#new chapter of actual do a flip will be up soon! ish hopefully

[sunsafewriting]

Keep Your Arms In - 1 Do A Flip extended cinematic universe

basically just extra one-shots sets in and after do a flip.

excerpt:

Diego forgets about the lie almost as soon as they leave the grocery store. He’s got other, more important things to think about, like how late he can convince Ava to let him stay up, and whether he’ll be able to get a tattoo like Shannon’s one day. 

Ava’s answers to his questions are, in this order: nine-thirty, and yes, one day, but for now, they can hit the mall kiosk that sells temporary tattoos. 

It’s not until they’re back at Ava’s place, unloading their bags, that he remembers their capsicum. 

“I don’t want to eat that,” he says, wrinkling his nose. 

“Nor do you have to,” Ava promises. “I’m going to try it, though. And you’d better start brainstorming vegetables you will eat, because otherwise you’ll get leprosy. Wait, that’s the wrong one. It’s the sailor one, isn’t it? Scurvy.” She taps her temple. “And Sister Frances thought Pirateology wasn’t an educational text.”

He watches her wash the capsicum, chop a chunk off, and pop it into her mouth. 

“Hmm, okay, that’s not winning any awards from me,” she declares, wrinkling her nose. “Nevermind, you were right. Capsicums suck.” 

“See?”

“It’s no broccoli, that’s for fucking sure.” She pauses. “Should I swear in front of you less? Now that I’m a responsible adult, and everything.” 

Diego shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

That ship has probably well and truly sailed, but they Google it anyway, just to be safe.  

For the next several months, Diego lives a blissfully capsicum-free life. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner at St Michael’s are mostly the same, day in and day out, even if the options have become slightly more nutritional since Mother Superion arrived and overhauled everything. 

When he’s with Ava, they experiment with all sorts of different foods — some he finds he likes and some he finds he doesn’t. It becomes a tradition of theirs. Ava doesn’t have enough money for them to do anything really crazy, but picking out something from the grocery store that neither of them has ever had before is always affordable and always fun. 

It’s still just their thing, even once Beatrice is there, because Ava has never wavered in her promise to keep the things he wants to be just Ava and Diego as just Ava and Diego. But at a certain point, it feels stupid to keep doing it without Beatrice, when like everything else, it would probably be even more fun with her. 

Also, he’s kind of excited to show her their notebook, which is the closest thing he and Ava have ever managed to meticulous record-keeping. 

He presents their ledger while they’re having lunch at Ava’s apartment on a Saturday — the three of them sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, because Ava maintains that sandwiches shouldn’t be eaten at a table, that such formality is an affront to the spirit of the sandwich. 

“What’s this?” Beatrice asks, when he hands her the notebook. 

“It’s all the different foods Ava and I have tried this year. And whether we think they’re yuck or not.” 

“Writing it down makes it science,” Ava says wisely. “Learned that from MythBusters. ” 

Diego’s dogeared the page of their most recent entry, and Beatrice opens the book there, reads their review of pineapple upside down cake.

“Is it perhaps slightly unfair to penalise the cake for tasting burned when that’s not an inherent quality of pineapple upside down cake?” she asks, dragging her finger across the line where Ava’s written their criticism. 

“It’s like the Olympics,” Ava replies. “Doesn’t matter how good you are, it’s all about what you bring to the arena on the day. We can only judge based on what’s in front of us.” 

“Also, we got distracted making giant soap bubbles,” Diego explains. “And we had the oven on too high.” 

Once they’ve tried something and it’s gone into the book, Diego doesn’t usually think about it too much anymore. There seem to be repeats of things he really loves and not of things he hates, but he doesn’t really, properly think about the fact that this means that Ava and Beatrice remember .

Or, at least, he doesn’t think about it until the day that they’re cooking together.

Ava’s ducked next door to help Camila with her fire alarm, which won’t stop going off, so it’s just Diego and Beatrice in the kitchen. 

He watches, with moderate to extreme dismay, as she pulls a capsicum out of the grocery bag she’s brought with her. She washes it thoroughly in the sink, just like the zucchini before it, and then slices it up. This time, though, rather than dumping all the slices into the bowl, she offers him one. 

“They’re your favourite, yes?” she says. 

Diego’s chest tightens suddenly, unexpectedly. He can count the number of people who’ve ever bothered to learn his favourite anything on one hand without even needing to use all his fingers. 

But Beatrice only thinks capsicums are his favourite because he and Ava are liars and he doesn’t even understand why they lied, but they did, and now Beatrice is being so kind to him, and her kindness is in capsicum form and it’s like God is punishing him for being deceitful. 

The piece of capsicum looks red and evil — but Beatrice is smiling at him, and he can’t let her down, so he accepts it, thanks her, and shoves it into his mouth. 

It’s wretched, spicy and cold. Still, he swallows. 

“Let me know if you want more, okay? Once it’s in this, you won’t really be able to taste it.”

Diego tries not to let the relief show on his face. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

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

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

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

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

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

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

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

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

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

You’re not late. You’re never late.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

Where’s Roger?

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

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

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

“Hello darling, are you busy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a cheerful prospect.”

“Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

“Goodnight, John.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You were...snorting coke...?”

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

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

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

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

“So?” Now he’s indignant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

~ World’s Worst Drunk Driver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you feeling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Statistically, it is most likely my fault.”

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

“They didn’t for you and Veronica.”

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

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

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

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

“No, I think I’m done.”

“Okay. What’s your favorite flower?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Please do.”

“What is this fascination you have with Dante?”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“No, really. I love it.”

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

“A raccoon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now here you go again

You say you want your freedom

Well, who am I to keep you down?”

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

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

“Thunder only happens when it's rainin'

Players only love you when they're playin'

Say women, they will come and they will go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No...?”

