “The other night, when you finally got in, and you slid into my arms. Something just popped, clicked. It was this feeling of calm and serenity, that nothing else mattered but that single moment with you. I heard the progression in your heartbeat, as fucking cheesy as it sounds, but I did. It hit, stuck in my head even when we slept. Felt it again, stronger and more sure really, when I woke up with you sleeping on me. Why I made you record me playing it first thing that morning. I couldn’t let it go, I needed to keep it.”

“I had to go and fall in love with a poetic as shit songwriter,” you sniff, shifting to your feet to get to him.

He hopped down off the counter, slinging his guitar behind him to get you into his arms.

“I warned you that this whole muse thing for a musician was real,” he laughs brightly, holding you tightly to him. “You’re a pretty damn good one at that. Thank you, baby.”

You nuzzle your face against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, wrapping your arms about his waist being careful of the guitar behind him and just hold him so for a few minutes.

“Love you pretty girl,” he whispers, nudging your face up to look at his. “So damn much.”

He leans down, dusting the softest kisses across your face, hitting your eyelids, cheeks, the tip of your nose before carefully pressing into your lips. You’re lost in the moment, in him, in the bubble. Then your phone starts buzzing wildly in your pocket, Shawn’s following suit.

“Shawn,” you utter against his lips, pulling away ever slightly.

“They can wait,” he mutters against your jaw, sliding his hands into the back pockets of your jeans to bring you closer into him. “Wanna love on you a bit before I have to go into show mode. I’ve missed you, missed being this close. You feel good under my hands, the taste of you on my lips.”

He hits this spot on your neck that makes you let go something between a moan and a sigh. “The part of me that loves you so much wants to say to hell with them all, but the rational part of me that knows if they’re hitting both of our phones…”

Shawn doubles down, nose skirting against your skin with his tongue following. “Couple more minutes, please?”

“Baby, sweetheart,” you fight out as he nips at your ear while slipping his thigh between your legs. “You’re not fighting fair. You’ve got folks to see, fans to make swoon, songs to sing.”

“I’m seeing you; I’m making you swoon, I can sing to you,” he utters into your ear, hips canting against yours. “You’re my favorite audience.”

“What’s gotten into you…” you begin just as a familiar face busts into the room.

“There you are. Kids, really?” Cez barks through a deep laugh. “Enough of that. You two are damn lucky it’s me that found you and not say Andrew or even Louis, who by the way is here tonight.”

“I tried,” you say, trying to peel back from him, but he won’t let his grip on you go, his head leaning down into your shoulder at this point.

“Yep, ‘smy fault, but do you blame me man?” he grins wickedly as he picks up his head and pulls you into a much more PG hold. “My girl that I love is here, you know how much I’ve missed the hell out of her and I mean look at her. You’re lucky I’ve behaved at all lately.”

“Shawn,” you push at him, face bright red.

Cez rolls his eyes and chuckles. “You are lucky I care about you the way I do, kid. God help me why I do, I wonder sometimes. You have 15 minutes to get yourself back to your room, cleaned up and changed before meet and greet starts. If you cannot behave, I will take your love with me, so you have to behave. Get it?”

“Come on,” you push him towards the door and in Cez’s direction while still tangled in his grasp. “Time to go be a Rockstar, Shawn.”

He loosens his grip on you, kissing your forehead before letting you go. Shawn nudges at him as he walks towards the door. Cez throws his arm around his neck in a loose head lock. The two walk through the door and down the hallway that way for a beat.

“Thank god for you. Someone here that he’ll really listen to,” Cez replies, letting him free of his hold.

“I listen to you,” he sticks his tongue out at him in retaliation as they hit the main hallway backstage.

“See what I deal with? Go, I’m back for you at 4!” Cez calls out walking past the both of you

“Wanna dress me?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows with a wink as you get through to his room.

“I’ll help choose, no touching now, but I call dibs on getting you out of it later ok?” you pick through the rolling rack on the far wall.

He comes behind you to hug you again, his chin hooking over your shoulder. “Promise?”

You twist to kiss him as best you can. “Post Rockstar show Shawn is one of my favorites so yes, of course. Me, you and that couch after the show.”

“It’s a date.”

TAG LIST: @whenidance, @etherealpetey, @sinplisticshawn​, @hollandraul, @fallinallincurls, @itrocksmysocks, @rainbowshawn, @lasingphomustra, @illumecherry, @adelaidestreets, @thotmendes

*Always feel free to ask to be added to the tag list!

[keanureevesisbae]

Caught in a Blizzard - Part 1

Summary: Luna is going to perform at the Graham Norton show, but little did she know that Chris Evans is going to be a guest as well.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Luna Hwang (Asian OFC)

Warnings: Mentions about sex and some alcohol

Wordcount: 4.5k

A/N: if you want to be on the taglist, just let me know! Also, I love to read your guys’ thoughts and feedback xx

Masterlist // Introduction // Part 2

Tonight I’m the musical guest on the Graham Norton show and I was too lazy to check who were going to be the other guests. I mean, I was severely jet lagged and a bit hungover, because they were serving some real good wine on the airplane and I might have finished an entire bottle and then some more sips from another bottle.

Normally my new agent Gia would be with me when I go to these types of things, to make sure everything is handled correctly and I’m up to date to the most important things, but since she has come down with a flu, just like her two youngest kids, she obviously stayed in New York. She told me I would be doing fine, however I wished that she was with me now, because she  could’ve told me that finishing that entire bottle of wine myself wasn’t exactly a good idea (I have no self control, that’s obvious) and mentally prepare me for the other guests.

Now I have exactly five minutes to prepare myself, because I have wasted at least thirty with hyperventilating.

Because of the tough weather, Viola Davis couldn’t be here unfortunately, which is a shame, because she herself is a whole new level of awesome. But on the couch sits the queen herself Reese Witherspoon and THE handsome ass Chris Evans is there as well!

I mean, I obviously have an unhealthy crush on him, because who wouldn’t? He is handsome, he is funny and he is exactly the type of man that I’d like to drag in my bed for some mature activities. Seeing him sitting right there, makes my heart do all sorts of different things. And I realize that when I’m going to join them, I have to sit next to him. I have to sit next to the man who thought that wearing grey plaid pants and a fitted sweater would be appropriate.

Normally I would’ve known who the guests are on the shows that I perform at when I was still with my group Brave Elegance, because we had agents and a few members that actually listened to them when stuff like this was being told. I relied on them mostly, because I was making sure I could perfect my performance, by practicing the dance moves and hum out my rap. Now I’m all by myself and the first time Gia is supposed to be with me, she is sick.

And now I have to eat up the consequences of my own stupid choices.

I wish there was a guide available, that could help me out with one of the biggest problems I have ever encountered in my life: how to NOT embarrass yourself in front of the Chris Evans?

‘So, I have a question,’ Graham Norton starts. ‘Our musical guest Luna is backstage and—’ The audience erupts into a loud applause and whistles. ‘Goodness me, I wasn’t even finished yet!’

The crowd starts to laugh and from the looks of it, Reese Witherspoon and Chris Evans are amused. I take another sip of my water, because my throat feels painfully dry.

‘What I was going to ask is if you two had heard from her,’ Graham continues.

‘I do, actually,’ Reese says. ‘My daughter was a huge fan of hers back when she was in Brave Elegance. I went to three concerts of them actually.’

‘Oh, so you know quite a bit about her?’ Graham asks.

Reese nods. ‘Yes, I do. Back when she was in the band, my daughter was such a big fan of hers. Even had posters of her in her room. I do know that she is really killing the game with her solo projects.’

‘She totally is,’ Chris Evans says. ‘I downloaded her album the second it came out. I loved it.’

I think I forget how to breath. He downloaded my album? Holy crap, this isn’t helping with my nerves.

‘Really?’ Graham asks. ‘I never thought you were the type of guy that would listen to her songs, if I’m being honest.’

‘Well, my niece was a Fairy once, so I knew about the existence of them and heard some songs. But I only started to get really invested in their music during their Golden Globe performance, little did I know that that was going to be one of their last performances. A shame really, I was ready to become a Fairy.’

The Chris Evans Captain America Chris Evans was ready to become part of the fanbase? Oh shit, is this how it feels to have an out of body experience? How am I supposed to act normal after this?’

‘Really?’ Graham asks with a smile. ‘Well lucky you then that she is going to perform here.’

A woman ushers me with her and I follow her through the tiny halls. It’s nearly time for me to get on stage, but how am I going to deal with this? The sound is pretty loud, so I continue to hear what is being said.

‘She has something,’ Reese continues. ‘Like she forces you to watch her. My daughter once showed me a compilation of her on the X-Factor and I was genuinely impressed. She was only seventeen and knew exactly how to pull the audience in. Amazing.’

‘Please, everybody, please give it up for the one and only Luna!’

The audience start to clap and whistle, causing me to smile. I always love it when I hear the whistles and the screams of fans. Graham holds out his hand and I kindly take it, but all of the sudden I feel a little self-conscious about my tight red dress and my over knee boots, but I can’t change now. I must hold my breath the entire time I’m sitting my ass on that couch.

I shake hands with Reese Witherspoon, who compliments me on my outfit and tells me I’m so pretty. Why is this woman such a nice lady?

I quickly wipe my palm when I have to shake Chris Evans’ hand. When I’m with my producers or even back when I was still with the girls from Brave Elegance, I’d tell them how Chris Evans literally bite me wherever he wants, choke me during sex and that every hole I have is right there for him to use.

Now I’m standing in front of him and those things have turned into nothing but idle talk.

I somehow manage to extend my hand without shaking like an idiot an he holds mine in his large one. Oh my, those fingers… Imagine them insi— No, Luna, don’t even go there. You are in public!

‘It’s so nice to meet you, Luna,’ he says with a charming smile and me knees nearly give out. His eyes are glued on me and oh my, he is even more handsome from up close.

‘Yeah, it’s nice to meet you too.’ Okay, good, I managed to say seven words to him, in an acceptable order. Progress!

I sit on the left end of the couch, next to Chris Evans and I sure hope the microphone doesn’t pick up on my heartbeat, since I can feel it beating with a force that it actually hurts me.

‘Luna, I’m so happy that you’re here,’ Graham says.

‘Thank you for having me.’

‘Are you excited?’

I nod. ‘This is my first solo interview on television, so I’m a bit nervous, but other than that, I’m very excited. I just hope that I won’t say anything stupid.’

‘You probably won’t,’ Graham says and I don’t feel necessarily assured. ‘I have to say, Luna, you are such an interesting woman.’

‘Is that good or bad?’ I ask.

‘Well, I mean,’ he says, looking at his cards. ‘At the young age of seventeen, you participate in the X-Factor, didn’t win, but did gain four friends. Is it hard to now do your own stuff?’

I think well about this question. Our disbandment was quite messy, though the public doesn’t know about that. The reason we split up was because of the amounts of jealousy between the members and… Me actually. I miss my members every single day and I wish that they were here with me. But I have to realize, that the disbandment was all my fault and if I was just a team player back then, I would still have them around me.

‘It’s hard to be by myself, sometimes. I mean, I have dancers with me, but… It’s different. It can’t be compared to being with four amazingly talented girls with the same dream. So yeah, it’s hard, because I have to figure out how I’m going to do it alone. We were together for six years non stop, so it’s kinda weird.’

‘Your disbandment came as a huge surprise. Did you guys knew that you were going to disband soon?’

‘Well, 2018 was really a rollercoaster of a years and the after shocks of that, went with us to 2019. We were all kind of struggling with our psychical and mental health. I won’t really go into details for the rest of the girls, but I was hospitalized for two months, because I totally overworked myself. Being in a group is hard work and our record label was really putting a lot of pressure on us and after six years, it can be hard to keep up. So, our last two performances… We didn’t really say that it were the last, but deep down we all pretty much knew, you know?’

‘Right… You are the only one that is continuing in the music industry. How come?’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘it’s the only thing I’m good at and I love to do it. I love interacting with fans, being on stage. My new record label is really laid back and they continue to say that we are going at my pace, that my health is the most important and I shouldn’t overwork myself ever, so that really is comforting and I know it’s for the best.’

Graham nods and asks: ‘Did you know that Chris Evans was ready to become a Fairy?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Tell us, Chris, what was your favorite song and maybe Luna can sing a bit for you.’

I’m going to fucking vomit. Is this truly happening? I bet Gia is watching this right now (or tomorrow, since she is still sick) and she is going to laugh her ass off, just like all the producers and God who knows. I just know.

I carefully look to the side and see Chris Evans smirking. Seeing it in gifs is such an experience, but seeing it in real life… Goodness me.

‘I truly loved ‘You Know, He Did It Too’, especially because it showed how society is really fucked up. It takes two people, but of course only the woman in this story gets the blame, which is not fair.’

‘I’m not going to sing that,’ I say to Graham. ‘Or rap my part.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ I can’t even think of a very good reason to not do it.

‘Come on,’ he coaxes me. ‘When can you say that you rapped in front of Chris Evans? Captain America!’

I sigh, knowing I can’t get out of this.

Remember Bieber, had that fever?

You tiny man, you fucked it up

You should come clean

No need to fake

Your fiancé leave you no matter what

So be a man, suck it up

Take the blame, she ain’t alone.

You little fucker, just spit it out

We do this over and over

Till we fucked up your entire career

‘Damn!’ Graham exclaims. ‘We all watched the news obviously and knew what happened, but you really didn’t hold back with the rap.’

‘Well, funny story,’ I say, ‘originally we wanted the song to be a diss track to society, for only blaming the girl. But then he released a statement, saying that he had nothing to do with it, that she was seducing him and basically that it wasn’t his fault. So that’s when I got mad and changed the entire rap.’

‘Dragging him,’ Chris Evans adds.

I chuckle, feeling all too happy that I can agree with Chris Evans on this. ‘Yeah, dragging him.’

‘I love this,’ Graham says. ‘So, you were just out of high school when you auditioned for X-Factor.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘You wrote all your raps by yourself. Did you write songs back then?’

I nod. ‘They weren’t any good. I started with really bad poetry and that turned into cringy songs, that were trying to be deep, but it high school cringe. Thanks to the mentors on the X-Factor I was taught about flow and beat and all that good stuff. So I’m really grateful for that.’

Reese says: ‘What always surprised me, was how the raps you wrote matched the songs you girls were performing. But you did that all by yourself, with some help of the mentors?’

I nod. ‘You know, our time being on the X-Factor was hard, but it was so worth it. I feel like my song writing skills have improved over time and I do hope that the album showed my best writing skills and rap skills and sing and dance.’

‘You sure did,’ Graham says. ‘Can you tell us a little about who one of your songs is inspired on?’

I shake my head. ‘My songs aren’t necessarily inspired by anyone or any event really.’ Then I realize that I’m lying. ‘Wait, that is not true. One of my songs was sort of inspired on someone.’

‘I want the details,’ Graham says without skipping a beat, ‘and I want them now. Spill.’

‘Well, Ditch The Boys, Use Your Toys is inspired on someone I had sex with, back in the X-Factor days. We were already going to the next round as Brave Elegance. I had heard some rumors that he was pretty great in bed, causing me to think that if I ever had sex with him, it was going to be mind-blowing, so I had pretty high expectations.’

Graham nods, making it obvious he is really interested in hearing the rest of the story. I look at Reese and Chris, who have amused smiles on their faces.

‘I think we were two minutes into the foreplay, when he… You know… Can I say this on television?’

The host shrugs. ‘I have no idea and I honestly don’t care. I want to know how this story ends, though I might have an idea.’

I chuckle. ‘Well, he penetrates me and I’m like, oh, okay, he really wants to have sex with me. Obviously I was a bit flattered, but I think it took less than thirty seconds before he came  already and made really loud and weird noises. And I was confused, because for starters, he came real quick, but I also didn’t understand why so many girls were raving about him. Then, this guy looks me right in the eye and has the audacity to ask me if I enjoyed it as much as he did.’ My eyes widen, while I hold out my hands, as the audience starts to laugh.

‘I really want to know what you said to that,’ Chris Evans says, who seems to enjoy my story a lot.

‘So I stared at him,’ I continue my story. ‘And I said: “Well, if we were trying to be in the Guinness book of World Records for fastest male ejaculation during sexual intercourse, sure, but I wasn’t aware that we were going for a world record”.’

Graham starts to laugh, Reese places her hands on her face to hide her visible gasp and Chris Evans places his hand on his chest while he laughs, a trait that I love with all my heart.

‘But on top of that,’ I go on, ‘he got mad and said that I was an ungrateful bitch for not being happy we had sex.’

Reese scoffs. ‘What an idiot.’

‘So anyways, it was during our X-Factor days, so I got dressed and told him I was going back to my dorm and masturbate, because I obviously couldn’t count on him for some pleasure. Fast forward to two weeks later. We’re waiting for our dance training and the teacher wasn’t there yet and this time around there weren’t camera’s to film anything. So me and some other girls were chatting about orgasms and stuff like that, as one does. Since this said guy was like a few feet away from us and had been telling the other competitors that I was a slut and ungrateful and all, I decided to take my change. I say in a pretty loud voice: “Well, if you want orgasms, you have to skip on sex with… Let’s call him Peter,’—his name was Cole Springs, but I’m not totally heartless and he is doing pretty okay in the country music industry now, so I don’t want to ruin his reputation entirely—‘you have to skip on sex with Peter, because he’ll nut inside of you within thirty seconds. You better ditch that boy and use your toy, because no orgasms for you when having sex with him. So that song was heavily based on someone.’

