#one day i will fuck around and write the ''ivy sees her in public after thinking she died and realizes harley doesn't remember her'' bunny

[poisonousquinzel]

Thinking about how likely it is that BTAS Ivy grew old n spent all of that time fully believing that Harley died. That despite all her efforts and desperation to save her and get her away from Joker she didn't, she couldn't, and she lost her. That Harley died the same day that wretched man did and it became just yet another thing linking her to him for eternity.

thinking about how BTAS Ivy loved her So much and never got the chance to grow old with her, to see her heal and recover, to heal and recover with her

thinking about how much they deserved their happy ending but never got one. how we're seeing & getting their Less Platonic moments in the newer BTAS comics with the impending knowledge that the narrative has already decided it's a fate they'll never truly get to indulge in and savor, that it will always be destined to end in tragedy.

how for some universes a happy ending is given, growing old together is just the future we know is already there awaiting them... but not for them, not for btas harlivy... not the originals, for their story will always be a tragedy.

[erodasfishtacos]

Curious Gazes

prompt: [CEO!Harry] four times harry has been spotted by employees being very unlike his demeanor at work.

word count: 4.3 k

warnings: harry is an asshole to everyone but is wife and baby.

**** <-- click for visuals throughout the story. ( because i love showing off how dumb rich harry is - i mean he’s a billionaire ffs)

notes: thanks so much for the love on the first part. I will be writing quite a bit for this trope. the next addition will be all smut. love you, enjoy.

PART ONE

----

RESERVATION RUN-IN

Harry has over a hundred-thousand full-time employees. He has nearly ten-thousand at his London office at all times. The skyscraper was beautiful with clear glass, a reflective grey tone, and the structure screamed modern. It has eighty-three floors.

So with that being said, Harry does not know even one third of the people who work in the building nor does he want to. He couldn’t pick them out of a line-up if he tried. 

However, having so many employees in the city means his staff members are bound to catch sight of their boss pretty often outside of the office.

Sarah, Lucielle, Jack, and Anya - all from the customer service department of Styles Media and Marketing Inc. - are all out to dinner. They decided to go all out and dish out a hefty amount to eat at Il Nascondiglio Segreto. It was a reservation they had made nearly a month ago.

As they’re enjoying their appetizer, Lucielle nearly chokes on her oyster, “Holy shit. It’s Harry,” She whispers, nodding her head in the direction she was staring with bulging eyes.

They all can’t help but turn subtly, a perfect vantage point from where they’re sat right across the way from the group of employees. Their boss was dressed in a bit more casual - not by much - attire than he’d worn to the office earlier that Friday afternoon.

He had an open blazer with a white, nearly see-through button up. Their eyes nearly jumping out of their skulls when they spot his butterfly tattoo sitting on right below his sternum. Jack’s hawk eyes catch that he has a name in cursive on his left pec. 

Plus his normal tailored suit trousers were replaced with tight skinny jeans that hugged his crotched - making it unmistakable that he was well….endowed. Hair was no longer as styled and curled. Laying more carelessly on his shoulders. ****

But what was the most absurd thing they saw him wearing was a smile. His lips were curled up in a large, white grin that was big enough to cause little wrinkles around his eyes. 

His hand intertwined with his wife’s until they arrived at their table, pulling out her chair for her, landing a soft kiss on her cheek before sitting down in his across from her.

He automatically puts an open palm halfway across the table and his date places her’s right on top of it. Her large engagement ring and wedding band sparkling in the low lighting in the restaurant. They were holding hands over the table.

The group had never actually seen the women they deemed Cruella Deville. They had envisioned his wife with bleach blonde hair, fake tits, and fish lips complimented with botox that made it so her forehead didn’t move.

But they were met with a beautiful, natural one instead. She had gorgeous curled locks trailing down her back, light neutral makeup with normal sized lips, small creases where they should be. 

Her body was natural as well, breasts pushed up in a bra but obviously not manufactured by the way they sat, a bit of a pouch around her midsection - a telltale sign from her recent pregnancy, and a radiant smile to match her husband’s. 

They looked so happy and in love.

She was dressed short, polka-dotted black dress with a pair of simple black shoes. She complimented with with a bright red lip which stood out against the dark fabric. ***

It’s not that they didn’t look like a match - she was absolutely stunning. It just wasn’t who they imagined for the boss they despised ninety percent of the time.

The group can’t keep their eyes off the couple - subtly, of course - for their whole time at the restaurant.

Harry was laughing loudly - different sound than when he laughed without a humor at bumbling, nervous employees.

It was light and higher pitched - but still gravely low; smooth like honey as his wife matches his laughs.

At one point, after their meal arrives - Harry offers her a spoonful of his food, playfully complaining that she took too big of a bite - but then immediately offering her more right after.

When she excused herself to the bathroom, Lucille catches Harry’s sneaky hand reaching out to give her backside a quick grope which earns him a warning glance that has him snickering.

Anya who was in the restroom nearly runs into her, Y/N apologizes instantly, “I’m sorry! Wasn’t watching where I was going! Are you alright?”

Anya nods, a bit at a loss of words, talking to Harry Styles' wife, “I’m okay, thank you.”

“I swear I have two left feet,” Y/N jokes, complimenting her dress before disappearing into a stalls. A completely lovely girl.

It’s pathetic but the group lingers around to watch their boss’s full dinner date. It was creepy but they were just so stunned at the man that was sitting by them.

The couples behavior had turned more flirty by this point, Y/N’s eyelashes fluttering at little bit more at her husband, her giggles flowing more often with licks to her lips. 

By the clenched fist on the table, Harry seems to be falling prey to the teasing. 

But when his wife whispers something - that must have been filthy - and leans forward so her cleavage is displayed more, Harry’s pulling out his wallet, pulling an absurd amount of bills out and throwing them carelessly on the table.

Y/N’s eyes are twinkling in victory as her husband stands and helps her out of her chair - ever the gentlemen.

It doesn’t seem very gentlemen like though when his hand comes to the very lowest point on the small of her back -  pushing her into him. He leans down to murmur something into her ear before landing a damp, way too intimate for public kiss to her jaw and then throat.

In turn, she looks up at him with a mischievous tilt of her lip and a challenging raised brow. You could cut their sexual tension with a knife.

Y/N lifts up on her toes to kiss him before grabbing his hand and guiding him out of the establishment quickly - his eyes glued to her bum the whole time.

Jack breaks the bated silence, with a bewildered chortle, “What the fuck was that?”

Sarah sips her wine, “Maybe he has a twin? Like a good twin? And he’s the evil one.”

They all laugh and finish up their desserts. 

---

MOTHER’S DAY SHOPPING

Kasey and Tom - from Human Resources - are out for the day. It was a week before Mother’s Day and they were both scrambling for a gift at the shops.

Harrod’s was nearly empty as they had came in a few minutes after the store opened. Kasey had gotten distracted from her mission and was trying on shoes. 

There was a 40% off sale and she wasn’t passing that up.

Tom had wondered off to the electronics department very soon after the first five shoeboxes arrived next to her chair.

“Pink!” Kasey hears a high-pitched baby voice squeal with utter delight. She looks up to see a curly haired toddler pointing at a pair of pink baby shoes.

The little girl had the cutest denim dress on with white stripes ***, white tights on, and white Mary Janes. When Kasey looked closer she realized the Gucci emblem was on the dress - holy shit, she didn’t even know Gucci made baby clothes.

“Daddy, please?” The toddler asks in a sweet, small voice looking to the approaching man who scoops her up in the crook of his elbow.

“Ivy, y’can’t run away from daddy. Do you understand me?” 

Kasey’s eyes widen as she recognizes that deep, raspy voice. It was her boss, Harry Styles, and with his little mini who looked like a cherub angel.

“No run, daddy,” Ivy grins up at him, looking for approval.

The slightly stern look dissipates from his face into a softer, relaxed smile at his daughter’s words. He kept her close against his chest.

“Daddy, please?” She piques up again, pointing at the small shoes on the wall.

“Y’want those shoes?” Harry asks, nodding towards the pink sneakers.

Ivy nods before pointing at the other shoes next to it, “All, please?”

Despite her father not having any manners in the slightest, his daughter seemed to have excellent etiquette.

Harry chuckles, smoothing a stray curl down from her forehead, “Y’want a pair of all these shoes?”

Ivy nods with wide doe eyes and one of her dimples popping in her left cheek. 

“Y’mother’s going to kill me,” Kasey hears Harry mutter before waving a sales associate over.

“Good to see you, Mr. Styles - I’m Tracey. What can I help you with?”

Of course they knew him by name. He was by the looks of it one of their most appreciated customers, figuring he rarely wears the same thing twice.

“Can I please get a pair of all these shoes in a toddler’s size three? And can you please ring them up for me? Thank you,” Harry asks, his voice taking on the executive and firm tone with the associate who nods and turns on her heel.

“Daddy? Kissy?” The girl asks her father, her little palm patting his cheek and she’s puckering her pink lips.

“Yes baby,” Harry obliges, giving her a peck before blowing a raspberry on her cheek. He tugs down her dress that’s ridden up in true parent fashion.

As they’re waiting, Harry continues to talk to his daughter, “Y’know pet, we came here to shop for mumma for mother’s day. Y’always manage to get something out of it, hmm?”

“Mummy?” Ivy squawks, repeating her father’s word. 

“Yes, mummy. I think she’s really going to like the necklace we picked out,” Harry taps at her nose, his eyes just read love and amazement for his little girl.

Kasey was dumbfounded. 

This man had literally stormed into their offices yesterday, frustration seeping into his loud tone as he asked the room of employees if it was a lady's brunch club or a place of employment when he hadn’t gotten a report on his desk at a certain time.

They’d all stuttered and apologized but Harry had already slammed the door of his way out - the doorframe shaking. A nasty email being sent to their inboxes mere minutes later.

“Mr. Styles? We are out of two of the pairs,” The saleswoman appears and tells him, tablet now in hand.

Harry’s voice is calm but he looks her dead in the eye, “Do you not know how to ship them to a house? I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

She begins to apologize, pulling up a page of her tablet, “Your total comes to £6,309.45 for the shoes.”

Kasey’s eyes nearly pop from her head at the total but Harry merely blinks and states, “Charge it to my Amex on file.”

“Would you like me to add on the items you picked up downstairs? That would bring your total to £ 213,088.79. The necklace *** will be shipped within the next two weeks and will need to be signed for at your doorstep by an authorized person of your choosing, they’ll need to provide identification to certify their identity.”

“I need the necklace by next Sunday- it’s my daughter’s Mother’s Day gift to her mum - hence the pink diamonds,” Harry states to the woman like she’s stupid.

Did that woman just say that amount? And did Harry not even bat an eyelash at it. 

Kasey’s brain couldn’t really comprehend it.

“Expedited shipping on this item would be…” Tracey looks down at her tablet and taps a few buttons, “It will be an extra £3,219 for expedited shipping as it’s coming from Swittzerland.” 

Harry is distracted for a moment as Ivy is wriggling until Harry puts her down. Kasey didn’t see that he had a plush doll tucked in between his jeans and belt on his back.

“Baby doll,” Ivy pokes at her father’s thigh, too short to reach her toy. 

Harry tugs it out and hands it to her, “Stay right here, Vee.”

Ivy unceremoniously plops on the ground next to her father’s leather boot while he confirms the purchases and signs off on them.

It was cute - the plush baby doll she was playing with was ratty, worn, and very visibly loved. It seems as if it’s been her favorite toy for a while.

After finishing up with Tracey, Kasey sees him slip her a few bills for her trouble and lugs Ivy back up onto his hip.

“Shake, daddy?” Ivy lisps hopefully, green eyes sparkling up at her father’s. 

Harry lets out a chuckle, “No, baby. It’s only ten in the morning, y’can’t have a milkshake. Let go home, maybe mumma will make us some blueberry pancakes if we give her lots of kisses?”

“Mummy,” Ivy agrees happily, her plush held tightly against her chest.

“She’s going to love your gift, darlin’, even though y’the best gift we’ve ever got,” Harry murmurs lovingly, pressed a warm kiss to his daughter’s cheek.

Tom has wandered back to the shoe department, eyes unfortunately meeting his boss’ right away - widen with surprise.

Harry’s eyes narrow when he finds Tom staring, “Can I help y’mate?”

“Uh-no! Sorry, just, erm, I work for you?” Tom stutters stupidly at his annoyed employer who currently has his toddler trying to pulls his sunglasses off the top of his head.

“Then I’d recommend, if you’d like it to stay that way, you mind your own damn business,” Harry bites out with a warning tone, unnecessarily rude.

Ivy doesn’t seem bothered, delighted when she tugs the shades off his head and attempts to put them on. She begins huffing as she struggles and Harry gently takes them and slides them on for her.

Tom nods, still baffled, and scurries over to Kasey. 

They both glance back when their boss isn’t looking. He hears him murmur softly, “Let’s go see mummy.”

“Pancakes?” Ivy chirps, looking at her dad for confirmation.

“Anythin’ for you, my little love,” Harry agrees, starting to walks to the elevator to the entrance of the store. 

Tom and Kasey look at each other with unexplainable expressions as they watch their asshole of a boss clearly wrapped around a toddler’s finger. 

—-

THE PARK

“Hi! Is anyone sitting here?” Savannah hears from beside her on the park bench. 

She looks up to see a beautiful, young woman looking to be around her age looking at her expectantly. She has a backpack on her shoulders and a curly-haired toddler on her hip.

“Nope! You’re good!” Savannah replies kindly, moving over to make room on the bench for her to sit.

“Awesome, thank you. I’m Y/N and this is Ivy. Say ‘hi’,” Y/N prompts her daughter with a nudge.

Ivy puts on a beaming smile, white little blocky teeth on display, “Hi.”

“I’m Savannah and the little brunette boy in the green shirt is mine - his name’s Flynn.”

“Tell her how old you are, baby,” Y/N smiles, always trying to get her daughter to socialize as much as possible.

“Two!” Ivy giggles before impatiently squirming, “Mummy, play.”

Y/N laughs, “Just as impatient as your father. Go on, stay where mumma can see you, please.”

Ivy nods before speeding off towards the little jungle-gym to automatically start playing with the little group of kids.

“I wish I had their energy,” Y/N sighs, tugging a water bottle out of her backpack. 

Savannah was obsessed with everything gucci - even though she couldn’t afford anything - so when she spots the flashy bag, she can’t help but ask, “Is that a custom Gucci monogram multipack?”***

Y/N takes a sip before answering, “Yeah, my husband gave it to me as a gift on ‘national stay at home mum day’ - which I don’t even think is a real thing. He just knows I’ll chew him out if he buys me things like this without reason.”

They both laugh, Savannah can’t help but glance over the woman a little bit closer. She had a ratty, vintage tee on, plain black leggings, and a pair of black Nikes on - nothing that screamed over the top.

But then she spots the engagement ring *** on her finger. Savannah thought it looked so extravagant it almost looked fake. But the way the faucets reflect so magnificently in the sunshine makes her sure it’s real.

“What was that?” Savannah snaps back, realizing she hadn’t heard what Y/N was saying - too busy deciding how much money she had which wasn’t right when the girl was being so friendly.

“Oh, just - do you know any mum groups around here? I was in a group but all they liked to do was gossip and bitch. And I think Ivy heard the word ‘cunt’ one too many times from them.”

Savannah barks out a laugh, Y/N turns out to be extremely funny and friendly. She has a bit of a foul mouth and a quick wit but is a good listener.

“And so I said to the dude -“ Y/N cuts off when her phone rings, digging it out and answering, “Hi H, yeah. The one with the big purple slide, okay.”

When she hangs up, she tells her new friend, “My husband is stopping by really quick. He has a business dinner later and won’t see Ivy before her bedtime. Or me before my bedtime,” Y/N laughs.

“That’s so nice of him!” Savannah says, knowing her husband enjoyed when everyone was asleep by the time he came home. Would never go out of his way like Y/N’s husband would.

Y/N says with a smile in her eyes, “Yeah, he’s really good to us.”

They continue to chat until they hear a loud engine revving into the car park, Y/N rolls her eyes and mutters, “Of course, he brings the loudest car today.”

A vintage car swings into a spot and Savannah nearly gasps at who exits the car and begins to stride towards them. No one other than her boss. 

The man who had her doing her job by the book and when one hair fell out of place he knew right away. 

The man who she avoided at all cost possibly - taking the stairs so she doesn’t have to be in the elevator with his intimidating presence.

It took her a minute to connect the dots. Y/N was married to Harry? Harry was Ivy’s dad? It through her through a loop - Y/N was just - so nice. 

But it does explain all the gucci and the massive diamond ring. She did happen to work for a fucking billionare. Y/N didn’t come off as a billionaire or a billionaire’s wife.

‘Holy shit, this is wild,’ Savannah thought.

Harry makes his way over to the bench, Y/N standing up to hug him. Harry kisses her softly with a large palm coming to slip under the back of her shirt to rub at her bare back.

Uh - this man was being loving and affectionate? Proving all Savannah's preconceived notions about him wrong. Mostly that he was a robot.

“Hi darlin’, have a good day?” Harry asks his wife, still holding onto her and tugging her into his side - looking to Ivy who was obliviously - playing on the swing.

“Mmm, don’t want you to go tonight,” Yn/Ngroans dramatically, squeaking when Harry playfully pinches her side.

“Tell me and I won’t go,” He murmurs with surprising sincerity against his wife’s cheek, smiling when Ivy lets out a loud, carefree giggle with her new friends.

“Oh! I’m being rude. This is Savannah, Savannah this is my husband Harry,” Y/N introduces the two, unknowing of their connection.

Savannah swallows harshly and gives him a timid wave, “Hello.”

Harry shows no recognition that he knows her but gives her a curt nod and rasps out a “hello.” 

Y/N rolls his eyes at her husband, patting his toned stomach, “He’s always a little crabby after work,” She jokes as he smirks at her - he’s rarely ever crabby with his wife and they both know it.

After work? How about from the time he stepped foot through the lobby doors everyday? He only had one mode at work - crabby.

“It’s ok-“

“Daddy!” A squeal interrupts them, a blur of brunette curls crashing into her father’s legs - full force with excitement.

Harry is bending down and tucking her into his arms for a hug, “Hi baby, y’bein’ so good for mumma?”

His tone had shifted into a low, relaxed drawl that Savannah had never heard. His words are kind and caring towards his daughter.

“Good for mumma,” Ivy parrots her father, dimples popping as she pushes at Harry’s face when he attacks her with kisses.

“You taste so good I could eat yah!” Harry growls playfully, Ivy giggling delightedly at her fathers antics until her cheeks are flushed pink with laughter.

“Swings, daddy,” Ivy motions with green doe eyes. Grass and mud stains the outfit her mother had dressed her in - cute striped overalls with a white tee underneath  *** and little sneakers ****.

“Oh dove, I wish I could. I have to go back to work,” Harry frowns, his thumb coming to caress her sweaty cheekbone.

Her brows furrowed and her full pink lips turned down - Savannah has to contain a laugh by how much she looks like her father with the displeased grimace on her face.

“No, no, Daddy,” Ivy argues adamantly, her eyes brimming with sad tears.

“Vee, c’mon, my love. I’ll be home later,” Harry soothes, starting to rock her from side to side to calm her.

But Ivy is in her terrible twos and doesn’t like the word ‘no.’

Y/N comes up to her husband’s side, tucking a hand into his back pocket to rest. 

“Ivy Elizabeth, we need to let your father go. Come to mummy now, please,” Her mother asks in a soft but firm tone.

“No!” Ivy absolutely shrieks with a awfully high pitch, “No mummy, daddy swings!”

The couple shares a look before Y/N is gathering her backpack on her shoulder, looking back to Savannah, “Hey! Text me, it’s about nap time for this one.”

Savannah agrees and gives them both a wave off as Harry totes his tantruming toddler to a sleek, teal SUV. It takes her a moment to scoff internally - off course it’s a Bentley ***.

And because Savannah can’t help but be nosey she googles the price of the car and quickly locks her screen when she sees the base price is £ 210,000.

Harry is planting little pecks on his daughter’s face and murmuring to her until her tears have dried up and she’s laughing at her dad once again.

After Harry straps her into the car seat and shuts the door, he gently pushes his wife back against it. His body is crowding hers, arm over her shoulder against the car.

The talk for a moment before Harry’s ducking down to pull a few kisses from her lips before she’s giggling and pushing him off.

Savannah couldn’t wait to tell the old women at in her customer relations department tomorrow.

— 

THE GAME

Cassie didn’t mind Harry actually. She made his coffee nearly every morning and she secretly knew he was the one who left those hefty tips.

She’d fumbled over his orders a few times when she’d started and apologized profusely but Harry had just looked up from his phone and said, ���S’fine.”

Yeah, that’s not much but compared to some of the horror stories she hears, but she was grateful for another reason.

—-

One day he had found her crying in a empty corridor that he used to walk to his car at the end of his day.

“Y’alright?” Her boss asks gruffly, pausing to look down at her - no clear emotion on his face.

Cassie nods sheepishly, “M’sorry, I’m just really stressed out.”

Harry’s eyes flash a tad darker, “Is Carole giving you trouble?” 

Carole was her manager.

“N-no. I got declined for my school financial aid. If I don’t come up with the money I’ll have to drop out. I-I have a son and I do-don’t have the money to go without help.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, rustling into the inner pocket of his suit and fishing out something - a checkbook.

He clicks the pen and moves his hand quickly across the pad before ripping it out and handing it to her, “Good luck and use the extra on your family. Don’t go spreading it around that I did this.”