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~

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

Especially considering his recreational preferences lately.

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

“Hello?” you gasp, winded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chris, what—?”

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

Naturally, you don’t listen.

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

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

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

[lavieendonna]

Brushwork || ArtMajor!Calum - Chapter 27

Summary: An Art Major AU where Dallas - third year gawky art student at VCA -  makes a deal with Calum - her cute new neighbour and project partner - and they spend the semester learning that the perfect masterpiece takes a whole lot of brushwork.

Date: 15 February 2019 Requested: lol     Pairing: Calum + Dallas Words: 4K Warnings: as always, Dallas has a fucking potty mouth.  A/N: Here we go, first update of the year! And just in time for the day after Valentine’s Day ahahahaha I'm so shit lmao anyway, I hope you like this. I have been trying to pump this chapter out for literal months. In that time, though, there has been a small revival of this story with some new readers so I guess, this chapter is dedicated to you guys! There’s only a couple more chapters left in this story, but fear not as I have already begun the next in the series - make sure to head over and check out the Ashton spin-off ‘Snapshot’ and let me know what you think. Thanks so much, guys, you keep me motivated!

Big Love xo

Ask | Masterlist | ‘Brushwork’ Spotify Playlist | Next Chapter | ‘Brushwork’ News | ‘Snapshot’

Chapter 27: I Did What I Could to Supress the Urge to Smother Myself and Stretched Out My Aching Bones Until They Cracked.

The first thing I felt, as soon as I was conscious enough to know I was still alive, was relief. I hadn’t realised how much weight needed lifting from my shoulders until that first five minutes after waking up in my old bedroom at my mother’s house – and to feel that in a place that used to bring me nothing but anxiety and grief was something like a Christmas miracle. And it was only October!

“Hey loser, are you getting up today?”

Isabelle leaned into the room, hair looking much like mine but, you know, nicer in every conceivable way. Her eyes weren’t as puffy as hey had been the last few days, and her cheeks had more colour in them than I’d seen since, probably, Liesel’s engagement.

“I’m not a loser.” I croaked out, much more man-ish than my sister would ever sound in her life. But, regardless, she snorted unattractively the way only a James woman could and even through squinty eyes and without my glasses, I knew she was rolling her eyes at me.

“You’re twenty-two years old, sleeping in your childhood bedroom at nine on a Saturday morning, and your mum is probably cooking your breakfast for you as we speak.” Belle said very matter-of-factly. “You’re definitely a loser. Come on, Mum said she wants to talk.”

“At nine in the morning?!”I whined and I was met with a pillow to my head before she called out something unintelligible through the walls.

With a small sigh I heaved myself out from under the covers. The thought of my mother wanting to talk even more than we had was making my stomach do flips, but I did what I could to supress the urge to smother myself and stretched out my aching bones until they cracked.

Belle was right; Mum was flipping bacon when I padded into the kitchen. She was wearing the same red apron from last night but this time over a pair of light-wash skinny jeans (that I wasn’t even aware she owned) and a slightly oversized burgundy plaid shirt. Naturally her hair was already brushed to perfection, the long dark waves tucked behind her ears, and somehow her lips were a bolder shade of red than they were yesterday. She looked more relaxed than I had ever seen her. Probably including when we were kids.

“Help your sister set the table.” She said with a smile and not a hint of condescension. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

I swallowed the anxiety and let myself bask in the rare warmth my mother was radiating for a little while longer.

“Good morning to you too, mother.” I said cheekily through a yawn. She just rolled her eyes at me and gestured toward the breakfast condiments sitting in a tray on the counter. I chuckled lightly to myself as I picked it up and dragged my feet through the kitchen and into the dining room where Belle was setting out cutlery.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?” I asked her with an arched brow and she just made a face.

“Do I ever?” She scoffed and I gave a small chuckle.

“Seriously, though,” I said a little more seriously, putting the tray down in the middle of the table between the places Belle had laid the placemats. “What do you think it is?”

Belle just shrugged, and I got a weird tingle in my stomach again as I watched my sister lack interest in whatever my mother had running through her brain gears. I knew that she was probably worried in her own way, but the way Belle held herself together made me wish that I could do that too.

We finished setting up without much more conversation and just as Belle lay down the last of the napkins, Mum came hurrying in with a pan of bacon in one hand and a plate of eggs in the other. I quickly put extra placemats down on the table for her to rest them on and she disappeared for a brief moment once again to fetch a plate of toast while Belle went back for glasses and orange juice.

“Dig in, ladies!” Mum said with delight, more chipper than I’d ever seen her. I glanced over to Belle when she wondered back in and she was giving me the same incredulous look, both of us then turning back to our mother.

“Mother,” Belle took the lead (which I prayed and thanked the Lord for), sitting quickly and loading her plate with an arched brow. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Mum chuckled and while it was a nice sound, it didn’t really make me feel better. Have I ever mentioned I didn’t do well with the unknown? I started to pour the juice to keep my hands busy enough to not tremble.

“I was getting there.” The woman rolled her eyes as she took to buttering herself a piece of toast. “But since you two are so patient –” she shot us both a look that almost terrified me out of my skin. “– I have a proposition for you.”

Usually my mother saved her big words for court, so her use of the term ‘proposition’ kind of unnerved me. But she smiled as she said it, and not in an evil or scheming way either which meant we weren’t being put on trial for whatever was on her mind.

Belle and I sat and chose to say nothing this time, not even looking at each other (or Mum for that matter). I had the feeling that whatever was making my mum this happy was going to be worth hearing without my input or smart remarks, or anything that might ruin it for her and put us back where all of this shit started.

“I know that you girls have…” Mum paused briefly to clear her throat. “You’ve had it tough the last few weeks, between school and your…  your friends.”

