#the only alcohol i like is that shit you get at tourist traps

[spikeyjo]

Log in do fuck all

beer glass filled up so tall

Log in do wage theft

drank so much since my wife left

[eddiemunsonssoulmate]

Let's make this moment worth the while

Pairing: JJ x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You and JJ never liked each other. Kook vs Pogue. He annoys the shit out of you and yet you're trapped with him in the basement of the Cameron mansion.

Warnings: Smut, lowkey hate fuck

Available on: AO3

Part of: Passion lies in screams of ecstasytic dreams

This wasn’t something you had planned or expected.

Not at all.

He was standing in front of you, fuming with anger. His face had a hint of red, his jaw was locked tight and a strangled growl left his throat.

For a moment he looked almost feral there.

“Calm down, Maybank,” you said with an annoyed huffed, looking at the locked basement door above you. He acted like this was your fault when it was clearly his.

You could hear the music and voices from above.

A normal party at the Cameron mansion. Music, alcohol, drugs, Kooks and Pogues mingled together.

Just like in this small basement where Ward stored his wine. You had been here with Sarah a couple of times. You should have known she had planned something. The second you had entered the door to the mansion earlier, there had been this smug smile on her lips but she wouldn’t tell you why.

And now here you were with the boy you hated with a burning passion. You knew the Pogues and got along with them okay-ish. Pope was the best one to deal with, you knew Kiara for quite some time, John B was okay, he was Sarah’s boyfriend after all but JJ? No fucking way. He was crazy, reckless, infuriating and for some reason, really hot when he did stupid things.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he growled back at you after a long moment and turned around, going up the stairs to knock against the door once more.

You could swear the music just turned up just a little bit louder.

“Fuck!” he yelled, slamming against the door with his fist one more time before going back downstairs.

“No reason to get so angry, Pogue. They’ll need new wine eventually.” You leaned back against an almost empty shelf with a sigh, shaking your head. This was stupid and had been planned.

‘Oh y/n, can you get some more wine? The bottle is already empty. There’s the Romanee Conti 1945 somewhere in the right corner, that would be amazing.’

You could still hear Sarah’s voice in your head, it had sounded strange earlier, way too sweet, way too nice and now you knew why.

“Why did they send you down anyway?” You tilted your head a little to the side and looked at the boy who had sat down on the steps of the stairs, glowering at you.

“Red cups but I don’t see them anywhere here,” he grumbled from where he was sitting. His comment made you laugh, which only made him glare more at you.

If he would have been here before, he would know there wouldn’t be a single red cup around. Probably John B’s idea to make up this ridiculous excuse.

You kept your words to yourself and sat down, leaning your head back against the shelf.

Silence wrapped itself around you two and you held his stare for a moment before looking to the ground.

You didn’t even know why you hated him so much or why he hated you the same way. Nothing bad had happened between you two when you met for the first time, Sarah introducing you to the Pogues. She was your best friend and wanted you to get along with her new friend group, which you did...except JJ.

His vibes just didn’t fit with yours, you guessed. Two different people from completely different lives. It should have been a normal dislike, a normal ‘We don’t get along’ but for some reason you just needed to see him and you got angry. His stupid smirk, the way his hair fell into his hair after the rain had poured down, the way his jaw clenched when someone made him angry, the way his throat bobbed briefly when someone mentioned his father.

“Fuck,” you mumbled under your breath, hating yourself for even noticing these little things about him. You didn’t even spend that much time together, barely knew anything about him and yet it felt like you already knew more than you wanted to know.

When you looked up you saw that he was still looking at you, leaning back on the stairs, his jaw still tight.

“What?” you snapped at him, not feeling comfortable with him staring at you the way he did.

“I’m just wondering,” he started and there was an edge in his voice that made you stand up the moment he did.

He walked toward you, coming to stop right in front of you, putting his hand on the shelf behind you, caging you in.

Your body tensed, you didn’t like this one bit. Men trying to get power over you was always a bad sign but you’d handle him. It was just Maybank after all.

“Wondering if this wasn’t your plan all along,” he finished his sentence, his face way too close to yours. You felt your cheeks redden a little bit, feeling the heat from his body.

You’d be a liar if you’d say he wasn’t attractive in his own, stupid way.

“Why would it be,” you hissed and put your hands on his chest, pushing him back a little, your jaw tightening when he stumbled back a little. “Do you think I enjoy being here with you in this small ass basement? Tourist girls might swoon over you and you think you’re the greatest around these parts but I’m not one of them.”

A smirk appeared on his lips and he took a step forward again, once again invading your personal space.

“At least they have a good time,” he said with a chuckle and you rolled your eyes, turning your head so you wouldn’t have to look at him.

You knew the stories about him. Picking up tourist girls, sometimes two at a time, spending the night together and then never seeing them again.

“Yeah that’s what they think because they’ve got nothing to compare,” you huffed out, arms folding over your chest. From the corner of your eye you saw his body going a little tense, knowing you’ve hit his ego with what you’ve just said.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about anyway,” he suddenly replied with a shrug. “Not like you know what’s down there.”

You couldn’t help yourself but look back at him, looking right at his stupid grin. Your look turned into a glare which only made him grin more.

“God, you’re really getting off at making me angry.” You threw your hands up in the air, wanting to go around him to slam your fist against the door yourself but he blocked your way.

“Let me through, Maybank,” you hissed in anger but he once again put his hands up on the shelf behind you, caging you with his full body.

“Maybe I do.” His voice wasn’t low and had something in it that you couldn’t quite place. “But I know you do too.”

He would not win this, not with this smug grin on his lips.

His body was pressing more against yours, his leg between yours, his face only inches away.

You couldn’t stop the heat that was starting to pool between your legs. Fuck. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction but the way he stood here, so close with no one else around, his heat radiating off his body, his face so close.

“You might be right,” you suddenly blurted out without thinking and wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him into an aggressive kiss.

JJ gasped in surprise as if he didn’t expect to get this reaction out of you but answered to the kiss with the same aggression.

The kiss involved a lot of biting and nibbling, two people trying to dominate the other only to pull back for a breath at the same time.

His eyes had darkened, his lips were swollen but it only took him a moment to recover.

He put his hands under you, lifting you up against the shelf behind you, pressing your back into the old wood while you wrapped your legs around him.

What a fucking bastard.

Now this felt more like this was his plan after all but who were you to deny getting the sexual tension and hatred out for once.

You started to fumble between the two of you, trying to rid the both of you of your pants. His slipped down easily, just swim trunks and boxer shorts but you had at least tried to look good here.

He noticed your struggle and put you down for a moment so you could push your pants down, kicking them off. You were about to pull your knickers down too but he already hoisted you back up.

“What the fuck,” you whispered in surprise but your legs wrapped around him already.

“Might need to dress quickly if they decide to check on us. Wouldn’t want them to find us like this,” he growled against your lips and you huffed. He initiated this and now he didn’t want to be found like this? Bastard.

“Yeah, probably for the better,” you agreed and kissed him again, your lips almost hurting already from the vicious way you two attacked each other.

The blonde boy shifted a little, moved his hips while holding you tight and with a swift movement, he had moved your knickers aside and slipped inside of you.

You moaned into the kiss which he only took as an invite to push his tongue inside once again while he filled you to the brink.

The tourist gossip was no lie. He was indeed quite packing, you felt the sweet stretch, the balance between pain and pleasure. He wasn’t ripping you apart but you were also feeling quite a bit of filling.

You moved your arms up to hold up on the shelf behind you, the wood digging into your back when he started to thrust into you. It was as if he wanted you to feel how much he despised you, every push on his hips forceful and almost bruising but you didn’t mind. You wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

You could feel your tits swinging quite a bit, only dressed with a bikini and a small top above while he kept up his merciless pace.

For some reason you hadn’t thought about him having that much strength to hold you up and push inside of you with that much force.

Not that you had thought about him doing this to you before. Not at all.

A groan left your throat in frustration when you realized that you were too good at lying to yourself when it came to him. Another groan followed when he hoisted you up a little bit more, almost letting you fall back on his dick, hitting the sweet spot that made you see stars.

“Fuck, you feel better than expected,” he growled and leaned forward to kiss your neck, leaving small bites. Not biting hard enough to bruise but so that you would feel them for the time you were in here.

“You expected this?” you asked with a smug tone in your voice but your only answer was another deep, painful thrust inside of you that made your back arch forward.

He had anticipated this, thought about it like you did but he was very angry about it. Seems like you two were not so different when it came to that. Two sides of a coin, maybe.

His bruised lips kissed and nibbled across the soft skin on your neck and shoulder, his hardness tickling your insides the right way.

Your moans filled the small room, the air getting more heated and sticky but thankfully the music above was way louder than the two of you.

This would be your secret. No one needed to know this. You would go out of here later as if nothing had happened.

Your breath got short and irregular, it was feeling as if he was thrusting the air right out of your lungs with the pace he had picked. He clearly had experience doing this. You hated thinking about it.

One of your hands sneaked between the two of you, rubbing against the bundle of nerves, only driving you higher up, your mind fogging.

A growl left his throat when he noticed what you were doing and you could swear he was only forcing himself in harder, deeper and even faster. It was brutal and you were sure he would leave bruises over your body.

The way his hand gripped your hips hurt, the shelf pressing into you, his hips snapping against yours.

Your body started to twitch when you came closer and you were almost falling when you heard his voice. “Don’t you dare to finish before me.” It was almost a feral growl that spoke, not really sounding him like. He was out of breath, sweaty and almost desperate to spill his seed inside of you.

Normally you would have done it anyway, who was he to tell you what you had to do? But this time, you stopped listening to him. Something about his attitude towards you in this moment made you listen to him.

You hated it.

Then you moved your hand up to his face, the two fingers you had used to rub yourself running along his cheek before tapping it against his lips.

He glowered at you before opening his mouth, taking your fingers inside and swirling his tongue around them, licking your wetness off them without stopping to look at you.

You moaned at the obscenery in front of you and a low moan left your mouth. His body was twitching around you and you could start to feel yourself apart.

“Now come,” he whispered around your fingers, still licking them more tenderly than expected.

He pulled almost out completely, leaving you empty and whimpering for a moment before pushing back inside of you in one long, brutal movement, making you see stars as you fell apart around him.

You didn’t hear how a few bottles fell from the shelf, shatting beside you, all you could hear was a loud moan filling the room and you could feel yourself blushing when you realized it was yours.

He gasped and growled when he felt how your walls were clenching around him and soon enough you felt the hot cum spilling inside of you. It was warm and comfortable and you hated that you felt this way.

JJ leaned forward briefly, putting his forehead against yours before letting you back to the ground.

You almost fell forward, not able to stand, your legs shaking from the brutal abuse your body just had to deal with.

You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you loved every second of it.

“We made a mess,” you mumbled when you finally saw the broken bottles on the ground. Ward had stored so much expensive wine here, this would at least be 500 bucks or above. Not that you cared, you didn’t like this man. “We did, especially you,” he chuckled and you turned your head to glare at him but he was just pointing at his dick that was dripping with your wetness, following the drops of cum, sweat and your own juice down to the ground where you could also see a wet spot.

Your face turned crimson red from embarrassment and you looked away, trying to straighten your knickers only to realize that his cum would drip right into them when you kept them on now.

You shot him a glare and he seemed to know exactly what you meant because that smug grin was back on his lips, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I fucking hate you,” you groaned and picked up your pants, already feeling how his seed was dripping out of you and into the fabric of your panties.

“I know you do. Felt good though but then again, it never happened, right?” he asked with a shrug before putting his pants back on too.

Right when you two were dressed again and you were about to reply to him, the door opened and you saw Sarah and John B standing there.

“Oh there you are! I was looking for you!” Sarah said and walked down to you, wrapping you into a hug only to pull back and look at you with a knowing grin.

It was hard not to know. The small room smelled of sex, sweat and wine, your hair was a mess, your lips bruised. It took one look of someone with three brain cells to know what had happened here.

You glared at her. “I didn’t find the wine,” you said and she laughed, walking up the stairs with you.

“That’s fine, it seems like you’ve found something else,” your friend replied with a snicker and you groaned at her, shaking your head but couldn’t help but laugh.

[luckymeryl]

Another new fic

Here is another fic I'm working on for Reno/Rude from FFVII. Also available on AO3 for you to give kudos, follow for updates, comment. No smut yet, but there will be in the future. I welcome any feedback whatsoever!

Vacation was rare. Rude was only two years in but the shock on his more tenured partner’s face when they were assigned “required paid time off” told him that this was a once in a lifetime occurrence. However, there was a catch.

“If you leave the city, stay together. I don’t want Avalanche or any other rebel organization to catch you alone.” Veld’s word was law.

As the two of them walked out of headquarters, there was only one question on their mind. Stay? Or go? Rude was tired of the darkness of city smog and grime in the streets, but it’s not like he’d get much peace and quiet bringing his partner along. Working with the redhead was never a problem. In fact, most days it was entertaining. Watching him dance around his victims as he finished them off reminded Rude of a cat toying with a mouse.

“Rude.” Reno nudged him as they walked, their usual haunt only a block from work. “Where should we go?”

There was a small chuckle from the other. “We’re going somewhere? You’ve decided this.”

Reno rolled his eyes. “Look man I don’t wanna pull rank on you or anything, but I’m not staying in this miserable ass city during what may very well be my only vacation.” He held the door for Rude as they reached the bar. “So I’m at least going to consider you in this decision. Where do you want to go?”

“Hmm..” Rude stepped past him taking in the familiar scent of smoke and booze. “Buy the first round and I’ll think about it.”

Reno grumbled behind him, giving his partner a shove that caused Rude to stumble on his feet with a grunt. “Yeah yeah. First round’s on me. Jerk.”

A cigarette in hand, three rounds of whiskey in his stomach later, and Rude still hadn’t come up with an idea that pleased the his partner beside him. Rude was a sightseer. Historical places like Cosmo Canyon and the museums on Junon are what interested him. Reno wanted night life and excitement. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or maybe the stubborn nature of his forced travelmate, but at last, he relented to the more typical vacation excursions.

“Mountains? We could go skiing.”

“Too fuckin’ cold man. I’d freeze my tits off.”

“Not if you covered them up for once.”

Reno glared up at the other man before perfectly timing a nudge to send a splash of whiskey from Rude’s glass to his face. “S’what you get asshole.”

Rude coughed lightly, setting his cigarete down in the shared ashtray between them before wiping himself up. “Whatever…” he muttered. It wasn’t below a drunk Turk to pout over spilt booze. “Gold Saucer.”

“Cheesy romance, ripoff games and a corny haunted house.” Reno slipped his partners cigarette into his fingers, disregarding the halfhearted glare from the other. “Gonna be a pass from me.”

“Tough to please.”

“You know it.” There was a sly grin that you could hear in Reno’s voice. Rude glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Once again, his attitude could only be described as “catty.”

“Costa del Sol.”

“Not unless you want to see me as red as my hair.” With a long drag he finished their now shared cigarette. “Besides, the sun makes me freckle.”

Rude thought for a moment. He’d never seen a single beauty mark on his face before, but if he thought back hard enough, he remembered seeing a light splattering of freckles on his partner’s shoulders while he patched a wound. He chuckled lightly, imagining more of those same soft markings. “Cute.”

Reno cough, choking on the shot of tequila he was attempting. “What the hell man?” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, almost as if to wipe the pink tint of frustration from his cheeks. “I’m not fuckin’ cute.”

Rude simply smiled around his glass before setting it back on the bar. “Wutai.”

“Tourist trap.” Always a complaint. “But…” Brown eyes turned toward Reno. “Night clubs for me, historical shit for you.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Good food and booze for both of us.” With a rough slap to his partner’s back, He sent Rude’s drink flying once more. “Wutai it is, bro!”

There was a reason Reno was third in command at such a young age. Despite his seemingly wild antics and uncontrollable temper, he was a meticulous planner. He was a strategist at heart. And planning the perfect vacation in eight hours was the perfect task to test his skills. “Our airship leaves at 8 am. That gets us there at 6 pm.” He explained.

Rude was already in bed, an early riser by nature and ready to pack in the morning. The way Reno sounded, he was balancing his phone between his cheek and shoulder, no doubt haphazardly throwing his clothes into a duffle. “Mhm.” Rude listened. If he didn’t acknowledge, Reno would assume he was asleep, which meant a louder Reno. And as the alcohol started to leave his system, that was the last thing he wanted. “8 am. I’ll be there. Coffee at the ready. Four creams and six sugars for the baby.”

“Sugar means extra energy and cream cools it to a drinkable temperature—Shit!” There was a soft thud as Rude suspected Reno’s phone fumbled to the carpeted floor. “Hang on buddy I dropped you!”

The seriousness of the phrase amused him as he waited patiently for his partner to retrieve him from the floor. As he heard the Reno’s voice more clearly, he questioned, “Lodging?”

“I might have name dropped just a little to get us a top floor suite in the tower.”

“Oh. No bed sharing trick to try and cuddle me at night?”

“Hah!” So much for avoiding a loud Reno, he thought, as a barked a laugh came through the phone. “You wish I’d be your little spoon, big guy.” There was a smile in his voice. He’d never even imagine such a ridiculous situation.

Rude smiled at the sound of his laughter, egging him on. “Yeah you’re right.” He enjoyed just a bit more of the sound of his friend’s amusement. “Goodnight, Reno.”

“See you in the morning, man.”

The phone went silent as Rude’s mind went wild. He’d learned a long time ago that the best way to lie about his feelings was to tell the truth. He said things so straight forward Reno always thought he was joking. Now he’d be spending an entire week with him. No work. Sharing a suite with him. Spending leisure time with him. Allowing Reno his fun with strangers with only a wall between them. Hearing Reno have fun with strangers. Wishing he was a stranger.

Was he going on vacation or going to Hell?

He wasn’t sure how he got any sleep at all that night, but he managed. At 7:30 am, he was at the port, suitcase checked, and two coffees in hand, waiting on his partner to join him. A pale arm reached from his side, no sound of footsteps preceding as a hand took the lighter coffee from his grasp. “7:45. Cutting it close.”

Reno let out a yawn as Rude took him in. “I hate mornings.” He’d never seen Reno in casual wear. He’d seen him dressed for social functions and for work, but never completely dressed down. Reno was dressed in a dark heather gray v-neck shirt, a pair of worn jeans that definitely weren’t bought that way, a pair of slip on black sneakers, and a sleep mask over his head where his goggles typically sat. “Don’t wake me up on the ride.”

“Got it.” They took their seats quietly, Reno taking the window and immediately pulling the shade as Rude sat in the aisle seat beside him. The attendant waited until they were all locked in and in motion to subject them to the cheesy family romcom that would begin their tortuous day of terrible movies. It was lucky for Reno that he was so quick to fall asleep.

Rude took a glance towards his partner, head tilted back against the headrest with his eye mask over his face. His mouth hung open and he was snoring just a bit. Rude couldn’t help but chuckle just a bit before putting earplugs in to drown out the sound of the movie and hushed talking around him. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes gently as he, too, dozed off.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out before he was jostled by rough turbulance. His sunglasses fell crooked on his face and Reno fell sideways against the window, cursing. “Fuck, man!”

Rude pulled the plugs out of his ears and fix his glasses, watching as his friend rubbed his head gently. The attendant began apologizing and explaining the cause of the disturbance, but the airship evened out once more. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Reno grunted a bit, wincing. “I was snoozing good too, man. Fuck that hurt.”

“Surprised your thick skull didn’t break the glass.”

“Hah.” He stretched a bit. “You up for a bit?”

“Yeah. Guess I’ll watch this shitty movie. Might read. You?”

“No way. I’m going to pass the next ahh…” Reno glanced up at the clock at the front of the ship. “Six hours with some more sleep.” He shifted in his seat. “And to prevent any more accidents, you’re going to be my buffer.”

“Your buffer?”

Reno didn’t explain further. Just gave him a quick “Mhm.” As he laid his head against the other, pulling the complimentary thin blanket over his arms and his eye mask back down. “Night buffer.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d been close. The two of them had leaned back-to-back on stakeouts more than a handful of times. However for Reno’s guard to be completely down—head against shoulder, side to side—it was a vulnerable state Rude wasn’t ready to see him in. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring. The drab voices of the actors in the movies dragged on as Reno’s breathing evened out, his arms sagged, and shoulders relaxed.

Rude could feel his chest tighten, but he smiled gently. It took all the willpower in him not to tense his body, leaving himself to be as comfortable a pillow as he could for the sleeping man beside him. There was a muffled grunt as Reno squeezed himself against the seat and further against Rude. The blanket fell from one shoulder, one hand slipping along the armrest, dangling slightly.

He was thankful for the sunglasses as Rude took in the structure of his hand. It was rare to see him without gloves on. His fingers were calloused from the fights, but his skin was pale and soft on top. His nails were clean and trim, meticulously high maintenance as the man was, Rude wasn’t surprised. His wrist was slim, and the bit of the inside of his wrist that was visible showed the translucent blue veins beneath his skin. The most torturous part of it all was the distance. That hand, work worn, but beautiful, was possibly an inch from his own on the next armrest.

Rude closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t reach for his earplugs. He’d wake Reno if he moved too much. God forbid he woke Reno. He didn’t know if it’d be worse due to Reno’s wrath or the lack of warmth on his side. He tried to focus on the bad acting for a moment. He tried to eavesdrop on a somewhat interesting conversation about a woman’s ex-husband who left her to work at the Honeybee. He tried to do anything but think about the man leaning against him, the hand beside his. Until he realized his pinky could reach out and touch that hand.