Cassie goes to thank him or refuse it but when she looks back up from the check he’s already striding away down the hallway away from her.

She lets out a loud sob as she sees a check written for £150,000 right in front of her.

—

Cassie still works at the Starbucks part-time while attending college with the help of her secretly kind boss.

The extra money she’s stowed away in an education fund for her son after he graduates. 

Anyways, she was at Man U football game that she got invited to with her boyfriend - Jacob. His dad won tickets for box seats from his work in a raffle.

Cassie soon realized that their box was right by the Styles Media and Marketing one. The way they were placed, she could see right into their area.

It was just Harry and a woman in there. 

They were obviously a couple and this was the Cruella Deville. Cassie didn’t refer to her as that as she had a bit of a different perspective of the man.

His wife was sipping on a water bottle and cheering loudly with the rest of the fans. Harry watched her with amusement at her excited behavior, at one point pulling his photo out and snapping a picture of her.

When the exciting bit is over, she seats herself on his lap and wriggles until her back is against his chest - comfortable and cozy.

His large palm comes to cup at her stomach, Cassie now seeing that she is clearly pregnant as he cradles the noticeable bump protectively.

For most of the game, his hand never leaves her belly - rubbing circles with his thumb. His head came to rest on her shoulder to watch the game.

They seem so happy together - giggling and talking animatedly throughout. His wife constantly tilting her head back with her lips puckered requesting kisses that Harry happily supplies each time.

At one point, Cassie witnesses Y/N eat two huge corndogs in a row while her husband watches her with humor in his eye. Then goes on to order her a massive spool of candy floss that he feeds her throughout the game.

It was a late game and it was now in overtime. The clock reads nearly eleven at night. Harry’s wife has dozed off against his shoulder and when he notices he gently rouses her.

As she blinks her eyes open, Harry shucks his jacket of his shoulder and helped her slip it on. They must decide to call it a night because he’s helping her up, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, and guiding her out of the box.

Cassie never tells anyone that she saw him that night or what he did to help her family.

The End.

Hope you bubbbies enjoyed. Send me requests for this verse. Smut is up next for this trope.

[thebooki3h]

Lukadamianette Au Part 2

First Here Next

We begin where we left off, with Luka and Marinette on one of the dates Luka Planned. Just because it makes sense in this, Luka and Mari arrive a week early

Because Mari is emancipated and excused herself for the first week of school before the trip during which the class is still in France bc they just ended summer and all that jazz. also I have decided that the trip has turned into a half semester exchange program even though this doesn’t make the most sense, but the French school thought the class could use a reward and tbh they just wanted to get the Akuma class out for awhile. Also this way they aren’t in Gotham for a whole semester of senior year. The trip is planned for the first half of the first semester of senior year. I know that this doesn't make a whole lot of sense but just stick with me.

They go sight seeing and basically on a week long date bc the following week begins the Wayne sponsored exchange program and when Luka has to work for Jagged. One day they go to museums, the next the go to famous parks around Gotham (which are thriving thanks to Poison Ivy), the next they see all of the famous villain spots (which are surprisingly popular tourist destinations bc for the most part they don’t get hit twice in short periods of time) which is a good cover for studying past bat battles. They take days in between to rest and use the inspiration they gained to make new songs or clothing designs. 

They share hotel room bc Mari’s parents stopped being her parents a long time ago and lost their say and bc Jagged says they are grown up enough to be responsible for their actions (which brings a blush to their cheeks every time bc “daaaaaddddd” “uncle jaggeeedddd”)

Mari also makes it her mission to visit all of the non chain coffee shops at least once while they are there bc coffee became her best friend when she was active as ladybug. She meets Tim in almost everyone because Tim also drinks coffee obsessively. Luka is more of a tea drinker because coffee interrupts his musical thought process and tea is less harsh. Marinette drinks tea when she wants to relax but coffee is the fuel of the gods. She expresses this to Tim and that's how they become acquainted bc finally someone understands his love for coffee. They exchange numbers after they run into each other for a fourth time. (Luka silently thinks that he might have to talk to Mari about her obsession of coffee again and if there is a rehab center for coffee drinkers) Tim learns that Mari is from the exchange class very quickly based off of Luka’s French accent as well as her light French accent that is mixed with a couple things he can’t quite place.

The class arrives, Lila ofc tried to pull something to leave Mari behind and she thought she was successful so she was gloating. She ofc took credit for the whole trip claiming that she was super close to the Waynes and that she helped Damian acclimate to his new school (she actually knows that Damian didn’t start living with his father until 10 bc why not). Mrs Bustier tries to check in under both her name and Lila’s name, both of which don’t work because they are A) an hour and a half early and B) all of the reservations are under the contest winners name (they have to ok their chaperones to use their name) C)Mrs Bustier told Mari to make all of the reservations under Mari’s name anyway and she totally forgot that. 

So the sit in the lobby for an hour, Lila has the whole class riled up bc Marinette isn't there and it is al her fault that they can’t get in to their rooms. Marinette shows up with Luka 15 mins before the class was supposed to show up (they had just gotten lunch at a cafe that jagged had recommended) and she is laughing and happy, which causes the class to BLOW UP in her face. She ignores them and checks everyone into their rooms. Kagami and Chloe share a suite bc they are rich in their own right and upgraded their shared room bc they are dating and signed up to be roommates. They got this okayed by Buister in writing JIC. Marinette as the contest winner also got a suite (the room she had been staying in with Luka that she just extended the booking for)

Lila and Alya obviously make a big fuss about them getting special treatment but bustier can’t do anything because Mari won’t let her. She secretly thinks Mari is a lost cause now but she tries her best to get her to see that she has to be a role model. Mari actually planned the whole trip and she did a fucking fantastic job bc its Mari and planning something is what she is great at. She has all of the bases covered including iternerary, bookings for food, emergency contact info, health info, info on Gotham, safety procedures and the whole shebang. All of which had to be approved by  Bustier and that Bustier has copies of but totally ignored.

The next day they try to pull the let’s leave an hour early to leave behind Marinette stunt. Not only does that fail because the tour can’t start until the contest winner is there, but they arrived before Wayne tower was even open to the public. Because jagged is extra he shipped Luka and Marinette motorcycles to Gotham bc they were going to be there for a couple months, they also got special permission from Wayne enterprises to park their bikes in the employee parking structures from Tim once he heard that they rode bikes as expensive as Jason’s. So she left early from the hotel with Luka(bc she knew that Bustier would leave her behind somehow) to go meet up with Tim at a new coffee place (one of his favorites). They end up riding on their respective bikes to WE together so they can hang out before the tour. Luka goes to a recording studio to meet up with Jagged, but not before a very passionate kiss goodbye, which makes Tim blush. (Tim may not seem like the biker type but he is a bat and he lives with Jason so he not only knows how to ride a motorcycle well has one, so it may not be his favorite mode of transportation but he’ll live)

So he and Marinette walk to WE about a half an hour before the class is supposed to be there in the middle of a debate on how best to brew coffee (Mari insists its French press) and low and behold they are there yelling at the receptionist. Mari gives Tim a look that says I’m so sorry you have to see this and yes I was not exaggerating walks up to the receptionist and apologizes for what she is about to do (not for the classes actions bc fuck them they can apologize for themselves she has learned to not take responsibility for others actions and she won’t let all that work go to waste). She then proceeds to yell, much louder than someone of her stature presumably should “SHUT THE FUCK UP OR I STG I WILL BREAK JOKER OUT OF ARKHAM AND LOCK HIM IN A ROOM WITH ALL OF YOU WITHOUT FLINCHING” this is shocking to everyone, especially mrs bustier who is  scandalized  that her role model student would do something like this.

Tim had a feeling that something video worthy would happen so as soon as she walked away he started recording, and he was NOT disappointed. The video gos straight to the batfam gc and Luka immediately. He powered off his phone then he proceeds to start laughing and applauding. Upon seeing the CEO’s reaction the rest of the employees start applauding as well bc damn those kids were rude. Tim then walks up to Mari talking at a speed no one but Mari, Chloe and Kagami could understand (bc the class is not fluent in English no matter what they would tell you). Mari proceeds to blush once he informs her that he sent a video to Luka (he does not tell her about the batfam gc)

Chloe and Kagami are immediate intrigued bc this is NOT what they picture when Mari said she met someone who loves coffee as much as she does. they may be hella gay for each other but damn that man is ripped. They join the convo while the class remains befuddled bc who knew Mari even swore. in the back of his mind Nino is reminded of a young blue-eyed girl who lost playground privileges for a week bc someone made fun of his glasses and proceed to punch said someone in the nose. But he shakes it of because Mari hasn’t been like that in years. 

Bustier eventually collects herself and gently, so as not to cause an Akuma (apparently she didn't get the memo), reminds Mari that they are here for a tour and she needs to get the class their passes.  So Mari leaves her friends to get acquainted and goes up to the receptionist, to whom she apologizes for her actions again, and the receptionist replies with a laugh and a “honey, you just made my week, there's no need to apologize I should be thanking you” (she does thank Mari). Mari gets a special pass bc she’s the contest winner to which Lila and Alya (then the rest of the class for the most part) proceed to throw a hissy fit over. The receptionist is so over them though and doesn’t even blink. 

Then their tour guide shows up. (its Dick and his assistant Damian). Damian proceeds to scold the class for a solid ten mins (which coincidentally leads up to their scheduled time to start the tour). Dick slides off to talk to the receptionist and his brother who isn't working and is talking to real people for once. Just for that they are his favorite out of the class. Tim unfortunately has to go to work so they talk to Dick to get acquainted until the tour has to officially start. 

Los tres amigos are the only ones who pay attention to Dick at all (he leads the tour bc he’s been there the longest but Damian throws in a comment here or there mostly related to shenanigans his family has gotten into but overall useful facts. for example these windows are reinforced because our CEO (Tim) leaned up against one, fell asleep and fell through the window to the office below.)

The rest of the class is focused on Lila who is talking a whole bunch of nonsense about the Wayne family and how she has helped them with their business. Some things actually sound kinda legit, but Mari and Co. know that it is BS. Dick tries to bet bustier involved but she makes an excuse for Lila and goes on her phone and doesn’t really pay attention. 

Eventually the class tour turns into Dick talking to Mari, Chloe and Kagami while the class vaguely follows them. Damian doesn’t really say anything because he generally doesn’t do well talking to strangers and these girls seem ok and he is still insecure (not that he would ever admit it to anyone ) about social interaction now that he has figured out how people who weren’t raised as assassins act. That is until Dick starts talking about shenanigans that his brothers get into, and Damian jumps in correcting him because  I did not try to tackle Todd, Grayson I did tackle Todd quite successful and also Alfred won’t let you into the kitchen anymore because you almost burned down the east wing of the manor not  because he is territorial over the kitchen. And Mari hadn’t really paid attention to Damian until now but OH MY KAWAMI he is hot, and how did she talk so long to notice that. 

She ends up taking a pic of Damian without him noticing (he really doesn’t notice which is a feat in itself but Dick does and he will  be teasing Damian about it later bc obviously) and she texts it to Luka bc if she is going to freak out over his hotness she wants Luka to do so too. ( he sees the pic in the middle of recording and he ends up needing a water break bc gay panic and he really is extremely handsome. Recording gets delayed even longer bc jagged cannot pass up the opportunity to tease him son and he does so mercilessly and Mari totally knew what she was doing when she sent that picture) Luka ends up demanding that she gets Damians number or he will because that man is fine.  

Mari now knows that the stuttering idolization that she had with Adrien wasn’t really healthy and Luka likes to remind her all the time that she can be smooth when she wants to be (sometimes unintentionally but she practices on Luka because she loves to see him blush). Mari then makes it her mission to compliment Damian as much as possible so that it is crystal clear and very obvious that she is flirting with him. If he even shows a little discomfort in a negative I don’t like this kind of way she will stop because she will not make someone go through what she went through with Chat Noir and unwanted advances.

Chloe, Kagami and Dick immediately notice that she is flirting with Damian. Chloe takes a video for Luka bc she knows that he would want to see this and Dick takes a video for the Batfam gc. 

Just to be clear Mari and Luka have talked about seeing other people and maybe adding a third person to their relationship as long as they talk about it. that line of communication was opened when Mari sent a pic of Damian to Luka and when Luka asked for his number that was his “go ahead” for her to flirt with Damian. Lila doesn’t understand how that works and neither do the rest of the class so that is a point of contention between the class and Mari. She would NEVER cheat on Luka, she loves him and he is the most important person to her in the world. Something that Juleka understands (she just doesn’t like Mari bc of Lila she knows how polyamory works this is why her and Luka aren't as close as they used to be)

Moving on... the batfam gc blows up for a second time that day and so when the class goes to the cafeteria Tim just has to see this for himself. Mari tries not to be obnoxious in her flirting so she compliments Damians intelligence by asking him questions that weren't included in the tour, and she asks him about his interests and is like that must have taken a lot of time to perfect you must be very dedicated. Damian isn’t used to genuine compliments especially from strangers so he is very flustered by it but he makes no indication for her to stop. 

The day winds down and the class has some free time before they have to go to dinner but the do have to leave the tower. Mari does actually get Damians number (he thinks she must be very well trained to get his number that quick bc he refuses to accept that he gave it to her because he likes her) Mari promises to ft him later bc he promised to let her meet his dog and she doesn’t want to wait until the class has dinner at the manor to see Titus.

First Here Next

Taglist

@dood-space

@toodaloo-kangaroo

Also I’m not very sure about how to go back and edit posts to link new parts so if anyone knows how to do that please comment or message me because I would love to learn!

[pedros-mustache-main]

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent​ for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts. 

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say. 

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall. 

your nails tap against the counter. 

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts. 

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you. 

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested. 

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside. 

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.   

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice. 

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish​ @bluewillowmom​ @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof​ @six-bloodyminutes​

[blackmissfrizzle]

No One Has to Know

Pairing: Angel Reyes x black!reader

Summary: Since there isn’t a lot of angel Reyes x black reader imagines going on here I was wondering if u can write a request for me that. You and angel are in a secret relationship because y’all are ten years apart and your mom( who’s mayor) finds out?? Requested by @briannab1234​

Warnings: None for this part

A/N: This was going one way and then it went another, but I hope you all enjoy!

It was a hot ass day in Santo Padre, so it was no surprise that Adrian’s raspa shop was full. Today you were accompanied with your fake group of friends (except for Bryce) aka the group of friends your mom approved of.

When your pickle raspa with chamoy and lucas was finished, you searched for an empty table, only for you to find the one table you didn’t want to sit at because of who sat next to it. The Mayans. Or more specifically Angel Reyes, your secret boyfriend. The argument from last night replayed in your head as you stared at the table.

“Why not?” You yelled, throwing down your bag.

“Because its not smart Y/N.” Angel stared at you through a cloud of cigarette smoke while you paced back and forth.

Sitting in his lap you took his cigarette and put it out. Cradling his face, you kissed him. “What’s stupid about wanting my boyfriend to be my date at my graduation party?”

Angel scrubbed his face in frustration. This argument between the two of you was becoming more frequent. You wanted to make your relationship public, but he didn’t. He didn’t want everyone else to confirm what he already thought. He didn’t want them to say he was a low life and no good for the mayor’s daughter or that he was too old for you (his 34 to your 24).

“Listen, querida we can go public another time. Just take that loser Rob and make sure he keeps his hands to himself.” Angel kissed the top of your head to end the argument.

You hit him in the chest and pushed off him. “Fuck you, Angel! If you just want me to be your little fucktoy and not your girlfriend just say so.” Before he could stop you, you were already out the door. Once again, his insecurities fucked him over.

“Hey, yo, Y/N over here!” Coco’s voice pulled you out of your head. He was pointing to the table next to him. No way you could pretend that you didn’t see the table now.

Starting your way over there Eileen grabbed your wrist to stop you. “How about we just eat them to go?” Her green eyes wide with fear.

You broke out of what she thought was an iron grip. “Its over 100 degrees outside. Trust me they won’t bite, unless,” you leaned in closer to her and dropped your voice lower. “you want them to.”

Leaving Eileen in all her white woman shock, Bryce followed you to the empty table. Both of you greeted the men at the table besides you. You barely gave any energy to Angel while Bryce gave Gilly all her attention due to her crush on him.

Eventually, your friends joined you, still wary of the Mayans. Rob sat next to you and wrapped his arm behind your seat. Angel wanted to break that arm in half.

This midday delight was less enjoyable than you wanted it to be. It was tense and not just because you weren’t talking to Angel. Your friends made it a point to ignore your Mayan friends and while the Mayans did their best to make your snotty friends uncomfortable by making the most vulgar jokes (which were hilarious by the way).

Most of the time, Bryce and you talked to the Mayans. They were by far better conversationalists. Plus, you and Coco had a lot to talk about since you were Letty’s mentor at school.

In the middle of listening to EZ tell an embarrassing story about Angel, Rob saw Angel staring at you a little too long. So, slightly he tilted your chin towards him and kissed you.

You scrambled to end the kiss. In no way shape or form you led Rob to believe you were in a relationship. Even though he was your escort to the party, you explicitly told him that y’all were going nowhere.

When the kiss ended, Angel was nowhere to be found. A great part of you wanted to dump the raspa on Rob, but you didn’t want to make a mess in Adrian’s place. Instead you punched him in the face and left the shop with a bunch of cackling Mayans and Bryce.

It didn’t take you long to find Angel. He was a couple of blocks away at his dad’s carniceria. “Angel, I-”

He held his hand up to stop you. Flicking his cigarette down, he stomped it out. “Done with your ivy league boyfriend?”

“Don’t do that. I wasn’t expecting him to kiss me.”

Stepping down from the stoop, Angel got somewhat eye level with you. “You definitely let him kiss you longer than necessary.”

A black escalade rolled up, revealing up, revealing your mom behind the window. “Y/N, dear we need to get ready for the party.”

“Hi, Ms. Mayor.” Angel waved at your mom and in return she gave him a curt nod.

Patting you on your arm, Angel gave you his congratulations and returned to his father’s shop.

Once inside the car, the tirade started. ‘What did I tell you about those Mayans? Have your fun with them in private not in public.’ ‘Stay away from that Reyes boy. I don’t like how he looks at you.’ ‘You could’ve at least been hanging out with the smart one.’ ‘You should be focused on your career and Rob.’

Every line you heard before and just like every other time you were ignoring each word. Her nor Angel was going to ruin this relationship.

--

“I don’t know, Pops. Maybe I should wait til she gets home, and we can celebrate together. Just the two of us.”

Felipe fixed his son’s tie. “Nonsense, Angel. You’re going to your girlfriend’s graduation party. She wants you there, son.”

“What if I embarrass her?”

“You won’t,” EZ quietly entered the room, dressed up as well. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“We?”

EZ pulled back the curtains to reveal the Mayans all in suits on their bikes. “We got your back, bro.”

Angel squeezed his brother into a tight hug. “Thanks, mano.”

“Let’s go get your girl.” EZ clapped Angel on his back.

--

This had to be the most extra party ever, but extra was your mom’s middle name. All you wanted was a simple bbq, good music, drinks, and your friends. But nope this turned into an extravaganza and networking opportunity for your mom.

“You can’t be here!” You heard your mother’s voice despite her trying to keep her voice down.

Your eyes followed her voice and the sight you saw left you breathless. Angel in a dark striped suit strutting towards you with the rest of the mc in suits as well, trailing behind him.

“What are they doing here?” Rob asked with a mix of fear and disgust. He was truly a horrible person; you didn’t know how you put up with him for so long.

“He came,” you happily whispered. You shoved your champagne flute in Rob’s hands not caring that it was spilling on him. Your only goal was to get to Angel.

The dress you were wearing didn’t allow you to jump Angel like you wanted to. He could see the conflict on your face, so instead he twirled you around to fully admire the way the dress clung to your body and how it brightened the aura around you.

After your 360 turn, Angel twirled you inside his arms, grabbed the sides of your face and leaned down to kiss you. “You look beautiful, querida.” He whispered against your lips, his hand running up and down your leg exposed by the hip high slit.

“Not as good as you,” You bit your lip at the sight of Angel in a suit. His jet-black hair perfectly gelled back, his suit clinging to his body.

“Impossible. Now introduce everyone to your boyfriend.” The slap to your ass didn’t bothered you, in fact you laughed it off and began introducing Angel as the love of your life. The shocked gasps of the stuck-up residents of Santo Padre as you made the introductions did not go unnoticed by you, but you also didn’t give one flying fuck.

On the other side of the room you could not hear the most objected protest of them all. “Get him off my daughter!” The mayor ordered the president of the Mayans.

“No can do, Izzie,” Bishop smirked. Whenever he could he’d like to stick it to the mayor.

“Its Isadora,” she corrected him. “I will not allow my daughter make the same mistakes I did.”

The holier than thou act was grinding Bishop’s gears. There was a time when the mayor wasn’t a stuck-up bitch. “Watch it, Ms. Mayor. If it wasn’t for my fucked up feelings for you, I’d shoot you where you stand.”

“Obispo, please.” Her tone softer, reminiscent of the times she writhed under him. “She has a future. She has a future outside of Santo Padre. Don’t let my daughter-”

“Our daughter.” It was his turn to correct her.

Isadora sputtered. There was only one other person she told the truth to and that because she was caught, and he promised to never to tell anybody. “How did- how did you know?”

“I always suspected, but you kept her in LA with her ‘dad’ most of the time, so I couldn’t confirm until she kept popping up at the club. Easy enough to get DNA for a test.”