‘I’m so glad I asked that question,’ Graham says in a giddy voice, causing the rest of the audience and Chris Evans and Reese Witherspoon to laugh as well. ‘I admire you, Luna,’ he adds. ‘You really have the guts to sing about these topics.’

Chris Evans nods. ‘I totally agree.’

‘What is in stores for Luna?’ Graham asks. ‘What can we expect?’

I lean back in the couch. What can they expect? I never thought that far ahead. I was just thinking about promotions for this album. ‘Hopefully a world tour one day,’ I say. ‘I am still working on expanding my back up crew, but I want everyone to feel represented, you know? So, that’s totally what I’m working on and for the rest… I think just more music, more controversies, because it turns out that’s what I do best.’

‘I’m here for it,’ Graham says. ‘Is it hard to sing about certain topics like sex, masturbation and female empowerment?’

I shrug. ‘I feel like someone should do it,’ I admit. ‘I know that people—especially men—have certain opinions about it, but you know… I feel that there is someone out there, that listens songs and feels a bit empowered and that’s all I care about.’

Chris nods. ‘I admire you,’ he says, causing the audience to aww. ‘I bet it can be hard sometimes.’

Are we having a moment right now? I’m lost in his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Sometimes, yeah.’

Graham interrupts this whatever it was by asking if I’m ready to perform.

‘Oh, yeah, totally am.’

‘Please give it up for Luna, who is going to sing a mashup of Inside and Silky Ribbon!’

✘ ✘ ✘

‘You have one new message,’ the robotic voice of the woman says when I want to check my voicemail on my phone. I’m at a pretty chill bar, with a nice bartender who gave me two drinks on the house already, since he liked my album and my appearance on the Graham Norton show.

‘Luna, what the actual fuck?’ Look at that. Cole Springs decided to call me. ‘Do you honestly need to tell that fucking story on television? I already got five texts from people who either ask me if this is about me or simply know it’s about me.’

I click the voicemail away mid sentence, since I really can’t use this right now. I already feel tired and like shit, no need for Cole Springs to make things even worse. ‘Could I have one more please?’ I ask with a pout, as I push my empty glass to the bartender.

‘Sure thing,’ he says. ‘Who was that on your voicemail?’

‘Cole Springs.’

‘The boyband member gone country boy?’

I nod. ‘He wasn’t all too happy I exposed him like that.’

‘That was the Peter in the story?’ The bartender’s laugh fills up the entire bar. ‘This is amazing. He looks like the type of guy that would nut in two seconds.’

I can’t help but laugh, as I feel the vodka already making me feel a bit lightheaded. That feeling however doesn’t stop me from drinking up some more. I stare outside and see that it’s snowing pretty heavily. I’m still wearing the outfit I wore to Graham Norton, but with the thickest coat worn over it. I know that I have to get back to my hotel, but for now I’ll just stall that moment and enjoy it here.

‘How long are you going to stay in London?’ the bartender asks.

‘Dunno, man. Think I’m heading home somewhere tomorrow or the day after that. I honestly don’t know. Normally Gia, my manager would be with me, but she’s sick now.’

The door opens and some guys are yelling something, but I’m too tired to look up. I place my head on my arms, hoping that I can gain some energy to go and hail a cab.

‘Hi there, can I have…’

I look up and see that Chris Evans is standing right next to me, ordering a drink. He looks really handsome, but that is pretty easy, since he is really handsome. Everything he does is simply breathtaking. I bet he has sex every weekend with someone else. I mean, I bet there is a line waiting to have sex with Captain America and I’m somewhere in that line too. ‘Hi,’ I say and he looks up, a smile appearing on his beautiful face when he recognizes me.

‘Hi, Luna, how are you?’

‘Tired and a bit annoyed though.’

‘Oh no.’ He sits on the stool next to me and his knee bumps against mine. ‘Tell me all about it.’

I start to rant about Cole Springs, exposing to Chris as well who the story was about and during that rant, I go on about my past, about the foster care system and how that is bothering me. I rub my face, not caring that my make-up is all smudged over and the alcohol that I just drank is really kicking in now.

‘I think I just have a kink for controversy, you know,’ I say, staring at me empty glass. ‘I love being in the spotlights for everything that is not exactly how it’s supposed to go. When I got arrested at that protest, boy, I liked the attention that got.’

Chris smiles. ‘Well, I hardly think what you do is that controversial. I think you are just a bit ahead of your time.’

‘That is so deep,’ I admit, absolutely in awe by him. ‘Wow, not only are you handsome, but you are pretty much an intellectual as well. You should consider writing. Bet it would be a bestseller.’

‘I think,’ Chris laughs, pulling the drink from my hands, ‘you’ve had enough to drink.’

‘No,’ I whine, but Chris gets out of his chair. ‘I’m boring you, aren’t I?’

‘Not at all, but I think you need to get back to your hotel,’ Chris says. ‘Hearing from your stories, you have to catch a flight tomorrow and I bet you don’t want to be completely hungover then.’

‘I was already hungover this morning,’ I say, sliding off the barstool. Chris holds up my coat and helps me to put it on. ‘I could use a cigarette, you know.’

‘I bet you do.’

I wrap my arm around his broad shoulders and with my other hand, I hold his face. I place my thumb on one cheek and the rest of my fingers on his other cheek. ‘You have such a beautiful face, that you could just lick and not regret it,’ I admit. ‘Has anyone told you that?’

He starts to chuckle. ‘Not with those exact words.’

‘Well,’ I continue, ‘have you ever read fan fiction about yourself?’ I don’t give him time to answer that question, as we walk out of the bar into the cold, Chris’ arm wrapped tightly around my waist. ‘I have,’ I say, ‘especially the real dirty ones. According to those stories, you know exactly how to please a woman. I bet you are really good in bed, a whole lot better than sweet Cole Springs. I bet you can last for hours.’

‘I sure hope so,’ he laughs.

‘Tell me, do you have sex with a new woman every other week? Because I was wondering that and personally, I’m gravitating towards yes, because honestly I think you are a walking sex machine.’

Chris holds out his hand to hail a cab and says: ‘No, I don’t actually. I barely have sex nowadays.’

‘Shut up!’ I yell. ‘No, no, no, that can’t be true.’ I wiggle myself out of his embrace and crouch down on the sidewalk. My fingers touch the snow, a cold sensation that makes me shiver. ‘What happened to the world that you, Chris Captain America Evans, barely has sex nowadays. If you don’t have sex, what is the rest of the world doing? Oh my, you poor thing.’

‘It’s really not that big of a deal, Luna,’ Chris laughs. He holds out his hands and says: ‘Come on, we need to get into the cab.’

‘You hailed a cab?’ I take ahold of his warm hands and jump up. ‘That is so cool. You are so talented.’

He helps me into the cab and I want to pull him on my lap, so he can sit comfortably there, but weirdly enough, he insists on walking around the cab and sitting next to me. ‘So, can you tell me where your hotel is?’

‘I don’t remember,’ I admit. ‘I barely remember anything that happened today. I was pretty hungover when I arrived here.’ I let myself fall to the side, placing my head on his legs. ‘Mister Evans, have you been working out?’ I squeeze his tight muscles in his thighs, admiring what’s in between my fingers. ‘Damn, I bet chicks love to ride your thighs.’

He burst out in laughter. ‘How much did you have to drink?’ he asks.

‘Just a few shots,’ I admit. ‘But I don’t really handle alcohol that great, to be honest. I’m wasted like that.’ I attempt to snap my fingers, but I fail miserably. My hands look for his and when I finally have one in my hand, I admire his beautifully shaped fingers. ‘You have lovely hands. You have spanked a girl’s ass with these? Or anyone’s ass for that matter’

He starts to laugh. ‘You are unbelievable,’ he says.

‘I’ve never been spanked,’ I confess. ‘I’d love that though. You know, I sing about sex a lot, but to be honest, I haven’t had proper sex in like a year. I mean, my toys do miracles, just like my hands and all. But I just want to have hot and heavy sex.’ I look up and hold out my hand, to touch his beautiful face. His beard pricks against my skin, but I’m not complaining at all.

In the background I hear Chris say something to me, but I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Taglist: @diegos-butt​

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Mark Davies: BBU Popstar

CW: exercise whump, BBU so the general for those (pet whumpee, collar mention, human trafficking, dehumanization) implied past noncon, vomiting/emeto, electrocution

Brief/vague disordered eating, (Just general bad attitude about the relationship between exercise and food, not by choice) 

“You guys have been a great audience! Goodnight everyone!” Mark pumped his arms up, saying goodbye to the screaming crowd one last time before he jogged offstage. The wings were filled with movement as the crew rushed around him. One tech was waiting for him, well, waiting for the mic pack. Mark unclipped it from his back and handed it over.

“Great job, dude,” the tech ventured as he took the mic. Mark smiled at him. It was a blinding white smile that filled his whole face, even his eyes.

The cameras could always tell if the smile didn’t reach your eyes.

“Thanks, what’s your name?” The tech faltered, a little starstruck, but trying his best to hide it.

“Jimmy.” Mark nodded and grabbed his water. Stage lights were hot, and he was sweating hard.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” he corrected himself automatically. Manners and personal touches were the best way to keep up his reputation. People paid attention to the tabloids, but people also paid attention to the twitters of the stage crew.  “Tech was perfect tonight. Please tell the rest of the crew ‘thanks’ from me if I don’t get the chance.” Jimmy nodded, looking like there was something else he wanted to ask.

“Hey man, I’m sure you’re sick of this, but my niece would kill me if I met you and didn’t at least get a selfie.” Mark smiled again and put out his hand.

“Sure. What’s your niece’s name?” Jimmy handed his phone over, and Mark slid over the camera quickly.

“Uh, Megan.” Mark nodded, grabbed Jimmy around the shoulder and held the camera up and out for a good angle.

“Hey Megan! I’m just here hanging with your Uncle Jimmy. Next time I come to town, tag along backstage. I’d love to see you in person! Stay positive! Bye Megan!” He added a wink and ended the short video. Videos were easy; say the name, say the connection, hint at meeting in the future, give a positive affirmation, say the name again in closing. Jimmy smiled wide and took the phone back reverently.

“Oh, she’s gonna flip when she sees this. Thanks! I know I already said it, but tonight really was a great show, man.”

Mark smiled again, reaching his eyes a little less. It hadn’t been a good show.

He missed a cue.

Mark gave a lazy salute and started to walk back to his trailer. The trailer he really didn’t want to go back to. He ducked through the crew and arena staff running around, weaving through them until he was at the backdoor. He pushed through and felt the cool air on his flushed skin.

He walked much slower outside. The back lot was empty, save his trailer, so he didn’t need to worry about people for right now. He didn’t have to worry about cameras, or press, or fans, or staff, or his Manager, or his image. For just a moment, he could stop and look up at the sky.

He knew there were stars there, but he couldn’t see them. There was too much light in the city, too many thin, grey clouds in the sky. Even without the stars, the cool breeze was heavenly, even if it would only last a few moments.

If he was any other artist, finishing a show would be exciting, a time to celebrate. A time to sit with his friends or family and decompress after the adrenalin of the lights and the screaming fans. If he was any other artist, his trailer would be a comfortable space for him. A space where he could relax and rest.

If he was any other artist, he could pause under the moon just to look at it.

But he wasn’t any other artist; he was Mark Davies, and he was too well trained to disobey.

The trailer door opened with a squeak and the floor dipped every so slightly as he stepped in. His eyes scanned the room and hallway quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He was alone. Maybe his Manager was busy somewhere else. Maybe he didn’t even catch the show. Maybe he was just feeling generous.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. He was glad Sir wasn’t here, but also a little sad. Sir would always take his collar off before a show, and put it back on after. It had been kind of hard at first, but it was better now.

Collar off, he was Mark Davies; platinum artist and performer. He knew how to charm people, to entertain, to perform, and how to keep everything marketable and acceptable to the widest general audience. He knew how to smile and laugh and wink his way through anything. Which ways to angle himself to the paparazzi, which times to pause for a longer fan interaction, which interviewers he could distract with a bite of his lip and the tilt of his head.

Collar on, he was just another pet. Waiting silently by his Sir’s side, following his orders when he gave them. Behaving. Going to the people Sir told him to go to. He knew how to keep close and not get in the way, how to keep his eyes down and keep quiet. He knew how to be a good pet, and he liked it.

He liked the kind words and soft pats of his head. He liked it when Sir wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to show him off to his friends. He liked it when they were home and he could just sit by his Sir’s chair and watch tv. He liked being a pet, it was calm and simple.

Being Mark Davies was exhausting, and he was ready to go to sleep. He wanted his collar and to curl up with his Sir. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but it was enough to just be close to him. He could only really sleep with another body in the bed, and he really wanted to sleep tonight.

The trailer dipped slightly again, and Mark turned around. His Manager was alone, so he let the smile fade from his face, eyes drifting down submissively.

“You missed a cue.”

Mark swallowed, but he didn’t look up. He had tried, he really had, but it was his third month on the road. The tour was exhausting; eyes on him all the time. It was hours and hours everyday without his collar, and it was starting to get to him. His head hurt almost all the time, and it felt like the skin on his neck crawled. He had asked if he could wear a choker, just to feel a little better, but Sir had shot it down. Said it didn’t fit with the image the stylist created.

Said it was too reminiscent of pets.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Douglass Archer huffed. “Yeah, you should be. Should be sorry, especially with the combination of that and your little fiasco with the interview yesterday. Keep making stupid mistakes like that and people are going to start digging deeper into your past. Do you want them to come and take you away from me?”

Mark’s heart beat faster, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had said he was sorry for forgetting the lines Sir gave him. The interviewer had this symbol on his necklace, it made Mark’s head hurt to look at, and he felt like he had recognized it. He had lost his train of thought and gotten the dates of his next release wrong. He had tried to fix it, and the interviewer didn’t even seem to notice. But Sir had.

“No, Sir.” He didn’t want to be taken away. He really didn’t. Sir wasn’t mean to him, and he let him sing and perform. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but that was okay. He was for Sir, not for his training. He was fine. Besides, Sir gave him to other people sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

“Well then, you need to stop making these stupid mistakes. Shirt off and change out of those jeans,” Douglass ordered, locking the trailer door.  

“Yes, Sir.” Mark turned to the side of the trailer and pulled a pair of navy running shorts from the luggage. He slipped off the jeans his stylist had set out for the show and put the shorts on. He pulled off the leather jacket and white t-shirt, hanging the jacket up and putting the sweat-soaked shirt in the laundry. When he came back to his Manager, Douglass was standing next to the treadmill with a thin black belt with little boxes hanging off it in his hand.

“Position 15.”

It felt like Mark’s body was moving automatically, feet planting in the laminate floor, arms raising above his head. Douglass secured the belt with the heartrate monitor around his chest, the prongs of the shock box digging into the skin on his back.

Tears were welling in Mark’s eyes. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep tonight. He was tired, he wouldn’t be able to run and then it would hurt. He didn’t want to hurt, he wanted to sleep. His Sir tightened the band and pushed him up on the treadmill. He whimpered softly as he shifted on the rubber track.

“Oh hush. You’ll be fine. Besides, summer is coming up and we’ve got a couple brands that want to do some photoshoots. Two birds, one stone.” He started it at the third level, but Mark knew he would raise it later. He let Mark run for a few moments before he set the base heartrate with a small remote. Any heartrate lower than that would activate the shock box.

For the first few minutes, it was fine. Sir had set up a fitness plan for Mark, including a personal trainer when they were home, so he was fine to run for a few minutes. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t been touring for three months and just gave a two-hour concert.

A minute passed and Sir reached over and ticked the speed up.

Mark changed his pace, determined. However, his determination had already been undermined by his worn-out body. Too soon, his legs began to ache, and his heart was raging in his throat. Soon, every movement made his stomach roll. He popped his feet up to the plastic sides of the treadmill, trying to catch his breath. His head was down, watching the rubber belt fly underneath him at a concerning rate.

“If you throw up, you won’t get anything else tonight.” Douglass was barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone on the couch across the small room.

“Yes… Sir…” Mark panted. He knew that. He knew, but it was impossible. Sir always made him run so hard that he threw up every time.

He only stops when you vomit. He wants you to.  

Mark pushed the thoughts out of his head and pressed his sweaty hair out of his face. No, no that wasn’t right. He hated throwing up because Sir was so thoughtful to keep him on a strict meal plan. He was so thoughtful to keep him healthy and in shape. He was thoughtful and Mark was grateful. He had to be grateful.

He had to start running again. If he let his heartrate get too low, it would hurt. It would hurt, and he would hurt, and Sir would just make him get back on. Maybe if he just pushed through Sir would let him stop, just tonight. Maybe. Mark took a last breath and started again.

It was even shorter this time, stopping about a minute after he started. Sweat was dripping off his brow, itching on his nose and lips. His legs burned and his chest felt tight. His stomach - no he couldn’t think about that. Not now. He closed his eyes and held onto the bar as he felt his balance wane.

