#pool party bottle label

[coconutmr]

8 Best Pool Party Ideas for Summer Wedding That Your Guests Will Love

Discover 8 amazing pool party ideas for summer wedding celebrations that will leave your guests talking. Make your big day unforgettable with these fun themes.

[strangerstilinski]

𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙞𝙣 𝙗𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮

summary: Steve gives his best friend some admittedly questionable dating advice — but it all works out in the end.

fem!reader ~ just a silly and awkward little meetcute. alcohol consumption. lots of pining. far too many mentions of robin's freckles. and i threw in a silly moment with steve because, well, this is me we're talking about and how could i not? fluff [1.9k]

a/n: baby's first robin fic — wow! as always, please leave some love in the form of comments and feedback if you enjoy xx

Steve has practically sworn on his life that the pick-up line will work on you. On the condition, of course, that Robin delivers it with the right amount of cool nonchalance, with just enough flirty undertone to let you know her intentions.

So, naturally, Robin is repeating the phrase over and over again in her head, because the last thing she wants to do is screw up this monumental opportunity her best friend has practically laid out in front of her. Though, now that she's making her way toward you, she's belatedly realizing that Steve's confidence is almost entirely based on the fact that the line had worked on him when a girl used it at a party. Which was... Decidedly not the most reliable focus group, but she's determined to push past her fear regardless. Plus, Steve has technically shared more words with you than Robin ever has — even if that does equate to a single conversation to Robin's zilch.

Was it against her better judgment to willingly accept dating advice from Steve Harrington? Maybe, but she manages to swallow past her anxiety long enough to push the words out anyway.

"Is this seat taken?"

The words pull you out of where you've been lost in your own head. The music coming from the boombox at the corner of the patio, paired with the raucous laughter from the group splashing around in the pool, had lulled you into a trance-like state.

You were third-wheeling beside Nancy and Jonathan, because you work with them and they're really the only people that you really know at this party. So you might kind of be clinging to them a bit.

You've let your mind wander in an effort to remain unbothered by their flirty laughter, especially with the way that light intoxication and the chaos in the Harrington backyard has slowly brought the volume of their conversation from hushed to outright loud beside you.

Before you knew it, you've spent a good fifteen minutes sipping steadily on your drink and watching the ants march in and out of a gaping crack in the cement in a mindless daze. So, when you hear the question, your head snaps up so hard it nearly gives you whiplash as you focus on the girl standing in front of you.

You've seen her before, but that does nothing to lessen the blow of just how pretty she is. So pretty. Her cheeks are still a little pink from the setting sun, freckles marking her skin everywhere your eyes land as your gaze rakes over her. A wonderfully short pair of denim cutoffs cover the tops of her thighs, and you have a hard time forcing your gaze to continue to travel upward. She's picking at the label on one of the bottles of beer in her hands, both of them dripping with ice water from the cooler she must've snatched them from. Her eyes are wide, a panicked little grimace pulling at her lips before she seems to shake herself off and school her expression into something more relaxed.

"Hey, Robin." Nancy acknowledges sweetly, Jonathan nodding in greeting beside her.

The pretty girl, Robin, smiles in response, albeit tightly, before her attention moves determinedly back to you. She blinks once, twice. Shifts on the balls of her feet and repositions her beers, the glass clinking as they knock together between cold fingers. Her gaze flicks just once to something or someone over your shoulder and she seems to nod to herself once before an adorably nervous little smile pulls at her lips.

You've only ever seen fleeting glimpses of her from afar as she re-shelves movie rentals at Family Video. You'd tried to catch her at the check out counter one time, but Steve Harrington had crushed your hopes the moment he had nudged his co-worker away with a not-so-hushed whisper about letting him test the waters that had your shoulders slumping dejectedly.

When he'd spotted the empty plastic case in your hands, he'd squared his shoulders, a poor attempt at nonchalence, "Gremlins, huh? Uh.. Gun to your head! Who's hotter — Phoebe Cates or Zach Gilligan?"

You'd laughed before correcting him, "Galligan. Gilligan is the guy on the deserted island."

He'd only waved you off, taking the crumpled dollar bills you pulled from your pocket with an oddly pointed comment about how pretty Phoebe Cates was though, right? You blame the way his eyes had flashed with something like excitement when you'd agreed as the reason for your next comment-

"But all time celebrity crush? Gotta be Claudia Wells." You'd paused after the admission before continuing somewhat nervously, "Y'know, from uh, Back To The Future?"

"Oh! The guy's hot mom?"

"Oh, no. His, um, Marty's girlfriend. I just think she's a little softer than Cates. Pretty but still approachable, y'know? Girl Next Door. That kinda thing."

He hadn't looked judgmental, but the moment you'd left the store and the adrenaline brought on by the absurd encounter had receded, you'd been mortified with yourself for being so goddamn transparent. You'd almost gone back a week later, hoping to see the cute mystery girl working the counter again — alone, preferably — but in the end you'd chickened out. Had a friend return your rental for you and you hadn't been back since.. Because she really was nerve-wrackingly pretty, and you were a coward.

But right now she's looking at you expectantly. Waiting.

"Hi?" You manage, words soft and unsure.

The playing field doesn't quite feel even with her standing above you. It's a bit unfair, you think as you blink up at her a little dumbly — It's hard to focus when her attention is on you like this. The sky is a backdrop of pink and orange behind her, stunning little shadows collecting beneath the bridge of her nose and the ridge of her brow. Perfect teeth dig in at the corner of her lower lip with her smile. There's a pale stripe of skin at the base of her middle finger, untouched by the sun and only visible because the chunky ring she's wearing has gone slightly askew against one of the beer bottles in her hand.

"Hi," Robin returns, just the single syllable sounding giddy on her tongue. Blue eyes drop to where you sit on the stone bench beside Nancy, gaze lingering on the bare skin of your thighs beneath your shorts before they travel back up to meet your own again. "Is this seat taken?" She repeats, a little more hopeful this time.

"Oh." It only comes out a little dejected. You look toward Nancy and Jonathan in your peripherals, as if willing another space on the stone bench to suddenly appear — When one doesn't, you sigh. The nearly empty plastic cup in your hands crunches when you clutch it a little tighter to your chest. Your jaw tightens, heel scuffing against cement as you kick your foot out in preparation to rise and relinquish your seat. "No, I mean.. Yeah, you can have it." You nudge Nancy with your arm, chin to your shoulder as you speak a little softer, "I'm gonna go grab a drink and, um.. Mingle."

The look on Nancy's face immediately gives away the fact that she knows there's no way in hell that you plan to do anything of the sort. You are not a person who mingles, Nancy and Jonathan both know this. However, before Nancy can say anything, Robin is speaking again.

"No!" She nearly yells, voice cracking. Her eyes have gone a little wide. She takes a small step closer, one of her knees knocking against your own and effectively impeding your ability to stand.

"..No?" You echo in confusion.

"Um," Robin swallows harshly, curling in on herself just a little. Her face scrunches with embarrassment, her teeth scraping along her lip. She blows out a harsh breath before thrusting one of the beers in her hands toward you, "Here! I, uh, I brought this over for you."

You bend to place your plastic cup beneath the bench in a flash, entirely too eager when you reach out to take the offering. You get a little distracted by the way her fingers glisten with condensation, and your stomach outright flips when they brush your own in the transfer.

"Oh. Thank you," You feel a bit like a schoolgirl with the airy cadence that slips into your voice. Her touch lingers for a moment, blue eyes seemingly glued to the place where your index finger covers her pinky around the neck of the bottle. "You can totally still have my seat," You add quickly, "I don't mind! Like I said-"

"Actually-" Robin interrupts, "Well, actually, I thought- If you want, of course- I thought we could maybe, kind of, in a way, share the seat?" It comes out as a question and only serves to make you more confused. "I thought – again, if you want – I thought I could, possibly, sit.. on your lap. Just, because.. You know, that way you could avoid forfeiting your seat and maybe, you and I, we could get to know each other a little better? But we totally don't have to! That's okay too! Absolutely okay, in fact. You can just enjoy that beer and I'll go-"

She's already shuffling a small step back as her words bleed together in her anxious rambling. Your free hand catches her wrist to pull her back before she can get too far, your legs parting to allow her to slip between them. Her knees brush the insides of your thighs and your heart thumps entirely too obnoxiously beneath your ribs in response.

"I don't mind," You say quickly. Your fingers shake with the adrenaline that washes over you suddenly and you give a gentle tug to urge her to sit. "You can sit. You can absolutely sit."

She sits.

She sits and pockets of her denim shorts press into the top of your thigh, her knees knocking together as she tries to settle into a comfortable position. You surprise even yourself with the hand that lands on the small of her back to keep her balanced, and when she presses into your touch minutely you choose to leave it there. Your palm is without a doubt sweating where it settles against the cotton of her shirt, but you don't dare move it now that it's found a place there.

If you thought it was hard to breathe when she was standing in front of you, it's a whole new ballgame to have her face this close to your own. You're still looking up at her, neck craned back just a little to look at the cluster of freckles above her cupid's bow, the dark eyeliner smudged artfully beneath her lashes.

You watch her gaze drag slow over your own face — like you're something to be admired and, God.

You can practically hear your own blood pumping in your ears, and you will your excited nerves to settle, sipping from the chilled beverage in your hand just for something to distract you, even just for a moment. The glass catches the top of Robin's bare thigh when you lower it again and she gasps at the cold, the gasp turning over into a breathless laugh while you curse and stutter out an apology.

You miss the way her gaze flicks over your shoulder to meet Steve's watchful eye where he sends her a whole flurry of excited hand movements ending with an emphatic thumbs up. But, you do notice the way her toe nudges into your shin lightly, the shy smile pulling at her lips as she leans into you a little more comfortably, arm pressing into your shoulder.

"Hi," She starts slowly, "I'm Robin."

lovely dividers by @strangergraphics

[ellstronaut]

Ellie’s the type;

to “drown” at a kiddies pool just to get kissed by the “cute” lifeguard

to eat hot cheetos for the sheer novelty of licking fluorescent orange fingers

to get high, put on a David Attenborough video, pretend she’s in a rainforest listening to frogs

to flirt with the barista just to get “free” sprinkles on her milkshake

to stay up all night just to be technically right when she says “good morning”

to be late to her own birthday party simply cause she got distracted by a stray dog

to use “big words” to annoy you but end up saying stuff like “I’m parched, fetch me my water bottle” and “My tummy hungers for sustenance”

to buy a plant—name it “Steve” proceed to mourn the death of Steve after accidentally killing it two days later

to pretend she’s a superhero by swinging from the shower curtains, only to end up tangled and accidentally knocking out her roommate

to buy a lava lamp simply cause she thinks it looks like the planet Jupiter

to have a dedicated section in her closet for all the cool rocks she’s found on campus, meticulously labeled and dated to preserve her “precious collection”

to flirt with a hot girl with the classic “if you were a vegetable, you’d be a ‘cutecumber’.”

[dancingtotuyo]

Summer of '03

Joel Miller x Female Reader | A Woman Story

Rating: Pg- 13

Summary: The first time Joel sees you as the woman you've become.

Tags/Warnings: age gap (13ish years), baby sitter, consumption of alcohol, summer.

Notes: I'm calling this a bridge. A scene that happens in all the timelines and universes of my dear Woman Reader and Joel. Consider this the point of divergence. I wonder what happened with these two if the outbreak never happened? I suppose only time will tell... 😉

shoutout to @murder-wife and @guiltyasdave for beta reading! I love you both!

Words: 1412

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist

Joel isn’t sure why he came. The Randolf’s summer pool party is a block tradition, but Sarah is at camp this year. Meaning, he had every excuse in the book to get out of it but here he is, standing against the fence, beer in his hand, watching as the kids jump in and out endlessly as burgers and hot dogs sizzle on the grill and folks lay out in the sun. 

It’s not that he dislikes these events. Maybe he finds them to draw on a little too long until people get just a little too sloppy drunk, but Joel has mastered the art of excusing himself early. He’s only a two minute walk down the street anyway. It’s just that there are usually other ways he would rather spend his Saturdays. He has a couple neglected projects calling his name in the garage, yet he still finds himself here. For tradition's sake, maybe? It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things he supposes.

Joel shoves his free hand in the pockets of his jeans, taking another sip of his beer. It’s hot outside as condensation drips from the bottle. He finishes it off, the label peeling off the bottle. His eyes scan back over the crowd. Most of the neighborhood is here and if they’re not, Joel expects to find them filing in soon. 

He’s doing a second scan over the crowd when he makes eye contact with you across the pool. You’re sitting with a group of friends perched on a couple of lounge chairs with wine coolers in hand. Joel tries to think back to the last time he saw you. It must’ve been last summer before you headed out for your Senior year of college, the last time Tommy got himself into a bind and needed bailing out. 

You wave to him, offering up a smile and he returns the gesture with a tip of his bottle before you’re pulled back into conversation with your friends. Joel can’t help but notice a slight change in you over the past couple of years. He supposes it’s the growth from teen to adult. You graduated this past spring. He remembers Sarah talking about it, how excited she was for you when you landed the ER job. 

Someone calls Joel’s name, pulling his attention away from you. 

You’re only pretending to listen as your friend Mandy rattles on about her recent hook up. Usually, you’d be interested in the details she’s providing, but Joel Miller has you distracted. You had hoped you would be past the silly crush at this point in your life, but your eyes track him relentlessly. Watching as he makes idle conversation with some of the dad’s on the block. You wonder how he’s wearing jeans in this heat. You don’t mind. They make his ass look good. 

You’re an adult with a job now continuing to harbor feelings from highschool seems silly, but there’s that little voice in your head now, the one that says you’re old enough now.. You’re an adult now. You’ve entered the workforce. You try to block out that voice. Joel Miller is not what you need, but you still want him. 

“Hey!” Mandy snaps her fingers in front of your face, pulling you back to the group. 

“Sorry, what did I miss?” You adjust your sunglasses, taking a sip of your drink as you make a concentrated effort to stay present with your friends. 

“Are you still hung up on the DILF?” Maryanne teases. 

“DILF? Where?” Whitney pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, looking over the flock of people. 

Embarrassment heats your cheeks as Mandy points him out. Whitney is less and subtle. “You grew up with THAT across the street?” 

“Will you be quiet? Someone is gonna hear you.” You swat at your friends. 

“I’m just saying, I understand the crush now.”

“I don’t have a crush on him anymore.” You lie through your teeth and you’re bad at it. 

Mandy rolls her eyes. “Yeah right.”

“He is very handsome,” Maryanne adds.

You finish off your drink. “Can we stop ogling him now? He’s gonna catch y’all.”

“Really? You’ve been doing it for years, we can’t for five minutes?” Mandy winks. 