In all her being, Isadora wanted to slap the man. “You had no right.”

“And you had no right to keep her from me!” Bishop was upset at all the missed opportunities. You were a lovely young woman and he missed out on the chance to watch you grow up, but now he refused to stay away from you anymore.

Your yelling tore the two away. The unexpected guest getting all the attention now.

“Daddy!” Your arms encircled around the older man. His appearance was a welcomed surprise.

When he got done spinning you around, you introduced him to Angel. The three of you engaging in an animated conversation.

Isadora and Bishop watched off in the corner. Isadora in shock and Bishop in jealously.

“Tell her or I will.” Bishop threatened his old flame before he left heartbroken from seeing his daughter call another man dad.

A/N 2: Were yall ready for that surprise?

Tags: @angrythingstarlight​ @starrynite7114​ @briannab1234​ @chaneajoyyy​ @titty-teetee​ @thickemadame​ @brownsugarcoffy​ @ifoundmyhappythought​ @marvelmaree​ @browngirldominion​

[mrs-nate-humphrey]

So not to be dramatic, but if you could get a degree in discourse-ology, the topic of my master’s thesis would definitely be “Which political candidates did the characters of the CW’s Gossip Girl (2007-2012) support?” I’m doing this in order from most to least obvious, and considering both the 2016 and 2020 presidential elections.

[ little ivy interjection here: i haven’t changed ANYTHING, except adding a screencap of the title + the submission, because that made me laugh & more people deserve to see it, and putting this under a read more because that’s how i generally try & organise stuff on this blog. so this submission is exactly as it was when i received it! also while we’re at it, anon, this MADE my day.]

Blair Waldorf: “Hillary Clinton is one of my role models. I do not break treaties, you ass!” (04x13) There’s no question that Blair would go hard for Hillary in 2016, she praised her on multiple occasions throughout the series. Blair’s a classic American neoliberal, third wave Democrat-type: she’s decently progressive when it comes to social policies, and would be decidedly supportive of causes like gay marriage, racial equity, and women’s reproductive rights, but she’s still very much in favor of maintaining the status quo when it comes to capitalism and the hegemonic structure of power that, lets face it, heavily favors her own class interests. To use the American healthcare system as an example: Blair would have been all for the Affordable Care Act, and is largely supportive of the idea of creating a public option - but single payer, nationalized health care? It just wouldn't work in a country like the United States for “X” reason (although the real reason, deep down, is that she doesn’t want to see her tax rate go up in any meaningful way). So she’s thoroughly for Clinton in both the 2016 primaries and the general election, she maybe even comes out with a line of high-end “I’m With Her” merchandise if she’s still CEO of Waldorf Designs, and is personally heartbroken when Clinton loses.

Flash forward to the 2020 primaries. Blairhates Donald Trump, like emotionally, viscerally hates him - his misogyny, his incompetence, and his blatant tackiness are a direct repudiation of her beliefs, and the fact that he’s representing Manhattan society and the Upper East Side to the world in such a godawful way is frankly embarrassing. So in a certain sense, her strategy, like frankly many Americans at the time going into the 2020 Democratic primaries is, “Which one of these candidates has the greatest chance at beating Donald Trump?” I see Blair being rather conflicted at first, but ultimately going for either Amy Klobuchar or Kamala Harris. She has a certain admiration for Elizabeth Warren given her professional background, but her policies are a bit too progressive for someone like Blair. Buttigeg is fine, but not especially thrilling. Biden, quite frankly, doesn’t seem like he has any real chance at winning, although I think he’d be Blair’s third choice after Harris and Klobuchar. I can see her leaning more towards Harris ultimately - although, after the “Amy Klobuchar throws staplers at her interns!!” rumors start spreading, Blair cannot help but, at a personal level, kind of respect her for that. When Biden unexpectedly takes South Carolina and then the Democratic nomination, Blair is a bit disappointed, but not overly so, and quickly marshals her financial resources into supporting and fundraising for him for the remainder of the election. At least it’s not Sanders - or Bloomberg. As a New Yorker, of course Blair’s opinion is “Fuck Michael Bloomberg”.

Chuck Bass: Now here’s where it gets interesting. Chuck, as you said, isn’t stupid - there’s no way he falls for the “build the wall” crap or any of Trump’s rhetoric, he knows it’s a bullshit farce and sees right through it. But you know what he definitely is? Deeply greedy and deeply selfish. I’m hardly the first person to point this out, but Chuck Bass is, in many ways, the fictional equivalent of the Donald Trumps and Michael Bloombergs and Brett Kavanaughs of the world - new money billionaire who inherited his wealth from his father working in the real estate industry, who despite his lack of business acumen and deeply problematic history with women, has managed to coast through life failing upwards with absolutely no social or legal accountability? I mean, back in 2010, Forbes Magazine actually did a real interview with the fictional Chuck Bass in which they outright compare him to Donald Trump. I couldn’t tell you if the Gossip Girl writers meant to write Chuck as their Trump analogue - I mean, they did invite Jared and Ivanka onto the show, after all - but the parallels are just too strong to ignore. All of which is to say, not only did Chuck Bass vote for Donald Trump, he held exclusive political fundraisers for him and was probably a substantial donor to his campaign. Now, did Chuck distance himself publicly over time as the political climate became increasingly caustic and public sentiment towards Trump plummeted even further? Perhaps, perhaps not. It really depends on if the board of Bass Industries felt like being connected to Trump was a liability or an asset - but privately, I imagine Chuck once again voted for him in 2020, because the one policy Donald Trump did effectively execute during his tenure in office was massive tax cuts for billionaires, and for someone like Chuck Bass, that’s the only political policy that really matters. He wouldn’t wear a red hat and wouldn’t be caught dead within sniffing distance of a MAGA rally and the hoi polloi, but dude is basically the image of what the kind of rich conservatives backing the Trump administration for personal gain look like. On the off chance that the distastefulness of it all got to be a little much for even Chuck post-2016, perhaps he might switch his vote to Bloomberg. But I highly doubt Chuck would be politically invested in anything other than his own wallet to such an extent that he wouldn’t vote for Trump, no matter how much it would no doubt completely infuriate Blair.

Dan Humphrey: As the unofficial king of the hipsters, Dan has been a Sanders supporter since before it was cool. Seriously, Bernie Sanders appeals to Dan intrinsically on every level - his policies, his rhetoric, even his aesthetic - the rumpled old man with wild hair wearing mittens and railing against the upper class is the sort of thing that’s basically political catnip for someone like Dan Humphrey. Not only would Dan vote for Sanders in both the 2016 and 2020 primaries, he’d go out and be one of the celebrities campaigning for him. This would definitely lead to him butting heads with Blair, and she would no doubt call him out on supporting someone like Sanders when Dan himself is now a millionaire, who made his money from writing stories about the upper class. The fact that in 2017 he apparently gets married to Serena, a billionaire heiress, and may or may not have been engaged to her back in 2016 when the Democratic primaries were happening might cause him a bit of cognitive dissonance, but really, just because he’s climbed up the socio-economic ladder now doesn’t mean his values have really changed, have they? (Debatable.) In any case, in both the 2016 and 2020 general elections, Dan would definitely vote for Clinton and Biden respectively - although he’d be significantly more disgruntled about it than Blair would be switching from Harris to Biden. I don’t think Dan would be a “Bernie bro” in the way that term is used, but he’d definitely chafe against Clinton’s past policy decisions, and would probably make some snippy Tweets about her during the election. Nevertheless, once it became clear that Trump was going to be the Republican nominee and was a serious threat, I think Dan would change his tone and start encouraging his fans and followers to vote for Clinton. Likewise, in 2020, Dan would probably become one of the Sanders supporters doing outreach for Biden, having become more politically pragmatic following the experience of living under the Trump administration.

Vanessa Abrams: Much like Dan, Vanessa is a progressive, although unlike Dan, Vanessa’s activism is more focused around specific issues and less around specific politicians. I can see Dan and Vanessa being in roughly the same place in 2016, and given that the only real choices were between Sanders and Clinton in the primaries (RIP to Martin O'Malley), Vanessa would no doubt go for Sanders. Whereas Dan might campaign for Sanders directly however, Vanessa would instead focus her time and resources around advocacy for specific causes that are important to her, like climate change and racial justice, and would probably use her platform as a filmmaker and documentarian to advance those causes. I could very much see her getting involved with movements like Black Lives Matter and organizations like the Sunrise Movement, and taking part in protests, marches, and sit-ins. When the 2020 Democratic primaries come around, I could see her possibly switching from Sanders to Warren for a while (and Dan would definitely argue with her about it if she did), but I can also see her switching back to Sanders after Warren amended her support for single-payer, “Medicare for All”. She’d definitely vote for Clinton and Biden in the generals, but not enthusiastically.

Nate Archibald: For someone whose family business is politics and who, in 2017, is apparently a candidate in the New York City mayoral election, Nate seems to be rather removed from politics. As Vanessa puts it in 02x19, “The only thing Nate’s ever voted for is American Idol.” Still, as Editor-in-Chief of The Spectator, Nate kind of has to have an opinion, and in that respect, I see him gravitating towards the type of center-left “establishment” candidates that he and his family would no doubt have close ties with. In the Gossip Girl universe, the Vanderbilts are portrayed as being a lot like the Kennedys, and I think Nate’s policies as a mayoral candidate would really reflect that. In 2016, he would vote for Hillary Clinton in both the primaries and the generals without much of a second thought - after all, she’s the obvious choice, and there’s no way a candidate like Donald Trump could actually beat her, right? Actually, optimistically, maybe that’s why Nate decides to jump into the mayoral race in 2017 - previously, he had been for all intents and purposes politically apathetic, but seeing someone as genuinely vile as Donald Trump ascend to the office of the presidency stirs him out of that apathy, and he wants to make a positive difference in the only way an incredibly privileged white man from a politically prominent family knows how. So he runs as a Kennedy-esque center left candidate, further left of someone like Hillary Clinton, but more moderate than someone like Elizabeth Warren - sort of like Kamala Harris, now that I think about it. I have no idea if he would actually be able to beat Bill de Blasio given the major incumbency advantage de Blasio would have, but who knows. Come the 2020 Democratic primaries, I think Nate would probably just vote for whoever he believed was most likely to beat Donald Trump. I don’t see him having any sort of clear preference - maybe he would gravitate towards Biden on the basis of him being the most established candidate, or maybe he would gravitate towards Harris on the basis of her campaigning as the “moderate progressive” candidate. I could also seeing him liking Andrew Yang, come to think of it. In any case, he would most definitely support Joe Biden in the generals. How involved he’d be in supporting him really depends on whether or not Nate actually gets elected to mayor - if he was the mayor, he’d definitely endorse him and probably donate to him, but I think he’d be too wrapped up in his own political responsibilities to really do much more than that. If, however, he lost the election and was still the Editor-in-Chief of The Spectator, I can see Nate getting more involved alongside the rest of his family, officially endorsing him in The Spectator, hosting political fundraisers for him, and maybe even campaigning for him. The Vanderbilts in the Gossip Girl universe (I have no idea what the family’s actual political beliefs are in real life) definitely seem to me like they’d be Biden supporters, and I imagine they’d use their political clout to try and get Biden in, and more importantly, Trump out.

Serena van der Woodsen: Oh Serena. Look, she knows it’s important, okay? It’s just, she’s been really busy lately, and she doesn’t really like to think about politics, and hey, remember that fundraiser she did with her mom for last month’s philanthropic cause du jour? Serena’s a Democrat, vaguely, but if you tried to really pin her down on her political beliefs she’d probably just change the topic. So who does she vote for in 2016? The truth is, she doesn’t. Not in the primaries, not in the general, not at all. She meant to, okay, Blair’s definitely been pestering her to send in her mail-in-ballot for weeks, but she just got distracted and forgot. Serena really strikes me as the kind of person who doesn’t enjoy thinking or talking about politics, save for perhaps a few specific issues, and she has a sense that everything will work itself out eventually and she doesn’t really need to participate. And then the 2016 election happens, and holy shit, she didn’t vote. Blair and Dan might have spent early 2016 bickering with each other over Clinton versus Sanders, but the one thing they can definitely agree on is “What the fuck, Serena?!?!” They both reminded her like, a million times, how could she possibly forget?! Serena feels really bad about it - she didn’t think it was such a big deal, she didn’t think Donald Trump could actually win! - and so she starts overcompensating whenever the topic of politics comes up, maybe even joins Vanessa at a few protests and marches, even though she’s still sort of clueless about the actual issues at hand. She does vote in the 2018 midterms, although only in the general election - straight blue ticket, all the way down. She takes a picture of herself at the voting booth wearing an “I Voted!” sticker and posts it on Instagram, tagging both Dan and Blair in the post (who already voted weeks ago using mail-in ballots, but it’s the thought that counts). Flash forward to 2020, and she really needs to make a decision about who to vote for in the primaries… but there’s just so many choices. Everything seems so scary and stressful and real in a way now that it didn’t back in 2016, and she can’t just ignore it and assume things will work out for the best like she did back then. So who does she vote for? Well, Serena always wins, so she votes for Biden. Conspiratorially, both Dan and Blair privately wonder if her voting for Biden isn’t on some cosmic level the reason for his unexpected victory, even if they know there’s no logical way that’s possible, right? But it would be such a Serena thing to do… In any case, Serena’s just happy her candidate won, and would probably host political fundraisers for him with her mom’s circle of philanthropic friends. Assuming she and Dan are still married at this point, she offers to help him do political outreach to Sanders supporters to get them to vote for Biden, which he sweetly dissuades her from given that most Sanders supporters would probably dislike her on principle.

So that’s how, in my opinion, the main cast would vote, ordered roughly in how confident I am about that analysis. You could make the argument that perhaps some characters would vote or act differently based on whether or not they’re dating or married at the time - like, would Chuck openly fundraise for Trump when Blair is a dyed-in-the-wool Clinton supporter if they’re married? (He totally would.) But I tried to consider them purely on the merits of their personalities and values, and not on the particularities of their situations at the time (with the exception of Nate, just because him being in office or not would obviously make a huge difference in regards to how politically involved he’s going to be).

I wish I put as much effort into my actual university essays as I did on Gossip Girl political analysis.

[morningfears]

Television Romance [Chapter One]

Rating: PG-13 (some swears, nothing major)

Summary: Natalia Adler is a stressed out grad student who attempts to escape the noise of her office by visiting her favorite coffee shop. However, instead of a few hours of writing, she gets a lap full of coffee and a date with the most gorgeous guy she’s ever met.

Word Count: 3.4k

Chapter Two

The graduate student office was usually busy, bustling with activity and overflowing with graduate students working on various research projects or grading coursework as well as undergraduate students seeking assistance with assignments. It was always difficult to concentrate among the din, there was always some conversation or another taking place that was much more interesting than writing yet another proposal, but Tuesdays were the worst.

On Tuesdays, the graduate teaching seminar met in the student office. For an hour each week, the teaching assistants dragged whatever chairs they could find to the center of the room and formed a circle to discuss problems that had arisen in their classrooms, questions they had about university policy, and an article on teaching practices they were assigned to - but never actually did - read. The class was supposed to be useful, a way for them all to prepare for their futures as academics, but it usually turned into a shouting match as the stronger personalities argued over one another about best practices in classroom management. And after, when the dust settled and the faculty facilitator was gone, students who didn’t have a one o’clock class stuck around to catch up on whatever departmental gossip they’d missed throughout the week.

Most days, Natalia was able to tune it all out. Her desk was in the corner, hidden behind a flimsy partition, and her noise cancelling headphones worked wonders to drown out the arguments. She didn’t love catching snippets of pointless conversations about which departmental policies were outdated - they all were - or which graduate students were sleeping together but she made it work. However, today was not one of those days.

She had several important deadlines looming over her head - conference submissions, revisions for a potential publication, the first draft of her thesis proposal, all due within days of one another - and she was feeling overwhelmed. The argument as to whether the department was too hard or too soft on students - or whether professors played favorites - was only making things worse. Instead of subjecting herself to two more hours of torture, she decided to pack up her bag and head to the coffee shop across the street. Even if it was loud, it had to at least be less hostile than the office.

She stood, satchel slung over one shoulder with her cellphone and headphones in hand, and glanced over the top of her partition at the girl who sat across from her. Nicole, like Natalia, wore headphones whenever she worked in the office and only glanced up when Natalia tossed a paperclip at her.

“I’m going to Molly’s,” she announced when Nicole pulled her headphones away from her ears and glanced up at her. Natalia struggled to keep her voice quiet in an attempt to avoid drawing attention to herself, though she was half certain she could yell and still not be heard over her colleagues. However, she remained cautious as the last thing she wanted was for anyone to join her. “You want anything?”

“A new job, a better salary, a husband who takes out the trash… I could go on,” Nicole answered, rolling her neck and grinning tiredly at Natalia’s deadpan expression. “I’ll settle for a caramel latte, though. With almond milk and extra caramel, please. I’ll Venmo you.”

“I’ve got it,” Natalia assured her with a wave of her hand as Nicole reached for her cellphone, “you got me boba last week. You have class at three, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” Nicole sighed as she dropped the device, straightened up in her chair, and pulled a face as she glanced at the syllabus tacked to her partition wall. “We’re going over how Marxism influenced Burke today. I think I’d rather chew off my own foot than try to teach a group of undergrads about either Marxism or Burke.”

“I know the point of college is to make kids think,” Natalia began as she hoisted her bag a little higher on her shoulder and ambled around her partition to stop beside Nicole’s desk, “but I’m glad I got the class that’s a little more, ��well, duh,’ than that. We’re going over how fundamentally fucked the US healthcare system is today.”

Nicole paused for a moment, staring at Natalia with a look that reeked of both annoyance and exhaustion, before she dropped her head to her desk and asked, “Is it too late to drop out?”

This was a conversation they’d had at least once a week since their first semester of graduate school and Natalia bit back a laugh as she nodded. “Yep. You’re halfway through your thesis proposal, no quitting now,” she pointed out as she nodded toward the stack of books on religious rhetoric that Nicole had stacked on her desk. “Anyway, only eight more months until we’re free.”

“I’m three pages in,” Nicole informed her, a pitiful whine erupting from her throat as she lifted her head and ran a hand through her unwashed curls. “This is going to be a long semester.”

Natalia, who had been under the impression that she was impossibly behind although she only lacked a completed methodology section, grimaced upon learning just how far behind Nicole was. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the shoulder and, although she had her own deadlines to meet, offered her assistance. “I’ll probably be sticking around after class tonight,” she informed her as she thought about the papers she still needed to grade, “if you need me to help with anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” Nicole sighed as she turned in her chair and smiled at Natalia, the exhaustion evident in her features although they were only a month into the semester. “I’m thinking about a writing party on Friday so that people can submit conference papers and then go get hammered after. You in?”

“Always down for drinks after opening myself up for rejection. You can send out an email and maybe follow up with a GroupMe or something. Your husband won’t mind you spending Friday with us?” she asked as she glanced over at the group of students, now talking instead of arguing, that still remained in the room. Although they got on her nerves sometimes, she had grown to love most of them.

“He’s going to a football game with some friends. If I stay home, I’ll just end up falling asleep in the tub with a glass of wine. I’ll send the email after class,” Nicole answered as she grabbed her headphones and moved to reposition them onto her ears. “Go, get out of here before someone stops you. You’ll be back by three?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back before you have to leave. I’ll text you when I’m on my way over. See you in a bit,” Natalia hummed as she tapped the top of Nicole’s partition before maneuvering around the group that crowded the doorway and stepping out into the hall.

The building itself wasn’t that busy, it rarely was, but campus was teeming with students as Natalia stepped outside. They typically opted for afternoon classes rather than morning ones and it was obvious that classes held after lunch were the most populated as she watched students wander from building to building. Her own undergraduate experience had been very different - classes as early in the morning as she could get them and work in the afternoons until late at night - but she understood the desire to take advantage of the opportunity.

As a graduate student, her schedule was a little different. She was usually the first one to arrive in the office, just to get a little work done, and held office hours during lunch. She was a TA for a class that met on Tuesdays and Thursday at three and had her own classes to attend, with each of the three meeting once a week, starting at six p.m. and ending at around ten. 

She was busier than she had ever been, even busier than the two years she spent working two jobs and overloading her class schedule. It was harder and lonelier than undergrad had been. She had little time to feel human or socialize without anyone outside of her program, however, she told herself that it would all be worth it when she finished and had a master’s degree under her belt.

Natalia made the most of the few minutes it took her to walk from her office to Molly’s, the closest coffee shop to campus that wasn’t the always crowded Starbucks in the library. She rarely got to enjoy her days. They were usually spent locked in the office or cooped up in the library, neither of which had enough windows. Although it was September, fall still seemed a lifetime away. 

She could still smell summer as an occasional ocean breeze wafted through campus. The sun was bright and high in the sky and the air was warm. It felt like the height of summer, as it usually did in Los Angeles, and she was grateful that she’d chosen to wear a dress instead of pants as the slight breeze kept her from overheating as she entered Molly’s.

The little coffee shop was every Instagram obsessed student’s dream. The exterior was nondescript with plain white walls and a small patio with string lights and a few small tables, however, the interior more than made up for it. There were walls covered with ivy - though Natalia didn’t know if it was real or not - and neon signs littered around the space. There was also a loft with tables and chairs that always seemed to be quieter than the rest of the shop.

It had all been too much for her the first time she visited. It seemed gimmicky, not the kind of place she wanted to frequent even if it was convenient, however, her opinion changed the moment she tried the coffee. Her predecessors in the program hadn’t been wrong in telling her that it was the best coffee she could get and that it served as a good hideout when the office got to be too much to handle. She understood why it was frequented by both students and the outside community, even if it took them too close to campus.