It started with just a pinky, gently hooking with the other. What was he a child? Hooking fingers with a friend on beside him? He could feel his face heating at the thought. However, just as he thought of pulling his hand back, he felt a twitch against his hand. Reno’s finger twitched against his, his pinky curling against Rude’s. Still lightly snoring, Reno was definitely still asleep, but Rude wasn’t sure what to make of the action. Slowly, he pulled his finger away, careful not to move Reno’s hand too much. Instead, he watched as the redhead took a deep breath, almost like a silent sigh as his hand sat empty on the armrest.

Rude watched over him carefully, wishing he could see the man’s eyes under his mask, but settling on the rest of his face for any type of reaction. His lips parted, breathing soft, body relaxed. Reno slept like the dead when he felt safe, and the two of them never felt safer than they did with each other. At the thought, Rude couldn’t help a small smile. He lifted his hand once more, gently pressing two fingers to the inside of Reno’s wrist, feeling a gentle pulse. The sounds around him faded away as he counted the beats. His fingers moved up to the palm of his hand, feeling the soft skin normally covered by fingerless leather gloves. Once more, Reno’s hand twitched at the sensation, causing the other to glance down at the sleeping Turk for reassurance. Only a reflex.

Rude soon lined his fingers loosely to the tips of Reno’s, stretching the his hand as gently as possible, touching each finger softly. Rude’s thumb ran over the other’s, tracing the bones beneath the skin. He held his breath as he moved, carefully slipping his fingers between Reno’s, letting their hands fit together. One last look at Reno. One last check that he was safe. He listened closely—grateful to hear that light snore and feel Reno’s soft breath against his shoulder—before letting his head fall back, a relieved sigh falling from his lips. His heart pounded in his chest. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy this long. Reno would wake up eventually, but he could enjoy it for the moment. For a moment, they were on vacation together.

There was a lunch break at the six hour mark. His hands were freed before Reno woke up. They spent lunch together as they usually did, Reno making all the jokes, Rude softly laughing when expected. They were now awake and alert. Rude was both happy for his company and disappointed he couldn’t sneak a hand into his once again. A small part of him felt guilty for forcing the intimacy in the first place.

Throughout the last leg of the ride, the two of them attempted a few games of cards. Reno won as often as Rude. If he lost, it was due to cockiness. If he won, it was due to his careful strategy. It all depended on how much his head was in the game. Rude didn’t mind winning or losing, he just enjoyed the company in comparison to a sleeping log on his side. Even if the sleeping log was attractive.

At last, they entered over the gates of Wutai. Rude convinced Reno to open the shades so he could see the entrance before they approached. History distracted him as he leaned over the other to look at the red beams that towered below them, wishing he were walking through to get a photo instead of passing over in the ship. “We’ll need to come back here.” He muttered.

Reno chuckled softly. “Got it buddy.”

Reno was right about it being a tourist trap. There were people everywhere. Probably more tourists than native Wutai. A guilt sunk into Rude at the thought. He was well aware that this was due to Shinra conquest. He was glad for the chance to study their history and culture, but at what cost to their culture did he get that chance?

Before he could brood too long on the subject, Reno shoved him lightly. “Move it big guy. We got a hotel to get to. I’mma order room service, I’m starving.”

Rude stumbled on his feet before marching forward. “Ah, yeah.” The tower was hard to miss. Their vacation had officially begun. His eyes finally set on the suite, two bedrooms—thank God—and a shared living space with a kitchenette. His favorite part was the balcony, which looked out on the city. “You did good Reno.”

There was only a grin in response as the other looked over the room service menu. Rude took his bag to his bedroom, the one Reno hadn’t already claimed by throwing his duffel inside. He sat on the plush bed and glanced at the mop of red hair in the living area. Six nights. Six nights and five days with the man he’d rather spend all his time with, and all he could think about was the torture it would be. Glancing down at his hand, he smiled. At least there was something good that came of it.

[babytsum]

open (passionate) by kehlani - s. rintarou

warnings: smutty themes (only a makeout session), just some mentions of sex, cursing, mention of alcohol, fwb!suna

in which rin wants you to come back to bed.

you pulled the blanket over you in an attempt to find warmth as the cool air surrounded you. the height of the balcony allowed you to overlook the city, the streets still bustling, tourists making their way around the streets, the flickering lights still bright. 2 a.m.

but that’s what you liked about the city. it would always be bustling, a little less in the middle of the night, but still lively. it made you feel less alone.

how ironic.

what was the point in feeling lonely when he spent half of his time in your apartment?  always accompanied by a bottle of alcohol and some takeout, what was the point when he has never once failed to fuck your brains out? what was the point in feeling so lonely?

you already knew the answer.

meaningless. at least for him it was. you never thought that a small reunion set up by atsumu would lead to your high school crush becoming your fuck buddy.

maybe it was the butterfly effect. osamu feeling bored. telling atsumu he was boring. another fight between your two high school friends turned roommates. a small “if kita were here” from you. an idea in atsumu’s head. a small reunion a week later. a reconnection with suna. a late night text. and another. and another. an invitation to come over. and another. and another.

all leading up to this point. this night. this moment.

tell him. tell him. tell him.

“(y/n)?”

your head whipped around to the tall volleyball player stumbling his way to the balcony from your bed. you smile at the sight of his hair pulled into all types of directions. his eyes were still adjusting to the city lights as he leaned against the doorway.

"what are you doing here, bunny? come back to bed."

"couldn't sleep."

he groggily walked up to the chair in front of you, planting himself down with his face leaning against his hand. the same bored expression he always managed to have was all over his face as he observed the city with you.

"i don't think this is going to help you sleep."

"it's fine. i like it," you took another sip from your tea, "it's comforting."

"why? you like watching the group of teenagers steal the bottles of alcohol from that convenience store?"

"huh?" you snorted while looking to the convenience store across the street. sure enough, that was exactly what was happening.

"can we go back to bed now?"

"no."

"why not?"

because i'll fall in love with you again.

"don't feel like sleeping."

you pulled the blanket tighter around you. as he stared you down with a small smile on his face. you stared back into his golden colored eyes until it became a contest.

"blink."

"no."

"you want to blink so bad."

"shut up, rin."

you stayed quiet until you couldn't handle it anymore and finally lost. he leaned in, kissing your nose, before standing up and tugging your hand.

"bed. now."

"i just told you i don't feel like sleeping."

"we don't have to sleep." he responded, wiggling his eyebrows.

you couldn't really say no to that despite the many rounds you two had gone a few hours earlier. plus, he was surprisingly talented with his mouth. and it would be fun to tie him up again. after all, you had the energy.

but what was the point in submerging yourself deeper? torturing yourself a little more? postponing the inevitable?

you were in love with suna rintarou.

sure, you two joked about high school all the time. your attempts to talk to the disinterested middle blocker were often unsuccessful which was the whole reason you were surprised in finding out he liked you back years later. he had told you that he didn't know how to respond, often worried about embarrassing himself.

you definitely would have preferred the latter instead of making a joke and getting a blank expression in response. that shit was embarrassing. atsumu always called you out on it, never being able to read the room like the dumbass he is (of course, you still love him. you would just never say it to his face).

but no, this is what love was, you think. you had developed your own fair share of hookups, girlfriends, and boyfriends in your first two years of college. none of them made you feel warm like rin did. none of them made you feel safe. none of them latched them onto your heart like parasite.

the more you think about it, the more embarrassing it gets. suna wasn't interested in a relationship, or at least that what he said. that's what he keeps saying. and that's what you have to respect. at the start, you didn't want one either, claiming you weren't ready to commit to anything too serious. claiming that you don't gain feelings easily.

that was a mistake.

he's brought you something better than the best dick of your life. it was the late night conversations, his unexpected neediness, his teasing, the way he showed he cared about you without ever saying it. the notes he left the mornings that he couldn't stay. the extra cup of coffee he would always make. the reminders to fix you sleep schedules. randomly coming over when he knows you've been studying and forcing you to take a nap. you want to keep it.

so you fall deeper into the trap.

"fine." you respond, following him back to your bed.

once your body is settled into his, your legs straddled around his lap, his back leaning against the headboard, all you do is hug him tightly. your head nestles into the crook of his neck, planting wet kisses that he melts into. they soon turn into licks and bites and he groans at the feeling.

"jesus christ, i just woke up."

"you said we didn't have to sleep, rin. so we're not sleeping."

you pulled away until he took a few seconds to stare at your face. before you could say anything, he plants his mouth onto yours, lips melding together. his tongue swipes at your bottom lip and you let him in. when you pull away, a string of saliva connects you together.

"let me use you, rin."

you'll tell him some other time.

[thatshiscigar]

Trapped - Chapter One

JJ Maybank x Reader

Chapter Two

Warnings: underaged drinking, physical fighting, slight angst, pining

Word Count: 2k

A/N: there could be a possible part two to this. let me know if y’all want it!

masterlist

The sunshine pouring in through your window was what woke you, along with JJ stirring next to you. He readjusted for a moment, then closed his eyes again, chasing whatever dream he was having. You turned your head to see him, his hair all messed up, his mouth slightly agape. There were brusies littering his body and face, some leftover from a few days ago from his old man, and newer ones left by Rafe. He never looked more peaceful than when he was sleeping. You took your time to take in all his features, even though you see the boy every day. The cuts and bruises left on his cheeks were enough to make you tear up, and make the events from the night before come calling back, along with a pounding headache.

-

It was just another Boneyard Party, nothing special about it. John B and Pope were joking about something, laughing up a storm, you and Kie were sitting on a log, talking and gossiping with some other southside girls, and JJ was flirting and drinking with some touron he hoped he would bag for the night. Nothing was out of place. Everything was as it should be, until the Kooks showed up.

This happened almost every Boneyard party, even though the Pogues warn the Kooks everytime to not come back. The rules just don’t apply to them.

Rafe and his minions made their way to the keg, just as JJ was going to get a refill. JJ watched Rafe fill his cup, as if he was stalking his prey. Rafe knew he was unwanted there, but stood his ground anyway.

“I promise a picture will last longer, Pogue.”

“What are you doing here,” JJ asked as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Relax, we’re just here to have some fun, same as the rest of you.” Rafe’s tone was condescending, but JJ knew there was some truth to it. JJ decided that tonight wasn’t the night to start anything. Nothing was on the table yet. He still kept his feet planted, not wanted to let Rafe out of his sight.

Rafe’s gaze shifted from his cup to the crowd, searching for potential hook ups. The roaring fire on the other side of the party caught his attention, and with that, so did you.

“And I think I just found my fun for the night.” Rafe pointed you out to his boys, causing them to hoop and holler for a moment. JJ saw who Rafe was pointing to, and was caught off guard when he saw it was you.

Not that anyone knew, but JJ had been crushing on you for a while. It was the way you smiled at the stupid shit he did, they way you told him off when it got out of hand. He loves how resistant and resilient you were, how you could let no one get in your way. He was in love with you. But he could never let you know. The fear of rejection swallowed him up til he couldn’t breathe, so he wasted his time on tourists, people he would never have to see again if things went badly. People that weren’t you.

“Hey, she’s off limits bro,” JJ said, his eyes cold and steady on Rafe.

“Well I don’t see anyone else on her, do you?” Rafe made his way over to JJ, swinging his arm over his shoulders. JJ tried to wiggle out of Rafe’s grip, but found no point. Rafe pointed to you again.

“Just look at her man, she’s just waiting for someone to pick her up.”

“Stop, Rafe.” JJ was trying so hard to keep his cool, but without you around to keep him calm, it was growing near impossible.

“Ohh I bet she would just love to go home with one of us huh? Just imagine the body under those clothes, boys.” JJ ripped himself out of Rafe’s grip, and lunged at him. JJ tackled Rafe to the ground, straddling him and beating his face. The commotion and the gasps of on-lookers caught yours and Kiara’s attention. If there was a fight, you knew JJ was involved. When you ran up to the scene, you weren’t surprised to see the blond you know and love.

JJ was still on top, but his energy was fading fast. Rafe took the opportunity to flip them over, now leaving JJ at his mercy. The punches being thrown were animalistic. Blood was splattered over both of their faces, and there was no sign of either of them slowing down. Screams and hollors from the crowd overpowered you and Kie’s cries for them to stop, but out of the corner of his eye, JJ spotted you. The look on your face, the terrified, desperate look, was enough to hit JJ with another round of adrenaline. He grabbed Rafe, tore his body off of his, and slammed him onto the sand. Nothing could have stopped JJ from beating the shit out of Rafe. Not even your screams. How could Rafe say those things? How could he say those things about you? The girl JJ would do anything for. The girl JJ wishes was his.

It wasn’t till John B and Pope pulled JJ off that the fighting ceased. When they tore him off, you could finally see the damage done to both boys. JJ looked terrible, and Rafe as well. Even though the boys were yelling at JJ to stop, that it wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t done. He stomped back to Rafe, still lying in the sand. He bend down to get in his face.

“Never talk that way about her again, you hear me? Don’t even look at her. You know what? Don’t even think about her.” JJ was face to face once more with Rafe. He grabbed onto a ball of his shirt, lifting Rafe slightly off the ground.

“Stay the fuck off The Cut.”

As a parting gift, JJ spat in Rafe’s face. It startled JJ a little bit when it came out red, but he kept his composure. He let go of Rafe’s shirt, knocking the wind out of him. JJ strutted back to the group, proud of his handywork. The gazes of bystanders only fueled him more.

“Let’s go,” he spoke lowly to the rest of you. You all hopped in the van and drove back to The Chateau. The ride was silent, save for a few groans and sniffles.

When you got back, you helped JJ clean up. You finally got a good look at the damage done to his beautiful face, and it tore you up inside. You hated seeing him hurt. It made you feel like you couldn’t protect him.

“Hey, JJ?” you spoke softly, as if not to hurt the boy anymore. You felt like you were doing enough damage with the rubbing alcohol.

“Hmm?” His eyes were closed. He just wanted to focus on something other than the pain.

“What was the fight about?”

JJ’s eyes shot open. The sudden move caught your attention, and made you chuckle a bit.

“What?” you giggled out. He cleared his throat, trying to play it off.

“Doesn’t matter.” You looked at him like he was crazy, which he was.

“It doesn’t matter? Well why get in a fight about it if it doesn’t matter, then?” JJ looked down, ashamed to meet your gaze. He hopped off the counter, and shuffled out of the small room.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled one more time before he left for his spare room. You were left in the bathroom, dumbfounded by his stubbornness. You cleaned up, got a water bottle from the fridge, and headed outside to meet the rest of your friends. John B was the first to notice you.

“What’s up with him?” He queried.

“He wouldn’t tell me,” you said as you sat down.

“I’ve seen JJ get in some gnarly fights, but I’ve never seen that before,” Pope said. You all nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, nothing like that before.” Kie offered you a comforting smile.

You couldn’t get the image out of your head. The blood and sand all over him, the bruises littering his frame. It made you shiver.

After a while of sitting around the fire, not much spoken, you all decided that it was time to go in. Pope put out the fire, and you watched the smoke flare up. There was always something so satisfying about it, and you would take anything to give you a little peace right about now.

You were getting ready to go home, but this feeling kept nagging you. You couldn’t leave without checking on JJ. As quietly as you could, you opened the door to his room, and cringed when the door squeaked.

“Y/N?” JJ asked as he turned his head toward the sound.

“Yeah, It’s me, I just came to check on you, but I’ll go,” you rushed out the last part, not wanting to give yourself the chance to embarrass yourself.

“No, it’s okay,” JJ reassured. You relaxed at his words.

“Oh, okay,” you quietly said, you stood in the doorway awkwardly for a moment before JJ spoke up.

“Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you stay with me?”

Your eyes widened at his words.

“Um, y-yeah, sure,” you stuttered. You gave him a smile as you sat down on his bed, your legs still hanging over the side.

“No, I mean, like, for the night, Y/N.” He chuckled at your sudden shyness.

“Oh, yeah.” Your voice was a little shaky. JJ lifted the covers for you, welcoming you into the bed. Once you got settled in, your felt your nerves fading away. You laid on your side, facing him.

JJ felt like home. His presence made all your worries vanish, leaving you with nothing but a soft fondness. He made you feel as if you were laying on a cloud, with nothing but ocean below. Nothing but the waves to catch you if you fell. Nothing but home.

He moved from laying on his back to his side, and put his hand out in front of him, like he was waiting for something to be put in it. You looked at him questioningly.

“C’mon,” he whispered. You got the hint, and placed your hand in his. He looked deeply in your eyes, and you thought, this is it. This is the moment it all changes. This is the moment he finally tells me. He loves me.

“Look... I’m sorry for acting like a jackass earlier. I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. Especially when you were trying to take care of me. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t meet your eyes. But what JJ said in the bathroom was the truth. The fight didn’t matter. JJ’s feelings towards you didn’t matter. There was no way someone as beautiful as you, someone as kind as you, could ever love him. He knew not to believe the fantasies in his head could come true one day. Like the ones where you two growing up together, leaving the Outer Banks, starting a family. He couldn’t let himself fall into those traps. He was smarter than that.

You brought your hand up to stroke his cheek, being extra careful.

“Hey, it’s okay, I shouldn’t have pressed. I’m sorry.” At the reassurance, JJ looked up at you. You gave him a smile, a smile that said, “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere”.

JJ was too smart to fall for this trap. He offered a smile back, before tugging his hand away. He flipped over, now laying on his other side, leaving you hurt and confused. You thought this was going somewhere, wasn’t it? You weren’t making it up, right? You couldn’t believe you let yourself fall for it. Fall for his meaningless flirts, his empty words.

“Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, JJ.”

All you wanted to do was grab his shoulders, flip him over, and kiss him. But you couldn’t do that. You couldn’t. Keeping everything bottled up seemed like the best option, it was the only option. You couldn’t destroy what little thing you had with him. It would kill you, so you would let this little crush eat you alive. It was obvious that JJ didn’t like you back, so why even bother with the unnecessary feelings. They just got in the way. They trapped you from having fun, and getting with anyone else. You would just have to accept it. Not everyone can have their fairytale ending.

Chapter Two

[avnkin]

enemies at heart - jj.m

A/N: I’ve been so obsessed with obx recently ksjnfjsdn not even kidding i’ve already watched it like four times,, also it’s been a hot minute since I last wrote anything so please go easy on me and as you know my inbox is open so if you want to request some jj stuff i’ll be happy to deliver it to you ;)

Warnings: swearing, underage drinking, Rafe being a piece of shit as always

Word count: 1.4k

You’ve always thought JJ hated you but one night at a party something changes.

(not my gif)

The sound of your phone vibrating woke you up from your deep slumber, you groaned as you turned over in your bed reaching out for your nightstand where your phone laid. You noticed five missed calls from your friend Kiara and quickly swiped left on the screen in order to call her back.

“Y/N finally! We’ve been waiting for you all night where are you” you furrowed your brows in confusion as you looked outside your window and saw that it was pitch black “shit sorry I fell asleep”.

You heard Kiara groan on the other side of the phone “whatever just get your ass to the beach right now! or you’ll miss the entire fucking party!” and with that, she hung up. You placed your phone back onto the nightstand as you stood up and reached for the blue polo mini dress you had neatly laid out onto the floor along with some white air forces to wear for the night.

When you finished getting dressed you quickly did your hair and makeup before quietly ascending down the stairs in your house, that in your opinion was way too big for just you and your dad.

You were a kook and your dad was one of the richest men in outer banks but you could never stand hanging out with Rafe and his clan of idiots so you befriended Kiara who quickly introduced you to her friends happy with no longer being the only girl in the group.

At first, the boys weren’t so happy with another “kook princess” as they’d liked to call you to join their group but they quickly warmed up to you once they realized you were noting like Rafe and the other kooks, that is everyone except JJ. For some reason, he always had a problem with you. He made it perfectly clear that he had no interest whatsoever in being your friend. 

Over the last couple of months it had gotten somewhat better between the two of you, when you first met you couldn’t stand to be in the same room with each other without arguing or bickering but now you choose to ignore all his comments, taking the high road as you didn’t want to be stirring any further problems in the group.

You carefully opened your front door and quietly shut it behind you before tiptoeing down your porch and making your way down to the beach. Your dad had never been a big fan of the people you hung out with, especially after he heard about the whole incident at the last beach party you went to when JJ pulled a gun on Topper but you never let his opinions affect the way you felt about them or stop you from hanging out with them.

“Y/N!” you heard the voice of Kie call you who sat between JJ and John B motioning for you to come over “hey” you laughed wrapping your arms around her as she stood up to hug you. When you looked over her shoulder you couldn’t help but notice JJ’s wandering eyes traveling down your body, the dress you wore was tight and hugged every single part of your body perfectly.

“Eyes up here J” you retorted giving him a questioning look, “sorry princess” he scoffed putting emphasis on the word princess which almost sounded venomous slipping off his tongue “stop calling me that” you glared at him, he shrugged before downing the beer that filled his red plastic cup. You rolled your eyes and sat down next to Pope choosing to ignore him instead of starting a fight.

JJ quickly got up as soon as you sat down and made his way across the beach finding comfort in one of the tourist girls that he usually flirted with. Kie gave you a comforting look before scooting her way towards you and wrapping an arm around your shoulder “why is he always like this” you sighed turning to face your best friend. “Honestly I have no idea” she answered, none of them did because every-time they tried to talk to JJ about it he shut them out. You frowned before letting her know you were going to get a drink, she nodded waving you off before continuing her conversation with John B.

You made your way to the keg that was ‘conveniently’ placed right next to JJ and the girl he was currently macking on. You looked over at them and scoffed before deciding to go for the harder stuff grabbing a bottle of vodka you saw laying in the sand and downing it.

“Now what do we have here” you heard the all to familiar sound of Rafe’s voice behind you, not tonight you thought as you turned around to face him, he was way too close for your liking. You attempted to move back but the metal keg was in your way trapping you in-between it and Rafe.

