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weasleylangs · 4 years ago

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dirty little secret / g.w

‘i go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you’

Summary: Being friends with benefits was a mutual decision, a way to relieve stress when needed after a stressful twelve months. It was decided it was just between them, not to be anybodies business but George and Y/N’s, but she doesn’t want to be his dirty little secret anymore. Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!Reader Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI !! no graphic depictions of sex but there’s one really fucking steamy kiss and sex & fwb situations/hookup culture is discussed heavily, sweet aftercare for both reader and George, jealousy & possession (nothing toxic), alcohol / drinking, food. Word Count: 5.6k AUTHORS NOTE / aaaaa the first instalment for my pop punk series!!! this one is based off dirty little secret by the all american rejects! im going to kiss @weelittleweasley for helping me write the steamy kiss btw!!!!!

POP PUNK COLLECTION

(all 18+) taglist / @spacexcowgirl @weelittleweasley @lumos-barnes @butterflybuchanan @levylovegood @omghufflepuff @mitsukui

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Y/N hears George when he reenters her room, a glass of water in one of his hands, a washcloth in the other. Her legs still feel slightly numb from the pleasure she had just been on the receiving end of, a blissed-out expression on her face as she makes grabby hands towards the man in her doorway.

George smiles dopily down at her, helping her sit up before handing her the glass of water. “How are you feeling?” he asks, checking in as he starts to help clean Y/N up. He quickly stops when she winces, scared he hurt her. “Fuck, sorry,” he whispers, pulling his hand away but when she laughs and grabs his hand, he relaxes.

“It’s fine,” she smiles, the look of euphoria still gracing her facial features. “Just a little sensitive,” she says honestly. George nods slightly, a proud smile on his lips as he goes back to cleaning her skin, taking extra care in areas where Y/N would be sensitive.

He’s always like this after sex, making sure she’s okay. It’s a part of the reason why Y/N agreed on being friends with benefits with him in the first place, he’s the most trustworthy person she knows.

It all started when they were twenty-one; the war had finished, their loved ones were safe and they so desperately needed to unwind in a very specific way after the stress of the previous twelve months. It was a mistake at first, two best friends drunkenly joking about sleeping together and the next thing they knew, they were rolling in the sheets together. Y/N was positive she ruined her longest friendship, but when George began his own personal ritual of aftercare, she knew she couldn’t let him go easily.

This is why when the preposition of friends with benefits was put on the table by George, she immediately took it; six months later they’re still sleeping together, and even though her feelings for George are evergrowing, she’s happy with their current situation.

“You sure you’re okay?” George presses when he’s noticed Y/N’s eyes glazed over. He’s worried he went a little harder than usual tonight. The stress of getting the joke shop back up and running has been getting to him and he needed a release of pressure in more ways than one.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she says, taking George’s hand in her own before pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles that causes a soft red hue to develop across his freckled cheeks. That’s something else she’s learnt about George since she began sleeping with him; he needs aftercare for himself just as much herself, and he mostly needs it in some form of physical affection. “Just thinking, nothing bad. I promise.”

George nods asking if Y/N’s good to be picked up. She giggles when she realises he’s taking her to the bathroom so she can pee. He sits her down on the toilet before turning around and gasping as he sees his reflection in the mirror. “Fuck woman,” he exclaims, before twisting his body so he can see the scratches that start at his shoulders and trail down his back. “Were you trying to rip me apart?”

He hears a giggle come from behind him, quickly followed by a toilet flushing. He feels her frame push past him so she can wash her hands and when she reaches to grab some cream to put on George’s back she lets out her own gasp.

“George Fabian Weasley, what the fuck?” Her neck has a hickey, and not just a small one. She’s beginning to question whether George is part vampire when she looks up at him and he’s smirking at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s Spring! I have lunch with Angie tomorrow! I can’t cover these!”

George almost feels bad, but his admiration for his work on her neck is slightly winning over his guilt. “I’m sorry, darling,” it’s genuine and they both know it when Y/N’s scowl falters slightly, threatening to smile.

“No, you’re not,” she says, grabbing the cream for his back and pushing him back into her bedroom. Before she begins to help George, she stands in front of her drawers, grabbing clothes to put on now she’s come out of her post-sex haze. She hears the redhead behind her chuckle when he recognises the sweater she puts on as his own as he puts his own boxers back on. “But I guess it’s payback. Your back’s going to hurt tomorrow and Fred’s going to wonder why.”

None of their friends are aware of... their arrangement. They agreed, knowing they would make it weird. After all, Fred’s engaged to his long term girlfriend from their Hogwarts years and their other friends have all started putting themselves out there, so it’s safe to say, they’re the last two to start to settle down.

But they like their current relationship; it’s carefree, it’s simple, it’s not complicated like a proper relationship and if they’re honest, they get some mindblowing sex out of it. So it’s not anybody’s business but each other’s.

After a while, Y/N’s finished putting the cream on George’s back. She spent the time mumbling apologies whenever George winces, she didn’t realise how hard she was going so she makes a mental note to not rip apart his back the next time they see each other. She presses a gentle kiss to the base of George’s neck, something she doesn’t think too much about but it feels like it’s blurring the lines between romantic and platonic right now and she feels herself panic a tiny bit.

“Do you work tomorrow?” She asks George, who hums in agreement. His eyes are droopy like he’s almost falling asleep and Y/N expected this. He’s putty in anybody’s hands the second you start trailing your hands gently up any part of his body, specifically his back. “Are you sleeping here tonight?” she giggles as she asks and George sighs.

“I probably shouldn't but-” he cuts himself off with a yawn before rolling over onto his back. “Your bed is just so much more comfortable than mine.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, pushing him slightly before jumping off the bed and leaving George to frown at her when she moves from her spot next to him. She grabs her wand from her bedside table, walking through her flat to make sure all her lights are turned off before enchanting ‘lumos’ so she can light her way back to her bedroom.

“You’re letting me stay?” She nods at his words, crawling into bed with him. While she knows George is a sucker for physical affection, Y/N is also well aware he hates sleeping cuddled up to people so she gives him his space in the bed. Because of this, she doesn’t expect George to shift his body so even though they’re not cuddling, they’re still close, a simple form of comfort that neither of them can decipher as platonic or romantic.

“Yes, you can stay,” she says, rubbing her thumb along George’s hand as a way of saying goodnight, “but you wake me up before 9am tomorrow and you die.”

-----

When Y/N wakes up the next morning to her alarm going off, the side of the bed is empty and cold. Her alarm clock reads 10:30am, so she knows George has been gone for a few hours at this point. She feels a small sense of sadness, remembering how fun the mornings are the times George sleeps over and stays until she wakes up.

She sighs, deciding there’s no point in dwelling on George’s absence. When she walks into her kitchen, she checks her kettle; cursing George when she finds it empty because she knows he just had to have a cup of tea before leaving this morning and rolls her eyes as she fills it herself. Her kettle’s boiling as she potters around when she spots a piece of paper with George’s writing all over it.

‘George’s excuses for the hickeys’ the note reads in his messy scrawl, and Y/N has to stifle a cackle before she continues to read. ‘1. ran into a door’ is scratched out immediately and she knows George probably thought it was a good idea at first before realising the hickeys are on her neck, so the running into the door isn't feasible. ‘2. bug’ is the next one and she has to stop herself from rolling her eyes and when she goes back to George’s oh so incredible list, her breath hitches.

‘3. be honest and say you hooked up with someone’ makes Y/N’s heart sink. She hasn’t slept with anyone besides George in the past six months, hasn’t wanted to either for that matter, but it makes her realise something.

She doesn’t know if George is the same.

She’s well aware of their situation and the lack of commitment outside of promising to come over later, but her emotions hit her harder than she thought they would. While she wouldn’t complain if she and George became something more, she knows it’s not what either of them is looking for at the moment, so she doesn’t understand why she’s so hurt. Does George think I shag other people? she thinks before the kettle starts to hiss to indicate the water is boiled and she’s brought back to reality.

After drinking her tea, Y/N begins to get ready, trying her best to cover the purple bruises littering her neck and trying to keep herself under control while she admires them in the mirror. Soon enough, she’s out the door and making her way to Diagon Alley where she spots Angie, talking with Fred.

“Y/N!” Fred exclaims as she gets closer and waves frantically as she walks towards them. “We’re just talking about how we think George has a bird!” Y/N chokes on air, her brows furrowing at Fred’s words. They’ve been so careful, a bit too careful when it comes to hiding their relationship from their friends so she doesn’t understand.

“Why do you think that?” Her tone is casual, trying to act natural as she tries to find out what signs could point to their... activities being exposed, and to his brother of all people.

Fred starts laughing again, holding his stomach as he tries to tell the story. “He didn’t come home last night- I only noticed because I was up at 3 and his bedroom door was open which was weird because he didn’t tell me he was going out!” Fred’s animated when he’s talking, taking a sip of his drink and using his free hand to emphasise his story. “And when he was reaching for something in a closet today he winced, like his back hurt!��

Y/N stares at Fred blankly, memories of the night before flooding her memory when Fred mentions George wincing. She knows now is not the time to start thinking about how good George made her feel last night. “What does wincing have to do with anything?”

She knows she made a mistake when Fred’s eyes widen, staring at her. “Well, my dear prude Y/N, my back only hurts when it’s scratched up from a good fu-”

“Okay, we do not need to hear about your sex life,” Angie says, grabbing Y/N by the shoulders and steering her off. “We have a lunch date that you’re not invited to.” She’s smiling when she says it and when Fred bids the two girls goodbye, Angie calls out something about making fun of George for her.

She’s quiet on the walk to the cafe she and Angelina have planned for lunch, lost in thoughts. She’s stuck on the idea of George sleeping with other people even though she knows she was the one with George last night, that she was the one scratching up his back. They walk in tandem, Angelina raving about Quidditch while Y/N nodded in acknowledgement at appropriate times.

Eventually, they reach the cafe, quickly taking a seat and looking at the menu. It’s then when Angelina’s hand pulls the menu down from Y/N’s face and she’s giving the girl a questioning look.

“What’s wrong?” She asks.

Y/N stares at her, not understanding how she did anything to convey any feeling at all, let alone a feeling of something being wrong. She’s about to deny it when she looks Angelina in the eye, and she realises she can’t lie to her because she’d be questioned for the rest of lunch. “Do you think George has a friend with benefits?”

Angelina giggles at Y/N’s words, smiling slightly. “I know you’re sleeping with him.” She says it so casually that Y/N doesn’t even process what she said for a few beats. She half expected her friend to admit she was also sleeping with George, after all, she used to suspect they had a thing when they were teenagers but this is the last thing she expected.

She’s so baffled she can’t even deny it, no words leaving her mouth for a second before she just stares at Angelina, “How?”

Angelina keeps smiling, quickly ordering their drinks when the waitress comes over and requests a little longer to decide on food before turning back to her friend sitting dumbfounded across the table. “Fred might be stupid and oblivious, but I’m not. I see the way he looks at you.”

Y/N doesn’t think George looks at her in any particular way, at least he doesn’t when she isn’t under him and she notices Angelina’s eyes soften when Y/N doesn’t say anything. “You didn’t know before sleeping with him?”

“Didn’t know what before sleeping with him?”

“That he likes you?” Y/N thinks Angelina’s being stupid; it’s always been her liking George and George not noticing, not the other way around. George has always been sweet and gentle in bed, way nicer and way more giving than any other romantic partner in her past, but she’s always chalked it up to him just being George. That’s how she’s always known him, how she knew him when they met at 11, how she knew him on the Quidditch pitch when they were 15 and how she knows him now, at 22 and in his bed.

“He doesn’t like me, you’re just making stuff up!” She’s adamant Angelina’s just messing with her but Angelina just sighs, obviously ready to move on from the topic. “He doesn’t,” she whispers to no one in particular and she feels Angelina grab her hand, rubbing a thumb across the top in a comforting kind of way.

“I guess it’s not my place to say,” she starts, “but I’ve never seen George treat someone else like the way he treats you. It’s like... It’s like you’re glass, that he’s scared of breaking you and you have to be in his sights at all times.” It’s soft and Y/N knows it’s genuine as much as she hates to admit it.

The conversation changes, thankfully putting Y/N and George out of the hot seat but she’s hanging onto every word of Angelina’s, suddenly overthinking every interaction she’s had with the redhead in the past few months. Panic starts to set in and it only gets worse when Angelina bids her goodbye.

Her thoughts are loud; does she like George or does she like the way George makes her feel? What if George has liked her this entire time and she’s mistaken her feelings for romantic when they’re purely physical?

As she wonders, she realises she’s being stupid. Y/N knows she likes George, she’s liked George for so long and she likes him so much it hurts. That’s when a new thought arrives, a more sinister thought, a meaner thought; What if Angelina is just completely wrong, that’s always a possibility. What if George doesn’t like her back at all.

-----

She wanders Diagon Alley, making her way to the Apothecary after remembering she needs some more Valerian sprigs to make a new batch of the Potion for Dreamless Sleep. She’s muttering to herself as she wanders the store, thinking about how these days her best night's sleep are spent besides George but the thought is quickly pushed away when she spots her ingredient of choice and she can barely reach it.

“Fuck,” she mutters, looking around for a stool or a shop assistant so she can finally get out of Diagon Alley. She’s about to give up and leave herself when she’s met with a tough body slamming into her own. Apologies spill from her mouth quickly, feeling terrible she almost knocked this poor guy over in the middle of the Apothecary but when she looks up, George is looking down at her.

“What do you need, darling?” The nickname makes her heart race and she only hopes George can’t hear it seconds away from beating from her chest. She doesn’t respond immediately, preoccupied with how nice he looks and it’s not until he waves in front of her face that she responds.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head in a way to push away her thoughts, “was looking for some Valerian sprigs.” She hopes George minds his own business, memories from her meeting with Angelina flooding her thoughts. She starts to over analyse the way George looks at her, whether it’s as if she’s glass, like Angelina claims but when she looks at George, he’s reaching up and grabbing the jar for her.

“Treacle fudge?” He questions, and it takes her a moment to process he’s asking why she needs the ingredient.

“Dreamless Sleep,” she replies, embarrassed. She’s never needed a sleeping potion when George is around, his presence alone is enough to fight off any unwanted nightmares but that’s the last thing he needs to know. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment, just puts the jar back up on the shelf when she’s done and motions for her to follow him around the store.

He stops in front of the rose thorns, silently debating how many to get when he feels Y/N’s eyes on him. “Love potion, for WonderWitch,” he says, grabbing some and putting them in a bag before making his way to the counter. He grabs the Valerian sprigs from Y/N’s hand, placing them alongside his rose thorns and ignoring her protests when he hands some Galleons to the shopkeeper.

“I get a discount,” he says when they exit the shop, “plus, I didn’t mind.” Y/N stares at him, not able to read a single emotion on his face. She thanks him and takes the Valerian sprigs from him and places them in her bag.

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” He asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fred won’t be home.” His cheeks are flushed red, almost like he’s shy asking to see her for the second night in a row. The word ‘yes’ is on the tip of her tongue, threatening to spill out without her permission. She badly wants to let the word slip as well, but her thoughts from earlier come to the forefront once again and at this moment, Y/N can’t seem to convince herself that George wants her in the same way she wants him.

“No, sorry,” she says bluntly, and she doesn’t miss the look of shock on his face. Y/N has never turned George down and while he respects her no, it confuses him nonetheless. “Just... Not feeling well. You know?”

Y/N knows George doesn’t believe her, she sees it in his eyes, but he hums in acknowledgement before lifting his wrist and checking his watch. “Look, I’ve gotta go, Fred’s going to kill me,” the words are forced like he wants to stay and make sure everything is okay between the pair and he’s being pulled away too soon. “I’ll see you sometime this week, yeah?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Y/N says, knowing he doesn’t mean sometime this week in his bed, but the thought happens before she can stop it and it’s right now she realises she needs to push George away before she gets more hurt.

-----

It’s been a week since Y/N turned down George’s offer to come over that night, and she has a feeling he’s avoiding her. Usually, when Y/N denies him it only takes him a few days before he comes crawling back or vice versa; they’ve never been able to go long without falling into bed together, the co-dependency on each other for a hook up was one they never discussed, but was known, so the fact George didn’t end up in her bed during the week makes her painfully aware something is wrong and even though she knows it’s her own fault, it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The suspicion is only confirmed when she’s dragged to a bar in Muggle London on the following Saturday night. Angie, Katie and Alicia’s complaints that Y/N’s been too high strung this week getting to her and their peer pressure eventually worked. She doesn’t mind the bar- it’s not too busy but it’s still got enough people in it for a good time and Katie and Lee are getting everyone drinks when Y/N spots a head of bright, auburn hair across the room.

She doesn’t even think twice before knowing it’s George, and it’s got nothing to do with the girl next to him, hanging off every word he’s saying not being Fred’s fiancée. The way she feels in her entire body when she spots him, the ache in her heart she feels is what confirms it’s George. He’s the only person to ever have this kind of power over her and at this moment, she wishes he didn’t.

Because George is flirting with the girl next to him and she’s batting her eyelashes, clearly happy with the attention the cute redhead is giving her and Y/N wants nothing more than to be in her place and it hurts, even more, knowing she usually is in her place. George is a lot more comfortable talking sex once he has a few glasses of whiskey, so the flirting gets turned up to an eleven and all their friends laugh at his forwardness.

Angelina sees Y/N staring longingly at the younger twin and without words she knows something is wrong. So she grabs the tequila from Katie and places it in front of Y/N. “Drink it.” She looks at Angelina, confused why her attention was stolen from George but smiles happily when the shot glass is in her hand.

It burns as it slides down her throat, after all, tequila always does. She quickly takes the lemon from whoever’s holding it out to her, pulling a face as the sourness meets her taste buds. Angelina, Katie and Alicia and hollering when she looks back at them, her friends successfully stealing her attention from George as they drag her to the dancefloor. ABBA is playing over the loudspeaker, and the girls yell in excitement, they would never pass up the opportunity to dance to ABBA; memories of post-Quidditch parties and sneaking Firewhiskey into the Gryffindor Common Room coming to the forefront of their minds.

They dance for who knows how long with Lee joining them as he dances between Alicia and Katie, playing up the ladies’ man role. It makes Y/N laugh, Lee clearly loving the attention from the girls but it’s at that moment she spots George and the girl from earlier, dancing; George’s hands are on her hips, respectful but holding her close and it fills Y/N with a feeling so horrible, she has to turn around to push the vile, green monster back down.

Thankfully, or not so thankfully, she’s not entirely sure just yet, she turns to face a guy. He’s cute, got a puppy dog look about him and he smiles at Y/N in a way that indicates he’s asking to dance. She says yes, of course, and her hands wrap around his neck. She hates that she’s spending this time dancing with him comparing him to George; his hands aren’t as calloused, he smells like mint as opposed to the familiar scent of cinnamon and Earl Grey tea, her heart isn't racing like it would if she was with the redhead.

George sees her across the dance floor because his eyes haven’t left her all night. He knows he’s leading this poor girl on, Bianca is her name; he’s not going to end up taking her home like he knows she’s hoping, but he needed a distraction. When he sees Y/N starting to dance with a guy, his jaw tenses and his eyes narrow; he knows he’s being stubborn. If he just talked to Y/N everything would be sorted but he doesn’t want to be the one to break, he wants Y/N to come to him, to want him.

Their eyes meet across the dance floor, the guy’s head dipping into the crook of Y/N’s neck, his arm is wrapped around her waist as her back is pressed against his chest, grinding her bum onto his crotch. She tries to look away from George but she can’t, his eyes are enchanting and this is the most attention they’ve gotten from each other since that day in Diagon Alley. George whispers something into the girl’s ear, his grip on her hips getting tighter but his eyes never leave Y/N’s.

It’s Y/N who breaks eye contact, her head falling back onto her dance partner’s shoulder and when George sees open mouth kisses pressed to Y/N’s neck, he snaps. He mutters an excuse to Bianca and walks as fast as he can to the girl he wants. He sees his friends snickering at each other as they dance but no one says anything.

She feels his presence before she feels him grab her wrist, so he doesn’t scare her. Her head immediately pops up, looking George in the eye. “Oi, nah. I had her first,” the guy behind Y/N says, his grip visually tightening on Y/N as if she’s a toy and George is coming to steal it, but he has to stifle a laugh; the guy’s confident, George’ll give him that.

“Nah, mate,” he starts, the music changing to a more sensual R&B song as he speaks. He sees Y/N blush at his simple words and he gently tugs at her wrist again, not in a demanding kind of way; he’s asking, pleading her to follow him and when she steps away from the guy she was dancing with, she mutters an apology before letting George drag her where he wants to go.

----

They don’t even say two words to each other once they’re in the bathroom together. George pulls her inside quickly, before pushing her up against the door, attaching his lips immediately to her neck before he gently sucks and bites, subconsciously leaving a small hickey like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to do. She’s missed having him this close so when her fingers rake through his long hair, she gives it a gentle tug before pulling his mouth up to her own, wanting to kiss him with everything she has, needing him even closer. He obliges of course, always happy to give Y/N what she wants.

When George’s lips finally meet hers, he’s kissing her like it’s the last time they’ll ever kiss; it’s messy, desperate, like most of their kisses are, hands gripping wherever they can just to ensure the other isn’t leaving. George is intoxicating to Y/N like she can get drunk from the taste of his whiskey covered lips alone and her head spins when she feels his hands rake up her body, grasping her waist and pushing her harder against the door. A small moan leaving Y/N’s lips is all George needs to force his tongue into her mouth, massaging their tongues together and she tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck again, desperately needing him as close as humanly possible without defiling this public bathroom. The action makes George whimper, loving nothing more than having her fingers tugging at his auburn locks and it gives her a slight power trip. Just a slight one, as she tries to take control of the kiss.

It doesn’t last long because before she knows it, she’s whimpering under his touch and surrendering everything she has to him as his hands caress her body, grabbing and pulling her to him wherever possible. His hands eventually land on her thighs, and when he grabs them and hoists her up, her legs immediately wrap around his waist. The action alongside the pressure on her crotch makes her moan and she feels George smirk at her noises, obviously feeling proud of being the only person to be able to do this to her. He pivots slightly once he’s holding her, placing Y/N on the counter next to the sink so they’re finally level to kiss comfortably.

He keeps his spot between her legs, refusing to detach his lips from hers, his hands crawling from her thighs to tightly grasp her hips. If it was any other day, Y/N would’ve said something, telling him to be careful of bruises but right now, after watching him flirt with the girl out in the bar for hours on end, there’s nothing she wants, no needs, more than George marking her in every way he can.

“Mine,” she moans without thinking, as his lips leave hers, slowly making their way across her jaw and onto her neck once again, licking, biting, sucking. George has always loved her neck and he knows how much she loves having her neck touched. “You’re mine,” she repeats when George doesn’t immediately push her away, and she doesn’t even have time to decide to panic before she hears a groan in her ear.

“Yours,” he whispers, his hot breath causing goosebumps to prickle along her skin. The words don’t even process in her brain before she feels George pull away from her. The lack of contact makes her whine, she never wants to be far away from George ever again but he smiles, presses the most gentle kiss on her lips before looking her directly in her eyes, “I’m yours.”

Her heart stops, she never thought for a second she’d hear George mutter those words, let alone in a dingey, small bathroom of a bar in Central London, but here it is. “Don’t play with me, Georgie,” she whispers. From her spot on the counter, she can look him directly in the eyes; his cheeks are flushed red, his pupils are blown, lips swollen and red. His hair has gotten messy from her pulling at it but she can’t bring herself to feel bad that she ruined his perfectly styled hair because at this moment, she thinks this is the most beautiful she’s ever seen him, so vulnerable and the look of adoration in his eyes fills her chest with hope.

“Would I ever play with you, darling?” He asks, his words are sincere and she knows it. It’s soft, reminiscent of all those times he’s looked after her after having sex, when he promises to look after her, always.

“I’d hope not, I was having fun with…” She trails off, realising she never caught his name before she starts laughing. She feels George’s hands tighten against her thighs, hyperaware of his touch on her skin and she grabs one of his hands. “I didn’t actually know his name. I was pretending he was you.”

She says it so softly she wouldn’t be shocked if he missed it, but he didn’t. He hangs to every word she says, he always does and when he smiles, Y/N feels herself relax. “I was using Bianca to make you jealous,” he admits, laughing to himself. He knew the pair of them were being stupid, that they could have just talked but the fear of rejection clearly got the best of both of them.

“I’ve liked you for so long, and maybe I shouldn't have put friends with benefits on the table knowing that, but I needed you.” He’s never spoken truer words, his left hand leaving her thigh and gently caressing her cheek. Her makeups smudged from both the sweat from dancing and the desperation from not even five minutes ago, her hairs messy and her lips are swollen just as much as his but he wants to take her home, right this second, and show her in so many ways how much he loves her.

“I like you, too.”

His eyes prick up at her words and he didn’t realise he wasn’t holding eye contact until now. She takes her own left hand and mirrors George’s action on himself; hoping to convey everything she’s felt for him through nothing but looks. “I had to back away last week, I thought I had to get over you. Angie said some dumb shit and I started to overthink and I’m so-”

He cuts her off with a kiss and it’s so different to their usual ones. It’s soft and gentle like they could stay here for hours doing nothing but kissing and they’d be perfectly content. George pulls her body closer to his, desperate just to have her near when he pulls away, pressing his forward to hers. “Don’t say sorry, please.”