Although the coffee shop was bustling with students rushing in and out between classes, filled with the sounds of conversation and the excitement that came with a new school year, it still seemed quieter than the office. After ordering her iced coffee and settling into a table near the entrance, Natalia slipped her headphones back on and bit her lip in concentration as she opened her laptop and began working on the revisions she’d gotten back from her co-author.

It was difficult, not paying attention to the patrons that entered the shop as she loved people watching, but Natalia kept her eyes on her screen and typed away. If she had glanced up, she might have seen the looks that people threw one another as two men entered the shop. She might have seen how a few snuck pictures with their cellphones or how others whispered excitedly as they passed them by. But she didn’t. All she saw was the cursor on her document blink as she tried to string together a coherent sentence.

She focused on typing a new explanation for a concept she thought she’d covered well enough to need no further explanation, a metaphorical dark cloud hanging over her head as she let the reviewer’s comments weigh on her pride. However, as she got into a groove, her word count quickly climbing, she felt something cold splash against her right side.

She sat, stunned, for a few seconds, before she pulled her headphones off and blinked at the coffee that stained the right side of her dress and dripped from her skin. Ice cubes gathered in her lap, cold seeping through the fabric of her dress as she attempted to process what happened. It took a few more seconds of staring at the mess before she picked up her laptop and held it away from the growing pool of coffee. Ice cubes clattered to the floor as she stood and she grimaced as she watched them fall. She looked over the computer, sighing in relief when nothing appeared to be wet, before she lifted her head and looked at the person responsible.

Any other time, her attention would be on how beautiful the man in front of her was. He stood a head taller than her, easily, with broad shoulders and a surprised expression that she was sure matched her own. His blonde curls had fallen into his eyes, obscuring the blue slightly, and his cheeks and upturned nose were tinted pink in embarrassment as he looked over the damage he’d done.

They stared at one another for longer than necessary, his eyes lingering on her face just as hers lingered on his, and she was glad that he at least had the decency to stare at her face instead of the wet fabric clinging to her. The man beside him, slightly shorter and more amused than embarrassed, nudged his friend who moved as if he were a video that had been taken off pause.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed, his words rushing together as he watched her place her laptop on a neighboring table to keep it out of harm’s way before she reached for a few napkins. “Fuck, here, let me help you with that.”

His hand bumped into hers as he reached for more napkins and began wiping at the table and, as cliche as it was, she felt a jolt of something shoot down her spine as she quickly pulled her hand away. It was easy for Natalia to ignore the feeling as she watched him make matters worse. She tried to hide it, however, she couldn’t help but grimace as she moved her bag away from the table, slipping it over her head in an effort to avoid him sweeping coffee inside it.

She shook her head at his apology and reached for another handful of napkins. “It’s okay,” she sighed, not wanting to be rude even though she knew she’d have to take time she was planning on using to write to go home and change before class, “at least it was iced coffee.” She tossed the soaked napkins into the trash and bent down to pick up the ice cubes and cup from the ground. “What happened, anyway?”

“He tripped,” the shorter, dark-haired man informed her before he took a sip of his coffee. He still looked amused, positively delighted as he watched his friend struggle to find the right words to say, and Natalia bit back a laugh as she realized everyone had a friend like him.

“I didn’t trip,” the taller man defended with a roll of his eyes, cutting his eyes at his friend before returning his attention to Natalia. He met her eyes sheepishly, the embarrassment softening his features as he explained, “Someone bumped into me on their way in and I, uh…” He trailed off, clearly having planned on saying that he tripped, and dropped his gaze to the floor as Natalia laughed.

“Tripped?” she finished, a smile on her lips despite the situation. When the taller man grimaced, bringing the hand not full of soaked napkins up to rub at the back of his neck, she laughed once more.

“Fine, I tripped,” he acknowledged, “but it wasn’t just being clumsy. Someone really did bump into me.” He gave his explanation more to his friend than to her and she wondered how often he found himself tripping over thin air. He looked solid, like he wouldn’t be the type to trip over his own two feet, but looks could be deceiving and she knew from personal experience how annoying it was to be the clumsy friend.

“It’s okay,” she assured him, a little more sincere in her assurance this time as she offered him a genuine smile. “Nothing spilled on my laptop and it wasn’t boiling so, worst case scenario was avoided. I think I’ll just not sit near the door next time, though.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good call,” he agreed. His lips were quirked in a smile, grateful that she wasn’t yelling at him, and he still held the soaked napkins in his hands. “I still feel bad, though. Can I make it up to you; buy you a coffee or something?” he asked, a hopeful lilt to her voice that told her he wasn’t just looking to make up for spilling coffee on her.

As much as it pained her to turn him down - and it hurt quite a bit as she found him to be beautiful, even in basketball shorts and a t-shirt - she didn’t have time. “That would be great,” she began, a rueful smile on her lips as she grabbed her laptop and slid it into her bag, “but I have to run. I need to go get changed before class. It’s really okay, though. No big deal.”

She didn’t miss the nudge his friend gave him and raised an eyebrow as she watched him swat at his friend’s elbow. “I, uh, how about dinner, then?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers. 

He looked so earnest, his skin still tinted pink and his eyes wide, and she felt a giddy excitement bubble in the pit of her stomach. He was gorgeous, the kind of guy she never imagined would be interested in her, and she wanted to give him a chance. She didn’t know him, didn’t know if that chance would turn into a disaster, but she found herself wanting to take that risk.

“I have class until ten tonight,” she told him, biting back a coo when his face dropped at what he assumed was her rejection, “but if you tell me your name, I think I could free up my Friday night for dinner.”

He blinked, surprised at how her sentence ended, and smiled at her. He had a unique smile, his teeth on full display and tongue pressed to the back of them, and his eyes brightened as he nodded his agreement. “Right, yeah. Luke,” he introduced, moving to offer her his hand before realizing he still held the wad of napkins. “This meeting isn’t really going that well, huh?”

“I’d say it went south when you dumped coffee on her,” the friend commented, not even bothering to hide his grin as he watched the interaction unfold before him. “All downhill from there, mate.”

“I’m Natalia,” she introduced, pointedly ignoring his friend’s comment with an amused glance in his direction. “I’ve had worse first meetings, don’t worry. My freshman year roommate opened a door on me and gave me a concussion. You just stained a dress.”

“Oddly, that makes me feel better about this, thanks,” Luke laughed as he reached out and dropped the napkins into the garbage. “Can I get your number? That way you can go change now and we can make plans later,” he clarified, smiling at her as he offered her his cellphone to put her number in.

She felt Luke’s gaze on her as she put her number into his phone and she offered him a smile as she handed the device back. “I have one request for Friday,” she told him as she grabbed her own phone from the table and grinned at the text he sent her with his name, “no tables near the entrance.” Luke laughed at her request, a sound that she found endearing, and Natalia grinned at him. “I’ll see you on Friday, then.”

“See you on Friday,” he confirmed, grinning as he watched her step around him.

Natalia and Luke maintained eye contact for a moment, each giddy and grinning as they felt the butterflies of something new on the horizon, before Natalia bumped into something solid on her way out and made a face before quickly turning to apologize. She tossed Luke a wave over her shoulder, her own cheeks burning in embarrassment, as she heard his friend mumble, “Wow, she’s perfect for you.”

As she stepped out into the world once more, she grinned at the encounter. It made her lose an hour of writing time - and ruined her favorite dress - but maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. She’d been single for years and hadn’t had any luck with dating apps. She knew that a boyfriend wasn’t the most necessary thing in her life, however, it might be nice to be the girl with a date for once. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Luke was gorgeous.

Whatever the future held for them, she found herself looking forward to it. 

____________________________________________________

Author’s Note: If I try to start another series, someone fight me. Like, actually, genuinely fight me. I’m focusing on Rose Tattoo, These Violent Delights, and this. (And MF if I get inspiration but those updates are more sporadic, never meant to be regular, sorry. :() I want to write a few one shots but they’ll likely be shorter and just fun, you know? Not super plot heavy. I may or may not update the next chapter of this sooner than a week because this is kind of short. But, hey, I’ve got all the time in the world because after I defend next week, I’m done with grad school and that’s mildly terrifying. Anyway.  Here we go.

Tag List (like this post or message me if you want to be added!): @toolazymyguy , @irwinkitten , @jamieebabiee , @glittersluke , @spicycal , @lusbaby , @everyscarisahealingplace, @brokenvirtualheartcollector , @if-it-rains-it-pours, @blisshemmings , @calumscalm , @lovemenowseemenever , @ijustreallylovezebras , @rhiannonmichelle, @p0laroidpictures , @tomscuddles , @loverofmineluke , @harrytreatspeoplewithkindnesss , @blueviiolence , @loveroflrh , @empathycth , @luckyduckydoo , @tobefalling , @bandsandbooksaremykink , @watch-how-she-burns , @megz1985 , @wokeupinaustralia , @lucidlrh , @canterburyfiction , @cal-is-not-on-branding , @t-i-n-y-d-i-n-o , @jaacknaano , @findingliam-o , @old-zeppelin-shirt , @idk-who-i-am-anymore1 , @sammyrenae68 , @flowerthug , @calumsphile , @caitdaniels, @drummerboy794 , @writingfortoomanyfandoms , @x-lover-of-mine-x , @miliefayy , @sunaaii , @canterburyfiction , @sebrox40 , @nati-nn , @opheliaaurora23 , @bitterbethany , @sunnysidesblog​ , @333-xx​

[welcome-to-green-hills]

I’m sorry for bothering you this way, I just happened to see your ‘words of encouragement ask’ and was hoping this is maybe somewhere I could vent, even if it’s just to the void. I... am afraid to let anyone in. Ever. I get attached to people too quickly, like only after a few interactions, but I’m so afraid of rejection that I don’t reach out to try and deepen the connection at all. All my friendships are surface level, I never talk anything serious with anyone even when I really want to. (1/?)

I see you.

I hear you.

You are not bothering me.

This will not go unseen.

You , your entirety, is seen here.

I see you.

I am proud of you.

You are wonderful.

——————————(❤️❤️❤️)——————————

I do not mean to make this all about me when I express what I feel deep down. Just know... I know what you feel. I, too have been afraid to open up in the past. I, too, have felt that I—in no way nor how—should be worthy a sliver of a time of some. To be acknowledged. To be seen. To be loved. To be the mere thought of a person in passing.

Who would care?

Why would anyone want care?

When I received these messages in my inbox, I cried. I’m still a bit teary-eyed writing a response to this. It’s just me relating to you deep down, my own struggles that I have had in the past. I know exactly what you are thinking and feeling deep down. Those feelings of, “not being good enough” or “I am unworthy” are many, many things that I have had echoe in my mind for years. That I do not matter.

I know now that it’s not true.

When I was a kid, I remember having the ones that I dared to love get up and walk away. It was too much for them to love, they had to get up and walk away. If something didn’t click in their head, they were quick to take it out on others. I remember the day my father ran away. The very parental figure that I thought I needed to love told me flat out, “I like you, but this wasn’t what I wanted. It was a nice idea.” I wasn’t enough for him to be satisfied. He packed up his stuff—I was forced to help him pack up—told me not to tell my mom where he was running off to, then he drove away. This was on my ninth birthday. He took off North. I remember thinking that I didn’t make him happy. I wasn’t what he imagined.

My father wasn’t a man. He was something else. When he was around, he made everyone sick mentally and physically. He was quick to suck the very color out of anyone around him in order to feel good about himself. He was quick to judge and he was hurtful with feelings, as well as lie. When he left, I learned two things; who my people were and who I did not want to be when I was an adult. I could breathe again.

I will admit, it hurt to left people in, yes, but view it as this: these are examples given to you spiritually in who and what you aspire to be in life.

When I was a kid, I remember searching for answers on why I couldn’t connect with kids in class. I was afraid to interact with kids my own age. I was afraid to interact because I thought that they would not accept me as well. I didn’t have many friendships in the past as well, I had a speech impediment, as well as a hearing problem. I also have ASD. In the past, I’ve been told that I was very, very smart. However, since I needed more attention due to the past, not many gave me a chance. I’ve been told many times in the past that I’m too smart for them, that I’ve needed to dumb down more in order to be accepted from people. If I ever wanted to be something with people, I had to be something that I couldn’t.

Many famous celebrities and historical individuals have come out to say that they have a disability and/or heavily theorized to have a disability. You would not believe how many people have one and they’ve made revolutionary changes for the greater good. Look it up.

It hurt hearing friends—now they’re more like acquaintances—that I had to be a completely different person that I was. Something that I couldn’t be. I’ve been picked on before with troubled speech, with hearing problems, as well as coming from a single-parent background. To hear that if I wanted to be like them I had to be dumber, it felt wrong. Wouldn’t you want to be surrounded by people who want to help build you up?

If I was to be picked on and ridiculed for having a higher intelligence and skills than them, then why would I want to surround myself with them? That taught me three things; intelligence is only mocked by those that are not taught the value of it, friends should be the ones to build you up and not tear you down, ASD—Autism Spectrum Disorder—has been my “superhero power.” I love puzzles and patterns, it comes naturally to me. I’ve learned how to use that disability to my advantage. While they were still in Intensive classes, I was taking honors and getting awards for my work. Later on in life I’ve found a few friends along my journey that have loved and accepted me for who I am. They accept my luggages, my quirks, my entirety. They do not care because they see Me.

The moral here; it is okay to surround yourself with other people that want to build you up.

When I was younger and ready to go to college, I was accepted into one of the hardest schools to get into. It was a baby IVY League school, kinda like if IVY League school had its own “community college,” that’s what it would be. I was given a change to go to a school that I’ve always wanted to go to. The acceptance letter came, but I didn’t get farther than the entrance. I was sat down and made fun of for coming from a background with a low-income, as well as a learning disability. Forget about all of the hard work I’ve done in high school, forget the ridiculously high IQ—which I find ludicrous to even calculate with in life, forget about the science awards and the experience that I’ve had in life. I was told that my kind was never to be accepted.

I’ve been told that I was sub-par and that I would always be a behavioral problem with autism and no money. I would never amount for anything and that I needed to stop while I was ahead. I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

That was two years ago.

I now attend The University of Florida—one of the hardest schools to get into because it’s considered public IVY League—and I do summer classes at Yale. I’ve received a scholarship to attend both schools to get my degrees in Art History and in Anthropology. I have people looking at my work all the time and asking me questions. That’s a huge fucking accomplishment.

I didn’t get as far as I did accepting it, I just gave life the middle finger and kept on going.

I have more to my story, but this is just me scratching the surface of my life. I promise I have a point to this...

——————————(❤️❤️❤️)——————————

The past is not what should define you, the actions and experiences of what you go through now should me. You are still Becoming. You are a work of art that is still being mastered.

I am so, so proud of you for telling me what you think and feel inside. It was scary, but you did it. That is courage at it’s finest.

I will be the first person to tell you that being up to people is hella hard. Those experiences in the past reflect and scratch at the back of your mind, telling you that this will happen again. In the past, I have loved people before and they’ve vanished before my eyes. If then vanish, it is not because of you, it is because they do not know how to process it in their heart and in their mind. To repeat, it is not your fault. Most people need to take time to understandably things are the way they are. If they ignore you, then they are not worth Your time. Soon you will find the people that matter most to you, it just clicks.

You’ll find your missing piece once when the assurance of worthiness settles in your mind.

You, my dear and wonderful person, are worthy of wanting more.

You are worthy of having more.

You are allowed to Be more.

Take this time from past interactions to have a conversation with yourself on who and what you want to be. Who are you deep down? When can I meet her, him, them, it, xem, (f)aer, em, or hir? I can’t wait to meet You.

My blog is called “Welcome to Green Hills” for a reason. It welcomes in many so they can find that chance to be who and what they are. This blog is meant to help build you up and show you that you can be more. There is no greater force on this Earth more than you. I make it a point to tell everyone that I see them and that I hear them because I want to know that they are real.

You are here, you exist!

I see you.

I want you to know another thing; it is okay to care for people. Your emotions do not make you weak, it is of those who do not understand their own that makes them weak. Having emotion is what makes you human. It’s what helps you grow and become wiser. You start to look at possibilities that you’ve never known could exists in life. You can learn something new about yourself that you may have never noticed on your own. The people that you interact with in life can influence you. I’m speaking from my own experience.

I don’t know everyone’s experiences, I don’t know everyone’s story. I know my story. I know where I come from and what I want to be. I’ve worked hard to become a better version of myself. You are allowed, and worthy, of being loved, accepted, and seen.

We love to punish ourselves and think that we accept very little of what we are given in life. Human being unconsciously love to accept little to no value for themselves because they look to what other have told them. I know that this is a hard concept to hold firmly in your heart at the moment, but I want you to know that what others tell you is not true. You are allowed love and happiness. You are allowed to have worth. I promise. Start to think in terms of “I can” rather than “I can’t.” Start thinking in terms of “I am” rather than “I’m not.” You are allowed to be more. If people keep tearing you down, even with that feeling of lying on the ground feels fine, get back up. There will be people in life that want to push you down, and I will tell you, get back up and hold your head up high. There’s always another way, that’s the glory of the Universe.

You have worth.

You have value.

And you matter.

Stay safe, my friend.

[hopeandtruth]

Blind Date Event

WHO: Hope Clarington and Seth Evans (@xsethappeal) WHAT: Blind Date WHEN: Friday Evening, July 16th, 2021 WHERE: Breadstix TRIGGERS: Alcohol consumption, allusions of past abuse WORD COUNT: 2,965

Hope had no idea why she was here. Mainly for an eventual laugh, she supposed. Lima hosting a singles night was basically a way to get all the millennials and some Gen Z into Breadstix so they could have a really good night of profits, there was no two ways about it, yet, here she was.

Hope hadn't even been on a single date since she got to Lima, hadn't even hooked up. The last time she even looked at another person would have been in Italy or Paris or something, and she couldn't even remember it. All the world travelling, even with the writing and as much as she'd talked about it, there were large chunks missing from her memory because she hadn't wanted to think about anything. So, here she was, on a stupid blind date at Breadstix, pretty sure she was going to regret the whole thing tomorrow.

Approaching her table she could already see the man who was going to be sharing her time with her and she considered just ... leaving before he saw her too. That would ruin the fun though, so she sat and smiled. "Surprised you took the time off for a date, but I guess it could have been worse."

The fact that Anna had somehow convinced him to do this was… ridiculous. He didn’t date, not since they broke up. He wasn’t into monogamy or really relationships, so going to this on a Friday when he could make way better tips at work was clearly due to his inability to say no to Anna.

Seth was always early for things, including things he didn’t really want to do. He’d already ordered a drink, though it was rather weak compared to the ones he made. He sipped it and sighed as he waited.

When he locked eyes as Hope fucking Clarington started to walk towards him, he groaned, but put on a charming smile, playing the part once she got to the table. “Unless tonight goes incredibly well, I can still probably be at work by 10.” He chuckled, “I’m shocked to see you here at all. A Clarington slumming it with the rest of us.

Hope huffed a laugh of sorts at the cheap shot, a the only kind Seth Evans would be able to afford anyway. "You're almost cute," she replied, still smiling, not yet giving him a signature sneer, "has anyone ever told you that?"

Hope quickly ordered a bottle of wine, not intending to share but she didn't protest when the wait staff brought two glasses. "So," she said, pouring herself a glass, a little fuller than it needed to be, "why are you here?"

“I’ve been called cute with assurance, both drunk and sober, I don’t hear almost very often.” He winked, taking a sip of his water.

He ordered himself some Johnnie Walker on the rocks, leaning back. “Because my best friend wanted to come and I’m here for moral support. I don’t date.” As he got his drink, he took a sip. “Why are you here?”

Hope was thankful when he didn't touch the wine, not that she wouldn't have just eventually ordered more, but it felt more like a game of dominance right now and neither was giving in. It was almost fun, at least for the time being.

She shrugged at his question, not really having much more of an answer than he did, almost made her wonder if the people who did the pairing did this intentionally. "Figured why not. I'm told I don't do enough 'normal' things, so why not try it out before I inevitably regret it tomorrow."

“So you choose to come to a mediocre restaurant, with mediocre food, mediocre people, minus a handful that I’m close with, and drink mediocre wine?” He quirked an eyebrow, taking another sip of his drink, before waving to the bartender to order himself another.

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m well above mediocre and have exceeded your expectations for ‘normalcy’, Ms Clarington. I’m not really capable of being ordinary or boring.”

Hope feigned interest as he spoke, but the more he went on about mediocrity, the harder it was to do. The confidence was interesting though, it seemed pretty real. For how big a lot of the people around Lima acted, there were few that could actually walk the walk after talking the talk, and deep down, Hope was one who could struggle with it lately, she was just a hell of a lot better at pretending than most of the world. Fake it til you make it was essential when someone had been through what she'd survived.

"Technically, I have to be the judge of that, Mr. Evans," she told him back smartly. "You never know when people will lie to you for a simple lay."

“In the 15 years I’ve been getting laid, never once have I lied to get into someone’s bed.” He finished his drink just as the second one arrived. “People who have to lie to get laid aren’t even worth the time. I like genuine people, real people. Not the kind who would tell you want you want to hear so you take off your pants, or will do whatever they’re expecting.”

He leaned back, looking her over - she may be a bitch, but even he had to admit she was hot. He wouldn’t tell her that though. “If people don’t like genuine me, that’s on them. Not me.”