Rafe smirked “you’re looking good tonight Y/L/N” his breath stunk of alcohol and you scrunched your nose up in disgust as he tried to put his hands on your ass. You quickly slapped them away and attempted to get out of there with no avail as Rafe grabbed your wrist harshly and yanked you back up against his chest “no need to play hard to get sweetheart” he whispered in your ear hands traveling down your waist.

“Rafe get off of me!” you yelled once again pushing him away from you “you’re such a bitc-” he was cut off by JJ’s fist slamming into his face “are you fucking deaf or something she told you to leave her alone” JJ growled, you were pleasantly shocked that JJ was defending you, not expecting this from him.

Kiara, Pope, and John B quickly made their way over to you hearing the commission all the way from where they were sitting. Pope pulled you and Kiara back as John B made his way over to JJ.

“Whatever pogue” Rafe said before spitting in the direction of you and JJ “she’s not worth it anyways” he smirked looking JJ dead in the eyes obviously trying to get a rise out of him. But before JJ could launch at him John B stopped him pressing his hands to his chest “JJ stop” he muttered looking him dead in the eye “whatever man” JJ grumbled turning around smacking into your shoulder harshly before walking away.

You were sick of this you thought stomping after him anger consuming you as you grabbed his bicep and turned him towards you “what the hell is your problem!?” you yelled nostrils flaring as you crossed your arms over your chest, JJ smacked his lips before muttering “I have no idea what you’re talking about” and attempting to walk away again.

“No you’re not walking away from me this has been going on for way too long and I’m sick of it! What have I ever done to you that made you hate me so fucking much? huh! is it because I’m a kook because there’s nothing I can do to change where I’m from and-” you were quickly cut off by JJ’s lips pressing against your own.

You pushed him away shocked not being able to register what had just happened you had liked JJ ever since you first met, you always thought he was the hottest boy you had ever laid eyes on but figured he didn’t and would never replicate your feelings because of how he acted so over time you’d pushed those thoughts away.

You couldn’t help it you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him back down towards you, the feeling of his tongue slipping into your mouth as his arms wrapped around your waist pulling you closer to him was something you’d dreamed of ever since you’d met.

He was now the first to separate his lips from yours as his forehead rested against your own, arms never letting go of your waist “I’m sorry for being an ass it’s just I always thought you hated me-” you cut him off “what why” he chuckled leaning his head back before looking back at you.

“I don’t know you just never really paid any attention to me and when you did I always felt like you had no interest in talking to me what so ever so I just- I don’t know shut you out before you could do it to me” You nodded but it still frustrated you that he’d been an asshole to you for almost half a year and was just now confessing his feelings.

“I’m really sorry Y/N” he sighed moving a strand of hair behind your ear and placing his index finger under your chin tilting your head up so you were now looking at him “it’s okay, i’m sorry too” you chuckled pressing your lips lightly against his.

I know this isn’t the best but just bare with me guys im trying to get back into writing 😫😫

[serifsans]

2007

“They fly in fish from the Toyosu Market three times a week. Every vegetable? Grown local. They bring out fruit after from Sembikiya: so damn good you’ll cry. Oldest luxury fruit market in Japan. They sell these melons that cost more than a car. You order the steak here and that’s Wagyu: real Wagyu beef, not that bullshit people try to pass off as Wagyu. You never tasted anything like it, kid.”

Vladimir eats a piece of smoked salmon nigiri (it’s one of the best things he’s ever tasted and he’s so sorry that he’ll never come back here if he has any say in the matter now that he knows it’s Syndicate-owned.) and feels his blood pressure rise.

“Yeah, I’ve been to Japan too,” he says. “It’s good. I’m a pescatarian now, so no more steak.”

“Is that some new kind of vegan?” Yura asks. “They keep inventing new ones, swear to god, I can’t keep track of this shit. Kat came home the other day, says she’s paleo now because it’s natural or some shit. What the fuck is paleo?”

“You only eat what a caveman eats. No sugar or grain. No alcohol either,” Vlad replies. "You can eat meat though."

“What the fuck.”

“Yeah, pretty much. I don’t do that shit. Pescatarian means you don’t eat meat but you still eat fish. I’m not giving up mayonnaise or lox, fuck that, not going vegan. You ruined all chances of me ever going full vegetarian, by the way, so fuck you for raising me in New York, asshole.”

“Fuck you too, you little shit,” his brother says with mock anger and Vlad has to remind himself of what happened to Leah because when he’s around Yura, it’s too easy for him to feel like a kid again, safe and happy, like before everything went to shit and he realized just what exactly his big brother was doing in America.

Yura is not safe to be around. He cannot forget that. He should not be someone whose approval he’s still so desperate to get, even as an adult, but here we are. Vladimir thinks there must be something wrong with him for coming back into the fold.

“Can you even get decent lox in Orlando?”

Vlad shrugs, picks at his daikon salad.

“No, the bagels are all pretty much shit. I find a place I like and then it just becomes a fucking Fanera within the year, so I don’t even try. Shit, the whole damn food scene is so touristy that any time I want a decent meal, I just go down to Miami.”

“I told you not to move to a tourist trap but you never listen to what’s best,” Yura says and despite the light tone, Vlad knows he’s still upset he didn’t move back to NYC.

“Yeah, well, that tourist money’s pretty damn nice, so I think we’re good, bagels or no bagels,” he says, sharper than he meant. God, when the hell will the waiter bring out more sake? He needs something to cool down his nerves or he’s going to say something he’ll regret. He can never tell if he wants to punch or hug his brother.

“Tourists come to New York too,” Yura says flatly like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which, yeah, it is. Vladimir sighs and decides he might as well eat some of this daikon rather than stirring it around with his chopsticks.

“Sorry, that was rude of me. It’s been a really long day. Five hour conference call. No one needs to talk about silicon that long,” he says, cringing internally because he knows Yura hates reminders about what Vlad does for a living because shooting a guy between the eyes is completely fine but selling toys isn’t. Vlad’s the black sheep of the family for a lot of reasons.

"Look, Orlando’s been good for my boyfriend. He’s delicate, needs that warm air. And there’s less, you know, mosquitos.”

Yura gives him an incredulous look.

“What, are they spraying DDT again? You’re feeding me bullshit on that one, kiddo.”

“The mosquitos don’t like it because it’s sunny,” Vlad says. He tries the mackerel. This is the best sushi he’s had in his entire life outside of Japan and even then, it’s almost as good.

"Ah. That sort. So, this man you’re seeing. Is it serious? Have you been seeing him long? Will you marry? They say they’re going to make that legal.”

Vlad grits his teeth, hopes the waiter didn’t overhear that bit about vampires as he approaches the table. The man makes idle small talk as he presents a new bottle of sake and Vlad smiles as much as he can and does not hear a single word. He does not want to talk about his relationship. Yura doesn’t get to know anything about Jean-Paul, not that they’ve been seeing each other for years, not even his name. If he starts trying to get him to settle down again, he’s going to walk right out of here. He's going to finally work up the nerve.

"I have a company. I don’t have time for shit like that. I barely have enough time to go on a date once a week. No.”

There is not enough sake to deal with this.

“So what? We can arrange something, cut out all the hassle. You like men, we can set you up with a man of good character, get you a husband. Sokolov’s got a boy he doesn’t know what to do with, says he’s a fan of ballet. The Sokolovs are good people, loyal. It’d be a good match.”

Vlad groans and shotguns an entire glass because it might not be enough but it’s better than nothing. Cool, the fucking mob isn’t as homophobic as it could be, fucking superb.

“Yeah and how long has Solokov’s brat been legal to drink? How are his college courses coming along, huh? And what, what the hell does that even mean, a fan of ballet? Does he do pirouettes? Does he do that flippy shit? Does he have Mikhail Baryshnikov’s autograph? Is this even a little gay boy we’re talking about or does he just own tights? Look, your men might be into the trophy spouse thing but that’s not my style.”

Yura can, in fact, be cowed a little.

“Well, you know, I’m just going off of what Sokolov said,” he says, ears red. “Hey, I don’t know what you like. What, you like the Vincent Price type instead or something? Okay, that one’s a bit harder to find but I can work something out.”

Fuck, shit, damn, he loves him but why the hell does Yura always start in on this shit the minute he gets him into a room? Also, yeah, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“God, butt out of my dating life already, old man,” Vlad groans, going in for more sake. “What, do you do this to Leah too or-”

Vladimir cuts himself off suddenly and looks down at the sushi boat, does not look at his brother, barely dares to breathe. Silence weighs heavily in the air. They don’t talk about Leo and they don’t talk about the wife he left behind.

The wife he left behind. As if he had any choice in the leaving. As if he might come back. Leo had the backbone to make a stand for what he believed in but Vladimir? No. Call him pragmatic or call him a coward; Vlad knows which one he is.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and this time he's cringing externally, heart in his throat. Yura is his brother. Yura loves him despite everything. Yura never faulted him for leaving. But Leo had practically been a brother to them both. Leah used to be his only friend. Vladimir does not want to test the limits of his brother's patience.

"I'm sorry," he says again. His hand is shaking. Displays of weakness like this are not becoming of a Volchenkov. He's been away too long. He's not like them.

"What do you have to be sorry for? You didn't do anything wrong," Yura says and there is a hint of almost amusement in his face. "We don't talk these days. It's too bad. I always thought she'd be a good match for Maxim."

"Yeah," he replies because he does not know what else to say. His sake cup suddenly fascinates him.

"Hey, hey, chin up, okay? I'm making sure Leah's taken care of. It wasn't personal. It was just one of those things that had to be done. We run a clean operation. We're men of honor."

"I know. I don't doubt that. I just didn't need to bring up someone I had no business talking about. It was...painful."

Say it nonchalant. Eat a sushi roll. Try not to show weakness. They say Leo could only be identified by a single tattoo after Yura was done with him.

"Fuck, yeah, I miss him every day. Loved him like a brother. But listen," Yura says and then he reaches out to put his hand on top of Vlad's like he did to calm him down when he was twelve and uncertain.

"At the end of the day, he wasn't family. You are. I take care of my own house. You're soft but you're still a Volchenkov."

"I'm not soft. I'm not."

"Yeah, kid," Yura says as he pours more sake. "You are."

[if-you-built-yourself-a-myth]

Check Ignition: Sander Schmander

By popular request (*cough* everyone on ao3 and @art3misjade), here is Sander's perspective on events

This segment falls right before Chapter Four of Check Ignition

Sander Driesen was drunk. Honest-to-god, shitfaced drunk. And for the first time in forever, too—he’d laid off the stuff since his treatment plan made it difficult to handle, and since he wanted the meds to actually work. But tonight, he thought, I’ve earned this. Everyone else was drinking. It would be weird if he didn’t participate when his own boyfriend was halfway through his fifth cup of punch.

Fake boyfriend. That was a whole thing.

Now, he lay on the stairs leading upward to the boys’ dormitories. Hopefully those stairs. He didn’t make a habit of visiting the common rooms of other houses, and the layouts tended to differ from one another.

“Sorry,” he croaked to everyone who shimmied their way through. “My bad. Deepest apologies.”

This was why he needed Britt, he thought, to reign in this kind of impulse. Granted, she was the only one who knew about everything else thus far, but he wasn’t going to tell Robbe all that, not when it was already hard enough existing in a magical world with a mundane illness. He wanted to hold onto this last little dream.

Midnight was fast approaching and the bustle downstairs had yet to dispel. Sander tried to move his arms and found them unresponsive. Or rather, he could move them, but it required too much effort to be worth it. He slumped back. More people flooded up the stairs to sleep off whatever terrible concoction was in that punch bowl.

“Robbe has such stupid ideas, I swear,” said Moyo, cresting the staircase. Sander perked up at the sound of Robbe’s name. Probably Moyo. Sander struggled to think through the names of Robbe’s friends—he had them listed in his bedroom for continuity purposes.

He recognized Jens easily enough, because Jens was wherever Robbe was. And Sander watched Robbe a lot. Sander held his breath, as if being quiet could prevent them from seeing him sprawled across their path.

“Shut up,” Jens shot back.

The third boy with them—Alex? Adam?—pitched in, “It’s not Robbe’s fault you don’t get any.”

“He’s throwing away the chance of a lifetime.”

“Shut the fuck up. You sound like an incel.”

“But like, why do they kiss so much? It’s not like you have—�� Moyo stopped short as he tripped over Sander’s leg. Despite their somewhat rational conversation, they weren’t any more sober than Sander himself. “Shit, speak of the devil.”

Jens leaned down to Sander’s eye level. “You alright?”

“Never better,” Sander slurred. It came out more like a groan.

Moyo approached to help Jens move Sander from the center of the stairs. They sat him up against the railing on his left side, which was not any more comfortable than the steps digging into his back. Jens was still in full Quidditch uniform (even the chest padding!), Moyo sported a Hufflepuff tie over a t-shirt and jeans, and Adam-or-whoever stood at a quiet distance in a pair of burgundy pajama pants and his Quidditch robes. Sander would have made note to write these in on his list—a good indicator of personality.

Too bad he didn’t have the sense to do so.

“Can’t handle your alcohol, huh?” Moyo asked. He didn’t seem very threatening, though the question was definitely a taunt. Sander’s brain felt like vanilla pudding. Moyo turned to the boys. “Should we wake Robbe?”

“Yes,” said Sander. Oh, hell yes. Robbe. He liked Robbe so much.

The story itself was long and antiquated, a love-at-first-sight kind of deal for Sander. He couldn’t think of one version where he wasn’t the bad guy. He went on a double-date with Britt and her friend, expecting one of Noor’s usual yuppies to show up and bore the whole table with pointless conversation. Then it was Robbe.

Do you ever just see someone, really see them, and—how could he phrase it—know? Or think you know. All things considered, it wasn’t the best sign in terms of his condition.

He had to walk all the way into the next town over to call his psychiatrist, only to realize there wasn’t much to tell her. Hey, I’m infatuated with this guy that my girlfriend’s friend is dating. What should I do? She’d give him some common-sense answer like, Break up with your girlfriend, which he didn’t want to do until he knew what he was feeling would last. So he said, These side effects are nasty, and she reevaluated his dose of Lexapro.

“Let the virgin sleep,” said Moyo.

Sander pitched forward to grab Moyo by the arm. “No, wake him up.”

Because the thing was, time passed, and the feelings didn’t fade. Britt could tell he wasn’t present anymore and said nothing. Maybe she thought it was the Depakote that his psychiatrist added to the cocktail when the antidepressant dangled him on the edge of hypomania. She was a good person. It really wasn’t fair when he told her it was over via owl, and it really wasn’t fair when he seized his opportunity to kiss Robbe in the astronomy tower. The argument in question was not so bad. He conflated it for an excuse to leave her.

“Where’s Robbe?” said Sander. “I have to see him.”

“He’s asleep, downstairs. We gave him a blanket and everything.” Jens passed over his own cup of water. “Drink this.”

“I have to see him,” Sander repeated.

“Yeah, you have to go to sleep. He’s going to be here tomorrow.”

“It won’t be the same tomorrow.”

The whole relationship wasn’t even meant to be a thing. It was a cheap kiss, really, in the astronomy tower. Sander just wanted to know what it would feel like, and he thought it might serve Robbe too, so he did it. Robbe’s appearance the next day was the most unexpected, thrilling twist he could have dreamed of. Except, in a dream, it wouldn’t be fake.

Robbe never missed a chance to restate that it was fake. That wasn’t the best sign, either.

“Aaron, don’t just stand there,” said Jens. “Help me out. Grab his arms, will you?”

“Aaron.” Sander tested out the name. “But you’re Adam!”

“How much have you had?” Aaron grabbed Sander’s arms and lifted. The boys got Sander up two stairs before deciding he was too heavy. They sat him back against the wall.

“Try again,” Jens instructed.

The second try went about as well as the first.

Jens crouched to Sander’s eye level. “Look, is there someone else we can get for you? Or are you cool with sleeping here?” He had to hold Sander’s shoulders in his hands to keep Sander from pitching forward and rolling all the way back downstairs.

“We can’t leave our friend’s boyfriend here!” said Aaron.

“Fake boyfriend,” Moyo added.

Sander groaned. Yes, remind him of that! It was fake! He knew it already! If his psychiatrist could see him now, she’d say—alright, she’d say that he wasn’t allowed to drink on his overly specific medication regimen. But if that weren’t a factor, she’d say some more common-sense things like, “Tell Robbe how you feel. Tell his friends, if you want.”

Fuck, he missed her. He could seek out the phone booth sometime this week and tell her all about it. She loved hearing from him.

“There’s no one,” he slurred. “I’m okay.”

“Fine, there’s us, then,” said Jens. He hefted one of Sander’s arms over his shoulder. “Moyo, take three.”

Moyo took the other arm. They dragged him up the rest of the way, bumping his head on every other stair. He felt like a snow globe in a tourist trap shop, all shaken up, no escape through the glass. Huh. Poetic. Where was Robbe?

“Wake up Robbe,” Sander requested. Jens and Moyo dropped him into the fourth bed in their room. Aaron, Jens, and Robbe lived here; Sander could deduce that from the eclectic assortment of things piled on every available surface. The blankets of the bed in which he lay were already rumpled, implying that someone else had slept here recently. He touched something sticky on the top sheet. Okay, maybe they didn’t sleep.

Jens looked back and forth between Moyo and Sander. “Why?” he asked.

There were plenty of replies Sander could give. We’re fake-dating, and I want it to be convincing.

We’re such good friends, and I want to tell him so.

I think he has my cell phone. Jens might not know what a cell phone was. Sander could never tell with those purebloods.

He and I have plans to smoke weed and throw rocks at pixies in the Forbidden Forest.

Sander said, “I misssssss him,” with the s pulled to the end of the world. Yeah, that would work, too.

“Um, okay,” said Jens. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Then he, Aaron, and Moyo started laughing, although Sander couldn’t tell just what they found so funny. Sander had an alarm on his cell phone to take his medication at eleven PM, since schedule was important to the efficacy of the active ingredients, or whatever it was his psychiatrist said when she adjusted his Lexapro to 15mg. It buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t have the pills. He was too tired, anyway. It wouldn’t matter if he skipped a dose or two; he’d done worse things than that with lesser consequences.

“You’re going to get Robbe, right?” he asked, and in a moment of clarity, he realized he was a needy boyfriend. He wasn’t a fan of needy Britt. You either die the hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Jens yanked the curtains shut across the fourth bed and bound them with a spell. “You’re drunk, go to sleep. We’ll get Robbe.” The boys began another fit of giggling.

It didn’t bother Sander at all. He stared at the arcing pillars that held up the bedcurtains and hummed a David Bowie song into the darkness. He was young and drunk and in love, and anything could happen. So what if Robbe thought their relationship was fake for now? In a matter of time, it would be real.

[artificialqueens]

Not Nineteen Forever (21) (Branjie/Scyvie/Ninex) - Ortega

a/n: omg i’m emotional. guys, welcome to the last chapter of n19f. this fic has been the absolute best fun to write and i truly love these girls and the journey they’ve been on so much. big big huge thanks and love to every single person that’s ever left a note, hit reblog or left me lovely anons, DMs, comments or tags, they’ve all meant the absolute world to me and i love u so much. obviously i can’t let things go, so keep an eye out for some form of sequel coming in the next few months or so (patience is a virtue xo). for one last time…….let’s go, lesbians!!!!!!!

please note: this fic contains young adults often behaving in irresponsible/unadvisable ways with regards to alcohol, drugs and sex. if you are someone who feels as if they could be heavily influenced by fic and incorporate what happens in the plot into ur own life, pls steer clear!

tw: bit of weed in this one. no zoos, dw xo

summary: Brooke, Yvie and Nina are three flatmates who forged a friendship in their first year of university and picked up some other waifs and strays along the way. Now in their final year, there are feelings that need to be unravelled and confessions to be made whilst navigating drunk nights, hungover mornings, takeaways, group chats, library meetups, cafe gossiping, and the small matter of getting a degree.

last chapter: the girls all went to the beach, Scarlet and Yvie made plans for after uni, and Scarlet got the degree classification she so desperately wanted.

this chapter: it’s Brooke’s graduation day.

***

Brooke looked around at the chaos that was their kitchen. The kitchen utensils (which were all Nina’s that she and Yvie had shamelessly used as if they were their own over the 2 years they’d lived together) were wrapped up in bubble wrap and packed neatly into cardboard boxes which sat on top of the dining table. Yvie’s kitchenware- a blue bowl with a chip out of it, a huge white plate, a Tigger mug, and a mismatched fork, knife and spoon- had been inelegantly packed into an orange Sainsbury’s bag and left on the counter. Brooke had already packed up her own belongings and had moved them into a corner of her room so they wouldn’t take up space in the already-tiny kitchen. All their store cupboard food was in the process of being packed up for the foodbank, which was inevitably going to be flooded with the discarded super noodles, tinned soups and flavoured teas of the migrating tenants of student flats.

Yvie let out a snort from her position in front of their food cupboards, and Brooke’s heart gave a twinge at seeing them so empty. Top shelf had been hers: pasta, rice, stock cubes, and emergency maple syrup tin. The middle shelf was Nina’s: loaf of white bread, tins of tuna, ryvita, breadsticks, crisps. And Yvie’s food had occupied the bottom shelf: chocolate digestives, Ainsely Harriott cous cous, peanut butter, and sour patch kids. All gone. Except, Brooke noticed, for a jar of Marmite which had sat on the middle shelf and that Yvie was holding in her hand.

“Whose was the Marmite?” she asked, an amused tone to her voice. Nina shrugged from her position on the sofa.

“I’ve never once eaten Marmite.”

“It’s on your shelf, girl,” Yvie shrugged, her eyebrows questioning. Nina gave another shrug.