“From the woman who told me she didn’t see it.”

“Hey! I’m older and wiser now,” Mandy says. 

You roll your eyes, trying to keep your eyes from wandering to the man of the hour. You really need to get over this crush. “I’m going to cool off.” You finish off your wine cooler, dropping your cover up before jumping into the pool before your friends can reply. 

Joel lost count of his drinks around number three or four. He’s pacing himself, but between the heat and the ease in which his drinks are going down, he’s feeling the easy buzz of the beer. He’s stayed longer than he ever intended to, but he’s okay with that. 

Joel wanders inside to use the bathroom. The AC feels nice on his sweat sheened skin. People gather in the kitchen, a couple walk through the house. There’s more people than he knows here. He’ll hand it to the Randolfs. They know how to throw a party.

He’s grateful to find the bathroom unoccupied, locking it behind him. He’s quick about his business, splashing cool water against his face and neck. It clears his mind some. He should head home soon. He’ll be grumpy if he doesn’t take some time to himself. 

He’s barely flipped the lock when the door flies open, you falling in with it. He’s almost hit by the door yet somehow manages to catch you as well. You’re a fit of loose giggles as his arms wrap around your torso, meeting the sun warmed skin exposed by your bikini. 

“Careful there, Sweetheart. You nearly took me out.” Joel can’t help the chuckle in his voice. He’s used to seeing you on the clock when you’re responsible for his child. This is a very different version of you, but he can’t help but find it endearing. 

“Sorry.” You manage to straighten up, but even through the boozy haze, Joel’s touch sears against your skin. Your cheeks warm over and it’s from much more than the sun. 

He smiles at you, helping you right yourself, but his hands stay against your back. Yours settle flat on his solid chest. “You get a little carried away?”

“Don’t tell my parents.” You barely manage to wink, making him laugh even harder. 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“Oh good,” You sigh in relief as if Joel just did you the biggest favor of your life and you’re not of legal drinking age. “You’re a good man, Joel.” You pat his chest. 

“Thank you.”

“Can you leave now?”

“Sure thing.” He smiles at you, ensuring you’re stable on your feet before he slips by you, his searing touch gone. 

The loss of his touch sobers your intoxicated body. You can’t help but watch him go, cotton t shirt stretching temptingly across his shoulders. Chills form on your sides, phantoms of his touch still teasing you. You watch the empty hall in front of you, replaying the moment in your head for longer than you’ll ever admit to anyone. 

Joel lets out a long shaky breath as he walks right out the front door, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone. It’s a quick walk home, even with the buzz of the alcohol in his veins. On the walk home, he attempts to clear his mind of what happened, but he can still feel your soft skin under his hands. He can smell the sweet mixture of sunscreen and you like you’re still in his arms. 

When he makes it home, he still hasn’t flushed the sensations of you from his mind. The way you looked in that swimsuit, hugging you perfectly. He knows it’s wrong. It makes him a dirty old man. The more he tries, the more he thinks about it. The more he replays it in his mind. He has no right to think about you like this, to view you as desirable. 

Joel takes another deep breath, resting his head against the front door. You called him a good man, but a good man doesn’t fall into this trap: the babysitter, the girl next door. He repeats that to himself. Girl. You’re a girl, but his brain keeps reminding him that you are a woman now.  

Woman Taglist: @pedrotonin @amyispxnk @joeldjarin @ilovepedro @justagalwhowrites

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @annieispunk @ashleyfilm @moel-jiller

@eloquentdreamer @lizzie-cakes @hiroikegawa

[lw77]

Over and Over (MV x CS)

Chapter 5. Halved

Carlos no longer races and Max is a world championship contender.

The TV blares with the current F1 race. Carlos shuts it off before he sees anyone he knows. He exhales as he sinks back into the couch. Racing feels both like a minute ago and a lifetime away. He had done it for so long that, no matter how much time passed, it was always there in his rearview mirror, looming like a mountain.

Sometimes he thinks about going back, hoping to ease the ache that settled in him when he walked away. But he knows better. It is not the racing he misses. It’s someone.

He still can’t make sense of it. They were teammates once, competitors more than friends. They were never meant to be friends; their fathers had ensured that. And yet, their last season together, what happened between them, hurt Carlos in a way that went beyond rivalry, beyond anything he had the words for.

He couldn’t stand being apart when the ripples of Marko’s decision reached the garage, but he couldn’t bear to look at him either. The hallways stretched like endless miles between them, though they were only a meter apart. The ache of distance became something like punishment, a lesson to himself for believing it was ever more than what it was.

Now the ache is constant. What was once a punishment has become a quiet reminder, a wound refusing to close.

–

He travels for a while after he leaves. Goes around Asia with friends. When he throws up daily because the ache has become all-consuming, they assume it’s food poisoning.

Through Europe, he smiles and flirts with the people his friends expect him to. He mimes and pretends his way across the continent.

In Brazil, they laugh when an old woman on the beach grabs his arm. Her fingers, knotted with age, tighten around his wrist, surprising him with their strength. Her voice low, reverent.

"You are a halved soul, niño. Keep running, and the fates will find you first."

Her breath smells of salt and something sweet. Her eyes, too knowing, too sharp, hold him in place. The words settle like heat in his chest, lingering long after she releases him. He stumbles back when she lets go, feeling found in a place where he thought he was hidden. 

That night, when his friends head to the street party, he stays behind, feigning sickness. He lies back on the grass by the outdoor pool, gazing at the moon, turning her words over in his head.

A halved soul.

He wonders if he should believe it. If it could explain why the pain in his chest has never faded, why it settled there the day he walked away.

If he’s right about who holds his other half.

Carlos no longer races and Max is a world championship contender.

Their worlds are apart now. However brief their time together was, it’s over.

He tells himself that’s how it will continue to be. And the ache will dull, eventually. He almost believes it.

__

He’s in Mallorca, at a beach club, when he feels it.

It starts as a flicker, a shift in the air, a pull deep in his chest. A familiar sensation he has spent the last year and a half trying to ignore. He grips his beer and takes a slow sip, anything to stop himself from looking around. There is only one reason his body would sing into awareness like this after so long.

He keeps his eyes on the bottles lined up behind the bar, reading each label like they might tell him something new. Anything to keep himself still. Anything to keep his hands from trembling.

Then it happens again. The weight of someone standing behind him. The quiet charge of familiarity pressing into his skin.

Carlos exhales, but it does nothing to steady him. His body betrays him, muscles tensing like a wire pulled too tight. He tells himself not to turn too quickly, not to give himself away, not to hope.

And then, the one thing he has both denied and craved for months.

“Carlos.”

His name, said like a confession.

Carlos shuts his eyes for half a second, as if that might stop this from happening. As if he can erase the shudder that runs through him at the sound. Exhaling, he sets his beer down carefully, needing control over something, anything, and turns.

“Max.”

It's the first time he's said his name aloud in months, and he wishes it tasted bitter on his tongue. But all he tastes is relief.

It has been almost a year and a half since he last saw him in person and not through a TV screen. A year and a half since they stood face to face. Yet somehow, it’s like no time at all. Carlos takes him in, the sharper edges of his face and the broader set of his shoulders. He looks different, older, heavier with something Carlos doesn't name.

He swallows hard, a lump forming in his throat. The ache stilling for once.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Max says. His voice is quieter than Carlos remembers.

Carlos shrugs, his gaze flicking away. “My family owns a home here.”

He catches the subtle shuffle of Max’s feet. When Carlos finally looks up, he sees Max glance at the bar, then back at him, like he's unsure of his next move. It's strange on him. Max has never been unsure, never hesitant.

And yet, here he is, standing in front of Carlos like he does not know what to do with himself.

“Where did you go?” Max finally asks.

“Away. I don’t think I was quite cut out for racing.” Carlos chuckles, a hollow sound.

He wonders if this is real. If his mind has finally cracked under the weight of missing him. If this is what the old woman meant when she spoke of fate intervening, to drive him mad.

Max watches him, the weight of his stare heavier than Carlos remembers. Maybe he had forgotten what it felt like to be seen by Max like this, like he could peel him apart with nothing but silence.

Carlos clears his throat, reaching for his beer again just to have something to do with his hands. He takes a sip, but it tastes off now, bitter in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“I thought you loved it,” Max says eventually.

Carlos looks away, out toward the beach where the sun is bleeding into the horizon. The sky is pink and orange, waves rolling in slow.

“Maybe,” he admits with a shrug. “When I was young.”

Max tilts his head, considering, measuring the words like he always does, needing to understand before he can accept. Carlos used to find that look infuriating. Now, he just feels tired.

“I asked about you,” Max says, softer this time.

Carlos looks at him then, his chest tightening, something flickering in his eyes. “Seriously?”

Max nods. “Every race.”

Something tightens in Carlos’s chest and stays. He doesn’t know what to do with Max's admission.

He doesn’t know what to do with Max standing in front of him, talking like this, looking at him like this. Like it wasn’t only Carlos who lived with this ache. Like it is their first season all over again, like nothing has changed.

But everything has.

“Why?” Carlos asks, barely above a whisper.

Max opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it again. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he is resisting the urge to reach for something.

For Carlos.

Carlos swallows, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Max exhales, glancing at the bar, then back at him. His voice is careful now, deliberate. “But I miss you.”

Carlos looks down, fingers pressing into the wood of his stool. The words take a second to settle, to root in his chest. Me too, he wants to say.

Instead, he doesn’t look up when he answers, his voice quiet, frayed. “How long are you here?”

“A week,” Max replies. “Maybe more, it’s summer break.” His eyes are open, searching.

Carlos meets his gaze, letting the words sink in.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll see you then.”

He slides off the stool, and for a moment, he and Max are a hair’s breadth from each other. The air between them hums with something unspoken, some invisible thing.

“I’ll find you,” Max replies, blue eyes bright with a joke only he knows.

Carlos hums before taking slow, certain steps away. He makes his way down the beach toward home, the sand cool beneath his feet and the tide rolling in steady.

For the first time in months, he breathes easy.

—- --

True to his word, Max finds him. They move through the market in easy silence. Both know there is no need for words, not yet.

Carlos drifts from vendor to vendor, inspecting produce with practiced ease, while Max lingers beside him, arms steadily filling with his growing purchases.

The sun rises higher, warming their skin past the pleasant balm of morning. When the weight in Max’s arms grows substantial, Carlos finally decides he has everything he needs for the week and steers them toward his car.

“They only have a market on Saturday mornings, so I buy everything ahead,” Carlos explains, the first words either of them have spoken all morning.

Max hums in acknowledgment, shifting the bags in his arms. “I get that, but you bought four kilos of tomatoes, Carlos. Will you really finish that in a week?”

His tone is light, teasing. Carlos huffs, shaking his head as he unlocks the car.

“It’s summer! I can make Gazpacho as much as I want.” Carlos says. 

“Perfect, my favourite.” Max replies cheekily. 

Carlos meets his eyes as he opens the trunk. Max’s eyes are almost teal in the sunlight, scrunched from the big smile on his face. Carlos can’t help it, he smiles in return.

Easy.

—- ----

As he and Max carry in the groceries. He puts them away as Max follows him and does the same with the bags he has. They move in easy silence around each other. 

Carlos wonders why he ever thought it’d be any different. 

He sets up a pot of water to boil, as he readies some tomatoes to go in. He gets his ice bath ready, moving quietly around the kitchen as Max stands nearby watching him work. 

“You’re actually making it?” Max teases.

“Well, I was going to make it for myself anyway, unless you don’t want any?” Carlos teases back, an eyebrow arched in question.

“I’d love some. Might even have the whole pot to myself,” Max responds, matching his response a cheeky smile joining his words.

— -------

The morning blends into the afternoon, and soon, the evening. Seamlessly, their days pass by, one after the other, orbiting each other.

Carlos slices fruit under the afternoon sun, Max leaning against the counter, flipping through an old recipe book he has no real interest in. Later, they drift through the water, lazy strokes cutting through the heat, shoulders brushing with every turn. By dusk, Sangria in hand, they stretch out on the grass, the sky dimming to violet as the island breathes around them.

Days so simple.

For the first time since they met, they live outside the long shadows of their fathers.

Carlos thinks about that. About how easy it is. Being around Max is simple in a way nothing else has ever been. There is no pretense of being someone he is not. No pressure to perform.

It makes a part of him wonder how many more days like this they can have.

Max will be here for the rest of the break. Carlos knows that much.

But when the market closes for the fall, when the summer fruit is gone, and the sand cools beneath their feet at night, will Max still be here? Or will Mallorca become just another memory, its warmth fading like the last light of the season?

Or maybe he’ll stay. And they’ll see if the distance between them can stretch without breaking, if they can keep orbiting each other, held by the same quiet pull.

He lies back on the grass, his Sangria finished long ago. He folds his hands on his stomach and turns to look at Max.

Reclined back, face bathed in moonlight, Max looks weightless. The heavy set of his shoulders from the beach club seems lighter now.

Carlos wonders if the same ache he carried in his chest is one that weighed down Max’s shoulders.

As if he can hear Carlos’s thoughts, Max lays back as well until they are gazing at each other.

“You’re thinking again,” Max says, a hint of amusement in his voice, but his eyes are soft.

Carlos exhales, a shy, small smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, but I am always thinking,” he admits.

Max hums, as though he already knew that. “What is it this time?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

Carlos shrugs, looking up at the sky instead of Max. “Nothing,” he says, but it’s not quite the truth.

Max watches him for a moment, then shifts closer, propping himself up on one elbow. “Liar.”

Carlos huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s stupid.”

Max nudges his arm, light and teasing. “So, how will I know if it’s really stupid if you don’t share it with me?”

Carlos glances at him, and for a second, he thinks about saying it out loud. About telling Max that this—today, tonight, all of it—feels like something he wants to hold onto. That he’s not sure how many days like this they can have, but he knows he wants more.

Instead, he just sighs, rolling onto his side to face Max properly. His affection colors his gaze as he looks at him.

“You can’t tease me. I’m older than you,” Carlos settles on instead.

Max grins, lazy and knowing. “Yeah. But then I’d be bored while you’re in your head, thinking.”

Carlos doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. He huffs, moving his hand to meet Max’s where it rests between them, then says, “Fine, I’ll think about telling you them later. Better?”

Max laughs, head thrown back, the sound warming the air between them, filling it with something comfortable and sweet. He pulls Carlos closer by the hand, a subtle tug that feels more like an invitation than a movement. The cicadas hum along with him, the sea murmurs in the distance, and Mallorca surrounds them like a precious bloom, unfolding slowly.

——- 

In the last few days before Max’s break is over, they spend their evenings out more, seeing the friends Max came on vacation with.