The confidence was real and it was growing more intimidating by the minute, and Hope had no idea how to deal with it. This was someone who came from nothing, realistically had nothing, no doubt less than 2 paycheques from homelessness much like the rest of the world, and he didn't seem to care. It didn't make a lot of sense.

The genuine him, huh? Hope wasn't even sure she knew the genuine her, let alone liked her all that much, so there was no way she was going to let other people try and get there.

"I'm sure all those nights in the backroom at Scandals have been incredibly genuine, I think that's absolutely wonderful."

“I don’t hook up in the back room all that often. I’m usually working, and I don’t do anything that unprofessional while I’m working. I may “just” be a bartender at a small town gay bar, but I take my job seriously because I love it. So, yeah, on nights off I sometimes have fun, but I’m much more into sex outside of my place of work.”

He crossed one leg over the other, “and I remember the name and face of every person I hook up with. Even if I never see them again, I remember them.”

Hope wanted so badly to be bored, but, much to her dismay, Seth was almost interesting. He held himself highly, without having the ego that most of the company she usually kept. She wasn’t sure if she believed he knew the name and face of all his conquests, but she had no room to dispute it, so she didn’t.

“You might remember them,” she shot with a small grin, leaning back, “but I guess the real question is if they remember you.”

Seth chuckled into his drink, taking another sip. His blue-green eyes looking at her. “I have a good memory for things. Some people don’t. We have fun in the moment and that’s honestly the most important part. One night hook ups are meant for that. Just fun. It’s not a relationship.”

He shrugged, ordering himself some spinach dip. “My goal is to make people feel good for a night. Or whatever time of day we’re having fun. That’s all I care about.”

Seth's stare was a little unnerving. Sure, people usually looked, or even stared, but not like this. They were only a few feet apart and she didn't have much to hide behind, except her words, which didn't have too much of an effect on him.

Hope took a long sip of her wine, she didn't have a response and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Well, everyone has a talent, I suppose," she told him finally.

Seth wasn’t used to being around people who didn’t have a comeback for him. Anyone at scandals always did, so seeing Hope, this woman who seemed to be stoic and reserved, yet also had the reputation of the opposite, was a change of pace.

“I have plenty of talents, but I doubt you’re interested enough to hear about them.”

He was baiting her, that much she was sure of. It was pretty damn close to infuriating. Hope wasn’t used to not having the upper hand and she certainly didn’t like it.

“You can try me,” Hope retorted, raising a brow. “But if I start to doze off, that’s on you.”

“Some of them are more of a show than tell, but I can’t do some of those things in public, unless I crawl under the table.” He winked, smirking, “but I’m 6’1, so I don’t really fit.”

He took another sip of his drink. “I play guitar and sing, I mix the best drinks in town. I’m good at sports, and was probably second or third in my class in high school. I also know a lot about cars.”

Hope did her best not to react at how sure he sounded. He knew he had the upper hand here and it showed. It got a little easier when the chat was less suggestive, thank fuck.

“You almost had me interested there,” she confessed, looking at him through her eyelashes, the exact way she knew worked. “Last I checked I didn’t care about cars, I’m smart too, I know how to mix my own drink with my own liquor, and musics just music.”

Seth rolled his eyes, “bully for you.” He ordered himself another drink, looking across the table at her. “So, what do you find interesting, Ms Ivy League Trust fund?”

That shouldn't have been a hard question, and it wasn't for most. But ever since she'd left New York, Hope wasn't really someone who did a lot of of interest rather than need. She needed to get the hell out of there and she needed her family to never know what kind of condition she left in. "Travelling," was her instant answer, "I did a lot of it for a couple years after I left New York. I wrote for a lot of magazines, making sure I always had somewhere else to go."

Hope found him interesting, but there was no way in Hell she was going to tell him that.

Seth smiled, “we do have something in common.” He leaned a bit closer, “I like to travel too. I did a big road trip across the country a few years back. I really want to go to India at some point too. I have a long bucket list of places I want to go before I die.”

Hope knew that she had to take back the control somehow, so she reached for her purse and threw a couple bills on the table, knowing it way more than covered the bill and she stood. She started towards the door before quickly turning around, "you are coming, right?" she asked, as innocently as possible, but anyone would know it was anything but.

He had to admit that this response caught him off-guard. Being paired with Hope had not led him to even consider the possibility of them going home together, and yet, clearly, that was where her mind had gone. He also had never had a woman cover his bill before. He shrugged and stood up, “taking me back to your coven for a sacrifice? I’ll have you know I’m not a virgin.” He smirked.

"I guess you'll have to wait and see," Hope told him as they left the restaurant. "I Uber'd here, busted car and all, so unless you drove, will that work for you?" Hope didn't really want to get into a car with someone she didn't know very well, so if need be, she'd just meet him at her place.

He chuckled, shaking his head, “of course I drove. It’s a pick up truck though, you sure you’re okay with that?” He cocked a brow, eyes washing over her. “I promise you I’m not secretly the modern day Ted Bundy.”

"Absolutely not," Hope told him immediately. "So, you have one of two choices, leave it here for ... who knows how long, I haven't decided, or, take it home and I can pay for an Uber, it's up to you." Hope was sure nothing would go wrong, but, there also was no way in Hell she was stepping foot in his pick-up truck.

He rolled his eyes, “the princess doesn’t like trucks. Shocker.” He sighed, “I guess I can leave her here. I’ll come back whenever and pick her up.” He had a relatively new truck, it was clean, nice. 2017. But he wasn’t exactly shocked she was so against it. “Guess I’m getting in an Uber with a woman who could be a black widow for all I know.”

"You had a choice, you know," Hope replied, doing her best not to sound too annoyed at his annoyance. "I said you could do whatever and you're choosing to ride with me anyway, and it's not too harder to figure out why," she continued giving him a once over.

Pulling out her phone, she ordered and Uber and was given a quick estimate, perks of so many people being preoccupied right now.

“Ride in the Uber with another person, or do it alone and risk being murdered. At least in pairs we’re less likely to be a target.” He shrugged, thinking his logic was pretty sound. “Im used to driving myself, I don’t think I’ve ever used Uber in my life…”

"You're acting like you're in a big city and using the Subway for the first time, don't be such a baby, it's making you far less appealing," Hope sighed, still looking at her phone. The less she gave him, the more power she had, at least in her opinion. They were using her mode of transport, going to her apartment, and she'd paid. Everything was in her favour.

“No, I’m acting like someone who watches a lot of serial killer documentaries with his best friend.” He sighed, leaning against a nearby wall. “Im also almost never a passenger in a car.”

"Well that sounds like you're just setting yourself up for paranoia," Hope shrugged taking a step towards him, looking up at him. "I figure you can get over this little ... issue for one night, right?"

Seth always loved a good height difference, and considering he was 6’2, they were rather common for him. He smiled down at her, “it’s not an issue, but yes, I can get over it for one night, Princess.”

Hope smirked up and bit her lip, staring a moment too long, before sharply turning away to greet the Uber driver that had just arrived. Confirming he was who he was supposed to be, Hope got in without hesitation and waited for Seth expectantly.

In all his life, Seth had never taken a cab or an Uber. In a town like Lima he never needed to, and when he travelled, he’d done it by car. He took a moment before getting in, shooting Anna a text just so someone knew where he was going. The Uber was cleaner than he expected… even had a new car smell.

“Texting your girlfriend?” Hope asked, as Seth sat down and they started on the drive to her place. “Because frankly that doesn’t really matter to me, but if you’re having second thoughts, I’m sure he can let you out if need be.”

Hope knew it wasn’t the case, but Seth was honestly just making it all too easy.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, thank you very much.” He rolled his eyes, “just letting a friend know where I’m going.”

Hope sighed dramatically, enjoying the game of it all now. “Well I guess I really will have to let you leave mostly unharmed then, such a shame.”

“Oh, darlin’, as long as I make it home in one piece,” he leaned in a bit, “hit me with your best shot.”

"I'll keep that in mind," Hope smirked, letting him stay close but being very careful to keep her hands to herself, at least for the new few minutes. Sure, she hadn't entirely expected this when she'd seen who her date was, or even, at all. Hope knew there very much still could be regrets tomorrow, but right now this was good and fun and who was she to push that away when she'd spent the last few nights with nothing similar.

Seth wasn’t one to say no very often. The fact that he’d taken a Friday off from work to do this date thing for Anna was not something he would usually do, but he couldn’t say no to her especially. Plus, even if Hope was a huge bitch, she was hot as fuck, and he was clearly in for a wild night

It wasn't long before the Uber stopped at Hope's apartment. Politely, she thanked the driver and led Sam into the building, past the doorman, and to the elevator. "You're not scared of heights or anything, are you?" She asked, teasing in tone, pressing the button to the 11th, and highest, floor.

Seth rolled his eyes, “no, I’m not scared of heights. I went bungee jumping a few years ago.” He shook his head. It was going to be an interesting night, that’s for sure.

[saffiealbright]

well, looks like i accidentally deleted saf’s intro post, because i thought it was a muse photo post (lol @ me). so here it is, rewritten! i’ve added/edited some trivial things, too, so here we go!

(ellie bamber, she/her) - have you seen seraphina albright? saffie / saf is in her junior year. the computer science major is 22 years old & is an aquarius. people say she is ambitious, candid, petty, and headstrong. rumors say they’re a member of hastings society. i heard from the gossip blog that she hacked into her schoo’s grading system and changed her grades to prove she could get into yates without her family’s help. (tessa. 24. pst. she/her.)

name: seraphina ivy albright nicknames: saffie, saf, sera, ser, s age, birth date: 22; february 14, 1998 hometown: new york city major, university: computer science, yates university sexuality: pansexual 

past

“she debated our civics instructor so hard that he conceded so that he could go outside and take a smoke break.” “i watched her hack all of her ex’s social media during our cyber security class. didn’t look up from her laptop once.”

and that’s me, john booker rutledge.

no, it’s serphina ivy albright

seraphina is the daughter and only child of ethan and annabeth albright—a new york state senate field representative and a british transplant museum donor/philanthropist. (making it canon that saf has a few british english speaking tendencies—word choices, cadence, pronunciations, etc.)

does albright sound familiar? saffie is cousin to darby and leo (and the late james) albright through their fathers. ethan albright works for his brother, the state senator.

throughout her young life, both sides of the family were very tight knit. they’d take holidays together, have weekly dinners, attend events side-by-side.

all of this change after ethan and lucas got into an altercation. one moment they were standing in the hall, talking business and having a drink. the next they grew hushed and moved into a nearby home office. by the time ethan left his relationship with his brother was irrevocably broken.

no one knows exactly what happened in that room, but the parents will swear up and down that their side was in the right. this caused a deep split between both sides.

still, in order to maintain the image of a loving family and well-oiled machine, ethan continued to work for his brother. the only times everyone would really see each other, though, were briefly at events, during necessary business, and at james’ funeral.

you’d think the latter would’ve brought them together, but it didn’t!

saffie was slowly influenced not to like her cousins, her parents likening them to their parents in, well, not the nicest ways. to put it simply, they told saf that it’s probably best if she didn’t trust them.

being the young, trusting kid she was, she took their word for it. even if the whole ordeal revealed sides of her parents—of the entire family—that she began to strongly oppose.

teenage years / personality shift

suffice it to say, seraphine wasn’t a big fan of what she found made the albrights the albrights. for years she strove to impress her parents and meet their incredibly high standards: look perfect, speak correctly, present yourself with impeccable poise. learn three languages so that one day you can speak to a number of high-ranking business officials. pick up piano so you can “spontaneously” play at events and gatherings and impress your peers (oh, it happened! time and time again!).

a childhood nearly wasted, by saf’s standards. it wasn’t until she entered high school—about the time the debris settled from the family split settled—that she began to branch out and discover what she enjoyed. what she wanted to spend her time on.

her friend group expanded to those outside of her prestigious school, rapidly expanding her small world view and perspective on just about everything.

very quickly saf saw her path—and it wasn’t acting out like darby or grasping at the idea of perfection like leo. it was not giving a fuck. her family’s problems seemed abysmal compared to everything else happening in the world.

around this time she gained an interest in two things: the world and the computers it’s so obsessed with. thus her passions for current events/world news and computer science began.

quickly she became the black sheep within her household, a fact as amusing to her as it is frustrating for them.

look—all saf wanted to do was go about the city (and her life!) on her own terms. go see live music, attend her own peers’ parties and events, and god forbid have some time for friends.

an unspeakable offense in her parents’ perspective, especially because at this point her grades began to go down. it wasn’t that she wasn’t smart—she had the makings of any upper east side prodigy—she simply focused them elsewhere.

secret

that being said, by junior year it hit the girl that she’d need to step things up. attending yates, her father’s alma mater, was still the goal despite her own falling out with him. it was a damn good university and she had a deal to make. if she could get in on her own, she’d study there on her own terms. doing what she wants.

and you know what!? she did! after cheating her way through the system. lol.

it started with hacking one teacher’s grading system to change a few grades. then, slowly, it grew. midway through the year all of her teachers were lauding her turn-around. by senior year she was a “model student.”

cheers to the TAs for the assist! they did all of the actual assignment grading. saf bargained with them to not to say anything.

in the end she got her yates acceptance letter in the mail, packed her suitcases, and ended up in preaker.

present / personality / little facts

now she’s studying computer science and taking extra classes that capture her interests.

at the same school her estranged cousins attend. fun!

gave calloway, her father’s society, a big pass. went with hastings.

some quotes to capture her personality:

i hate it when people ask, “do you trust me?” like... don’t call me out... the answer is no.

if you have beef with me it’s one sided, because i literally don’t care

some tiktoks for more of a feel: one, two, three

so, yeah, she’s a bit apathetic and no-bullshit and that might be a bit polarizing to some!

but she genuinely doesn’t try to be mean to people. she’s just, uh, blunt. lol.

the type to write in sharpy in a bar bathroom stall, but it’ll say something like, “damn, you’re mad cute”

can’t drive for SHIT! always took taxis, public transport, and town cars in new york. probably learned how to drive a little... while in the UK... so, the opposite-sides-of-the-street thing disorients her

fact: she’s naturally a blonde and dies her hair red. every few weeks it looks like a blood bath in one of the hastings bathroom sinks/showers.

fact: when she’s about to do just about anything with a computer she does the violet baudelaire thing where she pulls her hair up into a messy ponytail

the rest i’m just!! figuring out as i go luv!! x

[georgeharris0n]

Stop And Smell The Sunflowers

Rated: PG-13

Word Count: 2k

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr

Chapters: 1/1

Note: Hope you like it @another-random-girl! I loved WritiNg this SOoo muCh!

Also, Some sligHT McLennon.

George looked utterly exhausted. He was slumped rather uncomfortably in a seat staring off into blank space. His eyes squinting as the train was at a current halt, after finally returning to Marylebone Station. The Beatles had been informed of at least two more scenes that needed to be filmed before the day could subsequently wrap up.

 Ringo himself had a rather tedious shoot, but George had taken most of the heavy hits. They hadn’t been prepared for the work of scenes, and takes. Remembering lines was a pain too, and it was only their first day. They still had more locations and songs to sing, and the mundane train scenes were already proving to be rather boring.

Ringo mostly sympathized with George however. His handsome features looked nearly shot with annoyance as he slumped in that chair. Ringo remembered watching George nursing at his knees from the chase scene. George had a nasty fall that he thankfully was able to recover from quickly,but overall he was fully aware this day had taken the most out of George.

Ringo took a glance down the train corridor. John and Paul were currently flirting futility with the young actresses in the school girls outfits.

Little did they know,  Ringo had seen Paul in one of the carriages, giving John a bright purple hickey on his neck, which he currently wasn’t bothering to hide.

The two of them did love a good flirt though. George wasn’t much the type, at least not since he and Ringo had become an item. One of the girls had approached him earlier, a younger, blonde miss. Ringo could still feel the warmth in his chest when George politely declined her invitation for dinner and remarked that he was spoken for.

Ringo gave the corridor another glance to see if he could spot the director. If they weren’t going to get to those last two scenes just yet… they might have a bit of time to themselves.

In quick, but quiet strides, Ringo edged his way to his boyfriend. He took George’s hand in his and quickly placed a kiss on it before sitting down beside him.

“That was a nice surprise.” George smirked as he sat up in his seat. “That- was the most interesting thing to happen’ all day.”

Ringo’s cheeks reddened, but the glint in his eye said he had something up his sleeve. “Well, let’s get ourselves a little change of scenery then.”

Ringo smiled, then stood once more to take George hand again, this time pulling him out of his chair and quickly to the opposite carriage.

“Ringo? What are you…” The next carriage was filled with props and clothes racks. Ringo pulled off a long beige trench and cabbie hat, and slipped them both on. He took another glance and saw a thick scarf and a brown worn top hat and handed it George’s way.

George quirked his brow. “What’s this?”

Ringo was rummaging through a propbox when he pulled out a spare camera, giving it a once over, then decidingly hanging it around his neck. “It’s a disguise, love. Now follow me before someone sees us, yeah?’

Ringo had turned out the carriage door, and despite George’s bewilderment, he followed quite eagerly behind.

The two stepped off the train platform and avoided as much eye contact with passersby as possible. Sneaking away wasn’t easy as a Beatle, but the station had been decommissioned for the filming, so no civilians would spot them just yet.

Once the two reached the pavement, no one paid much mind to them. The pedestrians were mostly grumbling businessmen, forced to take an alternate route due to the “undignified rock n’ roll film” currently inconveniencing the masses.

Ringo shot George a slight smile and started on to the nearest crosswalk with George trailing beside him. Every so often,  their hands brushed, much like they did during press conferences, or public dinners. They both had a strong urge to just- grab it. To just say, Fuck it, I want to hold your hand. Unfortunately, blending in was difficult already, so the two settled on the light (purposeful) brushes, and the occasional hooking of pinkies. Brian was explicit on the lads being secretive, in fact, once he finds out they went off on their own, into the public of London. He will be furious.

“Where are you taking us Ritchie?” George’s muffled voice inquired through the scarf he wrapped over nearly half his face.

Ringo smiled down at the points of his shoes then turned another corner.

“I think you’ll like it… I just thought we ought’ to get away for a while.”

George’s lip quirked up under the scarf, and he continued to follow Ringo.

The crowds were beginning to thin, till there was nearly no one left on the pavement with them. They were at least two blocks away from the set, though George wasn’t fully sure he had been paying that much attention.

When Ringo came to a halt they appeared to be outside a greenery of some kind. A park.

Ringo pulled the gate latch that coincided the red brick walls, and opened the entrance.

“Ringo, is this even allowed?” George’s apprehension was a bit obvious, but Ringo shook his head.

“It’s a public park, just a bit forgotten, hidden away.”

George tilted his head. “Then how do you know about it?”

Ringo shuffled nervously and his bright blue eyes clouded a bit to grey. “The hotel had an old newspaper, a couple weeks old, the place is going to be demolished and replaced soon… I read it was a bit close to the station… thought maybe it would be a neat place to visit to take a load off.”

George felt his body relax, no longer feeling as anxious. He now felt remorse for the place, and looking into the cobble path, it seemed a lot more appealing than before.

George laid a hand behind the small of Ringo’s back and guided him through the threshold, while closing the gate latch behind them.

He took his scarf and the comical top hat and hung them neatly on a nearby tree limb. “I think a nice, private load off is real gear idea, Ritchie.”

____________________

The garden was unlike anything the two Liverpool lads had ever seen. It was absolutely breathtaking in the most strange and peculiar of ways.

The garden was tight, and no where near spacious. Plants and vegetation grew over every nick and cranny, it was lush, and unruly. It was clearly never kept up. Ivy vines grew up nearly every tree, hanging low and occasionally tickling the tops of their heads. Bushes of perennials were abundant, clearly never pruned, while dime sunflowers grew between the tangled roots below.

In the seclusion and shade of the heavy thick trees, George paid no mind to taking Ringo’s hand. He hadn’t even felt Ringo tense up- it was as if this garden was the safest place either of them could find themselves being. No fear of the press, or news headlines capturing and exposing the couple. The garden had clearly never seen human contact in decades. It was overgrown and messy, and somehow that is what made it even more appealing.

The path branched out in seperate ways, some sections covered by vines and roots. They both steered to the right and found a tiny pond shaded over. Barely touched by the sun.

“Hey, let’s have a seat huh? Legs are a bit tired.” Ringo murmured, letting go of George’s hand a sitting down onto the bank of the pond.

“Only if you promise me a kiss when I meet you down there.” George winked, as he watched Ringo blush from the welcomed affection.

George kneeled down, and seated himself close to Ringo. Both their trousers mostly likely muddled with dirt and damp from the bank.

Ringo was covering a smile with his hand and wandered his eyes to the pond, too flustered to meet George’s.

George knew what Ringo was thinking. Despite not exactly being in public. They were out. In London, outside- no security, no manager, no bandmates. This was as public, and private as they could be. It was both terrifying and… exhilarating.

George reached up two fingers to Ringo’s chin, and gently turned his face to face his own.

“Geo…”

Ringo’s other hand flexed against his own knee, and George took the opportunity to grab a hold of his hand again. Giving it a proper squeeze.

“It’s… it’s just us okay?” George barely whispered as he leaned forward still not quite where he wanted to be. He didn’t want to push Ringo if he was in fact too scared to do this here.

They had done this countless times before, but always away from any outside space, from any prying eyes, and they were always assured of that, as per Paul’s request to Brian that security was tight as a knot for the two couples.

Now they were far away… and Ringo was already pressing his lips to George’s.