I shot Isabelle a glare – she’d clearly told my mother about what happen with Polly, though I wasn’t exactly sure when. It wasn’t that I was never going to tell my mum or anything like that, I just wasn’t in the mood to retell the story of my fallout with Polly over and over again. Because with my mother, you could never tell her a story just once. She needed to hear all of the ins and outs of every angle imaginable. She’d ask me to get inside Polly’s head and tell her Polly’s exact thoughts at the time of the incident and that kind of sorcery was just beyond my paygrade.

Nonetheless, B just shrugged at me without so much as a hint of guilt and I was reduced to sulking in silence while Mum continued.

“And I’m not saying I enjoy knowing my girls are struggling, but I do think this is a good chance for me to do something that I will benefit from just as much.”

I blinked at my mother’s choice of words between chews.

“Uh, I’m sure it wasn’t your intention to sound at all patronising or like you have shitty parenting skills, Mum, but um...” I offered a sidelong look. “But that sounded really patronising and like you have shitty parenting skills.”

“Language!” She scolded me. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Come on, Deej,” Belle smirked. “I’m sure whatever she’s trying to say has someredeeming qualities.”

And for that Mum reached over and slapped my sister upside the head. I smirked at that one, it was about time someone slapped B for her mouth. I was just sorry it wasn’t me.

“Will you two knock it off?” Mum rolled her eyes at us, taking a sip from her juice whilst simultaneously glowering at us over the glass. “I’m trying to do something nice for us all.”

“Sorry, Mum.” We chimed like kindergarteners and Mum just straightened her shoulders again and puffed her chest smugly like she was sitting on the juiciest piece of news anyone would ever hear.

“If you’d like – if it makes things easier for you both – you can move back in with me.” She said, not exactly in a frank ton, but it was straight to the point and blunt enough to stun both B and I into speechlessness.

“It’s not ideal, I know, but… I want for you to know that while you’re figuring out your next steps – whatever they may be – you can always come here… come to me. And whether or not its long or short term is up to you. Dallas, I know you had your heart set on Saint Kilda for your last year, and Isabelle I know your housemate is a pain in your ass. At least this way, you can stay here comfortably without worrying about anything else until you need to, you know? And I get to spend more time with you both and actually be part of your lives in your twenties.”

Mum smiled encouragingly at her daughters and it was really, really hard not to smile back. It wasn’t often that Mum offered these kinds of things without needing some kind of collateral or compensation for her time and suffering. Almost the whole time I’d been at VCA she always had some kind of ulterior motive, but I knew this time wasn’t going to be like that. There was something in Mum’s eyes that glistened with something like hope or peace or maybe it was genuine happiness. Whichever way, it was nice.

“What do you reckon?” Mum prompted hopefully. I didn’t even hesitate when I stood from my seat and circled to over to Mum, enveloping her into a hug.  

“Thanks, Ma.” I whispered lowly in her ear as she reached up as much as she could to squeeze me back. Belle joined us not a moment later, giggling just a little the way she always did when she was happy.

“You’re the best, you know that?” She told Mum and it just made her laugh as we let go and went back to our seats.

“Oh, I know.” She winked at Belle with cheek.

“Honestly, Ma.” Belle smiled. “Nancy is the worst, she doesn’t even let me smoke dope in the house.”

“Isabelle Rosella!”

Aside from B trying to give my mother a stroke, breakfast went well. There were no more emotional heart-to-heart conversations and not a whole lot of tension. After Mum got through her half-hour long speech about the dangers of marijuana – even the medical kind! – we cleaned up and washed the dishes by hand like old times. It was nice, and for a minute it was like it wasn’t our problems that had brought us together.

While Mum and Belle mucked around I decided they could do without my help (or lack thereof, to be honest) and excused myself to take a shower. Even though it was barely ten thirty in the morning, it’d been a long day. I didn’t feel drained, as such, but there was just something about the conversation over breakfast that made me feel like I needed to wash off the last of my dirt. Not that moving back in with my mother would ever be the last of my dirty laundry, hell no. I was a deeply flawed human being, there was always going to be some kind of crisis going on in my life.

That being said, if I did move back in with my mother then there was also the chance that it would make it easier to deal with said crises. Hell, maybe I could even confide in my mother about them. Living back at home with her would mean that whatever happened between now and my next step, at least there was an actual place that could feel like home to take the edge off.

The water was scalding hot and practically burnt the skin off of my back. I let the water run over me and through my hair and watched the water go from murky to clear for what felt like forever. I could have spent my whole life in there if I thought it would have fixed anything.

Tilting my head back, I let the water run through my hair again and felt the weight of the heavy locks pull gently at my skull. Water was running into my eyes but I did what I could to keep them open. I didn’t want to spent a lot more of my life with my eyes shut, and maybe that was out of paranoia or self-preservation. But a lot of it was because even though this part of my life was somewhat resolved, things with Calum weren’t and it was still weighing heavy on my mind.

I shuddered at the reminder of how shitty things between Calum and I still were, shutting off the shower in a huff and grabbing the towel that was hanging over the side of the shower to cover my face quickly. I pushed the fabric as far into my eye sockets as I could, trying to push the image of Calum walking away from me out of my mind. When that didn’t work I wrapped the towel around me and sat myself down on the floor, putting my head between my knees in an effort to get ahead of the panic attack I could feel rising in my gut.

I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, but apparently it was long enough for my mother to come looking.

“Dallas?” She called through the door. “Dallas, honey, are you alright?”

I gasped, sitting upright quickly with wide eyes and my heart racing.

“I’m –!” I sniffled, only now aware that I was crying. “Mum, yeah I-I’m fine!”

It didn’t matter, she was already creaking the door open to find me curled up on the floor.