She opens her mouth again to speak and that’s when he cuts her off again, with another kiss. This happens a few times before Y/N is a giggling mess and George is just kissing her for the sake of having their lips pressed together. “We know now, that’s all I care about.”

This makes her smile and her heart soar; the boy she’s loved for so long, liking her back once felt like it could only be a dream, and she has to pinch herself multiple times before she finally believes it’s her reality.

They soon realise they’ve been standing in this dirty, bar bathroom for way too long and George helps her down, grabbing her by the hips to stabilise her when her legs slightly give out. He takes her hand in his, softly kissing her knuckles before he opens the bathroom door to sneak out. “My place or yours?” he asks, but he quickly stops, “I’m not expecting to fuck, but like I mean if it happens it happens but- Godric, we can just hang out I’m happy with that unless you want to fuck-”

Y/N’s giggling at his stumbling around on words and she shushes him slightly, his face going bright red when she's the one leaning to press a chaste kiss to his lips. His face is bright red when she speaks, “My place. I live alone.” she winks and runs off after saying this, George hot on her tails and even though there’s music and George’s favourite song is playing, Y/N’s laugh as he chases her out of the bar is his favourite noise.

#george weasley #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley x reader #george weasley smut #george weasley one shot

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blouisparadise · 3 years ago

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Upon request, here is a rec list of bottom Louis fics where Harry radiates sex appeal. We hope you enjoy this fics! If you find our rec lists useful, please support them by liking the post and reblogging it to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Gimme Gimme | Mature | 5957 words

He dragged himself to his bedroom and flopped down face-first onto the bed, groaning, and started thinking about that new neighbor. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe this was the time for him to actually try and find a love interest that lasted longer than 2 weeks. He rolled over and sat up on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked out the window.

And what he saw was probably the most amazing thing on the planet.

Walking into his new neighbor’s house was a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase while his Porsche sat in the driveway.

2) Under the Vanilla Sky | Explicit | 8006 words

Who the hell wears a hat like that on a yacht? That's one of the things Louis thinks when he sees Harry from across the deck of the most expensive, ridiculous boat he's ever been on. He also thinks he'd like to get closer. Just to see what's under those aviators. Just to verify that, yes, in fact, those white swim trunks might be a little see-through when wet. Just to see if someone could really be that hot in real life. On a yacht. In the Caribbean sea just off the coast of St. Barts.

Here's what really happened on that yacht.

3) Sweet Like Cherry Vodka | Not Rated | 8039 words

When he exits the building he instantly sees him. He’s leaning against his white Mercedes Benz convertible. The car makes him look more expensive. Of course, the navy blue suit that fits tightly around his broad shoulders — making Louis want to fall to his knees, mind you — also helps to get the message across. He looks up from his phone, his sleek black aviators block Louis from seeing his dark eyes.

When Louis knows Harry's watching him he smiles. A grin grows on Harry’s mouth, his strong jaw moves cockily while he chews his gum. How does someone make chewing gum so hot?

“Need a ride sweetheart?” Harry calls to him, the statement adds to his cocky demeanor.

“You know I do, silly.” Louis laughs at how ridiculous the older man can be.

4) You And I ‘Till The Day We Die | Explicit | 10807 words

Prompt 124: A fic inspired by Groupie Love by Lana Del Rey, where Harry is a Rockstar and Louis is his cute little boyfriend who tries to hide himself in the middle of the crowd. (Preferably set in the 80s)

5) Guns N Roses | Mature | 14069 words

Harry's an assassin, Louis is a government agent. They hate each other but not really.

6) My English Love Affair | Explicit | 19198 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

7) The Way The Storm Blows | Explicit | 21649 words

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

8) Even The Best Laid Plans | Explicit | 25190 words

Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

9) A Trail Of Honey Through It All | Explicit | 27086 words

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

10) Carnelian | Explicit | 30631 words

Louis finds himself donating blood to the most beautiful being he's ever seen.

11) Take My Pure (And Wash It All Away ‘Til I’m Cured) | Explicit | 40629 words

They're all 19. Louis is a twink, Harry is a frat boy hunk. Harry for some reason wants his makeup done for pride, and Louis is just trying so very hard to stay clear of all alleged fuckboys this year.

12) In The Still Of The Night | Explicit | 68568 words

The Dirty Dancing AU where Louis is a feisty omega who wants to change the world, Harry is an alpha from the wrong side of the tracks, and nobody puts Louis in a corner.

13) Waiting On You | Explicit | 76576 words

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

14) Your Name is Tattooed on My Heart | Explicit | 86809 words

Note: This fic has mentions of top Louis.

Louis is ready to find the love of his life, but first he has to stop falling for the punk rocker next door.

15) Beyond The Point Of Weird | Mature | 108331 words

Louis meets Harry one night and well... Of course things lead from one thing to another. How could Louis not be interested in having a go at the ex-Rockstar who'd starred in his first wet dream?

When Harry asks him to pretend to be his boyfriend to help him clear up his image, Louis agrees because why the fuck not. Yet it kind of feels like the only 'fake' part of their relationship is the title they chose for it... And then it gets confusing.

Louis' pretty sure he walked right into a trap - one he's not quite sure he wants to escape.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

#fic recs #bottom louis #top harry #sex appeal #blp fic recs #blp #larry

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ghostiiiee · 3 years ago

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Just Like Me

To read at my Ao3 CLICK HERE This is the first chapter. sorry is its a little rough. :sweatdrop:

Almost forgot! Tw: i will be going heavy on quirkless discrimination and mental health issues. Theres not much in the first chapter but i do want to touch on it at some point.

School was never something he looked forward to. After all, what was there to look forward to? He was used to getting bullied, made fun of for being different, called names, shoved around. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Many years ago, maybe he would have been the normal one?

Then again, what even was normal?

It used to be normal to go to school- learn history, math, science and whatever language the school taught.

It used to be normal to not have any powers, after all - superheroes were a dream. Stories people made up to tell themselves. Heroes existed, yes, but they never had powers. Heroes were just people, average people.

Again, there's another word that's changed. Average.

Normal. Average.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for the average person to look human.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for the average person to have no powers.

Two hundred years ago, it was normal for superheroes to only be a thing of stories.

That was two hundred years ago. Not now.

Now it's weird to not have powers.

Now you get bullied for being regular. Quirkless.

One of 20%.

Mathematically, he thought it was stupid that so many people get treated so differently. He did remember Mr. Lancer telling him of people getting treated for less. Mr. Lancer told him two hundred years ago, 10% of the population was seen as satanic because of what hand they used to write with. A similar estimated percent was discriminated against because of who they loved, or what they identified as.

“Sadly, Mr. Fenton, the human race has a history of not tolerating those who they see as a minority.”

“I remember that from history Mr. Lancer.” Danny sighed, leaning his head on his hand. His eyes stared out the window, looking at the stormy weather. “I remember you talking about how things used to be.”

The teacher pursed his lips, staying quiet and looking at him with concern.

Lancer had asked Danny to stay after class to speak to him. He never did like how Daniel’s peers would gang up on him after school ended. The best he could usually do was this. Casper’s principal was... far too likely to be accepting of anything the more wealthy students’ parents had to say.

“Is that why you’ve been spacing out all day then, Danny?”

It was asked gently. Danny’s eyes glanced over to the balding teacher before darting back to the window. He hummed for a moment. “...Kinda. I got a lot on my mind.”

“Penny for your thoughts then?” Lancer pulled his chair next to his desk.

It was quiet for a few minutes, the sound of rain gently pattering against the classroom windows filled the room while Danny collected his thoughts. Blue eyes watched raindrops roll down the glass.

“I don’t get it, Mr. Lancer.” His voice was quiet as the floodgates opened. “Everyone in my family has quirks. Dad is strong. My mom can copy anyone’s fighting styles just by watching. Jazz can look at someone and-.... well you know.” He sank down into his chair. “Aunty A, even has a quirk. I've never seen her miss a shot. And then there's me. Daniel James Fenton. The first quirkless person in our family in a long time. Don’t get me wrong either, it doesn’t bother me too much.” Liar. “It’s just... it feels like the cherry on top of everything else.

“My parents got an invitation to teach some classes at UA in Japan. In Japan, I've never lived anywhere but here. Amity Park. It’s not like they can leave me here. PLUS, Jazz has always wanted to go there for the General studies.”

“I understand your concern, Danny. But I’ve seen your work,” There was slight amusement in Mr. Lancers voice. “Aren’t you good at building things? I know I’ve caught you tinkering with something more than once in class.”

Danny’s face flushed red. “...My parent’s usually make those. They’re old models of support gear they have made. I was seeing if I could get a glitch out.”

“And?”

“...I keep shocking myself.” He mumbled. “It hurts like hell.”

“While I can’t say I’m happy that you are getting injured. As long as you are safe, I'm glad.” Mr. Lancer offered a smile to the teen. “As for the other predicament, you are always open to contact me if you need me after you move.”