It wasn’t a clashing kiss, nor was it hesitant. Ringo tilted his head in order for more space to move between George’s bottom lip, which made George lean down against him fervently to increase the pressure and close remaining space between them. He had taken quick control of the kiss as Ringo was now unceremoniously being pushed back onto his elbows with George still kneeling over top of him with a firm hand gripping the borrowed trench coat.

The kiss was slowing down a bit, in contrast to George’s sudden burst of energy. He took to laying Ringo flat on his back and just kissing him lazily against the grass beside the pond and bushels. Occasionally breaking for air and responding to Ringo’s sleepy nibbles at his red lips.

Ringo smiled against George’s last nip before letting a giggle slip.

“What- hey what are you-”

“Hold still hold still.” Ringo was reaching for the camera on his side, and checking the film.

He brought it up to his eye, and between both of George’s arms framing either side of him, he snapped a photograph.

“Sunflowers suit you well Georgie.”

“Ringo-” Before George could ask what in the fuck he was talking about, the camera had dispensed a rather clear polariod of George, which Ringo flashed to his face.

It appears several dime sunflowers had fallen, and scattered on his head. With George’s bewildered smile apparent in the shot, it was nearly picture perfect. Nothing about it was flawed, and George’s eyes were looking down so longingly… He looked so in love.

To be fair, he had been looking at Ringo, who wouldn’t fall for him?

George chuckled at his smiling boyfriend who was gearing up for another picture. “You couldn’t resist could you?”

Ringo flashed another shot with camera before sitting up, and scottig from beneath George. “Not in the slightest.” He grinned with a cheeky smile.

The two both laughed and once again while taking another look at the vines and flowers.

“Shame this place won’t be here much longer eh’?” Ringo remarked looking out to take a shot of the pond overcast.

“Yeah… I rather like it.” George sorrowed as he spread his palm in the rich soil.

“Ritchie? Think I could ever get myself one of these? A garden? Maybe even a pond like this?”

Ringo felt his cheeks ache. George had him smiling big. “Maybe someday… I don’t see why not.”

The lovers never wanted to leave, but of course the life of a Beatles never gave them much time to stop and smell the sunflowers. They would end up missing those last two scenes altogether, Brain would give them a stern verbal slap on the wrist, while John and Paul would secretly envy them for not thinking of running off as well.

But that time spent in the garden would stay with the both of them. Especially George…    

[doing-all-write]

the art of flirting on a hoverboard

Ivy runs a successful arts non-profit and Joe tags along when Rami and Lucy go to visit her. But what happens when a simple bet made over a hover board competition gets out of hand? 

Pairing: Joe Mazzello x Ivy (OC)

Rating: Rated B for background and C for characterization. (We love exposition in this house)

Warnings: None! 

This is for sure going to be a multi-part fic so here’s the first part! I hope you guys fall in love with Joe and Ivy as much as I had writing them! Ivy wasn’t inspired by anyone tbh, I tried writing in the second person but it kept confusing me so she can be a self-insert or an OC, whichever way you want to read it! 

Any comments, notes, love, hate WHATEVER you got for this, let me know! 

Reblogs and feedback are much appreciated bc I crave validation!!!!!

"EXCUSE US. HOVER BOARD COMING THROUGH." 

Joe jumped, looking around to locate the voice, and said hover board, as Rami sighed with longing.  

The hover board in question was attached (by what Joe could only guess was a jump rope?) to a scooter. The scooter carried two kids while a third desperately tried to keep their center of gravity underneath them as they all raced down the hallway, laughter and profanities left in their wake. 

The receptionist behind the desk leaned over, offering encouragement as her iPhone lens tracked them as they all loudly screamed upon realizing they would have to turn a corner. 

As they took the corner (with only one loud "FUCK" uttered as the hover boarder's shoulder made contact with the wall, but impressively, stayed on) the receptionist shook her head as she watched the video back. Snickering, her thumbs flew as she added a caption. The nameplate attached to the front of her desk identified her as Erin.

Erin looked up once the video had been posted to her Story and her eyes lit up as they fell on Rami.

"Well, well, well. Look who came CRAWLING back to us. Mister Oscar Winner."

Rami rubbed the back of his neck, "Seriously, Erin? I literally saw you last week." 

Erin made her way around the desk to wrap him in a hug, "Doesn't matter. And besides, I just like seeing the internal struggle that you go through where you want to brag about having an Oscar but also don't want to seem like a massive prick." 

Rami shrugged, "It's a fine line always." 

"Sometimes it's so fine it's nonexistent." Lucy piped up which caused Erin to collapse into giggles as Rami rolled his eyes and Joe smirked. 

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy your company IMMENSELY." Erin said as she turned to Lucy and shook her hand.

"Likewise." Lucy offered as Erin turned to Joe.

"What about me? Are we going to become instant besties?" Joe joked as he shook Erin's hand.

Erin shrugged, "Depends, are you going to roast Rami with me?"

"Absolutely. No hesitation. He's not even my friend."

Erin clapped him on the shoulder, "Good man. We're now besties."

Joe hissed a "yes" as Rami, oblivious to all of this, craned his neck to try to see where the joy riders had disappeared to down the hallway. 

"Glad to see the trend of 'tying wheeled objects to other wheeled objects' hasn't died out." He shot a knowing smile at Erin who rolled her eyes. 

"They'll be back, they usually make a few laps." Erin sighed. "They usually do this whenever new people show up, trying to impress you guys," she fluttered her fingers in the direction of Lucy and Joe. 

"Plus around three everyone starts getting stir crazy so...hover boards." She waved her hand flippantly in the air as if that gesture explained the inner mechanisms of bored teenager's brains. 

Rami nodded, "I have fond memories of us, well, Ivy, almost dying when we tied a skateboard to a bike and tried to make it down the hill, you remember that?" Erin nodded as she threw her arm around his shoulders as they both sighed at the memory of being young and stupid.

Lucy's eye flicked over to Joe who shrugged. 

"We should definitely recreate that" Rami declared.

Joe's eyes lit up at the prospect of doing something so chaotic as Lucy turned to Erin, "Do you have a bike, jump rope and skateboard?" 

Erin laughed, then upon seeing the trio in front of her not joining in, realized they were serious, and quickly swallowed her laughter as she cleared her throat.

"We definitely do but your 'meeting'," Erin put air quotes around meeting, knowing full well it was an excuse for them to fuck around and do stupid shit like this for the rest of the day, "with Ivy is in like, two minutes and she'll be so pissed if she misses out on that." 

Erin paused, eyes raised up and to the right as if she could look right through the floor to where Ivy was. "Honestly, if you propose the idea to Ivy right away, you guys could discuss logistics for this week and build that at the same time." 

Rami nodded once in understanding, "Good call, she's always been a fan of multi-tasking anyway." 

Erin laughed, "Yeah, remember when she was just starting this foundation? She had so much to remember and do, and we came in one day and she was grouting one of the bathrooms, on the phone with a sponsor and was sending out a mass email asking for volunteers all at the same time?"

Joe and Lucy exchanged looks as Rami and Erin chuckled over a memory that went right over their heads.

Lucy spoke up, "Sorry, but you two'll have to explain further. All Rami told me was that he was visiting an old friend and I was on the phone with Joe at the time and he invited himself."

Joe adopted an affronted expression, "Well EX-cuse me for ruining an outing that you were already barging in on!" 

Lucy gave his shoulder a gentle shove with a twinkle in her eye,  "Maybe if you didn't have to call me every time you heard a Queen song in public this wouldn't be an issue!" 

Joe opened his mouth to respond when Rami interjected, "Ivy's been my friend for forever. We met doing community theater. She always talked about how it was so hard for kids to get involved in the arts because there was such a sense of elitism attached to it, she wanted to make it more accessible to kids."

He paused and took in the scene around him, people running back and forth through the lobby, calling out to each other, going over song ideas, running lines, carrying pieces of props back and forth, collaborating on beats, and that was just in the lobby. He knew that further into the building they'd discover recording studios, blackbox spaces, auditoriums, dance studios, a gym and a living space that had been added on after Ivy and the other co-founders had been caught camping out in one of the auditoriums after a particularly grueling event planning session for the foundation. 

Erin picked up where Rami had trailed off, "And not just things like acting and singing. All the backstage work, the stage managers, the people who mix music, who build sets, who do special effects makeup, all the non-acting and singing jobs, she wanted to shine a light on them too. So, she started this foundation to give kids a chance to explore all the options the arts provide. She likes having individuals who have 'made it' come in from time to time. Either to visit, maybe talk to the kids, teach some classes, give a lecture or even, in this case, just to hang out."

"I think she mainly wanted me to come so she could meet Lucy since I wouldn't shut up about her every time we talked." Rami admitted with a grin as Lucy threw her head back and laughed.  

Erin glanced between them, "So, how long have you two been dating?" 

Lucy glanced at Rami, "About a year now."

"But it feels like forever." Rami quickly added as he squeezed Lucy into his side and planted a kiss on to the top of her head.

"Oh that's disgusting. Get out of here with that shit." Erin said as a smile broke over her face.

"They're always that cute. Frankly, I'm getting fed up with their happiness." Joe said as he smiled at Erin and rolled his eyes. 

"Well, what about you, Joseph? You dating anyone?" Erin crossed her arms as she directed her piercing gaze onto him.

"Ah, well, no. Not at this time. I don't know, guess I haven't found the right person." Joe shrugged as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Hmm. Tell me Joe, how do you feel about women who can grout a bathroom AND ask for money all at the same time?" Erin jokingly said as Rami snapped his gaze over to Joe.

"Holy shit, dude. No, this could be perfect."

Lucy, smelling a scheme and wanting in immediately, turned to Rami and Erin, "What do you mean?" She shook her head, "You know what? Doesn't matter. I'm in."

Joe, looking very much like a panicked gazelle after realizing lions hd him surrounded, looked between the three of them, "I'm not sure I like where this is going."

Erin completely ignored him as she turned her full focus onto Rami and Lucy, "They would be perfect together. I mean, Rami, you know Ivy. Tell me they wouldn't be so cute together." 

Lucy scrunched her nose as she pondered what Erin had just said, "Wait, is she the one with the nose piercing?"

"YES." Rami turned to Erin, "Ivy's FaceTimed me a few times and she's met Lucy that way."

Lucy's eyes lit up, "Oh my god, she's beautiful. Yeah, they would be such a good match!"

"CAN I GET A SAY IN THIS PLEASE?" Joe interjected as he waved his arms over his head to get the groups attention. 

Everyone's gaze snapped to Joe and Erin had the decency to look guilty, "Sorry. I got carried away. Ivy just," her eyes flitted around as she tried to pick the best words to describe her friend's situation, "She doesn't think she deserves to date nice guys so her past few boyfriends have all been assholes. I just really want her to date someone good and if Rami and my new bestie Lucy think you're a good guy well...I trust them." Erin said as she shot Joe a half smile.

Joe crossed his arms, "Alright, that's...sweet. But still. I'd at least like to meet this girl before you guys pick out rings for us."

Erin's phone vibrated at that moment and risked a glance down at it. She looked up to announce, "Well, luckily you'll be able to meet her in a few minutes, Ivy's current meeting is wrapping up in two minutes. So, get ready to meet your future wife." she joked as Joe rolled his eyes and Lucy snickered. 

"You guys can take a seat while you wait. I should probably actually go do my job." Erin said begrudgingly as she trudged back behind her desk.

They all offered their thanks and wandered over to the chairs in front of Erin's desk. The desk was situated in the middle of two staircases that came down from the second floor. Joe could see glass-walled office spaces, each outfitted with a dry erase board, tables, chairs, charging ports and a mini fridge. 

Rami nudged him as he pointed to the first room at the top of the right staircase, "You see the girl writing at the whiteboard? That's Ivy." 

Joe followed his finger as his eyes swept over the room noticing the two men and four women. Only one of the women was scribbling something onto the white board, her back facing the lobby. 

She was wearing a pair of denim cutoff shorts, a white t-shirt and converse. She spun around and her hair followed as she opened her mouth in a silent laugh. 

Her smile made the whole room brighter, everyone seemed more jovial as she talked and gestured with her hands to drive her point home. 

Joe couldn't take his eyes off her. 

Lucy looked over at Joe to make a comment about what his first impression was of his future girlfriend but when she saw the dazed look that had come over him, she pressed her lips together and knew that it wouldn't be "maybe" they'd start dating but "when" they started dating. 

Rami raised his hand in an enthusiastic wave to try to get Ivy's attention. Her eyes flicked toward the movement then away. A second later they clapped back onto her friend as her face broke open into a wide smile as she waved wildly back. 

"Gang, let's wrap up this meeting, Rami's here and I want to hang out with him." Ivy announced to the room. Everyone agreed and started gathering their things.

"I didn't know Rami was coming to visit, did he bring his girlfriend?" Ava, their HR Wonder Woman/personal trainer, was peering down into the lobby waving wildly back at Rami, who at this point, was jumping up and down.

Ivy glanced up from her laptop as she saved her notes and snorted at Rami's actions, "Yeah. I told him if he didn't bring her here, to his humble beginnings, I'd track her down myself and force her to come visit." 

Charlotte, their finance wizard and the one to corral board members, barked out a laugh, "Yeah, that would look really good for us. 'Local Non-Profit Investigated for Kidnapping Charges.' That would really help us get more money."

"Better than us bamboozling funds." Adam, their music mixing master, pointed out as he pushed Ivy's cup of iced coffee closer to her so she wouldn't forget it. Ivy smiled her thanks as she took a sip.

"Yeah, better to explain a kidnapping charge than doing weird shit with people's money like buying furry costumes or having wild orgy parties." Sean, their 'Bob the Builder' of set designs, chimed in as he stood by the conference room door, sticking a pencil behind his ear.

Gracie, their social media coordinator looked up from her phone, "Why would we be having wild orgies?"

"Well, wasn't Dionysus the god of theatre? He was also the god of parties and all things hedonistic so...orgies." Sean offered as if that all made perfect sense.

"Also, it's a well known fact, all theatre kids are horny on main so it probably wouldn't be a huge shock to most people." Ivy said as she took another sip of her drink. 

"As much as I love talking about orgies and kidnapping others with you guys, Ivy you better get down there. All three of them are jumping up and down and waving now." Ava offered from her vantage point by the window.

"All three? I thought it was just Rami and Lucy?" Ivy's brow crinkled as she walked over to the window.

"There's a third guy. He seems pretty cute in a 'basic white boy' way."

"Oh my god. Ivy. Date him. He sounds like he’s just your type." 

"God, Adam, you act like I've never dated anyone, ever."

"Well, no one good at least." Charlotte mumbled under her breath as she continued furiously typing.

"CHARLOTTE." Ivy screeched as she whirled around to face the room at large. 

Gracie threw up her hands, "Someone had to say it! It might as well be Charlotte! She's known you the longest."

"Yeah, but-I mean, this is-c'mon guys!" Ivy knew her voice was getting whiny but she couldn't help it. Her friends always ganged up on her about her dating life and she really didn't want to hear it. Especially when she was so close to getting out of work for the rest of the day.

Adam threw an arm around Ivy's shoulder as he passed by her on his way to the door, "Now, now everyone. Just because Ivy's never dated a good man before doesn't mean she ever will. It will just take an act of god to make that happen." 

"Fuck. Off."

Adam planted a loud kiss to Ivy's cheek as he scurried out of the room with Sean following close behind, "LOVE YOU IVY."

Ivy rolled her eyes and turned to the remaining women in the room. 

"Is my taste in men really that bad?" 

"YES." 

Ivy winced as all three of them answered with no hesitation.

Charlotte sighed as she adjusted one of her dreads, "It's because we love you that we say these things. We want what's best for you."

Gracie and Ava nodded in agreement as Ivy slumped against the window and groaned.

"I know you do. I can't help it! Every time a guy is actually nice and sweet I get so scared he'll leave me that I just...go for the exact opposite so I don't get hurt."

There was a long pause then Gracie blinked, "That's...a lot to unpack."

"You're telling me." Ivy mumbled as Ava wrapped her in a hug.

"We still love you but maybe, just try going for an actual nice guy. Just this once. I know I'm just a simple lesbian but I'm sure there has to be a nice guy out there right?"

"Do you really believe that?" Ivy leaned her head on Ava's shoulder. 

"No, not at all. I just thought it would make you feel better. Did it?"

"Well, it did until you told me you lied."

"Hmm. Yeah. My bad. Well! Go get 'em." Ava said as she patted Ivy on the back and swept out the door.

Ivy rolled her eyes, "Will I ever hire or befriend people who aren't a giant pain in my ass?" 

"Not likely."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence Char."

"No problem. NOW GO. See your friend. We love you."

Ivy waved as she walked out the door toward her office, thumbing through her phone till she got to Erin's contact information.

As she stepped inside her office, the light coming in from her bay window almost blinded her as she dropped her stuff onto her desk. 

"Are you coming down or what? You told me you'd be down like, three thousand hours ago."

"Your perspective of time is a little worrisome."

"ARE YOU COMING DOWN OR WHAT."

"Yes, oh my god, I just wanted to let you know that I'm dropping my stuff off in my office then I'll be down and I would be oh so grateful if you'd rely that information to Rami, Lucy and Joe."

"Yeah, I can do that. By the way, Joe? Very cute. Good sense of humor. Single. Seems like he'd have a nice dic-"

"ERIN."

"WHAT. I'm just letting you know what I've observed so far!"

Ivy rolled her eyes, "I don't even want to know how you got to that last conclusion but honestly he's probably not even going to be interested in me."

Erin scoffed, "Want to fucking bet? He was definitely checking you out earlier. Mayhaps someone has a crush..." She singsonged into the phone as Ivy's heartbeat sped up against her will. 

The idea of someone like Joe having a crush on her was, well, too much for her to even consider. It was easier to go for guys that she really didn't like or who liked her more than she liked them. That way, she never got hurt. She never had to spend another night crying over some guy who didn't give her the time of day. No one was disappointed when they finally got to know the real her. She could keep her focus on her work, which is where her focus should be.

Not on some cute, seemingly nice guy who might break her heart.

But some nights, some nights she couldn't help but wish she had someone she really, genuinely liked holding her close.

She started to imagine flirting with Joe. Going on dates with him. Holding his hand. Kissing him. She felt a warmth start to seep through her stomach as she imagined him kissing her, then moving down to kiss her neck, her chest, her-

"...ASS down here so I can prove to you I'm right." Ivy refocused her eyes on her reflection in her dark monitor screen as Erin's command broke through her thoughts. "Alright, alright, tell them I'll be down in, like, 30 seconds."

She hung up and took a deep breath. She ran her fingers through her hair and walked towards the door. 

She paused, turned back and rifled through the drawer of her desk. She quickly applied some lipstick and sprayed a cloud of perfume in front of her, waited a beat, then walked through it.