“Hey! Hey… Honey, what… what’s wrong?” She came in, shutting the door quickly behind her before she dropped to her knees in front of me, hands reaching for my face immediately.

“What? I’m…” I spluttered for my words as Mum’s piercing eyes stared me down, deeply set with worry.

I thought about lying, but as what seemed to be the case lately, something in my mother's eyes told me that she wasn't going to accept anything but the truth.

"You can tell me, Dallas." She said softly, wiping at the stray tears still leaking from the corners of my eyes, and taking the corner of my towel and dabbing my cheeks with it. "What happened?"

I heaved a sigh, my chest feeling tight as I dreaded saying the words out loud.

"It's Calum." I said simply, still trying to figure out the best way to say what I was feeling. Mum frowned, suddenly a little scared (or so it looked, anyway).

"What did he do?" She asked immediately concerned. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"What?" I frowned. "No! Jesus, Mum, why... no!"

"Oh, thank god." Mum breathed a heavy sigh of relief, hand over her heart as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "I am waytoo young to be an Abuela."

I rolled my eyes. Mum had never really shown much connection (or interest, really) to our Hispanic lineage, but the minute she thought the first of her Grandkids were on the way she was an 'Abuela'. Talk about typical.

Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised me if she was secretly fluent in Spanish all along and could trace our ancestors back for centuries. It seemed like the kind of thing she would know and never tell anyone until she needed to brag.

Pregnancy scares aside, that wasn't what I was worked up about. I heaved another sigh, chomping on the inside of my cheek as I tried to push pass the complete humiliation piercing me straight through the soul.

"He, um." I cleared my throat. "Calum and I aren't speaking at the moment. We had a fight a while ago and some shit went down with our mural at the reveal last week."

My bottom lip trembled, and I felt like I probably looked a lot like a four-year-old trying to pull Puppy Dog Eyes for attention.

"What kind of shit?" Mum took to asking, and I tried to suppress the shock when she didn't immediately jump to conclusions. "What did you fight about?"

I winced at the memory of the complete shit show of a first date that Calum and I went on. it seemed like it was so long ago or in a whole different time. I'd been through so much in the matter of only a week that I already felt like I was a different person back then - I felt like the phrase 'back then' was warranted because of how distant it all seemed. But the reality was that it had all happened so fast - it was still happening, technically. And I had no idea how to fix any of it. All I could do was sit on the bathroom floor and cringe.

"We, uh. We went on this date." I began the long story. "And it was going great; we went to watch our friend Luke perform at this bar. But Ashton and Isabelle showed up, and at first it was fine but then Belle and I had this argument and then Pollyshowed up and things got worse and it just... the whole night turned to shit."

I'd managed to avoid looking at my mother's face for a while, but at the mention of fighting with my sister made me feel like I needed to sneak a peek. I glanced, her brow arching, and I could tell that she wasn't exactly following along.

"Hold on, why were you and your sister fighting?" I cringed again, not sure how to approach the explanation without accidentally stealing Belle's coming out like some kind of monster.

"She... was mad at me." I said vaguely. "Her and Polly felt like I'd been telling lies about them to our friends."

"And had you?" She asked.

Once again, I was pleasantly surprised that Mum was actually listening to everything I had to say before she offered any kind of interpretation or advice. She wasn't even interrupting me at all! It truly was a Christmas Miracle.

“I… Not intentionally.” I admitted.

There was something about accepting the fact that I’d actually done something wrong that made me feel a little bit better about myself as a person. It was one thing to know that I was a deeply flawed person but, like, for comic relief, but it was a whole other thing to know that I was capable of hurting people and to be willing to do what I could to rectify that.

“Calum was just trying to help, but I think I pushed him too far this time.” My voice was so small and quiet I wasn’t even sure it was mine. “All he wanted to do was show me that he cared about me but I… I freaked out and I pushed him away because it was easier than letting him get involved, you know?”

I sniffled again, a fresh batch of tears welling in my eyes as I finally said the words out loud that I’d been avoiding. Because it was true, I really had probably pushed Calum too far. And I doubted there was a lot left for me to do to fix it.

“Well, my girl,” Mum exhaled deeply, patting my thigh with one hand and lifting my chin with the other so she could look me in the eye with a soft, yet pointed, look. “You wanna know what I think?”

I wiped my nose ungracefully on the back of my hand but nodded. A small smile twitched on the corners of Mum’s red lips, but it was only for a fraction of a second.

“You haven’t got a chance of getting him back if you’re crying on the floor.”

I blinked dumbly at the words Mum had just said. They were brutal and slightly offensive words but she’d said them with such love and encouragement that I was actually kind of confused and, almost, a little overwhelmed.

“Uh… what?” I stammered and Mum just shrugged, wiping at my cheeks again with her thumbs.

“Seriously, Dallas, look at you.” She said simply. “I love you, I do. But Calum doesn’t need you to grovel on your knees and weep about how he’ll never forgive you. The reason you are in this mess is because, by the sounds of it, you were trying to make everybody’s decisions for them. You can’t decide how people should feel about other people, and you can’t decide that you don’t want them involved in your life and your problems. People like Calum… they want to be involved, that’s their whole thing. They want to be there for you and they want to show you. And it’s your job to not be selfish and just… let them.”

I knew she was right because I felt stupid.

“Your father was like that, you know.” Mum continued a little softer. I perked up at the mention of him, glancing up to Mum and watched as her entire face softened and her shoulders relaxed. She didn’t really bring up my Dad in conversations on her own that often.  There was a small smile hiding in the kiss of her lips and it was such a sight, to see how much love she still had left in her eyes for that man.

“Really?” I asked, and Mum nodded.