They’re back at the same beach bar where they met all those days ago, cheeks warm from the drinks the group has steadily consumed since sunset. It’s his last night here, and Carlos feels put out, sad that this might be the last time he sees Max for a long while. He tries to think of anything else, knowing how easily Max reads him, especially after all the time they’ve spent together this week and a half.

But when he brings his attention back to the table, he can feel Max’s gaze on him, steady and knowing. It’s like always, a comforting blanket over his loud mind.

When Carlos meets his eyes, Max quirks a smile and nods toward the beach, a silent question. 

Carlos smiles and nods, getting up.

The sand crunches beneath their feet, leaving faint footprints along the shore. The waves lap at their ankles, and the moon, big and bright, lights their steps. They walk quietly side by side for a while, neither knowing how to break the silence.

Carlos’s mind swirls with a repeating mantra of I’ll miss you, miss you, miss you. From the way Max’s brow is slightly furrowed, he thinks Max’s thoughts aren’t any different.

So Carlos breaks it, thinks he’ll answer the confession Max uttered that first day with one of his own.

“Me too,” he says softly.

Max turns to look at him, his lips quirking with amusement. “Me too, what, Carlito?”

Carlos laughs, shaking his head before his gaze drops to the sand. “I missed you too. And I’ll miss you when you go.” His eyes find Max’s as he says the last part.

“I’m only going back to the season, Carlos. This doesn’t have to be goodbye. I don’t want it to be.” Max’s voice is soft, but there’s a quiet conviction in his words.

They’ve stopped walking now. Carlos digs his toes into the cool sand, scrunching it absentmindedly. He feels like he should be the one saying this, the older one, acting like it, but it’s Max who always seems to have the right words. Words that make Carlos feel like he fits in his own skin.

He feels Max’s palm on his cheek, guiding him to look at him. The days they’ve spent together have drawn their bodies closer. Knees bumping under the table, fingers brushing the curve of Carlos’s wrist as he takes a plate, a warm palm on the small of his back as Max passes. But they’ve never crossed the boundary of subtle affection. It simmers though, and Carlos feels it spill over now as he wishes for something more. 

Carlos thinks his eyes must look pleading because Max’s own are open, worried.

“We don’t have to meet at the paddock, Carlos. It can be anywhere else,” Max says.

Carlos’s head buzzes with the pressure of wanting Max to kiss him and the unanswered question of why Max knows his worries like his own, how he can read his mind like it’s his own. Max’s hand brushes through Carlos’s hair, making him shiver.

A halved soul. 

Carlos’s own hand goes to where Max’s is cradling his face again. “Anywhere? Even China, Maxie?” he jokes, trying to calm his racing mind.

“You don’t have to miss me for more than a week if you choose, Carlos.”

He turns his face into Max’s palm, whispering his answer, shy to say it aloud. “Okay, only a week, Max.” His smile lingers as he finishes.

Max’s response is to pull him close, closer than they’ve been all week long, breaths mingling and soft puffs of warmth brushing each other's faces.

Carlos’s eyes drop to Max’s lips before flicking back up to meet his gaze. Max’s thumb strokes the corner of his eye, brushing against his eyelashes, the touch so light it makes him sigh.

Carlos leans in, the warmth of Max’s breath steady against his skin. The days they’ve spent together linger between them, every glance and touch catching up to this moment.

“Max,” Carlos whispers. Silently pleads, as the words a halved soul circle around, hold me, console me, complete me. 

Max kisses him, gentle and certain. His hand stays on Carlos’s face, grounding him. Carlos’s fingers curl at Max’s waist, holding him close. The waves lap softly at their feet, the night air thick with salt and warmth.

When they part, Max stays close, their foreheads brushing. Neither of them speaks, but Carlos feels the promise settle between them.

“A week,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Max’s eyes soften. “Only.”

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 1

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. This is the story of how he's first introduced to Colt's sister, Parker. Let's just say that neither party was all that impressed.

read the story here: next

Tom Ryder was hot.

The ads plastered on bus terminals and billboards, with all of their post-photoshoot/pre-production editing and touch-ups, weren't shit compared to the real thing.

The real thing, standing fifty feet across from her having just finished talking through his upcoming scene with the production team was tall and hunky and had gel wet tufts of blonde hair perfectly strung across his forehead. He walked—swaggered—with a sureness that was hard to find nowadays; made all the more impressive when he was swarmed by makeup artists touching up the foundation on his cheeks without stumbling once.

The outfit didn't help either. She hadn't seen Colt yet, but she was confident that her brother wouldn't be caught dead wearing tight, white pants that clung to his every curve, indent, and muscle like Ryder was. He wore them slung low on his hips, perfectly hard abs trailing down towards the sliver of white skin peeking out from beneath an underwear brand she would never be able to afford. Some sort of aloofness—or, perhaps, a love for his own toned body—had his shirt strung over his shoulder as if it were a mere accessory and not something to cover his chest.

Even his eyes were bright, star-inducing, and captivating in the way romance novels often described Fabio.

And... god damn.

Parker had to remind herself to swallow, breathe, and close her mouth before the proverbial flies started swan diving inside.

She liked to think of herself as both professional and not a total creep. She didn't have a problem keeping her eyes to herself at the gym, at the park, at the pool. Blonde men weren't even her type. Actors much less so.

A movie star? The movie star? Please.

Parker would relentlessly tease her brother when he would get all flustered staring at the poster of Cindy Crawford on the wall of his childhood bedroom. She was just a woman, after all.

But now...

Christ, how was it so hot at six am?

She brushed some hair off of her forehead while fiddling with the flimsy label on her water bottle; trying, and failing to pretend that she hadn't just been ogling the lead actor like a starving dog staring at a hambone. People milled around her as she breathed, Venti offering a wave as she hurried off to her next location.

But then there was a wayward bee she had to swat away, pulling her gaze right back up to where it had been, and this time she found that he was the one staring at her.

Static hummed in the back of her mind; no thoughts.

Just Tom Ryder.

Tom Ryder looking delectable in his lack of clothing.

Tom Ryder gazing at her with eyes so blue she suspected he had to be wearing some sort of fake contacts.

Tom Ryder who now was opening his mouth, showing off the teeniest glimpse of dimples, a row of pearly white teeth (where those real?), clearing his throat to say—

"I've been waiting on my coffee for ten minutes now. What the hell is the hold-up?"

Static.

"Huh?" she asked dumbly.

He rolled his eyes, squaring his shoulders at her as he slumped inelegantly into what had previously been her seat.

"My usual. Flat white, nonfat milk, three shots of espresso, with no foam. Extra hot, of course," he recited in a deadpan. It wasn't a polite sort of thing, though, and as she continued to stare at him Parker watched as he swatted away the same bee that had been bothering her with a huff.

As if—how dare a bee bother someone like me!

"Um," she started. Then, when she realized that she wasn't speaking real words, Parker quickly tuned her brain back to a channel that wasn't just static. This channel concentrated around the disbelief at his attitude. "Excuse me?"

He was on his phone now—she wasn't sure where he had conjured it from considering how desperately tight his pants where—and without even looking up he scoffed. "I have a scene in twenty, and I need to have time between drinking my coffee and acting so I'm not all jittery. Honestly, it's not that hard."

Parker blinked at him, then in the general area around them. For a moment she expected a bunch of cameras to be shoved in her face—ha ha! you've been punk'd!—but no one popped out of any bushes. In fact, it seemed that the moment Ryder approached her the surrounding vicinity had emptied.

A pair of assistants across the way caught her eye, immediately went pale in the face, and quickly ducked in the opposite direction as if they had forgotten some important task.

She didn't know what to say, or how to say it, and so Parker just settled with an emphatic scoff. "No."

To that, Tom paused in his texting, and glanced up at her. This time, he was the one that looked bewildered. "What?"

"I said, no," she repeated a bit firmer this time. It felt a bit like sailing, though, and now that she had some wind beneath her sails she found her thoughts functioning once more. "Find someone else to get your cappuccino. Or, better yet, do it yourself."

His eyebrows furrowed crossly. "It was a flat white."

"Fucking great," she snarked, throwing her arms up at him because she didn't quite know what else to do. "There's a Starbucks right over there."

Tom's entire face scrunched up. Ironically, it wasn't an attractive look on him, and suddenly Parker was wondering if all the photo editing was necessary if that's what he normally looked like.

Arrogance was not a good look on anyone. No matter how tight the pants.

"It's your job."

"It's absolutely not," she snapped. He responded by straightening in his (her) seat, phone cast aside, but she cut him off before he could say anything else as equally ridiculous. "And, for the record, if someone ever talked to me like that at my real job, I would quit on the spot."

His features slackened in response.

Parker half wondered if he was hearing static now.

There was the sound of a bullhorn on the far side of the parking lot, and a whole train of people slowly started swarming the area as whatever scene they were filming ended. A pair of stuntmen ambled by, followed by some camera crew, and on the far edge of everything she saw a familiar head of hair step out of a truck.

Familiar as it was identical to the man sitting in front of her.

Not having anything else to say and not trusting herself not to get escorted off the premises for verbally berating the star actor, Parker just snatched her jacket out from behind him with a pointed glare before heading towards where she had last spotted Colt.

It took a bit of effort to dodge all of the people, equipment, and vehicles.

"Uh, hey!" he called after her. Just the sound of his voice seemed to scare some nearby crew into pretending they were busy, and Parker bit the inside of her cheek when she heard his sneakers scrambling after her. "Who do you think you are?"

"Who do you think you are?" she scoffed.

He appeared at her elbow, ducking at the last minute to avoid walking directly into a wooden panel that was being hefted by two burly men. "I'm Tom Ryder."

Bleh.

Parker almost gagged. "Jesus Christ. You can't be serious?"

"Are you—? Of course I'm serious. I am Tom Ryder!"

"That was a rhetorical question," she deadpanned. Something red and embarrassed colored his cheeks. Parker may have taken sympathy on him if he didn't immediately power through the feeling to glare at her. "Just because you're Tom Ryder doesn't mean you get to be an ass to people. Employees or not."

They paused in their argument as a full length mirror was carted in front of them, and with the tug of an elbow she didn't have a choice but to face him.

"I'm not an asshole," he stressed. Though, his tone and glare counteracted the statement no matter how much emphasis he put into it.

Parker rolled her eyes, pleased when the mirror moved past, and elected not to respond at all as she continued on her way. He followed with another, sharper scoff.

"I'm not!"

"No, you're just waiting on your cappuccino, right?" she retorted before squeezing between two tightly parked trailers.

"It was a flat white!" he called after her.

Parker waved a hand flippantly over her shoulder, happy that she had finally managed to shake him, before she was popping out on the opposite side. It was much less crowded here. Just a few assistants, some guys with sound equipment, and her brother chatting a little bit too closely with a pretty blonde woman.

When they didn't notice her approach she had to clear her throat.

The pair jumped apart. The woman, with a red blush on her cheeks, smoothed out her hair with a nervous smile. Colt, on the other hand, greeted Parker with his stereotypical 'no-thoughts-behind-those-eyes' grin.

"Hey, there you are. I was worried you got lost or something."

"Once or twice, but Venti was nice enough to keep me company while we waited for you to come back. Here's your phone," she handed over the device with a half-hearted tut. "Next time don't leave it at home when you have to be on set at a quarter to dawn."

Colt faked a wince. "Sorry. Thanks for bringing it."

Parker waved him off. It wasn't the first time that her brother had forgotten something important, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time. The woman he had been canoodling with was far more interesting a subject this early in the day.

"Hi," she said, sticking her hand out. "I'm Parker."

The blonde responded with a warm smile and a firm hand shake.

Pretty, she thought. Then with a glance at her brother the snarky voice added, too pretty for this idiot.

"Jody. You're Colt's sister?"

"Ah, that's what Mom and Dad told her," Colt joked, leaning towards Jody to add in a stage whisper. "Truthfully, they found her in a parking lot. Just crying in a cardboard box, covered in shit. Tragic, you know. But what can you do? The orphanage wasn't accepting anymore walk-ins so they just had to keep her."

Parker smacked him on the back of the head while Jody laughed.

"Hey, take it easy, Park. I think I still have a concussion from this morning's barrel roll," he whined while subtly rubbing a sore spot on his neck. He was covered in sand and fake glass, and Jody took a moment to brush it out of his hair. He was utterly pleased to have her touching him. Suddenly, the wounded look didn't feel so genuine. "My insurance doesn't cover domestic violence, you know."

"Does it cover domestic kissing?" she asked with a devious waggle of the eyebrows.

Jody immediately turned pink.

"You can leave now, Park," Colt deadpanned. He waved his phone at her pointedly. "Thanks for the delivery and everything, uh, see you at Christmas, have fun with whatever it is you spend your days doing—"

Parker swatted his hands away as he tried to usher her in the direction she had come. He whined at that as well—blowing air on his bruised and bloodied knuckles—while she slipped under his elbow to shoulder right up next to Jody.

"Want to get drinks?" she asked.

Jody blinked. First at Parker, then to Colt. "Er... right now?"

"After your shift. I have an over abundance of limes and mint at the moment thanks to my roommate. I could make us some mojitos. Share some childhood stories about Colt, maybe show you some high school yearbook pictures. He had a bowl cut until his twenties, you know."

"No, no, no," Colt intervened with a nervous chuckle. His bruised knuckles didn't seem to mind manhandling her by the neck as he tugged her away from Jody. "That's not—bowl cuts were cool here in America, but, uh... You don't need to talk to her, okay. Just ignore her, Jody. There's no need to take pity on her just because she was abandoned in a Walmart parking lot."

"Oh, it's Walmart now, is it?" she chirped while struggling in his hold. Jody bit her lip to hold in her laugh. "Last time it was Target. The time before that it was a Ralph Lauren."

"It's going to be a retirement home if you don't—"

"I love mojitos," Jody chimed in much to Parker's delight.

She grinned while Colt pinched the bridge of his nose in defeat.

"You really don't have to," he tried.

"I want to."

"Are you sure? Like sure sure. Because she was arrested once for stalking, you know. And lying. She's a big ole liar, this one."

"Oh," Jody giggled with a sparkle in her eye, "I'm very sure."

"Because—"

Colt and Jody's joking was cut off when Tom Ryder—gone, but not forgotten—appeared with a huff. He still didn't have his coffee, and it looked like the lack of caffeine wasn't helping his mood in the slightest. At the very least he was now wearing his shirt. "Is she bothering you, too? Do I need to call security?"

The three froze.

Colt swung his head between Ryder and his sister (who he now had in a head lock) while his eyes grew to cartoonish proportions.