“I know. It’s always lived there. I swear to God it just turned up one day and I left it there. Thought it was one of yours because Christ knows you’re both too lazy to put it on your own damn shelves,” Nina reprimanded them both. Brooke laughed.

“You know you’re going to regret being so mean to us when you don’t live with us any more and we’re adults and it takes 9 months to clear our schedules for one singular coffee,” she raised her eyebrows at her flatmate as Nina pouted and let out a groan, held out her arms for a hug which Brooke fell into.

“Don’t! This is already too heartbreaking, I can’t believe we only have two days left here.”

“I can’t believe we’re actually organised with this moving out process.”

“I can’t believe we have a phantom jar of Marmite that nobody’s claiming,” Yvie piped up, peering at the jar with interest. “Brooke, you like this shit, right?”

“Marmite is Satan’s black fecal matter and I’m offended you think I eat it,” she deadpanned, shifting to get comfy in Nina’s lap whilst attempting to be as inconvenient as possible to her friend.

“Get the hell off me. Only my girlfriend is allowed to sit on me for so long that I lose feeling in my legs,” Nina huffed, shoving at Brooke until she relented and sat beside her. It didn’t stop her from putting her cold feet on her bare thigh though, and Nina hissed and jumped away. “I take it all back. I’m not going to miss either of you idiots at all.”

“You’re a crap liar,” Yvie smiled smugly, binning the Marmite and joining the two girls on the sofa, squeezing in between them both. “Awh, guys…it’s the end of an era.”

Brooke suddenly felt tears prick at her eyes out of nowhere. “Shut up. We’ve still got tomorrow and the next day.”

“Yeah, but tomorrow you’re gonna be doing graduation-y shit and then it’s moving day!” Nina protested. Her voice grew small, dropping to a murmur. “It’s kind of like it’s our last day.”

The girls fell silent. Yvie let out a huge puff of air from her lungs. “Don’t tell anyone I said this but I’m gonna miss you girls so fucking much.”

“Awh, Yves. I’ll miss you too,” Nina sighed, burying her face into Yvie’s shoulder and curling her arms around one of Yvie’s. “But this is good! Change is good, even if it’s scary and different. And you’re gonna be living with Scarlet! That’s exciting!”

“How’s the flat hunting going?” Brooke asked Yvie, who had a little smile on her face. Brooke didn’t know if Yvie knew that she always began to smile a little whenever Scarlet was mentioned. She wasn’t going to mention it to her. She would maybe mention it to Scarlet.

“Like I’d rather shit in my hands and clap,” Yvie groaned, running her hands down her face. “It’ll be fine, though. We’ve got a while. Her lease isn’t up until August so we’ve got a few weeks to keep looking and in the meantime I’ll just stay with her in that Dickensian death trap she calls a flat.”

The girls let out a laugh, Brooke resting her head on Yvie’s shoulder too. There was a small silence.

“At least you and Monet are sorted,” Yvie spoke again, Nina nodding in agreement. Buoyed by how well Yvie’s suggestion to Scarlet had been received, Nina had been determined not to fuck up another relationship milestone with Monet and had asked her to move in with her as well. The answer had been an emphatic yes, and the pair of them had used their terrifying teacher-levels of organisation skills to find a cute two-bed flat in a nicer, only slightly more expensive part of the city. They both knew their relationship was still new and fragile, so they’d agreed a room each was a good idea to give them their space when they each needed to work or wanted a bit of time on their own to simply do nothing. Brooke knew the two girls were joined at the hip though so they probably didn’t need that sort of contingency plan, but it was a sensible decision nonetheless.

“I can’t wait to get the keys and just vomit up a bunch of fairy lights and candles in every possible room,” she beamed, excitement radiating out of every pore. “It’s going to be so fun- we’re going to take turns cooking, and build pillow forts, and blast our songs on a Sunday morning and clean the whole place-”

“Fuck. Adulthood’s fully got you. Brooke, quick, if we run we can still save ourselves,” Yvie deadpanned, Nina giving her a whack as Brooke laughed.

“I personally can’t wait to go round and visit at every available opportunity. I’m going to move in,” Brooke smiled, and Nina gave another sad kicked-puppy pout.

“I wish. Canada is so far away,” she sighed, a little knife going through Brooke’s heart at the thought of moving back. She didn’t want to think about it, but it was just inevitable. It was happening, and it was fact. She was going back to Canada. She didn’t really know what she was doing, she hadn’t found herself a flat, and she didn’t have a job to earn money and pay the rent with even if she had, so she was flying home.

She really didn’t want to think about leaving. She didn’t want to think about leaving the city, constantly busy with tourists and families and drunk students and Very Important Working Adults. She didn’t want to think about leaving the park, with the cherry blossom trees that lined every path and fond memories of barbecues and picnics and drinking in the sun with the girls. She didn’t want to think about leaving uni- because as stressful as all hell her degree had been, she’d loved studying fashion design, loved making prototypes, loved learning about something she loved, even though her degree was fuck all use to her trying to get an actual job. She didn’t want to think about leaving the flat: the shower with its drippy head, the hob with the one gas burner that didn’t work, the carpet in her room with the incongruous red faded stain, the fucking Sports Direct mug. The girls that she loved so much her heart felt sore if she thought too much about it: Nina singing obnoxiously early as she got ready for placement, Yvie making the kitchen into a war zone trying new recipes, the ridiculous squabbles they got into about the washing up, pre-pre-drinks where they shared a bottle of pink Gordon’s and splashed mixers into their mismatched glasses and sang along to Ariana Grande at the top of their lungs.

Tears stung at her eyes again, and she swallowed the big lump in her throat to shoo them away. It was too late though, as Nina had seen her glassy eyes and reached over to hug her. Her own voice was thick with tears as she spoke.

“Oh, girls,” she let out a shaky breath, Brooke giving up the fight as she felt her own tears drop down onto her hoodie. “Change is good…but it’s shit.”

“Fuck you both, I’m not crying,” Yvie said, her breathing all shuddery and letting them both know that was a lie. The girls all sat and held each other as they wept quietly, mourning the death of their student careers and this life they’d lived for three years that they’d all too often taken for granted.

Brooke was the first to dry her tears, giving one decisive sniff and sweeping under both her eyes with determination. “Right. I’m putting a stop to this, we’re not spending our kind-of last night in the flat sitting crying like a bunch of babies. We’re going to order food, get high as St Peter’s balls and watch shitty game shows that make us yell at the TV. Okay?”

She was happy that Yvie and Nina both snorted a weepy laugh and nodded at her. “Okay.”

And the three girls did just what Brooke had suggested. There was, however, bickering about where they should order from. Yvie wanted sushi from the tiny little place tucked away in a back street that did bento boxes with prawn katsu and salmon maki which were like little rice parcels of heaven. Nina wanted Chinese from their favourite takeaway that delivered from out in the suburbs and where, for about fifteen points all in, you could get a banquet of sweet and sour chicken in sticky red sauce, crispy golden salt and chilli chips with huge red jewels of chilli and slices of garlic, chicken fried rice in a rich Cantonese gravy which bound everything together and chow mein with soft spring onion slices and huge chunks of onions all tossed in soy sauce. Brooke’s selection won in the end though as her argument was the strongest- “I might not taste any of this again, Canada is a long fucking journey, okay?!”- so they ordered burritos and chips and salsa from the incredibly-overpriced-but-worth-it burrito bar on campus. They finished the last of the weed that had been wrapped in tin foil and cling film and shoved to the back of the broom cupboard along with the bong, and they made horrifying cocktails from the dregs of their leftover spirits and mixers. The burritos arrived and they stuck Challenge TV on and shouted at the Catchphrase contestants who couldn’t get the most obvious fucking catchphrases Brooke had ever seen in her life.

The evening was perfect.

They talked about Brooke’s graduation tomorrow, Nina and Yvie both saying how proud they were of her. Brooke was glad she had the girls, since her Mum’s flight over to see her graduate had been cancelled because of freak winds back in Canada. Brooke had already cried to her over facetime about it, but Yvie had managed to find the link to the livestream that was only meant to be shown on campus, and she’d sent Brooke’s Mum the link so Brooke knew she would be watching even if she couldn’t properly be there. As soon as they’d heard the news, the girls had all agreed on the group chat to set up camp in the union and watch the livestream (as Brooke and Plastique would be graduating at the same ceremony) and then take photos with them both afterwards outside the great hall as if they were a gaggle of proud Mums. Even though it wouldn’t be what she’d planned, Brooke was still looking forward to it.

It was around midnight before Brooke took herself off to bed, and just as she got cosy underneath the duvet her phone lit up with a notification. She couldn’t help the smile that involuntarily shot to her face when she realised it was Vanessa.

V: hey what’s ya fav Kanye West album mine is GRADUATION!!!!!!! How you feelin about tomorrow boo? xxxxxx

Brooke let out a laugh, muffling it too late with her hand when it came out louder than expected. Christ, she loved the girl so much.

B: Kanye West is a misogynist pig and i won’t stand for him xxxxxx

B: Stronger is a bop though xxxxxx

V: You got that one right xxxxxx

B: And I’m good! Big jumble of feelings. Big happy/sad vibes xxxxxx

V: I know it’s bittersweet af xxxxxx

V: Me n Scar just held each other and cried once the ceremony was over xxxxxx

Vanessa and Scarlet had graduated last week, as had their other friends. Brooke and Plastique’s graduation date was the latest and so they were graduating last. She didn’t mind that, though. The longer she could stay being a student the better.

B: Lol we just had a big cry as a full flat xxxxxx

V: Don’t lmao idk what we gonna be like when our lease is up xxxxxx

Brooke scrolled up and looked at all the texts they’d exchanged from the past two months, the same signature of six kisses at the end of them all. They hadn’t really spoken about where they were relationship-wise since the night in the library. Maybe Vanessa didn’t want to. Maybe it was for the best. Brooke’s heart hurt as she realised she was going to be on the other side of the world in a matter of days, and maybe Vanessa didn’t want to see her ever again. She frowned at her own thoughts before tears had a chance to start welling in her eyes again. It had been good to truly get back to where she’d been before with Vanessa- just texting random garbage, having deep chats about the future, being ever-so-slightly flirty with each other. She thought about confronting the issue head on over text, but it wasn’t the medium through which to have that kind of conversation.

As if Vanessa could read her mind, however, another text came through.

V: When do you fly back again? 20th? xxxxxx

Brooke’s heart felt sore.

B: 12th xxxxxx

V: oh right

Brooke’s pulse froze at the lack of kisses. Her fingers ghosted over her screen, trying to figure out what to type. Vanessa sorted the problem for her.

V: fuck I wish you weren’t leaving xxxxxx

Brooke’s heart swelled up then popped. Was this the time? No. But their time was running out, she knew that much. Maybe she could see her before she left. She’d see her after her graduation anyway.

B: I wish I wasn’t either xxxxxx

B: But you’re coming tomorrow yeah? Xxxxxx

V: Wouldn’t miss it for the world baby xxxxxx

Fuck, she would miss her so much. She’d already told Vanessa how much she meant to her, just how fucking incredible she was in every way, and yet Brooke felt like doing it again.

She didn’t, because it would be too weird. But she wanted to more than anything.

V: You gonna look so beautiful and clever tomorrow I just know it xxxxxx

Brooke smiled to herself, blushing on her own at the compliment. Vanessa seemed to be firing risky texts to her left right and centre, so Brooke took a risk of her own.

B: Not as beautiful as you xxxxxx

She almost threw her phone away once she’d sent it. A reply came back almost instantly.

V: Stop with the lies xxxxxx

She was leaving in two days so she sent another risky one, caution truly pissed into the wind.

B: You’re honestly the most beautiful girl in the world xxxxxx

At that point Brooke put her phone face down on her bedside table and decided to sleep, her heart full of butterflies and her thoughts filled with the ridiculously massive crush she had on the girl she’d been idiotic enough to let go the first time.

When Brooke woke up, her phone was blowing up with messages. The one she checked first was from Vanessa in reply to the one she’d sent last night, and was simply a series of heart eye emojis. The next one she opened was a text from her Mum, paragraphs of pride and love for her daughter that made Brooke want to cry already. The others were all from the chat- Silky, Akeria, Vanessa, Scarlet, Yvie and Nina all spamming it with messages of luck and love for her and Plastique, and promising they’d be watching the screen and waiting outside for them when the ceremony was done.

Brooke got ready in a dream-like haze. She took her smart black tailored dress out of the cupboard where it had been hanging for the past month, the garment more ready for graduating than she was. She showered then dried her hair, curling it and brushing out so it made waves down her back. She put on her makeup- browns and nudes with only the tiniest bit of highlight. When she stepped into her dress and heels and looked at herself in front of the mirror, she hardly recognised herself.

She looked like an adult. A woman with her life stretching out in front of her, ready to be whatever she made of it.

Brooke phoned a taxi- it was raining just a little, even though it was already July- and pulled on a smart black coat when she saw it pull up outside, dashing carefully down the steps of the stairwell and out into the new day.

Graduation wasn’t til 11, but Brooke had arranged to meet up with Plastique beforehand anyway, just so they could be excited together. When Brooke pulled up at the taxi rank outside the square and the huge ceremony hall, she could see Plastique and her Mum there already, standing bickering amongst the growing gaggle of students and families. The sight only hurt Brooke a bit, until she remembered the girls would all be watching, and her Mum would be watching too no matter how far away. It would, after all, be about one and a half hours of waiting for Brooke to walk across the stage, take a scroll and shake a hand, and then it would all be over.

It was scary to think that that was all that was separating her and the adult world.

Trying not to get too deep and to instead just enjoy the day, Brooke excitedly paid the driver and dashed out of the taxi, Plastique spotting her running towards her and giving an excited squeal. She opened her arms out for a hug which Brooke crashed into.

“Bitch! How are you!” Plastique cried, Brooke only squeezing her tightly in response. “I’m so excited! And sad. And excited! And emotional.”

“Yeah, I can tell!” Brooke teased, Plastique laughing as she stepped out of the hug and gestured to her Mum, dressed very glamorously in a blue dress, blue heels and a pink fascinator. The occasion didn’t really call for it but Plastique’s Mum was always one to embrace the potential glamour in every situation, and so she had gone all out.

“You’ve met my Mum, right?” Plastique smiled. Brooke nodded and waved her a hello. She’d met her once at their second year showcase, the woman keeping her in stitches with her hilarious stories.

“I have! Nice to see you again, Alyssa.”

Alyssa, throwing formalities out of the window, instead pulled Brooke into a crushing hug. “And you too, my angel! Awh, Lord, ‘Tique told me all about your Mama’s flight. My heart is absolutely breakin’ for you, honey. I would’ve sent a plane over for her but nobody’s flying out of there come hell or high water.”

Brooke suppressed a laugh, finding it unbelievable that “I’ll just get her a plane” was on Alyssa’s list of options. “It’s okay Alyssa. Thank you, though. She’s going to watch the live stream, Yvie hooked her up with a link.”

“Well I’ll be your Mama just for today, girl. I am so proud of you both!” Alyssa cried, putting both her hands on Plastique’s shoulders and sighing. “Look at my intelligent daughter, out here gettin’ degrees and lookin’ so beautiful at the same time.”

Plastique smiled at her Mum lovingly, the two of them sharing one last hug before she and Brooke took themselves off to pick up their robes. It was surreal actually wearing the gown, all billowing and black, and helping each other fix their hoods, light blue with fringes of pink. They went to get their graduation photos taken, Brooke surprised that they were given a prop degree to hold as she’d always thought it was her actual degree she’d be holding. She laughed as Plastique moaned to her about not being able to see the photo until it got mailed to her, and the fact that her Mum ordered about twenty four copies so even if it was horrible she wouldn’t ever be able to escape it. Alyssa texted Plastique to tell her she’d gone into the hall to get a good seat, so her and Brooke decided to just go and sit ready anyway. They had to say goodbye to each other briefly until the end of the ceremony, as everyone had to sit in alphabetical order. As she waited for the ceremony to begin, Brooke scanned the huge crowds all seated in the hall’s three tiered levels. Her eyes fell on each empty seat and her heart broke a little more each time she saw one.

Nobody she truly loved would see her graduate in person. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t absolutely gutted. But at least she had Plastique, and of course, Alyssa.

Before she knew it, the ceremony had begun. She tried to pay attention to the Dean’s address and the chamber choir singing in Latin but she couldn’t help feeling like a 16-year-old in her school assembly, bored and just full of anticipation. Eventually, the awards began. Brooke clapped for all the other students crossing the stage, her eyes trained on the way they walked. She swallowed down the panic she felt, banished the thought of tripping over to the back of her mind. It reached Plastique’s turn, and she gave a huge cheer as her friend walked across the stage with all the grace and poise of a supermodel. She could hear Alyssa’s voice shouting from the balcony- “That’s my baby! That’s my girl!”- and, for a moment, she thought she heard the yell of a voice she knew all too well.

No. That was crazy. She must have imagined it.

E in the alphabet turned to F, then G, and eventually, H. Brooke didn’t have many others to sit through, and eventually there was only one girl separating her and her degree. The moment these three years had led up to, finally being lived out.

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.”

She heard her name and smiled as she walked carefully across the stage, shaking the Dean’s hand tightly and collecting her scroll all wrapped up in its little embossed tube. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face as she walked to the other side, heard the claps, heard the cheers, and heard…

“Love you, Brooke Lynn!”

Stop.

“Go Brooke! Love you, girl!”

It was her. It was actually her. Vanessa’s voice, soaring above the crowd and reaching Brooke like an arrow.

What the fuck was she doing here, at her actual graduation ceremony? As Brooke dismounted the stage she scanned the room like a meerkat, the place far too packed to distinguish Vanessa from any other of the little blobs of people sitting in each row. But she knew it was her. Vanessa had seen her graduate, had seen her collect her degree and had cheered for her.

Brooke didn’t know how she’d managed to get a ticket - they were all reserved for families- but she suddenly couldn’t wait for the ceremony to end.

She didn’t have long to wait, as time flew by and everything was over before it could all sink in. Brooke and Plastique emerged from the hall to the crowds outside and, just as they had promised, the girls all rushed forward to crush them in ridiculously tight hugs, Silky yelling at the top of her lungs how proud she was of them both and Akeria shaking a bottle of five pound cava until the cork opened easily and sprayed the fizz all over the two girls. Brooke clung to Plastique and laughed, unable to stop the smile that was plastered on her face.

“I can’t believe it! You both did it, congratulations!” Scarlet cried cheerfully, Brooke pulling her into another hug.

“Did you see me shaking when I walked across the stage? I thought I was going to trip and fall off the damn thing!” Brooke laughed, the other girls all laughing too.

“You looked like a confident, graceful, successful queen,” Nina told her, Brooke wanting to cry at her friend’s compliment. “And you are all of those things! Fuck, I can’t believe we’ve all graduated now. What the hell are we going to do?!”

“Aw, let’s not think about that,” Akeria shushed her, a proud smile on her face. “Well done, ladies. We’re all proud of you. You did that shit.”

Plastique hugged and thanked them all again before making her excuses, saying she’d be right back, and dashing off to Alyssa. As she left, Yvie took Brooke’s hand and squeezed it.

“So, have you not got some big, teen-movie speech to make, or something?” she quipped. Brooke frowned, looking at her with confusion. The rest of the girls all waited for the penny to drop excitedly, and Brooke saw Akeria’s eyes land on someone just over her shoulder. Brooke turned around and, through the crowd, saw Vanessa waiting beside the hall. Their eyes met, and Brooke could see her try and then fail to suppress the smile on her face. Brooke turned back to the girls, pointing over her shoulder at the girl waiting for her.

“How did…you were all-”

Akeria rolled her eyes, gave her a gentle shove. “Go get your fuckin’ girl, idiot.”

Brooke hardly had to be told twice. She turned around, took two steps, then three, then four, until she realised she was almost jogging over to where Vanessa stood. And suddenly she was in front of her- her hair wavy and falling over her shoulders, her outfit exactly what any graduation guest would be wearing- a smart red dress that accentuated Vanessa’s collarbones and dark eyes and the bright white of the smile she was flashing Brooke’s way.

“Hey,” Brooke began, faltering slightly. She didn’t know where to start, so she chose the obvious. “You were there.”

“Yep!” Vanessa smiled at her proudly.

“How did…how?” Brooke stuttered out, still completely at a loss. Vanessa let out a laugh, charming beyond anything Brooke had heard before.

“I messaged your Mama. Got her number off Yvie after she sent her the link for the livestream. Basically said “hey Ms Hytes…can I grab your ticket and see your daughter graduate so I can surprise her”?” Vanessa grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Brooke couldn’t believe it. Her own Mum had been in on the whole thing and hadn’t let on. She was going to kill the woman the moment she touched down in Toronto.

“Oh my God. You’re amazing,” Brooke gasped, taking a little step forward so they were closer. She felt like crying. Vanessa was here, in front of her for what was maybe the last time. She had to do something. She couldn’t lose her. Not again.

“Amazing, huh?” Vanessa asked shyly, looking to the ground. They both knew the question meant so much more than simply what it was, and Brooke, without knowing where her confidence had emerged from, took both of Vanessa’s hands in hers. Vanessa’s gaze shot up, and their eyes met.

“Can I kiss you?”

“God, please.”

Without waiting a second longer, Brooke tipped her head down and met Vanessa’s lips. It was somehow just like the first time, even though in many ways it wasn’t at all. This time, Brooke knew every single inch of Vanessa’s body, she knew her ambitions, her fears, she knew what it was like to have almost lost her and be lucky enough to have her come back again. But most of all, Brooke knew that she was in love with her, so fucking in love with her, this one of a kind girl who she was desperate to keep in her life no matter if Vanessa chose her to be hers or not. Their kiss was gentle and urgent and passionate all at once, and Brooke wanted to hold onto the moment forever. When Vanessa’s lips were gone and Brooke was all at once looking at her again, she had tears in her eyes.