Closing his eyes was a bad idea. Just the thought of sleep clung onto him strongly, too strongly. He focused on his breathing, on calming the fire raging in his chest, trying to make the room stop swaying. Finally, he got a proper breath, letting it out slowly.

Then his back lit up. Electricity stabbed through his muscles, convulsing and locking them tight. He let out a cry as his legs gave out from under him. His shoulder hit the belt of the treadmill hard, but he was only there for a moment before it flung him into the cabinet behind him.

He hit it with his back and his head. His vision blurred and the room tilted even farther. Mark’s neck went weak, and his temple dropped to the ground. There was a sharp pain in his side, and vaguely he guessed he must have hit one of the cabinet’s handles. His back was already starting to feel sore from the shock, muscles screaming at him in despair. His chest heaved, trying desperately to make up for pain of the shock and the exercise.

Douglass grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him on his stomach. Mark groaned at the movement but went pliant.

“Idiot. That’s gonna bruise. Thankfully it’s just on your back.” He pressed down on the red mark, a perfect imprint of the handle, and Mark cried out.

“S-sor-rry, Sir-r” he mumbled, fighting his own mouth to make the sounds.

“Sorry isn’t good enough kid. What even was that? I spend all this money on a personal trainer, and you can’t go ten minutes?”  He crouched down next to Mark’s head before he hit the button on the remote. Pain shot through his back again, stabbing under his sin. Mark cried out, back arching. He kept crying even when jolt stopped. He curled in on himself, arms tucked into his chest.

“I-I’m-m-m so-r-rry, Sir. P-l-lease, I’ll, I’ll do be-e-etter,” he stuttered. His breath came in short gasps, never enough oxygen to stop his fully body shakes.  

“Yeah, you will. Get up.” Mark wanted to, he really did, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. All he could do was curl tighter and cry. Douglass rolled his eyes and grabbed Mark’s forearm, hauling him up and back to the treadmill. It was still running at the same speed, so he turned if off and pulled Mark onto it.

Mark kept his arms tucked into his chest, tears streaming down his face, not daring to look any higher than Sir’s belt.

“Do I have to tie you to the bar? Hmm?”

Mark shook his head desperately. He didn’t want to be dragged against the belt as it moved under him. Sir wouldn’t like the marks it left either, and he just wanted his Sir to be happy. He tried to make him happy, every day, but he could never do enough. He had to be perfect, he knew that Sir had paid a lot of money for him to be perfect, but he couldn’t do it. Not all the time, every day.

“Good. Go.” Douglass turned the machine on again, and Mark let it move him for a moment before he started walking. Sir was being kind, he put it on a lower setting this time around. Even after Mark had messed up and damaged himself, Sir was still being kind. Mark wanted to do better, to make Sir happy, to be good, but he couldn’t. But he had to try.

Douglass turned the speed up again until Mark was running and stood back. Less than a minute later, Mark nearly dove off the side, making it to the small trash time in time before he threw up. Internally, Douglass was impressed. He had made if farther than he though he would, especially tonight. Still not far enough, but the progress was clear. He would let his trainer know.

Mark lifted his head from the trashcan and rolled over onto his back, ignoring the pressure it put one the box and how it dug into this ribs. He had tried, and he had failed. Again. Like he always did. His mouth felt acidic and bitter, nose stuffy, tears running down his temples. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Whether Sir liked it or not, Mark was going to pass out any minute.

Douglass crouched next to him and loosened the band around his chest. He took it in one hand and grabbed a blanket. He balled it up and threw it at Mark where he lay on the ground, landing on and around his face.

“If you can get up, clean yourself up before you go to sleep. We’re rolling out at 6:00 am tomorrow morning, and I expect you to be ready.” He turned off the lamp in the hallway and left, locking the door behind him.

Mark wanted to sob, to curl up in a ball and never come out, but he was too tired, too sore, too miserable to even move. He reached up slowly and pulled the fabric off his face. His fingers curled around the blanket, but that was as far as he got. He was too hot and sweaty to put it over himself, but he would still grab onto it. It was all the comfort he was going to get tonight.

No collar, no body to lay with, no bed. Just the cold floor and his overwhelming sense of failure. Even then, he was asleep in minutes.

[number-one-micoverse-fan]

FebuWhump Day 15: “Run. Don’t look back.”

I struggled with this one. Wrote a bunch of it out and then deleted it and started over again.

Bioshock AU! Out of all the places in Rapture, Fort Frolic has always terrified me the most. And Sander Cohen always scared me more than any Splicer.

Warnings: torture, electrocution, general warnings for Rapture and its citizens

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

Sander Cohen has Jake’s chin in his hand, tilting his head up so he can look down at him through the eyes of his gilded masquerade mask.

Dan is frozen, rooted in place by the threat of Cohen literally holding Jake’s life in his hands. He’s afraid to move, afraid that one step will prompt the mad artist to tear into Jake without remorse. His arms are shaking where they’re wrapped around Milo, holding the little boy to his chest. Dan tries to convince himself that this was no one’s fault. The doors to Fort Frolic were wide open and Milo had skipped inside before either Jake or Dan could stop him. They’d had no choice but to chase after him.

And they had walked right into Sander Cohen’s waiting arms.

“There’s no need to look so frightened, Jacob,” Cohen’s voice is a liquid purr, delighted with himself, with the prize and power he holds, “I’m oh so pleased to see you again. Such a tragedy when you left. The things your voice could have done…”

“I…” Jake squeaks and his voice breaks, breath stuttering. His eyes are wide and panicked, his entire body trembling, his face so pale he looks as if he is about to faint.

“You should join me!” Cohen says suddenly, thrusting out his other hand, gesturing to the stage he’s standing on, “Fitzpatrick can play and you can sing again and my muse, ah! My muse, Jacob, she would be made whole again! A masterpiece, we could make! My little Nightingale!” He cups Jake’s face in both hands and Jake makes a noise like someone stepped on a mouse, “Back home where he belongs in the halls of the artist again~”

Jake half raises his hands, as if going to try and pull himself free from Sander Cohen, but he hesitates. His gaze snaps away from Cohen, flits to Dan and Milo and back again. He licks his lips and speaks in a shaking voice,

“I…am n-not here…to perform, M-Mister Cohen. This—I—we’re just—just passing through. Apologies for disturbing y-your work, sir. We—but it’s really quite—quite—we need to leave. Please. Now. Sir.”

Silence.

A long and terrible and dark silence.

And then something about Sander Cohen shifts.

His grip on Jake’s face tightens and Jake shouts in pain, clawing at Cohen’s tuxedo, yanking on his arms and trying to get free. Jake’s legs give out, feet kicking on the wooden stage, tears springing from his eyes as Cohen squeezes. Milo starts whimpering at the noise and Dan screams at Cohen to let Jake go, begs him to let go, but doesn’t dare take a step closer or draw his rifle, afraid of what could happen if he does.

“FITZPATRICK!” Cohen roars into the darkness of Fleet Hall, “FITZPATRICK, BRING ME THE LINES!”

There’s scrambling from backstage, clatters and hurried footsteps. A man in a bird mask and a plaid vest runs out from behind the curtain, dragging an armful of rattling cables with him. He pauses when he sees Cohen and the crying Jake, but only for a moment before he’s cinching shackles tight around Jake’s wrists and ankles, despite the other man’s flailing. When Fitzpatrick steps back, Cohen finally drops Jake to the stag, where he lands in a crumpled heap. Dan moves forward but Cohen’s eyes flash in the depths of his mask and Dan knows he’d never make it to Jake before something happened to himself or Milo. He’s a captive audience, forced to watch whatever Cohen has done to his friend.

Jake is shuddering, sniffling through his tears as he gets laboriously to his feet again. He tugs helplessly at the shackles on his wrists, the metal pinching his skin and locked tight by the key Fitzpatrick has tucked into a pocket. He looks up helplessly at Cohen.

“Now, now, Jacob, my precious Nightingale,” Cohen is smiling, his voice all sweetness and charm, almost sickening in its quality, “I only want my favorite disciple back. You were such a melodious creature, a siren, you seduced in the masses with your magnificent voice. Sing for us again, Nightingale, come on now. Let my muse hear you once more…”

But Jake is already shaking his head, taking a few steps back from Cohen, nearly tripping over the cables soldered to the shackles on his ankles, “I—I don’t s-sing any—anymore. Please, Mister Cohen, we’re just—we need to go—we—“

Cohen frowns, “Fitzpatrick.”

The man in the bird mask vanishes behind the curtain again. There’s a clunk of machinery, the fizzle of static, and then Jake is screaming.

His back arches, his body twitching with the electricity flowing through him. When the supply cuts off, he collapses to the floor in a pile like a broken toy, gasping and wheezing and shuddering. He heaves and vomit smears across the wooden stage with his tears and spittle. Cohen merely looks down at him, hands behind his back, patiently waiting for his former disciple to get up again.

“Sing, Jacob Pierly.”

Jake shakes his head.

The electricity hits him again and he flops onto his back, banging his head against the floor, screaming loud enough to shake the rafter again. Milo begins squirming in Dan’s arms, making noises of distress, and Dan holds him tighter.

“Stop it!” He shouts, voice cracking over Jake’s screams of agony, “Stop it! STOP YOU’LL KILL HIM! YOU’LL KILL HIM, JUST STOP!”

Jake sags, a bag of bones and bruises and pain, spasms making him twitch and gasp. Cohen has turned his eyes on Dan instead, his head tilting as he inspects them. Dan feels as if the man is peeling away layers of him, picking apart at what he can see—or at least, what he thinks he can see. Dan sets his jaw and stares back; he will not be cowed by Sander Cohen. He’s seen stranger things in Rapture than a man driven mad by his own art.

“Brutish,” Cohen says after a moment, a sneer of disappointment curling the corner of his mouth, “Soft in the right places but too rough in others. Not much use for you, Guardsman. But the child…” His voice becomes silky and charming again, a smile on his lips, hungry and eager, “What a light he could be! An angel with flaming hair…and a belly full of ADAM…”

Cohen takes a step towards the edge of the stage but in a clatter of wires and cables, Jake throws himself on the man, clawing at his suit and twisting the cables around the both of them.

“Go!” Jake shouts at Dan, his voice hoarse from screaming, his eyes red and still streaming tears, “Get out of here!”

“Jake!”

“RUN!” Jake snarls as Cohen thrashes, trying to throw him off, “Run, Dan!” For a second, just a split second, nothing else exists except for the desperate plea on Jake’s face and the shaky hope in his voice and Dan’s heart breaks when he hears it,

“And don’t look back.”

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

Of course, Dan gets him away from Cohen somehow and Jake is like “yeah, so, I used to work for Cohen but, uh, then I realized he was kind of batshit insane so I quit and never went back to Fort Frolic let us never speak of this again”.

[lovelyirony]

Oh Geamanee Christmas Trees! That mob au with the love/hate thing was flipping fantastic. If you're still taking prompts, I would love to see more in that 'verse- especially things like how the two sides continue to work together and/or antagonize each other. You developed those relationships and tensions so well, I would love to know what else you come up with! Thanks again for all of the amazing talent you share with us!!

i’m so happy you loved it! i wasn’t originally planning on continuing, but with a comment like this how could you not? 

Working together still isn’t all daisies and roses, no matter how much Bucky likes Tony’s slouchy cardigans and snarky responses early in the morning. 

For one thing, Steve and Tony clash. A lot. They actually work pretty well together, if both of them could collectively stop shoving their heads up their ass and calling it “being in the right.” 

“Can you maybe stop?” Natasha asks, rolling her eyes at another rant that Steve’s on about “responsibility” and Tony has been thoroughly ignoring. “Bucky, fix this. I’m annoyed.” 

“Ooh, you got Nat annoyed,” Bucky says, not even looking up from his physics homework. “Steve, you’re gonna have to get to Tony through another way, he doesn’t like listening to you. Tony, you were playing with fire with your motorcycle idea and risking getting caught.” 

“If we don’t take risks, then what are we doing?” Tony snaps. 

“Staying safe and not getting caught!” Steve responds back. “God, Tony--” 

“Nope,” Bucky says, dragging Steve by the arm. “Not doing this. I need to do physics and none of you are helping. Tony, you actually need to teach me this shit because I fell asleep in class.” 

“Told you not to stay up at the stakeout,” Tony mumbles. He turns to Steve. 

“Look, I get it. I won’t pull the motorcycle stunt again so long as you don’t nag me like you’re secretly an old man. Got it?” 

“...got it,” Steve says. 

Bucky’s already turned around. Natasha’s grinning at Steve and mouthing “lovesick” at him in reference to the two at the kitchen table. 

“I’m only doing this because your mom would kill you if you failed your next test and I still need you to shoot Rumlow later,” Tony warns. 

“Sure, okay,” Bucky says easily. “You want me to brew coffee before all this?” 

“Obviously,” Tony says with a snort. 

They get each other a hell of a lot more than they mean to. Tony knows that Bucky secretly hates any type of meat besides pepperoni on pizza and makes sure to save him some slices when everyone else is an animal. 

Bucky knows that Tony’s consistently cold, hates wearing contacts, and if he’s listening to Black Sabbath, it’s about to be the best mood he’ll ever be in. 

He also likes flowers. He gets a wistful look in his eye when he sees daffodils on a window sill, or dandelions edging onto the sidewalk. 

So when Bucky messes up one of Tony’s favorite cars--a scratch on the side, but still damage--he buys him a bouquet of flowers. Custom. 

“How did you...?” 

“You moon over flowers too much,” Bucky grunts. “Not meanin’ anything by it. Just know I messed up.” 

Rhodey laughs when Tony comes home with them. 

“You guys a couple now or something?” 

“An apology for scratching Hepburn up,” Tony says. “He said it doesn’t mean anything, and it doesn’t. Now drop it, or I’m making sure that I’m not making any ramen for you.” 

“We’ll table it,” Pepper adds, whirling into the room. “Right now, I want to talk strategy for the charity auction.” 

“No,” Tony says flatly. “I am not going, you’re not going to make me.” 

“An auction piece has to go,” Pepper says smugly. 

“You fucking didn’t.” 

“One date with Tony Carbonell on a Friday, with three options for destination,” Pepper says. 

“That’s a stupid idea,” Tony snarls. “I could be killed!” 

"Not as much as you think,” Rhodey says. “Hydra could bet on it. We kill them. Or it’s a good show of faith when a member of the Barnes clan wagers. Hell, you and Bucky practically have a mandated date night.” 

“Like he’d do that,” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “Does this mean I have to wear a fancy suit?” 

“Or something,” Rhodey says. “I think you’d look nice in a button-down and slacks.” 

Tony huffs. 

“And contacts!” Pepper says. 

“Absolutely not!” Tony says. “Give me glasses or give me death!” 

- 

Bucky did not want to go to the auction. It made absolutely no sense for him to be there. Everyone else could go, Natasha could probably rack up tons of donations with a smile, and dress shoes are not his favorite. 

“You’re going,” Sam says. “Because your boy is being auctioned off for a date night and there’s no way in fuck you’re going to let him suffer through someone horrible.” 

“Who is ‘my boy’?” Bucky asks. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“How you’ve survived this long, I’ll never know. You’re as dense as a fruitcake. Tony, Bucky. Tony volunteered to auction off a date night.” 

“Pepper probably did it, he would hate that. Absolutely hate it.” 

“See? Your guy,” Sam says. “Maria got you an outfit.” 

It’s better than a tux, he’ll give them that much. Black shirt, white piping making it seem a bit more formal than it is. It’s a bit big, resting gracefully over his shoulders. 

Tony notices when he enters the room. 

“Like what you see?” Bucky asks, smile tilting. 

“Obviously not, I just can’t find any trash cans to vomit into,” Tony responds, no real heat to it. “Thought you weren’t coming.” 

“Thought you hated these kinds of events.” 

“Not my idea,” Tony says. “Pepper signed me up for a date. Which is just fantastic.” 

“Told Sam you’d hate it,” Bucky says, shrugging. “You know what kind of appetizers they’re serving?” 

“Nothing you’d like.” 

“Shit.” 

Tony readjusts his glasses, looking around the room. 

“Anyone here we’re not a fan of?” 

“Besides some old money families, not many,” Bucky says. “Anyone here you’re dreading?” 

“Hammer,” Tony says, jerking a thumb over to a guy in a white suit. 

That’s all kinds of bad decisions, in Bucky’s opinion. And in common sense. 

“He’s an asshole who thinks we’re on the same level. We’re not. He also wears way too much cologne. At least you’re tasteful about it.” 

“You noticed my cologne?” Bucky asks. 

Tony turns red. 

“We work together. Of course I did.” 

Bucky’s pulled away by someone, dragged into a different conversation. Tony’s left to go socialize, choosing to stick close to his own group and avoid anyone who talks to him. 

- 

Tony Carbonell is the talk of the town. He’s notoriously drawn away, sharp, and gorgeous. 

Bucky knows this entirely too well. 

He huffs as he sees two more people take appreciative glances at Tony, and well. He knows he’s about to bet more money than ever before. 

“You sure your finances can take it?” Steve asks. 