“Thank you Mr. Lancer.”

~~~~~~~

Danny was thankful that they moved over the summer and not in the middle of the year. School was already hectic enough as was. Moving in the middle of the year was not something he ever wanted to do, let alone moving across the globe in the middle of the year.

He kept to himself for the first few weeks. He liked to walk around, exploring the new area. It felt different than Amity park. More crowded. He noted early on there was definitely more hero around too. It didn’t bother him too much.

That's a lie.

More heroes means more villains.

He didn’t like villains.

He also didn’t like being a hostage.

Lucky him!

He was held hostage by a villain not even before the end of the second week. Not that this was a first time experience for him, having been a favorite target back in Amity Park. He knew all the heroes back home personally because of it. People just loved to take quirkless people hostage. One would think, with the target that seems to hang over his head, that Daniel James Fenton wouldn’t take such risks as walking around alone at night. One would think that if he did, it would be out of necessity, and he would at least have something on him to defend himself.

...yeah no that's not the case. Why in the world would that be the case?

Danny was shoved onto the ground, air leaving his lungs as he hit. He gasped for air, trying to look at who was targeting him now. He couldn’t really tell much about the person, ratty clothes and a hoodie pulled up to cover their face. Nothing could be seen under the hood, it was just shadow, pure, black shadow.

“What’s a runt like you doing out right now?” The villain crouched next to Danny. Chuckling when he tried to scoot away. They put a foot on one of Danny’s wrists, “Ah-ah. Now that’s rude. I’m talking to you punk.”

Danny didn’t respond, wincing at the pressure on his arm.

“It’s rather rude to ignore your elders.” The villain put more pressure, adjusting so they were crouched like a vulture next to prey.

“F-fuck you. I’ve seen worse.” He growled

The regret in saying that was nearly instant. In the blink of an eye, the ground next to his head - that was solid concrete what the hell- was shattered. The villain was making an inhuman noise, a low gutteral sound coming from them. “You haven’t seen my worst. I wasn’t gonna do much to ya, but I’m starting to change my mind kid.”

He knew he should do anything else - he was already on a thin line - but fuck it. He had a free hand anyways. He grabbed something from his pocket and slammed it against the villain. “As I said before. Fuck. You.” He pressed the button on the side.

The machine sparked to life. Quite literally. Danny still didn’t know what it was supposed to do, but he could make it shock things. Like a weird taser. Unlucky for Danny he was literally pinned to the ground beneath the villain getting tased. And as everyone knows. Humans are conductive. Very conductive.

Strangely the villain didn't even flinch. The growl getting louder as they grabbed the device from their shoulder and crushed it with their hand. Danny started shaking. Okay so that was a horrible idea.

The shadows of the alley gathered around the villain. Climbing up their clothing and slowly slithering along their arm. They held Danny down, forming chains around him. In the villain’s hand, a knife, absorbing all light, The villian made the move to attack, and Danny closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to come.

It never did.

It lessened.

Weight lifted from him, a weight he hadn’t realized was there besides his arm. Tentatively he opened his eyes.

The villain was on the ground a few meters away from him, knocked out and tied up to a fire exit- similar to how Batman would leave criminals for the cops. Danny blinked. He hadn’t heard anything. So what in the world happened? And how could that have happened so fast?

Standing up, he looked around for a sign of anyone being there to help him.

Oddly enough. It seemed no one had caused the villain to go down, at least not that Danny could see. Blue eyes scanned the area for a moment, looking for anything that wasn’t there before. Nothing popped out. Nothing was out of place. It looked like no one had been there.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. The air condensed, forming mist as it left his mouth and floated away. It was like when he first stepped outside in the winter. Which was strange- it was the middle of summer. A small frown formed on his face. The nights here weren’t that cold normally.

He brushed it off, ignoring the goosebumps running along his skin as the air chilled. Perhaps whoever knocked the villain out had a rather cold quirk, he mused to himself. Heroes normally make themselves known at this point, checking to see if he was okay.

He had an inkling it wasn’t a hero. At least not a licensed one. Not that he minded. He didn’t care who it was really. They saved his life… he was grateful for that.

Danny looked up to the clear sky, moonlight peaking over the buildings enough to illuminate the alley where the street lights glowed. He smiled up to the stars. “Thank you.” He said softly. “I wasn’t paying attention tonight.”

He left the alley, starting his way back home. He never caught sight of the figure watching him.

#Danny Phantom #danny fenton #mha x dp #bnha #mha

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atomicblasphemy · 3 years ago

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Why I don’t think Amity is looking forward to a date with Luz in the human realm.

There’s a good chance I’ll be alone in this opinion but anyway, I never took tumblr or fandom from a scholarly point so yeah.

Anyway, I agree that the idea of a cute romantic date with Luz in the human realm being a big part of Amity’s motivation in the last episode is objectively adorable. But I have three reasons why that may not be quite the case.

Reason number one, the scoring of the scene. After Amity’s boss leaves and they part their hug of sorts throwing a blush fest, the soundtrack goes to this very mellow (and from my rusty knowledge of music theory, major scale) score while they have that bookworm talk. Then, when Amity says “the human realm sounds odd” there’s also what sounds like a major scale chord right before it cuts to silence as Luz suggests showing her around the human world. And that’s, as she is processing what her soon to be girlfriend just said there’s this high and dissonant chord, most likely minor scale, and i’m almost positive it has the same base note as the previous one. This feels deliberate.

The minor scale is used as a means to convey tension, to unsettle the viewer or listener. Case in point, more upbeat music genres like pop punk or house tending to make a more constant use of the major scale, whereas bleaker genres like post-punk or black metal are heavily based of the minor scale. More over in soundtracks we can point out jaws or psycho’s scores as examples of the use of the minor as a means to either raise tension or to set a scene or movies tone (think psycho’s shower scene, or the moments in jaws’ when the shark is just about to attack). Meanwhile, you can have star wars’ major scale as a means to set the optimistic tone Luke’s hero’s journey starts with (which again, contrasts greatly with its counterpart in the imperial march).

So, back to Lumity, we have this sequence of sounds: Luz all but invites Amity to the human realm, major chord, silence, minor chord, “we’re getting that diary”. There’s a rising action of sorts at play here, as far as I can tell: Luz tries to cheer up Amity (hence the more calming and uplifting major chord), Amity process this newly found connection between herself and the human realm (silence), this troubles Amity for whatever reason (which comes back later, but i’ll get to that) (hence the minor chord).

If Amity’s outlook on this new relation between herself Luz’ homeland was simply that of “holy shit, my crush just asked me out. hell yeah.” the use of the minor scale would be probably the worse to go about doing that. Moreover:

Reason number b:

Mittens’ first face: blank space. Amity.exe ceased all functioning. (this is when the minor chord is played btw.) This first face is the one the fandom latched on to the most, and yeah i get it.

But then things take a turn:

Those are the two other expressions she makes immediately aftewards that more confused one (also, idk what is going on but i can’t screenshot on a full screen for whatever reason).

Now, we are collectively well aware, as a fandom, of the fact that when the human girl’s existence flusters Amity her very white complexion’s tomato like properties are bound to manifest. If anything we could this episode the blushapalooza, and on both ends. But I digress.

My point here is, if it was simply her being excited over the prospect this date in the human realm, there’s no reason why they (the show runners, i.e. the ones responsible for this world’s overarching intentionality) would turn her into a vegetable once again, I mean, just second prior she was going full on tomato mode. Couple that with that sketchy chord progression and I think it is safe to say our little Mittens is acting a wee odd herself here. If it was just the sound score or just the lack of tomato, then I’d say it was probably just happenstance. Both those things at once fell like a deliberate creative choice. In other words, my guess is that Amity’s weird response here is setting up the tone for some upcoming conflict between the two of them, it is building up to the mid-season finale. (I have my theories as to what that conflict would be but I’ll get to that when I get to that).

Now, reason number gamma. “Being around you makes me do stupid things and I wish it didn’t” “Ever since Luz came here everything’s been so confusing.” Look, I’m not so dumb as to say those words don’t represent Amity coming clean about her feeling for Luz, and I’m not oblivious as to believe the vagueness of these statements is but a poorly veiled attempt on her part of airing those feeling in an as uncompromising fashion as possible. However, that’s the thing about vagueness, you can easily pick up on connotation but not so much on denotation. What I mean is that you can’t really tell what is the entirety of her cause to confusion and what the full set of Luz related stupid things done by Amity really is. And looking back to those second and third sketchy Amity faces and given all I’ve said, my best guess is that those are the faces of someone coming to the sinking realization that “despite my best intentions I may, perhaps, possibly, likely have fucked up big time.” And do I know how good a motivator doing damage control after a big time fuck up can be.

Which brings me finally to what her hang up really is. Those letters. Going by the same “methodology” I’ve been using thus far, here’s how we learn Camilla had been receiving those letters: first we see Amity’s note, “everybody’s doing the wholesome waltz, throw your crush in the air and have a ball”, we see the other half of the note which only says “Luz” (which mind you, is a word that also appears with loads of prominence in the letters). Then a few moments afterwards we see the actual letters, similar handwriting as evidenced by the writing of Luz’s name, and worded as what a misguided and inexperienced kid would imagine a healthy mother and daughter relationship to sound like. Again, those feel extremely deliberate choices on the show’s creators part. Not everything in a show has to be a Tchekov’s gun, but when you draw so much attention to it in such a calculated way it gets tough to argue for it not being so. So yeah, my money is on Amity being the author of the letters and that means she has a deeper knowledge of inter-dimensional postal services than she’s letting on. Either she has access to some sort of device capable of transporting small objects, or a means to create a fac-simile of a document on the other side, or she has a full blown portal.

I mean, it’s safe to say her feeling towards Luz started getting a tad muddy after the covention, and said confusion kept on progressing until it came to a height with Amity’s conversation with Emira on the last episode. So Emira points out she should embrace the changes brought about by Luz and try to be happy. And that’s what her hairdo change (she explicitly says the past choice was Odalia’s making), and the peck on the cheek symbolize. She’s embracing change, she’s actively pursuing it. I mean, at the end of the day that peck on Luz’s cheek was nothing short of Amity crossing the threshold (even if impulsively) of their relationship, that’s why she doesn’t blush while she’s doing it. She’s being guided purely by Emira’s words there, it is only when the reality of the threshold being crossed and that there’s no coming back to how things were before that she goes back to tomato while muttering “why did i do that?” So yeah, second thing I wanted to say that Lumity is already cannon, their relationship is now a romantic one, there’s no two ways about it.

AAAnd this is why I thing the letters thing will be the big conflict of the mid-season finale.

Let’s shift perspectives to Luz’s end. So you have this kid, right? This kid that has been, throughout her entire life been given reasons to believe in her own mediocrity, which in turn led her to find solace in fantasy. Then, by an odd turn of cosmic events she is granted a chance to experience said fantasy first hand. However, at first it seems this new world is making chorus to that old one in stating her mediocrity. She doesn’t give in, she perseveres, she proves everything and everyone wrong. From “Eda’s human pet” she turns into “Miss Teacher”, from “Willow’s Abomination thingy” she becomes someone who “sneaks her way into people’s hearts.” She sees everything she wanted, her wildest dreams of both self-accomplishment and love being dangled right in front of her eyes. Yet, in the back of her head there’s this nagging voice screaming at her that reality, and a mother that loves her and misses her are awaiting her. That this happiness. So when Amity crosses the threshold of their relationship, when the person she wants shows her she wants the same thing as her, elation is not the only thing going through her mind and her heart. Being forced to choose between what you want and what you ought to is quite a cruel position to find oneself in.

So this leads up to the mid-season finale, say I’m right, Amity has a portal and she offers it to Luz. In one hand, her girlfriend omitted a very important piece of information from her, which could be seen by her as an argument for her choosing the human realm, thus creating a source of conflict between the two of them (which no, I don’t think it would make them break up, in fact I have 5 reais saying the L word will be dropped by either one of them because of all that, their relationship will come out of all this turmoil stronger than before), moreover, I’m of the opinion that Amity’s motives for writing those letters in the first place would be to do something nice for that confusing entity (by giving her mother some piece of mind) while remaining incognito. Hell, my ideal scenario would beher coming clean to Camilla about impersonating Luz with something along the lines of “Yeah mate, you were expecting Luz but it was I, Amity, all along. Sorry about that. In my defense I have next to no idea what a non dysfunctional family looks like.”

But that’d be only half of it. Creepy Luz is, for all we know, what Luz would perceive as the best version of herself, one that’s capable of making her mother happy. In other words, a figure that highlights further how inadequate she is in the human realm. And she is still confused with everything going on back in the demon realm. Not to mention the possible looming threat to human realm represented by the emperor, about which we thus far have very little to speculate on.

My point is, in conclusion, Luz will need some hugs afterwards. And so will Amity. Fortunately they fulfill eachother’s need in that regard.

Hope this wasn’t complete non-sense, cheers!

#THE OWL HOUSE #amity blight #luz noceda #camila noceda #lumity

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horrorslashergirl · 4 years ago

Note

Chromeskull with a singer!reader who he meets at a bar while observing his next victim and her voice enchants him.

Chromeskull x Singer!Reader- Show me how you burlesque

Authors Note: I watched this morning the movie Burlesque 2010 and this idea struck through my head, so why not write it down since I have a request that has this type of plot. For a better vibe listen to the song by Christina Aguilera Show me how you burlesque.

Rating: Just some blackmail and Jesse being an egoistical asshole.

Words: 2.3k

Stalking and observing was probably one of the best things Jesse was good at, especially when it came to hunting piggies and fishies. He never rushed into abducting his next victim for his next game, in time Jesse learned that patience was the key to success and he was feeding on said success, be it of any kind.

The Cromeans manor was empty and silent, save for the shower that turned off, Jesse stepping out after he dried himself, taking a glance into the foggy mirror, observing himself. From the neck down it was the dream of every woman to have in bed, but from the neck up it showed his inner monster, despite the multiple plastic surgeries and face reconstructions, he was never the same and probably never be, but in time he learned to accept it. After all money, a nice car, and an impeccable suit could make any piggy fall to her knees and suck on his cock.

Jesse exited the bathroom and walked to the master bedroom to the walk-in closet, picking out a black suit; black just like death, because he was death. He dressed up, checking himself in the huge mirror, proud of the look.

He walked downstairs, the enormous house so devoid of anyone; it was just him. After losing his wife he accepted the fact that he was going to die alone at some point, just like everyone used to tell him back when he was a shy kid.

The saying was true; Money cannot buy really anything.

Entering the garage he unlocked his Chrysler and got in, exiting his house and driving into town, the more liveable part of Jacksonville where all the night clubs and brothels were. It wasn't random, Chromeskull never did things out of the blue, everything was planned out neatly with precision, like playing chess.

Recently, he stalked a young woman, who spends her time adventuring herself into clubs, looking for some fresh meat or better said a fat wallet to suck on. The typical piggy undercover.

'No! I don't sleep with rich men for their money.'

Jesse snorted at the words; every woman was disposable, he learned that when he was a broke teen and after he lost his face. Spending some genuine time with someone over some drinks and just enjoying each other's company was just an illusion, the world itself was prostitution, in different forms but it was.

You are either a pimp or a whore.

After arriving at the nightclub, he parked his car and got out, walking up the steps to the front entrance, the guys at the front with their lists, checking the people that wanted to enter.

Talk about exclusivity.

Oxford shoes walked up the steps to the entrance, the guys there a little intimidated by Jesse's height, a very big perk when you're 6'7, none dares to mess with you, plus the eyepatch that covered one of his eye was another plus.

"Umm...Name?" a guy asked, clearing his throat, trying to steady his voice and not let fear show, but he failed miserably.

Jesse pulled out his phone, typing in.

'Cromeans.'

The security guy's eyes widened at the name, gulping down and stepping aside to let him enter, not saying anything else.

Jesse smirked, stepping inside, knowing that only his name was a weapon good enough to make these sheep scrambles away to their dens. It was weird to go hunting without his mask, but wearing a chromed skull mask to a public place such as this night club where all the rich and blessed were, gossiping like it was a need to live like breathing.

Brown eye looked around the dim-lit place, looking for his target and his gaze stopped when he found her, sitting down on an old geezers lap, giggling and rubbing his chest. He could be his grandfather for fucks sake.

No surprise from a filthy piggy.

The place was full of people, but he managed to find an empty table, just his presence made the job done, plus the owner of the night club was trying to kiss his ass to get on Jesse's good side. Not that Jesse minded, he loved when people worshipped him like he was God.

He internally chuckled at the comparison....God, more like Devil.

As he sat down at a table in the back, his form enveloped by the darkness, a waitress quickly came to take his order.

'Whiskey. Best Brand. Make it quick.'

The girl gulped down and nodded, quickly walking away to bring Jesse his drink. That's what power feels like, everyone quickly coming to you, to please you in all forms. It wasn't respect. Respect doesn't exist, only fear can make one be what the other wants.

The drink came in less than five minutes, probably just two, but Jesse wasn't counting, taking the glass of liquor and waving the waitress off like she was scum.

Scarred lips pressed against the edge of the crystal glass, taking a sip of the strong alcohol, letting it burn his throat, then he pulled out a silver pack-box that held his Cuban cigars, pulling one out and lightening it, taking in the rich taste of smoke.

His gaze observed the piggy-target, his mind wandering to how he should start when the moment was opportune. Will he take it slow, fooling her into a sense of safety then break her whole world down? Or maybe he just takes it rough, with brute force and knocking some sense into her plastic brain.

Either way, he was going to enjoy it, very much. He could picture her face filled with horror, wet from tears and sweat, mouth full of blood, choking on it as he will take her life away like it was nothing of importance.

Before his fantasy could go into more detail, the music started to play, but it wasn't the usual music, this one was live. The club used to hire singers or bands to play from time to time, so this was a surprise they went to their old ways.

The lights on the stage turned on, the musicians in the background with their instruments playing, then a feminine, but so strong voice started to sing, catching every men's attention, even the old geezer who had the piggy on his lap, long forgotten, because of the beauty on the stage.

The outfit you were wearing could be considered very inappropriate, but that's how you pull the attention of the male audience, the females too, only to burn into envy; the black lace hugging everything just right, the dark make-up around your eyes sparkling and showing how passionate your eyes were as you singed, your red lips moving with every note, your body moving like it was ready to pull the males on a spell.

The tightening in the black slacks was very much getting uncomfortable, the piggy long forgotten and brown eye struck on your form as you moved, the imagination getting the best of Jesse, who only could wonder how your pretty red lips would look wrapped around something else than your mic.

His hand tightened in envy at the men who were too close to the stage, basking in your pretty little self, so confident, the type of confidence that makes you want to drown in it.

These legs, clad in black fishnets, he wondered how they would look wrapped around his hips, your hair into his fist as he takes you from behind. The gruesome scenarios about the piggy vanished only to be replaced with the erotic fantasies with you.

He felt like a kid in a toy store, finding a doll that he really liked and he would get it. Jesse licked his lips, adjusting himself into his seat as you turned around, wiggling your ass, that pretty little ass that he wanted to spank with black nitrile covered hands.

Finally, the show was over, your eyes sparkling with pride, luscious lips pulled into a grin as you waved your audiences, then finally disappearing backstage.

Finishing his drink, Jesse got up, stalking towards the backstage, wanting to take another glimpse of you and he did, only, it wasn't an image he was liking. Actually, if he had his knives with him, he would probably throw them at the guy who was hugging and kissing you.

"You did amazing, baby! You were stunning." the guy said, making you giggle and smile brightly.

"You always know how to pull me up." you said, kissing his cheek.

"That's what a husband should always do to his wife." the guy said, spinning you around.

Alright, the last sentence made Jesse's world crumble down, a bitter feeling setting in his gut, then he quickly walked away, stalking fastly out of the nightclub and into the parking lot of it, taking his phone out, fingers hovering over the digital keyboard, fury evident in his gaze.

He wanted to badly to kill someone, no matter the gender, he wanted to rip flesh and make the blood flow.

'You shouldn't feel jealous. She is not yours.'

The inner voice only spurred his anger more; not jealous, but territorial. If he wanted something he would get it, even if he had to make some unorthodox decisions, not like it would be the first or last time.

'Destroying a happy marriage isn't right. What would your dead wife think?'

Fuck his dead wife! She was no more. Fuck morals! His fingers quickly typed a text then send it to Spann.

'I've got some work for you.'

After 2 months...

It's like the world playing in every favor for Jesse, blackmailing your husband was the easiest job he has ever done and Jesse felt more than prideful when that punk divorced you. Of course, the hard part was seeing you cry and be a confusing mess, but that would go away, eventually.

When he got to the same night club he expected to see you on stage, singing, but it was another girl.

She was definitely doing playback and she wasn't as beautiful as you. His eyes landed on you, sitting down at a table alone, tight red dress hugging your body as you sipped on a glass of scotch, watching the girl, a bored look on your face.The singing ended and everyone went to their own discussion.

Time to step in.

Jesse walked towards you, making you look up with a cute face of puzzlement.

'Seat free?'

Your eyebrows raised up.

"Be my guest." you offered and he took a seat.

'I could only notice that you look a little lonely. Weren't you supposed to sing tonight?' Jesse typed on the electronic reader, making you sigh.

"Yes, but I wasn't feeling up to it. I'm here mostly for my friend. It's her first time." you explained, looking at your drink.

'Am I bothering you?'

"Oh no! It's just....personal problems." you muttered, taking a sip of your drink.

'Talking helps. I don't have anything else to do. I am all ears.'

You gulped down, the alcohol helping you express your problems to this stranger who introduced himself as you did too, getting aquatinted with one another, talking over all kinds of subjects.

Jesse had to admit you were a deep breath of fresh air, opening up so much too him, but he guessed that's what divorce does to a woman. You both talked so much that you didn't realize that people started to go away, one by one leaving the club to do their own business.

"I'm sorry if I burdened you with my problems." you spoke over a deep breath of Malboro smoke, blushing a little, an aspect Jesse was looking forward to doing more to you.

'Not at all. I enjoyed our time together, and let me tell you, if a man doesn't know what a beauty he has before his eyes and doesn't appreciate it, he should just drop dead.'

You laughed at his words, you were glad that after weeks of mourning yourself into blankets and watching drama movies, someone could actually make you laugh and smile.

"Thank you. For your time and everything. I'm sure you could have been doing something better than listening to a little girl's problems." you said, finishing your cigarette and taking a sip of your drink.

Jesse smirked, brown eye sparkling with mischief.

'I doubt it, sweetcheeks.'

You blushed and looked down, the pet name he called you making your stomach do all kinds of twists.

He got up and offered you his hand which you took, walking with him towards the exit. You were the only people left in the club, the owner probably sighing with relief that Cromeans finally left without causing problems.

As you exited through the double doors, you both were met by heavy rain. His car was just a few feet away, but the rain would probably make you both soaked reaching the black luxury vehicle.

Jesse pulled his black dress jacket off and put it around your naked shoulders, the piece of clothing enveloping you in warmness, obviously too big for your so much smaller frame.

"T-Thank you." you said, looking up at Jesse, whose gaze was centered on your lips, looking so inviting and delicious too taste.

He couldn't hold himself anymore, his face moving towards your, his rougher lips pressing against yours, the kiss starting so simple that it turned into a make-out session, tongues running against one another; the taste of alcohol so appetizing and the expensive male cologne he was sporting didn't help you either.

It felt like an eternity, but the kiss finally ended, your eyes looking into the deep pool of brown that promised so many sinful images and it consumed your rational part of your brain.

Fingertips typed on the phone.

'My place?'

"Yeah."

#Chromeskull #Laid to rest #Laid to rest 2009 #Chromeskull: Laid to rest 2 #chromeskull x reader #Jesse Cromeans #jesse cromeans x reader #slasher x reader #horror movies

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gallavictorious · 4 years ago

Note

Would you be able to write a lil fic from Kev's POV of Yev's christening party? I just know Kev would find Mickey's "guess what we've been doing, daddy" monologue hilarious. And maybe Kev notices Ian and Mickey being super soft after and realizes they're actually really good for each other?

An incensed roar; a table tossed aside; the sound of glass smashing, and of fists against flesh. Kevin Ball takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and reaches for nirvana. Or for enlightment. Or whatever. He isn't really clear on that whole bit. But he's calm, he's cool, breathing slowly, this is all good, shit was the noise of someone's neck snapping, no, no, he didn't hear that, it's peace, love, all that crap, he's so relaxed –

Shit, this is hard.

Fortunately, someone must have called the police and the police must have been nearby because it's just minutes before the cops storm in to haul off both Terry and Mick. The amount of damage done to the bar is still pretty impressive, Kev sees when he finally opens his eyes with a sigh of relief, but that's okay; the Milkoviches are usually surprisingly good about actually paying for that stuff. It's one of the reasons Kev doesn't mind them hosting their parties here, in spite of said parties ending in brawls as often as they don't.

The other reason is that they'd probably burn the bar down if he tried to refuse them.

Kev looks up from the sad remaints of a chair to catch sight of Ian slipping out the door, after the cops and their captives. There's this look on his bloodied face, something fierce and determined and grimly triumphant, and Kev can't help but frown, suddenly a little uneasy.

Thing is, maybe he should have seen it earlier. He knows he's not the brightest tool in the shed; he's okay with that. He's got V to do the sharp thinking, and besides, Kevin Ball ain't stupid about people. He notices things, and looking back, there's been all these little hints, shit Mickey's said and done in the past few months, and there's that thing he heard from a grumpy Lip about Mickey staying over at the Gallagher house ever since Ian came home. And okay, maybe he'd found that a bit weird, but Kev's been little busy lately by small things like becoming a father, so maybe he hasn't had too much time to worry about where his business partner might be putting his head down, okay. A man can only have so many things on his mind at once. Three maybe. He thinks he's read that somewhere. Or V told him.

But yeah, maybe he should have seen it earlier, but he hadn't. Doesn't get it until he sees them having a clearly heated but quiet conversation over by the side of the bar just before Terry shows up; then something finally clicks. Not quite into a certainty, but into enough of one that he's compelled to slide Ian a shot when Mickey runs off to greet his dad, and isn't exactly shocked when Mickey turns the music off to make his declaration.

Good for you, Mickey, Kev has just enough time to think before Terry charges at his son like a deranged bull and all hell breaks loose. Not that Kev paid any attention to that, because he's a conscienctious objector now; he doesn't only not do violence, he doesn't even see violence.

Now that calm's been restored to the bar, everyone but the most persistent drunks has gone outside to watch the arrest unfold, so Kev follows suit. It's freezing cold, the way only Chicago in winter can be, but he doubts either Terry or Mickey can feel the chill; they're still straining to get at each other, struggling against the police holding them down, and screaming blue murder.

”Get out of my house, you pole-smoking queer!” Terry bellows, but whatever hold he once had over his son must have broken because Mickey doesn't even hesitate, and there's a wild sort of glee in his voice as he calls: ��Fuck you, don't worry about it! I've been staying at Ian's since you've been in the can, bitch! Guess what we've been doin', daddy! We've been fuckin'! And I take it! He gives it to me good and hard and I fuckin' like it.”