“Hey, hey, ‘Ness. Come on, this isn’t…don’t be upset.”

“I am, though! I’m an idiot. These past two months we could’ve been kissing like that and going on cute dates and planning the future and having fuckin’ insane levels of sex but I left you hanging like boo boo the fuckin’ fool when I knew what my decision was the moment we had that conversation in the library, because it’s you, Brooke, fuck, it’s always been you. I love you so much,” Vanessa sniffed, frantically wiping her tears away as Brooke pulled her against her chest. Vanessa’s voice murmured against her, the most hopeful, plaintive question. “Do you still love me?”

“Fuck, Vanessa, of course I love you. You’re just…the person I was meant to meet, you’re the person I’m meant to have in my life. I love you so much.”

Brooke felt like an idiot as tears began to well up in her own eyes. She looked down at Vanessa and she looked back up at her.

“You’re leaving,” Vanessa let out a tiny sob, her forehead hitting Brooke’s chest again.

“I’ll come back,” Brooke said immediately, meaning it. “Honestly, I will. I’ll book my flights as soon as I’m home. I’ll look for flats and jobs and we can start again. We’ll make it work. I want to be with you.”

Vanessa looked up at her, her happy, grateful smile at Brooke’s words all she needed. She let out a tearful laugh. “Brooke Lynn, will you be my girlfriend?”

Brooke laughed too, taking her both her hands and squeezing them. “Hey, fuck you, I wanted to ask first!”

They both laughed then leaned in for another kiss. Brooke didn’t need to answer. Vanessa hadn’t needed to ask.

As they broke away and wrapped their arms around each other, Brooke felt the tears spring up in her eyes as she looked over at the girls. There was Akeria, making some quip about something, and Silky howling at whatever it was she’d said. Monet had joined them all and was swigging the cava out of the bottle, an arm around Nina who was looking at her with adoration. Scarlet and Yvie were telling them both a story, their hands intertwined and their bodies close. Plastique had dragged her Mum over to meet them all and her face was animated as she spoke to her, so full of happiness and excitement.

“Fuck, Vanessa, I can’t believe it’s all over,” Brooke let out a small sob. Vanessa reached up, swept her tears away with a gentle finger.

“Hey. Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”

Brooke smiled down at her girlfriend. Her girlfriend. There was nobody she’d rather have spent the past three years with.

“You wanna go steal that cava back from Monet?”

Brooke giggled and nodded. Joining their hands together and giving them a little squeeze, they walked back over to be with their family.

[bates--boy]

One would think that in such a restaurant bar such as this, -- a branch-off of a four-star tourist-trap hotel, a hub of travel-weary businesspeople and high school socialites with fake IDs, all in top-brand suits and casuals and shoes -- the drinks would be the nectar milked from the teats of whatever deities represented alcoholic drinks.

But they’re shit. They’re absolute shit.

Still, Peter sat hunched over his glass of gin, musing without amusement how it would be no different if he just went to any old convenience store with a medical shelf, buy a bottle of rubbing alcohol with a high isopropyl content and down that, instead. No, there would be one difference: it wouldn’t taste as watered-down.

He planted the slice of lemon in his mouth, nibbling it to mitigate some of the taste of disappointment, scrolling through his home feed to stave off the awful mood of being wrung dry by the bearded, buff barbarian in a sleek black button-up, and the faceless corporation that he worked for. But some part of him was looking to feed his foul mood, or maybe he was feeling adventurous, because he mulled over whether or not he should order a glass of champagne and keep the train of minor bad decisions going. It was the weekend, after all, and he wouldn’t need to be back to work for another week.

When he forced another sip of the gin down his throat, Peter was ready to decide against it when a flute appeared before him, anyhow. “Er...” Peter said, reaching for the waiter’s arm to stop him from popping open the bottle. “I didn’t order this.”

The waiter across the room. “Courtesy of the gentleman over there.”

Furrowing his brow, Peter turned his stool in the direction the server pointed out, ignoring the gentle pop of the undone cork and the hiss of bubbles.

Immediately, a hand rose above the crowd, the crystal whiskey glass capturing what light it could in this dimly-lit cave and twinkling many colors like a beacon in a gray sea.

Either the distance and the low lights must be to blame, or Peter must be forgiven for being mean, but the guy looked like a bore.

Average rectangular frame, his receding and lackluster dark hair snipped into a budget hair style, slacks that were reminiscent of the private high schools of every wild child’s nightmare. Only thing about the man that stood out (at least from across the room) was the well-worn leather jacket with its tarnished buckles, a vintage beauty that spoke to Peter’s tendency for nostalgia.

But a jacket ain’t enough to impress, so Peter turned back to the server to order him to take the drink back, only to find that the man had already disappeared, leaving the filled flute and the open bottle on the bar table. 

“Ah, shit...” Peter mumbled. He picked up the flute and lifted it, lips curled in a half-assed grin to the “gentleman”, whose own face seemed to brightened. And then...

“Ah, shit!” Peter hissed under his breath as he watched the other man rise out of his seat god fucking damn it. And despite his attempt to look casual, the guy sure was legging it, a quarter of the way to Peter’s table by the time Peter had drained half the flute. And maybe the bubbles were getting to Peter’s head, because in the blink of an eye, the gentleman was easing himself onto the seat next to Peter, resting his elbows on the table, giving an oozing, schmoozing smile as Peter hurried to refill his glass. 

“I had a feeling you’d like the top-quality stuff,” the gentleman said.

The “top-quality” stuff tasted like diet off-brand grape soda two years past its expiration date, but still... “Thank you,” Peter murmured. His gratitude was genuine; at least he wouldn’t have to waste money on what he knew was going to be an awful drink thanks to the generosity of the other man. That didn’t change the fact that he kept his head down, eyes on his phone screen, his voice soft from immediate withdrawal of this conversation. 

Of course, the gentleman took it as modesty, and leaned in a bit closer. “You know, it’s been pretty hard finding a lady so refined around here.”

Peter almost choked on the drink, barely catching himself. He cleared his throat, reaching for the folded napkin left with the bottle to dab away the drops on his lips. Thank god for Vice lipstick. 

Peter knew he could never hope for the rich baritone of James Earl Jones or Vin Diesel, but he had something, so he used it when he lifted his head and returned the gentleman’s grin. “Why, thank you, sir.” Then, he waited for the not-all-that-feminine deep voice to register on the other man’s voice, for the man’s eyes to go clear and see all the subtle masculine traits hidden underneath the fashion, like the beginnings of an angular jaw despite the youthful plump and rosiness of Peter’s cheeks, or the broadness of Peter’s lean shoulders to make up for the lack of bodybuilder muscles, or a chest that was flat beyond bee-sting A cups. He waited for...

Well, Peter didn’t know what reaction he was waiting for -- confused, maybe over-the-top like the man apologizing profusely or toppling from his chair to get away, or red in the face and foamy at the mouth, as if Peter’s mere existence in a dress was to cheat him out of an unrequested drink -- but he didn’t expect the heat in the man’s eyes to burn brighter, or the flash of white teeth as the man briefly nibbled his bottom lip. 

For a moment, Peter froze, his mouth cinching close, his jaw locking, something besides the cheap grape juice curdling in his gut. He lowered the glass and tried to wade through the conflicting storms of his hunger for attention and the electrical fright that made him want to zap right out of the room. He gazed around, telepathically calling for an adult, any adult, to come intervene.

The man curled his fingers around Peter’s chin and tilted his head back to him, taking in Peter’s wider eyes and, once more, mistaking it for whatever Peter didn’t even want to know. The man’s brow quirked. He lowered his hand to Peter’s forearm. How can a hand be so dry yet so clammy? “I guess you don’t really do this often, do you?”

When Peter slowly and silently shook his head, something alit even brighter in the man’s eyes. “Wait... would I be the first?” 

Peter would have answered, would have said “no”, not because he had experience with this before, but because he had no experience with this before and he wasn’t planning on doing so ever. But he was frozen further with shock, stunned at the eager in the question, as if the gentleman wanted a resounding “yes”. He swallowed against the tightness of his throat. 

The gentleman chuckled before Peter could say anything. “Wow.... well, alright, then! Don’t worry, I can make your first time here splendid, so you know how to do this right. Do you want to name your price here, or over dinner, or in the room?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want--” He blinked, feeling his mouth fall open. “Wait, what?”

The gentleman reached over Peter to get the napkin. He flicked it open, and both of them watched as the plastic card with the hotel’s blue and lavender logo landed on the surface. The man picked up the key card, and the gleam on the man’s wrist finally caught Peter’s eyes. A large, silver watch studded with diamonds around the face. What also hadn’t passed Peter’s notice was the twinkle of the golden band around the other man’s finger.

The storm in Peter’s head brewed more violently, as fire burned under his skin and spread all over his face. He wondered what part of his ensemble -- a brown cashmere jacket, a baby blue skater dress, and black boots no taller than his ankles (wait, was it the fishnet stockings?!) -- gave this guy the idea that Peter was in that part of the field. He imagined that somewhere out there, a wife and two and a half kids were tucked away in a picket fence property, waiting for the return of this piece of shit. And enthralled by the fury that the last thought wrought, Peter developed an urge to throw the drink into this man’s face, followed by a fist with the full force of four tons of steel and concrete.

And centered in the wild storm, still and resolute like a shelter promising protection from the lethal weather, was another bad idea.

Peter kept his eyes wide, holding on to some semblance of his dissipating shock and confusion to help sell the act. He took another tentative sip of his drink. “Oh, well, okay. We can just go to your room, if you want. We can also make it a party if we have another one of these...” He picked up the open bottle and slowly swirled it, tilting his head.

The man nodded and raised a hand to grab the waiter’s attention.

---

Excitement set Peter’s fingertips tingling.

It came not from the bottle of champagne passed between himself and John (not really the guy’s name), nor from the smacking wet lips and the pawing hands John pressed against whatever part of Peter’s body he could reach (at least he had enough decency to not try to kiss Peter’s mouth). It came from the idea taking root within Peter’s skull. Through the buzz, Peter realized that the idea was a fuzzy picture that needed further development. So, he sharpened the image, turning it over as the two men stumbled arm-in-arm out the elevator and down the hall. A familiar stoicism settled in his chest as he tried to work out all the kinks, thought over the many ways this could go wrong and how to prevent them or weasel his way out of them. He felt like he was on the battlefield again in trying to make this foolproof.

That stony, removed feeling crumbled to dust when John stopped in front of a door and fumbled to stick his keycard in the slot with drunk hands. Oh shit, came the sobering thought once again. I’m really going to do this.

The door beeped and John reached behind him to grab Peter’s wrist. Peter let out a series of yelps as John tugged him inside, slammed the door shut, shoved Peter against the door, and locked him in place by tangling his legs with Peter’s legs and wrapping an arm around the small of Peter’s back. And then, to the Sealander’s utter, stomach-dropping horror, came the humping. 

It shouldn’t have surprised Peter, since he knew what John was after, but to so suddenly be thumping against the wooden door while some drunkard ground...pound...rubbed? What was John even thinking he was doing? He was doing something with his pulsing ere..ction against Peters pelvis, and whatever it was, Peter’s body was stunned, the lights above them blinding his eyes as he tried to turn his head away, with a thought ringing loud:

I can’t do this.

Ican’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothis

And his fort called to him, ready to put some force in his fight whenever he was ready, reminding him that he had no need to succumb to the sickening, sinking terror and regret. And, oh, how much easier it would make things, to just bash John’s nose in or throat punch him, watch him struggle to breath until he fell unconscious, or punch him in the chest and hope that it was the right moment, the split second between heartbeats...

Then John’s other hand slid up the wall, and Peter caught the shine of his wedding band before John tangled his fingers into Peter’s hair, tugging to angle his head and expose his neck. The fear rot into anger, the anger into dogged and vengeful determination, as Peter felt John reach down to tug at his skirt, and slobber against his neck, “So, how much?”

Peter grabbed onto that moment of clarity, calmed himself with it to think clearly, and began wriggling and shifting his body until John was dry humping Peter’s outer thigh. He let out a flat p.or.n star moan, louder and more strained than John’s muffled grunting, and tugged at the shell of John’s ear with his teeth. “That depends, sweetheart: what do you want, and how long you can go.” And because he was feeling silly, he dropped one of the bottles -- it was mostly empty, anyway -- and used his free hand to smack the tragically tiny bump through John’s slacks that must have to pass for John’s ass cheek. It felt like hitting a brick wall.

But it worked. John backed off enough for Peter to guide them away from the door and to sit his gentleman caller on a nearby chair. He then mounted John’s lap with enough space between them that Peter wouldn’t feel John’s enthusiasm between his legs again, and wrenched the cork out of the second bottle with his teeth. John laid out his demands in a tone that sounded like suggestions, snaking a hand up Peter’s skirt. Peter tossed out some high bullshit numbers to demands he forgot the moment they were spoken, putting the bottle to John’s lips and taking John’s hand off his thigh to suck on one of his fingers (and hoping that the bathroom had complementary mouthwash). With the deal made and already forgotten on Peter’s part, Peter slid off John’s lap and unlaced his boots.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Peter said, toeing his footwear off and shrugging out of his jacket, “I’d like to get freshened up for you. Get the stuff ready for us?” When John tugged out a condom and packet of lube from his pocket with a nod, Peter skipped off to the bathroom.

He closed the door and went to the sink. He turned the water on, and then began the shakes. With trembling fingers and unsteady hands, Peter tried to splash cold water on his face, multiple times, and only stopped once the temperature made his teeth chatter worse and after getting water all over the sink top, the floor, and some of his hair that fell to his face. He straightened, yanking a hand towel from the rack and patting his face dry, then wetting a corner of it to wipe down his neck and collarbone and legs, not caring that it was wetting his stockings as long as the feeling can be scrubbed off. 

The towel dropped to the floor; Peter searched frantically for the mouthwash and, finding it, guzzled half the tiny bottle and swishing it until it burned into his gums. He spat, and felt so awful for the housekeeper who will have to come in and clean his mess, but when he straightened from the bowl and looked at the mess reflected in the mirror, Peter’s focused was on one thing:

He was going to do this.

He was already nauseous, still stunned by the feel of another man’s erection to the point of being dizzy, but he was in a foul enough mood to want to go through with it. 

So, he left the bathroom, finding John standing in the middle of the room, holding a phone to his ear.

“--sweetie, I’ll be home in a couple days, then we can take that vacation.”

Peter approached John’s back, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as he pressed himself against John’s jacket, nestled his chin on John’s shoulder, and ran his palms up and down John’s thighs (not exactly touching anywhere near the pitch tent) then his hips, and then the brick wall that was his ass. It felt mechanical, like Peter playing airport security, but the grazing hands were enough to draw out a sharp gasp from his... client.

“Listen, I’ll have to call you tomorrow, I need to get some rest for tomorrow’s meeting. Love you, bye!”

John tossed the phone on the bed. He gave a shiver as Peter’s hands roamed higher and massage his chest through his shirt. 

Peter kissed John’s shoulder through the jacket. “Hey, you promised me that you’ll make my first time doing this splendid, right?” he murmured.

“Mhm,” John moaned.

Peter nuzzled his nose along the back of John’s neck, breathed on it, whispering, “Well... what if I don’t want splendid? What if I want real? What if I want...” he disguised the chuckle over this utter bullshit as a breathy, needy moan. “Wild?”

John furrowed his eyebrows. “Wild?”

Peter grabbed the jacket’s lapels and yanked them back, wrenching the fabric down until it bunched messily around John’s wrist and bound them behind his back. This could have gone south quickly; maybe John wasn’t into bondage, maybe he was repulsed by it. Maybe he found the idea infuriating, that some fresh-faced streetwalker new to the game and too stupid to ask for money upfront thinks he’s so special, thinks he’s so cute, that he can just change up the terms and, worse, dominate? And maybe Peter was hoping for that, hoping that John would be so turned off that he’d throw Peter out.

But then Peter grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and yanked his head back. The man let out a choked whimper, his hips twitching forward.

“How much would you cough up to make this unforgettable for me?” Peter grunted, toying with John’s belt and holding in a shudder as he felt the cock push against the fabric.

John opened his eyes, and Peter could see them rolled to the back of his head. “You can clear out my bank account.”

It would be a lie to say that Peter wasn’t tempted, to reverse course and make this a real transaction. Why the fuck should he care about some faceless woman far away, it wasn’t Peter’s marriage in the ruins. And maybe a night of getting laid would do his foul mood some good; probably not a good  lay, but how the hell would Peter know the difference? 

Plus, who wouldn’t want to be swimming in coin for a night of feigned passion?

Then the phone started to buzz, and the groan John howled out wasn’t pleasure. “God, I hope that bitch isn’t calling me, again.”

Peter pressed his tongue to his cheek. Nope, none of that was worth it.

He unfastened the belt and trailed enticing kisses along John’s shoulder, up to behind his ear as he worked the button and fly. He tugged the pants down to the ankles, ordering John to step out of them. He led John to the bed and pushed him facedown on the mattress, and went back to take out the belt from the discarded pants. When he returned to the bed, Peter looked down on the sprawling figure with his ass in the air. If he pulled down John’s unremarkable undies down to his ankles, Peter could just leave him like that, since by the time John hobbled his way to the door and managed to get it open, Peter would be long gone. But Peter had to be careful, see how far and how much he could take this.

Standing beside the bed, Peter freed John from his temporary restraints and flipped him onto his back. A hip jutting out, with his teeth biting on his bottom lip, Peter wound one end of the belt around a hand and yanked, snapping the belt. He’d think that with all the times he’s posed like this in front of the camera, it would come easily to him now, but maybe it’s too different when the viewer was right there, and could see his face. Yet, for all the awkwardness Peter felt, John didn’t seem to sense it, gazing up at Peter with glazed-over eyes.

Peter moved John’s hands up to the bed post. Once the watch and ring came off and were set on the bedside table, muscle memory took over, and Peter could almost smell the salt of the sea and the rust of his fort as he looped the belt around the wrists and the wooden post like the many times he secured items to his platform. One final tug, and the leather was biting into John’s limb, already rubbing the skin red as John squirmed to get comfortable. Peter’s hands trailed down John’s arm, down his torso, going to his lap and digging fingernails into the flesh, feeling nothing when John’s breath hitch and came out in a low hiss, still feeling removed when he released John’s thigh and left nail marks.

‘Oh, god,” John rasped, his head lolling to the side. “Oh, please fuck me, Mistress.”

Peter wanted him to shut up, so he stepped back, hiking his skirt up to tug off his boxer briefs and stockings, overly aware of John watching him. He separated the garments, balling the underwear up in his fist. “Open your mouth. Now.”

John’s mouth dropped open, his eyes rolled back once more at the taste of Peter’s fabric being stuffed inside. Surreptitiously, Peter tucked his skirt between his thighs to add another layer of barrier between his own exposure and John as he half-straddled the man’s lap. He hooked his finger through John’s neck tie and undid it, forcing his shaking hands to steady so tying the accessory around John’s eyes wouldn’t be sloppy. He leaned down until he was cheek to cheek with John.

“I’m going to make the next few hours worth every cent, my filthy little slut.” Oh, how Peter was glad John couldn’t see his face twist with self-degrading disgust. He sent out an apology to all the stars of his old favorite stag films for failing them. “Let me get the lube warmed up and the condom ready, then you can make me cum as many times as you can before I even let you.” 

He swung his leg back over John, leaving the bastard shivering with glee as he backed away from the bed. 

The timer was set.

Peter skipped over to the pants, crouching and digging out the wallet he felt in the back pocket. He pulled out the pink wads of kronor and shoved it in his pocket. He stared at the corners of the credit cards poking out of their sleeves, and looked towards the panting, writhing mess on the bed.

You can clear out my bank account.

But he shook his head clear of the temptation and stood up, returning to the bedside; might as well minimize the potential jail time as much as possible. With great care, Peter picked up the watch and ring and placed them in the pocket so they wouldn’t clink. He stared at his client, taking a deep, quiet breath.

And finally: insurance.

He hooked his fingers in John’s waistband, his face twisting up once more. Do it like a band-aid... like a band-aid... Pursing his lips against the rising bile, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away, Peter whipped the underwear down. He filled his lungs again, holding it in as he cracked an eyelid open and pulled his phone out.

It’s the same equipment that you have, Peter. The reminder did next to nothing to help quell the screech as his eyes met the swollen and stiff member, uncomfortably pink against the pallor of John’s legs, oozing precum.

“Holy fucking shit,” Peter cringed. He tapped on the camera, made sure that the shutter feature and the flash were both off, and aimed at the sad view that made his skin crawled. He bent down to plant a couple more kisses along John’s calf. It was an odd place to show affection to, but as long as John thought it was still leading to something, and Peter didn’t have to touch his genitals, it would do. He rose from the bed and swiped the leather jacket, draping it over his arm and picking up his own jacket and boots.

In the next breath, Peter was out the door, feeling the coldness within him snap and fall into pieces when it clicked closed behind him.

He did it.

He turned and walked off, leaving behind the muffled noise from John as it turned from confusion to protestation to outright fury, but growing ever softer as Peter legged it. His free hand patted the bulge in his dress pocket as he rounded the corner, and the shakes returned, making the air coming into his lungs shallow, making his skin prickle and his vision tunnel and sway.

When something pushed up his throat, Peter feared it was vomit, or a scream, or a cry. It definitely had to be a cry, as the sensation of John’s dick between his legs burned all over. But it was a laugh. He laughed. Because it shouldn’t have been that easy, but he did it! And --

He stumbled to the nearest trash can, knocking the top off and emptying his stomach in the refuse.