“They absolutely cannot, but I’m not about to let Tony go on the worst date of his life.” 

“Then don’t worry about it,” Sharon says, cutting in smoothly. She looks good in her dress, and that’s saying a lot considering she doesn’t like dresses all that much. “Maria Carbonell has finances that she’s willing to use to ensure her son stays happy. It’ll cover it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Unless you bet two million, yes.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen. 

“I’ll...not do that.” 

“Of course you won’t,” Sharon says. “Now, I’m going to borrow Steve here so I can have someone taste-test appetizers with me.” 

Steve waves a hand back as Bucky faces the stage, where a woman with a graceful smile gathers attention. 

Tony’s nowhere to be seen, most likely backstage. 

“Don’t we have a surprise on the table for you tonight!” The woman says. “Tony Carbonell has very generously offered up a date night with him to anyone interested...within reason.” 

Bucky nods at that. Smart. Didn’t want some creepy old person bidding. 

He can see Justin Hammer from here, looking too visibly excited. His spray tan looks stupid. 

Armed with financial courage and perhaps two or three glasses of strong liquor, Bucky starts the bidding war. 

Obviously, no one is happy when Bucky keeps climbing the bets higher. 

It surpasses seven thousand in five minutes. 

Bucky chimes in for twelve. 

Justin counters with fifteen. 

Bucky goes twenty. 

There’s silence. 

Twenty-one. 

Thirty thousand. 

Justin does not deign to go that high, throwing his number down in frustration. 

Tony’s eyes narrow in on Bucky, and he raises an eyebrow. 

Bucky shrugs in a “what can you do” motion and goes to the steps of the stage, holding out an arm to Tony. 

“Any plans for that date?” The woman says cheerily. 

“Something special,” Bucky responds glibly, barely able to hold back a laugh. 

Tony huffs as he grips tightly onto Bucky’s arm, pinching it. 

“I hope you know you’ve caused a right scene,” Tony says. “But thank you.” 

“I wouldn’t want spray tan all over my clothes, I doubted you wanted them on yours,” Bucky says. “Besides. I’m not planning an actual date night because you still owe me a stakeout night and pizza.” 

“How did this turn into me providing you with dinner?” 

“I paid so much money.” 

“None of it’s yours,” Tony sniffs. “Sharon told me.” 

“Of course she did,” Bucky scowls. 

“I’ll still get pizza, but I am wrangling a date night out of you. Have to see what you offer up to people,” Tony says. “And you better not do the whole ‘put my arm around you at the movies’ thing.” 

“I don’t,” Bucky says defensively, knowing damn well That’s Exactly What He Does. 

“Good,” Tony says. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Rhodey. I owe him a couple bucks, he guessed the wager right.” 

“How...?” 

“He’s smart like that,” Tony says. “See you later, Bucky.” 

Hate to see him leave, love to watch him go. 

That’s cheesy, but now Bucky understands. 

He is also faced with Pepper, who makes him promise that the date night will be good, go uninterrupted, and it isn’t a “work date.” 

“We’re not actually together,” Bucky grumbles. 

“The way you look at his ass says you want otherwise,” she sing-songs. “Go, talk with him. I’m pretty sure that if Reed notices he’s alone he’ll try to bore him to tears with string theory.” 

“I thought Tony liked that.” 

“Reed has a...special talent. He loves to make people fall asleep standing up.” 

Snorting, Bucky moves to walk closer. 

He’s doing a favor. (Not doing this because Tony’s genuinely interesting to talk to.) 

[leupagus]

you will miss the green and the woods and streams

A Schitt’s Creek AU thing I wrote for @broadlybrazen, which boils down to “lol what if Schitt’s Creek had been Schitt Records can you imagine.” 

You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

***

“Okay, but why are you making me do this.” David doesn’t ask, because it’s not a question; it’s a declaration, something he’s learned in the long years since he and Stevie were coworkers, then friends, then — something, almost, not quite — and now they’re people who drag each other to shitty bars in shitty basements in shitty Toronto, except only Stevie is that.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Stevie lies right to his actual face as they collect her beer and his wine from the bartender. “You offered to comfort me.”

“I don’t think I said ‘comfort’ so much as I said ‘support you in your time of—‘“ he waves at her generally, carefully not to spill. “Loss, or whatever.”

Not that Jake qualifies as a loss, per se; he hadn’t even tried to get out of the contract, which Stevie keeps saying is the important thing. And David of all people knows that above-average sex can only take you so far when the other guy is an emotionally illiterate carpenter/rockstar who responded to a breakup text with “bummer :P”

“Well, this is you supporting me.” Stevie takes a swig and leans back against the bar; David admires the clean line of her neck and chest the way he’s done a thousand times before, absentminded appreciation the way he looks at a beautiful coat or listens to a new record; letting it slip through his fingers, like everything else.

“You’re not…performing, are you,” David doesn’t-ask.

Stevie gives him a long look. “You’ve known me for over two years,” she says, even. “Do you think I’m likely to break out into song?”

“You’re a talent scout for a major record label,” he feels obliged to point out.

“Uh, first of all, it’s not major, and second of all, so are you,” she says.

This is, sadly, irrefutable.

*

When Ira disappeared to God knew where with the keys to the Rose family fortune, their lawyer had pulled them all into the living room with a chipper expression and a folder. David hadn’t listened, the sounds of furniture, paintings, his life being carted out the door overwhelming everything else. But Dad’s voice cut through.

“Schitt Records? That was a joke—“ and it still is a joke, almost two and a half years later. The biggest joke in the music industry, and David hears the laughter everywhere he goes.

*

Roland Schitt had been managing his wife and an extremely chipper singer-songwriter who went by “Twyla” and did tarot card readings after every set. Schitt Records was worth approximately nothing; probably why the government had let them keep it. When Dad finally exercised his ownership clause and made Roland an ex-officio (read: non-voting) board member, Roland had actually cackled with delight and wished them all the best, taking his “President of” title and a small stipend with him. Jocelyn and Twyla stuck around, although David still isn’t sure that Twyla’s all that aware of the change in management.

And anyway, as far as David’s concerned, the only thing of value at Schitt Records, at least at first, was Stevie.

*

They’d put Alexis back in the studio for want of any better ideas; David had found a semi-decent, semi-sober songwriter to give her some of the songs Meghan and Ariana had rejected. “Pullin’ Up Alexis” didn’t so much as crack the top 200 but it had put Schitt Records in the black, at least, even if Alexis did go white-faced and brittle at the awful venues David coaxed her into for the better part of a year — county fairs and no-name festivals where the audience wanted to jeer and heckle, where her dancing would get her laughed offstage if her singing didn’t. But every time he’d tell her she could quit (she couldn’t) and that they’d find another way to get the company on its feet (they wouldn’t), she’d lift her chin and smile and ask her where they were going next, and David loved her more than he’d ever, ever tell her.

And when the tour ended, David gritted his teeth and went out with Stevie to find something else. They found Ronnie, who hates them all but has hands like an angel on the piano; Jake who’s prettier onstage than off but who can draw a reliable crowd; even Ray, whose one-man band act is surprisingly lucrative, though David suspects that’s because anyone who listens can’t actually believe what’s happening.

Schitt Records still isn’t worth buying, but it’s worth something, now; worth spending late nights in small towns, worth sleepless weekends working festivals, worth more than David had ever expected to find.

But he’s still looking, he knows, for something else.

*

Even more insultingly, the open mic has a theme; “90’s Nostalgia!” which means too many bad covers of Alanis and one truly offensive attempt at “I Will Always Love You” that has David ordering his next glass of wine in a pint glass.

Stevie is laughing, though — she’s happy, in tune with the crowd who are clearly here for their respective friends onstage, leading the shaky ones through their choruses and cheering with far more enthusiasm than is merited when each of them wraps up.

“This is horrifying,” David tells her as some guy in his 60s gets gently ushered offstage and there’s a blessed lull.

“I know,” Stevie replies, eyes shining. “It’s great.”

And it is, in a weird way that David would never have enjoyed in his other life; he would never have set foot in here, would never have been friends with someone as grounded and solid and plaid as Stevie in the first place. So he takes a drink and doesn’t suggest they leave, but does pick a fight about sending Ray to ACL.

Stevie obligingly takes the bait and they’re halfway through the comfortable old argument about riders when David realizes the strummy-strummy lala in the background is a) recognizable, b) good, and c) infuriating.

The guy onstage is best described as “unprepossessing accountant,” wearing an ugly shirt and ugly slacks and uglier shoes and an astonishingly ugly fringed vest that’s probably (hopefully) a joke, judging by the wolf whistles from a table near the stage. But he’s got a smile like a searchlight as he rounds the corner of the first verse:

“I’m caught up in the midst of you And I cannot resist…”

David flails around until he makes contact with Stevie’s — okay, her face, which she’ll probably complain about later, but he’s too incensed. “He’s singing Mariah?”

Stevie swats his hand away. “He’s not bad.”

“I—“ David clutches at his pint glass. Fringed Vest, still grinning into the crowd and unaware of David’s newborn vendetta against him, continues.

Boy, if I do The things you want me to The way I used to do Would you love me, baby Hold me, feeling now Go and break my heart

The entire bar joins in on the chorus, Fringed Vest leading them like some hick accountant Pied Piper:

Heartbreaker, you got the best of me But I just keep on coming back incessantly Oh, why did you have to run your game on me I should have known right from the start You'd go and break my heart

Fringed Vest does not, thank God, try his hand at rapping the break but the crowd seems reluctant to let him actually finish the song, the choruses getting progressively louder and more boisterous until Fringed Vest puts a line underneath and steps back from the mic and they finally take the goddamn hint.

“That was—“ awful, he’s about to say, but the problem is that it wasn’t. There’s not a whole lot a Canadian accountant can add to Mariah Carey, especially with the advent of Lip Synch Battle. But it hadn’t felt patronizing or mocking; Fringed Vest knew every word, sang with a voice that couldn’t hold a match to Mariah but still expressed some sort of longing. He’d been joyful, earnest where most people tonight had clung to trite. It… worked.

He’s even more enraged.

“C’mon,” Stevie says, slipping through the crowd with the weary ease of someone who’s been doing this half her life. David tromps behind in her wake, bumping up against the same people Stevie glides past and almost losing her twice before she gets to the dinky curtain that is the backstage and ducking inside.

Which smells like vomit; David immediately flips through the various acts tonight and makes a bet with himself that it was the very sweet otter with the beard and the accordion even while Stevie is making her way over to the side of the stage where Fringed Vest is talking to somebody else and drinking — god, Red Mountain, David is vetoing any contract Stevie tries to push on this guy for that alone.

But Stevie’s introducing them and Fringed Vest extends a hand. “Patrick,” he says, grip firm. Up close he’s — not attractive, exactly, no eyebrows to speak of and a haircut that screams middle management, that smile still the most interesting thing about him. But it’s very interesting.

“David,” he admits, aware of Stevie’s narrowed eyes.

“David Rose,” Patrick says, worryingly. “You own Schitt Records.”

He blinks; this is possibly the first time anyone’s said the name of the company without smirking. “Co-own,” he corrects.

“You manage a friend of mine,” Patrick continues, “Ray? Butani?”

“We only manage one Ray, don’t worry,” Stevie tells him.

“How are you friends with Ray?” David demands. “He plays a vibraphone.”

“We both went to Rotman,” and that explains so much about both Ray and Patrick. “He was pretty excited when he signed.”

“Yes, the glamour of the pub circuit,” David says. “Who can resist the allure of all this,” and he almost hits a girl with beads in her hair and a banjo in her hand climbing onstage.

“It’s got its charms,” Patrick says, still smiling.

*

[joj-parisol]

The Monroes (John Lennon x Reader)

Summary: The Monroes are the only female band on the set list. Y/N likes Rory Storm and the Hurricanes and definitely does not like The Quarrymen. Especially not John Lennon. (shit summary I know)

Warnings: Panic attacks and vomiting (sorry) shitty writing bc I didn’t check this oof

A/N: hi sorry if it’s terrible but I’ve been coming back to this fic for about a week save me. Anyway. The panic attack is written through personal experience and I’m very sorry if it offends anyone so please don’t read of you might get triggered. I hope everyone who reads this enjoys! Imma go ahead and tag one of the best writers on this cursed site, the lovely @casafrass also that anon lol. -🥦

Get ready for some Teddy Boy John, bitches.

—————

The music courses through her veins every night. It became ritual that she would blast her solos. She had put her blood, sweat and tears into the songs they performed and Eliza put her heart and soul into singing them.

The rhythm of their own songs guided Y/N’s hips, accidentally thrusting her guitar towards the audience, earning a roar of delight. The audience was packed in every direction she looked. People were curved into archways and crowded every doorway or other persons lap. Some stood, resembling sardines in the way they were packed in with each other. They were unable to dance but they tapped their feet or swayed to the beat. It was the same every night.

Nobody could resist The Monroes. They, like their namesake, were each irresistibly beautiful. This made them exceptionally popular with their male audience. Their music was like a spell, enchanting anyone who heard it to hum, dance or sing. People were captivated by the girls, with their camp and flamboyant stage presence paired with their raunchy costumes. They were the only all-Female band and it made them popular among the younger generation of early feminists and the men who liked their ‘appeal’.

They had a friendly competition put in place with Rory Storm and his Hurricanes. They rivalled in their shock-value and Y/N once made a deal with Ringo to see who could get the most dates. Y/N has since refused to answer who won. Rory and Eliza took the competition a little too seriously. Everyday, a costume would be more dramatic or ‘dazzling’ or a new song would feature a longer high note. They had to one-up each other.

This rivalry grew tension and one night after a few complimentary drinks, Rory and Eliza stumbled out of the bar, eagerto rip the costumes off of the other. They both denied the accusations but The Monroes were staying in an old strip club and thin walls reveal all.

Though they tried, none of the Hurricanes could woo any other Monroes. Y/N loved Ringo and it was returned, in nothing more than a platonic way. The other two Monroes weren’t inclined to any Hurricane, platonically or romantically. Lucy, the drummer, only cared for the music, strippers and free booze and the bassist, Shirley, had her eyes on one of the Quarrymen.

Out of everyone in the world, she liked one of the awful, cocky assholes who played before The Monroes did. Every time they clunked off of stage, clad in leather, Y/N always felt the urge to throw something. But it was specifically John Lennon. He would stomp over in his flame patterned cowboy boots with a smug grin painted on his face.

“Try and beat that, sugar.” He would smirk at Y/N. Always her, never one of the others. He would often try to brush the hair from her face but with a sharp turn, Y/N would strut past him. He would whistle as she walked, grovelling on about how perfect her ass was. He would then slither his way over to her later that night when she’d be drinking her wages.

Y/N would chew up his lewd comments and spit them straight back in his face. Her quick wit and sharp tongue only enticed him further, much to her dismay.

Like every other day, The Quarrymen finished droning out a song about ‘Spiting all the danger’ or something, Y/N wasn’t really listening, and John sauntered off stage. His band mates poured backstage after him.

Y/N knew Paul, he was quite charming and had his eyes set on every girl that looked into his. Then there was Stu, a rather handsome man who seemed quite shy as she hadn’t ever seen him talk to anyone outside of The Quarrymen. George was the loveliest out of all five of them, he smiled at each of the girls and complimented Y/N on her solos. He shyly offered to but them drinks but he would then get bombarded with beers for being so cute. He was young and polite, with one hell of a talent for guitar. Y/N didn’t really know Pete. She just knew that once he had made fun of Lucy’s drumming talent and had received a black eye because of it.

They were headed for the bar after coming off os the stage, but when John trailed towards The Monroes, they all followed like obedient dogs. Eliza was mid way through her nightly pep-talk.

“And no matter what, I know we’ll all smash it-“

“I hear the shows aren’t the only thing you’re smashing, eh Liza? How is Rory by the way?” John interrupted, earning sniggers from his leather-clad cronies. Eliza flushed and spluttered, looking for the words that weren’t forming on her tongue. Her embarrassmentade the boys laugh harder.

“Just because Eliza is getting to shag Rory and you aren’t doesn’t mean you have to get jealous, Lennon.” Y/N spat, stepping infront of Eliza protectively and squaring up to the much taller man. The boys were stunned into abrupt silence. Y/n caught the small snort that left George. John raised his eyebrows at her.

“You’ve got me real scared, sugar, but if you keep lookin at me like that you’ll get me all worked up.”

Y/N scowled up at him and scoffed. “In your dreams, Lennon.” His dumb cowboy boots definitely added to his height. Her furrowed brows and folded arms made his grin stretch further across his face.

“Trust me, you’re in my dreams all right.” His hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. Y/N opened her mouth to snap back at him but Eliza caught her arm.

“C’mon, there’s no point talking to swine when we could be on stage instead.” Eliza glared at John and pulled Y/N away from him. She held her head up as Eliza led her away from the insufferable man.

Y/N found her guitar and checked to see if it was in tune. He didn’t have the right to say that to her. He deserved a smack in the face for even having the nerve to say that to her. He might be all high and mighty with his friends but he was actually just a big asshole who-

“Hey, Y/N, you might wanna stop before you break a string.” A familiar voice snapped her out of her thoughts. George stood in front of her smiling.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” The side glances she was receiving made Y/N realised she had been taking her anger out on her poor guitar.