That's more than Kev ever wanted to know about Mickey's sex life, really, but he still can't help but grin as Mickey humps the car, giving emphasis to his words. ”Fuck you, I suck his dick and I fuckin' love it.”

Mickey's always been an expressive bastard, unafraid to speak his mind. Kev finds it both hilarious and worthy of respect, though upon reflection maybe there's a few things Mickey has actually been afraid to speak of, after all. Until now, at least.

Good for you, Mickey, he thinks, again.

The cops take Terry away; the guests filter back inside. The place is a mess and the object of the celebration has long since been whisked away by his mother but that's no reason to break up a party on the South Side, so Kev alternates wiping up blood with serving beer after beer after shot of cheap liquor. Everyone seems to be in high spirits; nothing like a good old-fashioned brawl to get the blood pumping on a cold winter's night, and the story of Mickey Milkovich coming out to the whole bar at his own son's baptism party is a good enough story to last a few retellings.

Ian and Mickey are nowhere to be seen, Kev notes, and again there's that sense of unexpected unease, of worry. He remembers Ian's face covered in blood, the hard look there transforming him from the earnest kid Kev's known since he was in elementary school and into someone he's not sure he knows at all. Ian's scrappy, like all the Gallaghers; bit of a punk at times, and way into that Army crap of course, but at heart he's always been gentle. Hardworking, and caring, and soft in the way none of his siblings were; a good kid, for all that he's gotten himself in a bit of trouble lately, though Kev's not entirely caught up on that.

And now Ian's gone and gotten himself involved with Mickey Milkovich, who is about as far from a good kid as it's possible to get.

That's not to say that Kev doesn't like Mickey. The guy's funny, he has some good ideas and great initiative; he makes things happen, like that whole rub-and-tug business (okay, so maybe there's been a few misunderstandings about how they're to split the money and whatever, but apart from that, Kev's got no complaints about having Mickey for a partner). He also pays for his beer and isn't a bad drunk, both things a bartender knows how to appreciate. So yeah, Kev likes Mickey just fine... but he's not sure he likes him just fine as Ian's boyfriend.

Truth is, while Kev's not scared of Mickey – c'mon – he's not not scared of him either. Sure Mickey's about half his size, but he's ruthless and kind of crazy and has access to fuck know how many guns (that he actually knows how to use, unlike Kev), not to mention a whole bunch of brothers and cousins and whatever he can call upon. He's a criminal, the real kind, and it's probably only a matter of time before he follows his father and his brothers into big boy jail. Kev doesn't judge – you do what you need to get by, and it's bad practise for a barkeep to look down at his patrons anyway – but he can't help but wonder what it'll mean for a kid like Ian to get caught up in all that hardcore Milkovich madness.

For one, he's not sure gentleness can survive it very long, and he'd hate to see Ian lose that kind heart of his; hate to see him freeze and harden. He'd hate to see him give up on his dreams too, though maybe it's too late for that already, 'cause of what happened with the Army and that helicopter...

It occurs to Kev that Ian ran away just after Mickey married Svetlana.

Oh, shit. This must have been going on for years. Gallaghers have always been attracted to trouble, Kev supposes. He tries to stay out of it, for the most part. Live and let live – and let V be the one to make the off-hand judgemental comments or give it to someone straight if need be. Sure, Kev's been there to throw some advice Lip's way when Lip's been particularly stubborn about something or someone, but there's no way he's getting involved in this. Word got back to Mickey that Kev had tried to meddle in his love life, no talk of peace and love and overflowing plates of cabbage would save him from a bullet to the head, and his kids are not gonna grow up without a father.

It'll probably be fine anyway. Not like he begrudges Mickey a bit of happiness, and Ian's a tough kid. He can take care of himself.

It'll be fine.

Kev keeps telling himself that as he starts shooing the last remaining guests out.

---

He catches sight of them just a little later, when he's finally done getting the priest – half a bottle of vodka and two hookers in on his road to heaven on Earth – out the door, and is taking out the trash.

They're laughing. Through the blood and broken teeth, they're laughing. Ian winces with it, clearly in pain, and Kev considers heading over to ask if they're okay, if they need, well he's not sure, an ice pack or someone to walk them home or something.

He imagines Mickey reacting to that latter suggestion and reminds himself of his decision not to leave his daughters fatherless.

Ian and Mickey has stopped laughing, stopped talking, now (and if Kev had been an introspective kind of guy he might have paused to wonder at how easy it is to think of them like that, as one unit, as a couple, Ian and Mickey). Mickey's head is sagging slightly; Ian's looking at him with an intensity Kev can pretty much feel, even from twenty feet away and with Ian's back turned toward him. He knows he should go inside and leave them to whatever it is they've got going here, but he can't quite look away, his concern mingling with curiosity.

As he watches, Ian rises. He walks over to Mickey and slings an arm around his shoulder in half a hug, before softly running his fingers through the other boy's hair and bending down to press a brief kiss to the top of his head. There's nothing sexual about it; it's affection and comfort, offered easily.

Offered gently.

Mickey doesn't shy away from the touch. He leans into the hug; there's a faint smile on his lips as Ian pulls away, and it comes to Kev then that maybe it won't be Mickey's ruthlessness that tempers Ian's gentleness, but the other way around. Maybe Ian saw something underneath all that sneer and swagger that no one else could see, but was always there.

Maybe it really will be fine. Kev thinks maybe he believes it now.

---

A/N: Thank you for the prompt, nonnie! <3

I'm very happy you clearly specified 'lil' because yes, this I can do! Tiny little things I can mostly make happen! Might take me a while, but still. :) It was very interesting and rather more challenging that I had expected to try to get into Kev's head during these moments (though it gave me an excuse to rewatch all of Kev and Mickey's scenes in season 4, which was a delight!). I hope it's somewhere in the vincinity of what you envisioned, even if it didn't really get into why Ian and Mickey would be really good for each other; I think that's a realization that comes to Kev bit by bit over the years. Would love to see some scenes with him and Mickey in season 11.

This ficlet incidentally got me thinking about how the people of the South Side would distinguish between 'regular' people who don't mind breaking the law when given the opportunity and 'real' criminals who makes a living by actively doing so. Seems like it'd be a fine line at times...

Oh, and I do know that tools in the shed tend to be sharp rather than bright, but think that Kev is the sort to mix up expressions (and I feel the need to point this out since I'm not confident enough in my English to trust that this kind of thing will come across as intentional :p).

#gallavich #kevin ball #4x11 #fic #prompts #my stuff

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amythedvdhoarder · 5 years ago

Text

Protection - Part 7

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: Steve has been taken. Bucky wants to keep you safe but he needs to get his best friend back. Can he do both?

Warnings: Angst and fluff

Word count: 2.6K

Author’s note: Gif not mine. The story continues. Thanks to all of you who are reading this. I am really loving writing fanfics. If anyone wants to be added to the taglist let me know. If you have any requests then send me an ask!

series masterlist

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You tapped your fingers nervously on the table in front of you. Tony was pacing around the front of the briefing room waiting for Nat and Sam to get there. Bucky, moved his hand over yours stopping your tapping instantly. He gave your hand a gently squeeze and turned slowly to face him. Despite his calm exterior you could see some anxiety in his eyes. “Do you think this about Steve and Zemo?” you asked him quietly. He nodded. Steve had gone to Poland following some intel they had received about a possible sighting of Zemo. Generally speaking these things took max 24 hours. Steve had been gone over 48 hours now. All of you knew missions didn’t always go to plan but Steve normally would have checked in with Bucky by now, or if things were really going south then he would have called them team. You rested your head on Bucky’s shoulders and closed your eyes in thought.

Sam and Nat came through the door shattering the quiet around you. Tony stopped pacing and looked out at the four faces in front of him. He explained the situation quickly. Steve was missing, he hadn’t checked in with anyone in 48 hours, very unlike Steve. Last known position was near the border with the Czech Republic, he had called in from Warsaw to say that Zemo had indeed been spotted and was travelling to his last known position. Satellite images showed a cluster of isolated agricultural buildings, suspected of having some type of structure underground. The mission was to rescue Steve and get him back safely, capturing Zemo would be a bonus but Steve was the priority. Bucky had stayed silent throughout the meeting, nodding in agreement when appropriate. Tony hadn’t outlined an exact plan, it was a search and rescue mission, areas were to be swept in pairs and Tony would be above acting as sentry and back-up when needed. Since Morgan had been born his priorities had changed, he didn’t often come on missions but as it was Steve he made the exception.

Tony dismissed you all and you headed towards the jet. Bucky remained silent. The journey to Poland would be around 8 hours. Bucky got onto the jet; he picked a seat on one of the benches near the weapons stores, eyes trained on the floor, trying to avoid any type of interaction. You knew him well enough to know that he would say something when he wanted to. The others headed towards the front of the jet; Nat piloting with Tony as co-pilot. Sam had looked at Bucky and knew that he would want his space. Sam and Steve were best friends but Bucky and Steve had so much shared history, they had a different type of bond, they were brothers. Sam and Bucky openly argued with each other but everyone knew this was a weird act that they both did. Both of them had a lot of respect for one another; Sam was the one who had spent over a year tracking Bucky down when Steve was busy with the Ultron mess. He had of course helped out when Steve was trying to protect Bucky from the government and ended up spending time in prison as a result. As Sam walked to the seats at the front he sent a small nod your way, a smile tugging on your lips in response.

You took the seat next to Bucky, clipped in your seatbelt. You rested your head back and sighed. The jet had started it’s take off. Bucky looked at you, he took your hand in his and placed it on his lap. It must have been a hour so with you both sat like this until Bucky suddenly said “You should get some sleep doll.” You shifted so that you were leaning against him “You ok Buck?” His thumb lazily stroked the back of your hand “Will be once we get that punk back.” You nodded against his shoulder. “It’s weird, haven’t really had to save his ass since he was the small guy picking fights in Brooklyn.” You looked up to find Bucky’s eyes. “We’ll get him back Buck. Steve’s met people much worse than Zemo.” He smiled at you softly, “promise me you stay near me when we get there Y/N.” You leant up and kissed his lips gently. “I can take care of myself but yes I’ll stay near you.” His chuckled lightly at your response “I know you can Y/N. It is just I relax more and think more clearly when I know where you are.” He was being sweet but you rolled your eyes a this. This provoked a questioning glare from Bucky “What was that for?” You scoffed “You’re so protective, very sweet but definitely overprotective” shoving into him slightly. He let out an exasperated sigh “Bucky, I’m messing with you. We’re a team, we both know that.” He seemed slightly appeased at this, you leant into him and closed your eyes. Bucky kissed the top of your head and murmured something you didn’t catch against your hair as you drifted off to sleep.

Hours later Bucky stroked your arm lightly to wake you up. “Doll, we’re nearly there, we need to get everything prepped.” You yawned as you undid your seatbelt and stretched out of your seat. Bucky went over to the weapons stores and pulled out his box and yours, placing them on the table. You opened your box, selecting a couple of handguns and the ammunition to match. You started stripping the guns down, checking over them, firing a couple of dry shots before reassembling them and placing them in your holsters. To your left Bucky was doing a similar thing and then he turned his attention to the knife collection in front of him. A brief smile crossed your face, Bucky loved his knife collection. When you had first joined the team, Bucky and Steve were responsible for your training; helping you hone your hand-to-hand combat skills and Bucky in particular improved your knife work.

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12 months ago

Training with Bucky had been intense. When you had been introduced to Bucky for the first time he hadn’t spoken to you, just casted an intimidating glare over you. Steve made you watch him and Bucky fight, and you were immediately mesmerised. He moved with a violent grace that you had never seen before. Steve was good but Bucky was incredible, you could count the number of times Steve bettered him in these types of fights on one hand. The first time you had a training fight with Bucky it was over in 30 seconds. He had you pinned down, your breathing was frantic and he had barely broken a sweat. You remembered Bucky’s demeanour changing when he looked at you beneath him. His blue eyes softened slightly and as you squirmed slightly beneath him, he almost seemed to have forgotten that had wrestled you to the ground in a fight. He quickly stood up and offered you a hand up which you gratefully took. From that moment on he pushed you to your limit in training sessions, sometimes beyond. He made it his mission to make you as good, if not better than him. You were competent with using guns but Bucky wanted you to be able to protect yourself properly in close combat. He made you train for hours with knives, making sure you could use them to your full advantage. Simulated courses had you taking out 15-20 people at a time with only two knives, you could swap blades between your hands with ease and silently subdue unsuspecting targets.

Bucky had been impressed at how fast you had picked everything up, he had watched in admiration as you took down varied members of the team in training sessions until at last, you faced your final opponent. Him. After training with you for three months the day had come. He had been pushing you hard all day, making you complete trial after trial. Now facing you he could see you were running on your last energy reserves but you looked determined. He had already started developing feelings for you at this points and you occupied his mind more frequently that he cared to admit. He loved your stubbornness, you could surprise him. Often when it looked like you were going to lose a fight, you would dig deep and find something giving you an edge and helping you turn a situation back in your favour. The reason he had pushed you so hard was to make sure you were equipped to protect yourself. He had secretly vowed to keep you safe but he wanted to make sure you were protected if, god forbid, he wasn’t there. However, right now, he had to bury all his feelings and force you to prove that you had learnt all you could from him.

Everyone else disappeared from your view, the only focus you had was Bucky. The only thought you had in your head was to take him down. Get your retaliation in first. You were going to wait for him to make the first move and try and get in a hit whilst he was stepping in. Bucky made a sudden lurch forward and you ducked down and swept to his side, planting a kick to his thigh as you did so. This landed and knocked him off balance momentarily. It was now Bucky’s turn to counter, he skipped around you sending a sharp elbow into the gap between your shoulders making you hiss in pain. You removed a short blade from the holster in your thigh, turning to face him. He smirked at you as he mirrored your move. The fight continued in a similar vain, neither of you quite getting the upper hand. Tiredness was starting to take over your body, Bucky had managed to knock the knife out of your hand and you knew what was coming. This was going to be his final play; knocking you to the ground with his own blade pressing against the flesh of your throat. So, you countered. You used his own momentum against him, throwing him to the ground, your hand smashing his flesh hand into the mat making him release his blade. Your knees held his shoulders to the ground as you straddled his chest preventing him from using his strength against you. Reaching behind you pulled your other knife from your ankle, swiftly bringing it around and pressing this against his throat. Applause and cheers broke out around you, suddenly making you aware of the other people in the room. You stowed the blade back in its sheath and stood up offering Bucky a hand up. He pulled you into a bear hug “impressive doll” he whispered in your ear as he held you to him for a little longer than he should have done. This didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team but you were oblivious. You were exhausted but the elation of beating your tutor in a fight kept you from collapsing.

Bucky seemed satisfied with your official training now complete, he knew you could handle yourself but he still kept a watchful eye over your development. With you and him so close he often would give you advice whilst working out or in training sessions with Steve, an interaction you happily accepted. Soon enough you were going on missions and without you knowing Bucky had always asked to accompany you. On the rare occasion you had gone without him, he would have to spend hours in the gym to distract himself from thinking about you. Steve had once come down to the gym early in the morning and saw to his surprise Bucky flat out on the treadmill. Bucky brought the machine down to a gentle walk so talk to his best friend who was sending him a knowing look. “Y/N away on a mission?” Bucky nodded and looked away “It’s her solo mission.” Steve nodded in understanding “You trained her well Buck.” Bucky muttered something even Steve couldn’t hear. “You could just tell her man, we all know.” Bucky shot him a confused look, stopped the treadmill and got off it, picking up his towel. “Don’t know what you’re talking about punk. Catch you later.” Steve scoffed as Bucky walked away from him.

The rest of the week you had been away had been torture for Bucky. You had messaged him to let him know you were on your way back. He couldn’t wait to see you. Bucky waited for you on the landing platform. You flung yourself at him as soon as the door had opened. He picked you up and squeezed you tightly only putting you down when Steve coughed somewhere behind him. You had giggled when Bucky clumsily let go of you. “Mission go alright Y/N?” you smirked back at him “yeah, all that training definitely helped. Thanks Steve!” He been going insane the whole week whilst you were away and now you were teasing him? You punched him lightly on the arm and told him you were off to get changed and freshen up. As you walked away you called back to him “movie in thirty?” He grinned back at you and shouted “sure thing doll.” He had allowed himself to hope that maybe you had missed him too.

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

You watched as Bucky made his weapon selection before turning to your own. Bucky had been an excellent teacher and you knew that his combat style complimented your own. His weakness was your strength and vice versa. You picked 2 short blades to accompany your gun selection. No one had any idea about what you would be facing when you arrived in Poland. There was an apprehensive atmosphere in the jet as you finally landed. The sun was just beginning to rise as the door opened onto a deserted farm. “Comms check?” Tony’s voice rang out through your earpiece. You all gave the thumbs up. All of you knew the plan; get Steve back safely. Bucky looked at you, you smiled at him and whispered ‘be careful’ at him. “You too” he replied. You walked out of the jet together, guns raised not quite knowing what was to come.

Nat and Sam went to the left towards one of the outbuildings. Bucky and you went to the right towards the main building. Tony checked the surrounding areas from above for anything out of the ordinary. A wooden door lay ahead of you. You walked forwards towards it, Bucky automatically covering your back. You both stopped as you spotted a motorbike. “Tony, I think we have found the bike Steve used to follow Zemo.” Tony landed near you and inspected the bike. He lifted something small up into the air for you and Bucky to see. It was a crushed up mobile phone. “Steve’s” Bucky said through gritted teeth. Sam and Nat called through to say the outer buildings were clear, no sign of activity and were now working their way to the back door of the main house. Upon reaching the door, you waited for everyone to be in position and said clearly “ready?” Bucky grunted in response and with the signal from the rest of the team you opened the door and entered the building.

Taglist: @broco8

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky imagine #bucky angst #bucky fluff #bucky x you #winter soldier #Avengers #marvel #james buchanan barnes

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1000-directions · 4 years ago

Note

rbb because it gave me a heart attack #trauma and also ughhHhhHhhhh bc mood

lolllllll people in marvel fandom do NOT understand how some of us suffer when they abbreviate their reverse big bang as rbb!!!

this was the original draft of my winterhawk reverse big bang where clint is a musician and bucky is a trust fund kid who ends up joining the army or something and they’re boyfriends and then they break up and eventually get back together and it’s told partly in flashbacks and it was just getting TOO complicated to write and felt joyless and was making me completely miserable, so i threw it out after 2500 words and wrote winterhawk punks in love instead, which was the correct choice.

i will never finish it, but here is what i’ve got in case anyone is interested:

There are a lot of different things Clint could have done with his life.

Well, no. That’s a bit of an exaggeration.

But there are several things Clint could have done with his life. Multiple things. More than one thing.

But he doesn’t think any of those other things would have ever made him as happy and crazy and pissed-off and satisfied as singing does.

Whenever anyone asks, he’s very careful to call himself a writer. A composer. A creator. A musician. Like the making of the thing is the part that motivates him. Like performing is just an afterthought. Like singing is just something he has to do so the music makes sense. Because he knows he’s not a great singer. He’s passable. He can keep a beat and hit all the notes in his limited range, and he gets just enough inflection and passion into the words to make people feel a thing, sometimes.

He’s good at the writing. He’s good at the deceptively simple arrangements. His voice is the least he has to offer, and he knows it, and it feels kind of foolish and indulgent to especially savor the part that he’s objectively the worst at. But Christ, he loves doing it, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The two of them had ditched work early, saving up all their smoke breaks until it was suddenly 2:40, and the manager had no choice but to cut them loose. And even though they had permission, it felt like getting away with something, and Clint twisted his fingers into Bucky’s grasp as they ran down the sidewalk together. Clint darted recklessly into the intersection, and Bucky jerked him back at the last second as a truck came barrelling past, honking furiously at the two of them. And it was so close to being bad, but it was fine, fine, fine, and Clint laughed as Bucky shook his head, and Clint linked his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissed him right there in the middle of the street.

They were twenty, and they were in love. And nothing was serious but that.

It was a hot summer at the shore, and they were living in a shitty beach house with three other friends. They spent their mornings and afternoons scooping ice cream at a popular local shop that was more famous than good. And then at night, they’d go drinking at the scummier bars that were a little more lax on carding, or they’d build a bonfire on the beach and drink Yuenglings purchased with Clint’s really good fake ID. And inevitably, someone would have an acoustic guitar, and someone would start shouting out requests, and they’d get drunker and noisier as the night went on.

And then Clint would grab Bucky’s hand with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and they’d strip down to nothing and run into the ocean in the dark, screaming down the moon. And then they’d huddle together in one towel, letting the fire dry their hair until it was curly and crispy. And then they’d all stomp out the fire and gather up the red Solo cups, and Bucky and Clint would push their two futons together into one rickety big bed, and they would fall asleep in each others’ arms, salty and sandy and worn out.

Bucky woke up early most days to go for a run. He was in the Army Reserves, and he had to stay in shape, and Clint certainly wasn’t complaining about what the workouts did for his boyfriend’s physique. Clint was starting at technical school in the fall, studying to be an audio mixer. Things would be changing soon, but not just then.

That summer, time was lazy and endless. Bucky would come back from his run and lay his sweaty body down on top of Clint’s, kissing him awake, and they’d rub off against each other until they both came. Or they’d dart away from their friends in the middle of dinner, running up to their room and barely getting the door locked before Clint was shoving down Bucky’s pants to get his mouth on his cock.

And some nights, they were painstakingly tender, just kissing for what felt like hours before they even took their clothes off. Bucky liked things a little rough, and Clint liked things a little sweet, and they’d found something in the middle that was perfect for both of them.

“Just fucking hold me down and make me feel it, Clint,” Bucky would say sometimes, and Clint would kiss his jaw and tug his hair a little and fuck into him harder until Bucky was crying out beneath him.

It was their first summer, and everything was perfect.

At thirty, Clint is starting to fall into the sorts of routines that a younger version of himself would have detested.

Even worse...he kinda likes it.

But there’s just something soothing and comforting about knowing what’s ahead. Sure, it’s romantic to think about being a starving artist, but the reality of it wasn’t so sexy. Turns out that if you don’t work, you don’t get paid. And sometimes in the music industry, you don’t get paid even when you do work. So Clint works his ass off. All the time. He’s still riding a bubble, and he’s gonna ride the hell out of it until it breaks.

He wakes up, and he makes coffee. He fills his travel mug, and he and Lucky take a lazy walk through the park. Clint listens to the birds chirp, and he slurps his coffee, and he hides behind his sunglasses and doesn’t make eye contact with any of his well-meaning neighbors. Too early for that shit.

He goes back home, and Lucky inevitably fucks off somewhere to nap while Clint stretches. He’d tried meditation, but he can’t bear being quite that alone with his own thoughts. He can be alone with his body, though. He runs through his muscle groups, mindfully and thoughtfully working out the best way to stretch his sternocleidomastoid or his serratus anterior. He likes how he feels afterwards, all loose and wiggly, and it puts him in a good frame of mind for a morning listening session.

He has a second cup of coffee in his sunroom while he listens to the playback from the previous day. He combs through voicenotes and reads old journals, idly recalling stories about himself. He doesn’t create anything just yet. He listens with an open mind. And then he listens a second time, and he absorbs, and he makes notes about what he likes or how something could be different.

And then he sets a timer for forty minutes while he has lunch in front of the TV, and he fucks around on his email for a bit, and sometimes if he eats real fast he jerks off. And sometimes if he’s been seeing someone, he texts them, catches up, makes plans for later. Sometimes he plays video games. Sometimes he remembers to water his plants.

(Mostly, he jerks off.)

And then it’s back to work in the afternoon. More coffee. More listening, but this time with editing, rerecording, rewriting. He creates new voicenotes. He jots down new lyrics. He thinks about things he wants to talk about someday that he’s not ready to talk about now.

And then in the late afternoon, he ventures out of the house again. He goes to a cafe, or he grabs some more coffee, or he goes to the bank or the grocery store or the mall. And he exists among people, the way his therapist told him to. And he smiles at three strangers, and he overhears people’s conversations, and he reminds himself that there is an entire universe outside his head, just like there’s an entire universe inside of it.

And then he goes home, makes dinner, jerks off, swaps his coffee for whiskey, waits until he gets really, really tired, and then…

Then he fucking sings.

They got the band name from one of the weird, macabre love poems that Clint was always painstakingly copying down into his notebooks, trying to record the bits of weird beauty he saw in the world that mirrored the strangeness he sensed inside of himself. He felt less alone to see strangeness in others.

My darling, I will love you until the winter hawk cleans my bones And in her desperation, she will discover that my flesh only tastes of you

“It’s so gross,” Bucky had said with a curious sort of awe, and Clint felt so vulnerable in the silence that followed, because it was gross, but it was important to him.

Clint wanted to be so fucking in love that it chewed him up. He wanted love to shred him with her talons. And he could imagine himself getting there with Bucky. He thought they could be epic. He was still holding back some secret parts of himself, but if he let those go, he thought he could love Bucky so hard that it consumed him and he finally, finally lost himself.

And Bucky kept staring at the words scrawled in Clint’s notebook, traced his fingertip over the blue ink, following the same pattern Clint’s pen had taken as he’d lovingly copied down the words. And there was a furrow in his brow as he read and reread, and just as Clint thought he might explode from the anticipation, Bucky looked up at him with a small smile.

“I get it, I think,” he said slowly. “The desperation, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Clint wasn’t sure he was even breathing anymore, he was so close to losing it.

“The way a predator becomes a scavenger,” Bucky said thoughtfully, and there it was, that nerdy side of Bucky that Clint loved so fiercely. “Taking the scraps if that’s the only choice you have. Being just...so hungry.” He ran his thumb over Clint’s wrist, and Clint shivered.

“Hungry how?” he managed to croak out.

“Feel like I could just eat you up sometimes,” Bucky murmured. “When I first met you, I didn’t think you even liked me at all.”

“I did, though,” Clint protested weakly. “I was crazy about you from that first time I saw you.”

“I didn’t know it,” Bucky said. “Didn’t even know if I really liked boys or not, but I wanted you, and it felt like….” He frowned and looked at his thumb slowing arcing over Clint’s skin. “Felt like it didn’t even matter if you liked me back. Just me liking you was so much. And I would have eaten any scrap of anything you gave me, baby.”

“And now?” Clint asked, and his heart was an out-of-control metronome.

“Same thing now,” Bucky said, chewing on his lip. “Any bit of you I could have. I’d eat up all you gave me and I’d starve for more before I wanted a single damn bite of anyone else.”

“I love you,” Clint had whispered then, the first time he’d said those words out loud to anyone.

“I love you, too,” Bucky had replied, a hopeful smile breaking across his face and scrunching up his eyes, and Clint was so terrified and relieved and happy that he could barely stand it.

They pushed their mouths together and tried to kiss, but neither of them could stop grinning long enough to make it work.