When it was over and Peter came up for air, he wiped his mouth and looked around, feeling so separated from this plane. This called for a celebration.

He rummaged through his jacket pocket, the cashmere one he came in, and pulled out the shades. Then he clipped on the watch and pulled out the wad of cash, setting the jackets and boots down on the floor next to his feet. Raising the phone up, he tilted his head and stuck his little tongue out.

[mychemicalficrecs]

Hey do you have any bottom gee fics?

Hi Nonny!

I have a few of those in a great variety of ships :D

Bottom Gerard

The Blue Room by ladyfoxxx, Frank/Gerard, 3k, Explicit. The one where Pete is a not-so-accidental voyeur.

All Yours, Daddy by chemicalcandy, Frank/Gerard, 5k, Explicit. The thin golden material was hugging Gerard’s hips tightly, leaving nothing to anyone's imagination as he moved them rhythmically to the music blasted from a speaker. His hairless legs were wrapped around the pole delicately, his hands clutching it as he threw his head back. Long red hair fell from his face, revealing his artful features, the upturned nose and sharp eyebrows, long eyelashes touching the pale skin over his high cheekbones as he had closed them tightly. His red bottom lip was trapped between his front teeth, leaving a trace of lipstick on them. Frank could see his beautiful neck as he kept baring it, could see his Adam's apple that the dim shimmery light made somehow stand out even more, could see the vein on the side of his neck Frank knew adrenaline would be pumped through just now because Gerard loved this. All eyes were on him, everybody was paying attention to his moves, his face, his outfit and body, and he was mesmerizing everyone watching.

Don't Fence Me In by desfinado, Frank/Gerard, 7k, Explicit. "We tried to have sex so great that no man should ever be able to experience it. These are the consequences."

Monster Under the Bed by BasementVampire, Frank/Gerard, 4k, Explicit. “You’re not real. Go away,” Gerard ordered. “If I’m not real, then who are you talking to?” it countered. “My imagination.” “Can your imagination shake the bed?” Gerard screeched. “Stop that!” There was a sigh from underneath the bed. “It makes me sad to be told I’m not real. Sad and angry.” Gerard whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut. “All right—you’re real! Stop shaking the bed!”

Kiss Me, You Animal by dear_monday, Frank/Gerard, 5k, Explicit. It totally wasn't his fault, okay? Frank would like that on record. Because it wasn't. An exploration of the complex dynamic between... oh, sod it. This is SHAMELESS KILLJOY PORN. \o/

Competitive Streak by ladyfoxxx, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Explicit. Gerard doesn't want to be the only Way brother without a sex tape.

Psycho Boy by BasementVampire, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Explicit. "The room goes silent again. Gerard swings his legs back and forth while Frank finishes prepping. It’s strangely casual—like he’s not sitting here waiting for Frank to do something sickeningly cruel to him." Gerard and Frank engage in some extreme sadomasochism.

Against The Wall by ladyfoxxx, Frank/Gerard, 2k, Explicit. Angry backstage sex.

Click Click Click Click by pearl_o, Frank/Ray/Gerard, 2k, Explicit. Ray likes taking pictures, Gerard likes being the center of attention, and Frank likes both of them.

A Cure For Writer's Block by cybercandy, Frank/Ray/Gerard/Mikey, 5k, Explicit. They’ve hit a wall, there’s no point denying it, and to be honest Mikey’s surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. It’s been going so well, songs and words slotting into place like puzzle pieces, the new album appearing in front of their eyes and ears bit by bit. Until it all ground to a really fucking spectacular halt.

A Night In Paris by gala_apples, Frank/Ray/Gerard/Mikey, 829 words, Explicit. Gerard wants to go play tourist in Paris. But what he really wants is to get gangbanged. Luckily his band is good at reading between the lines.

Reaching Through The Mirror by ladyfoxxx, Gerard/Gerard, Frank/Gerard, 6k, Explicit. The one where Party Poison and Basement!Gerard have sex.

Black Velvet Pumps by s0ckpupp3t, Gerard/Mikey, 2k, Explicit. They were black velvet pumps, okay, not with a stupid pointy toe but classically rounded; delicate tapering heels but not stilettos. They had a decently-sized toe box, and maybe even a tiny bit of arch support. And they came in Gerard's size.

Legs to the Wall by inlovewithnight, Gerard/Mikey, 2k, Explicit. This is the part where Mikey can really get into the game.

Red-Handed Denial by preblematic, Gerard/Mikey, 7k, Explicit. Five times that the Way brothers were caught in the act, and one time that they totally did it on purpose.

Handsy by preblematic, Gerard/Mikey, 4k, Explicit. There are three things Gerard knows for certain. 1. Mikey is a handsy drunk. 2. Gerard is Mikey’s favorite person. 3. No amount of alcohol can kill a Way boner.

Brand New City by preblematic, Gerard/Mikey, 1k, Explicit. Honey, what'd you take?

Don't Need No Rising Moon by Sena, Gerard/Mikey, 2k, Explicit. Mikey will take as much as his sister is willing to give.

Pillow Talk by akamine_chan, Gerard/a friendly betentacled alien, 4k, Explicit. Gerard always knew that there had to be life on other planets. He just never planned on meeting it.

use condiments by mwestbelle, Gerard/Pete, 804 words, Explicit. This was supposed to be sweet/emotional barebacking, but then I wrote it from Pete's POV and...yeah, that didn't really happen.

Silicone Romance by anoneknewmoose, Lindsey/Gerard, 4k, Explicit. Sometimes Lindsey wears a cock.

A Penny For Your Thoughts by dear_monday, Party Poison/Gerard, 2k, Explicit. "You're shitting me, right?" he says, looking Poison up and down disbelievingly. "You're not. You narcissistic fuck." Poison shrugs. "Hey. Suit yourself, motorbaby. You're not the only hooker out here tonight, you know."

Well Okay Then by autoschediastic, Ray/Gerard, 5k, Explicit. "Okay?" Gerard's eyes open one after the other. He squints at Ray again. "Okay, as in you're okay with Frank and Mikey using you for prime masturbatory material? Because, like, on the one hand, it's genuine appreciation of your skill, but on the other--" "Okay, I can fuck you out of your head," Ray butts in.

You’re In Time For The Show by shadowhive, Frank/Ray/Gerard/Mikey, Gerard/Mikey, Ray/Gerard, 5k, Explicit. The aftermath of Frank’s first rockstar moment.

a heart attack (in black hair dye) by Trojie, Ray/Gerard, 3k, Explicit. Gerard likes to be loud, Ray likes to be quiet, Mikey likes to not be scarred for life, and Frank just likes to sleep.

[dukeofriven]

Guns or Children: The Only Choice Left, America

[Note: this post was originally a response to this thread.

Trigger warnings: guns, gun deaths, murder, violence, death, child death, school shootings, racism, anti-semitism, mass shootings, Orlando Pulse Shooting,  sports injuries, cursing, swear words, statistics, sourced facts, responsibility, collective responsibility, the necessity of change, moral imperatives]

______________________________________________

There is always a justification for why it’s okay for Americans to own guns.

Tradition. The Cultural Importance of Firearms. Farmers Vs Wild Beasts. The Scary Non-White People Who Are Moving Into The Neighbourhood. The Need For An Unsubtle Penis Metaphor To Show-Off To Your Fellow Men.

And, of course, the worst of them all:

“I Like Them.”

I don’t care.

It has become parodic at this point to try and argue against these points because the people who make them aren’t arguing in good faith anyways: they like guns and they know that you don’t like guns so how can there be any kind of accord when you won’t even meet them on their own turf? You can’t argue with people who don’t like guns because secretly - or not-so-secretly - they just want to take you guns away. We can’t have a real argument about gun control against such an extremist position.

Which is fine because I’m not here to argue. There’s no argument to be made anymore. The time for argument was seventy years ago when America’s culture wasn’t so toxic that the sane, reasonable positions on gun ownership that other countries ended-up with could still be enforced.

That was seventy years ago. That opportunity is gone. There’s no longer any argument to be made.

The Onion makes a habit of running a variation of an article every time a big shooting happens:

The fact that America is irresponsible with guns, cannot be trusted with guns, has lost all ability to live with guns, is fundamentally true, and not in dispute anywhere other than in America itself. America’s mind-boggling gun-death rate is a direct, indivisible result of: [Note: most numbers here are from the last major survey from 2017] 1) The sheer volume of guns. America has about 120 civilian-owned guns for every hundred people in the country. There are more guns than people. If everyone in America had to start killing one-another in a grand old game of nation-wide paintball-with-bullets no one would have to share a gun and there would be spares before the first shot was fired. The next region with an entry on the guns per-people per-region list? The Falkland Islands with 60 guns for every 100 people. The Falkland Islands has a total population of some 3000 people. Its murder rate? Does’t seem to have one. Leaving aside the Falklands War I don’t think anyone’s been murdered there since 1981. Next country down? Yemen. Population: 28 million, with 50-odd guns per 100 people. Yemen a region that hasn’t known peace since... ever. Yemen has existed in some form since 1918 and not once has it ever had what you’d call a lasting and nation-wide peace.

The farthest down the list you have to go to find a country that comes close to America in terms of population size is Pakistan - population 200 million, and only 22 guns for every hundred people. Should they start that nation one -kill-paintball game most people would have to share until they’d wiped-out some eighty percent of the country.

So the three biggest gun-owning regions in the world by guns per person is a tiny British tourist trap where nobody but governments commit crimes, and civil-war ravaged Yemen. And America. Neither of those first places comes close to America in terms of either size or number of guns. America has more guns for civilian use than anywhere else on Earth. This number is not in dispute. America has more than twice the number of guns per citizen than anywhere else on Earth. This number is also not in dispute. America has a death-by-firearm rate far and beyond any other nation of its size, population, wealth, and stability. Of the six countries that make up half the world’s gun deaths, America is one of them - the other five are Brazil, Mexico, Colombia, Venezuela, and Guatemala, all nations with significantly more serious gang-related and stability-related issues than America. This number is also not is dispute.

2) Easy access to guns. 390 million guns don’t get distributed by accident. American gun laws are known for their laxity and their ease of use: in America the courts have decided that 1791′s Second Amendment of the US Constitution, by-and-large, grants Americans the largely unrestricted right to own guns, and indeed have something of a moral obligation to do so as a guarantor against tyranny. American law thus goes out of its way to make the process of purchasing a gun as inconvenient as possible. It is easier to buy a guy in many places in America than it is to purchase alcohol. 3) A culture that worships guns. America has a culture that loves guns. A culture that lauds guns. A culture that worships guns. America has a culture that that stands around and not only says ‘shit guns are cool’ but takes the next step and says ‘and people should be able to own cool things.’ This is somewhat odd given the awesome destructive power of a gun and the average citizen’s need to posses destructive power. Tanks are cool, but nobody is handing those out to civilians. Fighter jets are awesome, but we don’t make those for sale to anything other than repressive governments. “But DukeofRiven swords are cool and we let people buy those,” you say. Well, many countries don’t, first of all, or allow much sword-freedom - in my country it is legal to own a sword, but not to wield it or carry it. Secondly, you know how many people were murdered with a sword in 2017? No, you don’t. Nobody does - no one seems to be keeping track as far as I can tell. It’s so few people that the number is statistically insignificant. I can tell you that in 2017 some 1,591 people were murdered with all “knives and other cutting instruments” compared to a full 10,982 gun homicides. This is a list that notes all defenestration murders (4), and all murders via explosion (0) - it doesn’t take a lot to get on the FBI’s “common murder weapon” radar. Swords don’t qualify. “But DukeofRiven” - I hear you cry (’Your Grace’ will do) - “That’s a lot of knife deaths. Knives are a useful tool that would be silly to ban. Guns are an important tool too - farmers who live in dangerous areas find guns useful for warding off wild animals.” Well that’s true, fictional question asker - farmers do find guns useful. There’s about 3.2 million farmers in American - slightly less than 1% of the population - so let’s do the American thing and give them a heaping, generous portion of 10 guns each. That still leaves... uh... about 360 million guns not owned by farmers. Well what if we take all rural-dwelling Americans, who hunt and shoot and kill as part of their very important rural hunting/shooting/killing culture and make sure they all have at least one gun. 57 million rural non-farmer Americans - about 17% of the population - but damn, we’ve still got 303 million guns lying around. Most American gun owners own at least three guns? Can’t deprive the rural folk of their just due so will give them each an extra two guns. That still leaves us with 181 million guns to hand out to civilian urbanites who cannot possible have a good day-to-day use for them - and that’s counting the extra seven guns we gave to each farmer. If those guns were to secede and form an independent nation they’d bump Ethiopia’s spot to become the 12th largest country by-population in the world. That’s more guns than the population of the world’s 109 smallest countries combined. “Guns are still tools used by hunters” - oh sweet boy howdy do I not give a shit about hunters. 7000 of those 2017 deaths were by handguns, a gun that literally has no other purpose other than to shoot people. Handgun deaths top all other gun deaths in America by a significant margin. A handgun is not a tool. It is a weapon. That’s all it is - and Americans own a lot of weapons. You’re drowning in them. You are overrun by guns. Right-wingers should forget curbing immigration to save white people as the dominant ethnic group - the primary demographic of the United States is gun! Y’all lost already! I don’t care that you think guns are cool, because I also think guns are cool - and I own none. I can be impressed by guns without having to own guns, without making sure my friends own guns, and my family owns guns, and that there are enough guns in my country for every single person to personally shoot another person in the head in a suicidal conga line stretching round the entire country and still have spare guns left over. Culture? Tradition? Heritage? Don’t give a flying fuck. Slavery was part of your tradition too, and no that’s not a disingenuous comparison because both practices created death, pain, misery, and suffering for profit.  Both practices were morally indefensible. You’ve been a responsible gun owner all your life? Don’t give a fuck. How many gun owners need to be un-responsible before the tipping point is crossed and you would agree that there is culturally a gun problem, that no amount of responsibility by one group os making up for the irresponsibility of the other half? Why is this ‘one good man in ‘Sodom’ argument framed this way? 10000+ people died in 2017 because of a culture that glorifies an item with no functional utility to improve society. Let me be clear about this: given the number of gun deaths compared to that of gun owners that 10000 deaths is statistically insignificant it terms of responsible proportionality. Most gun owners are responsible gun owners. There’s only 118 million gun-owning households in the US - only a third of the population actually owns a gun - so if we fudge the number a bit and just say that there are 118 million individual guns owners the numbers work out to about 0.009% of all gun owners being irresponsible. Guess what: that doesn’t matter. You want to know all the stuff America bans that hasn’t ever killed anybody but someday might? Kinder Eggs. Haggis. Imported brie. Think of all the chemicals banned since the 70s because of fears that they might do something. Think of every product recall that happened because one person was simply injured. Think of the products you’ve banned for nothing more than their dangerous ideology like Cuban cigars. You banned Amy Winehouse and Margaret Thatcher’s son from entering America but you won’t ban the sale of guns? Guns aren’t nearly as dangerous as the late Amy Winehouse? Gun culture and tradition glorifies nothing but instruments of slaughter. Arthur Hoppe killed your stupid arguments about tradition stone-dead 49 year ago:

(Hoppe, Arthur. "Legislation Attempts to Ban the Bomb." Sidelines (Murfreesboro), October 27, 1970. Page 4. For the original source see Hoppe, Arthur. "Ban The Bomb Banners." The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco), October 25, 1970. Page 103. For print, see Hoppe, Arthur. Mr. Nixon and My Other Problems. San Francisco, CA: Chronicle Books, 1971. Page 78. )

The moral bankruptcy of the tradition argument was demonstrated half a century ago, when a lot less Americans were dying by the gun. When whole classrooms of children and concert goers on the Vegas Strip and students at their lectures and devoted church-goers [and hey, synagogue shooting after I first started writing this: all house-of-worship goers] all have to fear the omnipresent threat of death when does your right to admire the gun cease to be a relevant point of consideration? When does living every day with the constant gnawing fear that it could happen to you finally suffocate ‘most of us are responsible’ in its cradle? When do ‘a few bad apples’ become ‘too many bad apples’? If I’m making apple sauce you’re not going to care that 99% of my apples were perfect - because that 1% of rotten apples I tossed in was enough to ruin the batch. When does ‘most of us are not rotten’ stop sounding quite so reassuring? I’ve been listening a lot lately to Still Buffering, a McElroy extended universe podcast where - in its first year - the-then 15 year-old Rileigh Smirl shared her life with her 15-years-plus older siblings. In the episode recorded immediately after the Orlando shooting, where the adults are literally shaking and you can hear it in their voices, the 15 year-old very blandly describes life in a world where the idea of being shot in her school has been so utterly normalized for her that she has a hard time generating the same level of fear about it as the adults do. It is genuinely nauseating. Her sisters are practically crying into their microphones, sick with horror that their little sister goes to school entirely accepting that another member of her school not only might wander in with a gun and shoot-up the place, but would not be culturally abnormal for having done so. The young Ms. Smirl is already used to being evacuated: kids at her school have brought guns, brought bombs, and while nothing fatal has yet happened, she would be unsurprised if it did. resigned to the fact. If the shooter only murdered a handful of people the story wouldn’t still be in the news after a couple days (did you even remember there was a synagogue shooting a week ago?) - and if they’d killed dozens they’d be superseded by another shooting within a few weeks. (As of writing - April 26 2019 - there have been six school shootings in the US since the start of the year Eight. There were two more school shootings between me first writing this down on April 26 and coming back to finish it on May 11/12th. There were 20 mass shootings in total in just those fifteen days. 21 fatalities. Jesus Fucking Christ, America.) You know, I wouldn’t care if guns hadn’t killed a soul in 2017. If the simple spectre of their presence - the easy access, the sheer volume, the cultural identity - created a fraction of that level of fear and fatalism you hear in Rileigh Smirl’s voice  in school children across America I would happily rip every single gun from the living hands of every American gun owner and melt them in a pyre the size of Delaware rather than let such a state of affairs continue. A mere 10000 gun owners were murderers in 2017? A mere 10000 gun owners a year have been murderers for the last 20 years? A mere 2,000,000 gun murderers in two decades? Damn you all. Keep in mind we haven’t touched on anything other than homicides. 10000-plus gun owners made the decision to murder others with their gun in 2017. People often bring up car deaths as a rebuttal to the gun stats - 40000 car deaths in 2017 to 10000 gun deaths should we therefore ban cars, you idiot? What a disingenuous question. That’s 40000 car deaths of all kinds - I’m talking about homicide alone, where the so-called ‘responsible person’ is proven to use their ‘responsibly’-owned item for irresponsible ends. The ‘bad-eggs.’ You know how many bad-egg car owners murdered people in 2017 as an act of willful homicide? No. And neither do I. It’s another stat so low it is presumably lumped-in with an aggregate - the 976 deaths in 2017 known only as “miscellaneous.” This, again, on a chart that notes that 13 people were murdered by poison, 4 people were murdered by being pushed, and zero people were murdered with explosions. The number of cars used to murder people? Presumably less than three. Could be as low as zero. [Note: the number is actually 50. See the Addendum and this follow-up article for expanded stats.] There are a little over 270 million car owners in the US, and from that we can conclude that while 0.009% of gun owners a year can’t stop themselves from murdering people with their guns, less than 0.000001% of car owners can’t stop themselves from being a first-degree car murderer. On the face of it those are pretty tiny numbers - infinitesimal, really. Less than one percent. Insignificant. Why get worked up? 10,000 lives ended by guns fired with a purpose to kill. By civilians, only, mind - I haven’t even touched on gun deaths by police officers, or the even broader question of gun deaths by US soldiers looking to shoot people. We’re still just focussed on civilian gun owners who felt the need to kill other human beings. ~10,000 American gun murders in 2017 alone. Three times the entire population of the Falklands, your closet neighbours in terms of guns-to-population ratio. I’m Canadian - 36 million people, a disturbing 36 guns per 100 people. If I go to Windsor and drive across the bridge I instantly become 10 time more likely to be shot to death - not specifically because I am now in Detroit, not specifically because I’m a Canadian in the United States, but simply because I went from any developed nation that wasn’t America into America. Taking Detroit specifics account, if you drive back and forth across the Ambassador bridge your odds of getting shot jump some 50 times every time you cross an invisible line on the Detroit River. Detroit and Windsor have very different crime rates: 2017 saw 267 murders in Detroit. Windsor saw 3. The Detroit Murder Rate is 45 per 100,000 people - Windsor is 0.89. These cities are less than 2000 feet apart. About 600 metres. 0.6 kilometres. 0.4 of a mile. Statistically speaking most of those crimes in Detroit were firearm deaths. I can stand in Windsor (having had an excellent meal at Smoke & Spice Southern Barbecue), walk some 300 yards, and my life-expectancy from being slain by a passing bullet balloons 50 times. People just die more in America. That’s - to be fair - partially a matter of volume. Contrasted against Canada, say, and you’re looking at nine times the number of people: of course you’ve got more deaths. But the homicide numbers don’t scale that way. Canada had 266 firearm homicides in 2017. If you made the population of Canada nine times larger, so that we had population parity with the US, we would have had about 2394 gun homicides - still only a quarter of the USA’s 10,982. You’d have to make Canada 41 times larger than it is now, creating a billion and a half Canadians, which amounts to a full 20% of the existing world population. You’d need there to be 1.2 billion more Canadians than there are Americans now to have the same number of gun homicides. Homicides alone! Because we’re still - still - not talking about suicides. Or home ‘defence.’ Or police shootings. Or killings by US troops. Just civilians with guns and the capacity to use them on fellow citizens out of a need to murder. If this getting through? Tell me this is getting through. Americans - your family, friends, colleagues, comrades, acquaintances, lovers, crushes, vaguely-recognized strangers are dying at rates from causes that are not present elsewhere in the stable places of the world. You are dying from solved problems. If ~10,000 Americans were dying yearly from the black plague you’d be upset. You’d be doing something. America has a disease, and that disease is a willingness to let friends, family, lovers, even children die rather than change. Six eight school shootings in four five months. “It’s lucky that fatalities were low,” you might say if you were a lunatic. That’s not lucky. Gut-wrenchingly relieving, all things being equal: six eight schools threatened and only one family four families had to lose a child. It didn’t happen to us think the thousands of parents whose children walked out of those six eight shootings alive. A school bus company that had six eight crashes in four five months wouldn’t count itself lucky that only one child four children died. It would be defunct as a company, drowning in litigation, its corporate officers hounded in the streets by mobs of furious parents horrified that this company had proven so incapable of a simple act like protecting their children. But six eight schools across the nation experienced an event with armed gunman and its not even notable. America, you’re broken. You’re just broken. And your problem is the guns. So I don’t care that you’re a responsible gun owner with a gun cabinet who memorized the rifleman’s credo. I absolutely don’t give a damn that you have fond memories of you and your grandfather stalking deer and bonding as family. If I weigh the cost of you sharing that bonding experience with your own grandchild someday against the ~10000 people shot dead in 2017, and the ~100000 people shot dead over the decade your warm fuzzies don’t amount to shit. Teach your grandkid to bake cookies. Go camping. Introduce him to the love of baseball. If you cannot imagine formative bonding without killing something go take a butchery course at the community college and learn how to barbecue a pig - hey, look, valuable life lessons, a trade skill, and I just made you a must-get for cool parties. Yes, I am talking about taking your guns away. All of your guns. All of them. This is a future I want - because you, America, collectively, have proven that you are not socially responsible enough to be a country that owns guns. If you can ban Kinder Eggs for 50 years because you thought it would take that much time to train your children not to swallow a massive plastic capsule that the rest of the world’s children have no problem surviving, I think at the very least a 50-year moratorium on firearms is the bare fucking minimum. There were 23 school shootings in America in 2018. There have been 20 school shootings in Canada in the entire 152 years of our existence. Over 10000 American civilians decide every year to shoot people to death. That doesn’t happen in other stable places. The difference is THE GUNS. IT’S ALL THE GUNS! IT’S ALL THE FUCKING GUNS! You can’t just talk about tightening guns laws. You can’t just talk about making gun owners more responsible - statistically speaking American gun owners are individually responsible! It doesn’t matter, because collectively you’re all irresponsible. Responsible people don’t prioritize their interests and hobbies over bi-monthly school shootings. Responsible people don’t ‘Good German’ themselves when children’s are under threat at least once a month nation-wide.