“Oh, yeah. When we first started going out – dating or whatever kids call it now – I was very closed off and I tried to pick and choose what parts of my life he knew about, what things he did or didn’t know about me. But he wasn’t having any of it, he needed to know that I was in it as much as he was. And for him to really know that I was… that I felt the same, I had to find it in me to let him in. All the way. You need to do the same with Calum, Dal. He’s… he’s special. And he needs to know that you think so.”

I didn’t have much to say to any of that, so I just pulled Mum as close to me as I could and squeezed. She laughed and I could feel the vibrations rumbling through her chest, the sound warming me from the inside out.

“Do you know what you remind me of, Dallas?” She asked me as she pulled herself up off the floor with a grunt before taking my hands and lifting me up too.

“What’s that?”

We both turned to look into the mirror at our reflections, Mum’s arm snaking around my waist as she pulled me close to her, reaching in front of me with her other hand to tuck my wet hair behind my ears.

“You remember the that stained-glass window we used to have in the back door of the conservatory?” She asked and I cocked my eyebrow at her.

“The one with the butterfly that smashed when Belle and I put a softball through it?” I still remembered that day very vividly – it was the only time where Dad had been the one to really punish us. He only grounded us, and it was only for a few days, but it was the most terrifying few days of our short 8 years of life. Mum laughed and nodded.

“Yes, that one.” She confirmed with a smile and I just frowned even more, failing to understand the resemblance.  

“I remind you of a window?”

Mum rolled her eyes.

“The butterfly.” She stressed and I made a face until she clarified her thoughts into words. “You’re so sensitive, Dallas. But you’re so, so beautiful, even when you’re broken.”

[askcastielandthemun]

The Impure Lovers - Chapter 1 pt 1/2

It was raining. Very hard, may I add. Almost like all the angels in heaven decided that it was time to change the great pool water and dump it all out on Earth. I grabbed my purse and took my phone out of it, putting it in my pocket and raising my bag up over my head and started out. Sadly, my purse didn't do me much justice over the pouring rain. I ran to the nearest cover, just to get a break from the cold water that stung my skin.

At 11:00 pm, I was the last to leave my work, which was a secretary for one of the bigger of the smaller companies of Ohio. You may have originally thought of someplace big like in New York, with the secretaries that wear the pencil skirts and white button up blouses that are too good for this world, but no. Right now, I'm anything but. I work hard, every day though. And it's gotten me somewhere. But, back to my current situation.

I started to run down the sidewalk, passing the closed shops and the grocery stores that had only a few customers around. The sky boomed and shone when the lighting crashed down, making me nervous and eager to get home. I had to walk today. . . .

Finally getting up to the old gas station on fifth, I tripped on a rock that protruded out of the hard concrete and grabbed out for anything, but to no avail, I had nothing to grab onto. I let out a yelp of fear as I flailed my arms but ended up landing face first into the ground, feet away from a black car. I knew absolutely nothing about cars, but it looked like an impala, like one my father had while growing up.

As soon as I hit the ground, two taller men came out of the gas station and trotted their way towards me, bending down to see if I was okay, arms outstretched to help me up. The one with the hair spoke first.

"Are you alright?" His jaw clenched as I gripped his hand, standing up and struggling in the rain. I nodded.

"Let's get under something, please? I'm drenched,"

Both nodded, walking back towards the small cover to shield us from the rain.

"Thank you," I finally got a good look at the two, and they were both quite handsome.

"You're welcome," The shorter of the two spoke. "I'm Dean, and that's Sam." He introduced himself.

"My name is (Y/N), and it's a pleasure to see you," I smiled, and Sam smiled back.

"Now, I know this seems like a bad time but, are you two boys new here? This is a small place, and I haven't seen you around before," I looked at them with slight confusion, as I only come to realise they were probably newcomers.

Suddenly, Dean pulled something out of his pocket and opened it to show me. A badge.

"Holy shit, that's an FBI badge," I muttered softly to myself, and I heard Sam give a soft chuckle. "Yeah, uhm, we're actually here because of a few disappearances that happened about a month ago." His brows knit closely together, tensely, as he looked at me.

I bit the inside of my cheek and crossed my arms, looking down a bit and sighed. "Ah, yes, I knew those kids. They're like family," I stood up straighter. "Look, it's not a good time right now, but if you give me your number, I can get home and call you tomorrow. Then we can talk better, aye?"

They both nodded in understanding while Dean pulled out a small card and handed it to me, nodding slightly and smiling. "We can do that, you have a good night now, okay?"

I smiled and nodded, putting the card in my purse and stepping back, watching the two get in their car and driving off.

I siged and looked at the sky again. Time to trudge home.

       °°°°°°°°°°TIME SKIP°°°°°°°°°°°°

Finally home, I kicked my shoes off and started towards my bathroom. It was now around 11:40 and by now, I just wanted to bathe.

I shuffled around my bathroom, grabbing a towel and pulling my clothes off. I waited for the water to fill to the top of the bath and I cracked in, sighing in content. The hot water felt good on my cold, rain drenched pores. I closed my eyes and sunk into the water, smiling in content.

I sat up and rubbed the water out of my eyes when there was a sudden crash echoing through my house. I tensed in alarm, grabbing my towel and standing up while wrapping my nude form with the towel, eyes glued to the closed bathroom door. My instincts kicked in and I tip-toed to my cabinet and pulled out one of my knives. I took my jacket and underwear and quickly pulled them on. While going for my pants there was another crash, and this time a sift female voice, that I knew well.

"(Y/N), it's me, where are you?"

My eyes widened, and my grip tightened on the knife. Letting out a shaky breath, I sat the knife down and pulled on my pants, shutting off the light and going for the door knob. I still had my phone and the card the FBI agents gave me. I could call them.