Clint goes to therapy once a month. He takes his Lexapro every night. He has a notebook full of therapy homework, and he makes lists of his accomplishments and his failures, and when he goes to therapy, he shows up with an agenda. He is working to fix multiple parts of his life. He makes progress in different areas, a step on one path, a leap on another, a little stumble here. He’s an amoeba, and his pseudopods creep towards his goals, engulfing and consuming one after the other, slow and steady.

Get a dog? Check.

Learn how to cook healthy(ish) meals? Check.

Spend more time outside? Check.

Stop being so hateful towards myself? Check(ish).

Learn how to have sex with someone without falling in love with him? Check.

Learn how to have sex with someone without immediately thinking of Bucky afterwards?

Well.

It’s a work in progress.

Something flashbacky about being deaf

Clint’s newest album is called Mono Songs for a Stereo World, and all he’s finished so far is the title and the concept.

He connected with Tony Stark at SxSW last year and drunkenly talked his ear off about his idea to create songs for people with hearing conditions, mixed specifically to accommodate their abilities. He’d woken up the next morning with a raging hangover and a three minute voicemail from Tony describing the prototype software he’d slapped together. And now they’re...not exactly partners, but Clint comes up with ideas, and Tony turns them into reality.

And now Clint has all the technology he needs to create a fully customizable digital album. Fans will be directed to a website that tests their hearing, determines what wavelengths they can detect at which volumes, and then Tony’s tech will generate a downloadable version of Clint’s album that sits perfectly within their range of hearing. It works flawlessly. They’re probably not going to make much money off of it, but Clint’s been working his whole life towards something like this, and he can’t believe how close he finally is.

So all he needs to do is, like. Find some inspiration somewhere and write ten to twelve songs and then record all of them and mix them once and then feed them into Tony’s algorithm and re-mix the songs and then do maybe 40 test mixes on each one.

Simple, really.

It was easy for the two of them to form a band. Clint was always writing his weird poetry, and Bucky loved it. Loved the sound of his voice wrapping around the shapes of his words. And Bucky was good enough with a guitar, and it was just one more way for them to be together. It just made sense.

They called the band Winterhawk, and sure, Clint probably always took it a little more seriously than Bucky did, but that was Clint. He threw himself into everything like that back then, reckless and headstrong and passionate and unafraid. He loved Bucky so much, and he loved the band so much, and Bucky loved him and the band, too. Maybe just a little less, but still plenty enough for Clint.

Summer ended, and they found a reasonably priced studio apartment in the city. Bucky paid most of the rent, but he had a trust fund he was still working his way through before his parents disinherited him, plus he made great tips bartending.

wip title game

#asks #me me me #winterhawk #i'm writing a thing #bigbrotherlouis

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twilightprince101 · 6 years ago

Text

The Friendsim protag is being controlled

The following contains my findings from all of the Friendsims up to volume 15, along with my theory to how exactly this will end and how it will play into the Hiveswap narrative. This is gonna be pretty long but i think I cracked the code so bear with me.

All of the friendsims that have been released so far I have enjoyed (the characters in every single one though is, debatable). I liked the bits of story that these one hour long things give, while preserving enough lore for the next act of Hiveswap.

However there were countless times throughout these volumes that I noticed something weird. More than often, volumes would reference both good and bad ends from a specific route. Take for example our very first buddy: Diemen. In his route, the good end had you finding the meat locker and sharing the tender moment. The bad end, on the other hand, had Diemen literally die due to the MC’s iron ass. But a key thing in this mad end is that before he dies, he gives the MC his t-shirt as a sort of sling for his broken arm.

Fast forward to Amisia’s route one volume later. She offers to heal your broken arm when you get back to her hive with the power of technology, which is all well and good! But there is something that is hard to process: the sling is mentioned.

I was a little worried when this popped up, mainly since it implied that Deimen died. But since this was canon I accepted it. Bu then, fast forward even more to Mallek’s route and suddenly, there Diemen is. Living, breathing and working for the hacker punk.

There were several more instances of this later on, such as a reference to getting drunk with Chixie while also hearing her rap and knowing the purpleblood in Polypa’s route despite joining her at anime club. At this point I assumed that there was some sort of way that there are elements of bad ends that can happen in the good ends. After all, the MC and other Troll Call characters don’t recognize the contradictions present or acknowledge them, so it shouldn’t be anything huge.

And then Boldir’s route happened, and everything changed.

The good end isn’t exactly too much to talk; you save Boldir from an assassin. But the bad end is the moment of interest; you fail to save Boldir from the poison and she slowly dies, but as she does she tells the MC some things-specifically that fate is less about one thing destined to happen but the things that lead to a certain thing, butterfly effect style. The MC, right then, is prompted to think about how things led to their moment, and something big happens.

He remembers people dying because of him-failed routes. But that shouldn’t be possible, since the people that died were Deimen, Tirona and (if we’re counting off screen deaths) Tyzias. They’re all still alive and well, we’ve seen proof of this! But upon realizing their mistake, their mind practically shuts down.

And then we see the ever famous ending line of “Again? Must I do everything myself?” I’m sure you’ve seen it so I won’t put up the picture (that and there’s a ten pic limit)

This volume is, by far, the most interesting route of all the ones released, purely from a mystery lore standpoint. The information that the MC is prompted to recall almost traumatizes them, as if it was forced into the back of their mind. But this is not limited to Boldir’s route; we have seen this before in Galekh’s route when he prompts the MC to remember their home planet and how they got there.

Both times the MC tries to recall information, it causes something in him to set off a panic alarm and make them shut down, like something is stopping them from recalling it. But back to Boldir’s ending.

After Boldir dies, the volumes onward change. You can see it right away in volume 14 in the opening dialogue before you choose which character to befriend. Apart from the entirety of the past volumes, the focus on friendship is absent. Whenever friendship is mentioned in the opening it’s highlighted in yellow, but its gone in volume 14. There’s an immediate difference there.

Another important thing to note here is that in Karako (previously known as “WHOMST”), in one of his bad ends, literally dies. Straight up. This could be lumped in with other bad ends, but what’s significant about this is that the MC goes down kicking with him, getting brought into the Dark Carnival afterlife along with the young lad. It’s one of the very first times the MC, without being given any sort of prompt, tries to do good for their own sake. Along with proving that the dark carnival exists in the Hiveswap universe, this is a key factor in this theory. Keep this in mind.

Volume 15 is where results begin to clearly, visibly show. Not just to the player, but to the MC as well. The opening has the friendship word separated from the opening narration, while the MC says that they don’t have a purpose (aside from FRIENDSHIP). It’s treated as a sort of side topic, not exactly worth mentioning all too much.

In Wanshi’s route, while talking to Wanshi and getting himself prepared to talk to the child, he recalls previous children he has befriended. But then the MC begins, unprompted, to recall when Tirona and Karako died and tries to shake it out of their head.

Even later in Wanshi’s route, the MC fights and defeats a bloodthirsty cholerbear rampaging at a convention, protecting the young child from getting mauled. A part of me feels like this will most likely be referenced, because this is important. This ending, along with Karako’s, is one of the few instances where the MC is confirmed dead. There was Chahut and Tagora’s bad ending, but those were vague and left the possibility open for the MC to escape. These though? The MC is dead, no doubt about it.

And then we get to Charun’s route, and the difference is jarring and right in your face from the start. The MC outright refuses to do anything related to finding new friends or hanging out with old ones. We’ve seen this before at the beginning of Boldir’s route, but that was more of a depression thing in general. This though is specifically a “FUCK FRIENDSHIP” message. And then the text slaps on screen, and by far the most important thing in the friendsims is shown.

The main character remembers and references Karako’s bad end, where they died. This should be outright impossible though, considering that they mentioned earlier that they befriended Karako and the fact that they are still alive! This point, right here, is where I realized:

The Friendsim protag is experiencing every single ending in every single route. Not only that, but they remember everything.

Upon realizing this, I tried to figure out why. I remember rumors going around that the MC could be connected to some sort of Time Aspect player, rewinding time to get the desired outcome and possibly even merging timelines (like we’ve seen in [S] COLLIDE with Dave and Terezi’s team attack). But I don’t think that’s the case. In fact, we already have a lead on who is doing this. We have since Act 1 of Hiveswap.

The puppet manipulator himself, Doc Scratch.

I know this sounds crazy, but for a moment, think about Doc Scratch’s character in the Homestuck story. He is a master manipulator, controlling both the Beta kids and SGRUB players into doing exactly what he wanted so he could ascend to becoming Lord English. He made Rose turn Grimdark, he tricked the Beta kids into creating the Green Sun, and had Sollux find and use the code for when the universe would end, summoning him into the multiverse. His entire character was manipulating others to set things into motion.

Now look back up at the Galekh picture, where the MC is prompted to recall what their home is like and how they got to Alternia. They don’t know why they did it. Sure it was referenced in Boldir’s route that they stole the spaceship and in Konyyl’s route it’s said that the MC wanted to escape Earth because it was a hellhole. But the inciting incident that led to stealing a god damned spaceship is never stated. It was almost as if they were blindly doing it for some reason.

Almost all of these friendsim volumes have that exact same unknown motivation in that friendship thing. I don’t know about you, but I think if I crash landed on an unknown planet with nothing but countless injuries, I don’t really think anyone’s first instinct would be to find a friend, no matter how lonely they were on Earth. It’s only after Boldir’s intervention that the MC begins to deviate from this motivation; trying to not get involved with Marsti, proving themself to themself in Karako’s route, stepping up to protect others without making a decision to do so in the first place and outright refusing to do the thing they wanted to do from the very start. It’s as if they only now came to their senses.

Did you notice how I called Boldir’s death an intervention? Did you notice that after Boldir’s death everything began to change? Did you notice that, despite literally dying, Boldir was almost content with doing so after giving her message to you despite how pointless it seemed? What Boldir said, about thinking about the past and how it led the MC to where they were then, that sparked everything. What Boldir did in the long run was intentional.

But this begs the question: how is Doc Scratch manipulating the MC? Throughout the first handful of volumes the MC doesn’t have a palmhusk after all, so there’s no way they have been contacted since landing. But I think there’s a more indirect answer: subliminal messaging. Through some unknown means, the MC is being sent messages on how to act and behave from the Doc. It sounds outlandish, but the proof has been right in front of us the whole time, every single time we boot up one of the Volumes.

White text.

What we saw after Boldir’s bad end was Doc Scratch’s message, complaining that he must do everything himself. The white text box that we see, is Doc Scratch’s subliminal messaging in the flesh, as he writes out your every move and translates those messages into thoughts. The entire 2nd person narration here was an illusion: it was actually first person. The end of Boldir’s route had the 2nd person structure break and for the first time, the narration is in first person perspective. Doc Scratch has revealed himself after being tricked by Boldir.

Another thing to note is that a lot of Friendsim takes place either before or during Act 1 of Hiveswap, (as confirmed by one of the devs). So when the text says “Must I do everything myself?”, this references what happens in Act 1, where Xefros receives the Scratchware protection program and traps the troll under rubble. The reason he does this is simple: with the help of Boldir, the MC is beginning to break free of Doc Scratch’s control.

So overall, here is what I’ve gathered and my theory about all of this:

Through some unknown method, Doc Scratch has been sending subliminal messages ever since they lived on Earth. He manipulated the MC to steal the spaceship and fly off into space, then causing the crash through some other means (such as manipulating one of the people building the spaceship to leave out certain parts to cause it to break down. I know this part is baseless but it’s the best I’ve got). Through these subliminal messages and other powers, the Doc has been manipulating the MC to do specific events and even crossover different timelines to lead to some sort of end goal that will show in Act 2 of Hiveswap. However since Boldir interfered and limited the manipulation, Doc Scratch had to resort to manipulating the main cast through the Scratchware program.

As for the Friendsim volumes, these most recent volumes are suggesting that something big is coming, and the events that happen in this story will directly cause what happens in Act 2. This not only would act as a sort of prologue to Act 2, but also give a reason to why Whatpumpkin is prioritizing finishing these before releasing any Hiveswap information. I’m not sure what might happen or what’s coming, but there is one thing we do know for sure about this whole situation.

He is already here.

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harryandmolly · 6 years ago

Text

i could write it better than you ever felt it - FINAL

summary: fuck growing up. this is freedom, this is life, this is youth – 2007 Warped Tour style.

warnings: Language, vintage Something Corporate, oversugaring tea amidst Londoners

word count: 5.2k

A/N: this is it, fam! thanks for coming along in my time machine. I hope it’s everything you dreamed it would be. Shawn’s song is “As You Sleep” by Something Corporate, highly recommend a listen. thank you for everything you are and everything you give me. I love you guys.

Lucky 13.

The emblem of the 2007 Warped Tour has surrounded her all summer, but it feels especially present today somehow, on the last day of tour in Carson, California.

It seems a contradiction in terms, lucky 13, which Val supposes is probably the idea. She knows it’s a cheeky nod to the counterculture vibe that Warped Tour represents, but it also feels representative of her in some ways.

Val’s had a very contemplative and quiet three weeks since she gathered her things and walked out of that hotel room, leaving the scribbled note on the pillow behind her. She’s turned inward, no longer hounded by her conflict with Raf or Bea, able to focus on herself for the first time in a few months. And she’s picked out a few things that coincide with the theme of the summer.

Val is often reckless, and sometimes maternal. Val is book smart, and also street smart. Val embraces academia, but sometimes thinks she could drown herself in music and never read books again. Val is vibrant even when she is broken.

Humans are made up of contradictions, Val knows that as well as anyone. She is not suddenly realizing that she is not only one thing -- her dichotomies are not really news to her. But as she thinks about the people she loves most, she sees the way certain parts of their personalities bump up against other parts and fight for dominance, and she loves them more richly for it.

Humans are made up of contradictions and Val is embracing that from here on out. She arrived on the first day of Warped wearing a blink t-shirt with a textbook on Ming dynasty art in her trunk. All summer, she studied the ways she doesn’t fit in here in the scene anymore like she was looking for reasons to make a clean split and join her adult life across the pond. But the truth is, she failed. She looked for the ways that made her feel different from this world that she helped in her small way to build, but it’s as much a home to her as academia is and it will never truly feel foreign, no matter how many hours she spends crouched over a 9th century vase with a tiny brush. So her biggest contradiction, her inner strife over choosing academia over pop punk, it fades into her skin like her tattoo, as much a part of her as the dimple in her chin or the curls in her hair that she decided not to straighten today.

Val walks the grounds as the sun begins to fade. The last sets of the day are in progress or being set up. With earbuds in playing Boys Like Girls, she strolls between booths of merch people clinking beers and congratulating each other on a summer well done, between groups of kids comparing signed merch, between crew guys beginning to break down and pack away equipment to be pulled out next June for another go around.

She imagines who she’ll be next June.

She walks slowly on her way to Smartpunk. It seems her body is just as hesitant as her mind to attend this one last set, but she’s doing it anyway. She’s not sure why -- to prove a point to herself? To indulge in the talent one last time? To try to believe in a miracle?

She doesn’t like any of those options. She settles on curiosity and keeps her feet moving in uncharacteristically small steps.

She stands at the back, nice and far from any moshing action, by the All Time Low booth so she can sit on the edge of the table without getting grief from Vinny Vegas.

She wears a small smirk as the space around her fills in. It seems every Warped attendee is a Forefront convert now. She doesn’t blame them. But damn is it a far cry from their first sets in June.

They’re announced over the yelping cries of fans wearing out their last screams of summer. They hustle out in a group, with their tall, gawky frontman bringing up the rear as usual. He plants himself in front of the mic and swings one powerful arm above his head with a wild grin to wave as his adoring fans.

And it begins.

They put on a hell of a show. It’s not a given -- just because you’re good in the studio doesn’t mean you have the chemistry or energy to do well live. There are special bands that make a live concert a nearly religious experience -- her friends in Paramore and All Time Low among them. Forefront has gotten their sea legs this summer and won’t easily lose them now.

She takes the time to notice each member -- passionate, goofy Francis on rhythm guitar, hard-hitting, soft-spoken Seth on the drums, raucous pretty boy bassist Bobby. And then Shawn, switching between his keyboard and guitar effortlessly like he was born with a damn instrument in his hand, charisma leaking out of him all over the stage, making everyone in a fifteen mile radius certain that he’s born to do this.

She closes her eyes through the end of “Open End” and waits for “Swim” to start. When Shawn switches back to the keys at this point in the set, he usually engages in some chit chat with the boys or yammers on to the fans about how much they inspire him or whatever. But he’s quiet and the air around the stage is tense because everyone knows something’s up.

Val opens her eyes. He’s where she expected him to be, propped at the edge of his bench with his fingers resting over the keys, looking down at them frozen.

“We’re gonna play you a new one today.”

Val’s stomach falls out and flops into the dirt at her feet. She’s glad she’s sitting on the table because she can’t feel her legs. She overwhelmed by certainty that whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be personal. And it’s going to hurt like hell.

Shawn is quiet for a few more electrically charged moments before he closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders forward and leans into the mic, singing before the instruments join him.

“Close your eyes and I will be swimming, lullabies fill your room, and I will be singing, singing only to you. Don’t forget I’ll hold your head, watch the night sky fading red.”

His fingers work furiously against the keys. The piano line is so intricate and shows off his talent for the instrument in a way she’s never seen. He keeps his eyes down at his hands as they dance, distracting him enough from the content of the lyrics so he can get through them without breaking down like he did when he wrote it.

“But as you sleep, and no one is listening, I will lift you off your feet, I'll keep you from sinking. Don't you wake up yet, cause soon I'll be leaving you. Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me.”

Val closes her eyes again and lets herself fall back into their last night, into their frantic lovemaking punctuated by irresponsible, unkeepable promises. She thinks about the weight of his legs between hers as she drifted off with him in the last full night sleep she got on tour. She remembers the way she let her hand rest on his side of the bed to try to tell when he left by how cool to the touch it felt.

“In the car, the radio leaves me searching for your star, a constellation of frustration driving home, singing my thoughts back to me, and watching heartache on TV.”

It feels so good to get this out, Shawn thinks as he hits each note just the way he wants it. This song came spilling out after their last night together in a way that felt too easy. After all that he put her through, he doesn’t deserve to have his art come easy. But art is never fair.

By the second chorus, Val knows the words. It’s hard not to zero in when you know they’re about you. She notes the way the crowd reacts, arms in the air waving at him like he’s Jimi Hendrix, cheering along, eating up everything he gives them.

Good, she thinks, he deserves it.

The lead into the bridge is still piano heavy, but his fingers know the strokes of the keys as well as his heart does, so he gets to sit up and look around, grinning as their fans cheer, watching the sky explode vibrant summer watercolors over the trees on the horizon. A thick, soothing breeze passes through.

He looks back through to where he saw her a few songs ago. He lets his gaze stay there long enough that she knows now that she’s been spotted. He licks his lips and leans into the mic, but keeps his eyes up at her, perched on the ATL merch table like she owns it.

He repeats the lyrics even though each word feels like tearing at scabs that won’t be healing for a while. He pours it all in, everything he has left, every piece of I’m sorry, every hint of thank you, every whisper of I love you, it soars out over the heads of the fans who love the words but don’t know the boy that wrote them.

They’re for her.

As the final note fades out under sweeping cries of gratitude from the scene kids that came to celebrate their home and community, Val stands, brushes the dust from her skinny jeans and secures her earbuds back in place. With a final nodding smile to Vinny, she turns from the stage and walks off in gigantic, loping steps to read about John Singer Sergeant and listen to Dookie on repeat.

+++++++

December 18th, 2017

Shawn doesn’t often fit most musician stereotypes -- he doesn’t drink too heavily, he doesn’t do any drug harder than weed, he’s kind of a serial monogamist.

But he does love a moody walk along a body of water.

With a pair of good headphones, a carefully curated playlist and a path along the water, Shawn can figure out anything. When he gets stuck on a song, he goes to the water. When he’s in a weird spot with someone he’s dating, he goes to the water. He doesn’t like to get too spiritual about it, but it does feel somehow clarifying.

So one afternoon in London when the sun is out and the Londoners are out with it, Shawn decides to join them. He’s there on business promoting the latest Forefront album with a Live Lounge performance on BBC Radio 1 with Nick Grimshaw. He’s jetlagged and a little turned around by the Underground system like he usually is when in London but he’s otherwise feeling just fine. He just needs a walk by the water today. He tries not to look too closely at why.

He bundles up in the Barbour jacket his mum got him last Christmas and sets off down the stairs into the opulent Savoy hotel lobby decked out with a Christmas tree in every corner and fresh garland wrapped around every non-moving object in sight. He smiles at it -- nobody does Christmas like the Brits. He’s looking forward to going home in a few days to see his mum and the rest of his family and decompress for a few weeks before heading back over to the UK to write and record their next album.

He gets reflective like this -- the combination of the water and the music offer him perspective he can’t usually reach otherwise. He tucks his hands in his pockets and sets off through the garden that opens up into the Victoria Embankment Gardens, usually lush and green in the spring and summer, full of life and people. He likes it like this, though, cold and quiet and almost like a little secret.

2017 has been good to him. Forefront played seven new countries this year on their world tour in celebration of their sixth studio album. He’s gotten a little better over the years about being more present in those moments rather than looking forward anxiously to the next album and the expectations that surround it. That attitude really spoiled the last few records, but the new friends he’s made in the industry have helped guide him through that. He’s even becoming friends with the Irish guy from One Direction now, though they had very different paths to the music industry. He seems like a cool guy.

Personally, 2017 wasn’t really a banner year. He broke up with Jess in April after almost a full year. He’s had a few of those lately -- relationships that start hot and don’t make it past a year mark. He should take a closer look at that and figure out why he can’t seem to stay in a relationship for longer than 11 months, but he’s too tired to think about it now. It’s been a long fuckin’ year.

It’s been a long ten years, actually, since Joy Ride. He thinks back to the show they played at home in Toronto over the summer to celebrate the big anniversary. They played the whole album start to finish, something they’ve never gotten to do. Being immersed in it like that brings back a lot of memories of that summer when everything really kicked off. Not all those memories are ones Shawn likes to think about.

He doesn’t think about Valentina much. It’s by design. He doesn’t even play “As You Sleep” as often as it’s requested. It just… doesn’t feel healthy for him. He’ll pull it out every once in a while when curiosity gets the best of him, when it’s been long enough that he forgets how sharply he still feels every word of that song. He usually regrets it.

He lets himself wonder about her sometimes, like today when he’s knee deep in nostalgia anyway. He still sees Raf and the other Streets guys. They went on a hiatus for a while around 2013 but are back again recording a new record somewhere in Malibu, from what Shawn’s heard. When he sees them, he doesn’t ask about her. He doesn’t want her knowing he’s asking. And he thinks sometimes he doesn’t want to know what she’s really up to, he’d rather imagine.

He falls into his favorite daydream. He likes to think she stayed in the UK (he always felt like that was the place for her to end up). Maybe she got a job in conservation at Oxford or Cambridge or some other hoity-toity university. Maybe she met a nice, polite, skinny, bookish English guy who looks at her like a miracle every time she speaks to him. Maybe they had a small wedding at his local church and his family loves her because she’s colorful and articulate. Maybe they have dogs -- sheepdogs or setters or something, good country dogs. And maybe they’ve had a little girl.

That’s where he usually shuts the daydream down. For obvious reasons.

But when he doesn’t, he thinks about her and who she might be. He thinks about thick, lush curls flopped over a tiny forehead. He thinks about pouty little lips and a chin dimple that matches her mother’s. He thinks about little feet that kick hard because she’d have to be strong, of course.

Now that he’s letting himself think about it, he thinks maybe she’d look kinda like the kid that’s staring at him, reaching out from her pram that’s parked next to the bench he’s strolling past. He smiles at her and she beams back with a grin that has only two teeth. It makes Shawn laugh.

He glances over at her lucky mum or dad.

And it’s almost like he expected it, like it had to be her. I mean, this kid really couldn’t have been anyone but Val’s. She’s just… so Val.

So when Shawn looks her over, from her sweeping dark curls and her leather trousers and her ankle boots, he’s barely even surprised to see her. He just tips his head back and chuckles at the universe.

“Hey mister,” she calls, and her voice sets his skin rough with goosebumps, “Can I have your autograph?”

Shawn lets go of where he’s holding on to the wrought iron fence above the banks of the Thames and walks over, his chelsea boots scratching at the frosty stone.

She doesn’t stand to greet him. She’s got a similar look on her face, bemused acknowledgement of fate and its tricks, like she was thinking about him too and they both somehow willed this to happen. Her long slender legs are crossed. She has one black leather-gloved hand in the pram in the grasp of her little girl who’s chewing on her finger and no longer paying Shawn any attention.

“Hey, Vally,” he sighs. He doesn’t mean to call her that, it just happens. She doesn’t visibly react beyond a slightly deeper dimple in her cheek, so he figures he scraped by with that one.

“Were you on your way somewhere?” she asks, glancing back as if she realized she might be taking him away from something.

He shakes his head. “No, I just-- I’m staying at the Savoy and I like these gardens. I just wanted a walk.” He has enough presence of mind to pause his music. He doesn’t bother to mention it’s an old Streets song. That she wrote.

“We like it out here. We live over by the Farringdon stop but we take the train out here because we like the waterfowl.”

Val looks down at the pram as she speaks. Shawn takes that as an invitation to acknowledge her more formally.

“Who’s this?” he asks breathlessly.

“This is Alice,” Val replies with as much pride as he’s ever heard from any mother, “Alice Fernanda Moreno, she’s nine months old and very hefty for her age because we run a body positive household and she loves mashed carrot and swede.”

Shawn lifts a hand and waves in that open-close way he does like he’s a big toddler himself. Alice kicks hard and squeals at him.

“She’s… so beautiful,” he marvels. Val’s smug smile tells him she agrees. Shawn doesn’t share his next thought because it feels like a line and he doesn’t want to go there.

Because she looks exactly like you.

“I picked out a real pretty one,” she jokes, tightening the wrap of the thick wool blankets around Alice as she yawns.

Shawn continues staring at her openly, trying to pick out features that could belong to any potential father, but as far as he can tell, Alice is simply a clone of Val. It’s Val’s throat clearing that brings him back.

“Sit, Mendes,” she suggests, patting the warped wooden bench. Shawn lowers himself on the other side of the pram as Val rocks it back and forth with her foot.

“She’s been fussy today, but it’s naptime. She has to give in eventually,” Val mutters like she’s reasoning with herself. Shawn grins.

“You have a daughter.”

Val doesn’t look up from the pram as she rocks it. She just nods and snuggles into her prim peacoat.

“I have a daughter.”

Shawn can’t bring himself to ask. She’s wearing gloves so he can’t see if she’s wearing a ring. He stays quiet and studies her instead.

She looks largely the same, barely even older than she did at 22. Her sense of style is maybe the only thing he can see that’s changed in the ten years since he’s seen her last. There’s something comforting in that.