George hesitated for a second, awkwardly crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry about John, love, he’s always that much of an asshole.” He apologised for John and despite his attempts it made Y/N’s blood boil even more. But George’s hopeful smile melted her heart. She cracked a smile and nudged his shoulder.

“Who you calling love?” Y/N teased, raising her eyebrows accusingly. A light blush rose in George’s cheeks as he fumbled to apologise. A laugh fell from her mouth.

“I’m only playing, love.” Y/N winked at the blushing boy. “Unfortunately I had to be on stage four minutes ago, so I better go.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, the crowds pretty rough today so good luck, Y/N!” George called as she walked up the stairs to the stage.

“Thanks, love.” She shouted back to him, smiling as she heard his cowboy boots click as he ran off.

Y/N joined the rest of the band on stage.

“I’m glad you could join us, your highness.” Lucy called from behind the drums, getting flipped off in return. Y/N plugged in her amp and nodded at Eliza to begin singing.

Just like yesterday and everyday before that, their music worked like a charm over their audience. This usually seemed like a blessing but today it was more of a curse. George was right. The pubs were always crowded and rowdy but this was on a whole other level. This was more than claustrophobic. The amount of people was alarming.

People who didn’t have room to dance, danced. Person after person swept through the door. A sweltering heat encased everyone it could. It was strangling everyone it could.

The lights, the body count, the lack of space and windows. Not even Y/N’s short skirt and low-cut top could save her.

Much to The Monroes’ pleasure, they had a shorter setlist that night. But as the songs got faster and faster, everything rocketed down hill. The loud, rough song with a great deal of shouting and a great rhythm took control of the blundering audience. It was as if the melody had possessed them.

Bodies moved against each other and limbs were thrown around raucously. The chaos was amplified as a fight broke out. In the smoggy room, Y/N couldn’t see the cause of the commotion but the rickety stage shook at the amount of sudden movement. The excited shouts and shrieks drowned out their music.

Y/N couldn’t even hear Eliza, though she was a few steps away. The sudden smashing of glass seemed like an alarm that sent her heart racing. The shock triggered something in her before she could control it. The sudden noise made her jump, causing her guitar to fall from her hand. She tried desperately to control her breathing and play again but her sweat-slicked hands shook enough for the neck to slip from her grip. The cigarette smoke hanging in the air seemed to choke her. Her rapid breathing made her lungs burn as she inhaled more and more in an attempt to calm down.

She was unsure if she was pulled or if she had fallen of the stage but the sea of moving bodies soon swallowed her. Her arms felt useless as she clamoured away from the crowd that she was drowning in. Her guitar was pulled away from her but her fighting was useless as she screams were swallowed by the deafening noise. Waves of nausea hit her as pungent breath and beer stink were thrust upon her. Her mind felt detached from her body as she weaves her way through the people. Elbows jolted into her ribs and people stood on her feet. Falling out of the backstage door, her trembling knees gave out and she threw up.

The cold air pierced her face, like tiny razor sharp needles pressing through her skin. Sweat poured down her face like a river. The numbing cold pavement pressed into her hands and knees, the pins and needles battling for dominance over the cold. Her body lurched until all she could do was spit and cough, dry heaving occasionally as vomit burned her throat and her nose streamed. Shuddering, she crawled on her shaky limbs to as far away from her vomit as she could get.

Holding her knees, she wiped the few tears that had fallen from her cheeks. The taste stayed on her tongue and made her wince whenever she swallowed on her dry sobs. She was too tired to actually cry, but her body seemed to be happy hiccuping and choking. Her breath would catch in her throat, the taste bubbling up her throat again and she then had to resist the burning urge to break down and cry. She may have broken down and vomited in public but that didn’t mean she couldn’t keep at least a shred of dignity. She most definitely would not cry, no matter what her mind begged her to do. The only sound was the little spluttering chokes and sobs she released.

Until there was a sudden scuffle against the pavement and a harsh whisper of “Oh Fuck.”. Y/N’s head snapped up from her knees.

There was John Lennon, looking like a very disturbed deer caught in the headlights. One of his hands was on the door, which he had fallen into thus revealing his presence, and the other cradled a half drunken beer. There was a cigarette butted out against the floor opposite Y/N.

A wide-eyed grimace painted his face as he stood in silence. His eyes were connected with hers. She had makeup, sweat and snot smeared on her face. She looked so small and cold, sweaty and shivering despite her burning skin. The sheer look of absolute repulse on his face was what made her brain snap.

The loud, strained sobs interrupted with her shallow gasps for breath made John wince. He was frozen by the door, as if he was rooted to the very spot. He dropped the door handle. The soft thunk was barely audible over her sobs.

She willed more than anything for him to leave. He had no doubt seen her throw up all over the road and had heard her sporadic attempt at breathing. He would never let her live this down so she mentally begged him to just open the door without another glance and go tell Paul and Pete everything that had just happened. She didn’t need any mocking sympathy from him. Why couldn’t he just laugh and leave? Why of all people did he have to be outside having a smoke?

Her mental begging didn’t work. John hovered by the door for a few moments. He didn’t know what to do. He’d seen girls cry before, but never such a strong one like Y/N. She was usually so sharp and cold and independent. It pained something deep inside of him to see her so vulnerable.

Her sobs hit him especially. On once in his life, John Lennon didn’t know what to do or say. He decided that the only thing he knew would be better than anything. He shuffled over, hesitating before sitting in front of her. The sheer pain on her face he caught as her head lifted ever so slightly made his heat clench. He wasn’t used to this and was quite confused as to why he cared so much. Normally, he would have just opened the door and left, but seeing her so broken wasn’t something he could ignore.

“Fuck off John.” She choked out, straining her voice. John couldn’t help but smile. Of course you would still defend yourself, even in this state.

“I’m afraid I won’t.” He doesn’t want to leave. Even if you leave, he’d refuse to let you be alone until he knew you were ok.

Words form on his tongue but none of them seem right. A few minutes of silence had passed and John knew he had to speak. His eyes burning holes into the side of her head probably wasn’t helping. He quickly spat out the first sentence he thought of.

“What happened to you?” As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. She looked at him, dark eyes narrowed.

“Why do you care?” She spat at him, curling into herself even more.

“I care because whilst you may hate me, nobody deserves to be alone when they’re distressed. Especially not you.” He paused for a moment. He was shocked by the sentiment that had fallen from his lips. Her eyes widened in shock for a moment but she rolled them obviously.

“You are not getting in my pants, Lennon. No matter how many cheesy sympathy lines you drop.” Y/N sniffed and snatched the beer from in front of him. She swished out her mouth and spat it out through her teeth. She shoved the beer back in his hand and raised her eyebrows, gesturing to the door. “Just go on and get some other bird to shag. I bet you’ll have no problem finding one.”

Despite her stubbornness, John refused to give in. There was something seriously the matter. Despite his other attitudes, he couldn’t let this slide. So he awkwardly just stared her dead in the eye and shook his head as she continued to gesture to the door.

“You’re right. I would have no problem getting a shag tonight. But leaving you here isn’t right, no matter how long it takes. I’m going to sit here until you tell me what’s wrong and how to help. Even if I die trying.”

She snorted at his attempt to lighten the mood and let a small smile creep onto her face. He grinned at her smile. It made Y/N realise that maybe he wasn’t as much of a pig as she’d thought.

“Can’t have you dying, Lennon. Your replacement would no doubt be much worse.” Her voice was hoarse and weak but her light joke was like music to his ears. “And I really can’t tell you what happened to me.” John frowned. “I can’t tell you because I don’t even know what happened. I just get these things sometimes. It feels like I’ve lost control of everything and sometimes it feels like I’m about to die. Like just before.” Her voice broke and her face dropped, her own words upsetting her. Tears pooled in her eyes. The sudden change of mood forced John to make an irrational decision. He shot forward before she could encase herself in her own arms again. His arms held her tight. He knew that despite how awkward everything would be later, this was the right thing to do.

He rocked her against him. Tears streamed down her cheeks uncontrollably and John brushed them away softly. He rubbed circles into her back, hoping it would soothe her sobs. He relaxed and knew he was helping when he felt her sink and cuddle closer into his chest. Her arms went under his jacket and she breathed in the oddly comforting scent of John.

“It’s alright, love, just relax.” John muttered, holding her closer. She sniveled and rested her head just above his heart. The soft thumps timed with the rise and fall of his chest lulled her tears into drying. He continued to rub circles into her back and he began to hum one of his songs. She recognised the tune. It was ‘In Spite of All the Danger’. Y/N closed her eyes. She decided she’d listen this time.

[glorifiedgpjfic]

Glorified G- Chapter 14

A/N just another quickie- I’ve kinda done a lot of stuff in this chapter a week has passed in total, and I didn’t go into much detail about Joanne’s ‘trip’ as I didn’t want it to get boring. Enjoy!

The following morning Joanne woke up feeling a little bit dead. She walked to the kitchen sluggishly and made herself some coffee, she had woken up an hour earlier than normal so she decided to go to the diner for breakfast in the hopes it would cure her hangover in time for work. She had a shower to wash away the stink of vomit and stale bars, she felt although alcohol was seeping out of her pores.

She arrived at the diner half an hour later, she ordered some pancakes with strawberries and a glass of fresh orange juice mixed with lemonade. After her food had arrived she had to eat it quickly as she needed to be at work in ten minutes and it was little under a ten-minute drive from the diner. She managed to make it to work just on time, she was greeted by Eleanor asking for all the details about yesterday,

“It was great El, they took me to this amazing record shop and then we spent the full day drinking, I feel like death now though. I don’t know what I’m gonna do for the next month with them being off on tour- you’d love them, they’re fuckin hilarious.”

The director called Joanne into his office for a briefing, Joanne knew what he was going to say ‘the case is cold give it up.’ She knew she was wasting her time, but there was this tiny bit of hope that she could solve the case and get the sicko off the streets.

“Morning Taylor, did you have a good day yesterday?” He asked politely, Joanne nodded,

“It was really great, what did you want to see me about?” She took a seat opposite him and looked down at her hands, there was something about him that was really intimidating, he was a really nice guy but she always felt on edge around him.

“Two things really, the first is the case you are working- I’m afraid I have to stop you from pursuing it, the Director of the Washington FBI branches is calling it a waste of agent time, so, unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to archive it with the unsolved cases. I’m sorry you have wasted your time on this.” He stated, Joanne nodded- She knew that she was wasting her time, there simply wasn’t enough evidence for them to get any new leads. She was pulled from her train of thought when he began talking again, “However I do have some good news, an opportunity has arisen to go to some universities and explain the roles of both the FBI and Interpol, I was asked to choose an agent from each agency if you will, and I thought who better to choose than you- as you’ve worked for both! I understand this is quite a sudden decision to make, however, you will get to travel a little bit, and you will be guest lecturing with John E Douglas.” Joanne broke into a grin,

“I’d love to take this opportunity, I’ve always wanted to meet Mr Douglas, when does it start and where do I go?”

“It starts as soon as I give the word that you are in. And you will fly to; Portland, San Francisco, LA, and San Diego. Of course if Douglas thinks you are a good fit you could be invited to visit all of the states he is attending, however, I don’t expect you to want to do that as it is a long tour and it would probably get quite tedious after five universities.” Joanne nodded,

��So do I need to go and pack now? Do I need to pay for flights?” Joanne immediately began trying to think where Pearl Jam would be playing so she could surprise them one night, she could surprise them in San Diego and maybe get the chance to meet Beth.

“I would advise you to pack, and no you don’t have to pay for flights or accommodation- think of it as a working holiday.” Joanne grinned and thanked him before heading home to pack, she said her goodbyes to Eleanor and the team she had been working with- she couldn’t believe she was going to meet the John Douglas! She needed to control herself and not freak out when she meets him, don’t make a tit of yourself Jo.

Joanne was packed and on a plane by lunchtime, she couldn’t believe it! She was incredibly thankful to have such an incredible opportunity, and she would get to see Pearl Jam at the end of it all.

At each university, the duo visited they spent two days lecturing then the flew on to the next place, after a week the two had flown to San Diego. Lecturing with John Douglas was incredible, the man was so wise and he had lots of advice for Joanne. He had told her how to ‘detach’ from work and how to keep the nightmares at bay, he told her to see the FBI’s therapist once a week, it was free and it helped to vent to someone who understands. He had told her all about his revolutionary work creating terminology such as ‘serial killer’ and defining the types of crimes, he was such an inspiration to her. He was the guy Jack Crawford from the Thomas Harris novels was based on, a living legend. He had told Joanne that she has great potential and they had a great chemistry which kept the students interested in what they were saying. However, Joanne did notice that it was a very dull process after a few lectures.

The two arrived in San Diego and made their way to the hotel near the university they would be staying at,

“After all this is done I’d love you to come to Quantico, I know it’s a long flight but you’d be able to see where it all began and meet with some of the best of the best - the ones I trained.” He said with a small smirk, Joanne studied the man for a few moments. He was in his forties and he was already greying, his eyes looked dull and he seemed much older, but he had seen the worst of the worst- he had seen the things from nightmares, interviewed cannibals, rapist and murderers all to help create a way to differentiate between crimes and types of criminals.

“I’d love to visit Quantico sometime, thank you for the offer, sir.”

When the two arrived at the hotel it was the late afternoon and when Joanne had checked when Pearl Jam were playing she saw that tonight was the only night they were playing while she was there, so she checked with John if it was okay, and called a cab to take her to the Bacchanal where they were playing with Alice in Chains.  As the taxi pulled up outside the bar she gave herself the once over and re-fastened her docs and retying her flannel shirt around her waist, she was there quite early so they were probably just sound checking. She decided to go in and hang with them for a little bit, as she walked in they were in the middle of a soundcheck so she managed to sneak in undetected, she bought herself a beer and sat at the bar waiting to see how long it would take for them to notice her. Eddie stood at the mic, his hair completely shielding his face as he began to sing Breath he shook it back and mid verse he stopped singing,

“No fuckin way!” He exclaimed, the guys stopped playing when they spotted her, she gave them an awkward wave,

“Surprise!”  They rushed to finish the soundcheck so they could chat with Joanne, while they were soundchecking the Alice in Chains guys introduced themselves to her,

“So how’d you know the guys?” Layne asked her as he took a swig of his beer,

“Oh well I’m from the FBI, and I actually had to question them about a case, and because I’m new to the states they kinda um- took me under their wing.” Layne let out a laugh,

“Where are ya from?” Jerry asked, another thing she couldn’t get over was how fucking amazing Jerry’s hair was, it was just rude- all of the men she had met in Seattle had better hair than her.

“I’m from London, well originally I’m from the north of the UK, but when I started working for Interpol I was moved to London.” The guys nodded and they all chatted for a while until Pearl Jam were done.

Soon enough the guys were finished and joined Joanne, the Alice guys went off to soundcheck. Joanne lead them over to a booth before she initiated a group hug,

“I’m surprised, but I’ve actually missed you.” Stone smirked, she gently hit him in the shoulder,

“Rude!” she laughed, “But seriously, I’ve missed you guys too. How’s the tour going?” They filled her in on the tour and she noticed how excited they all were, it made her so happy to see them so eager,

“So what brings you here? Did you really travel all this way just to see us?” Mike asked she shook her head,

“Nope, I’m not here just to see you. I’m lecturing at the university tomorrow morning.” As they all spoke Joanne noticed the Eddie seemed really withdrawn, she wanted to discreetly get him alone to ask what was up, “hey, the next round is on me. Eddie, will you give me a hand?” He nodded and followed her, once they were out of earshot of the guys she turned to him, “are you okay Ed? Did you go and see Beth?” She noticed him tense up at the mention of Beth, he paused for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“When I got to her house I let myself in with my key, and turns out that she had found someone else- I’m not surprised I mean what did I fucking expect.” Joanne pulled him into a hug and just stayed like that for a few moments,

“Ed, you trusted her which is what relationships are about. You want me to kick her ass?” That managed to get a small chuckle out of Eddie, “I’m really sorry Ed, I can’t believe she would do that to you, you’re such a great guy and anyone would be lucky to have you.” She gave him a final squeeze which he returned before ending the hug and ordering the round of beers, while they waited for the drinks she noticed Eddie staring at her, “What? Have I got something on my face?” She asked he grinned at her,

“No you haven’t, just-” He sighed, “thank you.” She smiled at him,

“Any time.”

They chatted for a few hours until they had to go backstage and get ready to perform,

“Do you guys have any plans tomorrow?” They shook their heads,

“We are here for the day tomorrow then we head to Arizona.” Joanne nodded,

“Well we should do something tomorrow, should go for a meal or something?” Joanne suggested, “Or a picnic on the beach! With beer!” She added, they agreed that they would meet at mission beach, Jo would bring the food and they would bring the booze,

“Well, we should probably get ready to go on.” Jeff said they all finished their beers before heading off to the stage,

“Break a leg!”

Joanne, being the first person in there made it right to the front to watch the gig. The guys were incredible, better than the first time she saw them- Eddie was clearly venting his emotions through singing, when they played Black it almost broke Joanne’s heart just the raw power and emotion in his voice, she was amazed. She paid attention to the other guys too, smirking at Stone pouting and mouthing the songs as he played, and just laughing to herself at some of the faces they all pulled when they were in the zone.