But I don't know them, and they could be with this . . . whatever this was, but it wasn't her. I unconsciously held my breath while holding my knife close to my chest, silently walking to the living room of my house. I peeked around the corner to see a man, dressed in a brown-ish tan jacket and black hair that seemed to be shaved on one side. I gripped my knife tighter, trying to steady my fast beating heart. It really wasn't her.

I took a slow step forward as it open the closet in one swift motion, nearly pulling the hinges off of the wall. I gulped softly, taking another step forward, when my body took the wrong step and my knee popped, alerting the creature. It turned around quickly, snarling while it's sharp teeth bared at me. He lunged, arms outstretched. I dodged the attack, but only barely. He kept coming at me, again and again.

Finally an opening. I kicked my leg out with my whole body weight, which wasn't much, and I flipped the knife in my hand, forcing it down. The creature caught my hand, struggling to keep the knife against his chest away from him. He pushed me off and kicked me in the side, my body making a thud as I let out a loud yell of pain. My hip had been impaled by the coffee tables broken wooden leg, and it went through my back and to my front. It was too far away from anything too important, so hopefully I would live. I wasn't ready to die just yet.

The creature grabbed my neck in one hand and my face in the other, his mouth opening wide. I watched as strings of saliva attached to his teeth, and suddenly, a soft blue light started to leave me and enter him. His long claw-like fingernails dug into my skin, leaving my cheeks burning with pain. Blood slowly dropped down to my neck. That's when the front door was busted open, two tall figures shouting and coming in, guns a-blazing.

I kept my eyes open long enough to see a knife be shoved through the creatures neck, blood gurgling in his throat. I gasped quickly, breathing in a huge gulp of breath before coughing roughly. The bright blue orb of light went back into my body. Quickly I felt two pairs of hands at my sides, talking to me and saying things I couldn't understand. Everything was muffled, because I could only feel the pain at my side. And holy shit, did it hurt. I clenched my teeth and forced back tears of unimaginable pain. Sadly, it was not the worst amount of pain my 23 year old body had endured.

Everything became more clearer, and I could hear the two talking better.

"-tting pressure on the wound, just breathe, it's gonna be okay. The ambulance is on its way,"

I looked over at the person speaking, and for the first time I could see that it was Sam. My head bobbed to the other side and say Dean, and I smiled softly to myself, cringing through the pain. "S-So, you two come here often?"

I joked softly, unable to take the tension in the room, because in my opinion, it was all too serious to me.

Sam seemed to force a smile to make me feel better, but Dean didn't laugh. The two brought their arms under me and hoisted me up on my feet. I would have doubled over if it weren't for them. I mustered out a quiet voice before I passed out, a hint of curiosity lacing my tone.

"You two are hunters, aren't cha?"

°°°°°°°TIME SKIP°°°°°°°

I woke up in a soft bed, a blinding light bleeding right into my eyes. I squinted harshly, my eyelids crinkling closely together as I felt my head pound. Migraines, man. They suck ass.

I turned my head slowly, my neck disagreeing with my movements as the joints in my neck popped. I cringed. There was a large vase of flowers that were wilting, small brown petals laying on the stand next to my bed with a small card next to them. Painfully and slowly, I sat up, grabbing the card and opening it. There was a number on the card, with only two names written and a message that made me chuckle.

"785-200-**** — We saw the FBI card we gave you, too blood stained to read out a coherent number - Sam and Dean"

I sighed and layed the card back down still sitting upright, just as a nurse walked in. She was looking down at what I assumed to be my patient file. Her head lifted and she jumped, nearly dropping the clipboard and rushed over to me. "Mrs. Kingly! Don't strain yourself!" Her voice was soft and airy, and she gently pushed on my shoulder to lay me back down.

She spoke again, trying to sound soothing. "Lay down, I'll go grab you a couple of aspirin. . . ." She left, and I lay there, wondering how long I had been asleep. She came back, and that was the first question I asked her.

"How, how long have I been asleep?"

I looked up at her, taking the pill in my mouth and the water that came next, struggling to swallow. "Well, you've been asleep for a week and two days about,"

My eyes widened. Sam and Dean were definitely long gone by now, and I was surely fired. All I wanted was a normal life . . . 

I sighed dejectedly, closing my eyes and resting my head back into the pillows.

"When do I get out?"

"In probably another four days. Until then, you're stuck here to make sure you're healing goes well. Your stitches can't move too much yet, since the table leg went all the way through your side, nearly puncturing you kidney."

I glanced at my doctor and she gave me a reassuring smile, placing her hand onto my shoulder. "I assure you, you're in good care here with us."

I gave a gentle nod and a small, but forced, smile, closing my eyes as she went out of my room. 'The wait begins.' I thought.

@gabriel-deserved-better

[slommyyyy]

marvel asks!!

this is rlly long folks prepare your asses

steve: are you small or tall?

im rlly fucking short!!! bitch!!! im like five two!! hopefully i get a growth spurt soon bc bitch i dont wanna climb shit

bucky: what’s your favorite memory?

i have a bunch actually!! im gonna limit it to three bc aa theres too many,, 

SO!!! i had met viv about two months prior, and it was the summer and i was outside!! stargazing bc!! damn b its fun!! and we were texting bc ahe just woke up, and then!!!! a neighborhood cat came, and we talked abt the cat and stars and it was so nice??