He wonders if he seems different. He works out more now, eats right. He’s definitely put on a whole lot of muscle since he was scrounging for burger scraps on Warped. He’s gotten a few more tattoos she can’t see. He also has an actual stylist now, which is sometimes weird, but he’s elevated the black skinnies, Vans and band tees to black skinnies, $800 boots and silk button-ups. So there’s that.

He’s still got that lip ring though.

But… he wonders if he seems different. If he carries himself differently. If he comes off more confident, more calm, less wide-eyed and wondering.

Because she seems the same. She’s always glowed from the inside out like this. Maybe the glow feels a little stronger now. Or maybe it’s just because she glows through herself and her baby girl all at once. Shawn sits back and watches them -- he could bathe in it all day.

“You know it’s been ten years?” she breathes.

Shawn nods slowly. “I know. Kinda feels like 40.”

She laughs and a piece of him astral projects back to nights tangled up in her bunk kissing her neck and trying to keep her quiet so her brother won’t come mock them from outside the bunk curtain.

“It does,” she muses, “But sometimes it feels like fifteen minutes ago, too.”

Shawn tips his head back and sniffs, looking up through a tall pine as its needles shiver.

“Has your decade been good to you?” she murmurs. He lifts his head back up. She’s staring down at the baby.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been great. We’ve toured a lot, done a few more albums. The guys and I, I mean, you know us, we’d push each other in front of a bus most days, but we’re brothers and maybe obsessed with each other, too. We’re on a great ride.”

Val lifts her eyes to his briefly, all too knowingly, and lowers them back to the pram. “That’s good.”

Shawn shakes his head. “That’s not even at all what you meant, was it?”

“Nope.”

Shawn goes quiet, contemplative. Val waits him out until he’s ready.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he chokes finally, “Everything about it. Writing after Joy Ride, it was… it got bad. I mean, I was ok, like fundamentally, but I didn’t feel good. We had so many eyes on us. We had no idea what to do, just like no one else does. Some tours were great, some were bad. And the whole deal makes everything else harder. It’s hard on my family, my friends. I… I haven’t been in an actual good relationship in… five years, at least. This year was better. We’ve gotten our feet back under us. I let it all out in the last album, and that helped.”

“I know, I heard it.”

Shawn looks up from Val’s hands in the pram. For the first time all morning, he’s really, truly shocked to the bone.

“You did?”

Val doesn’t answer him exactly, just mutters something about needing to get the baby inside and announces they’ll head down the lane for a cup of tea. She leads them to a little corner coffee shop made for hipsters, not for women with very expensive prams, but Val doesn’t seem to care and parks in the corner by the fire. She layers down, stripping off her scarf and coat to a black turtleneck. Her cheeks go warm as she settles in and orders for them.

Shawn keeps his mouth shut and tries not to do the mental math of how many of the songs he’s released in the last ten years have been written about her, and exactly how many of them she might have noticed are definitely, totally written about her.

She folds her manicured hands together and looks up at him. His brain mercifully shuts off.

“It took a while after that summer for me to get there, but about three years later, I was around Oxford with some friends and I saw your latest album, on vinyl no less, in some indie record store. I suddenly got this feeling that I had to stop my whole life for a minute and go in and buy it. I bought it and the one that came before it, I said goodbye to my friends and I shut myself up in my flat for a couple days with a bottle of whiskey and just… let it happen.”

Shawn winces. “Wish you’d have just skipped over Making Midnight.”

Val smirks. “I wish I had, too.”

Shawn scoffs and leans back in his chair, mock offended. Val giggles and dumps an ungodly amount of sugar in her Earl Grey.

“I was glad to just hear your voice again, actually. I’d done a good job of avoiding it. Too good, maybe, because it was a real shock to the system when I heard it again.”

Shawn knows how that feels. He went through a Val cleanse too, a much shorter one because he doesn’t have her willpower. And then he heard a song she wrote with Alex Gaskarth for All Time Low’s Dirty Work and he let her back in.

“From then, I just bought your records when they came out. I really loved this last one. It really… I dunno, it just really felt like you, I guess.”

Shawn keeps his head down as he stares at his tea. He hears Alice coo. He looks up to see Val lifting her out of her pram to bounce her in her lap, baby in one arm, cup of tea in the other.

“God, it’s so fuckin’ good to see you,” he croaks, shaking his head a little, “Especially…”

He trails off, unwilling to finish. He ducks his head again.

“Especially with a kid I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to have?” Val guesses.

Shawn glances up and nods.

“Do you want to hear about this?” Val murmurs, ignoring Alice as she yanks at some silky curls.

Shawn chews on his lower lip. “Yeah, I think I do.”

It’s Val’s turn to look down. She stirs the mountain of slowly dissolving sugar at the bottom of her mug and sighs.

“She’s just mine. Last year I started to get a little anxious about my biological clock, especially given the last time I got pregnant. I saw a fertility specialist and we discussed my history and she agreed if I want to have children, it’s probably better to start now. So I went in for IVF. On the second cycle, I got pregnant with Alice. The pregnancy was complicated, but my doctor was a saint and did everything absolutely right. The birth went perfectly. So now it’s me and Alice against the world.”

Shawn slides his tongue against his lower lip, taps his foot impatiently against the leg of his chair. “Just you two?”

“Just us two,” Val replies easily, “There were a couple guys in and out before her, but I haven’t gone out with anyone since I got pregnant. I didn’t feel the need. I just wanted to focus on her. I’m glad I did.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, reflective. Then Val stands and looks down at him.

“Would you mind holding her for a minute? I need to use the loo.”

Shawn bites his lip and nods, standing to complete the transfer. Alice is asleep in her mother’s arms, but, as Val explains with a chuckle, “she’s a snuggle whore -- she’ll go with anybody for a little cuddle.”

Shawn sits. Alice curls up against his chest and pops her tiny lips in her sleep. She radiates warmth from her little swaddled bundle. As he stares down at her, Shawn fundamentally understands why Val hasn’t needed anyone else in her life since Alice arrived. He thinks if Val let him, he’d never put her down.

Alice stretches a tiny arm out in her sleep and punches Shawn in the chest. He snickers, jostling his little bundle, but it doesn’t wake her. He starts to get comfortable, sliding down in the chair a bit so he can rock her, but Val’s hand on his shoulder startles him.

“It’s ok,” she says, “Keep her, if she’s not fussing. I’d rather she stay asleep.”

Shawn nods eagerly and strokes Alice’s back with his long, rough fingers. Val sits across the table with her elbows propped up like she’s physically restraining herself to keep from snatching her child out of his arms. It makes Shawn grin.

“You ok over there?”

Val blushes, caught. “It’s usually just the two of us. I don’t ever have to share her. I’m not used to jonesing.”

“I’ll give her back if you want,” Shawn mumbles reluctantly. Val giggles.

“No, it’s ok. She looks happy.”

Shawn hums. She does look happy.

“So are you working?” he asks quietly, not wanting to wake Alice.

Val nods. “We are, we work at the V&A in the medieval department. We just started back about a month ago after my maternity leave. The museum’s been very generous. They let me walk around with her strapped to my chest all day. She helps consult on various matters, charms my coworkers into letting me leave bottles of breastmilk in every fridge in the museum. I shifted from conservation to curation a few years ago, which is a steadier, more lucrative track. I think it’ll be better for us.”

Us. We’re working at the V&A. We started back at the museum. Shawn’s enamored. He goes pink and brushes through the curls on the back of Alice’s neck.

“Sounds like you’ve got a great partner here,” he quips.

Val is quiet for a minute. “We’re very happy together. But we get a little lonely sometimes. Like when it’s cold and mummy really doesn’t want to get out of bed but Alice is screaming bloody murder. Those are the only moments when this isn’t the greatest thing in the whole world.”

Shawn looks up. Val is watching him carefully. Before he can speak, she swallows and lowers her gaze.

“But we get along, you know. We’re ok.”

“Yeah,” Shawn says, “I know you are.”

They chat. They talk about Raf and his wife Rachel and their little ones -- Val and Alice will be heading across the pond to spend Christmas with them and her parents. They talk about Bea and how she’s spent five years with the same guy up in Edinburgh and she seems actually happy. They talk about their near miss at Alex’s wedding last April -- she came for the ceremony but had to skip out of the reception, Shawn the opposite. They chat through several more cups of tea, an array of pastries, and another nap cycle until it’s dark and quiet outside. Val stares mournfully out the window as she puts on her jacket with Alice back in her pram, gurgling quietly.

Shawn is silent, brow furrowed. He pays the tab with a ghost of a smile and thinks about walking back to his hotel to sit in his room with the TV to try to drown out this day. It’s… unappealing to say the least.

They walk to the door. Shawn holds it open for Val and Alice and considers that they probably look to anyone else like a young family that spent the day together and are headed home to a warm dinner and a cozy night in.

Val’s heart pounds in her ears faster than their boots’ steps on the crunchy ground. She wants to swallow the words, but she doesn’t think she can. Not with him.

“Would you like to walk us home?” she breathes.

Shawn’s smile is extraordinary. He looks up from Alice’s curious brown eyes.

“Yes, please.”

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hylukotranslations · 5 years ago

Photo

Ongaku to hito (music and people) - February 2003 Album: Mona Lisa Overdrive

Hisashi Imai (guitar) Interview by Hirofumi Kanemitsu

Well, about the title, are you tired to talk again about William Gibson ? (laughs).

A little (laughs). But maybe I should do it.

I already wrote it in the previous issue, but I think the majority of the persons who heared the album title have reminded his name.

Actually, if I explain it, among Robert Longo's works (note : graphic artist who realized Buck-Tick's recent album jacket covers) there was one called "Samourai Overdrive". Then, reading magazines, I read "Mona Lisa Overdrive" was his work. So I confused all this, and after search it became clear that wasn't right. Just after all was decided (laughs).

Just after all was decided (laughs).

But after all I don't care. Because the title is cool.

I was convinced you were influenced by cyber punk.

No............... why by cyber punk nowadays... (bitter smile).

About exactly one year ago, there was the album "Kyokutou I love you". It was said from that period there will be a continuation to that album. There was even a track which title was "Continue".

Yes, I... had that intention.

And at that period of "Kyokutou...", what sort of next album you were planning to do ?

I thought we would do something which would be strongly electronics. But vaguely.

Why did you think that way ?

Well... I don't remember why (laughs). At this moment, we simply had many songs and... it was even about to do a 2 cds set. But finally there was only one.

So at this moment, one album would have been an etheral like one and the other one an electronical one, and there would have been a 2 cds set album ?

Maybe... I forgot (laughs). But there were also songs made at the moment of "Kyokutou..." which were even recorded, but are kept aside.

You mean the ones you had in mind at the moment of the previous album.

Yes. So... we did "Continue" and there's for sure "Continuous", and somewhere the two are linked, but when I really began to work, this part of kind of concept had finally nothing to do with all this (laughs).

Then it was rather, while you were creating an album as usual, this result came out naturally.

I think so. We toured all the country for the "Kyokutou..." tour, didn't we. I thought this album wasn't made for lives. But finally it went so well... so that I am now convinced it wasn't wrong. But like each time, an album is released, we do a tour, and then, after a break, something comes out naturally. Somewhere I was counting on it.

Something which comes out naturally ?

I mean from myself.

There is always that kind of movement at each new album.

Yes. And this time, it was kind of very comprehensible.

From the calm to the action.

Easiliy said, that's it (laughs).

I wonder how these changements can always happen.

Er... probably because it's boring, when it's always the same things.

That way, this album with a high bpm and digital feeling came out.

Yes. And after that, I didn't care at all about the songs which were ready or the ones we were planning to put in the next album (laughs).

Like the song of Hide-san.

Unfortunately, we put it aside (laughs).

Then, among these songs, maybe as a result, the proportion taken by your lyrics became greater.

Yes.

And the contrast with Sakurai-san has become more clear. For exemple, in "Girl", we can feel keywords like "hope" or "future"...

Only for that song, at the period of "Kyokutou", I had globally the bases. Including the lyrics. And I wanted to rearrange it from the beginning.

Maybe because of that, the world of this song has also the impression which is in "Bladerunner of squall".

Ah, yes of course. I think the image of that song is boyish, that why this time it's "Girl". As an image, it's about that feeling. Not that it sings about a girl.

But when in a single there is "Zangai" which sings "end of joking, only despair is here" and "No matter if it's a dream, it will surely suits you" ("Girl") next to next, they are so at two extremities that it is hard to believe they are of the same band.

I myself think so. That it's very extreme.

"Bladerunner of squall" and "Girl" are about naivety, and the direction of their vector is obviously hope. You wrote them aiming the future, very cleary, with words which can be understood by anyone.

That's because... if there was negativeness or that kind of image, if I write it directly... it would generate a bad feeling or, if it is sang only catching the negative aspect, it could become something really negative. And I am kind of... afraid of that.

Because of that thought, you turned in a way the vector this side ?

That's right. So, I think it is in opposition to Atchan's "Zangai", but I don't think this is completly different from "Girl". Maybe the used words are totally different, in a extreme way, but what we want to say or, the direction of the respective vector is probably the same one.

I agree. I think that the lyrics can be got in a meaning as the extreme north of the negativeness.

(laughs) Don't say it please.

I wonder if you wrote that kind of songs because you feel extremely bad about the current world and many aspects of reality.

Yes. Because we see only bad things. I always think, can't they make me hear more happy stuff. It's always about people who die, wars, the earth which will last for only such years because the environment is being destroyed..., and the humans who despite of this don't try to do anything. So, if I can do something, I think it's to make songs which would be a minimum happy and can give hope.

Well, that's the kind of nucleus you are carrying lately.

But if you simply sing that to be happy is great, you are just an idiot (laughs).

But since Buck-Tick is a band which has always been facing the interior aspect, I think this kind of lyrics could work in a very efficient way.

Ah... I am glad about it.

In "Sid Vicious on the beach", the lyrics say : "Never fed up, can't be saved, never goes well, this planet" "Whispering that chaos is my tomb", and this is linked to what you just said.

Since it doesn't exist in the reality, I whish that at least at this place we can have hope... that what this means.

But... what an unreal title it is.

Sid Vicious is the beach... doesn't it match well (laughs).

Hahaha, I don't think so.

At the beginning, it was something very simple. In the introduction, it came out "a beach thing" (smile). Then I thought : "is there something which isn't beach at all, which has nothing to do whith it ?". While I was looking for it, my eyes went to a postcard of the Pistols, and didn't release it. Then, Sid Vicious... Si...d Vicious... "Sid Vicious of the beach" ?

Wahahahahaha.

I thought, well it matches, that's good. From this moment, all the image sprang up. This song has... kind of... tendancy to be divided.

I acknowledge that the way that image sprang up has also a tendancy to be divided (laughs).

I was somehow... cold.

Cold ?

An impression to be frozen... and asking for cuddle (laughs) ?

Asking it to what ?

Well, to something (bitter smile).

If I say it in one world, "Kyokutou..." is an album of singing, and "Mona Lisa Overdrive" is, I would say electronica, er, speedy...

Speedy it is (laughs).

Then, a sensation of digital speed (laughs).

In "Kyokutou..." the whole was globally rather oriented to the interior, from the way the guitars were played. From that start point, this time I think there was an impression that everything spread to the exterior.

Then we can consider that "Kyokutou..." is Sakurai-san's album, and "Mona Lisa..." an album where your colors are stronger.

Because I wrote more lyrics (frankly said).

Not only for that !

... That's Buck-Tick's album (laughs).

Maybe you had clearly so many things to sing about, like what you talked about a short while ago.

Ah, maybe that's right.

Since you took the full vocal part in "Sid Vicious".

I won't do it again for a while (laughs). Just concerning the lyrics, I think for that part at least it was turned to a good direction. Because... the world of nowadays is really full of stress.

In what do you feel that stress.

In everything (laughs). Refusing to think can give a bad impression, but I probably don't want to feel implicated.

You shut your eyes.

Yes, that's right.

Aren't you often said "you shoudn't always run away".

Of course yes... but... if it is said it's scary, isn't it. The so told " fear for death" ? That kind of impression. We don't want to die, do we. Because it's scary. Because we haven't experiment it.

Is it about anxiety.

Fundamentally, I have it in me. That why, as I just said, I want to shut my eyes on fear and despair. Because we want to have hope for our prospects and future, don't we. I think that evoking a dark, negative future won't bring anything, and I am unable to write such lyrics. That why I write them with hope and images.

But very near you, there is someone who strongly let smell these aspects of things.

Isn't there.

Nevertheless, even if they seem to come partly from despair and negation, the lyrics of Sakurai-san aim hope as well.

Yes. That why when we'll reach the goal we'll be together... Am I wrong ?

Fuhaha. You don't have to worry about that (laughs).

I think it's something usual to sing carrying positivity and hope towards the future. If we were negative, we'd always be negative. If we were fundamentally negative, the band would break up. And we wouldn't even have founded a band. I think I would have become an insignificant person, working nonchalantly for someone.

I see (laughs).

Do you think that's weird ? I really think this is usual (laughs).

Well, actually, that's usual.

I think it's not an error to carry hope. Maybe it's about to begin from that point ? Well... It would be evasive if I say if you do it you can do everything, but if you don't, nothing will ever be brought out.

If you don't do anything, nothing will move, and that concerns everything.

I think that only by thinking that way it would be completely different.

Maybe from the moment this aspect became clear, as a band you began to see, I would say a freshness or impulse different from "Kyokutou".

I whish it could be that way. It would be great if I could relate, with kind of mini-cables, directly my brain to a cassette or something (laughs) and with my thoughts churn out one song after another (laughs). As I always think about things and others while composing, and I'd like to eliminate a maximum of troubles surrounding this or, I don't know how to say, the parts where I have to judge many things. I think that having that kind of impulse is good.

Finally, if you have to compare this album to all the ones you have made so far, which one is it close to ?

Hmmm... I would say a combination between "Six/Nine" and "Hurry up mode".

Hey, that's exactly the same as Sakurai-san (laughs).

Hahahahaha.

--fin

translation: hyluko [livejournal] scans: tigerpal [livejournal]

NOTE: these translations are not mine also might not be very accurate. i took them from hyluko’s site using the wayback machine. thought they’re great to share. if the owner is around and wants me to take them down i will!

#バクチク #今井寿 #Mona Lisa Overdrive #Buck-Tick #Hisashi Imai #translation #Ongaku to hito

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robinrunsfiction · 6 years ago

Text

We Own The Night

Pairing: Frank Iero x Female Reader Rating: General Requested By: @icantemo Word Count: ~2,000 Author’s Note: I had a request from @icantemo for a Frank fic inspired by his song Blood Infections, I hope I accurately captured the mood you were looking for! I’ve been in such a Frank mood lately, so this was fun to write, it’s kinda fluffy, so enjoy!

I wanna try I wanna live all night And burn out bright I want you to know What I can't show the outside It's why I hide But your friends say I'm no good for you What do they know? Please don't listen to a goddamn thing they say Frank watched as (YN) crossed the street with her friends. He was on a smoke break between sets playing at a small dive bar, leaning against the exterior of the old brick building. His heart rate shot up as he saw (YN) look his way, smile and wave.

Frank had been desperately in love with (YN) for ages, but he still hadn't worked up the courage to say anything. He was completely certain she was way out his league and even though he flirted with her, he didn’t really believe she was flirting back at him. He had convinced himself she was just being nice.

He watched as (YN) stopped her friends before they went into the loud, bustling bar a few doors down and motioned toward where he was. The others shook their heads and tried to pull her inside, but he could see her shake her head back and held up a finger, as if to say ‘just one second’.

"Hey," she said with a smile as she hurried down the street to him.

"Hey back, are you gonna come in and catch the rest of my set?"

She glanced back at the other bar where her friends went, as people stumbled in and out the door.

"Don't worry about them," he said, sensing her hesitation. "I'll take care of you," he said as he reached out and rubbed her arm.

(YN) smiled. "I don't doubt you could."

"Please come in. I guarantee the beer is gonna be cheaper here, and a lot less gross dudes are gonna try to flirt with you."

"But you're still gonna flirt with me, aren't you?"

Frank blushed a little and tried to hide it by putting on a look of offense. "Are you calling me gross?" He laughed.

"Definitely not," she laughed back.

He put out his cigarette under his shoe and threw his arm around her shoulder guiding her into the grungy bar. Tonight's our night Just don't hurt me, don't hurt me I'll give you my heart Tonight's our night Just don't hate me, don't hate me For taking your light (YN) found a spot at the bar and ordered a beer as Frank made his way back to the stage. Frank had invited her to this performance after she had already made plans with her friends. She suggested they all go to his show, but no one was interested. When she saw him outside the bar, she knew she couldn’t let him down. Frank was who she wanted to spend her night with. If she was being completely honest with herself, Frank was who she wanted to spend all her nights with.

"Ok, the next one is for a girl who I hope will maybe one day take a chance with a guy like me. It's by ABBA," the crowd groaned and booed, and Frank laughed. "I'm just fuckin with you, it's called 'Blood Infections'."

As he started playing the song, his words reverberated around (YN)'s mind. She and Frank had been friends for a while and flirted less than subtly with each other, but whenever she thought about maybe asking him out, she wondered what her friends would think of the punk that she had feelings for. They'd never give him a chance, they'd never look past the tattoos and get to know the sweet, dog loving musician she knew.

Then she heard the words to the song. The desperation. The longing. The vulnerability. When the song was over, she was on her feet cheering for Frank. His eyes met hers and she grinned at him again, her heart fluttering. It was time to make a change. I need a love I want enough to keep my thirst satisfied I wanna take your hand Make you understand my side Our kind But I know it’s hard for you to let go of the world that you knew Please just close your eyes We’re better off this way When he finished his last song of the night and came off stage, Frank found (YN) at the bar.

"So, what did you think?"

"Frank, you're incredible, your music, the lyrics, all of it."

"What did you think of 'Blood Infections'?" He asked apprehensively

Before (YN) could answer, the door of the bar banged open and a couple of her very intoxicated friends tumbled in.

"(YN), oh my God there you are! We thought that dude you were talking to kidnapped you or something!"

"You mean my friend Frank, who is literally right here?" She snapped back.

One of them came up to (YN) and pulled her away from Frank and whispered loudly in her ear "He's all greasy and gross, you don't like him, do you? Like just wink and I'll lie and say there's an emergency to get you out."

"No," (YN) said shaking her head. "I don't want to go back out with you guys. You're a mess and I like Frank. Just go away, leave me alone."

"But (YN)," her other friend whined. "We wanted to get drunk with you! And see if we could find some cute guys!"

"I found one, good luck to you guys," (YN) replied turning her back on her friends and facing Frank. The scorned women left the bar, whining and huffing the whole way about how lame and weird (YN) had become lately.

"You think I'm cute?" Frank asked with a smirk.

(YN) tried to look casual, but she was blushing. "I mean, that’s what I said, didn’t I? So, umm, since I told my friends to get lost, can you help me get home safe?"

"Are you sure you wanna go home now? Because I think the night has only just begun," he replied looking at (YN) hopefully.

"What do you have in mind, Iero?" Tonight's our night So don't hate me, trust in me I'll show you my world Tonight's our night So don't hurt me, don't hurt me I'm so scared of what's to come Frank put his guitar in his car and then offered (YN) his hand. "Our next stop awaits."

(YN) took his hand and he led the way up the street. "And where exactly is the next stop?"

"You'll see."

After a few blocks, they arrived outside a tattoo parlor.

"I already had an appointment tonight, you don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," she said intrigued as she followed him into the shop. The tattoo artist named Aaron greeted Frank warmly and asked what he wanted to get done.

"I dunno, I was jonesing to get something done, but I dunno what.” He paused and thought for a moment. “(YN), what's your favorite flower?"

"Oh, umm, I don't even know what they're called. Hang on," she replied as she started searching online. "These," she said holding up her phone. "White anemone, with the black in the middle."

"There we go," Frank said to Aaron.

"Alright, I'll sketch it out and be right back."

"Wait," (YN) said. Both men turned to look at her. "I want it too."

"Sure, I got time," Aaron said. "I'll be right back."

Frank turned to (YN), eyes lit up. "You want to get matching tattoos?"

"Yea, I do. Let’s do this.” In the dark, in the dark, no one hides but me In the dark, in the dark, no one gets away We own the night

Frank went first, finding a small space on his arm for the flower. It was quick and easy, and he didn’t even flinch. (YN) had been considering her own tattoo since she set her eyes on Frank’s, but when she got in the chair, Frank could tell she was nervous. Frank took her hand and kept her distracted.

“Oh wow, its beautiful,” she murmured softly when it was complete.

“You guys are all set.” Aaron said and you went back up to the front of the store. (YN) reached for her purse.

“Don’t worry, I got them both,” Frank said.

“No, you don’t have to, it was my idea-"

“Nope,” he insisted taking out his wallet.

(YN) decided to stop arguing and let him pay. They walked out of the tattoo parlor, hand in hand.and Frank suggested getting a midnight snack.

“Ok, but I’m buying,” (YN) insisted.

Frank lead the way to a late-night food truck that was parked nearby and they each got a burrito and sat down on the edge of a fountain that was lit up as the water bubbled through it, a pale glow cast across them as they ate.

“Frank, I just want you to know how much fun I’m having tonight. Like this is so much better than watching my friends get wasted in an awful bar with awful music again.”

“I’m glad,” he said with a warm, genuine smile. “so uh, you never told me what you thought of Blood Infections',” he replied distracting himself with his food.

“It was great. The passion and the desire, it was incredible. And any girl who you write a song for is incredibly lucky and should realize what’s been in front of her all along,” she said looking up at Frank.

“(YN), I-” he started quietly.

“Frank I really like you. Like a lot. And I was too scared what others might say before and now I’m not. I’d pick you over anyone, any day, Frank. I hope you feel the same way.”

“Yea, yea I really do,” he said nodding emphatically, almost feeling like he could cry tears of joy. He reached out and ran his hand over her cheek and she leaned in. He met her halfway as their lips pressed together.

Everything else melted away, nothing and no one else mattered. All either of them cared about was the other and they didn’t care who knew. When they pulled apart, they were both grinning and blushing like kids. They finished their food and then headed hand in hand back to Frank’s car.

Every night's our night So stay with me, be with me 'Til the end of this world Every night's our night So stay with me, be with me Until the end of this world

Frank parked in front of (YN)’s building and turned to face her. “I’m really glad you decided to come to my show tonight.”

“I’m really glad too, probably the best decision I’ve made in a long time. You wanna come up?” She asked, motioning to her apartment.

Frank stammered for a moment, wondering how to respond. “Yea, sure,” finally escaped his mouth.

They made their way up to her apartment and she let them in. She had was glad she had cleaned up recently, as she had not foreseen bringing Frank over when she left for the night.

She sat down on the couch and pulled her shoes off her aching feet as Frank sat down next to her. They fell back into their conversation about bands they wanted to see live and restaurants that they recommended to each other, and how soon (YN) could get her next tattoo. The conversation only interrupted by moments of making out with each other.

(YN) couldn’t believe that this night had changed her whole life for the better, but she was ecstatic. Frank couldn’t believe his luck, that he took a chance inviting her to his show, in writing that song, and performing it and now she was his.

As the sun began to rise, they were asleep on the couch, wrapped in each other’s arms, exactly where they each wanted to be.

We own the night

Masterlist

#we own the night #frank iero x reader #frank iero fanfic #frank iero fan fic #frank iero imagine #my chemical romance fan fic #my chemical romance fan fiction #frank iero fan fiction

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yallreddieforthis · 6 years ago

Text

Believer

Fandom: It (2017)

Pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

Rating: T (for language and Richie being Richie)

Words: 7k

Soulmate AU. Takes place in 2004. Humor, banter, first meeting, first date, first kiss.

And wow. Wow and a half. Richie couldn’t have even dreamed up a guy this cute, although admittedly he’d been picturing some dude in baggy jeans and a beanie with a hacky sack this whole time. Which couldn’t be further from this...absolute snack of startled, prep-school perfection.

Oh my fucking god, I hate that song.

Y’know, Richie has seen worse. Some girl in his English class has damn, how you fit all that in them jeans? so really, anything after that is an improvement.

And it’s not like the soul mark is constantly on his mind or anything. It’s on his back—literally, he can’t see it without two mirrors and he had to have Bill read it out to him when it first showed up—but every once in awhile he remembers that someday he’s going to hear oh my fucking god, I hate that song and he’ll just know. Well, maybe more than every once in awhile. It’s kind of like a recurring daydream. That, and what he’d do if he suddenly became Cyclops from the X-Men.