They really were a fucking legendary band and this was only the start.

[iamapoopmuffin]

Michael’s Week At Work So Far

[To be updated if anything else horrible happens this week]

So, it’s a show week this week. Opening night Wednesday, performing the next few days (though I'm not in on the Friday since because medical issues) and since we’re now approaching heatwave territory, the heat has been getting to us. So some nice, nasty things that have happened.

Monday

During a run, someone leaned on a fire escape door and it opened. Fire alarm went off as a result. We had to stop rehearsals for over an hour.

One man went to hospital with severe chest pains and vomiting. An ambulance had to be called.

Best friend collapsed. Was fully conscious and refused medical attention because he deals really badly with heat, and collapses a lot in summer, and has done for a long long time, and because it happens a lot he insisted he was fine. Friend Archie sat by him while he recovered and sprayed him with water.

I collapsed (well, my legs gave out) once from medical condition caused fatigue, and fell asleep twice due to the same thing. Luckily never while I was needed (and nobody noticed my legs give out, if they had it would’ve been embarrassing)

There were a lot of water fights and people randomly dousing themselves with water. We got shouted at.

We were told not to practice the dance on the upper rig because it was where the lights made things even more hot than anywhere else in the room. We were told this after waiting in the increased heat level for a good 20 minutes while they got things ready below. We were all pissed off.

All fans were broken. Director asked for fans from I don’t know who, some higher up of some kind. Request was refused.

One of the leads smashed into me as I was bent over (I was meant to be straight standing by this point, but I had to go up third of eight because it was in canon, and person 1 had not yet gone up and never did). I got a bruised arse and he ended up sprawled on the ground. A true professional, he never stopped singing.

My costume tore across the knee when I sat down.

Tuesday

During a run, a woman playing a principle role passed out and had a heatstroke-induced seizure. As she fell, she fell against a fire escape door, setting off the alarm. I was in the green room with Best Friend at the time, but we both went down when we heard the alarm. An ambulance had to be called. Tech peeps said everything was fine and it was just a brief blackout about 5 seconds before panic-running to call for the ambulance.

Best friend left his asthma inhaler in the wings. Best friend had an asthma attack. We were not allowed into the theatre/backstage to retrieve the inhaler (even though he was obviously struggling) because that was where principle role lady had had her seizure, and she was still there, though she was sitting up and saying she felt better. Best friend ended up going to hospital and seizure girl stayed at work. Both are fine now.

Fire alarm went off again when someone closed the fire escape door.

Somebody fell off the rigging, which was scripted, but he was supposed to be caught. He almost wasn’t because one of the people supposed to catch him went to hospital the day before with severe chest pains and vomiting. Somebody ran in at the last minute. Not sure guy on rigging even noticed.

A girl started feeling too nauseous to continue, partially because she hadn’t eaten all day. She claimed it was because she didn’t have a chance to eat.

We got fans from whoever refused them before because of principle’s collapse.

Nobody could concentrate fully on the rehearsal after all this shit. Except principle girl who was hella rad throughout.

Wednesday

All people who were hospitalised previously returned to work today.

A piece of small moving set lost a wheel while people were on it. No injuries were sustained. This was at the beginning of a run. Rest of run was done without it, improvising travelling wherever it was used before.

Fire exit doors were opened. Alarm did not go off.

We got a fucktonne of fans.

Someone left while still mic’d up. We can only assume she took mic 3 on an epic adventure filled with dragons and giants who are also tree people.

My costume tore again. I think it’s too small.

I purposely dehydrated myself so I wouldn’t be desperate for the toilet during song 5. I say dehydrated, I usually don’t drink much (it takes me hours to finish one drink unless I’m really thirsty) and it had no adverse affects...

A principle singer and a lead actor both decided they didn’t want to take part after all. Principle singer was because she was feeling extremely ill. Neither said anything to anyone other than fellow actors and both went on anyway.

1 minute before the curtain was due to go up, mic 6 broke. It was repaired in a quick botch job and the arrangement was made that when the main person who needed it for his main song needed it, if it broke agai, someone else would have to sacrifice their mic to him.

Immediately after botch job, every odd-numbered mic broke. Some never came back.

Not drinking did not work and I needed to go during song 7. Luckily I was not in song 7.

Mics kept failing mid-song.

During one dance, literally only one person remembered an entire chorus worth of choreography. Everyone else in that section held a position they weren’t meant to hold. Girl that remembered everything looked like an idiot.

A piece of backdrop fell. A sliver of backstage was visible to the audience. We honestly failed to notice for a while.

A principle singer started vomiting profusely outside the fire exit.

Towards the end of the interval, someone asked me to pass some props from the prop table. Or rather, they asked if someone would, and everyone looked at me because I was closest to the table, though someone else was stood in the way so I couldn’t move to the part of the table the wanted props were on and had to awkwardly lean (good thing I’m tall af). Because of this and my dyspraxia, I misjudged my grip and position of my hands and did not pick everything up in one go. Girl who asked for props was okay with that. Girl stood in the way flipped her shit. Started shouting at me for not picking everything up in one go despite knowing damn well I’m dyspraxic, and knowing I have severe and untreated anxiety and PTSD. She was just looking for someone to take her shitty mood out on. I had a panic attack (but not a hyperventilation one which is a new experience for me) and could still dance but could not sing or change my facial expression and probably looked super terrified and like I was about to cry. It hit its worst after we were backstage after the curtain call. TL;DR, I spent the entire second half of the show having a panic attack.

Turned out mics were failing because of mobile phone interference within the theatre.

People, supposed professionals, were shouting backstage.

There was supposed to be a runner for people going to the green room to free up space backstage for those who needed to be onstage soon. The runner was to go up and tell those waiting in the GM what numbers were coming up. Runner sat in one place for the entirety of the play and did not do their job.

Thursday

Staging repaired, Lead that didn’t want to go on yesterday got over his anxiety attack, weather was a lot cooler...All was well. Until the fire nation attacked.

Best friend’s voice had gone hoarse. He got so stressed by this that he threw a water bottle at the rig that formed some of the set.

Overbooking happened. Admin error.

Mic 5 failed.

People kept walking through the one piece of curtain we were specifically told not to walk through.

Something fell off the onstage rig. Twice.

Best friend’s voice started to go during song 7 (his first solo of the play). Dewey plays main villain. He has several solos in several songs in this rock opera musical. He was so obviously hoarse and struggling in the later songs. I felt so bad for him.

Two people had to duck out due to feeling very ill.

Two people burst into tears after a song. Dewey and I were in the green room at the time and so have no idea what happened. We at first thought a lead actress had been injured because the moment she came off someone was with her, sitting her down and giving her water, but she was fine. All we heard was ‘something went wrong’, but it was a small enough something that other actors and actresses were complaining about the crying actresses. I assume the stress just got to them.

Mic 3 failed.

Person who remembered the dance everyone else forgot yesterday did not do the dance section everyone forgot. Nobody else did that section either. Everyone held the position they were not supposed to hold.

Dewey’s voice is now completely blown out. Understudy will have to take villain role tomorrow.

I will not be at work on Friday.

[stophookingatmeswan]

Guitars and Scarred Hearts 5/?

A CS Rockstar!Killian AU

Also on AO3 - check the new tag, loves

Super huge shoutout to @lenfaz​ for carrying my ass to the finish line. Tagging @teamhook​ and @galadriel26​, too. 

****

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!”  

Emma scrambled to get herself back to rights in order to help Henry. The sundress she’d stripped off was tossed five feet away and even in the dim light, she could see it was inside out. Killian was holding up one half of her bikini sideways, clearly trying to determine whether it was the top or bottom. As another heave and telltale splatter came from the rear of the boat, he all but threw them at her, quickly doing up the three bottom buttons on his shirt and stuffing the tails down into his boxers, jostling his hand a little to try and clean himself off. 

“Swan, I’ll go see to Henry.” He was already on his feet, moving away from her. “You take a moment.” 

“Killian you don’t have to-“ Cursing under her breath, Emma found the two halves of her bikini and made quick work of tying the bottoms back on, stretching to reach the last piece of discarded clothing as she heard him speak to Henry.

“Come on. We’ll hit the head and see if there’s anything left in that stomach.” 

Emma tied on her top and worked her dress right side in, watching Killian pick Henry up, sidestep what looked to be a pretty spectacular puddle of barf if his wide berth was any indication, and descend down the steps to the cabin. She couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t front, center and on her own dealing with a sick kid, and there was no small twinge of multi-flavored guilt as Emma stood and finished getting dressed.

She felt bad she hadn’t taken Henry home, not that she could have predicted everything he’d eaten would make a splashy reappearance. And felt even worse that her motivation for not doing so had been completely selfish. Add in the fact that she’d taken for granted that Henry slept like the dead and had indulged in some highly illicit sexcapades with one of her oldest friends out in the open on a fucking boat, and Emma was certain she’d hit the jackpot on some sort of Shitty Parenting trifecta. 

Mumbling as much under her breath, she took stock of Henry’s christening on the deck and ducked down into the cabin, following the faint sound of Killian singing. The tiny bathroom was crowded even with just two people in it and Emma leaned against the jamb, her heart tugging at the sight before her. 

Killian sat cross-legged in front of the toilet, Henry in his lap. A soothing hand, bare of its usual array of flashy rings, rubbed over the sweaty shirt sticking to Henry’s back. 

“I think we’re just about empty, Swan. Nothing’s come up since we came in here.” 

Killian’s shirt had a darkened mark up and over the shoulder; Emma realized that her kid had probably chucked on him while being carried and she fumbled out an apology to which Killian held up a hand. 

“No need, love. I have ten years in bars and backstage under my belt with countless people who can’t hold their liquor. Pizza and ice cream is a nice change from Jell-O shots and Jagerbombs.” He murmured something in Henry’s ear and they both started to shift. 

Killian untangled his limbs and stood, stepping out into the cabin and gesturing to Emma as he stepped into the main part of the cabin. 

“So here’s the deal. I can call Anton – or not,” he finished as Emma couldn’t help the flash of contrition on her face. 

“Since your bleeding heart won’t allow me to do that, you can either stay here and hope the wind doesn’t pick up and toss Henry’s already touchy stomach, or I can ready the sails, pull anchor and have us back at the docks in twenty minutes. You can get that one,” his chin jutted in the direction of the bathroom, “home and in a proper bed. And one that won’t move under him.” 

Trying not to stare at Killian’s abs as he did an oddly intriguing body roll shrugging his soiled shirt off, Emma teased him to distract herself. 

“You can do all of that in twenty minutes?” She blurted it without thinking just as her eyes slammed shut and she desperately tried to not allow a sudden highlight reel of everything he’d proven he could do to her body in just half that time race through her head. 

Congratulations, Emma. You played yourself.

When her eyes opened, Killian was looking at her with an amused and altogether knowing smile on his face. 

“I’m a hell of a captain.” He dragged a clean tee shirt over his head, purple-tipped hair managing to dishevel even more, as his voice dropped into a deeper register and he leaned in toward her ear. “And you’ve experienced first hand how nimble my hands are, haven’t you, love? A few sailor’s knots are nothing.” To put an exclamation point on it, he ghosted his fingertips across her upper chest, and looked entirely too pleased when her breath hitched. 

Smug bastard. 

“So what will it be?” He stepped away and leaned his ass against a built-in stack of drawers, bending a knee to rest a bare foot against the wood, looking every inch the suave motherfucker he was until the boat lurched, sprawling them both onto the bench seat behind her knees. A heaving noise and a groaned, “Moooom” had Emma bouncing up to see to Henry, the thought of spending the rest of the night huddled with him in the tiny bathroom as he yacked making her decision for her. 

“Let’s get him home.” 

Killian’s sincere “as you wish” was background noise – and Emma knew he didn’t mind – as she rushed to help her kid. Settling behind Henry, she smoothed his hair back when his head dropped back onto her shoulder and, taking a cue from their Captain, started telling him the story of Wesley and Buttercup to keep his mind off the rolling waves. 

 ****

“I told you land legs are a thing, Swan.” Killian tried not to laugh as he watched Emma walking ahead; her arms comically out to the side for balance on the wide pier. Her shuffling reminded him of a pregnant woman and, for a split second, he had a strong mental image of her with child – his child – and it caused a rush of emotion that started with an ache in his heart and ended with an eye roll. They’d just traded orgasms on a boat deck after spending the last decade of their lives at a distance that, if he was being honest, was emotionally safe for both of them and his stupid brain was already knocking her up. 

Talk about putting the fucking cart before the horse. 

He hefted Henry into a more comfortable position on his shoulder and followed Emma up the ramp to the access gate and through it, eyes sweeping the darkened recesses of the area as they made their way past the permit-only parking reserved for house boat residents and slip owners to the visitor’s lot. 

Only two cars remained; the rental Emma had driven and a white van that screamed “free candy”. Killian caught a whiff of cigarette smoke almost hidden in a gust of wind that came from the direction of the van. 

The driver’s side window of the van was open, an arc of orange light falling to the ground as the occupant flicked the cigarette out onto the pavement. It joined a pile of other discarded butts on the ground and Killian’s stomach reeled just as the vehicle’s door started to open. 

“Emma, go. Run!” He nudged her just as the first flash went off, putting himself between her and the photographer and shifting Henry into a bridal-style carry with his face tucked into Killian’s neck so he wasn’t visible. 

“What?” Turning instinctively to look, another flash illuminated her face, horror and panic flooding her features when she realized what was happening. “Oh, fuck!” 

The lurk-for-hours-smoking habit didn’t keep the photographer from keeping up with them and Killian tried to block out the wheedling pleas begging him for a pic. 

“C’mon, man, I’m a big fan. I just need one clear one and then I’ll leave you alone.” The rapid click of the camera’s shutter as the man tried to get a shot of Henry over the top of Killian’s shoulder almost managed to drown out the bullshit but did nothing to mute the indignant, “HEY!” shouted in Killian’s ear when his elbow connected with the asshole’s ribs just as they reached the Mercedes. 

Killian knew the nudge would only buy them a little time, so he shoved Henry into Emma’s arms. 

“Get him out of here. I’ll handle this.” 

He barely had time to see Emma bundle Henry in the backseat and shoot him a fearful look, hesitating just a moment. 

“Go!” 

She sat down into the car, legs swinging in at the same time the engine roared to life. The tires squealed as Emma hit the unfamiliar gas pedal and peeled out of the parking space, nearly colliding with a second van as it raced into the harbor parking lot. Before he could register what was happening the shove he was expecting for throwing an elbow came. The words, on the other hand, were something for which he was not prepared and they had him seeing red. 

“You assaulted me first and my buddy here has it all on camera. I’m gonna sue your ass for everything you have. I hope that whore and her dumb kid is worth it, pretty boy. “ 

He wasn’t sure which split first: his knuckles or the skin under the photographer’s eye when Killian’s fist made contact. 

**** 

 Moving around the kitchen bleary-eyed and thanking the Vomit Gods that Henry had been sleeping uninterrupted for a while, Emma brewed a strong cup of coffee designed to counteract the four hours of sleep she’d had. 

The drive home consisted of two stops – one for ginger ale and crackers at a gas station convenience store and one two miles down the road when the few bites and tentative sips he took hasn’t stayed down. A car slowed to a crawl as it passed their spot on the side of the road, the driver’s neck craning. On edge and paranoid she was being followed, Emma drove exactly the speed limit the rest of the way, eyes darting to the rearview and side mirrors every time another vehicle’s headlights came into view.

Instead of picking up her own car, she drove straight home, huffing as she carried Henry inside. Getting him changed out of his sweaty, barf-flecked clothes had been like trying to wrestle a wet tee shirt off a tranquilized monkey and by the time Emma got him in bed, she was sweaty herself. 

What was going to be a quick shower turned into a long one, her back turned to the water as she let the sharpest setting on the showerhead help beat back the headache she had from the tense drive home. By the time she checked on Henry one last time and collapsed into bed, the dawn of light was already seeping around edges of the blinds hung in the bedroom windows. 

She blinked against the full light of day now, scowling at the brightness coming in over the kitchen window, taking her cup to the kitchen table and opening her laptop. Just because she’d taken the day off yesterday her business hadn’t, and Emma gulped coffee as she accessed her four usual tabs: Gmail, the Swan Bonds, L.L.C. banking books, a shared Excel spreadsheet of their current outstanding bonds, and MSN’s homepage. 

Catch up with a few emails, check to make sure payroll had deducted properly, look to see if the band of hooligans one of her bondsmen had dubbed the Seven Dwarfs were going to – once again – collectively pay her bills next month via their latest bout of fuckery and felony, and catch up on the news. 

Waiting for the other programs and pages to load, Emma clicked over to the MSN tab and took a few more sips of coffee, holding the warm cup in both hands as she let the slideshow of headlines scroll, perusing them with varying degrees of interest. The sponsored ad for building a Halo army on Xbox one got the least amount of attention. A story about a couple that converted an airport cargo van into an 80 square foot home earned a single-too-long scoff at the claustrophobia of living in such cramped quarters with someone. 