It couldn't hurt.

~~~

Erin, shaking her head, lowered the phone from her ear and looked at the trio in front of her, still waving like those on a dock waving to an ocean liner on its maiden voyage. "She's running to her office real quick and then she'll be down, promise."

Rami lowered his arm as Lucy shook her's out, "Yeah, I saw her race off." Lucy nodded in agreement and spared a glance at Joe who kept running a hand through his hair, a sure sign he was nervous.

"So, I saw some guy kiss Ivy's cheek, did she start dating someone without us knowing or..." Lucy trailed off as she subtly flicked her eyes over to Joe then back to Erin. Erin's eyes widened in understanding and inclined her head to let Lucy know Don't worry, I get what you're trying to do and we're on the same team. Lucy nodded once and in that moment, an alliance was born.

Rami couldn't tell what had tectonic shift had just transpired between Erin and Lucy but decided to stay out of it.

Shaking her head, Erin replied, "No, that's just Adam. He's known Ivy for forever. Everyone here is pretty affectionate with each other but, like I said earlier, Ivy's single," she emphasized as Joe's hand stilled in his hair, "and Adam has a serious boyfriend who's usually hanging around here." Lucy nodded knowingly as Joe felt a weight being lifted from his shoulders. 

He didn't like to admit it, but the idea of Ivy having a boyfriend had caused him to deflate, just a little.

"Speak of the fucking devil," Erin muttered, then louder, "THERE YOU ARE. I was about to send out a search and rescue mission for you." 

"Well call it off. I'm here. And it wasn't that long!" Ivy said defensively as she trotted down the stairs. 

Erin noticed how Ivy's hair looked liked it had been brushed, the waves were softer. The woodsy scent of Ivy's favorite perfume reached Erin's nostrils as Ivy gave her a quick hug. When she clocked the freshly applied lipstick it all clicked. She smiled as she realized that Ivy must have taken a while to freshen up because she was trying to impress Joe. 

"What the hell are you smiling about?"

"What? Can I not smile?"

"I mean, you can. But it was weird to come out of the hug and have you just smiling at me. It's a little creepy." 

"Well fine. See if I ever smile at you again." Erin bumped her hip against Ivy's as Ivy turned to greet Rami. 

"WELL, WELL, WELL. If it isn't Mister 'I Won an Oscar So I'm Too Good For My Non-Oscar Winning Friends'."

"IT'S NOT LIKE THAT."

As Ivy continued to tease Rami and meet Lucy in person, Joe got a chance to look at Ivy up close. He noticed she had freckles covering her cheeks and nose he hadn't noticed before. Her lips were full, her eyes bright as she laughed at something Lucy had said. Her smile was even more radiant up close. She was short, shorter than Joe and he wanted nothing more than to wrap an arm around her shoulder and tuck her into his side. 

Ivy shifted and Joe noticed how the muscles of her thigh moved underneath her skin and wanted nothing more than to feel those thighs wrapped around his head as he went down on her. Feeling them squeeze the sides of his head as he wrapped one hand around her thigh while the other hand teased her entrance...

"Joe? JOEY. Come back to us." Erin laughed. 

Joe snapped back to attention and saw a bemused Ivy staring back at him with her hand outstretched. 

"I promise I don't have cooties."

Joe shook his head as he mentally kicked himself, "Yeah, no, I'm so sorry, uh, I'm Joe! It's nice to meet you." 

"Nice to meet you too. A little disappointed you didn't bring the cardboard cutout of Ben."

"That's going to follow me until the day I die isn't it?"

"Well yeah. Especially since I'm assuming you'll be buried together." 

Joe laughed and Ivy smiled at him.

Erin and Lucy exchanged looks as they both noticed their hands were still connected. 

Rami cut in, "Ivy, we saw these kids roll past on a scooter with a hover board attached and it reminded me of the time we did the same thing but with-"

"-with a bike and a skateboard, hell yes!" Ivy exclaimed as she let her hand slip from Joe's as she turned to meet Rami's excited expression. 

Joe flexed his hand and realized how cold it was. 

"I know where all that stuff is, follow me." She linked arms with Rami and started skipping down the hall with him. Lucy laughed while Joe, not one to be left behind, linked his arm through Lucy's and started skipping after them.

"Soooo," Lucy said as they followed the laughing pair down a hallway lined with vintage concert posters and records with doors that led to recording studios, "what do you think of your new girlfriend? Is there a spark?" 

"I think she's really great." Joe offered with a noncommittal shrug, "I don't really know what else to say beyond that, but I think we're going to get along well." 

"Do you think she's pretty?" Lucy pressed, never one to beat around the bush.

Joe took a second and finally decided that with Lucy, the truth was always better. She would find out anyway, "Yeah, I do." Hoping the forced casual tone of his voice would downplay how beautiful he really thought she was.

Lucy nodded while on the inside she was jumping up and down and cheering. 

All the while, Erin watched them receding down the hallway and spoke to herself, as if she were a Greek chorus of one, "I give them a week before they can't keep their hands off of each other."

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Joss! You’ve been accepted to play Sofia Costello. Your request to change her FC to Ester Exposito has also been approved. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: I’m a big fan of the way you fleshed out Sofia. Choosing an applicant was near impossible for me, but all of the headcanons and mannerisms that you incorporated into your writing really screamed ‘Sofia’ to me. I can’t wait to see her on the dash! - Admin V

IC INFORMATION —

CHARACTER DESIRED

Sofia Costello

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS

The easiest way to find Sofia Costello in any room is to yell, “fuck Luca Costello” and see who comes out ready for a fight. Of course, then you’ll have to deal with her temper. She’s hardly the family spitfire, but when it comes to her twin, she’ll take on all comers. Raised from birth with a built-in best friend and tormenter (and tormentee, it really depended on the day), the twins were partners in crime, which perhaps suits them for their current life choices.

Sofia loves fiercely, and in an uncomplicated manner. She leaves the angst, pain, and doubt to her siblings and simply embraces everything and everyone she chooses to let into her inner circle. She’s a terrible poker player, wearing her heart on her sleeve, but she’d rather be known for passion than restraint. That being said, she isn’t sweet or naive or even remotely angelic. She’s a manic pixie nightmare, descending upon her family with loud exortations about how bad traffic is and how many lattes she’s already had, demanding hugs and kisses and perching on the edge of her father’s chair when she wants something from him. She lives by the unofficial 11th and 12th commandments: “don’t get caught” and “deny everything”.

While the tabloids always tried to paint her as a spoiled little rich girl and a wild partier, they missed the more important details. Like that she never got below an A in anything, was captain of her fancy school’s cheerleading squad, and got accepted to every school she applied to without even having to ask her father to make a donation. None of that mattered, of course, she and Luca had been caught out and about at any number of wild parties, so she was Princess Sofia to her classmates, and a trainwreck-to-be to the media. It turned out it was Luca who actually went down the rabbit hole, though Sofia went right along with him, prepared to follow him anywhere. Short of pushing Juliet down a flight of stairs (okay, it happened, but it was a very short flight and Juliet shouldn’t have been standing so close to the edge), Sofia could never find a way to dig Luca out of the hole he’d made for himself, so she did the next best thing: she stayed. She turned down every Ivy League school and went to the University of Chicago instead, majoring in history, which everyone said was a total waste of time. She emerged with a degree and no plans about what to do yet except maybe grad school, but the wedding has meant she’s had to shift all her goals. She can’t just convince Luca to move to Paris with her for four years while she gets a PhD or something, she has to stay to look out for him.

Sofia fell in love with fashion due to her obsession with her dead mother’s photographs. She rarely asks about her, and never knew the dead woman in the pictures, but Guinevere had a wicked sense of style, and Sofia picked up where her mother left off. Of course, Cassandra also has impeccable, if slightly more assertive tastes, and Sofia has moulded the two influences into her own aesethetic. She gained her history honors degree by writing about the history of corsetry during World War I, and would like to pursue an education in the history of fashion. She’s too short to be a model, and she has no interest in it anyway (and judges her sisters-in-law to-be for their career choices), but she always insists on attending fashion week and wearing a mixture of designer and vintage finds.

Seeing her brother break his heart over and over again with Juliet, Sofia has vowed to never fall in love, and instead keeps a string of boys that she briefly entertains before casting them aside, though she always makes it clear that she has no interest in a relationship. That being said, she has a variety of unrequited, and unspoken, crushes on the men that surround her family, like Benjamin, Mateo, and even Mason, who she remembers mostly as Juliet’s much nicer and very handsome older brother.

While she may be the youngest in her family, Sofia happily bosses all of them around, though it’s not always successful. She’s talked her way onto sets at Mia’s production company, into Leon’s club, and pretty much anywhere she wants to when it comes to Ezra, who everyone acknowledges is a soft touch. The only place she stays out of is her father’s business, since she has never had any interest in it, viewing it much the same way as her friends’ fathers, who commit acts of white collar crime on the stock market. She rarely judges her family for anything other than their sartorial choices or their sexual partners, which she happily comments on despite the rank impropriety.

The lowest point of her life so far has been the situation with Luca. While she’s normally almost preternaturally happy, her rage has done nothing to stop events from happening. It’s the first thing she’s ever really needed that hasn’t happened. It’s making her more and more frantic, and it’s gotten to the point where she’s willing to simply sabotage the wedding to stop it from happening, though she suspects there’s very little she could do to achieve that. She’s tried to talk Luca around, and has had to get multiple bus and train tickets refunded, though her plans have never really gone beyond “run away” and “protect Luca from the family bullshit”. Her brother and her breathe in sync if they fall asleep together, he seems to her as much a part of her as her arm or her eye, and she has felt like she was losing him for the past five years, never more so than now. While she hides it from him, she worries about what happens next.

WRITING SAMPLE

It was late, though the lights downtown meant it was never really dark. Sofia’s heels, so high that she didn’t so much walk as tip-toe, clicked along the pavement unevenly. That may have been because she was drunk. Well, tipsy at least. It wasn’t her fault. Bad news required the kind of support that only alcohol could provide. She’d had a mission tonight: get fucked up. Mission: accomplished. Of course, she hadn’t really figured out what to do after she’d completed the mission. It certainly didn’t make the whole “engagement” go away. Who the fuck were the Sinclairs anyway? She knew about them in the way that you knew about other rich people in Chicago who were also not necessarily on the right side of the law, and there were parts of town she wasn’t supposed to go to, not to mention that Paisley and Paityn Sinclair were always getting put up on magazine covers and billboards and other ridiculous nonsense. During the scary times she’d been told she had to go out with a bodyguard a few times, but that hardly counted. Her friend Anouk was the Turkish ambassador’s daughter, she had bodyguards all the time. So why, all of a sudden, did their families require some sort of bizarre merger that required Luca to marry one of the peppermint-stick girls whose family had clearly married their cousins a lot for their hair to be red?

“Fucking MEDIEVAL BULLSHIT!” She addressed a statue and informed it of her opinion. It didn’t answer back, but really, what was it going to do but agree with her anyway? Who still had arranged marriages? What was this, 16th century Italy? Was her father going to have her inspected to ensure she was still a virgin before marrying her off to a … her mind couldn’t come up with a decent enough comparison. “A fucking wool merchant!” She flung the remainder of the bottle that she vaguely remembered taking from the club. Or had it been a hotel bar? Or someone’s loft? It was more than a little blurry. She was going to do something about this. Something other than tell her dad to stop being an archaic tool of the patriarchy, which hadn’t really had any effect, and beg her mother to make her dad see sense, which also hadn’t worked. She’d even threatened to flunk out of school, go work as a porn star at Mia’s studio, develop an embarrassingly public coke habit, and possibly reveal all their secrets to Wikileaks (which she wouldn’t really have done, not that she knew anything anyway, but her dad still told her off for). She was running out of threats that she could reasonably pull off. Her education hadn’t really prepared her for this.

Without meaning to, her heels, which had been fashioned to look like hooves with cute furry boots up to the knee, and which came with an adorable horned head piece and mitts that had been sewn to match the boots, clippity clopped all the way to the nearest building, which just so happened to be Luca’s home, her breath coming in little white puffs from the cold. Her epic bar-crawl (had there been an art show in there as well? she felt like she may have bought an entire series of graphically nude and obscene sculptures and put it under her dad’s name) hadn’t been planned around ending up at his place, but it never really had to. Luca was her magnet, her compass point, the centre of her maze. She circled him but always found her way back, no matter how far she went.

Using her passkey, she trotted into the elevator, where a series of former frat-douches turned financiers stared at her with a mixture of interest and contempt. “Why are you dressed like a goat?” One of them, she didn’t care which, they all looked the same, had spoken. She wasn’t sure exactly how long ago, it had taken her mind a while to translate from douche into English. Giving him her most withering stare, which she’d copied from her mother whenever someone suggested she sit near the kitchen at a restaurant, she spat, “I’m a fucking faun, dumbass.” Clopping out of the elevator, she flipped the snorting party the finger.

Collapsing against Luca’s door, the hoof-heels failed her and she fell more than walked in. “Fuck me, what a stupid fucking place to put the floor.” Since getting up seemed like more work than she was capable of at the moment, she crawled from the entrance down through the apartment, complaining not particularly quietly about how Luca needed to get an open-design place for this exact reason, before finding his bedroom (it only took three tries). Dragging herself onto his bed, she noted that he was still passed out in it, but she’d known, even if she didn’t know how, that he’d be there somewhere. “Wake up, butthead, I can’t get my boots off.” He snorted and rolled over, still asleep. Giving up, Sofia tossed the mitts and the horned head piece aside and settled into bed next to him, curling up and pulling the covers over him so that he was tucked in better. Her own body had pinned the covers around him, so he looked like a boy-shaped burrito, but he was her boy-shaped burrito. “You’re not allowed to complain if I sleep in my boots, okay? Okay, good, we agree.” Patting his head, she lay there for a moment, studying him, trying to figure out what piece of him broke and why it hadn’t broken inside her. “Can’t you just take the piece from me?” Sniffling, she pressed her face into his pillow and left long mascara tracks on it, falling asleep like that, her hand tightly caught in her brother’s, as if she could hold him together in the places where he’d cracked.

[rightfulcaptxin]

Five times + duty (from UF Li)

Send me ‘five times + a word’ and I’ll write a drabble about our muses based on it. | Not Accepting | @anhonourablecaptain

Edward Teach knew a thing or two about duty.

It had, once upon a time, been his duty to attend frustratingly dull social gatherings with equally frustratingly dull snobbish fools who thought themselves far above the working classes, and grimaced if a servant so much as breathed on their fancy garments. It had been his duty to smile politely and spend a few minutes with each guest, and feign interest in their activities or recent achievements. It had been his duty to wear beautifully fine yet incredibly uncomfortable clothes, with too-high collars and glittering embroidery, and listen to them gush over how handsome he was becoming, and more endless, empty flattery that had one sole purpose: to persuade his family that he should marry their insipid daughters and grant them acess to his wealth. 

When he had thrown down his family name and taken up as a pirate, he had promised himself never again.

Yet, here he was, several years later and once again adorned in fine, uncomfortable clothes, surrounded by ignorant snobs at a dull social event. Duty, he mused, could really be a bitch. 

A hand at his back brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned to find Liam at his side - his Liam, his beloved prince, the only person in the world who could have persuaded him to attend the royal banquet. It hadn’t been his pleading words - ‘but I want you to be there at my side!’ - that had convinced him, or his promises that he could slip away at every available opportunity. In fact, it was knowing how happy Liam would be if he said yes that actually convinced the word out of him. 

And, he supposed, as the prince’s husband he should probably make an appearance. Yes. Duty was a bitch.

—

I am a prince of the realm. It is my duty to marry and produce an heir.

The sound of breaking glass snapped through the tense silence of the cabin, followed by the gentle tinkling as fragments rained down onto the floor. A few splinters of wood marked the exact point where the glass had struck the wall before it shattered. 

Sat behind his desk, Edward flexed his fingers and glared at the imperfection he had created. A bottle of rum sat at his elbow, still corked and - amazingly - still full. The alcohol could easily soothe his anger if he let it, numbing him of the betraying emotions he fought so hard to bury deep. This time, however, he found himself wanting to savour it. This bitterness gave him purpose. 

“Fuck your duty.” He hissed to the empty room, his hand balling into a tight fist. He slammed it down against the desk and pushed back his chair, letting it topple backwards as he strode to the windows at the rear of his cabin. He gazed out at the churning waters beyond, in the direction of the port they had so recently left. 

In the fading light of the evening, he could see the castle up on its hill overlooking the ocean, and felt a fresh wave of emotion reach up with icy fingers to claw at his throat. Buried within the layers of anger lay the foundations of a broken heart. 

That was something he couldn’t forgive.

—

“Why on earth did you agree to this?” Ed sighed, dropping onto the plush couch gratefully. He had looked rather more put-together only hours ago - a reasonably smart attire, his hair groomed and styled into a neat tail. Now his shirt was untucked and sleeves rolled to the elbows, his long waistcoat hung open, and his neat tail had dissolved into a haphazard attempt at order. 

“They are my brother’s children, Ed.” Liam looked over to his husband with a fond smile of amusement. “Killian needed five minutes of peace. Given all that he has done for me in the past, I felt it only right to do something for him in return.”

“Then buy him a gift.” Ed barked back, dragging a hand through his hair - and thus messing it up even further. “Do not offer to babysit his hellish offspring.” With a laugh, Liam rose from his chair, abandoning the documents he was studying for the realm, and sat beside his husband on the couch. He took one of Ed’s hands in both of his own, appreciating yet again how lucky he had been to find this man.

“You know they only pester you so much because they look up to you, and adore you.” Liam told him, bringing Ed’s hand to his lips. “The famous pirate who gave up his freedom to become a king consort.”

“I did not give up my freedom.” Edward corrected, gifting Liam with one of his rare, gentle smiles. “I merely honoured a duty to my own heart, which demanded I be at your side for what eternity remains to us.” He leant in then, and brushed a kiss across his husband’s lips. He would have lingered longer, but for the sound of many running feet in the hall beyond the room. “Speaking of duty…” He murmured with a groan. “Your brother owes me for this. Be sure to let him know.” As the door opened and children tumbled over one another into the room, Liam grinned.

Watching Ed push to his feet and chase them from the room - much to their delight and enjoyment - Liam smiled to himself. “Oh, I will, love. I will.”

—

It was often like looking in a mirror - so much so that it was, quite frankly, a little frightening. 

The prince stood upon the balcony that overlooked the castle’s private harbour, his gaze upon the two beautiful ships that called it home. Shielded from public eye by the sharp cliffs and walls that kept it private, it was the perfect place to house one of the most infamous vessels in their world. Not that it is much of a secret, really. If there was a soul in this kingdom who didn’t know their prince - their king - had married a pirate, he would be surprised.

“I had thought I might find you here.” He stepped up beside the prince, and gave him a side-long glance. Davian now stood to his shoulder, with some years of growing yet to come. If he continued at this rate, he would end up taller than both of them. “Your father said you seemed troubled earlier.”

“Troubled?” Davian scoffed a little. “I suppose that is one word for it.” His gaze remained fixed upon the ships below, his hands resting upon the balcony’s wall. Edward waited, patiently. Though he looked shockingly similar to him - a feat which had taken some considerable planning on Liam’s part - he was very much his father’s son. If he wanted to know what troubled him, he would only have to wait. “How did you do it?” Davian turned to him then, and Ed saw in his eyes the same kind of conflicting emotions he had seen in the mirror some years ago. “You gave up this kind of life once. You chose to live free out on the seas. You were happiest there, right? So how did you come back to it?”

Ah. There was the issue. Edward smiled easily - it truly was like stepping back into the past, and seeing a young Edward Thatch questioning how he wanted to live his life. “Well, that is easy enough to answer.” He touched a hand to Davian’s shoulder, steering him around to look again at his ship. “That life was what suited me best. It still does, even to this day. Your father knows that. I will always be that pirate, always drawn to the ocean. But no, Davian, I was not happiest there. I was once, for the longest time, but now… now I am happiest wherever my family is. If that is here, in this castle, then so be it.”

He turned the boy to him now, both hands settling on strong shoulders. “You are a prince, Davian. You have a duty to your kingdom and your people.” The prince’s shoulders slumped with resignation, and his eyes lowered. Edward smiled again. “But more importantly, you have a duty to yourself. If you wish to sail the seas as I did, if that is what will make you happy, then you must do it.” The boy’s head snapped up, surprised, and Ed laughed. “Did you think your father and I did not know? You have played at pirates since you were old enough to walk, Davian. The sea is in your blood.” He paused, and nodded at his ship. “It is about time she saw open water again.”

“Wait.” Davian looked from him to the ship, and back again. “You mean to give me the Revenge? But-,”

“I mean to let you borrow her.” Edward corrected with a grin. “After all, you will be coming home between voyages.” His voice lifted a little at the end of the last sentence, the statement becoming almost a question. Davian looked up at him, and smiled as he nodded. Then he stepped forward, and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

“Thank you, Papa.”

—

He had expected neglect.

In his mind he had always pictured the gardens choked with weeds, and the grand gates bound with twists of ivy. He had seen shuttered windows gone green with moss, and cracked paint upon the walls. Perhaps that had been merely symbolic of his own abandonment and neglect of his former life? 

The gates had been perfectly polished when he’d approached them, and opened without creak or groan. The gardens, whilst a little wild and disorderly, were still maintained and cared for. The shutters were open; and he could see no cracks in any paintwork. The house, and the estate, were almost as he had left them. Almost. 

He had been no more than fourteen the last time he had stood here, staring up at the grand house that he had been born in. In fact, he had been right in this very spot the day before he had left for good, the afternoon of his grandfather’s funeral. He had often wondered what had happened when he had been discovered missing from his bed. Kidnapped, that was the ruling decision for many years. The young lord, sole heir to an extremely wealthy estate? A prime target, naturally. 

“If you are not ready to do this, we can come back another time.” Liam’s smooth, comforting voice drew him from his thoughts. He could feel the other man’s presence at his side, though he didn’t take his gaze from the house before them. 

“No. It is time.” He drew in a breath, steadying himself, and took a step towards the grand entrance. Before he could even make it to the steps, however, the door swung open, and a tall, thin man emerged. He was older than the last time Edward had seen him, his hair long gone to silver, but he still wore the beautifully cut tailored coat that had been part of his uniform for as long as he could remember. “Robert?”

“It cannot be…” Robert’s eyes widened, his lips parting in an expression of surprise. “My eyes deceive me.” A hand came up to his heart, surprise and disbelief rapidly changing into delight. “Young Master! Can it be you have returned?”