"She bothered you?" he asked in a high-pitched voice. Parker pinched the sensitive spot on his hip when he squeezed her with his elbow, and Tom's eyebrows drifted all the way up his forehead when Colt let out an embarrassingly girlish squeal. Her brother did his best to save face by clearing his throat. "I, uh, I thought I told you not to talk to anyone, Park? Or bother anyone? Or do anything other than sit and wait for me!"

"I was waiting for you."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"Oh, nothing. That's rich," he hissed down at her before planting a big smile on his face. As if he wasn't currently talking around the woman he had in a chokehold. "Sorry, Tom. She was just dropping something off for me. I told her to mind her own business, but she's never been all that good at doing what she was told. I'm pretty sure she should be in a med ward right now. Insomnia, pill addiction, the works. Nothing she says should be taken for granted. You know, one time she broke into a—"

"Okay, that's it," she sighed.

Then promptly elbowed her brother in the balls. Colt didn't have any air in his lungs to squeal, but they all watched him pitch forward with a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a gag.

She shot him a purely unimpressed look before straightening up, fixing her hair, and announcing, "I wasn't bothering him. I was minding my own business. He was bothering me."

Tom's jaw slackened in disbelief. "You called me an asshole!"

"You were being an asshole!"

"I'm Tom Ryder. I'm allowed to be an asshole if I want!"

Parker smirked. "Oh, so you admit it then. You were being an asshole."

He stuttered, unsure of how to respond to that, while Colt propped a finger in the air between them. He was still bent over in pain, breathing through his nose, as he added in a breathy voice, "you can be an asshole if you want."

The placation did nothing, and Tom's eyes bugged wide in disbelief as he shouted, "I wasn't being an asshole!"

The crewmen milling about all paused to glance at Tom; an assistant started yelling into her headset in the interim. Embarrassed, Tom took a few deep breaths while running a hand through his hair. Parker hated how easily his locks fell into perfect curls on his forehead. Effortless.

Hot.

Ugh! She really hated men.

There was a noise halfway between a giggle and a cough, and Parker peeked over her shoulder to find Jody smothering her amusement at the situation behind her hand. Her eyes still sparkled, though, and Parker was sure right then and there that she would get along just fine with Colt's new lady friend.

When Tom glanced at her, however, she pretended to swat away a bug with an innocent wide-eyed look.

"Sorry," she cleared her throat as professionally as she could manage. "There was a... fly."

Colt found his voice—and breath by then—and as he straightened to his full height he put on his best serious looking face. "Listen, man, I'm sorry about my sister. She's not even supposed to be here. I just forgot something at home and—"

"She's your sister?"

Colt hemmed and hawed. "Well, you know, not technically. There was this whole box-at-a-Walmart type situation but—we don't have to get into it," he waved a hand flippantly when he caught the bewildered furrow of Tom's eyebrows. "She was just about to leave. You'll never have to see her again. Who knows? Maybe she'll die of loneliness or something. Crazier things have happened."

Parker rolled her eyes at her brother's blatant ass kissing. It was pathetic, and a little bit embarrassing.

"I didn't know you had a sister," Tom said as he stared at her. There was a new light in his eyes; enlightened, maybe. Suspicious, definitely. Parker crossed her arms with a petulant huff through her nose. "I thought you were, like, an orphan."

"Why would you...?" Colt started, before shaking away the thought. "Nope. I got parents. And a sister. Obviously. A sister that was just about to leave. Right, Parker?"

She definitely could have hung around a little longer if she felt like being a right pain in the ass, but it wasn't even seven am, she had yet to eat breakfast, and she was getting a headache from being around someone that was so incredibly hot yet so incredibly awful. It was like her brain didn't know how to compute every time she looked at him.

Parker conceded with a sigh. "Yeah, I was just leaving."

"See?" he smiled. "She was just leaving."

She ignored her brother's pestering to smile at Jody. "It was nice meeting you. You can get my number from Colt, and I'll text you my address."

Despite the attention of Tom and Colt, Jody managed a genuine smile. "Brills. I'll see you later then. Assuming you don't die of loneliness between now and then."

Parker snorted. Jody giggled. Colt was still breathing steadily through his nose and trying not to puke.

"You can come too, dipwad," she reminded him tartly. Beside him Tom crossed one arm over the other with a sour look. She doubted he liked being talked over and not to, as well as having been called an asshole three times in a single conversation. To him she gave a pretty flap of the eyes. "You're not invited."

He ground his jaw at her, but she could see the flicker of annoyance to not be included in this little get together. "I'd rather eat dirt."

"You might have to if your coffee takes any longer," she chirped in response. Parker stuck around long enough for him to realize she was goading him before turning to leave. She waggled her fingers at him on her way past. "Break a leg!"

She was feeling pretty good about herself as she headed off in the direction that she had come from. There were even more people milling about now that the new scene was about to start. And just as she ducked past a truck of equipment, there was a shrill call of, "I have a flat white for Mr. Ryder!'

Parker peeked back just in time to watch him burn his tongue on the coffee.

Extra hot, indeed.

...............

The Fall Guy was one of the best movies I've seen in a while! As an OG Aaron Taylor-Johnson fangirl, I had to write this blurb just to get the itch out of my brain. No idea if I will transition this into something more or not. For now, please enjoy my brain itchiness and ATJ.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

Billy Fucking Dunne

billy dunne x rival band!reader content warnings: mentions of drinking, billy being an asshole summary: west coast and east coast meet. wc: 843

masterlist.

LAX is hot in a way that makes your skin feel sticky within seconds of stepping off the plane. You’re still hungover from the final night at CBGBs, your sunglasses are doing a terrible job of blocking the blinding white California sun, and the man at customs asked if your drummer was “in costume” or just dressed like that normally.

“This place is cursed,” Cass mutters, fanning herself with a crumpled boarding pass as you all stand in a cluster on the curb outside baggage claim. “This place is soft,” Max corrects. “It’s like a theme park version of a city.”

Your band looks hilariously out of place. Jo’s in all black, combat boots laced halfway, chewing a toothpick like she’s ready to throw hands with a valet. Max’s hair is teased to hell and loaded with pins, her makeup already smudged in the heat. Cass is wearing three necklaces that all jangle when she turns her head too fast. There are girls in sundresses smiling for no reason. Everyone’s too tan. Too blonde. There are no sirens. No one’s yelling. No one has cursed once since you got off the plane.

You hate it.

“How long we stuck here again?” Cass asks, dragging her suitcase toward the car. “Two weeks,” you mutter. “Unless someone sets a studio on fire first.”

You’ve been flown out for “buzz.” That’s what your manager called it. “West Coast interest is high,” he said. “People are talking. They want to see you.”

What he meant was: they want to see if you can actually threaten The Six.

Because that’s what it’s been ever since the first magazine printed your photo with the caption “East Coast’s answer to LA’s golden group.” Ever since the press started whispering that maybe, just maybe, your band had teeth sharp enough to bite back.

You’ve never even met Billy Dunne, but you already hate his face. Hate the way they write about him like he invented the guitar. Like he’s the only frontman who’s ever lost something and made a song about it. You’ve seen your name paired next to his too many times in headlines like “Bicoastal Battle of the Bands” and “The Girl Who Might Knock The Six Off Their Throne.”

You didn’t come here to play nice. You came here because the industry wants to watch a fight—and you’re not afraid to swing.

So when your manager drags you to some label party in Laurel Canyon that night, you know exactly what it is: optics. Exposure. Make an impression. Stir the pot.

You walk in already pissed off.

The party is all soft lighting and expensive wine and girls with tan lines in lace dresses. The kind of place where everyone calls each other “babe” and no one says what they mean.

Cass is making fun of a guy trying to get with a girl by the pool. Jo already slipped a bottle of top-shelf bourbon into her bag. Max is smoking on a lounge chair and calling everyone “Ken.” And Jules is attempting to get away from a music executive that cornered him.

You post up at the bar, sunglasses still on, arms crossed, muttering to Cass about the awful smell of perfume when it happens.

Someone bumps into you. Hard. Enough to send the contents of your cup splashing down your hand and onto your jacket.

You whirl around, already locked and loaded.

And there he is.

Leather jacket. Smug eyes. Hair you’ve seen in a dozen photo spreads.

Billy fucking Dunne.

He doesn’t apologize. He barely even looks fazed.

“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” you snap, wiping your hand on a napkin.

“I was walking,” he says, dry and slow. “You and your boots were taking up half the patio.”

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Are all LA boys this dense or just the famous ones?”

He gives you that look—one part smirk, one part who the hell do you think you are?

“Do you know who I am?”

“Do you think I give a shit?”

He pauses. Just enough to be dramatic about it.

“Billy Dunne. The Six.”

You blink. Then grin. Sharp, sweet, venomous.

“Cool. Still don’t give a fuck.”

His brows twitch, just slightly, like that actually got under his skin. He takes a step closer.

“Wait,” he says, voice a little lower now. “You’re...you're that girl. The New York problem.”

“And you’re the LA puppet with a guitar and a god complex.”

The air crackles. Cass takes a slow sip of her drink like this is better than TV.

“Press said you were loud,” he mutters.

“Press said you were overrated.”

“That so?”

“I’ve got ears, don’t I?”

Your drink’s dripping down your wrist. His knuckles are twitching at his side. Neither of you move.

Until Cass hooks her arm in yours, leans in, and mutters, “If you get arrested in California, I’m not bailing you out.”

So you let her drag you away.

You don’t look back.

But Billy Dunne does.

And neither of you will shut up about it for weeks.

[themelongum]

truth or dare that plays out perfectly for jean, but not so much for eren

multi-chaptered rating: explicit main pairings: eren/reader; jean/reader AU: college; band

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere,” Sasha shouted, peeking out of the doorway. Wobbling her way, she approached our lounging area, glancing between me and Eren with a huge, silly grin on her lips.

“Just how much did you drink?” I asked, assessing her current state.

“Didn’t count,” she replied, giggling. “And, well, looks like someone was smoking,” she whisper-yelled, pointing at the joint with her widened eyes. “Didn’t know you kept secrets from me… Oh, secrets, right! I came to steal you for the ‘Truth or Dare’. Everyone’s in there ready to play, so let’s go.” She stretched out her arms and shook them, signaling for me to take her hands.

I did exactly that, getting off the bench, when she glanced over my shoulder. “You too, Eren!”

His nose wrinkled as he looked up at her. “Why do we have to play these stupid games every damn time?”

“Because we want to know your secrets, Eren.” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, don’t be so grumpy!”

His gaze slid to me, and I shrugged my shoulders, tilting my head with a smile as if telling him “Why not?”.

Through the noise of an ongoing party, Sasha led us upstairs, where it was much quieter. As soon as we entered a room that I detected as Historia’s, all eyes turned to us. Everyone I’d met so far was in that room, apparently forming their entire friend group.

Under their gazes—some warm and welcoming, some cold and wary—I made my way to the sofa, sitting next to Sasha, who plopped there, moving Marco and Connie. I had to shift even closer to the girl when Eren decided to sit there too. Next to him, Mikasa, Armin, and Annie sat on a smaller couch placed in an L-shape arrangement, while Jean stretched in an armchair at the opposite end of the bedroom.

Scanning the room, I met eyes with Reiner, who was sitting right across me on the edge of a king-sized bed, along with Bertholdt. On the other end of the bed, Historia was lying on her side, with Ymir sitting behind her.

“Alright, everyone’s finally here, so we can start,” Connie said, scooting closer to the edge of the sofa. “You all know the rules. Pick the truth, tell the truth. Pick a dare, do the dare.”

“Very informative,” Annie chimed in, her cheeks burning red and her eyes slit.

“If you’re a pussy, you can opt out by drinking.” Connie raised one of the liquor bottles off the table. He then focused his gaze on me, smirking before he said, “Our new girl here will start the game. Choose the lucky one.”

Shit, Connie, why me? I’m terrible at coming up with dares or truths. But at least I don’t have to be the first one to do them, I guess.

“Okay.” I gulped, feeling all eyes on me. “Connie, truth or dare?” I stared at the boy with a grin.

“Dare. You can dare me to kiss you, I won’t mind,” he replied, wiggling his brows.

But Connie didn’t get a kiss. Instead, he got a perfectly uneven mustache drawn on his face with a permanent marker. A little heart on his right cheek served as a consolation prize.

One after another, the truths were told and the dares were done. Prompted by Connie, Bertholdt ate a spoonful of hot sauce, and Annie then did fifty push-ups. Historia asked Eren about his body count over the summer, and when he said it was four, she labeled him a manwhore. Ymir flipped Reiner off when he asked her if she was a lesbian. And poor Marco had to jump in the cold pool water fully clothed and then just sit there soaking wet with only towels to help him.

When Reiner called my name, answering who was the hottest girl in the room, everyone seemed to be as surprised as me. Feeling my cheeks getting warmer, I averted my gaze to the side with an awkward smile.

As it came to Sasha, she fixed her eyes on me. Knowing her the longest out of anyone there, I was sure I would be safe with anything, so I chose to tell the truth. But I soon learned that I shouldn’t have trusted her in a state of inebriety.

“I know you don’t date, but are you into hook-ups?” she asked, raising her brows and giggling. “And,” she continued, “who would you pick out of everyone here?”

I could feel the burning on my skin from all the stares directed at me.

Why, Sasha? Quick, quick. I need to think of something.

“You don’t date?” Connie chimed in. “What about our marriage and four kids? Man, you’re ruining my plans,” he said, scrunching his brows and shaking his head in disappointment.

“Four kids is wild.” I laughed. “And don’t worry, Sash, you’d be the first one on the list if I had any,” I answered, earning a smug smile from her. Hoping that would do, I hurried to deflect the attention away from myself. “Mikasa, truth or dare?” The girl looked at me for a while before choosing to do a dare.

“I dare you to be my gym partner for a month,” I said absentmindedly, thinking she would take a shot. Mikasa, however, agreed to the dare, following with the warning about the intensity of her workouts and her strict schedule. And at this point, it seemed as if the dare was more mine than hers.

With the amount of voluntary and involuntary drinking, things got heated up. Some of the deepest secrets came to the surface, shamefully covered by blushing and averted gazes.

At one point, Connie and Sasha had to exchange their clothes, which was obviously more challenging for the former. Comfortable in a loose shirt and baggy pants, Sasha couldn’t contain her laughter every time she looked at the boy, who had to cover his nether regions for the rest of the night.

“Jean, truth or dare?” Sasha asked, bringing my attention to the guy, who had been quiet lately.

“Dare.” His eyes were already half-lidded as he nonchalantly scanned the room.

“I dare you,” she said, pausing for a second, “to kiss one of the girls.”

I didn’t know why, but I felt my heart sink at her words. It was probably the alcohol to blame, as everyone was practically wasted by that time.