With her eyes rolling, she missed all but a glance at the next slide. A shock of purple hair caught her eye right as it was replaced with an article about must-dos for this month’s budget. Emma’s coffee sloshed out over her wrist as she tried to put it down and banged against the edge of the table instead. Wiping her hand on her leggings, she quickly clicked the back button and stared. 

Killian Jones Arrested.  

A quick Google search showed the media was going apeshit over what one site dubbed his “latest bout of bad boy antics.” 

The photographs were much clearer than the ones of them by the tour bus; Killian swinging wildly at the paparazzo that tried to get photos of Henry, getting tackled by a second, larger man and being bent over a police car as a cop read him his rights and put him in handcuffs.

Clicking through the more salacious gossip sites, Emma learned a source inside the police department revealed he’d been booked on assault charges thanks to the paparazzo’s broken eye socket.

TMZ had footage of him coming out of the of the county lockup in plain-ish view of a huge crowd of media and onlookers, and Emma couldn’t figure out why the hell he hadn’t called her to bail him out. She didn’t know what bond office he had used, but it was clearly one without the connections hers had. She would have been able to get him into a car in one of the underground garages to save him the perp walk. 

Rewinding the video, she scrutinized his face as one of the cameras zoomed in. He had a black eye and a split lip and Killian gave a half-assed wave to the screaming crowd as he hopped into a Suburban that inched forward when it cleared the gates until the crowd parted and then sped away. 

Emma picked up her phone, ready to unleash hell and thumbs of fury texting him when a gravelly voice came from the doorway of the kitchen. 

Henry was leaning against the wall, looking a tragic mix of better and forlorn. Put to bed in just underwear, he was dressed in a kick-around-the-house tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants; her first sign he was on the mend. Emma had a firm “no nips at the table” policy and when Henry had those growing boy days when he woke up ravenous, food and the necessary clothes to partake came before anything else. 

“I’m starving.” He brushed past her and opened the pantry, perusing his cereal options. Sighing heavily when Emma tossed out a “nope” as he reached for the box of Lucky Charms he’d begged her to buy with his allowance money, Henry settled for plain Cheerios and brought the box to the table. 

Thrust into mom mode, Emma put her phone down, figuring she’d text him later to find out why the hell he hadn’t called her to bail his ass out of jail. Or, better yet, she’d wait for him to call with an explanation. Closing out all the tabs on her computer that mentioned his name, she turned her attention to Henry and tried to push Killian out of her head for the moment. 

 ****

That moment turned into a week. A week of going through the five stages of I’m Not Obsessing: worry, backspaced text messages, feigned indifference, anger and the drowning of the sorrows. The very pissed off sorrows.     

Okay, maybe she was halfway between the fourth and fifth steps. 

Being was at home alone on a Saturday night with nothing but her own thoughts and a generous second pour of Pinot Grigio wasn’t helping. Henry was away for the night at Violet’s house and Emma’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. 

Wine glass in one hand and laptop in the other, she settled onto the couch and started reading articles. They ranged from a think piece put out by Rolling Stone musing on the career longevity musicians had after a scandal to pure gossip about what had transpired in the last week that made the photographer drop the assault charges. The leading theory was a big-ass payoff, and Emma had her suspicions it was probably correct considering her name and face hadn’t been linked to the story. Not even once. Killian may have gotten his punches in but his checkbook had been the one to get his point across. 

She still couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t called her and with each passing day, and regret from not reaching out right away built up. Common sense said he was probably embarrassed over ending up in the clink. Overthinking and a bottle of Pinot told a different story. One of regret over the near hook-up on the boat or dipping a toe in the dating waters when there was a kid involved. Maybe she’d read Killian’s vibe with Henry all wrong. Hell, maybe she’d read Killian’s vibe with her all wrong and things were better this way. 

Head fuzzed with wine, Emma shoved the laptop aside and leaned forward to pick her phone up from the coffee table, the wide neck of her off-the-shoulder sweater gaping. Her hand automatically came up to preserve her modesty even though nobody else was home and, as she brushed against the skin of her upper chest and pulled the material up, a faint pull of arousal hit low in her belly at the memory of Killian’s fingers tracing the same spot. 

His fingers were nimble, the asshole.

The thought of texting him for a booty call flew out of her head as quickly as it had flown in. Even tipsy, she knew that shit was a bad idea. Plus, she didn’t think she could handle rejection of the direct variety. No, this passive-aggressive avoidance was about all she could hang with.

But…

**** 

 Fucking hell. 

He was pretty sure he’d said it out loud. He was pretty sure at the girl on his left with one hand so far up his thigh her pinkie was brushing his cock had heard him. He was certain, however, that he didn’t give a damn. 

The photo was stunning; all blonde curls, red lips, dipping collarbones and the soft swell of a breast just barely covered by what looked like a sweater. It was unlike anything she’d ever posted on Instagram and it took him by surprise just before it started to arouse him. He shifted abruptly as he felt himself start to thicken against his thigh, knocking the girl’s hand loose so she wouldn’t think she had anything to do with him becoming half hard. 

Killian hadn’t stopped thinking about Emma all week. In the most honest of moments, he was angry. Angry with himself for putting her and Henry in the position to be ambushed by paparazzi and thrown into his public fucked up life against their will. Angry with himself for not texting her. Angry with himself for being weak and wanting, for remembering how she looked coming on his fingers and jerking off in the shower until he spilled over his fist, steam swirling around with his final exhalation of breath, her name on his lips. 

And here she was. Taunting him. 

His thumb hovered over the little heart. Apparently, the bottle of British Royal Navy Imperial rum he’d downed since his publicist and a crisis management team called upon by his record label had arrived that morning and the current moment didn’t him quite enough liquid courage to press it. Instead, he started to trace the curve of her breast in the photo and stopped, erupting with a drunken, chortling laugh he cut short when those within earshot looked over at him. 

Feeling up a photograph. That was bordering on a level of desperation that made him cringe even in his rum-soaked state. 

“Ah, fuck it.” 

Press. 

The minute the heart turned red and his named joined Mary Margaret’s under the photo’s likes, he regretted it. What if it wasn’t for him? What if she was seeing someone else? Killian gripped his phone close to his face, glaring at the app, mentally daring anyone else with a dick to acknowledge the exquisite creature on his screen. The vibration from an incoming text message startled him and he stared in disbelief at the name on the screen. 

It was a single line that was all Swan. 

What the hell, Jones?  

So she had been taunting him. Waiting for him to react. Toying with him. 

Well, two could play at that game. 

Standing, Killian dialed her number and held the phone to his ear, thumb hooked in his belt loop as he leaned against the wall, his alcohol-heavy head lolling a bit. It barely rang before she answered and launched into a tirade.

“You didn’t even call to let me know there was trouble. Or to bail your ass out even though it’s my damn job. I haven’t heard from you in a week and I didn’t know if I should call or if I did something-“ her voice hitched like she was choking back a sob, “something wrong. Just…tell me what you want.”

This was exactly the shit he was trying to avoid. Things were so much easier when they were miles away from each other, both figuratively and literally. It was easier to send flowers and an occasional text, to be linked somehow but still keep her at arm’s length. To not invite her into his complicated life, a life he’d stopped trying to keep private because the fight to keep anything for himself was exhausting and a never-ending battle. But he’d slipped and hoped and ended up coaxing her out with him for a day. To do something she hadn’t wanted to do because she felt like she needed to protect her son and he’d pushed her anyway. And it had backfired. And if she didn’t hate him now, she would soon, so why not just help it along? 

“You’re the one who posted that photograph with one of your tits practically out. What do you think I want?” 

The gasp on her end of the line was a mix of shock and pure indignation. 

“Fuck you, Killian,” 

“Oh, no, darling. If we were in the same place right now, I assure you that I’d be fucking you.” Rum spurred on his tongue and he continued. “If you think I was satisfied with just a taste before I’m done with you, you’re mistaken. Why don’t you stop by? I think I can fit you into my schedule.” 

Emma laughed humorlessly, the precipice of hurt she was perched on just a moment before gone at his crude words. 

“And what? Line up with the rest of the Blowjob Brigade to entertain you before you get liquor dick and can’t keep it up anymore? I’ll pass.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, love. I’d be happy to send most of them home and just keep one as a backup if it meant feeling you come on my cock.” 

“You’re a pig,” she seethed, and Killian cut the last thread holding them – and himself – together. 

“Yeah, well, you were more than willing to lay down and get dirty with me, sweetheart.” 

Click.  

Clenching his fist around his phone, Killian scrubbed his face with the other hand feeling his jaw flexing under his fingers. 

You stupid bastard.  

The sound of the phone shattering against the floor when he smashed it in a rage barely registered in the crowded room. Heart pounding, he stepped back to the couch, reaching for two of the three things he knew would quiet the chant inside his head. 

The woman he’d been sitting next to hadn’t moved and he plucked the rum bottle she was holding out of her hand and took a healthy swig, making eye contact with her when she looked up in surprise. 

“You look familiar.” It was a bald-faced lie but the suggestion he remembered them from somewhere worked every time, especially when he shifted on his feet and thrust his pelvis forward. The erection he’d been working toward a few minutes ago was gone but there was still plenty to entice without it. 

When her eyes dropped, he chuckled. They were all so easy. 

“I was here before. With my friend.” She looked around and pointed to a blonde coming out of the Glitter Room with white powder around her nose and a glassy look on her face, the sizeable bag of blow she’d swiped disappearing into her clutch. At first glance and through an intoxicated haze, the curls and red lipstick looked close enough and as she spotted them and came over, he saw her eyes were green. 

Reaching a gentlemanly hand out to the woman on the couch, he asked, “How would you and your friend like to go someplace more private?” It took half a second for her to slide her hand over his and Killian pulled her to her feet, gently pushing her in front of him. He walked her out of the room, his front pressed to her back, mouth fused to her neck and a hand snaking down the front of her dress while she snatched the bottle back with one hand and grabbed her friend with the other. 

She breathed her name along with her friend’s into his ear as he maneuvered them through the throngs of people, reaching back to snake a hand up around the back of his neck. Her pointy nails scratched through his hair hard enough to hurt and it took every ounce of self-restraint he had to tell her he didn’t give a fuck what their names were. 

He needed this. Just for a moment. Just long enough to push the ghost from his past back where she belonged.  

They broke apart at the bottom of the stairs he led the way up and down a hallway to the double doors Anton guarded. 

“No one comes in,” Killian ordered and ushered the girls into his bedroom. 

They pounced the moment the door closed, pushing him against the doors and falling to their knees. The dark-haired one – the one with the giant fake tits that felt like water balloons – went to work on his belt while the other one fumbled with his zipper, their drunken, high-pitched giggles grating over his nerves. From his vantage point, he could see the blonde was a cheap imitation of the woman he was using her to replace; the hair color from a bottle and the green eyes a product of contact lenses. His head swam with rum and regrets, and he decided he needed a moment to get his shit together. 

Batting their hands out of the way, he pushed past them and walked over to the small table in front of the window and gestured to the blonde still on her knees by the door. 

“Get the baggie out of your purse.”

The girls exchanged looks and Killian grew impatient. Maybe these two were a mistake. He snapped his fingers. 

“Look, I don’t give a damn that you took it. Just bring it over here or get the fuck out.” 

Apparently the threat of losing bragging rights after a night with Killian Jones was enough to kick her ass into gear. The baggie was produced along with a razor blade and a short straw. He dropped into one of the chairs and tore the rum bottle from the other girl’s hand and tipped it to his lips. The glug became a chug, his head tipped back and throat working as he drank. 

When he put the bottle down, it was an inch away from empty and the room was spinning. Running his fingers over his lips, he looked at the rows being expertly lined up and stood, swaying so much he had to brace himself on the window. 

Killian pressed himself against the one girl just as he’d done downstairs. It helped stabilize him and, since her heels were still on, had the added benefit of putting her ass at the perfect height to cradle his cock. He thrust into her lightly, savoring the floaty feeling the rum provided, and took her hand and brought it up to his mouth, slipping her index fingertip into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. 

Her breath hitched and he rewarded her responsiveness with a quick, filthy kiss as he guided her hand back down to the table top and dipped it into one of the lines before bringing it back up to his lips. 

The cocaine was bitter and familiar as it numbed his tongue. The blonde held out the straw and Killian took it without hesitation. 

He did two lines in quick succession and fell back into the chair. As he waited for the high to hit, his companions took turns with the straw, wiping the backs of their hands across their noses to wipe away any excess powder as they stood before him. 

Killian allowed them to pull him to his feet, four hands making quick work of his clothes as well as their own. One pushed him onto the bed and as a pair of lips closed around his cock, the coke high hit and he was flying, unsure if he was closer to heaven or hell. 

****

She was cried out after an hour. Exhausted. Depressingly sober. Alone. 

And mad as hell. 

Emma recognized a defensive move when she saw one: the lashing out. Granted, it was usually her move, but the perpetually walled off tend to recognize their own. 

Pacing in her living room, she weighed her options. Calling Killian back would be a waste of time if all he was going to do would be to drunkenly invite her to hop on his dick again. So she could either let it go or grab her keys, make the drive to his house and force him to look her in the eye while being an asshole that would probably still drunkenly invite her to hop on his dick. 

“Fuck!” 

The empty room echoed the epithet back to her and nothing else.

Cursing again, she headed to the bathroom and made quick work of wiping off the red lipstick and pulling her curls back into a stark ponytail. A quick change of clothes – the guys at Swan Bonds referred to the red leather jacket as Emma’s armor – and she was ready for a fight.

**** 

 Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma tried to be polite to the veritable mountain of a man standing outside the door of Killian’s bedroom. 

“Please let me in, Anton.” 

A look of something akin to pity, or maybe understanding, flashed on his face before Anton moved to the center of the double doors and crossed his arms. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Swan. No one goes in. Captain’s orders.” His voice dropped. “Besides, you might not like what you see in there.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Emma sighed, her face scrunching with frustration. What Killian did behind closed and heavily guarded doors was his own damn business and she suddenly felt foolish driving all this way with the hope that he would be waiting for her so they could work out whatever shit had hit the fan between them. Instead, she walked into a rager, picking her way through the drunk, glassy-eyed throngs on both floors until she spotted Anton. 

Clenching her fists, Emma squeezed her eyes closed and when she opened them, she put a hand on Anton’s arm and offered him a tight-lipped smile. 

“I understand you have a job to do. I shouldn’t…it’s not my place to –“ 

Cut off by a muffled scream coming from the bedroom, Emma’s eyes met Anton’s and they both stood silent, listening intently. Another scream came, followed by shouts and Anton moved his ass into gear, punching a code into the keypad and nodding to Emma when the lock disengaged. 

She burst inside the room to find two women standing by the bed freaking the fuck out. They were both naked, babbling and letting out shrieks as they looked at a prone, nude figure sprawled out on the bed. 

Killian was on his back convulsing, a white foam pouring out of his mouth. Emma catapulted onto the bed and turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke and grabbed the arm of the closest girl. 

“What did he take? HEY! Quit screaming and tell me what the fuck he took!” The girl ignored her as she and her friend gathered their things and high tailed it out of the room. Emma’s eyes swept around the room, taking in the residue on the table by the window and a small mound of white powder on the nightstand that looked like it had been much larger at some point.

Cocaine. 

She cradled Killian’s head as Anton called 911 to report an overdose. Bending down, she whispered in his ear as his body shook uncontrollably. 

“Stay with me, Killian. Stay with me.”