Edward felt a sudden pang of powerful emotion - enough to choke the words from his throat and sting the backs of his eyes. Robert, the man who had been loyal servant and companion to his grandfather since before his birth, the man who had helped to raise him, who had been so very, very fond of him, and who he had been so very fond of - the man whose surname he had taken for his own when leaving behind his old life to forge himself a brand new one. 

“I have indeed, old friend.” Robert rushed to him then, forgetting all rules of station as he took Edward’s hands in his own, before pulling him into a firm embrace. Edward returned it easily, amazed at the realisation of how much he had missed him. 

“I knew you still lived. I knew it. The others may have believed you dead - kidnapped in the night, a joke - but not I. I always told myself one day you would come home.” He pulled back, and stared into Edward’s face. “But… why now? After so long? What brings you home now?”

Stepping back from Robert, Edward turned and held out a hand to Liam, who took it at once. “Duty.” Ed smiled, turning back to Robert. “I want to introduce you to someone, Robert. Someone very important to me.”

[viralgossip]

VIRAL GOSSIP’S TRENDING ARTISTS !!

JUNE 7TH, 2018

wayfinder changed my life 🌠 @lilkayns · 6m with a name like [ REDACTED ] i really have to wonder why people ship them.

follow me ezra!! @ajpeg · 12m the claws are coming out! #TEAM[ REDACTED ]

AH! @pinkangel · 6m who fell harder, [ REDACTED ] from that stage or me when i saw her for the first time?  #toosoon?

NO BETTER WAY TO KICK OFF A NEW EVENT THAN A LITTLE REMINDER AS TO WHO’S ON TOP ↴

#10 IVY SERRANO ( @ivcsisms​ )

proud mom @ivydovey · 16m

#20GAYTEEN is the best thing that’s ever happened to me

Honestly, Ivy is just out here living her best life. In honor of it being Pride month, Serrano took to instagram to reveal that she’s bisexual! Everyone here at Viral Gossip is beyond happy and proud of our #bicon, and we can’t wait to see how many more hearts she breaks since literally anyone is up for grabs right now. Parents, lock up your adult children, no one is safe anymore!  Or maybe everyone is currently safe? After all, Arie Castillo also posted on instagram, although his post announced something different. Castillo posted a picture of our lovely queen, Ivy, as the two decided to take an impromptu trip to Hawaii in honor of Castillo’s birthday. Are the two dating? Will Castillo stop getting passed around from woman to woman? Will Ivy Serrano date me? Let’s hope for the best.

#9 KAILANI ( @kaiilanis​ )

follow me ezra!! @ajpeg · 12m

the claws are coming out! #TEAMKAILANI

Kailani was giving her followers a lot of mixed signals these past few weeks---and we really don’t know what to make of it. It was Kailani, and not ₩ON, who threw shade at Mimi Vang of Afterparty after the Wayfinder Music Festival spectacle, which fueled #KAIWON shippers into a frenzy. Yet, that took place only a few days after Kailani was spotted having a dare-we-say romantic dinner with ₩ON‘s ex, Ruby Rixon. And Afterparty isn’t the only band that the soloist is feuding with---apparently she has beef with Renegade and its lead singer Axel Leitch as well.

#8 ROSE QUARTZ ( @jettblvck​, @corinnasrose​, @jcdehq​, @kitwildc​ )

148 days!  @jetts_wife · 6m

#bett is old news and anyone who thinks #georgett is real is delusional.

If all rumored relationships were true, then Rose Quartz’s frontman Jett Blackwell would be a polygamist. Within only the past two weeks, he’s apparently been in a relationship with Georgia Lane, Beckley Byers, and a ‘mysterious hand’ (no, not his own). Those rumors enough are carrying his entire band. To elaborate, some have been speculating that Jett and Georgia are getting back together after Wayfinder (last week’s news!), even going as far as to say that the mysterious hand is Georgia’s. They all want to know if there’ll be any confirmation on Georgia’s upcoming album… but this isn’t promotion for her. On the other side of the spectrum, people are churning rumors that perhaps Jett and Beckley are getting back together. The two have exchanged flirty tweets and have sent each other pictures no one else has seen (again, no, not that kind, although it would make this a lot more entertaining). Others think that hand belongs to a mystery woman. We personally think that’s just for aesthetic.

#7 ETHEREAL ( @chloehq​, @winnisms​ )

wayfinder changed my life 🌠@lilkayns · 6m

with a name like #CHLACK i really have to wonder why people ship them.

It’s a rough time for fans of America’s favorite girl group. Fans were left reeling when two of the group’s members, Chloe Evans and Winnie Whitmore posted photos to their social media accounts that fueled rumors that both girls were leaving the group. Seeing how Ethereal’s only been around for a little over a year, they might want to change their name to Ephemeral if they’re already having breakup rumors. In other news, it looks like Chloe Evans and Jack Jericho might be a new thing---that will maybe fill our favorite white couple void that we have been feeling since #BELLIAN broke up? 

#6 BETTER NOW ( @greyhtml, @sweetshqs )

#bn2 is coming @ezrasweets · 16m

#gezra runs deep in my veins, this is the cutest shit i’ve ever seen.

It seems that Better Now is trending for every reason except their music. Where is Better Now 2? We see you two in the studio a lot but we don’t see any singles being released. Maybe the two are too preoccupied now in their new relationships, #gezra and #kori, to continue with their careers? After all, Ezra has been spotted all over town with his new girl, Gemma Clarke, that there is no time for him to be writing music. I’d say at least we have frontwoman, Sweets Mori, but she’s busy off “not dating” Afterparty’s own, Christian Kelley, that we’ve hardly ever seen the two bandmates together anymore. Was the band just a ploy to find dates? Is eHarmony.com out and creating a mildly successful alternative band to find your significant other IN? Who knows! We just hope this doesn’t lead to a lot of Misery Business.... see what I did there?

#5 GEMMA ( @gemclvrke )

notice me gemma @gemmastone1 · 12m

ugh can we please stop talking about #gezra and focus on gemstones instead???

You’d think we’d be focusing on Gemma Clarke’s upcoming album, right? Wrong. The focus of the week, or weeks, has been Gemma Clarke’s relationship status. (Where’s Alison Bechdel when you need her?) It seems she and Better Now drummer Ezra Grey have been getting to know each other pretty well, and by pretty well, we mean not even subtly hinting that they’re a couple in public. Anyone who thinks speculation is worth it is sorely mistaken. Anyone who thinks ‘confirmation’ is needed is very similar to Jared (can’t read, possibly 19). Sure, the Snapchat story wasn’t even close to a giveaway, just Gemma banging it out to BN. However, when you’re practically practicing PDA in front of a bunch of photographers and posting photos of yourself with that same person everywhere, if you’re not a couple, things just get weird. Anyway, she has an album coming out.

#4 BELLA CARISI ( @bcllahqs )

LEAVE BELLA ALONE @pinkangel · 6m

who fell harder, bella from that stage or me when i saw her for the first time? #TeamBella #toosoon?

It seems as if Bella has had a lot of ups, and one particular down, since coming off from Wayfinder. As if having to deal with speculation over her relationship from us (we can be pretty brutal) isn’t enough, now other artists are joining in (we’re looking at you Georgia “Doesn’t Stay In Her Own” Lane). But even as she deals with petty drama Bella is still out here giving her fans what they want by dropping a music video for her song ‘Jump’ (available on itunes)! Although, do her fans deserve the treat considering they don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves? Yes, we’re talking about when a drunk fan took it upon themselves to do a meet and greet of their own in the form of pulling our pop princess off the stage and into the crowd, resulting in Carisi having to go to the emergency room for checkups. Guys, we know some times people do things they regret when they’re drunk, but don’t pull people off stage! Especially if you’re not even cute, do you see the type of guys Bella gets? She doesn’t want your Coors beer drinking ass. Okay, that’s enough from us about the situation, but just know that we’re #TeamJacob all the way and we hope that Carisi regains her crown as #1 soon.

#3 ARIE CASTILLO ( @arieisms )

how can i breathe with no arie @punkinking · 6m

imagine fucking your best friends girl and STILL maintaining your friendship #iconic #westanalegend

Arie Castillo... what can we say about Arie Castillo? Or more, what can’t we say about him? There are plenty of things that I can’t say about Arie, even if they are true they’re not meant for a blog like this. So, what has our favorite daddie been up to? Nothing! If you guys want to talk about someone who uses their relationships and connections to get to the top look no further than Arie Castillo! Why is it that Georgia and Bella get their name dragged through the mud when Arie is essentially doing the same thing? It’s 2018, folks! Guys can be fame leeches too! Just look at his twitter, liking tweets mentioning Georgia, and his instagram, where he took a picture with best friend, Killian Law, right after rumors fly that Arie and Killian’s ex, Bella, did the nasty behind his friend’s back??  Yikes! Maybe if Castillo focused solely on his music this man would be #1 some day... nah, that’s not how things work around here. Keep stirring up trouble, Daddy Arie, we like you better when there’s nothing but drama attached to your name! Oh, you’re going to release an album? That’s nice...

#2 GEORGIA LANE ( @georgialanes  )

🍑 @laneegirl · 2m

find yourself a girl who’ll drag you with one hand and promo her album with the next. oh, i did, her name is georgia lane. 

It seems Georgia Lane has been one busy girl (talk about twitter fingers). With her upcoming album releasing soon (pre-order Melodrama now), her shady tweets, and just generally out here living her best life, she’s become someone we’ve slowly began to admire. We love a messy queen. Georgia has been enjoying her time in the spotlight, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. While everyone is quick to jump down her throat for her coming for Arie and Bella, are we really going to pretend that the possibility of Arie hurting Georgia isn’t a thing? Your favorite golden boy might not be so golden after all. We’re all good though, because it seems as if our favorite trouble maker might be making other artists swoon. Yes, we’re obviously talking about the notorious “hands” photos that Rose Quartz aritists Jett Blackwell keeps posting. We just have one question: dude, what’s with the hands? And obviously, is the hand Georgia? Hopefully Blackwell will have a face fetish next and finally post a picture of the mystery girl he keeps hinting at. Our money is on our messy queen, Georgia, because if we’re in love with her than it wouldn’t come as a shock if Blackwell was too. But boys and tweets aren’t the only thing she’s good at, Georgia Lane also released a music video to our new favorite track, Perfect Places! If the rest of Melodrama delivers songs as great as that one then there is no doubt that Georgia holds the new #1 album in her hands. Best Album, anyone?

AND YOUR #1 TRENDING ARTIST IS…

[frostbite883-archive]

Well, either of your ideas that you had written was already written before (albeit differently) by someone else a while back basically (out of the fact that I made questions similar to the ones I gave you which resulted in tumblr bloggers giving me different answers to them). 

gingerly-writing: to this ask I filled out for them. I’m pretty fucking pissed off, and I’ve had my fury checked out by uninvolved parties to make sure it was righteous. It’s righteous.

Me: Not entirely so.

gingerly-writing: First off, feel free not to send people rude-ass messages after they’ve put time and effort into coming up with a response to you? 

Me: The top comment there (the “Well, either of your ideas” comment) wasn’t really the rude comment I typed out. The other one was (which I’m sorry for) which you didn’t copy paste in your third post so other bloggers can see it as that public evidence is vital for context.

gingerly-writing: Also, I thought you were going to use my idea and have me to thank you or something for it when I came up with something like my asks I gave you and something to the equivalent of your “heroes and villains school” stuff before I replied to your ask box sometime ago. Basically, wanting me to give you undeserved credit for my very own idea. I certainly didn’t know you were going to make comments like this either.

So, I actually have a hero and villain school in my own original superhero works, and I did come up with a solution to this one. If you’re writing your own original stuff, please change this up, but if you’re writing fic I don’t mind if you nick it wholesale (as long as you tag me in it! I’d love to read it).

Y’know, for me, this was just background information, but now I kind of want to write a whole book focusing on it.

gingerly-writing: It took me a good 45 minutes to get tumblr to accept my answer to your damn ask, so you’ve just made that a waste of my time.

Me: Maybe. But, from below, you were not bettering the situation.

gingerly-writing: Also, feel free to simply not respond rudely to people’s posts, at all, ever, especially if you were the one who sent the ask in the first place. I didn’t need to know how shit my ideas are, thanks.

Me: Yeah...not really sure where you’re going with this. Are you saying your ideas were horrible because they were based on my idea and how I spread more around on tumblr? Or do you think I’m saying your ideas were horrible because you think I’m somehow saying, implying or thinking that? 

Either why, that comment of yours was not helpful for anyone. Yourself included.

gingerly-writing: Also, as a more general PSA, feel free not to send identical asks to multiple bloggers. 

Me: Not happening. As I can sent any ask at any time by my own free will. As is my right.

gingerly-writing: Seeing someone else answer the same ask really disincentivizes me to answer it, even if it’s in my queue: I worry about stepping on the other responder’s feet, 

Me: Well, to be fair, I can understand the sentiment there. Still, what you say next will lower that sentiment.

and also, it’s motherfuckin rude, you absolute assclown. 

Me: Childish name calling. So...how is it you’re any better with what you had said. What would you benefit from doing that other then venting out your anger. ...Which ironically enough I didn’t even do here and wouldn’t now just so I won’t sink to your level of rudeness. 

gingerly-writing: And if you do send multiple asks and get similar responses, maybe it’s simply because it’s a good fucking idea. If you get different answers, maybe it’s because we’re all different fucking people with awesome different ideas that I’m not sure you deserve.

Me: You know what, I’ll be upfront, and say that I should have not jumped the gun and assumed the worse and could’ve worded my comments better (or just replied privately about the whole matter), you, on the other hand, didn’t do much of anything to resolve the situation as best as you should’ve. In the end, you basically became me. But a little worse.

gingerly-writing

: feel free to block me on the way out

Me: Already did. I’m hoping you don’t treat other bloggers the way you had treated me. Especially if they were nicely bringing up stuff to your attention among other things. And especially, even, in the ‘ginning once they asked you something.

gingerly-writing: #I try to be nice on this site #but I have my limits #and now I'm in rage mode #the asks and the answers #rude #ungrateful

Me: As if you were better with your own fair share of rudeness that might be on the level of hackedmotionsensors’. 

hackedmotionsensors: THIS PERSON IS SO WEIRD!! All they ever do is send these bizarre questions about the DCEU being in MCU!

Me:  Actually, that's not ALL I do. I asked other questions too. And my qs aren't as weird as any one else's either, hacked. Best to not go by assumptions and call people weird for what they say or do. Be it in front of their faces or behind their backs. Also, don't like me or my qs? Then either block me or just blacklist my name.

See ya...never, I guess.

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

Here’s some context on what I was talking about on this post:

TumblrFrostbite: How would you want schools for villains' kids (for Marvel villains' kids, for DC villains' kids, etc) to be ran? And who would you want to run those schools?

gingerly-writing: This is one of those things that I’ve put way too much thought into after you sent this, because I love stuff like this. The question is, are the villains running this school for their kids, or is this something the heroes are putting on to try and rehabilitate the kids while their parents are in prison? I’ll assume the former, but the latter is also super interesting to me.

Disclaimer: this will have a strong DC bent because I have little to no interest in most Marvel villains, whereas I could yack on about DC villains for month. In fact, I might just stick to DC in its entirety because other than Loki (who would be the worst teacher ever, he would encourage so much shenanigans) most of the Marvel villains I know are Nazis or space monsters. Second disclaimer: I’ve watched a lot more animated DC movies and read a lot more fic than I ever have comics, soooooo these depictions might not be comic book accurate. Fanboys, please don’t come for me…but I also don’t really care that much tbh. I like the incarnations that I like. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Actual answer under the cut because this got hella long. Hope you like it!

Sponsor: Lex Luthor. Funds the school, shows up to speech day to give speeches and hand out prizes, gives the brightest and most stable kids scholarships to work at Lex Corp in the holidays. Absolutely 100% has his own ends, no one knows what they are. Chucks buckets of money at every problem. Likes to bring the school up at fancy soirees in front of Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen just to piss them off.

Headmaster: Deathstroke (or rather, Slade from Teen Titans). Has no idea how he wound up with this job, complains about the pay 24/7 even though it’s in the range of millions of dollars a term paid in untraceable cash from 50 different countries. Basically ends up like Gordon Ramsey: threatens to assassinate the teachers and parents all the time, has actually taken out some abusive parents, but is weirdly, gruffly nice to the younger kids. Teachers self-defence to all the non-powered kids and weapons to anyone who’s interested and has the discipline for it. Grudgingly tolerates old man jokes.

Deputy Headmistress: Talia al Ghul. Absolutely terrifies all the older kids, mothers the younger ones. In charge of who graduates and who doesn’t; will only let kids graduate if their villainy won’t critically endanger their own life. Sometimes shows up in the backs of random classes and lurks there for ‘assessments’; shows up in more than 50% of Deathstroke’s classes to harass him about his technique. Keeps a photo of Damien on her desk, refuses to acknowledge it’s there if someone asks about it.

Biology: Poison Ivy. Excellent teacher, surprises both herself and her students at how brilliant she is. Everyone wants to take biology with her even if they have no villainous interest in the subject. Litters her lectures with feminist rants, eco-warrior tirades and talks about LGBT+ rights, will gently but forcefully correct anyone who disagrees with her. Runs a vegetable outside the school and encourages the kids to get closer to nature. Just enough passing knowledge of memes to make her older students roll about with laughter: ‘Batman’s homophobic because he inconveniences me and I’m gay’. PDAs with her girlfriend in the corridors.

Women and gender studies: Harley Quinn Ivy’s girlfriend, part time teacher. Wanted to take up the psychology post, but after she seriously suggested sharing it with Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow) no one wanted to let her anywhere near it. Knows every meme. Gives great relationship advice, will kill anyone’s abusive boyfriend with no questions asked. Brings her hyenas to school in a ridiculously massive handbag. Has her own locker.

Thievery, sneaking around, Gotham safety: Catwoman. Definitely brings in her cats to act as therapy/comfort animals for the kids. Unofficial therapist; absolutely mothers anyone from Gotham, no exceptions. Brings the kids super expensive (stolen) jewellery to wear on prom night and for big dances, charges in secrets about their parents.

Business and Economics, with a side in mind control: Maxwell Lord (in the more business-orientated editions). Keeps to himself, is one of those teachers who doesn’t actually seem to like kids. Always wears a freshly pressed suit. Bit of an asshole. Selina tripped him down the stairs once.

Magic: supposedly taught by Felix Faust, but Klarion enrolled as a student just to show up in his lectures and argue. Every. Single. Point. Magic classes have turned into a magical war several times. They can only get along when someone else turns up claiming magic isn’t real. Faust has a lecture prepared for the non-believers, Klarion has a fireball. Circe often shows up in these classes, ‘borrows’ all the female students for private lessons and turns all the boys into pigs. Pig-Klarion does not appreciate this.

Physics and advanced thermodynamics: Killer Frost. Gets on really well with the Gotham City Sirens; they have cocktail parties in the staff lounge every second Thursday. Is paid by other villains kidnapping Firestorm so she can feed. Absolutely has favourite students and students she hates with a passion; has been known to freeze some students to their chairs in lieu of detention.

Other random villains that show up from time to time: - Flash’s Rogues Gallery. Created the infamous ‘Rogues week’ at the end of the year where every single one of them shows up and helps the students wreak absolute chaos across the school. Can never be stopped from showing up and starting this. Captain Cold comes grudgingly, sits in Slade’s office and has a drink with him; the rest of the Rogues join in with the chaos a bit too enthusiastically. Best week for the seniors. The younger rogues would totally be students and help to smuggle the older ones in for Rogues week.

- Black Manta: shows up sometimes, teaches a few lectures, leaves. Always on super random topics, often tangentially related to his latest evil scheme. The students have a betting pool that reawakens after each visit on how his talk will relate to his next scheme. Literally no one understands why he shows up. Doesn’t get paid, doesn’t seem to enjoy it. ?????? Has great on-land fashion sense though. A lot of the older students have lowkey crushes on him

- Cheetah takes advanced genetics and many other complex of aspects of science. Only shows up to teach special classes for the seniors. High fives Ivy in the corridors.

- Deadshot. Sometimes shows up and interrupts Deathstroke’s guns lessons (poor guy can never teach a lesson in peace), always gets chased out of the school. Gets teary eyed over the young female students kicking ass. Doesn’t seem to do anything useful but somehow gets paid a salary. Sleeps in the gym when he’s on the run from Amanda Wakker/Batman.

- Hugo Strange keeps showing up in disguises and trying to get the psychology job. Last time it was just a fake moustache. What is he even hoping to achieve.

- Merlyn shows up when he’s bored to host archery competitions on the front lawn. Mostly does this when Oliver Queen is in town. Keeps saying he’s going to pick a protégé out of the best archers and never does because the Arrow Clan kids annoy him so much he’s wound up thinking he hates kids. Actually loves kids, pretends to be snooty and above them though. 100% has to prove he’s still the best archer at every competition, even the one for 12 year olds.

TumblrFrostbite: If the super villain academy children, by the time they hit twenty, had to do some VERY impressive villainous in order to graduate, what type of villainous stuff would you have the rookies villains do to not only graduate, but also to be considered as full fledged villains?

gingerly-writing: So, I actually have a hero and villain school in my own original superhero works, and I did come up with a solution to this one. If you’re writing your own original stuff, please change this up, but if you’re writing fic I don’t mind if you nick it wholesale (as long as you tag me in it! I’d love to read it).

My thought was: all villains are going to be different, with different strengths and gifts. Sending them all to, I don’t know, infiltrate an island or fight Black Canary (which no one would win, let’s be honest) doesn’t seem fair on those it doesn’t suit. I was really struggling to come up with something that could work for everyone that didn’t force them to work in a team, because, well…villainous teams never work so well. Too many egos and whatnot.

My solution was: have the kids pick their own challenges. Make it their end of final year project. They submit a fully researched plan, all the way from the developmental stages to the final polished article. Plans like ‘killing Batman’ or ‘blowing up the planet’ are swiftly vetoed, but as long as they’re convincing enough the plan can get as elaborate and dangerous as they like. Half the marks come from the plan itself, and half for execution. Sometimes, my particularly vindictive kiddos make their plan to screw over their nemesis’ plan; I particularly enjoy when their plans are both to screw over each others’ plans. That gets entertaining.

They’re assigned a teacher whose knowledge base best fits with the plan the kid wants to execute, and they submit and resubmit and re-resubmit it to improve and refine their scheme until it’s as perfect as it’s going to get. Then, with no further outside help, they have to execute it.

This method lets you titivate the grand finale to best suit your plot needs. Your character has a serious nemesis? Pitch them against each other. Parental grudge? Make their aim to foil their parent’s plans. Hero that they hate? Plan to ruin their day. Plus, you can shove in bureaucratic nightmares and whatever other problems you can dream up (sabotage, indecision, dreams too grand to execute) into the planning stages.

I’m not sure you could do anything in a school situation to make the outside world consider them ‘real villains’: that would take time, money, and a body count, all things a school probably can’t afford to have on their books, villainous or not. But a huge, large-scale, dramatic graduating plan probably wouldn’t hurt any young villain’s rep!

Y’know, for me, this was just background information, but now I kind of want to write a whole book focusing on it. xx