Without hesitation, Jean got up from his seat and made his way across the room, confident in his moves, like he knew his target all along and was waiting for that dare to happen.

He was walking towards Mikasa. He didn’t look at her or at anyone in particular, but his movements said it all. Who else could it be on this trajectory? Certainly not Sasha. And Mikasa’s wavering gaze was more than telling, too.

Will he kiss her? Will she kiss him back?

My breath hitched when he turned to me, leaning closer. “’Tis okay?” he whispered, halting inches before my face, his eyes locked with mine. My mind went blank, and the only thing I could do was give him a nod, straightening in my seat.

In a second, his warm lips landed on mine, moving gently and rhythmically. He placed one of his hands on my left cheek, while the other slid from my back to my waist, pulling me closer.

His hold on me was firm, his strong arms lifting me slightly from the sofa. Reaching for his neck, I trailed my fingers up and down as we both deepened the kiss. His tongue pushed past my lips, getting full access to my mouth, and I caressed it with my own, tasting a tinge of his liquor.

As we pulled away, I softly smiled at Jean, finding a grin on his lips. The extended eye contact became too much, and I shyly averted my gaze to the side, only for my eyes to be met with Eren’s intense stare.

He looked at me blankly, with no emotion visible on his face. But just a second before he looked away, I spotted something in his eyes, almost as if he was…

Disappointed?

another little something read the whole thing here or here

[mamirhodessxox]

Last Friday Night

Dashing!Cody Rhodes x Playboy Model Fem!Reader

Desc: It’s the 2010’s also known as the trashy dirty messy parties decade besides the 2000’s, Cody’s career was just going off along with his best-friends playboy model career, after a successful WWE Match Cody throws a large party at his house for celebration & It gets messy real fast

Contents: Alcohol, Foul Language, Smut, Fluff, Trashy parties, Douche bag cody in the house, DASHING CODY FUCKING RHODES CHAT, Gets STRAIGHT to the smut so enjoy

{~I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) Votes and comments are strongly appreciated so please COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT COMMEENNTTT the more comments the more content <3!!!~}

Cody was beyond full of himself, especially when he had this entire Dashing Cody Rhodes gig going on for him, The dashing part definitely got to him, Every goddamn person & their mother knew he was fine as fuck and so did he, his confidence being boosted as-well as his ego was apart of his character & success. He just won a goddamn championship & as his way of celebrating this Friday night? Turning the fuck up.

You & Cody had been best-friends since his early wrestling days within WWE which was the time you became a playboy model, you two were practically made for each other, the both of you being near each other had people questioning their sexuality, You were hot as fuck, he was hot as fuck, and you both knew it, who wouldn’t embrace themselves if they were as hot as you two?

Cody’s house was filled with flashing lights, drunk guests & loud obnoxious music & You knew you were at the right place when your driver started pulling into a neighborhood that sounded like a fucking rave.

You stepped out of the car & immediately Cody stepped out of his house & made his way towards you “The most important guest of the night finally arrives” he wraps his arm around your waist and walked you in while you laughed into his shoulder “Shut-up Cody you’re just saying that!” You & Cody had a strange dynamic that people automatically thought you dated, You two would hold hands everywhere, cling to each other, hell paparazzi found you two getting lunch one time with his hand comfortably against your ass. You two were once labeled as the decades IT couple no matter how many times one of you addressed you were “just friends” which was complete and utter bullshit.

Cody lead you to the kitchen and gave you a cup filled to the brim with alcohol just for you “Here you go doll-face, slow sips ‘kay?” You giggled nodding before kissing his cheek, you took a large sip of your beverage with him and hummed hooking your arms around his shoulder “y’did so good tonight in the ring Cody, I’m so proud of you” he smirked “Yeah? I won just for you gorgeous.” You smiled as you felt his breath fan over your lips, The party was such an obnoxious scene, Everyone was either drunk or bumping into you two about to get drunk or make dumb life choices, for example, You two went into the backyard where someone practically thundercunted themselves off of his roof and into the pool

And somehow SURVIVED? Cody laughed and took a swig out of his beer bottle before turning to you yelling over the music “Now, correct me if I’m wrong but I think we should go off somewhere more quiet, a little more intimate?” You smirked at the Idea & nodded while he set down his drink & lead you off inside his house & to his room.

All of this brought you to the current situation you were in now, getting sat on-top of the dresser in his room while he dug into your neck leaving hickey after hickey and tugged on your hair a bit as he stood in-between your legs, he pulled away and grabbed you by the jaw & slammed his lips against yours & even slipping his tongue last your lips while unbuckling his pants & pulling, “Anyone ever fucking tell you this is better than the goddamn playboy magazines I see you on everyday?” He teased while pulling away to rip off your shirt & bra, you couldn’t blame him rushing the situation since you were practically wet & aching for him

You sighed out as he pinched your nipples & bit at your neck while letting out a cocky laugh “Of course that fuckin’ turns you on, almost everything I do turns you on huh?” You let out a whine in response before nodding your head, You already looks disheveled, hair all sloppy, eyes glazed over, mouth parted, your hands clutched over his shoulders as you dug claw marks into his back while he would fondle your breasts & grin at you “Such a good damn girl for me aren’t you sweetheart?” He slid off his pants & took your panties off before aligning his cock with your entrance and holding onto your face while thrusting himself inside of you & letting out a guttural groan.

“So fucking tight f’me princess” He whimpered into your ear while you shoved your nose into the crook of his neck moaning, He slammed his hand against the wall behind you as he fucked further into you & filled you up to the hilt with his dick alone, You threw your head back letting out a loud moan before looking at him in the eyes “g-gonna fucking cum Cody!” You whimper out while he slapped your clit “It’s just that fucking easy for you isn’t it? All it takes is my cock to be inside of your pretty little pussy for more then 4 minutes & you already wanna cum and make a mess?” He mocked you while he started to pick up the pace.

You squealed and scratched his shoulders throwing your head back moaning “h-Holy shit cody!!” You felt like he was forcing you to your climax given the fact you felt that little feeling in your tummy, your body writhed against him while he continued fucking himself into you & rubbing your clit at a ridiculous place before sticking his tongue in your mouth & kissing you before groaning against your lips & spilling his cum inside of you while you had just hit your climax.

He held you close before picking you up & lying him down on his bed while he went to go grab a wet warm wash cloth but you teased him while wrapping around his blankets “Such a gentleman mr Rhodes” he looked over shrugging and chuckled “Only for the best.” He came back over to you & kissed the top off your head before cleaning you up “I think it’s safe to say you’re mine now sweetheart.” You laughed and tilted your head “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?” He looked at you scoffing “I just fucked you on my dresser shouldn’t that be enough for you?”

You laughed with him as he climbed in the bed with you ignoring the loud music & music surrounding the house & wrapped you around his arms while you fell asleep.

By the time you woke up the next morning you were more than hungover, in-fact, you were positive you were hot by a sledge hammer, You sat up groaning pushing your hair out of your face & huffing while Cody walked in with breakfast “Wakey wakey eggs and bakey” he plopped a plate on your lap while you rubbed your eyes glaring at him “I feel like I got ran over by a semi-truck.” He hummed “Well aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine!” You held up your middle finger & took a sip of the coffee he handed you “fuck you” he shrugged and set your plate of food on the night stand “Geez again? Wow you must REALLY be feeling me huh?”

You groaned out in annoyance and got up out of bed putting your clothes from last night “You’re not very funny codes.” He grinned and handed you a hairbrush “I’m fucking hilarious what are you on about.” You walked off to the bathroom but felt a quick smack on your ass and looked back to Cody walking off with a laugh.

Thank fucking god you did this on a Friday night because you were a hot mess.

🏷️ list: @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert @alicerosejensen @bunnybot55 @agent-dessis-posts @adollonyourshelf @valkyrurr @alyyaanna @niknakbucks92 @mini-rhodes @southerngirl41

xtripleiiix’s Masterlist

[ageofwonderland]

Maroon

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

It started with a spilled bottle of wine.

Not just any wine, but a deep, rich red—maroon, if you want to be precise. And he was always precise. Sam liked things in neat rows, with clear definitions. Books on the shelf by genre and alphabetical order, spices labeled and lined up in a drawer, even the records in his collection were organized chronologically by the release date. So when I knocked over the glass, soaking the cream-colored carpet in his pristine apartment, I thought he might throw me out. 

Instead, he laughed. 

And that laugh, low and started, genuine—was the first time I ever heard him let go. 

We weren’t supposed to be anything more than friends of friends. A coincidence at a rooftop party in Nashville, both of us lingering near the edge of the terrace while our respective groups clustered around the fire pit. I was tispy and wearing someone else’s denim jacket. He was drinking neat whiskey and watching the city lights like they were speaking directly to him. 

“You don’t seem like you want to be here,” I said. 

He glanced at me. His eyes were warm, like pools of honey—soft, warm, and kind. “Neither do you.” 

That was all it took. One sentence turned into an hour, then two, then an invite back to his place because “the music is better there.” And it was. He  played a dusty Joan Baez vinyl, and we drank until the bottle tipped. 

I still have a photo from that night—my hand, stained red as I tried to mop the floor with paper towels, and his bare feet beside mine. It’s blurry, the kind of picture you only keep just for the way it makes you feel. The photo smells like red wine, cedarwood, and something new. 

The thing is, we were both a little broken. 

I had an ex who cheated and left without warning, and he had a trail of half-relationships that never turned into anything worth remembering. We were both used to things ending. But Sam—he was a slow burn. A careful conversation. He read novels in the bath, and quoted poetry when he thought I wasn’t listening.

We built a rhythm. Sunday mornings with his head in my lap while I read the paper aloud. Thursday dinners where I’d cook and he’d do the dishes. Winter nights where we stayed in bed, watching the snowfall blur the city skyline. 

And then there was the color.

Maroon. It was everywhere.

The rug we picked out together, the scarf he bought me on a whim, the lipstick I wore when we first kissed, the sheets on his bed, the wine we drank, the shadows on his walls when the sun set.

It became a symbol of us, our shade. Not red—too obvious. Not burgundy—too formal. Maroon was quiet passion—deep, old, and bleeding. 

We never said “I love you.” Not exactly. But there were nights he’d look at me like I was made of stories he wanted to read forever, mornings where he’d tuck my hair behind my ear and whisper, “Stay.” 

I thought it would last. 

But some loves don’t burn out, they fade. 

It was little things at first. His laughter became less frequent. He stopped playing music in the morning. He took longer to text back. When I asked if something was wrong, he smiled too quickly and said, “Just tired.” 

We stopped going to our favorite diner, I started sleeping over less, and the maroon sheets stayed perfectly made for days at a time. 

Then one night, I came over with a bottle of that same wine. He opened the door, and I saw it in his face. 

He didn’t kiss me hello.

We drank in silence, the air between us tasted like the edge of goodbye. I said his name, a soft whisper, like a prayer. He looked away. 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” he said. 

And just like that, the color drained out of the room.

We didn’t fight. There were no accusations, no slamming doors—just a quiet unraveling. I left the bottle on the counter and walked out into the night. 

It rained. 

And the next morning, the world looked grayer than I’d ever seen it. 

Months passed.

I’d see maroon in small places—on a stranger’s umbrella, in the velvet curtains of a theater, in a lipstick shade on a magazine cover—and my chest would ache. But the ache dulled, I stopped checking my phone at midnight, I stopped wearing the scarf.

One day, I passed by a record store and heard Joan Baez playing. I didn’t go in. 

But I smiled. 

Because some colors don’t belong to heartbreak forever, sometimes, they just remind you that once, you loved deeply enough to stain the carpet. That once, you were part of something worth remembering. 

And maybe that’s enough. 

But memory is funny, it forgets the mundane, but clings to flashes—his hand on the small of my back as we crossed a street; the warmth of his body behind mine when I woke up from a bad dream, the scent of rain on the pavement after we kissed in a downpour. 

Spring arrived slowly that year, as if the world was mourning with me. I saw him once, months later, in Centennial Park. He was sitting on a bench, reading, a wool coat pulled tightly around his frame, and there was a woman with him. She smiled at something he said, and I saw the tilt of his head, the way his lips curved, the way he used to smile at me. 

I didn’t stop. I walked on, boots hitting the ground with forced purpose. I didn’t cry. But that night, I drank the last glass of maroon wine I’d been saving and wrote his name in my journal, then crossed it out.

Healing came slowly, wrapped in early morning coffees and novels that made me forget him for hours at a time. I went to art galleries alone, took weekend trips, anything I could do to fill the silence. 

And then one day, a man named James walked into the bookstore where I worked. He asked for help finding a book—poetry, of course. I led him to the shelf, and he smiled at the way I recommended Neruda without hesitation. He came back the next day. And the one after. 

James was light where Sam was shadow, he laughed easily, touched my hand often, and told me his feelings with no hesitation. We went dancing under string lights and kissed in flower-filled parks. He brought me yellow tulips instead of wine.

I thought maybe this was what it was meant to be—easy, full of color, no stains on the floor. 

But still, every now and then, I’d catch a glimpse of maroon, and my heart would skip. 

James asked me once, “Have you ever been in love?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“What was it like?”

I paused, unsure of how to explain Sam. How could I describe something that felt like a song only I could hear? 

“It was…Maroon,” I said finally. 

He smiled, not understanding, and kissed my forehead. 

I moved apartments and left the bookstore for a small publishing house. James and I made it three years. Ended with tears but no anger. Just the understanding that love, even the bright kind, sometimes fades too. 

One day, I was cleaning out a box of old things and found the photo—the one from that night. My wine-stained hand, his feet beside mine. I sat on the floor and stared at it for a long time, then placed it gently back in the box and closed the lid. 

That night, I poured myself a glass of red wine. Not the same brand, but close enough. I sat by the window, watched the city breathe, and listened to Joan Baez. The voice felt older now, so did I. 

But there was peace in that. 

Because some loves never really end, they become a part of you. They live in your favorite song, your scent of choice, the pages of books you can’t bear to give away.

And maybe that’s the truest kind of love—the one that stains you, marks you, lingers like maroon on cream carpet. 

Not loud. Not perfect.

But unforgettable. 

[p1nk-b1tes]

raw devotion

[ astarion x fem!tav fluff ]

summary: tav takes the rare opportunity of being alone with astarion to show him how much she loves him. they share a bath together. warnings: nudity, casual nudity, non-sexual intimacy, suggestive dialogue, bathing, bathing together, astarion is not used to acts of service and quality time, mild dissociation, allusions to past traumas words: 1863

click here to read on ao3 or read below:

The sun had long since hidden itself beneath the horizon when Tav had pulled her silvery-haired vampire from his bed. The book he had previously busied himself with lies open on the borrowed Elfsong mattress, forgotten, pages illuminated by the flickering flames of cream-colored candles left melting into warm, transparent pools. 