Real talk for you people out there who own guns, love guns, would never think or murdering anybody, and are genuinely angry that I keep acting like 10000-a-year bad apples reflects badly on your interests as a whole. How high does the number have to be before your association with your hobby would begin to make you feel uncomfortable with sharing an interest? Let me put it another way: enrolment in youth football teams is dropping nation-wide as parents aren’t comfortable putting their children at risk. Football has given America exciting games to watch, stories of victory and defeat, bonding with friends and family, and one of television’s true masterpieces, Friday Night Lights (#neededmoredevin #justiceforwaverly #justiceforsantiago). But all that good warm fuzzy feeling is running up against a problem: kids are getting hurt. In some cases kids are dying. 2017 saw 13 football-related deaths among the under-18 crowd: 4 direct fatalities, 9 indirect fatalities. (Direct fatalities are causes like head injuries and organ trauma. Indirect fatalities are causes like heat stroke.) That’s a death rate of 0.095/100,000 direct and 0.21/100,000 indirect - still lower than the murder rate in Windsor. And yet football enrolment declines. Because it’s more than just those thirteen deaths: it’s the up-front injuries like broken bones and sprains, it’s the long-term brain injuries that might not emerge for years, it’s the trauma of watching friends and teammates get seriously hurt, die, or simply find the sport a source of stress rather than joy. Right now football is experiencing white flight as predatory football pipelines double-down on players-of-colour to feed their football mills, but that too will decline as a generation that grows up not experiencing a close intimacy with football loses interest in the sport. (Another demographic timebomb lurking in America’s wings.) 13 child deaths by football in 2018. 44 students shot-dead the same year. High schools are shutting down their football programs - taking football completely away - because they can’t stomach all that death, injury, and trauma. The seriousness of this has proven that America is not a nation that can handle its football, and does not want to keep its kids playing football in the same numbers as it once did. (Anyone who wants to come in here and say “would you say the same about hockey, Canadian?” Yes. Absolutely. Instantly. Ditch the whole thing. It’s just a sport, a hobby. It is not more important than lives.) So what will it take to get you to admit that if America can’t handle football it can’t handle guns? A half-dozen kids got their hair chewed in the 90s and America decided that responsibility didn’t matter, that nobody should own a Snacktime Kid Cabbage Patch Doll. One kid died from a non-blunt lawn dart in 1987 and you’ve banned them since 1988. 44 kids got shot to death last year and America thought it unnecessarily restrictive of freedom to take away a single gun. Give me numbers. Please. How many kids would have to die in America this year before you felt uncomfortable owning a gun simply by transference of shame or guilt or association? What if every gun owner but you shot a kid at a school next year? Would you still say your responsibility kept your conscience clear? An absurd, hyperbolic question, fair enough. So let’s start counting down from those 117999999 gun-owning households who aren’t you: what’s the magic number when your responsible ownership of your thing-that-just-kills no longer sits comfortably against the annual number of gun-owning, school-child murderer-producing households? Not accidents, not mistakes, not once-in-a-generation horrors by an statistically aberrant psychopath - I’m talking about systemic patterns of yearly school-child homicide via gunshot. Because last year that was about 44 child murders from about 15 households. That’s currently a number that doesn’t shame you. Start counting up. I’m asking, genuinely, because I need to know. Is there a number? 440 kids murdered by 150 household? 4400 from 1500? 44000 from 15000? Or will others actions never affect you? Is what the rest of society does is of no import, no responsibility of yours? If you were the only responsible gun owner in America, ask yourself if you’d still be comfortable owning a gun. And think - real hard - at what the ratio of responsible-to-not-responsible gun murderers and death tolls are right now, and why you’re okay with that. Then ask yourself what other hobby has that kind of real-life school-kid homicide count that needs to be updated on a monthly basis. Not a lot of gunpla hobbyists struggling with the weight of rogue members murdering kids. Knitters can be vicious, but only socially. Mountain climbers and fast car enthusiasts see plenty of tragedy in their hobby - but they’re tragedies of accidents and mistakes. Not a lot of malicious intent going around. Not a lot of cut ropes and slashed brakes. Not to the tune of 10000+ homicides a year. Ask yourself if maybe - just maybe - America has a problem when it comes to guns. Maybe, just maybe, so many of you being responsible isn’t working. Maybe, just maybe, your hobby, your tradition, your culture, your warm family memories, your constitutional guarantees of ownership, are not worth the death of children in their schools, concert goers at their venues, worshipers at their altars, families in their homes year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year in numbers that simply, truthfully, are not present elsewhere in the world in places similar to America. Maybe, just maybe, being responsible isn’t enough. Maybe, at some point, the number of dead kids will be too many. And if it isn’t, you need to come clean and admit that every child in America could be shot to death tomorrow and you’d still love owning a gun. You can get rid of the guns, America, or you can start wearing shirts that say “kill all the kids you like - I’m proud to be a gun owner.” Because there’s no other choices left to you. The time for incremental change is long over. The time for saner, less drastic measures died decades ago. There is no moderate position left. It’s the guns, or it’s the children. There are no other choices.

________________________ Addendum: there is now a second part to this article, which expands upon some of the points made here with the more comprehensive fatality statistics from the CDC, including numbers I did not have when originally writing this article.

[water-hates-learning]

nobody knew (and nobody knows)

Crossover with The Magnus Archives podcast because this idea has been bothering me for a while now so I finally just wrote it. Whatever. Not my best work.

Mild spoilers for the end of S1 of The Magnus Archives. Takes place after episodes 39/40 of the podcast. Also contains headcanons, lots of swearing, and the implication that the main EW boys don’t follow the standard laws of time and space. Post The End EW time.

In other words, this is bullshit.

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

"Case number zero-one-one—"

“Six-six-six.”

“Mr. Ritehill, please.”

“Whatever.”

“Statement of Thomas Ritehill, regarding an…unusual trip taken by himself and his companions in January 2007. Statement—” 

“And the shit in 2014.”

“[sigh] Regarding the trip in January 2007 as well as the disturbances on 31st December, 2014. Statement taken direct from subject, 14th November 2016. Interview conducted by Johnathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Before you begin—why are you just now giving a statement?”

“’Cause a bunch of shit went down and somebody needs to hear about it. M’friends don’t wanna talk about it. And if I have to sit on this bullshit by myself anymore I’ll explode.”

“Right. Erm. Statement begins.”

“…now?”

“Yes, now.”

“[mumbling]…can’ believe you’re using a damn tape recorder…what year is this…[sounds of container being unscrewed]”

“Mr. Ritehill—”

“Call me Tom, god. And let a man have his damn vodka. Holy shitake on a sled, lemme just. Fuck. Okay. So, back in 2007, the four of us were bored, right, and Tord—this is when that commie fuck still lived with us—Tord—”

“Full names, please.”

“Christ, okay. Tord Lesion said we should go to Hell. So we did. Just the tourist route, ya know, got to see our personal hells and shit. Won’t bore you with the details. So yeah, me, Tord Lesion, Edd Golding, and Matt Harvice took an elevator to Hell, had a good time, got some souvenirs, and came back. Whatever.

’Cept when we were leaving the…the devil holding the door for the exit said they’d see me in six months. And it was like, haha, mate, yeah, sure, whatever, funny joke. I didn’t mention it to the guys and I didn’t think about it again. Couple months later, Edd’s digging a hole in the back garden and comes up with this door all covered in symbols ‘n stuff. And we’re all a buncha dumbasses so we go down it. Deal with some Indiana Jones traps, beat off a killer mummy, find a mysterious treasure box—you know the drill. So Tord opens the box and then…I dunno. Everything went dark.

If you ask any of the other three, they’d probably just tell you that I was unconscious. They said there was nothin’ in the treasure chest but I’m pretty sure the jackasses kept it for themselves and didn’t tell me. Probably for the best; I just woulda spent it on alcohol.

Anyway, from my perspective, we fell down a hole. When Tord opened the box, the floor dropped out from underneath us and we fell into darkness. I couldn’t see or hear the others, I was just falling in darkness. Or maybe floating. I dunno. Kinda…felt like forever and no time at all. I know that doesn’t make sense but you lot probably hear shit like that all the time. So I’m floating there and it’s dark, pitch black, but I can still see my hands in front of my face, like there’s a light shining only on me but there isn’t a light. Kinda like how someone looks when they stand in front of a black backdrop; the background’s all dark but they’re, like, normally lit or whatever.

And I wasn’t really scared ‘cause it’s not the weirdest thing that’s happened to me. I was just kind of waiting for something to happen. Because something always happens.

Didn’t have to wait long.

I felt something slide its hands around my neck from behind, felt its fingers on my windpipe, its thumbs at the base of my skull. I kind of expected it to be cold, like icy or something. But they were hot, like someone with a fever, uncomfortable. Made my skin prickle. It said…something. Couldn’t tell you what it was now, only have the vaguest sensation of—of a voice, talking to me, right in my ear, hot breath on my skin. I kept thinking I could see it moving out of the corner of my eye but if I tried to turn my head to look, it would start squeezing my neck until it had cut off my air supply.

Sometimes I think I can remember that it had promised me things. Sometimes I think it might have said something about a fight or a war or something. A lot of the time I pretend the whole thing was because I was blackout drunk. But I know that last bit’s not true because I hadn’t been drinking that night. And I wasn’t too worried because, I mean, weird stuff happens to the four of us all the time, stuff that no one even remembers. We’ve been through…three? Zombie apocalypses now? Hell, Matt’s led one of them. All of us have died and come back to life. And—and the thing is, right, the thing is that no one else remembers it. I’m pretty sure there’s stuff that’s happened that we don’t even remember. Tord said somethin’ once about crossing time lines or some shit but I dunno about any of the string theory, philosophical bullshit.

All I know for sure is, that night, in the black that wasn’t dark, with this thing’s hands around my neck, a demon crawled inside me.

A demon crawled inside me and it lives there and it’s so. Fuckin’ angry. Or maybe I’m angry. I don’t know for sure anymore, it’s been too long.

But—[container unscrews, long pause]—mm, anyway. The thing with its hands on my throat somehow—it somehow pries my mouth open. Gets its fingers between my teeth and wrenches my jaw apart so hard it aches. And then there’s this…this purple thing. It looks darker than the black but it’s purple and maybe that’s just because it’s beyond human comprehension or some shit. Hell if I know. It got closer and closer and for the first time in there I was scared. I was fucking scared and I thought—I don’t know what I thought, all I remember for sure is this—this blinding panic. This kind of raw, mind-numbing terror that made my heart beat so hard it hurt and it was hard to breathe and all I could hear was this rushing sound in my ears as this—this cloudy purple thing got closer and closer. I tried to get away but I couldn’t move, I could only sit there and watch.

And it—it…it just…”

“Mr. Ri—sorry. Tom. Do you need a break? We can take a moment to—”

“No. If I don’t…if I don’t say it now—if I leave this room—I’m not comin’ back. And I gotta get this out. [a deep breath, let out slowly] Just…remembering it now…it still scares the shit outta me.

So this cloud thing…it…crawls inside my mouth. And I can feel it. It tastes like…like how ash smells? Or maybe like someone filled my mouth with ash. And embers. Because it was hot and it didn’t exactly burn, it was just—like that moment when you drink some coffee and it’s still hot but not so hot you burn your tongue but still hot enough you gotta sip it. You know what I mean?

And I can feel it s-sort of wr-wriggling…wriggling and squirming to get inside me and I’m t-trying to push it out with my tongue or—or close my mouth or something. Anything to keep this thing out. B-but it keeps flopping around and pushing itself inside my and I’m—I’m ch-choking on it, gagging, and I think I was crying and trying to scream and this thing—[gagging sound]”

“Tom—”

“N-no, no, stop, shut up, let me just—finish. Okay? Don’t! Don’t fuckin’ touch me! I’m fine! Just let me give my damn statement and get out of this place. It smells like death in here.”

“I…I apologize. Please continue.”

“It went down my throat. I could feel it sliding down my throat, feel it under the fingers of that thing that still held my mouth open. It was lighter than candyfloss but I felt it like I’d swallowed a chunk of bread without chewing it enough. It was gross and it was horrible and it was terrifying and I don’t think I’d wish it on anyone. Even that bastard Tord.

And then it was just…done. The hands were gone, the cloud thing was gone, and I was laying on the couch in our sitting room, gasping at the ceiling. Edd was the only one in there, watching the telly. Said he was too tired to carry to my room and then laughed at me for passing out. Maybe I shoulda said something then, should have told him what had just happened, what I’d seen. But I didn’t. Instead I ran to the bathroom and threw up. And it just never came up again, never had a reason to say anything. I kept getting distracted by things.

I didn’t know what had happened until the end of December, in 2014.

You remember that year? It was really wet. Kept raining but we hardly got any snow. Freezing cold but just…no snow, not really, nothing that really stuck.

Anyway, Edd had been on the roof fixing the satellite dish during a rainstorm. He ended up having another dick measuring contest with one of our neighbors, Eduardo. Um, I dunno his last name, actually. Var…something. Var…there was an “L” in there somewhere. Sorry. Can’t remember. Eduardo had this, like, “alien” satellite or something and I guess it was radioactive or whatever. Anyway, he and Edd both ended up with superpowers for 24 hours and I can see by the look on your face that you think I’m takin’ the piss and I swear to fuck I am not. You can look up the incident report yourself, probably. But I bet the coppers only wrote something about property damage due to gang violence or some bullshit. Might be pictures our there somewhere but I dunno how to find them. I’m afraid I’d see myself if I did.

So Eduardo punched me, like, three blocks. Should have killed me. Instead it just…it felt like something clicked into place. And I remembered that demon that had shoved its way down my throat. It was like it had been waiting for this.

It hurt, that first time.

When your body’s stretching and your muscles are tearing and your skin is warping and your bones are snapping and cracking and breaking into new shapes. It hurts like a son of a bitch. I wanted to die. But mostly I was just angry. I was so fucking angry.

Don’t remember much while I was…changed. Flashes of stuff; tearing through building, smashing cars, attacking Eduardo and Edd. I think I might have ate someone. I try not to think about it.

Eduardo hit me with something, some kind of energy beam, I dunno. Sent me flying and ripped that smoke right out of me. I remember it flying away, remember the feeling of it ripping out of my throat and tearing off into the night.

But whatever it had done was kind of…stuck to me, I guess. I can still turn into a monster. Almost did when Tord showed his damn commie face again and blew our house up. You can look that up too. 27 Durden Lane. Nothing but a crater now.

[a pause, sounds of container unscrewing, another pause, the thud of a fist hitting the table]

And the only fuckin’ reason I’m telling you people this is because—fuck it, you probably already think I’m insane—there’s some kind of big…bad thing on the way. Fuck if I know. Just. I just…feel it. Can smell it. Or something. Taste it like some dry fuckin’ rum in the back of my mouth. Maybe the world’s ending for real this time. Maybe everyone will actually remember it. I don’t know.

But this place fucking stinks like a bunch of rotten bodies, like that musty attic stench with dead bugs everywhere. And you don’t believe a damn word I’m saying because you think I’m just a drunk. Ha. I can’t even get drunk anymore.

Whatever. Believe what you want. We went to Hell and I’ve got demon powers. The end.”

“…right. Um. Is the whole…demon powers the reason why your eyes are like…that?”

“What? No. This is just ‘cause my mum’s a bowling ball. They’re hollow. See?”

“O-oh my god. State—statement ends.”

[click]

“I will admit I am…extremely skeptical of Mister—of Tom’s statement. It sound positively ludicrous, the delusions of a schizophrenic at their worst, I’d even hazard. I’d disregard his statement entirely if not for the visceral reactions he showed to some of his own words—though that only proves that he believes they’re true.

But his eyes…Christ, I’ve never seen anything like that. He could obviously see but they were just. Black pits in his head. Gone. He stuck his fingers in them. Not the worst thing I’ve seen, all things considered, but one of the most…disturbing? Uncomfortable, may be the better word.

Tim was able to find a police report on the incident at 27 Durden Lane on 13th March, 2016. It was written off as an accident but with some additional digging he managed to find…more. The rubble and blast patterns look more like they were caused by external explosions. Tim says it looks like a bomb went off. Or several bombs. The neighbor’s house—the residence of one Eduardo Varela, Markus Barnes, and Jonathan Rees—also sustained serious damage. Jonathan Rees reportedly died at the scene due to serious injury.

Martin managed to dig up a few photos from the incident in 2014. Most of them aren’t the best quality and it’s hard to tell what’s happening except for bright flashes of green. But one very clearly depicts a monstrous shape, as big as a building it looks like, with horns on its head. It’s hard to tell in the photograph but it appears to be purple. There was a reported explosion in a local park around the date Tom Ritehill claims he transformed into a monster, and there is a crater there from the police report. But that’s all the evidence we can find to support his…stories.

We tried to get into contact with Eddward Golding and Matthew Harvice but neither of them were very forthcoming. Edd Golding declined to comment altogether and Matt Harvice was…he was difficult to talk to. It was as if he kept losing his train of thought. I doubt he would make for a reliable source.

There was also an attempt to contact the individual Tord Lesion but none of the information we were able to find was up to date. The only thing Tim managed to scrounge up was an old wanted poster,  several months out of date, with Tord Lesion’s image on it. He appears to be in a military style uniform with a shotgun. If Tom Ritehill’s claims that Tord is starting a personal army are to be believed, then I suppose this would be a reason to trust his word. Maybe.

[sigh] I suppose we could investigate these claims more in the future. Though I am very much inclined to ignore them.

End recording.”

[click]

“Supplemental.

It just occurred to me that it’s been very nearly four months since the incident with Jane Prentiss. This place has been scrubbed within an inch of its life, nearly burned with chemicals, steamed so badly that it made my eyes water with the lingering chemical smell when I finally came back from leave. It’s been so thoroughly cleaned that a blind dog trying to sniff his way out would have run into the walls.

And yet…and yet Thomas claimed he could…he could smell the death. He said…dead bugs. Specifically dead bugs. And decay. And I can’t…stop thinking about those tunnels…and what could still be down there.

…end supplemental.”

[end of tape]

[iambuckyrogers]

3 Nights ... (Chapter 2/7)

Summary: After your friend bails on your trip to Australia a week before you were due to fly out, your best friend Steve swoops in and saves the day. Unbeknown to you, he’s harbouring the biggest crush on you, but will it get in the way of your holiday?

Word Count: 2446

Chapter Warnings: a few swear words, angstttt

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Authors Note: heads up, y/f/d means your favourite drink :) my pool terminology probably needs work but I’ve just used the names we use at home, pretty self-explanatory that way ;) if you want to be tagged in future parts send me an ask/dm and I’ll add you! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!! <3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Earth to Steve?” You waved your hand in front of his face pulling him from his daze.

“Sorry, what did you say?” He asked, having dissociated the moment he found out there was only one bed.

“I said I’m going to have a shower and get ready to go out, is that ok?”

“Yeah, of course, go ahead,” Steve sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, flicking on the TV to an afternoon game show.