[hazzamylouworld-blog]

Full

"You wake him." "What? No way! He's your boyfriend, YOU wake him up." "Liam? Hey Liam! Why don't you wake him up?" "Louis, I'm not waking your boyfriend up. You're a grown man, just wake him up. He's going to be even more grumpy if he's not able to eat before the show." Louis sighs, feeling rather betrayed by his other two bandmates. His curly headed boyfriend sleeps soundly on the couch before them, curled in on himself and looking oh so at peace. And Louis just doesn't have the heart to wake him. He hasn't slept well the past few nights and waking him feels like the most evil thing he could do to him at the moment. Because he's sleeping SO good. He even has a soft smile on his lips as he snores away and HOW COULD LOUIS' BANDMATES DO THIS TO HIM? He knows waking him is inevitable. There's only about fifteen minutes until show time and the other four boys have already eaten and got their hair done. Harry's hair is already fixed but by how hard he's sleeping, Louis knows Lou will want to fluff it up before they go on stage. And Harry hasn't eaten since early this morning so Louis knows he must be starving. "Alright FINE. I'll do it, ok? But just know that if he asks I'm telling him YOU three forced me to do it." "Whatever gets him up and moving to that stage." Liam says with a shrug. "Hazza babe?" Louis calls softly, pushing Harry's messy quiff of curls back. Harry sighs sleepily and turns over on his side, away from Louis' prodding fingers. "Babe? I'm so sorry but you've got to get up. We only have a few minutes until show time and you haven't eaten yet." Harry lets out a soft whimper but Louis feels him start to stir. He finally turns over and sits up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "That's it, lovely. Want some dinner?" Harry nods, standing up and heading toward the food table. He piles his plate high, starving from only eating a bit this morning. Louis watches with a soft smile as he goes and sits down on the couch, scarfing down his food. Lou comes up behind him, just like Louis knew she would, and tousles his hair about, spraying it with all kinds of different sprays and gels. "FIVE MINUTES!" A stage hand calls and Harry curses quietly, stuffing more food into his mouth. The whole plate is clean within the next two minutes and Louis stares at his boyfriend in utter amazement. "Wow babe, that was quick." Harry lies back and places a hand on his stomach with a deep exhausted exhale. "I'm so full..." "That's good, babe! Loads of energy before the show." "Are we going to have to roll you out on stage, Styles?" Zayn asks with a laugh, looking at the stuffed boy. Harry scrunches his nose and furrows his brow. "My stomach kind of hurts.." "You probably ate too much. I'm sure it'll go away once you're on stage." "TWO MINUTES! Please get ready to head out." The stage hand calls again. "Can you help me up?" Harry mumbles, leaving on hand on his aching tummy as the other stretches out toward Louis. Louis laughs. "Of course. That's what you get for napping." Louis jokes, pulling his boyfriend up off the couch. Harry groans and grips at his stomach once he stands and puffs out a large exhale as they walk toward side stage. The other four boys jump up and down, adrenaline pumping through their veins at the sound of their fans' screams. Harry lies up against a wall, rubbing a hand over his stomach. Louis rubs his arm and frowns. "Are you alright babe?" "I just ate too much too quickly...my stomach's hurting..." "Oh love. I'm sorry. Maybe it'll pass once your adrenaline kicks in." "I hope so.." Harry mumbles miserably, as his stomach rumbles uncomfortably beneath his hand. The band hears the last few seconds of the intro video before they are lifted onto the stage. The first song begins to play and Harry takes a deep breath, ignoring the pain gripping at his stomach and begins singing his lines, keeping a steady hand on his stomach. The fans certainly don't notice Harry's discomfort (at least he hopes they don't), but the boys do. Especially Louis. Louis keeps giving him small glances and soft touches whenever he can but it does little to help. The heat from the lights beaming down on him coupled with all the singing and moving around he has to do, makes him feel quite sick to his stomach. He hears the intro to Rock Me just as his stomach rolls and he involuntarily heaves, letting out a sickly burp. He looks around wide-eyed before his stomach tosses again and he quickly rushes backstage. Louis thrives on the energy of the crowd and Rock Me is one of his favorite songs which is probably why he doesn't realize Harry's absence until it's Harry's turn to sing and his voice isn't there. Louis looks around the stage and his eyes bulge. Because Harry's gone. Niall successfully butchers Harry's line and Louis is quick to cover him, singing the correct line behind him. All four boys begin singing but it seems so wrong without the curly headed lad. Louis watches as Zayn, Liam, and Niall all look around in confusion and knows he must look the same as them. He passes Liam and cups a hand over his mouth as he mimics playing the guitar. "Where's Harry?" "Sick." Liam mouths, gesturing toward backstage. Louis peeks behind the stage and catches a flash of white t-shirt hunched over. His first instinct is to go running to him but they're still in the middle of a song so he can't do that obviously. His hand shakes from wanting to go to him but he continues to sing through the song that has never sounded worse to him. Harry heaves again and a small amount of his dinner lands in the garbage can below him. His stomach aches horribly and he places a hand beneath his shirt with a groan. Someone places a water bottle and a towel beside his feet before quietly walking away again. He's glad they had the decency not to stick around. Not only is he mortified that he's throwing up mid-concert but he feels like any extra crowding would make him feel sicker. He takes a sip of water and wipes his face off with the towel. His stomach still feels terrible and he squats down, spitting on the ground below him and taking a deep breath. He wets the towel and places it around his neck, inhaling through his nose and exhaling deeply through his mouth to try and settle his stomach. He hears the voices of his confused bandmates attempting to make it through a song without him and feels so guilty. Thankfully they have a break coming up so once he's done puking his brains out, he'll only have to sing a song or two before he can come back here and probably throw up again. The song ends and he takes a deep breath standing back up. He still feels nauseated and his stomach hurts but he knows he needs to get back out there for his bandmates and their fans. He stumbles back out on stage, earning concerned looks from his bandmates and extra loud screams from his fans. Louis scoots his way over to him nonchalantly as Liam talks to the crowd. "Are you ok? What happened?" "My stomach..." is all Harry mumbles in his ear, shaking his head and placing a hand to his stomach. Louis frowns and rubs his elbow comfortingly. Harry shakes his head and puts the mic up to his mouth as the next song starts to play. He makes it through the whole song but it isn't easy. His stomach tosses and turns and aches beneath the hand that stays steadily lying on it. Finally the ending cords play and the five boys make their way to backstage. Harry's crowded immediately and he groans, sitting on the couch and placing his face into his hands. Louis places a hand to his back while Niall places a water bottle in front of him. "What happened mate?" "Are you ok?" "Do you think you can go back on?" "Can you please not crowd me?" He mumbles, barely audibly. Louis swats his hand and the other three boys back up a bit. "Are you ok?" Louis asks again, hand rubbing a comforting line on his back. "I'm really embarrassed. I just threw up in front of so many people.." "Don't be embarrassed, Haz. You aren't the first singer to do it. And I don't think most of the fans even saw you.." Liam supplies, feeling bad for the ill boy. "My stomach is killing me. I really don't know how I'm going to finish. Every time I get out there I just...ugh..." Harry moans, placing a hand beneath his shirt again. "Oh love...why don't you just rest back here and we'll take care of the show?" Harry groans and shakes his head. "No. I'm not doing that to the fans. They paid to see all of us, not just four of us." Louis sighs but Niall smiles. "You're a legend, mate." "One minute!" The stagehand calls. Harry groans and buries himself into Louis' side. "My poor baby...it's alright. Only a few more songs and we can go lie down, yeah?" Harry takes a deep breath and nods. "Ok..." He makes it through a few more songs before his stomach begins feeling really bad again. He sings his lines in "Teenage Dirtbag" and tries to look as if he's having the time of his life. But once his last line is sung, he gags and turns to go backstage. He gags once more, still on stage, and rushes back behind it. If the fans didn't know he had an upset stomach before..they do now. He nearly knocks Dan over to get backstage but he makes it. Someone shoves a trash bin beneath him and he grips onto it, heaving and gagging until more of his dinner rushes up from his stomach. He groans and closes his eyes as more vomit pours from him. It's unfair really as throwing up should be making him feel better but it isn't. He finishes throwing up and pours water on his face to cool down before once again making his way back onstage. He barely sings the rest of the concert and tries to move as little as possible, sitting down whenever the chance arises. The concert finally ends and he feels like crying both from how ill he feels and how terrible of a performance he just put on. He makes his way backstage far in front of the rest of the boy and rushes to get his things together, slinging his bag over his shoulder and making his way to the tour bus. He hears Louis' pounding feet behind him but doesn't turn around. He finally makes it to the tour bus and throws his bag down, curling into his bunk. "Harry?! HARRY?! WHERE ARE YOU?" Louis calls. Harry doesn't answer, trying to focus on keeping his stomach in place. He hears the other three boys step onto the bus and call his name too. The nausea soon becomes too much and he jumps from his bunk to rush to the bathroom. He slams the door but Louis still finds a way in, rubbing his back and whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Once he finishes, he sobs and falls into Louis' chest. Louis gasps in surprise and rubs Harry's curls gently. "Oh baby...are you feeling that bad?" Harry nods and sniffles. "A-and I let the fans down. That was such a shit performance. They knew I got sick." "Harry.....hey, Harry! Listen to me." Louis pulls his face up until the two are looking into each other's eyes. "They love you, Harry. And I'm almost positive most of them didn't notice but even if they did, they'll only be worried about you, not judge you." Louis hums. He helps the boy up and Harry brushes his teeth shakily. He then stumbles out to the living area where the other boys are waiting anxiously. He curls in on himself on the couch and moans. Louis walks to the kitchen to get him a Sprite to settle his stomach and the other boys watch him in concern. Zayn comes over to him and rubs his back softly. "You ok mate?" "Just tired...and embarrassed." "Don't be, Haz. Look, the fans know you got sick and they've started a "GetWellSoonHarry" hashtag. You're trending worldwide." Harry smiles softly. The boys all give him reassurances and cuddle him up, all piling onto the couch together. They turn on a movie but Harry can hardly keep his eyes open. His stomach still feels iffy but he knows his boys will take good care of him. And he knows the fans still love him. So despite feeling shit, he's happy.

[xoleahbeanxo]

Sing! A side Story: Chapter Three

Song: Giving it All Away Artist: Leo Sayer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mz-v-km-zw

Giving It All Away

           Lee and Ellie arrived shortly after 9 o’clock, parking in a nearby alley parking lot. The line already stretched out the door and around the block. It was impossible to believe that so many people showed up to audition for this competition, especially when there was already a half a dozen of these types of shows on television. Lee assumed the 100k prize was the real reason they showed up. With no other choice, the two of them shuffled to the back of the line to wait.

Lee looked at Ellie and smiled. Her cheeks were still pink with thoughts of the things they’d done the night before. Seeing her looking so beautiful in the morning glow of the sun calmed him. He’d never been so glad that she’d insisted on coming with him than he was right now. She was his best friend, after all, and being with her always made even the worse situation better.

“Nervous?”

“I feel like I’m going to vomit.” Lee smiled, despite telling the truth.

Ellie giggled. “You’ll be fine, take deep breaths of this…fresh downtown air.”

They both laughed. Ellie’s fingers found Lee’s and they laced together. As strange as it had been to see many people show up, it was even stranger at how fast they were moving through the line. Before Lee knew it, he was standing in the lobby of the old theater house.

At first, he’d assumed it was a theater that showed movies on a screen. It wasn’t until he got inside that he realized it was the type of theaters where they put on musicals and plays. He’d never been inside a real one before. The décor was showing its age but still didn’t fail to impress. Even under the dingy old smell, there was the scent of something once great.

           “This place is going to kill my allergies.” Ellie coughed into a wad of tissues she held.

           “I think it’s charming,” Lee smirked.

           “Yeah, I guess it is if you like asbestos poisoning.” Ellie shot him a sideways glance.

           Lee laughed while playfully nudging her with his elbow. The two beavers standing behind them looked around in quick dismay before slowly shuffling out of line and out the door. Lee stared at them with wide eyes.

           “Good job, honey,” He said excitedly. “You’re scaring away my competition, keep it up.”

           “You know me, hon; I always come to bat for my man.” She puffed her chest out, looking all tough before laughing at her own facade.

           Lee and Ellie kept their snarky comments quiet and genuinely enjoyed spending their time in line together. Though, the others around them didn’t seem all that interested in their jokes.

It hadn’t dawned on Lee until they’d actually got into the theater house that he’d prepared nothing. He’d brought nothing with him for his audition. All of his songs were in his head and he didn’t bother bringing any music sheets for any accompanying musicians to play. What was he going to do?

           Panic set in, making his chest tight and his shoulders tense once again. How could he have overlooked something so simple, so basic, so very necessary? They could just leave, he thought. It would only cost them a few hours, which, in retrospective, turned out to be very pleasant one on one time with his wife.

Ellie could sense his quiet panic and she did everything she could to sooth him. A soft series of kisses behind his ear was followed by her warm breath and even warmer words.

           “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. You have nothing to lose by trying out. Just imagine we’re in the shower and you’re singing for me.”

           The words were comforting but did little to shake away the self-admonishing for forgetting something so important. Why was he so forgetful? Why? The answer never came, at least, not before he was standing on the stage under the hot lights that hung over head. The theater was lit in such a way that he could see a Koala, a sheep, and a chameleon sitting in the front row with a table before them. It seemed like the opening line to a bad joke. There were stacks of papers laid about in front of them, including a fresh sheet that Ellie had been so kind to fill out for them. She’d even given them a picture of him, not a flattering picture at that.

           “So, Mr. Anders-” The koala began.

           “Lee, please call me Lee.” The hyena interrupted nervously before he could stop himself. His knees were trembling to the point that they could buckle at any moment.

           “Lee it is then, my name is Buster Moon. This is my secretary Miss Crawly and my friend and colleague Eddie. Take a deep breath and let’s hear what got.” He had such an easy demeanor that helped Lee to relax even if it was just a little.

           “I didn’t bring any music.” Lee blurted out, swallowing so hard that he and everyone could hear it through the microphone.

           He smiled and drummed his pencil on the sheet. “That’s fine; I’ve always been a fan of acapella, so please begin.”

           Lee swallowed hard and took several deep breaths. It felt as if his heart was going to stop at any moment…then everything zeroed in on Ellie who was seated a few rows behind Mr. Moon. Her eyes shifted coyly from the left to the right as she quickly lifted one side of her t-shirt to flash a sing bra covered breast at him. There was a youthful smile on her wide muzzle. Lee laughed in spite of the situation and it helped calm the torrent of emotions that rage inside of him. ‘Just imagine you’re in the shower, singing for me.’ Ellie’s voice rang crystal clear in his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hearing it catch the acoustics of the old theater house.

           “I paid all my dues so I picked up my shoes. I got up and walked away.” His voice was trembling at first, the rusty malaise from years of being out of practice showed.

           “Oh, I was just a boy, giving it all away. Worked hard and failed, now all I can say is I threw it all away.” Each word that left his lips came out easier. His voice became stronger the more lost in his thoughts he became.

           “Went out in the world, too much for my nerves, only myself to blame. Oh, I was just a boy had nobody else to blame.” The tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed, letting him stand a little bit taller then he thought was possible. “I’ve done all I can, now it’s out of my hands, stand on my head and say, oh, I was just a boy, giving it all away.”

           Instinctively, he grabbed the microphone and leaned against it as if it were a cane there to support him. “Sail away, sail away. Ooh, I know better now, I know better now, giving it all away.”

           Lee allowed himself a few more soulful repeats of the hook and chorus from one of his favorite songs before he finished with a shaky nod and a smile that was far from confident. Ellie was up from her seat clapping furiously. The koala, Mr. Moon, turned and looked at her before joining in on the applause excitedly. When he finished, he wrote something down on the sheet before him before placing it atop the pile.

Had he performed well? Maybe not by theater standards but he gave it his all and he was very proud of himself for grabbing a bit of his past glory and brought it back into his life. But it was more than that. Lee found Ellie again who was shifting her weight excitedly as if she might pounce on him at any moment.

           “Wonderful job, Lee, please step back stage and wait for me to call you back for my decision.” Mr. Moon motioned to the side of the stage with one hand.

           Lee nodded and started off stage. He looked back to see Ellie again, who smiled and gave him a thumbs up. She looked as though she may have been crying, though, it was hard to tell because of the lights overhead.

           Once backstage, it didn’t take the hyena long to find a corner to settle down in and wait.  There were animals of all walks of life milling around and talking to one another. Anxiety played prickles down his back as he tried to make himself as small as possible. He was so nervous that if he opened his mouth to talk, he was libel to throw up on someone and that was an embarrassment he could afford. Right about now, he was wishing Ellie could come back to sit with him and keep him from falling apart.

           A quiet pig came and sat close to him. She seemed lost in thought, a nervous pink tint on her cheeks. It only took a second for Lee to recognize her from her audition. Fireworks wasn’t the first thing he thought of when he saw her but she had such a beautiful voice.

           “Hey, Lee.” She remembered his name. “I’m Rosita.” She touched her chest as if she were introducing herself to a child.

           “Rosita, right. Hey, you did an amazing job out there.” Lee smiled nervously.

           “What? No. I was as thrilling as a wet paper bag.” She offered a shy chuckle.

           “Seriously, you have a really good singing voice,” Lee admitted. “You weren’t jumping off the walls, sure but you seemed so composed. My stomach was in my throat.  How do you do it?”

           “Composed? Oh my god, no. I was a mess. Honestly, though, this stuff is a cake walk compared to raising kids.”

           “I agree.” Lee chuckled.

           “You have kids?”

           “Just one, Ashley. She’s three.”

           “Lucky you, I have twenty-five.” She smirked triumphantly.

           “Twenty-five?” Lee gasped, his mouth hanging open.

           “Yep.”

           “You’re not a mother, lady, you’re a superhero.” They both laughed.

           “I wouldn’t go that far.” There was a fond glint in her eyes.

           “How do you keep it together? I only have one and I feel like I’m losing my mind most of the time.” Lee rested his chin on his hands.

           “Oh, Lee. I’ve lost my mind and found it again more times than I can count. You just have to pick your battles, buckle down and push through.” Rosita fished her phone out of her purse before flipping to her photo album. “Just remember, as frustrated as you are at the things they do. They’re frustrated by the things you do, they just can’t articulate it the same way so they act out.”

           Lee huffed a laugh. “I…ah, never thought of it like that.”

           “No parent ever does until someone tells them the same thing I told you.” Rosita laughed, she leaned close and started showing pictures of her little piggy children.

           They laughed together and shared stories of stuff their kids did. Rosita was good company and she helped pass the time quickly but it only made Lee miss Ellie more. He suspected she felt the same way, by the fond look in her eyes when she stopped on a picture of her and her husband, Norman, standing together.

           “I hope this doesn’t take too long.” She said and Lee couldn’t agree more with her.