The upper floor of the tavern is quiet for once. The rest of their party had gone out to explore the city after dark, offering up their coin to The Blushing Mermaid in exchange for a mug or four of cheap ale. Astarion had feigned indifference about going out, and Wyll had put on quite the show to try and sway him into joining them, dancing around on light feet and acting out how he’d make good friends with one of the drunkards stumbling around on the streets below, expertly selling him an unpredictable and unforgettable night of fun that he wouldn’t want to miss. By the end of it all, Gale had been in stitches and it had taken everything in Shadowheart to suppress her chuckle behind the back of her hand. She ultimately had failed, and Astarion had caved, and that was what had prompted Tav to fake a sudden, threatening sickness that kept them both rooted to the upper floor of the Elfsong while everyone else set out in search for the Mermaid. 

The second the door had closed behind Halsin, leaving them alone in the room, he’d let out an exhale that had been trapped in his chest and thanked Tav with a lingering kiss to her temple. 

—

Two pairs of bare feet pad across smooth floorboards that squeak with age, and a shorter body leads another blindly, clasped together by a hand. She leads him through the tavern’s private halls and around corners until they reach a door that is nothing short of ordinary. It’s the bathing room–a place to cleanse the body. They’ve both turned the water pink more than a handful of times before, cleansing their skin clean of their sins. 

“Oh, darling,” he says, his voice silky smooth and his tongue dripping in honey. Tav reaches for the knob, twisting cool bronze in her palm and pulling him inside after her. The vampire spawn huffs through his nose, his eyes on the back of her head, and continues. “If what you wanted was to get wet then we could’ve snuck off into bed earlier…” 

She chooses to pretend to not hear him. 

The rich and melodic song of a flute somewhere outside floats in through the window left ajar, and Tav drops Astarion’s calloused hand, making her way towards the beautiful, hand-carved cabinet full of jars and bottles of every color and shape while he remains stuck to the floor where he entered, unsure of what is expected of him. Potions crafted carefully for the bath line the shelves when Tav pulls open the door, not for healing nor for harm like they’ve become so acquainted while weighed down by leather and metals and surrounded in the heat of battle, and the pad of her index finger glides over the faded labels while she reads. 

“Astarion, my love, you’re nothing but correct. But I would’ve done so an hour ago if that was what I was up to.” 

She glances over her shoulder to catch his crimson colored eyes, a blue bottle with a thin neck and curving handle clutched in her hand, and watches as his brow pulls together only slightly. His head tilts to the right and a flutter of fondness builds in her chest at the sight. 

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Tav continues to gather a selection of bottles and jars, arranging them on the nearby vanity and collecting a pile of fresh towels to join them, all while the man behind her watches and makes the occasional suggestion about getting messy. The tub in the center of the room has been filled prior to their arrival and the water inside is a nice warm temperature. Tav dips her fingers into it, humming in approval and looking up to Astarion who has busied himself fiddling with the edge of his shirt. He rubs the mended hem between his fingers. Worrying the slide of the fabric back and forth between his fingers until the threads snap again and the fabric goes thin. 

He looks confused and a bit unsure of what has been presented to him, but when Tav studies his features for any signs of discomfort or unease, she finds none. It’s a relief for both of them amongst the unspoken offerings being made. 

Tav stares at her partner. The vampire spawn looks right back. 

“Close the door, Astarion. Please?” 

He breaks his gaze to find the edge of the door, pushing it the rest of the way closed until it slides snugly into its solid wood frame. Tav is still there when he returns his eyes to her. And so is the tub. 

“Do you trust me?” 

His eyes flick back up to meet hers, which have failed yet to break away from his face. Watching, observing, for any signs of discomfort. Waiting, offering him a chance to escape from this weirdness if he so desires to or suddenly feels trapped. 

He nods, swallows. His throat bobs as he does. “Of course I do.” His voice sounds small. A stark contrast to the confidence that dripped from his tongue only minutes prior. 

Tav keeps her eyes on his and raises her hands to the laces of her blouse, finding the ends of the ties and pulling them apart until the bows fall apart. One by one, she loosens the strings until it’s hanging from her chest and she pulls the fabric up and over her head. When her fingers drop to the front of her pants next, Astarion’s mind clouds with images of filth and heat, memories of late nights and glimpses of red hot passion. His tongue loosens up in his mouth like an old habit he can’t seem to shake and he begins to speak at the same time that he pulls his own shirt from his body. Tav ignores his words tainted with flirtation and filth and begins to work the corks from the bottles set aside, pouring them into the water with lips sealed tight and her back to him, allowing him a moment to undress on his own terms while he comes back to himself. 

His shirt falls in a pile on the floor and becomes forgotten. His pants follow soon after. Still, Tav pays him no attention. The words that spill from his lips like sick refuse to stop and if he could flush hot with embarrassment, he would. Bare as the day he was born, clothes tossed aside, she still makes no advance to touch him. Second by everlasting second, the cloud in his head disperses. 

She shares the flame of an oil lamp to several candles and disperses them throughout the room. The atmosphere becomes bathed in golden light, shifting, shimmering in shades of yellow and orange. The aromas from the bath oils fill the room. Astarion has been reduced to silence once again. He manages to clear his throat. The slight chill seeping in from the open window licks at his already cool skin and he suddenly feels very naked. “Is this a ritual?” 

Tav lights the final candle and extinguishes the lamp. The rest of her clothing finds the floor and she steps into the tub, running her fingers over the surface to mix and disperse the bubbles and oils that float on top. “Of sorts.” 

She moves so eloquently. Gracefully. And he watches her as she descends down into the water. It welcomes her like she holds a divinity for it and cradles her frame, and finally, once she’s settled on the bottom, she offers him her hand. 

She guides him towards her, pulling him closer and urging him to join her, and with two big steps he steps into the space she’d left for him behind her. Hesitant and lacking instruction or guidance, he manages to settle. His legs feel much too long bracketing her in on both sides of her hips. The tops of his knees nudge against her sides and he allows them to as a passive reminder that he is there. Perhaps it’s a reminder for both of them. 

Tav lets her hair down from its hold, running her fingers through the strands and wetting them with her palms, and Astarion wants to reach out to touch. He wants to comb through the knots and run his manicured nails over her skin, but his hands remain glued to the tub’s edge. Braced for whatever comes next in this strange ritual… Of sorts.

The water swirls as Tav cups the nice-smelling liquid in her palms, raising it to her shoulders and letting it drip over her skin until it shines and the air swims with floral aromas. When she rolls her head to the side and moves away her hair over her shoulder Astarion can’t sit still any longer. He leans forward and buries his face in her neck, nosing at her slick skin and teasing the artery there that's still healing from the last time he fed. He’s careful there as he drinks up the scent of her skin and his hands shake, that yearning to touch stronger than ever, and he gives into it, dipping his arms under the surface of the water to touch familiar skin and memorize her on instinct alone. Just as he has done so many times before. 

He sighs deep and heavy when one of her hands reaches up behind him to scrape over his scalp, and dips his tongue into the shell of her ear. 

“So when do we begin?” He asks, his voice so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. She pulls at the curls at the nape of his neck until he detaches from her skin. “Now.” 

“What shall I do, my love?” 

This strange ritual. 

Those three words ring around his head, rich, like bells, and she whispers back. 

“Relax.”  

That lost feeling returns when she begins to lean back and crowd his space, pressing her back to his chest until he’s forced to support her weight in the water. When she becomes pleasantly weighted on him he leans back as well, reclining until they fall together as one body within the tub. When they’re both comfortable, Tav sighs and rubs at his knees on either side of her hips. Her eyes have fallen shut. Is she sleeping? 

“Darling,” he says, and Tav hums sweetly, “which ritual is this?” 

“The only ritual I'm succumbing you to is my raw devotion to you.” 

His brow furrows despite the way that his chest manages to bloom with something nice inside, and she tilts her chin up to lay a lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw. It’s only then that he realizes how his body has tensed again, but not out of anything unpleasant. “Relax,” she reminds him, and despite everything in his brain screaming at him for the foreignness of this devotion, he does. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Fireworks: Che 'Taza' Romero

Part of @storiesofsvu Holiday Bingo! The square was New Year's!

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @withakindheartx @drabbles-mc @ficnation @keyweegirlie @aconfusedidentity

Ben hates New Year’s Eve; he has since the shooting in Boston. The one that claimed Joseph’s life and left him with muscle damage in his right thigh. It’s the reason he can’t run marathons anymore, he can barely go a mile before he’s in agony.

It’s the fireworks he struggles with, the way those loud, abrupt retorts shatter through the peace. It takes him right back to that night in the club, those gunshots cutting through the music as he cradles Joseph’s head in his lap, watching the blood pool spread across the dance floor. They’d been celebrating that night; the adoption was going through. It was supposed to be their last night of freedom for a very long time.

He's hiding in his office when Taza finds him. The room is soundproofed for confidentiality purposes, it’s the best place for him to be away from the noise. His anxiety makes him raw, hypervigilant; it sets his nerves on edge, and he struggles to focus on anything for more then seconds. Thankfully he planned for this, he knows he needs a mundane task to keep him from spiralling so a couple of days ago he created one. He picks up the stack of paperwork from the edge of his desk and takes up residence on the floor in front of it.

He has over two hundred welcome packs to put together, each segment an individual page he has to sort into the correct order. It’s probably going to take him all night, which is exactly what he wants.

He’s surprised when the outlaw steps into the room. It’s a big night for the community centre, they’re throwing a block party to bring in the new year. It’s the first celebration since the Galindo Agra Park project collapsed and it seems like the entire town has turned out.

“I thought you’d be celebrating with the others.” Ben says as the other man closes the door behind him. In his hand he’s carrying two bottles of beer, the citrus one that Ben prefers.

“I thought I’d take a break and see what was going on in here.” Taza says, carefully stepping over the paperwork before he sits down alongside Ben. He hands the other man one of the bottles before he surveys the paperwork in front of him. “So, what is going on in here?”

“I had some work to do.” Ben tells him as he snaps the cap off the beer bottle.

“Clearly.” Taza says, taking a swig from his own bottle. “Those welcome packs must be urgent.”

“Hm.” Ben responds, his thumb running over the label as he stares down at it.

Taza lets the silence sit, the back of his head coming to rest against the wall as he stretches his legs out in front of him.

“It’s the fireworks.” Ben says finally, gesturing to his head. “It brings back some shit, makes my mind a little messy.”

Taza nudges Ben’s shoulder gently with his own.

“Seems like a good reason to hide out in here.” Taza says as he looks around the office. “This place is soothing, comfortable, you can lose yourself in a task.”

“You should go back to the party,” Ben tells him, taking a sip of beer.

“Why would I do that when the one person I actually want to spend time with is right here.” Taza tells him, the edges of his mouth tipping up into a smile.

Ben tilts his head towards him and he finds himself looking into Taza’s eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of brown, rich and full of warmth. He could spend forever getting lost in those eyes, he wants to. He has since that night in the community garden.

His thumb ghosts over the line of Taza’s jaw, tipping his chin up just a little.

“Can I kiss you Che?” He murmurs, his lips almost brushing over Taza’s.

“Please.” Taza whispers.

It comes out like a plea, and Ben, he can’t deny this man anything.

It’s been twenty-five years since Taza has kissed another man, he’s surprised by how soft it is, how tender. With David it was rough, passionate. With Ben it’s a gentle caress, a promise of more to come. It’s beautiful and it’s also overwhelming. He doesn’t realise he’s crying, not until Ben uses his thumb to chase away the tears that leak down his cheeks.

“It’s alright.” Ben whispers against his lips. “It’s been a while for me too.”

Love Taza? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

From Cider to Sweetheart

Day 3 of 2019's 31 Days of Ficmas @doctorroseprompts Prompt: cider Rating: T (mild) Pairing: 12xRose (AU) Summary: Rose hopes that bartending on Christmas Eve for a party will make the future she dreams of possible. The brooding silver fox in the corner may be more than she bargained for. 2019 31 Days of Ficmas masterlist AO3

---

Still tying her hair back, Rose slipped behind the bar just as the staff meeting started.

“Right,” Dave sent her a warning look, “thank you all for being here.  I know it’s Christmas Eve and a bit shitty for us all to be working, but the bonuses are worth it, and will be cash in hand once the last guest leaves.  There’s been some speculation about the who of our guests tonight, and it’s the music label Gallifrey.  And yes, their stars will be here as well.”

Rose whistled softly as murmuring broke out.  Gallifrey Records was the largest in the UK, and their various artists occupied eight of the top ten spots in any given week.

“So- we will be polite, we will scrape and simper, and we will not harass or fangirl over the talent,” the manager continued firmly, looking around the room.  “How much of a bonus we all get depends on how happy the stars are.  So, serve fast, be invisible, go home rich – or at least richer than you started the day off.  Tips will be pooled.  You know your jobs – get to work.  They’ll start arriving in an hour.”

With that the group disbursed as everyone hurried to their positions, doing final prep for the event.

“This ought to be interesting.” Mickey started unloading the dishwasher and racking the glasses.  “Who’re you hoping to see?  I wouldn’t mind a few minutes in the alley with Karen Silvers.”  He eyed Rose as she leaned over to check her ice inventory.  “Nice top.”

“Shut up.”  She glanced down self-consciously at the lowcut neckline.  “Pooled tips, remember?”  Jackie had laughed herself silly when she saw Rose in the Wonderbra and lacy top, but a good-enough tip night would allow Rose to finally register for some uni courses and, eventually, get her out of the bar.

“Yeah, well, if you get anyone to sign your chest, let me take a picture, yeah?”

She elbowed him sharply on her way past, fixing him with a glare.  “Cut me a dozen more limes, will you?  I expect there’s going to be a lot of tequila shots tonight.  And keep your eyes on my back, barback, instead of my front.”

“Love you, babe,” he called after her.

Not letting him see her smile, she just threw a rude gesture behind her.

It was going to be a long night.

-

After three years as a bartender, Rose was fairly confident that she had a good idea of what any customer was going to order at a glance.  She wasn’t always right, but when she wasn’t, she was still in the right ballpark.

An hour into the party a man settled onto a stool near the corner, unique in that no one else was sitting; everyone else at the bar was there just long enough to order their drinks and return to their social circles.  This man, though, appears to be alone but for his thoughts, based on his brooding expression.  Easily a decade older than Rose, his hair was more salt than pepper and his attire gave off a magician/rocker appearance.

“Should I know him?” Rose muttered to Amy, one of the waitresses, jerking her head in the man’s direction.