Fifteen year old Richie was positive it was going to be like some punk-ass rocker chick standing outside Hot Topic and reacting to 98 Degrees over the loudspeaker. At least, that was his first thought. And it’s not like it’s going to be a problem if that’s what ends up happening—because no matter what or who else he’s into, Richie is positive he’ll always have a deep-down internal hard-on for punk-ass rocker chicks—but lately he’s had this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that… Well, it could just be like, a memory of a dream or some shit. And Richie certainly does not believe in dreams coming true, but it wasn’t until well after he got a soul mark that he admitted to himself that his secret thing for Chad Michael Murray is not going anywhere anytime soon.

Richie thinks it would’ve been easier to admit to being The Bi-est if it hadn’t been goddamn Chad that forced him to realize it. Like if it had been Orlando Bloom in Pirates or something when he’d been like alright, time to fuckin’ fess up . But he explained away his crush on Orlando as like, well, Orlando is cool as fuck. Duh. Who doesn’t want to blow him?

Same with like, David Boreanaz. Richie is convinced that even the straightest of straight guys fell desperately in love with Angel when they watched Buffy. He could stick his stake in anyone and they’d thank him.

But Chad...mm. Richie is the only guy he knows who watches One Tree Hill. He’s sure about that because every joke he’s ever made about Lucas Scott has been met by blank stares by Bill and Bev and even Ben, who, though ostensibly straight, would totally love One Tree Hill if Richie ever got the balls to ask him to watch it with him. The only people in the whole world he has to discuss it with are the group of girls who sit next to him in Physics. So actually, Richie blames One Tree Hill for his D in Physics. If he hadn’t started talking to those girls—and he probably wouldn’t have if they hadn’t been discussing the show—he might’ve been able to learn about science instead of playing Fuck Marry Kill every period. So even though it truly is the worst show he has ever watched on purpose, once a week, like clockwork, Richie sits his ass down in front of the computer to jerk it to Blondie McKenDoll because...what are you gonna do.

It ended up being a blessing in disguise because he decided to let his friends know he’s bi and a One Tree Hill fan in one fell swoop. He only got shit on about the One Tree Hill thing, especially because he was the one who used to give Ben shit about Dawson’s Creek. So really, that was only fair.

Still, that was nothing compared to the shit he got for having a soul mark that’s like...inches from being a tramp stamp. Secretly (and also not-so-secretly), Richie loves it. It’s deliciously tacky, the handwriting is almost as bad as his; really, he couldn’t have asked for something trashier. He might’ve died of shame if he’d gotten delicate, loopy cursive around his forearm like Bill it’s lovely to meet you, finally Denbrough. Anyway, anybody who writes that nicely would never be compatible with Richie. And god help whatever poor guy has a soul mark in Richie’s handwriting somewhere on his body. Richie can only pray it’s somewhere unobtrusive.

The messy printing is only a small part of what has convinced Richie his soulmate is a boy. It’s mostly just a gut feeling, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge because he can’t explain it. It feels stupid to bank on something like that.

Richie is low-key disappointed by the fact that he's never seen the handwriting from his soul mark crop up in any of the school graffiti. He's even gone and tagged the bathroom stalls a couple of times, in the hopes that whatever guy it is will see it. And deep down, Richie knows he probably wouldn't have done that if he'd thought his soulmate was a girl.

They're all reasonably convinced that Bill's soulmate is British, based on the whole lovely thing, and Richie has taken to mimicking the kind of accent he thinks she might have. Bill keeps being like I'm not gonna match with the qu-qu-queen, Richie, but if she's the kind of girl who goes around telling people it's lovely to meet you... Richie's not saying she will be like some kind of aristocratic socialite, just that she might be. He thinks Bill should probably be taking steps to prepare for that sort of scenario, although he's not sure what those steps might be. Cotillion? Cigar smoking? Tea making?

Either way, Bill has time. There aren’t any British girls in Derry. No way is he going to meet her until at least college.

In any case, thinking about what song he and his soulmate can hate together to be a lot better pastime than whatever the fuck Mr. Shulman is writing about on the whiteboard. Richie feels like he can't take a hundred percent of the blame for failing to pay attention. The green marker Mr. Shulman is using is frayed, fading, and praying for the sweet release of the trash can, and it's not like Richie can really see the board from the back of the room on the best of days. His parents have suggested, well, more like insisted he sit up front but like...Bev sits in the back, and sitting up front would put a damper on the bubble gum blowing contests they have when Mr. Shulman isn't looking. Tragically, his parents probably wouldn't agree with his reasoning. But whatever.

Richie has a list in the back of his notebook, which he relies on his inscrutable handwriting to protect from prying eyes, of every song he's ever heard that he immediately disliked. He started it on his fifteenth birthday with a list of past horrors and adds on every time Creed releases a new single.

Titanic song—My Heart Will Go On

I Hope You Dance

Hero—Enrique Iglesias (although Richie has admittedly crossed out and rewritten this one several times because, you know, Enrique)

Soak Up the Sun—that chick that’s dating Lance Armstrong

Summer Girls

I Knew I Loved You

Your Body Is a Wonderland

I’m Like a Bird

Anything that has ever been on American Idol

And so on. He's got 37 entries so far, and it's been two and a half years in the making. He's just in the process of deciding whether A Thousand Miles deserves a spot on the list when Bev nudges his shoulder and hands him a note under the desk, written in Ben's even, exacting printing.

Tuesday: Circle one

- National Treasure

- Mean Girls

- The Passion? (probably not, I know)

- Saw

- Troy

Richie truly sees no point in reading further because Bev has only circled National Treasure and Mean Girls and there is a zero percent chance Ben won't side with her , but he'll be damned if he's not going to give his opinion anyway. He scribbles a big fat line through The Passion, because although he knows Ben's AP history class will give him extra credit for seeing it, but he's not sure he loves Ben (or rather, Ben's history teacher) enough to sit through three hours of Jim Caviezel getting whumped.

Apropos of nothing, a song begins playing in Richie’s head; a good one, thankfully. Richie has very little control over his internal radio and sometimes it gets stuck on Radio Disney, so some Weird Al is a welcome reprieve.

And the guide... Richie mutters while tapping on his desk.

Said not to stand

But that’s a demand

That I couldn’t meet

I got on my feet

And stood up instead

And knocked of my head, you see

Tell meeee…

From Richie’s other side, Bill’s elbow collides with his ribs.

“You’re doing the th-thing again,” he mutters under his breath. Richie rolls his eyes. He doesn’t understand why anyone— his math teacher included—would not be delighted by a surprise rendition of a Weird Al song, regardless of where in the song he happens to start singing.

Back to the movie list. Everything else...hmm. Troy looks badass—and stars Richie's one true love, Orlando Bloom. There's a good chance he's gonna be naked in it too. Richie draws a dick next to Troy as part of the decision-making process. He knows Ben only put Saw on the list because he thought Richie would like it. There's no way Ben actually wants to watch Wesley from Princess Bride get chopped up. Richie scratches Saw out and writes you're not fooling me next to it.

He's heard good things about Mean Girls, but still... Bev probably only circled it because she knows it's Ben's first choice. Sometimes being best friends with a couple makes Richie want to spray them with projectile vomit. But, you know, in the best way. He has no particular objections to Mean Girls himself, except that National Treasure promises to be amazingly, spectacularly adventure-y and ridiculous, and Richie is always down for that kind of action. In fact, he would just as soon use the advantage of a half day where his parents are at work to watch Jumanji on the big TV in the living room, but...

Fuck it. He's feeling generous today, and he kind of wants to witness Ben vibrating with excitement when he sees the note so...he circles Mean Girls and passes it back.

Ben's gasp upon receiving it is worth it.

Apparently, Derry High isn't the only school having a minimum day because the mall is fucking packed with teenagers. The concession stand line is super long, but where else is Richie supposed to find a nauseating selection of overpriced candy and a bucket of popcorn that could feed a small village? After dousing the popcorn with butter to the point where Ben almost gags, they make their way into the theater to find seats. Which are shitty almost-front-row ones because it took them so goddamn long to get snacks that those are the only four seats together by the time they get in there. Lucky the guy sitting in front of Richie is super short. Bev and Ben aren't so lucky—the curls of the guy to his left are almost as impressive as Richie's, and the guy in front of Bev is just obviously really tall.

The previews haven't even started yet—it's just the shitty like don't talk in the theater ads and dumb TV trivia questions.

Richie feels incumbent to entertain his friends at all times, but especially in moments like this, where nothing else entertaining is forthcoming.

Uh huh, he whispers, starting up a beat on his thigh. Uh huh. Extra Cheese.

Bill sighs in a long-suffering sort of way beside him.

Uh huh. Uh huh. Save a piece for meeeee…

He turns to Bev and starts whispering the rest of the lyrics directly into her ear because he can’t not.

Pizza party at your house

I went just to check it out

Nineteen extra-larges, what a shame

No one came

We sat eatin’ all alone

You said, take the pizza—

“Shh!” Bev puts a finger over his mouth. “You’re going to get us kicked out again.”

That’s fair. Although, in Richie’s defense, it’s not like they missed out on much last time. The Village was supposed to be shitty anyway.

Mean Girls is, as it turns out, almost as interesting as the antics of the people in the row in front of them. Curly and the tall one are a couple, clearly, and Richie feels for Shorty The Third Wheel, whose face he has yet to get a good look at. His hair is as neat as Richie’s is messy though—the kind of perfect where Richie can’t tell if he tried to make it look like that or if that’s just how it is. It’s just long enough to sweep over the tips of his ears and to almost touch the back collar of the polo shirt he’s wearing. He sits with his legs crossed in front of him, which Richie hasn’t been able to do since eighth grade.

The couple is cute, like stupid cute. The tall one is black and like, easily a ten no matter what your taste is; Curly is white with defined cheekbones and a cardigan. Tall has his arm around Curly, who has leaned into his neck. It makes Richie at least ten times gayer than he was before he walked into this theater.

Halfway through the movie, Richie has finished his monster popcorn and started in on the Milk Duds. He’s getting intense gay vibes from Aaron, who is supposed to be hot but is a little too Mister Muscles for Richie’s taste. Of course, Richie also likes Chad Michael Murray so… Even Richie’s taste doesn’t match with Richie’s taste. Whatever. At least his mouth and brain are in agreement on the subject of Sour Patch Kids, which is what really matters in the end.

But anyway, Richie prepares to come away from this movie a changed man with a new appreciation for Jingle Bell Rock by the time the credits roll. He’s definitely going to have to see this at least four to sixteen more times—or however many he can get away with before his friends threaten to kill him—because he missed a lot of the jokes being distracted by the way Shorty was craning his neck to look up at the screen. Richie pops the last of his Starburst into his mouth without unwrapping it. If there was an Olympics category for unwrapping a starburst with your tongue, Richie would be a gold medalist.

“Did you finish all that?” Ben gasps, leaning over and gaping at the graveyard of candy wrappers across Richie’s lap. Richie nods, burps, and rubs his belly like a proud expectant mother. He spits out the Starburst wrapper and hands it to Ben with a wink because he knows Ben’s too polite to drop that shit on the floor for the ushers to clean up.

“Well,” says Beverly, taking a final, bubbly sip of her Icee, “when you give birth to that thing later tonight, don’t call me to cry about it.”

And because she gave him such a perfect opportunity—and because he absolutely will be calling her from the bathroom later tonight—Richie decides to finally finish his song.

Why’d you have to go and make me so constipated?

This really is a—

He doesn’t get any further because a sharp voice cuts in from directly in front of him.

“Oh my fucking god, I hate that song.”

And then Richie’s back is attacked by a thousand mosquitos at once—or at least that’s what it feels like. He overheard a guy on the quad once say that the sensation from his mark when he met his soulmate gave him a boner, but apparently it’s different for everyone because all this does is make Richie want to light himself on fire.

Which is why when Shorty in the J. Crew polo wheels around to look at him, Richie is awkwardly shifting, trying to find a way to itch his back on the seat. Maybe not the first impression he was going for, but just then, Shorty’s eyes lock on to Richie’s as he locates the source of the song, so yeah. There it is.

Before either of them can say anything else, Shorty yelps and grabs at one of his legs. That’s when he seems to regain the power of speech.

“It’s you?” he says, glaring sharply at Richie. “You’re the reason I haven’t been able to wear shorts for three fucking years?”

People are starting to leave the theater, which Richie hardly registers because he is having a full-on, swear to god Disney moment. This guy is like a...a bear cub. Not like hairy— he’s actually noticeably not hairy—but in the sense that he’s small and huggable-looking and Richie wants to pick him up and squeeze him but would probably get mauled if he tried to do so.

“Do you even—oh, sorry,” Shorty says, apologizing to the person who is trying to scoot past him. Then he turns back to Richie and flicks his eyes over him; just like a quick once-over. It’s impossible to tell if he likes what he sees. Richie notices he is still rubbing his calf.

“Itches like a motherfucker, doesn’t it?” he says, giving up on his seat-wiggling and reaching behind himself to scratch at his soul mark. Unfortunately, it turns out to be one of those itches that hurts when you scratch it, so he pulls his fingers back with an, “ow, son of a bitch!”

Shorty hisses.

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Tall leans over Curly to ask Shorty—Eddie. Eddie.

“Fuck,” says Eddie, then he takes in a deep breath, rubbing his leg like he’s dying to scratch it. “This asshole—” he points an accusing finger in Richie’s direction, “—is the reason I’ve had those Weird Al lyrics about being—sorry, excuse us—about being constipated on my leg since before the goddamn song even came out.”

Tall and Curly both swivel around to stare at Richie. That gets Bev’s attention.

“Wait, Richie,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Is this—”

“The love of my life,” Richie announces proudly, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. “Eddie.”

There is silence for a second during which Richie can almost see smoke coming out of Eddie’s ears.

“Fuck,” he says again. For all his preppy khakis and neatly combed hair and pristine white sneakers, he sure has a potty mouth. Richie couldn’t imagine anything better.

Bev gapes too, tapping Ben rapidly on the knee to get his attention. Curly’s eyes narrow as he examines Richie critically.

“Eddie, are you sure this is him?” he asks, still staring.

“Yeah,” Eddie nods, pulling up his pant leg and peering at his leg. “Yeah, cause—you know what? You can’t really see it in—”

“Excuse me,” calls an usher from the end of the aisle. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Richie calls back cheerfully. “This is my soulmate! Isn’t he—”

“Right,” says the usher, blank faced in spite of this being the greatest of all possible happenings. “You think maybe you can move this party out to the lobby? I need to get the floor cleaned before the next showing.”

Eddie practically disappears into his friends during the awkward group shuffle out of the theater, but Richie walks backwards, keeping his eyes on all five feet and...four inches? three? of the gorgeousness that is Eddie.

Out in the light of the lobby he’s even better. Soft-looking brown hair, lightly freckled cheeks and arms, and—once he pulls up his pant leg—a soul mark that looks like the logo for someone’s z-list death metal band. The skin around it is pink and blotchy, but Richie can see the lines already fading. The only word that’s really fully legible is constipated. Which is hilarious, so Richie can’t understand why Eddie seems so ticked off.

Not that it fazes him in the slightest. It is actually written in the stars or the Book of Fate or whatever that he and Eddie are meant for each other. They’re destined to fall in love. If Eddie is mad at him now, he won’t be later.

“Whoa,” says Curly, tracing his fingers over Eddie’s soul mark. “Yeah. There it goes.”

“I’m Mike,” says Tall, who, now that they’re all standing, is actually the same height as Richie. He extends a hand, which Richie takes and then uses to yank him in for a hug. He smells amazing.

“Richie,” he says into Mike’s shoulder, before next trying to plaster himself to Curly. He hears Ben start to make introductions with Mike before Eddie’s voice cuts in.

“Stop,” he orders, running both hands through his hair, which bounces immediately back into its immaculate style. “Okay? Just—this is not happening right now.”

“Tell that to my heart, cutie,” says Richie. “And by my heart I mean my—”

“My mom?” Eddie says, like he’s name-dropping—like that should mean anything to Richie.

“God, if she’s half as cute as you, then hell yes.”

“No,” says Eddie. “I mean like, my mom. Does not know. That I’m gay. Fuck. Like, she has no fucking idea. And she’s gonna have a shit fit when she finds out. I keep telling her I don’t even have a soul mark yet—she never would’ve let me out of the house again if she’d seen it.”

“So?” says Richie. “Now it’s going away; now she doesn’t have to see it.” Seems more like a solution than a problem if you ask him.

“Honestly I was hoping not to even have to deal with any of this shit until like after college,” Eddie says. He looks like he’s considering just making a fucking break for the door. Like, don’t want to deal with this now, bye! Which, fair.

It’s a lot to roll with, especially just out of fucking nowhere like that. Richie probably should be freaking out way more than he is right now.

The idea of not seeing Eddie again until after college sounds terrible, but he doesn’t want to admit that. Going around like, yeah, I met my soulmate but he had a meltdown and ran away so… Like, he could do it if it’s what Eddie wanted. But he really hopes Eddie changes his mind.

“Do you want me to just like...fuck off?” he asks Eddie, quietly enough that the others won’t hear him.

Eddie frowns. “I don’t—”

“I mean...I guess we don’t have to like, you know, go for it now. Like. If you’re not into it, it’s cool. No offense taken. Maybe I’ll… I dunno, find you on Friendster in a few years? When things are easier? Or you can look for me. It’s Richie T-O-Z-”

Eddie cringes, checks his phone. “Shit, I have to go. My mom left me three messages; she’s probably already in the parking lot.”

And before Richie can even get upset about the idea that his soulmate is about to walk off into the sunset without so much as a dramatic monologue about how he’ll never give up on their eventual theoretical love, Eddie bites his lip and looks up into Richie’s face. His eyes are big and brown and make Richie feel like his ribcage is liquefying.

“Gimme your phone,” he says. Richie’s heart leaps into his throat as he pulls it out of his pocket.

Eddie takes it from him. “You should really get a case for this thing,” he says, clicking away on the number pad.

Their fingers brush as Eddie hands back his phone, with one last long look back as he scampers away.

Richie starts typing before he’s even left the lobby.

From: Richie

hi its richie, the actual love of ur life

From: Eddie

jesus i havent even reached the parking lot

dont text me too much its 15c a text, my mom will catch on

From: Richie

can i see u again

i miss u already

From: Eddie

i can probably get out again saturday

From: Richie

saturday? what about tmrw?

From: Eddie

im lucky if i get saturday

saturday, yes or no

From: Richie

YES OF COURSE

meet me in front of the arcade 1st and Adams

…

ok?

From: Eddie

Yeah 2pm stop texting me

Eddie—god even thinking his name brings up a rush of butterflies—is standing outside the arcade looking about as comfortable as if it were a strip club. He’s wearing shorts, apparently for the first time in years. Something tells Richie that Eddie’s not going to be one of those people who gets their soul mark tattooed on after meeting their soulmate. The jury is still out on Richie—he kinda misses his already.

In the five days since they met, Richie has outlined itineraries for at least three different honeymoons and started a shortlist of names their adoptive children. He hopes Eddie also dreams of naming his sons after the kids from South Park.

“So,” says Richie, leaning down and looking Eddie in the eye, “yes or no to kissing on the first date?”

“Who said this was a date?” Eddie scoffs, opening the door to the arcade and rolling his eyes.

Richie has as much of a plan as he’s ever made in his life for this afternoon. First it’s the arcade where he can show off his bitchin’ Dance Dance Revolution skills, then to Johnny Rockets next door for a burger to remember, then hopefully back to Richie’s car to make out if they really hit it off.

Richie honestly cannot wait to show Eddie his car. It’s super impressive, even though it’s missing a bumper and the back passenger side door is held on with duct tape. Is a handjob too much to hope for on the first date? He doesn’t want to pressure Eddie or anything, but Richie is ready to give Eddie a handjob yesterday. So as soon as Eddie’s ready to rumble, they can get down.

Richie brought both his windshield covers just in case—the blue one and the Ren and Stimpy.

Turns out there’s a long line for DDR, which Richie probably should have counted on since it’s Saturday. Perfect opportunity for getting to know each other though. If Eddie would just like, you know, talk. He’s silently chewing on his lip instead, brow furrowed.

“Come here often?” Richie asks him.

Eddie shakes his head. “More like never. My mom won’t let me. Says the arcade is full of germs. She thinks I’m at Stan’s house watching High Society again . ”

“What’s High Society?”

“Really?” Eddie looks up at him. “You haven’t seen—like, with Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra? Bing Crosby? No?”

“So it’s like...a super old movie?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says slowly. “What—I’m just curious—what��s your favorite movie?”

“Definitely The Big Lebowski,” says Richie right away. “That’s easy. Best movie of all time. Oh, except maybe White Chicks. Pulp Fiction. Scary Movie 3.”

“Oh my god,” Eddie whispers, apparently to his shoes.

“Please don’t tell me you preferred Scary Movie 2. That might be a dealbreaker. Soulmate or not.”

“But you do like scary movies?” Eddie perks up a little. “Have you seen Wait Until Dark with Audrey Hepburn? It’s super scary.”

“Audrey Hepburn? Ohhhh, that chick in The Philadelphia Story? My grandma makes us watch that every year when we come over for Thanksgiving.”

Eddie purses his lips. “That’s Katharine Hepburn.”

“Are they sisters?” Richie asks.

“No.”

Richie isn’t worried. Eddie probably just hasn’t seen, like, Dude Where’s My Car yet. Easily fixed. His parents will be out of town next weekend; Eddie can stay over and they can watch it. That and definitely Catch Me If You Can.

He pitches the idea to Eddie, whose eyes light up at the mention of Catch Me If You Can.

“Oh my god,” Eddie groans, “Leonardo DiCaprio was like, my sexual awakening.”

“For sure,” says Richie. “He was such a badass in Gangs of New York. Which one did it for you? Was it The Man In the Iron Mask?”

Eddie looks at him like he’s being an idiot. “Uh, you’re guessing The Man In the Iron Mask before Titanic?”

“Really?” Richie winces, super disappointed and unable to hide it. “Titanic, Eddie?”

Eddie smirks. “No. Romeo and Juliet. You’re up.”

Richie tries to decide whether Romeo and Juliet is a better or worse sexual awakening than Titanic as he chooses a song. Richie practices DDR every weekend the way some people faithfully go to church, so he’s pretty confident he’ll blow Eddie away no matter what.

Still, just to be safe, he picks easy mode when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. Eddie’s never been here. He doesn’t need to know that it took Richie six months of practice before he finished a song without failing out. It’s gonna look cool either way.

And, okay, in hindsight...these brand-new Dickies are still kind of stiff. They might not have been the best choice for DDR. He just figured they’d make a better impression than the old ripped ones he was wearing when they met. Eddie strikes Richie as the kind of guy who doesn’t wear the same pants two days in a row; he doesn’t need to know that Richie (up until the day before yesterday) only had the one pair. Richie has decided he might even be convinced to break his strict rule of not throwing out pants until they’ve worn through in the crotch. All for love.

Eddie smiles brightly at his abysmal score. “Wow, that was pretty good. Can I try?”

Damn, that smile. Whipped already and they haven’t even kissed yet. Richie steps down with a bow.

Eddie stands tentatively on the DDR platform.

“Um…” He looks at the screen. “This one?”

And before Richie can stop him, he’s picked a crazy song on hard mode. If it were Bill, Richie would settle in and prepare laugh his ass off. Maybe even try to grab his camera from the car.

“So you just like, step on the arrows when they show up on the screen?” Eddie asks while the game loads.

“Uh, yeah,” says Richie. “But you know—don’t worry if you fail out. Took me awhile to get the hang of it.” He winks.

“Okay,” says Eddie. He rolls his neck and shakes out his arms and… Whoa, why does Richie suddenly feel like he’s about to pop a boner?

And then, uh. And then Eddie is nothing but a flurry of legs, jumping, twirling, hopping back and forth. He claps and snaps with the beat—god, he knows how to use his fucking body. Thank god for Richie’s stiff new pants. He bends a little at the knee, letting his sweater drape down over his lap. Other people in the arcade are stopping what they’re doing to watch—he’s that good.

After what could have been either ten seconds or ten years—but nothing in between—the song ends and Eddie bounces lightly off the mat. Richie’s throat goes dry.

“How’d I do?” Eddie’s little smirk is positively edible.

“Marry me,” Richie croaks. “I was gonna offer to teach you to play but, uh…”

Eddie laughs. “Mike has that game,” he says, still smiling. “We play it all the time at his house. It’s even harder with the shitty fold-out mat.”

“Well there go my plans,” Richie says, throwing his arms in the air. “It was gonna be a DDR lesson. A sexy one. And you’ve gone and totally schooled me, so now I’m just gonna have to try to impress you with Halo.”

Mercifully, Eddie turns out to be absolute shit at first-person shooters, so Richie isn’t totally humiliated on his home turf. But Eddie creams him at the driving games almost as bad as he did at DDR.

“Jesus, dude,” Richie says, watching Eddie punch his initials into the hi score list. EFK. “What kind of car do you drive?”

“Pffft,” Eddie shakes his head. “My mom won’t even let my get my permit yet.”

“Wait,” says Richie. “How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen,” Eddie tells him. Shut the fuck up. No way.

“You’re older than me?! But you’re so short! I thought you were like sixteen.”

Eddie shoots him a baffled glare. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”

“Well, how old did you think I was?” Richie asks.

“I guess I thought you were eighteen too?” says Eddie, shrugging. “I mean…” he gestures vaguely upward.

Richie raises his eyebrows.

“Alright, touche,” Eddie admits. “But seriously, how old are you? I’m gonna feel really weird if you’re just like, the world’s tallest freshman and you’re hitting on me.”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen next month. So we’re practically the same age.”

Eddie nods. “But as far as driving, yeah. I don’t like, have my own car. So yeah, technically I could get a license but I don’t have anything to actually drive yet.”

“My dad gave me his old car and basically let me destroy it while I was practicing,” says Richie. “Your parents don’t trust you with their cars?”

Eddie hesitates for a second before looking away. “It’s just me and my mom,” he says quickly.

“Oh,” says Richie stupidly, feeling like an absolute tool. “Oh yeah, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie tells him, and it sounds like he mostly means it. “I was so young when he died, I don’t even remember him. It’s just that my mom…”

“She sounds like a hardass,” says Richie, drumming on the Whack-a-Mole console while Eddie grabs the mallet.

“It’s not— wham— that,” he says, eyes darting between the moles. “It’s like… My mom acts like she wishes she’d never even —wham— given birth to me.”

“Ow,” Richie grimaces. “Harsh.”

“No,” Eddie corrects. “I don’t mean it like— wham —that. Just that like I think she would rather they’d never— wham —cut the umbilical cord. Like she wishes we were still— wham wham wham —attached.”

“Yikes,” says Richie, because that’s all he can think of to say.

“Big yikes,” Eddie agrees.

“I’m guessing you don’t go to Derry High, then,” says Richie, resting his head against the machine while Eddie continues to annihilate moles. “Makes sense that I never saw you around, cause I totally would’ve remembered seeing that ass before.”

He hesitates before adding, “I even wrote some graffiti in the bathroom stalls so you’d recognize my handwriting.”

Eddie’s nose crinkles adorably at that. “First of all—no. I’m homeschooled. Maybe because my mom doesn’t want me making too many friends, or maybe even just to keep me from using public bathrooms.”

“How do you know Mike and Curly then?” Richie asks.

“Cur—Stanley? Shit,” Eddie says as he misses a mole. “Mike and Stan are homeschooled too. We go to the same testing center in Bangor. And—ha!—I dunno? I sensed their gayness?”

“Yeah I sensed their gayness too,” Richie says. “By the way they were all over each other.”

“No, actually. It wasn’t like that. I knew both of them before they knew each other,” says Eddie. “I was there when they met.”

“Wow.” Richie uses his fist to hit a mole he thinks Eddie’s about to miss. “soul mark surprise?”

“Not really,” says Eddie. “Stan had a thing on his wrist that said, hi, I’m Mike , in Mike’s handwriting, so I kind of connected the dots and introduced them.”

“I’m the third wheel with Bev and Ben all the time,” Richie tells him, leaning over to collect tickets from the Whack-a-Mole.

“They’re not usually too—wait, what’s that?” Eddie asks, snatching something out of Richie’s back pocket. He unfolds the piece of paper.

“Oh, well, uh,” Richie says, thinking for the first time that it’s kind of embarrassing that he kept the list in the first place, “I just… Well, my soul mark said oh my fucking god, I hate that song, so I kind of like kept a list of songs I thought he—they might be talking about.”

Eddie snorts. “I have every single one of these on my iPod,” he says. “And that’s like, my all-time favorite song.” He points at I Knew I Loved You by Savage Garden. Oh god.

“Do you really hate Weird Al?” Richie asks him on their way to the air hockey table. “Cause I gotta say, I don’t know if this,” he gestures between them, “is gonna work out if you don’t want to hear the Angry White Boy Polka at least three times a day.”

“No,” says Eddie quickly. “Weird Al is great. It’s just, you know, the soul mark thing. Like I got it and I was like, what the fuck is this shit? And I guess it was kind of a relief when the song came out because I really hadn’t figured out like...what context I might hear that in. But then I just got sick of associating the song with like...true love. Cause it’s like, ridiculous and gross, you know?”

“I guess,” says Richie. “I dunno. I thought that was pretty fuckin’ romantic.”

“Yeah, I bet you did,” says Eddie. “That’s the kind of romance I’d expect from anyone who hasn’t watched Bing Crosby serenade Grace Kelly.”