anytime from when i was little at night!! stars, catching fireflies, going to the local water park, being at the beach w my mom and eating pizza, grilling hamburgers outside w my brother... mmm man i cant tell you HOW happy summer makes me?? we used to sit outside and catch fireflies and swim in an old shitty pool, and have to go inside ONLY if the amount of airplanes that flew over us was had a factor of 3, bc that number was my fav hgckygvk

fjbueod this sounds stupid bUT!! i rlly love skyping my friends?? like watching vine comps w steph and izzy, or that one time most of us all got in one MASSIVE call and micah flipped me off in front of my mom,, but anyway i had a call w my friends, and they all went out/ to sleep, and by myself, i realized?? these people make me feel so happy?? like i had been really sad for a long time and everyone just made me... good??? i watched the sun rise that morning, and i felt rlly complete man, like a new chapter of my life was starting

sam: what makes you happy?

my friends, music, and art a lot!!! also dogs in general,,

peggy: what’s your favorite era?

dude have you seen the music i listen to?? 80s/90s are my shit

thor: what’s your favorite weather?

if im outside?? warm to the point where youre sticky with sweat, but its pleasant, and dont feel like youre dying. if im inside?? summer rain!! i like the calming patter of rain and the thunder kinda just?? being there man!! watch a movie and listen to music to that jazz!!! play a ukulele or read a book!!! that weather makes me so happy

valkyrie: what’s your favorite drink?

cherry cola!! BUT!! i like the kind from those cool machines at movie theaters!! since like the canned stuff??? tastes brown w a liiiiittle bit of magenta. the bottled stuff??? more magenta but still mostly brown. the theater stuf??? hoLY SHIT!!! ITS LIKE BRIGHT PINK!!! MUTED W SOME BROWNS AND TASTES SO GOOD!!

heimdall: where do you see yourself in 5 years?

dude i cant plan the future tbh?? like maybe at college?? maybe taking time for my mental health?? idk!! also lmAO w my luck id be dead,, have you SEEN how much i get injured??? i fell off one (1) stair and broke my ankle for three weeks fsuvbeieu

korg: are you optimistic or pessimistic?

im actually realistic tbh?? i have a bad habit of looking at things from a point where its realistic to the point where its apathetic and,,, i gotta fix that man,, (also im not including my anxiety inthat bc iF I DID LMAO IDK W H A T ID BE)

peter: are you good at keeping secrets?

yeah!! unless its smth serious, then i try to get the person help from someone im POSITIVE is trustworthy, unless im positive its under control :0

ned: who is your best friend?

no!!!! no picking!!! i love all of my friends in dif ways!!! my friend cc?? my meme-y jam bud who complains abt our english teacher!! em?? fuCKIN RAD!!!! izzy?? we talk abt girls and how we love our moms!! lui?? a badass bitch!!!! kyra and jo??? my b99 buds!!! my brother was my only friend for literal years!!! id say more but this would get way too long i love all of my friends!!

michelle: do you like to go to parties?

lmaO NO IVE GOT RLLY BAD SOCIAL/GENERAL ANXIETY,, that and im never invited to any uyebve

liz: who was your high school crush?

this rlly cute girl in a few of my classes!! im too scared to talk to her thOUGH HBCEUIBS

aunt may: who or what are you most protective over?

my brother!!! holy fuck man i nearly decked some kids when i was little,,, this sounds edgy but my brother had some issues w social settings, so he was bullied, so i helped stand up for him!! we took boxing lessons for two years bitch!! got pizza on thursdays after!!.

t'challa: what is the most important thing your parents taught you?

my mom taught me to always do what i love, and i love her man,, wonderful woman,,,

shuri: are you a good driver?

bro i cant even drive and have a fear of cars

nakia: what causes are you passionate about?

a lot actually!!! rn its mostly LGBTQ+ rights, immigration, and gun control!!! i rlly enjoy arguing, but only the kind where both sides listen to each other, yknow?? bc people yelling hurts my head efvhbied

okoye: do you speak more than one language?

no,, i only speak english and have the german abilities of a two year old

m'baku: are you vegetarian?

no, sorry!! i dont eat much meat tho so i could probably go vegetarian p easily lmAO

killmonger: sunrises or sunsets?

ooo!!! i love both!! i love seeing sunrises in the morning, but i think i gotta say sunsets!! the colors are rlly pretty

peter quill: what’s your favorite song from your childhood?

my brother and i used to SCREECH hooked on a feeling its a fuckin bop

gamora: do you like to dance?

its fun but i physically??? cant?? my body doesnt know how to move so i awkwardly sway to shitty 80s music uekfbs

nebula: do you get along with your siblings?

yeah!!! my brothers one of my closest friends, and even though hes older than me,, im still shook by how old hes gotten,,,, bitches stay off the roads hes got no coordination

groot: are you quiet or talkative?

it depends on who im with!!! or how my brain is working that day!! with large groups im rlly quiet but in front of a crowd or with one to four-ish friends i know well??? ill talk your ear off,,, also sometimes my brain says!! socializing is hard so oh well

rocket: have you changed a lot since you were younger?

hdfubvyuedsvbdsiUHDBSCUI HELL YEAH!!!! dude ive developed my own opinions and gotten a lot more bitchy.... but also ive stayed the same in a few ways!! i still love art and music, and have obsessions really deeply

asgard: if you could move anywhere, where would you pick?

anywhere w my friends!!! 

brooklyn: where do you feel most at home?

outside late at night chatting w friends tbh?? it just feels right

wakanda: what is your hometown known for?

peaches!!

thank u @prcngx for tagging me!!! ily!! but you tagged a bunch of mutuals so i dont rlly have anyone to tag!!!! you monster!! ily!!

[chasingforeverandaday]

Past is Prologue - Chapter 6: Mary Anne & Oscar

Heeyyyyy. This was a much longer time between updates (sorry, school). Although, I started about three different chapters before finally committing to this one, so the next update should be sooner(ish). And there's going to be a very Wellenore oneshot coming out in the next few days. Hopefully. (writing makeouts is hard okay?)