“Don’t think so,” the redhead shrugged.  “I don’t know who he is, at least.  Probably a manager or something.”

Nodding in thanks Rose moved towards him, serving those who came before until it was his turn.  Whiskey, on the rocks, she predicted.  But what brand?

“What can I get you?”

“What ciders do you have?”

She blinked at him.  “Sorry?”

“What ciders do you have?” he repeated, in a Scottish burr that sent shivers down her spine.  “Anything Scottish will do, really.”

“Hang on.”  Rose checked her stock, then came back with a bottle a moment later.  “I’ve got this – Thistly Cross?”

“I’ll take it.”

Popping off the cap she passed it over with one hand, ringing it in with the other.  “First cider of the night,” she said.  “Got a few more flavors of the same, and a couple other brands if you want something else.  Just let me know.”

“Ta,” he toasted her, and she was momentarily captivated by his throat as he took a drink.

A whistle from the other end of the bar broke her spell, and she turned to the next bloke (they were all men – and tipping well, so the shirt was working) and pasted on a smile.  “Hi!  What can I get you?”

-

It took a good thirty minutes to cycle back to him, and she leaned towards him just as he drained the bottle.

“How was it?”

“Very good.  Got any other flavors?”

“A few.”

“How long does this party go?”

“Midnight.”

He checked his watch, then grimaced.  “Let’s try them all, then.  What’s next?”

“How’s ‘Scottish Fruits’?”

“Perfect.”

She passed it over, then hesitated.  “I thought you’d be a Scotch man.”

He took sip.  “Normally, but… it’s Christmas.  That seemed a little too depressing for a party.  Or at least, I get a little too depressed for a party with it.”

“Why cider, then?”

He just shrugged, then tilted his head.  “I think you’re needed elsewhere.”

“Right.  Sorry.”

Cursing herself for getting too personal she moved along, though her thoughts stayed with the man, who remained on his stool.

Who shows up to a work party on Christmas Eve, then sits in the corner drinking cider?  What’s his story?

-

“‘Elderflower’ or ‘whisky cask’?”

“Whisky.”

She pulled the bottle, then hesitated before handing it over.  “The cider, or actual whisky?”

The man smirked.  “The cider.  And a water, I suppose – my sister would tell me to pace myself.”  His smiled faded, eyes going distant in a look she knew too well.

“How long?”

He looked up at her, startled from his reverie, sucked on his teeth for a moment, then said, “Four months.  Accident.  She was crossing the street, truck came out of nowhere.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.  How’d you know?”

Rose glanced down the rest of the bar, but for the moment it was blessedly quiet; Clara, her fellow bartender, was holding court down the other end, and Mickey was busy with restocks.  “Mum gets the same look in her eye this time of year about Dad.”

“Sorry.  How long?”

“I was a baby.”

He exhaled.  “That’s awful.”

“Yeah.  The holidays can be difficult.”  She shook her head then.  “Sorry, totally inappropriate.”

“Not at all,” the man said gently.  “Grief is enduring, and rears its head at this time of year.  Thank you for sharing.”

“And you.  Let me know if I can do anything else for you.”

He shook his head.  “I’m good for the moment.  And- I’m Ian.”

“Rose.”

He held out his hand and she offered hers, but rather than shaking it, he kissed her knuckles, making her flush.  “Good to meet you.”

“And you.”

Rose looked him over, biting her lip.  He’s fit.

A customer walked up then, and she turned.  Don’t shag the guests, don’t shag the guests, Dave will definitely fire you if you shag a guest.

-

“So, do you get a break tonight, or is it a marathon?”

Handing over another cider bottle – strawberry, this time – Rose shook her head.  “Just the downtime between customers, if any.  Can I ask what you do?”

“Looking to see how deep my pockets are?” he joked.  “You’ll be terribly disappointed.  No, I’m a recording sound engineer.  I’m responsible for taking the raw product and turning it into something, well, palatable to the ear.”

Rose laughed, leaning on the bar.  “Come on, is it that bad?”

“Some are,” he grinned.  “I use a lot more autotune now than I did when I started.  You’ve no idea.”

“I’ll bet.  Tell me more.”

“What, about the time I had to tell Adele she was a bit pitchy?”

She shook her head, smiling, tongue caught between her teeth.  “Nah, I’m not so big on the fan worship.  The technical details interest me, though.  Always have.”

“Dreams of being an artist yourself?”

“Nope.  Had a boyfriend as a teenager who thought he’d make it big.  Never did.  Spend a lot backstage at dive bars with him, and one memorable afternoon in a studio.”

“I know the type,” Ian said dryly.  “Lots of attitude, little talent.”

“Oh, so you’ve met!”

They shared a laugh.

“I have to say,” he leaned forward, gaze on his cider bottle, “this evening hasn’t been as terrible as I expected.”

“You haven’t talked to anyone but me,” Rose pointed out.

“Exactly.”  He looked up, his eye blue eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

She was saved from answering by another customer, wondering all the while whether it would be inappropriate to give him her number.

-

As the night wore on the bar got slower, many of the groups scattered throughout the pub moving to bottle service leaving Rose with more time.

While Mickey took care of the restocking and cleaning Rose spent more time with Ian, chatting and joking.  He kept the topics light and she followed his lead, laughing and trading work stories.  Between the content and his accent his tales were fascinating to listen to, and she rather thought he liked showing off, though with the very infrequent name drop.  In return she told her more lighthearted stories from behind the bar, including that of Amy the waitress and Rory the second-shift nurse at the nearby hospital, how they’d fallen in love over darts and cheap beer.

Eventually the night drew to a close, though, the bells of a nearby church tolling midnight.

Christmas.

“Happy Christmas,” Ian murmured, as the few remaining guests started stumbling to the door.

“Happy Christmas,” she repeated softly, eyes searching his.  Will I ever see you again?

He stood with a groan, finishing his bottle before fishing out his wallet.

“You don’t-”

Shaking his head, Ian pulled out three crisp hundred pound notes and added them to the tip jar.  “Thank you for an enjoyable evening.”

“I had a good time.  I really liked talking to you.”

Wallet still out he hesitated, then extracted a card.  “Here’s my contact information.  If you’re serious about sound engineering, use my office phone.”  He held it out to her, but when she went to take it, he didn’t let go.  “Also…” he took it back, grabbing a pen off the bar and scribbling something on the back.  “My mobile, if… fuck, I don’t know.  Here.”

He left the card and the pen on the bar top, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the pub.

“You’re gonna call him, right?”

Rose shrieked as Clara appeared at her elbow.  “What?”

“Cause if not, give it to me – I bet he’s a good ride.”

“What happened to Ash?” she demanded, clutching at her chest.  “And don’t sneak up on a person like that!”

“We broke up,” Clara shrugged.  “So?”

Rose bit her lip.  “You don’t think-”

“He was watching you the whole night,” Mickey piped up, reaching around them to clear some of the glasses starting to be returned to the bar.  “And he only looked at your cleavage when you weren’t close by.”

“Doesn’t that mean he’s not interested?”

“Or that he likes you for more than your body.  Call him,” Clara ordered.  “Now, now, now!”

Rose groaned, giving into the peer pressure – which was telling her the same thing her heart was.  Or at least the heart in her pants.  “Fine, fine.”  First taking a picture of the card just in case, she carefully started the message, going through several drafts before settling on This is Rose.

I honestly didn’t expect to hear from you came back only seconds later, making Clara coo.

“I bet he was waiting for your message!”

Rose swatted her away, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she typed.  I really enjoyed talking with you.  I’d be open to seeing you again.

She waited with baited breath, Clara and Mickey hovering over her shoulder, but nothing came back.

After a good two minutes she locked the screen and set it down firmly.  “Let’s get back to work so we can get out of here.”

They hurried in their cleanup process, everyone wanting to get home, and she studiously ignored her mobile, even when it beeped ten minutes later.  Harder to ignore were the looks she was getting, but it wasn’t until she clocked out and settled her purse on her shoulder that she gave in to check the message.

“So?”  Like a bad penny Clara turned up at her elbow.  “What did he say?”

“I didn’t read it yet!”

She clicked the message open.  Would dinner be to forward?

Not at all.

Boxing Day?  What kind of food do you like?

How about a chippy and a walk along the river?

“Rose,” Clara complained.  “Let him wine and dine you!”

The tips were distributed then, and Rose didn’t even bother to count it before shoving into her pocket, her mobile dinging again.

That doesn’t give us the opportunity to linger over dessert.

Waving good night to her friends Rose headed for the tube, waiting until she was on the train to respond, fingers hesitating before typing out, dessert depends on how well the rest of the date goes.  I’m very flexible.

She second-guessed it the moment she sent it, worrying it was too risqué, but it only took a minute to hear back.

I like flexible.  Worst case scenario, I’ve got a few pints of ice cream in the freezer.  What’s your opinion on mint chocolate chip?

It’s perfect.

[thehill-rpg]

Episode 2: Whispers on The Hill Part: 1/??

The quiet shuffle of bare feet on the gravel courtyard fills the air, accompanied by the faint squeak of a rusty pool gate reluctantly opening. With a pair of composed steps, a slender figure, tall yet delicate, makes her way towards an ageing pool chair. As she reclines on its worn surface, the chair emits a soft groan of protest, bearing witness to both its own well-worn years and the age of its current resting place: Palm’s Motor Hotel. Donning a pair of Ray Bans, she settles in, clad in a casual ensemble of a Washington Nationals' tank top and a worn pair of denim short shorts. In her hand, she opens a well-read copy of Cosmo, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze. Tucked between them is a torn clipping from yesterday’s issue of The Hill, resting over an article titled ‘The Secret to Finding Your Soulmate: Date Your Alter Ego.’ A good article, offering the kind of advice you could only get out of a drunk best friend, yet not the one currently capturing her attention.

Chelsea Dalton reclines beside a pool that seems questionably operational (was that the smell of an impending bacteria infection?), her gaze fixed on the familiar words. She reads it again, for what feels like the hundredth time, each word etched into her memory. She knows every line by heart. It’s beautiful.

It’s also months of dedication, collaboration, and hopefully, justice. Sure, it’s a departure from her usual flair, and while, yes, she’d normally sell her soul for this kind of traffic on her blog, she knew there was no way her posting this story would get it the attention it deserved. Hence, her email to Violet Shard, almost three months ago. She’d been hesitant at first. Sure, she was a fan, but this was something that needed to be handled with care. She was too close to her own source. She couldn’t risk being named. However, Violet had assured her of anonymity and a series of follow-ups that wouldn’t brush any pertinent details under the proverbial rug of Washington D.C. political justice. That's why she had agreed, and why she now found herself just outside the District, technically in Maryland, waiting for said blonde journalist. 

Where was she?

As she waited for Violet’s late arrival (had her trusty Saab finally coughed its last puff of exhaust?), she let her thoughts drift over to Gray, and the party she would have been at if the news she’d just leaked to The Hill, hadn’t implicated his father. She’d probably have been in some uncomfortable sundress right now, watching as Gray loosened a tie, only for his mother to promptly tighten it again, while she discreetly passed another crab puff to Mac. Of course, she hated every second of it, but even without her mom’s urging, she hadn’t missed one since she’d moved in next door to his family at six. What could she say? She had a thing for fish paste covered Hors d'Oeuvres. And tortured artists… She’d let the last one remain unsaid, stubbornly resisting even her subconscious attempts to divert her down that worn-out, oh so familiar road. Not today, Bucko! 

Just as she was attempting to shift her focus, fate intervened with the unceremonious thud of a bottle of sunscreen hitting her thigh, yanking her back to the realm of the living—or, more accurately, a realm that didn't revolve around pining over her best-friend of twenty-seven years. “Slip, slop, slap…” She glared over her glasses at a man holding a faded beach towel and a copy of The Hill. 

While quick judgments were usually her forte, she decided to withhold hers until he extended his hands to offer assistance. She leaned towards labelling him as the "concerned dad" type rather than a creepy motel lifer. "Uh, thanks, but— Is that the latest copy of The Hill?" She hadn’t been able to pick up a copy before she’d left her house in order to get here in time and she was keen to see how Violet had followed up. “Sure, kiddo. It’s yours.” She dropped her guard, leaning over to take the paper from his outstretched hand, “Are you moving in?” She’d have answered if the headline story hadn’t caught her attention. Violet Shard, facing charges of defamation and harassment, for her latest story on Congressman Whitman and Harris. “Uh, sorry, do you mind if I–” She was already up, picking up her copy of cosmo and hurrying out of the pool area and back towards her day room and her burner. FUCK. Voicemail. “Violet, call me. I— What can I do?” 

Well, she knew one thing she could do…  

She hastily opened her laptop, disregarding the unread emails clamouring for her attention with their requests for her usual freelance work. Instead, she navigated to her blog and swiftly crafted a new post.

Ms. Whisper here, emerging from the shadows with a scoop hotter than the Capitol's political inferno. It appears our esteemed journalist, Violet Shard, finds herself in the clutches of controversy. But this isn't your run-of-the-mill scandal, my darlings—oh no, it's a tale of truth-telling and the ruthless consequences that follow. Violet dared to shine a light on the dark dealings of Congressman Whitlock and Harris, revealing their insidious involvement in the war-torn realm of Matamba. Yet, instead of accolades, she's met with handcuffs and accusations of defamation and harassment. But fear not, dear readers, for Ms. Whisper is always on the case, ready to peel back the layers of deception and hold the powerful to account. In this cutthroat world of political intrigue, even the bravest truth-seekers like Violet Shard aren't safe from the claws of injustice. So, keep your ears to the ground and your eyes peeled, because when it comes to unravelling the truth, there's no hiding from the relentless pursuit of Ms. Whisper. #StandWithViolet

Her phone buzzed—an SOS. She shot a text back that she’d be there soon. Though even with her foot planted to the floor of her beemer she knew she’d never break an hour. Hastily rummaging through her overnight bag, she retrieved a somewhat acceptable dress (she didn’t own many); though the party might've been cancelled, she was certain Gray's mom wouldn't want the reminder. Hastily, she made her way over to the shower, and tried her best to find the password to get the hot water working longer than two seconds.

She did her best to keep her hair from getting wet, as she washed her nervous sweat from under her armpits. Chelsea hadn't seen this coming without a fight, but nabbing a journalist? This wasn't just a hiccup; it was the kind of move that had First Amendment lawyers rubbing their hands with glee.

She gave up trying to tune the shower into submission and let the cold water run down her back, as she wracked her brain for a way to assist Violet beyond mere page views. Nothing. Nothing.

When it came down to taking action, what good was being Ms. Whisper if all she had in her arsenal were a sharp tongue and a quick wit? That certainly didn't grant innocent journalists a Get Out of Jail Free card, did it?