“I shouldn’t be long,” you shut the door to the bathroom leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing and hand across his face and flopping back into the plush pillows. He knew that this trip was going to be hard, seeing you almost every minute of every day was going to test him, but sleeping in the same bed?! That wasn’t something he had anticipated nor planned for. He heard the water start running, muffled singing filtering through the door. He smiled to himself as he listened to you belt out the lyrics to your favourite song, imagining what it would be like for this moment to last forever. What it would be like to come home and find you singing around the house, the two of you juggling kids and work, waking up with you by his side.

“Damn it, Steven,” he scolded, “be realistic.” Trying his best to block out his thoughts he began getting ready for the night, you were probably just going to go into town and have a look around so he opted for black jeans and a button up shirt over a white singlet. The door to the bathroom swung open and revealed you standing in the doorway looking ethereal. You wore a dusty pink crop top and ripped denim skirt, your hair was tied up in a loose bun, stray strands curling around your face. Steve realised he was gawking and quickly snapped his mouth shut.

“My god Y/N, you look great,” the words spilt out of his mouth before he had time to stop them. You simply shook your head.

“I haven’t even done my make up yet,” you brushed his complement off, heading for your suitcase to retrieve your makeup bag and disappearing back into the bathroom.

“But you don’t need it,” Steve whispered as the door closed. He sat back on the bed and amused himself with the evening news, enthralled with the way the presenters spoke and the odd things that they deemed news worthy. You emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, dressed to the nines making Steve feel very inadequate.

“Wow, I feel ridiculously underdressed,” he commented, looking down at himself.

“Don’t be silly Steve, you look great,” you reassured him, straightening his collar and patting him on the chest, “handsome as always.” An expression Steve had never seen before flashed across your face before you quickly turned away and busied yourself with your handbag.

“Phone, cash, card, id,” you muttered to yourself as you checked the contents of your bag, “ok I’m good to go.”

*****

You walked into town, a much more pleasant trip when you’re not lugging 20 odd kilos behind you. The main street was bustling, filled with tourists and locals making the most of the balmy summer night. You stayed close to Steve as you wandered down the road, looking for a place to stop for a drink.

“Ooh what about there?” You tugged on this sleeve and pointed to a dingy looking wood and tin building that resembled a train station from the old western movies he and Bucky used to watch. People hovered around the front, lit cigarettes decorating their fingers as country music pierced the air, it certainly wasn’t Steve’s cup of tea.

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugged, this was your holiday after all.

You clapped your hands and bounced on the spot, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the droning music. He could see the eyes drawn to you the moment you stepped into the pub but you didn’t seem to notice, too busy ducking and weaving through the masses of people you made a beeline for the bar, never once letting go of Steve’s hand. You flagged down a bar tender and ordered you both a drink.

“Could I please have a y/f/d and a whisky neat,” you handed over the money as the drinks were made

“You remember my drink?” Steve noted as you clinked your glasses together, amazed that you remembered such an insignificant detail about him.

“Of course I do Steve, that’s what you do when you li- when you’re friends,” you explain sheepishly, disappearing back into the crowd. Steve quickly followed after you, excusing himself as he pushed and bumped past people. He found you out the front of the pub, sat at a picnic style table in the back corner of the alfresco area. Warm yellow light illuminated the space, glowing from dusty lamps hanging from the ceiling and basking you in a beautiful glow. He sat across from you and looked around the room, a live band played at the front, their tinny country music filling the small space, in the opposite corner to where you sat was a pool table surrounded by burly guys with beers. It was quaint and, maybe it was the whisky talking, it was starting to grow on him. Speaking of whiskey, he downed the last mouthful in one go, the alcohol burning his throat in the most pleasurable of ways.

“I’m going to get another drink, do you want one too?” He offered, getting up and fishing his wallet out of his jeans.

“Sure, if you’re buying,” you winked at him, pulling the straw from your drink into your mouth with your tongue and draining the rest of the liquid. Steve suddenly felt uncomfortably hot and excused himself, stumbling back to the bar.

With 2 new drinks in hand, he felt far more composed and ready to join you back at the table. As he approached he realised that you were not alone, in the few short minutes that he was gone a group of guys had taken up residence at your table. You were surrounded by 5 of them, laughing at something that they had said

“Here you go,” he sat the drink on the table in front of you, “who are your friends?” he asked taking a mouthful of his drink.

“Oh guys could you squish over?” you gestured for the men in Steve’s spot to move along. Steve squeezed onto the end of the bench, sandwiched against one of the strangers.

“Hey mate, I’m Joel,” the man next to him introduced himself and held out his hand.

“Steve,” he said, shaking the man’s hand with more force than probably necessary.

“I like your accent, what part of the US are you from?” Joel asks, it was an innocent question but for some reason, it had Steve seeing red.

“Brooklyn. Listen guys, we just came here for a quick dri-,” Steve stopped talking, if looks could kill he’d be dead, you were shooting him daggers from across the table.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just a party pooper,” you ground out eliciting a laugh from the other men.

“Lighten up mate,” Joel nudged Steve’s shoulder, sloshing his beer over the side of his glass and all over Steve.

“Fucking hell,” Steve swore, he lost it and launched himself from the table and marched to the toilet, hands clenching to fists by his side. He paced in front of the mirror, mussing his hair with his hands. He knew he wasn’t your boyfriend. He understood that. He had no control over who you talked to but those guys really got under his skin. Especially Joel. He stopped pacing and braced his arms on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together, Rogers,” he snarled. After splashing some water on his face he went back to the table, as he got closer he could hear your conversation with the boys.

“No! He’s like a brother to me, I- no. Just no,” you laughed, touching Joel on the arm. Steve sucked in a breath through his mouth and let it go slowly. Not yours, he reminded himself.

“Stevie you ok?” you asked, concern evident in your eyes.

“Yeah Y/N/N just worried about these jeans,” he lied, “they’re Bucky’s and I don’t want to make him mad.”

“That’s understandable,” you smiled, “so now that Steve’s back can we play pool?”

“Of course babe,” Joel winked, “so long as you’re on my team.” He reached across the table and took your hand in his.

“Well, that means you’re on my team then mate,” one of the other guys said, clapping Steve on the back.

They racked up the table and Joel insisted that he broke, sinking the number 10 ball in the same shot. Steve scoffed as Joel proceeded to miss the next ball completely. He leant back against the wall next to you and pulled you into his side.

“Gotta give them a chance to have a hit,” he said into your hair as he held you close. Steve was too distracted by Joel’s hands on you that he sunk one of your balls.

“Thanks, Steve,” you laughed and stalked around the table to find the best spot to take your shot from. Leaning over the far side of the table you lined up the balls, your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth as you concentrated on the shot. Steve had to avert his eyes, growing increasingly distracted by the way you were chewing on your lip. He heard the clink of 2 balls connecting and turned back around to see Joel stood behind you, arms trapping you in his frame as you both leaned over the table.

“See just like that,” he said, separating himself from you so you could change your position around the table. This continued for a couple more shots as you sunk more balls. Steve was getting impatient, both from not getting a turn and also seeing Joel’s body pressed up against yours was driving him mad. Finally, as if someone was listening to his prayers you didn’t sink a ball.

“Gotta give them a chance, right?” you giggled, looking up at Joel who wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“Too right,” he snickered looking at Steve. He whispered something into your ear and quickly left.

“Oh, no is he heading off? It’s getting late anyway maybe we should go too?” Steve looked at you but you just shook your head.

“He’s going to get another beer,” you explained moving next to him, “are you ok? Really?” you lowered your voice and looked at him expectantly.

“No, like I said before, I’m fine,” he said shortly, “I just-I don’t know if he’s right for you. Not really your type if you know what I mean?” You laughed sarcastically.

“As if you know my type, Steven,” you spat his name like it was venom, “I’m working through some stuff at the moment and you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, you know?” Steve shook his head and opened his mouth to ask what you meant but he stopped by the return of Joel.

“It’s your turn,” you smiled up at Joel who slapped your ass as he made his way to the table.

“This one’s for you,” he blew a kiss to you before he sunk the last of your coloured balls. Steve let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. Joel missed sinking the black ball but he was still rewarded with a kiss on the cheek from you. Steve was fuming, with none of his team’s balls in easy reach, he lined up the white ball with the side of the table and channelled all of his rage into his shot, sending the ball ricocheting off the sides and completely missing all the balls on the table. Luckily for you, the ball came to rest in the ideal position to sink the black ball.

“Awh, thanks Stevie,” you mocked patting him on the shoulder. Lining up the 2 balls you took the easy shot to sink the black one and ended the game. Joel swept you up in his arms and spun you around.

“Dream team!” He cheered putting you back on your feet, “what do you say to another game?” Steve gave a little shake of his head as you looked to him hopefully.

“Not tonight, sorry Joel,” you apologised.

“Ok, well what about we head over to the Northern for a couple more drinks?” He suggested. Steve could think of nothing he wanted more than to go home but he didn’t want to disappoint you. He opened his mouth to accept Joel’s invitation but you beat him to it.

“I’m so sorry but we only got in this morning and I’m completely spent,” you explained, “but we’ll see each other around, Byron’s a small place.” You got out your phone “How about you give me your number?” You exchanged numbers with Joel and he kissed you on the cheek. Steve didn’t hang around, taking off down the street leaving you to chase after him.

“Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” you panted when you finally caught up with him.

“Nothin’, just tired,” he mumbled kicking a rock along the floor as he walked.

“Fine, don’t tell me just don’t be such a dick about it.”

*****

The rest of the walk was in total silence, neither of you daring to speak. Wordlessly, Steve unlocked the door and let you in, shutting the door once he was inside. You grabbed you pyjamas and retreated into the bathroom. Steve sat on the edge of the bed and hung his head in his hands. He’d been a real jerk tonight, and he knew that, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was in a hell of a lot deeper than he realised. He changed into his pyjamas, shut the curtains, turned off the light and switched on the bedside lamp before slipping into his side of the bed. With his hands behind his head he stared at the ceiling he found himself thinking about something you said earlier when you emerged from the bathroom looking just as stunning as when you were all dolled up. You got into bed next to him and rolled on your side to look at him.

“Goodnight Steve,” you whispered.

“Good night Y/N,” he replied, rolling over to turn off the lamp before falling into a fitful sleep.

NEXT CHAPTER

[caroline18mars]

A Man On Fire - Chapter 18

Oh just fuck off, Sean, who needs you and your dramaqueen anyway? Ever so slowly she tried to sit up, oh djeezes her back was absolute agony, but hey she was moving, oh yes yes yes, awwawww, motherf...! free, yes yes freeeee at last! She crawled from under the last wooden board and pulled herself up on a chair into an almost standing position, the couch was closest, one foot in front of the other, oh yesss, ooooohh touchdown..she finally sat down and looked at her painting, she couldn't tell from this distance if the canvas was cracked or damaged or not, please don't let it be torn. Painkiller, oh she needed a painkiller, where was her bag? She rummaged through her bag for a second and downed the pill with a big swig of her wine, ohhh, please kick in, like right now?! She slowly let herself slide against the cushions and took out her phone, she needed some kind of interaction, comfort, right now, and if it wasn't gonna be Sean and his trollup then it was gonna be Joe

From: HCDeRobiano

To: BJLCubbins

Subject: Re: Hellooooo???

Joe,

You're asking if I'm ok, well you know what, I'm not even gonna answer that, I'll say this one thing though, I'll do my best to be there, (even if I have to show up in a wheelchair)

A domani!

Coco

Huh? A wheelchair? He finally heard from her and now she seemed to be in a wheelchair? Not that that was an issue but he just had a different view of her in mind. Was that a pang of dissapointment, no..but..had he played this scene in his head on too fastforward? Wait, what mattered really here? Her mails, her personality or a...possible disability? Come on, don't be such an ass, just read it again, 'even if', see that is something completely different than...oh will you stop, Leto, for fuck's sake! Just be happy if she'll show up tomorrow!

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject:Re: re: Hellooooo???

Coco,

Did something happen? Because I got a bit worried about the 'wheelchair' thing, or maybe that is permanent? I guess I just realized that I don't know you all that much!

Regards

Joe

He so wasn't gonna show up, he was not gonna show up, what the fuck? And what a shitty thing to say about the 'wheelchair' thing? Ok, so he didn't specifically say it, but she could just feel what he was thinking..so what if she had some kind of disability? which she didn't really, were you one of those guys, Cubbins? All superficial and shit? you twat! She growled a bit and balanced the phone on her forehead. Now what? Make a complete loon of yourself and show up, knowing full well you're gonna be stood up for the second time? Or interpret this mail differently and read into it that he's actually curious about you, with that last part about not knowing much about each other or better, knowing nothing at all about each other? Tomorrow was another day and right now she was gonna do nothing more than let the beautiful mix of alcohol and painkiller bounce around in her system and throw a veil over the pain in her back. Close to midnight, he could still feel the Big Apple vibrate up to him behind the closed window on the 7th floor, this city was as restless as he was, if NY was a woman, he would have married her a long time ago, she begged him to dissapear into her night filled with drunks, poets, addicts, lovers, freaks, writers but he had to refuse, there was no way he was gonna risk repeating the same mistake. Nope, na-ah, no way, he was gonna show up, wait and be completely stunned, shocked, surprised by his blind date, he shuddered, he hated the concept of surprise but not this time, he was too intrigued. You know what, if it all went belly-up and she didn't show up or she wasn't what he had expected, then he could always call Harper, right? Hmm, kill 2 birds with one stone, why the hell not? How long could it possibly take to find a name and a number? In Shayla's case obviously a loooonggg time! Go to bed, Jared, just get in bed and read a book, take your mind off things, you'll need the morning to pick an outfit, you need to look sharp.

Harper's eyes fluttered open, she tried to wiggle her toes, hallelullah, she could still move, hand and fingers working fine..and now the tricky part, oooufff, sitting up, back is better, oohhh yes..twist upper body a bit, nice, ok, not too sore, rest up properly and save yourself a doctor's visit, yep that was gonna be her motto from now on. With a bit of a huff and a puff, she stood up and slowly plodded to the fridge, empty..damn..ok, hot shower first, some grocery shopping and then..and then treat yourself to a hot bagel, missed those sooo much, dayummm! Something hot was definitely what she needed when she stepped outside, when had autumn turned into winter? Overnight? Note to self: must look for a warmer coat, brrrr, ok, shopping,..oh slowlyyy..her back, awwww! Don't slouch, straighten your shoulders, ladies never run, hello mother..please go away, ok..shop, let's go. Omnomnom, this bagel was pure heaven, ooohh hothothot though, she juggled the grocery bags to take her key when some mail guy ran up to her “De Robiano?” hearing her name made her turn her head and nod “yes”. She took the enveloppe that he handed to her and recognized the name of her Dad's lawyer, oh fuck, what now? she pushed the enveloppe in one of the bags and opened her door, let's see what Daddy dearest had in store for her this time.

Jared stepped in front of the mirror for the umpteenth time, this shirt..but another pair of trousers then? Will you just decide what to wear? Casual? Rock? Sporty? Suit?...why not mix and match? Hair up? Braid? Loose? For a split second he missed Shayla and her advice..oh no he didn't, 11:30, get a move on. Harper just sat there at her kitchen counter digesting the news, a door slamming downstairs pulled her out of her daze..what time was it? 11:30, well, this day just couldn't get any worse so didn't matter if she went or not. Catching a glimpse of himself in the window as he exited the hotel, he was pretty happy with his mix and match after all, black long sleeved T-shirt, black jeans, dinner jacket and a long blue hippie scarf, casual bohemian chic, “need a cab, Sir?” one of the doormen asked, “yeah, Times Square, please”. One last look in the mirror, are you sure you want to get stood up again? Cool outfit though, 'beep'

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject: So..

I'm on my way..

Joe

Oh, really? On your way to anywhere but Times Square probably..could this mail be any shorter? was it even worth answering? Stay or go? She grabbed her bag, here went absolutely nothing.

12:30..ok, half an hour to go, first some tea to calm his stuttering nerves, he got out of the car and tried to be as incognito as possible finding his way to the nearest coffeeshop, every woman that walked past him could be her, the girl with the blonde ponytail? the curvy businesswoman? Stop assuming things, it'll drive you nuts, try to enjoy the moment, after all, how long have you been looking forward to this? You even flew half across the world to be here for her, he quickly checked his phone, nothing..don't you dare stand me up now we've both come so far. 'Times Square', ok this was it, she took a deep breath and got out of the train amidst all the tourists, the commuters and all the people on their way to wherever, but she had a designated spot waiting for her, hopefully he was waiting for her too this time. Uhhh, slow down girl, think of your back, he kept her waiting the first time around, now she was gonna turn the tables on him and he would have to wait for her. Ah, the billboards, the lights, the crowded streets, every time she exited the subway the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, to her this was like the centre of the world, this was one of the things she liked so much about New York, the hussle and the bussle of this city by the water was unnerving for many, but like a warm blanket for her. 12:55..ok, he downed his tea in one go, was that a light tremble in his hand when he put down the cup? Just..just go, it'll be alright, how long have you been looking forward to this moment?

 Ok, deep breath, he walked out of the coffeeshop and into the cold, harsh wind, M&M's..M&M's..oh right that way, he kept his head down as he crossed the street with the masses, the minute he was on the right side of the street, his shoes seemed to stick to the pavement, that's how slow he was going, like he wanted to register every step, every breath of cold air he took on this crazy moment, in his head like this was the most pivotal moment in his life. 10 steps more..and..he was here..ok, what was he supposed to do now? How was he ever going to recognize her if he had never seen her? Wait, this girl was checking him out..and then turned back to talk to her boyfriend..ok next..whoaa, sweetheart way too young, what are you? 13? nope, look around, look like you belong here, oh sweet jesus, being on a stage in front of thousands of people was way easier than standing here waiting for some kind of..blind date. What would she look like? Definitely some artistic woman..and none of those were to be found here..she is so gonna stand me up, shut up and just wait, it's only..1:05. She hated this snail-like pace, but it was too painful if she sped up, ah there it was..just a few more metres, god it's so crowded here. She let out a big breath, glad to be standing still again, and zipped up her jacket a little higher and rolled her scarf around her neck one more time, ok she was here, where was he? Every guy here seemed to be a tourist with the typical tourist outfits she hated so much, and since when were bean bags back in style? Oh, just don't look at me, aren't you ashamed of yourself, your wife and kids are walking right next to you? Oh watch where you're going? Whose idea was it to meet here at this tourist trap anyway? With every minute that ticked away his hope started to dwindle, it was just too crowded, too busy and all the faces started to blur the more he looked around. The honk of a carhorn startled him and right when he turned again, the crowd seemed to split in two and that's when he saw her...there she was, a vision in leather pants, a jeans jacket and a huge scarf..everything clicked in his head, HC..and her name just rolled from his lips “HARPER”. Hearing her name made her head shoot up and their eyes locked. Ohhhh..what?...but..oh my god. Like in slow motion, he came running up to her like he was gonna throw his arms around her but he stopped in his tracks with a killer smile on his face “Coco..Harper..Harper Coco De Robiano..heeyyy”.

[ionasadventures]

Interrail - Day 2

Today was pretty eventful! We got the tram to “mini Europe” which is a sort of museum type thing filled with miniature versions of historic/significant landmarks from the EU countries ((the UK WAS still there, they must be preparing the bulldozers as we speak - also if you look closely you can see a bunch of Brexit protestors outside Westminster! It was funny and the guy in the middle’s sign read “I’m not pro or anti I just wanted to be included”)). We tried to walk there, as it was about an hours walk from where we were but we thought it would be nice to see some of Brussels, but then it started absolutely bollocking down with rain ((And some idiots [me included] forgot to bring a jacket rip)) so we got the tram. Mini Europe was ok, it was cool to see the well made miniatures and learn a few fun facts about each EU member state, but it’s definitely a tourist trap cause it’s super overpriced. That big ole ball boi structure is the Atomium. It’s a scale model of a unit cell of an iron crystal, magnified 165 Billion times. It looks super cool! Again, very expensive so we did not go actually up INSIDE it to have a look, but we did wander about and admire it from the ground. ((Also there was a sign stuck to the leg on one side that said “pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza” and between that and the random “you’re not special , change my mind” sign I saw in London this trip is shaping up to be great!)). Whilst walking about we saw a LOT of cool street art too. After we had some lunch, we went to the EU Parliament area. The Parlimentarium is a visitors centre/museum thing with lots of information so it was so cool to learn about what the EU actually does. BUT before we got in, we saw none other than walking gammon slice Nigel Farage! It was so weird seeing someone so well known?? I saw him walking in our direction, and turned to my friend to make a joke about him looking like Nigel Farage, only then I turned back around and it actually WAS him???? He waved and smiled at us (ew) but honestly I was little star struck so I couldn’t really react quick enough to get a proper picture. It was so weird recognising someone as (arguably) famous as him??? I’m not a fan at all of Nigel Farage but it did still take me a while to process having actually seen him. I guess cause you just don’t expect to see people from TV cutting about on their own?? We didn’t have any milkshakes unfortunately but we did make plenty of milky jokes whilst in The Parlimentarium! There was a screen for selfies and a screen to broadcast a wish for the EU. So naturally we wished for milkshakes and for the uk to stay in EU. ((Some GOBLIN had been before us and spammed the wall where they displayed the images on with the letter “eeee” over and over again it wasn’t actually us for once!)). After that, we headed our for some waffles and beer (Belgian essentials!) I tried some real Belgian beer but I still don’t like beer so can’t give a verdict. Then we went to a bar and it had this super weird (HIGHLY alcoholic) cactus beer?? It was bright green and tasted gross BUT also tasted like what I’d expect cactus to taste like. I’m posting these updates a day later cause we seem to talk a lot of shit late into the night and then I’m too tired afterwards to write anything. But I’m looking forward to what tomorrow (today technically!) has to offer!