Chapter description:  College flashback! Feat. Mary Anne it's-too-early-to-be-dealing-with-this-shit Evans and Oscar it's-my-party-I-can-perve-if-I-want-to Wilde and a campus gym. Because reasons.

Also on AO3

Startled awake by the obnoxious ringing of her alarm, Mary Anne Evans’ arm shot out of her blankets and began to smack along her nightstand, searching for the stupid clock. Once found, it was thrown across the room and into the opposite wall, upon which the blaring abruptly cut off. Despite its unfortunate demise, the clock had done its job and successfully woken her up. Bleary eyed, she sat up and yawned, stretching her arms out wide before falling back into her pillow.

God, it was far too early for things. Before the sun was actually out early. Why did she need to get up so early again?

Her eyes found the gym bag laying in front of her closet. Right, it was Tuesday, so gym. And then showering, and then classes, and then field hockey. She would need to squeeze in some time for food too, probably between Creative Writing and Journalism & Ethics. Rubbing between her eyebrows, she finally untangled her legs from the covers and padded towards the door, intending on heading for the bathroom in the dorm hallway. Upon reaching the door empty handed, she smacked her forehead, remembering she needed her keys to get back in, turning around to stumble back to her desk in the predawn darkness of the room.

A major upside of being an RA this year was having her own room, especially since both of her previous roommates had wanted to kill her for the early schedule she meticulously kept. Being in charge of hormonal freshman girls may not always be her favorite thing in the world, but she was pretty good at giving out advice… and condoms when necessary. Although in her opinion, the less she knew about that aspect of her charges’ lives, the better.

Shaking herself out of the introspective funk, Mary Anne grabbed her keys and left the dorm room, mentally planning out her day as she went.

Once out of the women’s locker room, Mary Anne started up her workout playlist and began stretching out. She let her mind drift, the music in her earbuds grounding her. Heading over to the track, she found her rhythm in the beat of footsteps pounding into the floor, relentless in their constancy. Lost in the blessed quiet of her aimless thoughts, she was done with her laps quickly and moved to stretch again before the next stage of her circuit.

Mary Anne was just beginning her set of squats when she heard the pretty boy working out next to her start grumbling to himself. Rolling her eyes, she upped the volume and continued, though his running commentary soon became impossible to tune out completely.

“Please turn around, there’s a good boy.”

“God I love squats.”

“Damn, the ass on the man. The things I could do...”

The loss of focus (and patience) made her snap, whipping her head around to glare at him. “My god, do you ever shut up?”

Twisting to throw her a scathing glance, he replied, “Well that was rude!”

“Seriously, you’re distracting me!”

“Oh please, buck up buttercup. If I have to listen to your grunting and huffing, you can listen to my appreciation of those lovely specimens over there.” He turned his leering back to the lifters across the room.

“Dude,” here she needed to take a breath to collect her thoughts. Rolling her shoulders back, Mary Anne strode closer to the long-haired idiot and began poking him in the chest to emphasize each word as it came out of her mouth. “The. Gym. Is. For. Working. Out. Not. Ogling. The. Sweaty. Gym. Bros. Capiche?”

Swiping her hand away from him, he leaned in closer before smirking down at her. “Oh darling, haven’t you ever heard of multitasking? Besides, not everyone enjoys the whole getting into shape thing as much as you seem to. The eye candy makes it so much more bearable.”

Disgusted by his priorities, she turned up her nose. “If you’re only here for the visuals, you’d better off using one of the treadmills on slow . They might be a bit more your speed.”

He made a face, entirely unamused. “Ha ha ha. You’re so funny I forgot to laugh.”

“That was a great pun, and technically, that definitely counts as a laugh.”

“No, it does not!”

“Does too!”

“Does not!”

“Fucking fight me then!” If she wasn’t going to get to finish her workout in peace, she may as well enjoy it. And she greatly enjoyed punching idiots at the gym, even if generally they were perving on her, not the other dudes.

Pretty boy blanched. “Hell no, you’ll kick my ass!”

“No shit Sherlock.” Putting her fists to her waist, she sneered. It was really hard not to feel incredibly smug when he openly admitted that.

“I can buy you coffee instead?” he offered sheepishly.

Mary Anne blinked and stepped back, not fully comprehending the change in events. “Huh?”

“If I buy you coffee, promise not to hit me.” He seemed more sure of the offer now, probably because she no longer held quite as much aggression in her frame.

“Planning on paying your debts with caffeine?”

“Well, obviously. What self-respecting college student would say no to free coffee?”

She raised an eyebrow. “The kind who like tea.”

Clutching a hand over his heart, he playfully whimpered. “No, blasphemy! I refuse to associate with you!” Apparently her new friend was more than a tad dramatic.

“Dude, I never said I wanted tea.” Snorting at the absurdity, she continued, “Please, I practically mainline espresso during finals. Besides, nothing says coffee like 6:00 in the morning.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to never speak to you again. You’ve made this morning so much more entertaining than usual, even if you did cut into my ogling time.”

“You mean your workout?”

“Tomato, tomahto. Practically the same thing in this case. As I said, I’m a very good multitasker.”

“Puh-lease. Most of those guys are football players, very little going on up here,” she said, tapping her temple.

“Yes dear, but muscles. Lots and lots of muscles. And sweat. And-”

Childishly sticking her fingers in her ears, Mary Anne sing-songed, “La la la la la. I can’t hear you.” Turning her back to him, she strode to the women’s locker room door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “Meet me out here. If you ditch me, I will hunt you down and you’ll be paying for a lot more than my coffee.”

“Aye aye ma’am!” He said, jauntily saluting her.

Not in the mood for his sarcasm, she flipped him off before slamming the door open. Hopefully she wouldn’t kill him before the caffeine kicked in. Trying to talk her way out of a murder charge probably was not the best way to start off the morning.