After a quick drying session (as evidenced by her dress clinging to her back and making it a challenge to slide down over her thighs), Chelsea grappled with her wayward curls, victims of the fierce heat akin to the Battle of Waterloo. With her belongings in tow, she checked out of the motel, conceding that, for the time being, there was little she could do for Violet. As for Gray, a sense of obligation stirred within her to mitigate the unintended turmoil she had caused him. Nonetheless, she refrained from assuming full culpability, acknowledging that the root of this mess lay primarily with his father. All she’d done was overhear a phone call, sneak into his office at night, and make a few dozen or so copies of a report that she only wished now had more than just Congressman Harris’ name to it.

Pulling up to Gray’s house, adjacent to her own, Chelsea switched off the ignition and discreetly covered her overnight bag with one of Mac’s car seat covers in the backseat before stepping out and making her way inside. The atmosphere was sullen, with white chairs being shuffled in and out from the patio to a van parked out front. From a distance, Chelsea observed Nora overseeing the operation with an overflowing wine glass in hand. She couldn't shake the feeling of responsibility for the sombre mood, knowing she had played a part in it, at least partially.

Following the faint strumming of a bass, Chelsea ascended the stairs, purposefully bypassing Mr. Whitlock’s study. She had been instructed to call him Brody, but it just didn't sit right with her. Instead, she made her way down to Gray’s room at the end of the second floor. Her fingers brushed against the wooden door as she announced herself before slipping inside.

"So, on a scale from six-pack therapy to a spa retreat in the German highlands, how concerned should I be about you?" She offered a tentative smile. However, the instant she caught the strains of "Darn The Dream" by Ron Carter, being plucked, she realised she was entering yodelling territory.

[phanfictioncatalogue]

High School Parties Masterlist

7 Minutes (ao3) - aby55al (orphan_account)

Summary: Dan gets pulled into a game of Truth or Dare at a party with upperclassman Phil. Then they have sex.

before the ride (ao3) - larry_hystereks

Summary: prequel to 'i'll take you on a ride'.

or the story where pastel dan meets footballer phil at a party and they can't quite seem to keep their hands off each other.

Dan and His Butterflies (ao3) - Raspberrysaxophone

Summary: Very basic: Dan is terribly in love with Phil (the sporty jog). So much so, that Dan joins the school's sports team to be closer to him. As Dan awkwardly stumbles around, Phil starts to take notice of him. A party takes place and who knows what a drunk Dan might do...

Dancing, Like Were Made of Starlight (ao3) - orphan_account

Summary: The high school rejects: Dan and Phil go to a party they weren’t invited to and realize how in love they are with each other.

Drunk Words Are Sober Thoughts - danhasacrushonphil

Summary:  The opportunity of a life time comes in the form of Phil Lester actually showing up at a party, all tattoos and bright blue eyes. Dan’s been crushing on him for far too long, so getting the chance to play Never Have I Ever with his crush? Yeah, he can’t pass that one up. What could go wrong?

Empty Bottle. (ao3) - heyitsnxel

Summary: Spin the bottle only happened in cliché rom-coms and high school movies, so why the hell were they playing it now?

Empty Doubled Cups - cafephan

Summary: Dan and Phil are in a relationship, but you wouldn’t think it. They attempt to surpass their first milestone as a couple – their first house party, where everyone would see them together.

Give Me a Spark, I’ll Give You Explosions - cafephan

Summary: Phil is quiet and shy, silently pining. Dan is loud and flirty, and doesn’t care about labels. House parties and nail polish occur

heaven help the fool who falls in love (ao3) - glasseslouis

Summary: dan is positive that prom is stupid.

until phil agrees to be his friend-date, of course.

the high school prom AU that nobody asked me for featuring pizza puns, drunk decisions, and fox shirts

Heroes (ao3) - kitchen_sinks

Summary: Based on The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky exploring the relationship between Dan (Brad) and Phil (Patrick), two high schoolers who could only be together behind closed doors and found love at the bottom of a glass.

The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot - auroraphilealis

Summary: Dan has never been a fan of frat houses, and after Phil comes onto him at a frat party and then pushes him into a pool, Dan can’t help feeling vindicated. Phil, on the other hand, just wants to apologize.

The Fake Boyfriend - doomedhowell

Summary: Phil is at a party when he’s dared to ask Dan Howell out. Phil doesn’t want to do the dare but he has no choice, so instead, he asks Dan to be his fake boyfriend.

Unexpected Moments (ao3) - PhancyPhandom

Summary: A self indulgent Teenage AU oneshot for my first fic posted here!

Dan meets Phil at a house party, and while he usually doesn't look for anything more than a quick hookup, Phil might be making him feel things he hasn't felt, ever.

Until My Pity Party's In Flames (ao3) - philsbasket

Summary: High school AU in which Dan and Phil are both at a party and end up hiding out in the same bathroom.

Varsity Jacket - chocolatesaucelester

Summary: Dan has always been Phil’s close best friend, and that was not going to change now that Phil is the star of the basketball team and one of the most popular and most wanted guys in school.

[myloveforhergoeson]

That's All She Wrote - Side Story

The Middle (1.11.5) ~ 2.1k

“There you are, Roxy! We were starting to think that the car wash would never end!” 

From a cushy lounge chair off to the side of the famous Palm Woods pool, Roxy was able to hear her friends’ playful jeering as she drew closer to the spot Camille and Jo had been holding down for her as the pool grew busier and busier after a long day in Hollywood. Weaving through the bustling crowd of people around the pool’s edge, the writer was more than happy to plop down on her chair and pull her sunglasses over her eyes to shield them from the setting sun, letting out a loud sigh before turning to her friends. 

“Well, when we gave Griffin his car back he asked how much we were charging for a wash. Then I jokingly said ‘14,089 dollars, please!’ since the entire point was for us to pay off our debt to him,” She explained, getting a kick out of how her friend’s brows raised at the mention of the large debt. “And then he turned to his assistant, pulled a briefcase labeled ‘15 grand’ from the trunk, and tossed it at Gustavo.”

“You’re kidding!” Jo gasped, sliding her hands around the smoothie cup she held in her hands. 

“Despite that negating almost the entire purpose of the wash, I’m glad we got it over with. I’m not sure how much longer I could’ve put up with the band around buckets and an endless stream of water.”

From the seat beside Roxy, Camille let out a soft sigh, using both of her hands to pull her black hair back into a ponytail in preparation to swim. “I wonder if he's as much of a piece of work as his daughter is?”

That question sure caught the writer’s attention, quickly turning her attention away from the bottle of water she was pulling out of her bag. 

Observing the look her two friends shared, Jo wasn’t shy about cocking her head to the side, her “Who?” overlapping with both Roxy and Camille asking, “How do you know Mercedes?”

The girls had a lot of explaining to do; beginning with the assistant recounting her encounter with the socialite a few weeks ago and how terribly she had treated the band while they were attempting to get their demos chosen by the record company. Though, she did have to take a quick break from explaining to get her friends to migrate into the pool - it was almost 85 degrees out, and her Minnesota cold-adapted body felt like her skin was about to melt right off her bones. 

There were very few things better than the feeling of the refreshing water of the Palm Woods pool. 

However, as Roxy recounted Mercedes’ brief relationship with Kendall, she noticed Jo’s face fall, casting her gaze down to the water she was treading. Everything had gone well for them at the party Big Time Rush had held a few days ago, both Jo and Kendall had shared their separate sides of their antics through the hotel halls as they tried to hide the get-together from Bitters with the assistant, so she had assumed that her story would reassure the actress that he was seriously into her. Instead, it looked like she had managed to do the opposite. 

“How long were they… you know…” The blonde pushed out, forcing herself to pick up her head and peer over at her friend, silently requesting an honest answer.

Response almost immediate, Roxy did her best to try and amend her slip-up as she steadied herself at the edge of the pool. “A little over two hours before Mercedes asked him if he loved her. Kendall could never lie about something that important… She threw a royal fit, yelled at him a bit, then snatched Carlos up to be her new boyfriend.”

 Before Jo was able to say anything else, Camille, floating around on an adorable pink inner tube, let out a long-winded, “Oh!”

Now it was her turn to share her equally as terrible Mercedes encounter on the night of the Big Time Get-Together, one in which she found herself competing with the socialite to win the affection of her crush, Logan. 

As much as Roxy would love to focus on the story Camille was telling, she found herself tuning out almost immediately after the mention of the party. Would now be a good time to bring up the flowers Dak had left her as an apology for missing the party? While input from her friends would probably help her piece her feelings together after the shambles being stood up almost left her in, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to hear anything negative they might have to say about the situation.

“It all makes sense now, I knew there was no way she liked him!” Cackled Camille, accidentally splashing the writer as she slammed her fist down into the water confidently. “She just wanted to add him to her little boy band collection… What a weirdo!”

Exchanging a glance towards each other, Jo and Roxy seemed to share the same sentiment at their friend’s words. It wasn’t ever like Camille to put down other girls, but when it came to Logan, all bets were off. Anyone placing themselves up as her rival would likely taste any number of talents Camille had picked up living in Hollywood for so long. 

“I used her for reference at an audition today… Can you believe it?” The actress continued, moving her sunglasses from over her eyes, up onto her head now that the building behind them provided enough shade from the relenting summer sun. “As fun as it would be to play someone like her, I can’t imagine being so conceited.”

“Was that the only audition you had today?” Roxy asked, trying to get off the subject of Mercedes. As much as she didn’t care for the girl either, it didn’t feel right to sit around and bash her for being interested in the same guy her friend was. “What about you Jo?”

With a nod, Jo took another lazy sip of her smoothie before listing, “Depression medication commercial, dog food commercial, CSI teen murder victim, CSI grieving sister, and a ghost girl role for some weird supernatural hunters show… I can’t tell you how long I sat around in waiting rooms next to girls who looked exactly like me.” 

Placing a sympathetic hand on her friend’s shoulder, Roxy remembered James saying something similar at his ‘Cuda Man audition earlier. “It sounds like you’re giving it your all, Jo. The perfect part is going to find you soon!”

“I know, I know…” The girl trailed off, twirling a finger around her wet locks. “My dad keeps saying the same thing but it’s getting a bit harder to believe as the number of roles I try out for keeps increasing when I haven’t even booked one part.”

“Dedication is the most important part of being an actress and you’re chock full of it! Most people quit right before they get the role of a lifetime.” Camille stated matter-of-factly before giggling, “Not everyone can make it look as easy as someone like Dak Zevon can!”

Involuntarily, Roxy winced at the mention of her crush’s name. It was unrealistic to think she could skirt the topic for the entirety of their time at the pool, but she thought she might be able to last a little bit longer. There wasn’t anything she had regretted telling them the day after the dance, giving them a play-by-play of the Dak-related events of the previous evening. She just didn’t stick around to hear their thoughts and opinions on the topic before rushing off to the studio to record a new guitar track.

“Camille-” She heard Jo bite before the writer took in a large breath of air and dunked her head under the water. 

Allowing the cool water to envelop her, she gave herself some time to mentally prepare for whatever her friends might throw her way. Good or bad, the decision to keep seeing Dak was her own, though their words would hold much sway over her choice. 

They’re your friends. Roxy reminded herself, loving the weightless feeling of her body as she gently floated back to the surface. They just want what’s best for you, just like you want what’s best for them.

When she surfaced again, she wildly kicked her legs to keep herself afloat while she used her wet hands to move her hair out of her face before glancing back and forth between the actresses.

“Well if you had an issue with him, you should’ve told me!” Camille practically exploded, raising her arms in the air and taking two handfuls of water up with them. “I can’t read your mind, Roxy!”

“Right…” The writer nodded, before sarcastically sighing, “Because most people are usually okay with being stood up?”

Very interested in the water droplets running down her friend’s arms, Roxy looked anywhere but Camille’s eyes as the actress let out a huff. “Did you even talk to him about it? Maybe he had a good reason.”

“That’s the thing! I called him this morning after he left me a big rose bouquet as an apology, and he didn’t even tell me why he didn’t make it.”

From beside her, Jo scoffed, “Roses and no excuses? What an asshole.”

“No!” Called Camille, “A big rose bouquet is so romantic… Did you talk about anything else? I’m going to need everything as accurately recounted as possible.”

Just as Roxy went to open her mouth to respond, Jo raised her hand in a “stop” motion, “Woah, woah, woah. You think it’s cool that he stood her up and didn’t even come to apologize in person?”

Eyes switching back and forth from actress to actress, the writer felt a bit invisible as her friends battled their own personal opinions about her love life right in front of her. 

“Obviously, in a perfect world, he would’ve made it, but newsflash! This isn’t a perfect world! It’s a hurdle they’ll have to jump through together.”

Aw… That’s a sweet way to put it.

“Camille, he didn’t even call her to tell her he couldn’t make it! Don’t you think if he were interested he would’ve at least sent her a message?”

Ouch. 

“His world doesn’t revolve around her! Or maybe he was too scared to hurt her feelings over the phone!”

Scared… of me?

“It takes seconds to send a text message.”

“Not with a dead phone!”

“How do you know his phone even died?”

“How do you know it didn’t?”

“Roxy deserves someone like-”

“Cannonball!”

Wet steps pounding on the concrete pool deck alerted the three girls to a newcomer, causing their heads to turn as the four Big Time Rush boys sprinted toward the pool. Almost in sync, they leaped over the ledge the girls were leaning on and sailed clear over their heads before landing with a gigantic splash in the middle of the pool. 

While thankful that derailed the conversation about her and Dak’s current situation, Roxy was less than pleased with the giant wave the band had managed to kick up swallowed her and her friends, leaving them gasping for breath once they reached the surface once more. 

“Did you guys think you could have a pool party without us?” Carlos questioned, shaking his head back and forth a few times to remove the stray drops of water dripping down his soaking black hair. 

Glancing towards the actresses, Roxy felt a bit guilty as she let out a quiet, “Yup… Silly us.”

Thankfully, Logan thought she was joking and let out a little laugh, swimming past her to reach Camille on her floatie. “That’s not really a good idea when our window overlooks the pool.”

“We’re delightful to be around!” Scoffed James, who took the foam football he was cradling to his chest in one hand, pointing to Kendall with the other. “Go long!” 

Ignoring his friend’s suggestion, Kendall was already by Jo’s side, wrapping a lazy arm over her sounder as he whispered something intelligible in her ear that made her cheeks turn beet red. 

Without thinking, Roxy let out a few sharp kicks of her legs and crossed to the other side of the pool, turning to face her friends crowded at the other end. If her friends were occupied, they’d have no reason to continue their conversation from earlier. 

“Over here, James!” Roxy called, raising one hand and feigning a smile. 

She certainly had a lot to think about tonight.