“Damn, Eddie. You’re a pretentious little dick, you know that?” Richie says, picking up the puck.

“And you’re a goddamn mess,” Eddie shoots back without pausing. “Your serve.”

Richie is already balls deep in love by the the game ends. To be fair, he’s not sure how he was supposed to concentrate on the game with Eddie giggling and doing a little dance every time he scored. Eddie may have kicked his ass, but Richie walks out the door of the arcade feeling like he’s the one who came out on top.

“What’s next?” Eddie asks, backing out the door of the arcade, catching his new sticky hand toy on Richie’s glasses on purpose.

“Road head?” Richie asks hopefully, jutting his chin in the direction of his car and grabbing onto his glasses to keep them from being pulled right off his face.

“You wish,” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I haven’t even decided if I want a second date yet.”

“Ah ha!” Richie points at him. “So you admit this is a first date?”

Eddie laughs and raises his eyebrows. “I dunno. Is it?”

“Let’s ask Johnny Rocket,” says Richie, cocking his head to the right. “Got time for a burger? We can split a milkshake.”

Eddie gives him a considering sort of look. “I could probably squeeze it into my schedule.”

Ohhhhhh the things Richie wants to squeeze… With great mental fortitude, he refrains from commenting. Instead Eddie opens the door for him and they grab two menus and a booth.

“What are you gonna get?” Richie asks.

Eddie peers at him from over the menu. “Depends who’s paying. But we’re definitely not sharing a milkshake. I can already tell you’re a dessert hog. I’d end up getting like one sip.”

Richie laughs, running a hand through his hair. “God.”

“What?” asks Eddie, eyes already fixed back on the menu.

“Honestly? You.”

“Me what?”

Richie hesitates because it’s something he’s never talked to anyone about before. And for good reason—it’s fucking stupid. But right now, sitting in this Johnny Rockets…

“You know…” he starts, drumming his knuckles on the table, “I’m like, super bisexual. But I knew my soulmate was going to be a guy.”

Eddie puts the menu down. “Huh. Really? How?”

Richie shakes his head. “I dunno. It sounds really stupid but like… I don’t know if it was a dream I had or… you just. Like when I heard your voice and then you turned around in the theater…”

It’s so corny. He can’t say it. He’s playing with the straw dispenser on the table like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. How do you say you make me feel like, gooey inside and it’s fuckin’ nasty but also I don’t ever want it to end? Without sounding like a pussy, of course.

“Thanks? I guess?” says Eddie. “I mean, I still have no idea what you’re talking about but—”

“I’m really glad you’re my soulmate,” Richie blurts out. “Not just to have one, I mean. I’m glad it’s you. You’re awesome. Like...you’re totally knocking me off my fuckin’ feet here. And I hope you—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned out by Eddie leaning over the table and kissing him. Not like, full-on tongue kissing or anything. Just kind of a peck. But longer. Something in between. Soft, but definitely real.

And afterwards Eddie draws back, a little pinker than he was a second ago and then digs into his pocket, fishing out some quarters. He puts two in the little jukebox at their table, punches in a number and letter combo, and then sits back in his seat, shredding a straw wrapper between his fingers.

I thought love was only true in fairy tales

Meant for someone else, but not for me

Eddie looks like he’s trying as hard as he can not to grin, going even redder. Richie leans in and offers his hand. Eddie drops his straw wrapper.

Love was out to get me, that’s the way it seemed

Disappointment haunted all my dreams

But then I saw her face—

“You know,” Richie says, looking Eddie in the eye, “I like the Smash Mouth version better.”

Now I’m a believer

Eddie laughs and takes his outstretched hand. “I think I can live with that.”

#Stephen King's IT #It (2017)#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #so says sam

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bazypitchandsimonsnow · 6 years ago

Text

Watford Cove

Chapter 1: i got that summertime sadness

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/angst

Word count: 3097

Chapter: 1/13 [All chapters]

Summary: Baz Pitch only cares about smoking, skipping school, and riding his motorcycle. That is, until he meets a beautiful new kid who is bright everywhere Baz is dark. But a lot of things stand between them. Can they find a way together? Or will it keep them apart? Based on "Punk/Pastel AU" request.

Read on AO3

AN: IT'S DONE!!! IT'S FINALLY DONE!!! If you’ve followed me for awhile, you know this fic has taken a few months, what with it's length, my stupid job, and my stupid health problems. But I did it!!!! And I really hope it's worth the wait. Despite obstacles, I certainly enjoyed writing it, and I’m glad it was requested. I'm going to try to post a chapter twice or three times a week, but with all my stupid shit I can't guarantee a consistent schedule. I'll try though. Everything is already written. I just need to edit and tighten it all up. But I also sometimes work ten hour shifts which suck ass. Real life is terrible. Finally, ginormous thank you to @carryonmylovelies. I know I thank her a lot, but I really do mean it. I struggled a lot, both with actually writing and my self esteem as I tried to get this finish. She encouraged and helped me so much. There were many low points, but she helped me out of them every time. I never would've finished this fic without her there. Thank you sweetie. Now, finally, enjoy the punk/pastel au! :D

———————————————-

Baz

“Stop blowing smoke at me, Baz,” Dev grumbles.

“I’m not blowing at you,” I say plainly, “you’re just sitting downwind.”

“Then stop smoking.”

I take a deep drag and blow the fumes out slowly. Dev waves his hand as he glares at me. “Make me, cousin.”

Dev keeps glaring, but soon moves to my other side. I chuckle and offer him my Marlboro pack. He snatches it like a child grabbing a toy. Niall takes a stick as well.

This is our morning routine, now restarted with the new summer term. Sitting on the picnic bench under a tree, watching our school entrance, smoking like the cool teenage delinquents we think we are. Most people look at us for only a moment then scuttle away. The leather jackets and combat boots really up the intimidation factor. It’s the way I like it. Everyone fifteen feet away and properly scared of me. As they should be.

“Hey,” Niall says, “is that kid new? He doesn’t look familiar.” He points his cigarette towards the sea of kids at the entrance.

“Which one? Be specific, Niall,” I reply.

“The one with the pink sweater and practical fucking halo, that’s who.”

He points more insistently, and I look harder. Then I nearly drop my own cigarette.

At first, his back is to us, but then he turns, and I swear it’s in goddamn slow motion. Niall’s right. The light shines through his messy bronze curls, making them glow like a halo. His skin is another shade of gold and covered in freckles and moles. It looks like someone ripped the stars out of the sky and put them on his face. And his smile is so bright it’s like staring into the sun. The pastel pink sweater, faded cuffed jeans, and checkered Vans only help his angelically soft appearance. And his eyes, holy shit. They’re not even a typically interesting blue. Not cornflower or navy, not with a shot of hazel or violet. They’re just...blue. Yet, they’re perfect.

My pulse is beating in my ears. The world has narrowed down to just him. I’m so enthralled that I don’t notice him looking back. He’s blinking in confusion, probably wondering why this leather jacket wearing punk is staring at him. But surprisingly, he doesn’t turn away like most people. He just keeps looking, big blue eyes roaming over me repeatedly. He’s not afraid. Not like everyone else knows they should be.

I used to be known for my careful decision making. But that’s been out the window for awhile. So I meet New Kid’s gaze from across the field, and unabashedly wink.

His entire tawny face goes bright red. He turns back to whoever he was speaking to, and is soon getting dragged into the Watford School building. I quickly see that it’s Penelope Bunce hauling him in. She glares at me viciously. I scoff. Bunce has always hated me, even before I became like this. We were academic rivals until last year. Now she probably thinks I’m just a bad influence on whoever she’s been contracted to welcome to our institue. And she’s probably right. Though, I wonder if her new friend would agree...

“Hm,” I say quietly, “new kid is cute.”

“Dude,” Dev sighs, “he’s like, a fucking bubbly sunshine Instagram model. You have literally zero chance.”

“Still cute.”

“You have the most masochistic taste in men, mate,” Niall unneededly interjects before taking a drag.

I take a drag myself, smirking around the smoke. “Don’t I know it.”

———————————————-

“Mr. Pitch,” Miss Possibelf says with utter exasperation, “I’m glad you’ve finally decided to join us.”

“Apologies, Miss,” I reply smoothly as I stroll into the room, twenty minutes late. “Traffic is an absolute nightmare today.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “Just take your seat please.”

I do as she says, taking the one empty desk pair. Dev and Niall aren’t here so I prefer to sit alone. I kick my feet up on the table, putting my arms behind my head. Miss Possibelf doesn’t look angry at me though, just...disappointed. I try to ignore the way that makes my gut twist. Miss Possibelf has been here for ages. She knew my mother. And out of all the teachers at Watford, she views me with the most sadness. I fucking hate it.

Miss continues her lesson. I have to make a stubborn effort not to listen, but it’s effective. I keep my eyes closed and mentally go over my violin practice, the calming music swimming through my brain with ease. I can practically see the see notes behind my eyes. It’s one of the few things I haven’t dropped since entering this “rebellious phase” as my father calls it. Besides, I probably already know what Miss Possibelf is talking about. I was very far ahead last year.

“Ah, hello, can I help you?” Miss Possibelf says.

“Uh, is this Miss Possibelf’s year 12 English?” A nervous, rough accented voice asks.

“Yes, it is. And you are?”

“I-I’m Simon. I’m new, and my schedule says I’m in here.”

“Oh, I’ve been expecting you. Come up here and introduce yourself please.”

There are quick steps moving towards the front of the class. New kid? Hm, Watford isn’t a very big school. And I would’ve noticed anyone else new. I wonder...

I let my eyes half open, and they immediately focus on a baby pink sweater. I open them all the way. He’s standing at the front, books in hand, smiling nervously. He looks like an adorable, broad shouldered, puppy.

“Uh, hi,” he says shakily, “my name is Simon Salisbury. I-I’m from Lancashire and I’ve just moved. Um, I like pop music and scones and old swords. And...yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

Miss nods politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Salisbury. Please take a seat. I’ll give you some catch-up work after class to make sure you’re up to speed.”

Miss Possibelf gestures to the room. But the thing is, the desk next to me is the only free space. Simon obviously notices, considering the way his eyes go wide and his cheeks go red. Miss Possibelf gives me a look that says, “play nice, Basilton.” Please. I’m an arsehole, not a monster. And besides, Simon’s too pretty to mess with. Not in any permanently damaging way, that is.

I give Simon the biggest shit eating grin and wiggle my fingers. His face gets even more red. As if he can get any more adorable. He scurries towards me and takes the seat, but doesn’t look up. Poor nervous thing.

“Hello again,” I whisper, as Miss Possibelf has started lecturing again.

“H-Hi,” he replies in an equally hushed voice. “I’m Simon.”

“So you said before.”

“Oh oh, right. Uh, what’s your name?”

“Baz.”

“Huh, that’s a weird name.”

I let out a small scoff. “Gee, thanks.”

“Sorry!” He says hurriedly, picking at his sweater sleeve. “Sorry, I speak without thinking a lot.”

My mouth quickly forms into a half smile. I can’t help it. He’s too cute. “It’s alright. I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.”

He flushes even more. “Okay, sounds good.”

“Basilton, stop distracting Mr. Salisbury,” Miss Possibelf sighs, back still turned.

“Will do, Miss,” I reply. I flick my eyes over to Simon and mouth “sorry” with a smirk. He shrugs, smiling shyly as he mouths back “it’s okay.”

Simon looks back at the board, opening his notebook to take down Miss Possibelf’s loopy cursive writing. I close my eyes again. But I can't think of notes, only the pastel pretty boy right next to me. So every time I open them, I slide them over to Simon. He’s usually looking at the board, but a couple of times, he’s looking back. He always immediately looks away when our gazes meet. Hm, he’s even cuter up close. That may mean trouble for me. And I’ve come to quite enjoy trouble.

———————————————-

Leaving school is always bittersweet. For one thing, it means leaving a painful place, where too many bad things have happened. Things I would very much like to forget. But then I have to go home, a place where I am even more of a constant disappointment.

The only good thing is riding there.

My bike is parked just off school property because Watford has some stupid policy against motorcycles. Like that will stop me. I saunter over to it with my helmet in hand and inspect it for any damage (Someone spray painted it once and I’ve been paranoid ever since.) But it’s perfect, still stupidly large and frighteningly black as ever. I run my hand over the cool, smooth metal. It's almost electric to my skin. And to think, I used to make fun of people obsessed with their mode of transportation.

I’m putting on my helmet when my eyes catch on someone specific for the third time today. He’s standing near the school entrance staring at me, again. His blue eyes are bigger than saucer plates. The motorcycle is impressive to some, and I’m glad it’s impressive to him. I give Simon a little salute, then start the engine. It loudly roars to life. I take one last look at him as I speed away, smugly pleased at his awestruck expression.

Watford Cove, named for the small schoolhouse the town formed around and the shining ocean just to the west, is objectively beautiful. Lots of low roof fisherman’s houses, old forestry, and rolling green hills. It almost looks like a dream. And definitely looks like it belongs on a postcard. A cool breeze is almost always drifting off the water, so many of the richer folk built their houses on the hills, closer to the sun’s kinder, warming rays. My family's house falls into that category. And though I really do hate going home, the path there is as gorgeous as the rest of the town.

The straight streets turn into a winding road up our hill. I always challenge myself to see how low I can get to the ground each time. By now I can nearly kiss the concrete. I tilt so close the metal lets out a high pitched screech. My helmet hovers a few inches over the road. It’s the perfect mix of fear and excitement I like. At the top, the path becomes unpaved, dirty, and hidden by a canopy of tree trees. Wildflowers of every shade grow here too. Mother always loved the wildflowers. I try not to look, letting them just be colourful blurs as I race past.

Far too soon, I’m pulling up to the annoyingly big family mansion and parking my bike just behind the garage. Father prefers it to not be visible. He’s a true Brit; out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes I wish he used the same logic with me. It seems I’m always on his mind, unfortunately.

“Good afternoon, Basilton,” Vera says cheerily. She’s out watching my sisters as they play in our obscenely large yard. “How was school?”

I take off my helmet and run a hand over my sweaty hair. “Dreadful, as always.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, love. I guess this is a bad time to let you know that your father wants to see you. Apologies.”

I sigh. Father wants to discuss something with me. Must be a day that ends in a y. “It’s fine, Vera. Thank you for telling me.”

She nods, and her smile says, good luck. I nod back, because I might need it, even if I don't want it.

I walk into my father’s office with all the confidence he likely wishes I didn’t have. I don’t even bother to knock. The two of us are long past those sort of polite formalities. He’s sitting in his comfy leather chair, dressed in his suit. Because he’s the kind of man who casually wears tailored jet black suits at home. He doesn’t look up at me, of course.

“Good day, Father,” I say, not even trying to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Vera said you wanted to see me.”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly. “Please sit down, Basilton.”

I throw myself into the armchair, making sure it rattles loudly against the floor. Father finally lifts his eyes to meet mine. Though it’s not much of a reaction for most people, it’s as good as yelling for him.

He leans back, fingers laced in front of him. Seriously, could he be any more of a Bond villain? “We have something important to discuss, Basilton.”

“Is this about my bike again? Because I told you, I’m not getting rid of it. It’s a total bloke magnet.” His lips press together, and I try not to smile. In the past year, I’ve found great enjoyment in getting under his stupid, prejudiced skin. Especially with my sexuality.

“No, that’s not it. I received something in the mail today.”

“Oh? And why should I care?”

“Because, it was your report card from last term.”

Shit. I resist the urge to grip the armrests. I don’t want him to see how anxious that makes me. I don’t want to be anxious. I don’t want to care at all about school or what he thinks.

“I see,” I drawl out. “Do you have an opinion or are you just informing me that it’s in your possession? If it’s the latter, you’re wasting my time.”

His lips tighten even more. I can tell he’s barely hanging onto his anger at me. I’m not sure if I should leave before the explosion or keep poking him to see how far I can get. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a small pack of stapled papers, dropping it on the desk. I recognise Watford’s letterhead, and my name of course. I try not to react to the series of Ds listed next to every class.

“You barely passed, Basil,” he says darkly. “A few points less and you would be repeating the term. Which is the same as the last few terms. I am...beyond disappointed.”

I wave a finger around with a deadpan expression. “I’ll alert the presses. ‘Extra, extra, Malcolm Grimm finds another reason to be disappointed in his fairy son.’”

He slams his hands on the table and stands up. I jolt, because that’s the most I’ve seen him react to...anything. His face is still neutral though. That hardly ever changes. But I can see a few hairline cracks in his facade. The corner of his lip twitching, his brow pulling together slightly.

“This is not a joke, Basilton. This is your future. Ever since last year, you’ve been letting everything you’ve worked for fall apart.”

“And whose fault is that?” I hiss.

“Your’s.” He points a long accusatory finger at me. “You made the choice to disregard your schooling to be some delinquent. I was only pushing you to help you do better. But you decided it was too much. And really Basil, what would your mother thi-”

It’s my turn to slam my hands on the table, which thankfully shuts him up. I meet his gaze unflinchingly. I hope he can see the fire in mine. “Don’t you use her,” I growl. “Don’t you dare use her memory for your own selfish means. She deserves better treatment than that. And I don’t give a shit about school now because of you. So do not use her to fix your fuck up.”

He glares, but I glare back just as hard. We’re both equally stubborn bastards. And he can’t intimidate me any more. I refuse to let him have any power over me. Slowly, but surely, we both sit back down, eyes still locked and refusing to concede. He weaves his fingers again. I can see the tension in his knuckles very clearly.

“My point, Basil,” he says with cold emphasis, “is that I can’t tolerate this behaviour anymore. The defiance, the truancy, everything. I’ve given you plenty of warnings, which have all been ignored. So I’m giving you a final choice: get at least a B average this term, or I’m sending you to a boarding school for wayward boys for year 13, in Switzerland.”

I inhale sharply. My whole body goes cold. I have to keep myself from shaking with fear and rage. I run through every possible scenario, every hell I’ll be subjected to. The thought of being alone in a foreign country, with people I won’t know, with adults who will try to ‘get me in line’, scares the absolute living shit out of me. My father keeps looking at me with his bored expression, and I want to sock him in the jaw. Just to make him react like the real human he supposedly is.

“You cannot be serious,” I growl.

“Dead serious,” he says. “I hate to do this, Basilton, but you leave me no choice. Just try harder at school and it won’t happen.”

I push back the chair with flourish, nearly knocking it over so I can glare down at him. “Fuck you.”

He doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at me with stupid indifference. I sneer and walk away, slamming the door behind me very loudly. I hope it rattles his bookshelves and maybe a few fillings.

I keep stomping outside to my bike, then rev the engine loud enough so Father hears. I drive too fast with no destination in mind. Just flying down backroads and letting the world blur into nothing. Pretend it fades away like I wish it would.

Soon, I find myself at the top of Mount Olympus. At least that’s what Mother called it. It’s barely even a hill on top of our hill, really. But it’s the best place to see the stars. I park my bike near the bottom and stomp to the top. I stare out into the sunset, like the tragic hero I like to think I am, when really I'm just a mopey, pathetic teenager. I feel calmer here though. There are many good memories here. Ones I’d rather think about than what my father said.

I sit down, knees brought up to my chin and arms around my legs like a pouting child. Tears threaten to spill but I don’t let them. I haven’t cried in years, and I absolutely refuse to start now. I’m stronger nowadays, or at least I think I am.

So, I’ve got three months before I’m sent away for probably a very long time. Guess I’ll see how much Hell I can raise until then.

———————————————-

AN: Hope you liked that first chapter. It mostly sets up the major parts of the story. Next time: Baz is at a new level of "fuck it", so what will he do now?

Chapter title is from “Summertime Sadness” by Lana Del Rey

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #penelope bunce #punk/pastel #fluff #angst #chaptered #mysnowbazfic

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charliebattinson · 7 years ago

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BEST FRIENDS? | Best Friend! Shawn [BP] Part 1 | Shawn Mendes

A/N: Hello! I’m splitting this thing into two parts because it was so long haha. I just had so many ideas!! Honestly i’m such a sucker for the “best friends to lovers” trope it may be cliche as hell but it’s my fave. Part 2 has more of a storyline to it just in bullet point form! Also wanna thank @siennarossi, @innocent-before-mendes and @i-keep-craving-craving for advice and for helping me out! Hope you enjoy! Feedback is appreciated! Have a lovely day! ♡♡♡

☆ Read Part 2 here ☆

You moved to pickering when you were a kid and met Shawn when you were 4

He was your neighbor

Bedrooms facing each other

You always thought how stupid he looked trying to climb the tree that was impossible to climb at his age

Since you were new to town when you went to school you knew nobody

Playtime came and you saw shawn by the sandbox playing by himself

You walk to him and asked if you can play together

He was so shy "okay" red cheeks and all

Everything just hit off after that

You guys were attached to the hip

Walking to school holding hands or seating beside each other on the school bus

Some girls from school wanted to play with you and you were so happy to make more friends that you brought shawn with you but the girls said they don't play with boys

"But shawn goes with me wherever i go"

"I guess you can't play with us"

You ditch them for Shawn

“I’ll play your barbie dolls with you y/n”

Wouldn't it be cute to imagine when your parents open the door and look down to see kid shawn in his squeaky voice “Good afternoon Ms. y/l/n! Is y/n there?"

You guys loved watching barney together and singing the theme song

Role playing power rangers and pretending to be fighting each other

Till that one time you accidentally punched Shawn in the face and his nose bled

You always attend each other’s birthday parties and you always need each other by your side before blowing your birthday cake

You play husband wife sometimes

“y/n when were older im going to marry you”

“why shawn” “cause you’re my best friend”

Riding bikes together

Getting boo boos and helping each other out with the wound

“Here’s a bandaid Shawn it’s the barbie one”

Eating ice cream by the front porch

PLAYGROUND PLAYDATES

Giggling to each other while your both on the swings

Sometimes when there’s only one swing left Shawn would offer it to you and he’d start pushing your swing

Lots and lots of videos of you two when you were kids

Halloween time is always a fun time for the both of you because you guys to get to do matching costumes

One year would be you as Mario and Shawn as Luigi with the matching mustaches

“Hey how come you get to be Mario?” “Because I’m cooler Shawn”

another time would be Kim possible and Ron stoppable

another time as Spongebob and Patrick

then ferris and cameron from ferris bueller’s day off but no one ever really got who you were dressing up as that year

and that one time in school where you thought everyone was going to be wearing halloween costumes turns out only and shawn did

Horror movie marathons every halloween

You remember the time Shawn screamed like a girl

“Y/N please don’ tell anyone”

When its Christmas you would go out and make the weirdest looking snowman, snow angels, drinking hot cocoa, baking cookies for santa and opening presents while trying to stay up late and wait for Santa Claus to come out

“My father is the actual santa claus??” “You’re so dumb Shawn”

School plays together!!! Like little mermaid where you played a fish and shawn played a lobster

One of your school plays was also King Arthur

You were a local villager and shawn was the village idiot

Coloring coloring books together

Going to camp together during the summer

11 year old Shawn would be sporting braces and you would make fun of him when he got it

“HAHAHAHAHAHA LOOK AT YOUR METAL MOUTH”

“shawn close your mouth you’re blinding me”

You were a little bit taller than him at that age

You guys would constantly call each other names the kiddish kind

“TOE LICKER” “BUTT SNIFFER” “ONION BREATHE”

He would freak out when he sees your bra laying on the bed

But would also be there for you when you start to panic when you finally get your period

“you aren’t going to die y/n. please your making me scared what if you die, i’m gonna be all alone”

shawn gets so scared when you say a bad word by accident

“Y/n you know we’re not supposed to be saying bad words or we’ll go to hell”

You’re both appalled by kissing when your parents do it or when you’re watching a movie

“EWWWWWWWWWWW” “YUUCK”

“COOTIES EW”

“okay class! go and pick a partner”

🌚 🌝

Your whole family knows Shawn. Shawn’s whole family knows you

Uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents. THEY ALL KNOW SHAWN.

Your family is so familiar to having Shawn around the house so when he’s not there they ask “where’s Shawn?”

High school rolls in and you’re both invited to your first ever high school party

“Y/n do I wear a tux to these parties?” “Idiot”

He ended up wearing Capri shorts and his Birkenstocks

“Please tell me you aren’t wearing socks with your birkenstocks” “well…”

You play 7 minutes in heaven and shawn goes in with a girl

When he goes out, the girl looks so weirded out by shawn

“Well..what happened?”

“She was leaning for a kiss and I got nervous I just screamed at her”

you try alcohol for the first time together in your room; you raided wine in your parents collection

you both spit it out right after

“POISON!!!”

16 year old you is wondering how tall Shawn got over the summer because you have to tilt your head up to look at him

He’s also gotten cuter over the summer no more braces and thank god he stopped wearing those birkenstocks

he’s still wearing those baggy khaki pants

The insults have upgraded

“You stupid lanky dickhead” “fuck you y/n”

You both swear like sailors now

You’re by your lockers and he just salsa dances and sing songs “look who got an A on chemistry byotch”

You’re both each other’s first kiss you rather have it be your best friend than be it someone else who won’t matter in a couple of years

Also for practice because Shawn ’s been pinning over some chick named Stephanie the whole freshman year

“Come on y/n so you can tell me if I suck or not”

He sucked

“YOU KISSED ME LIKE IM A CPR DUMMY”

Sleepovers at each other’s houses

passing notes in between classes, shawn wanting to play tic tac toe

Doing homework together

Copying each other’s homework

“Pssst shawn what’s the answer to no. 5?”

“I was gonna ask you that!”

“fuck”

Shawn going up your window late at night because he’s tall enough to finally climb the tree

but also the idiot tried doing a stunt and ended up bringing down one of your pipes down with him

you guys would meet each other by the window to say good night

sometimes when he knows you feel bad he would stare at your window and write down a note saying “are you okay?” or “feel better”

You attended junior prom together

“Look at you Shawn looking so fancy in that tux”

You see Shawn’s cheeks redden “thanks y/n you look pretty”

You try to pin his boutonnière and he keeps joking around that you pricked his skin

Till you actually pricked his skin cause he was moving around too much “idiot”

Ditched after a while cause it was getting boring, you both just headed out to the local diner and ordered milkshakes

For senior prom, you had to find a date because Shawn asked someone else; you were a little sad because you’re just used to you and Shawn doing everything together

Watching the schools football games together by the bleachers

They made shawn the school mascot

“it is a sauna inside here and i can’t fucking see anything”

always going together to high school parties

fist bumping to levels by avicii (beacause it was a bop at that time tbh)

asking each others approval when you find someone hot

constructing each other’s sentences before hitting send to your crush

there’s a girl that likes shawn and she’s very confident and flirting around with him and shawn just mumbles trying to talk to her “yeah ugh no yeah totally but ugh yeah no”

You’re just watching him trying your hardest not to laugh

“pathetic”

Giving each other tips on making a move

“I watched that movie hitch and they said that if a girl lingers by the front door it means she wants you to kiss her”

“Shawn you gotta stop screaming at a girl when they try to go near you”

You tell each other who you lost your virginity to and judging so hard

“WHY BECKY?” “Sleeping simon are you serious?”

Also being each other’s person to look for support and comfort whenver you’re feeling down

Shawn would get your favorite ice cream and listen to you on your bed cuddled up to him”

“Hey shawn i got your favorite muffins. Please tell me what’s wrong with you”

Shawn would tell you to leave him alone under the covers and you would just go under the covers

Being lab partners

Shawn making you laugh when he does an impersonation of professor fink with his lab coat and goggles

“Well according to my calculations..”

GRADUATION DAY

You would be cheering for each other when you both get on stage

“LETS GO Y/N LETS GO!!!”

“THAT’S MY BEST FRIEND RIGHT THERE”

Shawn would just blast “SCHOOLS OUT FOR SUMMER” on his jeep on your way to your graduation party

He wore a fucking vest and a casual tie with converse to the party

“A vest shawn? Really?”

”yolo y/n yolo”

Booze is present and you both have had a bit too much

You see Shawn standing up on the table dancing to Daft Punk’s One More Time

You push Shawn into the pool but he’s quick to grab you leaving both of you underwater

Going to the park after and riding the swings just like when you were kids

Figuring out what colleges to apply to

both of you just staring at your acceptance letters

“Open yours first” “No! You open yours first”

“FINE I’LL READ YOURS, YOU READ MINE”

Jumping because you both got in

Luckily you both wanted to go to the same college with just different courses so the long distance friendship is off the books

You’re headed off to college to fix your dorm rooms

Shawn would be in such a school spirit he’s already wearing the college hat and hoodie

Shawn just starts playing “everybody lets go” song from dora the explorer in the car

“Here we go...”

☆ Read part 2 here ☆

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes imagine #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes blurb #illuminate tour #magcon #magcon tour #illuminate

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